The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) Read online

  The Collectors

  (Finders Keepers)

  Book Five

  By

  Ron A Sewell

  ISBN-13: 978-1501053979

  ISBN-10: 1501053973

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  The Collectors – Book Five – Finders Keepers is published by Appolonia Books can be contacted at [email protected].

  The Collectors – Book Five is the copyright of the author Ron A Sewell 2014. All rights are reserved.

  The cover is designed by Berni Stevens Design. All rights are reserved.

  All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  This book is for

  Sheila Sewell,

  Marlene Lavell

  Bev Fisher

  With thanks for all their assistance.

  Also by Ron A Sewell

  A Basketful of Sleepers

  The Angel Makers

  You Can’t Hide Forever

  The Collectors Book One

  The Collectors Book Two

  The Collectors Book Three

  The Collectors Book Four

  Part One

  “Antiquities are history defaced, or some remnants of history,

  which have casually escaped the shipwreck of time.

  Francis Bacon

  Chapter One

  Thessalonica, Greece, July 1944.

  The streets were quiet, no cars or pedestrians. Abrax Bachis lay on his stomach and studied the rail-yard. From the edge of the damaged roof, he focused his binoculars on the shunting engines. As a railway man he assessed each carriage as it rolled the length of the slope towards a line of waiting trucks. In pencil, he drew diagrams and made notes in an old exercise book.

  He froze as an armed German foot patrol sauntered along the street. They stopped, lit cigarettes beneath his position, chatted, laughed, and strolled away. He controlled his nerves and waited.

  Stiff, he checked his findings again. His observations complete he shoved the note book inside his shirt. With safety in mind, he spread his weight and slithered across the roof to the rough scaffold supporting the front of the building.

  Abrax made sure the patrol was nowhere in sight before he began to descend. Loose debris tumbled to the ground as the scaffold shifted.

  On the other side of the street soldiers appeared from behind a building. “Stay where you are,” a harsh voice commanded in German. The clunk of steel-capped boots on cobbles came closer.

  Fear filled him with adrenalin as he glanced around, searching for an escape route. To his left a floor dropped into the dark.

  To break the curfew meant imprisonment but detained with detailed sketches of the rail-yard, after torture and interrogation, the firing squad.

  His heart raced and sweat soaked his shirt. He gripped the scaffold, pulled his feet up against the pole, released his grip and pushed. With a crash, he hit the boards. It rocked as his hands reached out. Out of control, he careered towards the void. Desperate fingers found a gap. With straining muscles, he dragged his frame back from the edge.

  A bullet ricocheted off the stonework. He did not see who fired but forced his body into a narrow opening in the wall. Damaged stairs descended to the rear of the building. Close to the wall, he scurried like a rat into a space filled with split wooden beams and brickwork. Young and agile, he clambered over and through until a slit into a dark street loomed. He raced away as shouts followed.

  Terrified he sprinted and dodged through the jungle of narrow streets surrounded by damaged buildings but the men followed shouting.

  Bullets struck the wall; gunshots buzzed past, one caught his right arm, the pain worrying. He reached for the wound, blood covered his hand.

  Desperate, he crossed a wide avenue, charged into the desolate Jewish quarter and hugged the dark. Discarded belongings and rubbish lay everywhere.

  For a moment, he stopped, ripped off his shirttail and bound the injury. From behind came no sound, the patrol no longer followed or had they stopped to listen? He darted along a passage, took a left turn and then a right. At a slow even pace, he continued to run until free of the city.

  He kept running; his heart pounded as he approached a stone built house with a large out-building to one side.

  At the front door, he gave the prearranged signal: Two knocks, a pause, and then one. The door opened.

  “You made it, Abrax,” a bearded man shouted.

  “Come, sit, and catch your breath. I bet you ran every kilometre,” said Costas.

  “It’s over thirty,” a young looking, dark-haired woman muttered, “impossible.”

  Costas grinned. “Not for this one. That’s the reason I chose him plus he has the brains of a scholar. Tell me, Abrax, are the rumours correct?”

  From his shirt he removed the book. “The Germans have marshalled three trains. They’ve loaded the closed trucks with prisoners. Armoured wagons are located between these. The engines are fully protected.” Each one studied his notes and sketches.

  Costas rubbed his chin. “Time to gather and position our forces.”

  “This boy stays here,” the dark-haired woman said. “Not one of you noticed his wound.”

  Costas grabbed and examined the arm. “No problem. The rest of us will ride and gather our armies.” He pointed to a map. “At this point, we stop these trains.”

  The dark-haired woman and Abrax stood at the door and watched the leaders of the resistance ride at a gallop into the night.

  The door closed. “Off with your shirt.”

  Abrax obliged and waited. He made a face as the material glued by the dried blood ripped the wound open. With a clean cloth, she bathed and cleaned the gash, soaking it with a splash of ouzo before applying a homemade bandage.

  With a grin, she embraced him. “You were brave tonight. Captured I doubt if you would have survived to see the sun rise.”

