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Ecanus Publishing

Ramsgate

Kent

United Kingdom

Published by Ecanus Publishing 2012

ISBN: 9780957225657

Malcolm Barber asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

ONE

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On a wet and chilly evening in March 1944, Lieutenant Paul von Hauser’s car pulled over to the curb in Weissensee, a good residential district in the north of Berlin. He let himself in the front door and walked up to his first floor apartment which overlooked the street. A sudden chill ran down his back. Someone had walked over his grave. A premonition? He shook it off, considering it to be the fall in the evening temperature.

He opened the door with his latchkey and clicked the light switch. The light didn’t come on. He cursed silently. The recent bombing must have knocked out some cables. He crossed the room to open the blackout curtains and let in some moonlight, bumping into a chair as he crossed. There was a sudden movement from his right which he sensed rather than heard. A tremendous blow struck the left side of his chest.

“Per Dio,” a voice hissed.

The force of the blow sent the lieutenant crashing against a bookcase. As the back of his head hit the top shelf his hand closed on his pistol. In one movement he drew it, pointed it into the darkness and fired at the darker figure that lunged towards him. In the confines of the room the noise was deafening. Lit by the muzzle flash, he saw the figure fall backwards with a strangled scream.

The lieutenant quickly got to his feet, swept the blackout curtains to one side and went across to the sprawling figure of a man dressed in dark clothing. In the moonlight that poured through the window he could see where his single shot had hit the man in the centre of his chest. An almost imperceptible movement showed that the man was still alive, but only just. The lieutenant, feeling the shock of the attack beginning to affect him, knelt at his side. He put his face close to that of the would-be assassin.

“Who sent you?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

The man tried to speak, but couldn’t. Blood frothed at his lips and his eyes were beginning to glaze over.

“Who sent you?”

“Il cannon…,” came a whispered reply, then his head fell to one side.

The lieutenant sat next to the dead man for a minute while he gathered his thoughts. His chest ached where he’d taken the blow and the back of his head throbbed. There was a jagged tear in the left top pocket of his uniform. He opened the flap and extracted his notebook which was pierced almost completely through. It had saved his life. He looked around and saw a stiletto dagger lying on the floor. It was the classic assassin’s weapon.

He wracked his brain to try to understand what was going on. Why was he an assassin’s target? The only thing he could think of was the information he’d recently received from a prisoner at Ludwigsfelde, but that was just two days ago. He was surprised that his connection to the information had been quickly established, that it had brought such a rapid reaction, and that he was found so easily. He realized that he must have been followed on the day he’d gone to the prison. The assassin’s controllers were certain to have had inside information.

Shaken by the attack, the lieutenant instinctively followed standard security procedures. He found the light bulbs that had been removed from their fittings and replaced them. Before switching on the lights he closed the blackout curtains. He then checked the man’s pockets; they were empty. The telephone number of the security service was in his damaged notebook and he had to carefully prise open the pages with his penknife. He dialled the number and asked to be put through to the senior security officer. There were a few clicks on the line.

“One moment, sir, I’m connecting you to Captain Pobl, the duty officer.”

“Lieutenant von Hauser, sir,” he said as the duty officer come on the line. “I have a code three. The subject is inactive and requires removal.”

“The removal team will be there within half an hour,” the duty officer said. “A medical officer will also attend. Secure the premises. If the police have been alerted and try to intervene, activate your own immunity status. Once the removal team has finished I suggest you leave. It might be wise of you to make it a permanent move. Of course, I don’t know the background to tonight’s action, but there could be another attempt. Goodnight.”

The lieutenant heard footsteps outside his door. There was a light knock. He picked up his pistol from where he’d laid it on the bookcase.

“Is everything alright, Lieutenant Hauser?”

It was his elderly neighbour from the next apartment. He took off his jacket, draped it over the pistol and opened the door.

“I heard a loud noise and thought you might have fallen.”

“My apologies, Frau Brenner. I switched on the radio and the volume was much too high. Thanks for checking. It’s very good of you.”

His neighbour smiled her reply and returned to her own apartment. The lieutenant waited until she’d closed her door then moved quickly to the top of the stairs. He looked into the hallway. All was quiet. Feeling sure that the dead man had been working alone he let down the hammer of his pistol and returned to his apartment. He locked the door and made a strong, sweet coffee to help settle his nerves.

Ten minutes later he heard a sound in the street. He switched off the lights and drew aside the blackout curtain to see an unmarked van had just pulled up below his window. It was the specialist military security unit which took care of such matters when they involved officers with a designated security status. The lieutenant enjoyed that status through his work as a legal investigator. The unit’s authority, bestowed on it by no less a figure than Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer SS, superseded all other government agencies and prevented interference by the local or national police services.

After checking their identification, both by their paperwork and with a telephone call to the duty officer at the security service, the lieutenant let the three men in. Within minutes they had put the body in a rubber bag, cleaned the carpet and sealed the stiletto dagger in a reinforced envelope. Apart from the medical officer confirming that the man was dead and asking the lieutenant if he needed any attention, nothing much was said or needed to be said.

