The Gold Conspiracy E-Book

John Kellermann

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 387

Beschreibung

Frankfurt (Germany), a cold November morning. Greece is bankrupt. The financial markets are collapsing. To appease the population, the German Central Bank retrieves its gold reserves from abroad. En route to the gold pyramid a heavily guarded gold transport is raided. Investigations are underway. A journalist asks lethal questions. Fake gold bars start to appear. But does the German gold even exist? How is the CIA involved? Have we all been conned? The reporter Markus Manx and Lena, a highly accomplished hacker, dig deeper and end up caught between all the players. Mercilessly their powerful opponents try to track them down. The race against time begins. But far too late ... Videotrailer: www.john-kellermann.de

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Preface

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Monday

Epilog

Preface

Frankfurt am Main, 2016

The reader needs to be aware that this book is a result of my imagination, yet similarities with existing persons and circumstances cannot be completely ruled out. Statements about the future, however, will remain fiction, regardless of their plausibility. In order to protect those involved and my sources, I have altered individuals’ names. Most of the locations are real.

The following events take place in the near future.

John Kellermann

Monday

Poland, Szczytno-Szymany, 0100 Hours. For a long time it had been a secret - an extremely well-guarded secret. 15 years ago, however, the barracks camp close to the small airport in the northeast of Poland had gained some notorious fame. Back then the illegal internment and torture of prisoners came to light. In the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the Polish secret service had relinquished the camp to the CIA.

But the scandals involving waterboarding, sleep deprivation, beatings and other methods to obtain questionable statements from disenfranchised detainees had already been forgotten. The Polish as well as the American governments had repeatedly confirmed that the interrogation centre with the former code name Quarz no longer existed.

A lie. ‘Temporary non-usage until renewed demand’ would have been more accurate. Like last night. After quite some considerable time, a small aircraft, a Gulfstream G550, had landed on Szczytno-Szymany airport. The airplane identification on the fuselage-mounted engines had been obscured. Evidence of a secret mission of extreme urgency which had justified reactivating the interrogation center. At least in the eyes of those in charge.

The new moon was imminent and it was correspondingly dark at one in the morning. A black Chevrolet truck with tinted windows was waiting at the edge of the runway until several people alighted from the plane. Somebody was being led across the landing strip towards the vehicle. Hands tied behind the back, a dark bag covering his head, he was flanked on both sides by guards dressed in black. It took less than a minute until everybody had climbed into the now slowly moving truck.

It was only a short drive to the camp, which was surrounded by a massive, man-high fence, additionally secured by razor-sharp wire on top. Behind the fence a passable strip, then a series of dense conifers, obscuring a closer look at the wooden barracks located behind them. It was still discernible, however, that, unlike the wooden barracks inside, the site’s outer security measures were kept in good repair.

“Stopp!” shouted the heavily armed guard at the entrance gate. His camouflage fatigues had no insignia; establishing his nationality was therefore impossible. Slowly the truck approached the gate where the driver held up his ID without fully lowering the window. The guard saluted briskly and let the vehicle pass. He had evidently been instructed about the transport.

*

The interrogation had lasted five hours; usually a pure routine job for Ted Branigan, the specialist. He was in charge of such operations in Central Europe and had carried them out hundreds of times. Depending on the situation, he applied the most varied techniques to extract the desired intelligence. But today hadn’t worked out the way it usually did. The problem was the time it had taken, seeing that the information was urgently needed.

“Son of a bitch!” Ted Branigan peeled of his bloodstained leather gloves and flung them onto the cement floor. Visibly pissed, he grabbed his satellite phone.

“Get Peter to ring me back on a secure line! … Yes! Right now!”

Branigan seemed tense while he was waiting for his call to be returned. A moment later the phone rang. He held the receiver to his ear before the second ring:

“Yes?”

“What’s up, Ted?” asked Peter Redman on the other end of the line.

“Do you know where I am?”

“Yes, at a quiet place to gather intelligence,” Redman replied.

“Correct. I tried to get the Huntsman to talk and at first he reacted to the treatment as expected,” Branigan told his colleague without a trace of compassion in his voice. As far as he was concerned, he was simply doing his job. “He was whimpering and pleading and at the start he gave us what we wanted.”

“What did you find out?”

“We now know where he’s hidden the documents and the information. But we couldn’t get him to reveal anything new about the subject. All he told us was precisely what we already knew.” After a brief pause, Branigan continued: “We only had about two hours left, so we used stronger methods.”

“And? Did it work?”

“Well... Perhaps I hit the wrong spot... Perhaps he was frail... Anyway, he collapsed right in the middle of the interrogation. And that was it.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes, damn it! I couldn’t...”

But before he could finish, Redman angrily hissed:

“You fucking idiot!”

The line went silent. Branigan was aware that he had messed up badly. It shouldn’t have happened. But these kinds of interrogations always carried certain risks, especially when under time pressure. And the Huntsman had evidently had a weak heart, unable to survive the brutal torture.

“So you didn’t get any more than we already know from the papers?” Peter Redman resumed the conversation a few seconds later.

“No.”

“Did he give you any names? Who knew about the gold business besides him?”

