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

by Andrew Turpin

  A familiar burly, tattooed figure was sitting behind the glass screen in the reception area, his huge forearms folded, chewing gum. A pack of Rothmans cigarettes and a green plastic lighter were on the desk next to him.

  Jonah furrowed his brow. “You again? What do you want? I presume you haven’t brought that gun this time.”

  Johnson shook his head. He wasn’t going to admit the Walther was still in its holster under his coat.

  “We were wondering if you had seen Daniel around. The jewelry workshop seems closed. Or if not, perhaps Mr. Skorupski?”

  “You’ve heard about old Jacob, I presume?” Jonah said. “He’s had a heart attack. Hardly surprising with you and others causing him so much hassle. So obviously his brother won’t be coming here. He’ll be at the hospital.” He looked at Johnson as if the blame for the old man’s coronary should be entirely laid at his door. “I’ll see if Mr. Skorupski is free.”

  “Thank you very much. I’d appreciate it.”

  Jonah swiped up his cigarettes, as if he half suspected Johnson would pocket them, then glared at him and disappeared through the door at the back of the reception area.

  Johnson and Fiona sat in the metal chairs, ignoring the magazines on the table in front of them.

  Ten minutes went by. Then, eventually, footsteps echoed down the corridor. The door behind the reception desk opened, and a tall, slightly overweight man emerged. Johnson had last seen him several days earlier outside the warehouse, climbing out of the green BMW.

  Leopold brushed back the remains of his gray hair with his hand, then wiped it on his dark blue overalls. Then he stooped and planted two large hands on the desk, peering from beneath white eyebrows through the glass screen at Johnson. A brown stain showed in the creases lining his left cheek.

  “So, you’re the American Nazi hunter.” He turned to Fiona. “And you must be the journalist? We meet at last. Mr. Kudrow has told me a lot about you in the past few days. What can I do for you?”

  Johnson stood up and went to the counter. “Yes, well I’ve heard quite a lot about you too. You know we have been working with Mr. Kudrow and we rescued his grandson yesterday from an Argentine gang led by the son of the Nazi.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. I spoke to young Oliver’s mother this morning.”

  “Well, I took Oliver to see his grandfather at St. Thomas’ last night. We need a copy of the map showing how to access the tunnels in Gluszyca. The Argentinians have it, and they’re heading there right now. Oliver asked about a spare copy of the map, and Jacob said something about ‘hell loss’ and ‘pans.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  Leopold limped through the connecting door to the waiting area. Up close to him, Johnson could smell his odor of sweat and oil and got a strong whiff of alcohol on his breath. It wasn’t pleasant. His chin and upper lip had a few tiny patches of stubble, which he must have missed when shaving.

  “You do know, Mr. Johnson, why we have been doing what we’ve been doing with Brenner and the gold?” Leopold said.

  Johnson nodded. “I get it completely.”

  “We could have had him killed, you know. But it’s not our belief as Jews, to take an eye for an eye, even if he does deserve it. It’s true that if you go and read Exodus chapter twenty-one, it does say how the Lord told Moses that anyone who kills another should be put to death, a life for a life, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. However, we Jews don’t believe that should be taken literally, and our Talmud, our Jewish law, doesn’t interpret it that way. Nevertheless, we do believe damages should be paid in full. That’s what we have been doing: extracting compensation. Jacob calls it redemption. Reverse redemption.”

  Johnson just nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard him say that. Interesting stuff. But what about these things he said last night? If we don’t hurry, the rest of your bullion will be gone.”

  No time for a debate now, Johnson thought. Never mind that such reasoning has also, conveniently, enabled these guys to sell a huge amount of gold to a forced buyer who should be in prison, no questions asked.

  Leopold paused. “I don’t know what he was trying to say. ‘Hell loss’? That’s an odd one.” He screwed up his face and shook his head. “And what else did he mention?”

  “Pans.”

  After a few seconds, Leopold’s face lit up. He laughed. “Hell loss and pans. Ah yes, I think I know what he’s talking about. Come with me.”

