Tangled Web
By Robert Legleitner

PROLOGUE
Berlin, April 1945

The war was nearing its end. In the death throes of the Third Reich, the Nazi wolfpack turned on itself. Germany was falling and everyone must save themselves however they could. But people in positions of power watched every move. Colonel Otto Gruber had himself been investigated, he was certain, when the tall blond SS Colonel Schmidt came to watch the truck loading, ask questions, share a flask of cognac during an air raid, before he went away again.

Colonel Gruber went on supervising the loading of Reichsbank funds into what trucks were available. He had no doubt that the SS officers acted on their own, that neither the Chancellor nor the Reichsbank manager knew what was happening.

The Allied armies advanced steadily; there was little time for Gruber to decide what to do. How did it help him to have money and gold hidden in foreign countries for a few high-placed men? What of his men, himself?

The bombers were constantly overhead and the fires burned closer. An air raid in February had nearly buried the bank, but the vaults were intact. Money and gold were taken away regularly. As Gruber waved the canvas bags into the trucks, he looked up at the glowing sky. The Berlin he loved was dying, and he was glad his wife hadn't lived to see it, now sadly relieved that they had no children.

He had little to lose if he disobeyed his orders.

The truck being loaded was almost filled with bags of gold bullion, boxes of French, British, and American currency. If the men taking it to Spain were caught, the Allies would take it, shoot the drivers and guards, and that would be the end of it. If he followed his orders, but if not?

He called the young captain who was his aide. "This truck," Gruber said, "is of the utmost importance. When it leaves, you must destroy any paperwork pertaining to it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Oberst Gruber," the captain answered. It was clear to Gruber that the man was near his breaking point. "I will follow orders, sir."

Gruber spoke excellent French, his sister Maria had married a French chemist and lived the past twenty years in Toulouse. The colonel knew at least two of the men loading the truck spoke French, one fluently. He called one of the drivers to him. The sergeant knew that one of the men had been a screenwriter in America, and who had returned to Germany late in 1937. In the dark, a whispered talk. The men were as dispirited as Gruber.

Before dawn the truck left Berlin and headed south on back roads. The records left behind showed the truck was destined for the German Embassy in Madrid. The frightened captain who was to destroy the records forgot to do so when the air raids began again, and he was unaware the truck carried the colonel, the sergeant, and two soldiers. Gruber was certain that, with its manifests destroyed, the truck officially ceased to exist.

Near the Czech border they commandeered two trucks, farm vehicles, and they headed southwest. When they met the first Allied blockade, they were loaded with battered furniture. The Allied forces had no time for refugees.

Committed to their course, Gruber and his men headed for the Swiss border. The man who had lived in America went ahead with American dollars to find a good forger. There were two men at the forger's shop, one English from his accent, the other a Gypsy. They both needed papers, they said, and neither seemed a threat.

With new papers, Gruber and his men went on to France. The Allied and Free French forces hooted at the ramshackle trucks and ragged clothes. Twice in the melee, Gruber saw men he knew to be German soldiers on the run. He would need men and they were willing to be saved whatever the cost. He could afford it. Gruber laughed and waved them aboard, twelve in all, as they headed into the south of France.

Sixteen ragged men with a fortune in gold and currency who, to survive, must spin a web of lies.

***

France, six months later somewhere southwest of Carcassonne.

Colonel Gruber took out a pack of cigarettes and the wooden beads of the long rosary around his waist clattered with his movements. He was one of two men wearing the brown robes of monks standing by a stone barn. He said, "No choice, Franz, we must try to stop them. You are the only one with both French and English."

"I saw the American officer clearly, colonel," replied Franz. "I'm sure I will recognize the Frenchman. One must have sent the other to spy on us. Our future is worth killing for. What else have we? We've lost our homes, our Fatherland—"

It was a clear early October day. The men walked to the end of the stone and timber half-derelict building. Across a weed-choked yard, and outside a gate, two men also in a monk's habits worked at setting up a wooden cross by the roadside.

