Dark Ocean

by Nick Elliott

  ‘I know little about this man except he lives in Lucerne, or nearby. I am not associated with FOAS you understand.’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  ‘Let me see, Comrade. But give me time. Tomorrow I will send you something.’

  True to his word, Boris emailed a report on Helmut Gertch the following day revealing details that were nowhere to be found on the internet. I had my suspicions where it came from but I knew better than to ask.

  Gertch, a Swiss citizen, had been born in 1940. He’d studied Economics at Universität Mannheim before earning his PhD in transport economics at Princeton. A career at the Asian Infrastructure Development Bank followed where he spent much of his time arranging and dispersing Western-funded port and transport infrastructure loans to the emerging Asian tiger economies of the time. His star was rising until he became embroiled in a corruption scandal in Indonesia. Nothing was proven against him but it wasn't long before he parted company with the Bank, after which he returned to Switzerland and set up the Foundation for Oriental and Asian Studies.

  As an interesting footnote, Boris’s report stated that Gertch’s father and two of his uncles had run a bank in Zurich after the war that had allegedly laundered vast sums of Nazi loot for various members of the ODESSA, the organisation set up to help SS and other Nazi ne’er-do-wells escaping justice to establish themselves in South America.

  Then came what I was looking for: a link, albeit tenuous, to Dark Ocean. Between March 1949 and September 1953, the Gertch family bank had received eight deposits totalling seven hundred and twenty-three million dollars from an undisclosed source in the US. According to Boris’ intelligence sources, which I was sure originated from Russia’s FSB, these deposits came from the proceeds of Imperial Japan’s Golden Lily loot syphoned off by the Americans after the war and allocated to assist a number of allied democracies fighting off the Soviet communist threat during the Cold War.

  Gertch Senior and his two brothers disbursed these funds from the bank’s Zurich headquarters. Some of the money went to agents of the Soviet Ministry for State Security, later to become the KGB, and later still the FSB. These were agents who had agreed to reveal details of Soviet military and espionage activities in return for generous pay-outs. Whether this operation was carried out willingly, or whether under threat by the Americans of revealing the Gertchs’ ODESSA connections for which they would have almost certainly faced prosecution, was not made clear.

  Today, Helmut Gertch himself was a director of several Swiss-registered companies which Boris had thoughtfully listed in an appendix and which I now gave to Zoe.

  ‘Go through these and see what you can find out. I’m wondering if any of them own shares in shipowning, chartering or terminal and port operations, Zoe.’ I gave her a contact in a Cologne-based firm I’d used in the past that provided risk-management services including money laundering investigation and due diligence reports. ‘Use them if you need to. They’re good.’

  In his covering email Boris Kaliyagin had added a final note. ‘I do not know why but I am told Helmut Gertch is not who he seems to be. Others are pulling the strings. Take care, Comrade.’

  It didn’t take Zoe long. Anchinvest, a company in which Gertch was listed as a director and shareholder, had acquired a controlling share in a prominent Croatian shipowning firm just three weeks earlier. Along with that acquisition came another, a significant share in a prosperous Rijeka shipyard. Anchinvest also declared controlling interests in a Philippine port and terminal operator and an Indonesian fertilizer trader and charterer. Both these deals had been concluded within the last six months.

  Anchinvest’s other two directors both shared the name Gertch: still a family concern it seemed, and still active.

  ‘Zoe,’ I said, ‘It's time I paid Herr Gertch a visit.’

  ‘How do you know whether he will be there?’

  ‘Only one way to find out. And remember, Zoe, this is between you and me. If the CMM, Claire, anyone wants to know where I am, I’ve gone to China to visit Nya Wang’s monastery, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Angus. I understand. And stay safe.’

  ***

  Boris’s report had also included Gertch’s address near Meggen on the northern shores of Lake Lucerne. I decided to drive to give myself time to think how I was going to confront the man, and because I wanted to have my old Webley service revolver with me when I did so. Greek and Italian ferry terminals were less rigorous than airports when it came to checking luggage.

