In Pursuit of Platinum: The Shocking Secret of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 1)

by Vic Robbie

  The officer was about to return to his truck when a piercing scream stopped him. A small girl ran out of the crowd and knelt down by the fallen youth. She cradled the youth’s head in her arms and her tears mingled with the blood from his wounds. The officer stepped forward and pulled her away with his left arm and raised his Luger to her head.

  ‘Let this be a lesson to you,’ he shouted at the crowd. ‘You mustn’t insult soldiers of the Reich.’

  He returned his attention to the girl.

  ‘Halt!’

  The Citroen had pulled in beside the truck and Ludwig Weber climbed out.

  ‘Put away your gun,’ he said firmly as he walked over to the officer and removed the soldier’s hand from the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘We’re here to occupy Paris not to exterminate them,’ he whispered so no one else could hear.

  Weber was smiling at him and the officer pondered whether to shoot him, although there was something about his eyes that made him think better of it and he snapped to attention.

  ‘Heil, Hitler.’ He saluted and swivelled on his heel before climbing back aboard the truck. ‘Gehen wir, schnell,’ he shouted at the driver and the truck lurched off.

  Weber stroked the girl’s head and spoke to her before leading her back to the pavement and sending her on her way with a gentle shove.

  Somewhere deep in the crowd someone clapped, then another, and another until there were perhaps twenty clapping in unison. It was a slow handclap, and from far away, came the strains of La Marseillaise.

  29

  ALTHOUGH it was june, the ragged peaks of the Pyrenees to the east were still dusted with snow that hadn’t succumbed to the warm winds sweeping up from Spain to the south. And Ben cursed their size and their grandeur because these mountains could prove to be the walls of their prison.

  The gendarmes were making their way along the line of waiting vehicles occasionally pulling one out of the queue to be searched and its occupants interrogated. It would be only a matter of time before they got to them and once they saw their papers they could have many difficult questions to answer. At best, they’d be turned back and at worst, if they discovered the platinum, they could be arrested. They couldn’t afford any more delays if they were to make the rendezvous in Estoril. Bernay had been emphatic the flying boat wouldn’t wait for them and they had only one chance.

  From what Alena had gleaned, there would be no way through to Spain on this road today or the foreseeable future. Turning around now wouldn’t be any better because they would only risk falling into the clutches of their pursuers. And even if they travelled farther east to find another crossing, the detour could mean missing the deadline.

  He gazed up at the mountains marvelling at their rugged beauty and his eyes drifted downwards to the wooded foothills where smoke from farmhouses rose into the morning sky.

  It was an idea, not a great one but perhaps their only chance.

  About thirty yards on the left, there was a lane running through fields of nodding, yellow sunflowers, complementing the blue of the sky. He traced its path all the way up into the foothills. Not much more than a farm track and about the width of the Bentley, presumably farmers used it to drive their carts and wagons down it.

  ‘Hold on, guys,’ he said to Freddie and Alena and fired the engine. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘For God’s sake, where are we going?’ Alena dug her fingers into the leather of her seat.

  With just enough space between them and the car in front, he pulled out onto the verge to a chorus of angry shouts as they drove down the grass scattering those who were sitting out enjoying the sunshine. Horns blared as they turned into the lane and the noise attracted the gendarmes who called up a van and sent it in pursuit, its klaxon blaring. He couldn’t risk going any faster. He feared the rutted path with a raised grassy section in the middle could pull off the bags of platinum or worse still rip out the exhaust. The pursuing police van had no such problems and gained on them with a gendarme hanging out of the passenger door gesticulating and shouting. The farther they went the narrower the lane became and as they rounded a bend bushes and brambles encroached from either side scraping along the sides of the car. And he winced at the thought of what it was doing to the Bentley’s bodywork. The vegetation forced the gendarme to retreat back into the cab and, as it was being buffeted from either side, the van was compelled to slow to a stop. Seeing there was no way through for them, the gendarmes switched off the klaxon and reversed back down the lane.

  Freddie, who’d been up on his knees watching the pursuit through the rear window, shouted and clapped his hands. ‘We’re winning, we’re winning,’ he shrieked with laughter.

  30

  BERNAY sat alone in his high-ceilinged, wood-panelled office with a glass of Armagnac in front of him and looked around it with affection. He’d enjoyed his time here. He had achieved some of his greatest moments in business in this room and he felt sad it had to come to an end like this. A photograph of his wife and two daughters in a heavy silver frame sat on his desk and he picked it up looking at each in turn. He wished for once he’d put personal matters before business and had gone with them to the south of France.

  Earlier, he’d heard the news about Renard, found in an alleyway with his throat cut and his wallet stolen. He wondered if Renard had been carrying the brown envelope containing his pay-off. That must have been why the murderer had targeted him.

  The bank was much quieter today. Some of the staff had gone out to watch the Germans entering the city; others had walked away and kept on walking. At times, he questioned why he should be sitting awaiting the arrival of the Germans. He supposed he’d always had problems delegating and his sense of responsibility was at times all consuming. Any other person might have put his own safety first yet he found it hard to desert his post no matter the consequences to him. Rightly or wrongly, he believed someone in a senior position had to be at the helm when the Nazis arrived at the bank.

