Sam Harris Adventure Box Set: Classic Adventure series Volumes 2, 3, and 4: Sam Harris Adventure Boxsets, #2

CHAPTER I

London, September 1988

The telephone rang just as Simon insinuated his hand between Sam’s thighs. She avoided the consequences of pushing it away when the ringing of the telephone shattered the silence with its shrill insistence.

‘Really?’ he said, whipping his hand away in fury. ‘Who on earth would ring at this time of night? It’s a bloody liberty.’

A rhetorical question. Only one person they knew rang with no regard for the time difference.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it in the kitchen.’

She slipped out of bed and into her dressing gown, pulling the cord tight around her waist, guilty for the relief which flooded her body at escaping Simon’s attentions. The tiled hall was cold under her feet and she shivered. She fumbled for the door handle to the kitchen in the dark hall for several seconds before encircling the cool ceramic globe in her grasp. She entered, shutting the door behind her, uncertain whether she needed to keep her conversation private or to let her companion sleep. The phone stopped ringing as she reached for the receiver.

She put the kettle on and waited for it to boil, leaning against the counter and reading the postcards on the fridge door. Steam escaped from the spout and flooded the cold air. As she poured the bubbling water over the tea leaves, the telephone began to ring again. Through the kitchen door she could hear Simon swearing.

‘Hello?’

‘Sam? It’s me, Gloria. Are you awake?’

Gloria’s husky voice crackled down the line. Sam smiled at the question.

‘I am now. Is this a social call? It’s three o’clock in the morning here.’

‘Alfredo’s missing.’

‘Missing? In what sense?’

As an inveterate alcoholic, Alfredo was notorious for going AWOL from his life. Why was this any different?

‘Disappeared. He left for the mountains to search for some Nazis with a gringo journalist and they didn’t come back.’

Sam ignored the reference to the Nazis as being an exaggeration planted to excuse the hour.

‘But didn’t you stop seeing him?’

‘We’re back together. We couldn’t bear to be apart.’

Sam thought of Simon waiting in her bed. Who was she to judge?

‘And your father? What has he said about this?’

‘I haven’t told him. He’d be angry if he knew I was seeing Alfredo again and wouldn’t give me any more money. That’s why I phoned you. You’re my only true friend. I need your help to find them.’

Gloria was being sincere about their friendship. The two women had formed a close bond following their first brush with adventure in the jungles of Sierramar. They were both fearless under their different facades and shared a Derring-Do and a sense of the ridiculous that led to a similar outlook on life. And Sam was bored. She had just finished reviewing an interminable and over-worthy feasibility study of a coal mine in a safe jurisdiction with good logistics that never used one word where six or seven would do. Eight hundred pages of excruciating Germanic efficiency.

A sensible person would have stayed in London and searched for more work but she needed adventure. People made too many comments suggesting she ought to settle down now that phase of her life had finished. As if she had been partying and drinking instead of working at a respectable career.

Now she had the ideal excuse for an escape. Alfredo had probably gone off on a bender somewhere and would surface looking exhausted and sheepish, but what if something had happened to him? It was tempting to find out.

‘Sam? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m still here. So, what’ll I bring you from London, besides tea?’

‘You’re coming?’

‘Yes, I’ll come. I fancy an adventure. Can you guarantee that?’

‘Oh yes, you can count on it.’

‘Okay, I’ll try to find a cheap flight. I’ll ring you when I have the schedule.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hey, what are friends for?’

‘Is Simon with you?’

‘Goodnight, Gloria.’

Sam hung up before Gloria launched into an unsubtle interrogation about her sex life. It would keep. She wouldn’t explain her ill-advised decision to take Simon back at that hour of the morning. Or at any hour. It was like putting on a pair of shoes that had blistered her feet the last time she wore them. The pain they had caused her the last time she walked in them forgotten until she tried them again. She still wanted him despite his failings. It was an itch that needed to be scratched.

***

When she arrived back from her first trip to Sierramar six months ago, Simon waited for her at the airport like an overeager puppy, trying to carry her bags and asking inane questions. She had no idea how he had found out about her flight, but later her sister Hannah confessed to having given him the details, worn down by a barrage of requests. Tired after her long flight, she smelt of smoke and sweat and needed a shower. She was not in the mood to meet a lovesick swain, especially one who had broken her heart and hadn’t appeared for months. She fobbed off his apologies and pleas for a reunion with conciliatory phrases about considering her options.

