A Gift from the Gods

by Martin Gunn

  Being fully aware of the results the wrong dosage gave, von Brandt smiled,

  “We can take it from here,” he asserted. And with that he passed over an envelope containing a further $10,000.

  “That concludes our business, I believe,” continued von Brandt, “I am however interested to meet this lad who might be able to interpret some schematics I have.”

  “He works part-time in an electronics factory,” replied Laura, “but I think he is off tomorrow, so he should be at home.”

  Von Brandt produced his map and opened it up.

  “Would it be possible to meet here?” he pointed to a cross that he had placed there himself, to mark the position of the warehouse.

  “I guess so,” mused David, “what time?”

  “Shall we say 11 o’clock?”

  “That should be okay.”

  They shook hands and von Brandt departed. David turned to Laura.

  “This is all very strange, don’t you think?” he commented rhetorically, “first a mysterious serum, now electronics.”

  Laura wasn’t too bothered, she just looked forward to seeing him again.

  ***

  Looking at his watch, von Brandt was becoming a little agitated. It was 11.30 and there was still no sign of Laura, David and the boy. Eventually, at 11.45, he could see David’s car approaching through the heat haze. The car pulled up to a halt in front of the warehouse. Suppressing his annoyance, von Brandt approached and smiled.

  “I’m sorry we’re late Gary,” grimaced David, “getting Scott motivated can be difficult. Especially if he is meeting someone new.”

  Alighting from the rear of the car, Laura stood with her arm around her cousin’s shoulder. He was seventeen, though short for his age and his conservative dress sense and short haircut put him at odds with the current fashion, to a point where even von Brandt noticed.

  “This is my cousin, Scott Anderson,” smiled Laura, looking at the boy, “are you going to say hello?”

  From the moment Scott had stepped out of the car, he had stood with his head down, staring at the ground and shuffling as if in a state of constant distraction. The thought of looking up and greeting von Brandt horrified him and he shook his head vigorously.

  “No matter,” commented von Brandt, trying his best to be gracious. He was beginning to have doubts, “come in and I’ll show him the schematics.”

  They all followed von Brandt into the warehouse, where he picked up a folded sheet of paper and opened it up on a table. Scott immediately sat down and examined the plans. David and Laura looked over Scott’s shoulder, to glance at the schematics. They looked like hieroglyphics to them. The boy on the other hand simply stared at them – fascinated. An inordinate length of time went by as Scott slowly moved his right hand from one section of the plan to another. Then just as von Brandt was considering calling it a day, Scott took a pen and note pad from the shoulder-bag at his side and began to scribble.

  “Can you interpret it, Scott?” enquired Laura.

  “Yes,” muttered the boy, still concentrating, “once I figured out the code, it is fairly simple electronics.”

  “Could it be made?” asked von Brandt.

  The boy did not answer.

  “Scott?” urged Laura.

  “Yes,” he replied furtively, still writing, “I can make it.”

  They all looked at each other in amazement and left him to continue. Scott didn’t notice as they walked away. He was in his element working on something which didn’t involve people.

  “Would it be possible for him to come here to work on this project?”

  “It would push him out of his comfort zone,” mused David.

  “It might do him some good though,” considered Laura thoughtfully, “why don’t we give it a try? Shall we say three days a week? As long as his mother agrees.”

  Von Brandt nodded his approval and Laura moved to wrench Scott from his endeavours. He was reluctant to go.

  “Come on Scott, you can come again and do some more on this next week.

  “Find out what he needs and I will make sure he has it,” stated von Brandt, “I’m going to be out of town for a few days. I’ll phone you when I return.”

  “I look forward to it,” smiled Laura.

  With this agreement in place, he watched as they drove away; the situation had gone from doubtful to promising. Tomorrow he would be here for the rendezvous.

  ***

  Not knowing what to expect, von Brandt arrived at the warehouse half an hour early and waited eagerly. He didn’t have to wait too long however, as just before midday he heard a noise in the background slowly getting louder. Immediately he walked outside and looked in the direction of the sound. Eventually a black object came into view. A small helicopter flew overhead, circled and began to hover near the warehouse, blowing up sand and dust as it started its decent.

  Before the rotors had stopped rotating, a man stepped out. He was wearing dark grey trousers, black leather boots and a black leather jacket, and as he approached von Brandt he placed a Waffen-SS cap firmly on his head.

  “Heil Hitler,” vociferated the man, saluting.

  “Heil Hitler,” responded von Brandt, saluting back.

  “Sturmbannführer Kolbeck,” shouted the man over the din of the helicopter, “you are to come with me.”

  Nodding, von Brandt followed Kolbeck to the aircraft and they both climbed in. The helicopter immediately took off and headed back in the direction from which it had come. Von Brandt looked back at the warehouse, rapidly getting smaller as they rose into the air. He didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sins of the Father

  Mclean – Virginia, Two miles from CIA Headquarters.

  18th August 1985

  “For God’s sake turn it off,” exclaimed Hazel.

