by Mark Hobson
Wenzel and Leitgeb made it safely back in the early hours of the following morning, and Hennemann several hours later.
Their escape along the waterway had taken much longer than planned, as parts of their journey took them in and out of the city sewer system, through culverts and drains. Finding their way in the pitch dark, with rats and stray dogs for company, was only a part of the problem as well. Very quickly after the assassination the whole of Aachen had been put on high alert, and an immediate curfew imposed until dawn. Anybody found on the streets without authorisation was subject to immediate arrest by the American occupying forces and their German collaborators in the civil guard. This had forced them to take frequent halts during their flight, waiting until the coast was clear and hoping the enemy patrols with their guard dogs did not spot them. Eventually, exhausted and stinking of raw sewage, they had stumbled through the back door of the safe house.
It soon became clear that during their absence something had happened. The atmosphere was tense and everybody was on edge, as though they had arrived in the midst of an awful argument.
The main cause of it seemed to revolve around Erich Morgenschweiss, the youngest member of the team, and Ilse Hirsch.
The teenager had become infatuated with her. The whole team had noticed his behaviour over the last few days, following her around, offering to perform any small task for her. Yet nobody had realized just how obsessive he had grown until last night, when she had made a point of ignoring him and even belittling him, laughing in his face and calling him her ‘little pup’. Very quickly her spurning him like this had changed him from a quiet and almost timid boy into a brooding young man, sitting in the corner and throwing angry looks at her. The atmosphere had grown increasingly tense. Quickly an air of bitterness developed, with Georg Heidorn, the second local scout left behind, finding himself caught in the middle. He guessed correctly that something must have occurred between them at some stage but wisely he chose not to voice his thoughts out loud.
Eventually a huge row had developed and Hirsch and Morgenschweiss had nearly come to blows, only the return of Wenzel and Leitgeb, and later Hennemann, preventing a violent confrontation.
Wenzel snapped. He told the whole team that their behaviour was putting the whole operation under threat. Yes, they had successfully carried out the assassination, but they still had to make their way back east to friendly lines. Nothing would be allowed to jeopardize that. Angrily he instructed them all to get some rest. They would be leaving in a few hours.
Later that evening, as they were gathering their things in readiness for their departure, young Morgenschweiss went outside to collect some kindling from the small barn at the end of the narrow garden. Ilse Hirsch slipped out after him.
Seeing them leave, Wenzel watched through the window as she followed him down the overgrown path.
Several minutes later she came back into the small downstairs room where the other members of the team waited. They looked at her, then at the door behind.
“He will no longer be a problem,” she informed them, as she washed blood from her hands.
The remaining five members of the commando team successfully evaded the patrols and fled quietly into the surrounding forest without capture, quickly leaving Aachen behind.
Hirsch led them, an unspoken acknowledgment that she was in command now. Nobody raised their voice in protest at this subtle change as an air of fear gripped them all. Each one of them now petrified of this strange and alluring woman in their midst. This She-wolf.
They made good progress on the first day. As pre-planned they struck out north-east towards a small hamlet about twelve miles from the city. Here they spent the night sleeping in an abandoned mineshaft where supplies of food and ammunition had been left by fellow partisans. On the morn they continued with their escape, making for the castle at Hulchrath, but sometime during the afternoon disaster struck.
They had come to the edge of the woods and paused to look at the wide field ahead of them. On the far side were more trees leading off into the distance. They needed to get across soon if they were to keep on schedule, and so after waiting for several minutes to make sure that the way was clear, they all rose from their crouching positions and made a dash for it.
Half way across Hirsch failed to notice the thin strip of wire stretched between two fence posts, and as her foot pulled it clear there was a huge blast as the tripwire triggered the grenade buried in the ground. She fell to the ground clutching her leg, and Leitgeb’s jaw was blown clean off in a spray of gore. He twitched a few times and then lay still.
Hirsch’s injury would not be fatal, but with her leg broken and torn open she could not carry on. As the three remaining men gathered around her she looked at them in turn, her face twisted in agony. Then she reached out and passed her small knapsack to Wenzel.
“Get to the convent. You know what needs to be done.”
CHAPTER 9
WEREWOLVES
On the Sunday morning they walked to Dam Square and caught the tram out to Vondelpark, where they had lunch in the Blue Teahouse. Afterwards they enjoyed the warm spring sunshine.
On the Monday morning Pieter thought it was time to get back to work, and so Lotte decided she would spend the day looking for a new job and a place to live (one which Bart didn’t know about). Pieter told her there was no rush and that she could stay as long as she needed.
The first thing he did on arriving at HQ was to arrange for a motorbike courier to take the soil sample he’d retrieved from his attic floor over to the NFI forensic lab in The Hague. He marked it as PRIORITY so hopefully the results would be back first thing tomorrow and possibly sooner. Having done this he went up to his office and set to work catching up on developments.
