“These guys were—are—true believers, Tanner. They’re Nazis through and through. Their entire focus was on maintaining organizational integrity and waiting until the proper moment in history to put the master plan in motion. Undoubtedly they were curious—who wouldn’t be?—but they had been ordered to follow Hitler’s precise plan, down to the letter, and that’s what they did.”
“So this Klaus Newmann was the only man in Germany who knew the location of the Amber Room treasure.”
“As far as we know, he was the only person alive who knew the location, besides Adolph Hitler himself.”
“And he guarded that secret for…”
“Forty-two years.”
She whistled. “So he’s still alive. He must be getting up there in years, as well.”
“Late sixties.”
“That’s quite a story. But you never answered my question, and it remains the same. What changed?”
“Klaus Newmann vanished yesterday.”
Tracie sat back in her chair, thinking hard. “So you believe his disappearance means the Nazi plan is finally being put in motion.”
“That was my initial reaction, yes. But we dispatched one of our operatives to Wuppertal, West Germany—the approximate location of the Amber Room treasure—several weeks ago after receiving intel that the Soviets were exhibiting unusual interest in the area. Our man has been maintaining surveillance on Newmann ever since.”
“Obviously, given the sudden Soviet activity, you believe Newmann was murdered.”
“Yes I do. Klaus Newmann held what we believe to be the only key in existence to the Amber Room storage site. That key has now disappeared, along with Newmann. Our current working theory is that the CIA was not the only entity to learn the location of the treasure. We believe the Soviets either knew the location all along, as we did, or somehow learned of it recently.”
“And they made a move on the key.”
“As I said, that’s the theory.”
“But from the standpoint of U.S. self-interest, isn’t it a good thing that the key is now out of the hands of the Nazi loyalists? I understand with the crumbling of the Soviet Union a power vacuum will be created that makes this the perfect time to set some Third Reich revolution into motion, but if the Nazis no longer have access to the treasure, that will shut them down before they can even get started.”
“True,” Stallings answered. “But there are two reasons it’s a problem. First off, the only thing more potentially dangerous than three hundred million dollars falling into the hands of people determined to reassert Nazi dominance, is three hundred million dollars falling into the hands of an unknown group with unknown intentions. That was why we allowed this Newmann character to possess the key for as long as we did. The Amber Room in an underground storage facility wasn’t hurting anyone.”
Tracie nodded. What Stallings was describing sounded exactly like the CIA she had worked for going on eight years now. Rather than taking action to recover the artifacts and return them to their rightful owners, they had waited for an opportunity to use the treasure as leverage.
Now the plan had come back and bitten them in the ass.
“What’s the second reason?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“You said there were two reasons why the lost key presents a problem for the United States.”
“Yes. The second reason. If our theory regarding the Amber Room is correct, and the Soviets have gained possession of the key, that development is unacceptable. It cannot be allowed to stand.
Tracie tilted her head, thinking. “It makes sense that the Soviets would go after the Amber Room,” she said. “If the treasure was stolen by the Nazis out of Russia in 1941, the Russians would have the greatest interest in recovering it.”
“It may make sense, but as I said, it’s not a good thing. The Soviet Union is on its last legs. The president knows it. You and I know it. Undoubtedly even Gorbachev knows it. If they are able to add three hundred million dollars to their treasury in one fell swoop, it will allow the Soviet machine to stagger along indefinitely. For months, if not years, depending on how they utilize the influx of capital. The money won’t save them, not in the long run, but it will prolong the Cold War at a time when we’re within a handful of years of finishing the Russians off for good.”
“There’s an obvious solution,” Tracie said, “and it’s so obvious I’m sure you must have thought of it already. You said the CIA knows the location of the treasure. Why doesn’t the president simply send U.S. troops into Wuppertal to recover the Amber Room panels before they can be removed by whoever has taken possession of the key?”
Stallings sighed heavily. “And this is why you annoy me to no end,” he said. “You’re like a bull in a china shop sometimes, Tanner. Sending American troops into a West German city to break into West German property would require the permission of whom, Tanner?”
“The West Germans.”
“Exactly. And securing that permission would require us to inform the West Germans exactly why we want to break into the hidden storage facility. And once we did that—”
“The West Germans would claim ownership of the treasure, based on the fact it’s been stored there for the last four decades.”
“That’s right. And then we would be right back to the Russians demanding the treasure be returned to them. Nobody can know about this, Tanner. The treasure might belong to the Russians,” he finished, speaking firmly, “but it is not in the best interest of the United States—or the free world—to allow the Amber Room to find its way back to Moscow or Leningrad.”
“I think we’re finally getting to the reason you’re telling me all this. I know it’s not because you love to spin an interesting tale.”
“You are correct. Your assignment is to travel to Wuppertal, West Germany and pick up the trail of the key to the lost Amber Room treasure. You will recover the key and return it to Langley.”
“I thought you said we have a man in Wuppertal. Why send me to Europe when there’s already an operative on-scene?”
