The Sam Reilly Collection
Volume 1
By
Christopher Cartwright
Copyright 2015 by Christopher Cartwright
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
The Last Airship - Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
The Mahogany Ship - Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Atlantis Stolen - Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
The Last Airship - Prologue
Munich, Germany, 24 September 1939.
It was exactly twenty-three days since Germany had invaded Poland, setting into motion the largest war the world had ever seen.
Peter Greenstein looked up at the giant in the clearing. Like a dark cloud in the night sky, she created an ominous silhouette above the opening in the already obscured forest of the moonless night. He had waited almost two weeks for the arrival of the dark moon. It had very nearly been too long and might have easily cost all of them their lives.
She was a magnificent ship, exquisite to her core.
He’d had her built exclusively for use by the wealthiest people of her time. The Magdalena stood thirty feet high and one hundred eighty-five feet in length, only slightly shorter in length than a transatlantic Zeppelin. Her lines were sleeker and her propellers proportionately larger, making her the fastest airship ever built.
He was proud of her.
She was the greatest achievement of his fifty-two years of life.
Unlike the Zeppelin, which was designed and built for the masses, the Magdalena was built for the few. From the outside, she looked like a race car, built for speed. Inside, her opulence flowed from every point, like a stately cruise liner. The luxury of her coach house had tried in every way to meet the expectations of those privileged few who would ever travel inside her, in absolute comfort.
Peter’s heart sank when he thought about the reason she flew tonight.
When he commissioned her four years ago, he never dreamed that she would be used for such a purpose. Tears welled up in his eyes as he considered how few lives she would save.
Why should I save only the rich? He knew the answer. Because I can’t save them all, and I’m going to need their wealth to start a new life.
Tonight, her luxurious coach house would carry just two families, and an old friend of his, a professor from the University of Berlin, who would be travelling by himself. Peter would pilot her, along with his chief engineer, Franck Ehrlich. There would be no other crew tonight, no exquisite culinary delights would be served, the guests would have to help themselves to their drinks, and no entertainment would be provided.
All told, it amounted to just eleven people on board, and the guilt of his failure flowed through him. Peter promised himself that he would try to make another trip back, that as a single man without a family he had an obligation to do so much more for these people.
But, after all, he was just one man, how could he possibly save milli
ons?
The people aboard her tonight were some of the richest in all Europe. Old money. The sort of wealth that takes more than a generation to build.
He watched as the Rosenbergs arrived.
They were the first, and it gave him hope as each one of them quietly made their way up through the forest and into the gondola.
Peter recalled the story of how their great ancestor, Timothy Rosenberg, opened the first Rosenberg Bank in Germany in 1775, after receiving the advice of a bright young banker by the name of Mayer Amschel Rothschild.
Rosenberg specialized in difficult finances; lending when and where others would not. Higher risks with higher possible gains were a gamble that paid off well for him. Once established, the bank expanded. Although now a legitimate bank with more than forty shopfronts, rumors of its underlying ties to criminal organizations had never ceased. The Rosenberg Vault was a privately owned bank with the reputation of trading in suspicious circles. Although Rosenberg had never been convicted of running a criminal enterprise, his funding of certain syndicates, terrorist organizations, and violent wars was well and widely known.
All four passengers appeared sullen as they took their seats.
It was hard to imagine that such a powerful family could be cowed by a regime that was in its infancy. Only Sarah, at age six, the youngest amongst them, had the strength to offer a polite smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re most welcome aboard, Sarah. All of your family is,” he said as he smiled kindly at the child.
Her older brother, Werner, walked dutifully behind her without saying a word. His arms struggled under the weight of the wooden trunk he carried, the burden of which he shared with his father, Hank. Hank was sweating, despite the snow outside. Pale and sweating, he looked as though it might cause him to suffer a heart attack at any moment.
Peter could only imagine what such a family would choose to take with them on this journey, which had such limited space available.
Mary was the last of the Rosenbergs to board the ship.
She wore an expression of superior disdain for the others on board. He wondered how much of it was the result of a lifetime spent at the top of the pecking order, or if she wore that look today in order to conceal her own terror at the night ahead. Wearing a thick fur coat, the only item of jewelry in plain view was a large blue diamond amulet, worn above the curve of her breasts.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled the name of that famous stone.
The Goldschmidts arrived next.
Margaret Goldschmidt was married and had two sons. In 1927, her uncle, Ernest Oppenheimer, a German immigrant to Britain who had earlier founded the mining giant, Anglo American, along with American financier, J.P. Morgan, took over De Beers. Peter remembered the controversy over the diamond conglomerate. It was a ruthless syndicate, one in which the value of its diamonds were set at artificially high prices. Oppenheimer built and consolidated the company's global monopoly over the diamond industry.
Peter also remembered that Margaret had married Karl Goldschmidt, whose family was in the gold bullion trade. He had no idea which family made the other richer; but together, their family had grown in both wealth and power. It was because of that wealth that they had survived this long. Peter had no idea of the extent of their fortune, except to say that it couldn’t be spent in any one person’s lifetime.
The simple fact that Margaret Goldschmidt was here tonight was proof of her vast fortune.
“Is this thing ready to go?”
He could tell that Margaret hadn’t even considered whether or not there would be others joining her. Her family had taken a massive risk by getting out of Munich tonight, and it appeared all she could think of was why they weren’t already off the ground.
“Soon. We’re still waiting on one man.”
“Really?” She did nothing to hide the fear on her face, and then said, “Aren’t we an obvious target sitting here like this?”
