Chapter 20
The Thuringian Forest
Max had started to worry when Axel did not pick up the second call. When he failed to answer the third, he knew something was wrong. They had served together for 10 years now and Max knew his subordinate intimately. Sending Axel had been a risk, but despite his occasional personal shortcomings, he was also the best man in the unit. The risk had been a calculated one, but it seemed his maths was wrong.
He had given his men orders to pack up and clean the lodge. Like all good soldiers, he had a fall back location, and, although he had hoped not to use it, so soon, he now feared that he had little choice.
His suspicion was confirmed an hour later, when he received a phone call from the nearest police station. One of the advantages of working in their homeland was the presence of sympathisers who could be relied on to help them. Unlike Afghanistan, where he and his men had been distinctly different from the locals, no matter how much they had tried to blend in. There, even friendly tribesmen could be bought and turned, and one never usually knew about it until it was too late.
In Germany, however, although he and his men were technically enemies of the state, they had the advantage that they could blend in effortlessly, and they had a sufficient number of sympathisers who would supply support and intelligence when needed. It was ironic, but Max drew comfort from the experience of the Baader-Meinhof Gang who, although as far removed politically from Max and his men as possible, had avoided capture for years by relying on their fellow travellers.
The phone call had come from a sympathetic contact who warned him that a fleet of cars, full of armed officers had just left, heading for their hunting lodge, with orders to surround it and arrest the occupants.
Max’s preparations went into a higher gear, and it was a testimony to the training of his men, training they had kept up despite their departure from the army, that 10 minutes later, he was standing on his own in the lodge, a couple of full jerry cans by his feet. The lodge was made completely out of wood which made his task easier, he thought, as he sloshed the petrol over the walls, floors and soft furnishings.
It was a pity to destroy the handsome old building, but it was necessary and in Max’s world, necessity always won out. He flicked the wheel on his Zippo lighter and threw it into the corner of the main room. Waiting just long enough to see the walls catch fire, he turned on his heels and headed for the lead Mercedes jeep. In some ways, the feeling of being hunted was liberating. It took him back to his days behind Taliban lines, when he felt alive in a most unique way, the smell of the chase in his nostrils, even though he was playing the fox rather than the hound.
The jeep crunched its way down the path, the towering pines overhanging the road like a sinister curtain. Behind him, his men followed in the other two cars, the convoy travelling quickly enough to escape, but not quickly enough to take any undue risks. Although all the drivers were highly trained and experienced, there was always the chance that one of them might lose it and crash, and that would bring another world of trouble for Max.
None of them did crash, and 10 minutes later, they reached the main road, or what passed for such in these parts. Germany’s respect for the environment prohibited the building of highways in the middle of ancient forests, but at least this road was properly paved. Fearing that three large black jeeps travelling together at night might look slightly suspicious in a region where two cars in an hour was a newsworthy event, Max ordered the convoy split up, directing each driver to take a different route to their rendezvous point. He had built in generous time for them to reach their destination, allowing the men to get some dinner at the inns they would pass. Napoleon had been right about armies marching on their stomachs, and Max had always paid close attention to the Emperor’s sayings.
On he drove, with just his driver in the car. Turning round, he looked at the case lying on the back seat. Getting the book had not been difficult. He had known Straub, so getting access to the house had been as easy as ringing the bell. The main may have been a great accountant, but he was a poor judge of people. He had really thought that his outburst at dinner would be ignored, that Schwartz would have allowed him to leave the conspiracy. Straub’s mistake had been to think that their dinners were just a dining club, an opportunity for men with shared backgrounds and political views to network and let off steam. He had invited Max into his study and offered him a drink.
He had realized his mistake when Max, having not touched his brandy, reached into his pocket and withdrew the silenced Glock 22 pistol. His brain was still processing the change in his circumstances when the bullet hit his forehead. His head slumped forward, bounced once on the desk and lay still. Max got up and crossed from the sofa to the desk. Standing behind the dead banker, he shot him in the head once more.
