She stared at me. “You have to ask after what you heard today?”
“I heard that Hermann Goering joined Soul Identity and opened a soul line collection before they hung him at Nuremberg.”
“Actually, he committed suicide,” Madame Flora said. “Just a few hours ahead of the hangman.”
I hadn’t known that. But it didn’t really matter. “I also heard that his money and memories have gone missing, and a cryptic journal has appeared,” I said.
“That journal doesn’t matter,” she said quickly.
Of course it didn’t, now that she thought she had destroyed it.
“I think the journal holds the key,” I said. “I’m going to ask Archie for it tomorrow.”
I watched her try to hide the smile lifting the corners of her lips. “You can ask, but I can guarantee you that he won’t let you read it.”
I couldn’t wait to wave my copy into her smug face. But only after I figured it out.
She stared at me. “You two are in grave danger.”
“Danger?” Val asked.
Madame Flora faced her and spoke with an ominous voice. “Even over sixty years later, the Nazis are waiting to pounce once Hermann Goering’s belongings surface.”
“How would they know that Soul Identity has them?” I asked.
“They just do,” she said.
I waited for her to elaborate.
“If you had any sense, you’d steer clear of these dangerous people,” she said.
“Do you think they broke in and raided Goering’s collection?” I asked.
“I suppose it’s possible.”
Again she had avoided a straight answer. I crossed my arms. “Then they wouldn’t be waiting to pounce, would they?”
That seemed to catch her. “I…I don’t know.” She stared at the table for a minute. “You need to know about the mess you’re stepping into. Let me tell you how evil these Nazis are.”
eighteen
September 1946
Nuremberg, Occupied Germany
They sat in the back of the darkened room, watching Flora’s grandmother trace Goering’s irises onto a proof sheet. Three of the five images had come out clear, so even if the projector overheated and melted a slide, there were two backups available.
James leaned close. “I’ve heard that the Nazi underground is poking into Goering’s affairs,” he whispered to Flora.
She shrugged. “I don’t care any more.” She had compromised her principles to save Baba, and now the Reichsmarschall had won. She felt sick to her stomach, and she didn’t want to talk about it.
But James apparently still cared. “They claim Goering promised to give the gold back,” he said, “but he changed his mind after he was indicted.”
It was somewhat interesting after all. She threw a glance at Baba, then turned back to James. “How do you know they’re Nazis?” she whispered.
“The Schutzstaffel tattoo.”
This elite SS military group was responsible, Flora learned during the trials, for the party’s race-centric activities, including the enslavement and killing of the Jews, Gypsies, priests, and homosexuals. Unfortunately for most SS members, they had their blood type tattooed on the underside of their left arms. Flora thought it ironic the Allies were using these symbols of German practicality to identify and imprison the most vicious Nazis.
Baba turned around. “Is the paint ready?” she asked.
“Sorry, Baba.” Flora glanced up at Hermann Goering’s pale blue projected eyes, then squeezed the tubes of paint onto the palette and mixed in the turpentine. She handed Baba the palette, then transferred the proof sheet to the easel.
“Let’s let the projector cool down a tad,” James said. He pulled the plug and the room went dark.
An hour later, Flora and James sat in the back and watched Baba paint Goering’s eyes.
Flora couldn’t stop thinking about the Nazi underground. If they could demonstrate that Goering had stolen their gold, Mr. Morgan would have to stop the deposit.
Was it too much to hope for? She looked at James. “Do the Nazis know we have the gold?”
“They suspect we do, but I didn’t confirm it.”
“I want to talk to them,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “These guys are too dangerous.”
She grabbed his arm. “We have to try. We can’t let that monster win.”
James stared at her.
She silently willed him to say yes.
He nodded his head. “I’ll set up a meeting.”
Flora darted a glance at Baba, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
nineteen
September 1946
Nuremberg, Occupied Germany
James set up the meeting with the Nazis for today, the last Saturday of September. The defense had rested in the war crimes trial, and the world awaited the verdict. Mr. Morgan was busy working out transfer details with Soul Identity’s Swiss depositary representatives. Flora and James had the day off.
James drove the Jeep onto the main street. “It should take us thirty minutes to get there,” he said.
Flora sat next to him and thought about what she would ask the Nazis.
“I still don’t see why we need to talk to them,” James said.
Why was this so hard for him to understand? “Once they admit Goering stole the gold from them, Mr. Morgan won’t deposit it.”
James shook his head. “They’d never admit that.”
“They want the gold, don’t they?”
“Of course.”
Flora smiled. “So we tell them they can’t have it unless we get the truth about its origins.”
James glanced at her, then back at the road. He looked at her again. “How old are you, hon?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen.” He shook his head. “Well, I guess I was pretty naïve, too, ten years ago.”
She crossed her arms. “Are you mocking me, James Little?”
He looked in the mirror, then maneuvered the Jeep over to the side of the road. He flipped the ignition lever down and the engine stopped.
She stared out the windshield, arms still crossed.
