The Shadow Project bh-5

by Scott Mariani

  ‘I told you, keep your mouth shut,’ the woman said without looking back at him. The tall man grabbed Adam’s arm and forced him onwards. They went through a doorway marked ‘PRIVAT’, down a bare, narrow staircase that smelled of damp. The winding staircase led down to a rear exit that opened into an alleyway. Adam followed the woman out into the pale sunlight. The alley was edged with piles of old beer crates, cardboard boxes and bins that stank of rotting garbage.

  A black unmarked van was waiting for them. The stocky guy wrenched open the back doors while the tall one took Adam’s holdall from him and threw it in the front with the briefcase. A wave of the gun, and Adam clambered into the back. There were no windows, and it was empty apart from a mattress on the hard metal floor. The back doors slammed shut with a hollow clang, and he was in darkness.

  More doors slammed, then the engine fired up and he was jerked almost off his feet as the van pulled away with a lurch.

  The drive lasted a long time. Adam curled up on the mattress as the van chassis squeaked and rattled and the vibrations pulsed up through the floor. He could tell from the steady, dulling roar of the engine that they were on a fast road, maybe a motorway.

  After what seemed like days, the engine note dropped to a rumble and the vibrations diminished as the van turned off onto a slower road and started swinging and swaying through bends. From the angle of the floor and the number of gear changes, he figured that they were climbing steeply up some kind of mountain road.

  For a horrible moment, that made him think of Julia Goodman. Back in Dublin, what seemed like a lifetime ago, Lenny Salt had suggested that someone might have thrown her off a mountain. Adam hadn’t believed him at the time, but now everything was different. Anything seemed plausible. Was the same thing going to happen to him? Was his son already dead, and now he was going to die too?

  But the van didn’t stop, and nobody pulled open the doors to haul him out and pitch him over the edge of some terrible drop. The journey continued. It was colder now, as though they’d gained a great deal of altitude. Adam found a crumpled blanket on the mattress and pulled it over him. As he lay there huddled, the van left paved roads behind and was soon lurching and bouncing interminably over rough ground.

  He lost all track of time. Reality began to merge with the nightmares in his head, and he drifted in a shadowy in-between state until the slamming of doors and the sound of voices outside startled him awake and he realised they’d come to a stop. More strange sounds, like the grinding of machinery and a juddering crash like a giant portcullis closing. Then the van lurched away again. Now the sound of its engine was echoey and hollow, as though they were driving through some kind of tunnel. It went on and on, and he sensed they were moving downhill in a slow spiral, as if driving into a huge subterranean car park.

  Gripped by equal measures of curiosity and dread, Adam rolled off the mattress and clambered up on his feet again. Where were they taking him?

  Then, suddenly, the van stopped again. He heard the front doors open and footsteps echoing as his three captors got out. The footsteps walked around the side of the van. The lock turned with a harsh grating noise, and suddenly Adam was dazzled and covering his eyes as the back of the van was flooded with white light.

  Strong hands gripped him by the arms and he was hauled out. Half-blinded, he struggled to get his bearings. Concrete under his feet. The air was stale and voices bounced off stone walls. It felt cold and dank, and something told him they were deep underground. There were several more people around him, talking rapidly in a language he was pretty sure wasn’t German.

  His eyes began to adjust to the light of the fierce spot-lamps, and now he could see they were in a large chamber. The walls were painted battleship-grey, streaked with damp and age. There were several more vehicles parked around, a couple of trucks and a Land Rover.

  The woman, the tall, lean man and the stocky one with the pistol were in conversation with a group of four more men. They all had the same serious expression. Two were armed with small automatic weapons that hung from shoulder straps. Adam couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying, but it seemed like a handover – and he was the goods.

  The woman nodded, someone laughed and then one of the armed men grabbed him and led him brusquely across the chamber towards a steel door. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman and her two male companions walking away without a second glance at him.

