Crate of Lies Read online

  CRATE OF LIES

  By

  Ray Stone

  Crate of Lies

  © 2015 by Ray Stone

  Rev 1

  Cover Art and eBook Formatting by Archetype Marketing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Amazon eBook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For

  Irene Kimmel

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  To Mrellan Harahan who edited and advised and continues to support my efforts to improve my writing skills.

  To Jennie Jansen the most fantastic proof reader who polished the work with great vigour and artistic flair.

  To Irene Kimmel who has now produced and published four novels for me, with the fifth on the horizon.

  To Annette Connor, Michael Myers, Joe Labrum for reading and reviewing and giving their great support.

  To CEO Suraya Dewing, Bruce Howett, and all my fellow managers at the Story Mint for all their support and help in raising the standard of my work.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  1952. Light snow covered a heap of scaffold boards thrown across the top of the pit. From between two of the boards a frozen finger pointed up at the towering trees of the Sachsen-Anhalt district.

  Later, as the dawning continued the snowflakes became larger, dancing wildly in a frenzied flurry from the overcast sky. They continued to multiply until the air was thick with them. By full light, or what there was of it, a moderate wind had begun to blow through the trees, shaking the layer of white back into the air. Winter had come with this, the first snow, turning Broken Mountain and the surrounding landscape from green and brown into an all-enveloping white that would cocoon everything until the spring.

  A distant roar and high pitched whine broke the forest's eerie silence. For over half an hour the big ten-wheel Studebaker carried its load slowly, lumbering along the track until it reached the Wernigerode Road where it turned northeast towards Magdeburg. The truck's big, thick, studded tyres spat large lumps of mud in all directions across the tarmac as the driver wrestled with the noisy gearbox and pushed his foot hard down on the accelerator.

  Anatoly Medetsky wiped his forehead with the back of one hand then realized he not only wiped sweat from his face. There was blood as well, but not his. Swallowing nervously, he was relieved to be away from the place. He gripped the wheel to stop his hands shaking and looked sideways at the American tapping the bottom of a blood-stained pack of Camels. They exchanged glances but said nothing.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Magdeburg, Anatoly felt better. He was pleased Joe preferred to close his eyes rather than talk about what he was going to do when he got back to Idaho. It was not as though Anatoly disagreed with the man, quite the opposite, but he preferred an uninterrupted moment to gather his own thoughts.

  Their aims and ideals were the same. They hoped to join the General in America soon where a Fourth Reich would emerge victorious from the ashes of the Third. The Amber Room, once destined for Wewelsburg castle, would finally play its role as the centre of the New Order.

  The truck's engine roared as it climbed a hill. Anatoly peered through the screen at the white carpet in front of him and then at his watch. They had to be through Magdeburg by noon or miss their schedule. The train left Lichtenberg, bound for Kostrzyn on the Polish boarder at eighteen hundred hours precisely. Thirty minutes before departure the shipment was due to be loaded. Their contact was the shipping manager in the Eastern Territories Office, Otto Kruger. The wipers flapped back and forth as Anatoly crunched the gears.

  "Where are we, Ivan?" Joe Prewit yawned and rubbed his unshaven jaw.

  "We are now into Magdeburg and I am Anatoly, you understand, Yank?"

  Joe Prewit was a big man with short cropped dark hair, a weather-beaten face and large, calloused hands that were used to heavy manual work. His nose was crooked and angled to one side. Together with a disfigured lip and small pig-like blue eyes, he was a fearsome sight when angry. Despite his quick temper and frequent arguments with Anatoly, he felt a kinship with the big Russian.

  Six years earlier, both men had been drinking in the Berliner, a small popular bar frequented by the Russian and American troops even though there were agreements between the occupying forces that off duty drinking would take place in their respective zones. Anatoly sat in one corner of the crowded bar one Saturday night, drinking and making eyes at one particular young woman. She was a busty Russian brunette and as drunk as the rest of the men.

  Anatoly waited and made his move. He was soon buying the girl drinks. Minutes later Joe staggered into the bar and grabbed the girl by the arm. Anatoly kicked Joe and before anyone could stop them the two men were rolling across the floor and thumping each other. The place erupted into a mass brawl with the women joining in.

  Anatoly was dragged outside by Joe as the military police arrived. Ten minutes later the two men sat in an alleyway with their backs to the wall, laughing and complementing each other on having good taste in women.

  Later, as Anatoly pulled Joe to his feet, a small card proclaiming 'Neuordnung Europas' – New Order of Europe, fell from Joe's pocket. Picking it up, Anatoly commented he knew about the organisation but little of its ideology and might be interested in learning more. Joe looked at him suspiciously and told him there would be a new order soon and if he wanted to learn more he should meet a friend the next time they had leave together.

