SECRET
List of Money, Gold, Bullion, Found in Salt-Mine Cave,
Merkers (H-6850) Germany, 8 April 1945
Gold Reichsmarks, bags 446
Austrian crowns, bags 271
Turkish pounds, bags 73
Dutch gold, bags 514
Italian gold, bags 62
Austrian coins (miscellaneous), bags 3 (nos. 2, 15, 96)
British coins (miscellaneous), bags 3 (nos. 12, 17, 15)
Gold bars, bullion 8198
American 20 gold pieces, bags 711 (25,000 dollars per bag)
Miscellaneous coins, bags 37
Gold francs, bags 80 (10,000 francs per bag)
Miscellaneous money and coin, bag no. 1 C
Italian gold coins, bags 5 (20,000 per bag)
British gold pounds, bags 280
Foreign notes, miscellaneous, bags 80
Reichsmarks
1000 Mark notes, bags 130 650,000,000 Marks
100 Mark notes, bags 1650 1,650,000,000 Marks
50 Mark notes, bags 600 300,000 Marks
20 Mark notes, bags 500 100,000 Marks
5 Mark notes, boxes 800 60,000 Marks
2,300,460,000 Marks
Gold bar, 1
Silver bars, 20
Silver plate, boxes 63 and bags 55
Gold, 138 pieces in bags 49
Gold, miscellaneous pieces, bag 1
Gold, French francs, bags 635
Swiss gold, bags 55
Crated gold bullion, boxes 53
Crated gold bullion, long boxes 2
Valuable coins, bags 9
Coins (not marked), bags 5
Turkish gold coins, bag 1
Mixed gold coins, bag 1
American dollars, bag 1 (12,470 dollars)
Austrian gold (marked GA ‘V’), bags 13
Miscellaneous gold of various countries, bags 6
Danish gold coins, bags 32
Platinum bars, bag 1 containing 6 bars
Roubles, bags 4
Silver bars, bags 40
Gold bullion, bags 11
British pounds, bag 1
Documents (metal boxes marked FHQu) 82
The two BBC officials studied the documents and looked at the map. Soon they exchanged significant glances and one of them asked, ‘You’d not want the full list of gold and valuables made public, Sir Sydney?’
The DG gave one of his cheerless smiles. ‘I wouldn’t like to define exactly our priorities.’
This evasive reply was enough to convince them that the Russians had been deprived of their rightful share of the treasure from a mine which became part of the Russian zone. Now, believing that they understood the full implications of Sir Sydney’s mission, they were fully ready to help. The producer of the documentary would be informed that there was litigation threatened by an unspecified complainant. Photocopies of all relevant material made ostensibly for the legal department would actually be sent to Sir Sydney Ryden’s home address within twenty-four hours.
The DG expressed his gratitude and was pleased he had not had to mention his visit to the DPP’s office. It was always better to handle these things at the very top, where the people concerned knew where their duty lay.
By eleven A.M. the following day, Sir Sydney had personally read all the material the BBC delivered to his office.
‘Just a lot of bilge,’ said Sir Sydney. Fatigue muted the relief and delight he might otherwise have shown. ‘A boring little script about the US army finding the bullion in the mine; the documents and archives are scarcely mentioned. Interviews with some high-ranking officers who were nowhere near the mine, and some US army signal corps photographs of the sacks of gold.’ He looked up at Boyd Stuart. ‘I had a sleepless night for nothing, Stuart.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stuart. ‘In fact, the research office is collecting all references to the Merkers mine – worldwide in all languages.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that we have this damned TV programme material already on record?’
‘Not quite all of it, sir. Research picked it up from their routine scrutiny of police permission for filming. The BBC wants to send a camera crew to get footage of the Foreign Office exterior and interior, for the beginning of their documentary. We asked the FO to request a copy of the treatment before giving permission. They would have got a copy of the script too, as soon as it was completed. That was to be a condition of giving the BBC the permits.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Sir Sydney philosophically. ‘I suppose it’s better that we catch it twice, and find it harmless, than miss it altogether and have a disaster on our hands.’