  Washington, D.C.

  David Kudrow sipped from a bottle of water as his driver swung the maroon Lexus onto Benton Place for a scheduled breakfast update meeting at the home of his campaign manager, Philip.

  His push to secure the Republican nomination was going well, despite the stress of a demanding round of meetings, speeches, and interviews, not to mention the demands for a slice of his time from the growing entourage of support staff surrounding him.

  And as he expected, he was benefiting from the sympathy vote following Nathaniel’s stabbing. But the huge volume of supportive messages posted on his campaign Facebook account and on Twitter had outstripped expectations, and he had received several new requests for interviews from journalists who wanted to write profiles, using Nathaniel’s death as a hook.

  Funds were being committed at a steady rate by a growing band of supporters, and David knew that Philip had been very happy with the way his plan was being implemented.

  It hadn’t surprised David. After all, Philip had proved himself a ruthless businessman; he had clambered up a very greasy pole on his way to the top, and he had proved a similarly ruthless campaign manager by applying the same kind of principles. Plan, plan, plan, then plan some more, was his creed. That was why David had appointed him.

  He’ll milk it like crazy and take all the kudos if I’m in the White House next November, David thought.

  Then David’s cell phone rang. He told his driver to pull over and to step outside the car while he took this particular call in private; it was his father, Daniel, calling from London.

  David had been trying to get hold of his father for the past three days, but with the constant demands of his business, his campaign, and his family, he missed his father every time Daniel returned his calls.

  Half an hour later, David hung up in a state of mild panic.

  He sank back into the rear seat of the Lexus.

  What should he do next?

  His elderly father, normally so clear-voiced and confident despite his age, had sounded hesitant and quavering.

  There was some bad news about his uncle Jacob. Yes, he was right now in a hospital in London following a mild heart attack. No, thankfully there was no need for surgery, the consultant had said. Thank goodness for that.

  But he was ill and would be in there for a little while. Yes, they needed to do further tests.

  Then came the real bombshell.

  David knew from the tip Philip had received that the political journalist, Fiona Heppenstall, was looking at his family finances and that an investigator, Joe Johnson, was working with her.

  But he had continued to put it to the back of his mind. There had been too many other things to worry about.

  However, the journalist and the investigator had shown up in London, his father said. And as hard as it was to believe, they had broken into Jacob’s workshop at night, hacked into his safe, and found various documents.

  No, there was no possibility of reporting it to the police: that would have been suicidal. Why? Well, Daniel had said, he would explain.

  And he would have to apologize, but some of it may come as a shock. Yes, he knew David wasn’t aware of all the details, mostly, and David was correct, he should probably have told him, but it all happened a very long time ago.

  Indeed, it was a shock. As far as David had known, his uncle in London had in the distant past simply done well out of a few very good deals with a gold supplier in Poland that had sold to him on favorable terms. Jacob had made some money. He’d never thought twice about it. Well done, Jacob�
��a good piece of business.

  But no.

  Instead, the family wealth was founded on a stash of Nazi gold hidden nearly seventy years ago in secret tunnels in the hills of Lower Silesia. Which David’s uncle and father had sold to a man in Buenos Aires. Who happened to be a former SS officer in charge of the concentration camp in which they were incarcerated during the Second World War.

  Unbelievable, he thought to himself. Why the hell hadn’t they told him before?

  Then, on top of it all, Jacob’s grandson, Oliver, had been kidnapped and tortured by a gang of Argentinians thought to be led by the SS man’s son, who was trying to locate the gold. And Oliver had been found, not by the police, but by the investigator Johnson.

  It was a difficult situation, his father had said.

  He wasn’t joking.

  Why hadn’t he been informed about the status of the Heppenstall-Johnson inquiry and the kidnapping, David had demanded. Surely he had a right to know, as a family member. His father’s response, that he didn’t want to distract David from the campaign, sounded hollow.

