by Sewell, Ron
They continued to chat until her mobile buzzed. “I have it redirected from my office. Comes in handy. She looked at the screen. “It’s the major. Hi, find anything?” She listened without interrupting.
She glanced at Petros. “When could you be at Hereford?”
“Tomorrow. What time?”
“Thanks, Major. Mr Kyriades will be at the main gate for midday.” She placed the mobile on the table. “He’s found a bundle of documents covering 1941 to 1942. He’ll meet you at the guard house at noon.”
“Brilliant. Thank you so much for your help.”
“You’re welcome. Made today interesting. Saved me from dusting files. Are you really a writer?”
“Good question but I’ll leave you to ponder the answer. Thanks again. Bye.”
Petros walked out of the cafe, across the exhibition floor and into the pouring rain. He tried to make sense of it but then decided to go home.
Chapter Four
Nine o’clock came and went as Petros’ old BMW cruised at a steady seventy miles per hour along the M4 motorway towards Swindon. “I’m taking you back to your past, Bear.”
“If truth be told, they shifted the base from Hereford to Credenhill five miles further north. Do me a favour, PK, let me sleep or stop somewhere for breakfast?”
Petros checked the time. I’ll stop for you to stuff your face. Twenty minutes, no more.”
Bear glanced at the blue motorway sign. “There’s an eatery five miles ahead.”
They stopped at a Granada service station, grabbed coffee and sandwiches and returned to the car. Fed and watered, rubbish binned, they left. Five minutes later Bear’s snores filled the interior of the car. Petros laughed.
He saw the exit sign for Hereford and a mile further on drove off the motorway. An hour elapsed before he turned onto a slip road next to the army establishment’s main gate.
“Wake up, Bear.” Bear rubbed his eyes and stretched as best he could. “Come on, shift your arse.”
“I’ll shift yours in a minute with a size ten.”
Both men alighted from the car and strolled to the entrance guardhouse. A military police sergeant, with a knife-edge crease in his trousers and boots that reflected the sun, stopped them. “Can’t leave your car there, Sir.”
Petros smiled, the professional soldier in him awakened. “I have an appointment with Major Majer at midday, Sergeant.”
He turned and barked, “Corporal, visitor file.” An armed man handed the clipboard across, his eyes forever on the move. “Names?”
“Petros Kyriades and William Morris.”
“I have a Mr Kyriades but no Mr Morris. Wait and don’t move.”
A tall, red-haired man in uniform approached. “Sergeant, are these my guests?”
The sergeant saluted. “One, Sir, the other’s not on my list.”
“Give me the file.” Major Mager wrote plus guest. “He is now and the man you are refusing admittance is one of us. Sergeant Major William, Bear, Morris, known to the regiment as Night-Fighter. This man could hide in the middle of a field in broad daylight and you’d never see him. At night it’s impossible to fight a man you can’t see. Correct, Mr Morris?” He held out his hand.
Bear recognised the handshake.“ A long time ago, Sir.”
“My apologies, Sir,” said the sergeant. “I had no idea.”
Bear shrugged. “Why would you? When I was a part of this you were shitting your nappy.”
The sergeant grinned. “You’re correct, Sir.” He turned to Petros. “Rules, Sir. I need to check your car before I can allow you in. Please open the bonnet and boot.”
Bear chuckled and with Petros returned to the car. A corporal with a dog, and a mirror for checking under the body, approached. The dog jumped inside and sniffed before he repeated the process in the boot. The corporal inspected the underside and the engine compartment. “All clear, Sergeant.”
“Sign the book, gentlemen.” He handed them their visitor passes. “Please wear them until you leave.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Major Majer. “Mr Kyriades, if you would give me a lift we can kill two birds with one stone.”
“You’ll have to sit in the back, behind me. Bear needs all the room he can get.”
“No problem, I’ve arranged for us to have lunch in the mess and there’s a car park thirty metres away.”
Petros followed the major’s directions. In less than a few minutes they stood side by side at the officers mess bar.
