Spook's Gold (2 page)

“You may be correct,” grunted Willi in response after a long pause, making another scan of the rolling oily-black water and the leaden sky clinging to it.  Despite it being midday, the storm conditions had created a crepuscular twilight.  “But loitering on the surface makes my skin crawl.  Two submarines sitting here during the day, we’re a dive-bomber’s dream come true.”  He cursed and spat over the side of the steel conning tower.  “And now we have to open up the main hatches to get the cargoes transferred, leaving ourselves even more exposed.  Damn this weather!”

Willi had assumed that the Indian Ocean would be warmer and calmer than their habitual hunting grounds in the Atlantic but, when they had finally made the rendezvous with the Japanese vessel, a squall was raging and they had been riding this heavy sea for hours, waiting for the conditions to improve sufficiently to be able to exchange the cargoes by inflatable boat.

He turned his gaze to the Japanese submarine, the I-29, cruising parallel to them fifty metres off their starboard bow.  An ugly beast, with its bulge behind the conning tower for storage of the demountable float plane plus the launch ramp that it required, together with the winching gear necessary to haul it back aboard.  What made the I-29 appear even more alien to him were the wooden deck boards and high mast on the front; a bastard hybrid of a boat and a submarine, nothing at all like his sleek Type IX
untersee-boot
, the U-180.

The primary ‘cargo’ of the U-180, the Indian and the Arab who had been visiting Adolf Hitler in Berlin – the very thought of this made Willi chuckle and shake his head – were now on the deck below being helped into their bulky life-vests by his crew.  It would not do to have the Fuhrer’s chums fall overboard and drown after hauling them all the way here.

On the forward deck of the I-29 he could see figures working to bring up the cargo from their hold for the transfer to the U-180.  The two Japanese weapons technicians who were going back to Europe for training and exchange of information were already below receiving an official and, most likely, an alcoholic welcome by the Captain, Musenberg.  Of more interest to Willi was the surprise that Musenberg had revealed just minutes before the rendezvous with the I-29: the cargo for the return trip included two tons of gold.  Musenberg either did not know or was not revealing the final destination for the gold; only that it was to be delivered to their Bordeaux fleet base.  Musenberg had insisted that the contents of the cargo should be kept secret, concerned about potential pilfering by the crew.  Willi had argued that it would be necessary to take a few of the crew into their confidence, since such a heavy load was going to have to be distributed around the U-180 to prevent destabilising it.  Ever fanatical about the manoeuvring capabilities of his vessel, Musenberg had reluctantly conceded the point and left it with Willi for the selection of the necessary few and the organisation.

Willi had spent the hours waiting for the transfer of cargo by briefing Kurtz and two other junior officers.  They had the advantage that the bullion bars were encased in wooden boxes and sealed.  After some discussion they had devised a plan that would involve hiding the boxes under the bilge plates, the benefits being that they would be central and low in the vessel, together with the reduced possibility of the crew poking around there.  The two officers who had been taken into the circle of knowledge were below on the deck waiting to supervise the loading.  They would firmly stamp out any speculation on the contents of such heavy cases by describing them as machine parts for new and top secret planes.  The majority of the items being exchanged were military hardware and therefore this explanation would suffice.

Finally, many hours later, much delayed by the problems of transhipping the heavy cargo by inflatable boats in such rough seas, the U-180 was ready to start her journey home.  Willi took a last look at the darkening horizon westwards towards home, gave Otto the command to dive and went below.

Chapter One – June 4
^th
, 1944

The sharp energetic rays of the early morning sun, already at high intensity and proclaiming its intended dominance over the day, lanced at him through the crazy-iron structure of the Eiffel Tower.  By screwing up his eyes in defence against this assault, the sprawl of Paris steaming in the haze beyond the gardens faded to a blur.  This early morning view from the height of the Trocadéro was his favourite, a fortunate benefit that he was treated to on most mornings, albeit subject to the vagaries of the weather.

