‘Classics,’ she said. ‘Haydn, Debussy, Purcell.’
Spargo opened the last box and revealed more CDs. Most were boxed sets.
‘More classical,’ he said. ‘Complete works of Chopin. There must be at least ten disks in this set. Wasn’t Chopin Polish?’
‘Are you suggesting Lewis listened to it because he was Polish too?’
‘Don’t be so sensitive. Of course not.’ He picked up another set and turned it so she could see it. ‘Wagner,’ he said. ‘After what I learned today that surprises me.’
She took it from him, turned the pack over.
‘He didn’t listen to it though, did he? It’s still in its wrapper.’ She read out the title: ‘Die Walküre – The Valkyrie. It even has its price label. Why are you surprised Lewis listened to it?’
Spargo shrugged. ‘Wagner was Hitler’s favourite composer. He wrote all that mythical Aryan crap.’
‘You can hardly blame Wagner for Hitler liking his music. Anyway, Wagner died before Hitler was even born.’
‘Wagner was anti-Semitic.’
‘Most of the western world was. A lot of it still is.’
Her father held up his hands in mock-surrender, a gesture that always annoyed her. Made her feel she was the aggressor.
‘What is a Valkyrie anyway?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘A flying thing. Mythical Aryan crap.’
‘Touché.’
‘Anyway, it’s not German legend. It’s Norse.’
‘So what will happen to them all?’ he asked, waving his hand at the boxes. ‘Seems a shame to break up a collection like this.’
‘Who says it’ll get broken up? Brenda’s no fool. If she can get the best price by selling them as a collection then that’s what she’ll do.’
She folded down the lids. Pushed the boxes even closer together.
‘Have you heard from Marie?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t seen her. And after everything you have just told me you can’t possibly use her to translate the journals. You must take them to Quinn. Tell him about Kalman. Tell him everything.’
‘Can’t,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I haven’t got the journals. I took them to Marie the same day I met her. I left them in her room.’
As soon as her father was out of the door Jez went to her laptop. She typed the name BarConSA into the search engine and got nothing. Scanning through the notes she had been making she typed in submarine, added U-1500, and then changed submarine to U-boat. Raising her eyebrows at the number of entries that came up, she scrolled down the list. Then spent time – a lot of time – checking web pages.
Returning to the aim of her original search she typed in Oscar Bar and refined it by adding keywords. By excluding genealogy, ancestors and forebears she thinned the pages down to a few dozen and worked her way through them. One was an extract from a New York insurance company’s annual report, a three hundred thousand dollar claim for goods damaged in transit. Made by an Oscar Bar of Madrid.
She reached for the phone.
‘Go on line,’ she said when her father answered. ‘I’ve sent you an email.’
‘What, now? It’s two in the morning.’
‘I’ve sent you a list of websites. Look at them.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No it can’t. You need to see them now. Take the phone with you and stay talking to me.’
She waited. Heard grumblings and mumblings.
‘Got your email,’ he said.
‘Click on the links.’
Another long pause. Then he was reading aloud.
‘Oscar Bar, insurance claim refused… what makes you think it’s the same Oscar Bar? There must be hundreds with that name.’
‘In Madrid?’
‘Where does it say Madrid?’
‘Which website are you in? Look at the one that says Anzika.’
She clicked on it herself, a list of civil claims lodged with a Californian court. She read it out:
‘Bar versus Anzika Ridge Shipping and Handling, damage to works of art in transit. You got it yet?’
‘Got it. They allege packing cases were dropped by a fork lift truck at Los Angeles International Airport.’
‘The claim was rejected so Bar took them to court. You said there were paintings on the wall of that boardroom in Madrid.’
‘Photos of paintings. But the claim is for works of art. That doesn’t have to be paintings. He could have been selling the Trevi Fountain.’
‘That’s in Rome, not Madrid.’
‘I know that.’
‘What were the artists? In the boardroom, I mean.’
