Following another hunch had led him to Hungary and Dohány Street outside the imposing entrance to the Budapest Great Synagogue—the second largest synagogue in the world, Elliott remembered reading in a tourist guide—as he gazed up at the two onion-shaped domes that sat on top the twin, forty-three meters high, towers. The towers symbolize the two columns of Solomon’s Temple, another historical nugget he’d picked up in the same guide, and he marvelled at the impressive structure thinking that nothing you could read could possibly do it justice. Its Byzantine-Moorish style reminded him of monuments he’d seen during his visits to the Middle East. He went inside. Elliott had telephoned explaining that he was a freelance journalist who had been commissioned to write an article about the Nazi occupation and it had been suggested that, if he came to the synagogue, he would be able to meet the gentleman who could help him. He happily agreed and the date was entered in the diary of the synagogue.
The richly decorated interior stretched before him. He went to the information desk and introduced himself saying that Mr Rubens Weiss was expecting him. A few minutes later a white-haired elderly gentleman with a slight stoop appeared. He was small, around five foot three or so Elliott guessed, and dressed in casual clothes. His thin face wore a nose that was larger than necessary; the thick glasses perched on the end gave him a slightly birdlike look. He appeared quite sprightly for the eighty-eight years of age that Elliott knew him to be. He was retired but during the war and at the end of it he had been an assistant to the chairman of the Association of Hungarian Jewish Communities.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, ‘you must be Mr Shepherd.’
‘Good afternoon, it’s kind of you to see me, but please call me Elliott.’
‘Very well, Elliott, how may I help you?’ His voice was thin and old.
‘I understand that you were here during the war and afterwards when the Americans came. I’m writing an article about that terrible period in history with particular reference to the Jewish experience and there are not many people able to provide a first-hand account.’ Elliott was slightly embarrassed by the implication and Mr Weiss noticed and nodded understanding.
‘You’re quite right of course, people like me are an endangered species.’ He said it with a conspiratorial wink. ‘And you’re right, they were terrible times.’ He paused a moment lost in thought and then continued. ‘Some people say we should not forget but for those of my generation, for those of us who lived through it that is, there is little chance of that. We will never forget.’ He was pensive again and then said, ‘Today’s young...’ and again he paused searching for words that would not offend ‘I don’t say they are ignorant, in fact I’m just happy they were not there. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.’ He was quiet for a moment then said, ‘Tolerance. That’s the great lesson we must all learn.’
‘Yes. Tolerance and understanding of past mistakes, so they are never repeated Elliott said.’
‘There speaks a young man. I envy you your youth and optimism but tell me, what is this really about?’
Elliott was taken aback by the suddenness of the question and its directness. The old man was very astute and somehow had guessed that he had an ulterior motive.
‘Forgive me’ he said ‘I believe I owe you an explanation.’ And he told him briefly about his research into the Gold Train and his reasons for trying to make sense of the motives behind his narrow escape in the warehouse in Panama.
‘Fascinating,’ said Weiss when Elliott had finished his story. ‘I was a young man then of course but I remember it vividly. I lost my family you know. So many of us did. Family and so many friends, all lost...it was a sad time.’
‘I know the story of the Gold Train,’ Elliott said bringing him back to the present, ‘and in a small way I have played a part in that story and I wonder if you might be able to shed some light...’
The old man was looking at him through intelligent watery eyes that, magnified by the thick spectacle lenses, seemed to read right into his soul. ‘So that’s what’s troubling you,’ he said, a mixture of comprehension and sympathy etched on his wrinkled face. ‘Yes, I can understand why you would be interested, why don’t we sit here and talk a while?’ he said, leading him to a quiet pew.
‘It was in 1953 when he came,’ he began, ‘he’s dead now and soon I will be too, so I guess there’s really no harm in telling you. He was a German, tall, handsome, aristocratic with a military bearing and, as it turned out, a Jew. He’d been a highly decorated captain of a U-boat.’
‘Wilhelm Klein,’ Elliott said, quietly almost to himself.
‘Yes. When the war ended he surrendered to the Americans. He had no family, his mother and father having died in Switzerland some time after escaping from Germany. He didn’t know if his brother was alive or dead but he believed he was dead. He said that Herman Göring had entrusted him with a cargo of stolen property belonging to the Jews of Budapest, but he had not followed orders and had hidden the contents where he could recover them after the war, aiming to return them to their rightful owners if he survived. What he did with the original consignment you already know.
‘He went into partnership with an American in the salvage business and made his money that way. He wished he could have returned the stolen property sooner but it had not been possible.’
To Elliott everything now made perfect sense. He thanked Mr Weiss and left the synagogue a happy man.
The first thing Elliott did on getting back to London was to contact Natasha. She’d had to give a statement to the police and that had been enough for them to hold Blanco on a charge of kidnapping and now the forensic team had examined the bullet extracted during the autopsy performed on the officer that Blanco had shot and confirmed the more serious charge of murder. Andrew Renfrew was delighted and so too were Ed Garrett and Dwayne Young.
