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

by Andrew Turpin

  He’d been working so hard for the Republican nomination and for so long that the thought of it ending in a family disgrace was too much to contemplate. Worse, what if it turned out there was some link to Nathaniel’s death in all this?

  He was now sitting next to a speakerphone, with Philip in the chair in front of his desk, waiting for his father and uncle to join him on a conference call that had taken him more than a day to organize. His father had been busy helping his uncle Jacob, who was still in the hospital after his heart attack.

  There was a beep from the speakerphone. “Hello, David? Are you there? It’s your father here in London.”

  “Yes, Dad, I’m here,” David said. “Philip’s joining us for the call, and he’s aware of everything, so don’t censor yourself. I needed help managing this.”

  “Good morning. I’ll just be listening in, Mr. Kudrow,” Philip said.

  “Okay, very well,” Daniel said. “I’m in Jacob’s hospital room with him. He’s not meant to be talking to anyone, but he’s insisting, so what could I do? The good news is he’s doing all right and doesn’t need an operation. Sorry if I sound a bit tinny, we’re just using my phone on speaker here.”

  “That’s good to hear,” David said. “Glad you’re okay, Jacob. You really shouldn’t be worrying yourself about all this and doing conference calls. The consultant there would go nuts if he knew.”

  He swiveled around on his chair. “Look, I’ve been thinking this through. The bottom line is, if this story breaks—whether it’s by this Inside Track journalist, Heppenstall, or someone else—then I will have to pull out of the campaign. You all obviously realize that.”

  David could hear Jacob coughing, so he stopped speaking.

  Then Jacob spoke, softer and slower than normal. “David, look, yes, we know all that. It’s difficult for me, but I have changed my thinking. This investigator Johnson wants to nail Brenner, right? Wants him in court. I know you won’t like this, but the way I’m now thinking, I’d like to see that happen.”

  Jacob coughed again, then continued. “Okay, we’ve screwed him over the years, had our revenge, had our entire lifestyle built on it. Maybe it’s an old-age thing here, maybe it takes something like a heart attack to make you see things differently, but it’s about more than us, isn’t it? Others want to see justice done too. Johnson and Heppenstall are the last chance to put him behind bars, as I see it. I’ve had a plan where that would happen eventually in any event. If I’m now nearing my end, then . . . ” His voice trailed off and he coughed again.

  David felt his anger building. He looked at Philip, whose face had completely shut down. Keep calm, slow down. The old man’s in his hospital bed.

  “Take it easy, uncle. My point is, that’s fine, for your generation. You’ve had your future already, your dream. What about me? My dream’s the White House. You’re telling me you’re going to rob me of that just to put a sad ninety-year-old in prison? If you were going to do that, you should have done it five decades ago. The truth is, you were too greedy, and now you’re too late. And it’s not fair to me that I get ruined in this belated pursuit of justice.”

  David swiveled his chair again. “I don’t know how that Johnson guy and the journalist got hold of all this information in the first place. How did they know about the gold? Philip believes there was a leak from somewhere. We’re working on that. But you two in London have made it worse. Why did you have to give Johnson so much more? You’ve served it all up on a plate for him and for the journalist.”

  David stood and did a lap of his office, his right fist pushed hard into his pocket as he walked. There was complete silence on the call.

  Then Jacob’s voice crackled through the loudspeaker again. “You’ve got to also think it through, David. If you did get to the White House in November, what would happen if it all came out then? Stepping down then would be much worse.”

  David shook his head. He could feel the tension building in his face and neck. He paused and took a few deep breaths, remembering the advice of his psychiatrist.

  “What do you think, Dad?” So far his father hadn’t said a word. Typical.

  Daniel’s voice sounded distant, as if he had moved some distance away from the phone. “Don’t forget, Johnson also rescued our Oliver here from a very nasty situation. I mean, if he had gone as well as Nathaniel, how would we all feel? He’s going to take a while to recover from his injuries.” Daniel paused, and David felt his chest rise and fall at the mention of his brother and cousin.

