by Stan Mason
He stared at me looking down again at the folder. ‘His first name’s really Heinrich. He happens to be the grandson of Heinrich Himmler. No doubt you’ve heard of him and his exploits during World War Two. A man who attained one of the most prominent positions in the Nazi regime. Born in Munich, he followed Hitler even before the unsuccessful attempts to gain power in 1932. Chief of Police in all Germany in 1936 at the age of thirty-six. Minister of the Interior in 1943, Minister of Home Defence in 1944. Committed suicide a year later when captured by Allied troops. As Head of the German police, including the Gestapo, he ordered the deaths of millions of people beginning in 1934 ending with systematic killings in the concentration camps.’
The news sent my mind reeling and I was forced back on the defensive. ‘Well how about that?’ I managed to utter.
‘Do you need help with this assignment?’ he said, mollifying his attitude.
It was probably the first and last time I would ever hear him make such an offer. He clearly realised the importance of the assignment. ‘No thanks,’ I replied, ‘but I do need more information.’ I picked up his dictating machine and turned it on. ‘I’d like to know about Lieutenant-Colonel Topham involved in Defence, Sir Peter Cavenham, Home Office, Miss Grayson, a Technical Adviser on defence matters, and a man called Maitland who’s the Personal Assistant to the Prime Minister. I also need information on Conrad Hayle, Martin Glazer and his brother Terry Glazer.’ I switched off the machine. ‘You’d better get someone working on that right away.’
Flanders face adopted a very serious expression. ‘Just a word of advice, Jimmy, don’t get yourself killed.’ He stubbed the cigar out in an ash-tray before it burst into flames. ‘This assignment is far too impermanent. I don’t want to have to appoint someone else to it if you died.’
‘Thanks, Ted,’ I returned sarcastically placing my hand over my heart. ‘Your concern for my welfare gets me right here!’
I stormed out of his office slamming the door behind me. The man had a heart of stone. He was interested only in selling newspapers, making sure we held our market share. The rest of us was merely cannon fodder at his disposal. I had no intention of throwing my life away to please him and the readers. As I left the building, I thought about our conversation at length. Who the hell was Henry Jacobs and what was State Security? What was going on in Whitehall under the nose of the Prime Minister? Worst still, I had no leads. Miss Grayson appeared to be the only key to unlock the mystery. I had to go and see her. As I emerged from the elevator, her secretary looked up at me, recognising me from the previous visit.
‘Mr. Savage,’ she greeted with an icy tone in her voice. I presumed that she had been ordered to prevent me from entering Miss Grayson’s office.
‘I’ve an appointment with your boss,’ I told her.
‘Not possible!’ she countered sharply. ‘She’s on leave. She won’t be back until tomorrow.’
‘That’s not true, is it?’ I challenged. ‘She’s in her office but you won’t let me see her.’
She appeared genuinely upset by my accusation. ‘Mr. Savage,’ she uttered coldly. ‘I’m not in the bait of telling lies. She’s not in today!’
‘Well there’s only one way to find out,’ I persisted, moving swiftly towards the office door and opening it. Needless to say, it was empty and I turned to face an irate secretary guarding the office jealously.
‘Sorry,’ I apologised with embarrassment. ’I must have confused the appointments in my diary.’
’I think you’d better leave this building before I call security,’ she warned tensely.
’I want to use the telephone to ring Miss Grayson at home.’
’Mr. Savage!’ she exclaimed unrelentingly.
I raised my hands in a form of surrender, making an attempt to mend my appalling behaviour with an amusing remark. All right, I’ll leave, but don’t think your attitude towards me will get you in my good books!’
She took the trouble to escort me off the premises and I hailed a taxi to take me to Miss Grayson’s apartment.
’Hey, Guv!’ called out the cabbie after we had gone a short distance. ’Didja know you’re bein’ followed? There’s a red Austin be’ind that’s tailin’ us!’
I looked out of the rear window to stare at the pursuing vehicle. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No doubt about it, Guv,’ he went on. ‘Same route, Same streets. You’re bein’ tailed.’
