The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies

by Damian Vargas

  Officer Ramos opened the steel door, glanced at Blackman, then to his superior. ‘It’s the Englishman. The other one, I mean.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He is very angry, sir.’

  ‘Keep him in my office.’

  ‘We are trying, but—’

  Guy Weiland’s belligerent yells echoed from further down the corridor and the young police officer peered at the Inspector, seeking instruction.

  Garcia sighed, pushed himself up from the cell bed and turned to Blackman, who remained propped up against the opposite wall, his right hand supporting his injured left arm. ‘I’ll be back soon. Please consider what else you wish to tell me.’ He signalled to Officer Ramos to follow him, the younger policeman locking the cell door behind him as Garcia strode up the corridor towards his office, towards the angry voice of Guy Weiland.

  He found Officer Alonso and the desk sergeant at his office door, doing their best to block Weiland’s exit from within. ‘What is all this?’ the Inspector demanded.

  ‘Garcia,’ Weiland shouted, his face turning puce, his eyes bulging. ‘I don’t know what the blazes you think you are playing at, but I swear you’ll regret it if you don’t let me out of here this instant.’ A string of saliva dangled from the Englishman’s front teeth.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot do that, Mr Weiland.’

  ‘You can and you will, or by god I’ll see you suffer.’

  Garcia, with his hands at his sides, shook his head. ‘Your conduct is most unbecoming, Mr Weiland. Either you calm yourself or I will have you locked in one of the cells.’

  Weiland, his face fit to burst, snarled, ‘Why you snivelling little—’

  He surged forward, barging between Garcia’s two colleagues, knocking the desk sergeant to the floor, his hands thrusting for Garcia’s throat.

  Officer Alonso tried to stop the Englishman but found himself clutching air.

  With Weiland’s outstretched fingers mere inches away, the Inspector made a deft step to his side, his left foot planted on the floor, his right foot sweeping around the back of Weiland’s legs, while his right hand thrust upwards to the Englishman’s throat. Weiland’s trajectory reversed in an instant and he crashed backwards to the tiled floor, Garcia’s hand still gripping his Adam’s Apple. He let out a groan. His eyes faltered, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Garcia shook his head at the desk sergeant, who remained on his backside on the floor, then peered up at Officer Alonso. ‘Don’t they teach you idiots anything at the academy these days?’

  The younger policeman stared back at him, his mouth wide open in amazement, then offered out his hand to assist Garcia to his feet.

  The Inspector clutched at his lower back, winced, then wagged a finger towards the unconscious Weiland. ‘Make sure he didn’t crack his head open, then lock him in a cell.’ As he started back up the corridor, he shouted, ‘And will someone find me some fucking cigarillos!’

  Officer Ramos stood halfway along the corridor, having witnessed Garcia’s masterful exhibition of unarmed combat. He stared at the Inspector, grinning with undisguised admiration.

  ‘What?’ said the Inspector, his face stern. ‘You thought I got to where I am because of my good looks?’

  Ramos chuckled. ‘There’s another call for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was the operator that I spoke to. The call’s from Madrid though.’

  Garcia gave Ramos a quizzical stare. ‘Madrid? Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘I’ll take it in on my phone.’

  Garcia went to his office, closing the door behind him, lifted the receiver expecting to hear his friend Diego Sanz’s voice, but the voice that greeted him was that of a young woman.

  ‘Is that Captain Garcia?’ she asked, her tone hushed but laden with caution.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Captain Jesus Garcia, of the Guardia Civil?’

  ‘Yes, who is this?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t give you my name,’ she replied. ‘But I work with Señor Sanz. He told me to call you if something happened to him.’

  The Inspector’s face dropped. He stared at the receiver. ‘What do you mean? What has happened to him?’

  ‘They took him,’ she said. He could hear her fighting to maintain her composure.

  ‘Who took him? What are you telling me?’