Turning on his heel and striding away in the opposite direction, Dieter Marner chased his shadow across the concourse to face the Place du Trocadéro, the intersection of bisecting avenues radiating off in all directions.  There was little traffic about this early on a Sunday morning, a few horse-drawn carts and coal gas-powered
gazogene
vans with genuine business or deliveries to make and thus eligible for the special permits required to use the roads during the weekend.

From his options that could take him to his destination, Marner decided to
emprunter
the Boulevard Dèlesert.  He particularly liked the sense of the French word ‘emprunter’ to describe going by a particular road or route.  Directly translated it meant ‘to borrow’, and he was amused by this idea of borrowing for a few minutes the avenue, in the same way that someone might lend him the use of a bicycle, with just a passing word of thanks required when it was returned.

Arriving at Rue Eugène Manuel, he was immediately confronted by the crowd huddled around the entrance to the alleyway, jostling and arching up on tiptoes to peer over the bobbing heads in front.  His eyes instinctively dropped to see what the hands of those in the outer circle were doing, even though such matters were none of his concern here.  As well as how to spot opportunist pickpockets, his career in the civilian Berlin police brigade had taught him that groups around crime scenes always look the same; that mix of officials trying to keep at bay those who had nothing better to do in their day than to see a free spectacle, gain some titillation from another’s misfortune or misery.

He eased into the first outer circle of spectators.  Despite the lingering morning chill, there was a warm fug of stale body odour, cheap tobacco and musty clothes enveloping the heaving, excited scrum.  As the first of them turned instinctively to protest this new, pushy intruder, the sight of the black uniform and the
SS
lightning bolts glinting on the collar tabs quickly turned their protest to meek acquiescence.  Others seemed to sense this collective shrinking away and the mass parted for him.

At the front, blocking the entrance to the alleyway was a pair of soldiers from Avenue Foch, summoned to secure the scene pending his arrival.  Keeping close to them was a civilian
milice –
one of Darnand’s irregular army of collaborationist thugs with a mandate to ‘police’ the streets of Paris.  This individual was young and skinny and clearly unnerved by the shoving crowd.  The more senior of the two soldiers explained that the local militia had been called with reports of two bodies discovered and, on finding that one of the victims was a German officer, had contacted Avenue Foch.  The milice fidgeted himself closer to the trooper, almost rubbing arms, and was granted a nod to acknowledge that he had done the correct thing.  The soldier thrust out a blood-stained wallet and identity card, with the explanation that they had been found on the officer.  “There is plenty of money in there, so it doesn’t seem to be a robbery.”

Plunging from the brightness of the street into the near-black shade of the alleyway, still cool and damp from the night, Marner paused a moment to allow his vision to adjust to the gloom.  Saw: a male body in civilian clothing that was heavily soaked with blood, already buzzing with flies.  Ten metres further along the alley was another bloody body in a grey Kriegsmarine uniform, being examined by a woman in civilian clothes.  Keeping his eyes fixed on her, Marner snapped at the guard who had slunk up beside him, “What are you doing letting civilians into my crime scene, you moron!  Even I can see that these two are beyond the skills of a nurse.  What the
hell
is she doing?”

Without turning or pausing in her examination of the body, the woman replied in perfect German, just the slightest hint of an accent, “I am a police inspector, also a qualified forensic surgeon.  I was sent here to attend to a crime scene with dead bodies.  Therefore what I am doing is examining them in-situ before they are taken away.”  She stood up, pivoted and stepped nimbly around the jack-knifed legs of the dead officer and the pool of blood that was congealing beneath.  As she strode towards him, Marner stumbled for an apology, “Ah yes.  I was not expecting someone to have been sent so soon.  I am SS-Lieutenant Dieter Marner from Kripo.  I. . . ”  He faltered; it had now become apparent that she intended to simply walk past him and his confusion mixed with embarrassment as he was left wondering what to do with his redundant outstretched hand.

“Well, I am now finished and I will leave you to
your
crime scene,” was the frosty response.  She glided past without even deigning to look at him and continued on towards the exit of the alleyway, leaving him too stunned by her perfect German to respond.  He was aware that he was not the only one watching the sway of her hips and silhouette as she flared into, and then was erased by, the blinding sun.