The deed done, he moved rapidly now, moving to the picture of Straub’s father which hung on the wall opposite the desk. Dressed in the uniform of an SS Gruppenfuhrer, with the shoulder boards of an army Generalleutnant as was the custom in the Waffen-SS, the elder Stroop was proudly wearing the Iron Cross First Class he had been awarded for the “action” at the Warsaw ghetto. Pausing briefly to salute the general, Max had pulled the left side of the painting towards him, relieved to find that it swung open easily on hinges as he had been told, revealing the safe behind.
The ISM SuperDiamond TxTL -60 SD 3723 safe has the reputation as the most secure on the planet. Made in Israel, Max noted with irony, it remains the only safe in the world to meet the most stringent standards of the Underwriters’ Laboratories of America and Lloyds of London. As part of the testing procedure, it is subjected to attack by nitroglycerin, as well as the usual array of drills and also subjected to extremes of heat and cold. None are able to break it.
All of which might have caused Max a problem, the only real method of cracking the safe being to remove it to a secure location and spend weeks attacking it. However, Stroop had kindly vouchsafed his combination to him previously. Over one of the dinners Schwartz had hosted, the accountant had referred to the day of the attack on the ghetto as the proudest of his life, adding that he always hosted a dinner to commemorate the event. Leaning over, he added “I even use the date for all my secret numbers”. While it was true that Max was unlikely to pilfer his cash-card and head for the nearest ATM, he really should have been more discrete. However, Straub had always had a slight problem holding his drink.
Approaching the safe, confident that any other protection such as lasers or pads would be disabled, Max tapped in the date on the keypad of the safe. 16 May 1943. Turning the handle, he was relieved to hear the levers inside move and feel the safe swing open surprisingly easily given the 25 centimetre thick door. Thankful that he did not have to have anything more to do with the 2.4 tonne monster safe and slightly in awe at the thickness of Straub’s walls, he reached inside and removed the bulletproof aluminium case.
Resting it on the ornate antique desk, careful to avoid the pool of blood spreading from the banker’s head, he opened to case and made sure the book was inside. Careful not to touch it, given its age and fragility, he closed the case once more and left the study.
The book had remained with him ever since, he thought as he looked at it resting on the back seat. He had been due to hand it over to Schwartz in a couple of days, so Axel’s failure had only served to alter the timeline slightly. It would be good for his men to have an extra couple of days at their final destination anyway. While he had implicit faith in his boss, he still preferred that his soldiers should take charge of security arrangements, and the change in plans would give him time to do that.
Besides, the lodge had been a bit too comfortable. While soldiers, particularly those in the special forces, spend most of their time waiting for something to happen, they do so in relatively spartan conditions. Roaring fires and hunting trophies did not match Max’s understanding of spartan. Their new location was far from comfortable, but they could all withstand the rigours perfectly well. In a few days, the final stage of the project would be launched and once it was successful they could relax, but not until then.
For some reason, his mind turned to Hannah, his “ex-wife”. She had done well. It was not easy for her the part she had to play, but it would not be for much longer. Then, they could get back together and enjoy the rewards of his labours. The money would be nice, but he was most looking forward to the re-instatement to the Bundeswehr and the promotion he had been promised. She would make a good general’s wife, and if he was no longer on the front line, Schwartz’s plans almost guaranteed him plenty of action.
They stopped briefly for supper, a simple dish of boiled beef and potatoes, but just what they needed given the freezing weather. The inn was almost deserted which worried him, but he could not realistically kill everyone he met. Perhaps in Afghanistan, but not in Germany. These were, after all, his own people and it was not their fault they were potential witnesses. Besides, in a couple of weeks, he would be a hero, not a fugitive, such being the tide of human affairs. Approaching the innkeeper, he struck up a conversation and asked for directions to Berlin, planning, at the least, to throw the police off the scent, assuming they had managed to follow him this far from the lodge.
Returning to their jeep, Max gave his driver the location of the rendezvous. It was, he reckoned, about an hour away. Reclining his chair, he pulled his hat over his face and, not knowing when he would next have the opportunity, fell asleep.
