Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2)

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  “In fact,” continued McFarlane, “you need to be clear well before that. Our intel indicates that there’s a sort of filtering mechanism before you get to Italy, so you could well run into Croatians in Austria.”

  “What puzzles me,” said Sybilla, “is why Müller may have chosen the East German ratline … could he not have used a West German escape route?”

  “There doesn’t appear to be a West German ratline,” volunteered Farquharson. “There seems to be a disconnect between the East and West branches of the Thule. In the west, the priority appears to be aid to emerging industries: sometimes financial, sometimes scientific or technical, sometimes all three. It can’t be a coincidence that West German economic growth is outstripping all the other nations in Europe, including the UK. However, in the East, all of the industries are state owned. Consequently, there is no scope for such enterprise and therefore the Thule appear to content themselves with ensuring an escape route is open for ex-Nazis and others.”

  “Jamie, does your analysis indicate that Thule is now broken, effectively split into two separate organisations?” asked Kelly.

  “No, unfortunately!” responded Farquharson. “They appear to reconnect further south. There must be a controlling hub somewhere, either in Austria or more likely in the Munich area.”

  “Right!” said Kelly decisively. “So, avoid Italy and tread warily in Austria. Is there a name I need to look out for?”

  “The Austrian end of Draganovic’s network is a priest called Father Vilim Cecelja, also a Croatian,” confirmed McFarlane.

  “That pretty well covers the search for Müller. Now let’s turn our attention to finding out if Hitler did or could have escaped from the bunker. That means getting into Argentina—and that, Sybilla, is what I want you to do.

  “Now, it would be pointless,” continued McFarlane, “sending you there as a tourist or a salesperson or any of the usual covers, because you just wouldn’t get anywhere near the people you need to be mixing with. Argentina has a sizable German population. Most of them are fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizens who emigrated there for economic and social reasons, but there are also many ex-Nazis who fled to Argentina to escape imprisonment and, in some cases, execution. This is the group you need to be socialising with.

  “I have been in almost daily contact with our American friends in the CIA, and between us we think we may have come up with a workable plan. There are a lot of ifs, buts, maybes and what-ifs, but it’s the best we’ve been able to put together. If anyone here can come up with a better scheme, then let’s have your input and we can reconsider.

  “Sybilla,” McFarlane said after a pause, “a description of your mission must involve discussion of matters personal to you. I can leave it until later when we can have that discussion in private if you wish.”

  A puzzled frown spread across Sybilla’s face, which after a moment cleared and, raising her eyebrows, she smiled. “Ah, you must be talking about my wartime relationship with Jürgen Meyer? It’s fine, I have no issues with discussing it openly.”

  “If you’re sure, then I’ll outline your mission.”

  Sybilla nodded and McFarlane turned his attention to Farquharson.

  “This first part is for your benefit, Jamie. During the war, Sybilla was inserted into France by OES where she became the lover and co-conspirator of Hauptmann Jürgen Meyer, someone she’d known earlier in the war in Norway. He was, of course, a real German spy, his intention to infiltrate and disrupt the French underground movement. Sybilla simply played the part, but being close to Meyer meant that she was able to provide Allied intelligence with some particularly important information. After Meyer was eliminated by a certain ‘Wolf’ and his accomplice”—this with a meaningful glance at Kelly— “Sybilla was extracted and returned to the UK.

  “That preamble is important because it provides us with a cover for your mission, Sybilla. As far as the world is concerned, or at least the people in it who are interested in such things, Sybilla was a real spy and is still on the wanted list in France.

  “The plan, then, is to insert Sybilla into the US, posing as a supply teacher. The CIA will then notify the French judiciary that they have uncovered the whereabouts of a known Nazi war criminal in the southern states and intend to make an arrest. The CIA will urge the French to apply for extradition, promising to expedite the proceedings to enable the return of the criminal to France to face trial.

