The dark-haired figure of Luis Castano emerged from the shadows of an alcove at the back of the garage. He picked up the Beretta from the floor and placed it on the table next to a couple of phones. Then he walked to Johnson and delved into his deep trouser pockets. He removed his phone and put it on the table, too.
“Clear, jefe,” Luis said. Then he searched Fiona and removed her phone.
Ignacio scowled. “I assumed you would turn up here once I found that,” he said.
He nodded toward the table where, alongside the phones, lay a small black plastic box, roughly the size of a cigarette pack, with two circular metal discs attached to it.
“Your tracking device,” Ignacio said. “Very clever. Quite remarkable that you were smart enough, crafty enough, to stick it under our car without being seen.”
He thinks I put it there. So he doesn’t know about Jayne.
Ignacio walked over and stood near his father, who sat helplessly and silently; thick bands of Velcro bound the old man’s wrists to the arms of the chair, and his ankles were similarly pinned to the chair’s legs, preventing him from moving.
“Before I deliver the coup de grâce, as you might call it, there is something I need to show you both,” Ignacio said. “It will explain everything. Come with me. Luis, you stay with the Nazi here.”
Ignacio signaled with the barrel of his gun that Johnson and Fiona should walk toward the back of the garage, where another pedestrian door stood half open.
“Go through,” he ordered.
Once through the door, Johnson and Fiona were faced with a wooden archway covered in roses, which led to the single-story house Johnson had seen from the road.
Attached to the archway, on a carved semicircular board, was a slogan, written in Spanish.
Ignacio stood behind him. “Recognize that slogan?” he asked. “You should. In German it’s translated as Arbeit Macht Frei—work sets you free. It was written by the SS above the entrances to Dachau, Auschwitz, and other concentration camps during the Second World War. And you might know of Gross-Rosen, the camp where my father worked. ‘Big roses,’ it means. So here we are at Kleine Rosen, ‘little roses.’ Walk in, go on. Prepare yourself.”
He poked Johnson in the back with the barrel of his Glock, pushing him onward. Johnson stumbled as he took a quick step forward. Fiona followed.
They moved through the open door of the house. A straight corridor with a wood block floor led to a hinged gate made of thick steel bars, which was just in front of a wooden back door.
“Open,” Ignacio shouted.
A guard with a long black moustache, wearing a badge that identified him as a Lopez Seguridad employee, appeared from a room to the right and unlocked first the metal grill and then the wooden door, swinging both open.
Johnson took two steps forward, then stood rooted, struggling to take in the scene before him.
Inside the large compound formed by the wooden fence were several long wooden huts.
Most of the huts were old and decrepit, apart from two at the back, which were much newer. Between the huts were areas of concrete on which stood steel tables.
Working at the tables were dozens of emaciated women, all dark-skinned Latinas. They were dressed in ragged old T-shirts, jeans that were frayed and covered in stains, and shorts with holes where the stitching was coming apart. Most were wearing flip-flops or crude sandals.
Piles of wristwatch cases, straps, mechanisms, and other components were spread on the tables, which some of the women were assembling under the gaze of men standing nearby.
Other women at the end of the tables were sliding the finished products into plastic sleeves and small branded boxes and then packing them into larger brown cardboard boxes.
All the men carried wooden truncheons that hung from loops tied to their belts. Johnson noticed that frequently, if one of the women stopped working, one of the supervisors would step forward and speak angrily to them.
Sometimes they would take out their truncheon and threaten the women.
In the center of the compound was a water tap on a stand, with a couple of metal cups chained to it that clinked together as they moved in the breeze. Occasionally one of the women would walk to the stand, fill a cup with water, and drink.
Johnson took a couple more steps. He could see the watches and the boxes carried the names of famous brands: Rolex, Girard-Perregaux, Omega, Jaeger-LeCoultre, and others.