I alighted outside Miss Grayson’s apartment, paid off the cabbie, ignoring the red car which stopped a short distance away. It took me two minutes to discover that Miss Grayson was not at home so I removed my plastic card to gain entry. Everything was in apple-pie order. I sat on the bed thoughtfully and then my eyes fell on a locket similar to that worn by Tania which rested on the dressing-table. I opened it to reveal a photograph of herself as a young girl. Suddenly a red warning light flashed in my mind. There was something about it that troubled me. I felt that it contained a valuable answer... if only I could find the question!
As I left the apartment, a man wearing a dark raincoat and a broad-rimmed hat approached me with a request for a match to light his cigarette. I was about to reply when I felt an object sticking in my ribs which I presumed was a lethal weapon.
‘Keep your mouth shut and get in the car!’ he growled menacingly.
In that moment, the frustration of being abducted for a second time bent every fibre of my tolerance. He pushed me in the back seat of the red Austin, continuing to point the revolver at my head.
The driver started the engine and drove towards St. Katherine’s Dock where I was blindfolded before leaving the vehicle. In a short while, I was led aboard a vessel which left the marina for an unknown destination. I stiffened with fright believing that they would put lead weights on my feet and toss me overboard into deep water. It need to be only six feet deep! My heart began to beat faster as the motor stopped This was the moment of truth! I was pushed forward roughly and felt my feet touch terra firma. They were not going to drown me! I was led to a building that seemed like an aircraft hanger, due to the echoes that reverberated when the doors were closed. My hands were secured by ropes to a metal bracket secured in the wall and the blindfold was ripped from my face. My first impression was that I had been taken to a rifle range in the Surrey Commercial Docks. There were shooting targets set at positions either side of my head and I could see two men a short distance away loading pistols.
‘Who are you?’ asked one of the men, the question echoing through the building.
I thought the question to be stupid. I mean why did they abduct me if they didn’t know my identity? It didn’t make sense!
‘Who wants to know?’ I demanded firmly although I didn’t feel confident at the time. ‘Why have you abducted me?’
The man placed a pair of ear-muffs over his head to deaden the noise before pointing his pistol at me. He released on shot which ricocheted off the wall causing me to wince.
‘Who are you?’ I repeated, bearing in mind that he couldn’t hear me with the ear-muffs on. ‘Why are you threatening me?’
He pointed the pistol at me again and fired three times at speed. The action was sufficient to terrify me.
‘There are thousands of people joining International Three Thousand every month!’ I shouted defensively. ‘Why pick on me?’
‘Why do you pursue Miss Grayson?’
These people were no using blank cartridges. It was necessary to think fast and offer them responses to satisfy them. ‘I met Miss Grayson only a few days ago at a meeting and... I fell in love with her...at first sight!’ It was a very lame excuse but it was all I could think of under such pressure.
A shot rang out and blood spurted from a flesh wound just below my left elbow. They wee beginning to get rough and I was the lamb to the slaughter.
‘I fell in love with her!’ I shouted in des
peration as fear welled-up inside me. ‘Is that a crime? I’m besotted with the woman!’
‘Wer ist die Bankvorsteher?’
‘I don’t speak German,’ I replied weakly. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Who is the bank controller?’
‘Which bank controller are you talking about?’ I rued the fact that I had told anyone that I worked in a bank.
‘Not the bank you work for, you idiot!’ returned one of the men. ‘Die Bankvorsteher relating to Die Stunde.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I riposted, bearing in mind that I was tied to a wall with a gun pointing at my head., ‘What’s Die Stunde?’
‘I’ll give you five seconds to answer before I blow your head off,’ returned one of the men, leaving me with no doubt with regard to my situation.
‘Let me tell you, my friend,’ I told him frankly. ‘I have no intention of giving up my life for any person or organisation in this world. I know nothing of Stunde whatever it is., Nor do I know anything about a German bank controller. I can’t tell you what I don’t know and, if you don’t believe that, then shoot me!’
