‘Well, can you?’ asked Horst. Farim raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, and smiled.
‘No provenance then, I suppose,’ said VonderHaar. ‘This will significantly influence the price, you understand.’ Farim nodded, but didn’t reply.
‘I know a dealer in Switzerland who could provide a credible provenance for the jars,’ suggested VonderHaar on their way back to the hotel. They were alone in the taxi; Farim had remained on the boat with the captain.
‘How would it work?’ Horst asked.
‘A bit like a forged passport, I suppose.’
‘Would that make a difference?’
‘It could more than double the price.’
‘Any risk?’
‘There’s always risk, but if you deal with the right people and offer the right amount of money, the risk should be minimal. Interested?’
‘Certainly!’
The waiter at the door eyed Farim suspiciously: the odour of sweat and diesel fuel didn’t quite fit into the refined atmosphere of the Pera Palace Hotel dining room. Farim pointed to Horst sitting at a table near the window and explained that he was expected for breakfast. Reluctantly, the waiter ushered Farim across to the table. He pulled up another chair, turned up his nose and left.
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Horst, ‘this is Colonel Sorokin.’
The well dressed, elderly man sitting next to Horst put down his serviette and stood up. ‘Please call me Gregori,’ said the Colonel, in a strong Slavic accent. Broad-shouldered and stocky, with a pockmarked, yet strangely handsome face, the Colonel radiated the confidence and authority of a man used to being obeyed. But his prospects had changed; the collapse of the Soviet Union a few years earlier had destroyed his career and left him destitute. Unemployed, and without much hope, Sorokin had drifted towards the rapidly growing black market controlled by a thriving underworld – the new Russian Mafiya. His contacts and intimate knowledge of the armed forces ensured a meteoric rise within the organisation.
‘Gregori can provide everything from a Kalashnikov to a submarine,’ said Horst, laughing, ‘as long as you pay him in US dollars. Please tell him what you need.’
15
Sheikh Omar stepped out of his grandfather’s tomb, unrolled his prayer rug and knelt down. Facing east towards Mecca, he began to pray. His family’s modest mausoleum stood just behind the tombs of the Mamaluk Amirs and their princesses. Sheikh Omar was proud of his ancestors. They had fought alongside Saladin in 1187 and captured Jerusalem. They had defeated the Crusaders. Sheikh Omar yearned to do so again.
Far removed from the noise and traffic of modern Cairo, Sheikh Omar and half a million fellow necropolis-dwellers lived in one of the huge cemeteries at the edge of the desert. The tombs were the only shelter the poorest of the poor could find; the dead cannot evict the living. The twisted alleys and countless courtyards of the labyrinthine city of the dead provided both anonymity and safety. As the founder and spiritual leader of the Islamic Brotherhood for the Liberation of Holy Places – a new radical Islamic movement – Sheikh Omar needed both.
Accompanied by his two young bodyguards, Sheikh Omar walked to the bazaar. He turned into the familiar lane leading to the spice-seller’s store used by the Brotherhood as a safe-house and stopped in front of the baker. This was part of his morning routine. The baker waved from inside, put some flat bread into a paper bag and handed it to him through a hole in the wall. Sheikh Omar enjoyed simple things: the heat from the open fire in the bread oven, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the hum of the bazaar in the morning.
The storekeeper had already opened the wooden shutters and began to arrange his wicker baskets and sacks filled with fragrant spices, nuts and coffee beans along the narrow footpath. The familiar smell of the spices reminded Sheikh Omar of his grandmother’s kitchen in Alexandria. Walking to the back of the store past sacks filled with cardamom, nutmeg and turmeric, he picked up a cinnamon stick and crushed it between the palms of his hands.
Sheikh Omar sat down behind a row of jars brimming with olive oil and poured himself some coffee. When he turned his head, he saw Farim walk into the store. Farim, dressed in a turban and a long jalabiya, looked just like one of the many morning shoppers flooding into the bazaar.