“Tanner, I don’t want our man in Wuppertal anywhere near that key. He’s already screwed the pooch so badly we’re going to yank him home to the states the minute we can replace him. Think about it: he allowed a KGB operative to shadow Newmann for more than two weeks before likely assassinating him and stealing the key. Meanwhile, he did nothing. He’s in over his head. The only reason he’s still in West Germany right now is because he has intel that will help you when you get there.”
“What intel would that be?”
“The KGB’s man didn’t leave Wuppertal following Newmann’s disappearance.”
“What?” Tracie thought she must have misheard Stallings. “He’s still there? What is he waiting for?”
“That’s right, he’s still in Wuppertal. Apparently he’s become rather fond of the West German nightlife, and he’s taking the opportunity to enjoy a little mini-vacation before returning to Moscow.”
“That’s an idiotic decision.”
“Obviously. But it’s clear he doesn’t realize we had Newmann under surveillance. He thinks nobody knows he’s there. Anyway, our man is your contact when you land in West Germany. His code name is ‘Matthias Gruber,’ and he’s to update you on the whereabouts of the Soviet operative—assuming the man is still in Wuppertal by the time you arrive—and then provide logistical support and assistance to you as long as you’re there. After that he’s coming back to Langley and will never work in the field again.”
Tracie felt a stab of sympathy for the operative she had never met. She was very familiar with the feeling of being in Aaron Stallings’s crosshairs, and it was not a pleasant experience. Still, she had to admit that at least in this situation, Stallings was right. The agent had screwed up, big-time.
Stallings continued, “I want you to go home from here and grab your go-bag. The agency Gulfstream is being fueled and prepped for departure even as we speak. A driver will pick you up at your apartment
within the hour to transport you straight to Washington National, where you’ll depart immediately for West Germany. The driver will have an information packet for you that will bring you up-to-date while you’re in the air.”
She nodded and rose without a word. Turned toward the door and reached for the knob.
“Tanner!” he said sharply.
“Yes?” She turned around and kept her tone neutral.
“This assignment’s important. Don’t fuck it up.”
Thanks for the pep talk, she wanted to say, but instead settled on, “They’re all important to me.”
Then she turned and walked out the door.
5
November 13, 1987
10:30 p.m.
Wuppertal, Federal Republic of Germany
The driving beat of the techno-pop music blared from massive speakers suspended at strategically-place intervals above the dance floor. The room throbbed with a sensual rhythm Dobromir Victorovich had never experienced before coming to West Germany, and he was pretty sure he had checked out every dance club worth visiting between Moscow and Leningrad.
As much as Dobromir loved Mother Russia—and it was a lot; he had wanted to be a KGB agent for as long as he could remember, not just to experience the travel and excitement of covert intelligence work, but also to play his own small part in expanding the Soviet Union’s reach around the globe—the clubs at home were different. Less…exciting.
It wasn’t that there was any shortage of beautiful girls in Russia with whom to dance, and even occasionally bring home to his apartment. But Russian music was heavy, somber, somehow less joyful and overtly sexual than what he had discovered in Wuppertal.
He had become intoxicated by the nightlife here and wanted more. He had already stayed longer than he should have. If his superiors at KGB headquarters in Moscow were to discover he had lingered in West Germany rather than returning immediately with their precious key, there would be hell to pay. He could face demotion or suspension, possibly worse.
But how would they ever find out? His assignment had been to shadow Newmann for as long as it took to discover the whereabouts of the key, and then to kill him and take possession of it, but only when he was able to do so with no potential witnesses and no risk of capture.
And that was exactly what he had done. How could the pencil pushers back in Moscow know he had completed his mission in slightly more than two weeks instead of, say, three weeks?
The fact was that they would never know.
Dobromir was virtually certain he was the only KGB operative stationed in this region of West Germany, and he had seen no evidence of an American presence. As long as that remained the case, there was no way his mini-vacation would ever be discovered.
And it wasn’t like he was taking unnecessary chances with the key. Officials back at the KGB’s Lubyanka headquarters would disagree with that assessment, of course, but it was perfectly safe in his possession. Nobody in the world knew he had it, so it would occur to no one to try to relieve him of it.
So a couple more nights in Wuppertal would be no big deal. No one would be hurt by it. No one would ever know. He downed his vodka and slammed the empty glass onto the rickety wooden table, his eyes scanning the crowd for a suitable dance partner.
He caught sight of a blonde out on the dance floor. Short skirt. Nice legs. Big boobs. Decent moves. She was finishing up a dance with a short, skinny guy who looked like the type of pencil-necked wimp Dobromir could chew up and spit out without even breaking a sweat.
He checked his watch. There was definitely time for one last dance before he had to leave to meet his “date.”
He signaled the overworked waitress in the leather skirt and black lace bustier to bring him another vodka, and then sauntered across the floor to rescue Big Boobs from Pencil Neck.
***
Big Boobs turned out to be a major disappointment. She could dance okay but she was dumb as a stump and only interested in convincing some sucker to buy her next drink.