As soon as the removal team had left the lieutenant hurriedly packed a bag and went downstairs. Instead of leaving through the front door he went along the passageway and out of the back door. He crossed the paved backyard and cautiously opened the heavy plank door set into the high wall. The service alley which ran behind the row of houses was quiet. He went to the left, crossed the alley and turned right into a narrower alley between two rows of houses. When he reached the end he turned left into a street identical to the one in which he lived. The whole area was made up of rows of three-storey houses, backing onto each other with service alleys running between them, and had been built towards the end of the last century. Before the last war, the high-quality houses had been the homes of wealthy cotton and wool merchants. Although the houses had lost some of their status with the changing fortunes of the last twenty years, they remained highly desirable residences.

The lieutenant stepped into a deep shadow and waited for a few minutes. When he was sure that he hadn’t been followed he climbed the half-dozen steps leading up to the front door of the second house. Rain had just started. Pausing to listen before turning his key in the lock, he heard what sounded like thunder, but knew it was the distant rumbling, far to the west, of a raid by Lancaster bombers of the Royal Air Force. The American daytime bombing had given way to the night bombing by the British. The pattern had been well-established, and in the next hour the successive waves of bombers would come steadily closer to Berlin. There’d be just enough time for an evening meal before they’d have to go down to the air-raid shelter.

Each evening the lieutenant went to the home of his aunt and uncle for a meal, although usually with far less subterfuge. He knew that from tonight things would be very different he would have to be extremely careful not to put them in any danger.

He looked into the kitchen to greet his aunt and uncle then went upstairs to wash before dinner. The image in the mirror was that of a young man, still in his twenties, with even, clean-cut features. The only blemish was a small scar above his left eye, acquired during a childhood accident. Above medium height, his enthusiasm for fitness gave him a vitality admired by some colleagues and envied by many. He had an assured, military bearing inherited from his father and which had been further honed when serving as a naval cadet during his time at university.

The young Austrian-born lawyer looked into his own eyes, reflected in the mirror above the bathroom washbasin. The shock of the attack remained with him and he found that his hands were shaking. He thought about the intriguing development of the last few days which had undoubtedly led to tonight’s assassination attempt. If what had been suggested to him was right then it would be truly incredible.

He dried his face and ran a comb through his straw-coloured hair which he kept in the short, military style demanded by all the branches of the armed services. Fastening a fresh shirt he went downstairs to the dining room.

“Just in time, Paul,” his aunt said, lifting the lid of a stew-pot in the middle of the table. They conversed quietly as they ate, each listening for the plaintive wailing of the air-raid sirens. Paul didn’t say anything about the attempt on his life. It would be too much for them to take. They would be sick with worry and wouldn’t be able to begin to understand how his work could lead to such an incident.

“I wonder if I might stay here for a while,” Paul asked, casually.

“Of course,” his aunt replied. “You practically live here as it is. You know that your room’s always there for you.”

Since his mother died when he was still at school, Paul had lived with his aunt and uncle. They’d never had children of their own and treated him like a son. His aunt was small and energetic and exhibited the old-fashioned qualities of simplicity and homeliness. His uncle was always smart and retained a military crispness, a legacy of his record of long service. Naturally reserved, he displayed old-world manners, bestowed on him by an honourable though poor family, and was respected by all who knew him. Six months ago, feeling that he should be more independent, Paul had taken over the lease of his apartment from a friend who was being posted to Norway.

“Are you giving up your apartment, Paul?” his uncle asked.

“No, not permanently. Two new lawyers have come up from Dusseldorf and needed a place to stay. With the shortage of decent accommodation they were finding things difficult. Offering them my place was the least I could do.”

Trusting he’d explained a believable situation, Paul helped his aunt to clear the table and then went into the front room where his uncle was settling in front of a good fire with his evening newspaper. There had recently been a supply of coal from Poland, courtesy of the occupying German Army, and the citizens of Berlin were making the most of it.

“Uncle, I’ve come across something unusual, Paul said, casually. “I’ve been wondering how to handle it.”

His uncle looked up from his newspaper. “Hold on,” he said. “Is that the siren?” He paused. “No, maybe not.” He took off his reading glasses. “Do go on.”

“It’s an uncertain situation and I don’t want to go to my superior in case I make a fool of myself. I wondered whether you were still in touch with Goring.”

“Yes, I still see Goring at the reunions and we always get around to talking about the times your father and I flew with him during the last war. Even now in his present lofty position, he doesn’t ignore his old friends. Whenever I see him he invites me to his estate. I’ve not been there for years. Anyway, go on. How can my connection to Goring help you?”

“I think I should see him,” Paul replied. “I know he has an interest in ancient history. I’ve got some unusual information which has a historical link. It could be a political hot potato and might even impinge on national security.”

“This does sound interesting,” his uncle said. “Tell me all about it?” He quickly raised his hand. “No, on second thoughts, don’t say anything. I’ve got a feeling that the less I know, the better,” he added with a smile.

