The Wohldorf Shipment Read online

  ‘Look — there’s a name cut into it!’ Myra Brunner observed with excitement.

  Rudolf Brunner started up the steep slope only to come to an abrupt halt as he neared his objective.

  ‘Rudolf!’ There was a sharp note of alarm in Myra Brunner’s voice when she witnessed the strange, drawn expression cloud her husband’s face.

  Rudolf Brunner murmured, ‘I don’t believe it!’ His face ashen beneath its sun-tan, he continued in an astonished voice as he stared at the cross, ‘The name — the name is Wohldorf!’ At mention of the name Myra Brunner’s eyes grew wide and her heart missed a beat. She raised a hand to her breast involuntarily. ‘The man who Heinrich went to meet along with the Santa Elvira that day?’ Her voice was an incredulous whisper as the memories of a June morning ten years earlier crowded her mind mistily. Then to answer her own question, afraid to allow herself any shred of hope, she disputed herself. ‘But it can’t be the same man — it can’t possibly be him!’

  Rudolf Brunner answered from a great distance, ‘It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be him.’

  ‘But out here?’

  Rudolf Brunner’s distracted gaze suddenly registered the fact that another piece of driftwood, a solitary piece which protruded from the sand like some half-buried spar, was situated some thirty metres further northward. For several seconds he hesitated as if he was afraid of what he might find, then he stumbled towards it through the shifting sand.

  The missing piece of the second cross lay partly buried nearby, and he slowly reached it out of the sand and peered at the partially obliterated name. He could make it out only faintly: K Dornberger — August 1945. In an emotionally constricted voice he called back along the shore. ‘Read me the date on that other cross.’

  Myra Brunner rubbed the film of sand from the cross-piece of weathered driftwood with trembling fingers. ‘September — September 1945.’

  Rudolf Brunner hurried back along the shore calling out, ‘Then it must be them! It has to be them! Surely there can be no other explanation! The other name is Dornberger!’

  Myra Brunner’s mind was in a daze. She glanced up and down the shore agitatedly. ‘Then poor Heinrich may be buried somewhere out here too!’ she cried out in an anguished voice. ‘Whatever happened to them, Rudolf?’

  Rudolf Brunner slipped a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders and stared out at the shimmering ocean through creased eyes. ‘It may be that we will never know. It was a long time ago.’ Then he snapped back to the present, took his wife’s hand. ‘We must get back to the car. Our first duty is to inform Dr Matzhold about our find. He’s going to find it very difficult to accept.’

  Four kilometres further north the Brunners saw a collection of adobe dwellings and the bell-tower of a chapel up ahead, dirty white, framed against the skyline above a curve in the shore. Approaching the outskirts of the village, a peeling white sign read: San Martes.

  As a village it scarcely deserved such recognition. The inevitable Plaza was fronted by a dingy hotel with closed shutters, the Hotel Negro, and on the opposing side was situated the chapel. On the shore below several small fishing-boats lay high on the sand, deserted.

  Myra Brunner reached out a hand to her husband’s arm. ‘Why don’t we stop and take a look at the local cemetery?’

  Rudolf Brunner saw the logic of his wife’s suggestion, eased his foot on the accelerator, and drew the Buick to a crisp halt outside the chapel gate where a faded sign read: The Sacred Chapel of the Sea.

  As Myra Brunner alighted she glanced towards the hotel where two half-naked children sat on the front step watching the dust settle over the Plaza with sad, incurious faces. She said, ‘This place looks almost as if it has been forgotten by the world.’

  The cemetery was laid out on three sides of the chapel, overgrown with weeds and scattered with rubble from the crumbling adobe wall which surrounded it.

  ‘There!’ Myra Brunner was first to see them, seven identical wooden crosses situated against the wall where it overlooked the ocean.

  On closer investigation they found that only three of the crosses bore names, cut roughly into the wood. Two of the names were Latin: Ramon Gutierrez and Manuel Cuartero. The third read: F O Rothfels. All three bore the date September 1945.

  A voice behind them said in Spanish, ‘They are of interest to you?’

  The Brunners turned to find themselves confronted by a young priest dressed in a threadbare brown habit.

  ‘Father Vasquez Barcelo,’ the priest politely informed them. ‘We were merely curious, Father,’ Rudolf Brunner explained. ‘You see, we stumbled on two graves back there along the shore while picnicking.’