Ignacio spoke from behind him. “All fakes, mostly for sale to tourists in this country and elsewhere. And these people are all trafficked in from other countries around here: Paraguay, Bolivia, Chile. They are all slaves, basically. They are kept in this compound, they live and work in these huts, and they’re not allowed out. They don’t get much food, and what they do get is rubbish—restaurant leftovers and so on.”
Johnson glanced at Fiona, who stood next to him. She was gaping, wide-eyed, at the women.
Ignacio walked around in front of Johnson, still pointing the gun at him. “And this is how my father has been making his money for decades. Trying to make up for the losses on his gold purchases from our friends,” he hissed the words out, “the Kudrow brothers.”
Johnson tried to process what he was seeing. What really struck him was how thin, filthy, and haunted the women looked. None of them spoke to the others. It was unnatural: Johnson assumed they had been threatened with punishment if they did so.
Some of the girls were very young, in their mid-to-late teens, and none of them looked much older than thirty, but it was difficult to tell because of their physical condition.
This was the sort of thing Johnson may have expected to see in some backward, third-world state. But in South America’s second largest economy? He swore under his breath.
“It’s outrageous,” Johnson said, turning to Ignacio, his concern over the gun aimed at him temporarily overridden by his indignation. “This is a concentration camp. He’s re-created one right here.”
Ignacio continued, “You’re right. It is outrageous. My father’s legacy. I only found out about this place a few months ago. Oh yes, Argentina signed up for the United Nations protocols on human trafficking and all that political crap—sounds good, doesn’t it? But in reality, you find bastards like him running businesses like this all over the country.”
Ignacio spat on the ground. “The police do nothing in return for a few bribes here, a roll of pesos there, sometimes a little favor or two. It’s the same all over South America, for that matter. Here. Look at it.”
He gestured with his hand at the compound, then indicated to one of the women. “Just a girl, isn’t she? Yes, she might look older than her fifteen years, but she is just that—fifteen.”
She had come from Bolivia, Ignacio went on, and it had probably cost his father only eighty dollars or so to buy her. The manager would keep her here for maybe five years, ruin her life, then let her go, Ignacio said.
“Where will she go from here? I don’t know. Maybe prostitution, if she’s lucky. The manager will find another. There’s plenty where she came from.”
Johnson heard Fiona swearing under her breath.
“You might think I’m a hypocrite,” Ignacio said. “Well, fair enough. Everyone’s a hypocrite in this country. But this was how he treated me as a kid, more or less.” Ignacio said. “Not much different, really, except I was fed. He locked me in cupboards if I misbehaved, beat me, verbally abused me, told me I was never going to do anything with my life.”
Ignacio took a breath, then continued his rant. “That’s why I left home and joined the army to fight against the arrogant British in the Malvinas, at Port Stanley and Goose Green.
“But anyway, here we are. Now it’s time for justice to be done. A little late, some may think. You do realize I was lucky to catch him, don’t you?” He jerked a thumb back in the direction of the garage behind them where his father was. “He was on the point of disappearing again. When I arrived at his house, there was a new Chilean passport on his table,
a new identity, and he had a bag packed and was ready to go. He even had his coat on. I was just in time.”
Johnson refrained from responding.
Ignacio waved the Glock in Johnson’s face. “The way of legal justice, that’s your way. It’s no good to me. It won’t repay what he’s done to me. Nor to any of these women here, for that matter.”
He fell silent.
Johnson looked at Ignacio and knew he had to try to make him see the other side.
“He . . . that man through there, your father . . . tortured my mother. In Gross-Rosen. He whipped her and left her in the boiling sun all day with no food or water. He left her on the brink of death. She was lucky to survive—extremely fortunate. Most of the others in that place weren’t so lucky. They didn’t get out. There were thousands of others. Justice for all of them needs to happen in court, in a fair trial where living witnesses can give solid evidence and a fair sentence can be passed. Then, and only then, will justice for all be achieved.”
