Chapter Twenty.

Ten minutes to ten; Friday night, September 9th, 1949…

Ulrich Krössner sat in a seedy little Hamburg bar a stone's-throw from the Davidwache Police station on Davidstrasse. The bar was dark; it needed to be, if the snappers from the Reeperbahn at the end of the street were ever going to snare any customers. As it was; most of their clients were drunken sailors from the cargo ships on the Elbe waterfront that took a few days to unload. The Reeperbahn was always filled with sailors, and they mostly took the attractive sparkles. The rougher, more time-worn ones congregated in bars such as this. Ulrich Krössner wasn't in the market for their services tonight. He was negotiating a deal with a particularly sinister-looking Asian seaman. The deal revolved around a little velvet pouch containing an assortment of gems that had been assembled by him from various sources, including the pickings of the scavengers of the corpses after the firestorm of July 1943.

The Asian seaman... Lee WonJin, who was always interested in what Krössner might have to sell in the way of wartime artefacts... especially Nazi, or Nazi-connected items, as well as valuables he black-marketeered from the people who were forced to trade family valuables for food; particularly liked the big Garnet that Krössner had picked up from the leftovers of Fatso Göring's collection that had been abandoned at Karinhalle. As to why, was anyone's guess, in Krössner's opinion. It wasn't worth a lot, compared with the diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies that shared the little pouch. He was not to know that, in the East, red gem crystals such as garnet were believed to attract the energy and influence of the Sun. The larger the gem, the greater the attraction... and Göring's Garnet was a full, seventy-carat, blood-red stone the size of a pigeon's egg.

Lee WonJin studied the Garnet lying on the little black velvet pouch on the table in front of him. His black, depthless gaze betrayed nothing to Krössner. The tiny pinprick of light in the heart of the stone flared and waned. It was probably nothing more than a reflection from one of the flickering candle brackets on the wall... there were still problems with the electrical supply in that part of the street; and the proprietors imagined that the candles gave this dump of bar a more "discreet" ambiance.

The flicker in the very heart of the Garnet seemed to be keeping pace with the rhythm of Lee WonJin's heartbeat. It was a sign! He had to secure the Garnet. It would bestow great "Mianzi"... prestige, on him from the Dragon Master of the 14K Tai Huen Chai Triad, back in Hong Kong. It was destiny that he should acquire it for the Master!

He glanced up; his eyes were cold and sly.

'OK, Krössner; what's your price?'

Krössner gave an inward smirk. Lee WonJin really thought himself a sharp operator. Perhaps he was; back in his own country; but here... he was a babe-in-arms compared with the Sankt Pauli gangs. Krössner poked the gems with his finger, pushing them around the black velvet so that they caught the light.

'Two thousand American, the lot.'

Lee WonJin snorted, and took a sip from his glass of Kentucky sour-mash bourbon.

'Two thousand? I can do much better in Macao or Shanghai.'

Krössner grinned.

'But you're not in Macao or Shanghai. You're on my turf now, and your Oriental crap doesn't cut any ice with me.'

Lee WonJin gave him a dirty look and prodded at the stones.

'Tell you what, Krössner; seeing as how I'm shipping out tonight for Hong Kong, and seeing as it's you; I'm feeling generous. Twelve hundred, the lot, and you can keep the emeralds... they're all flawed... almost as if they've been in a fire.'

The inference was not lost on Krössner.

Lee WonJin had guessed that many of the stones in the table had been prised out of the melted pools of precious metals that had once been the jewellery of the charred corpses that had choked the streets after the Firestorm. If he chose to let this damning piece of information slip in the wrong place; then Krössner was as good as dead. It didn't matter that he hadn't actually been involved in the scavenging around the still-smouldering streets and corpses; but he was a handler, and if either the Hamburg gangs on the one side, or the Kriminalpolizei on the other; ever found out...

Almost everyone in Hamburg, good or bad; had lost someone during that terrible night. Some had lost their entire families. There would be no mercy from either side if Krössner was exposed as having the slightest connection with the vultures who had robbed the dead and dying in the burning streets. The choice would be a bullet, a cut-throat razoring; being beaten to death... or all of them; depending on which side caught up with him first.

