The Last Nazi – sample chapters - Andrew Turpin Thriller Author

Prologue

Monday, December 18, 1944

Nazi-occupied Southwestern Poland

The tunnel roof collapsed with no warning. Tens of thousands of tons of dirt and rock fell almost as one, triggering a shock wave that threw all the men to the floor.

The flickering lights that lined the tunnel wall went out instantly.

Then came a series of smaller rockfalls, which clattered and rattled down like minor landslides over the impenetrable mountain of rubble that now entirely blocked the route back to the entrance.

Finally, there was utter silence.

Jacob Kudrow groaned and clawed at his face in the blackness.

He propped himself up on his elbows and spat out a mouthful of sand and soil.

Then he coughed and gasped, trying to suck in air.

But this only brought in yet more earth and dust, dry particles that clogged his nostrils and stuck in the back of his throat.

Then he realized he could no longer hear.

No, not again,he thought.

A wave of panic ran through him. It was the same sensation he’d had when he was ten years old, underwater and fighting for his life in the freezing Vistula River in Warsaw, long before the Nazis had marched in and changed his life.

It’s over, it’s over.

Jacob ripped open his filthy blue and white striped shirt and clasped the corner of the material over his nose and mouth. He coughed violently, then sucked in again, this time through the cotton.

Now, at last, a fraction of oxygen came through. Again he coughed, again he sucked, his entire focus on his own survival.

More air reached his lungs. “Breathe through your shirt,” he shouted to the others, unable even to hear his own words.

Jacob turned to where he knew Daniel had been standing and reached out his hand, then stretched a little further. He found a shoe, then a leg, which moved and then moved again. His twin’s hand touched his.

Thank the Almighty.

Gradually, the dust settled, allowing Jacob to breathe more easily, and he began to hear again, too. First there were the grating coughs of those around him, all battling for air, and a few thuds as more rock fell from above.

Finally, Jacob saw faint pinpricks of light coming nearer and nearer down the tunnel toward him. There were voices, quiet at first but getting louder.

The first words he heard through the darkness were the unmistakable tones of the SS first lieutenant talking to one of the other guards in German. “The Führer will go mad when he finds out what’s happened here,” he said.

Jacob immediately knew why. An hour earlier, he wouldn’t have. But now he did.

“Get these damned prisoners down to the far end, away from this rock,” the first lieutenant shouted to the guards. “Make sure all the boxes come too. Go on, move. There should be twelve more boxes, so count them carefully.”

The flashlights were now above Jacob, shining down on the prisoners on the floor. Jacob surveyed the damage. A miracle. The group of twenty-one prisoners, who had been standing less than forty meters from the roof fall, were covered in filth, faces black, but they had all survived.

“Up, up, lift your boxes, then walk, single file, follow me,” the guard yelled.

Jacob reluctantly got up and strained to lift the heavy wooden box lying at his feet.

“Quick,” shouted the guard. At the second attempt, Jacob hoisted it onto his shoulder and got into line behind his brother.

“Are you okay?” Jacob whispered. Daniel nodded.

They all shuffled to the end of the tunnel where the first lieutenant, his thin face and SS uniform also now covered in grime, stood and watched, hands on hips. The prisoners placed their boxes on the wooden pallets with the others they had stacked neatly earlier in the day.

Other than the first lieutenant, there were only two guards now. The others must have been buried under the rockfall or left on the other side of it, where the Nazi train stood.

Jacob heard the first lieutenant mutter to a guard about the tunnel engineers. “Damned amateurs, always cutting corners, taking too many risks, going too quickly.” He swore loudly and hobbled around the stack of boxes, counting them as he went.

When he finished, the first lieutenant whacked his riding crop hard on the final stack. “Two hundred. Okay, get these prisoners down there and out. Move,” he ordered, pointing toward the back of the main tunnel.

“The escape tunnel,” Jacob murmured to himself. “Of course.”In his panic, Jacob had almost forgotten the nightmarish eight weeks he and a large group of other prisoners had spent digging it earlier in the year. Less than half of them had survived to see it completed.

A guard led the group into an opening at the back of the main tunnel and down a much smaller tunnel, barely high enough to stand in, with few roof supports, uneven walls with protruding tree roots and a narrow rocky floor covered with large puddles.

The men carefully made their way for around a hundred and fifty meters along the tunnel, with only the two guards’ flashlights for illumination. They were forced to crawl for the final short stretch, where the roof was too low to remain upright, until they emerged into a dry concrete sewer.

“Thank the Almighty that the sewer’s unused,” Jacob said to Daniel. They continued to crawl along a short section of the sewer before finally emerging through a snow-covered metal grill into the freezing blackness of some woodland. Daylight had long gone.

The guards led them by flashlight to a narrow road that was blanketed in ice and snow and marched them down the valley to the Ludwikowice Klodzkie village railway station, where they had arrived early that morning.

As they had been every morning and night for the previous few months, the prisoners were herded onto railway cattle cars that were still ankle-deep in pig and cow dung after being procured from a local farmer. Ten of the group were pushed into the front car, the remainder, including Jacob and Daniel, into the rear one.

A guard climbed in and began to tie the prisoners’ hands behind their backs to a horizontal steel rail that ran along the inside of the car.

He was about to tie Jacob when the guard from the front car called through, asking for more rope. The guard jumped out, and when he returned, Jacob had his hands ready on the rail.

But the guard, whom Jacob noticed was sweating profusely but also shivering, his face ashen, moved straight to Daniel and tied him, missing Jacob.

After he finished securing the others, the guard sat on a stool at the back and rested against the wall, his eyes closed, one hand on his sweating forehead. The train began to move up the valley toward Gluszyca, where the Wüstegiersdorf concentration camp lay—part of the Nazis’ Gross-Rosen complex.

After a few minutes, the guard’s head nodded forward. He was asleep.

Jacob inched his hand to his left until he touched his brother’s bound right hand. Daniel, who was sitting with his eyes shut, his head bowed, jumped as if he had been touched with a live power cable but recovered quickly. Jacob kept his eyes fixed in front of him, but in the gloom he began slowly to unpick the knot that held Daniel’s hands to the metal bar, his fingers struggling in the cold.