Farim took off his dark glasses and allowed his eyes to adjust from glare to gloom. Like every trader sniffing a new deal, he felt elated, the expectation of easy profit making his cheeks glow with excitement. The meeting with Horst and his art expert in Istanbul had gone better than he could have wished for.
‘I bring good tidings,’ began Farim, after he had finished his second tiny cup of strong coffee. ‘The dollars and the guns have agreed to do business.’
‘Allah be praised.’ Sheikh Omar raised his hands. ‘Was it difficult to arrange?’
‘Not really. The greed of the infidel is both transparent and predictable and thus easy to manipulate,’ Farim explained with a sly smile. Sheikh Omar nodded. He was well aware that Farim’s own avarice not only matched that of his Western business associates, but was in a category quite of its own.
‘And the dagger?’ Sheik Omar asked, frowning. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Here.’ Farim pulled the Blanquefort dagger out of his sleeve and handed it to Sheikh Omar. ‘It had its desired effect, just as you predicted. All I had to do was show it to him. The bait was taken, the hook swallowed. Sir Eric is prepared to do business and wants to buy the manuscript.’
‘What about the son and our samples?’
‘All went as planned. The son wants to prove himself in his father’s eyes and is eager to proceed.’
‘Excellent! When can we begin?’
‘As soon as you wish; everything is ready.’
‘How quickly can you deliver the weapons and explosives we need?’ asked Sheikh Omar, watching Farim carefully. He didn’t trust Farim, he only trusted the man’s greed. It was greed that made slaves out of men, and slaves could be owned and disposed of at will.
‘You’ve already obtained the merchandise then,’ Farim replied eagerly. ‘Can I see it?’
‘That’s my concern. Keep your voice down! You will have everything you need,’ snapped Sheikh Omar, ‘when I decide ...’ Farim realised he had almost gone too far.
‘I can deliver in a week,’ he said.
‘Good. Just in time ...’
‘In time for what?’
‘Aida,’ Sheikh Omar replied thoughtfully, stroking his beard. Farim didn’t understand the meaning of the cryptic answer, but wisely decided against asking for an explanation.
16
‘Great eye patch. Suits you,’ Jana joked, walking up to Jack’s wheelchair. She put down her duffel bag and kissed him on the cheek. ‘And so does the scar. The thing missing is the earring. You should audition for the Pirates of Penzance.’ Jack waved at her clumsily with his bandaged hand, but looked otherwise comfortable and relaxed. The week in the private rehabilitation clinic had done wonders for his recovery.
‘You’ve obviously never heard me sing, or you wouldn’t make such a reckless suggestion,’ Jack replied, laughing. ‘Now, tell me about Dr Rosen.’ By leaning forward a bit, Jack released the pressure on his painful back and made sitting still a little easier. ‘And thanks for putting this pathetic invalid out of his misery by coming straight here from the airport. I couldn’t have waited much longer, I tell you. The suspense is killing me.’
‘And then, the next morning,’ Jana explained, ‘just as I was leaving, she took me to this beautiful waterfall deep in the forest. I think it was her own private – no, more than that, her spiritual place. It was there she told me about the violin.’
‘You showed her the close up?’
‘Yes. Apparently her father had this violin – some family heirloom he had brought with him from Europe after the War – which he kept locked away in his study.’
‘This is supposed to help us?’ interrupted Jack.
‘Patience please. Don’t you want to know what
happened to it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Just before her parents separated and she was sent to boarding school, the violin was sold for a lot of money – something to do with charity. They were still living in Adelaide at the time and, listen to this, she believes there was actually an article about it in the paper.’
Frustrated by his lack of mobility, Jack tried to sit up in his wheelchair. ‘Now we’ve got something,’ he said excitedly. ‘Did she recall the year?’
‘Around 1961. The violin wasn’t sold in Australia, but sent to England to be auctioned,’ Jana added. ‘That’s what the article was about.’