“Drink first, then a business lunch. What would you like?”
“Fresh orange and tonic for me,” said Petros.
“Pint of Guinness please,” said Bear. “Need to top up my tan.”
Major Mager gave the order plus a pint for himself. “So what happened to you after you left, Bear?”
“Did this and that until I met this scrawny runt. Someone has to look after him and I made it my job.”
“And you, Mr Kyriades, after you resigned from the regular army?”
“Please call me Petros. I think you have the answer to those questions. You’ve checked me out.”
“Of course. That’s what we do. Computers are wonderful, not that I can work them but I have staff that can. Let’s eat and after discuss the diaries in my office.”
One hour later the three men sat in a modern office. Major Mager leant back in his chair. On his desk, seven piles of documentation. “What year, Petros?”
“LRDG, September 1941.”
“That’s strange,” said the major, “if my memory is correct ten units made up the LRDG and we have thirteen patrols. This pile is 1941. Shift the rest to the floor. Please keep them tidy or my clerks will go ape-shit.” With the files removed the major split those remaining into three lots. “What are we looking for?”
“A patrol, which may have been attached to LRDG, found two Luftwaffe pilots in a cave in south Libya, one dead and the other close to it.”
The major smiled. “Thank Christ someone had the sense to sort this lot into units and date.”
Each took a pile, checked and placed it on the floor. One each remained.
“It’s here,” said Bear. “LRDG (MOST SECRET). Bloody hell, Major, you should photocopy this and send it to a publisher. These guys were stark raving mad. It states here, ‘In accordance with orders received, I Lieutenant Baumstein and my men dressed in the uniforms of the Africa Corps entered Al Wigh airfield used for the repair and servicing of German Military aircraft. We drove our German vehicles at full speed, machine gunning, lobbing homemade petrol bombs and grenades at stationary vehicles and planes. By observation, we damaged or destroyed twenty-five operational aircraft. There were no casualties.
“On arrival at Lat 22.50 the wreckage of a Junkers littered the ground. We checked for survivors and discovered two pilots in the entrance of our storage facility. One dead, the other hallucinating. We transferred the survivor to base for hospitalisation. The shortage of vehicle spares continues to be a problem and could jeopardise our continued harassment of the enemy. I have given my men one day of rest.’
“What's left are stores requisitions,” remarked Bear. “Poor sods were guaranteed a bullet in the head if they were caught or worse.”
“There’s your answer,” said the major
“Does the report give any sign of their storage facility?” asked Petros.
”It didn’t mention it but we have a latitude.”
“Not much use without a long,” said the major.
“We know it’s Libya and their rough direction and it’s a mountain cave,” said Petros. “Draw a straight line across the desert at 22.50 and see where it intersects with a mountain.”
“I wonder what happened to the pilot who survived?’ said Bear.
“Prisoner of war and shipped to Britain. Couldn’t have him telling the world what we were doing. His name was Geller. We must have a list of German POWs held in the UK during 1941/42. Wait, I’ll ask Nancy if she can find him.” The major stood and went into the main
office.
He returned and sat behind his desk. “Give her ten minutes. If anyone can discover Pilot Geller, she can.”
They chatted for the next few minutes until Nancy knocked and entered. She was an attractive woman and very professional.
“Anything?” asked the major.
She spoke with perfect diction. “Your Hauptman Geller was a lucky man. On arrival in England, they questioned him in London. At some time, there’s no actual date, he arrived at Camp 21, Featherstone, and south of the River Tyne. A lot of documentary and personal evidence of the inmates exists, although the camp is long gone. Your man eventually occupied an important position in the Republic of Germany. I can find out where and when if you want. He did write a book of his experiences whilst at Featherstone. The Northumberland County Library at Hexham has an archive dedicated to the camp.”
“Do you need any more information on your pilot?” asked the major
“No, but Lieutenant Baumstein and his team, whatever happened to them?”
“I’ll go and look,” said Nancy.” She left.
