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

by Andrew Turpin

  “By the way, it’s all going to be in his book. Jacob’s writing a memoir—in his little red book. He wants it to be published when he’s dead and buried, although I suspect that’s going to be a while yet. Go and find him in London. He’ll tell you. He’ll be in his dilapidated old workshop or at the synagogue. I’ve got to go now. I’ll speak to you soon.”

  There was a rustling, and the recording ended.

  Johnson took his notebook and pen out of his backpack, pushed the slider back to the start of the recording, and listened again—and then again, writing in his notebook as he did so.

  He sighed. A dilapidated old workshop or a synagogue. Yes, but where? How many old workshops and synagogues were there in London?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wednesday, November 23, 2011

  London

  Jayne Robinson propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her palms.

  The face was a little more lined but the look was still just as combative, Johnson thought. The whiskey-low voice that used to turn him inside out hadn’t changed, either.

  After several exchanges of text messages, Johnson had arranged to meet Jayne for breakfast at her favorite haunt—the Dickens Inn, in St. Katharine Docks, near his hotel and only ten minutes’ walk from her apartment in Whitechapel. She was so busy at work, she said, that was the only slot left in her schedule.

  The Dickens Inn was built around a centuries-old timber frame with balconies overlooking the marina and its array of yachts.

  At a wooden table in a discreet corner of the bar, Johnson outlined between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs why he had come to London.

  Jayne nodded. “You’ve always liked to be a righter of wrongs, haven’t you? That’s good, I guess. You need a reason to keep going.”

  “It’s something different,” Johnson said, “Something that might be big. Unlike my usual workload.”

  “That’s what I’m missing myself right now,” Jayne said. “This Nazi thing sounds interesting, if it stacks up. Maybe a big if.”

  She thought for a moment. “So the guy who was stabbed, Nathaniel—was he kosher, so to speak? Or were you being had?”

  “I don’t know. I think he was kosher,” Johnson said. “That’s what I need to check out. And was it a coincidence that he was killed after talking to Fiona and me? Seems unlikely. If the Kudrows are involved with dirty money, then it’s a big story. But it’s the Guzmann angle that gets me, the Buenos Aires jewelry business. I had a note to investigate there years ago when I was chasing an SS guy, but I never did. Now I’m wondering if he could still lead me somewhere. Problem now is, the twin over here, Jacob Kudrow, seems to have vanished. I’ve got to find him before I can do anything. I was thinking you might be able to help with that. Maybe in Argentina, too, if needed, as you know it so well.”

  Jayne’s face was doubtful as she spread honey on her toast.

  “Maybe.” She took a bite. “I’d love to get back to Argentina. But it’s a bit tricky for us, getting involved in an off-the-books inquiry as a sideline. It’s potentially sackable at SIS. You must know that.”

  She brushed back her short dark hair from her forehead. “I’ll have to go through the correct channels and speak to my boss. He might be sympathetic. He spent a lot of time hunting down war criminals in the Balkans after the war there a few years ago. We both did, after our stint tackling the IRA in Belfast finished. SIS sent us out to the old Yugoslavia, mainly in Croatia and Bosnia, and we worked there together in the early 2000s until both our covers got blown. It was a big job for us back then.”

  “So you think he might give you some time?” Johnson asked.

  “Maybe. If it’s just a case of some Polish Jews doing something illegal, well, that’s not an SIS job, it’s one for police. If it’s serious crime, it could be one for MI5. But if it’s a Nazi project . . . hmm . . . he might bite as long as it’s not too time consuming.”

  “Okay, thanks. Don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble, though. Anyway, how are things? How’s life?” Johnson asked.

  Jayne sighed. “I’ve been a bit down in recent months. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m seriously thinking of packing it in. I used to enjoy it out in the field when I was more junior. Places like Buenos Aires, Belfast, the old Yugoslavia, and so on. But now I’m nearly fifty, I’m back in the U.K., in management, and I just feel like a cog in a big Vauxhall Cross machine.”