Johnson scanned the women working in front of him. “The justice you’ve got in mind, that is kangaroo court justice of exactly the same type that he and his Nazi thug brothers handed out to Jewish prisoners all over Europe. Let’s put to one side the way he’s treated you. Don’t go down the same road. And the financial justice of the type that the Kudrow brothers have given out is hardly better. It does nothing for the thousands of other victims. It has only benefited them. Don’t make the same mistake. I’m asking you to turn him over now for the only true type of justice: that which an international criminal court can provide, based on evidence of the kind that you yourself e-mailed to me.”
Ignacio’s eyes were wide, but he seemed to ignore most of what Johnson had said.
“Your mother? Really?” Ignacio asked. “Well, that explains a lot. All I can say is, now’s your chance for revenge, for your own justice. I’ll do it for both of us, then. Come on, let’s go.”
“No, that’s not the way,” Johnson said. Fiona shot him a look, clearly terrified he’d further incite Ignacio when he had a gun in his hand.
With some effort, Johnson kept his voice even in an attempt not to further anger the Argentinian. “That’s your justice. It’s just personal. It’s not justice for all those he killed in Poland and their families. He must appear in a court where he gets the opportunity to acknowledge what he’s done wrong and accept he must pay a price.”
Ignacio shook his head. He signaled with his Glock that Johnson and Fiona should go back the way they had come.
But Johnson stood looking at one girl, ten yards away, behind a steel table, her long hair matted and unwashed. What struck him first was her shirt. It was a red Portland Sea Dogs baseball tank top, the kind he saw baseball fans wearing everywhere back in his hometown.
But this shirt was ripped down the side; it was covered in what looked like oil stains, and all the buttons were missing, apart from one. He realized it must have been a long-discarded charity shop item that had somehow ended up being shipped to wherever it was this girl came from.
The second thing he noticed was the girl’s eyes. They were glazed, unfocused, and dead. Although she momentarily looked at him, Johnson could tell her mind was a million miles away—maybe on some long-lost family, a home village, or an estranged sister. Who knew. The girl’s hands moved robotically as she assembled a necklace, and she continually shifted her slight weight unconsciously from one bare foot to the other.
“Move!” Ignacio barked behind him, snapping him out of his trance.
Johnson turned and followed Fiona back through the doorway and the metal grill, Ignacio coming behind. The grill clanged shut, followed by the sound of a key turning as the moustachioed Lopez Seguridad guard locked it again.
Walking back into the filthy garage, Johnson noticed that Luis was no longer there, although there was another guard, this one with a shaven head and also wearing a Lopez Seguridad badge, standing near Brenner and carrying a gun.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Monday, December 5, 2011
Cataratas del Iguazú International Airport, Argentina
Agustin Torres pushed past an old lady at the bottom of the aircraft steps, almost knocking her over, dodged around a family of four, and sprinted across the airport apron and into the small, two-story red brick terminal.
By the time he got through the terminal, the modern interior of which belied its 1980s house-like appearance, the thirty-one-year-old CIA case officer’s white long-sleeve shirt was blotched with sweat. He slowed as he passed through the doors that led to the passenger pickup zone and looked for the new black Ford Ranger double-cab truck he had been told would be waiting for him.
After a few minutes of searching, he spotted it heading into the zone, ran over, and jumped into the passenger seat.
He didn’t bother to greet the driver but instead barked an order in Spanish.
“We need to move. It’s going to take at least half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes to get there. Go.”
The driver of the Ranger was a man who Agustin had used a couple of times before on previous visits to Puerto Iguazú. However, on those occasions, Agustin had a far more leisurely agenda, making routine visits to sources who kept him in the loop on the criminal underworld in the region.
Now the driver’s skills were about to be tested. Agustin, who had seven years of CIA service under his belt, prepared himself to take control of the Ranger if the man proved to be not up to the job.
“Your gun’s in the glove compartment. Browning as requested. Loaded and good to go,” the driver said tersely.