  She squinted as her eyes tried to adjust to light streaming into the bedroom through the blinds. It was 7am on a Tuesday and the alarm had woken her from a deep sleep. She pulled the duvet over her head to deaden the noise, as the man next to her scrambled for the off switch.

  Liam Slater lay there, he also allowed his eyes to adjust to the light. Eventually, he was able to focus on the photo on his night stand; a black and white picture of his mother, and the father he never knew. They looked young and happy together, posing with his father’s motor cycle, an ex-army Indian 841. He, sitting on the bike with his arms wrapped round her waist, whilst his mother, standing, was leaning into him – both smiling for the camera. Slater liked to wake up to this image, it reminded him each day why he did the job he had chosen these last ten years.

  “Why did you have to put that goddamn thing on,” Hazel uttered irritably, “I’m not in today.”

  “Yeah but I am,” Slater replied, equally irritable, “some of us have to work for a living.”

  Dragging himself out of bed, he stood up and padded off to the bathroom for a shave and shower. Fifteen minutes later he poked his head into the bedroom.

  “Coffee?”

  “Might as well,” yawned Hazel, “I’m awake now.”

  Slater had met Hazel at the CIA headquarters where they both worked. He was a field agent and she worked in administration. Though she knew what to expect, Hazel hated it when he went on new assignments as she did not know when he might be back – if ever. His was a dangerous job, but she cared enough for him to tolerate the anxiety when he was away. For his part, Slater was fully aware of the effect it had on her and he sometimes wondered why she didn’t find someone with a regular job; but then you can’t help who you fall for, he surmised. What she saw in him was beyond his comprehension. He wasn’t typically handsome and not especially tall. His hair was dark, however, so one out of three wasn’t bad.

  After breakfast, he put on his coat, kissed Hazel goodbye and left the a
partment to make his way down to the underground car park.

  As Slater approached his car, he unlocked it with the remote and just as he opened the door, he felt the presence of two people looming directly behind him. Slater turned to see two men, smartly dressed in dark grey suits. They were both tall, olive-skinned, with typical Italian good looks.

  “Can I help you?” he asked uncertainly with a furrowed brow.

  “Mr Slater,” uttered one of the men, “your presence is requested.”

  “Do I have a choice?” enquired Slater rhetorically.

  The henchman simply smiled, opened his jacket to reveal a handgun in a shoulder holster, and then manoeuvred him away from his unlocked car.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “That is not important,” the henchman replied.

  A black limousine pulled up and he motioned for the CIA agent to get in. Slater reluctantly began to do so, but the henchman stopped him for a moment.

  “Don’t forget to lock your car,” he urged, again with a smile, “there are a lot of dishonest people about. You can’t trust no-one these days.”

  Slater ignored the double negative and zapped his car with the remote before climbing into the back seat.

  “Please remove your jacket and roll up your left sleeve,” requested the other man.

  Realising that resistance was futile, Slater did as he was told. Then the second man produced a hypodermic and injected a drug into his arm. Before the limousine was out and into the morning rush hour traffic, Slater was unconscious.

  ***

  It could have been seconds, minutes or even an hour before Liam Slater realised that he was conscious and staring at an ornate white ceiling. As he gathered his wits, Slater jumped off a large double bed and looked around him. He had been placed in a very elegant bedroom; though there seemed to be no personal paraphernalia present, suggesting to him that he was in a guest room. Noticing his shoes and jacket neatly draped on a nearby chair, he set about dressing himself. Then he moved to the door; it was locked.

  A guard on the landing just outside the door heard the attempt by Slater to open it and made his way downstairs to the sitting-room. As he appeared, two expectant faces looked at him, one in his mid-forties standing, the other old and sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket over his legs.

  “He is awake,” announced the guard succinctly.

  “Bring him down Lorenzo,” ordered the younger man, “and then get him some breakfast, he will be hungry.”

  Lorenzo nodded and made his way back to the bedroom; as he opened the door he saw Slater standing facing him.

  “What do you want with me?” asked a puzzled Slater, stepping backwards defensively.

  “Please,” smiled Lorenzo, inviting him out of the room with a gesture of his arm, “all will be revealed.”

  Slater relaxed a little and followed the immaculately dressed henchman down into the sitting-room. He assessed his surroundings. Like the bedroom, the sitting-room was very tastefully furnished. French windows looked out onto a large patio area and expansive grounds beyond. The two men in the room considered him curiously.

  “Ah, Liam Slater,” greeted the younger man with a smile, extending his right arm, “my name is Emilio Cascone, and this is my father, Tito.”

  Emilio was tall, slim but well-built, his jet-black hair brushed back over his scalp, whilst the other man in the wheel-chair looked old and decrepit, though his eyes were bright and attentive.

  Slater ignored the invitation to shake his hand. He had no intention of fraternising with the Mafia.

  “Do you really want to go to war with the CIA?” asked Slater rhetorically, “Killing me will bring a whole mess of crap down on you.”

  “Liam please, let’s be civilised,” urged Emilio, “if we wanted you dead, don’t you think we would have done it in the underground car park.”

  “What’s this all about then?”

