Crate of Lies Read online

  An inspection would take an hour. Agattu was still three days away, a total of six days from Seward provided they maintained an average speed of ten knots. The rendezvous with the Nicholas left little room for any late arrival. More than two hours late and they would have to dump the cargo overboard with loss of pay, something that the men would be unhappy about. There would be a problem with their guest too who would have to be returned to Seward. If the weather stayed foul then the inspection would be quick.

  Nunn and Johansson came back onto the bridge, their oilskins dripping water on the deck. Nunn crossed to the chart table and began rolling the chart. Directly underneath lay another, a copy of the first but with a different course plot confirming the information Pierre had radioed to the Coast Guard.

  "They're not going to find anything they shouldn't," said Johansson throwing his oilskin over a hook by the chart table. "Our guest is tucked up in his little hole."

  "The cargo is okay and it'll take a full inspection to find anythin' aft. They'll only wanna' check the papers, you'll see." Nunn picked up the binoculars and looked out of the window. "The men will be ready as soon as the Coasties come alongside."

  Pierre sat, looking straight ahead, feeding the wheel through his fingers. He rang for half speed and settled back, watching the bow dip. The sea seemed less angry; the waves not so high. Within a few minutes a Zodiac was going to draw alongside carrying one officer and several crewmen. He looked across at the cutter as she closed and eventually lay off his port bow.

  Seconds later, a large Zodiac carrying a team of six men left the side of the cutter. It powered through the water drenching the crew with spray while cutting across the wave tops. It took the helmsman several minutes to come alongside. Pierre watched two of his deck hands holding on to a short scrambling net. The Coast Guard crewmen grabbed it one by one and climbed as the Zodiac rose up against the hull on each successive wave.

  The bridge door opened and Pierre welcomed a lieutenant aboard. On the deck below Nunn was accompanying the search party. Pierre started to worry. Just when he wanted a quick search the weather had subsided and calmed the sea to six foot waves.

  "So why the long trip?" asked the lieutenant. "It seems a little strange when the rest of the fleet are taking the usual course."

  The lieutenant questioned him further but was finally convinced that the trawler was avoiding bad weather despite the lull, particularly when the weather forecast broadcast while they were aboard. It warned that increased gale force winds in the Pribilof Islands area west of the fishing grounds were expected, an area he would normally have plotted a course for on the chart.

  An hour later the cutter left.

  "For Christ's sake give me some speed, Eric," Pierre shouted down the intercom to the engine room. "We are one hour behind. I want to be at the Cape by 00.30."

  At 23.50 hours, a bright Aldis lamp flashed three times across the bay from Cape Sabak, the southernmost peninsular on Agattu Island. Pierre, his face bathed in the harsh green light coming from the control panel in front of him, breathed a sigh of relief.

  Pierre nodded in Johansson's direction. "Return the signal, Tug." He turned to Nunn. "Get all hands on deck. I want this finished as soon as possible."

  Nunn left the bridge.

  Pierre judged they were no more than a mile from the anchorage. If all went according to plan, the transfer of the shipment, scheduled for two hours maximum, meant they would be on their way minutes later. The German would also be gone. Pierre didn't like the aggressive attitude of the man or the way he issued orders. If it hadn't been for Prewit's call the day before the shipment arrived in Seward's rail terminal he would never have taken the man in the first place.

  They were taking bigger risks now, smuggling more than ever before, especially with this latest consignment. He argued with board chairman Wainright that a new alternative route might be a good idea in case authorities discovered the one in use. Wainright disagreed, pointing out that setting up a new pipeline might be a good idea but it would be too expensive.

  Ninety minutes later, as the last crates disappeared onto the Nicholas, the bridge door opened and Nunn stepped in, followed closely by Hienrich Liebermann. Tall and thin, he was dressed in a long leather coat over a navy suit and wore a trilby that masked half his face. Green light glinting off his rimless spectacles gave him a mysterious, if not menacing appearance.