Finally, the bindings came free.

Jacob noticed a length of wood lying almost buried in the excrement on the floor, halfway between him and the guard. As the train crawled toward a bend, Jacob stood, his legs wobbling with fatigue and the motion of the train, and made his way toward the rear of the car. He picked up the wood and, with what remaining strength he had, slammed it into the sleeping guard’s temple.

The guard opened his eyes just before impact but too late. He collapsed unconscious on the floor.

Jacob beckoned Daniel, whose eyes were now wide with fear, and moved to the open door at the back of the car. As the train rounded the bend, Jacob made eye contact with the other prisoners.

All of them, without exception, looked silently at Jacob.

How he wanted to liberate them—these men with whom he had shared some of the most horrific experiences a human could possibly endure. They had spent months as slaves, digging endless underground tunnels for Hitler’s Project Riese in the Owl Mountains.

Jacob’s friend Konstanty gazed at him with dark, shrunken eyes. There was Stefan, who had two children; Bronislaw, taken by the SS only a day after his wedding; Berek, Janusz, and the rest.

But Jacob knew he had no time to untie the knots, no knife to cut their bonds.

They knew it too. Konstanty just nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Jacob turned, took Daniel by the hand, and they both jumped into the darkness.

They landed on a pile of snow-covered gravel, then rolled over and flattened themselves to the ground. “They’re going to come back, they’ll come back,” Daniel said and buried his head in the snow.

But they didn’t come back. The train kept going, around another bend and behind the silhouette of some trees.

Jacob lifted his head. A short distance away was a narrow river. “Over there, the water,” he said. “We can walk up it. It’ll stop the dogs from smelling us.”

The brothers removed their striped pants and wrapped them around their necks, then shuddered with shock as they waded into the icy river.

The riverbed was slippery and muddy and the brothers had only walked a short distance when they heard gunshots echo clearly down the valley. The blasts went on and on, a few seconds between each.

Jacob stood still for a couple of seconds. The bastard had shot them. Every single prisoner.

He met Daniel’s eye, but neither of them spoke. They already knew what they had both escaped from. Speaking the words aloud would change nothing.

He shook his head and looked up to the sky for a few seconds, then back at Daniel. “Come on, quick, before they bring the dogs.”

They continued to wade through the knee-high water, legs now numb, until thick rushes finally made the stream impassable.

“I know what’s in those boxes, up in the tunnel, and it’s not dynamite,” Jacob said, as he helped his brother out of the water and onto the snow.

Daniel turned to him in the near dark, the whites of his eyes contrasting with the grit that still covered his skin. “You know?”

“Yes. Konstanty tripped, not long before the tunnel roof fell in. He dropped his box and a plank splintered off. I helped him fix it before the guards came, but I saw inside.”

Chapter 1

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Washington, D.C.

Joe Johnson strode past a row of parked Cadillacs, Buicks, and Lincolns, most of them black, stretching almost the entire length of Benton Place Northwest, a tree-lined street in one of Washington, D.C.’s smartest suburbs, nestled amid an array of embassy buildings.

Halfway up the street was a three-story brick home, a grand affair with a fifty-yard frontage, three short flights of steps leading to the broad front door, and a porch bookended by stone pillars.

A hint of drizzle fell from dark clouds that scudded in from the west and left water dripping from the ornate black metal fence in front of the property. It was only just after one o’clock, but the light from chandeliers in the downstairs rooms cut a clear swath through the gloom.

Suited businessmen and women in navy cocktail dresses or cream pantsuits hurried in, all of them greeted by a tall man in the doorway.

There he was: Philip M. Pietersen, the man who had invited Johnson. He was a bit thicker around the middle, without a doubt, and had a few gray streaks in his black hair, but otherwise was as he had been a decade and a half ago.

Johnson walked up the steps and raised his hand in greeting as the man spotted him. “Philip, hello. I decided to come after all.”

Philip held out his hand and they shook.

“Been a long time, Joe,” Philip said. “Fifteen years or more, isn’t it?”

“About that. Nice little place you’ve got here.” Johnson ran his hand across the short-cropped semicircle of graying hair that surrounded his bald patch.

“Thanks. Go on in, we’ll chat later. I’ve got someone who’s keen to meet you to talk about your war crimes lectures,” Philip said.

Johnson nodded and walked through the door into the vast hallway.

An array of blue banners hung from the walls, all proclaiming the same slogan: David Kudrow 2012: Reviving America.

Republican Party officials ushered guests into the ballroom and handed out fund-raising leaflets. Johnson took one and stepped to one side to read it.

“David Kudrow: Your Best Chance of a Republican in the White House” it proclaimed in large letters, above a picture of the candidate.

There was a brief biography and a reprinted New York Times editorial headlined “Kudrow Set to Sink Romney and Take GOP Nomination.”

Flipping it over, Johnson noticed a small photograph of a smiling Philip at the bottom, captioned “Confident: Campaign Manager Philip M. Pietersen.”

Johnson shook his head, crumpled the leaflet into a ball, and tossed it into a nearby bin.

He accepted a glass of champagne from a server and meandered into the ballroom, which was furnished with rows of seats and a small platform at the front, bedecked with more Kudrow banners and the Stars and Stripes.

He made straight for the back row, but before he could sit down, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Joe, I thought it was you. What are you doing here?”

Johnson jumped and swung around to find a familiar face. It took him a moment to find some words. “Fiona, hi . . . um . . . I didn’t know journalists were invited today. How’s things?” Johnson hesitated, unsure whether to shake her hand, kiss her, or do nothing.

They both made awkward half-movements before Fiona inclined toward him. He bent down and pecked her on the cheek.

“Me? Oh, I guess I’m okay, sort of,” she said. “I’m still at Inside Track doing political stuff. Head down, you know, getting on with things. Trying to pay my bills, stay out of financial trouble with the bank, with very limited success right now I have to say,” she said. “I miss the Times occasionally, but the website is quicker and they’re breaking more stories, so I enjoy it.” She put her hand on the back of the chair beside Johnson. “I’ll sit here next to you. How are you doing?”