  Anatoly accepted the invitation and their association started from that moment on.

  ***

  The Studebaker bumped across the corner of a curb and slid sideways, briefly out of control as Anatoly turned into th
e main street through Magdeburg.

  "For crying out loud. You stupid bastard! Look where you're going." Joe dropped the clipboard on the floor as he reached forward to grab hold of the dashboard.

  "All right, all right," replied Anatoly through gritted teeth. "Don't lose your temper, Joe. The checkpoint is coming up. Leave the guard to me and look as though you're asleep."

  The truck joined a queue of other vehicles waiting for release. Up ahead, a pole barrier and two guards stood between them and a clear run to Lichtenberg. Joe pulled the Russian greatcoat about him and folded his huge arms. He lowered his chin onto his chest and closed his eyes.

  Reaching the barrier, Anatoly opened the door and jumped down to the ground. He stamped his feet and opened the large tool chest attached to the back of the cab. Withdrawing a small wooden box, he slammed the chest shut and walked quickly back to the front of the truck as one of the guards approached. He handed the guard the paperwork.

  "Will this take long?" he asked. "I've got a date tonight." He winked. "You know how it is. Any chance you could stamp my freight through on the quick?"

  The guard eyed the small box in Anatoly's hand, frowned, and then said, "Johnny Walker?"

  "Johnny Walker."

  The Russian grinned and took the box. He handed back the papers after scribbling a signature on them. "Give her one from me too."

  Anatoly climbed back inside the cab and shivered. He pulled away and waved as they passed through the barrier. There was enough time as long as the snow didn't hold them up. Anatoly thought about the risk Joe was taking. He had to be back in Berlin by 6 p.m. If caught in the Russian occupied zone he would see the inside of a Russian cell.

  At Lichtenberg, Anatoly went to contact the shipping manager. When the two returned with a gang of loaders, they set out to the other side of the marshalling yard where a long line of wagons waited to be loaded. Joe pulled up alongside one marked twenty-one stencilled on the sliding doors. "Let's get this done quickly," he said. He climbed into the back of the truck as the shipping manager appeared with a wad of tickets in his hand.

  Otto Kruger was a little man, dressed in a dark brown uniform and peaked cap that looked a size too big for him, giving him a comical appearance.

  "Make sure each crate has one of these on it," he ordered. He left them and walked back across the tracks.

  The heavy crates slid into the wagon while Anatoly attached a large buff coloured label to them. The label gave the contents as cutlery and cooking utensils, destination Warsaw via Kostrzyn. They were pushing the last crate into place when Otto came back and climbed into the wagon. He sent the loaders away and then inspected the crates before marking each one with a chalk cross. Satisfied, he looked at Anatoly and then pulled the doors shut.

  Anatoly's ears hurt as the first shot rang out in the confined space. He did not hear the second.

  An hour later after the train passed through Keitz, it trundled over an old iron bridge spanning the river Odra. The doors of wagon twenty-one opened and two bodies rolled over the side and down into the icy waters below.

  CHAPTER TWO

  2016 The Valerie Nintz ploughed into a huge grey wall of white capped water and yawed to port. The next wave smashed into her straining hull amidships. Dropping to the bottom of a deep trough, she shuddered under the impact and listed heavily. Twin screws and a rusted rudder appeared momentarily as her broad stern lifted clear of the churning sea. Wearily, her bow rose from the depths and broke surface, riding up into the freezing maelstrom like a breaching whale blowing sheets of water high into the air. With a roar they came crashing back down across her foredeck.

  The ship's hull and derricks were rusting as were other parts of her superstructure, particularly around the windows of the once white bridge. It was easy to guess her to be around twenty or so years old but she left the shipbuilders ten years earlier in Norway. The Valerie Nintz was a two hundred and twenty foot trawler-processor with a crew of thirty-five men and women that had worked out of Seward since her commissioning in 2006.

  Pierre Maurier sat in a fixed highchair on the bridge, drinking coffee from a blue enamel mug, whilst gripping the large chromium wheel. His booted feet sat firmly anchored under the foot rail so that despite the ever changing position of the Valerie Nintz, his eyes remained focused ahead through the spray drenched bridge at the horizon each time the ship rose above the angry waves.

  Ten miles to the northwest lay the Fox Islands, part of the Aleutian chain and his normal route through to the Bering Sea. This time however, he was working his way west along the southern passage to one of the furthest in the chain, Agattu. It meant two days less in the fishing grounds but the catch would be big enough to avoid any suspicions raised if the Department of Natural Resources boarded.

  The horizon came into view again and Maurier's eyes flickered. There was a faint smudge of black smoke, just visible against the dark sky. He judged the distance around five miles and wondered why his Mate hadn't seen a blip on the radar or the lookout hadn't alerted him. He was about to curse them when their combined warning made him jump.