Yet there he was – larger than life and twice as canine – panting and fawning over her. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so awful. She was flattered that he made a fuss of her in front of other people, a new phenomenon. In the past, his own glamour so absorbed him, he barely acknowledged her presence. Now she had become the star in a scene from a corny film and she revelled in it. Giving in to the thrill of being the leading lady, she let him kiss her, unperturbed by the flash of triumph she saw in his eyes.

And the first few weeks had been nice, being with an improved version of Simon, attentive and considerate, complimenting her often. Sam, seduced by the warm glow that came with having a plus one instead of excuses, enjoyed the approving glances from people who wanted her to settle down and live a normal life and stop ‘gallivanting around the world as if she were Indiana Jones’.

But his new behaviour wore off after a few months and he returned to his old ways taking her for granted. Sam noticed that he showed no interest in hearing about her adventures in Sierramar. Her life without him was an irrelevance. A growing resentment fomented a rebellion in her head. Being Mrs to his Mr was anathema to her growing feelings of independence. She didn’t want to fade into a partnership where he held the spotlight firmly on himself. She loved the sex but was that enough? Determined to force him into considering her as his equal no matter how close to the edge that might take them, she had to try. If he wouldn’t accept her as a full partner, he should forget it.

Only one problem interfered with this grand plan. She had missed her period and experienced the queasy panic of the possibly pregnant. Her doubts about Simon’s staying power meant that she hadn’t told him yet. He loved her more when he couldn’t have her. Would his feelings change if he had to share her? What sort of father would he be? A question that seemed so rhetorical that she didn’t want an answer.

And what about her? Did she love him or only her idea of him? His Simon-ness obsessed her, the arrogant handsome presence and the wicked charm. He chose her over conventional options which always amazed her. An inveterate tomboy who couldn’t stomach girly behaviour, she was difficult to love. But he did. She loved him because he saw through her defences and wanted what she hid inside. But what if she told him she might be pregnant? Would a fat woman with stretch marks still interest him? She couldn’t deal with this now. Gloria was a good no-nonsense sounding board. A trip to Sierramar would sort out her thoughts.

The cross voice of her abandoned boyfriend broke the silence.

‘Sam? What the hell is going on out there? Are you coming back to bed or not?’

‘Coming.’

She shuffled down the corridor trailing the cord of her dressing gown in the dust that lined the border between the skirting board and the tiles and entered the bedroom. Simon sat up in bed with the table light illuminating the tufts of his hair and making him look like an indignant owl.

‘What the hell was that about? Why were you speaking in Spanish? Don’t tell me. It was that Gloria woman again, wasn’t it? Bloody foreigners.’

‘Yes, it was. She’s not a foreigner, she’s my good friend so don’t be obnoxious. She’s in trouble, and she needs my help.’

‘There’s a surprise! The woman is a magnet for bad luck.’

Sam bridled but defending Gloria was pointless. Her name was mud for Simon. He blamed her for Sam staying on in Sierramar after her first job with Mike Morton.

‘Well, it’s not her. It’s Alfredo Vargas. He’s gone missing.’

‘For God’s sake. Isn’t he the alcoholic? What can you do about a missing drunk who is thousands of miles away?’

Sam hesitated. Simon let out a hoarse disbelieving laugh.

‘You’re not going?’

‘Um, I might.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. That part of your life is over. You can’t go. What about me?’

‘Well, I only said I’d consider it. Let’s sleep on it, okay? I’m so tired. I can’t think straight.’

Muttering to himself, Simon moved over to let her into the bed. He switched off the light and reached for her. She flinched at his touch. He muttered something rude and turned his back on her.

***

‘You’re going back to Sierramar? That’s nice, darling. Will you stay with Gloria?’ Her mother, Matilda Harris, passed her a big cup of tea. ‘Coffee cake? Go on, you know you want to.’

‘A tiny piece. Whoa! That’s not small,’ said Sam.

‘I can’t let it get stale.’

‘The squander bug is watching,’ said Bill Harris.

‘Daddy, the war is over.’

‘Will you be going to the jungle?’ he said.

