‘The SOE agents – they were low on the feeding chain. They couldn’t understand why those shipments were never stopped. And it didn’t seem to make a great deal of sense to me, either – not until you get to the last few pages of the file. It’s then that we come to the Duchessa.’
Boerke produced another photo from the file. ‘There she is – the Duchessa. But notice the difference between her and the previous vessels. She’s decked out in Compania Naviera Levantina colours again, but she’s actually a cargo liner. She’s designed to carry people as well as goods. Why send a passenger liner if your cargo consists mostly of priceless artwork and gold looted from across Europe?’
Boerke eyed Jaeger. ‘I tell you why: because mostly she was carrying passengers.’ He flipped a sheet of paper across the table. ‘The seventh page of the Duchessa’s shipping manifest. It contains a list of two dozen passengers, but each is identified only by a series of numbers. No names. Which is not enough to have made you fly all the way out to Bioko for, eh, my friend?
‘Luckily, your SOE agents were very resourceful.’ He pulled out a final photo and slipped it across to Jaeger. ‘I don’t know how familiar you are with the top-flight Nazis from the spring of 1945. This was taken on a long lens, presumably from the window of the British consulate, which overlooks the harbour.
‘Don’t you just love those uniforms?’ Boerke demanded sarcastically. ‘The long leather coats? The thigh-length leather boots? The death’s heads?’ He ran his hand through his thick beard. ‘Trouble is, dressed like that, they all look the bloody same. But these guys – they’re top-tier Nazis for sure. Got to be. And if you can crack whatever code the names are listed in, that will prove it.’
‘So where the hell did they go from here?’ Jaeger asked incredulously.
In answer, Boerke flipped the photos over. ‘It’s date-stamped on the reverse: the ninth of May 1945 – two days after the Nazis signed their unconditional surrender with the Allies. But that’s when the trail goes cold. Or maybe that’s also detailed somewhere in the code. Man, I spent a month of Sundays studying this file. By the time I’d realised what it was – piecing together all it meant – it had scared the living daylights out of me.’
He shook his head. ‘If it’s all true – and no way is a file sat in this vault a fake – it rewrites everything we ever thought we knew. The entirety of post-war history. It is literally mind-blowing. I have been trying not to think about it. You know why? Because it scares the shit out of me. People like that don’t tend to go quietly and start farming.’
Jaeger stared at the photo for a long second. ‘But if it is an SOE file, how come it ended up in the hands of the Spanish governor of Fernando Po?’
Boerke laughed. ‘Now that’s the funny part. The governor figured out the so-called British diplomats were actually spies. So he decided – what the hell? He staged a break-in at the consulate and stole all their files. Not exactly cricket, but putting spies on his island posing as diplomats wasn’t exactly cricket either.
‘You know that old saying: beware of what you wish for?’ Boerke pushed the entire file across to Jaeger.
‘My friend – you asked for it. It’s all yours.’
87
Boerke wasn’t one for overdramatising things.
The file from the Bioko Government House archive was as shocking as it was revelatory. And as Jaeger packed it into his carry-on flight luggage, he was reminded of a phrase that Narov had used recently: ‘poisoned chalice’.
The bag with the file in it seemed to weigh so heavily in his hands. It was another clue to the puzzle, and doubtless one the Dark Force would kill for.
Jaeger rejoined Boerke with his luggage. The South African had offered him a tour of the island before he was scheduled to catch a return flight to London. He’d promised further extraordinary revelations, not that Jaeger could imagine what would possibly top the Government House file.
They drove east out of Malabo, heading into the thick tropical bush. By the time Boerke had turned on to the tiny dirt track threading towards the coast, Jaeger knew where they were going. They were making for Fernao, the place where he had spent three long years teaching English to the children of a fishing village.
Jaeger was trying desperately to think what he would say to the village chief, whose son, Little Mo, had died during the battle on the beach. It was less than two months back, but to Jaeger it felt like a whole lifetime and a world away.
Boerke must have noticed the worry etched on his features. He laughed. ‘Jaeger, man, I tell you – you look more scared now than when I ordered my guys to throw you into Black Beach. Relax. Next big surprise coming up.’
As they rounded the final bend in the road, Jaeger was surprised to see some kind of a reception party up ahead.
They drew closer, and it seemed as if most of the village had turned out… but for what? To welcome him? After what had happened, he really did not deserve that.
Jaeger noticed a home-made banner had been strung from one palm tree to another, stretching across the dirt road.
It read: WELCOME HOME WILLIAM JAEGER.
As Boerke pulled to a halt and Jaeger’s former pupils mobbed the vehicle, he could feel a lump forming in his throat. Boerke and his guards left him to it, as little hands dragged him out and propelled him towards the chief’s house. Jaeger steeled himself for what he knew was going to be a bittersweet reunion.
He stepped inside. After the harsh sunlight, the dark interior momentarily blinded him. The familiar sound of the surf from the nearby beach echoed through the thin mud walls of the hut. A hand was thrust forward in greeting, but the chief’s welcome turned rapidly into a powerful bear hug.
‘William Jaeger… William Jaeger, welcome. Fernao village – it will always be your home.’
The chief seemed close to tears. Jaeger fought back the emotion.
‘Insh’Allah, you have travelled well?’ the chief asked. ‘After your escape, we did not know if you had made it across the waters – you and your friend.’
‘Insh’Allah,’ Jaeger replied. ‘Raff and I – we made it through that and many more adventures.’
The chief smiled. He gestured into a dark corner of the hut. ‘Come,’ he commanded. ‘We have kept Mr Jaeger waiting long enough.’
A figure leapt out of the shadows, throwing himself into Jaeger’s arms. ‘Sir! Sir! Welcome back! Welcome home! And look!’ The small boy gestured at the sunglasses perched on his forehead. ‘I still have these! Your sunglasses! Your Oakleys!’
Jaeger laughed. He could barely believe it. Little Mo still had a thick bandage wrapped around his head, but he was very much alive!
Jaeger hugged him close, savouring the sweet miracle of the boy’s survival. But at the same moment he felt the pang of an irreplaceable loss deep inside his heart. His own son would be around Little Mo’s age now. That was if he was still alive…
With perfect timing, Boerke joined them, and the chief proceeded to relate the story of Little Mo’s miraculous survival.
‘We have God – and you, Mr Jaeger – to thank for this… this miracle. Plus Mr Boerke, of course. The bullet fired on the night of your escape hit my son a glancing blow. He was left for dead and we feared he would indeed die. And of course, there was no money to send him to the kind of hospital where they might save him.
‘Then came the coup, and this man turned up,’ the chief gestured at Boerke, ‘with a piece of paper and some numbers. And that gave access to a bank account, in which you had left… money. With that money and Mr Boerke’s help, I sent Little Mo to the best hospital in all of Africa, in Cape Town, and there they were able to save him.