September 1944. Herman Goering's private home, Carinhall, in the Schorfheide forest outside Berlin... Hermann Goering, Reichsmarschall of Greater Germany, pops a morphine tablet into his mouth and washes it down with a swig of red wine. His eye catches a speck of fluff on his white uniform. He flicks it off with his fingernail. Yellow-blue sparks explode from the wooden logs in the granite fireplace of the Jagdhalle , his medieval-style reception room and council chamber. As he sits back in his easy chair, his enormous frame flattens the cushions. He reaches for his Cuban cigar and takes a draw, careful not to inhale. Looking into the fire, he is reminded of the flames from the twenty-two allied planes he had shot down during World War I. It's a time for introspection, mostly about his life and the war, that accursed garotte coiling around his neck, strangling his life force... His mind flicks back to happier times, to sun-kissed memories filled with deer and pheasant shoots, and shotgun-toting diplomats binging on Beluga caviar and lobster thermidor in Schorfheide Forest in east Germany; of despots and crackpots and sexpots guzzling magnums of Dom Perignon champagne, and laughter and bonhomie and abandon in the Jagdhalle . Now there is only greyness, with the thudding of anti-aircraft batteries and the boom of Allied bombs exploding in obliterated streets, of firing squads, of the gallows - and of the Führer, staring at him, his hypnotic eyes apportioning blame, but never accepting it. Goering has come to the realisation that the war is lost. The Soviet armies are pushing German forces out of Poland and the Allies are almost at the Rhine. Soon they will be at the gates of Berlin - and they will be unforgiving. He hears the anti-aircraft fire and the heavy drone of Allied night bombers. Two SS soldiers march into the hall and stand on either side of Goering. 'Herr Reichsmarschall, may we escort you to the bunker?' Goering opens a glass door, sticks out his head, and listens. He reckons that it's a one-thousand-bomber raid on Berlin, the city of rubble. He proceeds to his underground bunker, thirty-six feet below ground and lined with eight-foot concrete walls. His wife, Emmy, and their six-year-old daughter, Edda, are already there. Edda runs to her father, who whirls her up into his arms. When the bombing ceases, Hitler's deputy goes back to the Jagdhalle and once again plants himself in his front of the fire. His hand reaches for his Reichsmarschall's ceremonial baton, presented to him by Adolf Hitler in June 1941. Arm straight, he holds it out in front of him, then brings it closer and rubs the gold Luftwaffe eagle on the end cap. An SS officer approaches, carrying some files to his breast. 'Herr Reichsmarschall...' 'Yes?' 'Those files you asked for...' Goering wags his baton, and the SS officer places the files on the ivory coffee table in front of Adolf Hitler's deputy leader. 'Herr Hans Winkler has arrived, Herr Reichsmarschall,' the SS officer says. Goering lifts the top file and peruses it. The SS officer steps back and stands rigidly to attention. The fire crackles. Goering sets down the file on the coffee table, lifts a poker and rams it into a log, sending a salvo of yellow and red sparklers up the chimney. He lifts the file again, turns a page, scans its contents. Then he looks blankly at the SS officer and says, 'Send him in.' 'Very good, Herr Reichsmarschall.' Outside the entrance to the room, Hans Winkler stands, wringing his hands. He is worried. He cannot fathom why the Reichsmarschall of Germany would want to see him. He examines his conscience again but cannot find one sin. The SS officer escorts Winkler into the reception chamber. 'Herr Hans Winkler, Herr Reichsmarschall,' the SS officer announces before clicking his heels and leaving. Winkler stands rigidly to attention while Goering continues reading his file. A bead of sweat trickles down Winkler's forehead. Eventually, Goering turns around and looks at him. Bald, bespectacled, nondescript: the Nazi leader's ideal image of an archaeologist. 'Sit down, Herr Winkler,' he says softly, indicating that he wants Winkler to sit across from him. 'Would you like some refreshments? Coffee? Tea, perhaps?' 'No, thank you, Herr Reichsmarschall.' Goering lifts his glass of wine. 'A glass of wine?' 'No, thank you, sir.' 'I see you worked with Adolf Mahr in Ireland.' 'Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall. Herr Mahr was the first Keeper of Irish Antiquities and director of the National Museum of Ireland from 1934 to the start of the war, and it was my privilege to be one of his assistants.' 