“Usual routine, working away, still doing private investigations. Kids are doing fine—you know, growing up scarily fast,” Johnson said.

They looked at each other for a second, but she didn’t reply and they sat down at the end of the back row.

Johnson studied her. Fiona Heppenstall’s hair was longer and her jacket a little sharper than they were the last time he had seen her back in 2006, when she was still at The New York Times.

Johnson said, “I’m only here because I had an invite out of the blue from Pietersen. I used to know him from years back at Boston University. Runs his own software company now. Bit of an asshole but he’s obviously a top dog in the party. I thought this might be interesting, as I’m in D.C. lecturing. A party fund-raiser. Won’t get any money from me, but I thought it had to be worth a visit.”

She turned to him. “Yep, Pietersen’s definitely an asshole. He also invited me. I think I’m the only journalist here, which is a bit unusual. But you, lecturing? Since when? I thought you just did the investigative stuff?”

“Yes, that’s the bulk of my work, but I’ve done ad hoc lecturing for years down at the College of Law, the War Crimes Research Office. I’m speaking on the Nazis this afternoon. I do know a bit, so I get roped in once a month or so.”

“Of course, your doctorate. I forgot.” She became distracted as the chatter in the room died down and the speeches began.

David Kudrow took to the podium, looking energized. Johnson scanned the ballroom. There were at least four hundred people in there, all looking appropriately rapt.

“Obama and his Democratic Party cronies have presided over huge historic debt levels and a deficit that has become eye watering, while proving they are no friend to business and no friend to those who are trying to make an honest profit out of commercial endeavors,” Kudrow boomed.

The room erupted in applause.

Fiona whispered in Johnson’s ear, “This guy’s got a real chance against Romney, and then maybe Obama. Who knows? His family’s loaded; he’s apparently got a $100 million fund lined up already. They’re Polish, you know, originally.”

Kudrow continued, “We’ve seen Obama pump a trillion dollars into bailouts, gimmicky jobs initiatives, and failed attempts at stimulus, all for nothing. Did you know that one in six Americans is now on food stamps? We’ve lost two-and-a-half million jobs.

“Instead, we need an environment that will support business, create jobs, grow the economy, and allow us to balance the books. I want to see us start by hugely reducing the size of government and cutting federal spending. We need to repeal Obamacare, which is nothing more than government taking over our national healthcare system, and we must cut corporate taxes and increase exports. That’s just for starters.”

Kudrow moved on to give more detail on his health-care and education policies. There seemed to be genuine passion for the message that was being delivered. The man on the podium was striking a chord with his audience, most of whom were middle-aged, well-dressed business people. Next to Johnson, Fiona scribbled away in her notebook.

“Now let’s turn briefly to foreign policy,” Kudrow said. “I’m a friend of Israel—goes without saying, you know that. My father survived a Second World War concentration camp. Without his courage, I wouldn’t be here today. But what’s the greatest danger out there for Israel? It’s Iran, the biggest sponsor of terrorism we’ve seen. The ayatollahs are a massive threat to Israel, a massive threat to the whole of the Middle East, and a massive threat to the United States. I tell you, I’m going to hunt them down, smoke them out, and pull their terror ring down.

“I promise I’m the man to deliver all of this and more, and I thank you all for attending,” he said as he concluded his fifteen-minute speech to another thunderous round of applause.

Members of the audience rose and made their way to the reception rooms, where catering staff stood ready, their trays laden with more champagne.

Fiona led Johnson to a large living room. As they walked, he got a glimpse of Kudrow at the end of a corridor leading off the ballroom in an animated argument with another man, at whom Kudrow was gesticulating with a clenched fist. After a few more heated exchanges, the other man pushed Kudrow in the chest, waved his hand dismissively, and walked off. As he did, an older white-haired man wearing black-rimmed glasses intercepted him, whispering fiercely.

“Who was that man there, Fiona, who just argued with Kudrow, and the one that seems to be scolding him for it?” Johnson asked.

“The one he was arguing with is his brother, Nathaniel. I met him a few times before, but I’m not sure what he does, party-wise. The white-haired guy wearing the glasses is their father, Daniel,” Fiona said.

The noise level rose as the real business of the afternoon began: networking, both social and political. Champagne glasses clinked, people laughed, and business cards were exchanged.

Fiona put her notebook back into her bag. “I’ve got to chat to a party official over there before he leaves. Don’t you dare go without speaking to me.” She squeezed Johnson’s forearm and smiled, a familiar twinkle in her eye. “You’re looking good, Joe. I’ve been missing you a bit.”

Uh oh, thought Johnson. He couldn’t deny feeling a little pleased, though, as he watched Fiona disappear into the crowd. He did try and stay fit, even if going out for a run or lifting a few weights seemed increasingly hard now that he was into his fifties. If he could find a way to resist sneaking in the odd cigarette and cut back on the wine he would probably feel better still.

Johnson turned around to see Philip bearing down on him, accompanied by the man he now knew to be Nathaniel Kudrow, a tall, dark-haired, slightly stooped figure in a black suit and a tie, holding a glass of champagne.

“Joe, let me introduce you to Nathaniel, David’s brother,” Philip said. “He’s been to a couple of American University’s war crimes lectures at its law college, which is where you’re teaching later, is that right? He’s interested in talking to you about all that. In fact he was the one who suggested I put you on the guest list.”

Johnson shook Nathaniel’s hand, relieved to see Philip move away toward the bar.

“Good to meet you,” Nathaniel said.

“And you. Thanks for suggesting me to Philip. I’m curious about why you did, though.”

“Well, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nathaniel said. “I gather you not only lecture on war crimes, but you were a Nazi hunter as well. Your reputation precedes you. People still talk about that California senator who had to quit the presidential race a few years back after your investigation.”

Johnson sipped his drink.

