Chapter Eighteen.

The District Deputy was quietly enjoying a large Havana cigar, with his feet up on his desk, studying a well-thumbed, and particularly lurid pornographic magazine, with a large glass of Schnapps within easy reach on his gargantuan mahogany desk, when the door of his office opened and a man and woman in civilian clothes walked in. The District Deputy glanced up belligerently. People just didn't come wandering into his office unannounced. As the words formed in his mind to snarl at them what the fuck they thought they were playing at... just marching in as though they owned the place; two Military identity cards appeared on the surface of his desk in front of him. He immediately decided it would probably be better if he didn't demand to know what the fuck they thought they were playing at... just marching into his office; and he smiled obsequiously at the couple.

'Welcome Comrades. I am Otto Kreiber; the District Deputy. How may I be of assistance?'

Charlotte leaned on the desk, which looked suspiciously as though it had been liberated from Karinhalle, and gave Kreiber a thin smile.

'We understand that you are holding an ammunition box of documents that was recovered from Karinhalle. We wish to examine the contents.'

Kreiber nodded enthusiastically.

'Certainly, Comrade. The box is in the cellar. Would you prefer to examine it up here? Or down where it is stored?'

Charlotte shrugged... a typical Russian shrug.

'We'll examine the contents in the cellar. There is little purpose in bringing it up here to disturb your obviously busy office.'

Kreiber flushed guiltily. Max glanced away; trying to conceal a grin.

The cellar was deep. It was reached by two flights of stone steps and a heavy oak door, which Kreiber swung open on squeaking hinges. The cellar was whitewashed, and had a low, corbelled roof. It was lit by a single dim light-bulb, but if necessary, extra illumination could be provided by the line of dusty hurricane lamps lined up on the floor.

The cellar measured some ten-metres-by-six, and was cluttered with boxes, tea chests, and other similar junk. The corners were in deep shadow, and the overall impression; with the added piquancy of the mildewy smell of damp; was like something straight out of a Bela Lugosi Vampire film. Kreiber lit two of the hurricane lamps and, by their flaring light, pointed to a dark green, metal ammunition box in the corner.

'There you are, Comrades; in exactly the same condition that they brought it from Karinhalle. No-one has ever bothered to ask for it to be opened since it was discovered.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Thank you Herr Kreiber. That will be all. We will let you know if we need anything else.'

Kreiber nodded, and left the cellar. Max bent down to the ammunition box and studied the latches.

'There's no real rusting on these fasteners. They shouldn't be too difficult to open; so let's see what it contains.'

The box was fitted with sturdy over-centre latches that had to have their lower sections pulled away from the front wall of the box before their upper brackets could be released to open the lid. The latches were stiff. Max looked around for something to force them open. His eyes fell on an iron hook protruding from the wall. It had been hammered into the mortar joint between the stone blocks of the cellar wall, and looked as though it had been there for countless years. The mortar looked powdery; perhaps, he could work the hook free. Grasping the rusty metal, he began wrenching it back and forth, and up and down, until, slowly, it began to loosen. He applied more pressure, until, with a shower of lime-mortar dust, it came free.

He bent to the ammunition box and forced the straight tine of the hook under the first latch. Pulling it sharply towards him; there was a sharp bang, and the latch sprang open; showering flaking paint onto the floor of the cellar. He repeated this action with the second latch, which eventually also sprang open. Unhooking the top latch brackets from their securing lips in the lid; he attempted to lift the lid. It wouldn't budge. Max swore quietly under his breath; but what did he expect? Four years underground in a damp bunker, and it was certain that the hinges would be rusted shut. He glanced at Charlotte and sighed. OK; time to get serious.

He turned the ammunition box onto its back and aimed the flat part of the hook tine at the thin overlapping lip of the lid; drew back his arm, and struck the metal with a dull clang. Rust particles showered down and a small gap appeared. Grasping the lid, he heaved it open. The box was full of ledgers bound in green linen covers; each impressed with a Gold Hoheitszeichen... the Nazi Eagle clutching a garlanded swastika in its talons. There must have been thirty such ledgers neatly packed into the interior. Max handed the first one to Charlotte, and, removing another; sat beside her on an upturned tea chest as they both began to scrutinise the neatly written pages.

The first twenty ledgers contained nothing more than meticulously recorded household accounts. However, the twenty-first did not. The ledger date-stamp read the 25th April 1945, and contained a brief, handwritten note on the first page stating that it was the inventory of items that the Reichsmarschall's estate workers were permitted to take as mementos prior to the demolition of the estate buildings. It was neatly annotated in double-entry bookkeeping style, and signed by his Private Secretary, Gisela Limberger who had kept the records of the Göring Collection at Karinhalle. Charlotte glanced at Max. Perhaps this ledger would give them a lead.

