He eyed Rafa Rubio, the desk sergeant, who had just opened the front doors to let the cool evening breeze into the building. ‘To release the stench,’ said the Spaniard as he pushed the double doors open and placed the ‘doorstops’ - a pair of flower pots - in front of each to keep them open.
Weiland gestured towards the cell containing Navarro. ‘Is the ambulance on its way?’
‘Yes.’ The Spaniard strode across the room to the cell door, peered through the window.
‘They have to come all the way from Cóin?’ said Weiland.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How does he look?’
‘Not great, but he’ll live. Ramos patched him up. He’s lucky Garcia’s such a good shot.’ The desk sergeant returned to his chair behind the desk, and reached for the telephone receiver when Weiland leaned across, an apologetic look on his face.
‘I’m sorry, old boy. I just remembered. I left my briefcase in Inspector Garcia’s office. He locked it in there for safe keeping. It’s black and has my initials on it, “GW”. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?’
‘I have to make a call,’ said Rubio.
‘I’m sorry, but captain Garcia was most insistent that I be on my way. You know, before La Secreta gets here. I think it would complicate things otherwise, don’t you?’
The desk sergeant huffed, reached behind him to the small cabinet, and plucked a brass key from its hook. As usual, his pistol hung in its holster on the wall nearby. ‘Wait here,’ he said, then sauntered along the corridor towards the Inspector’s office. He returned a minute later with Weiland’s case, placed it onto the raised shelf above the desk, and proceeded to sit down, only then noticing that the front doors had been closed. ‘Hey, what the fuck?’ He started to get up, but froze. Guy Weiland was pointing a gun at him. His gun. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What I have to. Now, cuff yourself to the radiator behind you.’ Weiland watched the desk sergeant secure himself to the grey radiator, held out his hand. ‘Your keys, please.’
The desk sergeant gave him an angry look, then unclipped the keys from his pocket.
‘Which one is for Navarro’s cell?’
The Spaniard picked a key, held it up for the Englishman.
Weiland smiled, glanced at the revolver in his hand. ‘Now, don’t do anything stupid, or I will have to shoot you.’ He left the unfortunate Rafa Rubio on the floor, walked over to the cell holding Navarro, unlocked it.
Joseph Navarro, a.k.a. Joachim von Ziegler, gazed up at Weiland through bloodshot eyes. His skin appeared drained of all colour, blood seeping through the bandages wrapped around his right forearm and shoulder, but the sight of the Englishman at the door appeared to improve the German’s demeanour. ‘Thank god. Help me up, I need to go to the hospital.’ He motioned to Weiland to help him to his feet.
‘No, stay there. An ambulance is on its way.’ Weiland sat down on the steel bed opposite Navarro. ‘Before they get here, I need to know what you told Blackman and Garcia.’
‘What? Why? What does it matter? That recording won’t go anywhere.’
‘It seems that it might,’ said Weiland. ‘Captain Garcia seems to have developed a conscience. So, I ask again, What did you tell them?’
Navarro closed his eyes, offered a dismissive wave with his left hand. ‘I told them how I got here. How I worked for your government after the war.’
‘You told them that we did a deal with Spain?’
Navarro nodded. ‘But so what? They’ll lock Blackman up. They’ll make sure Garcia keeps his mouth shut. I just want my boy back.’
‘Garcia said he recorded the entire conversation.’
‘Yes. He locked the tape away in his office.’
Weiland peered towards the open door. ‘Good. Stay here and rest. The ambulance will be here very soon.’ He rose, walked through the door, then to Garcia’s office.
He examined the door lock, thumbed through the set of keys in his hand, selected one and inserted it into the lock. It opened. Once inside, he yanked open the Inspector’s desk drawers and rummaged through the contents. The photo of a young Garcia in his army uniform, the framed photo of the Inspector and his wife on their wedding day. Wads of letters, reports and other documents. Not what Weiland was looking for. He tried the other drawer, placed the near-empty spirit bottle and a glass on the desk, then tipped the rest of the contents onto the floor. Still nothing.