Agustin clicked open the glove compartment and took out the semiautomatic. He strapped on a holster and put the gun into it.
Agustin took out his phone and tapped on a secure maps app that he used to track the location of phones that had been triangulated by technical experts at the National Security Agency at Fort Meade in Maryland, northeast of Washington, D.C.
The last recorded location for the phone he was chasing, belonging to VANDAL, was on the western fringes of Puerto Iguazú, down a dirt road near to the Paraná River, although he noted there had been no update in the previous twenty-five minutes. The vehicle he had been told to look out for was a silver Toyota Hilux.
Agustin gave the best description of the location he could to the driver, who nodded. “Si, si, I know the road—it goes right down to the river.”
The Ranger’s 3.2 liter diesel engine growled as the driver floored the gas pedal and sped out of the airport toward the city.
Agustin knew his corrupt police chief friend Carlos had arranged for police at a checkpoint near Puerto Iguazú to delay the rented Toyota Hilux in which Johnson was traveling by an hour. But Carlos wasn’t prepared to push for longer, despite Agustin’s offer of more cash. Carlos wouldn’t explain why but just said it was difficult. And that meant that Agustin would be lucky to get to VANDAL’s location first.
Clearly, much was at stake. Agustin didn’t have the full suite of background information, but if the chief of the Near East division in the CIA’s Directorate of Operations was giving him carte blanche to do whatever was necessary to prevent the investigator, Joe Johnson, and his journalist colleague from reaching VANDAL, then he’d give it his best shot. However, he wasn’t relishing the prospect of having to carry out an exfiltration of the old man single-handedly.
Agustin sat silently as the driver weaved in and out of the traffic, pulling off several risky overtaking maneuvers with greater skill than Agustin had expected.
Before the Ranger reached the built-up area, the driver, his face tense, mouth pulled tight, swung a sharp left across the oncoming traffic, cutting right in front of a large red municipal bus, which provoked an extended, angry horn blast.
The driver accelerated hard, taking his speed up to more than 140 kilometers an hour as he forked left onto a red dirt road.
Agustin grasped the edge of his seat as the Ranger barreled toward VANDAL’s last known location.
Puerto Ig
uazú
Johnson stood and stared at Ignacio, who continued to point the Glock at him, his eyes flicking between him and Fiona. Was he bluffing or not? Probably not. There was a deadness, a hardness, in the Argentinian’s dark eyes.
It was then that Johnson had a moment of suspicion, recalling a TV crime reporter’s comment about Nathaniel having traveled extensively, including South America, and that police were investigating links between those trips and his death.
“Nathaniel Kudrow,” Johnson said. “Was that you?”
Fiona’s head whipped round toward him in surprise.
Ignacio moistened his lips. “I warned him.”
“But why?”
“He came to Argentina and arranged a meeting with me, saying he’d found out about the gold sales to my father,” Ignacio said. “He wanted to know if it was true, because he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t ask his family. He said he was planning to expose the whole thing. He thought it would be in my interests too. I warned him repeatedly not to, as I had other ideas; I told him to back off and shut up, or I’d take action. But he seemed determined. An ex-military intelligence friend and I tailed him for a week in Washington, so I knew about his discussions with her.” Ignacio nodded toward Fiona.
Johnson decided to let Ignacio talk, if he wanted to talk. He was clearly trying to justify himself now, and if he did have doubts about what he was doing at the back of his mind, maybe that was a weakness that could be exploited. The longer Johnson let this run, the better. There was an irrational, obsessed quality about the man. Maybe it’s in the genes.
“I told him to keep his mouth shut,” Ignacio said, “but he was on a mission to expose it all. Stupid. I never understood why. Unfortunately, I was probably too late with him.”
Ignacio turned and pointed at Fiona. “However, now that she’s here, she’s gonna be useful. I’m gonna make her write the story about why I’m going to dispose of my father so the world knows what he did to all those Jews and to me. Has she read those documents I sent you?”
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 38