He studied Lee WonJin's expression. It was impassive. He poked the stones again with his finger, shifting them into a circular pattern. Then, he looked up.

'OK; twelve hundred American.'

Lee WonJin nodded, and pulled out a thick roll of banknotes held together with an elastic band. Snapping the band back onto his wrist, he peeled off twelve grubby, one-hundred Dollar bills and tossed them down in front of Krössner. Gathering the stones together, he flicked out the emeralds with a fingernail, and scooped the remainder back into the velvet pouch. The large Garnet went in last. Pulling the drawstring of the pouch tight, he slipped the velvet package into the inside pocket of his Reefer jacket; stood up; downed his drink, and walked out without another word.

Ulrich Krössner shrugged and gathered up the bills; folded them, and thrust them into his inside pocket. He scooped up the discarded emeralds and thrust them into his coat pocket. He could always sell them on later. Two of the snappers had smelled his money and were closing in. He stood; threw the remains of his schnapps down his throat, and pushed past them; ignoring their scathing remarks about him being a dirty little queer for not wanting their custom.

Out in the fresh night air of Davidstrasse, he shrugged. Why not? He could easily afford one of the classier sparkles at the Hotel Luxor up on Grosse Freiheit. They were controlled by the Davidwacht and had regular medical checks. There would be no fear of contracting a dose of the drip from one of them. Happily, he turned; and with the schnapps warm in his belly, strolled up towards the Reeperbahn.

Two hours later; and twenty American Dollars poorer from the acrobatically lewd attentions of a pair of twenty-year-old sparklers in the Hotel Luxor; Ulrich Krössner walked contentedly back down across the Reeperbahn and sauntered down Davidstrasse to the waterfront. Strolling past the Sankt Pauli Landungsbrücken, he paused to watch the Davidwacht bulls dragging a body up from one of the lift shafts of the Alter Elbtunnel. He grinned. Another fucking hero who had imagined he could screw the gangs. The Alter Elbtunnel was their sewer; all the stiffs who had ever crossed them had been dumped down there at one time or another.

He pulled up his coat collar, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets against the cold wind off the Elbe and walked on down towards Sandthorhafen where he knew Lee WonJin's freighter would be berthed. He wanted to see if they were preparing to sail, and could then stop worrying about the Chink dropping him in the shit by blabbing about the gems. He looked across the basin. Yes, there she was... the Nederland Line freighter: "Schijnt Meisje" moored alongside pier three. Illuminated by the basin arc-lights, she was taking on the last of her cargo and they had already fired up her boilers. She would embark tonight on the high tide. With a relieved sigh, Ulrich Krössner turned up Kajen, heading back towards his apartment in the nearby Deichstrasse, as the clock in the tower of Petrikirche over on Mönckebergstrasse began striking midnight.

Slowing as he approached the junction with Spanisch Allee at the end of Kronprinzessinnenweg which ran parallel to the AVUS, back in Berlin; Jimmy Haskins turned onto the short Wannseebadweg, which led down to the pristine blue waters of Grosse Wannsee. He brought the black Plymouth sedan to a halt behind the southernmost of the four large, two-storey buildings of the Strandbad Wannsee complex; switched off the motor and opened his door. Walking round the rear passenger door, he opened it for Charlotte. As she stepped out onto the asphalt, he smiled.

'Take care, Ma'am. Hope to see you again sometime. There will be someone from the Hamburg station to meet you at the other end.'

Charlotte returned the smile.

'You too, Jimmy. Look after yourself. Goodbye.'