He let his eyes travel the room, across shelves, framed photographs and paintings hanging on the whitewashed walls. Cardboard boxes and lever arch files in piles against the walls. A coat stand with no coats. Then to the glass and teak display cabinet opposite. Weiland walked across the room, opened the two glass doors, behind which sat an assortment of photo frames and ornaments. There was a coating of dust on all but one item - Garcia’s medal presentation box. It had been open when he had last seen it. Now it was closed. The Englishman reached for the box, noticing as he did so the group of military medals in the waste bin at his feet. He shook his head, a rueful smile on his face.
‘You’re not as pragmatic as I thought, Inspector.’
He lifted the lid of the small wooden box and grinned as he found what he was looking for, a brown and orange audio cassette.
He returned to the cell where Navarro remained on the floor, propped up against the wall.
‘You got it?’ said the German. Weiland held the tape up, nodded. ‘Now, help me up,’ said Navarro. ‘I need to know my son is safe.’
‘I can’t do that Joseph.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Weiland was holding the revolver, pointing it at the German. ‘You created a problem for me. You told them everything. I’ve got the tape, but there are two witnesses.’
‘I had to tell them, they have my boy. If I didn’t, I’d never see Conrad again.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Weiland, ‘That you are not going to see him again.’
Navarro's eyes were open wide, focussed on the end of the gun barrel. He lifted his left hand up. ‘No, wait. Wait, we can fix this—’
‘I am fixing this,’ said Weiland, then shot Navarro between the eyes, his blood and brain matter decorating the wall behind him in an instant. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, Weiland walked from the cell, strode towards Rafa Rubio, who remained shackled to the radiator, and pointed the pistol at him. ‘I’m really rather sorry about this,’ he said, before shooting the Spaniard twice to the left of his sternum.
60
Still hope
Cortijo Magdalena
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
10:02pm.
Inspector Garcia stepped through the front gates to Harry Blackman’s villa once again. Barely eighteen hours had passed since he had come there, in the early hours of the morning, and arrested the Englishman. Eighteen hours that felt like a lifetime.
So much had happened since he and his men had found the Englishman sitting in the dark at the back of his garden early that morning. A long day. A black day. But a day that could yet be retrieved, he told himself. As long as he found the boy.
‘To the back of the property,’ he shouted, urging his younger colleagues to hurry up the driveway towards the house. ‘Blackman said there’s an old, concrete water tank. It is past the field of fruit and olive trees. Towards the bottom of the cliffs. He said it’s up a small hill hidden behind some mulberry bushes. Come on, we must hurry.’
Back in the police station, Weiland pulled on a pair of brown leather driving gloves, then proceeded to wipe down the dead police officer’s revolver with a handkerchief. He picked up a spare pair of handcuffs, dropped them into his pocket, then strode down the corridor to the door of the cell in which Blackman and Johansson remained locked up.
The pale face of the Norwegian woman greeted him through the small window as he inserted the key into the lock and twisted it. ‘What have you done?’ she said, peering towards the front desk.
‘I did what was necessary,’ he said, as he pushed pa
st her to face Blackman who remained prone on one of the thin mattresses.
The Englishman glowered at him, raised his finger and jabbed it towards Weiland. ‘It was you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Weiland replied, the pistol in his hand.
‘When von Ziegler escaped in 1945. It was you that helped him.’
Weiland shrugged. ‘It was my job. And it was your job, too. Why on earth did you think we sent dozens of units like yours scurrying across Europe?’
‘To bring those bastards to justice.’
‘Are you really that naïve?’
Blackman glanced at the pistol in Weiland’s hand. ‘He killed thousands. He should have stood trial. He should have been hung.’
Weiland shook his head, as if a parent weary from the repeated failures of their offspring. ‘Von Ziegler oversaw the production facilities where the Nazis built hundreds of V1 and V2 rockets. He was far too valuable to string up.’