“He mentioned some Miller guy who got in touch with him. But I guess that’s an alias. He couldn’t describe him because he never met him in person.”

“And who gave him the dossier?”

“Apparently he didn’t know that either. He said it had been left for him at the check-in desk at his hotel.”

“Oh, crap! That doesn’t get us anywhere!” Redman cursed.

After Branigan had described where the Huntsman had hidden the documents and the information, Redman issued new instructions: “You have to get him back to Berlin, Ted, and fast. There must be no evidence of him having been interrogated.”

He hesitated for a moment. “Do you have a plan?”

“We do.” Branigan knew several methods to dispose of such a badly battered body without prompting too many questions. If everything worked out according to plan, the death certificate would simply state - Cause of Death: Suicide. A perfunctory inspection by a doctor motivated by money greasing his palm wouldn’t contradict the verdict.

“We shall discuss our future moves when you’ve taken care of it. And no more mistakes, you hear me?!” Peter Redman hung up without waiting for a reply.

Ted Branigan put his phone back in his pocket.

A second man, who had been sitting in a dark corner of the room from where he had silently witnessed the interrogation throughout the night, slightly tilted his head to the left, his neck vertebrae audibly creaking. He left the room together with Ted Branigan.

Now it was Ted’s job to ensure that everything was properly dealt with.

*

Frankfurt International Airport, 0610 Hours. The night sky was already turning steel blue, the air cold and crystal-clear. At the end of the southern runway an orange glowing line gradually expanded. It would soon be sunrise...

The Otto Lilienthal, a German Air Force A310 plane just returned from New York, was landing in the military section. The time of arrival had been adhered to with military precision.

The gray, long-range, cargo aircraft belonged to the Special Air Mission Wing of the Federal Defense Ministry. It’s current mission was particularly special.

“Careful, you dumbass!” the transport commander roared at the forklift driver who was in the process of transferring a Euro pallet from the plane to an armored van. “The cargo is highly sensitive!” he emphatically reminded the driver. Mistakes were out of the question. Mistakes could be very expensive. Utmost caution was called for.

A little further away, on a platform specifically constructed for the purpose, waited several journalists who were meant to record the highly guarded transfer of the valuable cargo for the public.

“The Otto Lilienthal is equipped with a laser-based defense system against infrared guided missiles,” one of the reporters photographing the scene with his telephoto lens informed the others without having been asked. “It has a range of more than 8,000 miles, so it can cover the distance between New York and Frankfurt without layover.”

“Smartass!” mumbled his shivering neighbor, rubbing his freezing hands together. He didn’t like being lectured early in the morning. All he wanted was to get the job done and head straight back to his warm office.

But that time hadn’t come yet. The group watched the valuable cargo being transferred to the armored van. Their assignment on this cold November morning was to get as may shots of the precious freight as possible. And real impressive ones. To ensure that everything sparkled to maximum effect, the crate of gold was even briefly opened, exposing ten layers of 24 gold bars each and each of them weighing 438.9 ounces. Perfectly stacked, like big, golden Lego bricks, alternately turned by 90 degrees to add stability. A minute later, two soldiers wearing balaclavas pulled the crate’s side panels up again and placed the lid back on after securing the metal buckles. It didn’t take the men long to carefully load the pallet into the van. The photoshoot was over.

The driver and co-driver briskly got into the armored vehicle and locked the doors. The van slowly started to move, escorted by a jeep carrying two soldiers.

“E.T.A. Eagle zero seven hundred!” the commander announced over his walkie-talkie. “We’re moving! Over and out!”

The journalists quickly took some pictures of the departing convoy before the group started breaking up. Five of them had professional equipment with large telephoto lenses. Only Markus Manx’s gear was positively antiquated by comparison; an old Canon EOS 50D and a modest 300 mm lens. The Hessische Neueste Presse, the HNP, had commissioned him to write an article about the gold being returned from New York to Frankfurt. And seeing that he would already be on-site, they’d asked him to take a few shots as well. Thus the editorial office wouldn’t have to pay dearly later on for his professional colleagues’ photos.

John Spencer, who was in the middle of packing away his tripod, was one of those professionals. Markus Manx knew him quite well. In the past they had collaborated on a number of assignments. John as the photographer, Markus as the writer. Meeting each other here today was pure coincidence.

“Hi, John. Need a hand? I’ve got one to spare,” Markus offered.

“That would be great. My car’s close by, but it’s in a no-parking zone. You can drive back to the city with me if you like. Or did you get yourself a set of wheels by now?”

Markus wedged the folded up tripod under his armpit.

“You know how little work there is and how badly paid freelance journalists are. So, sure, I gladly accept the ride.”

John Spencer nodded and the two of them walked over to his car.

*

Markus, John and the other journalists left the platform. Only one of them stayed behind and already sent the first photos back from his notebook there and then.

What can be that urgent about a routine assignment like this? Markus thought as John and he left the scene. He had no idea how urgent the assignment actually was…

The photo journalist who had remained typed on his notebook and grinned broadly when he remembered his self-important colleague’s remark. A310 with laser-based defense system? … Nearly always works, unless when deployed – like the G36 rifle.

