by John Holt
“Major, I would like to thank you for the opportunity, sir. I would be more than happy to serve you. It would be an honour, and a privilege.” Without thinking, he snapped his heels together, raised his right hand and gave the Nazi salute. A wry smile crossed Hartman’s face. “I imagine you can make use of Walter as well,” Behr looked over to his colleague. Steiner smiled nervously, and he too raised his right arm in salute.
“Naturally, we would not wish to leave him out, would we”, said Hartman. The trap had now been sprung, and Behr had taken the bait. Welcome little flies, into my web. “Incidentally, Wolfgang, I think that we can dispense with the salute from now on. The past is past. Those days have gone. The Reich is finished, and so is the Nazi Party. We now look to the future, a bright future. One may even say a golden future.”
Steiner started to laugh. “Yes sir, a truly golden future,” said Behr, he placed his arm around Steiner’s shoulder. “To the future, Walter, may we all get rich, extremely rich!”
Behr then looked back to Hartman, and asked what was to happen next.
“Well I think it would be an excellent idea if you two went to Austria, to get an insight as to the scale of this venture. According to the information we possess, we expect to find approximately fifty crates of gold. Each crate is calculated to hold at least ten bars.”
Behr could not believe what he heard. Why had he not been aware of all this when he was at the centre. It must have been happening there and then, right in front of his eyes. He hadn’t known a thing about it. He hadn’t suspected anything. He had never dreamt of such riches. He hurriedly started calculating. The sums weren’t too difficult, fifty times ten. “Five hundred bars.”
“That’s only a guess, based upon what we have found so far,” said Hartman. “It could be a lot more. We don’t know for sure.” He watched Behr closely. Behr was deep in thought.
“Five hundred times two thousand,” he said. “That’s, er, that’s one million dollars.”
“Your share would be about one hundred thousand, at least,” Hartman said. “That’s each.”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Behr said quite slowly as he placed his arms around Steiner. “We’re rich, Walter.” Steiner grinned but said nothing. He was still unsure.
“We aren’t rich yet. There’s still a lot to be done,” said Hartman. “We know that some of those crates are located actually within the lake. We don’t know at what depth they are located, but we will shortly carry out some exploratory dives. We also understand that some crates are hidden in a shaft in the surrounding mountains.”
“Have you actually found anything yet?” questioned Behr.
“To date we have only recovered two crates of gold, which were buried close to the lake edge. That gold bar in your hand is from one of those crates. But don’t forget we have only just started. We are not fully organised yet. Inside those crates there were a number of documents which led us to believe that there are considerable quantities of gold hidden in the area,” Hartman answered, fully aware that he was not being entirely honest with his answer. Hartman knew exactly where the gold was. He continued with the deception, spinning even more web to trap his flies. “We have also discovered the shaft, although so far we have not recovered any of the gold that is known to be there.”
Hartman was now ready to put the next stage of his plan into operation. “I suggest that you go down to the lake, in three weeks time, the sixteenth,” he said. “When you get there make yourselves known to Ernst Richter. He is in charge of the diving operation. I’ll let him know that you are coming. He’ll show you around and explain things. Get him to take you up the mountain, and show you the shaft area. Don’t worry it’s an easy climb, nothing too strenuous. I’m sure that you’ll get a good idea of what is in store for you.”
Hartman was mindful of the fact that he hadn’t yet spoken to Richter, and that currently he did not have anyone in charge of the diving operation. Nonetheless bearing in mind the contents of his briefcase, he did not actually expect any problems from Mr. Richter.
“Well I think that about wraps things up, don’t you,” said Hartman. “So get down there on the sixteenth, and get to know the area. Take a train to Bad Aussee and then get a cab to Toplitzsee. I’m sure that you know the way from there. I expect to be there about that time. In the meantime, do not say a word to anyone. Do nothing to arouse suspicion, or lead to any awkward questions. And make sure that you are not followed.”
Behr and Steiner turned to go. “Don’t forget this,” said Hartman, holding up the gold bar. “It’s a small down payment. A small reminder of what is to come. We will find you a buyer once we have started the recovery operation.” Hartman was happy enough to hand the bar over to Behr. After all, he knew that it was a fake, but it was a good fake, good enough to fool Behr.
Behr took hold of the bar, secured the wrapping, and placed it safely under his arm, keeping a firm grip.
At that moment Hartman knew there and then that he had Behr within his grasp. “Better get going now,” he said. “And I shall see you in Austria in three weeks time.”
He then turned and walked swiftly away. Moments later, Behr and Steiner turned in the opposite direction, and headed toward the tram station. They said nothing to each other, but thought of all that had occurred, and the promise of what was to come, wealth beyond their wildest dreams. They had no need to say anything. The look on their faces clearly showed the excitement that they felt. Quite a good day’s work, thought Behr. Better than I had ever imagined, or expected.
