Secret Cargo

by John Day

  After a pause while he read through the results, he uttered a low groan of utter despair. “The vessel was reported sunk with all hands, on 28 Jul 1943 south of Haiti. Let me think now! The Venezuelan Basin is probably 4000 metres deep, so it is going to be a nightmare raising her.”

  Alan read the technical details for the IXC type submarine, concluding with a rough mental calculation and added. “It was at sea for 46 days and assuming it travelled most of the time below the surface at, say 4 knots, that would account for roughly 42 days. If Kaltman was headed for South America, Brazil, say…”

  Now, Alan’s voice became low and monotone as he spoke his thoughts. “It looks to me like the U-159 was sunk on route, so the cargo would still be aboard.”

  Benny grabbed a nearby chair and sat down next to Alan. As he settled on the hard-wooden seat, his enquiring brain leapt to the next question. The Russian’s thin voice sounded quavering and urgent, all the while dreading the answer he was expecting. “Type in the location and check what depth of water she is actually laying in.”

  Alan’s fingers rattled the keys on the worn keyboard. Seconds later a map indicated a possible depth. The wreck is shown here in 3600 metres.” Both men slumped back in their chairs with a look of total misery on their faces.

  Clinging to faint hope, they did more online searches.

  “Look at this Benny. On Wikipedia, it actually describes the attack carried out by the US aircraft. They dropped depth charges and 2 homing torpedoes. Amongst other things, it shows a photo taken by the attacking aircrew the moment the torpedoes struck.”

  Something about the photo bothered him. He repressed the thought and moved on. “I don’t think recovery is viable, Benny, it’s just too problematic.”

  They tried to imagine what had happened aboard the stricken vessel…

  A lookout on the bridge would have warned of the approaching aircraft. As claxons blared inside the pressure hull, the adrenalin charged crew would be frantically pulling levers and spinning valves to sink the submarine into the relative safety of the depths.

  Deck crew manning the 3.7 cm (1.5 in) AA gun and the twin 2 cm Flak 30 AA guns would be pumping a lethal stream of death at the US Mariner aircraft. The aircraft would dive to 6 metres above the sea and line up square with the flank of the submarine. This would be its attack run, with the two homing torpedoes ready to drop. The U-Boat gunners would realise the moment the torpedoes fell, they were all dead men.

  By now, the diesels would have shut down and the electric motors would whine at full power, desperately pushing the vessel forward at a pitiful 4 knots. The diving planes would be pushed down as hard as they could go, but the buoyancy tanks would still be venting. It would have been impossible to dive in time and the two torpedoes would just drop like darts into the sea.

  The black and white photo taken aboard the Mariner suggested the drop was perfectly aimed. Those on deck would now see the white parallel tracks heading square onto their path. The point of intersection was amidships, give or take. U-159 could neither drop below them, nor stop dead nor turn on a pinhead to let them scream past.

  Probably the men on deck would be wondering if there was a chance of survival if they leapt overboard? The shock wave of just one torpedo exploding so close to them would pulp a human body immersed in the water. As submariners, they would know that. Their crewmates inside, of course, would never know what hit them.

  The resulting explosion from both torpedoes hitting close to the centre of the hull, would send flame, shrapnel, and a cloud of spray high into the air…

  Assuming the worst, the breached compartment would fill in seconds and the downward trajectory of U-159 would rapidly become steep, sending it plunging into the depths. At 80 metres, bulkheads to sealed compartments would implode, the inrush of icy seawater crushing men as though they were between a charging locomotive and a rock face. Now, without any buoyancy, the hydrodynamically efficient submarine, unlike a ship, would fall to the seabed 3.6 km below, like a javelin from the sky.

  The seabed would be a mixture of silt covered sand, as hard as rock, to the streaking spear of hollow iron. Certainly, it would snap in half where the aircraft’s torpedoes struck the hull, most likely explode into fragments if the torpedoes on board detonated…

  Choosing to ignore his imagination, Alan read through the manifest and did more calculation. “We can kiss goodbye to all the items that are perishable in water. That leaves just the bullion. At a rough guess, that will be about 10 tonnes which is 10,000kg, at $40,000 per kg, is a tidy $400 million at today’s prices.”

