Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  “I agree,” replied Mitchell. “Is there anything else you have for us?”

  “No, except to say that Jen is on her way to Florida.”

  “Okay then, if either of you two find out anything new, please call right away.” Mitchell placed the phone down. He looked over at Yuri. “Forget the car; can you rent us a plane? We need to get to Santiago right away.”

  “I can, but it will cost us a pretty penny,” he replied.

  “Do it.”

  Jackson flipped open his passport and looked at the picture inside. It barely looked like him. He was glad that they weren’t going to be passing through customs for the flight; if they did, they would be spotted for sure. “Yuri, your so-called friends sold you a couple of crappy passports. I don’t look anything like the man in the picture, and my name is not Terry Black.”

  “At least your name sounds believable,” said Mitchell. “I’m Maximilian White.”

  Yuri shrugged. “Was short notice. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Petrenko groaned and shook his head. “If Moscow gets wind of how much money I am spending, they will close my account.”

  “Well, let’s hope they don’t,” said Mitchell. “At least until we get to Santiago. After that, all bets are off.” With a determined look in his eyes, Mitchell turned and looked out the window. Somewhere out there was a fortune in stolen treasure, and he intended to find it.

  35

  The Pines – Retirement Home

  Saint Augustine, Florida

  Jen sat in the sunroom of the home and looked out over the manmade lake, watching as a couple of ducks came in to land on the smooth surface. Her mind was a world away. She wondered what Mitchell was doing and if he were safe. It was always the same concerns that filled her mind. The thought that his friends were with him lessened her fears. They always looked after one another, regardless of the peril they faced.

  “Miss March,” said a woman’s voice.

  Jen turned her head and saw a Hispanic woman in yellow scrubs, supporting an old man on her arm. He had a full head of white hair, and deep wrinkles on his smooth-shaven face. The man was not very tall. He wore thick glasses, and despite the warm temperature in the room he had on a gray cardigan.

  Jen stood and smiled.

  “Miss March, I’d like you to meet Mister Max Doring,” said the woman.

  Jen held out her hand. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  With a wide smile, Max gently shook Jen’s hand. “Please, just call me Max.”

  “And you can call me Jen.”

  The nurse helped Doring to sit down at a table looking out over the lake. “I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes. If you need me, just ask Miss March to fetch me.”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right,” replied Doring. “I doubt that Jen has come all the way from New York to kidnap me.”

  Jen took a seat. She was happy to see that, for a man in his late eighties, he still had a sharp mind.

  Doring looked over at Jen. “You know, I don’t really need the nurses to help me get around. I just like to them to pamper me from time to time. Now, Jen, how can an old man like me help you?”

  “Sir…sorry, Max, I’ll get right to the point. I’m here because you wrote a book nearly forty years ago in which you claimed to have been a member of the U-1309 on its final voyage from Europe in 1945.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Max, according to German naval records, the U-1309 was sunk in the Mediterranean Sea.”

  Doring looked around to make sure none of the other occupants of the room were listening. In a hushed tone, he said, “That’s just what they want you to believe.”

  “Who wants us to believe that?”

  “The Odessa, that’s who.”

  “Max, are you telling me that the Odessa is still in operation? Surely it would have ceased functioning by now? After all, I doubt that there are any wanted war criminals still trying to sneak out of Germany to South America.”

  Max nodded his head. “You are correct. Odessa no longer worries about hiding war criminals, only their ill-gotten gains.”

  Jen was intrigued. “Max, perhaps you should start at the beginning.” She placed a small tape recorder on the table and turned it on. “You don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you?”

  Doring shook his head. “No, not at all. Where would you like me to start?”

  “Tell me what you can remember about your final voyage.”

  “We left our submarine base in Trondheim, Norway, on the first of May, 1945 and sailed for Spain. We managed to skirt the allied fleets operating on the Atlantic and surfaced in the middle of the night off the coast of Coruna. There, we took on several dozen heavy, wood crates along with a handful of passengers.”

  “Do you recall any of the names of the passengers?” Jen asked.

  Doring stared out the window for a few seconds, lost deep in thought. “Most of the newcomers were soldiers who kept to themselves. I only remember the names of two people. They were a lovely young couple. The man’s name was Muller and hers was Schrader.” Doring paused and looked over at Jen. “Could you get me some water? All of this talking has made my throat parched.”

  Jen got up and quickly returned with two glasses and a pitcher of ice water. She poured them both a glass before taking her seat.

  Doring took a long sip of cool water and then placed his glass down. “Now where was I?”

  “Muller and Schrader,” said Jen.

  “Yes, of course. She was a pilot, the prettiest one I had ever seen, and he was an SS officer. After we had left Spain, we headed out into the Atlantic and sailed for Argentina. Our submarine was a Type VIIC. She was fitted with a snorkel which allowed us to travel submerged for long periods of time without having to come to the surface to recharge the batteries. I was a radio operator. However, since we traveled the entire journey on radio silence, I didn’t have much to do so to pass the time so I spent my time in the engine room learning about the boat’s engines. It was very interesting. After the war, I became a mechanic.”