Chapter Twenty-Two
George Scott - Germany - February 1946
George Scott had arrived in Germany a few days before the end of February 1946. Originally he had planned to start his search for Deitrich Hartman in the southern part of the country, in Munich. He had found details of an address in the city, where Hartman had lived some years before. It was an old address, certainly, and maybe it was no longer relevant. He wasn’t sure. It was certainly a long shot, he was well aware of that. Nonetheless, it might still be a possibility, however remote. He had also thought about visiting the transport company that Hartman had worked for before the war. That was also in Munich. There was a remote chance that Hartman might have returned there. It wasn’t that far from Austria, and it did offer the possibility of work, and an income. So perhaps it could have been convenient for him.
But then the doubts started to form in Scott’s mind. Just little niggles at first, nothing too significant. Then, gradually the doubts began to increase. The more that Scott thought about it, the greater the doubts became. Hartman’s time at the transport company had been a long time ago, Scott reasoned. It was almost eleven years to be exact. Maybe it was just too long ago. It was also possible that those places no longer existed anyway. Even if they did there would have been so many changes. The people would surely have changed. Maybe they wouldn’t want Hartman back. There was no guarantee that he would be employed. Perhaps they didn’t need extra workers. Perhaps he wouldn’t be considered suitable. There were just too many unknowns, too many questions. Would Hartman really consider going back there, anyway?
Probably unlikely, Scott decided. Especially if Hartman had planned on a completely fresh start somewhere, perhaps with a new identity. Maybe it was the wrong area to start with, after all. It didn’t seem to make much sense, did it? No, he concluded, it didn’t make any sense whatsoever. There was nothing to be gained by going to Munich, he decided. Not yet anyway. It would make far more sense to start the search using the most recent information that he had. Consequently, he resolved to start his search elsewhere. After all he could always go further back in time, later, if circumstances deemed it necessary. Then, if need be, he could reconsider Munich. In the meantime, however, he did have a more recent address to investigate. This was in the northern part of the country, in Hamburg.
* * *
Scott sat staring out of the window of his hotel room, down at the drab surroundings spread before him. The hotel was
located close to the industrial centre of Hamburg, not too far from the railway station. On the left he could just see the main station, and the goods yards beyond. Further round was the start of the factory area, with their stark exteriors, and tall chimneys. To his right was row upon row of dismal tenement blocks. It was clear that the area had suffered substantial bomb damage. Many buildings had been totally destroyed, leaving nothing but rubble.
As far as Scott could see, the hotel itself had sustained no damage, not from bombing raids that is. It was small, and drab, and had been badly neglected. The external walls were covered in the grime of the city, and the woodwork was badly in need of a coat of fresh paint. Repairs were needed to the roof area, and several of the windows. Nonetheless the hotel served his purpose well enough.
* * *
Scott had arrived there three days earlier. It had been a long tiring trip from California. He had been travelling for almost thirty-five hours in total, which did not include the stop over periods in New York and London. Scott had needed to rest up for a while, to take stock, and time to recover. It was now late in the evening, and it was beginning to get dark outside. Now that the sun had gone down it was also beginning to get cold, and a fog had started to form.
The room was small, and dismal, but it was at least cheap, and conveniently located. And no questions asked. Furthermore there were very few other guests. Yes, this arrangement suited Scott perfectly. To one side of the room was the single iron bedstead, placed against the wall. It was provided with a faded bedspread, draped over a hard rough blanket, and a single sheet, on top of a worn mattress. Next to the bed was a small bedside table. On it was a small lamp, with a battered shade. Close to the lamp was a half empty bottle of whisky, and some discarded bread and cheese. In the corner of the room was a small wardrobe. It was obviously several years old, and one door was broken. Next to the wardrobe was a small set of drawers. On the floor were two threadbare rugs, attempting forlornly to brighten up the dark and dirty floorboards. In the far corner was a small china washbasin. There was a small crack to one side, and several chips could be seen along the edge. A little way along the corridor was the communal bathroom.
The sound of the traffic wafted up from the street below, cutting through the gloom. Black smoke billowed into the sky from the adjacent factory buildings, adding to the stark, dreary, landscape that surrounded him. Suddenly there was a piecing shriek, and a loud blast of steam. Then a train thundered by on the nearby viaduct, making its way into the station less than a half mile away. The room shook, and the windows rattled. Scott stood up, and pulled the sash window down, securing the latch closed as he did so.
He silently watched as the train disappeared from view, and entered into the station. He then turned away from the window, and looked down at the papers strewn across the bed. To one side was a brown folder, with the swastika stamp emblazoned on the front cover. Written on to a faded label, at the top right hand corner, was the name Deitrich Hartman. Underneath the name was written his rank, Major; and his barely legible serial number, 44263/234.
Lying next to the folder was a second document, the blue coloured file that contained the English translation. This file was currently empty; the loose papers that it originally contained were now lying scattered over the bed. The papers appeared to be worn and dog-eared. They had been well used by Scott over the past few days. He had looked through the two files over and over again, burning the details into his brain. Many of the documents contained hand written notes, made by Scott himself, as he checked through the files, cross referencing. He had made a special careful study of the many photographs that the original file contained.