‘Precisely, sir. Perhaps you underestimate the organization you have yourself created.’
‘Don’t butter me up, Stuart. I can’t abide it.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘How is the interrogation of young Stein going?’
‘He doesn’t seem to know very much, sir. His father probably doesn’t confide in him a great deal.’
The DG nodded. Such paternal secretiveness came as no surprise. He hadn’t discovered the names of his father’s clubs until the old man was almost on his deathbed. What man did confide in his son, he wondered. ‘Nothing at all, eh?’
‘Inference, sir. I think we can rule out this house in which Colonel Pitman lives. Stein says his father told him he’d moved the documents out of there some time ago, and I believe that. Stein senior has a protective attitude towards Colonel Pitman. I think he’d remove such documents simply to make it safer for the colonel.’
‘It sounds extraordinary to me,’ admitted the DG, who could not imagine any of the young men in his department adopting such a protective attitude towards him.
‘I believe it, sir,’ said Stuart. ‘Wherever the documents are, I think that the Pitman house can be eliminated.’
He looked Stuart up and down. ‘Has something happened?’
‘We have a positive identification on the photo, Director.’
‘Start at the beginning,’ said the DG. He sat down on the sofa, stifling a sigh, to convey to Stuart the complexities of his job.
‘The photograph of three men that was found in the safe belonging to Franz Wever,’ said Stuart. ‘It was taken in wartime. One of the men was Franz Wever himself, the second man was Max Breslow. Now we have identified the third person in the photo.’
‘And …?’
‘His name is Wilhelm Hans Kleiber. He made quite a name for himself during the war. We have references to him from the Berlin documents centre. He’s also on RFSS microfilm series T-175 in the Washington National Archives, and we found him in the Hoover Institution document collection at Stanford University. He was born in a village near Königsberg, East Prussia. Kleiber joined the army in 1938, became an Abwehr officer and then the SS took him into the RSHA as they took over all the intelligence services. He was taken into the Gehlen organization when it got going again after the war.’
‘A dedicated fellow,’ said the DG bitterly, but there was a trace of respect in the irony.
‘A cynic perhaps,’ said Stuart. ‘A mercenary.’
‘Consistently anti-Communist, isn’t he?’ said the DG. Before Stuart could answer, he asked, ‘Still alive then?’
‘Very much alive,’ said Stuart. ‘Resident in Munich, at least that seems to be where he pays his tax. He is the senior partner of a security company. They own a small fleet of armoured cars used to transport bullion and bank notes … for bank and factory payrolls.’
‘What else?’ It was impossible to guess how much the DG really knew.
‘That’s all we have officially, sir.’
The DG smiled. ‘And unofficially, Stuart? Am I to be taken into your confidence about what you’ve learnt unofficially?’ The DG was able to imbue even the friendliest words with a tone of biting sarcasm.
‘He might be a Moscow Centre operative,’ said Stuart.
‘And who has provided us with this alarming scenario?’
‘The
collator, sir.’
The DG was taken aback. He had been expecting Stuart to name some junior clerk in the Identity Department, or some long-retired field agent to whom Stuart had indiscreetly mentioned his quest. ‘So the collator says he’s Moscow Centre,’ said the DG thoughtfully. He pulled his nose. ‘Not such an anti-Communist as I thought, eh Stuart?’
‘If there is some sort of war-crimes guilt hanging over Kleiber’s head, the Russians might have used it to blackmail him into working for them.’
‘You read my mind, Stuart. We’ve seen that one before, haven’t we?’
‘We have indeed, sir. Many times.’
‘It’s a tricky one,’ admitted the DG.
‘We are still “red-flagged”,’ said Stuart. ‘No computer read-outs, no police files, no foreigns.’
‘Are you complaining, Stuart?’ He said it mildly.
‘Such a decision was obviously necessary, sir. But we are being overtaken by events. Unless we have a chance to use the normal channels and procedures, there is a danger that these people will do what they plan to before we have a chance to frustrate them.’
‘You put your case most judiciously,’ said the DG, but he gave no sign that he was swayed by it.