'I've always wanted to visit Ireland. Is it as beautiful as they say it is?' 'It is quite spectacular, Herr Reichsmarschall.' 'And the Irish...what are they like?' Winkler hesitates. 'They're an eccentric people, sir. Fiercely independent, wonderfully traditional; they appreciate music...they like their Guinness and having a good time.' 'They like their Guinness...but they don't like the British.' 'No, Herr Reichsmarschall. Historically, British imperialism has resulted in great suffering in Ireland, and the Irish have long memories.' 'And are they hostile to the Reich?' 'The Irish Republican Army are sympathetic to the Reich, Herr Reichsmarschall, but only because it suits their own ends; they strenuously oppose our system of governance every bit as much as the British.' Goering has read about this. 'What's the maxim they hold - "England's difficulty is Ireland's opportunity"?' 'That sums it up exactly, Herr Reichsmarschall. It is my view that the general population are neither pro-German nor pro-British.' Goering swirls the wine in his glass. 'An assistant to the Keeper of Irish Antiquities...must have been an interesting job?' 'It was, Herr Reichsmarschall.' 'And you met the Irish prime minister, Herr de Valera?' 'Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall, I did meet the Taoiseach.' 'Taoiseach? Is that Irish for prime minister?' 'It means chieftain, or leader, Herr Reichsmarschall.' 'Like Führer?' 'Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall.' Goering chuckles. 'Ha! Two Führers. I don't think our beloved Führer would like that.' Winkler detects a seam of sarcasm in Goering's voice, but he remains stoic in the knowledge that to join in the Reichsmarschall's merriment could be deemed a capital offence. 'Hmm... What type of man is this Irish Führer?' 'I found him dour, Herr Reichsmarschall.' 'Dour,' Goering repeats, smiling. Grim-faced images of Hitler and Field Marshal Keitel and Admiral Karl Dönitz flash before him. 'I know people like that. Sullen, unimaginative people: students of stupidity.' He stands up, his baton in his hand. 'How would you like to go back to Ireland on a very important mission, Herr Winkler?' Winkler looks mystified. Me? Going back to Ireland? What's there for me? 'Whatever you say, Herr Reichsmarschall. It would be an honour to serve the Reich and yourself in any way I can.' 'Good. That settles it, then. We'll talk again.' Goering waves his baton. 'Goodnight, Herr Winkler.' Chapter One In the narrow cobblestoned streets and alleyways of the town of Saint-Émilion, in the French prefecture of Bordeaux, men and women dressed in crimson soutanes, ermine surplices, and Phrygian hats hold up torches as they march in the annual Procession of the Jurade. These leading winemakers and prominent citizens make their way to the King's Keep in the town, where a firework display heralds the opening of the annual Bordeaux grape harvest. IRA Commander Robert ''Tiny'' Murdoch, all six foot six inches of him, peeps at the procession from the side of a frosted window in a stone-walled wine bar, but the face he has been looking for for three years doesn't seem to be in the parade. Has James ''Ructions'' O'Hare, the man who robbed the National Bank of Ireland in Belfast of £36.5 million and who, in the process, had engineered Tiny's kneecapping by his IRA comrades, eluded him again? Hughie O'Boyle, Tiny's cousin, has a red face and a blond Tintin quiff. He peers through the other side of the window and says, 'This is something, isn't it?' Tiny groans and rolls his eyes. It seems to him that all his life he has been surrounded by dimwits, and nothing has changed . As the procession passes by, Tiny softly says, 'He's not there.' 'Maybe your source got it wrong.' Tiny slowly turns his head towards Hughie, lifts his empty glass, and shakes it. Hughie walks towards the bar. Tiny looks out the window again. 'Boss,' Hughie shouts. 'Small or large?' Tiny turns to make a 'large' sign with his hands, then turns back to the window only to feel his heartbeat break into a canter, then into a full charge: a cloaked figure in jurat costume is staring back at him from just outside the window. Tiny, mouth ajar, brings his face so close to the glass that his nose is almost touching it. The figure replicates the motion. Tiny scratches his ear. The figure scratches his ear. His eyes widen. It's...it's him! Ructions O''Hare! The cocky little prick! Tiny's noxious thoughts stop abruptly when Ructions brings a gun muzzle to the glass, directly in front of Tiny's forehead. Stunned, Tiny staggers back and collapses onto a chair, which topples over, sending him to the floor. Hughie rushes to lift his commander. 