While he swam, he surprised himself by thinking of Fern, the frail Jewish granddaughter of the Fausts. “Fern,” he muttered as he stroked. “Fern. And Jakey. And Emilee. And my son.”
But, for whatever reason, he kept coming back to Fern.
“Fern.” Those expressive eyes.
“Fern.” Needs my help.
I’m coming, Fern. Your grandfather is an asshole, but that has nothing to do with you. Don’t you worry your little head…I’m coming, and I will get you out.
Neil swam on.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PRESTON LORD HAD BEEN IMMERSED FOR TWELVE HOURS.
He was in the basement of Washington D.C.’s Greeley Building, a covert storage center for sensitive Department of War records. Before him lay hundreds of files and documents he’d already pored over. He swilled the remnants of what was once good coffee before shouting to the attendant, a young Marine sergeant. The attendant appeared from the rows of shelving, sweat on his forehead.
“Sir?”
“Bring me the file on Three-Team-Romeo…the sealed file. It would have been sealed in thirty-five or maybe thirty-six.”
“Sealed file, sir?”
“Yeah…it’s a file with a wax seal on it. Do you want me to draw you a damned picture?”
The Marine glared at Lord, then turned on his heel and hurried away.
Lord stood and stretched, his hands touching the low ceiling of the dark basement. He walked to the back wall, shaking the nearly empty coffee percolator, tossing it down on its side. A yellow rectangle filtered through the solitary window at the top of the back wall, lit by the sidewalk lamps around the building. While it was only warm in the basement, muggy August heat smothered the District of Columbia like an unwanted blanket. Everyone was sick of summer, the season they’d all pined for mere months before.
The cramped quarters didn’t bother Lord—he’d be leaving soon. Whether or not he found anything meaningful on Reuter, he was taking a government airplane somewhere. Action often rattled the bushes and flushed out the prey, and he could feel the inaction of this case harming his desires.
“Sir?”
Lord ambled back to his table, taking the file from the sergeant without a word of thanks. He sat, looking irritably up at the muscular young Marine. “Leatherneck, you want to make yourself useful?”
“Am I not useful, sir?”
“Don’t be fresh. Go upstairs and get me a fresh pot of coffee. As a matter of fact, go to the all-night deli over on G Street and get me some breakfast.”
The Marine shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m not able to do that, sir. My after-hour orders, unless I’m properly relieved, are to stay in this records room no matter what.”
“I’m properly relieving you.”
“Afraid not,” the Marine answered with a grin. “I take my orders from Marines.”
Preston Lord slid his chair back and stood. “You either do it, or here’s what I’ll do: I’ll walk over to that phone and call Colonel Harry Ballantine, your Marine superior about six levels up, and I’ll rudely awaken his ass. I’ll tell him you stunk of liquor and derogated me repeatedly this evening. I’ll tell him that when I threatened to call your commander, you struck me in the face and said you’d kill me.”
The Marine’s lips parted but he didn’t speak. Lord moved closer.
“If you even think I’m lying, you’re in for it. I’ll take my coffee mug and I’ll smack myself in the forehead to get a nice little bruise, just for effect, and then I’ll chuckle as the M.P. truck hauls you away down to Fort Belvoir where you’ll rot in a hole for the next twenty years for assaulting a senior member of the United States Government.”
The Marine stammered for a moment, finally licking his lips and producing his words. “Sir, these threats are uncalled for and unprofessional and…”
“And what?”
The Marine grew quiet.
“You’re not gonna say it, Marine, because you know I’ll follow through. And, believe you me, I will,” Lord said, his voice low. “I always do what I say. Now, move your ass.”
The Marine lingered for a moment before bolting from the basement. He was back in five minutes with a fresh pot of coffee, two Danishes, a banana, and an English toast sandwich.
“You spit in this?” Lord asked.
“I thought about it.”
Lord chuckled and sat back down. He didn’t offer a word of thanks, nor did he offer to reimburse the sergeant. He unwrapped one of the Danishes and glared at the Marine. “Piss off.”
Fifteen minutes later, when Lord was halfway through the once-sealed file, one of his men, LaSalle, sprinted through the basement, sliding to a stop. LaSalle was breathless.
“Yeah?” Lord asked.
“Got word from San Fran. Two Joe-citizens identified Neil Michael Reuter getting on an airplane the night in question.”
Preston Lord stood bolt upright, throwing his coffee cup into the mortar wall of the basement. “And why the hell, ten days later, am I just now hearing this?”
