Sam Harris Adventure Box Set Page 3

  Kurt Becker walked to the back of the lorry with a member of the steamer’s crew and flung open the door.

  ‘Okay lads, it’s your lucky day. You have arrived in Hamburg and if you wish, you may board the liner to South America and start a new life.’

  There was no answer. It was dark in the lorry and when his eyes adjusted, he could see that the soldiers slumped on the floor of the container in a way that suggested death rather than sleep. He jumped up onto the running board and into the lorry. He shook one of them by the shoulder. The young man’s face rolled towards Becker, his fixed eyeballs staring into space. He poked some of the others with his toe but they didn’t respond.

  ‘They’re dead. What on earth happened to them? What have you got in here?’ asked the crewman.

  ‘I don’t understand what happened. The container was airtight but there was plenty of air for the journey.’

  Then it hit him. The dry ice had evaporated, giving off carbon dioxide which had flooded the container and suffocated the young men. He felt sickened. The finger was cursed. He made the crew man pick up the canister and wrap it in sacking. They left the bodies in the truck, just more casualties of war. Then they went up the gangway to talk to the captain.

  ‘Good evening, captain. I need to kept something frozen while we’re on board. Have you got somewhere that I can keep it?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is, captain, but they were all dead,’ said the crewman. ‘Don’t let him put it on board.’

  ‘The soldiers suffocated. It was a terrible tragedy but it has nothing to do with the canister,’ retorted Becker.

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s so bloody precious?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Some samples for my medical practice. I brought them here packed in dry ice and it evaporated on the way. The soldiers who hitched a lift in the back of the truck have suffocated. I never realised that could happen, I swear. You have my word that there is nothing dangerous in the canister, but I can’t leave it behind.’

  ‘As long as it’s safe, you can lock it in the auxiliary meat fridge for the journey,’

  ‘That’ll be fine. I’ll keep the key.’

  The captain shrugged. He was making a fortune taking this ship to South America. If he got there without incident, he would never have to work again. He didn’t care what was in the canister.

  ‘Right you are, Dr Becker. Ensign, show him the fridge.’

  ***

  It took a month to sail to Sierramar through sometimes stormy seas. Kurt Becker checked the fridge daily for signs of tampering but it remained sealed. The senior German officers on board held meetings about their plans for Sierramar and swore each other to secrecy. The news from Germany got worse and more difficult to obtain. By the time the liner got to the port of Guayama, the war seemed far away, not only in distance. They could see palm trees from the deck and bright coloured pastel buildings in the residential part of the city. Buses and cars crawled along the congested boardwalk. The steamer docked in the port in the northern part of the city, which was dirty and battered by time and neglect. Large customs sheds lined the wharf and ancient cranes like a flock of skinny birds stalked the rails. Dockers swarmed towards the ship followed by stray dogs hoping for a windfall. The sun pierced the thick humid air cloaking them in heat and sweat.

  The German Consul was waiting as they came down the gangway, unsteady on their legs after a month at sea. It was like landing in paradise compared to war-torn Europe. Even the oppressive heat and filthy port did not put them off. The Consul had a stack of passports containing fresh identities for their new lives. People surrounded him shaking his hand, wanting to be the first to escape their past as if a new name would wipe away the memories of the things they had done and justified to themselves on that long journey. They had invented heroic back stories of suffering and sacrifice to ensure that no one questioned their choice to leave it behind and start again. Kurt Becker had not asked for a new name. He had kept his identity because he wanted to work as a doctor and needed to use his certificates. Anyway, the people who knew what he had done had perished in the gas chambers. There was no one left to accuse him.

  ‘Who’d come to this shit hole at the end of the earth to find me now?’ he said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the port and slapping his arm. ‘Even the mosquitos are macho.’

  Most of the officers had already decided that they wanted to live in Calderon in the Andes where the climate was more similar to that of Germany and they could do dairy farming. Their children could go to the German school and be with other Aryans rather than mixing with the mestizos. The snow-capped volcanoes were too steep and dangerous for skiing but the sight of them would ease homesickness in those pining for the Alps.

  After they got their passports, they waited on the quay for their belongings, negotiating with the dockers to get them carried to the waiting lorries organised by the Consul. He hadn’t done this out of the goodness of his heart. The salary the Consul received in Sierramar did not keep him in the style to which he wished to become accustomed and he determined to make the most of this windfall. He had also negotiated the rental of houses in Calderon to get them started and was taking a cut from the proceeds. Despite this, the ideals of the Reich mattered to him and he felt the humiliation of the surrender deep in his bones. Helping these men get settled and escape the clutches of the do-gooders on the allied side who wanted to bring them to justice gave him some solace.

  ***

  Becker had had his work cut out transporting the finger to Calderon without it thawing. The captain wanted to get rid of it as soon as they landed in port so the Consul let him use the fridge in the embassy where they managed to stuff it into the ice compartment. The Consul solved the conundrum of how to get the finger to Calderon. He requisitioned an ambulance that had arrived from the United States and had not yet cleared customs. A healthy bribe to his contacts in the port ensured that the importation paperwork would be delayed until the ambulance was returned to the customs shed after its journey to Calderon. The ambulance had a fridge for blood products and was perfect for transporting the canister up into the Andes.