He was particularly delighted with a picture which didn’t have any of the gold in its frame. Instead it showed the piece of paper on a clipboard the highest ranking officer was handing to the First Lieutenant. Thanks to the 800 mm lens it was easy to decipher which route the convoy’s operations order specified.

“The package has been dispatched,” he whispered into a tap-proof satellite phone. “It will be delivered via Neu-Isenburg today.”

“Got it. The package will arrive via Neu-Isenburg,” was the response from the other end.

The mysterious photographer tucked the phone and the notebook into his equipment bag. He turned up the collar of his fur-lined jacket and vanished into the daybreak.

*

Meanwhile John and Markus had reached a brown Audi 100 Avant. Before long, John will be able to apply for a vintage license plate. Much easier on the tax. Well, not really, I guess. That old rattletrap will never qualify, considering the condition it’s in, Markus thought, eyeing the vehicle. The Audi looked pretty rundown. As for the color – the less said, the better. He warily closed the rickety door. John removed the ‘Press’ sign, with which he justified parking in a no-parking zone, from the windshield and drove off.

The trip from the airport to Frankfurt’s inner city didn’t take long. It was too early for rush-hour traffic. Marcus and John chatted about the old days when everything had somehow been better.

“I know! With today’s editing software anyone can be a photo journalist. You and your amateur camera are the living proof,” John teased and shot Markus a challenging look.

“True, I agree. But it’s not my fault when the guys at the top keep making cutbacks and consider every freelance journalist to be an all-rounder.”

Markus tried to steer the conversation in a different direction. He was tired of the constant whining amongst his colleagues, his own included.

“Anyhow, it’s pretty impressive watching three tons of gold being loaded. We’re talking more than 100 million Euro.”

John awkwardly extracted a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. He deeply, and with obvious pleasure, inhaled and blew the smoke out through the slightly open side window.

“This has already been my third time at one of these transfer operations,” he commented. “Always for different clients. The Central Bank and the Federal Government are evidently hell-bent on demonstrating how they’re bringing the gold back from the States.”

“You’re right, the whole thing is staged to reassure the general public,” Markus concurred. “Ever since Greece went officially bankrupt six months ago, there’s been a lot of effort to calm and stabilize the panicking financial markets.”

Marcus watched John take another deep drag from his cigarette.

“I don’t understand economics,” John admitted after leisurely exhaling the smoke, “but I feel that our administration has been pulling the wool over our eyes for years. They must have known that the 160 billion we handed the Greeks were a write-off from day one!”

“Sure. Nobody with a sound basic knowledge of economics could have seriously believed that Greece would ever repay its debts… Next thing we know, Spain or Italy will demand we waive part of theirs as well. Then the Euro is definitely finished.”

“I’m so sick of the subject,” John tried to end the discussion. “Tell me where you want me to drop you off.” He neatly tossed the butt onto the street through the gap in the window.

“The Taunusanlage Park near the gold pyramid would be good. I’ve got to take a few more shots before I start on my article.”

John drove in the direction of the station.

“Have you heard this one?” he asked.

Markus turned to face him and had to chuckle. They had never met without John presenting him with a new joke.

“Right,” John started, “last night my wife jumped up in her sleep and screamed – and without thinking, I instantly took out the thrash!”

He scrutinized his passenger’s reaction through the corner of his eyes.

Markus grinned politely, wisely keeping his actual opinion to himself. Shortly after, John stopped and Markus thanked him for the ride.

“See you,” John said, shaking Markus’s hand.

Markus got out. Almost majestically the gold pyramid towered in front of him. And he still had no idea what the day held in store.

*

Neu-Isenburg, 0630 Hours. “Everything’s on schedule!” First Lieutenant Noah Schmidt radioed as the armored convoy approached Neu-Isenburg. The 28 year old Schmidt, with his well-trained body and determined manner, was the commander of the unit in charge of the transport. Beside him, on the jeep’s driver’s seat, sat Corporal Ali. Nobody could pronounce his last name, so he was simply known as Cali. Behind them, the armored van carried the seasoned First Sergeants Patrick Jakobi and Klaus Nahgold, the driver.

Yes, everything was proceeding according to plan. What could possibly go wrong? The route was constantly being changed to reduce the risk of being ambushed. Schmidt and his unit were only briefed about it shortly before their departure.

Today the operations center had selected a secondary road through Neu-Isenburg. For good reason: roadworks on the A3 highway just before the Frankfurt South intersection temporarily restricted traffic to a single lane. The Special Forces had classified the bottleneck as critical, but the constriction could be safely bypassed via Neu-Isenburg the operations command had decided.

“Eagle, we clearly read your position on the monitor. Over,” replied the control center at the Central Bank. The armored van had reported back from the agreed Alpha coordinate. “Alpha as in Aral gas station. Easy to remember,” had been First Sergeant Nahgold’s cheerful comment during the early morning briefing to discuss the route.

They had just passed the Aral station when the jeep in front suddenly stopped. A firefighter, in full uniform with fluorescent strips visible from afar, waved a signaling disc to block the way. Nahgold in the van behind Cali also stopped. Schmidt let down the window to see what was happening.

