A Gift from the Gods

by Martin Gunn

  It looked like a conventional biplane with a long-enclosed cockpit, radial engine and a huge central float that extended forwards of the propeller and blending into the underside of the fuselage.

  Warming to Slater’s obvious delight in seeing the aircraft, the pilot relaxed a little.

  “I bought it from the Argentinian Navy,” he beamed with pride, “so you want me to fly you somewhere – yes?”

  They both simply nodded.

  “My name is Theodore,” introduced the pilot, “just Theodore – my friends call me Theo.”

  He gave out a loud belly laugh as though he had suddenly recalled some private joke.

  “Come,” he invited, “let’s go inside and you can tell me all about it.”

  Theodore was a middle-aged man with a bald head and greying full beard. He had spent his younger years in the Argentinian Air Force, until he retired to start his own business. He was the kind of happy-go-lucky man who, once you gained his trust, would do whatever he could to help – at a price.

  Inside his hut Perez decided to do the talking. He produced the map and laid it out on a table.

  “We need you to fly us out to this point here.”

  “Not us,” corrected Slater, “just me – I’m doing this alone.”

  “Why?” protested Perez, “I can help.”

  “Look, you’re very capable,” countered Slater, “but I stand a better chance of getting in and out on my own. This is what I get paid for. Let me take the risk.”

  Grudgingly, Perez nodded his acceptance.

  “You need to know before you agree that this will be dangerous work,” continued Slater.

  “Danger is my middle name,” guffawed Theo.

  “I thought you only had one name,” commented Perez sullenly.

  Theo laughed again and slapped Perez on the back.

  “I like you two,” he chuckled, “I’ll do it – for $2000.”

  “Okay, a thousand dollars up front,” offered Slater unflinching at the price, “and a thousand on our return.”

  “Okay, okay,” grinned Theo, “but don’t you worry gringo, Theo will get you back safely.”

  “We need to approach unseen and unheard on this northern part of the lake,” informed Slater, “it will be dark and could be tricky. Then I’ll paddle a dinghy round close to the shore until I get to a house here.”

  “I have a rubber dinghy in the plane,” added Theo, “you can use that.”

  “How long will the flight take?” enquired Perez, “The distance is a little over four hundred miles.”

  “A flight like that would take about three hours,” mused Theo stroking his beard, “that’s a little beyond the range of my plane, but I could take some fuel with me and top up while you are gone.”

  “Great,” enthused Slater, “could you be ready to go later today, we need to get there by nightfall.”

  “Sure, no problem,” grinned Theo, “sunset is around 1830 hours, so if we take-off at 15.30 to 1600 hours we should be okay.

  The three men shook hands and agreed to meet later in the afternoon and as Perez and Slater drove away, Theo walked over to his plane to finish working on the engine.

  ***

  Back at Perez’s apartment, Slater sat down at the dining-table and placed a holster in front of him. He unclipped the flap and removed a handgun with an unusually long barrel which was larger in diameter than one would expect for a pistol of this size.

  “What is that?” enquired Perez with genuine curiosity.

  “Oh this,” replied Slater, casually as he unscrewed the barrel, “It’s a High Standard HD Military handgun. I used it in Europe during the war. It has served me well, I wouldn’t part with it.”

  Slater pulled the wire mesh out of the dismantled barrel to check it.

  “What is that in the barrel?”

  “The barrel has an integral noise suppressor. These guns are very quiet. Ideal for covert operations.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t come across one,” continued Slater, screwing the integral silencer back onto the gun, “they make them here in Argentina.”

  A nonplussed Perez shook his head and padded off to the kitchen to make some coffee. It was going to be a long night and he would need to stay awake.

  Later that day, Perez could only watch in frustration as the seaplane took off and disappeared into the clouds. He continued looking until he could hear it no longer, then drove the jeep back to his apartment. They had agreed to rendezvous back here seven hours later.