  Beyond the door, he found himself being marched down a stone corridor that seemed to have no end. The walls were the same pitted grey. They passed a stamped metal sign riveted to the stonework, its edges eaten away with rust. A stark red arrow pointed down the corridor by way of directions, and underneath was faded black lettering in what looked to him like German. He couldn’t understand ‘BEFEHLSRAUM’, but the word ‘KOMMANDOSTAB’ looked military.

  ‘Where the fuck am I being taken?’ he demanded.

  No reply. His four captors marched him onwards down the dank corridor. Here and there, puddles of stagnant condensation had collected on the floor, and dusty cobwebs hung from old pipework and the exposed wires that ran along the walls between lamps in wire cages. The switches and circuit breakers were ancient Bakelite affairs, as old as the peeling paint on the stone blocks.

  The corridor curved around to the right. Some clanging iron steps, then a landing with more doors. Another sign, with more red arrows pointing in different directions. Whatever this place was, it was huge.

  The men shoved Adam through one of the doors into what seemed like a storeroom. Judging by the layer of dust on the tables and shelves, the place hadn’t been used in decades.

  And when he looked around, he knew exactly how long. He stopped and gaped, blinking, disbelieving, at the age-worn banner that was hanging on the wall at the far end of the room. It was faded red, with a white circle in the centre about three feet in diameter.

  Inside the circle was a Nazi swastika.

  He whirled round to his captors, but they just shoved him roughly across the room and through another steel door, pushed him inside and shut him in.

  He was in a cell. It was clean and warm, with a radiator, a metal-framed single bed, a sink, a toilet and a wardrobe. But it was a cell.

  Adam O’Connor started beating on the cold steel door and screamed for his son.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ben was back at the Mini by three o’clock, and sitting at the wheel in the car park on the edge of Bruges, wondering what to do next. Europe was awash with sprouting neo-Nazi groups. Somewhere out there, one of them would lead him to this woman he believed was his sister. He could dedicate himself to tracking them down, infiltrating their meetings, shadowing them like a ghost, kicking down doors and breaking bones until he found the right shaven-headed, tattooed degenerate who could take him to her.

  Luc Simon had been right. The way he was feeling right now, it would satisfy him to kick some arses.

  But it could take months, years. It would dominate his life completely. Even if he was willing to risk incurring the wrath of Luc Simon and spending half his life dodging Interpol agents, time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had Rupert Shannon’s lawyer to worry about. The threat of losing Le Val hanging over him like the sword of Damocles. The stomach-churning prospect of having to go and beg for money from the bank, something he’d never had to do in his life before. And none of those things was about to go away.

  But he couldn’t just give this up and go home. The other alternative was to keep following the Kammler trail. If he could learn more about the kind of people who were interested in the SS general’s work, find and talk to others who were chasing the same thing, he might find connections.

  Ben thought about the man Don Jarrett had mentioned.

  ‘All right, Lenny Salt,’ he said out loud. ‘Let’s see if we can’t dig you out. Maybe you can shine some light on this mess.’

  He used his phone to do an online search on Manchester University. The Physics Department website was eas
y to find, but after trawling through the whole thing twice he could find no mention whatsoever of a Lenny Salt. He spent a few minutes checking through the other science departments as well, in case Jarrett had got it wrong. But no sign.

  Then he tried typing ‘Lenny Salt’ into the search engine. He came up with about a million results, but none of them offered up anything promising.

  He went back to the Physics Department site and figured out his next move. Late in June, the university would be deep into its holiday season. Few lecturers would be around, maybe just the odd one popping in and out of their offices, but there would be some kind of skeleton staff looking after reception. Ben scrolled down a list of lecturers and his eye landed on a guy called Tom Wilson. In his picture he looked about fortyish, heavyset and balding. He was smiling with his eyes like someone who’d have a sense of humour. Ben wondered whether he’d appreciate this joke.

  He called reception. ‘Physics Department,’ said a woman’s voice. She sounded young, and half-asleep with boredom. He could imagine her sitting there, manning an empty reception desk on a dull, hot afternoon, gazing out of the window at the sunshine and counting the minutes until she could get out of there.