  “But, thinking aloud,” Daniel continued, “there is maybe something we could do. I mean, neither Johnson nor Heppenstall have exactly been on the right side of the law, have they? Breaking into our warehouse, into our safe, stealing papers. I could go on. I mean, what view would Johnson’s clients or Heppenstall’s publisher take if they knew what they’ve been doing, or if there were a police investigation? Someone might make an anonymous call or two to tip certain people off, if the course of events doesn’t quite go in the right direction. You know what I mean? It could be quite damaging to both of their career prospects. It’s worth thinking about.”

  For the first time that morning, a trace of a smile crossed David’s face. But it didn’t last long. He knew how the media operated.

  “Trouble is though, once a story starts leaking a little, it’s like trying to shove toothpaste back into the tube,” David said. “If they don’t run it, somebody else probably will.”

  He sat back down and faced Philip, then continued. “Heppenstall will probably tip off one of her friends at The Washington Post or something. You know, quiet chat over a glass of wine, a nod and a wink. Then it’ll go completely viral. The problem we’ve got is, we can’t deny it, can we? That’s the bottom line.”

  Philip pressed his lips together and rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb. For the first time since the start of the call, he spoke. “Of course we can deny it. Truth is one thing. Proof is another. Do they have proof? If they don’t have it, we can deny it. Still beats me how this story got out in the first place.”

  Buenos Aires

  Ignacio drove his white Renault Mégane around Ombú toward his father’s house, passing a silver Toyota Hilux pickup heading in the opposite direction.

  He parked next to the curb outside his father’s house, grabbed his small backpack, and went to the front door, where he let himself in with his key.

  Ignacio stopped still for a moment, a strange feeling in his stomach. After years of suffering at his father’s hands, he knew that now was the time to turn the tables.

  He walked through the hallway into his father’s living room, where Brenner sat in his favorite black leather armchair.

  Ignacio stopped near the doorway and stared at his father. “I’m back.”

  Brenner gazed back at him for several seconds before he replied. “Yes, I can see that. You’re back earlier than I expected. I thought you were returning next week?”

  “I thought I’d surprise you and come early. Why are you sitting there with your jacket on?”

  His father didn’t answer.

  Ignacio looked around. Then he noticed a small suitcase next to the sofa. On the coffee table was a brand-new blue Chilean passport, an air ticket, and his father’s phone.

  Ignacio picked up the three items and flicked through the passport until he came to the photograph. “What the hell’s this? You planning on going somewhere?” His head jerked back to look at his father.

  He examined the air ticket. “Santiago, eh?” Ignacio straightened and folded his arms. “Are you going on holiday or a business trip? Looks like I got here just in time. I’ll take care of these.” He pocketed the passport, ticket, and phone.

  Brenner’s eyes widened. For the first time in his life, Ignacio saw a trace of fear flit across his father’s face. He grimaced.

  “You know something,” Ignacio said. “When I was in Poland, I must have retraced your steps—the ones you took during the Second World War—into the tunnels
of the Riese complex, where you used to work.”

  Brenner twitched in his chair, his fingers tapping on the arm rest. “What do you know about that?” he asked.

  “SS Obersturmführer Erich Brenner, who ran concentration camps at Auschwitz and Gross-Rosen. No surprise you’ve refused to discuss your younger days with your son, is it?” Ignacio spat.

  “I don’t know where you got that information from, but it’s completely false,” Brenner said. “I worked as a jeweler’s apprentice, not an SS officer.”

  Ignacio shook his head. “I’ve seen the papers. Hauptsturmführer Karl Beblo wasn’t happy with you when those Jews escaped from the train, was he, way back in ’44? You didn’t impress your boss then, did you? And you’ve not impressed your son, either. I don’t think you’ve treated me much differently than some of your prisoners.”

  A flicker of resignation crossed Brenner’s face. His voice rose. “You’ve stolen my papers from the attic. It’s the only way you could know that. You’re going to regret this.”

