Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  “The Navy is not one of our larger services,” he smiled.

  “And he’s done a number of ‘special tasks’ for the government from time to time, so I think he understands the unique opportunity we have here,” Manny added.

  “Will the Swedes be any trouble?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, no. The potential for oil deposits in the Baltic is a very hot topic right now, and even a small expedition to study underwater drilling sites will be welcome. I’ve worked the Baltic before, so we should have more than enough political cover,” Chorev added.

  “But not so much that the Nazis, the Russians, the CIA, and whoever the hell else is watching us, won’t know we’re coming?” Michael asked.

  “I hope not!” Manny chuckled. “What fun would that be?”

  Chorev smiled. “And who knows, we might actually find some oil after all.”

  “Even if it’s in the fuel tanks of an old U-boat?” Leslie asked.

  “What kind of equipment are you bringing?” Michael asked.

  “I have an array of vertical and diagonal sonar that can give us reasonably accurate images of the sea bed,” Chorev answered. “They sense objects or terrain changes of a meter or more. That’s not good enough for precise mapping of the bottom, but we’ll know if we run over something as big as a sunken ship. Also, I have some broad-field magnetometers that will help detect metals like iron and particularly steel.”

  “Like the hull of a submarine?” Leslie asked.

  “I don’t want to mislead you. Depending upon the depths, temperature and salinity layers, and how close we get, we have a decent chance. The Baltic isn’t deep enough to hide anything that big forever, but it does have a number of large fissures and holes and it will require precise work. In the wrong place, you could lose a battleship if you’re not careful.”

  Manny nodded toward the younger man in a blue denim work uniform in the other chair. "Warrant Officer Schiff is an underwater salvage specialist, a diver if you will. If we find anything, he’ll go down and check it out.”

  “We’ve done our share of underwater salvage work after the War of Independence,” Schiff added. “Clearing out sunken ships and debris along the Mediterranean coast, even a couple of submarines, so we know the problems.”

  “You’ll find the water is a bit colder up there than what you are used to,” Michael commented.

  “Yes, it is; and it is hard work. Both of you are coming?” he asked.

  “Yes!” Leslie quickly answered.

  “Looks like all three of us are,” Manny added.

  “Excellent. Then you can learn to dive with me. This isn’t old-fashioned hard-hat diving. The Baltic is shallow, so we would use the newest self-contained aqua lung equipment.”

  “Not me,” Manny laughed. “If I go in, I’d look like Moby Dick.”

  “Well, count me in,” Leslie said.

  “What about you, Michael?” Schiff asked. “We have the construction drawings of the Class VII U-boats, but you’ve actually been inside and know how everything is laid out. Having you along would be invaluable.”

  Michael looked at him for a long moment. “Okay, I’ll dive; but as for going inside and all the rest of it, we’ll see,” was all he could commit to.

  “Some team,” Manny chirped. “We got brains, skill, brawn, good looks, and a lot of bad memories.”

  “And the painter makes six,” Leslie chimed in.

  “I sure hope so,” Manny laughed. “I don’t know about you, but I’d love a return engagement.”

  “Yeah, I’m in,” Michael added. “And I know where we can get a good boat.”

  Michael said nothing, but the truth was, he had to go. He was tied to that U-boat and to Eric Bruckner by a long chain. One end was anchored to Michael’s soul and the other end was wrapped around the U-boat. Maybe that was why Bruckner set him free that night. Maybe he knew he and U-582 were doomed. Maybe he knew they all were, and this half-starved B-17 waist gunner standing in front of him was the insurance policy he needed to protect his honor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bolivia

  The hour was late. Martin Bormann sat in his study, slumped in his favorite red-leather armchair. It was carefully positioned in front of the high, vaulted fireplace so he could stare deep into the flames. Up close like this, the heat from the white-stone hearth drove the evening chill from his old bones, and the dancing flames drew him in and helped him think. The rest of the room remained shrouded in darkness, as the rolling melodies of “The Flying Dutchman” played on the phonograph. Bormann loved Wagner and he loved it loud, so the big orchestral sound echoed off the stone walls and out across the craggy mountainsides. As the years passed, he had come to appreciate “The Flying Dutchman” more than the others. It had an interesting theme, he thought: a man who was damned to wander the earth forever without ever being allowed to return home. Yes, that was an interesting theme, and one he could understand all too well.