  Daniel’s attempt at reassurance didn’t hold much water; he said that Jacob had persuaded Johnson to focus on the aged SS man in Argentina rather than the Kudrow family. But David knew it was potentially too big a political story to ignore, especially if a top journalist like Fiona Heppenstall was on the case.

  David pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes from his glove box, opened it, and lit one. He sucked in hard. This was all hard to comprehend; there was too much coming out of the blue at just the wrong time.

  He sat, immobilized by the impact of what he just heard, smoking almost on autopilot.

  When he had finished the cigarette, David opened the window, beckoned his driver back in, and completed his journey up the street to Philip’s property.

  Philip answered the door with a look of slight concern on his face. “Hi, David, I was expecting you half an hour ago. Everything all right? You’re not looking great.”

  “No, not really, Philip. We’ve got a bit of a problem. Correction. A huge problem.”

  Philip studied his face. “You’d better come in. What’s been going on?”

  Philip led the way through to a large sitting room overlooking a large expanse of landscaped garden at the rear of the house, at the center of which was a putting green. He pressed the button on a wall-mounted intercom and requested coffee.

  They sat down on a long beige leather sofa. David spoke at length, explaining what he had heard from his father, breaking off only when a middle-aged woman wearing an apron came in with two cappuccinos on a tray.

  Philip listened quietly until his boss had finished.

  Then he began tapping his fingers on the coffee table. “David, you’ve screwed up badly here. How can you not have known all that when it’s so close to home? You told me clearly there was nothing to worry about. It’s my reputation on the line here, not just yours, dammit. And how the hell did Heppenstall and Johnson get to know about what’s been going on in the first place? Somebody must have leaked it to them.”

  Philip shook his head. “We can’t let this happen, David.”

  Chapter Forty

  Thursday, December 1, 2011

  London

  Leopold limped his way up the stairs toward Jacob’s office, with Johnson and Fiona close behind. “In Greek mythology there’s a legend of a god that was the personification of the sun. He was meant to have driven a horse-drawn chariot made of solid gold across the sky each day,” Leopold said as they walked.

  “Helios?” Johnson interrupted. “I know that legend. You think that’s what he was saying?”

  “Yes, it must be,” Leopold said. “That’s the nickname we gave to the old Volkswagen, the T2 panel van we used to ferry the gold back here from Poland. We thought it was really funny. And pans, well, I think he meant the belly pans of the Volkswagen. We stashed the gold bars in the belly pans—you know, the steel plates bolted underneath the engine and the underside of the vehicle to protect it from damage and water and so on.”

  Johnson said, “Interesting. So are you saying the spare map might be in the belly pan of the Volkswagen? Is the T2 he’s talking about the one standing in your workshop here?”

  “No,” Leopold said. “The T2 in the workshop is a customer’s, in for repair. The one we used is in Jacob’s garage in Mayfair, still in good working order. But I don’t think he’s put the map in the belly pans. No, I was thinking of something else. Just follow me and I’ll show you.”

  He walked into Jacob’s office and pointed at something on the desk. It was the strange-looking sculpture Johnson had noticed before.

  “Ah, I get it,” Johnson said. “Two miniature panels shaped like the belly pans, leaning against each other. And there’s an engraving of a chariot pulled by horses on one of the panels.”

  Leopold turned around. “You’re quick, aren’t you. Yes, I had that specially made for him for his fiftieth birthday in ’74. It unscrews and—”

  “You mean the map’s inside it?” Johnson interrupted. He swore inwardly. The sculpture had been virtually the only possible hiding place in Jacob’s office he hadn’t examined while waiting for Bomber Tim to open the safe. How had he overlooked it?

  Leopold took a Swiss army knife from his pocket and folded out the screwdriver attachment. “I got one of my engineers to make this for Jacob—a great little present, don’t you think? We just need to take out this screw here and then that one. They’re a bit rusty.”

  He worked for a minute, then with a squeal of metal on metal, pulled off one of the side pieces of metal.

