The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1)

by Andrew Turpin

  He made straight for the back row, but before he could sit down, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Joe, I thought it was you. What are you doing here?”

  Johnson jumped and swung around to find a familiar face. It took him a moment to find some words. “Fiona, hi . . . um . . . I didn’t know journalists were invited today. How’s things?” Johnson hesitated, unsure whether to shake her hand, kiss her, or do nothing.

  They both made awkward half-movements before Fiona inclined toward him. He bent down and pecked her on the cheek.

  “Me? Oh, I guess I’m okay, sort of,” she said. “I’m still at Inside Track doing political stuff. Head down, you know, getting on with things. Trying to pay my bills, stay out of financial trouble with the bank, with very limited success right now I have to say,” she said. “I miss the Times occasionally, but the website is quicker and they’re breaking more stories, so I enjoy it.” She put her hand on the back of the chair beside Johnson. “I’ll sit here next to you. How are you doing?”

  “Usual routine, working away, still doing private investigations. Kids are doing fine—you know, growing up scarily fast,” Johnson said.

  They looked at each other for a second, but she didn’t reply and they sat down at the end of the back row.

  Johnson studied her. Fiona Heppenstall’s hair was longer and her jacket a little sharper than they were the last time he had seen her back in 2006, when she was still at The New York Times.

  Johnson said, “I’m only here because I had an invite out of the blue from Pietersen. I used to know him from years back at Boston University. Runs his own software company now. Bit of an asshole but he’s obviously a top dog in the party. I thought this might be interesting, as I’m in D.C. lecturing. A party fund-raiser. Won’t get any money from me, but I thought it had to be worth a visit.”

  She turned to him. “Yep, Pietersen’s definitely an asshole. He also invited me. I think I’m the only journalist here, which is a bit unusual. But you, lecturing? Since when? I thought you just did the investigative stuff?”

  “Yes, that’s the bulk of my work, but I’ve done ad hoc lecturing for years down at the College of Law, the War Crimes Research Office. I’m speaking on the Nazis this afternoon. I do know a bit, so I get roped in once a month or so.”

  “Of course, your doctorate. I forgot.” She became distracted as the chatter in the room died down and the speeches began.

  David Kudrow took to the podium, looking energized. Johnson scanned the ballroom. There were at least four hundred people in there, all looking appropriately rapt.

  “Obama and his Democratic Party cronies have presided over huge historic debt levels and a deficit that has become eye watering, while proving they are no friend to business and no friend to those who are trying to make an honest profit out of commercial endeavors,” Kudrow boomed.

  The room erupted in applause.

  Fiona whispered in Johnson’s ear, “This guy’s got a real chance against Romney, and then maybe Obama. Who knows? His family’s loaded; he’s apparently got a $100 million fund lined up already. They’re Polish, you know, originally.”

  Kudrow continued, “We’ve seen Obama pump a trillion dollars into bailouts, gimmicky jobs initiatives, and failed attempts at stimulus, all for nothing. Did you know that one in six Americans is now on food stamps? We’ve lost two-and-a-half million jobs.

  “Instead, we need an environment that will support business, create jobs, grow the economy, and allow us to balance the books. I want to see us start by hugely reducing the size of government and cutting federal spending. We need to repeal Obamacare, which is nothing more than government taking over our national healthcare system, and we must cut corporate taxes and increase exports. That’s just for starters.”

  Kudrow moved on to give more detail on his health-care and education policies. There seemed to be genuine passion for the message that was being delivered. The man on the podium was striking a chord with his audience, most of whom were middle-aged, well-dressed business people. Next to Johnson, Fiona scribbled away in her notebook.

  “Now let’s turn briefly to foreign policy,” Kudrow said. “I’m a friend of Israel—goes without saying, you know that. My father survived a Second World War concentration camp. Without his courage, I wouldn’t be here today. But what’s the greatest danger out there for Israel? It’s Iran, the biggest sponsor of terrorism we’ve seen. The ayatollahs are a massive threat to Israel, a massive threat to the whole of the Middle East, and a massive threat to the United States. I tell you, I’m going to hunt them down, smoke them out, and pull their terror ring down.

