The Nazi's Engineer

by J. Robert Kennedy

  She rushed to the Maiers’ door and knocked as calmly as she could.

  “Just a minute!” she heard Michaella’s sweet voice call, dripping with contentment.

  There’s no way Dieter isn’t home.

  Which filled her with a sense of foreboding. If Dieter had made it home, then why hadn’t Hermann? A wave of nausea washed over her, and her forehead felt cold and clammy as sweat trickled down her back.

  The door opened and Michaella smiled at her. “Erika! What a wonderful surprise!” She leaned past her, checking the hallway. “Where’s Hermann?”

  “Umm, that’s why I’ve come. He never made it home. Did-did Dieter?”

  Michaella nodded, concern written across her face as she ushered Erika inside before closing the door and taking her jacket. “Yes, last night. He was a day late, but that’s to be expected these days.” She hung the accouterments of winter, then led a shaking Erika inside. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s home by the time you get back.”

  She directed Erika into a chair, then stared at her for a moment. “You look cold. I’ll make us some tea.”

  Erika gave a weak smile, then glanced around the apartment. “Wh-where’s Dieter?”

  “Asleep.” Michaella blushed. “We, umm, were up pretty late last night, umm, celebrating.”

  Erika’s smile widened as her own troubles were forgotten for a moment, then clouded again just as quickly. “Can-can you ask him if he saw my Hermann?”

  Michaella pursed her lips, clearly not wanting to disturb her husband, though finally agreed. “I’ll see if he’s awake.” She disappeared down the hall, and Erika heard a murmured conversation, then two sets of footfalls. She stood, her purse clasped in front of her, and forced a worried smile as a groggy Dieter appeared, scratching behind his ear.

  He yawned. “You wanted to ask me something?”

  “Have you seen my Hermann?”

  His eyes narrowed as they focused on her for the first time. “What do you mean? When?”

  “He was supposed to arrive two days ago, but never did.”

  Dieter shrugged. “Hardly unusual. I almost didn’t make it.”

  “Yes, but it’s been two days, and when I called, they gave me the runaround. It was as if they didn’t want to tell me something.”

  Dieter motioned for Michaella to bring him a coffee. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’re at war. People are going to be late. Maybe his train was bombed.”

  “Dieter!”

  Dieter batted his hand at his wife. “Calm down, woman, that’s not what I meant. I meant the transport train to bring him here. He might be waiting for another transport because the one he was supposed to be on was bombed. I’m sure he’s fine. If he weren’t, they’d have notified you. If there’s one thing they’re efficient at, it’s letting people know their husbands and sons are dead.”

  Erika dropped back into her chair, trembling at the thought of her beloved husband dying in some Allied attack. “But what about the car?”

  Dieter paused in mid-sip. “What car?”

  “I think someone has been following me.”

  Dieter slammed his coffee onto the counter, the dark brew sloshing over the sides, Michaella already springing into action to wipe up the mess. He rushed to the window and peered out from the side at the street below. “Black car, two men inside?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Dieter carefully backed away from the window. “They’re still there. Are you sure they’re following you?”

  “No, not really, but they were outside my building when I left to come here, and now here they are again.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same men?”

  She nodded. “Pretty sure, but it’s the car. It has a dented rear fender.”

  Dieter peered out the window again then cursed. He strode quickly toward her, urging her to get up. “You have to leave, now!”

  Erika’s heart leaped into her throat. “Why?”

  “I can’t say. You just have to leave. It’s too dangerous for you to be here.”

  Erika rose, shaking all over, as Michaella rushed to her side, putting an arm around her to try and steady her. “Why? I don’t understand!”

  Dieter furiously shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t explain. You just have to leave.”

  Tears erupted from Erika as she stared at Dieter, terror gripping her. “Something’s happened to my Hermann, hasn’t it? What do you know?”

  “Nothing!” Dieter herded her toward the door, grabbing Erika’s winter garb off the rack and shoving it into her hands. He opened the door and pushed her none too gently into the hallway. He jabbed a finger at her. “Don’t come back. Ever!”

  He slammed the door, leaving Erika alone in the hallway, sobbing and shaking.

  And wondering what could have Dieter so scared that he would act in such a way.

  But she knew the answer.

  Something had happened to her husband.

  And the Gestapo was following her because of it.

  12

  Bar Abazuram

  Kwidzyn (formerly Marienwerder), Poland

  Present Day

  Stefan Bosko fired back another shot of vodka, this easily his twelfth of the night. It was Friday, it was payday, and he was out with his boys, everyone talking about what had happened earlier in the day, more details revealing themselves as the liquor flowed and more joined their table who hadn’t been party to the discovery.

  “I’m surprised they let you see it,” said Milan, his best friend since high school, and far smarter than him.

  Stefan pushed a shot toward him, his friend far too sober. “I don’t think they were expecting to find what they did.”

  “But once they did, I would have thought they’d swear you to secrecy or something.”