The two men gave each other a brief glance and one of them pointed his gun directly at me with deliberation. I stared at the muzzle prepared to meet my maker., closing my eyes as the shot rang out. I once read that a person shot would never hear the sound of the shot. I always wondered how they could come to that conclusion. They explained that it was the speed of sound against the rate of at which the bullet travels to its target However I had heard the shot, therefore I was still alive!
The last bullet had cut through the ropes holding me and I managed to free myself. The men were gone and I could hear the sound of an engine fading away quickly in the distance. They must have believed me that I was unable to answer their questions. I had no idea why they should have put me through all that agony with regard to Miss Grayson. She clearly had a connecting link in the mystery.
I found a leaky old barge tied to a painter and slowly ferried myself to the northern shore of the Thames. Who were my abductors? They certainly didn’t kill for the pleasure of the hunt or I would have been terminated. I examined my left arm, touching the injury most tenderly. It wasn’t serious... the bullet had only nicked the skin and outer tissue before passing on.
It took me the best part of an hour to reach my apartment. I sat on the settee with relief after pouring myself a stiff drink. My hands were still shaking and there was a sharp pain in my head which I put down to shock. After a while, I fell asleep to be awoken by the telephone. I reached out for the receiver believing that Miss Grayson had decided to make contact.
‘I understand you wanted to see me,’ she began in a smooth voice.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ I returned trying to clear the cobwebs from my mind.
Her tone suddenly became waspish. ‘Well...what do you want to ask me?’
‘Not over the telephone. I think we should meet.’
‘Can I trust you to keep an appointment?’ she reproached strongly.
‘Let’s say eight o’clock this evening,’ I suggested.
‘I’m sorry,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve already made arrangements.’
‘How about at your office then?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go to my office again. You’ll not be welcome there. Let’s say eight o’clock tomorrow evening at my apartment!’
The line went dead as she hung up and I smiled to myself. Here was a woman who still bore the bruises from sexual activity with me in a shower cubicle and the best she could do was to start a sentence with the words: ‘I’d appreciate it,’ How did one cope with such a woman? I thought about her insistence to stop me from going to her office. However I decided that a closer look at the evidence in her desk was necessary, A plan of that nature was not only illegal but dangerous. If I was caught, I could hardly claim immunity as an industrial spy to attract a lesser degree of penalty in the Courts. They would throw the book at me yet it was a task which had to be carried out!
I took the opportunity to ring Conrad Hayle. A female voice answered to tell me that he was not available. I mentioned the recent invitation at the Assembly Hall and listened to the hoarse crackle of pages being turned over in a diary. Then the woman advised me of the date, the time, and the address of the party, informing me that she would add my name to the invitation list. I looked forward to the venue hoping that it would take me further down the road I was travelling... not up the garden path! There were already enough indiscriminate red-herrings littering the way. It was time to be decision and sort out the wheat from the chaff!
Chapter Eight
Many people consider burglars to be criminals who plunder the properties of victims at random... sometimes quite clumsily. It occurred to me that breaking into a building is a form of art not generally appreciated. Invading a public building which contained confidential files of the government, however, was another matter entirely. The penalties suffered on arrest and sentence by a court in a situation of this kind were horrendous. An intruder needed to be endowed with nerve, courage, the ability to think quickly, sufficient reaction to move swiftly, and the capability of achievement in a short space of time. I couldn’t match up to any one of those standards. If anything, I was a coward, fearful, deliberate in thought and slow in action... a person who tentatively blundered through life at his own preferred speed. Immodestly, I was smart in deduction, but that was like being able to complete a difficult crossword at leisure, which proved nothing!
I stood outside the building where Miss Grayson’s office was located and familiarised myself with the movements of the reception staff. Some people had been issued with identification passes which they showed to the security guards at the reception desk as they entered, and they ventured forward to the lifts to go to respective parts of the building. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a pass. The regular procedure would involve my name and address being entered in the visitor’s book after which, for security purposes, someone would contact the person in the building I intended to visit. That was no good to me. I needed to obtain a pass so that I could enter without anyone taking further interest in my activities.