‘It depends on Alfredo.’

‘Just in case you are, I have something for you. I got it from one of my clients.’

‘Honestly, sweetheart. Sam doesn’t want that thing.’

‘What thing?’

Bill Harris rummaged in a box in the scullery. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He held a box with an alarming picture of a snake and some bolts of lightning shooting into it. He took out a black plastic module with two short metal prongs at the end.

‘It looks like something from Star Trek. Can I use it to beam back to England?’ said Sam.

‘It’s a stun gun for snake bites. If you get bitten by a viper, you stick this on the bite and press this button.’ He squeezed the red button on the side of the module. A crackling sound like a fly getting electrocuted in a Greek restaurant came out of it and blue sparks flew from the prongs.

‘I’m not using that. It’s lethal.’

‘But it might work. And if you are far from a hospital, it might save your life.’

‘Take it, darling, you can never tell when you might need it,’ said Matilda.

‘I’ll put in in my bag now,’ said Sam, who didn’t want to disappoint her father. ‘Thanks, Daddy. It’s brilliant.’

‘You’ll need batteries,’ her mother said.

***

It wasn’t easy organising a trip to Sierramar without arousing Simon’s suspicion. He was prone to fits of jealousy as he couldn’t help projecting his own behaviour onto her. If she tried to hide something he always assumed that she might be seeing someone else, something so far from her mind as to require intergalactic travel. She carried on as normal and packed her suitcases while he worked, replacing them in the hall cupboard whenever he came over to her place. Her decision to go to Sierramar remained secret until he saw the supermarket bag full of tea and chocolate hidden in the wardrobe. By then she had bought the ticket which was non refundable, from one of the bucket shops on the Tottenham Court Road.

‘It was so cheap,’ she crowed.

‘I can’t believe you lied about going to Sierramar,’ he said.

‘I didn’t lie. I was ever so slightly economical with the truth but I never said I wouldn’t go.’

‘But you are going. And without me. A man can only take so much.’

He looked crestfallen, but he was a good actor.

‘Oh, you’ll be fine. You won’t even notice I’m gone.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘It’ll do us good. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

She didn’t feel as brave as she sounded but a reminder of how much he missed her would be productive when she broached the subject of her pregnancy. Oh God, how had she been so unlucky? She was so careful to take the pill each morning without fail. Bloody hormones. And what was she supposed to do with a baby? Strap it across her back and carry on up the Amazon?

What a disaster. She considered telling her sister Hannah but the information would get back to her mother. Hannah was as leaky as a sieve. Anyway, she had had a pointless fight with her about Simon. She had gone to see her to say goodbye and things hadn’t gone to plan. Hannah had been in a foul humour because she had broken up with her latest boyfriend and he wouldn’t stop ringing her.

‘He’s like a stalker,’ said Hannah. ‘He won’t leave me alone.’

‘You should listen to him. Sometimes closure is a good thing,’ said Sam, who had never liked him anyway, but got a certain enjoyment from annoying her sister.

‘What? Like you and Simon? Ha! Do you imagine I’m as wimpy as you?’

‘That’s not fair, I wanted to give him another chance. We still love each other,’ said Sam.

‘You call that love, what he did to you?’

‘That’s in the past now. We talked it over and we are trying again. What’s wrong with that?’

‘You are so naïve. What makes you think Simon will be faithful this time? Has anything changed?’

‘It’s none of your business. Anyway, I’ve seen you together. You get on, in fact I’d say you fancy him yourself the way you gaze at him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Hannah blushed and Sam knew she had touched a nerve. Not that she blamed her. All the girls fancied Simon.  ‘Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m not cross with you. I’m cross with the stalker.’

‘I’m sorry you're having a rotten time. Listen, I have to go now. Simon will be home soon and he’s not happy that I’m off on my travels again.’

‘You are not making it easy for him, home alone again.’

‘I have to trust him. I can’t spend my life wondering if he’s strayed again. He has to police himself or he’ll never grow up. I’m not prepared to go out with an adolescent anymore.’

‘Okay, I suppose he’s no worse than my disaster of a boyfriend. Have a good time with Gloria.’

‘I will. Look after our parents for me.’