  Taking the go-bag I kept packed in the office for such short-notice departures, I set off in my ageing Alfa Romeo, the route taking me from Piraeus to Patras from where I caught the overnight ferry to Ancona. From there it was a seven hour drive north on the E35 skirting round Milan, up to Como and, having bought my motorway vignette, over the border and north from there. I booked into a small hotel up a side street in the town of Lucerne. As on all my previous visits to Switzerland, it was raining.

  After the long car journey, that evening I was glad to walk through the streets of the old town. The rain was light and after a while I found a bistro in a back street away from the lakeside tourist traps. There I ate one of my favourite Alpine dishes: Rosti accompanied by fried eggs and spinach, accompanied by a bottle of ice cold Chasselas. After I’d eaten I left and continued my evening stroll. I couldn’t be sure that I wasn’t being followed, either here in the town or on the journey up from Ancona. I’d lost all confidence in my evasion tactics.

  And as I returned to the hotel I still had only the sketchiest idea of how to handle my meeting with Herr Gertch.

  Chapter 36

  The following morning to my surprise the sun was shining through gaps in the storm clouds which loomed above the Alps. There was still a chill wind off the lake but the birds were singing perhaps sensing that the best was still to come.

  Helmut Gertch’s estate was on the shores of the lake just a few miles southeast of the town. I had found some details of the place from the address Boris had given me. The estate had been on the market a few years back and the estate agent’s description, helpfully, was still online; an uncharacteristic slip-up by the secretive Herr Gertch.

  Meggen, it said, was a charming and idyllic lakeside community whose attractive setting and proximity to Lucerne made it one of the most sought after locations in Switzerland. Built in 1926, it comprised a seven-bedroom, 9,000 square foot house occupying a modest one and a half acres of well-kept grounds stretching down to the lakeside. All this enjoyed a secluded location which guaranteed a high degree of privacy. The pool, the gardens, the views across the lake and the house itself left nothing to be desired, said the blurb; except perhaps the character of the man who had purchased it.

  I drove past the tall iron gates slowing down briefly. There was no lodge but there was a gatehouse, a security measure no doubt. I saw no guards around but assumed there would be CCTV cameras. A mile or two up the road I turned the car round and headed back to town. There I ordered sandwiches from the hotel and asked the waitress to fill a thermos flask with black coffee. My next acquisitions were a super-telephoto lens and a heavy-duty tripod.

  Then I hired a small motorboat and headed off down the lake. The weather had turned again and rain was slanting across the water driven by the wind coming off the mountains. Waves flecked with white foam crests raced across the lake’s grey surface. The man who rented me the boat had warned of the lake’s fickle microclimate and had insisted on seeing my ICC licence, a certificate intended to provide evidence of competence to operate a pleasure craft when requested by officials in foreign countries, so if I capsized and drowned he could tell the police and his insurance company that he’d ticked all the boxes so it wasn’t his fault.

  Keeping well offshore I slowed the boat down as I passed Gertch’s place. The jetty was occupied by a Riva motor launch of the classic design variety. It looked poorly cared for with varnish peeling off the wooden deck and hull. I carried on down the lake for another ten minutes or so then c
rossed over to the southern shore. After a while I found what I was looking for: a dilapidated jetty serving an equally dilapidated chalet that, if not abandoned was certainly not occupied. I tied the boat up and climbed ashore. The property was surrounded by conifers providing the cover I was looking for. Having found a discreet vantage point, I attached the new lens to my camera, mounted it on the tripod and focused on Gertch’s place diagonally opposite. The detail of the scene jumped to life through the powerful lens: the jetty, the garden and the house itself in front of which was a large terrace accessed through a number of French windows. I settled down to watch and wait.

  The house had been built in the Swiss chalet style. According to the estate agent’s description such architectural designs had originated in the Romantic era of the early nineteen hundreds when ideas from the English landscape garden had inspired residences across Germany and Switzerland. It had apparently become appreciated by noble landowners impressed by the simple life of mountain folk though I could see no resemblance to either an English country garden or Heidi’s grandfather’s place. But it had been modified over the years and although the styles competed with one another, skilful landscaping around the house and its terraces had softened it and lent charm to its appearance.

