The Deal: The Story of the Man Who Found Hitler's Gold

By Mark Taylor

David Edwards is a brilliant young lawyer who has traded his law practice for a thriving investment business. In the course of his business, he has stumbled upon the ultimate treasure: gold that was stolen by the Nazis in WWII. David becomes engaged in an international high-stakes game of intrigue, endangering his family and himself as he seeks to liberate this fortune. At the same time, a very wealthy family, who has kept this gold secret for over seventy years, has started the process of retrieving it for themselves.

David is trying to perform a balancing act. While trying to secure this fortune for himself and his family, the pressure on David is mounting. His business is being challenged by forces beyond his control, his family is demanding more and more of his time and attention, and he is certain that he is being followed by at least two groups who want the gold for themselves.

As Edwards chases all over Europe to bring his fortune home, the pressure on him builds. His best friend has been killed, he is being stalked by former Nazis, he is being watched by the Mossad, and he is engaged in a legal battle with bankers trying to steal him blind.

David faces with mounting obstacles to obtaining his fortune. His money has run out, his wife is threatening to leave him, and his world seems to be falling apart.

David is oh-so-close to realizing his dream when he encounters a pressure-packed showdown with the bankers. As The Deal reaches its dizzying final conclusion, David is tempted by a beautiful woman, he is pursued by killers, and he is helped by a surprising ally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662467714

Mark Taylor

Mark Taylor is professor of New Testament and associate dean for Master's Programs at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas.

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Deal

The Story of the Man Who Found Hitler's Gold

Mark Taylor

Copyright © 2023 Mark Taylor

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-6624-6770-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6771-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

About the Author

To the love of my life, Leigh Ann, and

to my pride and joy, my sons Mark and Andrew.

Prologue

January 1, 1946

Kilgore, New Zealand

Fiddling nervously with both the heavy, oddly-shaped key in his pocket and the thick crowbar dangling from his belt, Stefan Poppe, a major in the army of the Third Reich, opened the manual dated February 1, 1945. It was entitled Standing Orders. This was a list of orders that soldiers in the field must follow without question. Since he was in New Zealand, and thus out of the active war zone, the manual had not been updated in a year. The orders remained valid, even though the war was over.

Poppe's eyes focused on one order. The last order. He'd looked at it so many times that he could recite it from memory.

It was clear, this order. There was no room for ambiguity: "Wenn sie wort zum gegenteil erhalten, müssen sie über die bergmannschaft verfügen." Unless you receive word to the contrary, you must dispose of the mountain Team.

His team. His people. His men. His friends. Dead.

When he arrived in New Zealand over two years before, Major Poppe and his fellow German soldiers were assigned to integrate themselves within the small town of Kilgore and, more importantly, guard a cave they had carved into the side of Mount Carmel. After the eight-man crew hollowed out a cave in the side of the mountain, they built a large steel door. Nearby, Poppe positioned the men into two groups: four lived in a small house on the right side of the hill, and the others a smaller house on the opposite side, about three hundred meters away.

Their job was a simple one: guard the vault. From what, they didn't know, because they were among the small handful of people who knew the vault was there in the first place. It seemed almost silly to have eight armed soldiers in New Zealand.

The vault housed hundreds and hundreds of small crates, all of which were sealed, and would stay that way. Poppe was warned that if his men even so much as cracked one, they'd be summarily shot.

The major knew what was in the crates, but he wasn't talking. Until now.

Poppe left his cabin just before sunrise, walked to the nearby farmhouse, and knocked on the door. A warm, familiar, smiling face greeted him. Stefan, my friend, what can I do for you this early in the morning? asked the farmer.

Mr. Wellage, we've known each other for almost three years. The war is over, and it's time for me to go home. I'd like to show you something. Please come with me. Poppe's tone was commanding, but without any trace of emotion. He was a burly, imposing man, and when he commanded, you didn't refuse.

The pair walked silently to the mountain that the major and his men had dutifully guarded for what felt to Poppe like decades. Poppe knocked aside a thick bush, revealing a circuit breaker box. He jimmied open the box with his crowbar, then pressed a red rectangular button. An electric engine roared to life, and a small door just below the circuit breaker slid open, revealing the lock. He jammed in the key—as the lock hadn't been touched in years, it didn't go easily—and vault's door slowly opened, revealing many, many wooden crates. Poppe strode in and used the crowbar to open the nearest one.

Wellage gasped. Gold bars. Dozens of gold bars. Each stamped with a swastika.

Just below the swastika, a figure: 99.4 percent.