They hugged each other on parting, despite the argument, one in a long line on the same subject. Hannah disapproved of her being back with Simon, and for good reason, but so did her parents. Everyone did, and they  were right, but now a complication she hadn’t expected had intervened. She needed to get away, as far away as possible to give her thinking room. Gloria would know what to do.

CHAPTER II

Calderon August 1988

Alfredo Vargas had been working in his study when the telephone rang. Despite the loud and persistent nature of the tone, he failed to locate it in the sea of documents and open books layered on his desk like a giant piece of filo pastry. He put his ear to the pile and felt in the dust with his hand for the vibration that would give its position away. Finding the handset, he untangled the cord from a dead pot plant.

Whoever wanted to talk to him was persistent and determined. Most people gave up sooner. He held it to his ear with some trepidation. Perhaps it was someone to whom he owed money? Or his mother demanding an update?

‘Hello, can I speak to Alfredo Vargas please?’

American accented Spanish. Nasal and whiny with a touch of Brooklyn.

‘Who’s speaking please?’

‘Ah, you speak English. My name is Saul Rosen. I’m a journalist.’ Alfredo noticed that English was not his mother tongue either. It appeared to be a weird mix of Brooklyn and some European accent. French?

‘I still don’t know who you are. What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for Alfredo Vargas, the historian. I’ve got a proposition for him.’

‘What sort of proposition? I’m busy right now.’

‘Are you Dr Vargas? That’s a piece of luck. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get hold of you.’

Alfredo made concerted efforts to avoid most human contact, which he found mundane and trying, so he knew how tricky it was to get hold of him.

‘How did you get my number?’

‘From Dr Gallagher in New York.’

‘Ah, Dick Gallagher, that explains it. You’ve got work for me? What does it involve?’

‘I need help with an assignment in Sierramar. It’s confidential and may even be dangerous. I want you to research something for me.’

‘What’s the subject of this investigation?’

He tried to control his excitement. Alfredo was self-sufficient in funds, being the product of a wealthy family with money to burn, but he needed something to engage his mind. His drinking had spiralled out of control again despite the efforts of his girlfriend, Gloria. He wanted to make her proud and to get her father to accept their relationship but being underemployed only made drink more appealing.

‘I’m working as a consultant for the Simon Wiesenthal Centre doing research into Nazi war criminals who fled to South America after the second world war. The War Crimes Commission is keen on finding and arresting them. I’ve been following several lines of inquiry that lead to Sierramar.’

‘Sierramar? Are you positive?’

They had captured several notorious war criminals in Argentina, Chile and Brazil but he had never heard of any in his country. Sierramar was one of the few democracies in South America without a fascist regime in its past.

‘Yes. It’s not something I expected either. I guess as a historian you would expect to be aware of it, but that’s the point. The Sierramar government colluded with the Germans to let war criminals escape justice. They hushed up the collaboration and hid the evidence.’

‘So how can I help?’

‘I thought you would have access to the files in the National Archives which might back this story up. They are unlikely to let an American access them, but I presume that you wouldn’t experience any problem getting the information I need.’

‘I go there often. Let me help you with this. It seems straight forward enough. How much would you pay me?’

‘I can offer you one hundred dollars a day with an upfront payment of five hundred. Does that suit you?’

‘That sounds about right,’ said Alfredo, covering his surprise at the generous offer, most gringos had money. ‘Do you have a pen with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, my fax number is 02687865. You must put the country code for Sierramar in front of it and you may need to eliminate the zero. Why don’t you fax me a proposal and I will get back to you with my decision and my bank details, in due course.’

‘I’ll do that today.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Thank you, Dr Vargas.’

‘Alfredo, please. Can I call you Saul?’

‘Sure. Okay, goodbye for now.’

Alfredo hung up the receiver and sat back in his large leather armchair. Saul seemed willing to pay over the odds for some simple research but he would not look a gift horse in the mouth. It seemed like a proper job. He was dying to tell Gloria. How difficult could it be?

***

Ecstasy overcame Saul. He couldn’t believe his luck in finding Alfredo, who seemed to be the perfect candidate for the job. He owed Dick Gallagher a bottle of whisky. There was no need to tell anyone the real reason he was researching the Nazi presence in Sierramar. It appeared unlikely that Alfredo would come up with anything concrete if he had never even heard of his government’s collaboration with the Third Reich. Were the incriminating documents sitting on the shelves of the National Archives, waiting to be discovered?