The Thuringian Forest
Max had started to worry when Axel did not pick up the second call. When he failed to answer the third, he knew something was wrong. They had served together for 10 years now and Max knew his subordinate intimately. Sending Axel had been a risk, but despite his occasional personal shortcomings, he was also the best man in the unit. The risk had been a calculated one, but it seemed his maths was wrong.
He had given his men orders to pack up and clean the lodge. Like all good soldiers, he had a fall back location, and, although he had hoped not to use it, so soon, he now feared that he had little choice.
His suspicion was confirmed an hour later, when he received a phone call from the nearest police station. One of the advantages of working in their homeland was the presence of sympathisers who could be relied on to help them. Unlike Afghanistan, where he and his men had been distinctly different from the locals, no matter how much they had tried to blend in. There, even friendly tribesmen could be bought and turned, and one never usually knew about it until it was too late.
In Germany, however, although he and his men were technically enemies of the state, they had the advantage that they could blend in effortlessly, and they had a sufficient number of sympathisers who would supply support and intelligence when needed. It was ironic, but Max drew comfort from the experience of the Baader-Meinhof Gang who, although as far removed politically from Max and his men as possible, had avoided capture for years by relying on their fellow travellers.
The phone call had come from a sympathetic contact who warned him that a fleet of cars, full of armed officers had just left, heading for their hunting lodge, with orders to surround it and arrest the occupants.
Max’s preparations went into a higher gear, and it was a testimony to the training of his men, training they had kept up despite their departure from the army, that 10 minutes later, he was standing on his own in the lodge, a couple of full jerry cans by his feet. The lodge was made completely out of wood which made his task easier, he thought, as he sloshed the petrol over the walls, floors and soft furnishings.
It was a pity to destroy the handsome old building, but it was necessary and in Max’s world, necessity always won out. He flicked the wheel on his Zippo lighter and threw it into the corner of the main room. Waiting just long enough to see the walls catch fire, he turned on his heels and headed for the lead Mercedes jeep. In some ways, the feeling of being hunted was liberating. It took him back to his days behind Taliban lines, when he felt alive in a most unique way, the smell of the chase in his nostrils, even though he was playing the fox rather than the hound.
The jeep crunched its way down the path, the towering pines overhanging the road like a sinister curtain. Behind him, his men followed in the other two cars, the convoy travelling quickly enough to escape, but not quickly enough to take any undue risks. Although all the drivers were highly trained and experienced, there was always the chance that one of them might lose it and crash, and that would bring another world of trouble for Max.
None of them did crash, and 10 minutes later, they reached the main road, or what passed for such in these parts. Germany’s respect for the environment prohibited the building of highways in the middle of ancient forests, but at least this road was properly paved. Fearing that three large black jeeps travelling together at night might look slightly suspicious in a region where two cars in an hour was a newsworthy event, Max ordered the convoy split up, directing each driver to take a different route to their rendezvous point. He had built in generous time for them to reach their destination, allowing the men to get some dinner at the inns they would pass. Napoleon had been right about armies marching on their stomachs, and Max had always paid close attention to the Emperor’s sayings.
On he drove, with just his driver in the car. Turning round, he looked at the case lying on the back seat. Getting the book had not been difficult. He had known Straub, so getting access to the house had been as easy as ringing the bell. The main may have been a great accountant, but he was a poor judge of people. He had really thought that his outburst at dinner would be ignored, that Schwartz would have allowed him to leave the conspiracy. Straub’s mistake had been to think that their dinners were just a dining club, an opportunity for men with shared backgrounds and political views to network and let off steam. He had invited Max into his study and offered him a drink.
He had realized his mistake when Max, having not touched his brandy, reached into his pocket and withdrew the silenced Glock 22 pistol. His brain was still processing the change in his circumstances when the bullet hit his forehead. His head slumped forward, bounced once on the desk and lay still. Max got up and crossed from the sofa to the desk. Standing behind the dead banker, he shot him in the head once more.
