Henri considered the proposal. “Your offer is more than fair, as far as it goes. What concerns me is the possibility of your clients trying to seek revenge, either before or after the deal has been finalized. These industrialists are not exactly the most scrupulous people in the world. They should know that if anything happens to my daughter or her friends, I will turn all the evidence I have against your clients over to the international courts and use my influence to render their bonds worthless.”
“Understood. I’ll do my best to convince my clients to negotiate. But, Henri, you have the hard part. You must convince Claudine.”
______
Henri returned to his office and immediately summoned his daughter. She sat down across the desk from him without saying a word.
“Claudine, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say. I’ve just left Karl at the train station. They know about Ian Meyer’s involvement…”
She did her best to keep her face impassive, but she felt sure her father could see her guilt written on her face, in her posture. Father always knows.
“He also had a copy of an old article from the San Francisco Chronicle describing your presentations of your doctoral theses. It will only be a short time before the bond purchasers figure out what has happened—or what they believe has happened—who was involved, and why.”
He fell silent and stared at her with those eyes that could always see straight through her. She held his gaze while her mind raced to prepare an explanation.
“Please, you’ve got to understand why we did it.” Claudine described the details of their plan and what they hoped to accomplish with the money. She finished by saying, “I hope you will appreciate why we didn’t take you into our confidence. After our meeting in Chamonix, we became convinced that the removal of wealth alone wasn’t adequate to prevent the industrialists from reusing their capital to finance irresponsible future programs. We wanted to protect you and the others in the event that what has just happened ever happened.”
“I understand perfectly why you felt as though it was the right thing to do—in fact, I understand better than you can possibly realize. One of the overriding reasons for doing this transaction in the first place was a desire to end this war. You and your friends have just taken things to a higher level. Believe me when I say that your problems aren’t with me or with any of my colleagues. Your problems are with some very pissed off Germans.”
The thought flitted through Claudine’s mind that this was the first time she had ever heard her father use such vulgar language.
“Fortunately,” Henri continued, “Karl and I were able to arrive at mutually acceptable terms and conditions for his clients’ purchasing the remaining duplicate bonds.” He explained these calmly to his daughter before adding, “Karl will try to get his clients to agree. As for you, Claudine, I don’t see that the six of you have much choice. I doubt they will leave any of you alive if they catch you.”
Her first thoughts turned to Jacques. After a moment, she asked, “What about you? Aren’t you concerned that you may be on their list as well?”
“Oh, I’m sure that as long as they are convinced that my services are necessary to help them recover their bonds, I will be relatively safe. It’s you and your friends I’m worried about. I know you have principles… I just don’t think you need to die for them.”
______
Three days later, after numerous delays, inspection points, and transfers, Karl’s train pulled into Berlin. Half an hour after returning to his office, the door opened and Erhart Schmidt walked in.
“Karl, I’m glad you’re back. Hopefully you bring us good news.”
As if having to face an agitated Erhart Schmidt wasn’t bad enough, having to tell him about the comptroller’s report was even worse. Karl took a deep breath.
“Erhart, I am afraid I have good news and bad news. I have just gotten word from the comptroller’s office that they’ve discovered that two billion dollars are missing from the national accounts. They haven’t yet identified from whose account it was transferred. But an investigation is under way.”
Erhart’s face turned crimson, and Karl watched, unsure whether to call a doctor or a policeman. Instead, Schmidt took a deep breath and slowly sat down.
When he felt safe enough to go on, Karl continued. “Someone on Hitler’s staff received a call from what was described as an impeccable source. They said that over the course of the summer and fall, several small, unauthorized shipments of gold bullion were transferred to banks in Switzerland under the assumption that they were consistent with the government’s normal practices. The comptroller’s office admitted that without the tip, they probably would have taken months to discover what had happened, if at all.”
Schmidt clenched his fists but remained seated.
“Hitler is livid,” Karl said. “He perceives the transfers as a threat to the country’s money supply and a clear demonstration of a lack of confidence in his government and its war effort. It’s been said that he used the word ‘treason’ several times in his assessment.”
“Who would have something to gain by tipping off the comptroller?” Erhart asked, his expression distorted, despite his efforts to remain calm.
“Certainly not the Swiss banks,” Karl answered, “not without implicating themselves. Nor the forgers, who would risk the liquidity of their own bonds by making the smuggled gold public knowledge.” That should clear Claudine and Henri. “That leaves only the investigators you hired in London.”
Schmidt stood and paced around the room like a caged beast. He finally replied, “After threatening them with losing a big fee, I remember thinking about how they might react. You don’t think they’re trying to ensure that they get paid either way?”
“Well, if IFIC is in fact playing both ends against the middle, any further investigation on their part may end up doing us more harm than good,” Karl concluded, hoping this put Schmidt completely off the trail of Claudine and her friends.
