Barber Treasure Quest of the Third Reich

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9572256-5-7
Verlag: Ecanus Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 245 Seiten

Paul von Hauser, a German naval officer, has stumbled upon information of major importance; so vital to the Nazi regime that he is given free reign from Goring, Himmler and Hitler himself. Ever since the Roman occupation of the Middle East, which resulted in the destruction of the Temple of Solomon, Jews have had to pay in one form or another for their freedom in gold. Von Hauser's top secret mission is to seek those who have made it their life's work to study this subject, to follow the trail that will lead him to Solomon's Temple and the horde of blood gold collected for over 3000 years. This incredible story gives a new insight as to why the Jews have been persecuted and to what lengths. The role the Vatican played; how much violence they instigated and supported in the name of Christianity, and the reason Hitler's plan for ethnic cleansing suceeded so well.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Barber, Malcolm

Leseproben

ONE

On a wet and chilly evening in March 1944, Lieutenant Paul von Hauser’s car pulled over to the curb in Weissensee, a good residential district in the north of Berlin. He let himself in the front door and walked up to his first floor apartment which overlooked the street. A sudden chill ran down his back. Someone had walked over his grave. A premonition? He shook it off, considering it to be the fall in the evening temperature.

He opened the door with his latchkey and clicked the light switch. The light didn’t come on. He cursed silently. The recent bombing must have knocked out some cables. He crossed the room to open the blackout curtains and let in some moonlight, bumping into a chair as he crossed. There was a sudden movement from his right which he sensed rather than heard. A tremendous blow struck the left side of his chest.

“Per Dio,” a voice hissed.

The force of the blow sent the lieutenant crashing against a bookcase. As the back of his head hit the top shelf his hand closed on his pistol. In one movement he drew it, pointed it into the darkness and fired at the darker figure that lunged towards him. In the confines of the room the noise was deafening. Lit by the muzzle flash, he saw the figure fall backwards with a strangled scream.

The lieutenant quickly got to his feet, swept the blackout curtains to one side and went across to the sprawling figure of a man dressed in dark clothing. In the moonlight that poured through the window he could see where his single shot had hit the man in the centre of his chest. An almost imperceptible movement showed that the man was still alive, but only just. The lieutenant, feeling the shock of the attack beginning to affect him, knelt at his side. He put his face close to that of the would-be assassin.

“Who sent you?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

The man tried to speak, but couldn’t. Blood frothed at his lips and his eyes were beginning to glaze over.

“Who sent you?”

“Il cannon…,” came a whispered reply, then his head fell to one side.

The lieutenant sat next to the dead man for a minute while he gathered his thoughts. His chest ached where he’d taken the blow and the back of his head throbbed. There was a jagged tear in the left top pocket of his uniform. He opened the flap and extracted his notebook which was pierced almost completely through. It had saved his life. He looked around and saw a stiletto dagger lying on the floor. It was the classic assassin’s weapon.

He wracked his brain to try to understand what was going on. Why was he an assassin’s target? The only thing he could think of was the information he’d recently received from a prisoner at Ludwigsfelde, but that was just two days ago. He was surprised that his connection to the information had been quickly established, that it had brought such a rapid reaction, and that he was found so easily. He realized that he must have been followed on the day he’d gone to the prison. The assassin’s controllers were certain to have had inside information.

Shaken by the attack, the lieutenant instinctively followed standard security procedures. He found the light bulbs that had been removed from their fittings and replaced them. Before switching on the lights he closed the blackout curtains. He then checked the man’s pockets; they were empty. The telephone number of the security service was in his damaged notebook and he had to carefully prise open the pages with his penknife. He dialled the number and asked to be put through to the senior security officer. There were a few clicks on the line.

“One moment, sir, I’m connecting you to Captain Pobl, the duty officer.”

“Lieutenant von Hauser, sir,” he said as the duty officer come on the line. “I have a code three. The subject is inactive and requires removal.”

“The removal team will be there within half an hour,” the duty officer said. “A medical officer will also attend. Secure the premises. If the police have been alerted and try to intervene, activate your own immunity status. Once the removal team has finished I suggest you leave. It might be wise of you to make it a permanent move. Of course, I don’t know the background to tonight’s action, but there could be another attempt. Goodnight.”

