Crate of Lies, page 3
Risto wanted gossip such as who was seen with whom and where, behind-the-hand remarks of staff about their superiors and so on. He told Paul it was gossip paid for by his brother who worked as a journalist, one of the continental paparazzi.
He gave Paul the micro recorder and told him to place it near dinner tables or anywhere staff and guests talked socially. Sitting in the bedroom earlier that night while Paul showered, he listened to the tape and got the shock of his life.
It was then he recalled a conversation with a fellow agent. The Bosnian President, Mikulic had let security services know that one million dollars would buy information that allowed him a safe haven in Russia. Risto heard of the offer as the peace talks got under way. He thought nothing of it until he heard the recorded conversation
Risto smiled grimly to himself as he wiped his watery eyes and walked to the end of the bridge thinking of the offer.
The Bosnian President continued to control his country years after the cessation of hostilities. It was becoming obvious that certain factions in his army and an increasingly disillusioned public wanted him out.
Like many other dictators, the UN declared the Bosnian a war criminal. Unlike others, he had planned his escape in the event of his eventual downfall. He arranged a safe passage for himself and his family to St Petersburg, where the Russians promised him a home. That was before the peace talks began and the Russians got friendly with America.
Paul Marsh's fate was sealed when he casually asked while showering if the reference to an Amber Room referred to lost Russian treasure. Risto knew he would have to kill Paul to keep him quiet. It was one killing he regretted but one that was necessary.
He shrugged the guilt off and walked down the steps to Vauxhall tube station. Just outside the main entrance were two illuminated telephone kiosks. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15 a.m. in Sarajevo and the President would be up having an early breakfast, Sunday or not.
Pushing a phone card into the slot, Risto hunched his shoulders and shivered again. From memory, he punched the number that would connect him to the Bosnian Central Army Communications Centre.
"Hello."
The clearness of the voice in his ear startled him.
"Hello?"
"Yes, hello. Can I speak to the manager, please? I wish to book a table for two."
There was a pause, then, "Putting you through."
He waited several seconds before another voice, much deeper, spoke. "Yes, you have an order for a table?"
"Yes, I'm sure my guest will find the menu very appealing. And so will his friends in St Petersburg. I have information regarding something they are desperate to retrieve. Tell the President…some amber is coming onto the market that he might like to give to Ivan."
"Just hold please."
"Hello?"
"Yes."
"Be at Kranzler's in Berlin later today and call again to confirm arrangements."
The line went dead and Risto punched another number for his own office. He would send Belgrade a copy of the part of the tape that concerned them, nothing more.
Berlin was much more civilized he thought, much more than Sarajevo. One million dollars would insure him a future away from a country that was more and more corrupt every day. He hunched his shoulders and shivered.
Finishing his call five minutes later, he headed for a bedsit in Nine Elms.
CHAPTER FIVE
Raithe Ravelle waited for Risto Prazina to leave the embassy and followed. The man left the reception around midnight and took a taxi to Marble Arch. Outside the tube station he made a long telephone call from a public kiosk.
After finishing the call he walked along Park Lane to Grosvenor House, lit a cigarette, then walked back slowly to the Arch and waited outside the tube entrance until one-thirty. A young fair-haired man in his twenties, dressed in a dinner suit and open neck shirt approached him at one-forty and the two talked for several minutes. A taxi brought them to the address in Pimlico.
Raithe followed at a discreet distance. At three-thirty, Prazina left the house alone.
It seemed an odd time for someone to leave and Raithe was suspicious. After reporting in to the 'ops' desk he was told to wait for Harry's call.
Five minutes later, Raithe's earpiece bleeped.
"Hello, Harry. What's the score?"
"In you go…be careful. The owner is Paul Marsh, an American working at the embassy. If anything has happened to him, you know what to do."
"Yes." Raithe felt his stomach tightening.
"Meet me on the Canary at seven."
"Okay."