  The sound of vehicles coming to an abrupt halt outside the bank shook him out of his reverie and he moved over to the window and opened one of the shutters. Two trucks of German troops and two cars flying swastikas from their bonnets had pulled up outside. Almost immediately, there was a deafening clattering of boots on marble as soldiers ran into the building and up the stairs taking up positions at strategic points. The remaining staff cowered behind their desks and some of the women wept, and for once Pierre was nowhere to be seen.

  He sat back down behind his desk, lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one. He refilled it and rested his elbows on the desk steepling his fingers in front of him and waited. He was surprised they showed him the courtesy of knocking. Hesitating just long enough to prevent them from breaking it down, he said with resignation ‘Entrez.’

  Two troopers pushed open the doors and entered with rifles at the ready. Their gaze swept around the room before they nodded to figures behind them. Two men in grey suits – one probably older than him and the other much younger – followed them into the room and sat down on the two chairs before Bernay’s desk without being asked. Behind them came a stout army officer who looked as if he was about to burst out of his uniform. The troopers took up guard at the door.

  The older man had a few strands of grey hair plastered to his scalp and rimless spectacles. And he had the careworn look of someone who had been here before and didn't want to be again. ‘Good morning, Monsieur Bernay, my name is Müller and I represent the Reichsbank in Berlin,’ he said. ‘This is my colleague.’ He gestured to the younger man although he didn’t give his name. The younger man didn’t acknowledge Bernay and just stared at him with an intensity he found disturbing.

  Müller continued: ‘We’ll have to carry out an audit of your resources...’

  ‘You will be expected to help.’ The younger man interrupted him and moved forward in his chair to emphasise his point.

  Müller was embarrassed. ‘I’m sure the director will give us every assistance.’

>   ‘He has no option,’ said the younger man determined to have the last word.

  ‘Yes, of course, you’re right,’ agreed a chastened Müller.

  In the background, the officer’s boots were making an unwelcome noise on the wooden floor. ‘It’s too dark in here,’ he snapped. And he stomped around the room opening up all the shutters to let in the daylight.

  Müller flashed him a look of irritation before continuing. ‘Let’s conduct this as bankers. May I?’ He pulled his chair closer to the desk.

  Bernay stared, wary of the German’s civility. ‘This is all pointless. What’s in this bank is the property of France and its people...’

  ‘Please.’ Müller glanced sideways at his colleague as if asking his permission. ‘We’re not barbarians intent on ransacking your bank. We’re not going to fill our pockets and go off with your money. Everything will be done in accordance with the new order in the country.’

  He didn’t say anything as he felt everything slipping away from him.

  ‘We’ll have to arrange the paperwork of course. There will be a daily charge made to the French government to cover our costs for the occupation of Paris.’

  ‘I’m not authorised by the government to make any such payments.’

  Trying to insert a finger between his red neck and the collar of his shirt, the officer interjected. ‘I’m surprised you know who your government is. They’ve run off to the south like mongrel dogs.’

  The intensity of Müller’s glare silenced him. ‘As I said, the paperwork will be done and I’m sure you realise it’s in your own best interests to co-operate with us fully.’

  Bernay’s eyes blazed. ‘However you do it, it won’t be legal.’

  The younger man stood up and leant both hands on the desk. ‘You are not in a position to dictate. The High Command believes banks are vulnerable to all sorts of renegades in a time of war. Therefore, my orders are to instigate the immediate transportation of France’s reserves – gold etcetera – to Berlin for safe-keeping.’

  Bernay almost choked.

  As if about to squash an irritating insect, the younger man said: ‘Be careful, Bernay. If there is a problem, it won’t be good for you...’

  A noise at the door made him swivel with impatience.

  A tall man with greying hair and wearing a long black leather coat had entered the room. He walked past the guards before they had time to raise their rifles and stopped to have a whispered conversation with the officer.

  Agitated, the officer stood to attention and gave the salute and clicked his heels. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We must postpone this meeting. Herr Weber is on urgent business on the orders of Reichsführer Himmler.’

  Müller got to his feet, fear contorting his face.

  Bernay felt pain in the pit of his stomach as if someone had reached in and was wringing his intestines and nausea washed over him like a wave.

  ‘Not you.’ The officer leered at Bernay. ‘Herr Weber will talk to you in private.’

  31

  THEY began to climb leaving behind the noise of the crowds and honking horns and the road wound left and right as it found the easiest way up the foothills, often doubling back on itself. It climbed all the way gradually from the Atlantic in the shadow of those majestic peaks and the slopes were so wooded they couldn’t see what they’d left behind.

  The Bentley bucked and twisted and he worried the weight of the platinum and the bumping and grinding would cause the chassis to collapse. Although it seemed to be holding up for now, he knew it must be causing a severe strain on the engine and ultimately it would surrender, probably at the most crucial time.