  ‘La…La Secreta.’ She was panting rapidly now. ‘I’m calling from a pay phone. I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Wait, tell me what happened. Why did they take him?’

  ‘It was about something he told you. That’s all I know. I have to go. I have a family. I’m sorry.’

  The line went dead.

  He sat there, frozen, clenching the phone receiver, oblivious to the sharp electronic tone emitting from it. So this was it, he thought. The day he had always feared, which he had worked so hard for so many years to avoid. Done so many things. The day when they finally come for you.

  Should I run?

  He placed the phone down, sat back. He had always imagined that in such moments, that fear takes over. That it consumes you. Dictates your decisions.

  But he felt no fear.

  And he remembered the departing words of the gardener, Manolo Gutiérrez, just an hour earlier.

  Where the fuck would I go?

  He pulled the brandy bottle from his desk drawer, filled his glass, downed it in a series of rapid gulps.

  There was only one thing that mattered to him now. A boy was missing. An innocent.

  He pushed his weary body up, walked to the door. He composed himself, then opened it and made his way to the front desk.

  He nodded at the desk sergeant, pointed at Blackman’s cell door. ‘I’m going back in to see the inglés.’ He glanced at his wristwatch while Rubio reached for the key, then stood up and walked towards the grey steel door.

  The men from La Secreta would be here in six hours. Maybe less.

  Garcia rolled his shoulders and neck, took in another deep breath, then strode through the open cell door.

  35

  Young wolves

  La Mesita Blanca.

  Three months earlier

  Harry Blackman was traversing an old goat track that ran underneath the curtain of black cliffs which encapsulated the south-westerly end of the valley. It was a route that rose to an elevation a few hundred feet above the cluster of large private houses at the end of the area, and one with which he was now very familiar.

  As he strode along the stony track, hidden amongst the pine, ash and Spanish oak trees, his Labrador trudging a few yards behind, Blackman caught glimpses of the pueblo of La Mesita Blanca lower down the valley on the far side of the river. The sun had emerged over the rolling hills in the distance, casting enormous dark shadows across the valley.

  He paused for a moment at one gap in the undergrowth to observe the road below. The view allowed sight of the T-junction where the thin gravel road that ran along the south-western side of the valley, joined up with the tarmac road that led to the old stone bridge which spanned the river, before snaking an easterly route to the pueblo, then onwards around the hills to Coín twenty kilometres away. The junction was, as usual, manned by two soldiers. Another stood, rifle in hand, in the white concrete watch tower that sat a hundred feet above the bridge. To the casual eye, it resembled a water tower, and its location afforded it an unrestricted view of the main approach from the valley below.

  He pressed on, clicking his fingers every now and again to signal to his dog to keep up. The path was rocky and rose sharply in places, and he could feel the sweat accumulating where his knapsack rubbed against the small of his back.

  Crickets chirped from every direction from amongst the dried undergrowth, the scent of the pine trees dominating the air. High above, a spiral of vultures drifting upwards, effortlessly riding a thermal. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and glanced back at his dog. ‘Come on, old boy. Nearly
there’.

  His canine companion had spent the last seven years availing the flat topography of Oxfordshire, and he knew that bringing the dog would slow him down. He had decided, however, that should he run in to any soldiers or private security staff, the Labrador brought with it a more plausible defence. He had also brought with him a small booklet - Winged Life of the Mediterranean - as an additional prop, the pages of which he had taken time the previous evening to painstakingly fold and annotate to lend it more authenticity as a regular bird-watcher’s companion.

  Twenty minutes later, he rounded the haunches of a rocky outcrop from which his objective finally came into sight. The old military compound sat on the plateau at the valley’s end, its north, south and west flanks protected by the two walls of fractured, dark granite that converged to form the source of the river and the gorge below. The area was dense with pine trees, except for the diamond-shaped space about two-hundred yards across, upon which sat several buildings.

