by Mark Leggatt
“Yeah, thought so. A colleague of mine recommended them. It was the type with the felt collar, long, black wool, bright red lining. It looked fantastic. He’s an old guy, can’t remember his name. Has a son called Kurt, tall blond guy. Not sure if he shops here too.”
The assistant thought for a moment. “It doesn’t ring a bell, sir.”
“Really old guy, lives in Via Nableone. German accent, silver hair. Thin, coughs a lot, looks like he’s being followed around by a guy in a big black robe and a scythe.”
The assistant smiled. “Perhaps you mean Mr. Reinhard, sir. And I believe his son is also a customer.”
“Reinhard. Yeah, that’s the fella. Old Mr. Reinhard.”
The assistant looked down for a moment.
Montrose glanced towards his shoes. Blood. “And a pair of black brogues, if you have them.”
“Yes, sir.” The assistant clicked his fingers and pulled out a measuring tape. “One of my colleagues will fetch the requisite items and check the stock for a Crombie in your size. Please step to the rear, sir. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Montrose marched past the cash desk to the fitting area. Kurt Reinhard and your wrinkly old bastard of a father. I got your number. I’m coming for you.
“You imbecile!” Reinhard launched his cane across the room. It ricocheted off an ancient alabaster figurine, sending a spray of powder into the air, then bounced off the parquet floor. It came to rest at the feet of his son. “The Mafia? And you led Interpol straight to my door!”
Kurt Reinhard held out his hands as he approached. “I had no idea . . .”
“What in the name of God did you think you were doing?”
“Father, it was a simple exchange. The Afghans tell me where the drugs are hidden. I tell them where the cash is hidden. We have a man at each location and they both simply confirm and collect. The Mafia put up the money and they make over three million euros in profit when they sell it on. My commission for the deal was one hundred thousand euros. The set up was perfect!”
“Perfect? You think so? Then why am I scrabbling around trying to find three million euros to pay off the Mafia?”
“They can’t do this! The deal is off, how can they expect their profit?”
“Oh, so you deal with murderers, pimps and drug dealers, and suddenly you’re surprised they’re not playing the game?”
“Father, what am I supposed to do? You never give me anything. I have to make my own business. Take my own risks. I never wanted you involved. This was not how it was . . .”
“With Mafia scum? You listen to me, Kurt. This is the last time. I have given you free rein and this is how you repay me.” He bent forward to get his breath back then lifted his head. “You are my son and I will get you out of this. But from now on you work for me. No questions.”
“Father, stocks and shares, it’s so dry, you’re just a businessman. I need to do something more . . .”
Reinhard threw his head back, his vertebrae clicking loudly. “Just a businessman! You think that’s all I’m worth?” He jabbed a bony finger across the room. “Bring me my cane.” He fished a dull metal key from his pocket. Grabbing the cane from Kurt’s hand, he gestured towards the corner of the room. “Open that door.”
“The store cupboard?”
“Yes. Where I keep my files.” He waved the cane under Kurt’s nose. “The files of a businessman.”
Kurt took the key and turned to the cupboard door as his father shuffled across the room behind him.
“Businessman!” Reinhard stopped for a moment to let a bronchial cough subside.
Kurt pushed the door open to a small, windowless room. “What is all this stuff?” Basic shelving lined the walls, stacked with dusty document boxes.
Reinhard shoved past him and reached over to the drawer of an unvarnished desk. He pulled out a silver framed black-and-white photograph, examined it for a moment then held it up. “Look carefully. Tell me who you see.”
Kurt took the photograph and lifted it up to the single low-watt light bulb. It was the figure of a young man. The uniform was unmistakable. Wehrmacht. So was the face. It was his father. “My God! It’s you. A soldier?”
“Lieutenant Reinhard, to be precise. Taken in Antwerp during the war.”
Kurt threw him a look of astonishment. “In the Wehrmacht?”
“Don’t be so surprised. I always told you there was more German than Swiss blood in the family. In fact, there’s no Swiss blood whatsoever.”