  "Coasties."

  Pierre looked sideways at the young lookout, Johansson, a big surly Swede dressed in oilskins and a watch cap that covered a shaved head. He was leaning across the chart table, his huge hands training binoculars on the distant smoke.

  The Mate, Eric Nunn, came up behind Pierre and instinctively grabbed the back of the chair as the ship started to roll downward into another trough. He was half the size of Johansson with a full head of dark, curly hair that poked out from beneath an old battered peaked cap. His duffel coat and jeans were filthy and crumpled and looked as though he had slept in them for more than a few watches. At sea for most of his fifty years, there wasn't much anyone could teach him about trawlers, the Pacific Ocean or the Bering Sea. He scratched the black stubble on his chin and patted Pierre on the shoulder.

  "What the hell are they doin' around here?" He shouted above the roar of the sea and spray lashing the bridge windows.

  "They're protecting us from the baddies," replied Johansson sarcastically without putting the binoculars down. He grinned. "Maybe they heard we were coming."

  "That isn't funny," growled Pierre, rubbing his eyes. None of them had slept for two days and this was the last thing he needed. If coastguards boarded it meant a search or hopefully he might have to do no more than show his papers. He didn't doubt for a moment they would board if they wanted to. The sea was rough but not rough enough to stop a determined team of Coast Guards.

  Johansson put the binoculars down and stood up uneasily. "Two miles and we'll be past the twelve mile limit." He looked in Nunn's direction.

  Nunn shook his head. "You know, sometimes I wonder how you ever put to sea?" He shook his head. "If we change course now they'll wonder what the hell we're doin' goin' south into the Pacific when they know we're supposed to be north in the Berin' fishin' with the fleet. In two miles they'll catch us for sure and then we'll have them climbin' all over us. The best thing to do is carry on like nothin's happening."

  Pierre knew the man was right and said nothing. They might get away with a call to make sure everything was all right. Maybe they wouldn't get a call at all. There was a worsening storm to the north of the Aleutians and his decision to try and circumnavigate bad weather by taking the southern route was barely believable, considering no self-respecting captain would consider losing two days unless he was faced with nothing less than a typhoon.

  "US Coast Guard calling trawler south of Cape Sedanka, respond please."

  "Shit." Pierre threw his mug across the bridge and jumped from the chair. He waved a hand at Johansson. "Take over, Tug."

  For a man his size, Pierre could move quickly. Five foot six tall, his rotund figure suggested his occupation was anything but a fisherman. He was quiet and normally softly spoken but despite that, his reputation was one of being tough if need be with his crew and a man not afraid to speak his mind.

  "US Coast Guard ca
lling trawler south of Cape Sedanka, respond please."

  Pierre sat on the Mate's chair. He rubbed his large nose and ran a hand through his mop of greasy white hair, trying to think of an appropriate response. He picked up the handset. "US Coast Guard, this is the Valerie Nintz out of Seward, over."

  "US Coast Guard to Valerie Nintz, your course and destination please."

  Pierre took a deep breath. "Sou'west to Amatignak, northwest to Cape Wrangell and then north into the Bering fishing grounds. Over."

  "US Coast Guard to Valerie Nintz, close with us and make ready for inspection, captain."

  "Confirm inspection. Over."

  Nunn pulled an oilskin from the overhead locker and put it on. "I'll go and check the cargo," he shouted. He slid the bridge door open. Icy rain stung his face and blew past him across the deck. A thin layer of ice was forming on the deck rail and radio aerials on top of the bridge. Nunn hooked himself on to the safety wire and walked crab-like along the deck until he came to the first watertight door. With numbing hands he pulled the dogged door open against the wind and stepped over the ledge. The door closed with a crash.

  Back on the bridge Pierre tugged Johansson's arm. "Go and tell our guest to hide," he ordered, taking the wheel from the Swede. Picking up a handset, he spoke to the crew. "All crew stand by for a Coast Guard inspection."

  Johansson grabbed at the door as the ship climbed another mountainous wave. His body smashed heavily against the bulkhead. Cursing loudly, he regained his balance and stepped outside into the biting wind. More spray flew across the bridge, showering the chart table and deck before the door slammed shut.

  Pierre hauled himself up onto the highchair. A cursory inspection would reveal nothing and in the weather conditions that prevailed anything more detailed would be impossible to carry out. He was reassured anyway. The men were all handpicked and knew what was required of them. He watched the distant cutter, a one hundred and ten foot Island class craft with a top speed of thirty knots, changing course and closing on him. She carried a twenty-five millimetre Bush Master mounted on the foredeck and a crew of eighteen men. He knew the cutter well; out of Seward.