"A shame the peasants came at that moment," Gruber said, flipping the rosary belt and wooden crucifix at the end of it. "But we need them and their belief and the food they bring us. I hope the men spying on us did not get far, but where, the town of Quillan? Carcassone? Where will you begin? You'll need clothes."

"I know what to do when I find someone my size, sir."

"We cannot communicate once you are away, so we depend upon you to be successful. Kill those men before they can bring anyone else here." With a wry smile, Colonel Gruber made the Sign of the Cross.

"Bless you, my son, and good hunting."

CHAPTER ONE
London, Early October 1945

"Tomorrow, I'll officially be a spy." Robin Wyngate was at the window. He turned and smiled. "I'm probably in way over my head and don't know it."

"You'll do fine," Kydon said.

"We should dress for dinner." Robin got up and buttoned his shirt. He flicked back his dark hair as he picked up his tie. "I can hardly believe I'm really going to be interviewed by a secret agent."

On the bed, Kydon Schmidt, blond, six feet three inches, stretched and relaxed. "That's tomorrow." He propped his head on his hand. "Tonight you'll enjoy dinner with Etienne at the Savoy."

"I know he has to go back to France soon, but I'll miss him."

"He has to set up accounts at the art auction houses in Paris," Ky said.

"We should have a party for him, Ky. You must know lots of people here in London."

But not many people in London actually knew Kydon Schmidt. The staff at Alderwood's Hotel knew him as a pleasant young man who paid his bill on time, tipped well, and the manager knew that Schmidt had an account at Barclay's. The people at Barclay's Bank knew that Schmidt had funds transferred from a bank in Zurich, but frequently cashed or deposited checks drawn on the art auction houses of Christie's and Sotheby's. The staff of Christie's and Sotheby's knew Schmidt as a registered agent for Etienne St. Marcellin, who sold rare ancient and early medieval art objects.

All of this was true . . . more or less.

There were a few people who knew of his recent past. Kydon had been in the French Resistance, he'd worked for the American OSS, and he was an agent for MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service.

"It's almost six." Kydon reached for his trousers. "We're missing the cocktail hour. Let's go."

Robin looked out of the window. "It's starting to rain."

"Misty London," Kydon said as he dressed. "We might meet Sherlock Holmes in the fog."

"The sinister Moriarity is more like it," Robin said. "What time tomorrow do we meet your mysterious head of a spy ring, Mr. Landgren? ."

"I'm not sure he'd like your description, but it's at ten A.M." Kydon opened the door to the corridor. "Shall we nip around to the Cornish Maid for a pint or a whiskey and splash before dinner, old man?"

Kydon locked the door behind them.

***

Opening the door of the Cornish Maid released a mixture of smoky air and accents, British and American, from civilians and servicemen. When Kydon ordered their drinks, his voice held British inflections. He had spent the last two years with people who were English or who had learned that language from British teachers. Robin thanked Ky for his brandy and soda. An American turned to him.

"Thought I heard a voice from home."

Robin glanced at the insignia. "Yes, lieutenant, from Ohio."

The lieutenant looked Robin over. "You were in the—"

"U.S. army," Robin said, "from a few days after D-Day to VE-Day but I'm out already."

"How the hell did you manage that?"

Kydon put out his hand. "Kydon Schmidt. This is Robin Wyngate."

"Les Tracy." Tracy's gaze fastened on Robin. "Jesus, a discharge that fast? What the hell do you do?"

"Whatever they tell me," Robin replied. He started to turn and ran into a tall man. "Sorry, I wasn't—"

"Robin Wyngate! We met at Weymouth if you remember. I'm Paul Scott."

"At the inn called the Swan," Robin said. "And you were at Old Priory when they needed some help."

Scott, almost as tall as Ky, brown hair combed straight back, shook hands with Kydon. He spoke to Tracy as Kydon introduced them. "You might have seen the papers, lieutenant. Murder over Roman relics."

"I missed it," Tracy replied with his eyes on Robin.

Paul Scott tipped up his drink, swallowed, and asked, "What do you two plan to do now, Schmidt?"

"A trip through France to the Mediterranean," Kydon replied.

Paul Scott leaned between Kydon and Tracy. "After the story came out, I looked you up, Schmidt, as your name was familiar. The son of Joseph Schmidt and an archaeologist in your own right."