  During the flight, Slater had occasional opportunities to see the ground through breaks in the cloud. The land, covered in dense forest, seemed to stretch for miles around. It occurred to him, if you were going to hide someone then this was certainly a good place to do it. His thoughts turned to his wife and their last night together before he reported for duty. They had been talking about baby names, and he had insisted that the child be called Liam after his brother, since having a daughter, he joked, simply wasn’t an option. Sara laughed and told him that she would see what she could do.

  Snapped out of his reverie by Theo speaking to him on the radio, Slater concentrated hard to hear what he was saying.

  “We are close to the landing point,” he crackled, “I am going to bring the plane over the north side of the lake and switch off the engine and make a dead-stick landing.”

  “Is that safe?” enquired Slater startled by this revelation.

  “Don’t worry gringo, I’ve done it once before in this plane,” confirmed Theo, “we need to be as silent as possible.”

  Theo manoeuvred the plane around and brought it low over the forest canopy. Ahead of him he could see the vast expanse of water. As the edge of the forest became visible he switched off the engine and let the aircraft glide. Slater could hear the wind rushing through the wings as they started to lose height. Just as he thought they were going to hit the tree tops, they were over open water and descending rapidly. Theo had timed it perfectly. The seaplane touched down for a faultless landing on the water and Slater couldn’t help but be impressed by Theo’s flying skills.

  With the dinghy inflated, Slater pulled on a black balaclava.

  “I should be gone for about one to two hours. If it looks like it’s getting dangerous, don’t wait for me. Do you understand? Just get out of here.”

  “Okay, okay,” nodded Theo impatiently, “just go – and be careful.”

  Clambering into the dinghy, Slater started to paddle away from the plane. The sun had long since set and the darkened sky merged with the tree-lined shore. Slater paddled south keeping close to the trees. He didn’t want to be caught out on open water. After what seemed like an age, he came to a point where the lake opened up wider and he could see the two small island outcrops that gave the house some level of seclusion. Knowing that he was in the line of fire of the lookout tower on the opposite bank, Slater took extra care with his paddling so as not to make any noise. Suddenly, as he glanced to his left, Slater saw lights emanating from a large chalet-style house that he could only just make out, set back about a hundred and fifty feet. After paddling to the shore, he extricated himself from the dinghy, pulled it up onto the land and hid it in some bushes. The house was close and before Slater made a move, he strained his eyes in the darkness to ascertain whether there were any guards patrolling the area. There seemed to be no-one, so he stealthily moved his way closer to the house, his heart pounding as he did so. Pressing himself tight against the wall of the house, Slater crouched, took his hand-gun from its holster and inched his way towards the light. It was emanating from French doors which were slightly open. Slater began to hear voices inside; it sounded like some sort of rumpus was taking place. Keeping low he peeked through the glass and couldn’t believe what he saw. A middle-aged man was sexually abusing a young girl – one of two maids employed by the occupants – and she was squeal
ing in protest. As the entanglement continued, the two occupants turned and Slater got a better look at the man. My God, he thought, it’s Hitler! The commotion attracted other members of the household and two men entered the room.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded Sturmbannführer Kolbeck.

  He was wearing casual attire of light-coloured slacks and a polo-neck sweater. The other man, similarly dressed, stood silent, legs slightly apart and his arms folded.

  The maid disentangled herself, looked at Hitler, then looked at Kolbeck and went running from the room dishevelled and in tears.

  “What do you think you are doing?” enquired Kolbeck rhetorically, raising his voice, “this is not the way the Führer would behave. He would never assault a member of staff in that way.”

  Juergen walked over to the drinks table, picked up a tumbler and with shaking hands, poured himself a large whisky. Losing his patience, Kolbeck strode across the room and swiped his arm with force, knocking the glass out of Juergen’s hand.

  “The trouble is you drink too much,” scowled Kolbeck, “you know the Führer never drank.”