Natasha had been very happy to see Elliott and he had asked her for a favour. He wanted to see a lady and wondered if she would mind accompanying him. Natasha had said that he didn’t need a chaperone but when he had told her whom it was she had laughed and said of course she’d go with him.
Miss Edwina was still as bright as a button and very happy to see him. She was happier still when he gave her the letter her brother had never managed to send. They left her reading it and Elliott imagined that it would not be the last time she read that letter.
Natasha had seen a side to Elliott that she rather liked and she told him so.
The next meeting was one he could not take Natasha to.
‘Who wants to see me?’
‘Says his name’s Elliott Shepherd, boss.’
‘Send him in,’ he said, his face somewhere between surprised and furious.
Elliott walked into Johnny Briggs’s office carrying a large leather briefcase and saw him sitting behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. Everything in the room was the same the only thing that was missing was Billy. In his place there was another goon. Not as large as Billy but then no one could be. A glance at the fish tank reminded him that Noko was still there and could be brought out.
‘Good morning, Mr Briggs.’
‘Don’t you fucking good morning me’ he said ‘where the fuck have you been, where’s fucking Billy and where’s my fucking money?’
‘Did you send him after me?’ There was no point playing dumb; he knew Billy had to have been following orders from his uncle.
Elliott watched Briggs making up his mind. He was trying to decide what to tell him and in the end he said: ‘I had to protect my investment.’
Elliott told him the whole story and watched as Johnny’s face went through all the colours of the rainbow. He didn’t look happy.
‘It was an accident,’ he repeated.
‘An accident you say. How the fuck do I know you’re telling me the truth?’
‘Because I’m here.’
Briggs had to admit he had a point. Elliott was looking at Briggs and seeing him in a new light. He seemed to be genuinely sad at the realization that hi
s nephew was dead. For some reason the idea that Briggs might have emotions, that he might be capable of experiencing sadness had never entered Elliott’s head.
He put the briefcase on the desk. Briggs was still stunned by the news he’d just heard. Automatically he reached for the case, flipped the catches and opened it. The sight of two hundred and twenty grand left him speechless.
‘You gave me ninety days,’ Elliott said, ‘by my reckoning I’m ten days early.’
Epilogue
Padre Ignacio Mora had been taking a nap. He was getting old, and lately, he’d been wondering how much longer he could go on celebrating Holy Mass, but he enjoyed the service and seeing his devout congregation always gave him a lift. There was a knock at the door and one of his altar boys entered.
‘What is it Antonio?’ he said, ‘I’m not late for Mass am I?’
‘No Father, but I think you better come to see this,’ the young boy said, walking out of the door and heading towards the altar.
The good priest nearly fainted when he saw the large gold statue sitting majestically at the altar. ‘Our Lady of Lima’ had finally been returned to her rightful home. Mora’s eyes filled with tears and he dropped to his knees and started to pray.
‘It’s a miracle.’ he whispered.
Andrew Renfrew was in his office. He was standing by the window looking down at the crowds in Victoria Street. It was November and cold outside, the sky that typically grey leaden colour that London is famous for at that time of year, but at least it wasn’t raining. Men and women hurrying on their way to work, tourists with maps starting their round of visits to all the historical sites were heading to Westminster Abbey. He heard the gentle knock on his door and turned around in time to see his secretary walking in with a pile of letters and files that she placed on his desk.
‘Tea’s coming,’ she said walking out of the room.
‘Thank you Celia,’ he said to her disappearing back.
He sat down and started flicking through the pile. Stuck amongst the brown and white envelopes and fat files with yellow post-it notes marked ‘urgent’ that his secretary had attached, the brightly coloured postcard stood out like a sore thumb. He picked it up and studied the picture of an exotic setting in the Caribbean. A beautiful beach and beautiful people and he suddenly felt warm as if the tropical sun had wafted in through some open window to embrace him. He turned it over. Wish you weren’t here it read; and on the top left hand corner in small print, Sandy Lane Hotel, Barbados.
‘Cheeky bugger,’ he said smiling to himself as his secretary walked into the room carrying his morning cuppa and chocolate digestive and caught him talking to himself.
At the helm of his newly acquired Italian, high-tech 95-foot luxury sloop, Elliott felt great. The salty sea spray hit his face as the sleek aluminium body of his elegant sailboat cut through the waves. He felt alive and invigorated as never before.
‘What’s keeping you?’ he shouted.
‘Coming right up,’ Natasha said emerging from below carrying a tray with two large Vodka Martinis. She looked fabulous wearing a miniscule white bikini against her golden tan. Elliott could not think of anywhere on earth he would rather be, and as the sun began to set, its dying rays caught the stern of the boat, briefly lighting the name of ‘The Mary Dear.’
Mary Dear - Redux Page 29