“Goring seems approachable, and I think our long family connection will help. Besides, it’ll give me a chance of meeting him again.”

“You were still at school when you last met him.”

“Would you mind making contact with him, to arrange it?”

“So, you think you should see him. Well, it sounds important enough,” Paul’s uncle replied. “I don’t doubt he’ll give you the soundest advice. Yes, certainly, I’ll contact him, but it’ll have to wait until Monday. I don’t think the Reichsmarshal will be pleased to have anyone, even an old friend, interfering with his weekend.” He laughed, easily. “If I remember correctly you used to call him Uncle Hermann. You’d better not call him that now. It might not go down so well.”

Suddenly the air-raid warning sirens began. They listened intently with sinking hearts and within a minute, gradually growing closer, distant bomb-blasts mingled with the drone of engines and the relentless thump of the anti-aircraft guns. Paul’s uncle raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Just listen to that lot, will you? Goebbels promised this would never happen.” He reached for the old flashlight, which he always kept on the floor next to his chair. “Come on, we’d better get down to the shelter.”

Paul opened the front door. An air-raid warden was hurrying along blowing his whistle. A few vehicles with shaded lights pulled over and their occupants ran to the community shelter beneath the street. Local people who hadn’t established their own shelters streamed out of the houses to join them. To the west an ominous glow showed where fires were raging and the beams of searchlights criss-crossed the sky trying to pick out the enemy bombers. Paul stood for a few moments, fascinated as one was caught in the beams and anti-aircraft fire erupted all over the city, the intermittent tracer shells showing the line-of-sight of the ack-ack gunners.

The bomber slipped sideways into a bank of black cloud and the searchlights lost it. Paul went inside and locked the door against opportunist thieves who took advantage of air raids to slip into houses under cover of the noise and confusion. His aunt and uncle were waiting at the back door as he hurried along the hallway. They dashed out into the backyard and down the steps of their own shelter where they were enveloped in darkness and relative safety. Paul pulled the door closed and his aunt lit a candle. They settled down in their usual places to wait for the all-clear to be sounded. In the last six months the frequency of air raids had steadily increased, the number of bombers taking part in each raid had multiplied, and each raid had lasted longer. As the ground shook under the impact of exploding bombs, they knew it could be another long wait.

TWO

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On Monday morning, Paul went to his apartment, re-tracing his route along the service alleys and entering through the back of the house. When his driver arrived at 8.30 am he came out through the front door, giving the impression to any observer that he had been in the house all night. Paul was shocked to see the results of bomb damage over the last three nights. Whole streets had disappeared and many buildings were still burning. The fire and rescue crews were working feverishly as Paul’s driver made his way around mountains of smoking rubble. In the city centre tramlines were twisted into the air and shattered water mains gushed fountains.

During the fifteen minute journey into his offices, close to the Army High Command building on Bendler Strasse, Paul considered whether he should tell his superior officer anything of the incident. He decided against it as he was certain that, for reasons of safety if nothing else, he’d be taken off the case and it would be handed over to one of the security services. He was also certain that the attempt to kill him had a direct link to his current investigation. Now that he had set the ball rolling to involve Goring he didn’t want to muddy the waters.

Recently painted, the offices had cream walls with windows and doors in apple green, replacing the earlier darker greens and blues. There was a lingering smell of paint and some of the windows were kept open to clear the air. Paul went through to his own office which afforded him privacy and a degree of quietness from the clatter of the typing pool, and where he could produce his more security-sensitive reports.

Paul telephoned the security services and arranged to go in to report the assassination attempt. He then asked the office secretary to delete his apartment’s telephone number from the records, replacing it with his uncle’s number. He asked her to ensure that the administration office also changed his contact number in their general records. At 10.00 am he went to the internal security department known only as Section 1b and gave details of the attack to the senior officer in charge. Because it could have a bearing on an investigation, Paul had the option to withhold a certain amount of information for forty-eight hours. This could be extended indefinitely with the approval of the head of the Section 1b. He returned to his own office and spent half an hour drawing up the prosecution paperwork on a case against a naval cadet accused of removing papers which could be of assistance to the enemy. At 11.50 am his superior, Colonel Lange, called him into his office. The colonel was middle-aged, of medium height, slightly overweight, and appeared to have a permanent air of nervousness about him.

“Lieutenant, I can hardly believe it,” he said, a slight stammer confirming his natural anxiety. “I’ve just received a call from Reichsmarshal Goring’s adjutant. He wants to see you right away.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“A call from Goring’s adjutant,” the colonel repeated, his voice rising. “Do you grasp what I’m saying? What’s going on? I hope nothing’s going to rebound on this department.”

Paul smiled, disarmingly. “It’s nothing, sir. My uncle and Goring are old friends. I need to pass on a personal message about some family matters.”

“Family matters! Goring! I didn’t realize you were so highly connected,” Colonel Lange said, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing the perspiration from his forehead. “Right, you’d better get over there. And for pity’s sake, don’t let anyone hear you refer to him as Goring. Show some respect. He’s Reichsmarshal Goring.”