  “Führer this, Führer that, I’m fed up with it. What else is there to do,” cried Juergen pathetically, “I’m bored, don’t you understand?”

  “Just clean up your act,” admonished Kolbeck, “and remember who you represent.”

  On that note the two men exited the room. Juergen picked up the decanter and poured himself another drink. Slater couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. If what he had heard was correct, then the person he had come to assassinate wasn’t Hitler at all but an impersonator. He had to find out more, so after he had put his gun away, Slater pulled out a commando knife. When he felt that it was safe, he stood up, carefully opened the French doors and crept in. Juergen was facing away from the window, which gave Slater the opportunity to put one arm around Juergen’s neck and squeeze tightly, whilst the other pressed the knife against his side. The shock of this sudden attack caused Juergen to drop his glass. It hit the floor quietly depositing its contents on the rug.

  “Make a sound,” hissed Slater, “and I’ll break your neck.”

  “W…who are you?” stammered Juergen, “what do you want?”

  “Where’s Hitler? What have you done with him?”

  “I’m Hitler,” bluffed Juergen, though he guessed that he wasn’t convincing the intruder.

  “No-one would dare treat him the way you were treated,” observed Slater tightening his hold and causing Juergen to gasp for air.

  “I don’t know where he is, they don’t tell me anything here,” strained Juergen truthfully, “for all I know he’s dead.”

  Slackening his hold on the doppelganger, Slater wheeled him round. Realising that he’d risked his life for no good reason the CIA agent, in frustration and anger, punched Juergen hard across the face; he fell to the floor in a daze.

  Alerted by the noise Kolbeck, whose extra sensitive hearing could hear the scuffle two rooms away, came rushing in. Stopping suddenly in surprise when he saw Slater standing over Juergen, Kolbeck smiled. Slater had removed his balaclava and the two men faced each other.

  “Well, what have we here then, Nazi hunter?” Kolbeck endeavoured to read Slater’s reaction, “no, FBI perhaps – ah but of course, CIA.”

  Kolbeck rushed Slater and grabbed him with both hands, then with all his strength he threw him through the air like a rag doll. Slater was hurled over a couch and crashed hard against the far wall. He fell in a crumpled heap to the floor and dropped his knife. Slater barely had time to contemplate the strength of this man, when he was picked up again and thrown onto the couch. Kolbeck was on top of him again, this time his hands were around his throat.

  “Here’s where you regret you ever set foot in this place, Yank.” He spat with an evil grin.

  Struggling to breathe, his arms beginning to flail, Slater was hoping to grab something, anything to use as a weapon. His hand made contact with the whisky decanter which was standing on a table by the couch. Gripping the decanter firmly in his right hand, he brought it down hard on Kolbeck’s left temple. The Nazi released his grip and Slater was able to hit him again across the head and again, until Kolbeck slid to the floor semi-conscious. Wasting no time, he dragged himself to his feet and staggered out of the French windows. The commotion alerted the attention of the whole household and in ran Bormann, Liesel and two guards, each holding MP40 submachine-guns. Liesel ran straight over to Kolbeck, giving a cursory glance at Juergen who was getting to his feet.

  “Erich, my darling,” she cried, “what happened?”

  Kolbeck was still barely conscious, so it was up to Juergen to speak.

  “We had an intruder,” he blurted, “an assassin. He just left through the window.”

  “You two,” ordered Bormann, “quick, after him.”

  The fresh air helped bring Slater to his senses as he ran for his life towards the tree-line where he had left his dinghy. As he reached the trees, he looked back and could just make out two men running in his direction. Assuming that they were armed, he wasted no time getting the dinghy into the water. The men stopped and sprayed bullets into the darkness at the general direction of the sound. Luckily, Slater was by now obscured by trees and foliage overhanging the bank. He paddled for dear life. On the far side of the lake, the lookout post, on hearing the gunfire switched on a searchlight. They picked out Slater in his dinghy and began firing also. For a few seconds bullets were hitting the water around him, then he felt a pain in his upper left arm as a bullet nicked him. He had no choice: seeing one of the small island outcrops was close, he paddled frantically towards it until he was hidden from gunfire.