The deed done, he moved rapidly now, moving to the picture of Straub’s father which hung on the wall opposite the desk. Dressed in the uniform of an SS Gruppenfuhrer, with the shoulder boards of an army Generalleutnant as was the custom in the Waffen-SS, the elder Stroop was proudly wearing the Iron Cross First Class he had been awarded for the “action” at the Warsaw ghetto. Pausing briefly to salute the general, Max had pulled the left side of the painting towards him, relieved to find that it swung open easily on hinges as he had been told, revealing the safe behind.
The ISM SuperDiamond TxTL -60 SD 3723 safe has the reputation as the most secure on the planet. Made in Israel, Max noted with irony, it remains the only safe in the world to meet the most stringent standards of the Underwriters’ Laboratories of America and Lloyds of London. As part of the testing procedure, it is subjected to attack by nitroglycerin, as well as the usual array of drills and also subjected to extremes of heat and cold. None are able to break it.
All of which might have caused Max a problem, the only real method of cracking the safe being to remove it to a secure location and spend weeks attacking it. However, Stroop had kindly vouchsafed his combination to him previously. Over one of the dinners Schwartz had hosted, the accountant had referred to the day of the attack on the ghetto as the proudest of his life, adding that he always hosted a dinner to commemorate the event. Leaning over, he added “I even use the date for all my secret numbers”. While it was true that Max was unlikely to pilfer his cash-card and head for the nearest ATM, he really should have been more discrete. However, Straub had always had a slight problem holding his drink.
Approaching the safe, confident that any other protection such as lasers or pads would be disabled, Max tapped in the date on the keypad of the safe. 16 May 1943. Turning the handle, he was relieved to hear the levers inside move and feel the safe swing open surprisingly easily given the 25 centimetre thick door. Thankful that he did not have to have anything more to do with the 2.4 tonne monster safe and slightly in awe at the thickness of Straub’s walls, he reached inside and removed the bulletproof aluminium case.
Resting it on the ornate antique desk, careful to avoid the pool of blood spreading from the banker’s head, he opened to case and made sure the book was inside. Careful not to touch it, given its age and fragility, he closed the case once more and left the study.
The book had remained with him ever since, he thought as he looked at it resting on the back seat. He had been due to hand it over to Schwartz in a couple of days, so Axel’s failure had only served to alter the timeline slightly. It would be good for his men to have an extra couple of days at their final destination anyway. While he had implicit faith in his boss, he still preferred that his soldiers should take charge of security arrangements, and the change in plans would give him time to do that.
Besides, the lodge had been a bit too comfortable. While soldiers, particularly those in the special forces, spend most of their time waiting for something to happen, they do so in relatively spartan conditions. Roaring fires and hunting trophies did not match Max’s understanding of spartan. Their new location was far from comfortable, but they could all withstand the rigours perfectly well. In a few days, the final stage of the project would be launched and once it was successful they could relax, but not until then.
For some reason, his mind turned to Hannah, his “ex-wife”. She had done well. It was not easy for her the part she had to play, but it would not be for much longer. Then, they could get back together and enjoy the rewards of his labours. The money would be nice, but he was most looking forward to the re-instatement to the Bundeswehr and the promotion he had been promised. She would make a good general’s wife, and if he was no longer on the front line, Schwartz’s plans almost guaranteed him plenty of action.
They stopped briefly for supper, a simple dish of boiled beef and potatoes, but just what they needed given the freezing weather. The inn was almost deserted which worried him, but he could not realistically kill everyone he met. Perhaps in Afghanistan, but not in Germany. These were, after all, his own people and it was not their fault they were potential witnesses. Besides, in a couple of weeks, he would be a hero, not a fugitive, such being the tide of human affairs. Approaching the innkeeper, he struck up a conversation and asked for directions to Berlin, planning, at the least, to throw the police off the scent, assuming they had managed to follow him this far from the lodge.
Returning to their jeep, Max gave his driver the location of the rendezvous. It was, he reckoned, about an hour away. Reclining his chair, he pulled his hat over his face and, not knowing when he would next have the opportunity, fell asleep.
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