It had taken years for him to follow the trail of Dr Kurt Becker from Brussels to Calderon. It might be a long time before Alfredo would come up with anything of substance. He could wait. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and this had mould on it. He folded the piece of paper with Alfredo’s number and put it in a zipped compartment of his wallet. Then he went into his study and looked for a document to use as a template for Alfredo’s contract. Money was no object in this case. His search approached a climax and he hoped it would finish with a bang.

***

Alfredo was almost as excited. He loved a new project and was impatient to get started. He found it impossible to wait for Saul to formalise their relationship before starting his research. The suggestion that there were Nazi war criminals hiding in Sierramar had mystified him. It challenged his status as a historian. At thirty-five years’ old, his colleagues considered him to be one of the most knowledgeable men in his field, but his studies tended to the esoteric side and he had concentrated on the study of the Valdivia and Inca cultures of South America.

The Second World War wasn’t worthy of his interest; it took place only yesterday, for heaven’s sake. Hardly history. He couldn’t imagine his little country with its mountains, beaches and jungles being anything other than a democratic paradise. Despite the revolutions and fascist regimes that plagued the rest of Latin America, Sierramar had never had a civil war or a dictator. It had dodgy governments, with the usual bribery and corruption that accompanied real poverty, but the suggestion that it harboured Nazi fugitives shocked him. And yet, the story rang true.

Intrigued, he racked his brains for clues. There were people of German descent in Calderon, many of them his age, who hung out with the wealthy local families similar to his. He had met their mothers, but he couldn’t remember their fathers. It had never occurred to him before because he didn’t place much importance on family relationships. The history of the German community in Calderon was a mystery to him but he now determined to trace its origins. He started at the source of most of his local gossip, Gloria, his girlfriend and daughter of the nouveaux-riche Hernan Sanchez, a government contractor.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, mi amour, what’s up?’

‘Do you want to meet me for lunch today? It’s short notice but I need to see you.’

‘I can be at the Banana Verde in an hour.’

‘Great, I’ll wait for you outside.’

He drove into the centre of town, buying a newspaper from the street vendor who breastfed her child at the traffic light in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Various little children sat on the divider in the middle of the road, under a tree with shrivelled leaves poisoned by lead particles, their dirty faces pictures of boredom and misery. He tried not to notice and refused his change with a wave of the hand. Calderon was a prosperous town but the indigenous population formed a large part of the begging and jobless in the capital. There seemed to be a family at every junction.

He sat on a bench outside the restaurant and read his newspaper in the shade of an ugly tower block. Some dusty birds pecked at the dry earth in the flower bed which held only painted stones and lumps of chewing gum. Gloria arrived half an hour later than promised, doing what looked like a handbrake turn into a parking spot, leaving a fresh arc of rubber in the road. She jumped out of the car in her skin-tight jeans and cowboy boots, her bright shirt straining at the buttons. Her hair had been painted in the multi-coloured stripes that passed for highlights in Calderon. She sucked on a cigarette and glancing around, her eyes screwed up against the bright rays of the noon-day sun.

‘Ah, mi amour! There you are. Let’s go inside.’

‘How are you, darling? You look wonderful. I love your hair.’

‘Thank you, it’s all the rage.’

She did a flirtatious twirl in front of him and his heart skipped in his chest. He was a man besotted. Until they got together, he had considered Gloria so out of his league he had never dared to talk to her.

They pushed through the door into the cool interior and the manager showed them to the best table as befitted the daughter of Hernan Sanchez. A waiter gave them menus.

‘Do you want to hear the specials?’ he said.

‘No, thank you. Can you bring me some potato soup with an extra portion of avocado, please? Alfredo?’

‘Raise the dead soup please, although it would be a miracle if it worked this time.’

‘Can you bring us a jug of fresh lemonade, too, please?’

‘Certainly, Senorita Sanchez.’

The waiter withdrew leaving them in the relative privacy of their corner table.

‘What’s so important that you couldn’t tell me on the phone?’ said Gloria, ‘and why do you look so exhausted? Have you been drinking?’

‘Drinking? Oh, not really, that is, not much, only thinking amounts.’

‘Thinking amounts? Thinking about what?’