The Gestapo had done a great job in compiling this information, a prime example of German efficiency at its best. There were photographs of places Hartman had visited; photographs of people that he had known; and, of course, photographs of Hartman himself. There were photographs of him in uniform, photographs of him out of uniform, photographs of him playing sport, photographs of him relaxing. There were photographs of Hartman on his own, and there were photographs of him with others. There were also photographs of Hartman that had obviously been taken without his knowledge. Scott realised that obviously Hartman would have been thoroughly checked, by the authorities, before he had been accepted into the SS. That would have been perfectly natural. He would undoubtedly have been followed, and spied upon. His background would have been thoroughly researched. His acquaintances thoroughly investigated. His activities carefully monitored. Everything would have been meticulously recorded. And it was all here, in this dossier. Every conceivable situation that you could imagine appeared to have been catered for. Every possible scrap of information had been included.
This suited Scott’s purpose. He wanted to know everything he could about the man he was hunting. More importantly, perhaps, he had to know Hartman, by sight, instantly, the moment he saw him. He could not afford any mistakes. There could be no slip-ups. He could not take that risk. He would only get one chance. He had to be one hundred percent sure. Nothing was to go wrong.
Scott had studied the document constantly, until he knew the contents by heart. He now considered that he knew all there was to know about Hartman. Everything that is, except for the most important piece of information – exactly where was Hartman at that precise moment.
He went over to the bedside table, and opened the small drawer. He reached in and took out a small package, which was wrapped in a piece of white cloth. He carefully opened the cloth. Inside the wrapping was a Luger pistol, the one taken from Hartman all those months ago. He knew that one day he would have a use for it. That day was not too far away now, he mused. And a very suitable use it would be.
He un-wrapped the gun, and holding it up to the light, he checked the chamber. It was empty. He placed his mouth close to the chamber and softly blew. The chamber was completely clean, and there were no obstructions along the barrel. Carefully closing the chamber, he wiped the muzzle with the cloth. He then cradled the weapon in his hand, checking the balance. He released the safety catch. Then, raising the gun up, he stretched out his arm. He then pointed the muzzle in the direction of the light switch by the door. He closed one eye, and looking along the barrel, he took careful aim, lining up the centre of the switch, with the gun sight. Then, slowly, gently, he squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled click, as the empty chamber was pushed through one notch.
“Bang, bang, you’re dead Hartman,” he whispered with great satisfaction, his eyes gleaming wildly, and a large smile spreading across his face. “It’ll be so quick and so easy.” He lowered the gun, and wiped it with the cloth, lovingly polishing it until it gleamed, shining almost like new. He then wrapped the cloth around the weapon, and carefully placed it back into the drawer. As he did so he could see the ammunition clips lying at the back of the drawer.
He sat down on the bed, and turned his attention back to the papers. He shuffled through the papers, looking for a particular document. The document was not there. He stood up, and looked down. Then he suddenly saw it. It had fallen onto the floor, and was lying underneath the bed. He bent down, and picked it up. He quickly glanced through the paper, until he came to the part that he was looking for.
“18 Konigstrasse, Hamburg,” he read. This was where Hartman had been living when the war had started. It was also the last given address in the file. It was Hartman’s last known address. More importantly, it was the address that was barely one hundred and fifty yards from the very hotel room in which he was currently sitting. He sifted through the photographs, and selected the one that showed the property as it had been in 1936. That was the year that Hartman had first moved in. It showed a small two storey terraced house, probably constructed at the turn of the century. It probably hasn’t changed much.
He stood up, and walked back to the window. The fog was much thicker now, and visibility was poor. “I’m so close now, I can almost feel it,” he said, staring into the gloom.
He turned away from
the window, and walked over to the bedside table. He sat on the bed, and poured himself a large glass of whisky. He took a sip, and then another, and another. He then quickly drained the glass. He then got up, and put on his coat. He had to get out of the room for a while, he decided. It was beginning to feel oppressive, and claustrophobic. Furthermore, he was impatient to actually see Konigstrasse. Not that he would be able to do anything, not there and then. He knew that. He just wanted to see the place. Just to know that it was actually there.
There was, however, a risk that he might be seen, and he needed to be careful. He reasoned that there wouldn’t be many people around tonight, not in this fog, anyway. Even if there were, nobody was going to notice him. And certainly nobody would recognise him. It was unlikely that Hartman would be there. At least he wouldn’t be outside. Even if he were he wouldn’t remember me, Scott thought. Sure there was a risk, a slight one, but not that great a risk. He was prepared to accept that, and take the chance.
* * *
He left the hotel, and quickly walked along the dark street. The fog was getting thicker, and visibility was now down to about fifty or sixty yards. He nervously looked from side to side, to see if he was being watched. Every few steps he would glance behind to see if he was being followed.
There was no one around. The streets were completely deserted. After a short time he reached the corner. He crossed over the empty street, and turned into Konigstrasse. He was not prepared for what greeted him. The street was nothing but a derelict bombed site. It had been almost completely obliterated by the Royal Air Force during the last few months of the war. Scott was devastated. What now, he thought, as he slowly walked the length of the street. It had been totally destroyed. Not a building was left standing. There must have been a lot of people killed. Perhaps Hartman had been one of them. He returned to the hotel, not sure of what to do next. All of his planning, and now there was nothing. It was all over before it had even started.