  Stefan laughed, the others who had been working the equipment with him joining in. “They did, but I’m not going to listen to some Yankee in my own country!” He pulled out his phone, bringing up his selfie. “Look at it if you don’t believe me. It’s worth like half a billion dollars or something.”

  Milan’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

  “I think they called it the Amber Room.”

  Milan’s eyes became almost saucers. “Are you kidding me? They found the missing Amber Room?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Of course I have!” He lowered his voice. “This is huge. No wonder they swore you to secrecy.”

  Stefan tapped at his phone, sending the photo to his Facebook page, quickly typing a clever caption.

  Me with the Amber Room. Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.

  He posted it with a tap.

  Milan gulped. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Stefan shrugged. “Who cares? What’s some American going to do about it?”

  Milan shook his head, finally taking his shot. “It’s not the American I’d be worried about.”

  “Then who?”

  “Every thief in the world who now knows you know where one of the most valuable pieces of missing artwork is located.”

  13

  Marseilles, France

  Alexie Tankov stared appreciatively at the half-dozen bronzed and fit women lounging around the pool. He could have any one of them he wanted, any time he wanted. And he had.

  They were all bought and paid for.

  He preferred professionals. His life left him with little time to meet women, and women were simply baggage not worth the effort. Why waste time with an emotional relationship, when a sexual one could be had for a few hundred Euros a night? He had the money, his entire team did, their new line of work since leaving the Russian Special Forces, Spetsnaz, very lucrative.

  Lucrative enough for him to have half a dozen houses around the globe, cars that would be the envy of any adrenaline junkie, and all the women he could possibly want, in all shapes, sizes, and colors.

  It was a good life.

  Yet decadence without excitem
ent wasn’t the life for him. He had enough in the bank—or banks—to last him several lifetimes, but he wasn’t in it for the money.

  At least not entirely.

  He was in it for the thrill of the chase.

  His phone vibrated beside him, and he picked it up, checking the call display.

  Dimitri.

  He smiled. Dimitri would never call him unless he had found something worth his while. He swiped his thumb. “Da?”

  “I’ve got something for you. Something big.”

  His smile grew. “What is it?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Dimitri, you’re killing me!”

  His friend laughed. “Someone might have just found the Amber Room.”

  Tankov bolted upright. “Please tell me this isn’t one of your jokes.”

  “No joke, my friend. From what I can tell, it was found just a few hours ago, which means it’s probably not properly secured yet, considering the size of it.”

  Tankov rose. “Where?”

  “Poland.”

  “Okay. Notify the team. Wheels up in two hours.”

  “We’re going to need a special buyer for this one.”

  “What’s the estimated value?”

  “Anywhere from one hundred to five hundred.”

  Tankov stared at the bevy of beauties as he headed inside, already thinking of doubling his stable. “I’ve got someone in mind who this would be perfect for. And a hundred million would be nothing to him.”

  14

  Outside Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  Sheikh Khalid bin Al Jabar lounged in a ridiculously comfortable chair, the overstuffed cushions enveloping him, something normally not enjoyed in the desert climate, though this room was climate controlled, both temperature and humidity strictly monitored lest the priceless artwork contained within be damaged in any way.

  He might be a collector of stolen art, but he was also an aficionado.

  He could never let anything happen to his prized possessions.

  Part of an underground community of ultra-rich individuals with questionable scruples, he purchased pieces on a regular basis, and rid himself of items he had become bored with.

  Like the Delamain Grande Champagne Extra Cognac he had been enjoying at $600 a bottle, and was now tired of.

  Too much of a good thing…

  He stared at Caravaggio’s “Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence,” stolen in 1969 from Palermo. He was bored of it, too.

  Sometimes having billions at one’s disposal was tiresome. Once one had everything, there was little chance of experiencing the excitement of something new.

  And that was where his art collection came into the picture. Something new was always on the market, something exciting, unseen for perhaps decades, even centuries, something he alone would get to enjoy until once again bored.

  He’d have his people begin making inquiries immediately.

  There was a knock at the door, two quick raps followed by a third, a combination uniquely favored by his trusted man.

  “Enter.”

  Nadeem entered, a phone in his hand. “Sir, I have Mr. Tankov on the line for you.”

  Khalid smiled, the timing fortuitous, and he glanced up at the heavens, giving silent thanks for the answer to his prayer. He took the phone and dismissed Nadeem with the flick of his wrist. “Mr. Tankov, your timing couldn’t be better. I’m in a buying mood today.”

  He could almost hear the smile over the phone. “I’m happy to hear that, sir. I’m on my way to pick up something I know you’ll be interested in, but it’s expensive.”

  Khalid liked what he was hearing. Expensive to him meant out of this world to the proletariat. That meant it had to be exceptional. “How expensive?”

  “One hundred million Euros. Firm.”

  The smile spreading across Khalid’s face, such a rare occurrence these days, threatened to become painful. “Then it must be an exciting acquisition.”