  Ignacio ignored the threat. “I’ve got a friend who’s coming around shortly,” he said. “You know him. Luis Castano, my old army colleague.”

  “I remember Luis,” the old man said. “What’s happening with him?”

  Ignacio paused. “What’s happening is that we’re going for a little drive. And you’ll be coming with us.”

  He saw his father swallow hard. “You want me to come with you for a little drive? When?” the old man asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Ignacio said. “Probably tomorrow morning. I’ve got to make some calls to set a few things up first.”

  “What’s this all about, Ignacio?”

  Ignacio gave a thin smile but said nothing.

  Brenner gripped the side of his armchair and looked at his son.

  “Sit in that wooden chair over there,” Ignacio said, pointing to a large, heavy wooden piece of furniture near the door.

  His father didn’t move.

  “I said sit there,” Ignacio repeated, taking a threatening step toward Brenner.

  The old man slowly got up and walked to the chair, then sat down.

  “Put your hands down the side, against those wooden struts,” Ignacio said.

  When his father complied, Ignacio took some gaffer tape and fastened his father’s wrists and legs to the chair. “I don’t want you going anywhere, and I don’t want you picking up any of the weaponry you’ve doubtless got hidden in the house somewhere. That wouldn’t be good for either of us,” Ignacio said.

  He left his father and climbed the stairs. As he went, he took his phone out and tapped in the number for a good ex-army friend, Manuel Lopez, who ran his own security company in northern Argentina, Lopez Seguridad.

  “Hola, Manuel. It’s Ignacio.”

  “It’s been a long time. How are you, mi amigo?”

  “All good. Listen, I was wondering if you could let me have two of your armed guards for a day or so, starting tomorrow. Your best guys. And there are a few other things I may need help putting in place, too.”

  Ignacio went on to outline exactly what he needed.

  Jayne got back into her Hilux, feeling satisfied with her few minutes of work, and drove back around to the other side of Ombú, where she parked in exactly the same spot she had left when Brenner had been driven to the café.

  She surveyed Brenner’s house. Now there was an old white Renault Mégane parked outside it.

  Then she saw some movement at a window on the third floor, the top story right in the eaves of the house. A face looked out—that of a thickset, fair-haired man. He was only there for maybe thirty seconds, but Jayne was good with faces, and she had plenty of time to recognize him from the photograph that her colleague at SIS had obtained from Argentine passport records.

  It was Ignacio Guzmann, the old man’s son. She assumed the white Mégane was his: he must have arrived and gone inside in the few minutes she was attending to the black Mercedes.

  Jayne cursed. That was bad news, given that Ignacio was the biggest threat to Johnson’s plans.

  She clearly couldn’t go into the house herself. Instead, she toyed briefly with calling Carlos again but then dismissed that idea; it would open a huge can of worms.

  Work it out, Jayne.

  Before she could think any further, the man in the blue Peugeot swiftly got out of his car and marched up the street to the front door of Brenner’s house, his cell phone clamped to his left ear, a large bag in his right hand, and knocked.

  Jayne shot up in her car seat; her stomach felt as though it had flipped over.

  There was a pause. Then the door opened, and the unmistakable figure of Ignacio appeared. He shook the man’s hand, and they disappeared inside.

  What had grabbed Jayne’s attention was the bag the man from the blue Peugeot had been carrying in his right hand.

  It looked at first glance like a businessman’s briefcase.

  But the initials on the side, UTG, gave the game away.

  Jayne had a similar one under her bed at home.

  It was a large pistol case.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Saturday, December 3, 2011

  Buenos Aires

  Johnson and Fiona were sitting in one of Buenos Aires’s ubiquitous black and yellow taxis, driving the thirty-five kilometers from Ministro Pistarini International Airport into the city, when his phone rang. It was Jayne.

  Before Johnson could speak, Jayne cut in. “Joe, I hope you’re nearly here?”

  “Yes, en route in a taxi right now. We’ll be another twenty minutes, I think. What’s happening?”