It was late in the afternoon when I decided to proceed with my plan. Many employees were beginning to leave the building. The security guards always faced a difficult period at this time because of the volume of people moving to the exits. However, this suited my purpose perfectly. I spurred myself into action as a number of people converged at the reception desk to make enquiries at the same time. Moving forward, trying not to draw attention to myself, I entered through the swing doors and walked past the desk without glancing at anyone. I deceived them beautifully by holding up one of my credit cards at a reasonable angle as though it were an authorised pass. In the flurry, I found myself standing at the lift doors without being apprehended and I wondered whether anyone had noticed me at all. I took the lift to a floor higher than Miss Grayson’s office and hid in a small stationery store-room without a window. There was nothing for me to do than to sit on a stool in the far corner of the room and wait until all the staff and the cleaners had gone home. It was the only way to eliminate all risk of being detected. There was still the caretaker, whose job entailed that all windows and doors were closed and the lights were turned off and, of course, the night security officer An hour later, the caretaker arrived to carry out his duties. He opened the door of the store-room gently to peer inside before pulling it shut and locking it with a key on the chain he carried. Finally, he turned the handle to make certain it was secure and walked slowly away to his next port of call. It was all I could do to prevent myself from alerting him to the fact he had locked me inside the room. After he had gone, I slapped my leg with the flat of my hand in anger, trying to think a way out of my dilemma. My credit card wouldn’t release the lock from the inside and the measures I took became mo
re desperate as time elapsed, ranging from using letter-openers to prise open the door, which bent too readily, to twisting large paper-clips into unusual shapes in an effort to open the lock. In due course, I passed my hands across the top of the tall cabinets, searching for a large inflexible object to use as a lever, when something fell off and rolled at my feet. It was a wood-chisel left by a carpenter. I could only presume it had been sent to me by an angel. I began to chip away at the door until I had removed sufficient wood to allow it to open without the necessity of turning the handle. I was extremely annoyed with myself. Being trapped in a stationery store-room bore all the hallmarks of an exceptionally inept amateur!
I worked my way down the stairs quietly and proceeded along the lower corridor until arriving at the room of Miss Grayson’s secretary. This time my credit card worked like a dream and I began to appreciate its true value... not only as a substitute security pass but also for the purpose of opening doors. I went to the inner room... Miss Grayson’s office... and locked the door behind me before sitting at her desk and turning on a small table-lamp. The drawers were locked but I carried a simple set of skeleton keys which coped adequately and I rummaged through the drawers searching feverishly for something meaningful to advance the assignment. Shortly, I cam across the computer disks I had seen before and turned on the computer. But there were other disks bearing code names... one with the letters DS. I became even more excited as I realised the import of the two letters. They were the initials of Die Stunde! They had to be! My hands trembled as I pressed the keys on the console to reveal the information I needed so badly. My eyes followed the text eagerly the names of no less than fifty alleged Nazi war criminals
“The Weisenthal Centre in Los Angeles has identified who have settled in Britain. A dossier containing another forty names, provided mainly by Eastern bloc governments, have been compiled and is to be forwarded to the Director of Public Prosecutions. The Government has commented that, in order to prosecute alleged war criminals of the Second World War, it will be necessary to advocate legal changes in criminal law. At present there is no scope for anyone accused of war crimes to be tried in British courts. The Home Secretary is under pressure from Members of Parliament to bring justice or to expel any person suspected of having committed war crimes. There is a lobby which suggests that such a long time has passed it is only reasonable to forgive and forget, or that the criminals are so old by now the threat of imprisonment or death holds little fear. There is also the suggestion that it is not the war criminals themselves who are the danger to a democratic world but their children and grandchildren. Such off spring have been raised with the concept of a Master Race in mind. Some people may recall the effect of those teachings on the Hitler Youth movement. Such ideals still live on today in the offspring of those who caused the deaths of millions of innocent people, mostly by inhumane methods.