“Flora, look at me,” he said.
She twisted in her seat, then looked up to meet his gaze.
“Do you want these Nazis to get that gold?” he asked.
“Are you crazy? Of course not!”
“Then smarten up. Most of the Nazis we missed have escaped to Spain and South America. Some joined the French Foreign Legion. Now only the wily ones are left—ones smart enough to be able to hide in Occupied Germany for over a year. If you go waltzing in and tell them that you have their gold, what do you think they’re going to do?”
“They’ll tell us the truth.” She stared at him. “Why won’t you understand this?”
“Because you’re not thinking!” He pulled his pistol out of his holster and held it in the air. “If I were them, I’d just force us to tell them where the gold is.” He pointed the pistol at Flora. “And then I’d kill us both.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but then turned back and slumped in her seat. James was right: there was no reason for the Nazis to help them. Her naïve plan would get them both killed. Baba would be left alone, and Mr. Morgan would still deposit Goering’s gold.
“Do you have a better idea?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “When we meet with the Nazis, you keep quiet.” He holstered the pistol. “I mean it, Flora. Not a peep out of you. I have some experience dealing with these kinds of guys, and it’s a man’s job.”
“What do I get to do?” She aimed these words at the windshield.
“Take your photographs like you planned. But don’t say anything.” He stretched his hand to her cheek and gently turned her face toward him. “Trust me on this one. Stow away that feisty temper until we’re back home.”
She glared at him, but she knew he was right. She nodded.
He patted her cheek and smiled. “
Then let’s go and save the world.” He flipped the ignition lever and the Jeep rumbled to life.
After a few minutes, James turned off the road and drove into the woods. He parked behind a large bush.
Flora looked around. “Where are the Nazis?”
He pointed. “Five minutes through the woods.” He undid his belt, pulled off the holster, and stuck the pistol in his side pocket. Then he bent down and grasped a small pine tree he had run over, jerking it out of the ground with a grunt. He turned it over and swept its branches over their tire tracks. He threw the tree in front of the Jeep. “Let’s go,” he said.
Flora reached behind the seat and pulled out her camera case. She hopped out and caught up to him as he strode into the forest.
As they drew near the edge of a clearing, James stopped and put his finger to his lips. He pointed to the remnants of a dilapidated barn a hundred yards away. “That’s where we’re meeting them,” he whispered.
Flora shifted to get a better view through the trees. The barn stood surrounded by mown fields in the clearing. She could see one person: a shirtless, barefoot man standing at attention next to an ancient door. “That’s a Nazi?” she asked.
“Not just any Nazi. He’s ex-SS. Remember, they’re in hiding, so don’t let their appearance fool you. They’re mean and dangerous.” James pulled out his pistol. “Can you squeeze this into the bottom of your camera case?” He held it by the barrel and extended it to her.
It was the first time Flora had touched a gun. She closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the grip. The textured handle felt cold and murderous.
She opened her eyes. “How does it work?” she asked.
“It? This is my standard issue M1911A1 pistol, the most dependable sidearm in the world.” He moved Flora’s index finger to the guard. “Feel the curve? That’s the trigger. You can squeeze that seven times before you’re out.”
She hefted it. “It’s heavy.”
“Almost three pounds with a full clip. Use both hands, and just point and shoot. But not at me.” He showed her where to put her left hand, and how to squeeze the grip safety.
She removed the camera and the lens cloth from the case. She laid the pistol in the bottom, covered it with the lens cloth, and put the camera on top. The case barely closed, but Flora was able to buckle it shut.
James whispered instructions as they walked out of the woods and across the field. “Ask no questions. Show no emotion. And don’t take out the pistol unless you’re ready to kill somebody.”
When they were halfway across the field, the shirtless man slipped into the barn.
Flora glanced at the empty fields and shivered. “This is scary,” she whispered.
James stopped. “You want to go home?”
She glared at him. “Of course not.” And that gave her the determination to march the rest of the way to the barn.
James rapped on the door, and it swung open.
“Come inside,” a voice commanded in German.
“Outside is better,” James called. He turned and marched back into the field. Flora followed him. They stopped after twenty feet, faced the barn, and waited.
The shirtless man stood in the doorway and scowled. Flora could see his ribcage poking at his taut skin. “The Untersturmführer commands you to come in,” he said.
“Please tell your storm leader that we will meet with him outside,” James said. “Until we get to know each other better.”
The man vanished into the barn’s darkness, then reappeared carrying a wooden dining chair. He placed it just outside the door and went back inside.
Flora heard murmuring, then a suppressed moan. A tall blond man in a dirty, pale-gray SS uniform appeared in the doorway. His right hand gripped a cane, and his left rested on the shirtless man’s shoulder. A soiled brown bandage encircled his right thigh.
The shirtless man stepped over the threshold. The officer squinted in the light and carefully limped out. He fell into the chair and grimaced, using his hands to retract his right leg.
“Do you have our gold?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“Herr Goering insists the gold belongs to him,” James said.