  He lowered himself onto a rock and removed a small pair of binoculars from his jacket, and scanned the compound from west to east. It was bounded by a wire fence, the height of which he estimated to be twice that of an average man. He also spied two wooden platforms situated at the opposite sides of the grounds. They were unmanned, and even from this distance appeared to be dilapidated. In the foreground was a weed-strewn running track, three single-story wooden structures with patchwork roofing - presumably accommodation huts - and the brick foundations for several more, long since torn down. In the middle, towards the rear, he made out several small brick buildings. They were probably storerooms, he decided. Finally, to the right and with the edge of the gorge not far behind it, the main building; a two-story, brick structure which, with its narrow windows, slate-tiled roof, tall chimneys and creeping vines, presented a distinctly north European appearance.

  He detected no movement, but a grey saloon car and a blue Volkswagen minibus sat on the driveway and smoke was rising from one of the chimneys. Someone was home.

  Blackman pushed the binoculars into his pocket and set off again, planting each footstep as softly as he could, constantly scanning the undergrowth for movement. Memories from three decades previous flashed in his head, and he felt a distinct unease at being bereft of a weapon.

  Half an hour later, he pushed through the undergrowth and arrived at the perimeter of the compound. He crouched for a few minutes. Listening. Observing. An unseen bird fluttered in the tree canopy above him. Two rabbits sat munching upon the wild, yellowing grass on the other side of the fence which had been the subject of many botched repairs. He spotted elements of what had probably once been considered a sophisticated electronic security system - ceramic and plastic devices attached to the wire, cables running to metal boxes bolted to the cast concrete posts. But they were also in state of utter disrepair. The rusty outer-shell of a security camera sat on an equally corroded steel post. Severed cables dangled in the breeze underneath, like the legs of dead men hanging from gallows.

  Blackman began to circumnavigate the compound, moving in a counterclockwise direction around its perimeter, examining the fence and security systems as he did so. At one point he had been forced to drag the dog away from a spot in the undergrowth. ‘C’mon boy,’ he had said as loudly as he had dared. The dog’s heckles were up, its feet firmly planted in the earth. It was a warm day, yet Blackman felt a chill in the air. ‘For Christ’s sake, not now, come here.’ He plucked a dog biscuit from his pocket, held it up as an inducement, as he yanked on the animal’s lead.

  Eventually, he arrived at a point where a section of the wire fence had collapsed. A short sprint from there would take him to the back of the main house. He tied the dog’s rope leash to the fence post - the animal, clearly appreciative of the opportunity to rest - scanned the scene again, then sprinted across the grass towards the building.

  He arrived at the back of the house, pushed himself flat against the wall, and checked his surroundings once more. He saw no cameras, no movement outside. There were, however, muffled voices coming from within the house. He edged along the wall, keeping low under each window until he came to one from which he could hear the sounds emanating. He rose slowly, and peered inside to see a curtain, three-quarters drawn. Beyond that, through the gap, he could make out the shapes of people moving and hear the clinks of cutlery and crockery. Whoever it was, they were having a communal breakfast.

  A hand appeared at the curtain. He jerked to one side as the material was yanked aside, then the window cracked open. A woman’s voice broke the silence of the morning, her tone stern and authoritative. And she spoke in German.

  ‘Eat up, little wolves. I want you all on the sports ground in ten minutes. No exceptions.’

  Blackman ventured to peek back inside. There were, he estimated, about twenty figures in the room, spread out on several long benches. Most appeared to be teenagers, a few perhaps a little older. They all wore the same uniform - black shorts or skirts, white polo shirts or blouses.

  A flag hung from the ceiling, a red wolf emblem sewn onto a plain black background.

  The woman whose voice had urged the youngsters to hurry with their breakfasts, stood in the centre of the room, her hands on her hips. She wore a blue track suit with twin white lines running down the arms and legs. She had shoulder-length, mousey blonde hair clipped up over her head and she stood observing, her bony white fingers pointing from person to person, issuing directives.