“The road is closed off. There’s been an accident,” the firefighter explained. “Your best bet is to take the detour through Buchenbusch. Turn right here, then left after about 100 yards.”

“OK, thanks,” Schmidt replied and signaled to the jeep to continue. The convoy started to move again and turned right. The GPS navigation device instantly adjusted to the alternative route. A hundred yards on was the left turn for Buchenbusch. The detour was perfectly signposted.

At the old cemetery two animatedly chatting young mothers were pushing their buggies across the street.

The convoy slowed down.

“Watch out!” shouted Nahgold in the armored van. From the left an SUV was speeding towards the jeep ahead of him, but Cali couldn’t hear the First Sergeant’s warning. It would have been too late to avoid the SUV in any case.

A defeaning bang, even audible through the windows of the armored van, shattered the morning idyll. The heavy VW Touareg, which had come tearing out of a minor road, had crashed right into the jeep’s left fender. Glass splintered. The impact of the collision nearly tore the steering wheel from Cali’s hands. He clung to it with all his strength. In vain. The jeep was hurled against the curb and tilted onto its passenger side.

Sergeant Nahgold and his buddy Jakobi in the van stared almost paralysed at the scene in front of them. Slamming on the breaks made them stop at the last second.

The initial shock hadn’t even subsided when there was another bang to the right of the van. The Mercedes driving behind them hadn’t been able to brake in time and swerved onto the verge to crash into a tree.

“Was that really an accident?” The totally unnerved Nahgold was out of his depth and didn’t know how to handle the situation.

“Beats me!” Jakobi replied. “But we definitely stay put.”

“But those people are injured and need help!”

“You know the rules,” Jakobi rebuked him. “We first inform the control center.”

Just seconds later it transpired how sensible those regulations were when two masked figures with submachine guns opened fire on the jeep. It was a complete mystery to Nahgold from where they had so suddenly appeared on the scene. They must have been lying in wait close by.

One of the two mothers screamed and tried to take cover with her buggy behind the van. Lightning fast, the second woman followed with her own buggy to escape from the horror. Jakobi grabbed the mobile radio and informed the operations center.

“A vehicle ran into the jeep. Armed gunmen opened fire with submachine guns.” As he was talking, it suddenly turned pitch-black inside the van. Soon after the radio connection broke down.

*

Frankfurt, Public Park Taunusanlage, 0640 Hours. “What do you want? Get lost, you jerk!” Markus snapped at the foul-smelling man in a hoodie. If this keeps up, Frankfurt will soon be a goner. That gold pyramid attracts bums and asylum seekers like sh… attracts flies! Despite his anger, Markus didn’t even voice the ‘S-word’ in his thoughts. Years ago he had conditioned himself not to use it for his children’s sake.

In the past there had only been a handful of junkies; everything had been under control. But now the Taunusanlage was thronged with hundreds of filthy lost causes. The city wasn’t in a position or unwilling to provide adequate hygiene measures. Not surprisingly the cynics maintained that the security trench surrounding the pyramid structure was Frankfurt’s biggest garbage can.

But the gold pyramid is still awesome, Markus mused. He stepped close to the glass and stainless steel barrier. The railing felt icecold and damp after the night. Only a fifteen foot trench separated him from the gold bricks displayed there in large stacks.

In the twilight of the dawn the pyramid cast a glimmering light as far as the Old Opera; its reflection dancing languidly on the bright sandstone facade of the magnificent Rennaicance building. To him it nearly conveyed the impression that the Old Opera had a two-story portal made of solid gold. The surrounding luxurious residential tower blocks, too, were bathed in some of the pyramid’s glow. What symbolism! Evidently not a neighborhood welcoming badly paid journalists, Markus concluded. Four figure prices per square foot attract an entirely different set of professionals.

Malicious tongues claimed the Deutsche Bank had subsidized the building of the pyramid with millions running into three digits. The sole condition had apparently been the location at the exact bend between the Taunusanlage and the Neue Mainzer Straβe. After the last few years’ numerous scandals, the Deutsche Bank wanted to bask in some of the pyramid’s light, the people grumbled. The bankers didn’t care. The financial institution’s twin towers now shone golden every night – and in their blue corporate color during the day.

Markus was amused by the pyramid’s opponents’ nickname: the Central Bank’s Laxative. Far from everyone regarded the horrendous costs incurred in the construction as reasonable. Not least of it spent on the unique security measures.

“Markus?” a voice behind him suddenly startled him out of his thoughts. Curious, he turned around.

“Gosh, Markus!” exclaimed the man. “Haven’t seen you for ages. You’re looking great. How are you?”

While his hand was being pretty enthusiastically pumped, Markus feverishly searched his mind for the guy’s name. Just before he embarrassed himself, he remembered: Thomas! They knew each other from their student days.

“Thomas, my friend. I’m doing fine. And you?”

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall the man’s surname. What had, however, stuck in his mind was that Thomas held a well-paid position with one of Frankfurt’s major banks. Their careers had taken entirely different directions and for that reason their paths only crossed every ten years or so. Like right now.

“I’m well. The jobs going great though the unstable financial markets are causing us a lot of stress. The supervisory bodies issue new directives every month,” Thomas told him cheerfully.

