The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies

by Damian Vargas

  ‘You lie,’ Blackman shouted, spraying the table's surface in saliva. ‘He found you, so you had him killed.’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  Blackman held the German’s stare, as if scanning the man’s eyes for deceit, then sat back, his gaze drifting, unfocussed to the surface of the table.

  ‘Are you done?’ Said Garcia.

  Blackman replied with the faintest of nods.

  Garcia’s index finger hovered over the stop button. He stared at the two spools of brown tape winding away inside, then looked back at Navarro. ‘I want to know something. Something I have never wanted to ask before. How did you escape from the Allies?’

  Navarro sniggered, looked away.

  ‘Twenty-five years have passed, Mr Navarro. And you are perfectly safe here in Spain. Tell me, please. How did you escape?’

  Navarro sat still, his tongue moving across the back of his teeth, then looked back to the Inspector, a knowing smile on his face. ‘There was no escape. They recruited me.’

  ‘What?’ said Blackman.

  The German laughed, pointed at Blackman. ‘All that time you thought you were hunting me. To make me pay for “my crimes”. Yet your leaders, they just wanted to recruit me. All of us.’

  ‘Why?’ Said Garcia.

  ‘Because we were useful to them. Germany was beaten. We’d been beaten since 1943. Earlier maybe. It was the Russians that Churchill, and Roosevelt worried about.’

  ‘Lies,’ Blackman snarled.

  ‘No. Not lies. The truth. Just not your truth. They were all at it. The French, the British and the Americans. Many of us went to America. Operation Paperclip, they called it. They worked for NASA, the CIA. In the weapons programmes. The British recruited me, and the others who live here in your pueblo, Garcia.’

  ‘My government helped in this?’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Of course they did,’ said Navarro. ‘Spain was on its knees after the civil war. It was broken. Your country was a pariah to the rest of the world. Franco, the dictator who took Hitler’s help and sold Germany the materials it needed to build tanks and guns to kill British and Americans with. He needed all the help he could get.’

  ‘What help?’ said Blackman.

  Navarro grinned. ‘You’ll have to ask your own government about that.’

  ‘There is one more thing,’ he said. ‘Manfred Weber.’

  ‘What about him?’ said Navarro, his voice weary.

  ‘He died just days after a public argument with you and your compatriots in the Augustiner Tavern.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Did you kill him?’ asked Garcia.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Thallium,’ said Blackman. ‘Your people used Thallium. I spoke to his wife at the house before she left the village. She said he was killed by the other Germans.’

  Garcia continued. ‘Her son found a vial of the poison at the edge of the property. The killer must have dropped it as they were making their escape.’

  The German’s eyes narrowed. It was as if the revelation was news to him.

  ‘Is this true?’ said Garcia. ‘Do you admit it? Did you have him killed?’

  ‘That was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘And the journalist? David Rosenbaum. The kid who went missing two years ago. Did you kill him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who. Tell me.’

  Navarro was grinding his teeth again, his cheek twitching with anger at the continued questioning. ‘It was that crazy nurse.’

  ‘Ruth Volkenrath?’ asked Garcia.

  The German nodded. ‘He insulted her in public.’ He glanced at Blackman. ‘You were there, that night. You heard it. Weber called her a senile old whore. He accused her of seducing the boys because no grown man would want her.’

  ‘The boys of the Wolfsjunger?’ said Garcia. ‘The youth organisation at the old compound? The one your son attends?’

  ‘Yes. What Weber said was absurd,’ said Navarro. ‘But he said it, in front of several of us. In public. In front of important people. That was his mistake. He knew how dangerous she can be. He was a fool for uttering such lies. He got what he deserved.’

  ‘You should know,’ said the Inspector. ‘That I was at the compound an hour ago. Frau Volkenrath is dead.’

  Navarro stared at the Inspector, his mouth open. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I am afraid it is true. She was stabbed. Many times, it was most horrible.’

  The German arched forward, his bony fingers curling to the side of his forehead, eyes wide open.

