A Gift from the Gods

by Martin Gunn

  ***

  With a rendezvous with Kolbeck arranged for 1500 hours the next day, von Brandt made his way to the same point where they had first met. He didn’t have to wait long before he heard the familiar noise of the chopper as it approached. Von Brandt waited for the dust to settle, then got out of his car and walked over to Kolbeck. After the formality of a Nazi salute was out of the way he spoke.

  “Do you have the timers here?”

  “Of course,” replied von Brandt, “follow me, they are in the back of my car.”

  Opening the tailgate of his hatchback revealed six identical boxes.

  “If you have constructed the machines exactly as your original, then these should slot in quite easily,” continued von Brandt, “though you will have to remove the makeshift timer arrangement.”

  “Are there any special instructions?”

  “This sheet of instructions tells you all you need to know,” assured von Brandt, handing Kolbeck a piece of paper.

  “This is excellent work, Gustav,” congratulated Kolbeck ignoring protocol for a moment, “I have been authorised to tell you to go, whenever you are ready.”

  At that moment Kolbeck noticed a flicker of light coming from between some rocks in the distance. Sunlight reflecting off glass.

  “Are you aware that we are being watched?”

  “I know who it is – an interfering little Jew,” confirmed von Brandt, in a matter-of-fact manner, “I have a good idea who he is working for.”

  “Can you deal with it?”

  “No problem at all,” smiled von Brandt, “leave it to me.”

  They wished each other good luck, and Kolbeck walked back to the helicopter carrying the boxes, and as it took off, von Brandt watched it fly off before getting into his car. He didn’t need to follow Glassman, a fifteen-minute interval should be sufficient then he would make his way over to Laura’s home.

  ***

  Not realising that he had been observed, Glassman slid down from his vantage point, and hurriedly made his way to the car which he had hidden behind a rocky outcrop. The salute he had witnessed confirmed that he was indeed dealing with Nazis. Realising that he couldn’t delay warning Laura any further, Glassman headed for her house.

  In a little under an hour, Glassman was knocking impatiently on Laura’s front door. She had not long arrived home from the university and was surprised to see the private investigator standing there, looking concerned. She hadn’t heard from him in a while, assuming he had stalled in his investigation.

  “Mr Glassman,” she uttered with raised eyebrows, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I have been working on your case and it has thrown up some curious information,” frowned Glassman, “things you are going to find hard to believe.”

  Laura ushered him into the sitting-room, and they sat at a dining-table as Glassman opened a briefcase and pulled out a small pile of paperwork.

  “Your Mr von Brandt is a very interesting character,” he observed.

  “He isn’t my anything,” corrected Laura, with slight indignation.

  Ignoring this reaction, Glassman decided to get straight down to business.

  “Once we had established a name and knowing that he is a baron, it wasn’t too difficult to find information on him.”

  Laura listened intently.

  “He went to Harrow public school and then Cambridge University,” continued Glassman, “and this is where it gets interesting. I found this clip in an old copy of the Times newspaper from 1929.”

  He passed the photocopy over to Laura, who began to read. The article was headed, Cambridge student found dead in barn, in what appears to be a grisly ritualistic murder. Missing student Gustav von Brandt implicated in crime.

  “I also managed to find this year photo with him in it, from his short time at Cambridge,” Glassman pointed to a face amongst a large group of young men, “as you can see, it is obviously him and although he looks younger, it is not by much.”

  “But this is incredible,” exclaimed Laura, “this photo is dated 1929.”

  “That’s not all,” commented Glassman ignoring her outburst, “when I tried to find out more about his activities at a top-secret research base near Munich, I uncovered this German newspaper clipping.”

  Laura observed a clipping written in German.

  “Here’s a translation,” proffered Glassman.

  Again, Laura began to read aloud, “Woman of sixty-three, dying of cancer in a hospice near Dortmund, makes astounding confession. Hannah Richter who never married, claims that when she was fifteen years old, she and a friend, a boy called Anton, witnessed a UFO crash in the Black Forest. She also claims that the boy and his parents were taken away by Nazis and were never seen again.”

  “What has this got to do with von Brandt?”

  “Well, it has long been a part of UFO mythology, that a spacecraft did indeed crashed in the Black Forest, and was retrieved by the Nazis, accounting for many of their advances in technology at the time. What if von Brandt was in charge of this enterprise? He could also have been responsible for the death of this family as well.”

  “This is a leap of faith, don’t you think,” frowned Laura doubtfully.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Glassman excitedly, “it would explain the drug. You said yourself that there was a part of it that you couldn’t identify. Also, I think von Brandt is a time traveller.”

  “What?” blurted out Laura in disbelief, “you must be joking!”

  “How else do you explain the photo,” countered the PI, “and besides, I’ve seen his time machine hidden inside the warehouse.”

  “Why, you have been a busy bee, haven’t you?”

  Both Laura and Glassman whipped their heads round in surprise to see von Brandt standing there, grinning.