According to the records held by the Berlin Operations Base; during the early post-war interrogations of the staff at Karinhalle; it had become apparent that in order to make his shadiest dealings seem as though they were regular business practice, Göring had insisted on German thoroughness. All receipts and bills presented to Göring, all receipts signed by Göring were recorded in minute detail. This minute detail had assisted the Allies in establishing the extent of the looting of the artworks from the occupied countries. If this ledger followed that practice; then it was just possible that, if the Red Horseman had been overlooked during the clearance of Karinhalle and had been removed by one of the staff; then those details might well be somewhere in the extensive listings contained in the ledger.

The first twenty-or-so-pages contained nothing remotely resembling any reference to the "Red Horseman" within the scrupulously- documented items allocated to the listed individuals. However; on the twenty-fifth page was an entry listing a quantity of what was described as costume jewellery. The entry included a reference to "A large, red, unmounted stone." Max stabbed his finger at the entry, and grabbed Charlotte's arm. Could this be it?'

As she read the entry; suddenly, and for no apparent reason, she shivered; a cold shiver... as though, at that same moment, a grey goose had flown over her grave. She nodded slowly.

'Yes, it sounds as though it might be the same stone.'

Max was reading the rest of the entry.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

'It was chosen by one of the Karinhalle footmen named Ulrich Krössner. We need to ask Herr Kreiber if he is familiar with the name, and whether this man Krössner still lives in the area.'

Otto Kreiber appeared to be actually doing something when they returned to his office. He looked up from a large, leather-bound volume in which he was laboriously scribbling away, with an ingratiating smile on his face. He noted the ledger under Max's arm, put down his pen, and clasped his hands together, almost piously.

'I trust you found what you were looking for?'

Charlotte studied him briefly. He was a typical Public Service Arschkriecher... Ass-kisser; who fawned over those whom he imagined would enhance his standing... and, to his mind, a Ministry of State Security Investigator out of Luisenstrasse, and a Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel from Karlshorst could certainly do that.

Max opened the ledger and placed it on the desk. He pointed to the entry for Krössner, and looked at Charlotte. Kreiber studied the entry and looked up at her. She spoke. Her voice was soft, but her tone brooked no prevarication on his part.

'Do you recognise this name? Do you know if he still lives in this area?'

Kreiber swallowed. Of course he knew the name. Ulrich Krössner had made a good living in this area running the Black Market out of the old Wachkompanie Karinhalle barracks at Döllnkrug. This desk she was leaning on had been supplied by Krössner. It had once graced the Reichsmarschall's administration office. When the Wachkompanie had abandoned the estate, most of their supplies had simply been discarded. They took only what they could carry. Krössner had seen his opportunity and set up his Black Market enterprise. Kreiber knew very well, the Soviet's attitude to Black Marketeering. Any such booty as was left at Döllnkrug automatically became their property; and the penalty for any German found meddling with this arrangement was severe. He looked up innocently, although the aura of his complicity in Krössner's racket clung to him like a cheap suit.

He nodded,

'The name is familiar. He was a footman up at Karinhalle. Let me check my records.'

He stood, and moved to a large bookcase against the wall. He ran his finger along the spines of the serried ranks of volumes, and pulled one out. Opening it, he riffled through the pages, then, paused.

'Yes. Here we are. Ulrich Krössner. Removed from the Landkreis Barnim voting list, and departed for Hamburg, 12th July 1947. Forwarding address: Deichstrasse 27, Hamburg-Altstadt.'

Charlotte nodded and wrote the address in an official-looking pocket book.

'Thank you, Herr Kreiber. Your assistance will be mentioned to the relevant authorities when we return to Berlin.'

Kreiber swelled with self-importance.

'Thank you Comrade Investigator. I am gratified that you have found my office to be of assistance.'

Max nodded to Kreiber; and they both turned and left the office.

Back in the car; she turned to Max.

'Ugh! What an ingratiating little creep! Let's get back to Berlin and see if all the arrangements for us getting out are in place.'

Max grinned and started the car. As it moved away, he glanced into the rear-view mirror to see Kreiber standing outside his office, with his hands folded self-contentedly across his generous paunch, and a smug smile on his pudgy face.

The drive back to Berlin was uneventful. The Reichsautobahn was quiet, and Max was able to make good time; keeping the BMW at a steady ninety km/h, until, as they were approaching the bridge over the Finowkanal, they noticed that there seemed to be a pronounced sudden increase in Soviet Military traffic. Max glanced at Charlotte.

'This doesn't look too promising. There's something wrong. We never used to deploy with this much activity away from the Capital unless there was some important development taking place. We need to get off the autobahn for a while until these convoys clear. Keep a lookout for somewhere quiet where we can pull off the road.