She joined Max and walked across to the old Lido beach restaurant which was still closed two years after its fire, but being slowly re-built. A tender was waiting at the end of the long landing stage that stretched out into the Wannsee Lake. Two RAF aircraftsmen wearing sleeveless brown leather jerkins were waiting. Out on the Wannsee, a big silver flying boat was gently undulating at her moorings. She resembled one of the Sunderlands that had hauled coal and salt into Berlin during the Airlift; but, the gun turret positions were faired over in aluminium, and she bore a civil registration: G-AGIA. A large Union Jack was painted on her tailfin, with the words "AQUILA AIRWAYS" on her fuselage sides and the name "Haslemere" on her bow. She was a civilian Hythe flying boat impressed to 201 Squadron RAF, where she had been used to haul salt along with her military sisters... the Sunderlands. She was making her last flight back to Hamburg before she returned to the squadron's base at Pembroke Dock to be demobilised and returned to her civilian owners at Southampton.

One of the aircraftsmen helped Charlotte on board, and, as Max jumped down into the tender, the other RAF man cast off the mooring. He clunked the engine into gear and the vessel moved away from the landing stage to begin its short, puttering journey across the pristine waters of Wannsee Lake to where the flying boat was moored.

The tender came alongside the big flying boat and nudged its way up the port side to a passenger door below the cockpit. One of the aircraftsmen threw a rope in through the door to secure the tender, while another of the flying boat's crew reached down to take Charlotte's hand to help her on board. As soon as she was safely inside the fuselage, Max followed. The interior of the Hythe was big. The forward passenger door led into a little cabin that, in civilian guise was the forward smoking lounge, with seating for seven passengers. A corridor led aft past the steward's galley and the port side toilets, and also contained the access ladder to the upper deck. At the end of the corridor, another doorway led into the promenade deck with seating for eight passengers. The aircraftsman stopped.

'I would suggest you both sit here, Ma'am. The aft cabin...'

He motioned to the rear of the fuselage with his hand;

...'is occupied by some War Office big-wigs. They're talking politics and tactics. I would suggest you leave them to it.'

Charlotte thanked him and took a seat in the second row. The window beside her seat was directly below the wing. Max sat beside her. The aircraftsman smiled.

'A wise choice, Ma'am. You're directly over the centre of gravity. That means you will have a much smoother take off and landing if the old girl buffets on her planing step. When we're airborne, I'll bring you some coffee.'

As they settled into their comfortable seats the soft metallic thud of the passenger door being closed came back along the corridor. Then came the thin whine of the engine starters, followed by a rising rumble and vibration as each engine was started in turn. The pilot then tested his engines by running them in pairs to full power then back to idle. The young aircraftsman returned.

'We're just about to make our take-off run. The engine noise might be a little loud. Don't worry; it's quite normal.'

As he spoke; the engine noise increased until the two outboard engines were at maximum power. Slowly, majestically, the flying boat began to move. As the speed increased, there was a sensation of the rear of the fuselage beginning to settle into the water, and a white wave began to spread out from the hull as she surged forward. Take-off for the Flying Boats depended upon the direction of the wind. The normal take-off run was to the south, but today, the prevailing wind was, unusually, from the north, and "Haslemere" was fitted with Pegasus engines rather than the more powerful Pratt and Whitney Twin Wasps with which the RAF Sunderlands were fitted. This meant that to try the southern take-off would leave little room for error if the big boat decided to stick to the water; so, they would make their run up Wannsee from south to north, this time.

At the southern end of Grosser Wannsee, she slowed and turned, almost opposite the Yacht club. The engine noise increased to a crescendo as the pilot opened up the two inboard engines that had been idling as she came down the lake; and she surged forward again under full power from her four thundering engines. Opposite Schwanenwerder Island she began to lift; the tail sank again, and, with the surface of the Wannsee rushing past in a mass of foam, the bow of the big silver flying boat rose as she took to the skies. Glancing up; Charlotte saw the big flaps begin to come up under the expansive wings as the pilot turned gently into the north over Kladow, avoiding the RAF Gatow circuit, heading for his first turning point over the Frohnau beacon, some twelve-miles-distant.

Up on the flight deck, Captain Bertie "Downwind" Hamilton eased the throttle levers back down the quadrant from climb revs and settled himself comfortably in his seat for the ten nautical mile leg north to the turning point over the Frohnau M/F beacon. He glanced at the altimeter. OK, he was maintaining his thousand feet ceiling. He flicked his mike switch and called the navigator.

