Chapter 8
South Kensington, London,
Ortwin Schwartz looked at the blinking numbers on his screen one last time and turned it off. He should not be doing this anymore, he had one hundred people working for him, all of whom were more than capable, but he could not resist. Making money was like a drug, and he was still good at it. Another 5 million dollars had been added to the pot today, more than satisfactory in anyone’s terms. Not that the pot was all his of course, the Schwartz group was a $10 billion hedge fund giant, with clients ranging from wealthy individuals to charities, but a decent amount of it was his own money.
Leaving his glass and steel desk, he moved over to the mahogany shelves and poured himself a brandy, intending to relax for a bit before bed. His wife had already retired for the evening, but he did not mind, their marriage had always been based on his money and her looks and connections. They had 2 fine children together, and that was enough. Both had kept their side of the bargain.
Reviewing the day’s trades, he was particularly pleased with his silver position; he relaxed on the antique Chesterfield sofa, and let his mind wander. A journey which was rudely interrupted by the ringing of the third phone on his desk. Walking over, he picked up the cordless receiver and listened to the unaccented voice at the end.
“The old man has retired.”
“Good, and the younger?”
“There was an interruption; he refused to sign the papers.”
“I trust you will make sure that he does so soonest.”
“Of course, sir”
The caller clicked off, as he always did. Security was the man’s obsession, as well it might be and telephones always made him wary. Although the Echelon programme run by the American National Security Agency and its allies, such as Britain, was designed to intercept satellite communications and most modern calls were carried by optical fibre, there was also the chance, no the likelihood, that they had found a way to intercept those as well. All conversations were brief and their meaning disguised.
Ortwin hung up, dissatisfied. He had learnt from years of trading the markets that there are things which cannot be anticipated, but still, the secret was to react to them and adjust one’s position accordingly. It looked like this was one of these moments.
In a way too, he was sad, he had met the old man a few times, had liked him. There was something about Stahlberg which was infectious, a twinkle in the eye, a conspiratorial wink. He was not an easy man to dislike, and Ortwin had not done so. But, it was necessary, like closing a losing position. One had to do the deed and move on, no regrets. The secret to success in the markets was not so much the trades that made money, but avoiding those which lost it. Ortwin was an expert at this, with an almost sixth-sense for a losing position, and Richard had the potential to be a seriously losing position, something which could not be tolerated.
His study in the Georgian era white stucco townhouse was off-limits to all but a select few and the wall opposite the desk was dominated by a portrait of his father. The fact that it could not be displayed elsewhere rankled deeply with Ortwin and was something he was now in the process of changing. Still, even with today’s partial victory, he could raise his glass to the old man. At fifty years old, Ortwin Schwartz had ascended to the top of one slippery pole and was about to complete his father’s journey to the top of another, infinitely higher.
Removing his rim-less glasses, and running his hand through his thick grey hair, Ortwin thought back to his childhood, many miles from London, and even more from his father’s birthplace in what was now Poland. It was, in many ways, an idyllic childhood. His father 60 when he was born, the product of a late marriage to a much younger woman. His mother was part of the local Spanish elite, fiery, wavy hair cascading down her back. Her greatest delight had been horses, and his father had given her every opportunity to indulge it, purchasing the finest Arabians for their 20,000 acre ranch in the pampas.
It had also been her downfall. He remembered the day, when he was five, as the chief groom rushed into their house, straight for his father’s study. The doors closed, somehow he had known the news was bad. His father rushed out, heading for the jeep parked outside. On his return, he had taken Ortwin aside and broken the news. “It is just you and me now, son.” And that was the last they spoke of it.
But it was not all sorrow. The estate gave plenty of room for the boy to run around and explore, quickly mastering both European and South American styles of riding. There was a steady stream of visitors, generals, politicians and the like who were sufficiently in awe of his father to spend time with Ortwin, always playing with him and bringing gifts of toy soldiers. Then there were the other families in the region, not exactly neighbours given the size of their properties, but every so often, they would have parties and fetes and gather to celebrate the old days and the old ways.
A clever young man, it had not taken Ortwin too long to discover the truth about his father and his friends, so the discussion they had on his thirteenth birthday did not contain many surprises, the general outlines were already known. Starting gently, with observations about the differences between them and the natives in the region, his father had started to tell him about his own country, Germany, and the Nordic gods who lived there in the forests and castles. He told him about his nation’s rise to power and the corrupt alliances which had brought it low. And he told him how, once more, Germany would rise again.