“I hear you.”

“And you, Markus. Do you get plenty of assignments? You are still a journalist, I take it?”

He jovially slapped Markus’ back.

“I can’t complain.”

Markus didn’t much fancy engaging in an in-depth discussion with Thomas, who was evidently in great form. He certainly didn’t want to talk about his less than inspiring career. He had very little work at the moment and his annual income was presumably even less than Thomas earned in a month. He therefore changed the subject and pointed to the imposing structure beside them.

“If you believe Derhan, the architect from Hamburg, the gold pyramid is supposed to represent a symbiosis between the Louvre in Paris, the Great Pyramid of Giza and the dome of the Reichstag building. With a floor area of 18,000 square feet and a height of 160 feet, it’s twice the size of the Louvre’s glass pyramid,” Markus tried to at least dazzle his old fellow student with his knowledge. He didn’t mention that he’d only read up on the matter to prepare for his article.

“I know,” Thomas replied unimpressed. “Without the contents, it cost twice as much as Hamburg’s new concert hall, but is only half the size of the Cheops Pyramid – as far as the part above ground is concerned, that is. And at the design presentation Derhan is supposed to have ironically mentioned that one would have to roof the whole of Frankfurt to be bigger than Giza.”

Thomas got more and more into his stride. Markus soon noticed that his former university buddy was far better informed than he was, and that he didn’t have a hope of stopping his verbal outpourings.

“And the architectural highlight is that it’s two pyramids upside down on top of each other. One above ground, its mirrored counterpart below. The whole lot covered in glass. High-security glass. Titanium steel stays. A clear view over 75 billion Euros in gold. Close to 2,500 tons, all polished and carefully stacked. Six floors, infinitely long rows of shelves, a brilliant golden-yellow sun. Fort Knox is a retirement home by comparison!”

“Absolutely,” was all Markus could spontaneously think of. He had long since realized that Thomas was obviously immensely interested in the gold pyramid. And if he couldn’t top the guy’s knowledge, he wanted to at least tease out a few new aspects for his coverage. He promptly switched over to interviewing reporter mode.

“Tell me, Thomas, how do you as an expert actually view the Central Bank’s gold retrieval plan? ”

“After the USA, Germany has the second largest gold reserves in the world,” Thomas started like a professor lecturing his students. “3,380 tons of pure gold. These holdings are kept at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, the Banque de France in Paris, the Bank of England in London and the German Central Bank in Frankfurt to act as collateral to secure against the risk of non-payments.”

“And why do you think the Central Bank and the government are now bringing the gold back to Germany?”

“Our Federal Court of Auditors is skeptical that the gold is in safe hands abroad,” Thomas surmised.

“But they’ve been saying that for years.”

“Exactly. But ever since the Greek economy went belly up and Italy has financing problems, the public is getting more agitated. And that’s why the administration is reacting,” Thomas reinforced his stance. “That’s why the Parliament passed the new gold depository policy to justify bringing all our gold reserves back to Germany. With as much publicity as possible. And that’s why they’re actively involving the press. They want the public to see how rich our country is. The message is: No need to panic, guys, the German gold is safe!”

Markus valued Thomas’ detailed information, yet his nerdy lecture style also annoyed him. He pointedly consulted his Rolex wristwatch. The Oyster model with the perpetual, self-winding clockwork was an heirloom from his grandfather.

“Sorry, Thomas, I still have to take a few photos for an article I have to deliver today. Was lovely seeing you. Take care.”

Without waiting for a reply, he extracted his Canon from its bag, walked over to the left corner of the rail surrounding the pyramid, knelt down and took some shots. Thomas cast a last glance at the gold pyramid, raised his hand as a farewell gesture and left.

Markus continued taking pictures. The industrial climber, who abseiled each morning down to the trench to restore the immaculate glow, provided a welcome addition to add some action to an otherwise lifeless architectural image. Even if it abounded with gold.

It’s good that we’re bringing the gold back, Markus thought as he finally continued on his way.

*

Soon after, Markus Manx opened the door to his office. It was still relatively dark. With his right hand he flipped the old-fashioned toggle switch up. Manual switches like these should have been consigned to a museum decades ago, he thought.

He was sharing an office with other freelance journalists. His door was the first on the right after the entrance. In front of the skylight, which facilitated a halfway acceptable illumination of the room, stood a massive, old wooden desk. All the walls were lined with ceiling-high shelves overflowing with newspapers and article clips. Whatever didn’t fit on the shelves and into various folders was spread over the roughly 150 square foot floor. The rent for the shared premises in the old building was affordable by Frankfurt standards, especially considering the location.

This is just what a reporter’s office should look like, he thought, once again justifying the chaos to himself. And now I need a coffee!