  “How did you get in?” was all that Laura could think of to say.

  “The back door was open, you really should be more careful,” he smirked.

  “You don’t seriously believe the nonsense this little toad has been feeding you. Do you?” von Brandt’s disgust towards Glassman was palpable.

  Before Laura could answer, Glassman stood up and began to collect his evidence together.

  “Don’t listen to him Miss Ellis,” urged Glassman, “this man is a …”

  Before the detective could finish his sentence, von Brandt had pulled out his stiletto and rammed it into Glassman’s neck, up to the hilt. The blade ruptured his external carotid artery, and the tip exited on the other side of his neck. Glassman stood frozen in shock; eyes staring directly at Laura.

  “I believe he was going to say killer,” grinned von Brandt menacingly. The time for pretence was over.

  For a second Laura was in shock also, as she took in what had just happened. Then von Brandt pulled his blade out of Glassman’s neck, allowing a strong jet of blood to pump out in bright crimson arcs. Hopelessly placing his hands over the wounds in a desperate attempt to impede the blood flow, Glassman dropped to his knees, and as his blood pressure began to subside, he fell sideways, his body shaking vigorously. Eventually he lay there perfectly still. Wiping the stiletto on Glassman’s inert body, von Brandt looked up at Laura, who was now screaming hysterically.

  “Keep away from me you evil bastard,” she squealed, and made a move to grab the telephone, in a futile attempt to get help.

  Before she could reach it, the Nazi ripped the cable from the wall.

  “I don’t think so,” uttered von Brandt, lifting Laura up by her left arm.

  She began to lash out in a bid to free herself from his clutches.

  “You’ve been a stranger recently,” smirked von Brandt, “have you been avoiding me?”

  “What do you expect, you sadistic murderer,” screamed Laura, “you left me black and blue.”

  Von Brandt tolerated Laura’s o
nslaught for a few seconds more, then slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand. As she went into a daze, the Nazi took her weight, dragged her into the bedroom, and threw her onto the bed. Lying on her back, Laura came around and tried to fight her assailant off once more. Again, von Brandt slapped her hard across the face, and then ripped off her dress. Laura went into a state of merciful semi-consciousness, as von Brandt proceeded to ravish her.

  All she was vaguely aware of was a suffocating weight on top of her, and when von Brandt eventually stood up to dress himself, he picked up his stiletto and placed it next to her left breast, over her heart. All his instincts told him to push down hard, but his hand began to shake as he struggled to find the will to do it. With a cry of anguish, he pulled the stiletto away and stood up.

  “To hell with it,” he sneered, walking to the door and turning to look back at the dishevelled woman, “something to remember me by.”

  Laura couldn’t be sure how long she had lain there but eventually, after coming to her senses, she was alone feeling defiled, bruised and humiliated.

  ***

  With his cover now completely blown, von Brandt realised that now was the time to leave. He was ready, Die Glocke was ready; there was no point in delaying the inevitable, and so he made a dash from Laura’s home to the warehouse.

  Instinctively, Laura’s first reaction on realising that she had been violated, was to run a bath. She felt dirty, with an overwhelming desire to cleanse herself. Staggering to a phone by the bed, she called the police to report the murder, then she tried to call David. There was no answer; where the hell was he? David should have been home by now.

  By the time von Brandt reached the warehouse, the sun was low in the sky. He threw a few bales of hay out of the way, stepped into the time machine and switched on the controls. The red holographic control panel buzzed into life. Then as he was about to tap in the date and coordinates, he heard a car pull up outside. Stepping back out again, von Brandt saw it was David and for some reason he had Scott with him also.

  “What do you want?” demanded von Brandt, in a tone that made it clear they weren’t welcome.

  “Scott dragged me here,” replied David, looking at the bell-shaped vessel, “he was most insistent. And I can see why. What is that thing?”

  “He didn’t tell you? It’s a time machine.”

  David observed von Brandt’s attire; he was wearing grey overalls, goggles pulled down around his neck, and a belt with a pistol holster.

  “You look like you’re ready to use it,” stated David astutely, “where are you going?”

  Seeing little point in hiding the truth, von Brandt smiled, “Germany – 1920. If LA is typical of western civilisation, I would rather not be here. It has grown soft and weak. If this is the legacy of the allied forces’ victory, then they didn’t deserve to win the war.”

  “What are you going to do? Try and change history?” David struggled to hide the contempt in his voice.

  Before von Brandt had a chance to respond, their attention was alerted to the sirens of three police squad cars and a plain police car following behind. The convoy fanned out close to the entrance, and several police officers jumped out to take cover behind open car doors.

  With lightning quick reactions, von Brandt took out his handgun and grabbed Scott, pulling him in close to his chest, the gun pressed firmly to his head.

  “Gary,” pleaded David, “or whatever your name is.”

  “It’s Gustav,” asserted von Brandt.

  “Okay, Gustav,” acknowledged David, “there’s no need to do this, let me have the boy, and you can piss off to wherever it is you’re going.”