‘I’ve got a job.’

Gloria’s jaw dropped so far that he could see her fillings.

‘A job? You?’

She blurted out ‘How wonderful!’ before an embarrassing silence occurred. Alfredo didn’t notice because she leaned forward resting her bosom on the table, a manoeuvre which distracted him.

‘Yes, it’s wonderful,’ he said.

‘Oi, concentrate. So, what’s the job?’

‘A journalist called Saul Rosen has rung me from New York. He asked me to research the German community in Calderon. My social contacts aren’t as good as yours, and I’m not convinced this isn’t a red herring so I wanted to pick your brains. I don’t want to waste my time if there’s nothing to find. I need your advice before I get started with searching in the National Archives.’

‘How mysterious you are today. I’d love to help you if I can. Tell me all about it.’

‘Okay, but I need you to please listen and not comment or fly off the handle until I finish. It’s not an easy subject and its implications may upset you.’

Gloria lit a cigarette.

‘Okay, I promise to listen first and shout later.’

‘Well, believe it or not, this journalist claims he’s found evidence that some important Nazi war criminals are hiding in Sierramar. He wants me to research the story to see if we can verify it. His research indicates that our government are aware of their presence and colluded with the Third Reich.’

Gloria looked as if she wanted to interject but Alfredo held his hand up to stop her. ‘It’s only natural that you’ll defend our country to the death rather than accept this but please consider the possibility first. I have been doing a lot of thinking and it rings true in some aspects. I wish it didn’t.’

‘Hence the drinking.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. It helped soften the blow when it became clear there was some substance to the story. There are lots of wealthy German families in Calderon. Where did they came from and where did they get their wealth? The older men have disappeared or never arrived here. Why do so many families have a matriarch but no patriarch?’

He paused. Gloria looked as if she was struggling to contain an outburst. She lit another cigarette and smoked it, tapping it hard on the ash tray. The soup arrived. They both attacked their bowls without speaking. Gloria’s brow furrowed in concentration. She pushed back her empty bowl and gulped down a glass of lemonade.

‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘There’s been something odd happening in the German community in Calderon.’

Alfredo let out the breath he had been holding as surreptitiously as he could. Gloria paused, shutting her eyes as if to focus on her recollection of a half-remembered episode.

‘There were some weird goings on among my German friends at school,’ she said. ‘Two were sisters who had blonde hair, but with dark eyebrows. We know what that means.’

And here she looked at Alfredo for affirmation but he was flummoxed.

‘Ay, but men are so stupid sometimes. It means they dyed their hair. Blonde women have blonde eyebrows.’ She sighed.

‘So? How is that weird?’

‘One of these sisters was in my class, and she became a friend of mine, so we used to have sleepovers. Sometimes we had a glass of wine stolen from my father’s drinks cabinet. One night, she had too much wine and I asked her why she dyed her hair blonde. She was only fourteen then.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘When the girls were little, they both had blonde hair and their father doted on them. Their hair began to turn brown as they got older and their father got furious because he wanted them to appear more Aryan. He told them that the Aryans were the master race and they would enslave or eliminate others when the Fourth Reich came into being. He had a violent temper so their mother protected them from his rages by dyeing their hair.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know. I remember that he often left them alone for weeks without telling them where he went. He disappeared for good with several of his friends when we were about eighteen. Rumours circled that they had left the country for Argentina.’

Alfredo was transfixed.

‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘I’d no idea that Nazi fugitives came here. I must find out more.’

‘Be careful. If the government helped the Third Reich to hide some of their war criminals from justice, they won’t be happy to be exposed as collaborators. They’d be in their late sixties and seventies now so a lot of them are still alive.’

But Alfredo was no longer listening.

CHAPTER III

Berlin, April 1945

Dr Becker removed the severed finger from his pocket and unwrapped it from the greased proof paper in which he had concealed it. Dropping it into sterilised saline in a glass vial, he sealed it with hot wax. Then he put the vial into a metal tube and screwed on the top. With trembling hands, he placed the tube into a large canister of dry ice. Its removal from the corpse had been straightforward despite his trepidation. No-one wanted to enter the room while the smell of almonds hung in the air. 