The coffee maker was two doors down in the former kitchen where the plastic coating was slowly peeling off the corners of the mint-green and somewhat antiquated wall units. Last year, the landlord had decommissioned the electric cooker with its four cast-iron rings for safety reasons. A handwritten note was stuck to the vending machine, the most modern appliance in the kitchen:

Extract cup

Insert coins

Select preferred coffee type

Instructions for Dummies, Markus chuckled while reading the path to coffee bliss for the umpteenth time. He involuntarily scanned the instructions every time he stood in front of the machine, waiting for his eagerly anticipated beverage. People presumably read this more often than most of my articles, he pondered until the display at last flashed green and the machine was ready. He pulled a paper cup from the dispenser and placed it under the coffee spout. Does the word paper cup dispenser even exist or should it be an ‘individual Styrofoam cup conveyor’? Even if there were such an elongated term, this particular one certainly didn’t merit the description. As a matter of principle, it always dispensed three cups stuck together at a time. The superfluous beverage containers then piled up beside the machine as the day went on. Why nobody used them remained a mystery to Markus. Not that he did either. Perhaps the cleaners stuffed them back into the dispenser in the evening.

The 50 cent piece disappeared in the slot. A latte was the choice he wouldn’t see materialize as the display lights went out as soon as he pressed the button. More or less at the same time the ceiling light also went out, a white circular lamp with its own peculiar 70s charm, which somehow reminded him of a UFO. Another power cut! Sooner or later I’ll sue the Government. My 50 cents are definitely gone! Once the power is back, about five minutes from now, the machine won’t remember my donation, as usual. So far it owes me at least five Euros. Why do I always have to be here at the wrong time?

Michaela, one of those with whom he shared the office space, swore she had never yet incurred any losses due to power failures. Hardly surprising, if you only turn up at nine and others have already disarmed the trap, was what Markus always thought then.

Ever since the administration was pushing its energy policy, power cuts had become more frequent. Whenever the pressure on the power grids fluctuated, they often collapsed. Fluctuation in wind force, widespread clouding and, and, and... Markus alleged an entirely different cause: an estimated 10,000 office workers expressing their desire for coffee by simultaneously pressing the button of their vending machines!

Be that as it may, there was no point in waiting. The last 50 cent coin he’d found in his desk drawer was gone. Coffee was therefore not an option this morning.

Slightly irritated, Markus scuffled back to his office. Four red zeros listlessly flashed on his clock radio. The power was back. Whoops, that was quick for a change, Marcus marveled.

His next train of thought led him to being envious of the technology in his editors’ offices which were well prepared for the electricity grid taking an occasional breather. All of them were equipped with emergency generators. The technology reacted in milliseconds and a combination of buffer batteries and gas-powered generators took over the supply. No computers crashed and the coffee machines kept on bubbling as if nothing had happened.

The old building in the Ulmenstraße, however, boasted no such emergency power supply. But at least the rent was affordable. And thanks to its battery, Markus’ laptop continued to work.

Not so the flashing clock radio. A black plastic casing on the outside, four large red, flashing LED numbers, a red colon in the middle that also flashed and separated the hours from the minutes. This relic from his youth Markus had ‘smuggled’ into his marriage, as Claudia, his ex-wife, had once humorously claimed. In line with its year of manufacture it had neither a snooze nor an alarm repeat function and just two radio wavelengths. And an ear-splittingly squeaking alarm which didn’t stop for fully fifteen minutes. Sluggish as one was in the morning, it was impossible to silence the annoying pest by hand. Markus called it Mad Max.

Years ago Claudia had pointed out to him that the decrepit wreck of an alarm clock with its completely worn logo didn’t just exude an uncomfortable atmosphere but also considerable amounts of electrosmog. Consequently the invisible electric and magnetic fields vacated the nuptial bedroom and had since found a new home in his office.

Markus took the radio clock from the shelve and adjusted the time: 06:59. Shortly past seven he took his cell phone off the charger on his desk and dialed Dorothea Mund’s number. He could hear the dialing sequence, then the ringtone...

*

Frankfurt, European Central Bank, 0650 Hours. Darius Dongi had been the President of the European Central Bank for more than seven years. Tall, dark haired, tailor-made double-breasted suit, white gold cufflinks, a present from his wife at their wedding anniversary in May the previous year.

Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a view of Frankfurt’s skyline from the 650 feet high North Tower. Fantastic! Dongi adored the panorama outside his office. Sunrises were intrinsically beautiful anyway, but the sunsets behind the towers of Frankfurt’s banks were spectacular from here. The architect had had to adjust the design several times to achieve this ultimate view. Now the European Central Bank’s President’s office sprawled across nearly half a floor of the North Tower. Thus nobody could overlook the importance of his position.

Since the ECB had relocated its seat from the skyscraper in the inner city to the new building in Frankfurt’s east end in 2014, Dongi had been enjoying the privilege. The initial protests among the population about the new building soon faded into oblivion.

Dongi cultivated his contacts. Critics claimed he was too closely associated with politics. In reality the ECB was merely independent on paper. The bank had to support politics as a money manipulator, a state financiers or simply as an economic driver. The most convincing proof of the close link between commerce and the state was the continuous acquisition of government bonds. Right from the start, Dongi had been actively supporting the program, which by now had been topped up to 2,000 billion Euros. The idea itself, he claimed, had been his.

“Your visitor, Mr. Dongi,” announced his PA and quietly closed the door behind Dr. Wieder who had quickly stepped into Dongi’s office.