‘If she’s right, we should be able to find the article without too much trouble,’ Jack said, squirming in the wheelchair. ‘Perhaps even trace the sale and its new owner. A valuable instrument like this doesn’t just disappear.’
‘Exactly.’ Jana peeled one of the oranges she had brought for Jack and held a piece up to his mouth. ‘There was another curious thing about all this,’ she said. ‘As soon as Dr Rosen saw the violin in the photograph, she became quite emotional. It appeared to me that to her it represented some kind of proof ...’
‘Go on.’
‘That the man in the photo was really her father. I think she was actually relieved when she saw it. Even after such a long time, after so much ...’ Jana paused, searching for the right words, ‘sadness, I suppose, it provided that important link. I know, it sounds vague, yet – there was something there, something real.’
‘Good work,’ Jack complimented her, ‘but is it enough?’
‘No, but we have a hell of a lot more than before. It’s still rather patchy and circumstantial. Too many snakes, not enough ladders, as my boss would say.’ Jana looked deflated and ran her fingers nervously through her hair. ‘I really don’t know Jack, are we doing the right thing here? I mean, after all these years. Look at Dr Rosen with all her soul-searching; look at Miss Abramowitz – old wounds can still bleed, remember? They both want closure. Are we achieving anything by digging up the past like this – by opening up the wounds? Perhaps we should just stop right here and walk away.’ Jana sighed. ‘Perhaps I’m just tired.’
Jack put his bandaged hand gently on hers. ‘If you wheel me back to the terrace we can have lunch,’ he suggested, changing the topic. ‘Don’t think for a moment while you were playing detective in exotic places that I’ve been the idle patient. We have a deal, remember?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lunch first, I’m feeling weak.’
‘You’re an impossible tease, Jack.’
‘Having to stay in bed – alone that is – can have its advantages,’ said Jack, winking at Jana. ‘It certainly gives you time to think. God, I could kill for a fag.’ Jana reached for her bag.
‘Are you out of your mind? Not here, not even outside. Do you see that nurse over there, the big, tough-looking one? She’s Irish. I think she’d break my arm if she caught me smoking,’ he joked.
‘Jack Rogan, actually afraid of a woman? Well, who would have thought that?’ Jana began to laugh.
‘You’ve seen the second article, I take it – with the picture of the Totenkopf ring and the Ritterkreuz?’ Jack asked, ignoring the remark.
‘I have. I read it in Port Moresby on my way back. It was rather provocative. Mentioning Newman’s family company as the owner of that – what did you call it? – that tragic house of hidden secrets, must have caused quite a stir.’
‘It did, just as we predicted. My editor’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Newman’s lawyer is threatening all sorts of things. I guess I did put a little spin on the story,’ Jack added mischievously.
‘The bit about Newman’s German background with the obvious Nazi innuendo, next to the picture of the SS honour ring and other Nazi memorabilia found in his house was quite naughty. I loved it,’ said Jana, leaning back in her wicker chair. ‘And then, the Knight’s Cross on top of that charred roof beam – carefully arranged for effect, no doubt – looked like a Nazi propaganda shot. “Valour conquers all” it seemed to say. You could just see the body of the dead woman being lifted into the helicopter in the background. Very clever.’
‘Thanks, now listen to this,’ continued Jack, turning serious. ‘An American attorney from New York called me yesterday – Sam Greenberg.’
‘A Pulitzer Prize nomination already, how exciting!’ Jana joked.
‘Not quite, something a little more sobering I’m afraid. He’s representing a group of Jewish Holocaust survivors in a class action against a number of Swiss banks. He found the article on the internet and contacted the paper with certain information.’
‘Oh? What information?’