  Jen smiled. “Did you ever learn what was in the boxes that had been loaded into the submarine in Coruna?”

  Doring nodded. “A few days into our voyage I overheard Muller talking with one of his men. I learned that it was treasure and art stolen from all over Europe. I found out later that we weren’t the only submarine to smuggle people and gold to Argentina. In fact, it had been going on for years.”

  “What happened after you arrived in Argentina?”

  “We docked at a secret base on an island off the southern most tip of Argentina. There, we transferred the treasure onto a ship that took it to an undisclosed location for safekeeping.”

  Jen leaned forward. “Did you ever learn where it where that was?”

  “Sadly, no. I heard rumors of it being buried deep in a vault in the mountains, but that could all just be a legend.”

  Jen took a sip of her water and felt the cold liquid slide down her throat. “What happened after the ship took the treasure away?”

  “We were all brought up onto the deck and given the choice of staying in South America under new identities or returning home to Germany. My name was changed to Pirch. If I recall correctly, only half a dozen or so men chose to return. You know, I never heard from any of them ever again.”

  Jen thought about the pictures Mitchell had sent back of the skeletons found in the sub. She decided not to tell Doring that his friends had been murdered in cold blood for simply wanting to go home. “So why did you stay, Max?”

  Doring reached over and delicately placed his right hand over Jen’s. “Miss, I’m not proud of my younger days. Back in 1945 I was foolish and naïve. I am ashamed to admit it, but I was a proud Nazi. I willingly chose to remain in Argentina rather than go back home to a defeated Germany overrun by the Allied powers.”

  “People can change,” replied Jen, philosophically.

  “Yes, they can. For me, it was a woman who made me see the er
ror of my ways. I fell in love with a woman who never judged me. She took me as I was. Her skin was as brown as yours, and the thought of her smile still warms my heart, even though she has been gone for nearly twenty years.”

  Jen felt her heart tug at his words. “She must have been a wonderful woman.”

  “She was,” replied Doring. He reached into a pocket of his cardigan and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped a tear from his eye before continuing. “It was my Maria who convinced me to change my name back to Doring and to write my book all those years ago. Unfortunately, nobody took it or me seriously. I was branded an eccentric fool.”

  “Max, how did you come to live in the States?”

  “After Maria and I married, we lived in Argentina for a few years before I was offered a job in Cuba. Those were some of the best years of my life. It was a beautiful island full of friendly people. We stayed there until the communists came to power. Batista may have been a thug, but even back then I could see that Castro would be no better. So we moved to Florida and put down roots here.”

  “Max, what if I were to tell you that some of my friends have found the U-1309?”

  A sad look crept across Doring’s face. “I’d tell you to leave her be. She’s from another era. One that’s thankfully behind us. You and your friends should just let her and her secrets rest in peace. No good can come from digging around in the past.”

  Jen was surprised. She had expected Doring to be happy that his story could now be vindicated. Instead, he wanted the past to remain buried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Max said, patting Jen’s hand. “I just never expected her to be found. We were told that the pen had been demolished and the U-1309 scuttled.”

  “They didn’t do a good enough job. It’s still out there.”

  “How did they find it?”

  “The ship’s captain had the latitude and longitude recorded on his Iron Cross.”

  Doring chuckled. “He was a good man, but very forgetful. That sounds like something he would do. He was killed in a motor vehicle collision a month after we arrived in Argentina. I guess his cross somehow made its way back to Europe.”

  “Yes.”

  Doring took another sip of water. He looked into Jen’s eyes and said, “Please tell me that you and your friends aren’t treasure hunters.”

  She shook her head. “No, we work for a private security company. We’ve been hired to find the treasure and hand it over to the authorities before a terrorist group gets their hands on it.”

  “I wish you luck. Over the years, after my book was published, there were a handful of men who sought me out. They were all looking for the fabled Nazi treasure. Not a single one of them ever came back.”

  “My friends are good at what they do.”

  “So are the people guarding the treasure. My only piece of advice is that you should look in Chile, not Argentina. I've always held the belief that it is there somewhere in the Andes.”

  “Why Chile and not Argentina? Was it not the main port of entry for most Nazis fleeing Europe?”

  “After Peron, who was very pro-German, was forced to resign in the 1950s, many former Nazis decided to relocate to Chile. I have no doubt whatsoever that they took the gold with them.”

  Jen turned off her tape recorder. “Thank you for everything. You have been a great help, Max.”

  “Promise me one thing. That if you do find the treasure, it will be returned to the people it was stolen from in the first place.”

  “I can promise you that it will be returned.”

  Max sat back in his chair and smiled at Jen. “Then I hope that you are successful. The thought of that money being used to finance terror so many years after the war, is unbearable. Good luck to you and your friends.”

  Jen shook Doring’s hand and turned to leave. In her mind, she was mulling over everything Doring had told her. The only thing she knew for sure was that she needed to call Fahimah right away and pass on what she had learned. Hopefully, it would help guide Mitchell and his team to the treasure.