  “That is my reckoning too, Alan. And, don’t forget, the vessel will be classed as a war grave and Germany will lay claim to the vessel and contents. Realistically, it would have to be salvaged in secret.”

  “Not a problem for you then, Benny. You will be in your element with under the counter deals.

  “The only good outcome would be that the vessel probably sank because of a hole in it, so it will not have been crushed by water pressure. The hull might well hang together if we can lift it. That would keep the bullion inside. Alternatively, if the hull was crushed, the contents would be strewn all over the sea bed and be hidden in the silt.”

  Benny also ignored reality and clung to the hope that someone could recover the bullion. He had committed valuable time and resources in his research. “In some respects, Alan, with the bullion outside the hull, it would be easier to collect.”

  The sneaky Russian also had his own agenda. It seemed likely Alan would drop out now, so he decided to switch to plan B. “What do you intend to do. Will you pay out for a sonar search for the wreck, Alan?”

  Alan was pessimistic, but having got so close after so much investigation, he could not leave the challenge there. “I will do some more sums Benny. If the costs look affordable, we can see if we can actually find U-159. Once we know what state she is in, we can explore ways of raising her.”

  Benny gave a weak, forced grin of feigned enthusiasm. “I will leave you to tidy up here, Alan. I must go now and I look forward to your phone call.”

  Alan nodded. “Thank you for all your help Benny, I am sure something else will turn up on which we can turn a profit.” It was as gentle a let-down as he could manage right now.

  Although Alan did not show it, the disappointment had hit him like a hollow-point bullet in the guts. He thought grimly, so this is how it will feel when Mendez doesn’t get his pay-out…

  Plan B.

  Benny left the German archives building in Berlin and headed outside where he wouldn’t be overheard.

  People rushed by on the nearby pavement beyond the forecourt where he stood, intent on their own life problems. Everyone seemed oblivious to the roar of traffic. Horns blared intermittently and police sirens issued their distinctive, eardrum piercing scream, as they raced to the next drama.

  He carefully considered the two phone calls he planned to make. Now that Alan Patterson had shown lack of commitment, he needed someone else to pay for a search of the seabed. Not that you would guess from his appearance, Benny Markowitz was an extremely wealthy 30-year-old. His apartment overlooking Central Park, New York would attest to that. The large rooms were stacked with paintings of dubious provenance and exquisite antiques from every country, around the globe. Treasures dating back millennia, of inestimable historic value.

  The custom made strong-room in his flat, supported directly by the main steel frame of the building, was safe haven to dozens of bars of bullion and bejewelled trinkets.

  As Benny saw it, life was bitterly cruel. Sometimes he would have to sell off an item, well, fence it actually, just so he had cash in his pocket to buy food and pay bills. He was an enigma to everyone, including the IRS who had investigated him several times. They found he had no tangible assets and just a few $1000 to his name.

  Everything in the small apartment in South Bronx, a poor area of the city, appeared to belong to the person who rented it to Benny.

  The skinflint Russian
lived in the scruffy apartment, preferring it to Central Park. It felt like his childhood home, it was cosy in those shabby, cramped rooms.

  Hard times hit most people at some stage of their life. That is how Benny managed to buy the Central Park apartment so cheap. Wealthy folk tend to hide their misfortune so they can maintain the appearance of being well-to-do. For them, it was a question of taking Benny’s offer for the flat, or their affairs would be top gossip around the city. It cut no ice with ‘Gold Hearted’ Benny that the frail couple had lived in the apartment all their married life. Now they would now have to start again in another area.

  Benny only wanted the apartment because it was so well guarded, compared to a storage unit. None of his treasures could be insured, because of how he came by them. According to his hair splittingly accurate calculations, it was cheaper to use the apartment as a store than any other place. No tax, no insurance, anonymity.

