Wolf Angel by Mark Hobson (best e reader for manga .TXT) 📕

in the doorway of his office to stretch his legs. It was already mid-morning, and his back ached from sitting slumped in the chair, but it was good to be working. The distraction from the weekend’s events was good.

Back at his computer he decided to see if anything had come through from ViCASnl regarding the dragnet he had ordered for the symbol and message that had been daubed on the wall near the Mila crime scene. Disappointingly nothing had been red-flagged on the national database with links to any known Level 1 crimes throughout The Netherlands, however there was a hit on the Interpol system. The symbol was apparently used by a Hells Angels group in Finland during the 1970’s and 80’s, a bunch of ultra-violent psychos who specialized in attacking Asian shopkeepers who refused to pay them as part of their protection racket. They had links to other far right groups such as COMBAT 18 in the UK, and although their crime spree was going back several decades it might still be worth checking out. Also, this reminded Pieter of the silver finger ring with the Norse script, found at the Monroe crime scene.

Time to pay Adolf another visit.

Pieter found him down in his bunker – sorry, basement room.

“Hey buddy,” Floris greeted him, looking up from the book he was reading.

Pieter noted the title: UNIFORMS AND INSIGNIA OF GERMAN ARMED FORCES – 1914 to 1945. More books were spread out over his desk, all of a similar nature.

“Adolf,” he smiled back.

“Sorry to hear about your father.”

Pieter pulled over a chair and picked up one of the volumes, and flicked through it, snatching glimpses of black and white photos, maps, colour plates. “You been doing your homework?”

“I certainly have,” Floris told him with a big grin. He reached across and pulled out a sheaf of papers, and waved them about like a winning lottery ticket. “These are print-outs of the photos I took of your mystery ring. I spent yesterday going through my books, and have managed to pinpoint exactly what it signifies.” He looked pleased as punch.

“Don’t keep me in suspense Adolf. You might just be about to crack the case.”

Floris rocked back and forth, his body shaking from mirth, or at least that’s what Pieter hoped, and not from his illness.

Laying the photos over the desk, Floris turned his book around in a flourish and showed Pieter the double-spread illustration. A colour drawing matching the ring that was found on the ground next to Oliver Monroe’s castrated body, down to every detail.

Pieter leaned forward for a closer look.

“What you are looking at,” Floris informed him, “is the signet ring given to members of an elite unit of World War Two-era German commandos. The ring was sometimes referred to as a wolf’s angel. The men – and women – who wore it were named Werewolf Commandos.” He tapped the W in the book illustration and then in the corresponding photo on his desk.

“Werewolves?” Pieter looked at him dubiously, but he was thinking about the message on the wall.

“Yes, but not of the furry wolf variety that bay at the full moon. These were highly-disciplined soldiers drawn from the SS or even the Hitler Youth and trained in all aspects of specialized combat. Infiltration, sabotage, reconnaissance, assassination, hand-to-hand fighting, that kind of thing. They were a little like the Brandenburgers Special Forces outfit but at a whole new level, and their job was to deploy behind enemy lines and sow confusion and fear in their ranks. They were ruthless, fearless and totally loyal to the Third Reich. This was real heavy stuff.”

“And they each wore one of these?” He pointed at the illustrations in the book.

“That’s right, when they passed out each soldier received one. They were solid silver. I’m still working on the script etched into the side, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of motto.”

Pieter picked up one of the photos and studied it closely. “Is this an original?”

“No. But it is a near-perfect modern reproduction. You see the hallmark here?” Floris tapped at the image. “This gives us the town mark – in this case Amsterdam – as well as the duty mark and the date, which was nearly two years ago. It also contains the makers mark.”

Pieter raised his eyes from the photo to look at Floris.

Pushing a slip of paper across his desk Floris told him: “I’ve written down the silversmith’s name and address.”

Taking the note, and the photos, Pieter rose.

“See you later Adolf.”

On his way out through the main entrance he grabbed Daan Beumers who was just arriving.

“Morning Boss, I was just on my way up to see you. Those CCTV stills are getting cleaned up nicely-“

Pieter cut him off. “Tell me later. You’re coming with me.”

◆◆◆

Levi Kohnstamm was short and fat, with a bald head and a grey goatee beard which gave the impression that his head was on upside down. The black suit he wore was at least two sizes too small. Perched on his nose was a pair of tiny pinch-nez spectacles.

His silversmith and jewellery premises were out in the Jordaan District just west of the inner canal ring. It was a tiny two-room place squeezed onto the upper floor above a bakery. The main outer office, where he met his clientele, consisted of a large oak desk in front of three deep-set leaded windows overlooking Rozengracht Bridge. To each side of the windows were a pair of matching display cabinets containing silver plaques, trophies, silverware, and a chessboard with silver pieces. On the corner of the desk, suitably arranged and within easy reach of any would-be customers, were a pile of glossy catalogues.

In the corner of the room was another door, locked with a key-pad security system. Presumably this was the inner-sanctum, where the real work was done.

Kohnstamm was busy weighing some silver jewellery on a set of digital scales, making notes in a little black notebook, tutting and shaking his head occasionally, and so Pieter and Beumers waited patiently.

After