  ‘Yes, I know of them,’ Father Barcelo affirmed. ‘They are situated just north of Bahia Anegada.’

  Rudolf Brunner indicated the grave which bore the name Rothfels. ‘We also saw that they both bore European names like this one here — perhaps German in origin.’

  Father Barcelo evinced closer interest in the Brunners. ‘You are German?’

  ‘My father was,’ Myra Brunner answered. ‘And when we saw those graves back there we immediately thought about someone — a friend of ours — who disappeared at sea just prior to the dates inscribed on the crosses.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Father Barcelo’s brows rose upward a fraction. ‘And he disappeared in the vicinity of San Martes?

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Rudolf Brunner intervened. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘May I ask your friend’s name?’

  ‘Von Geyr — Heinrich von Geyr.’

  Father Barcelo moved his head negatively. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t recall ever having heard mention of such a name. But then I’m afraid there is little I can tell you about these graves. It happened in Father Barea’s time, before I arrived here. However, I know that the bodies were cast up on the shore nearby. Those buried here in the cemetery were found in the vicinity of the village, while the two you came on back there on the shore were buried where they were found on account of the fact they were too badly decomposed to be brought here for internment.’ Father Barcelo lifted sombre eyes to the shimmering ocean. ‘I believe they were officially thought to have drowned when a freighter of mixed crew foundered somewhere out there, although I’m not acquainted with the facts. What I do remember is Father Barea saying certain of the bodies possessed some sort of discs which revealed their names, while others still retained scraps of letters or documents in the remnants of their clothing not washed from them by the sea.’ His sombre gaze returned to dwell on the row of crosses, and he continued quietly, ‘And as you can see, the nameless did not possess anything.’

  Rudolf Brunner found it difficult to restrain his impatience. ‘You say they were officially thought to have drowned when a freighter of mixed crew foundered somewhere out there?’

  ‘Yes. When Father Barea informed the Ministerio de Marina about the finding of the bodies they sent an officer from Bahia Blanca to interview him on the matter. From what I remember of our conversation on the subject, I believe he said that the officer in question also took possession of the deceaseds’ effects at the same time.’

  ‘And do you know if the Ministerio de Marina were ever able to establish the name of the vessel which foundered?’

  Father Barcelo shook his head. ‘That I’m afraid I don’t know. As I have already said, it happened before I arrived in San Martes.’

  Rudolf Brunner began to feel uneasy with the intensity of the priest’s gaze, and he decided that he had pursued the subject as far as it was safe to do so without incurring too much curiosity. With his thoughts masked, he again glanced at the graves. ‘But no Heinrich von Geyr, eh, Father?’

  ‘No, it would seem not. However, this stretch of shore is so vast and desolate that there may well have been other bodies washed up unnoticed on it and buried in the sands by Nature herself.’

  Rudolf Brunner shrugged his resignation. He said, ‘Yes, that may well be so. Anyway, thank you for your time, Father. We only stopped out of curiosity.’

  Father Barcelo answered courteously, ‘I quite understand.’

  As the Brunners returned down the path in the blazing heat, they were conscious of Father Barcelo’s gaze following them. In low, worried tones, Myra Brunner said, ‘Don’t you think he became rather too curious

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rudolf Brunner stated confidently. ‘Not when you consider it can’t be every day of the week that someone calls to look at the graves of people washed up on the shore ten years ago.’

  Myra Brunner’s thoughts were already elsewhere. With deep concern she said, ‘I just can’t bear to think about the possibility that Heinrich may have been lying out here all those years unknown to us.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Rudolf Brunner said. ‘You mustn’t torture yourself with any such thoughts till we learn more about all this. And those sort of inquiries are better left in the hands of Dr Matzhold. I intend to put a call through to him as soon as we reach Pedro Luro.’

  ‘I agree,’ Myra Brunner quietly conceded. ‘But I find it strange that all his previous inquiries around the time of the Santa Elvira’s disappearance didn’t yield anything about these graves out here.’

  Rudolf Brunner was silent in his agreement as he began to realise the enormous importance of their chance discovery, and the colossal repercussions it was certain to create.

  * * *

  Rudolf Brunner and his wife arrived at the Hotel Castilla in Pedro Luro at 6.35 pm, booked an early dinner at reception, and stopped at one of the pay-phones in the lobby to place a call to Buenos Aires.