“A smart and clever woman. Why she works here, God Knows.”
Nancy knocked on the office door and entered with a file. “You’re in luck regarding Lieutenant Baumstein. I have no information on his men. I can have another look if you want.”
“Thank you, Nancy. It’s Baumstein we’re interested in.”
“Well, he made it through the war, married an English girl and settled in Portsmouth. Much to my surprise, he’s alive and kicking.”
“Remarkable.” The major smiled. “Don’t suppose we have an address?”
She leafed through the folder. “Yes, but how relevant?” She shrugged. “I’ll find out from the electoral register. Give me a few minutes.”
“A bit of a long shot, don’t you think, Major?” said Bear.
“Not really, the man was an officer, still alive and must have a pension. Can’t be too many Baumstein’s in the phone book.”
“I have your address,” said Nancy. “Your ninety seven year old soldier lives with his daughter a Mrs Littlejohn and her husband.” She handed the major a slip of paper and another to Petros.
“Thanks,” said Petros. “Bear we might just take in the sea air for a day.”
“”I beg your pardon.”
“A day out, on the coast.”
“PK, if you want to chat to an old man who I doubt can remember yesterday, go for it. At the moment I have builders refurbishing two of my houses and I need to be there to stop them ripping me off more than usual.”
Petros tapped Bear’s arm and they both stood. “Thank you, Major, for you help and time.” Petros held out his hand.
“Thank you for making a retired officer’s day. Soon they’ll put me out to grass. If you need more info please give me a call.” He handed over a card. “My address and phone number.”
“Thanks, Major,” said Bear. “Your new camp from what I’ve seen is spot on but the old one was home. Any idea what’s going to happen to it?”
“Not sure. It’s been mentioned the local authority wants to build houses on it.”
Bear chuckled. “Years of blood, sweat and tears covered by houses.” He shrugged. “A thousand soldiers will turn in their graves. “ He shook hands. “Take care Major and thank you again.”
The major escorted them to the main door.
“It’s persisting like an elephant peeing,” said Bear.
“Powers of observation, ten out of ten,” said Petros as he raced to his car.
Bear followed with one of the young female clerks holding an enormous golf umbrella between them.
“Thanks, gorgeous.”
She waited until he was inside, grinned and ran back to her office.
“It’s all right for some,” said Petros.
“My natural charm,” said Bear.
Petros stopped at the main entrance and returned their visitors passes.
“What’s your next move?” asked Bear.
“I’ll drop you off first, then visit London Library and get them to beg or borrow a copy of Geller’s book.”
“Why the book? We do the job or we don’t.”
“Maybe because I’m interested in a man, who as far as we know, never asked what happened to a case full of diamonds or did he go back and retrieve them when the war ended?”
“Perhaps he can’t remember,” said Bear.
“I need to read the book. You, do what you do. Go to sleep and let me think.” He hadn’t anything to sort out, except perhaps the location of the diamonds.
Chapter Five
A dark blue Ford Sierra blocked Petros’ access to his garage. The odour of furniture polish assaulted his nostrils as he opened the main door to his home. “I can tell Mrs Nelson’s been at the polish again and who does the car belong to?”
Maria ran to him and placed her finger on his lips. “There’s a man in the lounge. He says he must talk with you.”
“Why did you let him in?”
“He showed me a Police Warrant Card.”
Annoyed, Petros strolled into his lounge. “My wife could not remember your name. You must be police as you assume far too much. Warrant card, now.”
“John Soames.” He stood and handed across a black leather card holder.
Petros examined a plastic-coated card.”
”Mr Kyriades, the card’s genuine but forget the number.” His smile faltered. “And I’ve never worn a blue uniform in my life. Khaki like you for a few years. Those in the business refer to me as ‘a gatherer’.”
Petros studied the balding, middle-aged man with bushy black eyebrows. “James Bond and Co.”
His smile returned. “I wish. You’ve seen my four year old Ford parked in your drive.”
“What do you want?”
