In Pursuit of Platinum: The Shocking Secret of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 1)

by Vic Robbie

  In Pursuit of Platinum

  The Shocking Secret Of World War II

  Vic Robbie

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

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  Also by Vic Robbie

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Published by Principium Press.

  Copyright ©Vic Robbie 2012

  The moral right of Vic Robbie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the author and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Stuart Bache. Cover photograph: Copyright ©Carlo Dapino/Shutterstock.com

  Find out more at www.VicRobbie.com

  In memory of

  Allan Robbie (1915-1995)

  and

  for Christine

  1

  SHE knew she must kill her beautiful son. the decision was made in a moment of ice-cold clarity before panic took over and tears began to flow in rivulets of sorrow.

  Dressed in a dark blue Chanel suit and a cream silk blouse fastened at the neck by a ruby and gold brooch, Alena lay under filthy hessian sacks on a rough wooden floor. A rare red diamond ring glinted like a droplet of blood on her left hand, but her pale blonde hair was streaked with dirt and her stockings torn and suit creased.

  Her breath guttered like a candle flame in a breeze as sweat coursed down a forehead lined with stress and it tasted bittersweet. Pain squeezed her chest and she believed the pounding of her heart would betray them. And to her surprise, as fear crowded in with a crushing intensity, she found herself praying although religion had long since deserted her.

  Alena had always known it would end this way. As surely as evil follows good they would never let her go free. Now she accepted flight was futile.

  The boy squirmed around, his head a Medusa mass of brown curls and his pale blue eyes sparking with a mischief that usually made her smile. And she kissed him on the lips with a tender passion as her hands encircled his fragile neck.

  2

  HE looked out of his office window onto a deserted Voss Strasse and sighed with satisfaction. This was how it should be, not a single person allowed to impede his view unless they wished to incur his wrath.

  The morning sunshine streamed through the window accentuating the deep lines on his face and making his pale blue eyes water, and a weary smile threatened to trouble the corners of his mouth. It was ironic – no matter how high you soared, no matter how powerful you became just one small slip and you could fall back to earth with the rest of them. He had an idea what information the young Gestapo officer Huber wanted to share with him. That he had decided to come alone declared his intent. Huber would have brought a chaperone if it had been on the record. He had suspected one day it would catch up with him. There were many who would endeavour to take advantage of any breach, and just when his plans were going so well. Better now than later he convinced himself.

  For Carsten Huber, the intimidating walk through the new Reich Chancellery was the ordeal it was intended to be. Albert Speer had designed the monolithic building to reinforce man’s insignificance in relation to the authority of the state, and Huber could feel it working on him. Every step of the way he questioned his motives for being a good German, his footsteps echoing like a drumbeat on the red marble floors. What he was about to do was either the most audacious action he had attempted or the most foolish. Only history would tell.

  Having driven through the imposing gates, he entered the Ehrenhof, the court of honour leading to a reception room. Tall double doors opened onto a large hall clad in mosaic. He ran up a couple of steps, passed through a rotunda with a domed ceiling and out into a gallery that stretched for almost five hundred feet. Halfway down, outside the office where he was expected, two large carpets floated like rafts on a sea of marble. On each, there were several small tables surrounded by chairs on which perched those waiting an audience with fear and uncertainty shining out of their faces.

  Two guards called him forward and, after checking his papers, they opened the high double doors to reveal a cavernous study. The man he’d come to see was sitting behind a large marble-topped table and staring out of a window.

  Huber hesitated, holding his black fedora in both hands. He could feel his legs trembling and the more he thought about it, the more they shook. He wanted to meet this man, yet the fear of confronting him was threatening to overpower him.

  ‘Kommen,’ the man said and wheeled around in his seat to face his visitor.

  Huber coughed and took several uncertain steps forward, wondering if he should say something or wait until spoken to.

  ‘So?’ The man asked, lifting up the corner of a book with an index finger, distracted as if expecting an insect to break cover. He thought the Gestapo officer to be very young, possibly in his early twenties. Perhaps he was someone a German father would think was appropriate for his daughter to marry, but
a devious look in his eyes and a smirk betrayed a secret he was eager to share. Huber had mentioned one particular name in his telephone call, requesting to see him face to face, and he knew Huber knew but how much?