  “I promise I’m the man to deliver all of this and more, and I thank you all for attending,” he said as he concluded his fifteen-minute speech to another thunderous round of applause.

  Members of the audience rose and made their way to the reception rooms, where catering staff stood ready, their trays laden with more champagne.

  Fiona led Johnson to a large living room. As they walked, he got a glimpse of Kudrow at the end of a corridor leading off the ballroom in an animated argument with another man, at whom Kudrow was gesticulating with a clenched fist. After a few more heated exchanges, the other man pushed Kudrow in the chest, waved his hand dismissively, and walked off. As he did, an older white-haired man wearing black-rimmed glasses intercepted him, whispering fiercely.

  “Who was that man there, Fiona, who just argued with Kudrow, and the one that seems to be scolding him for it?” Johnson asked.

  “The one he was arguing with is his brother, Nathaniel. I met him a few times before, but I’m not sure what he does, party-wise. The white-haired guy wearing the glasses is their father, Daniel,” Fiona said.

  The noise level rose as the real business of the afternoon began: networking, both social and political. Champagne glasses clinked, people laughed, and business cards were exchanged.

  Fiona put her notebook back into her bag. “I’ve got to chat to a party official over there before he leaves. Don’t you dare go without speaking to me.” She squeezed Johnson’s forearm and smiled, a familiar twinkle in her eye. “You’re looking good, Joe. I’ve been missing you a bit.”

  Uh oh, thought Johnson. He couldn’t deny feeling a little pleased, though, as he watched Fiona disappear into the crowd. He did try and stay fit, even if going out for a run or lifting a few weights seemed increasingly hard now that he was into his fifties. If he could find a way to resist sneaking in the odd cigarette and cut back on the wine he would probably feel better still.

  Johnson turned around to see Philip bearing down on him, accompanied by the man he now knew to be Nathaniel Kudrow, a tall, dark-haired, slightly stooped figure in a black suit and a tie, holding a glass of champagne.

  “Joe, let me introduce you to Nathaniel, David’s brother,” Philip said. “He’s been to a couple of American University’s war crimes lectures at its law college, which is where you’re teaching later, is that right? He’s interested in talking to you about all that. In fact he was the one who suggested I put you on the guest list.”

  Johnson shook Nathaniel’s hand, relieved to see Philip move away toward the bar.

  “Good to meet you,” Nathaniel said.

  “And you. Thanks for suggesting me to Philip. I’m curious about why you did, though.”

  “Well, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nathaniel said. “I gather you not only lecture on war crimes, but you were a Nazi hunter as well. Your reputation precedes you. People still talk about that California senator who had to quit the presidential race a few years back after your investigation.”

  Johnson sipped his drink.

  “Yes, that was one of my jobs. You could say Nazi hunter, I guess. I spent a long time working for the Office of Special Investigations, if that’s what you mean. That’s going back a few years. I run my own private investigation business these days and do part-time lecturing.”

  “Let’s find somewhere to sit,” Nathaniel said. “I stood for all the speeches throu
gh there—no seats left.” He steered Johnson toward an antique maroon sofa, where they sat down.

  “So, why are you interested in war crimes?” Johnson asked.

  “The main reason is my father and uncle are Polish; both were in concentration camps,” Nathaniel said. “That’s partly why I’ve been going to the lectures.”

  Johnson sat up. “Polish? Where were they from and which camp were they in?”

  “They were from Warsaw. It was one of the Gross-Rosen camps. I know they had a tough time. They dug out miles of tunnels in the Polish mountains for Hitler so he could build his missiles and weapons safely underground, out of range of Allied bombers. A safe place for the Nazis to store their plundered treasure, gold, artworks—and for Hitler himself to use as an emergency bolt-hole if the war went up in flames. You name it.” He stopped and sipped his drink. “They don’t talk about it much.”