  “And inside, yes, it’s here, look!” Leopold pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. It was a detailed map diagram drawn neatly in black ink, complete with measurements and a scale.

  “Yes, this is it. It shows you where you need to go to find the entrance to the sewer. I remember. It’s hidden, up here near these trees.” He indicated with his finger.

  The place he was pointing to was near the tiny village of Sokolec, just off a road that led north from a larger village, Ludwikowice Klodzkie.

  “The sewer was still dry the last time we went there, though that was a long time ago now. It was meant to serve the Sokolec tunnels complex but was never used. And then you go along until you find the entrance to the tunnel proper here.” Leopold pointed to another spot on the map.

  “I want to make a copy of it before I give it to you, though.” Leopold took the map over to a scanner in the corner of the room and started it up.

  “Fiona,” Johnson said, “Can you see if you can get us on a flight this afternoon or first thing tomorrow.”

  She nodded and walked out of the room, tapping a number into her cell phone.

  When Leopold had finished, he walked over to Johnson and placed the map in his hand. “Right, all yours. Good luck then. Just one thing. The tunnel is booby-trapped. We put trip wires in there years ago. They’re marked on the map, so be careful.”

  Johnson grimaced and shook his head. “Explosive? Are the trip wires marked on the map that Ignacio Guzmann stole from Oliver?”

  Leopold nodded. “Yes, explosive—quite a lot of it. It’s the only way we could defend it. We couldn’t exactly arrange for regular security patrols. So be careful. And unfortunately, yes, the map he’s got will be an exact duplicate of this one.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks for telling me,” Johnson said. Then he checked that Fiona had left before turning to Leopold once again.

  “There’s one other thing,” Johnson said. “Jacob threatened me yesterday morning, before we left for Bristol. He said I shouldn’t do anything that might put him and Daniel in danger because I’d regret it, and there were bigger games being played out. He also refused to tell me what the money from the gold sales was being used for. Do you know what that’s all about? I’m asking while she’s out of the room—just being careful because she’s a journalist,” Johnson said, indicating with his thumb in the direction Fiona had taken.


  Leopold stood still for a moment, looking carefully at Johnson. Then he sat down behind the wooden desk and indicated to Johnson to sit in the other chair.

  Johnson complied. Leopold folded his arms on the desktop. “Have you heard of Operation Moses, Operation Solomon, Operation Wrath of God, and Operation Damocles?” he asked.

  Johnson consciously tried to remain expressionless. “They’re all Mossad,” he said. “Operations Solomon and Moses—they were the airlifts of Jews out of Ethiopia and Sudan. And Wrath of God . . . well, that was the Munich Olympics massacre retaliation. And I know Damocles, too, the assassination of German rocket scientists, the Egyptian thing, to stop them from building missiles aimed at Israel. What’s that all about?”

  Leopold narrowed his eyes a little. “And do you know of Friends of the Israel Defense Forces, the Jewish National Fund, Itamar, and the Hebron Fund?”

  Johnson nodded. “I’ve heard of them. West Bank settlement support funds, aren’t they?”

  Leopold nodded and cleared his throat. “It’s what you might call protection money.”

  Instantly, it made sense.

  “Of course,” Johnson said. “The Kudrows have helped fund these projects in return for protection? They’ve helped fund operations by Kidon?” Johnson asked.

  Kidon was the secretive special forces assassination unit within the Mossad, responsible for notorious operations including Wrath of God, which involved the revenge killing of the Palestinian militants behind the 1972 massacre of eleven Israeli Olympic team members in Munich.

  “Correct,” Leopold said. “As you can see, they’ve not spent it all on themselves. Look at this place, it’s a dump.” He waved a hand around the old office. “Okay, they’ve done all right out of it, you know, houses in Mayfair and so on, and they’ve made sure I’ve been well looked after, too, up to a point, but the vast majority . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  Johnson tipped his head back and gazed at the ceiling. “So did the Mossad insist on the payments, or did the Kudrows volunteer?” he asked.