Wellage felt nervousness envelop him. What is this? he thought. Why is Poppe showing me this?

After a pause perhaps fifteen seconds, Wellage asked, Can I touch? Poppe nodded.

Moving slowly to contain his nervousness, Wellage lifted one of the bars. Heavy, he marveled. Heavier than I'd expected. Fifteen kilos? he asked. Poppe shrugged. After a silent minute, Wellage asked, Why are you showing me this, Stefan?

Voice still flat, Poppe explained, My orders are that if I didn't receive a certain coded message by midnight exactly nine months after the official end of the war, I am to kill the other soldiers who served with me. After they're dead, I'm to take expedited passage to Berlin and report directly to the führer, in person.

He paused, as if waiting for comment. Wellage looked confused, but he remained silent, the gold bar still in his hands.

Poppe continued, It's been almost eight months since the Russians took Berlin. Germany is a skeleton of a country. The führer has been pronounced dead. I see no reason to kill my people, based on the orders of a dead man. He gave Wellage a meaningful look. Mr. Wellage, I've followed every order, save for this last one. I've received no transmissions from Germany. I've had no contact at all. It's as if Germany has forgotten me, here. I'll not kill these good and innocent men. He kicked the crate. I think my men knew what was in these boxes, but they'd never been in here. I'm the only one who has the key. They're as innocent as they could be. None of them has fired their guns in over two years. Today, I've booked passage for my men back to Germany. They left for the port thirty30 minutes ago. They've been given orders never to speak of their assignment here. And I have no doubt they will follow those orders. They needn't die.

Wellage asked, What does this have to do with me?

My friend, Poppe said, I leave this key in your hands. This cave is a haven of greed and death. It's a symbol of Adolf Hitler, and I want no part of it. You're a good man. Do with this as you will.

"Do…what?" Wellage felt as if he were in a dream.

Exhausted, Poppe sighed, I don't care. Poppe took the gold bar from Wellage and tossed it back in the crate. When it landed, it sounded as if a hammer had hit an anvil. The sound was high-pitched and heavy.

Wellage could hardly speak. What about you? This is a fortune. Why not keep this for yourself and your family?

Stefan slumped down onto the ground, leaned against the crate, and spoke softly. It seemed that the full weight of the war's atrocities had just hit him. Mr. Wellage, my parents were both killed in the war. I have no wife. My friends consist of you and my men. That's all. Again, he sighed. Ever since we surrendered, I've read my Bible daily, and I'm ashamed of what I've done. I am ashamed of what Germany has done to the world. As I said, you're a good man. So I leave this to you.

After a few seconds of quiet thought, Poppe looked at Wellage and asked, Would you leave me alone for a minute?

Wellage nodded, then gazed at the crate and said, Stefan, is there anything I can do for you?

Poppe shook his head, and Wellage quietly left the German officer alone in the vault.

As he was walking back to his farmhouse, Wellage heard a single gunshot.

Chapter 1

Monday, March 21

David Edwards punched his frequent flyer number into the Delta Airlines e-ticket check-in machine at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. As he confirmed his upgrade to first class, he said to himself—too loudly—"A hundred thousand miles a year has some perks." The attractive woman at to his right shot him a look. He shrugged and gave her a warm, cockeyed smile. She smiled right back. Most women did.

After David walked through the security gates, he stopped at the newsstand and grabbed two magazines: Forbes and duPont Registry: Money. Cars. David liked to think of it as one word: MoneyCars. He had his own definition of MoneyCars: Need. The need to succeed, the need to get ahead, the need to be a little better, a little bit nicer, and a little richer. The need to be applauded by friends, family, business associates, and his old law school buddies. The need to be important. The need to be loved.

He checked his Patek Philippe watch: 6:05 am. Plenty of time to make his sixty fifty to La Guardia.

Across town, at the Peachtree Five Points subway station, John Toliver leapt from the platform onto the tracks and ran east. He thought he saw two men jump onto the tracks after him, but he couldn't be sure. He'd been up all night, and he was wasted, and he was losing it. Yeah, it was early, and yeah, the chances of a train coming were slight, but he probably wouldn't have run onto the tracks if he'd have been sober.

Nine hours ago, John had finished a simple dinner of a salad and three glasses of red wine, after which he started walking the streets of Buckhead, looking at office buildings, admiring Atlanta's architecture, and sipping whiskey from a pint bottle. Suddenly, he felt someone following him—maybe it was because he was buzzed, maybe not. But he didn't want to take any chances, so he went underground and took a ride on the well-lit, reasonably secure subway. Since then, John had been alternately switching trains and drinking his whiskey, still unable to discern whether or not somebody was actually after him.