The colonel was a good sort and Paul, with some of the other staff, liked to pull his leg whenever they could. “When I was young I used to call him Uncle Hermann,” he said. “I imagine I could still get away with it. What do you think, sir?”

The colour drained out of Colonel Lange’s face and he was suddenly pale. “Oh my goodness,” he said, waving Paul towards the door. “Go on, out, out.”

The rain of the weekend had ended and it was mild and dry, so Paul decided to walk across to Goring’s Air Ministry on Leipziger Strasse. He passed a swarm of emergency workers demolishing an unsafe building. They wore steel helmets, loose-fitting blue fatigues and high leather boots. An identity badge showed they were a squad of Speer’s TeNo men. A fire crew working alongside them played water over piles of smoking debris.

Weak sunshine had broken through and office workers, on their lunch-break, were sitting on the benches under the Lime trees along the Unter den Linden. On the branches above them, the first leaf buds were opening. The faint smell of burning and the cordite from the anti-aircraft guns in action the previous night, hung in the air as a stark reminder that another air raid could come at any minute, day or night.

At the Air Ministry Paul passed between the Romanesque pillars and mounted the steps. As he reached the top, the sentries at either side of the ornate, bronze doors came smartly to attention. He crossed the marbled entry hall and spoke to the duty officer, who held the rank of captain in Goring’s own regiment.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“Lieutenant Paul von Hauser. I have an appointment with Reichsmarshal Goring,” Paul said, confidently.

Goring’s name and the assertiveness of the visitor surprised the duty officer. The hand held out for the expected orders and identification was retracted. He ran his eyes down the pages of an open ledger. With an exasperated sigh he dialled an extension and Paul heard Goring’s unmistakable voice boom through the earpiece.

“Yes?”

“Reception desk, Rasch speaking. I apologize, Reichsmarshal, I rang your adjutant’s extension.”

“He’s away for a few minutes. What is it?”

“A visitor has arrived asking to see you,” the duty officer said. “Lieutenant von Hauser. His name isn’t in the log,” he added, cautiously.

“I’m expecting him. Get someone to show him the way.”

An orderly led Paul up the sweeping staircase to the first floor. He opened a beautifully figured, walnut door to allow Paul into an ante-room from where Goring’s secretary guided Paul through to the inner office. Goring lifted his large frame from his chair and came across the luxurious carpet, hand outstretched. He was wearing one of the extravagant uniforms for which he was famous.

“Young Hauser,” he said, pumping Paul’s hand. “A pleasure. How nice to meet you again. How long has it been? Come, sit down. Will you take some refreshments?”

Without waiting for an answer, he called for his secretary to bring coffee and cakes. They sat opposite each other on two matching settees. Goring beamed with obvious pleasure.

“Well, well, young Hauser, it’s been a long time. Young Hauser, Fancy me still calling you that. It’s a hang-over from years ago. It was always Von Hauser senior for your father and young Hauser for you. And we called your uncle Emperor Gerhard on account of him being so dignified. All in fun of course. He took it in good part. You were a schoolboy the last time I saw you. Yes, at your uncle’s house in Weissensee, someone’s party. Your mother was alive then.” Goring paused as though remembering better times, then brought his focus onto Paul. “I was really pleased to hear your uncle’s voice when he telephoned me this morning. What a surprise. I wasn’t able to attend the last reunion so it’s quite a while since I last saw him. How is he keeping? He certainly sounds well on the telephone.”

Before Paul could answer there was a knock at the door and a senior steward entered with coffee and cakes.

“Shall I serve, sir?” placing the tray on a low table between them.

“Yes, carry on, Bengi; give the lieutenant one of those lovely Viennas. And when you go out, tell my secretary I must have no interruptions.”

As the steward poured the coffee, Paul glanced around Goring’s office, taking in the antique furniture, original oil and watercolour paintings, and the brocade curtains at massive windows. The steward placed coffee cups and cakes in front of them.

“Well, come on Paul, get stuck in,” Goring said, as the steward left. “This is my daily treat, Viennese cakes and American coffee.” An impish smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Just between you and me, I have a supplier who gets me the coffee through a contact in Mexico. It comes out of South America by submarine. A special arrangement with a highly-placed friend at Kiel.” Goring settled comfortably, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. “Now, what about you? What have you been up to all these years?”

“Well, sir, I went to Freiburg University. I studied law.”

“Freiburg. Yes, I remember your uncle mentioning it. What kind?”

“Sir?”

“Law. Criminal or commercial?”

“I see what you mean, sir. Criminal law.”

“So, you’re going to save us from the bad boys, are you? You should have gone for business law. You’d make more money. Still, there’s time yet. My father was a judge, you know. Over the years I’ve retained some very useful contacts. As soon as this damned war’s over, if you want to change career, I can steer you in some very lucrative directions.” He leaned forward, expressing confidentiality. “Be assured, I regard you practically as family. When your father and uncle flew in my squadron during the last war, they were the very best of officers. Good pilots. Highly disciplined, besides having courage and integrity. The Richthofen squadron enjoyed the finest reputation, even with our enemies. Yes, men of their calibre helped to hold the squadron together. We were all very close. Flying under those conditions creates a lasting bond. We were brothers-in-arms. As I say, I’ve got the contacts, so if there’s anything I can do, just say the word.”