  ‘Ah, Rudolf!’ Dr Matzhold’s answering voice expressed genuine delight on receipt of the call. ‘This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. Tell me - how was the vacation?’

  In a state of agitation
Rudolf Brunner impressed sternly, ‘Dr Matzhold — you must listen very carefully to what I have to say. I’m calling from Pedro Luro. Myra and I have just seen the graves of Wohldorf and several others. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  A shocked, disconcerted silence met his words.

  He said impatiently, ‘Hello? Are you still with me?’

  ‘Yes — yes, I’m still with you,’ Dr Matzhold’s stunned voice acknowledged. Then after an interval of several moments, as if he found the news too incredulous to believe, he said in a more firm tone, ‘You’re certain that you’re not dreaming this?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Rudolf Brunner impressed. ‘Myra and I left Carmen de Patagones this morning, and on Wilhelm’s advice took the coast road instead of the Pan-Am Highway. On the way we stopped to picnic and came across two graves on the shore. The names on them read Wohldorf and Dornberger.’

  Dr Matzhold was again silent for several moments before he spoke further, then moved by Brunner’s infectious excitement, he said, ‘If what you say is true — then this is truly astonishing news. But can you provide me with more details, the exact location of the graves?’

  Rudolf Brunner answered unhesitatingly, ‘They’re situated on the shore some four kilometres south of the village of San Martes, north of Bahia Anegada, on the road south from Pedro Luro to Carmen de Patagones. Also in the cemetery of the Sacred Chapel of the Sea in the village itself are another seven graves. But only three of them bear names: Gutierrez, Cuartero, and Rothfels. The date of internment is recorded as September 1945. The two on the shore bear the dates August and September of the same year. According to the local priest all the bodies were cast up on the shore nearby and identified either by identity discs or from scraps of letters or documents found in their clothing. He said his predecessor Father Barea passed these effects to an officer of the Ministerio de Marina from Bahia Blanca. I felt that was as far as I dare safely pursue the matter.’

  Dr Matzhold expressed approval, ‘A wise decision. And when’s your flight out to Rio?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening at ten. But we can be in Buenos Aires later tonight, or rather early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Then call on me the moment you arrive,’ Dr Matzhold instructed. ‘I will be at home waiting.’

  * * *

  In a luxury apartment block out at Palermo Wood in the Federal Capital of Buenos Aires, Dr Alfred Matzhold, an Argentine national and a man of middle age with crew-cut iron-grey hair, sat in his suite eleven floors above the Avenida Libertador General San Martin and stared deep in thought at the phone before him on the vast leather-bound desk. He had never known SS-Hauptsturmführer Ernst Wohldorf personally, but he had every cause to remember the disappearance of the Santa Elvira. And if what Rudolf Brunner had just told him was true, then his discovery was indeed something quite extraordinary.

  Rising from the desk, he crossed the room to a combination wall-safe and removed a small indexed notebook. At the long picture window which gave a panoramic view of the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, the polo complex, and the rococo race-track, Hipodromo Argentino, he scanned a page of coded numbers before he returned across the room to place a call to Arequipa in southern Peru. He was connected with the number seven minutes later. ‘This is Dr Alfred Matzhold speaking,’ he explained in Spanish to the answering voice. ‘I request that you refer me to Señor Martin. I have a matter of the utmost gravity to discuss with him.’

  ‘One moment,’ the voice informed.

  Two minutes later a harsh and clipped voice said in English, ‘Hello?’

  Dr Matzhold at once lapsed into German. ‘Matzhold here, Herr Martin. I have just received a call from Rudolf Brunner in Pedro Luro. He informed me that he and his wife today stumbled across the man Wohldorf’s grave on the shore between Carmen de Patagones and Pedro Luro, some four kilometres south of the village called San Martes. I hardly dared allow myself to believe him, but he sounded profoundly certain about it. I felt you ought to have this information without delay.’

  In the Villa Blanco on the outskirts of Arequipa, the formidably heavy-featured man’s face instantly registered a dark frown; the former Reichsleiter had infinitely more reason than Dr Matzhold to remember SS-Hauptsturmführer Ernst Wohldorf. ‘Yes, go on! I’m listening!’ Martin Bormann’s words were stifled with shock and excitement.

