The Lucy Ghosts Read online

  'VT’s ?'

  'SS Special purpose troops. Waffen SS–Verfugungstruppe. The best. They were the guys who were really mean.'

  'What were we using them for?'

  'I don't know. Trained men, I guess. Ready for the OSS to plant in Europe. I don't know if it means anything. Except it's all we got out of the computer.' He stood back and smiled at her. 'See you, Billie Knutsford.'

  'Bye, Phil.' She watched him walk towards the terminal.

  Then she shifted into gear and drove out of the parking lot.

  This was her big chance. Her crack at the major league.

  Ch. 8

  The Croisette

  Cannes

  Cote d'Azur

  South of France.

  The Carlton Hotel is the Queen all the great hotels that span the Croisette in Cannes. It is where everyone who is anyone must be seen, where the rich and famous can be rich and famous and not be embarrassed by their excesses. Nobody asks if the jewels are real, it doesn't matter at the Carlton. To be there, to be seen, is all that matters.

  The building, set back in its majesty and overlooking the blue azure of the Mediterranean, even this late in December, is crowned at each corner with two cupolas shaped like enormous, skyward pointing breasts, nipple perfect in their form. For that is what they are. Designed by an amorous architect to represent La Belle Otero, the most beautiful and most famous of French courtesans at the turn of the century. The left cupola is slightly larger than the right one, a further tribute to the architect's search for detail and historical accuracy.

  It was the witching hour before lunch, the time when the experienced Canne'ite stroll out to the beach from their hotels, knowing the morning beach restaurant tables will be vacated by the families who have tired of their early morning sojourn and are heading for the shops and amusements that will keep their children occupied. It’s the time that the whores, and there is a plentiful supply of them in Cannes all year round, from housewives and students paying for their holidays to hardened Parisienne professionals on the look-out for Christmas money, emerge to pick up the early trade, to prepare themselves for their daily diet of wine, dirty intentioned glances and sex with strangers whom they love for a few brief moments. There are the hustlers, the pimps, the fancy boys, the workers, the retired, the taxi drivers, the beach workers, the restaurant waiters, the hopeful, all filling the streets, all swelling the crowd that made the Croisette one of the busiest and most interesting thoroughfares in Europe.

  And then there were the watchers, the army of ordinary people who wanted to touch fame by seeing it pass by, as if viewing this extraordinary procession of life somehow made them a part of it. The crowds were building, the mass saturating the Croisette.

  Heinrich Trimmler came out into this thronging world from the comparative sanity of the Carlton Hotel. An American by naturalisation, a German by birth, the sixty six year old, large framed Trimmler spent each Christmas period in Cannes, a month's holiday away from the 'cultural wasteland', as he described it, of America. He had lived in California for over forty years, yet his instincts were still European, the American lifestyle never blunting his attitudes. His wife Trudi, only a few months younger, walked beside him, an elegant blonde woman. He pointed across the bay, to where an American aircraft carrier had berthed overnight.

  'Looks like the fleet's in town,' he said, his accent American, yet still heavy with Germanic traces.

  'I hope they behave themselves,' Trudi replied.

  ‘Ya, I’m sure they will' he smirked. He led her onto the thin strip of sandy beach that was the exclusive preserve of the Carlton Hotel and its guests.

  The restaurant area was set back, partly under cover but most of it on the open board-walk that ran along to the long wooden jetty.

  'A beautiful day. The way it should always be,' said the expansive maître d' as he recognised the Trimmlers and came forward to greet them.

  'Very good, very good', purred Trimmler.

  'Your guests have arrived,' the maître d' informed them, holding his arm up to show them the way as he led them to the far table nearest the water. 'Did you visit the Casino last night?'

  ''We did.'

  'A profitable evening, I hope.'

  'Profitable enough,' Trimmler lied. He looked at Trudi and smiled. The baccarat table had, in fact, cheated him of over three thousand dollars the night before. It was not something he was prepared to share with her.

