The Bucharest Conspiracy

By W.H. Wheeler

US Treasury agent and former Navy Seal Jack Becker is assigned to the German Finance Ministry for liaison. While there, the ministry receives reports from the Italian Guardia di Finanza of gold bars showing up in Sicilian gold markets with Third Reich stampings on them. Where they are coming from is unclear and suspicious. Then a gold ingot with such stamps is spotted on sale in a Berlin coin and antiquities shop, said to be on consignment from an east European owner. The Finance Ministry suspects someone has found a Nazi hoard that by rights belongs to the German government. When it becomes apparent that the Berlin ingot has come from someone in Romania, Jack is sent to work with the Romanian national police, accompanied by ministry field agent Hilda Brunner, an auburn-haired beauty skilled with a gun.
The mystery of the gold ingots turns out to be just the beginning for Jack and Hilda in the dangerous unraveling of a complex conspiracy to win control of Romania and unleash a new terror of ethnic cleansing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.H. Wheeler
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310138423

W.H. Wheeler

Stories and language are my passion. In elementary school, I asked my 8th grade teacher what language I should take in high school. She said, "Take Latin. It's a great foundation." Uh huh. I took it and found out it was, shall we say, challenging. I took four years of it and added French and Spanish in the last two years. In college, I got a degree in French language and literature, and had a couple of years each of Russian and Arabic. I've picked up a few other languages over the years, operated an international marketing services and translation business, and done tech writing in aerospace companies. Besides my current mysteries and thrillers, a long time ago I had two "hi-lo" novellas published, high-interest low vocabulary level books for teens with reading problems. They were "Wet Fire" and "Counterfeit!". The publishing company was sold and bought a number of times, and both of the books are still around in various editions. Originally from Detroit, Michigan, I have lived in the Los Angeles, California, area for many years. And, no, I was never a hippie. Probably just as well.

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THE BUCHAREST CONSPIRACY

by

W.H. Wheeler

Copyright (c) 2015 by William H. Wheeler. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author and publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical reviews.

Smashwords edition, January 2015

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events are imaginary, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

This book is for

Violet

and Muna, Daniel and Angela.

CHAPTER 1

Roger Mitford was sitting at his desk reading a report held in a manila folder by a two-pronged binder clamp at the top. He was frowning and tapping on his desk top with a yellow pencil.

Shit, he muttered. Shit, shit, shit!

He looked away from the report and reached for his desk phone. He lifted the handset, pressed three numbers on the keypad, and waited a moment. Then he slammed his index finger down on the hook switch, let it go, and rapidly punched three other numbers.

Jenny, get Becker in here right now.

He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, running his lower front teeth over his upper lip. In his late fifties, overweight, with ruddy skin and receding hair, Mitford was a senior supervisor in the US Treasury Department’s financial crimes section.

In a nearby office, Jack Becker was working on a spreadsheet on his computer, leaning back in his ergonomic desk chair and entering figures slowly with his right hand, looking back and forth at a document in his left hand.

Jack was 35, modestly tanned with light brown hair showing a couple of gray streaks, his shirt sleeves taut over his upper arm muscles. He glanced up from his computer monitor as Jenny Salinger, 50-something, trim, and a stylish dresser, knocked at his open door and walked quickly in.

Hi, Jenny, Jack said. What’s up?

Mitford wants to see you right away. And he didn’t sound too happy.

Mitford’s never happy. I wonder what it is this time. The man’s heading for a coronary.

And you might hang up your phone, Jenny commented gruffly, looking at Jack’s desk phone with its handset sitting on the desk top.

Keeps me from getting interrupted while I’m trying to figure something out. Besides, he added with a big smile as he stood up, "it gives you a chance to get out from behind your desk and come see me."

High point of my day, she huffed, as the two of them walked out of Jack’s office into the hallway.

In a few minutes, they reached the closed door to Mitford’s office.

Have fun in there, Jenny cracked, as she walked away back toward her own desk.

Jack knocked on the door.

Come in, Mitford called out.

Jack opened the door and went in.

Hi, chief, he said.

Close the door, Mitford ordered in a sullen tone.

Jack shut the door quietly.

Sit down.

He sounds really pissed off, Jack thought, as he sat down on one of the lightly upholstered straight-back chairs arrayed in front of Mitford’s desk. He decided this was not a good time for pleasantries and waited for Mitford to open the conversation.

Becker, do you have any idea why I’ve called you in here? Mitford asked.

No, I know I’m not making much progress yet on tracking the money flow from those stolen M-15s, but…

This is not about the M-15s, Mitford said sourly.

Then…?

Do you know a Marisol Ruiz?