“Very kind of you, sir, I’ll bear it in mind,” Paul said, surprised by the generous and genuine offer.

“Now, what else? Go on with your story.”

“After university I began working in a small practice here in Berlin. Uncle could see that the war was coming and advised me to join the forces, to do my bit for the country.”

“So, the navy’s making use of your talents, is it?” Goring asked through a mouthful of pastry and cream.

“Well, sir, though I joined the navy, I’ve been seconded to the army. There was a request for trained lawyers to work in special investigations. I’d also studied languages, so I was one of those selected.”

“I envy you. I could never get my head around foreign languages. Do you know, after the last war I lived in Sweden for a number of years? Never learned the language. Couldn’t grasp it. So you’re a navy man and a lawyer, but you’ve been sent to help the army.” Goring laughed, heartily. “What a convoluted state of affairs. Do you know, the other day I was speaking to an army colonel who told me that some of the army’s legal teams were being transferred to the air force. Said he trusted I’d be able to make good use of them. I often ask myself, does one hand know what the other’s doing? I’m afraid the answer is very often, no. Let’s hope our enemies don’t realize how inefficient our administrators can be.” He cocked a mischievous eye at Paul. “For mercy’s sake don’t repeat that to anyone or we’ll have Himmler breathing down our necks.”

Paul took up Goring’s attempt at adding humour to what would otherwise be a serious situation. “As I understand it, sir, that could be very uncomfortable.”

“I’m his superior, but he frightens the living daylights out of me,” Goring replied, entirely without humour. “Okay, Paul, let’s get down to business. What’s behind your visit? I sense you might have something that will be of special interest to me.”

“I’ve been given some information that, on the face of it, sounded a little implausible. I didn’t want to go to my superior in case it sounded too ridiculous. My uncle thought you would give the best advice. Of course, I’ve not revealed any of the details to him.”

“So, my intuition hasn’t let me down. While I would always be pleased to receive a social visit from you, I sensed there must be something else. Go ahead then.”

“Firstly, I want to tell you that I was attacked in my apartment last night, sir. I killed the man.”

“Good God,” Goring said, real concern clouding his face. “Attacked in your own apartment? I assume you’re not injured. You certainly look healthy enough. And you killed the attacker. I take it you’ve reported it to the security service. Section 1b, right? What about your own superior?”

“No sir, just to Section 1b.”

“Good. Tell me about it.”

Paul went over the whole incident, taking care not to miss any detail. Goring listened intently, occasionally nodding encouragement.

“The security service informs me that the man had to be Italian,” Paul added, once he felt that Goring had absorbed enough. “He carried no identification, but they came to that conclusion by his clothing and his weapon, the stiletto.”

“Yes, logical. And he did speak in Italian, didn’t he? Per Dio. For God,” Goring pondered. “What was the other word he used?”

“Canon. Il canon to be precise. I’m sure that was only the beginning of a name or title. He died before he could say any more.”

“Per Dio? A strange thing to say, don’t you think? A man trying to kill you for God. What could it mean? And the word, canon. It’s interchangeable with priest, isn’t it? Could it be someone’s title? He said it when he was dying. His last words. Was he trying to tell you the name of the person who sent him to kill you? Is that possible? A man of the cloth planning murder? It’s a pity he couldn’t have given you the full name. Very puzzling.”

“Maybe not so puzzling, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“It could have something to do with what began as a fairly minor investigation I’m running. I’ve been interviewing low-status prisoners at Ludwigsfelde. I report on their social behaviour or political attitudes and, of course, their future rehabilitation. Last Wednesday I was told something which, although it seemed a little too fanciful, intrigued me so much I didn’t sleep properly.”

“Go on,” Goring said, leaning forward, his interest sharpened.

“One of the prisoners volunteered some information, which had no bearing on our discussion. His name was Metz, a surveyor by profession. He told me that he’d worked with a Jewish surveyor before the war who knew of a hoard of ancient gold bullion. Apparently, there are documents that accompany it, or at least are connected to it. Metz lost contact with Rosenblaum, the other surveyor, but met him again in France only a few months ago. And there’s something else which caught my attention. Odd, really. He said that Germany’s secret funds more than match the ancient gold.”

“Gold bullion? Ancient gold bullion? Now you’re talking,” Goring said brimming with enthusiasm. “But what’s this other comment? He links it to this country’s secret funds? What’s does he mean when he says Germany’s secret funds match the ancient gold. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Rosenblaum talked about the Jews, as far back as biblical times, having to pay to protect themselves. He says that in more recent times the Jews of Europe have paid millions for protection, with Germany being the greatest beneficiary. More importantly, he says the older bullion is hidden somewhere waiting to be discovered.”

“Now you’ve really caught my interest. So, the prisoner, Metz, what’s he being held for?”