‘Not sure. I wouldn’t know a Botticelli from a Raphael. It looked like text book stuff, a mixture of artists and styles.’
‘Velazquez? Reubens and his big boobed ladies? Did the breasts follow you round the room?’
‘Peter Cook,’ he said. ‘And it was bottoms, not breasts. Odd you should bring up the Mona Lisa, it was the only picture I recognised. The photograph was black and white and grainy, not worth hanging on the wall. And the only thing that followed me round the room was Benares. I didn’t know he was there.’
‘And you shouldn’t have been in there, that’s what you said.’
‘Benares wasn’t fussed. He said they were left by the previous occupants.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Not really.’ He was reading her email. ‘I see you’ve been looking up U-boats. You found a website.’
‘Have you got the site up? It’s awesome. They list over a thousand boats, every U-boat ever made. It also lists their commanding officers. It gives the history and fate of each boat.’
‘What does it say about Theodor Volker?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘there’s no mention of him. Nor is there mention of any U-boat with the number U-1500.’
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
THE VEHICLE WALTER DRIVES is an ammunition truck with a powerful engine and it maintains a good speed. So far, Theo has resisted Walter’s attempts to make him to sit in the cab and he remains in the back with Peter. His boy is sleeping, no longer in the den but squeezed into the tight alley, cradled in his father’s arms.
Theo is tired but he dare not sleep. He fears the checkpoints, not so much the soldiers manning them but the ubiquitous Gestapo – the Reich’s secret police – so often present in the background. He waits nervously for Walter’s the prearranged warning: three taps on the back of the cab.
He wonders again about Walter. Wonders what authority he has and what documents he carries. He tells himself that now he has Peter these things no longer matter and he tries, as he has tried several times before, to invent valid explanations for having his boy. He concludes, as he concluded each time, that there are no good reasons. The boy has no permit to travel, he has no papers at all. For that alone they will be detained.
Theo wakes to loud bangs. They come again, three hard whacks on the metal wall of the cab. Theo scoops up his boy and bundles him from the alley to the den. Peter wakes up and struggles, he will have none of it. He is well used to the dark but not to being manhandled.
Walter changes down through the gears as the truck nears the checkpoint. Theo lies flat on the fuel cans, his head and shoulders in the den trying to calm his boy. The truck stops, then creeps forwards slowly. For a minute or so Theo believes they have been waved through but he is wrong. Walter is turning the truck. He is pulling in at the roadside.
Theo hears voices, Walter’s and one another. He whispers to Peter to hide under the quilt but the boy shakes his head. He wants to come out.
Someone – he hopes it is Walter – is at the back of the truck. There is a rustling of rope as lashings are unfastened. A slick of light floods in as the corner of the canvas curtain is raised. Theo turns around and crawls back to the curtain. He tries, by crouching, to block any view.
His tunic is undone but his badges of rank show. A steel-helmeted soldier, still holding the curtain, salu
tes him.
‘Herr Kapitän, I am sorry to waken you. Your papers, please.’
Then Peter is behind him, scrambling over the cans, rocking them as he moves. Curious, the soldier places a foot on the ladder. He is about to haul himself up when an officer, curious about the delay, calls out to him and comes over. Walter intercepts him. The officer salutes and Walter, casually and with his hands clasped behind him as if out for a stroll, speaks to him quietly.
‘I have to confess that my Aide is not alone, Herr Leutnant. A lady friend, you understand. These U-boat men are all alike, insatiable appetites for drink and sex. Naturally, as an officer of the Schutzstaffel I find such things deeply embarrassing.’
The helmeted soldier drops the canvas and looks away sharply. One second more and he would have seen Peter. Theo grabs the boy, clamps a hand over his mouth and drags him back to the den. Theo hears laughing. Then, mercifully, the slam of the cab door and the roar of the engine.