Charlotte unfolded the map and began searching for a suitable place to stop. There was nothing obvious on this side of the Eberswälde valley. However; about three-quarters of the way down the long, forested straight a little to the north of Lanke, there appeared to be some sort of track that led into the pine woods. She turned to Max;

'There's a turning to the left towards the end of the long straight on this side of the exit road to Lanke village. It looks like a forester's track. Would that be all right?'

Max nodded.

'That will do, nicely. How far away are we?'

She studied the scale on the map.

'About four kilometres.'

The long straight through the forest was deserted. Max began to reduce speed; watching for the track. There! A narrow opening between the pine trees. He began braking gently; slowing the BMW so that there would be no trace of rubber tyre marks on the pale, abrasive concrete of the carriageway. The long ribbon of concrete was still empty. He carefully reversed the BMW in under the trees for a distance of about ten metres, and switched off the motor.

They sat and studied the ledger for a while, as the trucks rumbled past. Eventually, the carriageway cleared. As Max was about to start the motor; faintly at first; the unmistakeable howl of a jeep being driven hard became discernible. At first, it was distant; seemingly coming from the direction of the Eberswälde valley; but it was approaching fast. Max glanced at Charlotte. That the jeep could be American military was out of the question. It had to be Russian. Both Willys and Bantam jeeps had been supplied in quantity to the Soviets under the wartime American Lend-Lease Act.

Max and Charlotte sat in the car and waited. The jeep was close now; the howl of its motor and transmission echoing through the trees. Suddenly it appeared, and braked hard; its heavy-treaded tyres squealing agonizingly on the concrete of the carriageway. With a metallic clang, the driver selected reverse gear and backed up to the end of the track. The two occupants... both Russian sergeants clambered out and began to approach the parked BMW. The one on the left of the pair carried a PPSH sub-machine gun; the other had his hand on his side-arm holster.

Max made a movement to get out of the car; Charlotte put her hand on his arm to stop him and opened the passenger door. The two sergeants paused, and then came on, grinning broadly. This girl would be no trouble at all. She approached the pair and held up an identity card. The broad grins vanished as the two sergeants recognised the distinctive card. Vladimir Chopiak shot a nervous glance at his buddy, Gavrie Petrov.

The identity card was, without doubt, the worst kind that they could have ever encountered. The sinister, bold Cyrillic letters GRU... "Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye"; gloated maliciously at them... Soviet Military-intelligence. Worse still, in the place where the holder's Military Rank should have been, was a single-word epithet...

"Sledovatel' "…"Investigator."

Chopiak's blood ran cold. That single word meant only one thing. This pretty blonde was from the original Directorate of Special Departments that had been otherwise known as SMERSH; which had been discontinued as a separate entity and merged into the Ministry of Military Forces in 1946. This merger hadn't made the slightest difference to SMERSH's range of operations, and it was still used to find and kill defectors and double agents, and hunt down "Enemies of the People" within, and outside Soviet territory. Chopiak and Petrov would most certainly be included in this latter category if this woman decided to investigate what was concealed under the tarpaulin in the back of their jeep.

Chopiak and Petrov had a nice little Black Market racket going; supplying all manner of high-value commodities filched from the stores of supplies abandoned as the German forces fell back towards Berlin in 1945, and subsequently confiscated by the Soviet authorities. Now, Chopiak visualised the gates of some God-forsaken Siberian Gulag camp yawning open to welcome him... if he was fortunate enough not to be shot on the spot. He forced a friendly smile.

'Comrade Investigator; we noticed the car and wondered if there was a problem. Is there any assistance we can give you?'

The girl smiled. A cold smile in which Chopiak could almost hear the chains and manacles rattling in the snow.

'Thank you, sergeant. Everything is in order. We have merely been observing the movements on the autobahn. If you wish, you may escort us down to Schwanebeck. Two vehicles in convoy may well make better time through the traffic than one.'

Chopiak nodded.

'Certainly, Comrade Investigator. We are only going as far as Bernau, but we shall be honoured to accompany you.'

The girl nodded, and walked back to the car. Chopiak and Petrov turned to walk out to where their jeep was parked. Chopiak glowered at Petrov.

'You stupid bastard. I said we should come down the Bäderstrasse and stay off this fucking autobahn; but, oh no; it'll be all right, you said; and then, look!... an abandoned BMW; let's see what we can get off it. Now, we've got two fucking SMERSH investigators to play "patty cake" with. Thank Christ she didn't want to look in the fucking jeep!'

Gavrie Petrov said nothing. Irritably, he stomped out of the tree line and clambered into the driving seat of the jeep. Muttering under his breath, he banged the gearshift into first, and scarcely waiting for Chopiak to get in; accelerated away, causing the bottles of contraband schnapps concealed beneath the tarpaulin to clatter so loudly that it was a fucking miracle that the two "investigators" didn't hear the incriminating sound as their BMW pulled out onto the autobahn and began to follow them.