Dobromir was no sucker. And striking out with the blonde was no great loss as far as he was concerned, because he was only in the club to pass the time before his “date,” anyway. And now that time had arrived. He blew off the blonde, went back to his table and downed his vodka in one long swallow, and then made a beeline for the door and the short walk back to his hotel.
Toward the end of his first week in Wuppertal, Dobromir had had the good fortune to buy a drink in a different dance club for a loud man dressed in a loud suit. He wasn’t sure at the time why he had bothered, but a few drinks later, Dobromir was glad he had.
It was the best purchase he had ever made.
Because the loud man in the loud suit turned out to be a major runner of prostitutes, and the man hooked Dobromir up that night with a girl right out of his wettest dreams. She blew Dobromir’s mind—among other things—and after that he was hooked.
Each evening since, the loud man had sent another girl to Dobromir’s room. Same time, different girl. They didn’t come cheap. It was costing Dobromir more money than he cared to think about, but the “dates” were worth every bit of cash he spent. The girls were clean and beautiful, and there wasn’t a kink invented they weren’t willing to execute, and with incredible skill.
All of which meant he was anxious to sample tonight’s merchandise. Would she be a blonde, with big boobs like the dumb stump back at the club? Or maybe she would be a petite brunette with a pretty smile and great imagination.
It didn’t much matter to Dobromir. By now he knew two things: she would be great company, and she would give him the ride of his life. He strode briskly along the sidewalk, the night chilly but not at all uncomfortable to a man accustomed to bitter cold and biting winds.
It was still early, and Wuppertal’s entertainment district was in full swing.
Music blared through closed doors, men and women strolled the sidewalks in various stages of drunkenness, and hookers plied their trade on corners near dark alleys, keeping one eye out for local law enforcement and the other for potential customers.
Two weeks ago, Dobromir would have been one of those customers. In fact, prior to meeting the loud man in the loud suit, he had been one of those customers. But no more. He was like an alcoholic who had gotten his first taste of Jameson Irish Whiskey. Suddenly the rotgut he had been drinking his whole life—and perfectly happy with—was no longer quite up to snuff.
He wanted the good stuff.
He walked into his hotel, barely slowing as he shoved open the front door. Crossed the lobby and moved immediately to the stairs. He would have much preferred the added comfort and personal attention offered by one of the many small, family-run inns dotting the countryside, but personal attention meant…well, personal attention, and the last thing a field operative needed while working an active mission was to become memorable. So he had chosen to take a room at a large hotel chain’s six-story lodging center and thus remain as anonymous as possible.
Of course, the argument could be made that he had done the opposite of blending into his surroundings by availing himself of not just one West German call girl, but by now close to a dozen. Dobromir felt confident that back at Lubyanka, had his superiors learned of his amorous activities, at least three handlers would suffer heart attacks and probably drop dead onto the floors of their offices.
But he was the one in the field, and he looked at the situation a little differently. What could possibly help him fit into his surroundings better than to drop a little cash into the local economy? What western businessman would travel to Wuppertal and not do exactly that? By hiring a posse of the loud man’s hookers, Dobromir was doing nothing more than cementing his cover.
That was what he told himself.
He crossed the lobby, which at this time of night was almost but not quite empty. The bored desk clerk eyed him and then looked away. Had Dobromir been paying attention, he might have noticed a man he had never seen during his stay in Wuppertal sitting in a stuffed chair in
front of the fireplace. The man held a newspaper in front of his face, but his eyes tracked Dobromir’s progress over the top of the paper.
Dobromir was not paying attention, however, and thus did not notice. He had consumed a half-dozen glasses of German vodka back at the club—and in a remarkably short time—and his mind was focused on other things at the moment, anyway. Things that seemed to be growing in importance the closer he got to his room.
His “date” for the evening would be knocking on his door in a matter of minutes. He really should have left the club sooner, and he mentally kicked himself for wasting his time on Big Boobs when he should have been starting back to the hotel.
He took the elevator to the fourth floor and hurried down the hallway. By now he was nearly running, moving faster and faster, like a metal ball bearing being drawn toward a large magnet. He wanted to clean up and change clothes before his guest’s arrival, not that his appearance would really make any difference. He was paying for his date’s time, and thus it wasn’t like she was going to turn around and march out of his room if he opened his door and she didn’t like what she saw.
Still, Dobromir had his pride, and he wanted the rest of the night to go smoothly. He had paid plenty for this upcoming visit. Might as well at least wash his face and get the most bang for his buck.
6
November 13, 1987
2:40 p.m.
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
The CIA’s Gulfstream IV was roomy and comfortable, with a passenger compartment that featured thickly padded leather captain’s chairs, plush carpeting and a walnut wood-grain finish that struck Tracie as more appropriate to a wealthy banker’s study than an airplane. She wasn’t about to quibble, though. This mode of transportation was infinitely preferable to riding in the back of a C5 cargo plane, something she had done more than once in her career.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 77