  When he had important decisions to make, he disliked being rushed. He preferred to dissect each problem slowly and carefully, holding it up to the light and turning it around and around so he could look deep inside and carefully study each facet, evaluating its strengths and weaknesses, looking for the slightest flaw. Like a diamond cutter with a large rough stone before him, he could lose himself in the intricate geometry for hours on end. Why not? Time was one commodity of which Bormann had an endless supply. Then, after he finally decided what his move would be, he would wager everything on one swift stroke with a mallet and a sharp blade, creating another gem or mere dust.

  Tonight he had two such delicate decisions to consider. First, there was the unfinished business with that cursed U-boat; and second, he must finalize the invitation list for his grand annual party here in Bolivia. The party was no trivial matter. For the past five years, he hosted a lavish gala each July 29 for a large but very influential group of South American guests. They would include the ruling elite, conservative politicians, army generals, diplomats, bankers, bishops and other high-ranking Catholic Church leaders, because they were the finely woven fabric that supported his growing empire on the continent. Without them, he could not function.

  The party was now only four weeks away and his invitations must go out. In a country like Bolivia, Peru, or Colombia, where the leadership was barely a generation away from a mud hut in the mountains, there was no social register or “Blue Book.” To an ambitious army colonel or a local mayor whose wife had developed a sweet tooth for the good life, Bormann’s invitation served the purpose. When they received one of his engraved invitations, hand-delivered by a uniformed, heel-clicking chauffeur; that small white envelope was instant confirmation of a man’s place in the power elite. To be overlooked meant he had not yet arrived; but to have once been invited and never invited back was far worse. So if an envelope came, they would rise off their death beds to attend, as much to be seen as to avoid the danger of not being seen.

  Downstairs, his foyer and grand banquet room would be spectacularly decorated for the occasion. The heavy brass chandeliers, polished oak furniture, and wall after wall of world-class oil paintings and tapestries would seem like a Hollywood set or the surface of the moon to most of his guests. The china was from Dresden and the silver from the finest artisans in Austria; the food and drink would be the best available in South America; and the impossibly long, mahogany banquet table would glitter under the warm glow of hundreds of candles. Yes, everyone said Señor Perez, or “el Patron” as he was called, was a proud and smiling host and a true gentleman. He treated his guests with respect and he was never known to ask for a single favor in return. That was unthinkable and unnecessary. After all, his true friends understood his needs and his desire for privacy without being asked. They considered it an honor to satisfy any trivial matter that might be brought to their attention on his behalf, such as stomping hard on any troublemakers or malcontents.

  Naturally, there were whispers. Who was this powerful recluse? There were whispe
rs that he was the closest of friends with Perón in Argentina, Batista in Cuba, and even the great Franco in Spain, and that his investments spanned the length and breadth of South America. However, in Bolivia, a gentleman’s business was his own and a wagging tongue would soon be stepped on by a hobnailed boot. As the years passed, the whispers soon faded and fell out of fashion, because Martin Bormann understood power and he knew a hundred subtle ways to use it. Whether it was money, muscle, or a simple invitation list to a party, the man knew how to protect his growing empire.

  Then, his mind turned to that other problem, and his smile began to fade. It was the U-582 and that damned American, which apparently held the secret to his missing gold. Like most things in life, the equation was a simple one: what was his was his, and Bormann would never rest until he had it back, every crate, every bar, every painting, and every bauble inside that U-boat. He had carefully studied every nuance and angle, and he made his decision. He reached over, pressed the small button on his intercom, and soon heard the faint but familiar tread of footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. Like a well-trained Doberman, Heinz Kruger came to a halt at the side of his armchair, waiting for his orders.

