Brandon and India sat on the sofa in the cosy front room of the house in Port Stanley. It had taken three days to reach the Falklands, flying via Punta Arenas in Peru, one of the few airports that operated a service to the disputed islands. When they had arrived in the Falklands, they had booked into one of the small hotels and immediately made their way up to the small farmhouse on the outskirts of the town where they had been told Bert lived.
Brandon knocked on the door and a few moments later a portly woman answered with a welcoming smile.
‘Hello,’ said Brandon, ‘I was wondering if you could help us please. My name is Brandon Walker and this is my colleague, India Summers. We are looking for Bert Melbourne, is he in?’
‘I’m afraid not, dear,’ said the woman, ‘but he’s due back soon. Would you like to wait?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ said Brandon and they followed her into the cosy interior of her home.
‘He won’t be long,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Maisy, Bert’s wife. Please make yourself comfortable while I make us some tea.’
As she left the room India looked at Brandon with an air of confusion.
‘His wife?’ she whispered. ‘She can’t be more than sixty years old. He must be in his nineties by now.’
Brandon shrugged his shoulders.
‘Some men like the younger lady, I suppose,’ he said.
A kerosene heater roared in the fireplace and they both removed their coats as the heat warmed them up. Maisy returned and within minutes they were sipping piping hot tea from dainty china cups. India glanced around the small living room, so reminiscent of the one her grandmother used to have when India was small. The mantelpiece above the fire was formed from a single piece of solid driftwood and polished to a high shine over many years. Solid brass ornaments perched proudly atop the mantel and a set of ornamental fire irons sat alongside the heater, a reminder of the fires of home where wood and coal was plentiful.
‘He won’t be long,’ said Maisy again as she eased her ample frame onto a dining chair next to the table, ‘he’s out walking the dog.’
‘That’s nice,’ said India. ‘What kind of dog have you got?’
‘Oh, we haven’t got a dog,’ said Maisy. ‘Bert’s actually down the pub having his daily pint. Years ago we did have a dog, Goebbels, his name was, a German Shepherd cross. Anyway, whenever Bert walked it he would always call in the pub on the way back. Of course, I always knew but there was no harm done, he’s a good man, Bert, always has been, always will be. It broke his heart when that dog died. Since then, he always says the same thing. Taking the dog for a walk, says he. OK, says I, see you later. He loved that dog, he did.’
‘Strange name for a dog,’ said Brandon, ‘Goebbels. Isn’t that the same name as the World War Two German propaganda minister?’
‘Yes, he’s named after him,’ said Maisy.
‘Is that because he was a German Shepherd?’ asked India, trying to make conversation.
‘Oh no, dear,’ said Maisy, ‘it’s because he had no balls, like in the song.’
Brandon choked on his tea and stifled a laugh.
‘Oh,’ said India, looking toward Brandon for an explanation.
‘It’s a World War Two soldier’s song,’ said Brandon, ‘I’ll explain later.’
They heard the door open and the sound of the howling wind outside as somebody came in.
‘Only me, dear,’ shouted a voice.
‘He always says that,’ whispered Maisy, ‘I don’t know why.’
They heard the sound of shoes being discarded in the hallway and Maisy struggled to her feet to retrieve a pair of slippers from the fireplace.
‘Here you are, dear,’ she said, shuffling toward the living room door. ‘Don’t you be bringing them mucky shoes in here, we have visitors.’
Brandon stood up to meet Bert as he walked into the room blowing on his fingers.
‘Hello,’ said the man, ‘it’s bloody brass monkeys out there.’
Brandon paused in confusion. The man before him was about sixty years old and certainly wasn’t the man he had met back in England.
‘Hello,’ said Brandon, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Brandon Walker. I think there’s been a mistake. I was looking for Bert Melbourne, we met a few years ago in Stirling Lines.’
‘There’s no mistake, Mr Walker,’ said the man. ‘You must have met my father, I’m named after him.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Brandon, glancing over to Maisy. ‘That makes sense now, we thought…’
The sentence went unfinished as India kicked his ankle.
‘You thought what?’ asked Bert, removing his coat.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said India quickly, ‘we were just confused.’
‘Is your father here?’ asked Brandon.
Bert turned around and looked at him.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Walker,’ he said, ‘my father died last year.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said India, ‘we never knew.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Bert. ‘He had a good innings. Please sit down, you must have come a long way.’
‘Indeed we have,’ said Brandon.
‘So, can I ask what was so important that you came all this way to see him about?’ asked Bert as he reversed toward the fire, lifting his jacket tails.
