by Mark Hobson
WOLF ANGEL
Amsterdam Occult Series Book One
Mark Hobson
Copyright © 2020 Mark Hobson
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 9798696036946
Except where actual historical events and characters are being used for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Ken Dawson at Creative Covers
This one is for Bruce, Paul and Zia.
The Three Musketeers.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
KONINGSBOSCH VILLAGE NOVEMBER 1945
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
SCHLOSS HULCHRATH - HITLER YOUTH TRAINING CAMP
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
OPERATION CARNIVAL
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
GRISSLEHAMNS – UPPSALA DISTRICT – SWEDEN.
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
HELSINKI – FINLAND. MAY 2002
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KONINGSBOSCH VILLAGE NOVEMBER 1945
He waited until twilight before making the final scurrying dash across the flat field. It just wasn’t worth the risk, even with the low concealing mist that seemed to always cover the countryside at this time of the year. Not after the long weeks of hiding and scavenging and sleeping out in the open, all through the summer and into the autumn, moving only at night to avoid the patrols that criss-crossed the area. To blow it all now at the last moment would be devastating.
So he remained sheltered in the undergrowth at the edge of the wood, lying on his stomach, watching the grey building through the gloom.
Way back in March and soon after they had left the devastated ruins of the German city of Aachen, he and the other members of the team had split up and gone their separate ways. Initially they had planned to remain together and if possible to make their way back to Schloss Hulchrath. But the stupid girl had triggered a tripwire, badly injuring her leg and blowing away the face of the boy they called Sepp, killing him. So they had left her crying in the mud with barely a glance back as they hurried away.
A mile or so further on he, the leader, told them that from here on it would be best for each of them to travel alone, to try and make their separate ways back to friendly lines. So after quick handshakes and whispered words of good luck, they had each parted company with the knowledge that they would in all likelihood never see one another again.
He had decided to head west. Resorting to PLAN B like this was not necessarily a bad thing, at least not from his point of view, for he had a firm destination in mind, a place that the others were not privy to. A location which might ultimately be his ticket out of the whole mess that Europe had become. With the war all but lost, and with the Reich’s enemies closing in from all sides, he had desperately needed an escape route and as far as he was concerned it was a case of every man for himself.
But what should have been a journey of a few days under normal circumstances had turned into a slow, nerve-wracking trek across war-ravaged Germany of first weeks, and then months. Moving in short stages mostly at night to avoid detection, and scavenging food here and there, stealing from farms or killing the odd rabbit, he had grown physically and mentally exhausted, forever cold even through the summer, and constantly on edge from fear of discovery and most likely death by firing squad. From leaving Aachen in March he had travelled across the border into the southern tip of Holland, taking over eight months to traverse the region. And the war in the meantime had drawn to its final brutal conclusion, with humiliating defeat for the Fatherland giving him added motive to push on. Until finally, on this cold and wet and foggy day in November, he arrived on the outskirts of the small hamlet of Koningsbosch, a dreary and cheerless place in the middle of nowhere, a spot all-but-forgotten by the great events taking place over the last six years. But not forgotten by him.
He’d visited the place on a number of occasions over the years, under orders to carry out periodical checks to make sure that all was in order… just in case it became necessary. His superiors insisted that their plan would be to the benefit of all of Germany, not just during the terrible sacrifices the nation and its people were having to make now, but also for the future generations to come. And knowing what he knew, about the secrets revealed to him during his long stay at Schloss Hulchrath, he knew that this was no idle boast. In fact the responsibilities placed on him, in the event of the war being lost, were both frightening and thrilling.
So he had endured the hardships and dangers of his long journey stoically, feeling no self-pity or anger. Just a determination to see this through, knowing that this clandestine visit – dangerous though it may be – would place him at the centre of this most secret of operations.
Eventually the late afternoon drew in and the light slowly seeped out of the grey sky, until he decided it was safe to leave his hiding place. Rising slowly into a crouch he slung his small knapsack onto his back and pulled his cap down tight over his blond hair, then cautiously moved forward across the large field. Towards the old stone building that marked the edge of the tiny hamlet, its buttressed walls and small spire just a dark shadow in the damp fog.
Carefully he approached the ancient convent.
The Sisters of the Precious Blood was how they referred to themselves. An Order of cloistered nuns living a peaceful existence in war-torn Europe, in a cold and uninviting building on the outskirts of this tiny, backward community.
It really was the perfect hiding place. The war had mostly passed the place by even though the border with Nazi Germany was just a few miles to the east. The flat and featureless landscape, which was constantly buffeted with cold winds and driving rain, held no attraction or strategic importance to anybody, either to the occupying German forces or later to the American and British liberators. It was a tiny and forgotten part of the country in the very south of Holland in a region remarkably bland. Where people kept to themselves and minded their own business. An ideal location.
