It may have taken three flights to get me here from Dallas but I didn’t feel tired. Soldiers acquire the knack of grabbing sleep whenever the opportunity presents itself. On the transatlantic leg I settled down as soon as the evening meal had been cleared away and didn’t wake up until the engine note changed for the descent into London’s Heathrow. Any residual travel fatigue I might have felt had been banished by the prospect of imminent action.
I looked out of the side window, watching apartment blocks and factories rush by, windows flaring in the afternoon sun. The last time I made this journey it was pouring with rain. Back then Lipzan was just a name on a slip of paper that Major Alan Wicklow had taken from a carton of Prescaline. Was it really less than two weeks ago? It seemed like a hell of a lot longer.
I glanced at Viktor. He was outwardly calm but no doubt he was still turning things over in his mind, making sure he’d covered every angle. He’d told me he had staff working on Müller’s data all night, and even while the computer was still decrypting it they were already poring over the material that was emerging in clear. It was a revelation. With the thoroughness that Colin had grudgingly admired, Müller had recorded everything in minute detail, and even the small fraction they’d seen so far was deeply incriminating. There was more than enough evidence, Viktor said, to justify waking up a man rather early this morning to get the necessary warrants signed.
The convoy exited the autobahn and negotiated an interchange to join another, all without slackening speed.
“Viktor,” I said, “It’s Saturday. Can we be sure there’ll be someone there?”
He turned his head, the faint trace of a smile on his lips. “There is only one road in and out. I have had a man watching it since before dawn. He reported that between 8.00 and 8.30 am six cars arrived. Four of them were expensive, top-of-the-range models, not the cars you would expect laboratory or secretarial staff to drive. He would have phoned me immediately if any of them had left. So yes, I believe we will find the top management there, and they are the ones we want. Of course, we will get a list of personnel and all of them will be under arrest by tomorrow night.”
I thought about the young Californian-trained computer scientist I’d met briefly on my tour of the facility, the one Frau Schenk had called Franz.
I said, “Most of the lab workers wouldn't have known what the company was up to. They were just doing a job.”
“I know this. After questioning we will probably let most of them go.”
I returned my gaze to the window. That was probably why the senior staff were at the company now. They did the sensitive work at the weekend, while the rest of the staff weren’t around.
I took a deep breath. Holle could be trying to put in a call to Mexico at this very moment.
Pray God we’re not too late.
47
The convoy stopped well short of the main building and we approached it on foot from one side. I was still looking around, trying to spot Viktor’s observer, but I couldn’t see him. There wasn’t a lot of cover out front, so this guy must be good.
I pointed to the older building in the grounds. "That's the original 1947 building, Viktor. Holle said it was used for conferences and guest accommodation. My guess is that's where you'll find the central administration of the 'Guardians of the Reich'. He’d want to have it close by, but separate from the research establishment."
Viktor nodded, then went to have a word with the polizei, who were waiting patiently to go into action. They were armed and in full riot gear, and looked menacing enough to scare the shit out of any opposition. Viktor divided them into two groups. One group went over to the old building. We went with the other group to the new building, keeping wide of the entrance.
Viktor nodded to the officer in charge and he gave the signal.
The entry was quick and efficient. By the time Viktor and I were through the doors the security man on reception was lying on the floor with a policeman fastening the cuffs on him. He wouldn't have had a chance to warn the people on the next floor, which was the general idea.
I took the stairs two at a time, strode down the corridor to the end, and burst into Holle's office. Holle leapt to his feet in alarm, but recovered quickly.
"Colonel! This is an unexpected pleasure—“
"Unexpected, yes. A pleasure? I doubt it.” I faced him across the desk. “Right now you're wondering how I escaped from your Mexican prison.”
"Prison?" He laughed. "Surely not. There must be some mistake—“
"It won't work, Holle. The Mexican operation is over. Erich Müller is dead. There won't be any more money from the trafficking of people and drugs and the forced labour and sexual slavery that went with it."
He smiled uneasily. "This is pure fantasy!"
"Is it? Like your charitable object, the 'Guardians of the Reich’, which supported right-wing organisations all over Europe?” I pointed at him. “Lipzan is nothing but a conduit for money-laundering with a convincing cover: a pharmaceutical company, your company. Which you made profitable by manipulating trial data. It was all on Müller's computer records, you see."
The smile had frozen solid now. “Why are you here?"
"Your drug Prescaline had serious side effects which you concealed from the FDA and the US Army. A lot of people died because of you.” I leaned in. “One of them happened to be a close friend of mine. That’s why I’m here. You and your pals are going to face justice at last, and I wanted to be the first to tell you.”
The silence lasted several seconds. His eyes flicked to the top left-hand drawer of his desk an instant before his hand darted to it. I vaulted up, one hand on his desk, and drop-kicked him in the chest. He staggered backwards, hit the wall hard, and sank to the floor, gasping for breath. I eased myself off on the other side of the desk, opened the drawer, and removed the pistol lying there. I held it up between finger and thumb by the knurled grips so as not to disturb any fingerprints.