  “It appears that we threw a pebble into their pond, Heinz,” he said without bothering to look up. “Interesting, how the ripples continue to spread, eh? Consider our old friend Bruckner. For he rebuffs our overtures, only to suddenly run to us with this story that the American was threatening to expose him as a war criminal. Bruckner? Our squeaky-clean U-boat Kapitan? It boggles the mind.”

  Bormann looked up at Kruger and their eyes met. “We knew the man was not being candid with us from the very beginning, but you and I are patient men, are we not? So I sent you to New York to talk to the American, only to have you walk into a carefully laid trap. Whose trap doesn’t matter. The New York City police, the FBI, or the CIA? We may never know who, but scratch the surface and you will always find the Jews and the Communists underneath. But they had no idea whom they were dealing with, did they Heinz? No, indeed,” he chuckled. “I told Decker in Bonn to question the good admiral, but they now have him locked away behind a high wall of security. Why? Are they afraid of the American? Are they stopping him from getting in, or stopping Bruckner from getting out?”

  Bormann rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “This poses an interesting choice. Do I send you to Bonn and have you climb over that wall with a blowtorch and a pair of pliers? Or do we simply put a bullet in his head and write him off as a bad loss?”

  “Then we may never learn what happened to the submarine.”

  “Or my gold.” The Reichsleiter stared deeper into the flames. “The Israelis are sending a scientific expedition to the Baltic, to look for oil.”

  “Oil? What a surprise,” Kruger said, his voice heavy and sarcastic.

  “They’ve hired a ship and they will leave for Sweden within the week. Sweden, Heinz. They are going to a small town called Trelleborg on the south coast near Malmö. And will wonders never cease, your mysterious American, Randall, has signed on as a member of the crew. How remarkable.”

  “Do they really think we’re that stupid, Herr Reichsleiter," Kruger asked. “Or are they trying to be too clever once again?”

  “An excellent question. Over the years, I have learned that inside every little problem is a big one trying to get out and bite you on the arse, and we cannot allow that to happen. That’s why we must put an end to this business — swiftly, brutally, and thoroughly — and give his Jewish masters a stern lesson they shall never forget.”

  “Zu Befehl!” Kruger snapped to attention. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Oh, I’m certain of that, Heinz.” Bormann looked up at him, studying the younger man’s face and the fresh bandage on his cheek in the dim fire light. “The cut on your cheek, is it healing now, Heinz?” Bormann saw a flash of anger in Kruger’s eyes.

  “It is nothing, Herr Reichsleiter.”

  “Perhaps, but one can always be more careful,” he answered, knowing Kruger was still smarting from the failure and the wound to his ego. “How unfortunate that you were not able to have that leisurely chat with the fellow.”

  Kruger answered with the short, curt bow of an obedient headwaiter. “Perhaps I should go to Bonn then, Herr Reichsleiter? The admiral’s security be damned, I’ll find a way to get him alone and make him talk.”

  “A lovely thought, but no,” Bormann sighed, knowing Kruger enjoyed that type of work a bit too much. “I don’t want Bruckner dead, not just yet anyway.” The young SS officer had honed his skills to a razor’s edge after the war, but as he did, he became more reckless and more and more sadistic in his methods. A psychopath? Bormann looked up at him and smiled. Unquestionably, but even that word was pathetically inadequate to describe a killing machine like Heinz Kruger. “Let them play out their hand a while longer. They’re going for the U-boat, and what could be better for us, eh? If the American does know where it is, that will save us a lot of time and effort. At the right moment, you will simply take it away from them.” Bormann looked up and saw a faint smile cross Kruger’s lips. “And after I have my submarine back, you may deal with the American, with that fool Bruckner, and with anyone else who has the misfortune of crossing your path.”