When he got to the Five Points station, John pushed his floppy hair from his sweaty forehead, climbed onto the platform, and surveyed his surroundings. Directly in front of him was a staircase, which led up to Five Points. To his right, about a hundred yards away, John could see the archway of the subway tunnel. A native Atlantan and a train buff, he knew the tunnel was only about one hundred yards long. Then the tracks exited the tunnel and ran above the ground for about a mile. He recalled a rail storage yard nearby.

A train pulled up, stopped, then pulled out, and John made the split-second decision to follow it into the tunnel, thinking it would throw off the guys who might or might not have been following him. He lowered himself onto the narrow walkway beside the tracks, flattened himself against the wall, and took a good long look behind him.

Yep. Sure enough, two men in what looked like velour tracksuits were gingerly stumbling down the walkway. He wasn't a paranoid freak. He was being tracked. Time to hustle.

John started jogging and opened a space of two hundred feet between himself and his pursuers. He thought that if he could just get into the open rail yard, he could find a place to hide—in a building, behind a container, or in the parking lot nearby. Or maybe he could grab a cab. Still drunk, he was sweating and panting, and his head was throbbing. Why did I have to wear a suit? he thought.

When he surfaced onto land, John's heart sank—there was no place to hide in the rail yard, and it was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The tracks that led out of the rail yard were a good three hundred yards away. He'd never outrun his followers. He was completely out of breath and felt like he was going to vomit. He stopped and turned toward the two men who had now closed to within a few feet of him.

What do you want? he yelled.

In a thick Russian accent, one of the men called, You know what we want, Toliver. You know who we work for. Come to our offices. Bring your lawyer. Sign over your bonds. In two weeks, you'll be a rich man again. Believe it.

I knew it, John thought, that's what this is about. Sonofabitch. That's bullshit! John said. If you want my bonds, you pay immediately. There's no need to wait.

The men approached John, holding their hands up as if to demonstrate nobody was going to get hurt. Mr. Toliver, the taller man angrily sneered, it's not going to happen that way. Now let's go.

He nodded to his accomplice who grabbed John by his collar and planted his fist firmly on John's nose. John was knocked to his knees, nearly unconscious. Pick him up, Coco.

As the taller man jerked him to his feet, John regained some semblance of consciousness. After being dragged for a few yards, he realized what he had to do. The question was, could he do it? As they approached the tunnel, John heard a train pull into the station. In a trembling voice, he told his captors, "Your people will get nothing." John mustered all his strength and headbutted the man called Coco on the jaw, hearing the satisfying crack his incisors. He then followed this with an elbow to the nose of the man behind him—using all his strength. When Coco let go of John, it allowed him to run toward the oncoming train. He tried to dive across the tracks in front of the oncoming train. If he could put the train between himself and these two men, it would give him enough time to make his escape.

He didn't make it.

The sun was rising on the eastern horizon, and the orange light of the early morning glowed in the thin fog that covered Atlanta. The ground was still wet from the previous night's shower. It was the first day of spring, and it was going to be a hot one.

Lt. Charles Cox knew he wouldn't be able to enjoy it. Geez, he said to his young partner, OFC Linda Ramirez, as they walked into the Five Points Station, I'm less than thirty minutes from the end of my shift, and I've to deal with a deader.

Ramirez shrugged. Death has no schedule.

Cox cleared his throat, took off his hat, wiped the beads of sweat from his balding head, then asked the one of the officers standing by the body, Whaddya got?

Well, Lieutenant, said the patrolman, who Cox thought looked like he was fresh out of junior high, it looks like a homeless guy was walking on the tracks and just got hit. Seein' that he has a broken bottle in his coat pocket, we're guessing he musta been too drunk to hear the train. But it does seem a little strange. I mean, why walk along the tracks, when you can walk beside 'em?

"Maybe he wanted to get hit," Cox said. He peered at the body and made some mental notes. Except for the broken nose, the body was surprisingly blood free—there were probably massive internal injuries from the impact, though. The poor schnook was on his back, his vacant eyes fixed on whatever the eyes of the dead fix on. His black hair was greasy and shaggy, and he had a serious case of five o'clock shadow.

As Cox moved closer, he noticed that the dead man's gray pinstripe suit—probably something he picked up from a homeless shelter—was actually pretty nice. His shoes had holes in the soles, but they were expensive-looking leather wingtips—again, probably from a shelter.