  It was a couple of hours before anything happened. Then a large car glided to a halt on the gravel drive alongside the house. The car was partially hidden by a low wall so I couldn’t make out the number plate but I could see it was a right-hand drive, black and gunmetal grey Bentley Mulsanne. The car was spattered with road dirt suggesting a long journey. A man climbed out of the driver’s seat, placed a black Fedora on his head and stretched. I began taking stills and video clips. He was wearing a black coat with an astrakhan collar. The boot opened and he removed a dark brown leather suitcase. The boot closed and the man walked towards the front of the house.

  After another half hour one pair of French windows opened and two men stepped out, both smoking cigars and holding tumblers of what looked like whisky. The man on the left was Astrakhan from the Bentley. He had a familiar air about him. But the man he was raising his glass to I recognised straightaway. It was Vice Admiral Randolph Carvill.

  As I was about to jump to a number of conclusions, a woman pushing a wheelchair now entered the scene, carefully manoeuvring it down a ramp which was in position beneath another of the French windows, which presumably led off from another room in the house. The wheelchair’s occupant was huddled under a tartan rug and wore a woollen hat. The woman pushed the wheelchair up to where the other two were standing and turned it to face the lake. I could see now that the man in the wheelchair was leaning over to one side. He looked enfeebled as if he’d suffered a stroke. The woman disappeared into the house returning with a tumbler of whisky for him. The three men drank and stared out onto the lake. The woman stepped back inside.

  By now it was after six and what sun there had been had disappeared behind the mountains. I watched and filmed as they talked, drank their whisky and smoked their cigars. Eventually the woman returned and the three of them went back into the house. Lights went on and curtains were drawn.

  I guessed the man in the wheelchair was Gertch but what the hell was Carvill doing there? Was he the mole who’d leaked the coordinates? Or did he have some other role? Was he working undercover himself? It seemed improbable. And who was Astrakhan with the right-hand drive Bentley? Four people, no sign of a security detail but I couldn’t take that for granted.

  I recalled what Claire had told me: espionage is all about waiting; another gem from her beginner’s guide to tradecraft. I waited another couple of hours. It was raining harder now. Water dripped from the branches down my collar, the coffee and sandwiches long gone. For the hundredth time I stared through the camera’s viewfinder across to the villa. Then, just as I was about to pack up, a crack of light appeared where the curtains weren’t fully drawn. The French windows opened and Carvill stepped out onto the terrace followed by Astrakhan. I could tell from their body language that they were both well-oiled.

  I packed up, transferring the camera’s memory card to my pocket, and walked back to the boat. It was time to pay them a visit.

  Chapter 37

  The wind was still blowing hard from the south. Ragged clouds swept across the rising moon as I motored down the lake before crossing to the northern shore giving Gertch’s villa a wide berth. I spotted a small shingly beach and ran the boat up onto it. Then I worked my way back on foot for half a mile or so until I reached the perimeter wall of the estate. I walked along it in both directions hoping to find a gate or some alternative way in; nothing. I could chance entering via the main gate or the point where the wall reached the lakeshore, but judged both to be too conspicuous.

  The wall must have been a good distance from the house itself. When I’d been watching earlier from the opposite shore I’d seen no sign of dogs or guards but the wall was an obstacle. It was of natural, rough-hewn sandstone. There was no sign of glass shards or barbed wire on the top. I estimated it to be some ten feet high, too high to haul myself up without some upward drive. But a sprawling ivy plant was clinging to it at this point so I decided to try it. Leaving the bag with the camera in it at the foot of the wall but buttoning the Webley into my jacket pocket, I eyed the waist-high spot where the ivy was thickest and where I wanted my foot to land. I moved back, enough to get a good run at it. I ran, hit the wall with the ball of my foot in the spot I’d chosen and thrust my other leg up into the ivy to gain momentum. Swinging my arms and shoulders up I reached and grabbed the top edge of the wall. Then I hoisted myself onto the top and without waiting, dropped down onto the other side.