  “Why bother with Sweden, Herr Reichsleiter?” Kruger countered. "With better support, I could go back to New York tonight, grab the American, and rip the truth out of him.”

  “I am certain you could," Bormann chuckled. "There are other things in play here, things we do not fully understand yet. My gut tells me the answers are not in New York or in Bonn; they lie at the bottom of the Baltic.”

  “Then it is Sweden.”

  “Yes,” Bormann answered as he pushed his stocky frame to his feet. He stepped over to the hearth and warmed his cold hands at the blazing fire. "As Göring once warned me, a man’s friends may come and go, but his enemies always multiply. Yes, they are lying to us, Heinz, they are all lying to us, but inside each big lie, there is always a tiny kernel of truth. So I want you to go to Sweden. Let the American lead you to the U-boat. If he really does know where it is, then take it away from them. Better than any man, you know how to get at the truth, whether it lies in Bonn, New York City, or a cold iron tomb on the bottom of the Baltic. Get it for me, Heinz. Get it for me.”

  PART SIX

  TRELLEBORG

  SWEDEN

  1951

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mike Randall pressed his face to the chartered airplane’s window and watched the Swedish countryside sweep by below. As the long coast stretched south and finally turned west, the low hills and granite cliffs gave way to a string of broad bays and sandy beaches. In the three years that he lived there, he had fished them all, knowing full well that one of those bays was where Kapitan Bruckner put him ashore that night. But which one, he wondered. The airplane banked to the right as the pilot began his slow descent into the small airport at Trelleborg, gliding low over the flat, green beet fields until its wheels touched lightly on the long strand of runway. The airplane bounced twice and rolled down the tarmac until it came to a stop in the grass near the airport’s tiny control tower. The pilot turned off the engine and while the other members of the crew gathered their belongings, Michael climbed out the small fuselage door and stretched.

  The short, green Swedish summer was in full bloom and the air hung heavy with the familiar smells of sugar beets, wild flowers, and the salty tang of the sea. It smelled good and felt good, but Michael’s long limbs were not made for a cramped airplane like this. From New York to London to Stockholm and on to Trelleborg, he had spent too many hours in too many small seats and boring airports, and the cramped muscles in his back and legs screamed in protest.

  Looking around, he saw an old Volvo sedan parked behind the tower. Standing near the lead car was the familiar, barrel-chested figure of Einar Person wearing his usual faded blue pea jacket. Person looked a shade older and a shade grayer than the last time Michael had se
en him some three years earlier, but the old man had the same bushy gray beard, and the same yellowed meerschaum pipe clenched between his teeth.

  “Michael!” Person called out with a broad smile and a wave of his hand. “Ah, but it is wonderful to see you again, my boy. Emma knew you would come back!”

  They met with big smiles and backslapping bear hugs. When they shook hands, Michael found Person’s were still rough and callused, his grip still strong. “You look good, Einar. And from your hands, I can tell you haven’t slowed down a bit.”

  “Slow down? When they nail the lid on my coffin, that will be soon enough for me.”

  “And how is Emma?”

  “Same as always. She has been cooking since yesterday. She expects you and all your friends to join us for dinner, and she will brook no arguments about it.” Michael smiled and nodded. “I must tell you, when you wired me last week and asked if you could charter my old whaler, the Brunnhilde; well, I thought someone was pulling my leg.”

  “Until you got the bank wire transfer we sent.”

  “Yes, you could be a jokester when you lived here with us, but your sense of humor was never worth two thousand dollars.”

  “My sense of humor? I was never worth two thousand dollars.”

  “Well, as a deck hand or a fisherman, I must admit you were not; but as a friend, you were priceless. Tell me, though; is the two thousand dollars your money?”

  “No, Einar, it isn’t.”

  “Good, then I will take every penny of it,” he roared with laughter. “If it was yours, I would have torn up the check.”

  “You always were a stubborn old man.”

  “And I still am, but if you want the Brunnhilde, she is yours.”

  “I do. Has our equipment arrived?”