"Well, well, a Luger P.08. Standard Nazi issue. Did this belong to your great-grandfather, then, Holle? How many innocent civilians did he shoot in the back of the neck with it?”
Viktor appeared in the doorway with two policemen. He looked at the pistol, still dangling from my fingers, then at Holle, crouched against the wall.
"Are you all right, Jim?"
"Yeah. He's all yours." I tossed the pistol onto the desk. "You may want to bag this."
Downstairs the police were bundling six men and a woman into a police van. The woman was Frau Schenk, Holle's PA, and she was protesting loudly right up to the moment they banged and locked the doors. Then Holle emerged, his hands cuffed, walking between Viktor and another officer. The lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles flashed angrily at me, then he was pushed into one of the four-wheel-drives. The officer got in next to him.
Another police van was coming back across the grass from the old building, where I presumed more arrests had been made.
The riot police had taken off their helmets and visors now, and some were standing around chatting. Among them was one in NATO combat uniform, his face smeared with brown and green camo paint. Viktor’s observer.
Viktor walked over to me. "These buildings are empty now. We've secured them and after this we'll move our investigators in. Between the two there will enough evidence to give us entry to the whole network.”
He led the way towards the BMW. “Do you want to return to Berlin with me or are you flying straight back?"
“I’d better fly straight back. There are people in Washington who want to see me.”
“Very well. We have much to thank you for, Jim. Is there anything we can do on our side?”
“There is, actually, Viktor. The drugs made by this company aren’t safe to use. Some are downright dangerous. We need to have them withdrawn – for good. Lipzan got them adopted by tampering with the drug trials. The details are in that data I sent you. I’d like a copy for my contact in the Federal Drugs Administration.”
“This is not a probl
em. Let me know when you are back and we will send the data to you or your contact.”
As we reached the car he said, “So, now a return to normal duties?"
"A return to normal duties. I wonder what the hell they are.”
48
The heat hit me as I got out of the cab and walked over to the Concourse entrance of the Pentagon. After my recent trips to Washington it was nice to encounter the city under blue skies.
Bob Cressington’s PA met me at the E-ring checkpoint and took me to his office. Bob stood, gave me a quick handshake, and gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. Then he sat down and leaned back, as if to get a good look at me.
He took a deep breath. “Well, Jim, you’ve been at it again.”
“You could say that.”
“We’ve had the Mexican Ambassador here—”
Just as I expected, cries of outrage, major diplomatic rows all over again.
“Bob, I’m sorry but it was the only way—“
He held up a hand. “The Buzzards you called in took aerial footage of the rebel installation and army throughout the operation. The Commander at that Air Force base had the good sense to send a copy to the Mexican Ministry of Defence.”
Colonel “Red” Nicholson! The second time the man’s come up trumps! I must pay him a visit and have that drink with him. In fact I’ll take a damned good bottle with me.
Bob continued, “The Ambassador wasn’t all that pleased about the violation of their airspace, but he was over the moon about the result. They’ve been expecting an incursion of major proportions but they didn’t know where it was coming from. The size of that rebel force left no room for doubt: not only had we located the base but we’d destroyed it, too. Well, what was left of it – I gather you did a pretty good job even before the Buzzards arrived. How the hell did you find it? And how did you manage to get in there – and out again?”
I gave Bob the short version, leaving out the stuff about the thalamus implants. He listened without interruption and when I’d finished he nodded.
“The Mexicans want to know where the weapons came from and how they were paid for. Can you help them with that?”
“Some of it.”
I dipped into a pocket and came out with the phone I’d taken from the soldier I’d killed. I put it on his desk. “You’ll find photos of some of the crates on this. From the writing it looked to me like they came from North Korea and Russia.”
Bob gave a low whistle.
“By the way,” I went on, “this phone came from the pocket of one of the rebel soldiers. It could have some useful contacts on it. And this,” I opened my billfold and removed the memory tile, “is a copy of the data on Müller’s computer. It’s possible there are records of his dealings with the militia and the drug cartels on it.”
Bob drew them over to his side of the desk and smiled. “I think we won’t be handing these to the Mexicans just yet. I’d like to give the CIA first shot.”
Which was exactly as I’d expected. “They’ll need to pass it by the NSA. It’s encrypted and it’s in German.”
“Okay, no problem.” He got to his feet. “Well done, Jim. State Department’s pretty pleased about this. Seems to have eclipsed the fallout from that Honduras episode.”
I realized I hadn’t told him anything about the falsified drug trials that were responsible for that episode. Well, it would all come out in good time.
As we shook hands he said, “Have you seen Wendell yet?”
“No, I thought I’d see you first.”
“He wants to have a word with you. I should go down there now.”
*
“Jim!” Harken waved me in. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for days. Did you switch your phone off or something?”
“No, actually it was taken from me.”
He gave me a long, appraising look. “I’m a tiny bit surprised anyone could do that.”