Tracy shook out a cigarette and tamped it on the back of his hand. "What about you, Wyngate, you one of these archaeologist fellows?"

Robin looked past Tracy. "I'm a secretary like I was in the army."

Paul Scott said, "Schmidt, I'm surprised you haven't been called in to help in the recovery of the missing art treasures."

Kydon offered Robin a cigarette. "Not my field."

"Paintings and art works," Tracy muttered, "and gold and money still missing. Everybody'll help themselves, you can bet, when the big stuff starts to surface. There's enough's missing from what's been found already to give the brass shit fits."

"You'd have to find it first," Kydon said.

"Shouldn't we be going?" Robin murmured. He put his glass on the bar.

"May I take you to dinner?" Paul Scott asked.

"We have a prior dinner date. Sorry," Kydon said.

***

In a hotel near Soho, two men met. A man calling himself Jacko came in by the rear entrance, taking care he was not seen going into the room occupied by an American colonel, Mike Rogers. Rogers was talking excitedly, pacing, and waving a cigarette so the smoke made ephemeral arabesques in the air.

"A room knee-deep in gold, honest to God. The Kaiseroda Mine. One room, a hundred fifty feet long by seventy-five wide, piled with bags of gold bars and coins. Paintings stacked up in tunnels, Jacko. And that's not all." Rogers stopped moving.

"Do you remember Apollo's report regarding the trucks heading south about ten days after Eisenhower and Patton saw the mine? Hank Van Cleve was right, Jacko, there's lots of money, and now two trucks show up in southern France. Jesus Christ. No more sleazy hotels like this."

Jacko was calm. "No, you won't have to worry. Now, colonel, the OSS reports you saw, did they name any French agents?"

"Only by code names. Falcon, Sailor, Robert."

"I'll find them. What about the trucks?"

"The Gypsy saw them and heard the guards speak German."

"You didn't see them yourself?"

"Didn't get close enough," Rogers said. "Someone else was snooping. They saw him and it stopped everything."

Jacko's tone turned icy. "You got into the Kaiseroda Mine with the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, but you couldn't manage one look at two trucks guarded by two men? Really, my dear fellow. Did you see who else was spying on the trucks?"

"Only a glimpse, dark hair, French I think. A bunch of people came with baskets of food and that little diversion saved us. The Gypsy and I got out of there."

"Ah yes, the Gypsy. Who is he?"

"His name is Zoltan," Rogers said. "I don't know where he holes up. I know the trucks are on a hill somewhere south of Carcassone. The Gypsy knew a girl there, he mentioned her name. Colleen, Colleen duFaucon."

"Did you meet Larry Nesmith our man in Barcelona? His code name is the Spaniard."

"No. I wasn't near Bill Worth's office or yours."

"Then you didn't meet Van Cleve at their Barcelona office?" Jacko asked.

"We met in a cafe, alone."

"Then Hank Van Cleve knows as much as we do. Could you find your way back there?"

"Not on my own."

"Unfortunate, I'm afraid. Now you're useless." Jacko took out a gun.

Colonel Rogers cried, "Wait, Jacko!" The shot from the small revolver was a loud "pop" in the room, and Rogers fell. His dead face showed no surprise, Jacko observed. No expression at all.

Jacko pulled off the colonel's shoes and trousers, and took the dead man's money and wristwatch. From his own pocket, he took a bottle of perfume and a cheap pink scarf. He dribbled the scent on the sheets and pillows and dropped the scarf on the floor. "That's as close to a woman as you'll get, colonel. Tonight or ever."

In minutes, Jacko was in the street shimmering with rain, a lone man on his way home for dinner.

***

The Savoy dining room was bright with the sheen of the white tablecloths and glittering crystal. An orchestra played in the background, scarcely audible over the hum of conversation. Etienne St. Marcellin, a dapper man in his fifties, offered Robin cigarettes from a blue and green cloisonne case. Etienne sighed as he looked about the dining room. "Heavenly. I never thought I'd ever do this again."

"I never thought I'd do it for the first time," Robin said.