  "Well, Captain, all has gone well apart from the abominable food your so called cook has served up during the last six days." He handed Pierre a large brown envelope. "From your head executive. I have counted the money myself so I hope there is no need to stay while you check it?"

  Pierre wanted to say yes but bit his tongue. "No, I'm sure if it's wrong, Prewit will be in touch with him."

  Liebermann left without a word, followed by Johansson.

  "Perhaps I could arrange an accident for the bastard, skipper?"

  Pierre grinned at Nunn and opened the envelope. "No, let's be well shot of him. Anyway, we've got something to be cheerful about." He handed Nunn the envelope after removing two thousand dollars. "Pay the lads and let's get under way. We're late as it is and we've got time to make up if we're to look healthy going home."

  "You want me to burn these, by the way?"

  Pierre looked down at the handful of freight notes in Nunn's hand. They showed him as the addressee at Seward, from a company called Griggs & West – Hydraulic Engineers – Edmonton – Alberta – Canada. The contents, separately listed on each label for each crate, showed spare parts for derricks and other parts for ice breaker hydraulics.

  Pierre nodded. Labels told stories which if checked would prove a lie. Ice boxes now hid the crates, soon bound for Moscow via the Siberian railroad from Vladivostok.

  Two hours later the Valerie Nintz was several miles north of Agattu, making slow passage through the merciless waves of the Bering Sea. With ice forming on cables and winches, her crew worked in the numbing cold, balancing on the tilting slippery deck.

  Pierre sat on the highchair and watched the chaotic scene as he had so many times before. Every man had a specific task often carried out in appalling conditions - conditions that could easily sweep a man overboard in an instant.

  Down in the confined space of the hot engine room engineer Eric Jepson fell sideways as the ship listed. Picking himself up, he rubbed a sore shoulder. It was then he noticed something wrong. The engine sounded right. He would have known if it missed a heartbeat. There was something out of place. He hadn't noticed it before because he never really looked at the engines, just listened to the rhythmic beat. There were two thin electrical wires, one red and the other blue, taped together and laying half hidden across the top of one of the engines. He followed the route taken by the wires. As realization sunk in, his noisy mechanical world exploded around him in a bright flash.

  Pierre sat sipping coffee when the Valerie Nintz shook. Apart from the thunderous roar of the sea, the crazy corkscrew motion of the ship and the squeak of an enamel mug that swung on a hook above the wheel, he knew instantly that something was wrong. He gripped the sides of the chair. The ship rolled onto her side. Terrified, he watched a deck hand fly through the air past the bridge and into the sea. Tons of water smashed through the screen with a horrendous crash. Pierre took a deep breath and closed his eyes, praying for salvation, but the instant the icy water enveloped him he breathed out with shock and gulped in water.

  Within seven seconds the Valerie Nintz and her crew had disappeared, leaving nothing to mark their passing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Harry Cohen took little notice, or so it seemed, of a middle-aged man in evening dress glancing briefly up at him as he walked to the main entrance and out into the cold night air. Harry looked down on the reception hall and the guests. To outward appearances he portrayed an intelligent, affluent businessman. His large ruddy face, double chin and bald crown surrounded by manicured dark hair gave him an authoritative air. He had no vices save Havana cigars and Malt Scotch, both of which he indulged in with pleasure.

  It wasn't a mere coincidence that nearly everyone in London's diplomatic corps and high society knew and respected him. Harry was, for many years, recognized as one of the leading international dealers in fine art and rare stones.

  Retired now, he continued to work as a member of the Israeli Trade Delegation based at the Israeli Embassy in Kensington Palace Green. Everyone had heard of Harry Cohen. Yet behind the affable but professional façade there was more to Harry than the aroma of Havana: a serious dark side that remained hidden to all but a few.

  For the past five years, as London Desk, he controlled the Mossad interests in Britain and other specialist fields at home and abroad. To his friends he was a generous and wise man. To his enemies he was a man to avoid.