He approached the building’s heavy wooden door set back into its stone porch, the overhead lamp leaking a feeble glow, and after one final furtive glance around, he banged on the dark surface with the flat of his hand.
There was no movement or sound from within. Which wasn’t really surprising. Even with the war over, late-night callers to a convent full of quivering, nervous nuns would set many a heart to beat that little bit faster. So he knocked once more, just that little bit louder and more insistent.
After several minutes he finally heard the scraping of bolts being drawn back and the turning of a key in the large and rusty lock, before the large door was slowly opened several inches and a small and pale face peered cautiously out.
Removing his cap and allowing a small smile to flit across his thin lips, he nodded politely.
“Good evening Reverend Mother”
There was a moment’s hesitation as the elderly woman facing him ran her gaze over his features, her eyes narrowing as
she attempted to recall who he was, before recognition filtered through. The tiny shiver of fear that caused her lower lip to tremble was only slight, but it was there nevertheless, and when she spoke her voice mirrored her dread.
“Doctor, we were not expecting you.”
He simply nodded, said “no”, and brushed by her through the entranceway.
Inside the main hall he paused and glanced around, noticing two more younger nuns peering at him through the gloom before they quietly slipped through a doorway and disappeared from view. To his left stretched a long corridor where a third person stood holding a lantern, another novice nun of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, looking at him curiously. He ignored her and turned back to the elderly lady as she re-joined him, having closed and locked the heavy door.
“Mother Annette, I trust you and your charges are all well?”
“Why yes. The year draws to a close and the nights darken, but we are all well.”
“Mmm, let us hope this winter is not as severe as last year.”
“A severe winter it was sir,” she agreed, then added, “but with our terrible struggles behind us we all prey for times of hope and reconciliation.”
“Yes, quite.” He moved forward several steps and glanced once more down the long passageway. “I do apologize for this unannounced visit, and at such a late hour. I hope I have not alarmed you or the young ladies.” He again allowed a brief smile at the young nun who was still keeping watch. “However, it is somewhat urgent and my time is short.”
“We are always content to welcome you here, at your convenience.”
He turned to look squarely at her, unsure whether her words were heartfelt, but dismissed the doubt from his mind. Reverend Mother, or Mother Superior as was her formal title, had always been hard to read and he had precious little time to concern himself with this at the moment. Instead he asked in crisp tones: “Perhaps I could visit your other guests?”
Mother Annette, her elderly face lined and her rheumy eyes downcast, merely nodded.
She led the way into the convent, taking the lantern off the young girl who trailed on behind them both. As he strode down the passageway, which was dark and lined with closed doors and scuttling insects, he noted with a hint of amusement how Mother Annette cast a frightful sight. With her long and dark habit brushing the floor she appeared to glide across the stone flags like a levitating ghost.
At the end of the long passageway they turned right and moved forward into a larger, open space, before angling towards the corner and passing through another doorway. Here there was a stone spiral staircase which he knew led up to the nuns’ bare and tiny cells, each simply furnished with a wooden cot and straw mattress, perhaps with a single chair and porcelain wash basin on a side table, and a wooden cross affixed to the wall. But they did not head upwards. Instead they went down.
Twisting deeper and deeper, the three of them stepped down into the shadowy staircase, with the orange glow from the lantern offering scant illumination so that it was necessary to tread carefully on the steps worn smooth from age. At the bottom was another passageway, but this one wide and short. Two doorways led off the central space, one of which was open and revealed a cell set aside for sick or ill residents. Just outside this door was a small stool and desk, and here the young novice nun sat demurely, her eyes still following him with fascination.
Mother Annette led him to the other, closed door.
Taking a hold of the old, iron ring pull, she twisted and then pushed open the solid door, which scraped and shuddered over the uneven stone floor. She did not enter but quickly passed him the lantern and stepped back and turned her face away from the stench that wafted from the room beyond.
Unfazed by the smell, the blond-haired man crossed the threshold, a shiver of excitement passing through him.
Inside the chilly and windowless room he raised the lantern and slowly turned around, the light shivering and sliding across the bare walls. Spaced evenly about the floor were perhaps twenty or so small wooden cribs. Each one had a tiny bundle of blankets within, and tiny pink fingers and heads. Mostly boys he knew, but a few girls as well. Kept here in this secret orphanage.
He smiled in wonder at the beautiful sight, moved almost to tears.
Placing the lantern onto the stone floor he shrugged off the small knapsack and opened it, and reaching inside, he withdrew a long and slender object that glinted in the light as he pulled it free. A noise made him look up again, one of the babes gently sighing in its sleep, perhaps disturbed by the newcomer. The sound filled him with pride.