  36

  San Felipe, Chile

  Mitchell lowered his binoculars and handed them to Jackson. He studied the map in his lap before double-checking their location on the dash-mounted GPS. He shook his head. They were in the correct spot, only it just didn’t feel right.

  Herr August’s home on the outskirts of Santiago had proven to be a bust. It was too small, and in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Mitchell did not believe that a vast horde of treasure would be found anywhere near the house. Unfortunately, his cottage in San Felipe was not looking good either. Built on the edge of a lake, the cottage was only a couple of years old. Mitchell also doubted that this was the hiding spot. He figured they were looking for a much larger, out-of-the-way building that had been built decades ago.

  “No,” Jackson, bluntly. “This ain’t right, either. We need to get a hold of Fahimah and see if she’s found out anything new.”

  “I agree. Let’s drive into town and grab something to eat. We can link up with Yuri and Petrenko there.”

  With a quick look over his shoulder, Mitchell drove his rented gray Land Rover out onto the road and drove the ten kilometers back to San Felipe. He was tired and frustrated. It was late in the day, and so far, they had nothing to show for all of the driving they had been doing. He glanced down at his watch. They had barely thirty-six hours until the peace conference began. Time was slipping by.

  At a quiet restaurant, they all sat at a table off to one side and ate their meal in silence. Yuri and Petrenko had spent the day bribing city officials for information on Herr August’s home. It also had proven to be a dead end.

  Mitchell’s cell phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He picked it up off the table. “It’s Fahimah.”

  “Evening, Ryan. How did things turn out?” asked Fahimah.

  “Unfortunately, today was a total bust,” replied Mitchell.

  “Well, I think I may have something for you.”

  Mitchell instantly perked up. “What have you got?”

  “Using the information provided to me by Jen, I think I may have found another spot worth checking out.”

  “Where?” asked Mitchell.

  “In Portillo.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Mitchell. He mouthed the word map to Jackson.

  “Its due west of your present location. It’s a ski resort in the Andes Mountains.”

  Mitchell looked down at the map quickly laid out on the table and found Portillo. It was perhaps fifty kilometers away. “Fahimah, two questions: who owns this place and how old is it?”

  “The chalet is the property of Frederick Muller. He is the son of Aren Muller and Julie Schrader, both of whom were reported as missing after the Soviets took Vienna in 1945. However, according to the man Jen interviewed in Florida, they were both on the U-1309 when it fled Europe for South America at the end of the war.”

  Mitchell liked what he heard. “How old is the chalet?”

  “The Eagle’s Nest, as the lodge is called, was built in 1951 and is used mainly a private hotel for the very rich. According to the website, it is closed for business as it is currently undergoing a major refurbishment. I’ve sent a picture of the lodge and its location to Yuri’s email account. Ryan, one more thing: Frederick Muller is related to Karl August by marriage. His wife is August’s younger sister.”

  “Nothing like keeping it in the family,” quipped Mitchell. “Did Jen find out anything else that may help us?”

  “Nothing really, other than the fact that the old man believes the treasure is hidden somewhere in the Andes, and this seems to fall perfectly in line with Muller’s chalet.”

  “It’s the best lead we’ve had so far. Please let Mike know that we’re going to head there right away to check this place out.”

  “Will do, and be safe.”

  “We will,” replied Mitchell. He placed the phone down and looked over at his comrades. “We have a
new spot to check out in Portillo. Yuri, you should have the info sent by Fahimah in your email account. Could you run to your car and bring in your computer, so we can see what she sent us?”

  Yuri nodded and stood. “Ryan, it’s getting late. Are we going to drive there tonight?”

  “There’s no time like the present,” replied Mitchell.

  Jackson said, “Before we leave here, I think we should stop and pick up some supplies and warmer clothes, if we’re going to be heading up into the mountains.”

  “Good thinking,” Mitchell said. “There are a number of stores nearby that should meet our needs.”

  Yuri turned to head outside.

  Petrenko raised his arms above his head and yawned. “If we’re going to a new spot tonight, I need to get some fresh air and clear the cobwebs from my tired mind. I’m not as spry as I used to be.” With that, he stood and followed Yuri outside.

  Jackson turned the map so he could see where they were heading. “Ryan, you do realize that we’re running out of time, right?”

  “I know,” replied Mitchell.

  “Do you think we’ll have to do any climbing?”

  Mitchell shrugged. He honestly had no idea what was about to happen.

  Jackson shook his head. “Wonderful. I can see it now—you and me on a glacier, trying to feel our way around in the dark.”

  Mitchell grinned. He knew Jackson was just bitching for the sake of it. He would climb an active volcano if he knew it was the right thing to do. “Look at it this way; if we do go out onto the ice, we’ll both get a good workout.”

  “Swell,” mumbled Jackson under his breath.

  Thousands of kilometers to the west, General Davos’ cell phone buzzed. He picked it up and looked at the caller I.D. A smile crept across his weathered face when he saw who had texted him. He opened the message. There was one word: Portillo.