  Johnson was surprised but, out of habit, didn’t show it. “Gross-Rosen? I know a bit about that network of camps. They were horrific. They did well to survive, that’s for sure. Most Jews didn’t.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  Johnson hesitated. He could tell the man about his mother later.

  “I just have a strong interest in what the Nazis did. I wrote a Ph.D. thesis on that era, years ago. So your father and uncle, they’re clearly survivors. Must be old now?”

  “Yes, in their late eighties. They’re twins. They ended up in London after the war, and my uncle Jacob stayed there. I was there not long ago visiting him. He’s got a grandson now, Oliver, who’s at university. But my father, Daniel, moved in the 1950s over here to Los Angeles. He’s done all right and the family jewelry business thrives. He’s happy to see David do so well. Unlike me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, David’s on a roll, career-wise. Different than me. I’m the black sheep,” he grimaced. “I’m just helping him between jobs. You lose one job, and it takes a while to find another. It’s been like that since Lehman Brothers went under, and that was what, three years ago? I was a trader and the whole sector bombed out.” He drained his glass.

  Johnson nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure something will turn up. I was laid off from a job back in 1990 and thought it was the end of the world. But I enjoyed my next job at the OSI more, in some ways.”

  “Who did you work for previously?” Nathaniel asked.

  “CIA, actually, in my late twenties,” Johnson said.

  Nathaniel glanced at him obliquely. “You were CIA?”

  “Yes, I worked in Pakistan and Afghanistan,” Johnson said. He didn’t want to talk about that. It was time to change the subject. He thought back to what Fiona had said about the Kudrow family’s wealth. “I was going to say, it’s tough out there, but how do you raise political funding given the economy these days? Can you fall back on family funds?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “David’s own business does okay, but generally, yes, you’re right, the funding comes from my father and my uncle. But I’m sure that plenty of these people here,” he said, gesturing around the room, “are happy to dip into their pockets.”

  He took another drink. “Then David’s got the Polish trust fund of course.” He gave a forced laugh.

  Johnson pursed his lips. “Sorry, a Polish trust fund?”

  Nathaniel’s eyes roamed around the room, and he wrinkled his nose. “Not a trust fund as such,” he said, lowering his voice. “Although the Polish goose does keep laying its golden eggs, so to speak.” He signed what looked like a swastika in the air in front of him with his forefinger.

  Johnson quickly decided Nathaniel wasn’t trying to make a joke. “Sorry, is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he asked.

  Nathaniel sipped his drink. Johnson saw Fiona looking at them from the other side of the room.

  “Some other time, if you like?” Nathaniel said. “Not here.”

  Johnson fingered the nick at the top of his right ear. He could see Nathaniel peering up at it.

  “Yes, that would be interesting,” Johnson said.

  He watched as Fiona walked across the room toward them, and he slowly came to his feet as she arrived.

  “Hello, gentlemen, sorry to interrupt.” She shook hands with Nathaniel, who also stood to greet her. “I’m Fiona Heppenstall. We’ve met before. Nice to see you again.”

  Johnson checked his watch. “I’m really sorry, but I need to leave, or I’ll be late for my lecture. Can I leave you both to chat?”

  He nodded at Fiona, who was frowning slightly, and promised to call her, then exchanged business cards with Nathaniel. “I’ll e-mail you,” Johnson told him. “We can arrange to speak again.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Let’s do that. Good to meet you.”

  Interesting, Johnson thought on the way out. So the father and uncle of a Republican front-runner were in the same concentration camp as my mother.

  But Nathaniel appeared to have more to say than that. Johnson resolved to contact him the following day.

  After Johnson’s exit, Fiona found herself feeling momentarily disappointed. She’d been looking forward to a good catch-up with him, and maybe a drink or two afterward.

  “I think I’d better go too, Nathaniel. Nice to see you again.”

  “Oh, don’t you have time for another quick glass? I thought it would be good to chat for a while, you know, with the campaign coming up.”