  ‘Wolfgang, eat up. You have a long day ahead of you. Hannah, I’m expecting a new personal best from you today. Don’t let me down. Conrad, finish your eggs. You must have protein to build your muscles.’

  Blackman observed the scene as one by one, the boys and girls in the black and white uniforms finished their food, washed up their crockery and cutlery, then left the room. Two of the teenagers, presumably the delegated cleaners for the day, wiped the table surfaces down, before they too departed from the room. The woman was the last to leave. She stood, wandered from table to table, drawing her finger across the surface of one, checking it was clean. She started to leave, then paused, her head angled to one side towards the window where Blackman was watching. He pulled away from the side of the window, pressed himself against the wall, and listened. He heard her take two steps towards him. Another pause. Had she seen him? He held his breath. More footsteps, but this time moving away. He ventured a glance back inside. The room was empty.

  The Englishman edged along the wall towards the furthest end of the building. The gorge was nearby, hidden behind a dense curtain of pine trees. He could hear the sound of the water cascading onto the rocks below.

  As he rounded the corner of the big house, Blackman saw the German teens heading out onto the grounds. They were laden down with equipment - archery targets, balls, hula hoops, javelins, and appeared to be organised into groups of four of five, each about to embark upon a different activity.

  A man appeared from within one of the storerooms carrying an air rifle in one hand, a metal case in the other. One of the teenagers followed him, carrying a metal frame upon which were fixed several round paper shooting targets. The man, blonde and in his forties, was tanned but had a pinkish scar on the side of his face and neck. From a burn, perhaps? It had to be the man that Señora Weber had mentioned, Peter Stangle. And the woman, that must be Ruth Volkenrath.

  Blackman, staying low, moved along to the front of the house, crouching low behind the brick wall that ran between the building and an adjacent vehicle garage. As he did so, he caught sight of the woman again. She was standing on the porch of the house with one of the teens. Blackman recognised the boy immediately. It was Conrad Navarro. He watched as the woman put her hand on the back of the boy’s head, her fingers caressing the back of his neck and shoulders. She said something to the boy, kissed him on his forehead, then beckoned to him to go onto the field.

  As Blackman retraced his steps back alongside the wall of the house, and then to the hole in the fence and to his waiting dog, he
felt a deep sense of unease at what he had just witnessed. To most people, it would probably have all seemed most innocent; a summer camp for youngsters to engage in healthy sporting activities. Nothing more. But to Blackman, it was something quite different, quite sinister.

  His mind drifted back a quarter of a century, to the west of Germany, where he had come under fire from fanatical German soldiers on multiple occasions, many of whom were no older than some of the children he had watched a few minutes earlier. He and his men had returned fire, had seen their dead bodies strewn around shattered towns and villages. He had looked into the hate-filled eyes of the survivors as they had been marched off into captivity and had wondered what kind of evil had made them so willing to kill and to die for der Führer. How had the flower of Germany’s youth been so easily made to carry out those wicked deeds?

  This place, this ‘youth club’ had more than a whiff of the Hitler Youth about it, he thought. It felt more like a prep school for a new generation of young Nazis. Blackman remembered what Señora Weber had said about how her son had been excluded from the youth club. Because he was not German. Not one of them.

  He made his way around the perimeter fence, staying as low as he could, his mind fixating upon what he had witnessed. Those boys and girls of German descent would doubtless grow up educated, healthy and articulate, but brainwashed. Programmed. These kids, he reasoned, would likely be propelled straight into careers in key industries and powerful companies; organisations that their parents, relatives and Alte Kameraden doubtless controlled. The rise of the Fourth Reich would not be a violent event, he thought. The world would never even notice it happening. As he untied his dog, he felt an angry sickness rising from within. From the very pit of his stomach. An overwhelming sensation of powerlessness. A realisation that everything he and his men had done, all those years ago, and with all their sacrifices, had been for nothing.

  Had Nazism survived? Had it thrived? Had it won?

  And had nobody even noticed?