Europe’s two most important central bankers, Dr. Jürgen Wieder, President of the German Central Bank, and Darius Dongi, President of the European Central Bank, met every first Monday of the month. What had originally been spontaneous and informal get-togethers in crisis situations, had over time developed into regular meetings. The follow up appointments, entered as recurring events in both gentlemen’s digital planners, automatically updated themselves for the following year. Today’s agenda only addressed routine issues.

“What do you mean, you don’t know how it could have happened?” Wieder roared into the cell phone he was still holding to his ear as he entered the room.

It annoyed Dongi that his collegue was rude enough not to end the call in his presence. But Wieder’s uncouth manner implied that the matter really was of utmost importance. Dongi couldn’t remember ever having seen the man that angry.

“In my wildest dreams I couldn’t possibly imagine how a heavily guarded, armored transport van with three tons of gold can simply disappear!”

In his rage, Wieder was involuntary spitting on Dongi’s desk.

“This isn’t the Bermuda Triangle! We’re right in the middle of Frankfurt!” he yelled. “When was your last contact with the vehicle?”

“Six thirty at the first checkpoint,” was the meek reply. “At six thirty four we received the aborted distress call.”

After Wieder had listened without commenting to the investigation procedures that had been instigated, he slammed his cell phone onto the desk, his face bright red.

“I apologize for the outburst, Darius.”

He went over to the window and took a few deep breaths to regain his composure.

“For the past two years we have executed countless gold transports. Glitches? None! Breakdowns? None! And today? Today an armored van simply vanishes! With the entire security team! Without a trace!”

For a moment, silence prevailed.

“Could the escort itself be involved? Or Eastern European groups?” Dongi enquired rationally.

“No idea. So far, we’ve got absolutely nothing. The only thing we do know is that the van can’t be opened from the outside. Without the help of the crew, nobody can get at the gold.”

Darius Dongi remained stoic.

“I always thought you monitored all the gold transports’ positions via GPS, Jürgen.”

“That’s the next crucial point, Darius! The control room charted the GPS signal the whole time. Everything was on schedule. The signal stopped at six thirty four in Neu-Isenburg! It was abruptly gone. And so was the van.”

The head of the German Central Bank had calmed down a little and now also tried to logically analyze the situation.

“Apparently we can locate the position to within about fifteen feet. All the vehicles were not only equipped with a GPS receiver, but also with a GPS transponder that transmitted the current location to the control center. We always knew the coordinates in real-time. At least in theory.”

After a pause, he added: “The emergency frequency for a short distress call was used at six thirty four. Then the contact was terminated.”

“Was the frequency interrupted? Or did the escort stop the contact?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Professionals,” the President of the ECB observed and frowned.

“Whatever the case may be, the incident can have unpleasant consequences for us. We can’t afford any further slip-ups. No matter what!”

Following a brief silence, Dongi continued: “Until we’ve caught the perpetrators, we should stop all gold transports. Right throughout Europe. What do you say?”

“You’re right,” Wieder agreed resignedly and a little preoccupied.

Ten minutes later all European capitals received an encrypted email.

SECURITY LEVEL II – TOP SECRET

ECB HEADQUARTERS

SECURITY ALERT!

TODAY A GERMAN CENTRAL BANK GOLD TRANSPORT GUARDED BY FOUR SOLDIERS WAS AMBUSHED IN FRANKFURT. ALL SECURITY ESCORTS WERE ABDUCTED.

AT PRESENT THE REASONS FOR THIS ACT ARE STILL UNCLEAR. THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE GOLD ARE ALSO UNKNOWN. THE SEQUENCE OF THE ATTACK INDICATES UTMOST PROFESSIONALISM WHICH RENDERED THE STRINGENT SAFETY MEASURES INEFFECTIVE.

UNTIL THE SITUATION HAS BEEN RESOLVED, IT IS RECOMMENDED TO POSTPONE ALL MAJOR TRANSPORTS OF VALUABLES. SECURITY PROCEDURES FOR ROUTINE MONEY DELIVERIES TO COMMERCIAL BANKS SHOULD BE INCREASED.

THE PRESIDENT

Europe’s central banks and governments had been informed. The search for the perpetrators was coordinated by the Emergency Task Force of the Federal Police with their situation center located at Frankfurt Airport. The Special Forces were assisted by the police of the Federal States of Hesse, Rhineland-Palatinate and Bavaria. Experts had calculated that the perpetrators had a head start of 40 minutes.

How quickly could a heavy vehicle of its kind disappear? Was a 25 mile radius sufficient for the manhunt? Airspace surveillance was also in progress. An activity designed to cover up the general helplessness.

*

Frankfurt, Ulmenstraße, 0730 Hours. Having kissed goodbye to his morning coffee after the power cut, Markus got to work. On his pretty much antique laptop - he disrespectfully called it ‘craptop’ like so many other users of outdated models - he checked his emails, caught up on the latest news and planned his schedule. His report about the gold transport for the HNP was due today.

Nothing important in his emails. The same applied to the press newsletters he read for professional reasons. Now the sports news.