‘Shouldn’t we tell Washington about Kleiber, sir? They could help us such a lot on the German end.’
‘How would you go about it?’
‘A request for information exchange. Give them details of the King’s Cross murders, the explosion at Wever’s farmhouse and the photo of Kleiber. Ask them if they can link any of it with Max Breslow and so on.’
‘Very well, Stuart. Assemble a telex and let me have a look at it after lunch. I don’t like the idea of Moscow Centre getting involved.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that at all, Stuart. Think what the Kremlin could do with the Hitler Minutes if the stuff was turned over to their propaganda machine.’
‘Exactly, sir.’
Boyd Stuart’s meeting with his opposite number in the CIA’s London station was unofficial.
‘And the old man agreed?’ said the CIA man.
Stuart swallowed some gin and tonic before answering. ‘He’ll make it official this afternoon.’
‘You told him what we think about Kleiber?’
‘I said our own collator thought Kleiber was a Moscow Centre agent,’ said Stuart.
‘Suppose he checks?’
‘That’s OK. I talked with the collator. The collator will hum and haw and say maybe. You know what Leslie is like. He’s been there too long to make the mistake of giving anyone a definite opinion.’
The CIA man laughed. ‘Especially when that opinion might explode in his face and dribble all down his Eton tie.’
‘Harrow,’ said Stuart. ‘Leslie went to Harrow, and his tie is Guards Armoured Division.’
The CIA man punched Stuart playfully. ‘You’re a goddamned kidder, Boyd.’
‘It’s true,’ said Stuart. ‘I’m simply stating facts.’
‘And I like the way you tell ’em,’ said the CIA man. He waved a hand and ordered more drinks from the barman. They were in the Salisbury, an old pub in St Martin’s Lane, glittering with cut-glass mirrors, shiny brass fittings and shiny brass show-biz people, getting into the swing of the midweek matinee performances which they would soon take on stage at the nearby theatres. A lady with pink hair and stage make-up blundered backwards into Stuart and spilt his drink. ‘Don’t worry about it, dear,’ she said, ‘no harm done.’
Stuart patted the whisky drops from his sleeve.
‘Even my station chief couldn’t beat that one,’ said the CIA man admiringly. ‘She blunders into you, and tells you there’s no need to apologize.’
Stuart moved backwards into a corner and took his companion with him. ‘What I need to know,’ Stuart said, ‘is whether Max Breslow is part of the Moscow Centre network. And I need to know fast.’
‘I’ve promised you the print-out,’ said the CIA man. ‘And you’ll have it as soon as it comes off the terminal. But I’ll have to retype it. I can’t risk the original going outside the building.’ There was a cheer from the other side of the bar as one of the regulars arrived, a pretty blonde girl in a white trouser suit. ‘For you alone, Boyd. That’s the deal, remember? No one you work with is to be told where this information is coming from.’
‘Was that the deal?’ said Stuart, as though trying to remember.
‘OK, Boyd, I apologize. We both got to live with our own people. I know you’re OK. You’re going to need the follow-throughs. I’ll be in Washington on Friday but I’ll check with you at home late Sunday night. Don’t try to reach me at the office, just in case.’
‘Kleiber’s security company,’ said Stuart. ‘Fill me in on that.’
‘You’re trying to measure him up for the killings, are you? No problem there, pal. He’s a rough ass-hole. That organization of his takes on some tough jobs: debt collection from clubs, bars and brothels where I wouldn’t go unless I was inside a Tiger tank. Credit investigation, anti-terrorist stuff and anti-mob assignments. The decapitation is something he’d be able to handle, Boyd. He’s got to be a number-one suspect as far as we’re concerned. Did I tell you that we’ve got a similar decapitation killing in Los Angeles?’
‘You told me.’
‘You think it connects up?’
Stuart looked at the CIA man, wondering how much he knew and how much he might have guessed. ‘Could be,’ he said finally. What the CIA man did not reveal to Stuart was that the preliminary scan was already done, and that it showed Kleiber was a one-time employee of the CIA.