  “He betrayed me,” shouted von Brandt, struggling to control his rage, “I warned him if he told, I’d kill him.”

  David started inching forwards and von Brandt was getting agitated.

  “If you come any closer, I’ll shoot you.”

  The police could do very little but look on, since none of the officers had a clear shot. They couldn’t risk hitting the boy.

  “Please Gustav, just give me the boy,” pleaded David as he moved even closer. He knew that he was pushing his luck but didn’t know what else he could do.

  Sensing that von Brandt was about to shoot David, Scott struggled an arm free and knocked von Brandt’s right arm down, just as he pulled the trigger. Instead of hitting David in the chest, the bullet penetrated his left kneecap. With Scott lunging to one side, von Brandt found himself exposed, so before the police could react he threw himself into the vessel and slammed the door shut as a hail of bullets ricocheted off the outer shell.

  David lay on his back in agony, as the police moved in to attend to him. A police officer picked Scott up, and as they started to walk away the time machine roared into life and started to rotate. Bales of hay began to fall away and as the machine spun faster, the onlookers were bombarded by loose hay, forcing them to take cover. David was dragged outside and placed with the others behind one of the cars as the strange machine began to rise up into the air. It was spinning so fast now that inside, the barn became a maelstrom of straw and hay, to the point where they could barely make it out. Eventually the time machine ascended to around fifty feet, breaking through the roof. As they sheltered from the debris dropping on them, there was an almighty thunder-like crack and the machine was gone.

  One by one they all looked up to see the remnants of a halo-like shock wave, dissipating outwards in the dim light of dusk.

  “It must have blown up,” declared one of the police officers, looking at David for confirmation.

  “It looks that way,” he lied, “probably vaporised.”

  “Poor bastard,” added another officer, astounded.

  “Yeah – he’s the poor one,” winced David, holding his left leg, “how did you know to come here?”

  “Your friend Laura Ellis alerted us,” stated an overweight detective in a light-brown suit, who had just squatted down in front of him, “look we’d better get you to hospital. That leg looks pretty bad.”

  Nodding, David noticed Scott looking up at the sky where the time machine had disappeared. He had a rare grin on his face.

  “Why are you grinning?” enquired a slightly unnerved David.

  As ever Scott didn’t reply, he simply took a scrap of paper and a pen out of his trouser pocket and began to scribble. He handed the note to David, who duly read it. Frowning uncomprehendingly, he read the note again; David was confused, what the fuck does that mean? He read it a third time, but still it made no sense to him.

  As his knee was being attended to, David tried to get the boy to explain.

  “Scott – what does this mean?”

  Alas, Scott wasn’t listening, he was being ushered into a squad car.

  “I must talk to him,” insisted David, though realising the moment had passed, he had no choice but to give up.

  “We are taking him down to the station to make a statement. We will also need one from you and Miss Ellis,” stated the detective.

  “Good luck getting anything out of him,” observed David.

  “He nearly got you killed, you do realise that?”

  “That boy,” insisted David, “saved my life.”

  Looking at the chaos generated by the take-off, David thought, at least the bastard has gone – but at what cost.

  With that, he was picked up to be taken to hospital, and wondering how Laura knew to call the police.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Solar Eclipse

  CIA Headquarters – Langley, Virginia

  21st August 1985

  First thing the following morning, Slater turned up for work to find himself running the gauntlet of quizzical faces, turning and staring at him as he made his way to his desk.

  “Where the hell have you been?” asked an overweight, middle-aged woman.

 
“Don’t even go there,” replied Slater taking off his jacket and placing it on the back of his chair, “you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  Before the woman could respond, Darren Garner poked his head out of the door of his office.

  “Liam; in my office when you’re ready.”

  “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, smiling wanly at the woman.

  “Good luck,” she smiled back sympathetically, then returned to her desk.

  Opening the door to Garner’s office, Slater walked in and sat down at his case officer’s invitation.

  “So,” enquired Slater, “what happens now?”

  “Well,” mused Garner leaning back on his chair, “we don’t believe the Mafia would run the risk of abducting a CIA field agent unless they had serious concerns.”

  “That’s what I thought,” agreed Slater.

  “We have been doing some investigating of our own,” Garner replied, “and there may be something in what they say.”

  “I think they chose me because my father was involved in a Nazi-related case thirty-two years ago,” nodded Slater, “I am pretty sure these cases are connected.”

  “Why do you say that?” frowned Garner.

  “Because of this man Kolbeck,” stated Slater, pointing to a photo on his boss’s desk.

  “I agree,” replied Garner leaning forward on his chair, “this morning I want you to type up a report of what happened to you and pass it to me, and me only. Then after lunch you are to report to the conference room at 1400 hours. Is that understood?”

  Looking at his watch, Garner urged, “You had better get started, time is against us.”

  Nodding, Slater stood up and made his way back to his desk. Thoughts of the father he had never met, and idolised as a child, came into his mind, so with a big sigh he booted up his computer and began typing.