  “Once the extradition request is received, two national newspapers in the states will run the story—not headlines, just half a column on page four or five. At that point, Sybilla will, with the help of forged documents provided by the CIA, flee into Mexico, specifically to a town called Reynosa on the Rio Grande. The CIA has a double agent there—let’s call him ‘Reyno’—who is in contact with a man called Stefan Huber of the Kameradenwerk organisation, one cell of which is located in Monterrey but accountable to Santiago Peralta, the Immigration Commissioner in Buenos Aries.

  “This organisation has the responsibility for the collection and recruitment of disillusioned German refugees—mainly technologists, engineers and scientists who went to the USA after the war, but, finding now that they are of no further value, face the possibility of compulsory repatriation to Germany. The Peron government of Argentina, on the other hand, is desperate for such skills and welcomes these people with open arms.

  “Reyno will make Huber aware of the newspaper article, and that he has seen the refugee in question, that being one of his tasks, and from there, gentlepeople, this whole elaborate plan could become a sack of bones! We will be very much, from then on, subject to kismet.

  “Will Huber consider it important enough to inform Buenos Aires? Will Buenos Aires consider it worthwhile extracting a schoolteacher? If, after a decent interval, nothing has happened, the CIA will extract Sybilla and we will square things with the French judiciary in closed court. The CIA will be left with just a small amount of egg on their face, but they are willing to accept the risk. They are desperate to know whether or not Hitler is alive. I think they still believe he is.

  “Does anyone have any comments, alternatives, objections?”

  Farquharson was flicking through his notes. Finally, he shook his head. “Nothing, Brigadier, I think it’s worth a try.”

  “Dan?”

  Kelly shook his head. “I agree with Jamie, I think it’s worth a try, but I have to say I think it’s a long shot. However, I can’t think of anything better.”

  “And most importantly,” said McFarlane, “Sybilla. Tell us we’re all mad and that you won’t play any part in such a hair-brained scheme.”

  Sybilla laughed. “Well, it goes without saying that you’re all mad, but the scheme seems all right. It hinges on whether Huber thinks it worth bothering with a displaced teacher. I can only apologise that I’m not an engineer or a scientist, sorry boys!” she said, laughing again.

  “Right!” said McFarlane. “Dan, you need to wait until Jamie and I get back to London and get Horst Manteufel on the books before you start. Sybilla, I will arrange with the Army Education Corps at Beaconsfield to second us a Spanish tutor for a month. I know you have some Spanish from your time in Cuba, but it needs to be better if you are to pick up any little titbits of information while in Argentina, assuming you get there. You’ll get intensive one-to-one tuition from morning to night, but be careful what you say to your instructor. They are security cleared but not to a very high level.

  “Gentlepeople, let’s make this happen!”

  Down the Line

  “What’s your name?”

  “You’ve asked me that already!” replied Kelly. The man he was speaking to looked out of sorts with his surroundings. They were sitting on crates at an old and dirty pine table in a barn on a farm forty kilometres east of Berlin, just south of Neu Zittau, to the west of Kesselberg, and surrounded by rolling countryside. The man wore a suit, complete with collar and tie, his black leather shoes and the cuffs of his trousers splattered with mud and
other substances.

  “So, I’m asking again. We like to be sure about things, especially the people we are dealing with.”

  “My name is Dragan Novak,” said Kelly.

  “Dragan? That’s a Serbian name, isn’t it?”

  Kelly shrugged. “Croatian, Serbian, Slovenian, it’s Slavic. I can’t say I’m happy with it—Slavic names became unpopular during the struggle for liberation—but it’s what I was given, so I have to live with it.”

  “Were you living in East Berlin?” asked the suit.

  “West Berlin, it’s safer for Ustase in the west.”

  “Where in West Berlin?”

  “I’m not telling you that!” said Kelly gruffly. “It’s a safe house. You’ll have to ask Manteufel if you want to use it, but it will cost you!”

  “You say you were Ustase, wha—”

  Kelly interrupted him. “I am Ustase, not was! Once Ustase, always Ustase!”

  The suit was quiet for a moment, scrutinising Kelly. “Of course,” he said, “I understand. I was just going to ask you which Ustase Brigade you were with.”