“Yes, that was one of my jobs. You could say Nazi hunter, I guess. I spent a long time working for the Office of Special Investigations, if that’s what you mean. That’s going back a few years. I run my own private investigation business these days and do part-time lecturing.”

“Let’s find somewhere to sit,” Nathaniel said. He steered Johnson toward an antique maroon sofa, where they sat down.

“So, why are you interested in war crimes?” Johnson asked.

“The main reason is my father and uncle are Polish; both were in concentration camps,” Nathaniel said.

Johnson sat up. “Polish? Where were they from and which camp were they in?”

“They were from Warsaw. It was one of the Gross-Rosen camps. I know they had a tough time. They dug out miles of tunnels in the Polish mountains for Hitler so he could build his missiles and weapons safely underground, out of range of Allied bombers. A safe place for the Nazis to store their plundered treasure, gold, artworks—and for Hitler himself to use as an emergency bolt-hole if the war went up in flames. You name it.” He stopped and sipped his drink. “They don’t talk about it much.”

Johnson was surprised. “Gross-Rosen? I know a bit about that network of camps. They were horrific. They did well to survive, that’s for sure. Most Jews didn’t.”

“How do you know about it?”

Johnson hesitated. He could tell the man about his mother later.

“I wrote a Ph.D. thesis on the Nazis, years ago. So your father and uncle, they’re clearly survivors. Must be old now?”

“Yes, in their late eighties. They’re twins. They ended up in London after the war, and my uncle Jacob stayed there. I was there not long ago visiting him. He’s got a grandson now, Oliver, who’s at university. But my father, Daniel, moved in the 1950s over here to Los Angeles. He’s done all right and the family jewelry business thrives. He’s happy to see David do so well. Unlike me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, David’s on a roll, career-wise. Different than me. I’m the black sheep,” he grimaced. “I’m just helping him between jobs. You lose one job, and it takes a while to find another. It’s been like that since Lehman Brothers went under, and that was what, three years ago? I was a trader and the whole sector bombed out.” He drained his glass.

Johnson nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure something will turn up. I was laid off from a job back in 1988 and thought it was the end of the world. But I enjoyed my next job at the OSI more, in some ways.”

“Who did you work for previously?” Nathaniel asked.

“CIA, actually, in my late twenties,” Johnson said.

Nathaniel glanced at him obliquely. “You were CIA?”

“Yes, I worked in Pakistan and Afghanistan,” Johnson said. He didn’t want to talk about that. It was time to change the subject. He thought back to what Fiona had said about the Kudrow family’s wealth. “I was going to say, it’s tough out there, but how do you raise political funding given the economy these days? Can you fall back on family funds?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “David’s own business does okay, but generally, yes, you’re right, the funding comes from my father and my uncle. But I’m sure that plenty of these people here,” he said, gesturing around the room, “are happy to dip into their pockets.”

He took another drink. “Then David’s got the Polish trust fund of course.” He gave a forced laugh.

Johnson pursed his lips. “Sorry, a Polish trust fund?”

Nathaniel’s eyes roamed around the room, and he wrinkled his nose. “Not a trust fund as such,” he said, lowering his voice. “Although the Polish goose does keep laying its golden eggs, so to speak.” He signed what looked like a swastika in the air in front of him with his forefinger.

Johnson quickly decided Nathaniel wasn’t trying to make a joke. “Sorry, is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he asked.

Nathaniel sipped his drink. Johnson saw Fiona looking at them from the other side of the room.

“Some other time, if you like?” Nathaniel said. “Not here.”

Johnson fingered the nick at the top of his right ear. He could see Nathaniel peering up at it.

“Yes, that would be interesting,” Johnson said.

He watched as Fiona walked across the room toward them, and he slowly came to his feet as she arrived.

“Hello, gentlemen, sorry to interrupt.” She shook hands with Nathaniel, who also stood to greet her. “I’m Fiona Heppenstall. We’ve met before. Nice to see you again.”

Johnson checked his watch. “I’m really sorry, but I need to leave, or I’ll be late for my lecture. Can I leave you both to chat?”

He nodded at Fiona, who was frowning slightly, and promised to call her, then exchanged business cards with Nathaniel. “I’ll e-mail you,” Johnson told him. “We can arrange to speak again.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Let’s do that. Good to meet you.”

Interesting, Johnson thought on the way out. So the father and uncle of a Republican front-runner were in the same concentration camp as my mother.

But Nathaniel appeared to have more to say than that. Johnson resolved to contact him the following day.

* * *

After Johnson’s exit, Fiona found herself feeling momentarily disappointed. She’d been looking forward to a good catch-up with him, and maybe a drink or two afterward.

“I think I’d better go too, Nathaniel. Nice to see you again.”

“Oh, don’t you have time for another quick glass? I thought it would be good to chat for a while, you know, with the campaign coming up.”

She flicked back her long dark brown hair. He would almost certainly be a useful contact to cultivate for the future given his brother’s rate of progress.

“Okay,” Fiona said, “I can stay for a little while. It’s been quite a year so far for your brother.”

“Yes, it has. David’s setting the pace, and I, we, are trailing along in his slipstream. I’ve been taking a real interest in some of your recent investigative pieces. They’re good. What’s coming next?”

“I’m thinking of writing something on the Republican newcomers and the struggles they and their families have had to succeed,” Fiona said, touching Nathaniel’s arm briefly.

They sat on the sofa. “The question is,” Fiona said, “how can candidates like David compete with the likes of Mitt Romney, and then, if that hurdle is overcome, Obama?”

Fiona’s website Inside Track had recently published a long story headlined “Companies Channel Millions into Secret Campaigns.” Other news organizations had jumped on the bandwagon with pieces about the political action committees, supposedly independent, that supported candidates.

A few days earlier, The New York Times had run a headline screaming “Secret Money Fueling a Flood of Political Ads.”

Just that morning on her way to the event, she had received a text message from her news editor, Des Cole: Fiona we need good background on funding, super PACs, where is cash coming from. Get what you can.