  Knowing not to make eye contact, Huber coughed again. ‘I have information that I believe is important to the Reich and to you personally.’

  Raising his eyebrows as if indicating to the young man he had overestimated the importance of his intelligence, the man asked: ‘So, why me?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Huber was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake coming here.

  ‘You should give this information to your superiors. That’s the correct procedure.’

  Huber surprised him by breaking into a smile showing a mouth full of white, even teeth. ‘I think, perhaps, this information is for your ears only.’

  The man looked away from him. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘For my country, for you.’ Huber smirked again knowing his reasons were far more personal.

  ‘And a reward, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no.’ Huber cleared his throat and looked genuinely affronted. ‘I only want to serve the Reich.’

  The man kept staring at him, showing no emotion.

  ‘Well, if you believe I’ve been of service,’ Huber continued, ‘perhaps a promotion, a small promotion?’

  Impatient for him to get on with it, the man listened with a concentration that suggested this was new information. Huber knew some of the story, although not all of it, and even what he knew was too much. The revelation at the end was explosive. Something he hadn’t known, and even Huber seemed embarrassed to reveal it. It hit him like a blow to the solar plexus and he wondered what his face showed. The young man’s words filled him with a fear he hadn’t known since he was a small boy. Anger soon replaced it. How had this come about? At first, he thought he might be to blame although that quickly graduated to condemning those around him for failing to protect him. The poison had defiled him. He couldn’t understand it. It was against everything he stood for and he couldn’t tolerate it. And he was the perpetrator. It was like being accused of a crime he hadn’t known he’d committed. He had a sudden desire to wash, to scrub the contamination from his skin and cleanse himself.

  Deep in thought, he didn’t realise Huber had stopped talking and it took several minutes before the shuffling of the young man’s feet brought him back to the present. Glancing around to confirm no one else was present to have heard what Huber had just told him, he got to his feet. ‘Thank you for this information.’ His face contorted into a smile that the young man thought more frightening than when his face was in repose. ‘Who else have you told?’

  ‘No, no one,’ Huber stuttered.

  ‘Das ist gut.’ The man smiled again, knowing they would now have to find out how Huber had come about this information and whether anyone else knew. ‘What should I do with you, Huber? If it’s true, then this information is a personal attack on me –’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t –’

  He silenced the officer with a raised hand. ‘If it’s not true, then you are guilty of spreading anti-German propaganda, and that is treason.’

  Huber swallowed hard and felt he might collapse.

  ‘On the other hand, if you are merely doing your job and will let this information rest with me so I can investigate its veracity, then perhaps you should get what you deserve.’ Not looking at him, he dismissed Huber with a wave of his arm.

  Huber nodded in gratitude and saluted and made his way backwards to the safety of the door. Outside, he felt dizzy and his footsteps appeared to grow louder the further he progressed towards the exit and fresh air. He’d gone two-thirds of the way down the great gallery when two burly stormtroopers fell in on either side of him and guided him without touching him deeper into the bowels of the building.

  As soon as Huber had left his office, the man balled a fist and slammed it into the top of his desk. Someone else must know and if this got out, the ramifications would be catastrophic. He had to find them.

  He picked up a phone and spoke to an aide. ‘Bring the woman to me. Alive!’

  3

  STRAINING to hear, alena couldn’t detect anything above the labouring drone of the engine. At least they were still moving.

  The boy treated it like a game. Oblivious to their danger, he squealed with delight at every lurch and judder as the van bumped down the gravel drive.

  Through the vehicle’s rear window, she saw a profusion of pink rhododendron bushes lining the manicured lawns. Her gaze drifted upwards to those obscene flags fluttering from the towers and in the distance in the sharp, clear sunlight of a beautiful June morning the Bavarian Alps were like a stain on the horizon.

  Whatever the setting, it was still a prison.

  ‘Maman?’

  ‘Sssh.’ She kissed his forehead and picked some dried mud from his hair. ‘We must be very quiet so they don’t find us.’

  Many a time she’d lain down beside him whispering until his eyelids fluttered like the wings of a butterfly and he drifted off into a safe and contented sleep. At times like that, she understood her mother’s relationship with her and the unbreakable bond between a child and its mother. She brushed another kiss across his face, holding him so tight she wondered if she might squeeze all the breath from his tiny body. And she hoped the fear in her voice didn’t translate to him.

