Chapter 23
“That’s yours and this one’s for Axl. I’ll be over shortly. Just got to have a word with Tom over there.” Dave handed him the pints.
Thurstan edged his way through into the snug.
“Here you are Axl,” he said as he set them on the table. “Enjoy.”
The American took a mouthful of ale: “I think I’ve been here too long. I’m beginning to like this stuff.”
Thurstan chuckled. “We have that effect on people.” He put his pint down. “So, looking forward to getting back to the States?”
The barmaid removed their empty glasses from the table. They both looked up and smiled their appreciation.
“Nothing against you Brits, but yes. Just got to call in at the Embassy in London, report in so to speak, then two days max, I’ll be flying back to Vegas.”
“Was it a worthwhile trip?”
Axl sighed. “I’d like to say yes, but it’s been frustrating. The guy I’m after was in London for a good while then we got an anonymous tip-off that led me here but the trail has gone cold and now I’ve simply run out of time.”
“What is it? Some sort of fraud investigation? I hope you don’t mind my asking? Professional curiosity.” He sipped his Guinness.
The FBI man smiled. “Not a problem. It’s the same game you’re in, Thurstan. Murder. But my guy’s slippery. I think you Brits would call him a tricky fucker.” He laughed. “Seriously, I’ve never come across anything like it. I’ve back tracked him through numerous South American countries and several states in the US and when he thinks he’s been compromised, he’s gone, often leaving a small trail of bodies along the way.”
Guffaws from the other room made them look up. Dave was in the far reaches of the public bar regaling a small audience.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you want me to go and rescue him?”
Dave glanced over. “Who, Thurstan or the Yank?” he replied, grinning.
He turned back to his audience. “Where was I? Oh yeah, so they’re standing in front of the firing squad and the little guy shouts, ‘Fuck Hitler!’ and his mate says, ‘Shut the fuck up you’re making things worse’!”
More guffaws. Dave was doing what he did best.
Thurstan put his pint down and wiped his mouth. “Sorry Axl, go on.”
“That’s ok, I was only going to say it was a lot of work.” He put his glass on the table. “I discovered he was former SS Sicherheitsdienst. A one-time member of the Einsatzgruppen. Later he worked from the RSHA in Berlin, Prinz Albrechtstrasse. At the end of the war, he disappeared for a while before turning up in Guatemala where he found employment with the United Fruit Company. That’s where he hooked up with the Agency. Virulent anti-communist, he got involved in the Guatemalan coup d’état in fifty-four then bounced around Latin America working with the teams they had out there. It’d probably be easier to tell you where he wasn’t. He was involved in them all and, I’m told, he was in Dealey Plaza in sixty-three, posing as Secret Service.” He saw Thurstan’s quizzical look.
“How do I know all this? I think someone from the Agency is drip-feeding us. I don’t know who though.”
“And it all ends here, in Liverpool,” the DCI nodded appreciatingly. “When did this all begin?”
“My investigation? It started three years ago. We received information that led us to connect deaths in four states. That’s how it got federal.”
“But why Liverpool? Do you know?”
“Oh, I know why he’s here. I’d best tell it this way, Thurstan. We think he was born in 1924, which makes him ninety-one this year. He’s an old man in years but physically, strength-wise, he’d pass for someone twenty years younger or more. He’s kept himself fit, always did apparently.” Another mouthful of beer. “You ever heard of an organisation called Die Spinne?” Thurstan shook his head.
“It means ‘the spider’. They’ve been around since the end of the war, they used to run ratlines, escape routes for Nazis. Now, it’s more charitable, providing financial assistance to those in need but they still have the original purpose as a sideline, when it’s needed.
“My guy was happy in London, it turns out, but then someone tipped him off about our investigation and how close we were getting. Die Spinne have a network in the UK that’s administered from Liverpool. I don’t know who or where but he does and I think he’s decided to go home. Simple as that. He’s getting tired and he needs them for his fake papers and help in getting back into Germany, safely. He’s no slouch himself when it comes to forging documents but he needs stuff that will convince any determined inquiry, historical, that kinda thing. He can’t do that. They can.”
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but we’ve decided to move on.” It was Dave. “Stan has called the landlord a twat and it didn’t go down well so we’re all off to the Beehive. You coming, Thurstan?”
“It’s tempting, Dave,” he lied, “but I can see it’s going to be a heavy night and I need a clear head for tomorrow.”
Dave patted him on the shoulder. “So be it. Come on Axl, throw that down your neck. It’s your round next.”
The FBI man took several gulps then put the remainder down on the table. As he and Thurstan shook hands the DCI said quietly, “When it gets too much just tell them you need a piss and leave. It’ll be crowded. They won’t notice you’ve gone for at least twenty minutes.”
When they’d left, Thurstan took his empty glass back to the bar. The place was half empty now. As he put it on the counter the landlord said, “Not having another, Mister Baddeley?”
“I thought we were barred, Charlie?”
“Not you Mister Baddeley. Just that lot. They were encouraging him. He’s a gobby git. I told him the Belgian beer was strong, but does he listen? If he wasn’t me brother-in-law I wouldn’t let him back in.” He took down a clean glass. “Guinness?”