  Their friends, a couple similar in age and appearance, waited for them. They were a West German couple, Marta and Grob Mitzer. He was an industrialist, the main shareholder in one of Europe's largest aerospace suppliers. They had all been friends since the last days of Hitler's War; Trimmler the young brilliant scientist whilst Mitzer had helped organise the work forces at the rocket centres of Peenemünde and Nordhausen. They had escaped to the allies together and had never broken their friendship. They had met every year since 1957 for this Christmas vacation on the Cote d'Azur.

  With them sat a young man, in his early forties, a native of East Germany before reunification. Willi Kushmann was now one of the country's leading corporate lawyers. The three of them were staying at the Martinez, further down the Croisette.

  The two men stood up as the Trimmlers reached their table, Mitzer taking Trudi's hand and kissing it.

  They welcomed each other in German, the maître d' holding out a chair for her. When they had all sat down, the maître d' signalled over a waiter to take their order and left to lead another group to the table.

  'Give us five minutes,' said Mitzer. 'We will do that.' Then, as the waiter started to lift the champagne out of the bucket he snapped, 'Leave us! We will do it!'.

  Kushmann leant over and took the bottle from the waiter who, confused and apologetic, bowed and walked away.

  'Bloody French poodles,' Mitzer swore in German as Kushmann poured two extra glasses of champagne. When he had finished, he put the bottle back in the bucket and sat down.

  'Where's Gloria?' he asked.

  'Probably still in bed,' replied Trudi. Gloria was their nineteen year old daughter, an unexpected mistake that had been added to their three other children.

  'To the future,' said Trimmler, raising his glass, changing the subject from his daughter who had not returned to her hotel room until five in the morning. God knows what she got up to.

  'To the new future,' added Kushmann.

  The five of them held their drinks aloft and shared their toast.

  'Did you see the latest pictures of the Reichstag in Berlin? Did you see how it's looking on the inside? They're recreating it like it was before the Fire in 1933.'

  'Which pictures?' asked Gloria.

  'In Frankfurt Allegmaine. This morning's edition. And they're going to rebuild the dome as it was.'

  'Which dome?' Marta asked as she sipped her champagne.

  'Don't you girls know anything?' Mitzer joked. 'The one on top of the Reichstag. It was destroyed in the fire by the Communists. When Hitler had it rebuilt, he left off the dome. Big bloody thing. Almost covered the whole roof.'

  'Anyway, they're going to rebuild it as it was in 1933,' said Kushmann.

  'But they're already using it. For government,' interrupted Gloria.

  'No problem. They'll build it round them. That's how they do it these days. But what a great centre for the government, eh? I tell you, Germany is becoming great once again. And to have such a grand building as its Parliament.....,' he held up his glass. ' .....to the new Reichstag and to our new Germany. It's been a long time waiting, but our time is finally near.'

  They all toasted with Kushmann, the tinkle of their glasses sharp in its resonance across the wooden board-walk.

  'And to the Heidi. For what it has become.' said Mitzer. The Heidi was a large expanse of land that Mitzer had started to develop in Dresden.

  'A symbol to our future,' replied Kushmann. 'It is exhilarating to see so many members of the Stasi coming forward to join us there.' They were all Germans; there was n
o need to explain that the Stasi was the name commonly used to describe the previous German Democratic Republic's Ministry of State Security. 'Lost souls. Made to feel guilty about what they were trained to do.' He held up his glass. 'To them, and to other lost souls in Germany.'

  'And one more toast,' jumped in Mitzer, when they had drunk. 'To one Germany and the end of the bad jokes about the GDR.'

  They all laughed and joined in with him, once more clashing their glasses.

  'But I have to tell you one. Just one,' Mitzer went on, ignoring the howl of good humoured protests that engulfed him. 'How do you double the value of a Travant motor car?'

  'How? ' shouted Kushmann.

  'I've already heard this,' said Marta, winking at Trudi.'

  'Tell us how,' squealed Trudi.

  'By filling the tank full of petrol,' finished Mitzer.

  They all joined in the laughter, except for Trimmler, who brought his glass down sharply on the table, the loud dull sound surprising the others.

  'You didn't like my small joke, Heinrich?' asked a smiling Mitzer.