  “I was what you call a Hauptmann in the First Ustase Brigade, initially under Colonel Francetić, then Major, later Colonel Boban.”

  “The Black Legion?” asked the suit, clearly impressed.

  “That was our nickname, yes,” said Kelly.

  “Did you fight alongside any German troops?”

  Kelly gave a roar and stood up. Leaning forward, he brought his face to within a few centimetres of the suit’s. “Why are you asking me all of these stupid questions? I don’t have anything to prove to you, you little shit!”

  Kelly straightened up, still glowering down at the little man. He noted the two guards either side of the suit become alert and raise their machine pistols slightly. He also noticed Manteufel, who had been loitering near the door, suddenly become very alert, legs astride and braced, his right arm behind his back. Don’t draw your weapon, Horst! he screamed mentally. It’s only a bluff, don’t give the game away. Don’t draw your weapon!

  Manteufel didn’t draw his weapon, but remained ‘ready’.

  “Where was your precious German Army when we were pinned down at Kupres?” yelled Kelly belligerently. “One thousand men of the legion, surrounded by three thousand Serbian Untermenschen and their slavering Slavic cousins. Come to that, where were you? In an office in Berlin, no doubt!”

  Kelly sat down again looking angry. The suit had looked startled at first but had regained control very quickly. This one is a pretty cool customer, thought Kelly.

  After a pause, the suit said quietly, “I believe Kupres was in late summer forty-two? At that time, I was probably crossing the Don River just outside Stalingrad. I wasn’t behind a desk, Herr Hauptmann, I was fighting for the Fatherland, just as you were fighting for Croatia at Kupres. But all of that is irrelevant. I am not trying to trick you or humiliate you; I am just gathering information which will help us to determine how we can best help you. So, I ask again, did you fight alongside German troops in Yugoslavia?”

  Kelly looked mollified, and answered quietly. “Yes, at the beginning of forty-two, Operation Ozren. We were attached to the 718th Division, under the overall command of … let me think, either General Bader or General Fortner … yes, it was Fortner. Bader was commander of Operation Trio, later in the year.”

  “You don’t sound too sure?” queried the suit.

  “I’m quite sure that was the right way round,” said Kelly decisively. “Fortner, Ozren and Bader, Trio. You have to understand that I wasn’t on first name terms with either of the German generals,” he added sarcastically.

  The suit smiled. “I know what you mean,” he said, nodding. “I was under Manstein at Stalingrad, but I doubt if I could have picked him out in a line-up.” The little man stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Thank you for your patience, Herr Hauptmann, I think I now have enough. What will happen now, is that you will be shuttled down to Austria, and from there a different organisation will take over your final transfer to Rome.”

  “A different organisation?” queried Kelly.

  “Yes, but don’t worry—they are quite trustworthy and reliable. They are called the Vatican,” he said, laughing. “Do you have the money for your transfer?”

  “That man Manteufel has it, but frankly I wouldn’t trust him with the small change from my pocket,” said Kelly.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Horst is fine,” said the suit. “He’s a good man, we’ve worked with him before. Well, it remains for me to wish you well. I will monitor your progress down the line with interest. For your reference, my name is Eric Gottfried Freiherr von Neuenstein, former major of the 22nd Panzer Division,” he said, extending his hand.

  Kelly sprang to his feet and grasped the outstretched hand, shaking it vigorously. “Thank you for all your help, Herr Major, and my apologies for losing my temper.”

  “Think nothing of it. Perfectly understandable, and don’t worry, Herr Hauptmann, things are starting to change. The Thule is currently working extremely hard to have Field Marshall Manstein released from prison. When that happens, he will join Konrad Adenauer and advise him on the creation of a new, highly-skilled German army, small at first, conscript only, but that will give us a basis for expanding quickly to a large standing army of millions when the time comes.

  “In the meantime, Walter Hallstein is continuing the work started by Walter Funk, which will eventually manifest itself in a United States of Europe, led by Germany. Our agents are slowly planting the seeds of dissent in the East Germans. When the time comes—it’s a long way off at the moment, but when the time comes—we will light the spark that will topple the regime in East Germany and bring about the reunification of our great nation. The capital will return to its proper place and the Fourth Reich will rise like a phoenix from the ashes of Berlin.”