  “It is. Something thought lost for over seventy years.”

  Khalid’s heart slammed as he leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “The missing Amber Room.”

  Khalid felt faint, the room spinning as he fell back in his chair, almost losing grip of the phone. The Amber Room would be the ultimate possession, something that would make him the envy of everyone, something it would take a long time for him to tire of.

  And something he absolutely must possess.

  “Are there any other bidders?”

  “I came to you first, since you’re my best client.”

  “I bet you say that to all your best clients.”

  Tankov chuckled. “I do, but I called you first. Do we have a deal?”

  “Absolutely. Contact me when you have it, and I’ll wire fifty million to your account, the other fifty when it’s in my possession.”

  “Always a pleasure, sir.”

  Khalid ended the call, leaning back in his chair, his smile still broad. He raised his cognac to the room and took a drink, now tasting so much more interesting than only moments before.

  Life is good.

  15

  Vogel Residence

  Berlin, Nazi Germany

  January 30, 1945

  Kriminalinspektor Wolfgang Vogel yawned and pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door to his apartment. He closed his burning eyes for a moment before inserting his key in the lock and turning it, ending what had been a long, exhausting day.

  They all were.

  Being a detective inspector in the Kriminalpolizei was a tough job even in normal times. Before the war, he had investigated crimes, just as he did now, though without the added stresses of bombings, blackouts, rationing, and panic.

  And he had always had his wife and children there to support him.

  But tonight he was entering an empty apartment.

  Yet again.

  It had been a heart-wrenching decision sending his wife and children away, yet there had been little choice. Once Berlin began to be bombed in earnest, he knew it was time, though his wife had fought him every step of the way. Once it was clear that the Russians were winning on the Eastern Front, the argument had been settled.

  There was no way he would let his family be taken by the Russians.

  He had relatives in the southwest of Germany, an area where he was confident the Americans or British would arrive at first, and living under occupation with them would be far preferable to the Soviet Red Army.

  It was the right decision, but it hadn’t made it any easier.

  He pushed open the door, and his neighbor’s door behind him burst open.

  “Herr Vogel! Thank God you’re here!”

  He closed his eyes for another brief respite and sighed before turning to face what was clearly a very agitated Erika Lang. “Yes, Frau Lang? What can I do for you?”

  “My Hermann! He never came home!”

  She was clearly in a state, and her cries were echoing down the empty hallway. He ushered her back into her apartment and closed the door. “Please calm down, Frau Lang. Why don’t you start from the beginning? When was he supposed to be home?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “From his assignment in Poland?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He directed her to a chair, then sat across from her. “We are at war, Frau Lang. To be late by a day or two is hardly unheard of.”

  She sighed, wringing a handkerchief gripped in her hands. “Yes, I know, and Herr Maier said the same thing.”

  Vogel’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “Oh, my friend’s husband. He’s an engineer too. He works with my husband on occasion.”

  “He sounds like a wise man.”

  She agreed. “And a friendly one, or at least I thought so until today.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “I went over to visit Frau Maier and see if her husband had seen my Hermann, because I knew they worked together. He said he hadn’t, but when I told him about
the car, he became scared and kicked me out, telling me to never come back again!”

  She wailed, and Vogel cringed, stepping closer and patting her on the shoulder. “That’s all right, I’m sure there’s just some sort of misunderstanding that can all be sorted out with time.” His eyes narrowed as he picked up on something she said. “What car?”

  She pointed at the window. “Just look, I’m sure it’s still there.”

  Vogel stepped over to the window and moved the blackout curtain slightly, quickly spotting the idling car across the street. He closed the curtain back before the air raid warden noticed, and sat across from Frau Lang. “Tell me about this car.”

  She blew her nose then dabbed her eyes dry. “I-I first noticed it this morning when I left to see Michaella—Frau Maier. Two men inside a black car with a dented rear fender. I noticed them following the streetcar, then park across from the Maiers’ apartment building. Then when I got home, I looked outside, and it was there again.”

  Vogel frowned. The woman was probably paranoid, as there was no reason he could think of for anyone to have any interest in her, though there was one way to find out. “Wait here.”

  He left the apartment and hurried down the stairs, stepping out into the chill, then crossed the street. He pressed his identification against the driver’s window, and it rolled down.

  “Go away.”

  He knelt down and quickly evaluated the two men. Young, committed, Nazi Party pins on their leather jackets, hair closely cropped.

  Poster boys for the Reich.

  And that meant they were dangerous, though unimportant within the organization—senior Gestapo agents would not be assigned to watch the wife of a lowly engineer.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  The driver stared at him, as if in shock at the gall being displayed. “We are on a mission for the Führer. You will leave at once, and forget you ever saw us.”

  Vogel smiled. “Of course, of course, though if you are following Frau Lang, she spotted you this morning. If you’re expecting her to do anything untoward, I can assure you, you’ll be waiting a very long time. She’s a loyal citizen, and a friend.”