Chapter 30
‘If any of you people want Cokes or Seven-ups, get them now,’ said the project chairman. ‘We don’t want a lot of getting up and walking around, the way it was last week. OK?’ He looked over his spectacles, which he wore well down on his nose. He was a red-faced man with a shirt pocket full of pens. He had once worked the White House assignment and liked to mention it whenever the opportunity came; now he worked for the Domestic Operations Division of the CIA. This was one of the most demanding assignments in the entire agency, handling as it did covert operations in mainland USA where it so often came into acrimonious conflict with the FBI.
There was the sudden hiss of an opened drink, and in response to a raised eyebrow a cold can was sent sliding down the polished table to a graceful catch at the far end. It was a hot day. Even through the tinted glass the landscape of Virginia shone with a fierce glare. The air-conditioning made the temperature almost chilly but the CIA men were all in short-sleeved white shirts with unbuttoned collars.
‘The deputy director (DOD) has instructed us to open a new file on this one. You’ve got the agenda on the table in front of you. The Brits finally came through with something useful. It’s a “hottie” and I think it will take us right inside the Soviet embassy for a few PNGs.’ The project chairman picked up the pink data card, tilted his head well back and looked at it carefully through his spectacles. No one spoke. ‘OK, Sam. Why don’t you give us the linkage, the way it is so far?’ He looked at the electric calendar clock: it was 10.48 A.M., Friday, 27 July 1979.
Sam Seymour was a small, grey-haired man with rimless spectacles and a stubble moustache. His voice was low and soft, better suited to telling the long shaggydog jokes for which he was famous than to addressing this group of men who all had pressing business waiting in the locked boxes on their desks. Seymour was the ‘file editor’; his job was to assemble the facts and figures and evaluate them for the men who made the decisions. ‘OK, guys.’ He tapped the edges of his papers on the polished conference table and waited until they were all looking at him. ‘You’ve got to remember that in the early part of this current year we did not – repeat did not – have any evidence that Yuriy Grechko was anything but an assistant military attaché assigned to the Washington embassy.’
‘We figured him for KGB,’ interrupted the project chairman. As he leant back, his head almost
touched the Currier and Ives lithograph of a trotting race: pneumatic-looking horses with spindly legs racing past cheering top-hatted spectators. There was other such nineteenth-century popular art on the floors below, but up here, on the executive floor of the CIA building, the lithographs were originals. ‘We figured him for KGB the day he got off the plane,’ said the project chairman. He turned his head so that he could see the clerk who would be using the tape recording to prepare the minutes of the meeting. The clerk nodded: he would make sure that it was established that Grechko had been identified as a member of the KGB. The project chairman nodded to Sam Seymour to continue.
‘Our big break came in April when Grechko lunched a man we’d never seen before. This man is named Parker, and we triple-digited him into the police computer and passed his name to the FBI Identification Department. Then in June Grechko has got a walk-on part at the USSR embassy in Mexico City. Starring that day we’ve got none other than General Shumuk – the famous, fabulous, and we were beginning to think mythical, General Stanislav Shumuk – the First Directorate’s Operational Division deputy. And if that isn’t already a protein-enriched diet, who comes to the embassy and stays approximately the same time as the other two? None other than our mysterious pal, Edward Parker of Chicago.’
‘And the Los Angeles killing?’ prompted the project chairman, who liked to have the events in strict chronological order.
‘Meanwhile, back at the ranch,’ said Sam Seymour, ‘we’ve had a guy butchered in Los Angeles, and the LA cops are asking Chicago about Parker’s car and what it was doing parked near the victim’s office at the time of the murder.’
‘Hold it, Sam,’ said Melvin Kalkhoven, a tall, thin thirty-five-year-old. He was prematurely balding, and his straw-coloured hair and pale bony face made his dark, active eyes seem unnaturally large. ‘We’ve had a guy butchered, you say. You mean this was one of our people?’ Melvin Kalkhoven was a field agent, and he took the deaths of his colleagues very personally. In such moments of stress as this, it was possible to detect his Texan accent.