‘Well, it’s a bit academic now,’ said Brandon. ‘I wanted to ask him some questions about his time in the war.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Yes, one of the missions he took part in while he was in the SAS.’
‘Which one?’
‘Operation Tabarin,’ said Brandon.
Bert paused momentarily and stared at Brandon in silence.
‘You know that is still classified,’ he said eventually.
‘I do,’ said Brandon, ‘but it was almost seventy years ago and we thought he might be able to tell us something about it.’
‘Tell me, Mr Walker,’ said Bert, ‘what makes you think my father would have broken the Official Secrets Act for you?’
‘I know it would have been asking a lot,’ said Brandon, ‘but I thought after all these years he would have been happy to talk about it.’
‘Then you thought wrong,’ said Bert. ‘My father was patriotic to the end and never would have betrayed his country.’
‘And I wouldn’t have expected him to,’ said Brandon. ‘He was a very special and honourable man. I just hoped that there might be some things he thought he would be able to share.’
‘Well,’ said Bert, ‘knowing my father, you would have got nothing out of him. I, however, have no such qualms.’
‘You know about it?’ asked Brandon in surprise.
‘I do,’ said Bert. ‘Something happened down there that changed my father’s life forever. He made it his life’s work to investigate further and even moved down here in the sixties to be closer. As he got older, I helped him do some research and he finally opened up to tell me what happened.’
Before he could explain further, Maisy returned to the room carrying a tray with clean cups and a tea plate containing four chocolate biscuits.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘India, could you bring in the teapot please, it’s a bit heavy for me.’
‘Of course,’ said India, and helped the old woman pour four fresh cups of tea.
Bert sank into a battered armchair to one side of the fire and reached for a pipe on the side table. He slowly stuffed the bowl with tobacco and lit it carefully with a match, the smell of sulphur momentarily filling the air.
‘I’ve told him to give it up,’ said Maisy apologetically, ‘it can’t be good for his health.’
‘Give it a rest, woman,’ said Bert, ‘it’s the only pleasure I’ve got these days. So, Mr Walker, you have come an awfully long way. Why don’t you explain why you have such an interest in Operation Tabarin?’
‘Look,’ said Brandon, ‘we don’t know much, it’s true, but what we do know is a submarine left Queen Maud Land just after the war ended in 1945. Now I don’t pretend to know why it was in Antarctica in the first place but I do know that the captain left a logbook. In that book he describes a fleet of ships unloading what could be a fortune in stolen artefacts from the occupation of Europe. I also know that the SAS carried out an operation around that time and wondered if the two events were connected. I realise it’s a long shot but if you can just give me an indication of what went on down there, I may be able to make some informed decisions.’
‘Why don’t you read the records?’ asked Bert. ‘I’m sure it is all written down somewhere.’
‘I expect it is,’ said Brandon, ‘but you know how these things work. It could take months or even years to get the requisitions signed and even then, who knows where they may be by now.’
‘So why is this important after all these years?’ asked Bert.
‘Because somebody is after the same information that we are,’ said Brandon, ‘but the difference is they are willing to kill for it.’
Bert stared at him for a while, puffing gently on his pipe.
‘OK, Mr Walker,’ he said, ‘I will tell you what I can. Not because I am afraid of some crackpot Nazi treasure hunters but to keep you and your pretty friend from putting yourselves in unnecessary danger. Make yourself comfortable, this make take a while.’
Thousands of miles away in an office in Whitehall, an MI6 officer sat patiently, waiting for his superior officer, Colonel Augustus Shipman, to finish reading a report. Colonel Shipman had worked his way through the ranks of the Marines before being headhunted by MI6 for a senior post in their organisation. Within a few years he held the top job and ran the team with ruthless efficiency.
‘When did this come in?’ asked Shipman without looking up.
‘Yesterday,’ said Barnes, an Oxford graduate with a talent for surveillance technology.
‘And it has been checked for accuracy, I assume?’
‘It has,’ said Barnes. ‘Our asset in Argentina has confirmed everything.’
‘Do we have satellite?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Barnes, and placed a memory stick in the side of his laptop. A few moments later both men turned to view an image on the screen. At first it was obviously a high-altitude shot of South America but with a few clicks of the mouse, the picture zoomed in with Barnes narrating as the pictures became clearer.
‘As you know, we have been watching the main players for a long time. For years now, they have been relatively quiet and most of the big names died long ago. However, it seems there is a new breed coming through, the sons and daughters of the original fugitives. These people are far more dangerous than their parents ever were. They are technology savvy and grew up alongside the drugs cartels and the influence of big business. They have made their own way in the world and spread their wings away from the influence of the old guard; however, one thing hasn’t changed, and that is their unflinching belief in Nazism. If anything, it is even worse, for they have grown up hearing only the ideals and have a hundred per cent belief that the atrocities of the Third Reich are nothing but blatant propaganda written by the victors. For the past few years their activities have been restricted to internal business deals, but recently there has been far more contact with the drugs cartels of Colombia. For that reason we arranged closer surveillance and managed to get an asset on the inside.’