  She flicked back her long dark brown hair. He would almost certainly be a useful contact to cultivate for the future given his brother’s rate of progress.

  “Okay,” Fiona said, “I can stay for a little while. It’s been quite a year so far for your brother.”

  “Yes, it has. David’s setting the pace, and I, we, are trailing along in his slipstream. I’ve been taking a real interest in some of your recent investigative pieces. They’re good. What's coming next?”

  “I’m thinking of writing something on the Republican newcomers and the struggles they and their families have had to succeed,” Fiona said, touching Nathaniel’s arm briefly.

  They sat on the sofa. “The question is,” Fiona said, “how can candidates like David compete with the likes of Mitt Romney, and then, if that hurdle is overcome, Obama?”

  Fiona had been fascinated by David Kudrow for some time, not least because of the funding he had amassed.

  Her website Inside Track had recently published a long story headlined “Companies Channel Millions into Secret Campaigns.” Other news organizations had jumped on the bandwagon with pieces about the political action committees, supposedly independent, that supported candidates.

  A few days earlier, The New York Times had run a headline screaming “Secret Money Fueling a Flood of Political Ads.” And The Huffington Post had gone with “Super PACs and Secret Money: The Unregulated Shadow Campaign.”

  Just that morning on her way to the event, she had received a text message from her news editor, Des Cole: Fiona we need good background on funding, super PACs, where is cash coming from. Get what you can.

  Fiona had a gut feeling she should try and push Nathaniel while she had the opportunity. Normally she found relatives of high-profile politicians were wary of journalists. She shifted forward.

  “I'd like to look at how billionaires can more or less buy elections, whereas other less well-off families can’t,” Fiona said. “It’s obviously all relative, and your family is very wealthy, but not as wealthy as, say, Mitt’s.”

  “You’re right,” Nathaniel said, “and it raises all kinds of questions. Fairness, honesty. Should politics be for the rich only? I sometimes think we’re playing a dangerous game. And if that’s happening, who’s representing the underclass? Their numbers are rising since the financial crash. They’re hidden and often angry. Is their voice being heard in Washington? I don’t think so.”

  Fiona sat back in her chair. “That’s not the usual line you get from the Grand Old Party. Refreshing to hear. How does your brother fit into that, then? And how is he be
ing funded?”

  “A good question,” Nathaniel said. “We’ve got a few sources of money, between my father and his twin brother in London. They can donate to both David and to some of the PACs we think are worth supporting.”

  Maybe it’s time to flirt a little, Fiona thought. It usually loosened tongues, especially with middle-aged men.

  She stretched out her legs in front of her, knees at right angles, so her black dress rode up her thighs a little, just as Nathaniel turned toward her. As he did so, she ensured that her knee caught his.

  It was amazing what proximity could do to a source, particularly when she was wearing a cocktail dress like the one she had on right now. Which was, of course, exactly why she’d chosen it.

  He said, “You know that if a PAC’s contributing directly to a candidate’s campaign, then people aren’t supposed to donate any more than $5,000.”

  “Look, I write about that stuff just about every day,” Fiona said.

  “Of course, sorry. But the point is that if the PAC’s going to campaign independently, then there’s no limit. So that gives my father and uncle plenty of scope.” He paused and said slowly “Of course, that’s as long as they don’t coordinate directly with what David’s doing.” Then he stared hard at Fiona.

  Did he just raise his eyebrows a fraction? she asked herself. She felt Nathaniel was reading her expression.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure I always agree with it personally. It’s a minefield. Perhaps we could have a chat about it another time, just not here.”

  She nodded and decided to change tack. “I knew your family was Polish originally, but I didn’t know you had an uncle in London.” She had only three weeks earlier interviewed David Kudrow and he hadn’t mentioned anything about his father having a twin brother.

  Fiona bent toward him and made sure their knees brushed lightly together once more.

  “Yes, the two of them work very closely together even now, despite the distance. They are twins, after all,” Nathaniel said.