She must have seen the doubt clouding Jaeger’s eyes.
‘You think this is far-fetched?’ she had whispered defiantly. ‘Ask yourself for how long the Knights Templar legacy lasted. Nazism is less than a hundred years old; the Knights Templar legacy has lasted two thousand years, and it is still with us today. You think the Nazis just faded away overnight? You think those who were relocated to the safe havens would have allowed the Reich to die? You think their children would have abandoned what they saw as their birthright?
‘The Reichsadler with the strange circular symbol beneath the tail – we believe that is their symbol, their stamp. And as you well know, it has started to rear its head again.’
For a moment Jaeger had thought she was done, the exhaustion silencing her. But then from somewhere she’d found the strength for a final few words.
‘William Edward Michael Jaeger, if you still have doubts, there is one thing that should prove this for you. Think about the people who tried to stop us. They killed three of your team, and many more Indians. They had Predator, Black Hawks and God only knows what else. They were deep black and ultra-deniable. Imagine who might wield that kind of power, or act with such impunity.
‘The sons of the snakes are rising. They have a global network and their power grows. And as they have a network, so there is a network that aims to stop them.’ She paused, her face drained of all colour. ‘Before his death, your grandfather was the head of it. Those invited to join each get given a knife – a symbol of resistance – similar to the one that I carry.
‘But who wants this poisoned chalice thrust upon them? Who? The power of the enemy is on the rise, while ours – it is waning. Wir Sind die Zukunft. You have heard their motto: we are the future.’
Her eyes had flickered across to Jaeger. ‘Those of us who hunt them – we do not normally get to live for long.’
86
‘Sir, hello. Sir, a drink before we land?’ the air hostess repeated for the third time.
Jaeger had been miles away, reliving that conversation with Narov. She hadn’t said a great deal more. The exhaustion and pain had got the better of her, and Jaeger had wheeled her back to her hospital bed.
He flashed the hostess a smile. ‘A Bloody Mary, please. Lots of Worcestershire sauce.’
Bioko airport hadn’t changed a great deal since Jaeger’s last visit. A new force of security and customs officers had replaced President Honore Chambara’s corrupt and venal guard, but otherwise, it looked pretty much the same. The familiar figure of Pieter Boerke was waiting at Arrivals, complete with a couple of hulking great guys Jaeger recognised as his security detail.
Boerke had just overrun a despotic dictator, and he wasn’t one for discreet, low-level close protection. The South African held out a hand of welcome, before turning to his bodyguards. ‘Right, boys, bloody grab him! Let’s get him back into Black Beach!’
For a moment, Jaeger tensed himself for battle, then Boerke burst into laughter. ‘Calm down, man, calm down! We South Africans have a bloody nasty sense of humour. It’s good to see you again, my friend.’
On the drive to Malabo, the island’s capital, Boerke filled Jaeger in on how well the coup had gone. The intelligence that Major Mojo – Jaeger’s former Black Beach jailer – had provided had proven crucial to its success, another reason why Boerke had been keen to deliver on the favour he’d promised.
They reached Malabo’s Santa Isabel harbour and headed along the waterfront, pulling up in front of a grand colonial-era building overlooking the water. During his three years on the island, Jaeger had done his best to keep a low profile, and he’d rarely had cause to visit the government offices.
Boerke led him to the vaults, wherein successive regimes had stowed away the nation’s most sensitive documents – not that there were many to be had in a place like Equatorial Guinea. Boerke got the doors to the vault firmly closed and bolted, with his bodyguards standing watch outside. Just he and Jaeger remained in the cool, dark, musty interior.
Boerke pulled a faded cardboard file off a nearby shelf. It was stuffed full of a thick wad of documents. He placed it on the table before them.
‘This,’ he tapped the file, ‘trust me, man, it was worth flying halfway around the world for.’
He waved one hand at the shelves that lined the room. ‘Not much of this is even worth keeping: Equatorial Guinea hardly has a wealth of state secrets. But it seems the island did play a role during the war… and towards the end, let me tell you, it was something close to mind-blowing.’
Boerke paused. ‘Okay, some history, most of which I presume you know, but without which the contents of this file will not make a great deal of sense. Back then Bioko was a Spanish colony called Fernando Po. Spain was, in theory, neutral during the war, and so was Fernando Po. In practice, the Spanish government was basically fascist and an ally of the Nazis.
‘The harbour here dominates the Gulf of Guinea,’ Boerke continued. ‘Control of this stretch of ocean was key to winning the war in North Africa, ’cause all the resupply convoys came via this route. German U-boats prowled these waters, and they came very close to shutting down Allied shipping. Santa Isabel harbour – it was their secret U-boat rearming and refuelling centre, one sanctioned by the island’s Spanish governor, who hated the British.
‘In early March 1945, things really started to get interesting.’ Boerke’s eyes glistened. ‘An Italian cargo ship, the SS Michelangelo, docked at the harbour, and duly attracted the attention of the British spies based here. There were three, stationed at the British consulate under cover of being diplomats. Each was a serving agent with the Special Operations Executive.’
He glanced at Jaeger. ‘I take it you know of the SOE? Ian Fleming is said to have based his James Bond character on a real-life SOE agent.’
He flipped open the file and pulled out an old black-and-white photograph. It showed a large steamship, one massive funnel set vertically amidships. ‘That’s the Michelangelo. But notice – she’s painted in the colours of Compania Naviera Levantina, a Spanish shipping company.
‘Compania Naviera Levantina was set up by one Martin Bormann,’ Boerke continued, ‘a man better known as Hitler’s banker. It had one purpose only – to ship the Nazis’ loot to the four corners of the earth, under the flag of a neutral country, Spain. Bormann vanished at the end of the war. Utterly. He was never found.
‘Bormann’s key role was to oversee the plunder of Europe. The Nazis carted back to Germany all the gold, cash and artwork they could rob and steal. By the end of the war, Hitler had become the wealthiest man in all of Europe – possibly even the world. And he had amassed the greatest art collection ever known.
‘Bormann’s job was to ensure that all that wealth didn’t die with the Reich.’ Boerke slapped a hand on the file. ‘And apparently, Fernando Po became the transit point for much of the Nazis’ loot. Between January and March 1945, five further shipments came through Santa Isabel harbour, each stuffed full of booty. It was transferred on to U-boats for onwards transportation, and there the trail seems to go cold.
‘That trail was documented by the SOE agents in great detail,’ Boerke continued. ‘But you know the weirdest thing: the Allies seem to have done nothing to stop the Nazis. Publicly, they made out they were about to raid those ships. Privately, they did zero to stop them.