Kurt shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t need to know. It was safer that way.” Reinhard lowered himself onto a plain wooden chair. “Our family are from a long line of Saxon nobility and can be traced back over a thousand years. Your blood is German, Kurt.”
“But I . . . What about our name? It is Reinhard?”
“Yes, though I was not born in Zurich, no matter what my passport says. I was born and schooled in Dresden. Our family had been part of the regiment for eight generations. We were soldiers, and proud. But the Nazis robbed our army of any honor. When we saw what was to become of Europe, powerful friends made sure we were in the right place at the right time. There were many opportunities if you knew where to look. In 1940, when we marched through Belgium, we helped ourselves in the diamond quarter of Antwerp.”
“Diamonds?”
“Yes. Spoils of war. Of course, I handed over large quantities to the Nazis, but a significant amount of the very finest stones, notably the blue diamonds, I kept for myself. Most of them are flawless. The largest would be worth a million dollars apiece on today’s market. And there are hundreds of them. Once we had achieved our aims, I traveled directly to Zurich and deposited them in our family vault. Your grandfather arranged for me to be listed as missing, presumed dead. A Swiss passport gave me all the access I required to sympathetic clergy in the Vatican. They found a place for me in Rome in return for contributions to their charities. And here I stayed. There was nothing left to return to.”
“Nothing? What about our family?”
“Not even ashes. When the British firebombed Dresden the whole city was obliterated. Twenty five thousand people, including our entire family. They perished in a firestorm so intense that their bones melted into the stone. A war crime that wasn’t mentioned at Nuremberg.”
“I had no idea.” Kurt stared down at the photograph.
“No, that is often the case. From now on, you will do what you are damn well told. This was supposed to be your inheritance. Now it will buy you out of this mess. I have no choice. I have allocated all of my available funds to the oil deal.”
“Buy me out . . . with diamonds?”
“We have a buyer. More importantly, a buyer with a cash surplus which will pay off the Cosa Nostra. No doubt some dealer wanting to launder his cash. I don’t care.” He lifted the cane and placed the tip on Kurt’s chin. “So, just a businessman?”
Kurt placed the photo carefully on the desk and stood up straight. “What do you want me to do?”
“An old friend in Zurich will help us. Wolfgang Kessler owns a private bank, where our vault is kept, and looks after my affairs. I want you to collect the diamonds from the vault. Herr Kessler has arranged a buyer in Zurich. I have much more to explain, but it can wait.”
“I’ll be ready, Father.”
Reinhard gazed around the cramped room. “Do you know what these files contain?”
“Are they from the war?”
“Yes.” His eyes lost focus for a moment. “War stories, you might say. Though all the authors are dead.”
“Soldiers? In the Wehrmacht?”
“No, Kurt.” Reinhard shook his head. “Not soldiers.” He pulled a small silver box from his pocket, took out a pill, placed it under his tongue and sat back for a moment. “The diamond merchants and wealthy burghers of Antwerp. We interviewed them prior to their departure to the camps. They were very helpful. Eventually. We gave them no choice.”
“The death camps?”
Reinhard tugged at his collar. “Yes. It was an appalling time, Kurt. Untold misery. We didn’t all believe the lies of the Nazis, but there was no point in missing such an opportunity. Besides, once the Jews were transferred to the SS it was out of our hands.”
Kurt stared at the boxes. “They’re all dead?”
“Of course. Don’t get the wrong idea. The Jews mean nothing to me.”
“But the diamonds? Does anyone know?”
“No. Except Kessler. Remember, I died in the war. And so did the Jews who owned them.” Reinhard’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “They are remembered. Some days we hear of nothing else. But what of the millions of Germans who perished? I don’t see the historians weeping over their graves.” He shook his head. “The flower of our nation. Cut down by communists and the dregs of the British Empire. That’s all the Americans are. It was war. Filthy and vile. But Germany was to fulfill its destiny. We should have ruled Europe, over the . . .” Reinhard’s eyes narrowed. “Untermenschen surrounding us. Does this shock you?”
Kurt puffed out his chest. “No, Father. My bloodline, I feel . . .”