  She was referring to the MI6 headquarters building at Vauxhall Cross, on the south bank of the River Thames, three-quarters of a mile up river from the Houses of Parliament in Westminster.

  “We’re kowtowing to you Americans half the time rather than doing our own thing,” Jayne said. “I tell you, top brass are terrified of the senior guys at Langley. I’ve got no ties, no kids. I could just take off and do something completely different.”

  “I thought you were a lifer there?” Johnson said, surprised. Jayne, who had grown up in Nottingham, had joined the Secret Intelligence Service after graduating from Cambridge University, where she had studied international politics, and had acted in a variety of roles thereafter, both in the U.K. and overseas.

  “Not anymore. It’s different. All the cost cutting’s taking its toll,” Jayne said. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Back to your problem. I think you might have to do something old-fashioned. Go and wear out some shoe leather. The Kudrows were originally Polish Jewish, right? Why don’t you go and try the synagogues. There used to be a huge Polish Jew community in the East End of London, in this area where we are, Whitechapel, and the area around here. There’s still a lot of them there. Someone might have heard of him. They’re a tight-knit bunch.”

  Johnson sat upright. She always thought of an angle. “You’re right. I’ll try that.” He made a note of what she’d said in his notebook, then beckoned the waiter and ordered two more cappuccinos.

  Jayne reached into her bag and, like a conjurer with a top hat, withdrew a small package which she placed on the table next to Johnson’s glass of orange juice.

  “There you go,” she said. “Your new legend, I assume.”

  Johnson picked it up. It was the package he had sent by courier to her a few days earlier. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s not a new one—it’s an old, well-trusted legend. I’ll need that later this morning.”

  He sipped his juice. “So are you still shooting? You were sharp,” he said.

  “Well, you weren’t too bad yourself—though I think I took the money off you, usually. Yes, I still do a bit. Usually the rifle range with a friend, but just air pistols.” She shrugged. “It’s just an excuse for a drink afterward. We grumble about work, put the world to rights.”

  “Yes, don’t go rusty. I might need you. Speaking of which, do you have a gun at home?”

  “No, I don’t,” Jayne said. “And I can’t get one, so don’t ask. I haven’t used one in a work situation since I was in Sarajevo. What about you?”

  Johnson took a breath. “You know me, always tended to be more of an intelligence gatherer than an—”

  “Action man?”

  “Though sometimes needs must when the devil drives,” Johnson said. “Difficult to separate the two in this job.”

  “I seem to remember you swearing you’d never use a gun in anger again after that incident in Jalalabad.”

  Johnson raised an eyebrow. Nobody was going to let him forget. First his mother, now Jayne.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “I haven’t—there’s been no increase in the body count since, although there’s been a few close calls. I do try and keep my hand in, though. I’ve got a couple of friends who shoot, so we go out and put some targets on trees. I’ve got a Smith & Wesson revolver at home.”

  Jayne gestured to his right ear. “You never did get that injury fixed. I thought you were going to have it sorted out?”

  “Yes, I was, but I didn’t like the idea of admitting I’d had plastic surgery. It’s part of me now, a talking point.” He smiled. “Anyway
, enough of that. There’s a few other things I want to run past you.”

  Johnson checked that his and Jayne’s phone encryption software were compatible. They were. He didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

  “And what about if I need some other bits and pieces? Bugs, surveillance gear?” he asked.

  “Might be able to do something. I’ve got a box of toys under the bed at home.” She raised her eyebrows and almost smiled.

  “I bet you have,” he murmured.

  “If you need a bit of poke, you’ve got it there, sir. This one’s got a twin turbo, so you’ll be from a standing start to sixty miles an hour in under six seconds, no problem. You’re lucky. We’ve only got one of those and it’s always out, normally. It’s often Americans who take it, like yourself, and usually financial types: bankers, brokers. You don’t look like one of those. So, Mr.—sorry I’ve forgotten your name. Was it Wilkinson?”