“He’d been arrested for persistent drunkenness. It was during their drinking sessions that Rosenblaum talked about the bullion.”

“Drinking sessions,” Goring said, a perplexed look crossing his face. “Being Jewish and heavy drinking don’t usually go together. Anything more?”

“Yes, and this might be the most important aspect of the whole thing. Rosenblaum told Metz that a group is putting the details into a document that will be revealed to the international press.”

“What did he mean a political group? And this document? What’s all that about? Do you mean a report?”

“As far as I know, sir. I didn’t get much further with the interview as I had another appointment, but I’m scheduled to see Metz again tomorrow.”

“Good. You must get to the bottom of this. What with assassins, priests planning murder, Jews and gold bullion, we need answers. And fast.”

“I felt the information would be of particular interest to you,” Paul said. “I thought it might be too delicate a matter to put through the standard reporting system.”

Goring began to speak then hesitated, weighing up the importance of the information. “Yes, certainly interesting. Very interesting,” he said, more to himself than to Paul.

A few years ago Goring had been closer to Hitler than anyone, especially since Hess had made his mysterious flight to Scotland in 1941. But now, with the recent failures of his air force and the growing rivalry of Himmler and Bormann, Goring needed something to fully regain Hitler’s trust and favour.

“I’m intrigued. Yes, you were right to come to me. There might be something in this, a feather in both our caps.” For a few seconds he stared into the distance, lost in thought. His eyes focused again on Paul. “This is what we’ll do. You’re right about not making out a report. It’s an odd business. Whether there’s any truth in it or not, this bit about the international press could be damaging, especially with our allies and potential allies, and especially at this stage of the war. I’ll square things with Section 1b. You won’t hear from them again. We’ll brush that whole incident under the carpet unless we need to revive it for our own purposes. I’ll also speak to your superior. It’s Colonel Lange, isn’t it?” He pushed a notepad and pen across the coffee table. “Write down his details, will you? I’ll contact him and tell him that from now on you’ll be working on something of national importance. I’ll draw up a document which will give you access to any building, records or whatever in the whole of the Reich, and I’ll have them sent to your office in the morning. Go back to Ludwigsfelde and press this fellow, Metz, on the details. You might have to dangle a carrot, so tell him I’ll arrange to have him released if he comes up with anything useful.”

“You will, sir?”

“Of course. My word is my bond. Anyone who helps me will always be rewarded.”

Paul told Goring about his arrangement of using his apartment as a decoy and that he was, in reality, living at his uncle’s house. He wrote all the details Goring needed, adding his uncle’s telephone number and his own number at the office. Goring got up and, for a big man, moved surprisingly swiftly to the door.

“Have Lieutenant von Hauser escorted to the main entrance,” Goring said to his adjutant. He turned to Paul. “I’m seeing Hitler in the morning. He might also be intrigued by what this fellow, Metz, had to say. It could help to take his mind of some of the bigger problems.” Goring extended his hand. “Give my best regards to your uncle and ask him when he’s going to bring his lovely wife, your aunt Lisle, to Carinhall. It’s been far too long.”

“Your estate at Hubertusstock. Yes, I remember coming there when I was quite young.”

“Happy days,” Goring said, cheerily.

That evening Paul went home in the usual way. His driver dropped him off in front of the apartment house. Pistol in hand, he opened the front door and went up the stairs. Once he’d established that the apartment was secure, he made a show of closing the curtains in case anyone was watching from the street or from the houses opposite. He immediately went downstairs and through the back door, following the previous night’s route to the house of his aunt and uncle. It was a pattern he’d continue with to ensure his own safety as well as the safety of his aunt and uncle.

THREE

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As soon as he got to the office the next morning, Colonel Lange sent for him. He was more nervous than he had been the previous day.

“For goodness sake, Hauser, what’s going on?” the colonel spluttered, struggling to control the anxiety in his voice. “I’ve had a call from Reichsmarshal Goring, telling me that you’re now working for him. I have to give some cock and bull story to anyone asking, that you’ve been transferred to another department. When I was told that Goring was on the line I could hardly believe it. Goring himself. I can tell you, I was shaken.” He dropped into his chair, looking drained. “I thought you had to see the Reichsmarshal on family business?”

“I did, sir,” Paul said. “But something’s come up. He needs a lawyer on another matter and thinks I can help.”

Colonel Lange shook his head in despair. “And, besides the telephone call, an envelope was delivered for you by a captain of the SS. He said he had instructions to give it to me personally, and that I was to make sure I place it in your hands. And there’s one more thing,” the colonel added, opening a drawer. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

“Congratulate me, sir?” Paul asked.

“Reichsmarshal Goring has told me to advise you that you have temporary promotion to the rank of captain.”

Paul was speechless for a few seconds. “Captain, sir?”

“Yes, promotion to captain. Congratulations. I hope you’ll prove the confidence that the Reichsmarshal has in you. I’m sure you will. Some new identity papers are being prepared for you. You can collect them from my secretary in a few days. And you’ll need to order a new uniform. Do it immediately. Depending on how long it might take, you could get some replacement cuff and collar insignia for use in the short term.”