'Jacko; we're still OK at a hundred and twelve degrees. Frohnau NDB in four minutes for course change to three hundred degrees. Any significant drift?'

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Jacko Brown's voice crackled in his headset.

'No drift, Skip. Flight plan calls for assigned altitude of four thousand. On the turn, stick to three hundred degrees like glue. We'll be right on the northern edge of the corridor all the way to Dannenberg. Traffic to Gatow will be above you: you'll have C-47’s at five thousand, Yorks at five thousand-five and C-54’s at six thousand. Cruising speed is one hundred and fifty-three knots knots.'

He repeated the speed with a laugh. Bertie Hamilton was universally known amongst the Sunderland pilots as "Downwind", because he held the record for transiting Finkenweder, Hamburg to Wannsee, Berlin in one-and-a-quarter-hours. Everyone had said that he must have dodged all the headwinds on the trip... hence the nickname. Hamilton's co-pilot grinned. Hamilton mouthed an obscenity at him. The Frohnau M/F beacon was beeping merrily on the receiver. Time to make the turn.

Hamilton eased the big flying boat round to port and increased revs. The Direction Indicator drum swung onto three-hundred- degrees and the altimeter needle began creeping up the scale. He levelled off at four-thousand feet indicated and eased the throttle levers back to cruise revs. Visibility was unlimited. He glanced out of the port window. Yes, there they were; the stream of aircraft above him making the last few runs into Gatow as Operation Plainfare came to its conclusion. He cast his eyes across the instrument panel. Everything OK. Here we go; the last run up the North Transit Corridor, a couple of days in Hamburg; then home to Southampton and a job well done.

Jacko's voice cracked in his earphones.

'Got the fix on Restorf Eureka beacon Skip. Our track's spot-on. Next fix is Dannenberg M/F.'

Hamilton replied.

'Roger. Estimated T.O.A. Finkenwerder?'

'Around thirteen-hundred-hours, Skip.'

Charlotte was gazing out of the cabin window watching the Elbe meandering below to the right-hand-side of the flying boat's flight path. It all looked so peaceful from up here; except that below, she could see that, as they flew west; all the rail and road bridges across the Elbe had been destroyed, either by Allied bombing, or later, by the Russians. That was all Russian-occupied territory below. How long it would remain so, was anyone's guess. Below were the two bridges at Dömitzer Kaltenhof... the rail bridge that stretched half-way out from the western bank across the Elbe marshes and stopped dead; and a little further west, the main road bridge; half of it suspended across the river, with the remains of its eastern piers thrusting out of the Elbe like stumps of rotten teeth. Max peered over her shoulder.

'That's Dömitz. We'll soon be crossing into West Germany. Keep a lookout for a line of yellow buoys that the East Germans have put across the Elbe to mark the border at Lauenburg.'

As the flying boat began to gently turn to follow the Elbe. The young aircraftsman/steward returned with the coffee pot. He refilled their cups and sat down in the seat in front of them. He gave an apologetic grin.

'Let me introduce myself. Harry Collins, M16. The crew have had a change of orders from their Mother Company, Aquila Airways. They are to refuel at Hamburg, and take this flying boat across to Hong Kong to be passed on the Australians, to whom she's being sold. That means you have barely a day to do what you need to do in Hamburg if you want to fly out there with them. Berlin briefed us as to your itinerary. You can pick up an American transport in Hong Kong to take you on to Seoul.'

Charlotte stared at him.

'But why are you involved at all? This is a Hamburg Station responsibility.'

Harry Collins gave a shrug.

'Orders from London. The Hamburg resident officer was killed three days ago. He was caught in some sort of underworld shoot-out in the Sankt Pauli district. They don't think he was targeted; just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Berlin asked us to take over; keep an eye on you whilst you were here, and get you away when you have completed whatever it is you need to do.'

'He glanced out of the cabin window.

'We're just coming in over Billwerder. The RAF flying boat base is at Finkenwerder. We've been operating from the waters around the old Blohm und Voss seaplane works during the Airlift. We'll be touching down in a few minutes, then, once we've berthed, we'll get you away quickly. There's always someone from the other side watching from across the river.'