  “Yes, correct, Philip Wilkinson. And you’re also correct in thinking I’m not a financial type,” Johnson replied.

  He couldn’t decide which car to opt for. The man at the rental company near Aldgate had offered him either a BMW or an Audi.

  He went for the BMW in the end, a black 335i three-liter, six-cylinder model with darkened windows.

  Johnson fished in the pocket of his blue linen jacket and removed the contents of the package that Jayne had returned to him earlier. Sending it to her by courier had enabled him to avoid carrying it through customs.

  There was a good reason for the maneuver. Johnson had never talked about it, not even with his closest friends, but just after leaving the OSI he had quietly acquired two new legends—completely false identities, including U.S. passports, credit cards, bank cards, driver’s licenses and birth certificates—through a contact who was a former police officer. It had felt like being back in the CIA again.

  One of the legends was in the name of Philip Wilkinson, the other in the name of Don Thiele. Both carried Johnson’s photograph and were linked to addresses of two different uninhabited houses somewhere in the middle of rural New Hampshire.

  Johnson didn’t ask too many questions about where they had come from. As long as he paid off the credit card bills and the bank accounts stayed in the black, he shouldn’t encounter a problem.

  He normally deployed the Wilkinson legend when required, keeping the other in reserve. After several years, he had become quite comfortable slipping into his alternative identity—a single man with no dependents who was a sales representative for an American industrial pumps business.

  Now, he had a gut feeling that for this job, it would be wise to switch to Philip Wilkinson rather than use his real name for the car rental.

  Johnson paid for the car with the Wilkinson credit card and pocketed the receipt and documentation to make sure he remembered to include it in the list of expenses he needed to claim back from Fiona.

  He left the rental office and climbed into his car, feeling happy with his choice. The BMW definitely had “poke” and would do the job. After driving it back to the hotel, he left it in the parking lot and headed up in the elevator to his room.

  Johnson’s only worry was that the car wasn’t very inconspicuous.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wednesday, November 23, 2011

  London

  Lying on the floor just inside his room when he got back to the Tower Hotel that evening was a white envelope, marked with Johnson’s name, that someone had pushed under the door.

  He ripped it open with his finger. Inside was a single sheet of paper carrying a handwritten message in blue felt-tip:

  Mr. Johnson

  In your interests, stop the operation you work on now.

  There is implication that you do not understand.

  And there will be consequence you definitely will not like.

  You have been warned.

  Johnson reread it, scratching the old nick at the top of his right ear. The writing was large and bold, probably a man’s, and was either the work of an ill-educated person or someone not using their native language. Or was the grammar deliberately poor?

  He had received such notes and e-mails several times before in his career. They were almost to be expected.

  Johnson remembered the conversation with Carrie.

  He was also going there and wanted to know which hotel you were staying at . . .

  They had moved more quickly than he thought. It was maybe time for him to move as well, then.

  Johnson went downstairs to the hotel restaurant and ate a pizza, together with three beers. He felt as though he needed them.

  While he was eating, his phone rang. It was an encrypted call from Vic. Johnson keyed in the requisite code.

  “Vic, I’m in London, near Tower Bridge, eating a pizza. What have you got?”

  “Tower Bridge, eh? Nice. Better than me—I’m still in the office. Listen, I’ve picked up something from my network here. You might remember Helen, Watto’s secretary: long red hair, good-looking for her age. Been here twenty-five years. Useful to keep in touch with as she knows everyone. She remembers you—thought you were badly treated.”

  “Yes, I remember her. Nice lady.”

  “Yes,” Vic said, “I had a chat with her last night. She’s professional, discreet with everyone, but she’s got a conscience, and she does tell me the occasional snippet, especially if she thinks someone’s been unfairly treated. She let slip that Watto called her in to sort out some problem with the new video conferencing system during a call. He was talking to a certain intelligence agency in Tel Aviv.”

  “What about?” Johnson asked.

