The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4)
Page 5
“I’m stunned. Don’t you believe me?”
His voice softened. “The New Order needs money to continue its great work.”
Eva stood and pressed her body against his and whispered, “It will have millions.” She sighed, “I need a shower, join me and scrub my back.”
He hesitated. “I must work. I’ll come to your room in half an hour.”
***
Maximilian opened the door wide to Eva’s room. He needed her money but had an aversion to her sexual demands.
She sat naked on the end of the bed and beckoned him. When he stood in front of her, she grabbed his hands and placed them on her hard nipples. He sank to his knees and she pulled his head to her sexuality. Her thighs opened and he did what she wanted until her body shuddered in uncontrolled spasms.
For a few moments, she held his head tight between her legs. “Enough, I leave tonight for London.” She lowered her hands before pushing him away.
He stood, picked up the corner of a sheet and wiped his mouth. “You do this for the cause?”
“Of course not. I do it because I like it and you do it so well. Now go and make sure everything is ready. I must pack and travel to London and convince two men to enter Libya and retrieve a fortune in diamonds. Tonight is the beginning.”
Maximilian grimaced. “What if these men decide to return the diamonds to the authorities?”
Eva laughed. “They will not be in a position to do so. My companions, Tim, Paul, Jan and the lovely Alex will make sure they tell no one.”
Max shrugged. “And which one will fill your bed in London?”
Eva glared at him. “When I have the diamonds, I will choose my lovers.”
Without a backward glance, he left her room.
***
“Maria, look at this. There’s a riot in Newham, East London.”
The camera operator focused on groups of masked demonstrators as they smashed and set fire to parked cars, damaged shop windows and urged others to help themselves. The few police in attendance hung back as Molotov cocktails curved flaming arcs in the air before shattering on the road.
“Why don’t they use water cannon? Blast the bastards out of existence,” shouted Petros.
“Calm yourself,” said Maria. “Why are they doing this?”
“Haven’t a clue. Perhaps the colour television they nicked has stopped working. No doubt the bloody do-gooders will shout and demand the government do something. I’d put the whole bloody lot of them in the army and after basic training send them to Afghanistan. After a few hours you’d find them under the same rock. Arseholes the lot of them.
“Jesus Christ, the police just charged, snatched a protestor swinging a cricket bat. With the hood removed, he’s an Asian.” In a co-ordinated attack half a dozen petrol bombs struck the protestor. “Bloody hell, he’s ignited like a flare and no one cares. No, I’m wrong, two coppers have arrived with extinguishers, bet they’re too late for the poor sod.”
“I’m tired, turn it off and let’s go to bed.”
“Good idea.” They climbed the stairs with Maria leading. “I’ll tell you this, if those bastards came near here, I’d give them something to complain about.”
She chuckled. “I’m sure you would.”
Chapter Two
On its approach to London Heathrow, the plane entered turbulence. Eva Engel stared out of the window and saw nothing but cloud.
Once through immigration and customs she recovered her bulging bag and jumped into the first available taxi.
“Where to miss?” said the cab driver in a strong cockney accent.
Eva handed him a piece of paper. “Here please.”
The man glanced at it and drove towards Hammersmith. Forty minutes later he stopped outside a modern block of flats. Eva paid the exact amount and waited until he departed.
At the main entrance, she removed a key from her handbag and entered the hallway. From a name board she located number eight. When renting the flat on the internet she had given a false name and paid six months’ rent in advance. Once inside, she closed the door and locked it. She strolled to the bedroom and placed her case on the bed. “It’s clean and tidy and will serve its purpose,” she said to herself. Exhausted she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.
Eva woke to a dark room. Hungry, she explored the flat but the cupboards and fridge were empty. For a moment she considered taking a shower but decided sleep came first. She undressed and slid between the white sheets.
Daylight through the undrawn curtains woke her at nine. Today she must make an appointment to see William Morris and convince him to take on her collection. She showered and dressed in blue jeans, a white polo-neck sweater and trainers. With the bedroom light on she brushed her short blonde hair. She jumped when the phone rang and it took her a few moments to locate it in the lounge.
“Eva Engel speaking.”
“Hi Eva, everything okay with the flat?”
Her eyes wandered around the room. “The bed’s comfortable.”
“Come on, it’s got everything you need, except me.”
“You’re right. I slept much better without you. Manfred, I haven’t eaten, I’ll call you later. Now get lost.” She placed the phone back in its cradle.
Laughing she searched for her notebook in her handbag, found and opened it at William Morris. She grabbed the phone and tapped the buttons.
“Yes.”
“Is that William Morris.”
“Could be. Who’s asking?”
“Eva Engel. I spoke to you in Warsaw.”
“I’ll say one thing for you. You’re persistent.”
“As it happens I’m in London on business. Can we have lunch and discuss a collection?”
“You’ll be paying?”
“Naturally.”
“I’ll meet with you but no promises. What’s your nearest underground station?”
“Hammersmith. Why?”
“Because I choose the time and place. One o’clock, Star Cafe and Grill. It’s on Kings Street. Ask anyone. Don’t be late. What will you be wearing?”