“The gold belongs to the Party—not to that traitor.”
James threw a look at Flora, then back at the SS officer. “That may be true,” he said. “But my employer requires evidence of your ownership before releasing it.”
The officer beckoned his helper, then murmured in his ear. The shirtless man stepped into the barn. The officer glanced back, then focused on James. “My Sturmmann will bring our documents.”
The storm trooper returned grasping a leather portfolio. He handed it to the officer, who undid the clasps and pulled out four pages of carbon copies.
James stepped forward, and the officer handed him the papers. “You may examine them, but they must remain here,” he said.
James nodded. He motioned to Flora, and together they tried to make sense of them.
The officer leaned forward and gave a few hacking coughs. “The top sheet is from Degussa,” he said. “It shows their purchase of five hundred and nine bags of gold teeth, pocket watches, fountain pens, and eyeglass frames from the Dachau camp.”
Flora went light-headed, and she gripped James’s arm. She had heard in the war crimes trials how the German company had set up gold smelting foundries next to each concentration camp.
James looked at the blond officer. “Herr Goering’s gold bars are not marked from Degussa,” he said. “They are stamped with the Reichsbank’s insignia.”
The officer smiled. “You are correct. The second paper shows the sale from Degussa in Dachau to the Reichsbank in Frankfurt, nineteen days later, of nine hundred kilograms of pure gold.”
James looked at the second page, then handed it to Flora.
Flora verified the dates, and did some mental math. At twelve and a half kilograms per bar, this made seventy-two gold bars—exactly what was in Soul Identity’s Nuremberg basement.
The officer pointed. “The third paper shows the resulting Reichsbank gold bars. The serial numbers and dates on the bars are listed.” He smiled. “The bank was quite thorough in its deception.”
Flora looked at the sheet. The dates on the gold bars were all prior to 1939, just like the bars in the basement.
“And the last page?” James asked.
“A copy of the orders last April to the Reichsbank to have the gold delivered to me in Berlin.” The SS officer scowled. “The Reichsmarschall’s goons hijacked the gold and shot the deliverymen.”
James re-scanned each page. “These seem to be in order.” He looked down at the seated officer. “Of course, I will need to have them verified by my employer.”
“Nein!” The officer slapped his legs, then winced. “The papers shall remain with me,” he said. “Bring your men here.”
James shook his head. “The men won’t come here.”
“Sturmann!” the officer barked.
The shirtless storm trooper reached inside the door. He withdrew a rifle, worked the bolt action, and aimed it at Flora.
Flora couldn’t move. She could feel her heart racing in her chest. James had been right; these men were too dangerous for them to handle. They were going to die for nothing more than her foolish idea.
“Your fraulein will stay with us until you return with the gold,” the officer said in his raspy voice.
James stood still for a full minute. Then he shook his head. “I cannot leave her here.”
The officer shrugged. “Then you both shall die.”
Flora knew Mr. Morgan would be too cautious to mount a rescue. If James left, she would perish in this barn for sure.
But why should James sacrifice his life? It was her silly idea to come here. Not his. She would have to help him leave. “Go,” she whispered in English. “Get out of here, and get Baba to America.”
He shook his head. “I will not leave you here to die.”
“You must.” She tightened her grip on
the camera case. She still had James’s pistol; she still had a chance to save herself. She swallowed and looked up at him. “Don’t let Goering get that gold.”
James addressed the SS officer. “My employer will want a photograph of you and the fraulein, and of the papers, too. Otherwise he may not believe me.” He pointed at Flora’s case.
What was he doing? Flora shook her head, but she saw the officer nod, and then James reached out and pried from her fingers her last hope of escape.
The officer held out his hand. “Let me inspect the case.”
James nodded as he unbuckled it. “Of course. Here, let me get that camera out for you.” He handed the papers to Flora and reached inside.
“Halt!” the officer shouted.
The storm trooper spun his rifle and swung the butt at James’s arms.
James pulled back, but the rifle struck the edge of the case and ripped it out of his hands.
Flora held her breath as the case fell. It bounced, flipped over, and dumped the camera, cloth, and pistol onto the ground.
James lunged for the pistol, but the storm trooper swung again, and this time connected with James’s forehead with a loud thud.
James fell face down on the ground.
The shirtless man stepped forward and pounded his rifle butt into the back of James’s head.
James’s arms and legs jerked once, and then his body went limp.
The SS officer extended his cane and used it to drag the pistol to his feet. He bent down and picked it up.
“You will give me my papers.” The officer pointed the pistol at Flora.
She stood frozen.
He shifted his aim and fired over her head. The shot echoed in the clearing. “Now, fraulein.”
Flora felt her knees buckling, and she fought to keep them rigid. She opened her hand and let the papers drop to the ground.
The officer pointed, and the shirtless man stepped forward and swung the rifle toward her head.
Her last conscious thought was of Baba.
She woke with a gasp, her head pounding. She was unable to see far in the dim light, but she could hear the sounds of a muted conversation.
Soul Intent Page 7