Fiona had a gut feeling she should try and push Nathaniel while she had the opportunity. Normally she found relatives of high-profile politicians were wary of journalists. She shifted forward.

“I’d like to look at how billionaires can more or less buy elections, whereas other less well-off families can’t,” Fiona said. “It’s obviously all relative, and your family is very wealthy, but not as wealthy as, say, Mitt’s.”

“You’re right,” Nathaniel said, “and it raises all kinds of questions. Fairness, honesty. Should politics be for the rich only? And if that’s happening, who’s representing the underclass? Their numbers are rising since the financial crash. Is their voice being heard in Washington? No.”

Fiona sat back in her chair. “That’s not the usual line you get from the Grand Old Party. Refreshing to hear. How does your brother fit into that, then? And how is he being funded?”

“A good question,” Nathaniel said. “We’ve got a few sources of money, between my father and his twin brother in London. They can donate to both David and to some of the PACs we think are worth supporting.”

Maybe it’s time to flirt a little, Fiona thought. It usually loosened tongues, especially with middle-aged men.

She stretched out her legs in front of her, knees at right angles, so her black dress rode up her thighs a little, just as Nathaniel turned toward her. As he did so, she ensured that her knee caught his.

It was amazing what proximity could do to a source, particularly when she was wearing a cocktail dress like the one she had on right now. Which was, of course, exactly why she’d chosen it.

He said, “You know that if a PAC’s contributing directly to a candidate’s campaign, then people aren’t supposed to donate any more than $5,000.”

“Look, I write about that stuff just about every day,” Fiona said.

“Of course, sorry. But the point is that if the PAC’s going to campaign independently, then there’s no limit. So that gives my father and uncle plenty of scope.” He paused and said slowly “Of course, that’s as long as they don’t coordinate directly with what David’s doing.” Then he stared hard at Fiona.

Did he just raise his eyebrows a fraction? she asked herself. She felt Nathaniel was reading her expression.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure I always agree with it personally. It’s a minefield. Perhaps we could have a chat about it another time, just not here.”

She nodded and decided to change tack. “I knew your family was Polish originally, but I didn’t know you had an uncle in London.” She had only three weeks earlier interviewed David Kudrow and he hadn’t mentioned anything about his father having a twin brother.

Fiona bent toward him and made sure their knees brushed lightly together once more.

“Yes, the two of them work very closely together even now, despite the distance. They are twins, after all,” Nathaniel said.

He looked at her. “By the way, just to be clear, this is all off the record, isn’t it? I don’t want to be quoted on any of it.”

“Absolutely, you have my word.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Wasn’t it you and Johnson who finished off that California senator several years ago? The one who was running for the Republican nomination. What was his name, William Marsh? The Nazi sympathizer.”

Fiona glanced sharply at him. “Yes, that’s right, back in 2003. He was a U.S. senator.”

In fact, it had been one of the stories that had made her reputation. Marsh, on the right wing of the party, had been forced to resign from Congress and pull out of the race for the nomination against the incumbent George W. Bush. Fiona ran a front-page story in the Times revealing that he had for more than two decades sheltered and employed a senior ex-Nazi Auschwitz prison camp guard, Heinz Waldmeister, at his forestry and timber business outside San Francisco.

Johnson had then led the initiative to have the eighty-five-year-old Waldmeister deported and successfully prosecuted at a court in Munich for a series of brutal murders at Auschwitz.

Nathaniel stood up and looked at Fiona steadily. “It pays to have good sources, doesn’t it? I’d better go now, but I’d definitely like to meet again. Do you live in D.C.?”

“I do,” said Fiona. “I’d like to talk about what you’ve been discussing in a bit more depth, if possible. I’ll give you my details.” She gave him a card.

Fiona shook Nathaniel’s hand and watched as he walked across the white oak floor toward the entrance hall. Her reporter’s instinct told her he had something more to say but was holding back.

Chapter 2

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Washington, D.C.

Fiona exploded.

“Absolutely not, Des. I am not doing that damn story. I haven’t stopped since I came back from that fund-raiser. I’ve had no dinner, nothing to eat. If this company can’t hire enough people to cover the workload, that’s not my problem. I’m meant to be an investigative reporter, not a hack.”

She was almost spitting across the desk at Des Cole, her boss, both hands on her hips and her face starting to turn the same color as her crimson cardigan.

Des, a gray-haired Englishman and chief news editor at Inside Track, just stared at her.

“Apart from going out to the fund-raiser, I’ve been in here since ten this morning and it’s now what, half past nine? And you’re asking me to write another piece,” Fiona said. With that, she pressed the off button on her laptop, slammed the lid shut, grabbed her coat, and headed across the newsroom toward the elevator.

“Look, Fiona, come back here a second. I just need to discuss—”

But Des wasn’t given the chance to finish his sentence.

Fiona drummed her fingers on the side of the elevator as it ground its way down from the fifth floor, then walked swiftly through the revolving door at the front of the building.

Muttering a volley of expletives under her breath, she veered left and continued up 15th Street Northwest toward her apartment, a fifteen-minute walk away on the same road.

By now, the street was almost deserted, with most office workers well ensconced in their homes and apartments.

Glancing to her right, back in the direction of her office, she caught a glimpse of a figure ducking behind a wide pillar outside the entrance to an underground parking lot a block or so behind her. Pausing, she checked again, but then turned away.

In that moment, she decided. She didn’t feel like cooking and didn’t want to spend the evening sitting alone in her apartment. Instead, she would dump her bag at home and go to the wine bar around the corner, enjoy a quiet glass or two, and choose something from the menu.

Fiona walked briskly northward across L Street Northwest. She felt calmer now and realized she had gone over the top with Des. She made a mental note to text him later and apologize.

As she waited for the green light at the junction with Massachusetts Avenue, she glanced behind her and again thought she saw the shadow of a person, this time moving behind a tree. She felt the same sensation she sometimes had when someone was eyeing her in a bar or a restaurant, as guys often did. But pivoting around once more, she could see nobody.