Raithe crept forward, following a small brick wall until he reached some French windows at the rear of the house. Taking a small bunch of lock picks from his pocket, he was through the doors in seconds. He closed the doors quietly and listened to the faint strains of classical orchestration coming from upstairs. After listening for any further signs of life he gently opened the kitchen door into the hallway and spotted a 'Yellow Pages' lying open on the hall table.
A dinner jacket hung clumsily over the banisters at the foot of the stairs and one shoe lay on its side halfway along the hall. Raithe moved to the stairs and looked up at the small landing where another shoe lay in the corner. Cautiously, he made his way up, his back against the wall. Three doors led from the landing. The bathroom door was open. Nothing looked as though it had been disturbed.
Stepping up onto the landing, his foot came down on a loose board. There was a loud squeak. He stopped, heart pounding, rooted to the spot. After a minute, he eased himself forward and tiptoed across to the first closed door. He opened it carefully until he was able to look through the crack into the room. The bed looked neatly made up and there was a fresh aroma of potpourri, suggesting an unoccupied spare room.
The next door opened into the second bedroom at the front of the house. The thick, sweet smell of death that immediately enveloped him as he opened the door made him retch. At first he saw very little; the outline of a body on the bed, a towel on the floor at his feet and luminous green figures on the face of a bedside radio clock from which soft music played. He shone his torch around the room. Blood had spattered in an arc across the wall above the bed on which Marsh's bloody body lay.
Raithe looked keenly at the body, then back around the room, trying to stay detached and memorising everything. He stepped carefully over underclothes and a shirt, and peered inside the en-suite shower room. There were no signs of a struggle and everything looked as it should. Methodically, he searched the living room, bathroom and the bedroom, leaving nothing unchecked.
It was not until he looked through the pockets of the jacket hanging over the banisters that he found the wallet. Opening it, he found a small diary and flicked through the pages, the contents meticulously detailed. Pocketing the book, he set about wiping for prints although he suspected that Prazina would have already seen to that. None-the-less, Harry would not forgive him if he didn't make sure. It was not in Harry's interests to have Prazina caught just yet.
By six-thirty he was finished downstairs just as the paperboy pushed the Sunday Telegraph through the letterbox. He picked up the telephone receiver and called the emergency services. Within an hour, he knew the place would be crawling with Special Branch, CIA and MI5. At least Harry would be one step ahead of the pack.
He lowered his voice and stuttered. "Y-y-yes, hello, I, I'd…like an ambulance p-p-please. There's been a…m-murder." He gave the address and hung up before the operator had a chance to put him through to the police.
CHAPTER SIX
Harry sat comfortably in the corner of the stateroom, reading the Sunday Times travel section whilst sipping tea and crunching on a slice of toast. It was not his normal routine for a Sunday morning but then this was no ordinary Sunday morning. He knew Garret would be awake and Washington informed of the death.
He looked through the window and along St Katherine's quayside. The tall figure of Raithe Ravelle ambled slowly, hands deep in jeans, toward the Canary. Long, dark hair spilled over the collar of an expensive evening jacket. His head was inclined looking at the ground but Harry knew his keen eyes missed nothing.
Raithe, an ex con, had known and worked with Harry the jeweller for many years, a useful addition to Harry's 'other' lower class circle of friends. After the diplomatic nightmare involving the icon and with knowledge of Israeli security operations and sensitive behind the scenes diplomatic manoeuvrings, Harry conscripted his protégé into the Mossad. Raithe had no real choice, he knew too much and Jerusalem was concerned about a loose tongue.
Harry leaned forward in his armchair and opened the stateroom door. Raithe stepped lightly into the cockpit.
"Come in, dear boy, come in and sit down."
Raithe stood by the doorway, tight lipped and tense, his grey-green eyes inspecting the stateroom. He sat in the chair opposite Harry and crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. Nervously, he rubbed the small scar under his lower lip with a forefinger.
"That bad, eh?" Harry handed him a glass of brandy. "Here, down this and take your time."
Raithe swallowed the brandy in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As Harry poured a refill Raithe began to shake. He twisted uncomfortably in the chair and held the glass in both hands. Looking at the floor, he said, "I've seen violence…men shot, all the shit that goes on in prison, but this…" His voice trailed off.