'Are you alright, boss?' Tiny is quickly on his feet again. He points to the window. Hughie looks out, then turns to Tiny quizzically. Tiny looks out. Ructions is gone. A buzzing, like a bee trapped inside a matchbox. Tiny takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the unregistered number. He knows who's calling him. 'I could have nutted you just now,' Ructions says. 'You should have nutted me just now. I wouldn't have hesitated.' 'Go back to Ireland, Tiny. Go home before this gets out of hand.' Tiny needs to assert himself, to take control of this conversation. 'It's already out of hand.' 'No, it isn't. All that's been hurt is your pride.' 'Haven't you forgotten something?' 'I don't think so.' 'You got me kneecapped by the IRA and stole our money.' 'Me? Pray tell, dear boy,' Ructions says in a posh voice, 'what money would that be?' 'The bank money, dear boy,' Tiny says in an equally pukka voice. 'I don't know what you're talking about, my man.' 'Shall I enlighten you?' 'I await your elucidation.' Gone is the frivolity. Tiny's voice is backstreet Belfast. 'Yes, you. When you robbed the National Bank, you left us a lot of traceable notes while you made off with twenty million in untraceable notes. We want our fifty per cent cut of that. Ten million. There. Is that elucidation enough for you? Get it to us, and we walk away.' Holy shit! thinks Ructions. Big Tiny's back in the 'RA! Tiny hears Ructions's intake of breath. '"We?"' 'Yes, fucking "we."' 'And what "we" would that be?' 'The royal fucking "we." The "we" that sticks hot pokers up the asses of dickheads like you.' Ructions, forty eight years old, blond hair, athlete's build, gets into his car but doesn't turn on the engine. 'I haven't a clue - what National Bank job are you referring to? Was a bank robbed?' Tiny is not amused. He makes a fist and purses his lips. 'Is that the way you fucking want it?' He speaks slowly to emphasise his words. 'If you try to fuck with me, prick--' 'Tiny, son, you're one ungrateful old revolutionary! I just spared your life, and now you're calling me a prick. Is there no appreciation in this world anymore? No gratitude?' Ructions turns on the ignition and drives off. 'Ungrateful? Because of you, asshole,' Tiny says, 'I was on the front pages of every newspaper in Ireland: "Terror boss kneecapped." You must have felt good when you read that!' 'And you're blaming me for that? Man, you allowed yourself to be taped threatening the life of the chairman of the IRA Army Council. What did you expect them to do? Give you a promotion? Give you a by-ball? Tiny, the 'RA forgive nothing and remember everything. But then, you found that out the hard way, don't you?' 'Never you mind what the 'RA forgive. You just remember one thing: you're not forgiven. You'd better keep looking behind you, dear boy, 'cause I'm coming for you - and the next time you won't see me.' 'We've all got to take our medicine, Tiny, you, more than most, know that.' 'You'll be taking yours soon enough.' 'Go home, Tiny, before you're brought home in a wooden box,' Ructions says before hanging up. Tiny sits down. Head bowed, he funnels out a stream of breath. Hughie pulls a chair up beside him. 'Are you okay, boss? You look like you've seen a ghost.' Tiny's head swivels, his eyes flicking open. 'I have just seen a ghost.' 'I don't believe in ghosts,' Hughie says. 'My da used to say--' 'Your da was full of shit. Tell the team to step down. Tell them to go back to Belfast. It's over.' Hughie cocks his head. 'I don't get it. Why would they go back to Belfast?' 'Just do what you're told, will ya?' 'If you say so.' Hughie takes out his phone and walks into the hall. Tiny stirs his glass of wine. How did Ructions know the IRA was in town? How long did he know? Long enough to bring a shooter to the show. Who has he bought now with his millions? Cops. Cops like fat envelopes. Tiny can feel himself getting angrier by the second. Or maybe there's an informer in the ranks? That wouldn't surprise him. What will the bold Ructions do now? He'll run, like a frightened little gazelle. Tiny has an image of a gazelle leaping across the Serengeti. He smiles as he thinks, Gazelles get caught by lions - and eaten! Excerpted from Goering's Gold by Richard O'Rawe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