‘And what have we uncovered?’ asked Shipman.
‘Well at first there was nothing much, then the activity increased and seemed to be focused around a vessel called the Navarino, a trawler registered in southern Argentina. We have long suspected the trawler as being on the payroll of the cartels and it has been searched twice by US customs without luck. However, a week ago the Navarino was seen leaving Colombia and steaming south along the western coastline of South America, way outside the patrol lanes of the coastguard. At first we just intended to pass the information on so took some satellite pictures for identification purposes. However, when we examined the image, we saw something suspicious.’
Barnes adjusted the picture to reveal the tiny image of a ship out at sea. He zoomed in, and the image loomed large on the screen.
‘Unfortunately the image is poor quality,’ he continued. ‘We have had it enhanced but this is the best we can do. What you can see here is a typical industrial crab trawler. However, unlike other such trawlers, there is no evidence of the many large baskets you would normally see, or indeed any of the equipment they would normally carry. Instead, it would seem that the decks have been cleared to carry a larger cargo. The large dark shape you can make out in the centre of the deck is a tarpaulin covering something we believe they are trying to hide.’
‘Do we know what the cargo is?’ asked Shipman.
‘No. For a while we considered involving the US coastguard but decided against it.’
‘And why was that?’
‘Because we wanted to see where it was going. The cargo, whatever it is, must be very important to risk discovery on the open sea. In the past there have been instances of boats being scuttled rather than surrender their cargo to the authorities. We felt there was more to be gained to see this through to the end.’
‘Do you think it’s drugs?’ asked Shipman.
‘Actually, we don’t,’ said Barnes. ‘Drugs would be carried below deck. We think this is something that is too big to fit through the cargo hatches.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, at first we thought it was a weapon system of sorts, especially when the trawler turned up in Ushuaia.’
‘And where is that, exactly?’
Chris clicked his laptop again and the picture changed to zoom in on a large fishing port.
‘This is the island of Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego,’ he said. ‘It’s a large island off the southern tip of Argentina. Ushuaia is a busy fishing port and what we are looking at here is one of the lesser-used docks at one end. To the left, you can see our trawler, and in this image you can see the tarpaulin is still there.’
‘OK,’ said the officer, ‘I’m with you so far.’
‘The next few images are taken thirty minutes apart,’ continued Barnes, ‘and you can see that by image six the tarpaulin has been removed and the cargo has gone. At first it didn’t make sense, as there are no signs of any vehicle alongside the trawler or indeed any other ships large enough to take it.’
‘What about that one?’ asked Shipman, pointing toward a huge vessel at the other end of the dock.
‘That’s a ship called the Magellan,’ said Chris, ‘a whaling ship registered out of Puerto Williams, a city further east along the coast. We did consider it for a while but as it was so far away there seemed little point as we would have picked up the transfer on satellite. At first we thought it was a dead end, but then we spotted something that is as fascinating as it is extraordinary.’
‘Go on,’ said the officer.
‘If you look at the trawler in the next image,’ said Barnes, ‘you can see the cargo has gone. There is no sign of it anywhere, but you can see that the crane on the deck has moved, indicating it was lifted off despite there being no other vehicles or boats in the immediate vicinity. However, and this is where it becomes interesting, if you ignore the actual dock itself and examine the water, you can see something strange.’
‘Where?’ asked the officer.
Chris zoomed in again.
‘Next image,’ he said as the picture got bigger. ‘Several yards north of the trawler you can see a disturbance on the water.’
‘Where?’
‘There,’ said Barnes, moving the image of his mouse cursor on the screen.
Shipman shook his head.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll come onto that in a minute,’ said Barnes, ‘but first I want to show you the others. In the next slide you can see it is further across the dock and finally, in this last image, there it is again alongside the whaler.’
‘Doesn’t make any sense,’ said Shipman. ‘It looks like a duck.’
‘It does,’ said Barnes, ‘but when I tell you what it really is, it will all make sense.’
‘Go on then, surprise me.’
‘It’s the top of a periscope.’
The officer stared in disbelief and then stood up to stand closer to the screen.
‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ he said.
‘No, we are sure,’ said Barnes. ‘And if you look closely, you can just about make out the shape beneath the water. We believe that the cargo on the trawler was a mini submarine.’