Jack frowned a little.

Yes…

What is your relationship?

I’ve dated her a few times, Jack said warily. Why?

"How many is a few?"

Um… I don’t know. Ten. Twenty. I don’t keep score. Why?

How many times in the last week? Mitford pressed.

Uh… seven. Every night, but…

And how many times has she spent the night with you? Mitford’s eyes seemed to have narrowed.

Um… the last three nights. What’s this all about?

So… I can assume you’re on intimate terms, Becker?

Well, yes. What’s the problem?

You’re banging the cousin of a Colombian drug lord!

Jack’s jaw dropped.

What??

Your girlfriend is the cousin of Juan Luis Contreras!

Contreras? Holy crap!

Contreras’s mother’s sister is Emilia Garcia de Ruiz, who was married to a deceased rancher named Ernesto Ruiz. Your Marisol is one of their children.

Marisol was born in Virginia, Jack protested.

Mitford grunted. Is that what she told you?

Yes. She’s an American citizen. I saw her passport once. I met her mother.

Mitford pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

As famously said, there’s a sucker born every minute. The passport’s a fake. She was born in Bogota. Largely raised here, I grant you. Her ‘mother’, as you call her, is in fact her ex-nanny and now watchdog. All their support money comes from Contreras. You’ve been had, Becker.

Marisol? I… don’t know… what to say, Jack stumbled.

"Well, I do. They were getting their hooks into you in order to get into here."

Jeez.

Becker, you’re a top agent – at least when your brain is doing the thinking and not your balls – but now you’re a problem, Mitford declared.

A problem. So what now? Pink slip?

No. Transfer. You’re going to go to Germany to work as our liaison in the German Finance Ministry. Your file says you speak German, right? You leave as soon as I can arrange it with the Germans. Jenny will get you on a flight.

What about my apartment and all my stuff?

We’ll pick up your furniture and store it and settle with your landlord.

And Marisol? Jack asked.

We’ve got enough evidence to roll up your lady friend and her ‘mother’ and at least deport them.

Jeez.

CHAPTER 2

Jack Becker and Kai Meier were working out in the Fitness-Halle 24 gym in Berlin, Jack in a white sleeveless undershirt and shorts, Kai wearing a faded rock group tee shirt and sweat pants. Jack was on a weights bench, lifting 20 kilogram weights on a bar. He was sweating, and his well-proportioned body was straining. He was getting tired and grunted with every lift. Kai was standing behind his head.

So, you were dating this Marisol girl in Virginia a year ago. So then what? Kai asked.

Unh. So then she turns out to be the first cousin of a guy in a Colombian drug cartel. Jack strained at the lift. When my boss in Treasury found out, he hit the roof. He said, ‘Jack, you’re a top agent, but now you’re a problem’.

And?

So Washington posted me to your Finance Ministry as liaison agent… because I speak German and some other languages.

Berlin is better than unemployment.

I guess.

Ever think about going back in the Navy Seals?

No. Believe me, Kai, five years of special ops was enough. Unh. It’s nice working 9 to 5 and not having to break anyone’s neck. Besides, I’m 36 now.

You need a wife. Settle down. My wife’s got a pretty cousin.

With a final heave, Jack raised the weight bar and set it on the support. He sat up and started wiping himself with a towel.

I wouldn’t know the right woman if I met her. And there is something to be said for a long series of meaningless relationships.

Yeah. Old and alone.

How’s that Australia thing going? Jack asked, sitting up.

They said our immigrant visas should come any day now, Kai replied. Want me to spot you again?

No, I’m done. You going to the showers?

Yeah. You? Kai asked.

Jack stood up. No. These May nights are getting humid, almost like Washington. I’ll take a shower at home.

Jack put his towel around his shoulders and picked up his gym bag.

See you tomorrow at the office, he said, as he turned and headed for the door.

The parking lot outside next to the gym was poorly lit. Much of the light came from the large neon Fitness-Halle 24 sign over the gym door. There were few cars.

Near the far edge of the lot, two men in dark clothes crouched behind a new silver Mercedes-Benz sport coupe, on the side away from the gym door, looking around the car toward the gym. There were no other cars parked near it. One of them had a pistol in his hand, the other had a blackjack.

You sure this is the model the boss wants? asked the one with the gun.

I’m sure. Said it’s a real hot item in Russia. And he doesn’t want any damage. We need the keys.

Jack came out of the gym door into the parking lot, carrying his small gym bag slung over his right shoulder. He walked toward the Mercedes.

There’s a guy coming this way, the thief said, hefting his pistol.

Wait until he starts opening the door. We go out from each end of the car and nail him. You go around the front of the car.