  'When is it to happen?' asked Trimmler 'When?'.

  Kushmann leant forward confidentially. 'Be patient. Soon.'

  Further along the thin strip of beach, eastwards towards the Martinez Hotel, an ebony black Senegalese peddler shuffled through the sand. As he walked towards the Carlton jetty, he saw the two men he was interested in still swimming at the end of the pier.

  The Senegalese work the beaches with their wares, straw and leather hats, cheap sunglasses, wraps, thongs, leatherware. It is tourist trade that produces a living for these once proud warriors. Although a nuisance for most visitors, the peddlers, in their brightly coloured native dress, are part of the culture that is Cannes beach.

  But that is in the high season. Most of them return to their homes in Africa during the winter months.

  The peddler who worked his way along the beach in December was out of place, a lone black figure bedecked with his wares in an empty salesroom. His dress was also unusual, instead of the usual robe, he wore a green combat jacket over black jeans. The sunglasses he wore were as black as his skin, pock marked and scaly in its texture. His head was covered by a tartan beret. A man easily noticed. As he progressed towards the Carlton, he passed two young women sitting on a shared deckchair near the water's edge.

  One of the women, a plump blonde, called to him, waved him over.

  He paused, reluctant in his attitude, then crossed over to them.

  'Show us what you've got,' the woman said in French.

  He smiled, then took a six inch high rubber toy gorilla out of his pocket and held it towards the women.

  They giggled, not knowing what to expect.

  He grinned and squeezed the gaudy toy. A long rubber penis, bright red in colour with a black topped head, popped out of the gorilla. The toy's erection pointed straight at the women, who burst into surprised and embarrassed laughter. The peddler's grin grew bigger.

  'That's not very big,' the second woman, a petite brunette, teased him. 'I'm used to bigger.'

  He pushed the gorilla down and pressed the erection against her left breast. She jumped backwards and fell off the deckchair. Before the other woman could react, he rubbed the plastic gorilla on the inside of her leg, then stroked her thigh with his large coarse hand.

  The girls, made fearful by his blatant sexuality, jumped up, collected their belongings and ran towards the Croisette.

  He taunted them as they ran. 'I've something bigger if you want. Big big,' he shouted.

  Then he turned back to his task, to watch the German group, at the last table before the jetty. He could hear them laughing, enjoying their champagne.

  With some hundred metres to go, he pulled the thin steel tube, some seven inches long and no thicker than a finger, from the bag he carried round his waist. He connected the firing pin which would ignite a small charge, inserted a glass ampoule in the mouth of the tube, then wrapped the assembly into a copy of yesterday's 'Nice Matin'. To an onlooker, the Stashinsky gun was only a crumpled and harmless newspaper.

  He slowed as he approached them; it was not in his interest to arrive too early. He walked towards the beach restaurant, under the sign over the jetty that read 'Carlton Hotel InterContinental'.

  The peddler was now only a few metres from the Germans, their laughter accompanied by the soft music that drifted out from the shelter of the inner restaurant. Above the restaurant, on the wide boulevard Croisette, the crowds mingled and watched in the December sun.

  Very few people bothered about the small group at the end of the jetty.

  The Senegalese, after a quick look to ensure that he was not about to be discovered, pulled the newspaper from under his arm and moved rapidly towards them.

  The laughter had stopped, frozen suddenly in the realisation by the group that danger was upon them.

  Gloria screamed as she saw the peddler rushing towards them, a metal tube held out from under his newspaper, pointing directly at her.

  'He's got a gun!' shouted Mitzer, trying to get to his feet.

  The peddler turned to Kushmann and held the Stashinksky tube towards him. He pulled the trigger, released the deadly vapour from the prussic acid capsule.

  Peddler

  The peddler swung round and was surprised to see a young gendarme advancing towards him from the restaurant. Realizing he was trapped, he reached under his tunic and brought out a sawn-off shot gun. The gendarme, realizing the danger, fumbled with the clip on his holster in his panic, tugged frantically at his gun which refused to come out of its leather pouch.