  “I’m just down the road from old man Brenner’s house. His son’s inside the place. I’ve just seen him open the door to let in another guy with a pistol.”

  Johnson swore. His shoulders tensed, as if they had been locked solid.

  “Okay. Not good. I suggest you sit tight and stick with them if they move before I get there.”

  Johnson was already glad he had Jayne on hand for this job.

  “How do you know the guy had a pistol?” Johnson asked, lowering his voice. “And did you manage to get a gun for me?”

  “He was carrying a pistol case,” Jayne said. “I assume it wasn’t empty. And yes, I’ve got two Berettas.”

  She gave Johnson the number and description of her hired Hilux. “When you get here, best if you park on the other side of Ombú from Brenner’s house, then work your way around to my car on foot. I don’t want a taxi dropping you off in full view of the house. I’ll see you soon.”

  Johnson agreed and ended the call. His phone vibrated again as an e-mail arrived. It was from Clara in Berlin. She was pleased to help him, she wrote, just as much as she had always helped him “in other ways” when they were together as students.

  Long, carefree days with nothing to do but drink, talk, and @*%@!!! Wish we were back there again.

  Johnson smiled and held the phone out of Fiona’s line of sight. But getting to the point, Clara said; she had been to the Deutsche Dienststelle, and Brenner’s records were there. He had suffered a shrapnel injury to his right knee while fighting with the Third SS Panzer Division Totenkopfe near Kharkov in March 1943 and had been in the hospital for six weeks.

  That would explain the limp.

  Given Watson’s interest in Brenner, Johnson was ultrasensitive to any sign of surveillance. He assumed Watson would have briefed someone in the Buenos Aires station. Using his fluent Spanish, Johnson instructed the taxi driver, who like many of his ilk looked streetwise, to watch carefully for any sign of a tail.

  The taxi, a Citroën, was heading down the General Pablo Ricchieri highway toward the city when Johnson noticed the driver adjusting his rearview mirror with his right hand.

  That’s the third time he’s done that.

  “Is someone following us back there?” Johnson asked.

  The driver looked again. “Not sure. There was a big Lexus that has more or less mirrored everything I’ve done since
leaving the airport. He’s hanging back now.”

  Johnson resisted the temptation to twist around and look through the rear window. “Okay, see if you can lose him,” he said.

  At the next junction, the taxi driver suddenly swung right onto the off-ramp at the last possible moment and exited the highway, past signs to the central market.

  He then flung the Citroën right, then left, down a couple of side streets in a rough-looking area with smashed-up concrete blocks and litter strewn across the shoulders. Then he made another left onto a road with several half-finished cinder-block houses.

  The driver accelerated hard. A couple more turns and he was back on the highway they had left only a few minutes earlier.

  “Think we’re okay now,” the driver said.

  After another fifteen minutes, they pulled up in Ombú. Johnson squinted through the windshield. There was only one silver Hilux in view, about seventy yards in front of them. He paid the driver his fare, plus a tip, and he and Fiona got out.

  Fiona noted that if they used the cover provided by a combination of the natural curvature of the road, a few tall 4x4 trucks parked at the curb, tall trees growing in the sidewalk, and bushes in certain front gardens, they could reach the Hilux without coming into anyone’s line of sight from Brenner’s house.

  To Jayne’s undisguised relief, they slipped into the Hilux a few minutes later without further alarms, Johnson in the front, Fiona in the back.

  “Thank God for that. I was having visions of handling this solo,” Jayne said. She gestured down the road. “That’s Brenner’s house there, the tatty white one with black shutters. I think that white Renault is his son’s car. I’m certain Brenner is still inside.”

  Johnson opened his pack of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply as he sank back into the front passenger seat and listened as Jayne gave full details of events so far.

  “Sounds to me as though Brenner was planning to run if he’s just acquired a new Chilean passport,” Johnson said. “It may be that Ignacio’s turned up and intercepted him.”