  "Penny for your thoughts, Harry."

  Harry turned to see the tall, white-haired,willowy figure of Michael Garret Jnr. advancing toward him with an outstretched hand.

  "Mr. Ambassador, it's so nice to see you again."

  Garret unfastened the button on his dinner jacket and looked down at the guests. "Who'd have thought that we would see all this?" He waved a hand towards the throng below. "Six months ago we faced an uncertain future and now we have peace in the Middle East. You should be proud of what you achieved behind the scenes, Harry."

  "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, thank you but this reception is for all the people who really did their bit to help the peace process."

  "Let's just hope we can achieve the infrastructure building targets we've set for the next two years," said Garret reflectively.

  "Never mind the building targets. Let's hope those in the Kremlin can keep their mouths shut. Money or not, they'll find some way of giving us grief if we give them half a chance."

  Harry remembered how difficult it had been to convince the Russians that all sides committed to the agreement were bound not to release certain information for two years; information that might have grave consequences should the public learn the truth before all building programmes were complete.

  He was wary about the particularly delicate part of the agreement that saw the U.S. manning satellite communications and observation posts on the Golan Heights; structures secretly built under the guise of observatories, supposedly staffed by teams of astronomers of all nationalities. Russia was part of the agreement.

  For two years a building program would create a new Palestinian state on the West Bank together with recognition by Israel and the U.S, of Syria's territorial rights to the Golan Heights. That meant that the Syrians would receive lease payments worth billions of dollars. Russia, responsible for persuading the Arabs to sit at the negotiating table, would receive incentives that included economic aid.

  "The secret talks between all interested parties and the UN may have ended in total agreement but there's still a lot to do," said Harry. "Besides the financial packages and aid given by the U.S. you will eventually take over from the UN and provide a military presence once our secret reaches public ears. The point is can the Russians keep their mouths shut until 2018?

  Garret tapped Harry on the shoulder as the big man turned back to look down on the milling crowd in the hall. "Speaking of our friends, Harry, I've had a communication from the White House. Have you got a couple of minutes?"

  Harry's face lit up. "Good news, I hope?"

  "Let's go somewhere private."

  Garret ushered Harry along the corridor and into a small office. The office looked comfortable with green leather armchairs, a Victorian writing bureau and a ceiling high bookcase that covered the width of the wall opposite a single window. Drawn cream curtains and small wall lights gave the office a warm glow.

  Harry sat in one of the armchairs as Garret took a bottle of Scotch from a drinks cabinet.

  "Harry, first I have no fresh news concerning the arms issue. A meeting between a CIA agent and your man is on for next week. The President is worried about the type of arms getting through to the Islamic terrorist fighters in Syria and Iraq. We are still none the wiser how they are being smuggled in and even more worried about where they are coming from."

  Harry shook his head slowly. "We know where a lot of them are coming from, Michael. The White House won't admit it. I think the Serbs are buying and selling from the U.S. although I don't think it's Serbs who are smuggling the arms."

  "We'll see," replied Garret. "Let's change the subject and talk about something more agreeable. The President has given me the green light about our treasure hunt," said Garret, filling two glasses, "but there are conditions. If you're caught or this is ever made public before he has a chance to talk to the Russian President, he'll deny any knowledge of your actions or his involvement." He pulled a grim face. "Jerusalem won't be too pleased either."

  There was a knock on the door and the security guard appeared. "Sorry, Sir, but Mr. Marsh is here to collect the press releases."

  Garret snapped his fingers irritably. "All right, George." He handed Harry a glass. "I sign all the press releases in my little hideout here where I can read and think undisturbed. The trouble is I can't escape for too long. The staff know where I am if I can't be found in my official office."

  "Sorry to disturb you, Sir." A young fair-haired man stepped into the room.

  "That's all right, Paul. The papers are on the desk." Garret waved a hand in the air.