There he found a message from Daan Beumers written on a post-it note stuck on his PC monitor. The sergeant was working on trying to get the security cam footage from the corner café enhanced, but in addition he had two more sets of cameras that may have caught the suspects fleeing from the murder scene at the outdoor urinal. Everything was on a file attached to an email which he’d sent over to Pieter. Finding the file, Pieter dragged it to his desktop and clicked.
The three sets of footage showed the same thing from three different angles. The first – and most interesting – was from the café, featuring Henrietta and Maarten cosying up on the bridge with the shadowy form of a fleeing person racing by. Exactly like Beumers had done several days earlier he played it back several times, and as with his colleague he could not help the shiver run down his spine, like someone dropping an ice-cube down his back.
The other two cameras were from the doorway of a store selling kinky leather gear, one pointing up the alley towards the bridge and the other aimed down the opposite way. The first angle also showed the same bizarre figure fleeing at breakneck speed, but this time hunched over and with its head angled down, perhaps aware of the cameras. The second one had this person – and from its diminutive size it certainly appeared to be a child – rushing headlong down the alley before quickly disappearing to the right, onto the parallel canal there.
The young couple, Henrietta and Maarten, were both adamant that there had been three people fleeing, one slim adult and two kids. But none of the footage showed the other two suspects. Having been down that alley many times over the years Pieter knew there were a number of other even smaller passageways branching off from the main one, snaking deeper and deeper into the creepiest parts of the red-light district. The area was like a rabbit-warren, dark and dangerous for the unwary. In all likelihood the suspects had split up and disappeared for good.
Let’s hope Beumers could get the footage enhanced and sharpened up, perhaps enough to pull a reasonable image of the suspects face.
Next Pieter took a quick and rather cursory glance at the autopsy results from the Oliver Monroe murder, which didn’t really show anything totally unexpected. The guy had all sorts of drugs in his system: a fair quantity of cocaine and Tangerine G13 weed
, plus some phencyclidine angel dust – the usual party drugs that lots of tourists and visitors to Amsterdam enjoyed. He had also recently had sex as there were traces of condom spermicide on the remnants of his penis, plus traces of semen inside his underwear. Once again, nothing unusual in that.
The injury to his scrotum was the only significant wound, other than bruises and light abrasions probably as a result of a brief struggle. The cut through the testicles had been done by a blade with a serrated edge – ouch! – and would have resulted in huge blood loss, followed quickly by unconsciousness and death. The scrotum itself had been recovered as Beumers had indicated at the time.
His hotel room had revealed nothing of interest. Staff there confirmed he was a regular guest, and also that he often returned late after the main doors were locked for the night. Checks on his hotel key cards showed he accessed the elevators and main doors at various times in the early hours, so it seemed that during his regular business trips to Amsterdam he thoroughly enjoyed the night life. Again, no surprise. In the meanwhile his wife back in London confirmed she was well aware of his cheating, but confided that she kept this knowledge to herself for the sake of their marriage and the small child they had.
Pieter briefly broke away to make himself a coffee, standing in the doorway of his office to stretch his legs. It was already mid-morning, and his back ached from sitting slumped in the chair, but it was good to be working. The distraction from the weekend’s events was good.
Back at his computer he decided to see if anything had come through from ViCASnl regarding the dragnet he had ordered for the symbol and message that had been daubed on the wall near the Mila crime scene. Disappointingly nothing had been red-flagged on the national database with links to any known Level 1 crimes throughout The Netherlands, however there was a hit on the Interpol system. The symbol was apparently used by a Hells Angels group in Finland during the 1970’s and 80’s, a bunch of ultra-violent psychos who specialized in attacking Asian shopkeepers who refused to pay them as part of their protection racket. They had links to other far right groups such as COMBAT 18 in the UK, and although their crime spree was going back several decades it might still be worth checking out. Also, this reminded Pieter of the silver finger ring with the Norse script, found at the Monroe crime scene.
Time to pay Adolf another visit.
Pieter found him down in his bunker – sorry, basement room.
“Hey buddy,” Floris greeted him, looking up from the book he was reading.
Pieter noted the title: UNIFORMS AND INSIGNIA OF GERMAN ARMED FORCES – 1914 to 1945. More books were spread out over his desk, all of a similar nature.
“Adolf,” he smiled back.
“Sorry to hear about your father.”
Pieter pulled over a chair and picked up one of the volumes, and flicked through it, snatching glimpses of black and white photos, maps, colour plates. “You been doing your homework?”
“I certainly have,” Floris told him with a big grin. He reached across and pulled out a sheaf of papers, and waved them about like a winning lottery ticket. “These are print-outs of the photos I took of your mystery ring. I spent yesterday going through my books, and have managed to pinpoint exactly what it signifies.” He looked pleased as punch.
“Don’t keep me in suspense Adolf. You might just be about to crack the case.”
Floris rocked back and forth, his body shaking from mirth, or at least that’s what Pieter hoped, and not from his illness.
Laying the photos over the desk, Floris turned his book around in a flourish and showed Pieter the double-spread illustration. A colour drawing matching the ring that was found on the ground next to Oliver Monroe’s castrated body, down to every detail.
