The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4) (7 page)

Chapter Two

On its approach to London Heathrow, the plane entered turbulence. Eva Engel stared out of the window and saw nothing but cloud.

             
Once through immigration and customs she recovered her bulging bag and jumped into the first available taxi.

             
“Where to miss?” said the cab driver in a strong cockney accent.

             
Eva handed him a piece of paper. “Here please.”

             
The man glanced at it and drove towards Hammersmith. Forty minutes later he stopped outside a modern block of flats. Eva paid the exact amount and waited until he departed.

             
At the main entrance, she removed a key from her handbag and entered the hallway. From a name board she located number eight. When renting the flat on the internet she had given a false name and paid six months’ rent in advance. Once inside, she closed the door and locked it. She strolled to the bedroom and placed her case on the bed. “It’s clean and tidy and will serve its purpose,” she said to herself. Exhausted she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

              Eva woke to a dark room. Hungry, she explored the flat but the cupboards and fridge were empty. For a moment she considered taking a shower but decided sleep came first. She undressed and slid between the white sheets.

Daylight through the undrawn curtains woke her at nine.
Today she must make an appointment to see William Morris and convince him to take on her collection. She showered and dressed in blue jeans, a white polo-neck sweater and trainers. With the bedroom light on she brushed her short blonde hair. She jumped when the phone rang and it took her a few moments to locate it in the lounge.

             
“Eva Engel speaking.”

             
“Hi Eva, everything okay with the flat?”

             
Her eyes wandered around the room. “The bed’s comfortable.”

             
“Come on, it’s got everything you need, except me.”

             
“You’re right. I slept much better without you. Manfred, I haven’t eaten, I’ll call you later. Now get lost.” She placed the phone back in its cradle.

             
Laughing she searched for her notebook in her handbag, found and opened it at William Morris. She grabbed the phone and tapped the buttons.

             
“Yes.”

             
“Is that William Morris.”

             
“Could be. Who’s asking?”

             
“Eva Engel. I spoke to you in Warsaw.”

             
“I’ll say one thing for you. You’re persistent.”

             
“As it happens I’m in London on business. Can we have lunch and discuss a collection?”

             
“You’ll be paying?”

             
“Naturally.”

             
“I’ll meet with you but no promises. What’s your nearest underground station?”

             
“Hammersmith. Why?”

             
“Because I choose the time and place. One o’clock, Star Cafe and Grill. It’s on Kings Street. Ask anyone. Don’t be late. What will you be wearing?”

             
Eva paused.” A light grey raincoat. I have short blonde hair if that helps. But I still have that picture of you from the Warsaw newspaper.”

“Good,”
said Bear as he ended the call. He waited five seconds and phoned Petros.

***

Bear sauntered into the Star Cafe at twelve forty-five, found an empty table and sat facing the entrance. The lunch rush had not yet begun. He picked up the faux-leather-bound folder and studied the pictures of the food on offer. He loved the line- ‘
Ask for what you want. If we have it, we’ll cook it.’

A female member of staff approached and stood facing him. “Are you ready to order or would you like more time?”

Bear raised his head so his eyes met hers and she smiled. “Sirloin steak, well done, three eggs sunny side up and cover it with chips please, and a large mug of coffee. White, no sugar, I’m on a diet.”

She grinned as she walked away.

The coffee arrived and ten minutes later his order. “Thank you. Any brown sauce?”

He broke the yokes o
f the eggs allowing them to run across the steak and carved off a chunk of meat.

On time, Eva
sauntered in. Bear waved. She was, in his estimation, an attractive woman. Her body curved in all the right places, dark eyes, and short blonde hair made her stand out.

             
She strolled between the tables, pulled out a chair and sat. “Mr Morris.”

             
“It was when I woke up this morning. Now while I eat you tell me why I should undertake this collection.”

             
“This might be a good moment for me to leave.”

             
Bear paused from eating. “You wanted the meeting, I’m here, talk.”

             
Eva smiled and stretched her long legs so he could see them.

             
“Nice legs, but my partner has better.”

             
“What do I have to say for you to accept my collection?”

             
Bear stared straight into her eyes. “You have until I finish my meal to make me interested and then I’m out of here and don’t forget your paying. Want a coffee?”

             
“Yes, black.”

             
Bear caught the attention of a waitress and ordered an Americano, black.

             
“In World War Two, my grandfather, a Luftwaffe captain, collected packages of uncut diamonds from Luderitz in Namibia. In nineteen forty-one he crashed in the mountains of Libya. From his final ramblings and notebook, the stones remain where he hid them. I want you to find them.”