  ‘Lie very still.’ She attempted a reassuring smile in the dim light.

  ‘Scheisse!’

  The driver of the van, a small, squat man with a thick grey moustache, cursed as he coaxed his vehicle into a lower gear. As they approached the grey stone-built gatehouse, he whistled a tuneless sound, betraying his nervousness, and he swallowed hard not to throw up.

  ‘Be still now,’ he warned them, not taking his eyes off the way ahead. ‘Keep as quiet as the dead or before the day’s out we will be.’ And added in a softer tone as though he’d sounded too harsh. ‘Once through these gates you’ll be free.’

  She smiled at his optimism. They were coming for her and flight was her only option although she wouldn’t be free until she was far away. And even then? Miles down the road they would be switched to a car waiting to take them to a small airfield and then a plane to Paris. In both cases, the engines would be running and if they failed to make their deadline their transport would leave without them. That was all she knew, although she expected they would soon be moved to England. Her secret could change the course of history and only there would she be free to reveal it. She felt an overwhelming gratitude although she knew the driver and the others weren’t risking their lives just for her sake. It was because they feared for their country and would do anything to save it from what it had become.

  She pulled the sacking back over them and strengthened her grip on her son.

  ‘Sssh.’

  The grinding and whining of the van’s gears alerted the guards who were in a relaxed mood and enjoying a game of cards and a bottle of beer. Their top buttons were undone and caps off, and they’d propped up their rifles against a wall. When their master was absent discipline was more casual. When he visited, surrounded by his black-suited bodyguards, they would be standing at attention, rifles at the ready, and their boots so polished they reflected their faces.

  It was only the farmer returning having made the weekly delivery of vegetables to the castle. Although they knew the van would be empty, they had to check everything in and out and to be seen doing it. The corporal had discovered what those bodyguards had done to one of his colleagues, who hadn’t followed orders, beating him with clubs so his legs and arms were shattered.

  The corporal often queried what he and his fellow soldiers were doing here. On the one hand, they were ordered to protect the master’s whore and her son. On the other, they had to keep her imprisoned in the castle although those thoughts had to be kept inside his head. One word out of place and he would be finished. Just do your job, he muttered, rolling a needle-thin cigarette between his fin
gers as he stepped out of the gatehouse followed by the private, who had snatched up his cap and rifle. Feeling ridiculous, he raised an arm bringing the van shaking to a halt.

  4

  WHISTLING to herself, lily scuttled down the long corridor that disappeared into darkness in the distance, and the more nervous she grew, the louder her tuneless melody became. As a drudge, they expected her to carry out any task and she accepted everything except perhaps the long walk every morning down to the West wing. She dreaded it and often it gave her nightmares. There was little light save for that which crept through the occasional mullioned window. And in the gloom, the suits of armour, standing at attention down either side with their shields and lances at the ready, appeared to crowd in on her as she advanced along the corridor. At times, Lily believed she could hear breathing as if there were living bodies trapped inside, and it was tempting to lift a visor to prove it. It took all her self-control not to run full pelt until she reached the sanctuary of the mistress’s suite at the end of the corridor. If it hadn’t been for the bucket of cleaning materials, dusters, cloths and sponges she carried in one hand and a broom in the other, she might have.

  Usually she just stared straight ahead, but on this morning, eyes clamped tight shut, she carried on, her clogs clacking on the wooden floor. If she’d had a choice, she would have quit the job and got some outdoor work. But she knew her employment would be at the castle. There was no alternative.

  Exhaling with relief, she arrived unscathed at the apartment and knocked on the heavy oak door, waiting with impatience for a response. Receiving no reply, she knocked again, harder this time because she imagined the suits were moving closer to her. Again there was no response. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and she dared not look over her shoulder. Lily knocked even harder and also kicked the door as panic began to nibble at her. No one answered.

  Now convinced there was no one inside, she turned the handle, opened the door and let herself in and called out. Getting no answer, she left her cleaning materials in the small hallway and went into the sitting-room, noticing a tray with a half-eaten breakfast on a coffee table. She frowned. Her mistress, Alena, usually tidied everything away, which was less work for her.