Peter dismissed the urge to inform her that he himself had returned to Germany tonight, and he had waited nearly two hours for his guests to arrive so he could save their rich, entitled lives.
“I must beg your patience for just a little while longer, and then we’ll be airborne.”
Karl, her husband, then shook his hand as he walked through the door to the gondola. “We appreciate your help, Mr. Greenstein, really we do. Our friends and neighbors, the Hasek family, were taken yesterday. They had planned to leave tonight also. We’re all a bit shaken up,” he said, as an explanation for why his wife was behaving so badly.
Raising his hand up in apology, Peter said, “Completely understandable. We’re all very distressed by these events. Please assure her, we won’t be here any longer than we have to be.”
He watched as their two boys took their seats. At the ages of four and five, they had no way of knowing the severity of the risks taken by all who were aboard tonight. Their father had instructed them that they were playing a game of hide and seek, a game in which people were searching for them, and that it was essential that they remain as quiet as possible. They were both sitting, their posture rigid, and working hard to not make any noise; occasionally failing and having a little giggle, immediately hushed by their mother.
Then there was Professor Fritz Ribbentrop, a late reservation.
Just this morning, the professor had contacted him, at the Magdalena’s mooring site in Switzerland. Peter had been reluctant to accept any additional passengers, but he had been to university with the professor, who had been adamant that he needed to escape tonight.
Ribbentrop hadn’t mentioned what had happened, but Peter was certain it was important. Fritz was known to be an exceptional scientist, and a valued worker; he was a loyal fascist who came from a clean Aryan bloodline.
He wrenched his mind seeking an explanation for the strange phenomenon.
Why would Fritz, of all people, need to escape the Gestapo?
Were it any other man, one less honorable, he might have worried he was walking into a trap; but Fritz was not that kind of man. Even if he believed it to be in the best interests of the Nazi party, the professor would have felt using such a ruse would have been dishonest.
Peter looked at his sorry human cargo.
With the exception of Fritz, who had still not arrived, he didn’t see himself as the equal of any one of them. Although he himself was an heir to a great fortune, his path through life had been decidedly different than his passengers. He was an outcast amongst his own family. Even after the events of the past week, a week in which his father had died and left him the title of Baron Greenstein, he still did not feel as though he was one of them.
Unlike the rest of his family, he had turned his wealth towards science, studying at the great Berlin University of Aeronautical Engineering. The Magdalena was his brainchild. Capable of traveling at twice the speed of a normal Zeppelin, she was a marvel of both modern engineering and opulence. He would have liked to build her for the masses, but the masses were unable to afford such luxuries as travel by dirigible. Consequently, for the sake of science, he turned to those whom he despised, to fund her development.
He studied the two families and wondered what they’d say if they knew they were waiting for the arrival of the most honorable fascist Hitler had ever considered his close friend.
Rumbling far away, he could hear the muffled yet distinct sound of a four stroke engine, the BMW R75 motorcycle. Designed specifically as a military vehicle, Germany had so far only released the first line of production – for use by high ranking Nazi SS officers.
*
Professor Fritz Ribbentrop was the last passenger to arrive.
The man wore his short hair brushed back from his forehead. Years past being blonde, it now bordered on completely white. A pair of riding goggles covered his attractive dark blue eyes. His face was clean shaven for the most part, with the exception of a small and almost entirely white moustache.
It was easy to gu
ess that as a younger man, he had most likely been highly sought after by women.
He wore a simple green coat and matching trousers, the coat fully buttoned up against the cold. He had the luxury of leather gloves, with which he skillfully gripped the handlebars as he made his way up the narrow, snow-filled path through the black night and the scattered pine trees.
Riding his motorcycle was the only joy in life still left to him. It was the only joy that the mighty German military machine would allow him to keep. And, he was one of the privileged few, whose scientific ability allowed him the luxury of fuel allowances denied to all other civilians.
He knew he should have abandoned the motorcycle further back along the trail, but it had taken him longer than he anticipated to leave the university today. Without it, he would never have made it here in time to board. He, of all people, knew the danger that he brought the Magdalena tonight. The sound of his motorcycle attracted attention and made them an easy target. He justified the risk to himself with his belief that his purpose was far more important than the rescue of a couple of rich, Jewish families.
He could see the airship in the distance.
It appeared quite vulnerable. Even in the dark, the Magdalena’s enormous canopy marked a great area against the night sky.
He was relieved to see that the four propellers at the rear of the gondola were already turning, and the two side, stabilizing blades, were rotating at an idle. The airship would be ready to launch at a moment’s notice.
He rode his R75 right up to the ship’s mooring line and then released his grip on the handlebars unceremoniously as he dismounted. The bike fell to its side, but the motor could still be heard running smoothly, evidence of the strength of its simplicity.
Fritz panted heavily as he made his way through the thick, snow-covered, metal stairs carrying one small suitcase. He climbed up to the open door of the gondola.
“You’re late,” said his old friend, Peter Greenstein, curtly. The man was crouched down at the door. Peter looked outside one last time and immediately closed the door behind Fritz.
Fritz didn’t bother apologizing for his late arrival. He wasn’t sorry at all. If he could have been here sooner, he would have been.
He studied the interior of the gondola as he approached the others.
It was spacious, more like the interior of a grand yacht than an aircraft, he decided. It felt like a yacht too – even moored several inches off the ground, the slow, rolling motion of the gondola reminded him of the gentle feel of riding an ocean swell.
The Sam Reilly Collection Page 1