A few minutes later, she was home, fumbling in her handbag for her key to the main entrance of her large, nine-story apartment building, grandly christened Miramar Apartments.

She had lived in her fourth-floor, two-bedroom apartment, overlooking Rhode Island Avenue, the Holiday Inn on the corner, and the Doubletree Hilton, for two years, since she had split up with her boyfriend and they had sold their house, at a large loss.

One attraction of Miramar Apartments had been the short walk into work, rather than suffering the long commute some of her colleagues endured.

Fiona opened her front door, threw her bag into the hallway, and headed immediately out again, around the corner to her favorite restaurant, B Too, on 14th Street Northwest. A cozy modern Belgian bar with wooden decor and a long wine list in addition to the beers, it was expensive but worth it. Fiona had become almost a regular, especially on evenings such as tonight, when she finished work late.

A waiter greeted her at the door with a smile. “Good evening Fiona. Would you like your usual table?”

“Thank you, Alex, I would. And can you bring me a bottle of that Spanish tempranillo? I’m desperate for a drink.”

One hour, one venison fillet, and half a bottle of wine later, Fiona was feeling much more at peace with herself. She glanced out the window at the passersby and the traffic, which was still busy.

Then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hello, Fiona, I hope you don’t mind. I just noticed you sitting there and . . . ”

She whirled around, startled. “Nathaniel! Where did you come from? At this time of night? Do you live around here?”

Fiona had been enjoying her solitude and initially felt quite annoyed. Is he the one who followed me up the street?

“No, no, sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have . . . It’s just that I’m staying at the Greenacres Hotel down the road and I happened to notice you sitting here when I went past. I actually meant to get in touch today, because I’m heading back to LA tomorrow afternoon, but I ran out of time. Look, I’ll leave you in peace. I can see you’re chilling out here.”

She calmed down. “So you just walked in. You’re not actually eating here, I presume?” He shook his head and straightened his coat, making as if to leave.

Fiona hesitated. “Okay, seeing as you’re here, would you like a glass of this?” She pointed at her bottle.

“Are you sure?” Nathaniel asked. “Maybe you’d prefer to be by yourself?” But she was already signaling to the waiter for another glass.

“Okay, then, thanks,” Nathaniel said. “I just thought, you know, you might like to chat through some of the stuff we were talking about at the fund-raiser earlier. It’s probably easier here.”

The waiter arrived with a second glass, waited until Nathaniel sat down, and then poured wine into it for him.

Fiona sipped her wine and surveyed the restaurant. There were several other diners: a middle-aged Latino who had just come in and was sitting by himself two tables away, studying the menu, a British couple talking excitedly to each other, an old lady, a group of four businessmen—nobody who seemed to be a rival journalist, she was relieved to see.

She brushed her hair back over her shoulders.

Then she had a quick thought, reached inside her bag, and took out her phone. She tapped the screen a couple of times, as if she were just checking her text messages, and put it on the table. It was always useful to record such conversations, in her experience.

Chapter 3

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Washington, D.C.

Nathaniel woke up in his hotel room. His head throbbed and his tongue felt dry. He groaned and put his hand on his temple, then sat up in bed.

What was I doing last night?

He glanced at the red glow of the digital clock on his bedside table, which told him it was quarter past six. He felt for the bottle of water and pack of aspirin he had put next to the clock.

Nathaniel’s memory of much of the previous evening felt a little hazy. Having followed Fiona to B Too, he had left her at around quarter past midnight and headed back to the Greenacres Hotel.

But instead of going to his room, he had gone to the bar.

There he had sat on a stool and ordered a local beer. What was it called? Ah yes, of course, The Corruption. He recalled looking at the bottle label and chuckling to himself. After drinking it, he had ordered another.

Shortly afterward, he had gotten into a conversation with a woman who was waiting for a friend. When the friend had turned up, the three of them had ended up sharing two bottles of shiraz followed by a couple of double whiskies each. By that stage, Nathaniel had been well and truly drunk.

Both women, slim, good-looking blonds, were political researchers who worked for different Republican senators, so they had mainly talked politics.

He had optimistically suggested they come back to his hotel room for a nightcap, but the two of them had looked at each other, giggled, then mumbled something about needing to get to bed and had left.

Nathaniel groaned again. It was all just too embarrassing.

He was still wearing the same clothes as the night before, and a feeling of nausea was starting to swell in his stomach.

Have I done the right thing?

“Ah, screw it,” he said out loud into the darkness, which was broken only by an eerie orange glow that seeped into his bedroom through a slight gap between the curtains. “They can’t carry on like that any longer. Somebody’s gotta put a stop to it.”

Nathaniel removed two aspirins from the pack and washed them down with some of the water.

Then he picked up his phone and tapped out a short message. Job done. Please make the first transfer now.

He selected a number from his list of contacts and pressed send.

There was the sound of a siren wailing as a police car sped down the road outside the front of the hotel. A hint of its red and blue lights strobed in through the bathroom window.

Now Nathaniel really was feeling sick. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, and he broke out into a cold sweat, a clammy, damp sensation that spread across his forehead.

Long experience of dealing with the after-effects of overindulgence told him he wasn’t going to be able to ride this one out. Better to vomit up the contents of his stomach and get it over with. He slid out from under the duvet and staggered into the en suite bathroom, battling to retain his balance as he went. There, he got to his knees in front of the white toilet bowl and began to retch.

He heaved three or four times before the cocktail of wine, whiskey, and food from the previous evening finally reappeared, leaving him feeling weak and wretched. Nathaniel kneeled on all fours, feeling drained and utterly sorry for himself.

It was then that he heard a noise behind him. He twisted his head and caught sight of a black, hooded silhouette standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

Through his alcohol-induced haze, Nathaniel felt his bowels turn over. The skin on his scalp tightened like a drumhead. “Hey, who’s that? Who are you?” he said, his voice rising sharply.

The dark shadow moved toward him, one arm raised in front.

Nathaniel couldn’t make out who it was beneath the hood, which was pulled down over the intruder’s face. But there was no mistaking the flash of silver from a long, wide-bladed knife the person was holding.