‘Let me tell you a little story: It’s June 1944; and the war is almost over. A Jewish family – a doctor, his wife and young daughter – are rounded up in Budapest in the middle of the night, herded to the railway station, packed into a goods train with hundreds of others and taken to Auschwitz. The parents are gassed, the girl survives; four hundred thousand others who were deported in the summer of 1944 from Hungary do not.’ Jack paused and took a sip of water. ‘Before the war, the doctor – a cautious and quite rich man – had deposited a substantial amount of gold bullion into a Swiss bank. Foolishly, as it turned out, he was relying on the integrity and reputation of the Swiss to safeguard his assets.’ Jack began to drum his fingers nervously against the frame of the wheelchair. ‘Instead of honouring the bargain, the bank assumed the doctor and his family had perished in the Holocaust and simply appropriated his assets. However, to the bank’s considerable embarrassment, the daughter survived and appears to have all the necessary documentation to back up her claim. She’s the principal plaintiff in the American class action.’
‘I don’t understand; what has this got to do with us?’ interrupted Jana.
‘Just listen. It all started with the fiftieth anniversary of the death camp liberations by the Allies. Researchers working for the World Jewish Congress began to sift through mountains of records in the US National Archives. They concentrated on material dealing with “Operation Safehaven”, a secret American wartime spy operation monitoring the staggering flow of Nazi loot into Switzerland. What they found was extraordinary and will certainly change the way the world looks at Switzerland and the Swiss from now on.’ Jack pushed his wheelchair forward a little, to get out of the hot sun.
‘A wealth of information about dormant bank accounts belonging to thousands of Holocaust victims has come to light. According to the US attorney, the records seem to suggest that the doctor’s gold deposit – together with those of many others like him – was conveniently labelled, “abandoned”, by the Swiss bankers. Do you know what they did with the assets?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Apparently, they added half to their own coffers, and credited the other half to certain bank accounts set up by the Nazis.’
‘What, they divided the loot?’
‘Meticulously.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘There are documents ...’
‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t see the relevance,’ Jana interrupted again, shaking her head.
‘Your turn to be patient; here comes the best. As you can imagine, most of the Nazi money left Switzerland a long time ago and is now impossible to trace. However, a substantial chunk of it has been identified. It’s still in a Swiss bank account set up by the Nazis and is accessed regularly.’
‘So?’
‘The American investigators claim that the money trail is leading from Switzerland via Spain to certain German corporate interests in South America and from there, to a bank – wait for it – right here in Australia,’ Jack added quietly. ‘All part of a sophisticated, highly organised international money-laundering operation.’ Jana looked stunned. ‘A kind of sophisticated superannuation fund for ageing Nazis.’
‘Surely you’re not suggesting Newman’s bank is somehow involved?’ she asked quietly.
‘It could
be, but now comes the bad news. The transactions involved are deliberately complex and murky and at this stage unfortunately inconclusive. Not surprisingly, Spanish and Swiss cooperation has been less than enthusiastic. The Argentineans are outright hostile and don’t want to know about the matter at all. They’ve buried everything in red tape. You can imagine this is a sensitive and potentially extremely embarrassing matter with major international political ramifications. The Americans have suspected for some time that there was an Australian connection, but had virtually no clues, no leads at all; until they found my articles about Newman, a banker, with a possible Nazi past, that is. They’re taking the matter quite seriously and are looking into it.’
‘I need a drink,’ Jana said.
‘This is a hospital not the Ritz, remember? But if you’re really nice to me and wheel me inside, I’ll tell you more ...’
17
‘Mr Blackburn will see you now,’ said the Attorney-General’s PA, putting down her phone. Jana straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
Meeting Robert Blackburn, the Attorney-General, in the flesh was always a surprise. Slim and tanned with short blonde hair, he looked more like a tennis pro than a senior public servant. George Cunningham, Director of Public Prosecutions, sat in front of the Attorney-General’s desk with a copy of Jana’s report on his lap. He took off his glasses and smiled encouragingly at her.
‘Good work,’ Blackburn began, complimenting Jana, with his clever opening remark. Commending Jana in front of her superior, he was actually praising them both. He knew how to get cooperation without wasting time.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 8