Death had been instantaneous. Hitler’s head was on the coffee table with blood dripping from his right temple. The automatic, a Walther PPK, was lying on the floor below the dead hand that had dropped it. Becker strode over to the body. The state of the Führer’s hands shocked him. Drug abuse had blackened the nails on the end of his thin, grey fingers. They were not the hands of a well man. No wonder the Führer stayed hidden in the bunker for so long.

The finger came away without a struggle. The enormity of the sacrilege was hard to ignore but Becker kept telling himself that he was doing this for posterity. He wrapped the body in a blanket and went for help. Staff removed it from the bunker for cremation with that of his mistress, Eva Braun. Nobody noticed that the Führer’s left hand was missing a finger.

He found it easy to get permission to leave Berlin with the impending arrival of the Russians and the consequent breakdown of normal procedure. Nobody cared any more. People were trying to get away and many were taking what they could and abandoning Berlin. He requisitioned a truck and half a dozen young soldiers, who looked as if they hadn’t started shaving yet, for a mission of utmost national importance, a phrase guaranteed to make people jump to attention and ask few questions.

The soldiers agreed at once, grateful to get out of Berlin and head for the relative safety of the coast with no questions asked.

He packed his own trunks full of booty from the sacked Jewish houses in Belgium. Gold chains and watches, delicate porcelain wrapped in mink coats, portraits of plump eighteenth-century matrons. Confident he could buy anything he wanted in South America, he left most of his clothes behind. It would also make him less easy to spot when he started his new life in Sierramar.

Directing his driver to follow the truck, they started off down the road. His identification papers as a member of the Führer’s household got him through the checkpoints with no delays. No one dared to question his right to travel wherever he wanted. Despite the chaos of troops and civilians streaming in both directions on the main roads, they made good progress and arrived at the Port of Hamburg with plenty of time to catch the tramp liner to Sierramar before it left.

Becker and a group of thirty other SS and Gestapo officers hired the steamer under a neutral flag for making their escape from Europe when they realised they had lost the war. Dockworkers ignorant of the valuable cargo they handled loaded everything from cars to containers of furniture and paintings looted from conquered towns, and crates of gold bars, diamonds and jewellery aboard the liner. The cranes lifted the pallets from the dockside and lowered them into the bowels of the ship while the passengers waited on the shore and confirmed that their belongings went on board. Most of the men had brought their families with them. They stood on the quay drinking coffee in their fur coats as if waiting to go on a cruise.

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 saw 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 one of the others with his toe but he 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 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 keep something frozen while we’re on board. Have you got somewhere that I can store 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 might happen, I swear. You have my word 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 receive. By the time the liner got to the port of Guayama, the war seemed far away, not only in distance.

They gazed at 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 carried 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 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 would 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 stuffed 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 they would delay the importation paperwork until he arranged for the return of the ambulance to the customs shed after its journey to Calderon. The ambulance contained 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 got 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 Franz.

‘And who will run these enterprises?’ said Rolf

‘We must 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. It surprised them 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 Archives were stored in 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 sat at the top of a featureless flight of steps that suggested a gulag rather than a place of learning. Immune to the ugliness after using it for years, Alfredo’s 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, conscious of 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, humiliation washed over him. 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 bruised knee throbbed, 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 imagined him vulnerable to their criticism. They were just 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, that would be great. 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. But into which category did Nazis in Sierramar fall? Politics? Foreign relations? Fantasy?

Being methodical would get results. 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. Not encouraging but Alfredo was used to dead ends.

He went to the stacks to locate the papers. Neither document occupied 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 had 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. Built in the time of the Spanish occupation, Ramon’s house 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 hung 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. Tears ran down his cheeks but 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.’

A squeak of assent emitted 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 have been 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.’

‘Saul is not alone in doing research on Nazis in Sierramar. This subject has been my sole focus for eighteen months after a chance discovery in the archives. I found a whole box of documents in the basement under the wrong section which I guessed someone had put there by mistake. But it didn’t take me long to realise I’d stumbled upon a cover-up.’

‘The only filing cards I found on the subject were stored upside down. I found your note when looking for the relevant documents in the file boxes.’

‘I still have them. There is no point putting them back. They’ll disappear too. Like the fugitives that came here in 1945.’

‘What do you mean disappeared?’