Soames examined the room. “Can we discuss this in private?”
“You could but I need confirmation on who you say you are.”
The man hesitated. “Is that necessary?”
“It is, if you want your head to remain on your shoulders. And when I’ve finished, I’ll let Dog play with your balls.”
“Very well. Contact any police station and ask the desk sergeant to call this number. Give my name and state priority one alpha.”
With one hand, Petros operated his mobile while keeping his eyes on the seated Soames. The moment he finished his mobile rang. “Petros Kyriades.”
“You requested confirmation on a government operative. A police car will arrive at your home with a photograph. Study it, you will find the man in your home is John Soames. If you still have doubts he will leave.”
“Thank you,” said Petros.
“Satisfied?” asked John.
“When the police arrive; until then you sit tight.”
Both men waited in silence until the doorbell chimed.
Petros opened the door and gave the uniformed sergeant the once over, noting the jagged scar which crossed his left eye stopping halfway down his cheek. He held out his hand. “Warrant card.”
“My scar is from a yob with a knife,” said the sergeant. “I was lucky.” He handed his warrant card and a photograph to Petros.
“Thank you.”
The sergeant smiled. “It’s what we do, Sir. Goodnight.”
With wheels spinning, the police car, its lights flashing, raced out of the drive. A million pebbles rattled on its underside.
Petros closed the door and strolled towards John Soames. “Speak.”
Soames settled back in the settee. “I’ll start from the beginning by telling you what we know of you. You were born in Cyprus at the time of the Turkish invasion. Your mother fled with you in her arms to Larnaca. Your father fought the Turks and never returned. Your mother joined relatives in Wood Green, London, married Jack Dunn and produced three children, all boys. As a boy and young man you worked and played hard. Joined the army and almost won the coveted Wilkinson Sword but backed off and allowed another to have it. You were a good officer but lo
ved the women and resigned your commission. Tried being a mercenary but never took to it. You teamed up with William Morris as The Collectors. To date you are a wealthy man having invested in property. It seems you pay your taxes to the penny. For a rich man it seems you’re as pure as the driven snow. You are now married with a young daughter.”
Petros shrugged. “So you know who I am and what I do. What do you want?”
“Your cooperation and assistance. My reason in life is to assign people for tasks that for varying reasons we cannot undertake. During the last few days, you and Mr Morris have been under surveillance. Why? You may ask.” He handed over a photograph.” Do you know this person?”
Petros didn’t hesitate. “Eva Engel. I might be working for her in the near future.”
Without raising his voice John said, “Wrong. That is a picture of Hitler’s girlfriend Eva Braun, although I admit a strong likeness. Miss Eva Engel is the new Eva Braun in the sense her political beliefs lean in that direction. She belongs to a group of Neo-Nazis in Germany who are, in their words, planning the rise of the Fifth Reich. In England the tattooed skinhead brigade are members of a similar party. Neo-Nazi attacks in Europe have increased each year. Governments are desperate to stop youngsters joining. Most are drop-outs from society but the central core of die-hards believe they can resurrect Nazi Germany and rule the world as Hitler wanted”
“Apart from being an illegal organisation, what’s stopping them?” asked Petros.
John Soames stood and walked around the room. His voice remained soft. He turned to face Petros. “Money. With enough funds they intend to resurrect the twenty-five points of Hitler’s Nazi party into their organisation. Can it happen in the twenty-first century? I doubt it but then stranger things have come to pass.”
“So what do you want me to do? I was never Special Services. Why don’t you and your cronies go and kill her?”
John sat on the arm of the chair. “As a last resort she might fall in front of a car. Hit and run is common these days. In truth, we don’t know where her long lost hoard is hidden. The German authorities need to discover those in the organisation who wield power. These groups are like perennial weeds, unless we can destroy the root system they return stronger than before. The morons will always exist but without leadership, they remain objects of ridicule. Eva Engel and Maximilian Meyer, her partner, believe in their destiny to rule Germany, Europe and the world.”