  The German group scattered, Trudi Trimmler screaming, as the black peddler bore down on them in his panic, the shotgun aimed directly at her.

  The crowds on the Croisette, the other occupants of the restaurant, attracted by the screams, craned to watch the drama that was exploding in front of them.

  The peddler suddenly turned to Trimmler and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The safety catch was still on and he clawed at it with his thumb, attempting to release it.

  At that moment, the gendarme, his gun finally free, fired. He missed, but deflected the assassin from his target. The peddler turned and ran towards the gendarme. But it was an old shotgun, not maintained as well as it should have been, the sand trapped under the safety catch. The peddler frantically pulled at the trigger as he ran.

  The second shot from the gendarme's pistol, more by accident than design, caught the Senegalese in his left eye and killed him instantly. The spasm of death jerked the black man's thumb and its force kicked the safety catch free. The same spasm tightened his finger and triggered off the shotgun. As he fell, the full blast of the released twelve bore cartridge shattered Willi Kushmann's chest and sent him spinning backwards across the wooden floor and onto the sand.

  What no-one realised was that the young lawyer was dead before the pellets tore into him, the deadly cyanide already having done its work.

  Ch. 9

  Church of the Resurrection in Kadashakh

  Zamoskvorechie

  Moscow.

  Alexei Rostov was a devoutly religious man who also happened to be the Director of the KGB.

  To him there was no conflict in this situation. He did what was right by his Christian God, but never allowed himself to forget that he was a Russian who had been blessed with certain responsibilities. Since the early days of perestroika and glasnost, the spread of religion had, at first, been tolerated, then encouraged. Political leaders soon understood that religion was a source of comfort to many, and at a time of dramatic social change they needed all the help they could get.

  Rostov had always believed in a divine power beyond man himself. As a member of the Communist Party in his youth, he appreciated that the Party was created by man in man's image. If you believed in God, as he had been secretly brought up to by his parents, then God was bigger than the Communist Party. With that belief, Rostov had worked his way up through the Party and KGB ranks to the
very top. Apart from a three-year sojourn as a military attache in Washington, where he both enjoyed the freedom to worship every day in a church and controlled one of the most efficient letterbox networks in the United States, he spent his entire career in Moscow where his exceptional organisational abilities were quickly recognised. Moving up the promotion ladder was easier than he thought. He was never frightened of tackling the toughest assignments, of resolving the most complicated tasks, however distasteful they appeared. He saw no hypocrisy in his actions, had no desire to become a martyr. Time, and God, would resolve the situation.

  It actually turned out to be a politician named Mikhail Gorbachev who changed the climate, who made God officially acceptable, though not respectable, in the eyes of the Party. Then the Party too, disappeared, after an unsuccesful August coup in 1991, and Russia set out on the uncertain road to democracy. In a changing climate, the Church and the KGB stood for what Russia had been, and what Russia would become.

  Rostov was quick to embrace his childhood faith and made a point of visiting at least one of the many churches that were opening up in Moscow. He would leave Dzerzhinsky Square at lunchtime and be driven in his official Zil car to his chosen place of worship. . He allowed his Party membership to lapse and attended prayer meetings as Moscow churches started cautiously to open the doors to their congregations. His superiors, both in the KGB and in government, tolerated his actions. He was an exceptional officer and a loyal Russian. They needed him, both for his ability and as a symbol of their new policies. The result was that he was pushed even faster up the promotion ladder until he found himself, at the age of forty six, the Deputy Director of the gigantic organisation that was the KGB, or the TSSA as it was now known, a futile gesture by the government to appease those who hated the power of the KGB. In truth, very little had changed, apart from the name; to those who governed and worked in the department, it was still, and would always be, the KGB.

  Today, after a busy morning dealing with administrative problems that had arisen since they had taken the decision to transfer the decades of typed secret archives to a new computer, he had decided to pray at the Church of the Resurrection in Kadashakh. It was in the area known as Zamoskvorechie, translated as 'area beyond the Moscow River'. The surrounding houses and the four great churches that still stood had been built built by the weavers who dominated the textile trade and made it the production centre for cloth over many centuries.