Erhart took a deep breath and let it back out, then cupped his face in his hands. He let his hands fall and stared straight at Karl. “My concern now is only with our capital. This development gives us only a very short period of time to free it up.”
“That’s the good news,” Karl said. “Our Swiss contact believes that a deal can be made. He may know of a way to reach and communicate with the duplicate bond holders.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Schmidt’s fingers twitched like claws. “Just how does he propose to do that?”
“He didn’t say, and under the circumstances, I didn’t ask. I don’t want to alienate our only contact. He may be the only one who can help.”
“Well,” Erhart said, walking over toward Karl, “before we agree to any deals, I, too, have some good news.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced what looked like an old, yellowed newspaper article.
Without another word, he pointed to a photograph of Ian Meyer, standing among his five classmates.
“Look at that,” he said, after Karl had time to adjust his glasses. “They are the sons and daughters of some pretty big names in the banking world, including one in Geneva you may have heard of.”
Karl started to explain that the evidence was circumstantial, but Erhart simply took the article back, folded it up, and put it in the pocket of his suit jacket.
“I guess those agents at the IFIC did something to earn their fees after all,” Erhart said with a twisted smirk. “Now it is up to me to protect the personal safety of our families, our fortunes, and the future of the Reich.”
______
Schmidt left Karl’s office and returned to his own. Unsure of whom to trust in his homeland, he decided to call on an American industrialist, Jack Hardy, chairman and president of Titus Oil, an old and trusted friend. They had had many dealings in the past. Prior to the outbreak of war, Schmidt and Hardy had orchestrated a transaction whereby Schmidt’s company had become the second-largest shareholder in Titus Oil.
>
The war had not totally interrupted their working relationship, as the world believed.
Perhaps Hardy can give me some information I can actually use to settle this entire problem before I am forced to make a deal.
Chapter 21
RESCUE
Dr. Tom answered the knock at his door to find a courier holding an envelope. “Message for Tom Burdick,” the young man said.
Tom took it and closed the door, curious to read the contents. Before sitting, he instinctively walked back toward the door and locked it.
Tom, my old friend, please excuse this sudden and unusual message. It’s imperative that each of the six members of your 1938 study group be warned that their efforts at gold bearer bond duplication have been discovered. Samson, a private organization operating within the US, has been employed to hunt them down and recover their bonds.
—Karl von Schagel
Was this some kind of joke? Why would six talented, financially secure future leaders get involved in a scheme to duplicate bonds?
Tom stared out his office window at the green Berkeley hills rising majestically behind Memorial Stadium. What are they up to? First I read about Cecelia’s kidnapping, and now some group has been hired to track the rest of them.
He flipped through the telephone directory in his desk and found the number for Tony’s vineyards. He wasn’t expecting Mike to pick up on the first ring.
“Hello, Nate, have you heard anything yet?” Mike asked as soon as he answered.
“Mike? It’s Dr. Tom. Listen, I’ve just received a very odd message from an old friend of mine, who happens to be Germany’s deputy minister of finance.”
There was a long pause. “A message from the German deputy minister, during wartime? How can that be?”
“For years, we’ve been using bank courier services to communicate. It takes a little while for messages to get through, but the system works… and its privacy has so far proven reliable. Karl and I have used it to maintain a sort of pen-pal relationship. But, I have never received a note like this. Where can we meet tomorrow?”
______
Special Agent Nate Green stared out the window of his temporary San Francisco office in the Ferry Building. It was the end of the day and he was finding it difficult to concentrate on his work.
Out in the bay, one of Admiral Chester Nimitz’s frontline carriers was returning to her home port at the Alameda Naval Air Station, on the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay. For weeks, the newspapers had been filled with stories of the hard-fought battles on and around Guadalcanal. According to all reports, the Japanese resistance had been much greater than anticipated. For a stretch, the outcome of the invasion had hung in the balance. Finally, the combined efforts of the American ground troops, the U.S. Navy’s continued shelling of enemy positions, and the support of the American aircraft carriers were sufficient to overtake a brave, committed, and well-entrenched enemy.
Americans were excited. The successful invasion not only represented the Allies’ first victory in the Central Pacific but also started what they hoped would become a long, island-hopping string of victories that would eventually link up with General Douglas MacArthur’s forces in the south and take the war to the Japanese mainland. The end of next month brought Thanksgiving. Nate hoped there would be some war news to be thankful for.
From his office window, Nate had a bird’s-eye view of the oil-stained aircraft carrier, which showed evidence of numerous attacks. She was returning for needed repairs, shore leave, and resupply. In preparation for their arrival, the crew was standing at attention along the sides of the flight deck, wearing their dress whites. Proud but bloodied, the ship and her men were returning home in victory.
Nate tried to imagine what the battles must have been like. But the sudden ringing of his private telephone interrupted his reverie. God help whoever it is. This better be good.