In a small voice he whispered into the dark. “Hello my young wolves”
After a moment of quiet, and with a feeling of perfect serenity, he turned and passed back through the doorway with the sharp knife held before him.
CHAPTER 1
AMSTERDAM RED LIGHT DISTRICT
MIDNIGHT
The first thing that popped into Inspector Pieter Van Dijk’s head as he surveyed the scene was: Mary Kelly, Miller’s Court, Whitechapel, 1888.
He stood just inside the glass door alongside the strategically placed wall mirror, partly because this was about the only bit of the room’s floor that wasn’t bloodstained, and also because having walked into the room unprepared he’d found himself suddenly frozen immobile.
For about sixty seconds he reckoned he didn’t blink, or breathe. He just looked across at the small bed. And then, as was always the case, he felt ashamed and he briefly looked sideways at his own reflection in the mirror.
Noises of merriment drifted in from outside as another group of tourists flocked by, laughing and enjoying their night out, and he suddenly remembered that he hadn’t drawn the curtain across the door behind him. Quickly, and preying none of the gawkers had glanced through the glass, he reached back with his hand and grabbed the red material and yanked the curtain closed, pissed with himself.
Then he turned his gaze back towards the body. I’m sorry, he thought, whoever you are.
The room was red. Partly from the red neon lights that surrounded the glass entrance, partly from the red frame of the ceiling mirror. But mostly because of the blood, which completely covered the bedsheet and its paper covering, blood so voluminous that it had splashed in waves over the edge of the mattress onto the cheap laminate wood flooring and then spread further, to the very edges of the small room. More red gore had turned the walls crimson, had also fountained upwards to splash and saturate the overhead mirror. It dripped from the small lampshade on the bedside table, surrounded the overturned stool that rested on the floor beside the doorway. And at the centre of it all, the pile of human remnants on the bed itself, legs spread and arms flung to the side, with the torso fully opened up and emptied of its contents – eviscerated was probably the correct medical term, he told himself.
Whoever had done this had really gone to work.
The only other person in the room with him was a fellow cop, Sergeant Daan Beumers, who for once was unusually subdued, which was unnatural for somebody who normally never stopped yakking. He’d been standing at the foot of the bed, bending forward at the waist in order to get a good view of the steaming cadaver, but now his freckled and fresh-faced colleague moved towards him.
“You’d better put these on boss,” he said, holding out a pair of plastic galoshes. “I always carry a few spare with me.”
As Pieter bent to fit them over his shoes his mind was already starting to slip into gear, going through the priorities: secure the scene – mark a path of contamination to keep the forensic boffins happy – note any smells apart from those emanating from the deceased, such as aftershave, fast food etc – initiate a preliminary survey – evaluate physical evidence possibilities. This was called crime scene management. Later, once the forensic guys arrived other tasks to complete would be to capture the scene photographically – prepare a crime-scene sketch (yes, they still did that, even in the modern age) - retrieve and secure forensic evidence – conduct a search pattern (in this case a radial
search pattern centred on the bed would be best) – collect tissue and liquid samples, hairs and fibres, biological samples such as faeces and vomit and semen, DNA and fingerprint gathering – and retrieval of drugs and drug paraphernalia. Next it would be the removal of the cadaver (just how the hell they would do that did nor bare thinking about) and transportation to the lab for the autopsy, where the whole sequence would be repeated again in a much more sterile environment. There was a lot of work to be done, much of it to be carried out immediately by himself and Beumers before the boffins arrived. So best get on with it.
Pieter slid and squelched his way towards the bed, and turned his clinical cop’s eyes onto the victim before him.
It never ceased to amaze him of the kind of damage that could be done to the human body, both before and after death. Gunshot wounds resulting in fatalities were becoming more frequent in the city, especially those involving criminal gangs whose main illegal trade involved drug smuggling and people trafficking, but in a country where the acquisition of firearms was still quite difficult due to the stringent gun-ownership laws the main cause of death in murder cases was from stabbing. These usually involved a small number of wounds to the front of a person’s torso or defensive cuts to the palms and fingers. But even a single stab could be enough to leave frightful injuries, the insertion and retraction of a blade ripping through skin, tendons and if deep enough nicking bones and piercing organs. The loss of blood could be either minimal or plentiful, but other ‘substances’ could be released, such as bizarre-looking bulges of flesh protruding through the openings, bone fragments, urine or faeces if the blow was to the bladder or intestines, not to mention brain-matter or teeth or ocular fluid if the trauma was to the head. Other weapons, such as blows from an axe or machete or screwdriver for example, left a variety of types of injuries, just of a bigger nature. And over the years working as a murder cop, Inspector Van Dijk thought he had seen pretty much everything there was to see when it came to murder. But looking closely at the corpse on the bed he realized that this murder was basically off the scale.