Harry waited patiently. "If what you have witnessed sickens you to the core then I have the right man by my side." He patted Raithe's arm firmly and said in a low voice, "This is a dirty business we are in, Raithe, and there will be many scenes like you have just witnessed and each time you will be sickened. I will be worried the day you are not." He waggled a finger in the air and sighed deeply.
Raithe sipped the brandy and looked into Harry's eyes. "He'd been stabbed many times, Harry. Prazina did it without a shadow of doubt. There wasn't anyone else. Bastard." He spat the words.
"Okay," said Harry, standing. "Let's see where all this is leading us. We know that Risto Prazina is a Serbian agent. It's a damn fine thing we spotted him. Maybe I should have warned the CIA."
He pushed the breakfast tray to one side and took a cigar from a leather pouch lying on the coffee table. Lighting it, he blew a cloud of smoke into the air and sat back.
"Remember," he continued, "Marsh saw all press releases and all non-top secret dispatches to and from Washington and the General press. However, considering the time and effort taken to gain Marsh's confidence, there must have been something Marsh found out that frightened Prazina. Something the young man had to be silenced for."
"I think you may be right, Harry. Marsh took some insurance out, not that it did him any good. I found this in his wallet." Raithe took the small diary from his back pocket and handed it to Harry. "You won't like what you're about to read but you will be pleased you didn't tell the CIA or your secret would be out."
Harry puffed on the cigar. He studied each page intently until he came to the last entry.
"As you see," said Raithe, "he was supplying Prazina with taped conversations, mostly gossip, I'd say."
Harry's forehead creased and his eyes narrowed as he reread something on the last page. He slapped his knee. "Oh, my God, no."
Raithe said nothing.
"He taped our conversation," explained Harry, "at last night's reception. I met him. He came into a small office Michael and I were having a meeting in." He looked across at Raithe. "If that's the case, we're in a lot of trouble, dear boy. Every tape listed here, and there are fifteen in all, must have been sent to Belgrade, except the last one. That will be on its way shortly, rest assured."
"Did you talk about the Amber Room?" asked Raithe.
Harry thumped the arm of his chair. "Yes."
"They're probably already aware of that, Harry. They'll keep it quiet though."
"Of course they will but it means that we've lost a lot of ground. Not only do they know we have a major scandal over missing arms from the U.S. that are finding their way to terrorists but they also know we have something the Russians want. Michael is going to be pulled over the coals for this." He sat thinking for a moment. "The Serbians will keep quiet, especially if they think we have no idea they have the tapes. They'll use the information to their own advantage." He puffed several times on his cigar. "I don't think they'll tell the Russians until they have something more concrete. They need favours but not without proof. We must find the room. They don't have the information we have. That being the case, they'll be keen to find and follow us."
Raithe shook his head. "You're taking a big risk, Harry. Belgrade knows you're involved in finding the arms and they'll be after you for sure."
"Quite right, dear boy. That's why you will be abroad while I stay in London."
Raithe nodded. "Okay, that makes sense."
Cohen sat looking out of the window. "If the Serbs blow the whistle about the arms in the meantime we'll just have to worry about the problem as and when."
"That's not like you, Harry. You must have a plan B."
Harry puffed on his cigar until the end glowed red. "I do," he said, nodding.
The truth was, there was no plan B and he was worried. He was sure Belgrade would keep things quiet for the time being. The sooner Raithe was out of the way, the better. As a new agent, he would attract less attention.
Raithe helped himself to another brandy. "Tell me more about the Amber Room, Harry. I've seen pictures of it and know it's priceless but do you honestly believe it still exists, or was it destroyed?"
Harry shook his head. "I don't think it was destroyed…at least I hope not. The King of Prussia gave it to Peter the Great as a gift and he had it installed in his Winter Palace in St Petersburg. It was a magnificent piece of Baroque art which Catherine the Great later moved to her summer home in Tsarskoye Selo, just outside the city." He sighed. "That magnificent regal room was full of amber panels weighing a total of thirteen thousand pounds, interspaced with tall mirrors and gold leaf from floor to ceiling. The panels, if placed end to end, covered a total area of fifty feet by sixteen feet. When lit with candles it took one's breath away."