Colonel Lange passed him a manila envelope bearing Goring’s Air Ministry emblem, his personal emblem and the Party emblem. The envelope was marked, ‘Private and Confidential. To be opened only by Captain Paul von Hauser’.

“A car and driver are waiting. The Reichsmarshal instructed me to put them at your disposal, permanently,” the colonel said, looking flustered. “For pity’s sake, Hauser, there are few enough cars and drivers around here without you taking one of them full time.”

Paul left the colonel’s office and went out of the side entrance into the courtyard. His driver was leaning against the car, smoking. As Paul approached he flicked the cigarette away.

“Good morning, sir. I’m Corporal Stracht, your driver. Karl Stracht. Colonel Lange tells me that you’re to have exclusive use of the car. Where to sir?”

“Ludwigsfelde,” Paul said as he got in. “Karl, a word of advice,” he added. “Don’t let the transport officer catch you smoking on duty, or you’ll be in for the high jump.”

“Sorry, sir,” Karl said, starting the engine.

He drove out of the courtyard, turning left to make the connection to the road that would take them to Ludwigsfelde. Paul settled into the comfortable upholstery and took the manila envelope from his briefcase. His hand trembled in anticipation as he undid the cord and broke the wax seal that held down the flap. A single sheet of heavy-quality paper was headed by Goring’s personal emblem followed by his title and name, Reichsmarshal Hermann Wilhelm Goring. Paul began reading.

To whom it may concern. It is my wish and your instruction to act upon the orders of the bearer of this document, Captain Paul von Hauser, to give all assistance without question, to allow access to any building, to furnish him with any document, and to allocate personnel, weapons, equipment and transport without delay, let or hindrance. Captain Paul von Hauser is acting upon my orders in matters of the security of the Reich. Heil Hitler.

It was signed with Goring’s well-known flamboyant flourish, and the impression of his personal emblem had been made with his signet ring into a circle of red wax. Paul exhaled loudly. This was a lot more than he had expected. It was a document that gave him almost unlimited power. They soon reached the foreboding edifice of the prison at Ludwigsfelde, which had once been a factory, making munitions for the army in the first war. They cleared security and Paul went through to the front office where the duty sergeant recognized him.

“Good morning, sir. Right, sir, you’re here to see…,” he began as his eyes skimmed through the pages of a heavily-bound log book. “Yes, prisoner six three one, Metz. Interview room seven, sir.”

“Thank you, sergeant. I’ll see him alone, no need for a guard to remain with us. He’s harmless enough.”

Paul settled into the interviewer’s chair and took out his notebook. A minute later he heard murmured words and the rattling of keys. The door at the back of the room opened.

“Call when you’re ready, sir,” the guard said, propelling Metz forward.

“Sit down, Metz,” Paul said, injecting a casual, friendly tone into his voice.

Metz, a small man in his sixties with bright, darting eyes, looked relieved and at once seemed eager to continue the conversation from their previous meeting. He wore the standard prison clothing of a thick, baggy, grey shirt and shapeless grey trouser and jacket. His number was stencilled onto the top edge of his jacket pocket. Without wasting time on a preamble, Paul went straight to his main question.

“Last week you spoke about working with another surveyor before the war, who had some information on, what was it?” Paul glanced at his notes. “Ancient artefacts and old documents,” he added, casually.

“Not only artefacts, monsieur,” Metz said. “Treasure.”

“Treasure?”

“Yes, gold bullion. Bars of gold and gold coins, that sort of thing.”

“And documents?”

“Yes, of course, there were also the old documents.”

“You said that the Jews of Europe have paid for protection,” Paul said, studiously ignoring the confirmation of gold bullion and affecting an air of relaxed indifference.

“Yes, that’s what Rosenblaum said.”

“And the suggestion that it goes as far back as biblical times? You mentioned the payment of tribute money. Do you have anything further to add?”

“Rosenblaum said that the Jews of Europe have been paying money throughout history. Paying to avoid persecution. To stay alive.”

“Do you have details? Who did they pay?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Local officials, I suppose. Police, military and governments.”

“And what about the connections to this country?” Paul asked, turning back a few pages of his notebook. “You said that Germany has been the greatest beneficiary? Germany’s secret funds? What does that mean?”

“That’s what Rosenblaum said. I’m only repeating what I heard, monsieur,” Metz said, nervously. “A continuation of what’s been happening for centuries, only now it’s Germany that’s gathering in the payments.”

“Where would he get that information?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s just something he said.”

“According to my notes, you said that the gold bullion has been hidden somewhere.”

“The old treasure, monsieur. The old gold. It’s what he told me, but just something he said in passing. He didn’t elaborate on it and I didn’t ask too much about it. I must say that I didn’t put much credence to what he was suggesting. As I said last week, he liked to drink. We both did. With a good drink inside you things are said, exaggerated. Boasts are made. Lies can be told. You know how it is.”

“Remind me of your background and your relationship with Rosenblaum.”