“This is your last chance, Kurt.”
“I know. I won’t let you down. There are so many questions. I want to know everything.”
“You will. In happier times, perhaps you would have made a fine soldier. You remind me of my father. A magnificent man, utterly ruthless in battle, but impetuous.”
Kurt stuck his chin in the air. “Whatever you want me to do, I’m ready.”
“In a few years you’ll be running everything. I have amassed a great deal, though what I’m about to tell you will be the source of our wealth for generations to come.” Reinhard leaned over on the desk. “But first, the bag containing the diamonds has been in Kessler’s bank since I placed it there more than seventy years ago. At the bottom of that bag is a large envelope. It contains some information I compiled during my time in Antwerp and a file taken from the office of Heinrich Himmler. It is, shall we say, a list.”
“Himmler? A list of what? The diamonds?”
“That and other things.” Reinhard pushed back the chair. “Kessler must never find out. Make sure when you deliver the diamonds to the Embassy that you keep that envelope. It is for your eyes only.”
“I will, Father.”
Reinhard levered himself up from the chair and straightened his jacket. “This wasn’t the plan. Another few years would have been safer. Now we have no choice. Mossad agents have been searching for the diamonds since the end of the war, but they’re old men now.” His lips tightened into a thin smile. “And no one listens to old men.” He waved a hand at the haphazardly stacked boxes. “Look around you, Kurt. The diamonds are worth a fortune, but what those files contain is beyond the dreams of avarice.”
“But how . . .?”
“We will talk later.” He motioned Kurt towards the door, then placed the silver framed photo on the desk. He took small, careful steps back into the room and turned the key in the lock. “Do not fail me.”
“I’m ready, Father.”
“Pack a bag. You will take the next flight to Zurich.”
CHAPTER 11
Nothing. Not even the sound of the engine. Montrose cut the call to the Blackberry.
An assistant was waiting for him. “If you could face the mirror, sir?” He moved the measuring tape expertly over Montrose’s body. “Perhaps a suit in blue or grey?”
“Blue. Dark blue, and two shirts, one white, the other a blue check. Remove any packaging and place them in the bag.”
“Very good, sir. Perhaps a few ties?”
“Yeah, match them to the shirts, I’ll go with your expert judgment.”
“Thank you, sir. Warm or temperate climate?”
Montrose was about to ask him what the hell he was talking about, then thought of the suit. “Temperate. It might be cold where I’m going.” Or red fucking hot.
“Shoes, sir?” An assistant held out a pair of shiny black English brogues.
“Ah, yes.” He sat down on a nearby chair and kicked off his sneakers to reveal a toe sticking out of one of his grey socks. “Throw in a few pairs of socks. I’ll change later.” The assistant lifted his foot and slipped on the brogue with the help of a silver shoe horn. “These will be fine. No need to try on the other.” The last time I bought new brogues they ripped the crap out of my feet. “Can you get me a pair of sneakers, too? Any color.”
Another assistant appeared holding a polished leather bag and two long, black wool overcoats. “We have the double-breasted, sir, or the classic retro Crombie, as you requested.”
The scarlet lining of the retro Crombie caught his eye. It was the best-looking coat he’d ever seen.
“Do you have a preference, sir?”
“That one.” He pointed to the retro.
“We also have a matching suit in exactly your size, sir. Would you care to try it on?”
“I’m pushed for time. I’ll wear it now. Pass everything to me in the changing booth.” He pulled a pair of sunglasses from a store dummy and ducked behind the booth door. “Ring all this up and I’ll meet you at the cash desk.” He took his Amex card from his wallet and shoved it through the slats in the door.
“As you wish, sir.”
He checked the iPhone. No calls. That won’t last. I keep this switched on and I’m gonna light up on the grid like a Christmas tree at a bar mitzvah. He switched the ring to silent and tugged off his jacket. He ripped at the buttons of the shirt, then stopped. The phone. They’d follow the phone. That would work. Spinks goes one way. I go the other. He stuck his head out of the booth. “Can you put the other stuff in the leather bag and get me a store bag for my dirty clothes?”