  Waiting patiently in the bay, Theo heard the gunfire and immediately started the engine of his plane. He moved the seaplane closer to the islands where he briefly sustained some gunfire damage to the fuselage. As Theo got closer, Slater paddled with all his might out to meet him and when he got to the plane, Theo helped pull him on board.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” shouted Slater as he strapped himself in.

  Theo didn’t need to be told twice, he opened the throttle and had the plane in the air within a minute. Banking away from the house as the seaplane rose into the air, Slater could see tracer bullets arcing across and peppering the wings. Eventually they were out of range and were on their way back to San Antonio Oeste.

  Back at the house, Kolbeck stood on the terrace. He had regained his senses and was cursing himself for letting his assailant escape. He watched through binoculars as the aircraft disappeared into the night. Deep in thought he returned inside. Turning to Bormann who had waited in anticipation inside, Kolbeck frowned.

  “He got away, but I recognise the plane’s markings. Silver fuselage, yellow upper wing, blue and white stripes on the fin. That’s the Argentinian Navy.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t get involved with something like this?”

  “No, it’s probably in private ownership now,” commented Kolbeck, picking up a pen and paper, “we need to check out this serial number, find out where this plane operates from.”

  “Thank God for the drug,” observed Bormann, “without it you would never have been able to read it.”

  Liesel approached Kolbeck and took his hand.

  “Come with me, you need to get that wound seen to.”

  Touching the side of his head, Kolbeck felt the blood, still fresh, which had run down his cheek and he suddenly became aware that his head was pounding. He looked at a bemused Juergen and then at Bormann.

  “This ruse has been blown. Our position here is comprised.”

  Bormann nodded his agreement and followed him out of the room, leaving Juergen on his own to contemplate what might happen next.

  ***

  Nearly eight hours had lapsed and Perez was frantically looking at his watch, for what seemed like every minute. They s
hould have been back by now, what the hell has happened. Then close to midnight he heard an engine drone coming in low, piercing the darkness.

  “Thank God,” he muttered.

  The amphibious aircraft pulled into view and taxied to a halt. Without hesitation Slater pulled back the canopy and climbed down, wincing from the pain in his shoulder, followed by Theo.

  “You’re late, what happened?” demanded Perez excitedly. Then he noticed the blood on Slater’s left arm, “you’re hurt.”

  “It’s just a scratch,” placated Slater, “I’ll live. Give Theo the rest of his money, he’s earned it.”

  After paying Theo and thanking him, the two men climbed into the jeep and sped away.

  “Did you find Hitler?” enquired Perez.

  “Not now,” urged Slater. He was tired and needed some sleep, “wait until we get back.”

  They travelled back in silence and when they arrived back at the apartment an hour later, Slater walked straight into the bathroom to inspect his wound. Grimacing as he pulled the material off the gash where the blood had dried and stuck the sleeve to his skin, he let the shirt drop to the floor. Blood had run down his arm but when he cleaned it up the wound wasn’t too bad. Perez entered with a bandage.

  “Here, let me help you,” he studied Slater who looked fatigued, “it looks like you had a narrow escape.”

  “Yeah you could say that,” replied Slater, as he moved to his bedroom to find a fresh shirt.

  He returned, pulling on a white tee shirt.

  “Well?” asked Perez impatiently.

  “It wasn’t him,” replied an exasperated Slater.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I encountered a man who looked like Hitler,” he explained, sitting down, “but it wasn’t him. He was a lookalike; a double.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” replied Slater calmly; he was too tired to be irritated by this stupid question.

  “I have been tracking a phony Hitler all this time,” the implications began to sink into Perez, “passing useless information over to the FBI – you’re here because of me.”