‘Some of them have died, but the others melted away and I am trying to trace them. There’s a hard core of about six of them left. I have been concentrating on collaboration and I haven’t searched for them yet.’

‘They must be the people we want.’

‘Exactly. Anyway, I’ve almost finished a report on the government collaboration with the Third Reich that I hoped to have published.’

‘Hoped? Are you having trouble finding a publisher?’

‘I’m having trouble with a lot more than that. There are prominent people in Sierramar who want to prevent this document seeing the light of day. You wouldn’t believe the people involved. It goes right to the top and most of the main protagonists are still alive.’

‘Jesus, that’s terrible. You should be careful that they don’t find out what you are doing.’

‘I kept my studies a secret until now but I fear that I am being watched. It’s a feeling I can’t shake off.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m leaving the country for a while and will try to get the report published in the United States. Once it’s in the public domain, there isn’t anything they can do to stop the information getting out.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Next week, so it’s lucky you caught me here. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you borrow the document for a few days and photocopy any relevant pages?’

‘That’s a hell of a responsibility. Are you confident it’s a good idea?’

‘I’m more worried about keeping it here. They would steal it if they got the chance. It’s an isolated house and easy to burgle. I would feel better if I knew you had it safe. People are aware we aren’t on speaking terms. They won’t suspect you of having it.’

‘So, when do you want it back?’

‘You can give me it when I pass by your house on my way to the airport.  Ring me if you have questions before I go.’

‘Okay, I’ll take it.’

‘It’s the sole copy. Don’t lose it or take it to the bar with you. It could get you killed if someone knows you have it.’

Alfredo ignored the pointed reference. ‘I’ll guard it with my life.’

‘I’m sorry but you have to go now. I’m expecting a visitor and my guest is shy.’

Ramon winked and Alfredo realised that he was still taking part in extracurricular activities with other people’s wives despite his perilous personal situation.

‘I’m going, don’t get caught.’

‘Don’t be silly. Who’d suspect me of being a secret lothario?’

He had a point. Despite his big brown eyes and a mop of unruly black hair, he was as wide as he was tall and looked like a genial toad, not the kind of man who seduced other men’s wives, although it wasn’t the irate husbands that worried Alfredo. He took the document and stuffed it in the poacher’s pocket of his jacket.

Waving goodbye, he stepped back out into the sunshine and headed for his car. He drove back up to his house, pondering on the coincidence that had led him back to Ramon after that stupid argument. He couldn’t even remember what it had been about. Again, he regretted his addiction and what it had cost him. It was unfortunate he could stop drinking for months and then, when he thought he’d got free, the tendrils of addiction would enfold and seduce him with the power of a siren.

***

Kleber Perez watched Alfredo leaving Ramon’s house. Alfredo wasn’t carrying anything, but he was wearing a jacket that could conceal a multitude of secrets. This was the worst possible outcome. How could a drunk like Dr Vargas put together a few nebulous clues and come up with the jackpot? There must have been a connection between them in the past. How else would Alfredo have known Armando Bronca was a nickname?

Kleber thumped his fist on the handle bar of his moped. He should have changed the name on the files when he had the chance. In his experience, most rich people knew each other, so it wasn’t surprising that Alfredo knew Ramon and recognised the nickname. He jumped on his bike and made for the nearest public telephone in a local shop opposite the police station. He had to join a queue for the phone and he sat quivering with indignation in the corner until it was his turn.

‘It’s me. I have bad news about Ramon Vega. He has a new accomplice.’

‘Wasn’t he was working alone?’

‘He was. I haven’t seen him talk to anyone for months.’

‘Jesus! This is a disaster. We have to get rid of him before he talks to anyone else.’

‘I can do it.’

‘Okay, but make it look like an accident. We can’t leave any clues.’

‘Leave it with me.’

***

On reaching his house, Alfredo locked the doors and made a pot of strong coffee. He was dying for a drink but alcohol would not help him navigate the noxious pages. The house contained no alcohol, as he had drained the bottles the week before, on a binge that lasted two days. Instead he poured out a mug of coffee and added three teaspoons of sugar to give him a boost. Clearing the papers from his favourite armchair, which was a cavernous affair made of soft brown leather, he sank into its shiny embrace with the document and read.

The report was dynamite. Could it be that Ramon had been writing a