“Of course, sir.”
Montrose connected the iPhone headphones. Let’s see what the old bastard is up to. He hit redial for the old Blackberry and heard a brief ring tone as he kicked off his pants.
“There will be no second chance, Kurt. I want you to listen very carefully.”
Jeez, they’re in the car. Old Reinhard and his son.
“I understand, Father.”
What the hell are they up to? No second chance for what? He stuck his head out of the changing booth. “You got a pen?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?
Montrose caught the assistant’s look. A guy in a changing booth with his pants around his ankles, shirt half-unbuttoned and listening to his iPhone. “A pen. I’ve got a voice mail.”
“Of course, sir,” replied the assistant, holding out a Mont Blanc.
Man, what do they pay these guys here? “Thanks.” He pulled the door closed on the booth as he heard the voice speak again.
“A car will be waiting for you. It will take you directly to the bank. You will meet Jacques Kessler, Wolfgang Kessler’s son. He will require proof of identity.”
Montrose scribbled ‘Jacques Kessler’ on the wall of the booth.
“Use my Wehrmacht pass. These six digits are the combination to our safe deposit box. Take the merchandise to the South African Embassy where a specialist will be waiting for you. He will verify the quality and price, then separate the required amount and return the remainder to you. When this is done, Kessler’s client will arrive with three million in cash.”
“Euros?”
“Yes. Count the money. There will be exactly one hundred bundles in high denomination bills. Total, three million. Do you understand?
“I understand.”
What the hell? The merchandise? Yeah, I can guess. A fuck-ton of dope. He kept scribbling.
“Who’s the buyer?”
Yeah, who’s the buyer, old man?
“Herr Kessler is being rather coy. I suspect it’s someone who wants to launder some cash. Kessler knows many important people. His discreet services are much in demand among the ruling elite in political and financial circles. This is an opportunity to make a name for yourself, Kurt, as a businessman, just like me. Not a runner for the Mafia.”
&
nbsp; “I’ve told them I’ll be returning tonight with the money.”
“What time is your flight?”
“13:00. We’re here.”
“Everything okay in there, sir?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be out in a moment.” He heard the doors close on Reinhard’s car. I’ve got to go. He hauled on the new shirt and pants and scanned the scribbles on the wall.
Zurich - Kessler - Wolfgang or Jacques - army pass - six digits - pick up merchandise - 3 mill - SA Embassy - swap for cash - pay off Cosa Nostra.
He slipped on the new shoes and shoved his old clothes into the store bag. Holy shit. Kurt Reinhard owes the Cosa Nostra three million and the old man’s emptying the family vault to pay up.
He pulled on the jacket, hastily tucking in his shirt, and took a last look at the wall. He grabbed his old shirt from the floor of the booth, then spat on the writing and rubbed it hard with the shirt cuff. The ink smudged blue across the wall. Yeah, that worked. Good job.
Slipping the Crombie over his arm, he stood for a moment in front of the mirror. Looking good. In a ‘psychotic wanted for murder’ kinda way. Get with the program. He stuffed the remaining clothes into the store bag then smoothed down his suit.
The assistant was waiting as Montrose pushed open the door and slipped on the sunglasses. By the look on your face, buddy, you’re gonna look to see who else was in that booth. “Thanks for the pen.”
The assistant regarded the powdered plaster compacted around the end of his Mont Blanc, then blew it off and returned it to his pocket.
“Yeah, my bad. Tell you what, stick a new one on my check.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir, I . . .”
“I insist.” A free pen from the CIA. “It might bring me luck.” And any time starting now would be good. “Where’s the cash desk? I gotta go.”
“This way, sir.”
He followed the assistant to the desk at the centre of the store. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes sir, I’ve placed your sneakers in the leather bag. Please sign here.”
Damn sunglasses, I can’t see a thing. He pushed them onto his head and scribbled on the receipt. “Thanks for everything.” He grabbed the bags and made for the door, then remembered the phone. He looked down at the store bag. They don’t need the suit for evidence. They got enough of that already. He turned back to the assistant. “Can you call me a cab?”