The lieutenant heard footsteps outside his door. There was a light knock. He picked up his pistol from where he’d laid it on the bookcase.

“Is everything alright, Lieutenant Hauser?”

It was his elderly neighbour from the next apartment. He took off his jacket, draped it over the pistol and opened the door.

“I heard a loud noise and thought you might have fallen.”

“My apologies, Frau Brenner. I switched on the radio and the volume was much too high. Thanks for checking. It’s very good of you.”

His neighbour smiled her reply and returned to her own apartment. The lieutenant waited until she’d closed her door then moved quickly to the top of the stairs. He looked into the hallway. All was quiet. Feeling sure that the dead man had been working alone he let down the hammer of his pistol and returned to his apartment. He locked the door and made a strong, sweet coffee to help settle his nerves.

Ten minutes later he heard a sound in the street. He switched off the lights and drew aside the blackout curtain to see an unmarked van had just pulled up below his window. It was the specialist military security unit which took care of such matters when they involved officers with a designated security status. The lieutenant enjoyed that status through his work as a legal investigator. The unit’s authority, bestowed on it by no less a figure than Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer SS, superseded all other government agencies and prevented interference by the local or national police services.

After checking their identification, both by their paperwork and with a telephone call to the duty officer at the security service, the lieutenant let the three men in. Within minutes they had put the body in a rubber bag, cleaned the carpet and sealed the stiletto dagger in a reinforced envelope. Apart from the medical officer confirming that the man was dead and asking the lieutenant if he needed any attention, nothing much was said or needed to be said.

As soon as the removal team had left the lieutenant hurriedly packed a bag and went downstairs. Instead of leaving through the front door he went along the passageway and out of the back door. He crossed the paved backyard and cautiously opened the heavy plank door set into the high wall. The service alley which ran behind the row of houses was quiet. He went to the left, crossed the alley and turned right into a narrower alley between two rows of houses. When he reached the end he turned left into a street identical to the one in which he lived. The whole area was made up of rows of three-storey houses, backing onto each other with service alleys running between them, and had been built towards the end of the last century. Before the last war, the high-quality houses had been the homes of wealthy cotton and wool merchants. Although the houses had lost some of their status with the changing fortunes of the last twenty years, they remained highly desirable residences.

The lieutenant stepped into a deep shadow and waited for a few minutes. When he was sure that he hadn’t been followed he climbed the half-dozen steps leading up to the front door of the second house. Rain had just started. Pausing to listen before turning his key in the lock, he heard what sounded like thunder, but knew it was the distant rumbling, far to the west, of a raid by Lancaster bombers of the Royal Air Force. The American daytime bombing had given way to the night bombing by the British. The pattern had been well-established, and in the next hour the successive waves of bombers would come steadily closer to Berlin. There’d be just enough time for an evening meal before they’d have to go down to the air-raid shelter.

Each evening the lieutenant went to the home of his aunt and uncle for a meal, although usually with far less subterfuge. He knew that from tonight things would be very different he would have to be extremely careful not to put them in any danger.

He looked into the kitchen to greet his aunt and uncle then went upstairs to wash before dinner. The image in the mirror was that of a young man, still in his twenties, with even, clean-cut features. The only blemish was a small scar above his left eye, acquired during a childhood accident. Above medium height, his enthusiasm for fitness gave him a vitality admired by some colleagues and envied by many. He had an assured, military bearing inherited from his father and which had been further honed when serving as a naval cadet during his time at university.

The young Austrian-born lawyer looked into his own eyes, reflected in the mirror above the bathroom washbasin. The shock of the attack remained with him and he found that his hands were shaking. He thought about the intriguing development of the last few days which had undoubtedly led to tonight’s assassination attempt. If what had been suggested to him was right then it would be truly incredible.

He dried his face and ran a comb through his straw-coloured hair which he kept in the short, military style demanded by all the branches of the armed services. Fastening a fresh shirt he went downstairs to the dining room.

“Just in time, Paul,” his aunt said, lifting the lid of a stew-pot in the middle of the table. They conversed quietly as they ate, each listening...