  For all he knew, she talked to Wilson every day of her week and would see through the deception right away and slam down the phone. It was a one-shot deal, but it was the only shot he had.

  He tried to sound breezy and laidback. ‘Hi, this is Dr Wilson. Listen, sorry to bother you about this, but I’m trying to contact Lenny Salt and he’s not answering his office line. Need to ask him something, but I’ve lost his damn mobile number. You wouldn’t happen to have it there, would you?’

  Silence down the phone.

  When she spoke again, the bored slur in her voice was gone.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Dr Tom Wilson,’ Ben said. He could feel this slipping away from him already.

  Another heavy silence on the line.

  ‘Tom Wilson, assistant head of department?’ She said it suspiciously, but Ben could hear the smile curling on her lips.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Do you know your office number, Dr Wilson?’ Teasing now. Ben didn’t reply.

  ‘Lenny Salt doesn’t work here any more,’ she said. ‘And he never had an office here. He was just the lab assistant. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Dr Wilson?’

  Shit.

  ‘Student gags are usually reserved for Rag Week,’ she said. ‘You got me. But this isn’t a student gag.’

  ‘So you’re not Tom Wilson, and you’re not a student either.’

  ‘Innocent on both counts.’

  ‘I knew you weren’t Wilson. Your voice is too nice. And the students are all callow youths.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Ben said. ‘So who are you, caller?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m Ben.’ Sometimes frankness was the best way.

  ‘That’s a nice name. You’re not trying to get me into trouble, are you, Ben?’

  ‘I didn’t get your name.’

  ‘I didn’t give it. It’s Vicki. That’s with an i.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of getting you into trouble, Vicki with an i.’

  She gave a low laugh. ‘Listen, Mr Nice-Voice-Ben. Even if I had a number to give you, I wouldn’t be allowed. But I don’t have a number, because Lenny Salt wouldn’t ever give one out. He’d be too worried the CIA or someone would use it to track him down.’

  ‘Got to watch those things,’ Ben said. ‘You never know with those guys.’

  ‘And that’s why if I were looking for that old fart, not that I would in a million billion years, I wouldn’t even bother with the phone. I’d be looking up some weird shit online.’

  ‘Some weird shit?’

  ‘That’s his website, someweirdshit-dot-com. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

  ‘I get the feeling Lenny wasn’t your favourite person in the department.’

  She snorted. ‘He’s a nut. And a creep. Thinks he’s this big scientist. Not that I have any favourites in this place.’

  ‘Any idea where he went after he left there?’

  ‘I know he lives in a caravan or a camper, something like that. But he could be anywhere.’

  ‘I really appreciate your help, Vicki. You’re definitely the nicest and strangest Physics Department receptionist who’s ever flirted with me on the phone.’

  That low laugh again. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Buy me a drink sometime, if you want to thank me.’

  ‘The very next time I’m in Manchester.’

  ‘Look forward to it, Ben. You know where to find me.’

  Then she hung up. Ben stared at the phone for a moment, smiling and shaking his head.

  Leaning back in the car seat, he revisited the search engine and punched in the web address Vicki had given him. What he found there was no great surprise. The website was a paradise for conspiracy theorists. All the usual suspects were on display. The Diana murder. The real reason for the Iraq invasion. Bin Laden a US Intelligence agent. Area 51 and UFO cover-ups. The CIA observation posts on the far side of the moon.

  Ben sifted through it all quickly, scrolling down the long list until he came to a header that read ‘The Kammler Shadow Project: Fact or Fiction?’

  Ben stared at it.

  He clicked on it.

  Page temporarily unavailable.

  He sat thinking for a moment, then scrolled over to a tab that said ‘Contact’. The page flashed up, and offered no number to call, no obvious email address like ‘lenny@someweirdshit.com’. There was just an electronic form to fill in and submit.

  Ben pondered the best way to draw the guy out. No point in coming straight out with ‘I want to ask you questions’ and then expect a call. He had to make Salt think he was offering something juicy. If Salt had been keen enough to travel to one of Don Jarrett’s lectures, he might be interested enough to call back.