‘Too valuable to pay for his crimes?’ said Blackman. ‘For all those deaths?’
‘Yes, quite frankly. And besides, you heard him. He didn’t actually kill anyone himself.’
‘I thought he did. I thought he’d killed one of the best of us. One of my men. His name was Gus Ferguson. He was my friend. But he wasn’t killed in the war, he was killed in England. Murdered. Just last year. I thought von Ziegler had him killed because he found out about all these Nazis holed up down here in this pueblo.’
‘The war was over a quarter of a century ago. Our country moved on. Your friend Ferguson should have done likewise.’
Blackman swung his legs over the side of the mattress and stood up. ‘I asked von Ziegler if he did it. If he killed Gus. He said that he didn’t.’
‘Well, of course he’d say that,’ said Weiland.
‘I think he was telling the truth. And I think Garcia does too.’
‘Garcia is a fool, a drunken wreck. An inconsequential maggot who does whatever he’s told to do. And let me remind you, he fought for the fascist regime here. Served it for three decades. He killed for it. He’s got the goddamned medals to prove it. They’re in his office, just across the hall there. All polished and shiny. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘I believe him,’ said Blackman. He moved closer, attempted to strike out at Weiland with his one good arm, but Weiland pushed him aside with ease, thrust the pistol into Blackman’s belly.
‘Now, now, don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘You’re in no condition for that nonsense, and besides I’m getting you and Miss Johansson out of here.’ He reached into his coat pocket and held up a black keyring from which hung two chrome car keys. He glanced towards Johansson. ‘There’s a small village not far from here called Allaminos. Do you know it?’
‘I do,’ she replied.
‘Good. There is a man there waiting for you. A Swedish man. His name is Anders.’
‘Anders Petersen?’
‘You know him?’
‘He owns a travel business,’ said Johansson. ‘He does work with the Germans.’
‘He does work for whoever pays him, my dear. And tonight, the British Government is paying him.’ Weiland pressed the keys into her hand. ‘It’s a brown Citroën parked just up the hill. If you hurry, you can be there in twenty minutes. Anders has a Land Rover, He’ll be waiting by the church. He’s organised a small aircraft.’
Johansson and Blackman exchanged glances. ‘A plane?’ she said, looking at the keys. ‘To where?’
‘Gibraltar,’ said Weiland. ‘They’ll put you up somewhere comfortable, and will see to your injuries. Then, in a few days we can sit down and have a civilised discussion about what happened here.’ He stepped from the cell, beckoning at them to follow. Blackman remained where he stood, glaring at Weiland. ‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t have time for this. The Spanish secret police will be here any minute now. If they catch the pair of you…well, even I can’t help you then.’
‘And what are you going to do?’ said Johansson.
‘Don’t worry about me, my girl. I’ll sort things out here, don’t you worry.’ He offered up the revolver. ‘Take this. Just in case.’ She took the weapon, Weiland standing aside to let her and Blackman out of the cell.
Blackman paused at the doorway, glared at his compatriot. ‘This isn’t over, Weiland. I know what you did. I’m not going to let you and your kind get away with it.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Weiland, pointing towards the double doors. ‘You need to go. And as I said, we can discuss all that in Gibraltar.’
Johansson took Blackman by the hand. ‘We have to get out of here, Harry.’
Blackman shot Weiland a look of bitter, seething resentment, then allowed himself to be led out of the cell, and out of the building.
Weiland, watched them leave, then removed one glove, then the second, and placed them into his briefcase. He strolled along the corridor to Captain Garcia’s office, replaced the case back where it had previously been, then walked to the kitchenette. There, he extracted the magnetic tape from the plastic cassette, deposited into an empty saucepan and placed it on the gas stove. The tape shrivelled up in seconds. He emptied the remains of the tape and the plastic cassette into a nearby rubbish bin, pushing it to the very bottom.