“Were you in the war, father?” Ortwin had asked.
As by way of answer, his father reached into his ornate desk and pulled out a letter-opener. Handing it to his son, he told him to have a look at it closely. The top handle was black, with two runic S on the top. On the handle itself, an eagle with spread wings gripped a swastika. The blade itself bore an inscription, “Meine Ehre Heist Treue”. It was not a letter opener at all, it was a dagger given to members of the SS.
“Let me tell you all about me, that you may know all about yourself.”
He had been born in Stettin in what was now Poland in 1901. Too young to fight in World War 1, he had studied engineering at university, both at Stettin and in Munich. Disgusted by the state of Germany after the war, a war which need not have been lost, the Depression and further suffering of his homeland led him to join the Nazi Party in 1932.
When Hitler came to power, he had taken a job in the Air Ministry under Goering, building the air force that Germany was not allowed to have. He also joined the SS, receiving his dagger on May 20, 1933 from Himmler himself. The SS leader had liked the young engineer, and poached him to run the construction of the concentration camps, a task he achieved with his trademark efficiency.
The entry of America into the war made Hitler desperate for new, advanced weaponry, and there was only one man to turn to. He had built the vast Mittelwerk complex underground in Thuringia, where concentration camp labour enabled the cream of German scientists to produce new weapons, in a last throw of the dice to end the war in Germany’s favour. All their efforts, though proved futile.
As 1945 wore on, and allied tanks rolled closer to Berlin, his father, by now in charge of all advanced weapons projects had commandeered the only remaining Junkers Ju 390, the Reich’s experimental long-range aircraft designed for bombing raids on New York. Filling it with as many papers and samples of engineering as he could find, his father had arranged for his driver to swear a statement testifying to his death, and flown to Africa, with a skeleton crew and some close brother officers.
From there, it was a short hop to Argentina, where the government had welcomed them with open arms, particularly once they had seen samples of the knowledge the refugees brought with them. New identities and estates had been arranged for the now honoured guests, and the Germans turned their attention to updating the Argentine military. Although they had not managed to give President Peron the atomic bomb he so dreamed of, the Americans having taken most of the nuclear scientists for their Paperclip project, they had done enough to earn a very comfortable retirement, free from prying eyes.
“You had a new identity, you said father? What is our real name?” the boy had asked.
‘Kammler. I am SS General Hans Kammler, and you are my son.”
From that day on, Ortwin had learned all he could about Germany, about the Nazi ideology which had so scared the world, about the injustices that he would set right. Groomed as an heir, he imbibed deeply from his father and their friends, learning to respect, even love Adolf Hitler. And, like the young Hannibal, millennia previously, he swore an oath to avenge his country’s defeat.
When his father had died, he used his wealth and connections to parlay his way into the trading world, for which he discovered a real talent. Always seemingly one step ahead of the market, he had taken his inheritance and set up on his own. With his skills, his diligence, and occasionally, a little help from his father’s contacts, he had been able to found one of the great companies in his field.
And yet it was not enough. He ached to wipe of the stain of humiliation from his fatherland, his real fatherland. His first trip there, as a 25 year-old had been an eye-opener. Despite the differences between his home in the pampas and the glass and steel towers of modern Frankfurt, Ortwin felt at home in a way he had never done before. He knew what he had to do, and he knew his path was right.
On his deathbed, the general had told Ortwin of his final task for the Fuhrer, to gain the power of the Holy Lance. The scientists had read all the papers and were convinced it would be a true wunderwaffe, a war-ending technological break-through. But they could not unlock its power, despite all their best attempts. In a last desperate attempt to forestall defeat, the Ahnenerbe, the secret SS department in charge of occult investigations, had been charged with finding out how to operate it, but cut off by encircling American forces, they had failed.
Ortwin would not. He would regain control of the lance and learn how to use it to save Germany from itself, and re-start the thousand year Reich. Looking at the silver briefcase beneath his desk, he was partially there. He had the Lance, and he had scholars working on its powers. Now, all he had to do was make sure that no-one else found it. Turning off the light, he headed upstairs, trusting that his employee in Vienna could tie up that one final loose end.
Until next time...
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