  Garcia glanced to the window in the door to Officer Ramos and signalled for him to enter. ‘One more thing. We found a boy in her bedroom. Young Schmidt. He was in his underwear and witnessed her death. It seems Frau Volkenrath and he were…’

  Von Ziegler pounded on the table once more. ‘Lies!’

  ‘…And I have reason to believe he was not the only one,’ Garcia continued. ‘It seems she had formed close relationships with several of the boys. Your son included.’

  ‘Lies. Filthy lies.’

  ‘Conrad was one of her Kleinen Wolfs, was he not?’

  Navarro pushed himself to his feet, sending the chair tipping backwards to the floor, eyes red with renewed anger and hatred.

  Officer Ramos strode towards the German, who was stabbing his forefinger towards Garcia.

  ‘You have betrayed us.’ He pointed at Blackman, who stared back, wearing a dark smile. ‘You are with him. You will pay for this Garcia, I swear it. You will pay.’

  ‘All in good time, but right now I must find your son.’ Garcia nodded to his colleague, who grabbed hold of the German’s arm, then looked at Blackman. ‘You have your confession. It is recorded. I witnessed it. Are you satisfied now?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And will you now tell us where the boy is, as you promised?’

  The Englishman peered up at Navarro, now being restrained by Garcia’s younger colleague. ‘When he has gone. And when you have locked those tapes away somewhere safe from him and his goons outside.’

  ‘Fine. Officer Ramos, here, will escort you to the door, Herr Navarro. The desk sergeant will arrange for your people to collect you. I will attend to this matter now.’

  The German fought himself free from the grasp of the younger officer. ‘No,’ he screamed. ‘I did what you wanted. I went along with this ridiculous charade…’ He stabbed an index finger towards Blackman. ‘Now, he will tell me where my son is.’

  The Englishman remained unmoving, looking only at Garcia, his intent plain.

  The Inspector pushed himself to his feet, placed his notepad into his pocket, only at that point realising that he had made not a single note. ‘I think Mr Blackman has made it quite clear that he will only reveal this information to me. And only once you have left the premises.’

  The German glared at the Inspector, his teeth clenched, ‘If anything has happened to the boy, I swear—’ He paused, having remembered that the tape recorder was still whirring away, shot Garcia a withering stare, then pushed past Officer Ramos and marched through the door.

  Garcia reached for the tape recorder, stopped the recording, then depressed the small eject button and removed the tape. He held it up, peered at the Englishman. ‘I will lock this in my office. It will be secure in there. And then, when I return and when Navarro is gone, I expect you to honour your promise. I expect you to tell me where the boy is.’

  58

  Its true nature

  Police Station, La Mesita Blanca.

  All Saints’ Day, 1970.

  9:30pm.

  Harry Blackman had been returned to his cell where he now stood, leaning against the cold wall, the light flickering from the fluorescent tube within the battered wire-caged lamp on the high ceiling above.

  A man’s voice shouting in Spanish. Then another, this time in German, and one he recognised immediately. Joachim von Ziegler.

  The Englishman scrambled to the cell door and peere
d through the small window. The glass was thick and scratched, inhibiting his view. He pressed his face up against it and saw the desk sergeant laying prone on the floor. A fire extinguisher lay next to him.

  A shadow appeared at the door. Then, the sound of someone sorting through a bunch of keys. Whoever it was inserted one of the keys into the door lock, trying to unlock it. It was the wrong key. They tried another key, then another.

  The Englishman backed away from the door.

  Another key inserted into the lock. It turned. This time Blackman heard the lock mechanism move and then the sound of the door handle being pushed down on the other side.

  The door pushed open and the face of Joseph von Ziegler came into view, his eyes fixed on Blackman, dark. In his hand, a switchblade.

  A voice came from further down the corridor. Inspector Garcia, shouting, ‘No! Stop him—’

  But it was too late.

  Navarro slipped into the cell, shoved the metal door closed behind him and dropped the keys to the floor. ‘This is where you tell me where my son is.’