  “Well, there’s the thing. She just heard one line of the conversation, and it was about you. The Mossad guy, a regional head called Moshe Peretz, named you. He was asking Watto whether he thought you might be a threat to VANDAL. That’s a cryptonym, of course. It took me a while to find out who it was referring to, but I got there eventually.”

  Johnson guessed what Vic was going to say next. “VANDAL is Guzmann, right?”

  “Correct,” said Vic. “But how the hell Peretz and Watson knew you might be looking at Guzmann, I have no idea. That’s Langley for you.”

  Johnson exhaled hard. “That’s just unbelievable. Tel Aviv? Is she sure about that?”

  “Yep, she’s sure. Helen’s good. She won’t have made a mistake.”

  Johnson’s mind was already in overdrive. “Yes, but hang on, just thinking aloud here. If the Mossad is worried about someone being a threat to Guzmann, there’s most likely going to be only one reason why.”

  “Precisely. He’s providing them with something valuable, most likely information, access, contacts—I don’t know. Could be anything.”

  “And what’s Guzmann got to do with Watto? That raises the stakes,” Johnson asked.

  “I don’t know—yet. I’ll find out. Look, I’ve gotta go now. I’m in a rush. That’s all I know so far. Good luck with it, Doc. I think you just need to remember that Watto’s tentacles extend a long way, inside the Agency and outside it. Just be careful. You know what I’m saying?”

  Johnson shrugged. “Yes, I know what you’re saying.”

  “Okay. Talk to you again soon.”

  “Yes, thanks for the call, appreciate it.” Johnson hung up.

  Once he was back in his room, he made an encrypted call to Jayne.

  “Jayne, something’s come up.” He recounted what had happened with the threat letter and then the call from Vic.

  “There’s something deep going on,” Johnson said. “For Guzmann to have a cryptonym at Langley and with the Mossad says he’s been important to them for some time. Maybe Guzmann’s been an agent?”

  There was silence at the other end of the line as Jayne digested the information. He could almost hear her thinking and shaking her head, probably silently cursing him.

  “It’s quite possible, definitely,” Jayne said. “I know the Agency and the Mossad were very active in Buenos Aires when I was there, and
I’m sure they still are. Okay, then. Given the letter, it might be wise to stay in my spare room, if you like. Come over, and we can discuss it.”

  As Johnson finished repacking his suitcase, he didn’t know if he was being unnecessarily paranoid or just sensible in moving to Jayne’s place.

  Or maybe, he thought, he really wasn’t being very sensible at all in staying with an ex-girlfriend in her small apartment, even if it did have a spare bedroom.

  Either way, he wasn’t staying at the Tower Hotel any longer. He went down to the lobby and paid his bill.

  Johnson didn’t need telling that if Langley and Tel Aviv both had an interest in Guzmann there was almost certainly something there worth him pursuing. But that worked both ways; it was also now quite likely they would put Johnson under the microscope, too. They wouldn’t allow a potential investigation into a key asset to go unchallenged.

  And if Watson was the involved party at the CIA that was not just irritating, but alarming.

  The question remained, though: why was Guzmann a key asset? Johnson’s regret at not pursuing the man back in 1996 now deepened a few more degrees.

  Given all that and the warning note, he decided to step up his own countersurveillance routine, which in recent years had been a habit only at a very basic level.

  He scanned the area carefully around to make sure he wasn’t being watched or followed, then went outside into the parking lot and put his bags next to the BMW.

  Then he did a lap of the parking lot, glancing at all the cars, searched underneath his car, and finally checked the wheel wells, just to be sure.

  Once he was as satisfied as he could be, he put the bags in the back of the car, got in, and drove off.

  The dark-clothed figure slouched low in the rear seat of the silver Ford Focus, hidden in the shadows at the back of the Tower Hotel’s parking lot, was almost invisible behind the car’s blacked-out windows.

  Alejandro Garcia took a sip from the dregs of the now-cold coffee he had bought a couple of hours earlier and yawned. He was almost at the point of giving up and going back to base for some sleep.