*** 2:1 for Frankfurt’s soccer team. Three points. About time, thought Markus who was only marginally interested in the national soccer league. He was more into basketball, which he had played in his youth. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to make a career out of it. Although tall at 6 foot, he hadn’t been quite tall enough for a basketball player.

*** 87:78. His favorite team, the Fraport Skyliners, had defeated the Bavarians. “Yes!” he cheered noisily when he read the result. Much better than soccer. Those matches are always real one-sided. They’re starting to be quite boring. But in basketball Frankfurt can even beat Bavaria. He switched to the weather.

*** Clear skies in the morning. 44 degrees. Sunny and dry during the day with maximum temperatures of up to 60 degrees. That’s OK for this time of the year, Markus thought and switched to the HNP homepage.

*** BREAKING NEWS: Central Bank’s gold transport raided.

Just as he was about to click on the headline, his phone rang.

“Markus Manx,” he said after being momentarily startled.

“Hi, Markus, is this a good time?”

Without the caller having revealed his name, it was obvious who it was. The deep, calm voice betrayed him: his friend Jonathan Schreiber, editor with the HNP.

“Can you do some research on the raid on the gold transport? I need copy for the print- and the online-editions. Put the article I commissioned yesterday on hold for the time being… A hundred lines max. for the online edition till noon at the latest and a hundred and fifty lines till this evening for the print one,” he resumed after reflecting. “Can you do it?”

The question was more or less rhetorical. Jonathan assumed that freelance journalists were essentially always available and needed every assignment they could get. He was usually right.

“I don’t want you to solve the case. I just need an interesting three columns.” he added. “It seems to me that our own people were in cahoots with the perps. Can you deliver?”

Meanwhile Markus had clicked on the Internet link. But all it showed was that the Central Bank had lost a transport during a hold-up.

“Sure. Any more background apart from the tiny snippets on the news ticker?”

“You’re on your own now, Markus.”

Markus was on the list of freelance journalists for Frankfurt‘s newspapers. Occasionally the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, one of Germany’s largest newspapers, hired him to cover economic issues. Some time ago the paper had published nearly a full page dedicated to the inauguration of the gold pyramid and its financial background. Markus had received a lot of praise for his research, a pretty rare event in his line of work.

Another of the city’s newspapers, the Frankfurter Rundschau, was the most thin on the ground and hadn’t commissioned him for quite some time. For precisely that reason Markus had tried to call the editor Dorothera Mund about half an hour ago.

The Hessische Neueste Presse, on the other hand, hired him on a regular basis to cover popular topics. The HNP wasn’t so much interested in economic facts, but in thrilling entertainment. In this case: crime – perpetrator – motive. The whole lot dished up with a spectacular photo. “Gold Transporter Ambushed” was a good headline. Over the past few years Markus had slowly warmed to the tabloid topics: exciting, entertaining and current, yet light-hearted and safe.

In the old days he had hated this approach. But times were changing. And sometimes a lot faster than he liked.

*

Frankfurt, Eschborn Highway Junction, 0730 Hours. Lena Eck was crossing the Eschborn junction towards the inner city in her red Fiat 500. Like a Virgin was blasting from the radio. Lena enthusiastically chimed in with the Madonna hit. She loved the song.

“Touched for the very first time. Like a vir ir ir ir gin…” Lena sang at the top of her voice. “With your heartbeat, next to mine.” What a great start to a promising day!

Lena, a petite young woman sporting a severely cut bob, her brown eyes nearly shrouded by her fringe, the tips of her dark hair reaching to her chin. She had inherited the German surname from her mother. She’d been living in Frankfurt since she‘d moved out of the woman’s place 15 years ago. Her Russian father had always been a stranger she couldn’t get close to. To him raising a child meant threatening and administering punishment should his daughter not obey. So Lena had retreated into a virtual world from a very young age. Computers became her life and she turned into a proper nerd. Although, no doubt, a pretty one with distinctive Slavic features. After completing a degree in computer studies, she accepted a job in the IT division of a major bank, yet terminated it pretty fast. Surprisingly fast, actually. But she didn’t like to talk about it. Her department head at the time had sexually harassed her, more than once, also during working hours. Lena had reported him to his superiors, but the bank hadn’t believed her. Had even defended the man and urged her to resign.

For the past eight years she’d been working as a self-employed IT specialist, analyzing security systems. Today, she was delivering a speech about IT security in SMEs at the Frankfurt Fair Congress Center. Start 9 a.m. She was happy with her fee of 1,200 Euros for a 60 minute talk. Everything she needed was on the passenger seat beside her: the laptop and her mascot, a small, white cuddly toy with black, drooping ears.

“When you hold me, and your heart beats, and you love me,” Madonna belted out when suddenly a profusion of brake lights mushroomed up in front of her. Stepping onto the brake pedal curbed Lena’s speed as well as her euphoria.

Gridlock. Lena silenced Madonna and consulted her cell phone to find out more about the congestion from her traffic app. Just as well I left early enough to have plenty of time to spare, she thought.

*

Frankfurt, Ulmenstraße, 0810 Hours. Slightly irritated, Markus hefted his feet onto the desk and dialed the same number for the fourth time. “… We’re sorry we can’t take your call right now…,” jeered the voice at the other end of the line.