He wandered back to the first of the empty cells, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him, then took the handcuffs from his pocket, and shackled himself to one of the metal beds.
Not long now until the secret police would be there, he thought.
61
An end of innocence
La Mesita Blanca.
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
10:15pm.
Johansson and Blackman slipped out of the police station, sneaked up the steep road past the small white houses on the outskirts of the town, their doors and window blinds closed. There would be no witnesses to their leaving - the people of La Mesita Blanca had long known to keep themselves to themselves.
Weiland’s car - a Brown Citroën saloon - sat under a group of pines a hundred yards up the hill. Before too long they were in it, the Norwegian driving, coasting out of the pueblo and down the cobbled streets to the junction for the main road. There had been no sign of any police in the small town, but barely had they got onto the tarmac road and started eastward towards the mouth of the valley, before Liv Johansson spotted a group of vehicles in the distance. They were approaching along the only tarmac road into La Mesita Blanca, their flashing blue lights portraying their urgency and their identity. She slowed the Citroën to a crawl, eyes fixed on the approaching blue lights.
The Englishman, exhausted and weak from his injuries, lay slumped in the passenger seat. ‘What is it?’
Johansson gestured forward. ‘That’s probably the secret police being brought here from Coín.’
‘Then we are too late. They will stop us for sure.’
The Norwegian pulled the car to a halt, peered at the blue pulses in the distance. She counted four vehicles coming towards them. Another had stopped further back, its headlights now static. It was dark, the moonlight diffused behind sullen clouds. Johansson could not make out the topology of the valley, but she guessed that the vehicle at the rear was acting as a roadblock near the fork in the road between the main road to Coín and the cross-country track that snaked towards Allaminos. It was down that smaller road that they needed to go to meet the Swedish man, Anders Petersen, who would take them to the aircraft and to eventual safety.
The Englishman let his head fall back over the top of the low leather seat, closed his eyes and released a defeated sigh. ‘It is what we deserve. After everything we have done.’
Johansson shook her head, eyes fixed on the approaching vehicles. She thought of her brother, her parents. ‘Put your seat belt on,’ she said.
‘It’s over,’ said Blackman. ‘We can’t get away from this.’
She crunched the gear stick into first, peered at the Englishman. ‘I said put your goddamned belt on.’ Without waiting for Blackman t
o do as she had ordered, she slammed her foot down on the accelerator pedal and released the clutch. The Citroën lurched sideways for a moment, before the tyres found their grip, propelling the car forward. She worked up through the gears, barely taking her foot off the throttle, the vehicle’s two-litre engine obediently delivering its power to the wheels.
Blackman was being thrown from one side to the other as the car careered around the tight curves. He struggled to jam the seat belt into its anchor, then reached to grasp the roof handle with his one good hand. He stared at the Norwegian, eyes alive to the danger. ‘What are you doing?’
There was no time for discussion. She had just seen the procession of blue flashes disappear behind the oncoming double bend. They would be meeting them in less than twenty seconds.
She let her foot off the accelerator for a moment, navigating the last kink in the road, flicked the main beam on, then gunned the vehicle forward, the high pitch wine from the gearbox drowning out the howl of the engine.
The first of the approaching vehicles came into view, the Citroën’s headlights shining into its interior and upon the four occupants, mouths open wide, eyes on Johansson as they roared past, instantly alert. They passed the second police car, then the third and then the fourth, the faces of the occupants of each car all performing the same theatrical movement.
Brake lights, red and intense, lit the scene in her rearview mirror; the last of the police cars skidding sideways in a desperate manoeuvre to avoid slamming into its companions in front.
The Englishman strained to see over his shoulder, then looked at Johansson. ‘They saw us. They’re turning around.’
‘I know.’ She braked hard, turned into the next bend, then accelerated again. As they rounded the curve, the lights of the fifth police car came into view. It was parked across the carriageway of the main road.
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 30
