Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Dear Mr. Jennings,

  I hope you will please do me the favor of accompanying my wife and me for dinner this evening. We will meet you for cocktails on the fantail deck at eight p.m. I will be wearing a red rose on my lapel.

  Cordially,

  Gregor Faust

  Neil reread the note and blinked rapidly. He didn’t know anyone named Gregor Faust.

  “Could there be two Freeman Jennings on this vessel?” Neil asked aloud. “No,” he replied after a moment’s thought. It wasn’t a common name, and the coincidence would be too fantastic.

  Sufficiently flummoxed, Neil ran a hot bath as he retrieved a dark suit and shoes. He rang for his steward, handing him a generous tip of a half-dollar, instructing him to steam the suit and apply a glossy shine to the shoes. He wanted to look his best for Mister Faust, whoever he was.

  ~~~

  The passenger known as Freeman Jennings nodded to the doorman as he stepped from the art gallery near the stern of the great ship. The fantail deck was awhirl with the chilly winds and salty smells of the Atlantic Ocean. No sooner had Neil reached the gleaming brass railing when an attendant arrived and nodded to him.

  “Mr. Jennings?”

  Neil had just jabbed an unlit cigarette between his lips. It took him a fraction of a second to remember his cover; he turned and raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Mister Faust has requested that you visit together in his stateroom. He sent apologies and said there is too much chill in the air for his wife.”

  Neil nodded. “And where might that be?”

  “Please follow me,” the attendant said after cupping his hands and struggling in the heavy winds to set Neil’s cigarette aflame. A tall, boyish-looking man with bad teeth, the attendant had to duck as they passed through several sections of the ship with low beams. Eventually, after what Neil felt like was a negotiation of the full length of the ship, they arrived at a forward stateroom. The door was adorned with a gold number two. The attendant knocked, spoke a few words and disappeared.

  As the door opened wide, Neil faced a man several inches shorter than he, and at least fifteen years older. He wore a beautifully tailored blue suit, adorned, as Faust said it would be, with a fresh red rose. Faust had a broad, well-bred smile framed by full cheeks. His head was mostly bald, surrounded by a narrow Caesar crown of black flecked with silver. The man oozed wealth.

  “Good evening, you must be Freeman Jennings?” he asked with an accent Neil couldn’t immediately place.

  “Yes. And you’re Gregor Faust,” Neil said as he pressed the cigarette into a hallway ashtray.

  “Indeed. Please do come in.”

  Faust ushered Neil into the large suite, rimmed on the front by an expansive row of sectioned windows. Outside, several lights from the bow of the ship could be seen, ahead of them the northeastern blackness of the Atlantic. Neil could only imagine the impressive seascape view during the daytime. If there were a finer stateroom on the ship, Neil would like to have seen it. He spun around slowly, drinking in the exclusive suite, adorned in white with accents of gold and jade. Standing across the room was a tall, statuesque woman with dark, swept-back hair and shiny olive skin. Neil couldn’t help but notice her green eyes and high cheekbones as he correctly guessed she wasn’t from the United States.

  “My wife, Petra,” Faust said. Neil stepped to her, took her hand, and bowed politely. Petra nodded without affectation before crossing the room and sitting on the sofa.

  There was an awkward silence before Neil spoke in Faust’s direction. “You’ll have to excuse me, but do we know each other from somewhere?”

  Faust’s smile was indulgent. He motioned Neil to the chair opposite the sofa where Petra sat. As Neil settled in, Faust retrieved a wooden box and placed it on the table before them. “Cigar?” he asked. Neil shook his head and instead tapped out a cigarette. “Cocktail?” Faust then asked. Again, after a moment’s hesitation, Neil shook his head.

  Neil watched Faust as he walked to the bar and poured two vodkas over ice, adding a twisted slice of lime to each.

  The tinkling of the ice. The bubbling sounds from the vodka being poured.