Did you check for ID? Cox asked the kid.

Naw, sir, the patrolman replied in a syrupy Southern drawl. I ain't checked nothin', 'cept I smelled whiskey and saw the wet spot on his coat. When I touched the pocket, I could feel crushed glass inside, so I guess that's the bottle in there.

Cox kneeled next to the body tried to find some ID, being careful to not mess up the crime scene. He took a pencil from his breast pocket and used it to lift the man's lapel. Inside the dead guy's right pocket was a black, sleek, calfskin wallet; worn, but probably expensive. Still using the pencil, Cox maneuvered the wallet from the pocket and opened it. Inside were half a dozen pictures, two expired credit cards, a $20 dollar bill, and a valid Georgia driver's license—the picture matched the deceased. In one of the plastic picture holders was a two-dollar bill. Cox smiled; he kept one of those in his own wallet for good luck. Cox peered at the license and did some quick calculation—the dead man is fifty-one. Or was fifty-one. He read aloud. John Toliver, 126 Habersham Road, Cox said. Geez. Fifty-one. (He could have added Just like me.) And he lives on Habersham.

The kid said, That's a pretty rich address, isn't it, Captain?

Cox smiled. Yes, son. That's where the rich folks live. And it's not captain. It's lieutenant.

Sorry, sir.

Cox leaned down to have a closer look at the body. The label inside the dirty, tattered suit was a surprise—Brioni. Geez, this guy is wearing a four-thousand-dollar suit, Cox said to no one in particular.

Needs to find a good dry cleaner, the kid laughed back. Much to Cox's approval, Ramirez elbowed the kid in the ribs.

Still using his pencil, Cox pushed open the flap of the side pocket on the suit; it smelled of sweat and whiskey. He looked at the broken bottle in the pocket. Hunh. Maker's Mark. This doesn't add up.

Whaddaya mean? asked the kid.

Cox said, Well, we've a guy in a nice suit. Sure it's dirty, and a little frayed, but it's still an expensive one. He has an Italian leather wallet in his pocket, with a Habersham address. His shoes are worn, but they're probably Allen Edmonds or Cole Haan. He's drinking premium whiskey, but he was riding the train in the middle of the night. Weird. He stood up and told the kid, Make sure the coroner and the investigators know this guy lives—or lived—on Habersham. I'm going back to the station to start the report.

As they left the subway, Ramirez asked Cox, What're your thoughts, Lieutenant?

I don't know, Linda. Something isn't right. It's probably just a drunk guy who wandered onto the tracks at the wrong time. But maybe he decided to check out.

Ramirez blinked. Suicide?

Not sure. As Cox closed the door on his police cruiser, he said. I mean, why was a drunk-ass Buckhead millionaire up in Five Points in the middle of the night? He shook his head and repeated, This doesn't add up.

At 8:45 am, Lauren Bolton strolled into the office of her senior partner, Ian Javitz. It was her fifth year with the Manhattan law firm of Javitz, Stuart, and she was on the fast track to partnership. She wanted to stay on that track, so she made it a point never to be late when meeting with Ian.

Javitz, Stuart was a small firm—they had only eight partners and sixteen associates—but its offices were monumental. Beautiful tan marble covered the walls, and the black and tan granite squares on the floor created what Lauren thought of as a distinguished pattern. The interior offices were spacious, and each partner was assigned an interior designer to customize his offices to individual tastes. And those Central Park views that added probably $5,000 per month to their lease payment? Worth every penny. Lauren was always especially taken by the view from Ian Javitz's office. For that matter, she was taken by his entire office—seven hundred square feet, a gas fireplace, and a bathroom with a steam shower. Her modest fifty-two-year-old house in Brooklyn wasn't nearly as nice.

Ian, who was normally very organized, had papers scattered over half his desk; these looked more like billing statement and payment receipts than legal documents. Lauren sat down on the sofa across from Javitz's desk and waited for the senior partner to speak first. He finally said, I'm a little distracted this morning. My wife has the flu, and I had to get Ginny off to school all by myself, so I'm little behind. Pardon the mess. He clapped his hands once. So let's get to it. Do you have the Carroll Building environmental report? One of Javitz's clients was purchasing a small office building in Fort Lauderdale, and he had to review all the environmental reports and construction evaluations of the property.

Yes, sir, Lauren said, handing Javitz one of the four thick file folders she hauled to the meeting.

Javitz took the file and opened it, then after about five seconds, slammed it shut and said, Give me the highlights.