  “Please sit,” requested Emilio. He was keen to maintain a level of affability, as much was at stake, “you must be hungry. Food is on its way.”

  The mention of food made Slater realise that he was indeed hungry and Lorenzo appeared very quickly with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. He set the tray down on a coffee table opposite the couch on which Slater sat. Emilio dismissed Lorenzo with a nod and the henchman left the room closing the door behind him. Waiting patiently for Slater to finish his meal, Emilio poured himself a cup of coffee and finally asked,

  “What do you know about your father’s last mission?”

  “Err…. nothing,” uttered Slater, caught on the back foot, “I have tried to find out over the years but without success.”

  Emilio walked over to a desk and picked up a file. He slapped it down on the coffee table with a flourish. Leaning forward, Slater glanced at the cream-coloured file; on it stamped in red were the words, Above Top Secret.

  “Where did you get this?” he enquired, picking up the file and opening the cover.

  “That is not important,” replied Emilio, “what is important though is what it contains.”

  Slater began to read with great interest. He learned how his father had been transported to Argentina by submarine. How he liaised with a young man named Perez in the hope of locating Adolf Hitler and assassinating him. At this point Slater looked up.

  “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he blurted out incredulously, “Adolf Hitler!”

  “It’s true. Your father travelled to Argentina to find Hitler and kill him,” confirmed Emilio.

  “But Hitler died at the end of the war,” stated Slater.

  “Did he?” replied Emilio, “all through the late 1940s and 1950s there were sightings of him, then around the time of your father’s mission, they cease.”

  “What are you suggesting,” mused Slater, “that he was successful?”

  “That we don’t know,” frowned Emilio, “what we do know is that his last words were “not real” and “fake” implying that the man was an imposter.”

  “We will never know for sure,” Emilio continued, “because your father was killed by a Nazi called Luki.”

  “This is all very fascinating but still doesn’t explain why I am here.”

  “We buy weapons from arms dealers, from time to time,” revealed Emilio, sitting opposite Slater, “I’m sure that is no secret to you. But we got wind of one particular dealer we associated with, who was selling weapons grade plutonium isotopes on the open market, and his client was here in the United States.”

  “What – who?” exclaimed Slater.

  “They are German, we think Nazi,” announced Emilio, “Nazis, here in this country.”

  “And you know this, how?” enquired a sceptical Slater.

  “We interrogated the arms dealer. He eventually revealed that there is a German enclave somewhere in Montana. Think about it, why would they bother with such an elaborate deception in Argentina, unless they were trying to divert attention from Hitler’s actual whereabouts.”

  “But surely Hitler would be dead by now? Can I speak with this dealer?” asked Slater.

  “Alas he is unavailable for comment, and as for Hitler, I cannot possibly say,” smiled Emilio menacingly.

  “So, all I have is your word on all of this,” commented Slater at a loss.

  “Why would we go to all this trouble to bring you here for a lie,” frowned Emilio, raising his voice slightly, “we may be on opposite sides of the fence, but we have a common enemy before us. You may consider me a criminal, but like you, I am a patriot. I love this country and believe in it, just as much as you, and anything that brings it under serious threat from external forces concerns me greatly.”

  “So, you don’t know exactly where this, err…enclave is then.”

  “Montana is all we have,” confirmed Emilio, “but there is something else of interest.”

&nb
sp; He pulled out a series of mostly black-and-white photographs from the file. Emilio passed one to Slater, who studied it intently. The image was of a young Waffen-SS officer.

  “This is Sturmbannführer Erich Kolbeck, taken around 1944,” stated Emilio, “that’s equivalent to a major.”

  Then Emilio passed another photo over to Slater.

  “This one was taken of him nearly ten years later, and this one more recently.”

  Slater swapped between pictures in disbelief.

  “This can’t be the same man – he hasn’t aged.”

  “Now look at this one,” replied Emilio, “this is Luki, the man who murdered your father.”

  Staring intently at the picture, Slater saw what looked like a very undistinguished middle-aged man.

  “He would have been in his early twenties when your father encountered him. He has aged the way you would expect.”

  “I don’t know what to make of all this,” replied a perplexed Slater finally.

  “Nor do we,” agreed Emilio, “but one thing is for sure, something sinister is going on under our very noses and it has to be stopped.”

  Emilio gambled that showing Slater the file on his father would give him the impetus to take this matter further, knowing that the CIA were better placed to deal with it. He was right, a well of anger had risen up in Slater and all he wanted now was revenge.

  “Can I take this?” he enquired, picking up the file.

  “Of course,” smiled Emilio, realising Slater had taken the bait, “it is CIA property after all.”

  “How am I to return?”

  “The same way as you arrived,” replied Emilio, “alas we will have to sedate you again.”

  Just before the injection was administered, the Mafia boss extended his right hand again, and this time the CIA agent shook it.

  “Good luck my friend,” he declared with a smile, “I think you are going to need it.”

  In less than a minute Slater was out cold again, and when he eventually came to, he was in his car in the underground car park, having no idea how long he’d been gone or indeed what day it was.