  The Englishman backed up against the far wall. He had nothing with which to defend himself. The metal beds were bolted to the wall. He had no shoes, no belt.

  Garcia’s face appeared at the window. He was pounding at the door on the other side, shouting. Impotent.

  The German strode towards Blackman, eyes latched onto the Englishman’s as a stalking Doberman, deciding when to strike. He switched the blade from one hand to the other, changing his hold, disguising his intent. Would he stab, or would he slash? With his left hand or with his right?

  The Englishman lifted his one good hand before him. ‘If you kill me, you will never find your son in time.’

  The German lurched, his movement signalling an upward thrust of the knife.

  Blackman instinctively swept his left arm down to protect his belly, but it had been a feint. The German’s left hand slammed down onto Blackman’s wrist, forcing his hand down while simultaneously revolving the blade in his right hand, jutting it up and thrusting it at the Englishman’s exposed throat.

  With his head forced against the wall, Blackman froze, stared into the bloodshot eyes of his nemesis, the razor-sharp blade at his jugular. The German’s breath stale, damp, menacing. The air of an abandoned cellar. A Victorian morgue. The grey-haired man, who had seemed sickly weak just a few minutes earlier, now possessed the strength of a rabid beast. ‘Where is the boy?’ he snarled.

  ‘If I tell you, you’ll kill me.’

  The German’s face was pulled back, taught with hatred. His tongue flickering, a slithering creature caged behind his yellowed teeth. In a flash, he lifted the blade from Blackman’s throat and stabbed it down into the Englishman’s injured shoulder. Slashing skin, slicing muscle, striking bone.

  Blackman roared as a white-hot agony flushed through his already injured shoulder and collar bone. An ancient survival instinct ignited within him and he tried to grab at the German’s hand holding the knife, but he was too slow. The blade was at his throat once again.

  ‘Tell me where Conrad is, or I will slice you into a thousand pieces.’

  Blackman pushed his neck against the blade. Defiant. ‘Do it then. And condemn the boy to die.’

  The German sneered. ‘You might not care about your life, but if you do not tell me, after I kill you, I will go to the cell next door, to that Jewish bitch of yours, and I will slice her belly open. I will let her guts spill onto the floor and I will watch, and I will laugh, as she drowns in her own blood.’

  The sound of the lock mechanism again. Blackman glanced to the opposite end of the cell. Inspector Garcia looked back at him and the German, a black pistol in his hands. ‘Drop the knife, Señor Navarro, then back away.’

  The German angled his head slightly to one side. His eyes remained locked on the Englishman. He sneered, clamped one hand around Blackman’s neck and manoeuvred himself behind his captive, using the larger man as a shield. ‘Don’t try growing some balls in your old age, Garcia. Walk away, or I’ll kill him now.’

  Garcia peered along the barrel of the gun, a squat revolver. ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘You can and you will, just like you always do. Because that’s who you are. You always obey orders, just as I did. And you have prospered. Life has been good for you, Garcia. Because of us, because of me. Do not forget that.’

  ‘I wish that I could,’ said Garcia. He looked to Blackman. ‘Tell me, Harry. Truthfully. Have you harmed the boy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You swear this?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘And you will tell me where we can find him?’

  The Englishman replied with his eyes. Yes.

  Garcia’s left eye closed. His grip tightened around the butt of the revolver. His index finger wrapped around the thin trigger, started to squeeze.

  Blackman glanced at Navarro’s face, an inch away from his. He saw the assured smirk wash from his lips. His mouth quivered, as if trying to protest.

  The first bullet struck the German in the knuckle, passing through his hand and out of the top of his wrist. Von Ziegler instantly lost his grip on the knife.

  The Englishman lurched to one side. Garcia fired again, the second bullet passing clean through the German’s shoulder, his blood spraying on the wall behind. Von Ziegler’s arms dropped limp, blood dripping from the mangled right hand, the knife falling to the floor, clanking on the hard concrete at his feet. His left hand lifted, clamped around the bloodied mess of the other hand, a gurgling, tortured exhalation of air escaping from his open mouth.