  “I did what had to be done.”

  “How old are you?”

  A nervous smile played on his lips. “Twenty. Why?”

  “I am a woman. Our leader tells me he will marry me when the war ends but as a man he lies. I am here for him to use when he wants.” There was tenderness in her voice. She held his face in her hands, kissed and pulled him close.

  The softness of her body and the warmth of her mouth enveloped his senses.

  “They will be gone for days.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him into the bedroom.

  Chapter Two

  The uniformed SS sergeant stared through the windscreen as he drove the Mercedes along the dark, deserted streets to the rail-yard. Tonight the curfew prevented any unauthorised movement.

  In the rear of the staff car, between sleep and awareness, slumped an exhausted Brigadier General Karl Koenig. The vehicle juddered as it struck a pothole and disturbed him. He yawned and opened his window. The car arrived at their destination; the sounds of a railway working, loud and uneven jarred his senses. A thousand lights blazed, steam spewed as hot fog into the air, multiple engines shunted rolling stock into position. Pairs of soldiers armed with light machine guns patrolled.

  Karl Koenig’s grey eyes studied the sluggish lines of Italian and Greek prisoners herded as cattle into the waiting wagons. He thanked God for the low cloud; no bombers tonight.

  He glanced at the red brick building and the Nazi flag that hung limp from its pole. “The first thing the Russians will burn,”
he muttered under his breath.

  An SS guard opened the door and saluted. “They’re ready for you, General.”

  He nodded, pressed his lips into a tight smile, stepped across a puddle and strolled into the building with his aid Captain Spee at his heels. To his left clerks emptied filing cabinets and tossed papers onto an open fire.

  Those in the room on the right saluted as he entered. At the rear, a wooden desk piled high with folders and cluttered with half a dozen telephones, each a different colour. On the wall hung a picture of Adolf Hitler in uniform.

  Karl slumped in the chair behind the desk, and with a wave of his right hand motioned for a colonel, three majors, and a captain to sit. “What news from Berlin?”

  A newly promoted SS captain, with deep shadows beneath his pale eyes, stood. “General, they say the Fuhrer has important matters to deal with but he has not forgotten.”

  Karl’s eyes hardened as he glanced at their faces. “If it hadn’t been for that fool Mussolini, Greece could have waited. The Russians are advancing into Bulgaria and Hungary and we wait for them to arrive. The trains, will they be ready? Has the train from Athens arrived?”

  “Sir, it’s being unloaded and configured for the journey to Berlin,” said Colonel Becker.

  Karl smiled. “Gentlemen, these three trains, I want the railcars which house anti-aircraft gun turrets and concealed howitzers, in between the wagons holding prisoners.”

  Select your best NCOs and soldiers as guards. Give them as much food and ammunition as we can spare. The two trains filled with prisoners are to be similar. Our informants tell us the resistance intend to stop Greek treasures leaving the country. These trains will reach Berlin even if you have to battle for every mile. You will have the roofs of each wagon inspected. The French use whitewash to mark special trains. Position a hopper filled with ballast in front of the engine. Forget nothing and you will arrive in Germany. Overlook one thing and... well I’ll say no more.”

  “When do you want these trains to leave, sir?” Becker asked.

  Karl rubbed his chin. “I want them ready by morning. I will make the decision on which route later. Gentlemen, go about your duties and Colonel, your officers will check and then double-check the preparations. Remember, any Greek seen in this yard is a spy and is to be shot.” He sighed. “I’m weary of being a stationmaster and harbour-master. Dismissed.”

  The group stood in unison, saluted, and left the room.

  Karl opened his briefcase and removed a large map. His eyes scanned the route of the rail lines from Thessalonica to Berlin. “Which one?” he murmured. “Get this wrong and I might as well shoot myself.” If he had any regret, it was that no one cared. He glanced at the photo of his wife and two children, a teenage boy and younger girl and remembered the fires of Dresden. Could his life ever be the same again?

  Outside the building, Colonel Becker, a harsh and inflexible man, stopped his officers. He stood facing them with his feet apart and took off his cap. From his breast pocket, he removed a sheet of paper. “Major Oskar Berg, train one. Axel Koch, train two. Lars Zimmerman, train three. You heard the general. When you believe your train is ready, report to me and we will check again. When the Russians arrive, you and your men will be in Germany.”

  “Colonel, sir.”

  “Yes, Major Zimmerman.”

  “We are soldiers not railway men. How does the general expect us to know what to check?”

  With no emotion the colonel said, “Follow your orders.” He turned and marched into the building.

  “Stupid question,” Koch said.

  Zimmerman laughed. “And you are an expert on armoured steam engines?”

  “No,” Koch said, “but I went through my men’s papers and found many of them worked on the railways before this war. I suggest you do the same. I don’t care if a corporal advises me on the rights and wrongs. I’ll listen to his advice.”

  Zimmerman scratched his head. “Great idea. Wish I’d thought of it.”

  Koch placed his arms around the others’ shoulders. “Well my friends, standing here is not getting the job done.”