  Dr Becker travelled on the ambulance to forestall any unforeseen problems on the way. It took three days to get to Calderon. Once there, he packed and stored the finger in the ice compartment of the Frigidaire in his new home. He installed a generator and a back-up for the fridge to keep it on in the case of power cuts or breakdown. He also ordered a new standalone freezer from the USA which took months to arrive. Guests to his house were unaware that the ice for their drinks had lain beside a frozen relic of their Führer.

  ***

  Once the group was established in Calderon, they held a monthly meeting and planned to build a German village up in the mountains where they could get ready for the next phase of the Reich.

  ‘We need a cover story for this village,’ said Rolf Hermann.

  ‘My view is that we should build something similar to the alpine villages back home, somewhere for tourists. That will give us a legitimate reason to employ Germans and keep the locals out,’ said Hans Schmidt.

  ‘We could make cheese and dairy products and sell them to finance the upkeep of the laboratory,’ said his brother Fritz.

  ‘And who is going to run these enterprises?’ said Rolf

  ‘We could take turns or divide the work. Once our wives and children settle in Calderon, we can sort that out,’ said Franz Rauf.

  ‘I’ve got to run the laboratory,’ said Kurt Becker, ‘that will be a full-time job.’

  ‘Solidarity is the most important thing here. We will figure this out,’ said Boris Klein. ‘The important matter is the perpetuation of the Reich. Without us there will be no future.’

  The Schmidt brothers set out for the region of Lago Verde, a village in the Andes to the south of Calderon, to find a site for the village. They arrived after taking a bus on a narrow road skirted by cliffs. The village had cobble streets and low adobe
houses with straw roofs. The local people were tenant farmers who shared their houses with their livestock to prevent theft. They were surprised to find the tall blond strangers in their midst inquiring about the purchase of suitable land for a settlement. The men introduced themselves to the mayor, who also ran the local inn.

  ‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’

  ‘We are looking for about one hundred hectares of land on which to build a new village and establish some dairy farming.’

  ‘I can help you with that. There is a flat area in the valley across the peat bog, up on a rise. There is plenty of water and wood for construction, so you won’t have to bring it in.’

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘Even better, Lago Verde is due to get both electricity and telephone lines soon and a timely bribe could make them stretch the wires to the new village.’

  ‘So, can we talk to the owner to arrange a visit?’

  ‘You’re talking to him.’

  ‘Ah, and the bribe?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ***

  ‘How’s construction of San Blas going?’ said Holger Ponce, the clerk at the Ministry of Public Works.

  ‘Slow. It’s difficult to walk stuff in from Lago Verde. It will take us fifty years at this rate. We need to build a road to the site,’ said Rolf Hermann.

  ‘I can get you permission for the road from the Minister. A well-placed bribe will help to speed it up.’

  ‘No problem, just say how much. We’ll need a contractor. I presume you can suggest someone suitable?’

  ‘I know just the man,’ said Holger.

  ‘Does he sympathise?’

  ‘He is a budding fascist. Right up your alley.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Hernan Sanchez. I’ll set up an introduction and you can go from there. Don’t let his age put you off. He’s dynamic and gets things done. It’ll be more expensive than some contractors but it’s worth it for the efficiency. Besides that, he has good government contacts we can tap into.’

  ‘Set up the meeting.’

  CHAPTER IV

  Alfredo, August 1988

  The National Archive was a concrete carbuncle on top of a hill in the centre of Calderon’s political district surrounded by government buildings. Known as the blister, the architect designed it with a marble façade, but the budget for the polished stone went towards the purchase of an art deco house in Miami for the Minister of Education. The entrance to the building was at the top of a featureless flight of steps that suggested gulag rather than place of learning. Alfredo was immune to the ugliness after using it for years. His focus on the mission ahead was such that he tripped and fell hard onto the flagstones that surrounded the door.

  ‘Are you injured, Dr Vargas?’ asked the security guard.

  ‘No damage done, thank you,’ said Alfredo, feeling the sharp gaze of a fellow academic on him as he staggered to his feet.

  ‘Fucking drunkard.’ The loud comment, intended to wound, floated over his head as he brushed the concrete dust off his trousers.

  ‘I prefer borderline alcoholic,’ he said. Despite his comeback, he felt humiliated. He often drank too much but he never came to the Blister unless he was sober. The terror of missing something important kept him sharp. His academic reputation was precious to him, despite his casual exterior. His knee felt bruised and sore but he avoided limping as he showed his pass at the door. He didn’t want anyone to see he had hurt himself in case they sensed his weakness and thought him vulnerable to their criticism. They were jealous.