Eva paused.” A light grey raincoat. I have short blonde hair if that helps. But I still have that picture of you from the Warsaw newspaper.”
“Good,” said Bear as he ended the call. He waited five seconds and phoned Petros.
***
Bear sauntered into the Star Cafe at twelve forty-five, found an empty table and sat facing the entrance. The lunch rush had not yet begun. He picked up the faux-leather-bound folder and studied the pictures of the food on offer. He loved the line- ‘Ask for what you want. If we have it, we’ll cook it.’
A female member of staff approached and stood facing him. “Are you ready to order or would you like more time?”
Bear raised his head so his eyes met hers and she smiled. “Sirloin steak, well done, three eggs sunny side up and cover it with chips please, and a large mug of coffee. White, no sugar, I’m on a diet.”
She grinned as she walked away.
The coffee arrived and ten minutes later his order. “Thank you. Any brown sauce?”
He broke the yokes of the eggs allowing them to run across the steak and carved off a chunk of meat.
On time, Eva sauntered in. Bear waved. She was, in his estimation, an attractive woman. Her body curved in all the right places, dark eyes, and short blonde hair made her stand out.
She strolled between the tables, pulled out a chair and sat. “Mr Morris.”
“It was when I woke up this morning. Now while I eat you tell me why I should undertake this collection.”
“This might be a good moment for me to leave.”
Bear paused from eating. “You wanted the meeting, I’m here, talk.”
Eva smiled and stretched her long legs so he could see them.
“Nice legs, but my partner has better.”
“What do I have to say for you to accept my collection?”
Bear stared straight into her eyes. “You have until I finish m
y meal to make me interested and then I’m out of here and don’t forget your paying. Want a coffee?”
“Yes, black.”
Bear caught the attention of a waitress and ordered an Americano, black.
“In World War Two, my grandfather, a Luftwaffe captain, collected packages of uncut diamonds from Luderitz in Namibia. In nineteen forty-one he crashed in the mountains of Libya. From his final ramblings and notebook, the stones remain where he hid them. I want you to find them.”
The waitress arrived with Eva’s coffee.
Bear held up his hand and she stopped talking. “You haven’t a clue and you believe we’ll discover granddad’s hiding place.” He glared at her. “Ms Engel, how much money do you have? Libya is a mess and you want me to wander in, have a gander and stroll out. You are one crazy woman.
“Here’s the deal. Two thousand pounds a day, all expenses, half up front and in my bank account before I leave. Initially, I’ll allow one week for me and my partner, Hire of special equipment, one four-wheel drive and a helicopter. Let’s say fifty thousand up front.”
Eva appreciated that as a skilled operative he was the man for the job. “Do you think fifty-thousand will be enough?”
Bear chuckled. “You didn’t even flinch at the mention of the money. Your grandfather’s notebook, where is it?”
From her handbag, she removed the battered leather-bound book. He studied the Luftwaffe emblem and gold embossed swastika on the cover. “If your lot had won I don’t think you’d be talking to me. I gather Hitler believed we, like so many others, were inferior.”
Eva shrugged. “We were defeated, Mr Morris, and those days are long gone. You can read German?”
He looked up from the book. “Not well enough but your grandfather was a stickler for making notes. Somewhere in here is a clue to where he crashed. Without that, you’re looking for the proverbial. I have your number on my mobile. You’ll have my decision within the week. And before you ask, I will not disappear with your book. Pay the bill on your way out.”
Eva stood and appeared serious. “Trust, Mr Morris, is something difficult to come by these days but you have your week and then I want my book back.”
Bear finished his coffee and sat there with his hands behind his neck, waiting.
Petros peered over the partition. “You’re not a nice man, Mr Morris.” The contrast between them was striking. Bear wore an ancient black leather jacket, blue jeans and scruffy jumper over his powerful frame. Petros, slim and muscular, was dressed in his black Armani blazer, grey trousers and crisp white shirt but no tie.
Petros sat and faced Bear. “Eva strikes me as an intelligent woman but there’s something I can’t put my finger on. Would I trust her? No. Do you think the diamonds are still there?”
“Fucked if I know. You decipher this notebook and tell me. You know I can’t read German.”
Chapter Three
In one of the many reading rooms of the London Library, Petros sat, on his own, with Eva’s notebook and a pile of maps purchased that morning from Stanford map shop. Page after page he read conscious of the amount of information it contained. Most were flight plans in note form but it was the final observations he translated.
From what he read the operation was straightforward. Leave Berlin, land Tripoli, fuel, leave Tripoli (Libya) and arrive Luderitz (Namibia). Flight duration 24 hours at four hundred kilometres per hour.
The next entry confirmed the package of uncut diamonds received from the agent and secured in the cockpit. A side note stated, ‘heavier than last time.’
The flight plan for the return journey copied the original but in reverse. A note commented on the reliability of the autopilot. ‘Works well under normal conditions but has to be adjusted every hour. Tends to veer to the right although has been known on occasion to wander left. Good dead reckoning required at all times. With a flight duration of twenty-four hours we could end up where we started.’