  Blackman stepped away from the convulsing German as he slumped to his knees like a deflating balloon, then keeled over to one side. Two officers charged into the room from behind Garcia, one of them kicking the knife away.

  ‘Do what you can for him,’ said the Inspector. ‘Rafa, call the ambulance.’ He directed Blackman out of the holding cell. ‘Now tell me where the boy is.’

  59

  The escape

  Police Station, La Mesita Blanca.

  All Saints’ Day, 1971.

  9:45pm.

  The desk sergeant dabbed Inspector Garcia’s handkerchief to the back of his head, then peered at the small spots of blood on the white material.

  ‘It’s nothing, Rafa,’ Garcia said as he led Harry Blackman from his cell and into the one occupied by Liv Johansson.

  ‘He hit me with a fucking extinguisher,’ said the desk sergeant as he struggled to his feet. ‘Where is the bastard?’

  Inspector Garcia nodded to the open door to the cell previously occupied by Harry Blackman. The desk sergeant peered inside, his jaw falling open upon seeing the bloodied Joseph Navarro lying on the floor of his cell. ‘Oh, fuck. Jesus, what did you do?’

  ‘Don’t fret. He’s okay. Well, he’s alive.’

  ‘You shot him?’

  ‘It was…self-defence.’

  The sergeant glanced at the Inspector, mouth still agog. ‘Uh-huh.’

  Garcia ushered Blackman into the cell that held Johansson. ‘You’ll be safe in here,’ he told them before closing the door. He then hurried to the last of the three cells, fumbling to find the right key. He unlocked the door, pushed it open. Guy Weiland sat on the bed, against the wall. His jacket lay neatly folded on the thin mattress beside him.

  ‘There has been a development,’ said Garcia.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Señor Navarro told us his real identity.’

  Weiland’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what was that, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, drop the pretence now, please. I know who you are. I know who you work for. And now I know that von Ziegler worked for you after the war.’

  ‘Captain Garcia, I strongly recommend that you never repeat that to anyone ever again.’

  ‘I recorded it. I have it all on tape.’

  ‘Then you should destroy those tapes. Right away.’

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ said Garcia.

  ‘Then you are a
damned fool. And what happens after this will be your own doing.’

  ‘That is my prerogative. Now, do you promise me no more trouble if I release you?’

  ‘I’ll behave myself,’ said Weiland. ‘I take it you know where the boy is?’

  ‘Yes. He’s at Blackman’s property.’

  ‘But you searched for him, surely?’

  ‘There’s an old concrete structure. Blackman said he locked the boy in there.’

  ‘What kind of structure?’

  ‘A water tank. It’s about one hundred yards from the house. We didn’t know about it before. It’s hidden from view in the undergrowth.’

  The desk sergeant appeared in the doorway, looked at Weiland, then to Garcia. ‘The boys just radioed, Jesus. They’ll be here in two minutes.’

  Garcia nodded, turned back to Weiland. ‘I have to go. The boy has been locked up in the dark without food or water for two days now’. He heard the sound of the patrol car’s siren approaching.

  Weiland rose to his feet, checked his watch, then reached for his jacket. ‘How long do we have until La Secreta get here?’

  ‘Their train arrived in Coín a few minutes ago. It takes about thirty minutes to get here by car.’ He stabbed a forefinger towards Weiland. ‘And you, Mr Weiland, you will be gone from my town before they arrive.’

  The siren stopped outside the police station. Rafa Rubio’s voice boomed from along the corridor. ‘They’re here.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Garcia shouted back.

  ‘I have to ask,’ said Weiland. ‘What exactly do you intend to do with this information you have gained?’

  Garcia turned his back on the Englishman, started to walk away. ‘Whatever I have to.’

  Weiland stood watching as the police patrol car containing Inspector Garcia and the three junior officers pulled away from outside the police station. It headed off out of the pueblo, towards the bridge over the river on the valley floor. He guessed that it would take them at least ten minutes to make their way all the way up to Harry Blackman’s villa, high up on the opposite side of the valley.