Paul added to his notes as Metz began to go through the story of how, before the war, he’d worked with Jacob Rosenblaum. They’d worked as surveyors for a company, Vermessung Landesweit, which had road contracts with the French government. Rosenblaum had seemed embittered and gave the impression that he thought life had dealt the Jews a raw deal. Over the seven months they’d worked together, he and Rosenblaum had discussed all kinds of things, as people normally do. After one particular heavy, drinking session Rosenblaum had told him about the gold bullion and the old documents.

“Do you know how the documents are related to the bullion?” Paul asked.

“No, monsieur, he didn’t say.”

“You said that a group is putting together a report that will explain everything and that it will be revealing the details to the international press. What group are you talking about? Is it a known political group or just some disenchanted individuals who are looking to stir up trouble?”

“Rosenblaum didn’t say. He spoke in a general way. I didn’t probe too deeply.”

“Do you know where Rosenblaum is now?”

“No, that’s the problem, monsieur,” Metz said, sinking into his chair. “When the war started and your army took control of northern France, Rosenblaum got out and went south into Vichy France, to escape the round up of Jews which had started. Did I say he was Jewish?”

“Yes.”

“He got out just in time. I didn’t see him for years and then I met him again, by accident, in France. Limoges. We’d worked there before the war and I believe he had relatives in the area. Maybe he was visiting them. He didn’t say. We only spoke briefly.”

“And what about the documents? Who has them?”

“Rosenblaum didn’t have them. He said he’d been shown them by someone else years before.”

“Who, did he tell you? Did he give you a name?”

“No. That’s about all I know, monsieur.”

“I’ll need to look further into this whole matter,” Paul said. He gave Metz a hard look. “I hope that what you’ve told me is the truth. If it is and it proves to be of value, you could even be rewarded.”

Metz brightened and sat upright. “Rewarded, monsieur?”

“In your case I’m sure I could arrange a quick release, and a note would be attached to your records to say that you’ve shown loyalty to the Fatherland. I might even be able to arrange a job in Ministry of Works. It’s possible you could return to your work as a surveyor. However, if you’re lying, then the alternative is that you can remain here for as long as it takes to rehabilitate you.” Paul paused to lend weight to the threat. “And that could take forever.”

“Please, I assure you, monsieur….” Metz began with a look of panic in his eyes.

“Guard, I’m finished here,” Paul said as he opened the rear door.

“Monsieur. Wait, S’il vous plaît,” Metz said, quickly getting to his feet. “My release? A job?”

“That’s only if what you’ve said can lead me to Rosenblaum. I’ll make some inquiries. If I can reach him and get the information I need, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime don’t speak to anyone about what we’ve discussed, and that means prisoners and staff.” Paul attached an edge to his voice. “If you do, someone will be coming back here to talk to you, and it won’t just be a case of shining a bright light in your eyes. Do you follow me?”

“Of course, monsieur, I understand,” Metz replied, swallowing nervously. “You’ll find me completely cooperative. You can rely on me.”

Paul returned to the administration office and told the duty officer that he wanted to speak to the commandant. The lieutenant went out and returned a minute later.

“Down the corridor, sir. It’s the last door on the left. Colonel Bruge.”

Paul found the door with a brass nameplate showing the colonel’s name engraved in a modern italic script. He knocked.

“Come,” a voice commanded.

Paul went in to find a distinguished-looking man with iron-grey hair sitting behind a neat desk. There was a large map of Europe on the wall behind him. The map had numerous pins indicating the movements of German, British, American and Russian forces. To Paul, it appeared that, if it hadn’t been for the war, the colonel looked old enough to have been retired.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” the colonel asked with an air of distain, a gold pen poised.

“The prisoner six three one, Metz,” Paul said as the colonel gave his identification papers a cursory glance. “Will you let me know if there is any change to his status? I’d like him to be kept here and I’d like him isolated.”

The colonel put his pen down. It rolled onto the floor, spattering ink as it fell. “What?” he said. “You’d like him isolated. You’d like to be kept informed,” he spluttered. His collar suddenly seemed too tight and his neck began to turn crimson. “Now let me tell you, young man, I’m the commandant here and I’ll decide what goes on,” he said his voice hardening. “Don’t come in here shouting the odds, giving orders. Just who do you think you are?”

Paul retrieved the pen and placed it on the inkstand. “My apologies, sir, I didn’t intend to sound too demanding. It’s a matter of national security.”

Paul placed Goring’s letter of authority in front of the colonel, whose eyes widened when he focused on the three emblems at the top, and widened even more as he started to read. He read it a second time and then drew himself out of his chair.

“I didn’t…,” he began, looking pale and uneasy. “I didn’t realize. Of course, if there’s anything I can do, my staff can do, anything,” he blustered. “Only too willing to cooperate with you and the Reichsmarshal.” He tailed off, then rapidly continued, extending his hand towards the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit down…Captain?”

Paul noted the interrogative rise in the commandant’s tone. The rank shown in the letter didn’t match his identification papers or his uniform.

“I’ve had the honour of being promoted to the rank of captain.”