Lauren crossed her tanned, athletic legs, then pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears, and said, Well, sir, the building is about forty years old and had some asbestos. All the harmful stuff was apparently removed two years ago. All the ceiling panels were replaced, and all the duct work is new. There's some asbestos in the floor tile, but the engineering consultant thinks it isn't an issue, because the tiles are solid and the asbestos can't flake off and get into the air. We could remove the tile if you want to err on the side of caution.

Javitz stood up, took off his Hugo Boss suit jacket, flung it onto the leather sofa, and said, Check the building code in Florida, and see if the law requires us to remove the tile. Also, try to find a rough estimate of what it'll cost. It may be in our interests to play it safe and just take it out. But check our options. Next.

Lauren said, Next, sir, is our law firm's lease. We have a ten-year lease, but the dates on the contract run from January 1, 2020, until December 31, 2030. Lauren handed the file to Javitz, who glanced at it for two seconds, then dropped it on top of the previous file.

What's your point? Javitz asked.

January of 2020 until December of 2030 is actually eleven years, not ten. As you know, we spent a lot of money redesigning and rebuilding our offices. We moved every wall on this floor, and most of our space is new construction. We account for this on our books and records as a capital expense, which we must depreciate over the life of the lease. Our accountants, and everyone else for that matter, are using ten years for expensing these items, but it should be eleven. It then follows, sir, that our tax returns are using the wrong number for depreciation expenses. It's a small issue, but it means we've got some issues. We probably have to amend to some prior tax returns. We may have some minor penalties to pay.

Javitz laughed. Now that's some pretty damn good work, Lauren. I never would've caught that one. Our accountants didn't either? Lauren shook her head. Glad to see you sweat the details, Ms. Bolton.

Thank you, sir.

You're welcome. Now have those overpaid geniuses make the changes and file the amended returns. Okay. What's next?

Next we've got— Before Lauren could continue, Mr. Javitz's assistant stuck her head in the door, Your father is on the phone.

Hey, Lauren, let's finish this later. We're planning an eightieth birthday party for my old man, and I need to talk to him about it.

No problem, Lauren said. As Javitz picked up the phone and turned toward his Central Park view, Lauren gathered her files from Javitz's desk and hurried out of the office, unaware that she'd accidently snatched up a set of papers that weren't hers for the snatching.

Thirty minutes later, Lauren was in her office reading the Wall Street Journal, when the phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, she smiled and grabbed the receiver. In a feeble attempt at a sexy voice, she said, Hey, baby. What can I do for you?

David Edwards laughed. Hello, sweetheart.

I love it when you call me sweetheart.

I know you do. So I'm in…

I know what you're going to say.

What's that?

That you're in town, and you want to get a drink, and you want me to bring our receptionist along, so you can stare at her cleavage while we both get trashed and tell the same boring law school stories, Lauren said.

David laughed, Pretty close. I'm in the cab from LaGuardia on my way to my hotel. Can we meet up for a drink or dinner after work? I need you for about thirty minutes of real business.

Real business? Lauren asked skeptically.

Yeah. Believe it or not.

Okay, why don't you drop by here about six? I have a quick question to ask you, too, and we can get a drink next door at the Plaza afterwards.

Oooh, the Plaza, David said. Fancy.

Nothing's too fancy for you.

That's right, sweetheart.

I love it when you call me sweetheart.

"I know you do.

Calling each other sweetheart was an old law school memory. One of Lauren's professors called her sweetheart in class which infuriated her. Since that time the only person who can call her sweetheart and get away with it is her friend David. And he often teases her by calling her that—and she does the same to him. It is an inside joke among friends with absolutely no romantic attachment.

It was too early for David to check into his Midtown hotel, so he left his bags with the concierge, along with a $20 dollar tip, annoyed as always that in New York, you have to tip for everything. And tip well.

He then walked up to Fifth Avenue, strolled into the Rockefeller Center lobby, and hopped an elevator up to the offices of Deutsche Immobilien Gessellschaft—DIG for short. DIG was one of the largest German conglomerates operating in America, and David was in town to convince them to partner up in what he hoped would be a profitable real estate venture. Very profitable, for everybody.

DIG's primary business was raising money in Europe for investment in US real estate. For over twenty years, they'd parlayed a little-known provision in the tax laws of both countries into a multibillion-dollar business. Legal? Sure. Moral? Well, that depends on your definition of moral.

David had been courting DIG for almost a year. He came up with an interesting wrinkle to their business plan, which he hoped would help propel his young real estate business into the stratosphere. His wrinkle wasn't really new—he was just adding a layer of complexity