  Neil’s stomach began to do flip-flops at the sight and sounds of his former salve. Faust placed his and his wife’s drinks on the table and sat next to her, leaving sufficient space between the two of them. He removed a long cigar from the humidor and clipped it, taking his time as he spun the cigar while using a gilded lighter to set it aflame.

  “Cuban,” Faust said, puffing and spinning. “My weakness.”

  Once the cigar was lit, Faust sat back and placidly smoked. Petra stared straight ahead.

  Neil realized with a slight amount of discomfort that these two people had no problem, none whatsoever, with great periods of silence. Neil used Faust’s gilded lighter to light his cigarette. The two men smoked as Petra cupped her drink in both hands, taking small sips with a wisp of a smile as she stared off into the distance.

  The situation felt quite awkward.

  Two times Neil readied himself to speak, and both times stopped himself—these people had invited him here. No matter how long it took, he planned to let them be the ones to break the silence. Faust puffed away, finally placing the thick cigar on the rim of the ashtray with a few audible smacks of his lips. He took a long sip of his drink, sighed loudly, and settled back into the white fabric of the sofa, unbuttoning the jacket of his suit.

  “Your name is Neil Reuter,” Faust pronounced.

  Neil simply raised his eyebrows. He was homing in on the accent. Swedish? Perhaps Danish.

  “We are friends, dear friends, of Meghan Herman,” Faust added.

  Neil said nothing.

  “My wife and I live in Finland, but often spend extended periods of time in the United States. We have great interest in Meghan and, until recently, Jacob.”

  “Is that so?” Neil asked. He turned to look at Petra. She stared at him with a neutral expression, expressing neither interest nor boredom. It befitted her simple elegance. Neil appraised her more thoroughly, quite taken by her smooth complexion and her trim, neck-length black hair which was pushed straight back. Even though Petra was most likely pushing fifty, there was something quite captivating about her. She could have easily been visually cast in a play as Cleopatra. Neil caught her eye and smiled politely. She turned away.

  Faust leaned forward, taking the cigar into his hand and resting his elbows on his knees. “Do you think you can get the children safely out of Austria and to the ship?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  “Oh come on, Neil,” Faust chided. “I realize you need to maintain your cover, but we’re part of the movement. You met with a forger this morning in Chelsea, and you were approached by a Russian woman who flew with you from Chicago. Your cover isn’t blown—it’s perfectly safe.” Faust inclined his head. “And this is the last leg of your journey when anyone will accompany you. That is, until you reach Innsbruck. But from England to there, you’re on your own.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So, can you move the children safely?”

  “I have no way of knowing that yet.”

  “Neil, this is of the highest importance imaginable,” Faust said. “I’d at least like to hear your opinion.”

  “If it’s so important, Mister Faust, why does it fall on me? I know nothing of this operation other than what I’ve been told by Meghan Herman, the Russian woman, and the forger in Manhattan. And none of them told me anything that might clue me in on the difficulty of the job.” He leaned forward. “And, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, I’m concerned that your people on the ground in Innsbruck don’t have the ability to do this themselves, or to find someone who can.”

  Faust grinned triumphantly. “Ah, finally, an opinion.”

  “While I might have an opinion or two,” Neil said, his mouth growing dry, “I’m not up to speed on what’s needed in Austria and, again, I’m almost certainly not suited for what my frie
nd wanted of me.”

  “You are suited for it. Please understand that a great deal of this mission involves the transportation of the children and their keepers away from the Reich. Each time this has been done, arranging for the ship was the easy part. But moving the children inside the Reich is where the difficulty lies. And you do have the skill and wherewithal to handle it.”

  There was a period of silence. Finally, Neil said, “I’ll give this my best, of course—and I want to help the children—but something about the entire affair seems a bit off kilter.”

