by James Remmer
‘Well, to put it simply, Jürgen, there’s a faction inside Argentina that would like to see a change of leadership. They’d like to replace the present dictatorship with a dictatorship of their own, one that would embrace Germany and restore diplomatic relations between our two countries, but they need some help.’
‘A shipment of arms?’
‘Yes, Schmeisser machine pistols, among other things.’
‘And you’re the middle man?’
‘In the material sense, yes.’
‘And the material is where I come in.’
‘Yes, it’s already waiting at the Flender-Werke Shipyard, in a storage building back from the quay.’
‘That much I do know,’ said Lanze. ‘Manfred told me that the key to the building would be delivered to me personally, by someone called… von Althoff?’
‘Highly likely,’ confirmed von Menen. ‘Von Althoff is a kind of general factotum for the man I report to.’
‘And the gold… That’s at the Flender-Werke Shipyard, too?’
Von Menen smiled. ‘Father’s told you about the gold, then?’
‘Yes, last night.’
‘You’re not shocked?’
‘I’ve been at the front for over five years. Nothing shocks me anymore.’ Lanze looked von Menen in the eyes. ‘When I’m at sea, my immediate concern is for the welfare and protection of fifty-six officers and men, and the safety of the boat. Yet always on my mind is the most important part of my life – Katrina. I think about her constantly. It helps me keep my sanity. So, if Katrina wants to start a new life in Argentina, then Argentina is where we’re going.’
Von Menen flicked a glance at the door. ‘Manfred doesn’t know about the gold… Mother does, but I’m not so sure about Katrina. I certainly haven’t told her.’
‘I’ve already spoken to your mother about that and we’ve agreed not to say anything. Katrina’s got enough to worry about, what with the baby and all.’
A smile washed across von Menen’s face. ‘Well, sailor boy, looks like we’ll be meeting up at… well, 36° 18`S 56° 04`W, to be precise.’
‘For you, Carl, perhaps, but not for me; we sailor boys don’t use geographical co-ordinates… we use grid references, superimposed on standard naval charts, which show the ocean divided into quadrants, each identified by two letters of the alphabet. Every lettered quadrant is divided into nine squares and each of those nine squares is sub-divided into nine smaller squares. In turn, the smaller squares are sub-divided until what we’re left with is an ocean covered by a multiplicity of minute squares, each one representing an area no larger than a few nautical square miles. In our case, we’ll be meeting at the intersection of GK9198 and GK9432.’
‘More importantly, Jürgen, when do you expect to sail?’
‘Around the end of January, I believe.’
‘Duration?’
‘About forty days, so Manfred reckons.’
‘Which leaves me a month or so to finalise the operation at the other end, assuming, of course, that you’ll reach your final position around 14th March.’
‘And the vessel I’m to rendezvous with?’
‘Some kind of large, fast patrol boat, I imagine. The question is what to do about the gold. I’ll have to come back for it.’
‘Come back? How?’
‘A fishing boat. I bought it some time ago. She’s small, but very robust. She’ll take half a tonne easily. Can you remain on station until I get back?’
‘Two days, that’s all I’ll have.’
‘Understood… You know the recognition signs?’
‘Yes, three pennants – white, black, white, in that order. You’d best make sure they’re flying, too, otherwise your fast patrol boat could easily end up with an unsolicited gift of 200 kilos of Hexanate high explosive in its lap.’
Just then, Steiger phoned from downstairs, a note of urgency in his voice. Von Menen excused himself, found his father, and together they hurried to the Steigers’ parlour.
‘What’s the problem, Hans?’ asked the General.
‘Greta and I have just got back from Lübeck, and…’
‘Go on.’
‘Providence, call it what you like, but I missed the turning into the drive. When I pulled into Westphal’s farm entrance to turn around, a BMW was parked twenty metres down the track, a man sitting behind the wheel. It was Baumer’s car. I recognised the number.’
‘Baumer! You’re sure?’