“The people who pegged him just returned from holiday. The airline didn’t have record of where they connected to, but they were on the list of people our canvass team was waiting to speak to.” LaSalle glanced at his notepad. “Their description was spot-on, sir. Reuter was headed east, with one stop in Chicago.”
“Under his own name?”
“Negative. He was traveling as Frank O’Brien.”
Lord pulled on his jacket, securing the sealed file under his arm. “And where was the flight ultimately headed?”
“New York City.”
ENGLAND
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE YOUNG LADY SAW HIM FIRST. She was twenty-two, her husband twenty-four. They’d met almost a year ago to the day at a summer garden party in Kent. The engagement was originally planned to be a long one, while the fiancé slogged through the requisite associate years at Lloyd’s in his quest for his junior partnership and a life of fine living. But a bit of coital carelessness in the spring had necessitated a hasty wedding, as well as a vicious ass chewing from the father of the bride.
Once daddy learned about the pregnancy, he’d done a bit of checking on the groom-to-be. Aside from knocking his daughter up, her father was more concerned that the boy better quickly transform into a loving husband—because he sure as hell hadn’t been a faithful fiancé. There were a string of comely secretaries at Lloyd’s, each having fallen prey to the fiancé’s charms, eager to spill their guts for a mere sovereign. During his chat with the groom-to-be, the bride’s father, aided by a Webley Mk VI in his hand, did a fine job of making his point.
That unpleasantness behind them, the blissful couple was now on the beach, the first to arrive that morning. They were in front of the Yardley Resort in the East Sussex beachside town of Seaford. A thin film of haze, coupled with the cool morning breeze, had warranted cover-ups over their bathing suits. Their cabana was directly behind them, the one in which they had just made hasty love after a nearly sleepless night. The groom was still in the small cabana, readying himself to take a brisk dip when the bride, not even showing yet, sat straight up and called to him. He emerged from the cabana in his swimming trunks, munching an apple.
“Look,” she said, pointing slightly to the left.
A man in what looked like a suit had tumbled in with the three-foot waves, now resting his face in the grayish sand as the murky water lapped at his sock feet. Behind him, further down the beach, white cliffs towered over the restless ocean, leading clear around the southeastern edge of Britain to Dover. The groom walked to the man, running the last piece. The man’s skin was pallid, almost bluish from the frigid ocean. The groom patted him on the back as the man coughed weakly between the chattering of his teeth.
“Cor blimey! What happened, fellow? You fall overboard somewhere?”
The man lifted his head, his face coated with sand as he mumbled, “Didn’t think I would make it.”
“From where?”
Peer
ing at the new bride standing in the distance, the man coughed for a moment before rasping, “Can you keep a secret?”
“American, eh?” the groom asked. “Sure, I can.”
“Last night I was on a pleasure cruise with friends, on their yacht. Well, the owner learned about me and his lady friend...about our friendship. Heartless man he is, he threw me overboard at gunpoint.” The man glanced wearily back out at the sea, shaking his head. “I must have swum miles!”
Empathy coursed through the groom as he patted his new friend on the shoulder.
Kindred spirits.
The American rolled to his back, massaging his hands together. Half of his body was coated in sand and sea foam. “I’d rather that fella not know I made it back here, understand? I think it wise for me to quietly slip back to the States.”
The groom helped the castaway up. “I’ll just tell my wife you were alone on a small boat that flipped over.”
“Thank you,” the American mumbled. “Thank you so much.” He staggered up the beach with the young groom, patting the lump in his suit pocket, appearing exhausted but relieved.
Once the husband told his brief tale about the overturned boat, he led his new friend into the cabana, giving him a dry towel and some fresh water. As the American dried himself, he cocked an eye at the groom, looking him up and down.
“Say, you’re about my size. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra suit I could buy, would you?”
~~~
Preston Lord had rushed away from the records basement and now stalked back and forth in one of the executive staff chambers at the War Department. The windows were wide open, not as if that helped. Even in the middle of the night, it was still eighty degrees in Washington, and a cool breeze was about as likely as an endearing, pro-Semitic speech from Adolf Hitler. There was a knock at the door. Lord beckoned. It was Special Agent LaSalle.
“What do you have for me?” Lord snapped.
LaSalle loosened his thin tie, shaking his head. “The three liveries that serve the Chicago airport are still being questioned, just in case. All zeroes there. I’m positive he didn’t get off in Chicago.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“No, sir. A livery driver in Queens pegged a photo of Reuter right quick, but said he was traveling under a different name.”