  Faust stood and crossed the stateroom, his heels clicking as minuscule pieces of ash fell from his cigar, leaving a trail on the gleaming floor. He disappeared into what must have been the stateroom’s sleeping berth before returning with a handsome aged briefcase. Faust flipped the top portion open and retrieved a slim, bound booklet, sliding it over the center table. It was the same type of booklet one might see in a boardroom containing a corporate report, held together on the binding edge by a fabric-coated rubber band.

  “I apologize, Neil,” Faust said. “You won’t like this report.”

  Neil kept his eyes on Faust’s as he allowed his hands to clasp the booklet. He briefly met Petra’s emerald eyes before turning his own to the booklet. On the front of the heavy, black card stock of the booklet was a single strip of white paper. In the center of the strip, typed, was his Christian name: Neil Michael Reuter. Neil placed his cigarette between his lips and narrowed his eyes as the smoke ascended and enveloped his head. He flipped the booklet open.

  On the first page, glued, was a black and white photo taken three years before by the San Francisco Chronicle. He remembered the day clearly, the photo taken for a feature article Neil had been ordered to cooperate with—it was considered good for his cover. In the photo, Neil wore a dark suit and stood in front of his company’s headquarters. Below his name was a listing of both his personal and physical information. Neil glanced up, seeing the Fausts staring at him with great interest. He turned the page.

  There was a paragraph about his parents; a paragraph about their German and Shoshone backgrounds; a shockingly accurate summary of his net worth; and finally, two full paragraphs about Emilee’s murder. The second paragraph addressed Lex Curran, delving into his documented sexual deviancies and his disappearance. Neil grew hot with anger, turning to Gregor Faust.

  “Where the hell did you get all this?”

  Faust’s tone was apologetic. “It was easily obtained. I do understand that the inquiry is overly personal, but it was essential we obtain as much information as we could.”

  Neil took in a great breath and let it out slowly. He crushed out his cigarette and turned the page. There he found several run-of-the-mill paragraphs on his military service, but the third paragraph struck him in the chest like the Queen Mary’s anchor:

  Neil Reuter, after enlistment, was hastily commissioned and served in France during the Great War. He ascended to the rank of captain, as an intelligence officer. In 1917, it is believed that Reuter deliberately misled two British brigades through a critical intelligence report, thereby paving the way for an American brigade to secure a key victory in the conflict at Dormans during the Second Battle of the Marne. The faulty report was later amended, its author hidden, and swept over by American intelligence in the fog of the War’s final weeks. Reuter’s actions allowed Lieutenant Colonel Archibald S. Stone of the United States Army, the commander of the victorious brigade, to be rapidly advanced through the ranks. He was ultimately promoted to four-star general: a rank he still holds at the publishing of this report. It has been stated by several general officers who were a part of the campaign that, had the two British brigades been utilized in the action, further loss of life may have been avoided.*

  *(The action at Dormans resulted in 97 American casualties and 812 [est.] German casualties.)

  Neil poked the page. “This is fabricated horseshit and whoever wrote it doesn’t know his head from his ass.”

  “Really,” Faust replied. It wasn’t a question. “The report was researched and written by one of the finest investigative firms in Washington D.C. We’ve not had them miss on anyone yet.”

  “They missed.” Neil summoned patience. “Their facts are skewed. I did write the intel report based on the information I had at the time. But by the time we were afforded a clearer picture, the British were more than busy defending our flank. Thirty-Second Brigade had to move forward, and it was not my call. What the hell does this have to do with anything?”

  Faust puffed the cigar as he motioned him to turn the page. After several rote paragraphs about Neil’s business, there was a section titled “Vital”:

  It was recently learned, through a painstaking series of circumspect inquiries, that General Archibald S. Stone’s younger sister, an arresting woman named Lana, married widower A. Walter Yance, of Philadelphia. He is 32 years her senior. Yance owns a sizeable majority of Advanced Chemical, the second-largest chemical conglomerate in the United States. His title is president and chairman. Commonly thought of as a modern industrialist, Yance is one of the most respected businessmen in the U.S., and is the fifth wealthiest man alive on the planet.