‘Definitely. No doubt at all.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Seemed to be.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. I was wearing my hat and my collar was turned right up.’
‘Baumer,’ muttered von Menen. ‘I wonder…’
‘Wonder what?’ asked the General.
‘Sigi Bredow. She said the Gestapo officer responsible for those horrible cigarette burns was called Baumer, but surely it can’t be the same Baumer, because Sigi was held at Prinz Albrecht Strasse in Berlin.’
‘Oh yes it could,’ said the General, exchanging a knowing glance with Steiger. ‘Keppler, the SS Standartenführer we dealt with at the Reichsbank, admitted as much. To quote: “posted there to help with the interrogation of some of the suspects involved in the plot to murder our glorious Führer. His success rate was very high”.’
Anger boiled in von Menen’s eyes.
‘Klaus, I wouldn’t normally sanction a personal motive for killing anyone,’ said Steiger, ‘but…’
‘I know, I know,’ said the General, shaking his head. ‘We’ve got to get rid of him, before he gets rid of us.’‘It’s me he’s after, Klaus,’ said Steiger. ‘I was the one who shamed him. He’s not the type who’d share that kind of humiliation with his friends. That’s why he was on his own. It’s a personal thing. He’s spoiling for revenge, waiting for the right moment. Leave him to me.’
Thursday 21st December 1944
Von Menen returned from Lübeck at eight o’clock in the evening.
‘Which one did you use?’ asked Steiger.
‘The one inside the railway station.’
‘And?’
‘I called the Schwerin Gestapo Office, said I had some information for Hauptsturmführer Baumer. The operator said he wasn’t there, that he’d left at four o’clock and wouldn’t be back until seven tomorrow morning.’
‘Which means he’ll be leaving home around five-thirty,’ reckoned Steiger. ‘Right, let’s run through the rehearsal we did on your mother’s car.’
The temperature was well below zero, the cold piercing through every layer of their thick clothing. Steiger turned off the main road and on to a narrow woodland track, bringing the Steyr to a halt fifty metres in from the road. He looked heavenwards and thanked God for the clear, star-studded night and a first-quarter moon. Perfect.
‘The entrance to Baumer’s place is a few hundred metres up the road on the left,’ said Steiger. ‘It’s a big house, with an entrance on the outside of a hairpin bend. When you turn into the drive, the first thing you encounter is an unfenced wooden bridge about forty metres long. It straddles a wide section of the…’ Steiger paused, stroked his chin. ‘God, I can’t remember the name of the river. Anyway, the river enters the grounds from the west, follows the course of the hairpin bend and flows out of the estate a kilometre or so to the east. Its widest part is just inside the entrance. There’s a steep gravel drive on the far side of the bridge, about 200 metres long and straight as an arrow. It leads all the way up to the house.’
‘Is the river deep?’
‘At this time of the year, yes. I’ve known it to flood over the bridge and out onto the main road.’
‘How do you know all this, Hans?’
‘The bridge was built by my great-grandf
ather. My family’s had a connection with the estate for a long time; I used to go there with my father. Either side of the entrance there’s a high stone wall, giving way to a row of high pines. The whole place is very secluded.’
‘So, when Baumer leaves the house, there’s only one way he can go when he reaches the bridge,’ noted von Menen.
‘Through the main entrance, unless he fancies a swim,’ chortled Steiger.
‘And on the other side of the road?’
‘Another high stone wall, marking the boundary of the Langer estate. There’s a couple of convex mirrors affixed to it, so anyone leaving Baumer’s place can check for vehicles approaching along the main road.’
‘And behind the wall?’
‘Dense woodland.’
‘How do we get into the estate?’
‘Another bridge, about half a kilometre down the road. From there we can approach the house from the west. It’s all woodland, so there’s plenty of cover. You’ve got the tools?’
Von Menen felt the pincers and the short length of softwood dowelling inside his breast pocket and nodded.
‘Just in case the clevis-pin’s been replaced by a nut and bolt,’ said Steiger, ‘you’d best take this.’