                The waitress arrived with Eva’s coffee.

             
Bear held up his hand and she stopped talking. “You haven’t a clue and you believe we’ll discover granddad’s hiding place.” He glared at her. “Ms Engel, how much money do you have? Libya is a mess and you want me to wander in, have a gander and stroll out. You are one crazy woman.

             
“Here’s the deal. Two thousand pounds a day, all expenses, half up front and in my bank account before I leave. Initially, I’ll allow one week for me and my partner, Hire of special equipment, one four-wheel drive and a helicopter. Let’s say fifty thousand up front.”

             
Eva appreciated that as a skilled operative he was the man for the job. “Do you think fifty-thousand will be enough?”

             
Bear chuckled. “You didn’t even flinch at the mention of the money. Your grandfather’s notebook, where is it?”

             
From her handbag, she removed the battered leather-bound book. He studied the Luftwaffe emblem and gold embossed swastika on the cover. “If your lot had won I don’t think you’d be talking to me. I gather Hitler believed we, like so many others, were inferior.”

             
Eva shrugged. “We were defeated, Mr Morris, and those days are long gone. You can read German?”

             
He looked up from the book. “Not well enough but your grandfather was a stickler for making notes. Somewhere in here is a clue to where he crashed. Without that, you’re looking for the proverbial. I have your number on my mobile. You’ll have my decision within the week. And before you ask, I will not disappear with your book. Pay the bill on your way out.”

             
Eva stood and appeared serious. “Trust, Mr Morris, is something difficult to come by these days but you have your week and then I want my book back.”

             
Bear finished his coffee and sat there with his hands behind his neck, waiting.

             
Petros peered over the partition. “You’re not a nice man, Mr Morris.” The contrast between them was striking. Bear wore an ancient black leather jacket, blue jeans and scruffy jumper over his powerful frame. Petros, slim and muscular, was dressed in his black Armani blazer, grey trousers and crisp white shirt but no tie.

             
Petros sat and faced Bear. “Eva strikes me as an intelligent woman but there’s something I can’t put my finger on. Would I trust her? No. Do you think the diamonds are still there?”

             
“Fucked if I know. You decipher this notebook and tell me. You know I can’t read German.”

Chapter Three

In one of the many reading rooms of the London Library, Petros sat, on his own, with Eva’s notebook and a pile of maps purchased that morning from Stanford map shop. Page after page he read conscious of the amount of information it contained. Most were flight plans in note form but it was the final observations he translated.

             
From what he read the operation was straightforward. Leave Berlin, land Tripoli, fuel, leave Tripoli (Libya) and arrive Luderitz (Namibia). Flight duration 24 hours at four hundred kilometres per hour.

             
The next entry confirmed the package of uncut diamonds received from the agent and secured in the cockpit. A side note stated, ‘
heavier than last time.’

             
The flight plan for the return journey copied the original but in reverse. A note commented on the reliability of the autopilot. ‘
Works well under normal conditions but has to be adjusted every hour. Tends to veer to the right although has been known on occasion to wander left. Good dead reckoning required at all times. With a flight duration of twenty-four hours we could end up where we started.’              

              Petros read what amounted to a report and noted its contents. On his map of Africa, he drew a thick, dark line from Luderitz to Tripoli and leant back in the chair. “Where did you crash?” he muttered.

             
He reread the notes.
A German-speaking officer gave him water
. Why would he write that? His face lit up. “Special Forces.” He dragged the distant information from his memory, shifted his position to the room’s computer, and typed in ‘Long Range Desert Group’. His gaze wandered across the mass of information. It appeared that the majority of LRDG operations took place between Tripoli and Benghazi, which made sense, as they were the main German supply routes. He tried various other alternatives but nothing of any importance showed. Frustrated, he paced the room until it came to him, The Imperial War Museum archives.  

             
Hopeful, Petros packed his notes and maps, took the underground to Lambeth North, walked the short distance along Kennington Road, and climbed the steep steps to the entrance. He surveyed the exterior of the former Bethlem Royal Hospital or ‘Bedlam’ as it was better known and wondered what its long gone patients might have thought of it now.

             
To the left of the entrance stood a large man with thick grey hair and similar bushy eyebrows, dressed in a grey uniform.

             
Petros approached. The man gave him a knowledgeable glance. “Can I help you, sir?”

             
“I hope so. Who do I need to see to check the archives?”

             
He gave a wry smile. “That’ll be Mrs Masters. I’ll take you to her office.” He led Petros across the ground floor exhibits to a locked door. When opened he pointed. “Door at the end, sir. Tell her, Alfie sent you.”