  Paul Marsh walked smartly past Harry to the desk, nodding politely. Picking up a sheath of papers that lay in an open folder, he shuffled them together and fussed for a minute before leaving the office.

  "As I was saying," said Garret, "Jerusalem won't be pleased with you if they find out what you're doing. Leading a treasure hunt is not one of your duties."

  "That's only if they find out," answered Harry, taking a cigar from his pocket wallet. "At the moment there's only you, my assistant Raithe Ravelle, the President and me that know about this." He paused. "And some of the President's staff, perhaps?"

  "Only the Secretary of State and his assistant," answered Garret. "No one else until you find the loot." Garret chuckled. "You know, Harry, I still can't believe our luck. Finding that scrap of card with the icon was incredible. We should thank the Russians for that."

  The Kremlin insisted on the Americans returning a rare icon as part of the Middle East deal. Stolen from the Russian people, it had 'gone missing' from Berlin at the end of World War II. The icon ended up in the basement of Washington's National Archive, its presence denied by the Americans, despite Russian protests. For over fifty years the icon remained sealed in a small case until it was stolen while on route to the Russians. Harry's assistant, Raithe Ravelle, managed to steal the icon back and discovered a small piece of card inside the original box. It contained two lists of numbers, one number matching the number on the crate holding the icon and a longer serial number typed underneath together with the word 'amber' written below. Underneath that was a short message, written in German and signed by W. Rienecke, an SS General. The message, Harry surmised, gave the supposed location of one of Russia's most prized treasures, lost during the war and surrounded in mystery and intrigue as to its whereabouts ever since.

  Harry lost no time in seizing the advantage. Ever suspicious, he knew the Russians might use the sensitive information regarding the Golan Heights to blackmail the Americans into giving them a bigger share of the lucrative redevelopment program. He suggested to Garret that if the other crates miraculously appeared, the President could let the Kremlin know that he had their treasure and would be pleased to return it – in 2018.

  Harry sighed deeply. "Yes, it was a very lucky break."

  "You have its last known hiding place," said Garret. "Let's hope it's still there."

  Harry brushed ash from his trousers. "I'm not sure it is. The note and Rienicke's signature seem genuine though so let's keep our fingers crossed."

  "Okay, let's sort this out tomorrow. I suggest we meet here at eleven. The President has given this his blessing and authorized me to let you have whatever you need. He'll also explain to Jerusalem when the time comes." He rubbed his hands together and raised his glass.

  ***

  Paul Marsh walked into the small office as most of the guests downstairs were leaving, paying their farewells to the ambassador and his wife. Placing the next batch of papers for the ambassador's attention on the desktop, he felt under the metal lamp and removed a small digital recorder. After making an entry in a small diary, he pocketed the recorder and left the office.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Across Warwick Square the breeze stirred while Big Ben, a mile to the east, boomed solemnly above the Pimlico rooftops. As the last chime faded slowly, Risto Prazina walked quickly across Vauxhall Bridge.

  Prazina was a man in his early forties, dark complexion with black hair swept back across his head. Around six feet tall and slim he walked with a slight limp. He looked over his shoulder before taking a pair of bloody leather gloves wrapped and bound around a small micro recorder from his pocket and threw them into the Thames. Striding on, he told himself to slow down. It was going to be several hours before embassy staff found Paul Marsh.

  He stopped and leaned against the stone balustrade and remembered his first meeting with Paul six months beforehand. It was during talks between Ambassador Garret and overseas aid charities. He arrived in London under the guise of chairman of a Serbian charity. His real mission was gathering useful information for Belgrade.

  The ambassador attended several meetings, listening, giving advice and at his elbow had been a young man Risto instantly admired. He was good looking, intelligent, had the ambassador's ear - and was gay. After several casual coffee breaks Paul agreed to meet Risto at a gay club in Mayfair, a small discreet wine bar. A couple of weeks later, they were having an affair and Paul was earning money from Risto, collecting social gossip.