Byrne eyed the two CIA men. ‘That hunter force had significant assets at its command, assets that only an American agency could bring to bear – or so the Brazilian president argues. They included Predator UAVs, Black Hawk stealth helicopters, and a fairly impressive array of weaponry.
‘So, gentlemen, is this something that either of you might be aware of? Is there any way it could be the work of a US agency, as the Brazilians seem to be suggesting?’
Brooks shrugged. ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, Mr President. But put it this way, sir: it’s not something I have any knowledge of. I can check and we can reload in forty-eight hours, but I know nothing about it right now. I can’t speak for my colleague.’ He turned to the figure beside him.
‘Sir, as it happens, I do know something.’ Kammler threw a withering glance at Brooks. ‘I make it my business to know. That warplane was part of a project known back then by various codenames. Point is, Mr President, it was top secret then and it is entirely in our best interests for it to remain that way.’
The President frowned. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘Sir, it’s an election year. As always, securing the support of the Jewish lobby is crucial. Back in 1945, that warplane carried some of the top Nazi leaders to a secret South American safe haven. But of chief concern to you, Mr President, was that it was also loaded with Nazi loot. Inevitably, of course, that included a great deal of Jewish gold.’
The President shrugged. ‘I don’t get the reason for the concern. The looted Jewish gold story – it’s been around for years.’
‘Yes, sir, it has. But this time it’s different. What isn’t known is that we – the American government – sponsored this specific relocation flight. We did so in strictest secret, of course.’ Kammler cast a shrewd glance in the President’s direction. ‘And I would respectfully suggest that it should stay a strict secret.’
The President sighed deeply. ‘A deal with the proverbial devil. It could be embarrassing in an election year – is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, sir, it could. Very embarrassing and very damaging. It didn’t happen on your watch. It happened in the late spring of 1945. But that doesn’t mean the media wouldn’t have a feeding frenzy.’
The President glanced from Kammler to Brooks. ‘Dan? What’s your take on this?’
A frown creased the CIA director’s brow. ‘Not for the first time, sir, where my deputy director is concerned, I am in the dark. If true, sure – it could prove embarrassing. Conversely, it could be a whole crock of horseshit.’
Kammler stiffened. Something in him seemed to snap. ‘I would have thought you should make it your business to know all that happens within the Agency!’
Brooks pounced. ‘So, it was CIA-related? It was Agency business! The goddam Brazilians have you bang to rights!’
‘Gentlemen, please.’ The President held up his hands for silence. ‘I have a very persistent Brazilian ambassador demanding answers. At present it is a private government-to-government affair. But there’s no guarantee that it will stay that way.’ He eyed Brooks and Kammler. ‘And if you’re right, and this is an American-sponsored Nazi Jewish gold conspiracy… well, it looks bad.’
Brooks remained silent. Much as he hated it, the President – and Kammler – was right. If this hit the press, it wouldn’t be the greatest ever launch pad for the President’s re-election. And while he knew Byrne was weak, right now he was about the best they had.
The President addressed his next words directly to Kammler. ‘If, as the Brazilians claim, there is a rogue US outfit involved, things could get very messy. So is there, Hank? Was any of this at the behest of people under our command or control?’
‘Sir, your predecessor signed an EXORD,’ Kammler offered, by way of an answer. ‘A presidential executive order. It green-lit the mounting of certain operations without any need for clearance. In other words, with no presidential oversight. That’s because in certain circumstances it’s better for you not to know. That way, you can always deny knowledge if things get… messy.’
President Byrne looked troubled. ‘Hank, I understand that. I know all about deniability. But right now I’m asking to to be briefed as fully as you are able.’
Kammler’s expression hardened. ‘Sir, let me put it this way: sometimes things cannot remain a secret unless there are agencies striving to ensure they preserve that secrecy.’
Byrne massaged his temples. ‘Hank, make no mistake – if the Agency’s fingerprints are on this, it’s best we know the worst as early as possible. I need to know the fallout potential.’
‘Sir, it wasn’t CIA business.’ Kammler threw a daggers look at Brooks. ‘I can say that categorically. But I am glad you recognise the pressing need for secrecy, and might I suggest that’s in all our best interests.’
‘I’ll let the Brazilians know it was none of our doing,’ President Byrne announced with relief. ‘And Hank, I appreciate the need for secrecy.’ He glanced at Brooks. ‘We all appreciate it. We really do.’
Five minutes later, Brooks drew away from the White House, his driver at the wheel. He’d made his excuses to the President – his schedule didn’t allow him to stay for lunch. Kammler had remained behind, of course. That little creep was never one to turn down an opportunity to schmooze.
Brooks’s driver turned on to the main drag heading south out of downtown Washington. Brooks pulled out his cell phone and dialled.
‘Bucky? Yeah, Brooks here. It’s been a while. How you doing?’
He listed to the response, then laughed.
‘You got me. It’s not just a social call. How d’you fancy a short spell out of retirement? You bored of shooting spuds across Chesapeake Bay? You are? Perfect. What say I drive down to your place, you get Nancy to fix me a bowl of clam chowder, and you and I shoot the breeze for a while?’
He glanced out of the window at the passing cherry blossoms. Kammler and his black operations: at best the guy was a loose cannon; at worst, he and his people were overstepping their controls big time.
With Kammler, the deeper Brooks seemed to dig, the more he uncovered. But sometimes you just had to dig and keep digging, until you found the truth.
And sometimes the truth was very ugly.
23
The impenetrable woodland surrounding the Falkenhagen complex lent a certain raw wildness to the setting. It really was the kind of place where no one would ever hear you scream.
‘How long was I in there for?’ Jaeger asked, as he tried to massage some life back into his hands.
He was standing outside the nearest bunker, feeling exhausted from his brutal testing and desperate for fresh air. He was also burning up with anger. Seething.
Raff checked his watch. ‘It’s 0700 on the eighthof March. You were in there for seventy-two hours.’
Three days. The bastards.
‘So whose idea was it anyway?’ Jaeger probed.
Raff was about to answer when Uncle Joe appeared at their side. ‘A quiet word, my boy.’ He took Jaeger gently but firmly by the arm. ‘Some things are best explained by family.’
After Jaeger’s grandfather’s premature death two decades ago, Great-Uncle Joe had taken on the role of honorary grandpa. Having no children of his own, he’d grown uncommonly close to Jaeger, and susequently to Ruth and Luke.