Von Menen slipped the small adjustable spanner into his pocket.
‘And remember,’ added Steiger, ‘whether it’s a clevis-pin or a nut and bolt, don’t leave it on the ground – bring it back with you.’
Steiger checked his watch. Half past midnight. He reached into the back of the Steyr and grabbed his Schmeisser.
‘I’ll wait for you at the fringe of the wood,’ he said. ‘If there’s the slightest hint of trouble, stay on the ground until you hear the first burst of fire from this, then run like hell.’
Steiger lay hidden beneath a large laurel bush, the house enveloped in darkness.
Pincers in one hand, the adjustable spanner in the other, and a short length of dowelling wedged under the strap of his wristwatch, von Menen wormed his way within a foot of the BMW. He inched gingerly beneath the running board, rehearsing in his mind’s eye the process he’d practised a dozen times on his mother’s car. Just as he felt for the clevis-pin, the front door to the house opened wide, a faint glow of light spreading out.
No blackout rules for the Gestapo.
Prostate beneath the car, von Menen was stiff with cold, his heart racing wildly. First he heard the footsteps and then he saw the Jackboots, nearing the BMW step by crunching step. He reasoned that it had to be Baumer. Thirty metres away, Steiger listened vigilantly for the first sign of trouble, the Schmeisser cocked, ready to go.
The car door pulled open; von Menen heard it, Steiger saw it; a man in grey breeches leaning inside, a voice cursing the cold. The door slammed shut again, the man made his way back to the house and the porch light went out.
Numbed with cold, his concentration waning, von Menen could barely move, yet somehow, the clevis-pin came out and the thin, short length of dowelling went in.
Steiger beamed a smile of relief as he watched von Menen struggling awkwardly over the last four metres to the laurel bush, his vaporised breath trailing behind him. ‘Now it’s my turn,’ he whispered. ‘The clevis pin, Carl.’
Von Menen could barely move his fingers. He dipped into his pocket, pulled out the pin and handed it to Steiger.
‘Make your way back through the trees and wait for me on the far side of the road,’ said Steiger.
Von Menen fetched Steiger a baffled look. ‘Where are you going, Hans?’
Steiger nodded in the direction of the house. ‘He’s an important man. When the police arrive in the morning, they’ll be looking for evidence, and we don’t want to disappoint them, do we?’
It was two o’clock when they reached the Steyr, the flask of hot coffee laced with schnapps a welcome relief. They rested, then padded their way along the inside of the high stone wall, stopping fifty metres short of the hairpin bend.
‘Right,’ said Steiger, switching the screw cap on the jerry can for the one he’d wired with the detonator, ‘you wait here. I’m going on alone.’ Steiger delved into his canvas bag, pulled out a reel of cable and slipped a short length of wood through the hole in the middle. ‘Grab hold of this, Carl, and keep a tight grip on it. I’ll pull the cable out as I go along. Okay?’
Von Menen nodded.
‘When the drum stops spinning, don’t yank back on the cable. And whatever you do, don’t let the cable get anywhere near the generator terminals.’ He looked down at the jerry can, checked the wires of the detonator peeking through the small hole in the top of the screw cap and thumbed the blob of plasticine, firming the wires in place. ‘It breaks my heart to waste twelve litres of petrol,’ he said, ‘but if that’s what it takes… Anyhow, I’ll see you shortly.’
Steiger hastened along the inside of the wall, making towards the apex of the hairpin bend, drawing out the cable with one hand and carrying the jerry can in the other.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back. The long, cold wait began.
Steiger stood stiffly upright, cupped his hand around his ear and caught the faint sound of the BMW. It was five-twenty.
‘He’s on his way,’ he murmured.
Von Menen strained his ears. Steiger, his fingers so numb he could hardly move them, fumbled frantically with the terminals on the hand-held generator.