  They laughed and walked out of the shadows and into the glare of floodlights towards their trains

  Chapter Three

  The stately ship is seen no more,

  The fragile skiff attains the shore,

  And while the great and wise decay,

  And all their trophies pass away

  Some sudden thought, some careless rhyme

  Still floats above the wrecks of time.

  William Edward Hartpole Lecky.

  Weary, Karl pushed a stack of papers aside and looked up as Captain Klinger Baum entered the room. He motioned towards a chair. “Sit, Captain, you appear as tired as I am.”

  Klinger grimaced. “That rust bucket I’ve been assigned should have been scrapped before this war began. The fresh coat of white paint is holding her together but she’s ready, sir.”

  “It may be as you describe but I believe it will be the last ship to leave before the Russians arrive. Your task is of the utmost importance. Should you and your crew fail... You know what I mean.”

  Klinger raised his eyebrows. “The window for success is fast closing, General. The British Navy rule the sea and the Royal Air Force the sky.”

  “They will not touch a hospital ship.”

  “And if we are stopped?”

  “You change from hospital ship to an armed merchantman. If discovered you will, without any doubt, be boarded. To make sure there are no survivors I’ve placed an armed squad of the SS on your ship. You will set the timers on the explosives and scuttle. I am convinced the Russians will be here by the end of the month. You have a chance to go home, albeit slim.”

  “When shall I sail, sir.”

  “You said you are ready and the cargo’s on board and secure. I do not see any reason to delay. You are on a tight deadline to reach Crete to refuel. What is your best speed?”

  “Twelve perhaps thirteen knots.”

  “With more night hours than day. There’s a chance.”

  Klinger nodded. “I understand my orders come direct from Heinrich Himmler and my cargo is necessary for Germany to win this war.”

  “Trust me, the demands I ask of you and your crew are no more than I ask of every man I command. Our intelligence is a shambles, my signal room requires spares to operate and the Fuhrer informs me he hasn’t forgotten.” He stopped when the phone rang.

  Klinger watched an old man age.

  “I understand. We defend the city until ready to mount a counter offensive.” The call ended and he faced Klinger. “Even I have to take orders. Go, Captain, and pray the clouds cover the moon.”

  ***

  Captain Klinger Baum stood and stared across the empty harbour as he waited. He turned and his eyes glimpsed a brass plaque on the rear bulkhead, which gave the correct name of his ship. Jupiter. 1927 Built Harland and Wolf Belfast. He smiled, when new she might have been the pride of the company. At six thousand tons, her holds when full may have contained many different cargoes. Now they held wooden ammunition boxes, their contents anonymous but he guessed they were of value.

  The direct line to the engine room buzzed. “Bridge. Captain.”

  “Chief, sir. Ready to proceed.”

  “Thank you, Chief. You and your men carried out the impossible. I will try to get us home.”

  “I’ll keep the screw turning and you set the course, sir.”

  “Standby, Chief.”

  Klinger contacted the harbour officer. “Lift the boom. Gradisca is leaving harbour.” He watched as the small tug shifted the boom from which steel nets hung.

  “Let go forward. Slow astern port – slow ahead starboard.”

  Unhurried, the bow turned away from the dock wall.

  “Let go aft. Slow ahead port.” He took a compass bearing on the centre of the entrance. “Steer 160.”

  In the dark, the profile of the vessel appeared similar to the hospital ship Gradisca.
The second funnel and wooden framework aft, which concealed two guns bolted to the deck, might give them the edge they needed to survive.

  “Steer south.”

  The middle-aged quartermaster, his hands resting on the spokes, eased the wheel, correcting the course as he glanced at the dimly lit compass card.

  Klinger stared ahead, thankful tonight neither the cloud-covered moon nor stars gave any light. The dark was his friend. Daylight his enemy.

  “Full ahead both, maximum revolutions.” He waited for the engine room line to buzz.

  “Chief, to survive I need everything this tub can give.” The line went dead as the vibrations through the vessel increased.

  “When shall I take over, sir?”

  “Bruno, you have the watch but I will stay on the bridge and catnap. Where are the SS at this moment?”

  “Leaning over the rail sir, being sick.”

  Klinger chuckled. “So much for our elite troops.”

  “Be careful, sir, someone may hear you.”

  “This war’s finished, Bruno. If we make Crete and we might, then I’ll navigate us out of the Med and into the Atlantic. What do you believe are our chances?”

  “Ten percent if we are lucky, and avoid British warships.”

  “An ice cube in the fires of hell has more chance. I’m tempted to scuttle this heap of shit when we sight Crete. My crew deserve to go home and see their families. Keep your eyes open, Bruno, and we may yet stay alive. Wake me if you notice anything.”

  “Yes. Sir.”

  ***

  “Sunrise, sir.”

  Klinger woke, slid from his chair, and walked out onto the starboard bridge wing. He yawned, stretched, and scanned an empty sea and sky. Thankful, he offered a prayer.