----

To Marner, there was nothing of particular interest or note.  The alleyway was a thoroughfare between two minor streets in the 16
^th
arrondissement.  Both dead men were lying flat on their backs and, assuming that they had fallen backwards, would have been facing one another, maybe ten metres apart.

The civilian was somewhere between forty and fifty years old, dressed in a working man’s jacket and trousers, cheap but not shabby nor torn or tattered.  Even above the tannic smell of the blood, the odour of alcohol was unmistakable. 

In his hand was a badly corroded Webley revolver that probably dated from the Great War.  It was a huge beast that weighed in excess of a kilo fully loaded; with its long muzzle and large calibre .455 round the Webley had a recoil kickback like an enraged mule.  Marner went down onto all fours, taking great care not to kneel in the blood, and sniffed.  Despite the poor condition of the weapon, the whiff of cordite told him that it had functioned sufficiently to be fired very recently.  The soldier confirmed that no identity had been found on this body. 

The dead German naval officer had two massive, raw gunshot wounds that would certainly tally with the cannon in the hand of the civilian.  Unlike the serene, sleeping face of the other body, the features of this officer were frozen in a grimace of horror that perfectly reflected the violence of his death.  In the right hand was a standard Walther service pistol; again Marner checked this one and confirmed that it had been fired.  The wallet and papers told him that this was Captain Markus Schull, based at Kriegsmarine high command in Berlin.  How on earth had a senior navy officer from Berlin ended up being gunned down in a filthy Paris alleyway?

Looking around, nothing else appeared untoward; on the surface this was the aftermath of a gun battle between the two bodies lying here.  He stepped back to the entrance of the alleyway and spoke to the milice in French, “Any witnesses?”

“No monsieur.  I don’t have any back-up to help me, so I have just been keeping the area closed until you arrived.  I have not had time to ask around.”

“Okay.  And the policewoman who was here earlier, what was her name?”

“Inspector Lemele, monsieur.”

“Yes, Inspector Lemele.  I will need a copy of her report.  Where can I contact her?”

“At the Prefecture on the Île of course.”  The main police prefecture on the Île de la Cité; so the militia had at least judged the incident important enough to summon someone senior, rather than one of the dumb goons from the local police commissariat.

Marner nodded his thanks again and suggested that now that the scene was secure it would be a good time to start canvassing for witnesses, and then he turned and walked away.

Chapter Two

As he climbed the gentle incline up Avenue Poincaré Marner pondered the call that had summoned him from bed so early.  The message from the despatch clerk had simply stated that a German officer had been found murdered and that he was to go directly there.  For Marner it was no particular surprise that he had been called, since he was an investigating officer of Department V, the Kripo, or
Kriminalpolizei
.  Added to which his hotel that had been his permanent lodgings for the past three years was close to the scene.  But most importantly, he was once again on SS-Sturmbahnfuhrer Odewald’s blacklist. Meaning that only he would have been called out on a Sunday, even if it was merely to investigate the loss of the cheap leather collar belonging to Odewald’s wife’s lapdog. 

As he walked north along the avenue, Marner took the opportunity to admire the ornate apartment blocks in this prosperous suburb.  Although fond of his native Berlin and its architecture, Paris was truly a jewel, far superior to his home city.  Close to the junction with Foch, Avenue Poincaré seemed to smarten up just that little bit more, as if in preparation for the meeting.  Trees now lined the pavements, the buildings rose to seven levels if one counted the attic windows set into the grey-tiled mansard roofs, the buildings erupted into their full cacophony of architectural flourishes; ornate arches in the stonework; nymphs cavorting around the windows and along the rooflines. 

Emerging onto Avenue Foch, the south-facing façade opposite him was warming its ochre stonework in the early sunshine.  Even with the swathes of bright red Swastika flags festooned from almost every building, the splendour of the grand boulevard could not be hidden.  The wide central avenue for traffic, bordered by gardens that had not yet succumbed to use for growing vegetables, was shaded by the trees that were now in full leaf in expectation of another hot and dusty city summer.