“Nate, this is Major Jon Gersham. You were right. When we restudied the reports from the East Bay team, we learned that they had been watching what they believed to be a subversive cell guarding an old machine shop in Albany, north of Berkeley. According to their reports, two shifts of machinists came and went five days a week. Until recently, none of us regarded this information as being sufficiently important to include in our reports.”
You mean until I chewed your ass.“And what did you find?” Nate asked.
“We checked the town’s industrial records. That factory shut its operations at the beginning of the war, and these buildings should be abandoned.”
“Major, tell your men to stay put and out of sight. My men and I will come right over to check it out.”
An hour later, FBI agents joined Major Gersham and his intelligence officers on their stakeout. While they were waiting, barely breathing, a prewar model black Buick pulled to a stop in front of the warehouse and three people got out—two big men and a smaller one. It was the smaller man who caught Nate’s attention.
“That’s Tony Clarke,” he whispered, keeping the binoculars up to his eyes. “I knew him when he was in the bureau… A bad seed if there ever was one.”
As they watched, Clarke and the two bodyguard types walked up the long stairs, went inside, and reappeared in less than thirty minutes.
“Whatever happened,” Nate surmised, “something must have gone wrong. It looked to me like Clarke was upset and barking orders.”
Green thought he saw a slight movement in one of the loft windows, and he quickly focused his binoculars on the window. Someone is in the loft.
______
It was nightfall, but it made little difference to Cecelia. In her dim room, what little light there was wasn’t missed. One night ran into another. She was still in her “cave,” but her sleep had become sporadic. She was having trouble with nightmares, which were becoming so real and horrific that she would wake up in a cold sweat and realize she was living them. Hunger had ceased to be a problem; her system had begun to shut down. The veins on her arms and legs could now be clearly seen. The bones in her shoulders, her rib cage, her hips, her arms, and her legs appeared to be covered only by a thin parchment of clear, white skin. Thirst was her biggest problem. Even with her careful rationing of water, she couldn’t seem to make it last. None of it could be spared for cleaning. Her fingernails had grown at least another inch; her hair had become an oily, dirty mess. The hair under her arms had grown full, and she could smell her own odor.
Outwardly, she looked like a small, wild animal. Her eyes showed no expression of life or recognition of anything occurring around her. Cecelia was protecting her mind, though, guarding it the only way she knew—by keeping it in a safe place, far away from reality. She concentrated on her most cherished memories. They represented all that was left of her life. Nothing else mattered now.
Earlier, her captors had taken her into the room next door, and once more the bright light was turned on. She could see only dim silhouettes of the three men as they entered the room and sat opposite her, behind the big table. The interrogation lasted longer than usual. Three times, they had asked her the same question, and three times, she hadn’t answered. Something seemed different—was it a tone of desperation in their voices? She allowed a very small part of her mind to engage with her surroundings. Have they run out of time? Have they given up?
After the questioning was completed, they returned her to the small room. She could hear the three men outside her door. One of them was especially angry. He either didn’t realize that Cecelia could hear or he didn’t give a damn.
“This is going nowhere. Our client is frustrated and time is running out. We need to try something new. If we can’t wait it out, I say we beat it out of her!”
Overhearing the conversation, Cecelia couldn’t be sure if this was simply a scare tactic or if, tomorrow, they would try torture. Either way, she knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Whatever they did to her body, she would be far away in her mind.
She heard the steps of three men as they descended the o
utside stairs. The fourth—her regular guard, she assumed—remained posted outside her door. Cecelia nodded off into a light sleep. She was awakened not by her discomfort or by her bad dreams, but by a soft sound she couldn’t identify.
She sat up, stock still, in the total darkness.
The skylight, painted an opaque black, shattered above her head. Instinctively, Cecelia held up her arms to protect her eyes as a blinding light flashed through the room, followed by the sound of a small explosion.
The guard unlocked the door and, gun in hand, came charging into the room. The first man who dropped through the skylight shot him. The second rescuer grabbed Cecelia, saying, “Don’t worry, Miss Chang. You’re safe now.”
______
“Mike, you’ve got a phone call,” Tony Garibaldi said, his eyelids just a tad heavier than his dragging feet. He stood in Mike’s bedroom doorway, rubbing his face in a futile attempt to wake himself up. He looked at the clock; it was five AM.
When Mike didn’t respond, he walked over to the bed and shook his friend awake. “Mike, wake up! You’ve got an important phone call.”
“Yeah, okay, hang on.” Mike dragged himself upright. He reached over for the phone and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. Stone, I’m Dr. Ross at the Peralta Hospital in Oakland. A Miss Cecelia Chang has just been admitted here. An FBI agent requested that we call you.”
Mike’s eyes shot open; he sat straight up in bed. “Is she… Is she okay?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of physical harm. But she is badly dehydrated and in need of nourishment. We are treating her intravenously. It’s her… mental condition that concerns us most. She’s had a difficult time, and there’s no telling how disturbed she may be. You may want to get here—”
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 13