  He wrote:

  ‘Message for Lenny Salt. I have important information about Hans Kammler. If you want to know more, let’s talk.’

  He didn’t sign with a name or offer a return email address, just typed in his mobile number and then sent the message.

  He sat in the car a long time. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, or whether Salt would be any use to him, or even where to go from here if it turned out to be a blind alley. Maybe back to Luc Simon for more names. Perhaps it was time to start kicking down doors after all.

  Or maybe Brooke was right. Maybe he just should go home and try to focus his mind on the many troubles awaiting him there.

  But he knew he’d come too far for that now. He couldn’t walk away. He closed his eyes and tried to still his mind. So much to think about, and so little that made any sense.

  It was about half an hour later, when the clock on the Mini dashboard was approaching quarter to four, that the phone buzzed in his lap and he realised he’d drifted off into an uncomfortable doze. His head jerked up at the sound and he was instantly alert.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said a man’s voice on the other end. The voice was filled with suspicion, deep and gravelly. Ben pictured a man in his sixties. The accent was east London.

  ‘Is that Lenny Salt?’

  ‘Who’s this?’ the voice said again.

  ‘Just a friend, Lenny. Just want to talk.’

  ‘You’ll never track this number.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m a friend.’

  There was a long pause. Then: ‘Info on Kammler, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I already have all the info I need on Kammler.’

  ‘You just think you do,’ Ben said. ‘Wait until you hear what I have to tell you. Can we meet?’

  Pushing for a meeting with a paranoid like Salt was a dangerous move, because it was all too easy to frighten him away – and once he was gone, he’d be gone for good. But Ben knew the only way to winkle him out of his shell and keep him there was to pin him down face to face
. And if his instinct was right about Salt, all it would take was to arouse his curiosity enough.

  It seemed to be working. The long silence on the phone tasted of wary interest, like a hungry cat struggling between suspicion and temptation over a morsel in a stranger’s hand.

  ‘We can meet,’ Salt said. ‘But strictly on my terms. You come to me.’

  ‘No problem at all. Name the place.’

  ‘Laugharne.’

  Ben had to think where it was. ‘Laugharne in Wales or Larne in Northern Ireland?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘That’s where you live, on the Welsh coast?’

  ‘I didn’t say I lived there,’ Salt said cagily. ‘I said I’ll meet you there. Tomorrow morning at eleven. Come alone. Wear a red scarf so I know you.’

  A red scarf in the middle of summer, Ben thought. Great.

  ‘OK, where exactly?’

  ‘There’s a castle on the bay. Take the path that runs along the side, towards the Dylan Thomas boathouse. Walk to the first bench and wait.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By five o’ clock Ben was sipping a scotch on the rocks in the departure lounge at Brussels airport, waiting for a UK-bound flight that would take him as close as possible to his destination. The Mini was in secure long-term parking, and the Smith & Wesson was scattered in pieces across the Belgian countryside.

  Three hours after that, he was behind the wheel of a black rental Audi A5 Turbo Diesel speeding west up the M4 from Bristol airport over the Severn Bridge and into Wales. He hit Carmarthen, then more dual carriageway, then twisty rural roads led him through lush green countryside down towards the coast. By the time he got to Laugharne, the sun was setting. He checked into the first bed and breakfast he saw on the edge of town, spent an hour in a nearby pub over a couple of beers and a plate of ham sandwiches, then headed back to the B&B for an early night.

  The next morning at five to eleven, he was pulling up at his rendezvous point. He slotted the Audi into the car park near the ruined medieval castle overlooking the bay, and got out. The sky was clear and the sun already hot. On the passenger seat was a red woolly scarf he’d bought at the airport in Brussels. He draped it reluctantly around his neck and made his way between the stalls selling local produce, clothing and bric-a-brac to tourists, then headed over a little humpback bridge towards the walkway that skirted the base of the castle. A couple of passers-by shot strange looks at the man wearing the thick scarf on such a warm, sunny June day.