“As you said, somebody must put a stop to it,” a vaguely familiar man’s voice said. “I warned you to keep your mouth shut. But like your politician brother, you can’t stop talking, can you, my friend?”

Nathaniel instinctively yelled out, his voice now jabbering in fright. “No, no, I haven’t told anyone, I never said . . . please, don’t . . . no, no . . . ”

They were his last words.

The man, whom Nathaniel now recognized, rushed toward him and shoved him hard to the floor. His chin hit the white floor tiles, crunching his teeth together. Then he felt a hard blow in the center of his back.

At first he thought the man had hit him with his fist and flattened him. His first instinct was to somehow haul himself back up into a kneeling position. But as he did, he looked down. There, protruding from the left side of his chest, was the sharp, silver point of the man’s knife.

That was when Nathaniel Kudrow’s world went black.

* * *

Portland, Maine

The unusually warm November had allowed many trees in Portland to keep some of their red, yellow, and gold finery in a last stand before the assault from strong winds and overnight frosts finally finished them off.

But Johnson’s mind wasn’t on the fall colors outside.

His lecture at American University had gone well, but he hadn’t arrived home until after midnight because his evening flight back to Portland, some five hundred miles northeast of the capital, had been delayed by more than an hour. Then he had been up at half past six to fix breakfast for his children before school.

Now, sitting in his home office, he clasped his phone to his ear. “No, Mrs. Richardson, as I said to you before, if we’re going to stand any chance of finding your husband and the girl, we’ll need to think where he would be most likely to take her.”

“Yes, I know that.” Mrs. Richardson, a high school assistant principal’s wife, had called Johnson a couple of days earlier, after her forty-eight-year-old husband had failed to return home after work.

One of the man’s former pupils, a striking blond girl whom he had recently been assisting with special Spanish-language tutoring to bolster her college applications, had also disappeared.

“I’ve had checks done on his credit cards and bank cards,” Johnson said, “but they’ve not been used. His phone seems to be switched off. But you said he’s a creature of habit, so can you make a list of the places you have been to on vacation with him and the family in recent years—hotel details, everything—and e-mail it to me.”

“Okay, I’ll do that.”

“Good. I’ll speak to you later, Mrs. Richardson. Thanks.”

Johnson ended the call and stood behind his desk, pen clenched between his teeth. He sympathized with the woman, but it was just more of the same type of work: phone call after phone call, trawling through search engines, social networking websites, census archives, libraries, company accounts, and birth, marriage, and death records.

It really felt like small-town stuff.

He checked his watch. He hadn’t even had time for a second cup of coffee or to listen to the news. Now he needed to drive down to South Portland for a meeting with another client.

As Johnson pulled on his jacket, the family dog, Cocoa, a three-year-old, chocolate-colored Labrador, jumped up from his prone position and began wagging his tail. “Sorry, boy,” Johnson said, patting Cocoa on the head. “Your walk will have to wait today.”

He climbed into his blue Ford Explorer, then drove his usual route over the Casco Bay Bridge. The blue expanse of Casco Bay lay to his left, and to his right the Fore River and the white tanks of the Turners Island oil terminal glinted in a low wintery sun.

His phone rang and he glanced down at the screen. It was Fiona.

Johnson hesitated in answering. He still felt uneasy about the brief fling they had in 2006 after his wife’s death, during the months before he had moved from D.C. back to Portland. It had happened too soon, for all the wrong reasons, and Fiona had been hurt when he had ended it.

He felt it was a bad idea to reignite that particular flame, or to inadvertently seem open to reconnecting in that way, but he wasn’t sure what Fiona was thinking, especially given her comment at the fund-raiser that she’d been missing him. Then again, Fiona hadn’t actually said that was what she wanted either.

Johnson let the phone ring for several seconds, but then eventually pressed the green button.

“Hi, Fiona, I’m driving. How are—”

“Joe, have you heard?”

“Have I heard what?”

“About Nathaniel Kudrow?”

“No, what’s happened?”

“He was found dead, stabbed, in his hotel room first thing this morning, not far from my apartment.”

Johnson cursed. “Oh, shit. No. You’ve got to be joking.”

He swerved a little, almost sideswiping a van that was passing him.

“Unfortunately I’m not. It’s all over the news, radio, TV. We’re running a long story on it. I’ve just finished writing a piece for our website; that’s why I didn’t call you before. It’s a big story.”

Johnson exhaled. “Unbelievable. Do you know what happened?”

“A maid found him in the en suite bathroom. A huge knife wound straight through his chest, in at the back, out at the front. He’d been sick in the toilet and was supposedly attacked immediately afterward. Police already have a theory that whoever did it hacked the hotel door lock with some electronic tool. Nobody heard or saw a thing in the hotel. No screams, nothing.”

Johnson pursed his lips. His immediate thought was that it must, somehow, be linked to what Nathaniel had been trying somewhat clumsily to communicate the previous day. “Any theories on who did it?”

“They’ve no idea.”

“Did they get the knife?”

“No. There was no sign of it. Forensics is apparently on it, but first signs aren’t promising.”

“My God.” Johnson hesitated. “It was a bit weird, the meeting with him yesterday at the fund-raiser. I was going to contact him today.”

“I know, a strange guy. I had a chat with him after you left. And then, you’re not going to believe this, but after I finished work last night, he followed me, at least I think he did, to a restaurant. Came in and sat down. We had quite a conversation. He was obviously trying to get stuff off his chest.”

Johnson pulled out to pass a truck. “Followed you to a restaurant?”

“Yes, near my apartment,” Fiona said. “He was very off-message, tried hard to paint himself as a kind of black sheep of the family. In the restaurant he came right out with a few comments about the funding for David’s campaign coming from illegal sources. Said he’d been in London visiting his uncle and found out a few things. And then he basically said there was some kind of Nazi connection to the money. Then he wouldn’t say any more and walked out.”

“Really?” Johnson asked. “A Nazi connection?”