‘That short length of dowel should be snapping right about… now! Bet he’s pumping that foot brake like mad, wondering what the hell’s gone wrong, thinking about the high stone wall and the deep water left and right.’
A few seconds later, the road noise from the BMW changed as it rumbled across the narrow wooden bridge. ‘Obviously he didn’t fancy the water,’ quipped von Menen. ‘He’ll be breaking the land speed record by now.’
Counting off the seconds, Steiger glanced at von Menen and flicked the key on the generator. A noise like the rush of thunder broke the silence, a mushroom of brilliant orange spearing the sky.
One tonne of Germany’s finest engineering lay in a mangled heap at the foot of the wall, engulfed by a sheet of flaming petrol. Moments later, there was a second violent explosion. ‘The fuel tank’s gone,’ said Steiger. Two doors, the boot lid and a wheel went hurtling down the road. ‘These heavy smokers,’ joked Steiger, ‘they’ll never learn.’
Gathering in the cable, they raced back along the wall towards the Steyr, the glow from the burning BMW still visible in the distance. Von Menen stopped and took one last look.
‘Don’t dwell on it, Carl,’ said Steiger. ‘Believe me, what we’ve just done will appeal to the collective consciences of all decent-minded Germans.’ He tugged at von Menen’s sleeve. ‘Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The next day, with the Mecklenburg countryside blanketed in six inches of snow, the accident was reported in the late edition of the local press.
FREAK CAR ACCIDENT CLAIMS ONE DEATH
Detectives find vital clue… The victim has not yet been identified.
Saturday 23rd December 1944
Von Menen raced back from Lübeck like a man possessed, the Delahaye hurtling through the archway and coming to a screeching halt in the courtyard. Stumbling into the Steigers’ parlour, he dropped the day’s edition of the Nazi news-sheet Völkischer Beobachter on the table and crashed into an armchair.
‘Page three, Hans,’ von Menen said, almost breathless. ‘Read page three,’ he repeated, shaking his head in despair.
Steiger picked up the paper and turned to page three, his face contorting with every word.
The body of the victim found in the burned-out wreckage of a BMW near Bützow early on Friday morning has been identified as…
He looked incredulously at von Menen. ‘Standartenführer—’
‘Friedrich Keppler,’ interrupted Carl. ‘Read on, Ha
ns.’
At first, local police thought the body might have been that of Hauptsturmführer Felix Baumer, but in a dramatic telephone call to the Gestapo Office at Schwerin, it was revealed that Hauptsturmführer Baumer had been summoned urgently and unexpectedly to a new appointment at Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin early on Thursday evening. Friedrich Keppler, a former colleague of the Hauptsturmführer, had been staying at the address since leaving Führer Headquarters at Rastenburg. He was believed to have been on his way to Hamburg. Police are not treating the incident as suspicious.’
‘Hans, Baumer is still alive!’
‘Maybe, but he’s in Berlin.’
‘All the same, he’s still a threat.’
‘Yes, but in Berlin he won’t have time for personal diversions – not yet, anyway. But you’re right, he will be back.’
28
On Christmas evening, Jürgen and Katrina Lanze, armed with two bottles of schnapps and a basket of Stollen cakes, made a surprise visit to the naval barracks at Priwall.
They were expecting to see only a handful of men, but when they arrived they were astonished to find that almost two-thirds of the crew were there, one of them Joachim Krauz, the chief helmsman, his face a picture of grief. Krauz had arrived at Hamburg in a joyous mood only to be greeted with the anguishing news that his wife and daughter had been killed in an air raid. The family home had been completely destroyed.
The Lanzes listened aghast to the stories of men who had abandoned all efforts to reach relatives in the east, forced back by columns of fleeing refugees, frantic to escape the tidal wave of Russian retribution that was sweeping through East Prussia.
‘The Russians are storming west, Captain,’ a young torpedo mechanic told Lanze, almost in tears, ‘and no one can stop them.’
They returned to the von Menen estate forlorn, alarmed and resolute in one purpose – to put Germany behind them.