‘I must have been out of my mind,’ Walter says later. ‘An insatiable appetite indeed! God knows why they didn’t ask me for the woman’s papers. I told them she wasn’t travelling anywhere and I was driving a circular route, about to take her to back. The child must be kept quiet and hidden, Theodor! My trick worked once. It will not work again.’
They have turned off the autobahn to refuel. Theo brings the cans and Walter empties them one by one into the truck’s fuel tank.
‘You handled it well back there. I heard them laugh.’
‘It worked only because of my uniform and because there were no bastard Gestapo… unseal more cans, it will take ten at least… also, if we are stopped at a checkpoint manned by the SS then we will be in trouble.’
‘I thought you people stuck together.’
‘There are limits. Even if there are no Gestapo, I might be outranked, have you thought of that?’ Walter hurls an empty can into the bushes. ‘At least I know what is up ahead. The Leutnant knows of two more checkpoints, one this side of Dresden and another at Görlitz. He says he’s heard the Soviets are on the move again and that worries me. I’m wondering if I have left this thing too late.’
‘Görlitz? Isn’t it on the border?’
‘If you still consider Poland to be a separate country, then yes. What matters now is that he – ’ Walter gestures with his arm to Peter, now out of the truck and playing with stones ‘ – does not wake when we pass through them.’
Theo shakes his head. ‘I can’t guarantee it.’
‘You must find a way.’
‘It is not just Peter worrying you, is it, it’s the crates. What are you up to? Why do we still have them?’
‘No, you are wrong, I can handle my side of this. The problem is your boy. Do not forget our deal. You have your son, I have my secrets.’
‘The life of my child is in your hands. I have no option but to trust you absolutely. We need have no secrets.’
Walter leans against the truck, standing awkwardly under the weight of a fuel can, his greatcoat unbuttoned and his cap at an angle. His stance reminds Theo of the boy he once knew.
‘Very well. I have told you already that one of my tasks was to find a reliable U-boat commander. I have done that. I also told you your friend Hermann will be taken to a U-boat that is being prepared.’
‘You did not tell me that. Is it your job to transport the Reichsmarschall?’
‘Are you trying to catch me out? I have already told you I am responsible only for the paintings.’
‘You lied to me. You told me the paintings were going south for safety. Now we are taking them to the east.’
‘They are safe. They are with me.’
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘They crates we carry will be taken to one of our ports. I am not yet prepared to tell you which one.’
‘You have already told me it’s Hamburg. Am I to take the paintings on board a boat? Also the Reichsmarschall?’
‘The paintings, yes. I am not party to arrangements concerning our leaders.’
‘There is hardly enough room for the crew, never mind a truckload of crates.’
‘The boat has been modified. No, that is incorrect, it is a new boat, its design has been modified, one of the torpedo rooms will be used as a store. The torpedo loading hatch… if I have got that right… has been enlarged to allow crates to be loaded. We have even attempted to get your former key crewmen assigned to this boat. We understand them to be men you know and trust.’
‘And the Reichsmarschall’s staff at Carinhall? What will happen when they realise you have the paintings?’
‘They will not. Only a select few in Germany are party to these plans. But if they do, then you, your boy, myself and many of my colleagues will not survive.
‘It would be better if I didn’t know that.’
‘Blame yourself. You asked me, I told you. But you need have no worries. Nobody knows about your boy, and you and I are already dead, killed near Munich yesterday when our trucks were bombed by enemy aircraft. The SS unit first on the scene will have already told Carinhall the occupants of the trucks are dead and the cargo they carried is destroyed.’
Theo’s face pales. ‘The troops from Neuhaus? Those escorting the other trucks? You killed them all?’
Walter laughs. ‘Not me, Theodor. Why should I soil my hands when there are so many of our countrymen willing to do these things for me? The deaths were unfortunate but necessary. As a combat man I would have thought you would be used to such things.’
‘In action we are killed by the enemy, not by our brothers. God, Walter! What have you got me into?’