The carjacker with the gun crouched lower and moved silently to the front end of the Mercedes.

Jack approached the car, took out his locking remote and pressed a button. He slipped the gym bag strap off his shoulder with his left hand, grasped the door handle with his right, and started to open the door.

Suddenly, the two carjackers came at him from around the ends of his car. On his left, the carjacker leveled his pistol at Jack and walked to within a few feet of him. The second carjacker came up on Jack’s right.

Jack turned his head both ways quickly, his eyes narrowing.

Put the keys on the ground and walk away! the one with the gun ordered.

What’s the matter? No taxis? Jack said with a grim smile.

Do what he says, wiseass! the second thug snarled.

He came up to within arm’s reach of Jack, raising his right hand with the blackjack for a punch in the head.

In a split second, Jack pivoted to the right, swung his gym bag hard into the thug’s head, let go of the bag, and grabbed the stunned man’s right arm. He stepped behind him, brought the man’s arm up painfully behind his back, and shoved him hard toward the other carjacker. The blackjack fell to the ground.

The thug stumbled into the other carjacker, knocking his right gun arm to the side. Jack was on them in a flash, kicking the stumbling carjacker’s feet out from under him and sending him sprawling. Jack smashed the edge of his right hand down on the other thug’s forearm right behind his gun, which flew off a good ten feet to the side. As the thug grabbed his forearm in pain and a mixture of rage and panic flooded his face, the other one regained his feet and rushed at Jack, arms outstretched toward Jack’s neck.

Jack ducked and brought up a heavy left punch into the man’s stomach. He pitched forward, and Jack hit him with a massive right uppercut on the chin. He went down, unconscious.

The other carjacker started to run to pick up his pistol. Jack sprinted at him, caught him by the collar, and yanked back hard as he kicked him in the back of the right knee. The thug went down on his back in front of Jack. As he flailed his arms, Jack grabbed his head with both hands, started to snap it around, paused for an instant, then slammed it down hard onto the asphalt. The thug was out cold.

Jack stood for a moment panting, catching his breath, soaked in sweat, looking down at the carjacker, who would probably never know how close death had come. Jack took his cell phone out of his pants pocket, flipped it open, and started pushing buttons.

Glad I didn’t bother to shower, he muttered.

Three Romanian police cars were in front of a small, windowless, run-down warehouse in Bucharest. A faded, peeling sign over the front door read Romanian Transport Co. The door was wide open. The right side of the warehouse was flush against the wall of another industrial building. The left side faced a wide alley that dead-ended at a tall brick wall. The warehouse had a steel roll-up loading door at the end of the left side and a normal door just before it, standing open and askew on broken hinges. On the other side of the alley was an abandoned factory. The whole area had a stench like urine.

Inside the warehouse, old crates and barrels stood scattered around the trash-strewn floor, dimly lit by dirty skylights.

About halfway down the left side of warehouse, extending inward from the exterior wall, was a flat-roofed wooden structure with two doors spaced along the front side, indicating offices or other rooms.

Three Romanian national police officers in body armor were in the front part of the warehouse. Chief Agent Vasile Ducaru stood with his AK-47 pointed down at a burly man seated on the floor with his hands cuffed behind him, as Deputy Chief Agent Ionel Nastase tied a white plastic lock strap around his feet.

Principal Inspector Eva Radu was at the side of some wooden crates about twenty feet straight inside from the front door. Eva was commander of the squad, in her early thirties a strikingly beautiful woman, even in a police uniform and hot body armor. The humidity and sweat made her face and black hair glisten. She was kneeling by the motionless body of a second man, blood oozing from his neck, checking for a pulse. She shook her head. Then she stood up and returned to where Ionel and Vasile were standing.

Two more national policemen carrying AK-47s, Deputy Chief Agents Calin Braga and Cristian Rus, walked from the back of the warehouse along the wooden side structure, stepping around another thug, who was lying, bleeding and moaning, on the floor between the two doors. They came up to Eva, Ionel, and Vasile.

Cristian motioned with his head over his shoulder. We need an ambulance for that one.

Any more? Eva asked.

We didn’t check those side rooms yet, Calin replied.

Ionel and I will check them, Eva said. Cristian, you go call the ambulance. Reception’s probably better outside.

Cristian walked quickly toward the front door, putting a new magazine in his AK-47 as he went.

There’s a bunch of big crates in the back, Calin said.

Go check around them. I don’t want any surprises.

Calin headed for the back of the warehouse, rifle in hand, wary.

Vasile, you stay here, Eva said. Keep an eye on this one.