  Clicking his heels together, von Neuenstein raised his arm in the Nazi salute. “Heil!”

  Kelly responded in kind, as did the two bodyguards and Manteufel, then, without a further word, von Neuenstein turned on his heel and walked towards the barn door. He spoke for some time with Manteufel before getting into his pre-war two-stroke DKW F7 and driving off in the old car, sounding for all the world like a bag of spanners rattling around.

  After they had gone, the farmer came into the barn. “You may need to stay here for a few days,” he said, “until we can arrange your first move, but don’t worry—it’s safe. The local police chief gets a sizable basket of food once a week. They don’t bother us.” He pointed to a ladder leaning against an upper section of the barn. “Use the loft, it’s comfortable up there, plenty of straw, and you’ll find blankets and a few bottles of water. We’ll bring your meals out at the usual times. Oh, and don’t forget to pull the ladder up after you.”

  Kelly and Manteufel were making themselves comfortable in the loft, constructing makeshift palliasses from straw and blankets. Manteufel punched his palliasse a few times then knelt on it.

  “It’ll do,” he concluded. “I was wondering, where did you get all that bullshit you were giving our little SS man? Ozren, Trio, Kupres, what was all that about?”

  “Preparation and planning!” said Kelly. “When I was training, I spent a lot of time with the Royal Marines. Every marine from the rank of corporal upwards has a phrase called the six Ps drummed into his head. I was using that.”

  “The six Ps?” queried Manteufel, sounding puzzled.

  “I’ll give it to you in English, otherwise it won’t make sense. ‘Preparation and Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance’. Understand?” he asked, reverting to German. “I was fairly sure someone, somewhere down the line, would ask about Ustase exploits in Yugoslavia during the war, so I made sure I read up on it in the archives. Preparation and planning, my friend, is why we won the war,” said Kelly, looking away from Manteufel and ostentatiously examining the rafters in the roof, a smirk across his face.

  Manteufel laughed. “Are you sure you won the war? O
ur little SS friend might disagree with you!”

  It was Kelly’s turn to laugh. “You’re right, Horst, I sometimes have to query that when I see where Germany is at the moment and where Britain is. It does make you wonder.”

  “By the way,” continued Kelly, “what was the bold Freiherr talking to you about at the door?”

  “Oh, he just said that he wasn’t entirely sure about you, that I was to watch you like a hawk and if I had any doubts, I was to shoot you,” said Manteufel sounding very matter-of-fact.

  “Oh, that’s comforting,” said Kelly, “I just thought it might be something important.”

  In the event, they weren’t held up at the farm for any length of time and departed the following morning, transported in a trailer containing several barrels of pigswill, pulled by a tractor. They eventually reached their destination—another farm—after nearly four gruelling hours of country roads, though Kelly guessed they had travelled no great distance. Manteufel confirmed later, after a chat to one of the farmhands, that they were about six kilometres outside the town of Wendisch Rietz.

  They continued their journey in this vein for many days and in a variety of transports: one day a car—what luxury—the next, an animal transporter and, on one occasion, albeit for a short journey, a horse-drawn wain. Sometimes their stay was overnight only, at other times they were held up for a number of days. At one of their stops near Borsdorf, fifteen kilometres or so east of Leipzig, they were delayed for over a week. Eventually they by-passed the city, travelling south through the town of Großpösna before stopping for the night at an abandoned brickworks just outside Böhlen. The waypoints were quite varied. Near Berlin they had been farms, but as they moved further south, they had hidden in warehouses, Gasthäuser and, on one occasion, they overnighted at an undertaker’s. Each time they stopped, Manteufel lost no time in engaging with the drivers, escorts and property owners, regaling them with stories of his time as a Fallschirmjäger and, after making it ‘safe’, allowing them to handle his faithful Luger Automatic. Not all of the men and women he encountered responded, but many did and slowly, little by little, piece by piece, he collected information.