  With only trees to look at, Freddie became bored and kept on asking ‘Are we there yet?’ and complained of feeling sick, and Alena pulled him over and sat him on her lap and it seemed to quieten him.

  He had no idea where ‘there’ was.

  As if reading his thoughts, she asked with a look growing more intense by the second. ‘Do you think this will get us somewhere?’

  ‘Somewhere, yes. Whether it’ll be where we want to be is another matter.’ He shrugged, annoyed he didn’t sound more positive.

  The higher they climbed the more his great idea looked to be heading for a dead end although he couldn’t admit it just yet. The track here was even more rutted and under the grass and mud were boulders causing the Bentley to spring from rock to rock and judder into the gaps between. This might be passable for animals or perhaps a cart drawn by donkeys, but he doubted whether a vehicle had ever been here before. It became monotonous. Turn a bend and another stretch of rutted track hemmed in by trees stretched out before them and then another and another. And Freddie’s mood grew darker.

  As they rounded yet another bend, the track gradually petered out and before them stood an inn displaying years of neglect. Situated in the middle of a clearing, it faced out across the Bay of Biscay. Built in the traditional Basque style with its timbers stained ox-blood red, tiles had slipped from its roof and the shutters were broken and a wooden sign with the word Etchegarry engraved on it hung on one chain and swung in the breeze.

  ‘Let’s get out and see if there are any signs of life.’ Ben summoned his most upbeat voice glad to get out from behind the wheel.

  Freddie whooped with delight and ran off to explore. Alena, however, clasped her arms to her body in a defensive posture and looked up in despair at the dilapidated building. As he approached the inn, it was obvious it hadn’t been inhabited for years. Some time ago a part of the clearing had been turned into a garden although it was now overgrown and in it were rickety wooden tables and benches that would have collapsed had someone sat on them. From somewhere around the back of the inn came a dull rhythmic thud sounding like someone chopping wood.

  She went off ahead, knocking several times on the inn’s large oak door and, getting no answer, pushing on it. It made a tired creaking noise as it swung open and he followed her into what would have been the inn’s main room with several tables and benches and chairs hewn out of tree trunks. Dust carpeted everything in the room and the musty atmosphere caused them to gag and cobwebs hung from the ceiling like a forest of ferns.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ she shouted, and louder. ‘Is there anyone here?’

  There was no response and Ben noted the chopping had stopped and in the silence a breeze seemed to make the house sigh as if weary with age.

  ‘What now?’ She flopped down on a leather couch in front of a massive inglenook fireplace, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Freddie had followed them in and went around the room chattering to his teddy bear.

  Once this would have been a thriving inn serving walkers and climbers on their way to the peaks. This would have been their last chance of a meal and refreshment before facing the challenge ahead and later they would perhaps return to the inn for a celebratory banquet. Only for some reason the people had stopped coming long ago.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ She turned to him, demanding an answer.

  He shrugged. ‘Looks like a dead end.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Will we have to go back?’ Her voice broke as she fought back tears.

  He didn’t answer and wondered what he could say to stop her worrying more.

  ‘We have to get to England,’ she said.

  ‘Who are you?’ A man’s gruff voice boomed out behind them. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He was huge, his bulk filled the doorframe and even Freddie stopped chattering and watched him in awe. Stripped to the waist, he carried a large axe over a shoulder and his muscles and chest glistened with sweat. His long unkempt hair, black as a crow’s wing, tumbled over his shoulders and his eyes burned with suspicion.

  ‘No one comes here,’ he said throwing down his axe.

  ‘We’re sorry, we didn’t mean –’ Alena said.

  ‘Not since my wife died.’

  ‘– to intrude.’

  ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘
We’re trying to get over the border into Spain,’ Ben said, ‘and wondered if there was –’

  ‘No chance,’ the man snorted, picking up a rag and wiping the sweat from his face. ‘The way to Spain is back down the mountain.’

  ‘I know –’

  ‘There’s a road that will take you.’

  ‘We can’t, we can’t get through,’ Alena said.

  The man showed no interest in their problem and spread his arms as if it was all he could offer. ‘So, bad luck.’

  ‘With the Germans invading your country we have to get away,’ persisted Ben.

  The man glowered at him and spat on the ground and turned away muttering ‘La Pays Basque.’

  She grabbed Ben’s arm and whispered. ‘He’s Basque. They believe they are a separate country neither French nor Spanish with their own customs and language.’

  ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he apologised. ‘I can pay for your help?’

  The man turned back and squinted at them trying to evaluate their worth.

  ‘What good’s money to me in this hole? Now that’s some car you have there. Give it to me and maybe we can talk.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘It goes with us.’

  The man roared with laughter and looked at him as if he were an imbecile.

  ‘Only mountain goats go up there.’

  ‘Look, I know refugees are smuggled across the border into Spain,’ he said.

  The man’s face was impassive and if he knew of smuggling he was making sure he gave nothing away.

  ‘We’re desperate and our lives are in danger.’

  The man stared at him and Ben reached into his jacket and pulled out a wad of notes, not knowing how much was there, and threw it on the table in front of him.

  ‘Will that do?’