  Instead of the soft yielding bushes I’d hoped for I landed hard onto a gravel path making contact with my injured arm. It had been aching before, now the pain shot through it like a knife. I grunted and lay still, slowly regaining my breath and looking around me.

  The house was at least fifty yards away as I’d guessed. There was no sign of life in the grounds but lights were on in several rooms both upstairs and down. The Bentley was still there parked beside a black BMW.

  I checked the Webley and waited five more minutes adjusting to the surroundings before approaching the house. There were several doors opening onto patios besides those which faced the lake. Now I worked my way round the building looking for a way of gaining access undetected. I moved around to the landward side where the cars were parked, then onto the far side but could find no easy way in without smashing a window and probably setting off an alarm. I was considering my options when they were decided for me. Someone came up from behind and smashed my head against the wall.

  ***

  When I came round I was lying on my front. I opened an eye. Someone had thoughtfully provided a towel for my head to rest on. Then I realised it had been placed there to prevent blood from a gash on my forehead from spreading out across an expensive looking rug I’d been dumped on. I didn’t move.

  ‘What do you want to do with him?’ said a guttural voice.

  ‘Nothing. Leave him here with us. You may go now but stay in the house. Gudrun will feed you. You did well.’ I recognised Carvill’s voice. He was speaking to my assailant.

  I stayed where I was. ‘Get up, McKinnon,’ he said. ‘We can see you’ve woken from your slumbers.’

  I raised myself up and touched my forehead. It was sticky with blood.

  ‘Gudrun, go and get some water and a rag so he can clean himself up will you.’ Carvill seemed to be in charge.

  Gudrun left the room. I looked around. The room and the people in it were swimming. I felt sick. Gudrun returned with a bowl of warm water, cotton wool and bandages. She bent and began cleaning, first the blood from my face then the wound itself.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman,’ Carvill remonstrated, ‘stop babying him. He can manage himself.’

  She took no notice and continued cleaning me up. Finally she fixed a large gauze pad over the wound. I could see she was concerned. Her grey ha
ir was tied back into a bun. She was dressed in a plain brown woollen dress. She had the appearance of a school mistress but I suspected she was a trained nurse, here to look after the ailing Herr Gertch.

  When she’d finished she left the room. Carvill was seated in a wingchair pointing a pistol at me. My own Webley had been removed from my waistband. He looked pleased with himself. Over by the French windows stood Astrakhan. This was the first good look I’d had of him.

  The man in the wheelchair who I took to be Gertch was wearing pyjamas, a camel-coloured dressing-gown and slippers. What was left of his hair was grey as was his skin – a ghostly pallor. I thought back to Jim Brodie. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Carvill spoke again. ‘Angus McKinnon. Rest assured, if you hadn’t found me I would have found you. So you have saved me the trouble, though you have also caused me a great deal of it.’

  I recalled with irony what Claire had told me in one of her tradecraft lessons: by appearing vulnerable you will find it easier to win the trust of the person you are interacting with. I didn’t need to appear vulnerable.

  ‘Who are your friends?’ I asked wearily and getting to my feet. ‘Herr Gertch?’ I said turning to the man in the wheelchair.

  ‘I am Gertch,’ he said sounding as weary as I did.

  ‘And him?’ I nodded to Astrakhan who was still leaning on the wall beside the French windows.

  Carvill spoke. ‘He is a colleague from London.’

  But then as I looked across at him I had it. ‘You’re a politician aren’t you, from the Foreign Office?’

  ‘Well done.’ His voice was slurred from the drinking. ‘Junior Minister actually, yes.’

  We stared at each other. I shrugged. ‘No harm in telling me what this is all about. I’m fascinated. What have you cooked up here?’

  Again, it was Carvill who spoke. ‘This is a serious organisation I am running and you have repeatedly interfered and obstructed our plans. Do not expect me to start explaining what this is all about. You know what it’s about.’