  Out of habit, he headed for the section of the archives that contained the research on the Valdivia cultures. After standing beside the files for several minutes without moving, a tap on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie. He turned to see a slim young man with a pudding bowl haircut and a name badge which said ‘Kleber Perez, Library assistant’.

  ‘Dr Vargas, isn’t it? Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, I think you might. I need to see any archives concerning the German community in Sierramar during the 20th century, specifically any mention of families who arrived here after 1940. I don’t know where to start to be honest. This is not my area of expertise.’

  The young man fixed him with a piercing stare. Concern or anger flashed across his features but he recovered his aplomb. Alfredo wondered if he had imagined it. Perhaps the young man had heard about his drinking.

  ‘You will need to follow me. We are in the wrong place to start a search for modern history. The card indexes are on the other side of the building.’

  ‘Excellent. Much appreciated. Lead on.’

  They walked out into the atrium and crossed to the other side into an identical room with a long bureau of reference cards at the entrance and filled with high, dusty bookshelves in a half circle, which moved open and closed on rails for easier access. The young man picked his way through the box with the speed of a card sharp, selecting several references and removing them from the boxes. He presented them to Alfredo.

  ‘There you go Doctor, that should get you started. Tell me if you need anything else.’

  ‘Thank you, Kleber.’

  Alfredo sat on one of the hard, wooden benches opposite the indexes and reviewed the cards that Kleber gave him. The young man was an idiot. If Alfredo had wanted to learn about German cooking and traditional clothing, he would not be in the National Archive. Young people these days, what sort of education were they getting? He limped over to the cabinets and replaced the cards. It occurred to him that he was confident under which category Nazis in Sierramar fell. Politics? Foreign relations? Fantasy? Deciding that being methodical was the correct option, he picked up the first card box and moved over to a table. One by one he removed the cards and examined the summaries and then replaced them in the box. He went through three boxes and found a grand total of two references to German immigrants, both stored upside down. This was not encouraging but Alfredo was used to dead ends.

  He went to the stacks to locate the papers. Neither document was in its slot in the filing boxes, but the lending cards stapled on the boxes showed that the same person had taken them both out, a certain Armando Bronca. Alfredo smiled. This was a joke name in Spanish meaning ‘starting a fight’, a nickname used by Ramon Vega, one of his friends from university days. Alfredo had not seen him for several years following an altercation in a bar which was nothing to do with Ramon and a direct result of Alfredo’s alcohol intake. He hoped that time had healed the wounds caused by his sarcastic tongue, sharpened by too much drink.

  ***

  Ramon Vega lived in the valley parallel to that of Calderon in a farmhouse surrounded by modern houses where there used to be pasture. Alfredo drove down the winding road fringed by eucalyptus trees, avoiding the potholes and the chickens. Ramon’s home was built in the time of the Spanish occupation and it had settled with time as the foundations had dried out. The walls leaned inwards and the roof bowed. A riot of bougainvillea and climbing hibiscus crawled over the white building and invaded the crevices in the windows. The door was open and dust danced in the bright sunlight penetrating the dark interior. Alfredo stepped into the entrance, keeping one nervous hand on the door.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone at home?’

  He heard creaking floorboards complaining as Ramon approached. A large silhouette filled the hall.

  ‘Alfredo? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. Punch me now so we can be friends again.’

  ‘You stupid sod!’

  The deep voice caught in the massive throat. Moving rapidly for such a large man, Ramon launched himself at Alfredo. At the last moment, Alfredo realised that his friend’s arms were open and his hands were reaching and not bunched into fists. He relaxed and let the tidal wave of affection that was Ramon Vega flow over him. He felt tears on his cheeks and he didn’t know to whom they belonged. Why had he waited so long to apologise? What an idiot. He should have realised it
would be like old times.

  When the two men had unwrapped themselves from their fitful embrace, Alfredo followed Ramon into a sitting room lined with books. Shelving covered the walls and many groaned with the weight of double rows of books of every shape and size. Alfredo sank into a comfortable armchair from which he knew it would be hard to extricate himself. Ramon sat opposite in its twin leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs.

  ‘Marta! Bring us some fresh coffee, please. And some empanadas.’

  There was a squeak of assent from the kitchen.

  ‘What do you want, old friend? It must be important for you to brave my wrath after such a long time.’

  ‘I am sorry, so sorry. I was such an idiot. I have an urgent matter to discuss but our friendship is more important and I am a fool.’

  ‘Come on, don’t upset me again. Let’s pretend it never happened. Spill the beans. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.’

  Alfredo told Ramon about the call he had received from Saul Rosen, leaving out the bit about the generous payment, and the strange story of Gloria’s school friends and their dyed hair, and then about the missing documents in the library. Ramon remained perched on the edge of his seat washing down cheese empanadas in a sea of milky coffee. His brow furrowed deeper and deeper until he resembled a worried bulldog.

  ‘So that’s it. You can point me in the right direction as the trail is cold and I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Ramon. He stood up and moved to the door which he opened to look up and down the hall. He shut it again and turned around shaking his head. ‘What a coincidence. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe what? I don’t understand.’