The Hythe straightened and began to gently descend. Hamburg began to stretch out beneath Charlotte's gaze. Surprisingly, considering the amount of damage caused by the bombing; there were far fewer ruins than she had imagined. The re-building of Hamburg had been rapid in comparison to other devastated cities in Germany. The flying boat was coming in over the eastern docks of Rothenbersort. The quays and wharves were crowded with shipping. The port of Hamburg, it seemed, had almost recovered to its pre-war prominence.

They were much lower now. She saw the bright green verdigris domes on the old Sankt Pauli Landungsbrücken drift past, and then came the gentle jolt and hiss as the flying boat's hull touched the grey, cold waters of the Elbe. The white, frothing waves lessened as she slowed from the alighting run and turned in mid-stream to taxi into the landing dock in the old Blohm und Voss seaplane yard at Finkenwerder on the south bank of the Elbe opposite the Nienstedten district.

Bertie "Downwind" Hamilton eased her gently into the dock on the two inner engines. There was plenty of clearance... this dock had been built for huge, wartime Blohm und Voss seaplanes such as the six-engined "Wiking;" but he liked to berth her with style.

A black Studebaker Commander sedan was waiting on the dockside. As Charlotte and Max alighted from the flying boat, the driver... a young man in civilian clothes approached them. With a thin smile, he spoke.

'Captain Mckenna? Colonel Segal? My name is Sinclair. I am to drive you to whatever your intended destination is in Hamburg.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Very well, Mr Sinclair. Could you take us across to Nikolaikirche? But first; do you have some identification?'

Again, he smiled his thin smile, and produced a British Military Identification card identical to the one that Charlotte had carried whilst she was a member of SOE, back in Berlin. It stated that his rank was Major, and he was a member of British Military Intelligence. She handed it back to him. He smiled again. This time it was not quite so thin.

'We'll take the Elbtunnel. If anyone across the river is watching out for you, they'll lose sight of us as we go down through the dockyard buildings and shipyards on Steinwerder island, and will have no idea as to which way we have gone, let alone realise we're coming across the river.'

The journey across to the Blohm und Voss-Warft was a tortuous, convoluted ride of some thirteen kilometres through factory complexes, across basins and waterways; and through roads lined with remaining bombsite ruins. The south entrance of the Elbtunnel... "Der Südeingang," was a curious-looking building with four large entrance portals flanked by Doric-style stone pillars set into a plain brick façade and was topped with a flat roof. It had obviously been rebuilt. Sinclair said that the building had once been very similar to the northern entrance at the Sankt Pauli Landungsbrücken; but had been bomb-damaged during the air-raids, and not fully restored to its original state because of the necessity to use available funds and labour for the rebuilding of the city across the river. The pillars flanked the lifts which would take them down to the tunnel proper. Each lift was closed with a wooden gate that extended half-way up the entrance to its respective lift, and bore a large sign which commanded:

"HALT. Wenn Türen in Bewegung"...

"HALT. When doors in motion."

Sinclair brought the Studebaker to a halt in front of the second gate, and waited. An attendant, resplendent in a white, peaked cap appeared and operated the gate, which rose up to the top of the entrance aperture revealing a metal, box-like compartment closed with an identical wooden gate at the far end. It was long enough to accommodate two cars.

He eased the Studebaker into the steel womb, and the inner wooden gate descended behind them. There was a short pause, then, with a thin metallic whine, the lift began to descend through the latticework of massive girders down to the tunnel proper. When the lift stopped, and the wooden gate lifted; Sinclair inched the Studebaker out of the steel box into a semi-circular area, which he said was some twenty-three-metres below the surface of the Elbe River. In front of them were two high arches, decorated with bands of stone incised with relief hexagons, which flanked a wide band of greenish tiles; all of which spanned the line of the arched roof at the beginning of the two parallel tunnels. He drove into the right-hand tunnel that stretched away into the distance, and appeared to curve slightly upwards at the far end. The whole tunnel was brightly illuminated, and the walls were completely clad in pale cream ceramic tiles. The single-width roadway was flanked on either side by a normal, street-sized kerb protecting a paved pedestrian footpath on either side of the carriageway.