  Most importantly, Advanced Chemical, as well as three other businesses Yance owns majority interest in, comprise well over half of the total revenue of General Logistics, Reuter’s shipping business.

  It is the opinion of this team of investigators that General Archibald S. Stone deliberately rewarded (pre-arranged?) Neil Reuter for the faulty intelligence reports, through his wealthy brother-in-law, with the considerable western shipping contracts of Advanced Chemical. It should also be noted that Yance’s company, Advanced Chemical, counts on the United States Army for seventy percent of its business—both directly and indirectly. Advanced Chemical produces nearly all of the high explosives used in hand grenades, artillery shells, tank rounds, and landmines. General Archibald S. Stone would easily be in a sufficient position to sway the Department of the Army’s purchasing practices.

  Neil flipped the booklet shut and smacked it onto the hard, white table. He glanced at Petra, who had turned away at the first sign of his anger. Neil searched for words, finally cutting his eyes back to Gregor Faust. Faust held his chin high, seemingly ready to take a berating, and appeared unashamed of his investigators’ theories.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to strong-arm me based on a series of suppositions that are nothing more than a nifty grouping of coincidences? And don’t you know, Faust, that if you dig long and hard in any business dealings between large companies, you’re bound to find incidences of past collaboration?” Neil again removed his cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one after snatching the lighter from the table. “Perhaps it’s different on top of the world, up in snowy Finland?”

  The three people sat there for a moment, the quiet enveloping the room like a chilly fog. Neil leaned back in his chair, trying to determine why Faust had even shown him the report. What was the point? What was to be gained? Now Neil’s blood was up, making it difficult to control his thoughts.

  Finally he stood, crossing the room and smacking a crystal tumbler to the marble top of the bar. As it had earlier, the ice tinkled as he dropped it in by hand; the vodka made a satisfying chugging sound as he poured it, filling the tumbler to the brim. Neil took a long sip, drinking a third of the drink before holding the cool crystal to his cheek, his eyes closed as he accepted the liquid’s searing fire in his throat. He felt much, much better.

  And worse.

  “So why,” Neil started, his voice velvety after the familiar liquid, “are you showing me this concocted report, even after I have agreed to help?”

  “Because you cannot go back,” Petra Faust said in her thick accent. They were the first words she had spoken to him.

  Neil turned to her, his eyebrow cocked, unable to muster any anger toward her. “I hadn’t planned to.”

  Faust relit the cigar, puffing quietly. “But even if you chan
ge your mind, you cannot.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “It sounds a bit callous, but the lives of those children are worth far more than your discomfort.”

  “I don’t disagree. But that doesn’t mean you have to come up with bullshit that slanders me in the process.”

  “I’m not so sure it’s bullshit.” Faust dipped the mouth end of his cigar into his drink before putting it into one side of his mouth. It modulated his voice as he spoke. “And you didn’t read the final page of the report.” Faust reached over his wife and grasped the booklet, handing it to Neil.

  Neil took the report along with his cigarette from the ashtray. The Fausts glanced at one another before turning their eyes to the windows of the front of the stateroom. For whatever reason, they didn’t seem to want to watch. Neil felt his fingers tingling as he opened the booklet and flipped to the last page:

  Final Analysis: Neil Michael Reuter is highly intelligent and influential. He is recognized throughout San Francisco as a shrewd businessman and a philanthropist, and was known as a loving, albeit distracted husband. Like many people, though, Neil Reuter is not above corruption, as is detailed in the manner in which his company grew to its current size. Additionally, it appears Neil Reuter may have had additional dealings with the government, though these seem to be well concealed. According to numerous war veterans, his nickname during the Great War was the Pale Horse, presumably because he could slip in and out of enemy territory like the blowing wind. Finally, and perhaps most potentially damning to his business, or worse, is the evidence of an eight-year affair between Neil Reuter and Lana Stone Yance, aforementioned youngest sister of General Archibald S. Stone and much younger second wife of A. Walter Yance.