“Yes, that’s what he said,” Fiona replied. “I was also going to give him a call to try and have another chat, get a few more details, but then the news came through about the stabbing. I was thinking maybe he’s just a bit of a crank, but now I’m wondering whether there’s more to it.”

Johnson glanced in his rearview mirror. “I also had an odd conversation with him. He talked a bit about it being difficult to raise campaign funds given the economic shitstorm. Then he made some joke about his brother benefiting from a Polish trust fund and a Polish goose laying its golden eggs and drew a kind of swastika symbol in the air. Really bizarre. I thought for a second he was trying to make a joke, then I decided he wasn’t.”

Johnson came to the end of the bridge and turned right down Cottage Road. “I remember he was having an argument with his brother at that fund-raiser,” he continued. “They seemed like they were about to start punching each other at one point.”

“Yeah, I saw that.”

“Right. So there’s a family fight. Then Nathaniel tells you all that stuff, makes a few weird hints to me. Then a few hours later he’s found stabbed to death. That seems like more than a bit of a coincidence?” Johnson asked.

“Dunno. But who would do something like that? Surely not anyone in his family. I can’t see it. Police seem to be ruling out robbery. His laptop and phone were still in his room; his wallet was still full of cash,” Fiona said.

“Hmm. He does seem to have been trying to drop his brother, father, and uncle deep in the crap, that’s for sure. And he did seem like a crank, as you say,” Johnson said. “But another interesting thing was that his father and uncle were both in the same concentration camp as my mother in Poland, or so he said.”

Johnson paused. “I’ll have to go, Fiona. I’ve got a meeting with a client here, starting in a couple of minutes. Are you going to the police, to tell them about your chat with Nathaniel?”

“Dunno,” Fiona said. “Not sure what to do. I might, but I’d definitely like to have a look at the story myself. Might do my own bit of investigating, actually. I’m going to think about it. Look, I’ve got a recording of the conversation I had with Nathaniel in the restaurant, I’ll send it to you so you can hear for yourself. Let’s keep in touch on this. I’ll let you know if there’s more developments. Oh, and let me know when you’re down in D.C. lecturing again. Perhaps we could catch up.”

Johnson drove into the parking lot next to his client’s offices, still struggling to digest this new development. “Okay, will do. I need to run, Fiona. Talk to you soon.”

Chapter 4

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Washington, D.C.

By quarter to eleven, the Inside Track newsroom was humming. Journalists were busy on the phones, meeting rooms were filling up, and the noise level was rising.

Fiona walked up to Des, who was sitting hunched in front of his computer screen, surrounded by piles of books, old press releases, and three dirty coffee cups.

Before she could speak, he said, “Can’t talk. I’ve got a news conference in ten minutes. They’ve brought it forward this morning. Tell me quickly, what have you got for today?”

“Nothing for today, but there is one story I want to chase. David Kudrow—”

“You got a follow-up on his brother’s death? The crime desk’s all over it. Go and talk to them.”

“Well, not on the actual death but on something Nathaniel said to me at that Republican fund-raiser the day before he was stabbed. You know, I mentioned it briefly.”

“Yes, yes, get to the point.”

“Okay, he spoke to me off the record and gave me a clear steer that there’s something weird going on over how his family is funding David’s campaign. Maybe there’s a link to his death in there. Problem is, it’s gonna take some time to investigate and stand it all up. It might involve some work in the U.K. where his uncle lives as well. I think it could be a really great story, though. Is there any chance I could get some time off the diary to have a look at it?”

Des stared at her. “You winding me up? Nice idea, but let’s get real, there’s no bloody chance, Fiona, I’m sorry. You know how busy we are here. The primaries are going to be kicking off before we know it, and there’s a hell of a lot of mainstream stuff going on.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “We need you to do probably three big political analysis pieces over the next week or so in addition to the daily stuff. If you think it’s a runner, why don’t you get one of our freelancers to pick it up, someone who’s got more time? We have a decent budget left for that sort of thing. Now I’ve got to get back to this. Conversation over. Okay?”

“I thought you’d say that.” She sighed. “Okay, I’ll think about it. I don’t like the idea of handing over a great story to a freelancer, though.”

Fiona ambled to her desk at the far end of the newsroom, past the photocopier and the watercooler, the piles of paper standing next to the shredder, and the bin overflowing with paper and plastic cups.

She sat down at her desk across from Penny Swanson, her assistant, who had moved with her from The New York Times.

“Any luck, Fiona?”

“Nah, he’s not biting. Didn’t think he would with all this going on. He’s suggesting using a freelancer, but I don’t want to give this one away.”

Fiona pursed her lips. “I was thinking, and you’ll probably laugh at this one, that I’d like to try to get Joe Johnson to have a look at it.”

“Joe, huh? Don’t tell me he’s back on the scene?”

“Well, no, he’s not back on the scene, actually. By coincidence, he was there at the GOP fund-raiser earlier this week when I picked up this story. He got some info too. I spoke to him on the phone this morning. Thing is, it could be just up his alley given this Nazi angle—if it’s true, that is. He’s an investigator; he tracks people down. That’s what he’s good at, finding stuff out. Doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty either: ex-CIA, then the OSI and all that.”

Fiona folded her arms. “I’ve seen how he operates. He seems to have this knack for digging out information and finding people that others just don’t have. Remember when we were both at the Times, how he came up with all that fantastic stuff for me on that U.S. Nazi story, that senator, William Marsh? I got three front pages out of that. You know how he got that? He somehow pinpointed exactly who had the right info, arranged some subterfuge to get into that person’s office, and raided their filing cabinet. Photographed the lot. Risky, but it paid off. I don’t think he ever told his boss how he did it. That was when that SS guy ended up getting life at the International Criminal Court. So what I figure is, he can do the hard work, the legwork. Then I can write the story and take the credit.”

Penny chuckled. “Yes, I remember it. You don’t change, Fiona. Sounds like a bit of a long shot—great story if it works though.”

“Yeah, I bet he’ll cooperate. I have a feeling he’s at a loose end up there in Portland.”

***