Eva and Ionel walked quickly to the side offices. At the first door, they positioned themselves on either side of the flimsy structure. Eva tried the door handle. Locked. Ionel gave her a nod and kicked the door open, immediately ducking back. Silence. Eva moved cautiously into the room, her pistol at the ready.

From beside the door, a piece of wood crashed down on her right hand, knocking her gun away. She turned as a heavy-set man jumped her. They struggled for a moment, then Eva elbowed him in the side, pivoted to the left, and slammed her foot into the front of his left knee. He roared in pain, staggered back, and Eva jumped in the air to plant her foot in his face. He caught Eva’s leg and flipped her down on the floor, as Ionel tried to get a clear shot with his AK-47.

The thug started to jump on top of her, but Eva brought up her knees into his abdomen as he came down, then smashed a right cross-cut into his face. He fell to Eva’s left, and Eva jumped to her feet. The thug got up, his face now bloody and rage in his eyes.

I’m gonna kill you, bitch! he yelled.

He rushed Eva. She stepped to her left, grabbed his right arm, and swung it up hard behind his back, dislocating it from his shoulder. From behind, with her left hand she gave him a vicious chop in the left kidney, and he tottered onto his right leg. Eva kicked his right foot sideways out from under him, and he crashed face first into the floor.

Ionel rushed up and jammed his AK-47 into the nape of the thug’s neck. Eva fished a pair of handcuffs from her belt pouch, brought the thug’s left arm behind his back, clamped the cuff on, then swung his dislocated right arm around.

The thug’s face contorted, and he moaned from the pain.

Eva clamped the other cuff on. She got up, took a plastic tie from a pouch on her belt and bound his feet.

Ionel handed Eva his rifle and patted the thug down thoroughly.

No guns or knives, he said.

Eva handed Ionel back his rifle. She retrieved her revolver from the floor where it had fallen, opened the cylinder, took two cartridges from the ammo pouch on her belt, and replaced the rounds she had fired earlier. She closed the cylinder with a quick snap. She rubbed her right wrist.

Next room, Eva said.

Eva and Ionel stepped around the now unconscious thug on the floor and walked quickly toward the door and out of the room. Calin came toward them.

With Eva and Calin on either side of the next door, Ionel tried the handle. The door was locked. He kicked in the door and jumped back from the open doorway. From inside, some murmurs and rustling sounds. Eva looked carefully around the door jamb.

My God! she said.

Inside the room, ten disheveled women were sitting on thin mattresses on the floor. They were all hot and dirty. Two were blacks, a few brown in Indian-type saris, the rest were a mix of blondes and brunettes.

Ionel and Calin also looked in.

What...? Ionel said.

Hunh. Calin grunted. Well, the warrant only said ‘smuggling’.

On Tuesday that week, Kai came into Jack’s office in the German Finance Ministry building in Berlin carrying a folder of papers. He handed them to Jack, seated behind his desk.

Here are some reports from the Italian Guardia di Finanza. Weird. Some odd gold bars are turning up in the jewelry manufacturing centers, Kai said.

Jewelers need gold, Jack said.

All cash trades. All very quiet. Smells like money laundering.

Jack opened the folder and thumbed through the documents.

What’s odd about them?

The word is, they have Nazi stamps on them.

Hunh. Does the Guardia have any of these bars?

No. Just reports from informants.

On Wednesday, a large, late-model BMW with Romanian plates pulled up and parked in front of H. Heinrichssohn Nachf., Münzen u. Antiquitäten, a coin shop on Ritterstrasse, a quiet Berlin street.

Inside the BMW, Ion Romanescu and Andrei Popov, two Romanians in their thirties, stocky but muscular, each opened a hidden compartment in their front door panel. They each removed four small, heavy packages wrapped in brown paper. Each took a backpack from the rear seat, zipped it open, put the packages inside, and closed it.

They got out of the car with the backpacks and closed the doors. Romanescu clicked his remote to lock the car doors and set the alarm. They walked to the glass shop door and went in.

Romanescu and Popov were greeted with only a nod by Joachim Heider, the owner of the shop, sitting behind a display case full of coins, reading a magazine. Heider was a thin man in his fifties with blond hair turning gray. No customers were in the shop. Heider put down the magazine, got up, went to the shop door, locked it, and flipped over a cardboard open/closed sign.

Come with me, Heider said.

Heider led Romanescu and Popov into a back room, sparsely furnished with a desk and chair, a computer at one side of the desk, a small calculator with an LED display panel, a quadrille-ruled pad, three visitor chairs, and several bookcases filled with numismatic books. In one corner stood a tall, modern safe. Behind the desk were some shelves with books, folders, and an electronic scale.

Heider motioned to his desk. Romanescu and Popov each opened their backpacks, took out