Pieter leaned forward for a closer look.
“What you are looking at,” Floris informed him, “is the signet ring given to members of an elite unit of World War Two-era German commandos. The ring was sometimes referred to as a wolf’s angel. The men – and women – who wore it were named Werewolf Commandos.” He tapped the W in the book illustration and then in the corresponding photo on his desk.
“Werewolves?” Pieter looked at him dubiously, but he was thinking about the message on the wall.
“Yes, but not of the furry wolf variety that bay at the full moon. These were highly-disciplined soldiers drawn from the SS or even the Hitler Youth and trained in all aspects of specialized combat. Infiltration, sabotage, reconnaissance, assassination, hand-to-hand fighting, that kind of thing. They were a little like the Brandenburgers Special Forces outfit but at a whole new level, and their job was to deploy behind enemy lines and sow confusion and fear in their ranks. They were ruthless, fearless and totally loyal to the Third Reich. This was real heavy stuff.”
“And they each wore one of these?” He pointed at the illustrations in the book.
“That’s right, when they passed out each soldier received one. They were solid silver. I’m still working on the script etched into the side, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of motto.”
Pieter picked up one of the photos and studied it closely. “Is this an original?”
“No. But it is a near-perfect modern reproduction. You see the hallmark here?” Floris tapped at the image. “This gives us the town mark – in this case Amsterdam – as well as the duty mark and the date, which was nearly two years ago. It also contains the makers mark.”
Pieter raised his eyes from the photo to look at Floris.
Pushing a slip of paper across his desk Floris told him: “I’ve written down the silversmith’s name and address.”
Taking the note, and the photos, Pieter rose.
“See you later Adolf.”
On his way out through the main entrance he grabbed Daan Beumers who was just arriving.
“Morning Boss, I was just on my way up to see you. Those CCTV stills are getting cleaned up nicely-“
Pieter cut him off. “Tell me later. You’re coming with me.”
◆◆◆
Levi Kohnstamm was short and fat, with a bald head and a grey goatee beard which gave the impression that his head was on upside down. The black suit he wore was at least two sizes too small. Perched on his nose was a pair of tiny pinch-nez spectacles.
His silversmith and jewellery premises were out in the Jordaan District just west of the inner canal ring. It was a tiny two-room place squeezed onto the upper floor above a bakery. The main outer office, where he met his clientele, consisted of a large oak desk in front of three deep-set leaded windows overlooking Rozengracht Bridge. To each side of the windows were a pair of matching display cabinets containing silver plaques, trophies, silverware, and a chessboard with silver pieces. On the corner of the desk, suitably arranged and within easy reach of any would-be customers, were a pile of glossy catalogues.
In the corner of the room was another door, locked with a key-pad security system. Presumably this was the inner-sanctum, where the real work was done.
Kohnstamm was busy weighing some silver jewellery on a set of digital scales, making notes in a little black notebook, tutting and shaking his head occasionally, and so Pieter and Beumers waited patiently.
After several minutes like this, during which Beumers especially was starting to fidget and sigh, Pieter coughed politely.
“Oh yes. Inspector..?”
“Van Dijk, Amsterdam PD.”
Kohnstamm carefully closed his notebook and set it aside, and replaced his pen into its silver penholder. “You were enquiring about some rings. To sell or to buy?”
“Neither.” Pieter reached into his pocket and pulled out the photos he’d borrowed from Adolf. He passed them over. “We are after any details you may have regarding these.”
“Which you made,” Beumers added gruffly.
Kohnstamm had a quick glance at them and then handed the photos back. “Mmm, mmm, indeed,” he replied through pursed lips.
“So you definitely made these? For a customer?
“I most certainly did. Be
autiful aren’t they?”
“You do know what these are don’t you?” Beumers asked, his brow furrowed.
“I didn’t ask for the why’s and where fore’s. None of my business really. Clients commission me to do all kinds of work all of the time. It could be to repair some family heirloom, to design a piece of body-piercing for some young teenage tearaway hippy. Or to craft a bespoke piece of jewellery like this.” He pointed vaguely at the photos of the ring.
“So this particular ring? With this somewhat unique design? You remember making this specifically?”
“Yes I do Inspector. I remember clearly that it was around about eighteen months ago. The circumstances were slightly unusual, which makes it stick out in my memory.”
Pieter and Beumers exchanged a look. “How so?”
“Because it was all very hush-hush, and shrouded in secrecy. Very exciting in a way. The client wished to remain anonymous. I arrived for work one morning to find a long letter shoved through my letterbox, with a very precise request detailing what was required, the design and nature of the work. There was also a large amount of cash, with a promise of more to follow once the items were finished. I never once had any face-to-face interaction with the client themselves.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know who this mystery person was? No name or anything? Even though they just handed over a huge amount of money?”
The jeweller said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“How much are we talking?”
Kohnstaam turned his eyes on Beumers. “Oh about twenty thousand euros.”
“For a fucking ring?”