  As he saw it, if two men stood side by side in a street, one well dressed and obviously wealthy, the other like him, with slicked back, greasy black hair, shabby dark charity shop suit, trainers and that haggard, in need of a meal look, which would you try and steal from?

  What Benny lacked in appearance, he made up for in smarts. His gift was the innate ability to sniff out a profitable deal. His preferred approach was known as the rock and a hard place.

  He would see the potential in a deal and then dig around to find the dirt. Each and every one of us, from puberty and beyond has secrets we would kill for, to protect. Benny would find those secrets, or his victim would believe he had. Hence the rock and a hard place.

  Alan Patterson was just such a victim. According to what Benny had found out, the poor sod’s Company had a cash flow problem at the end of the year. The man’s business could be likened to hurtling over a precipice.

  Patterson had oodles of liquid cash, now, but after Christmas all his investors, Mr Mendez and the IRS would want more than his Company could come up with.

  The secret raising of the treasure filled U-159 was everything Patterson needed to straighten out his affairs, that, or the permanent disappearance of Mr Mendez.

  Treasure hunting was Benny’s way of acquiring great wealth and keeping it. His ability to research dusty archives like a computer doing a word search of the bible was spine tingling eerie. He seemed to home right in on the clues and missed nothing. Because Benny wasn’t greedy, he shared his findings with people he knew he could control. They would take the lion’s share of the haul and he would take a few of the best pieces. Neither side would tell on the other, nor squabble.

  If Benny had wanted to, he could easily have financed the salvage himself but that would never happen. It would mean selling some items and taking a financial risk, if not the risk of being found in possession of undeclared assets, mostly belonging to someone else.

  Reading between the lines, Benny surmised Patterson was not prepared to take the chance of failure.

  Ellen Fox, however, was quite a different animal. She and her minder, Walter Norris, had worked with him in the past. Knowing where the bodies were buried, gave Benny all the leverage he needed, over the enigmatic pair.

  The question on Benny’s mind was, which of the two should he be most afraid of? Should it be the elegant Ellen Fox or the lethally menacing Walter Norris?

  It is quite academic actually - dead is dead, whoever kills you.

  Fox and Norris would guess that Benny filed an insurance package with a seedy attorney somewhere, ready for release to the FBI, or other agencies across the globe, should Benny die in suspicious circumstances. That made dealings with this pair a reasonable personal risk.

  Benny selected Ellen Fox from his phone contact list and pressed CALL.

  A few seconds later, the purring voice of Ellen floated into his ear. “Well hello Mr Markowitz, what irresistible deal have you got for me today?”

  Benny nervously released a shrill, nasally giggle. “Does $400million in gold bullion excite you Ms Fox?”

  “Indeed, it does, Mr Markowitz, do tell me more.”

  “It will require tact, diplomacy and a long reach to get it, but nothing you haven’t stooped to before.” The giggle broke through again and became a few bars of maniacal laughter, until he quickly regained composure. The sarcastic remark would not be lost on her.

  Ellen could picture Benny in her mind, clearer than an image on a videophone.

  The despicable Russian would be standing with his back to a long wall, looking furtively about him during the call, to be certain he was not overheard.

  His left hand would be forcing the phone to his ear, sealing in her reply between his phone and brain. His right hand would be scraping the long, black, greasy hair back into place. It having been dislodged by the frantic sideways head movements. Whatever else had changed in his life since she last saw him a year ago, it wouldn’t have been the dark Armani suit from a charity shop, or the trainers.

  Ellen smiled, she had already calculated the volume, about 4 large pallets of gold, and the thought of it made her eyes moist. They glistened like gems in the dim light of the Hilton hotel bar, half a world away.

  It took a lot to out-smart Ellen. “From the traffic noise and distinctive police siren in the distance, I would guess you are in Berlin. If so, I would conclude you have been researching expropriated Nazi valuables. Your interests do not include war memorabilia, only retrieving lost valuables to add to your collection. You mentioned long reach and bullion, but no artworks, so I will take a flyer here and presume you have a wrecked ship or submarine in mind. Would that be close?”