At the junction between the vertical walls and the curved roof; a metal plate frieze, into which the lighting was fitted, was set into the expanse of tiles and stretched the length of the tunnel; whilst glazed ceramic relief plaques depicting maritime motifs were mounted at intervals along the glistening walls. Keeping his speed to the regulation twenty Km/h, Sinclair drove the Studebaker down the long, deserted tunnel, which echoed hollowly with the low throb of the car's straight-six motor. The tunnel length was a little less than half-a-kilometre, and the lift area at the Sankt Pauli Landungsbrücken end was a mirror-image of the southern side. The lift shaft, however was capped by the original dome and pierced by a ring of deep, vertical windows.

Sinclair drove carefully into the second lift on the left, and applied the handbrake. The wooden gate descended behind them, and the thin whine of the lifting gear echoed the structure as the lift began its smooth ascent to the surface. The lift stopped; the wooden gate was raised; and Sinclair drove forwards. Emerging into the daylight; he turned the car to the right, onto the cobbled road that led past the Landungsbrücken terminal building complex with its numerous gateways to the now-destroyed ships' piers, and its domes and towers; until they reached the junction with Johannisbollwerk, just beyond the eastern end of the building complex, marked by the Sankt Pauli Pegelturm... the water level tower.

Opposite the old Nieder Hafen basin the road name changed to Vorsetzen and followed the river for less than half a kilometre, before Sinclair turned left at Baumwall and skirted the Binnenhafen basin into the Kajen. Charlotte nudged Max and silently indicated a street that passed on their left. Deichstrasse! He nodded. Sinclair continued along the waterfront, then turned sharp left into Mattentwiete and drove up to Hopfenmarkt. Across to the right, towered the smoke-blackened, slender Gothic spire and roofless nave of the still-impressive Nikolaikirche, overlooking the wide open space of the Hopfenmarkt vegetable market.

Sinclair stopped the car and turned round in the driving seat.

'Here we are. I have to go on up to Eppendorf on business. I'll pick you up at the old Sankt Pauli Landungsbrücken in an hour or so.'

As they were about to get out of the car; Sinclair handed Charlotte a leather wallet. He grinned; the same, thin grin.

'You might find this comes in handy.'

She flipped the wallet open. It was a Polizei-Dienstausweis... a Hamburg Police Identity card with her photograph and the legend that she was Kriminalpolizei. She nodded, climbed out onto the pavement followed by Max; and closed the car door. Sinclair drove away up Mattentwiete; heading north. As soon as he was out of sight, they turned, and walked across to Deichstrasse.

Deichstrasse was a deep, shabby cobbled street, curving around to the left, down towards the waterfront, and was lined with the last of Hamburg's tall, narrow, four, five, and six-storey houses that had somehow managed to survive the wartime bombing and the firestorm. On the east side of the street, a little way beyond a tiny right-hand street named Steintwierte; they found Deichstrasse 27; an imposing, six-storey building with a red-brick frontage of central arches; the lower of which, was the front entrance; whilst the upper ones contained double-doored balconies. The second, and third floor arches were each flanked by windows arranged in a square of four glazed sections. The fourth, and fifth floor windows were merely two glazed sections. The top floor had one central window above a roofed wooden projection out over the street from below which, hung the rusty cable and hook of some sort of hoist.

The main entrance was set back into a deep porch reached by five substantial stone steps. The top floors gave the overall impression that they contained some sort of warehouse. The façade of the building from the upper quarter of the third floor to the top of the sixth-floor, Doric pediment was rendered in dull grey cement.

Charlotte glanced at Max.

'This is it. Let's see what we can find.'

She climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.

A fat, middle-aged woman answered the door. Charlotte flashed the Polizei-Dienstausweis and asked her if a certain Ulrich Krössner resided at this address. The woman's jowly face contorted with a sneer.

'So, what's the little shit been up to now?'

Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

'We merely want to ask him a few questions. This is not a Razzia.'

The woman gave her a sullen look.

'Pity. If he's in; the little bastard is up on the fourth floor. Third room on the right.'

She stepped back to allow Charlotte and Max to enter.

The house was a labyrinth of stairways and passages beyond the first floor. It was dim and dingy, and basically a warren of boarding rooms. On the fourth floor they paused at the third door. Max took out his Colt M·32; flicked off the safety, and cocked the weapon. He nodded to Charlotte. She knocked firmly on the grimy paintwork of the door. After a short pause, a voice replied.

'Yes? What do you want?'

Charlotte replied;

'Herr Krössner? I need to speak with you, concerning your time at Karinhalle. I am an American researcher, and it could be worth your while.'

The sound of the door being unlocked and a security chain being removed came through the panelling. The door opened slightly, and a shifty-looking man with droopy eyes the colour of cold ashes, hollow cheeks and thin eyebrows; a crooked nose, and a strong chin, peered round the corner of the half-open door. He was of average height; about fifty, with a skinny build; and he eyed them suspiciously.

She produced the Kriminalpolizei card and flashed it under his nose. His immediate response was to attempt to slam the door; but Max shoved a foot into the gap and shouldered the door open. Ulrich Krössner was pushed back by the impact of the door, and found himself staring down the business end of Max's pistol. His eyes widened in fear, and, with his voice whining with fear, he blurted out...

'You said it could be worth my while.'

Max's voice was soft and ominous.

'And so it will be... you'll still be breathing in ten minutes... if you answer our questions truthfully. Now sit down and behave yourself.'

Krössner backed away into the room and sat in a grubby armchair. The flat was squalid; with grimy walls decorated with nondescript peeling wallpaper patched with damp; threadbare stained carpet and old furniture. He glared at them sullenly.

'I thought you bulls had to have a fucking warrant before you could come busting in here.'

Max idly raised the pistol.

'Is this a good enough warrant?... I thought so; now just cut the cabbage, Krössner, and answer the Lady's questions.'

Charlotte stood in front of Krössner and held him in her icy blue stare.

'We are tracing items that Göring looted for his collection at Karinhalle. After the estate was stripped; those remaining staff that had been left to oversee the closing-up of the estate were allowed to remove items that had been left, as mementos. We have in our possession the ledger in which these items were catalogued, together with the names of those to whom they were allocated. Your name appears in the ledger. The item that we are interested in is a large Garnet gemstone that you received, which we are seeking to return to its rightful owner. Do you still have it in your possession?... and if, not; do you know of its present whereabouts?'

Krössner felt a wave of relief sweep over him. They weren't after the looted precious stones. The Chink hadn't dropped him in the shit, after all.

He looked up innocently at her.

'I'm afraid you're too late. I sold it to a Chinese seaman last week, just before he shipped out.'

Charlotte pulled a notebook from an inside pocket of her coat.

'Then I would like his details, please.'

Krössner nodded, eagerly.

'His name is Lee WonJin; second mate of the Nederland Line freighter: "Schijnt Meisje." He said she was bound for Hong Kong. His ship left on the tide, last Thursday night.'

Charlotte wrote down the details in her notebook, and studied him briefly.

'Thank you for your co-operation in this matter, Herr Krössner. That is all we wanted to know.'

She turned to leave. Max smiled coldly at Krössner, and pocketed his pistol.

'Good boy. Now that wasn't too difficult, was it?'

As they left the dingy flat, Krössner gave them a sickly smile and quickly shut the door behind them.

Making their way down the shabby staircases; Charlotte glanced at Max.

'So the Chinese sailor left on Thursday night. That means he's been at sea for five days. What do you think? Half-way through the Mediterranean heading for the Suez Canal?

Max shrugged.

'Who knows? They might not have even reached Gibraltar yet. Whichever way it goes; we must be able to be in Hong Kong before him. It's just a matter of getting there.'

She nodded.

'Right. Let's get back to the old Sankt Pauli Landungsbrücken; meet with our Mr Sinclair, and see if he can arrange something.'