“So was I. It won’t happen again.”
“I got through to Hereford, but the CO there didn’t know where you were either.”
“It wasn’t his fault, Wendell. I got involved.”
He sighed. “I thought it would be a nice safe posting. I should have guessed you couldn’t stay out of trouble.”
“Yeah, well it started when one of their officers went on a killing spree, same as Sergeant Bill Archer. I thought there might be a connection. There was.”
“Really? I want to hear about that, but hang on a moment. Have a seat while I make a call.”
He spoke to someone. “He’s with me now, debriefing…” He glanced at his watch. “Fine, yes, my room.”
He clicked off the phone. I looked at him, but there was no explanation. He just said, “Right, Jim, go ahead.”
I gave him a brief account of the drug business.
When I’d finished he said, “Poor Archer, it wasn’t his fault after all.”
“I think there are going to be class action law suits. His family should be able to get some heavy compensation from Lipzan. But it may be from their executors by then. Right now the BKA are taking the company apart.”
“And the other soldier who took the same drug? Who was it?”
I felt again the ache of loss. “Major Scot Hayward. We served together when I was in the SAS. He was a good buddy. Someone on our side of the water decided the way to put a stop to his activities was to take him out with a drone. He was blown to bits.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
There was a knock at the door and Harken said, “This will be the man I wanted you to see.” And louder, “Come in.”
The man he wanted me to see was Mr Mark Godstall, Special Agent with the US Army Criminal Investigation Command. We stood as he entered.
Harken said, “Jim, you remember Mr Godstall.”
It was a statement. We shook hands, then we all sat down.
Harken said, “Go ahead, Godstall.”
Godstall inclined his head and turned to me. “The law suit brought against the Army by a woman who demanded the return of her one-time partner’s body—”
“My body.”
“Yes.”
“It’s been to court?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward. “Colonel, are you familiar at all with the work of the English playright William Shakespeare?”
I stared at him. I wanted to know the outcome. What the hell did this have to do with it?
“We studied some of the plays when I was at school. Why?”
“Did those plays include The Merchant of Venice?”
“I think so. I can’t remember. Do get to the point.”
He leaned back again. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the play was used to good effect by the Attorney for the Army. It’s not legal precedent, of course, but it carried a lot of weight. You see, in the play Shylock has exacted a bargain from Antonio, the guarantor of a loan: if he fails to repay it, he will forfeit a pound of his own flesh. He defaults and the matter is brought to trial. The court finds in favour of Shylock; he is, indeed, entitled to his pound of flesh. It is Portia, posing as a doctor of the law, who makes the telling point: in essence, that he may take only the flesh, not the blood. Of course the one is impossible without the other and Shylock is defeated.”
“And the attorney produced this in court?”
“He did. It tried the patience of the judge but the defence was rock solid. The parties who were suing were not prohibited by law from reclaiming your body. They were, however, not allowed to endanger your life. The suit was dismissed. Congratulations, Colonel.”
I looked from him to Harken and back again. “So… so that’s it? I can return to work?”
“Yes. Whenever you like.”
I felt a flood of relief. The case had been absurd from the start, but it had still settled an unnecessary burden on me. Now that burden had been lifted.
Godstall rose to his feet. “Curious, isn’t it, Colonel? William Shakespeare could sc
arcely have imagined that a play of his would be cited in an American court four-and-a-half centuries later.”
“Good old Shakespeare,” I said, as we shook hands again. “I should have paid more attention to him at school. Thanks.”
He nodded. “I’ll leave you to your debriefing.”
The door closed behind him. I smiled at Harken and shook my head. “Strange, how a piece of history can catch up with you. That’s the second time in three weeks.”
“Oh? What was the other piece of history?”
“A fortune bequeathed over a century ago by a German dictator called Adolf Hitler.”
His eyes opened wide. “I think you’d better explain…”
Acknowledgements
The vast wealth accumulated by Adolf Hitler is a matter of historical record, and the documentary evidence is to be found in two books: Hitler’s Will (The History Press, 2009) by Herman Rothman, edited by Helen Fry, and Hitler’s Fortune (Leo Cooper, 2003) by Cris Whetton. Although I am indebted to the authors for these accounts, which formed part of the inspiration for this story, I have not quoted from their texts in the present work. The quotation from Hitler’s Private Will is, however, an authentic translation. The fate of much of the dictator’s fortune remains a mystery, and the solution provided in this book is a product of my imagination.
I’m grateful to my wife Paula, sons Graham and Daniel, and daughter Debby for their encouragement and feedback. Special thanks go to my friends in the Liverpool-based writers’ group Wordsmiths – Neville Krasner, John Clarke, Mary Gillie, Emma Mackley, and Rachel Sayle – who listened to successive chapters and provided invaluable critical comments.
* * *
[1] For the full story see The Domino Man by this author.
[2] See Counterfeit by this author.
[3] See ‘Counterfeit’ by this author.
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