  This is why Benny considered Ellen such a dangerous person to deal with. She was probably the most perceptive person on the planet. Either that or she could read his mind. That thought made him give a little involuntary shudder.

  “As ever Ms Fox, you have distilled months of my painstaking research, into a simple answer.”

  “I do my best Benny.”

  “Although I have other clients who would take up this challenge, I wanted to offer it to you first. Will you pay my expenses and meet me to talk it through?” He could tell from the slightly raised pitch of her voice that she was very interested and would only pump him for more clues if he didn’t press her for a decision right now.

  There was a moment of hesitation as she evaluated his worth. She respected his skills and knew there were others he could interest in such a deal. He was far too astute to give up any more information at this stage.

  If she knew the ship’s name or U-boat number she would know where to start looking, herself. Even a date or person’s name would give too much away. There was no point in fishing.

  Benny would not have called her if he had no confidence in the voracity of his research. She knew the man as he knew her. Neither were time wasting amateurs. If she declined, he would never contact her again and any future potential deals would be lost to her. She needed him more than he needed her. Besides, he had stuff on her that must never come out. Such is the precarious honour among thieves.

  “Of course, Benny, I will arrange everything immediately and send you tickets and directions. By the way, we are in Montevideo. I look forward to hearing what you have to offer, in great detail.”

  “I look forward to that too, Ellen. May I ask, will Mr Norris be joining us?”

  “Yes, Walter is never far from my side. I can’t imagine life without him.”

  Benny never swore out loud, but the disappointment at the news showed in the tone of his reply.

  “I look forward to meeting him again. I hope he will see me as a friend this time.”

  The last project had a hitch and there was some doubt over Benny’s honesty. After Norris had taken Benny aside and slapped him a bit, all metaphorical cards were laid out clearly on the table.

  “I am sure lessons were learned and you will soon discover he has a warm side. Good bye for now, Mr Markowitz.”

  Benny thumbed through his phone contacts and selected his next call. His finger was a
bout to tap the screen when the image of Walter Norris floated into his mind. How could Norris possibly have a warm side? The man was an enigma, he didn’t exist, according to a ‘pressured’ analyst at the CIA. Fingerprints, DNA, photo, none of it turned up a thing, not even a restricted flag.

  When he first met Norris, the good-looking man of average build appeared to be the perfect matching bookend to the sultry Ms Fox. The Ken and Barbie of illegal treasure hunters. There was no doubt in Benny’s mind that in a tussle, he should side with Walter - the man had Special Forces skills, in spades.

  The last time they met, about a year ago, Ellen and Walter had separate, adjoining rooms. Benny found this quite puzzling, even he felt his sap rise when in the same room as Fox, how could Walter keep it in his pants.

  Perhaps Walter was a homosexual? No, that didn’t fit, the man doted on Ellen and his hard eyes softened the moment they focused on her. They treated each other with the highest regard and kindly affection, a bit like identical twins, though that was not possible. He never looked at other women or men, other than with emotional indifference.

  Benny’s next call was to Mr Mendez, offering him the opportunity to hunt for the sub. He had wanted to be honest this time and make the deal exclusive to Fox, but it just wasn’t in him. However, he didn’t fancy being hammered again by Walter.

  As he walked back to his hotel room, paid for by Patterson, he schemed how he could escalate leverage on Fox and Norris. It never hurt to have a plan B running parallel to plan A and C.

  The prospect of raising the submarine thrilled the Russian, and his stride lengthened into a brisk walk.

  Project unviable.

  Sick with dread and disappointment Alan returned to his hotel. Yet another day closer to a violent death, he thought.

  Although he wouldn’t be there to see it, his business empire would be torn down. His loyal employees would be cast out of work and their reputations tainted. Then there was his family. They too would suffer the ignominious fall-out of his failure.