Petros read what amounted to a report and noted its contents. On his map of Africa, he drew a thick, dark line from Luderitz to Tripoli and leant back in the chair. “Where did you crash?” he muttered.
He reread the notes. A German-speaking officer gave him water. Why would he write that? His face lit up. “Special Forces.” He dragged the distant information from his memory, shifted his position to the room’s computer, and typed in ‘Long Range Desert Group’. His gaze wandered across the mass of information. It appeared that the majority of LRDG operations took place between Tripoli and Benghazi, which made sense, as they were the main German supply routes. He tried various other alternatives but nothing of any importance showed. Frustrated, he paced the room until it came to him, The Imperial War Museum archives.
Hopeful, Petros packed his notes and maps, took the underground to Lambeth North, walked the short distance along Kennington Road, and climbed the steep steps to the entrance. He surveyed the exterior of the former Bethlem Royal Hospital or ‘Bedlam’ as it was better known and wondered what its long gone patients might have thought of it now.
To the left of the entrance stood a large man with thick grey hair and similar bushy eyebrows, dressed in a grey uniform.
Petros approached. The man gave him a knowledgeable glance. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I hope so. Who do I need to see to check the archives?”
He gave a wry smile. “That’ll be Mrs Masters. I’ll take you to her office.” He led Petros across the ground floor exhibits to a locked door. When opened he pointed. “Door at the end, sir. Tell her, Alfie sent you.”
“Thank you.”
Petros stared at the closed door and wondered if he would find the answer to his dilemma. He knocked on the dark-stained wooden door and entered.
He gave the woman with striking red hair seated behind a desk, a reassuring smile as she glanced up. “Petros Kyriades. Alfie directed me to your office.”
She smiled and placed her pen on the desk. “That man sends everyone to me. How can I be of help?” She pointed to a chair. “Please. Not many know of the back rooms where the staff work.”
Petros sat. “Mrs Masters, I’m undertaking research for a book I’m hoping to write with reference to the German Jews who came to England and joined the army. I believe a few completed special training. These men served in North Africa. I checked the normal sources but can find little of importance.”
“Area of Operation?”
“Libya, 1941.”
Her fingers operated the keyboard with speed. She looked at him. “I have the Long Range Desert Group, SAS, and Special Forces. Which one do you think is yours?”
“Shall we try Special Forces?”
Mrs Masters’ face had a puzzled expression.
“Found anything?” asked Petros.
There was a long silence. “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Thanks for trying.”
“Mr Kyriades, you don’t understand. Most unusual, there’s zilch, and it can’t be classified.”
“So what you’re telling me is whoever they were existed, but there are no records."
Mrs Masters looked up at him. “Not being able to find any information doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” She continued manipulating the keyboard and squealed as a young girl. “Gotcha. Have you ever heard of the War Diaries?”
“Can’t say I have. Why?”
Her fingers never stopped hitting the keys.
“Where are we now?”
“National Archives, Kew, and they are directing us to the War Records of each campaign. Right, we are now in Egypt with the British Army Operations and back to Long Range Desert Group. Small independent units maintained a daily record of events. They were arranged by the command. Full circle except,” her fingers rattled the keyboard, “if you want the information you need to go to Hereford. What you’re seeking might be there. Wait a minute.” She punched a number into her desk phone, placed it on loudspeaker and waited.
A gruff voice answered. “Good Morning, Major Majer, Records.
How can I help?"
“Good morning, Major, Susan Masters, Imperial War Museum. I have a Mr Kyriades, a writer investigating North Africa and the involvement of Jews in the British Army. In particular, LRDG or Special Forces. Can you help?”
“Ah, long time since we last had a chat. LRDG, Ralf Bagnold’s motley crew. Reconnaissance outfit if my memory serves, Bagnold and Stirling were great friends and maybe they were part of a few clandestine ops. I’ll need to check the war diaries to be sure but I believe a couple of units operated independent of the regular army, with orders direct from the top. Give me an hour and I’ll get back.”
Mrs Masters thanked him before replacing the handset.
Petros looked thoughtful. “I hope he finds something.”
“If it’s there he’ll find it. Would you like to buy me a coffee in our restaurant while we wait? Old Major Majer will be scurrying around like a rat searching for breadcrumbs. This way.”
They strolled through the corridors hidden from the public and entered the light airy cafe. Mrs Masters sat at the first empty table and Petros positioned himself opposite.
A young woman approached and took their order of two coffees, one black with no sugar and a cappuccino.
“So what do we discuss for the next hour?” asked Petros.
Her gaze was bright as she said, “What’s the genre of your book?”
Petros’ expression gave no clues. “Action and adventure. You see these two ex-soldiers retrieve things for clients. At a price, of course.”
Their coffee arrived. Petros paid.
“How long have you worked here, Mrs Masters?”
“Five years.”
“And before that?”
“Oxford Uni with an army bursary. I studied languages; Russian and Spanish. Got a double first. I joined the army full time, made lieutenant before I jacked it in. Now I’m the records officer in a museum.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Afghanistan. Couldn’t handle the idea of being blown to bits. My husband’s on his second tour. I hate it every time the phone rings.”