"And it stayed there until the war?"
"Yes, in 1941 the German's packed the wall panels, an icon and several other pieces of art in eighteen crates. For the rest of the war the room resided on show in the castle at Konigsberg. In 1945 the room disappeared. The German's said it had been destroyed in an RAF raid on Konigsberg castle but others say a raid on a train moving it to Wewelsburg Castle to the west of Berlin just before the Allied push into Germany."
Raithe clicked his fingers. "Where Himmler set up his inner circle of whatever they were called…Teutonic Knights? All his SS Generals became obsessed in the Armenians, an obscure sect advocating a Teutonic rural life.
Harry nodded. "Yes."
"And that's where the Amber Room went?"
"You are ahead of me, dear boy. Yes, it is widely believed that the Amber Room was destined to end up there. Rienecke was the General in charge of the German withdrawal from the Konigsberg area. Like most that stood trial after the war, he served a small part of his sentence before release in 1952. From that moment he disappeared."
"So do you think we'll find anything at the co-ordinates Rienecke left in the note?"
"Quite frankly, no." Harry tapped the end of his cigar on the edge of the crystal ashtray sitting on the coffee table. "However, that's where things start to become interesting. We now know that the precise destination for the crates location was the forest at the foot of Broken Mountain in the Sachsen-Anhalt district of East Germany. That's west of Berlin and well on the way to Paderborn and Wewelsburg."
Raithe rubbed his chin. "Eighteen crates. That's a lot of weight. It would have taken a large lorry to move the stuff."
"It needed several men as well to shift it," said Harry. "The Nazi's railroaded it for a considerable distance and I've no doubt that's how someone moved it later around 1952 when Rienecke was released. Maybe he was involved and there again, maybe not. We'll find out later, I'm sure."
"Just a minute," said Raithe, "Let's say you're right about the date the crates were dug up. The area was in Russian hands. Are we saying that eighteen crates were put onto lorries and taken away God knows where, right under the Russian noses? What about the paperwork, border controls and local police?"
"Probably no need for paperwork or questions." Harry grinned and stood looking out of the window.
Raithe clicked his fingers. "Of course. You mean the Russians may already have the room?"
"Or whoever retrieved them moved them somewhere within East Germany."
Raithe tapped his fingers on the side of his empty glass. "So we may not have anything after all?"
"Maybe, but first we have to make sure. If we find nothing, we don't want any of the interested parties to find out. The Kremlin must be convinced we have their treasure." He chuckled and said, "I want you to fly to Berlin this afternoon. You're booked in at the Inter-Continental and a car will be waiting for you. First thing tomorrow you'll drive to Wernigerode and meet up with this chap." Harry handed Raithe a small card. "He's a forestry ranger who will be taking you on a tour of the area just outside the town. You're there to look for a filming location for a TV company making Natural History movies for the BBC. On the back of the card is the location you will be particularly interested in. It's near the foot of Broken Mountain. Call me when you get back to the hotel."
Harry puffed smoke into the air. "And whatever you do, make sure you keep this with you at all times." He handed Raithe a Beretta. "Stay sharp and alert, dear boy, I have a feeling that before long you are going to need it."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Come in, Hienrich, come in and sit down."
General Anatoni Zalesky smiled broadly, displaying three gold teeth as he held a hand out, gesturing to a chair in front of his huge desk.
A tall, thin man dressed in a dark Armani suit, stood just inside the doorway. A strong square jaw and high cheekbones marked him unmistakably Germanic. His greying hair, pale complexion and thin, tightly drawn, curled lips gave him a permanent anti-social sneer. Set deep behind rimless glasses, his dark, reptilian eyes were alert, missing nothing, assimilating mental pictures and holding the subject with a hunter's steady gaze.