  In reply Dr Matzhold carefully recounted his earlier conversation with Rudolf Brunner.

  ‘Incredible!’ exclaimed Bormann when Dr Matzhold was through. ‘But can this be believed?’

  Dr Matzhold said cautiously, ‘Naturally there’s always the possibility it might prove to be a colossal coincidence, yet I’m inclined to believe Brunner. I’ve never known him to be given to flights of fancy. And of course, at that time — and Brunner stated that the dates inscribed on the graves indicate the bodies being found between August and September 1945 — we were primarily concerned with concentrating our inquiries on the area around the Golfo de San Matias, the area in which the transfer of the shipment was to have been effected. Never at any time did we think to seriously concern ourselves with more than a cursory interest in the Bahia Blanca coastline — something that with hindsight may now be termed a gross error of judgement certainly if Brunner should be proved correct.’

  Bormann had listened in silence, thoughts and emotions in conflict. ‘And these other names — Dornberger, Rothfels, Gutierrez, and Cuartero — do they mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not really — not at this moment.’ Dr Matzhold sounded uncertain, troubled. ‘But yet the name Gutierrez sounds vaguely familiar. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Then have all this checked out at once,’ Bormann curtly directed. ‘Check everything out. And when you have something concrete to hand contact me again — in person. This is a far too delicate matter to discuss in this manner. Do I make myself clear?’

  Dr Matzhold said, ‘Of course. I will attend to it tonight — now.’

  * * *

  In the library of the Villa Blanco which lay in seclusion on the outskirts of Arequipa beneath the snow-capped grandeur of the volcano El Misti, Martin Bormann climbed out of the big leather armchair and made his way out onto the arbour-lined patio where he eased his heavy frame into a wicker chair, and glowered out across the Rio Chili valley in the darkness coming down over the Andes with a brooding gaze.

  He had arrived in Arequipa four days earlier from the Calle Jon de Huaylas after a short visit to his old friend Friedrich Schwend, and now to add to his other not inconsiderable worries and problems, the ghost of SS-Hauptsturmführer Ernst Wohldorf had been unexpectedly resurrected, and with it the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the Santa Elvira and U501.

  When the news of the mystery first reached him from Dr Matzhold he had been in hiding with Falangist friends near Seo de Urgel in the Eastern Pyrenees below the Franco-Spanish frontier. Later, after his arrival in the Argentine, when provided with access to Dr Matzhold’s records concerning the incident, he had been able to establish that U501 had reported her arrival off Punta Mogotes to Matzhold’s clandestine radio station near General Alvarado during the forenoon of June 17, 1945, after being presumed lost on voyage. As a result the Santa Elvira had sailed shortly after midday from Necochea under command of an ex-Kriegsmarine officer named Hans-Bernd Soltmann, accompanied by Matzhold’s deputy and son-in-law, Carl Heinrich Dassel, and Matzhold’s liaison officer, Heinrich von Geyr, in order to rendezvous with U501 at a position one hundred nautical miles due South of Punta Mogotes. At 10.55 the Santa Elvira contacted the radio station near General Alvarado to report the rendezvous as having been successful and that both vessels were proceeding south in company to the Golfo de San Matias as planned. It had been the last signal ever received from her, nor was contact ever again re-established with U501, and whatever the reason for the disappearance of both vessels, it had remained a mystery despite prolonged and intensive inquiries by experienced agents.

  But now, out of nowhere, ten years later, a clue appeared to have been unearthed which might at last shed light on the matter. Although there had been a period when U501’s cargo would have been invaluable to Bormann, when the treasure which he had amassed during the latter years of the war, and secretly transported to Latin America, had been severely depleted by the demands of those people who had arranged for him to find refuge in the Argentine when all the world was looking for him, his astute management of remaining funds had quickly brought about his financial revival, so that within a few short years he had once again established himself as the world’s most wealthy fugitive. Yet it irked him, overwhelmed him with an almost unbearable frustration, that the mystery behind the disappearance of the Santa Elvira and U501 might forever remain unsolved. And a man renowned for his cast-iron memory, Martin Bormann experienced no difficulty when it came to recalling the events that had led to the ultimate disappearance of what was perhaps the greatest shipment of treasure ever attempted, a last massive shipment which he had accumulated while the Third Reich had crumbled around him during the closing months of the war — Shipment No. 11372.