‘You are naïve, Theodore. By their incompetence and stupidity our leaders have killed many thousands of the people you call our brothers. But I have told you enough. Is the fuel tank full?’
‘It’s the SS, isn’t it? The SS is stealing the Reichsmarschall’s art!’
‘It is hardly his art. But no, not stealing, we are merely diverting some of it temporarily, ensuring the most valuable items stay with him rather than in a bank vault in Switzerland. Who is to say the Swiss will stay neutral? Even if they do, do you honestly believe that when this war is over the Swiss banks will be evil enough to hold on to works of art sent to them by our Reich? Give them credit!’
‘What will happen if Göring does come aboard my boat? I met him, he’ll recognise me. He will know I was impersonating a Luftwaffe officer.’
‘Quite the contrary. He will be safe, and thanks to you he will have a selection of his most valuable paintings. You will probably get a medal. Take care with that last can, it still has some fuel. I do not wish to see our efforts destroyed in a ball of flame.’
‘Will you be on the boat?’
‘Of course! Do you think I would miss an opportunity to get out of this hell? Do you think I ever want to meet a Russian carrying a gun?’
‘Tell me why we are heading towards Görlitz.’
‘At Carinhall I asked you about the cases, whether or not they are waterproof. You suggested bronze boxes. These should have been made by now. The crates we are carrying will be sealed inside them and the bronze boxes coated with rubber like that used for motor tyres. In what you insist on referring to as Poland there are facilities to do these things. Come, we are wasting time. Get the boy into the back and then pass down one of my bags, the smallest one. I have something to make him sleep.’
They take turns driving. Walter explains he’d planned to spend the night at an SS barracks outside Dresden but now they have the child, things must change, they must sleep in the truck.
When they can drive no more they turn down a lane and conceal the truck beneath trees. All three sit in the dark in the cab and eat sausage from the muslin bags and stale bread from the farm.
The night brings snow and a deep, penetrating cold. There is a radiator of sorts in the cab, a long pipe with fins. With the engine running it stays passably warm and Peter lies on the cab floor in a bundled up quilt.
During the night
Walter grumbles incessantly about the cab’s smallness. Awkwardly he fumbles in his pockets, finds a cigarette, lights it and draws on it. Its feint red glow reflects in the windscreen. Other than that there is no light at all.
Walter finishes the cigarette, slides the window to one side and flicks the butt out. Theo hears him unclip the leather flap of his holster and take out his automatic pistol. He hears the click of the safety catch, then a metallic clunk as the gun is placed near the windscreen. Theo, knowing he won’t sleep, pulls up the collar of his greatcoat and leans against the door. Peter, now on his lap – a concession to Walter in the hope the extra legroom will stop him grumbling – wrestles free from Theo’s arms and huddles down on the floor again, close to the heater pipe. Soon his breathing changes, as does Walter’s. Both are asleep.
They wake before dawn and clear snow from the truck. The trees and hedges that concealed them during the night bend under the weight of the night’s snow. Lit by the truck’s headlights they glow yellow-white in a smooth, sugar-iced landscape.
Daylight takes over from headlights. Walter drives, heading east into a hazy red sun. Hoping to avoid autobahn checkpoints he takes roads not built for heavy vehicles. It is a mistake; their progress is painfully slow, impeded again by horse-drawn wagons that Walter, frustrated, delights in forcing off the road.
On decent roads again they pick up speed. By the end of the day they are through Breslau and well into Poland. Walter is determined to drive through the night but the truck’s masked headlights aren’t up to it. Finally he gives up, finds a farm track and stops.
While the others sleep Theo ponders on the future. Over the last few days he has begun to trust Walter, he has shown consideration and a degree of compassion. It is no comfort to know there are many others involved in this plot and Walter, though of senior rank, does not control it. Most worrying of all, Theo knows it was a mistake to take Peter from the farm. He has put the boy in harm’s way. What is the expression? Out of the frying pan, into the fire?
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park Page 33