“What’s the name?” Lord demanded.
“Said our guy was boarding the Queen Mary. Said the passenger tipped him to stow his bags.”
“The name!” Lord roared.
“Freeman Jennings,” LaSalle said with a grin.
“Got him,” Lord breathed, closing his eyes. “Where does she port, and when?”
“She sailed from New York to just outside of London.”
“When does she port?”
“Today.”
Lord’s eyes flew open as if operated by tightly coiled springs. “What time?”
LaSalle checked his watch. “Soon.” He stopped Lord. “Slow down, I’ve already got six men headed out to the docks. We’ll get him.”
Lord collapsed into one of the leather wrapped chairs. A grin came over his face, but after a few seconds, it disappeared, replaced by a look of unease. “Do not underestimate him. Lock down the ship upon arrival; break the arms of those Brits if you have to. Tell them to direct their fallout at me. Don’t let a soul off that ship, even the crew, until you have the manifest and know the head count.” He aimed a finger at LaSalle. “Do—not—underestimate—him. Watch all sides of the ship in case he tries to jump.”
“Got it.”
Lord’s eyes danced around the room. He opened his folio and searched through the pages, finally lifting his hand for silence. “And as soon as our men get him off the ship, tell them to take him to 22 Larch Road, in Dartford. It’s near the port.”
“Interrogation?”
“No.” Lord paused. “Elimination.”
LaSalle nodded his understanding.
“And, LaSalle?”
“Yes, sir?”
Lord smiled. “Tell them to make it painful. I want to know he was broken first. I want tears of anguish. I want fingernails ripped off, eyelids cut away. In fact, tell them to scalp his Indian ass.”
After what appeared to be a mighty swallow, LaSalle nodded.
“Move!”
LaSalle dashed from the room.
Lord kicked off his handmade shoes. Using the slickness of his socks, he skated to the stocked bar, rewarding himself with a whiskey and water. As he toasted the empty room, he lifted his glass to the northeast and spoke one phrase.
“Goodbye, Neil Reuter. Burn in hell.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AFTER UNSUCCESSFULLY TRYING TO PERSUADE THE YOUNG GROOM to take something for his suit and clothes, Neil purchased a ticket for a private berth on the morning express train into London. Once aboard, he found the attendant to get his voucher punched. Afterward, Neil locked himself inside the rectangular compartment and slid the ticket between the small aisle window and the curtain. He hoped for some privacy, and he also knew the fewer people who saw his face, the better.
Neil tugged off the tight split-toe shoes given to him by the generous young man. While the two men were roughly the same build, the groom’s feet were at least two sizes smaller than Neil’s. His first priority in London would be the purchase of new shoes.
As the train began to chug away from the station, the requisite whistles and yells were replaced by the metronomic clicking from the tracks. Neil had purchased a pack of British cigarettes at the station and lit one with matches from the berth. The cigarette tasted awful, especially after all of the saltwater spray he’d inhaled during the swim. He crushed it out and vented the berth with the outer window. After removing his new coat, he reclined in the bench seat, forcing himself to relax. His muscles ached from the grueling swim—he stretched and massaged his shoulders with each hand. The news he’d been given earlier in the morning weighed heavily on his mind. As fresh air swirled through the room, he deliberately focused on his pressing tasks before allowing himself to think about Lex Curran.
Neil laid the rubberized packet on the table jutting from the outer wall of the train, holding his breath as he untied the string that held everything together. Seawater leaked out. He wiped away the water, gingerly opening the oilskin. Neil deflated as he saw even more water pour from the creases. He’d been concerned that it wouldn’t be waterproof but, given his circumstances, he’d had no choice.
The note from Jakey was wet around the edges but salvageable. He opened the Freeman Jennings passport, still legible on the top half, but stained by the seawater on the bottom and all the way around. Neil placed it on the opposite bench so it could dry in the morning rays of the summer sun. He opened the envelope containing the Dieter Dremel identification and papers; again, water spilled out. The name and address were legible, but barely. Neil knew enough about the Nazi police state to know that waterlogged documents and a bad accent weren’t going to endear him to the Gestapo.
Essentially, his fake identities were now useless.
Also in the packet was the photo Gregor Faust had given him. It had actually fared better in the Atlantic than the documents. Feeling a peculiar connection to the girl, Neil dutifully dried the picture, laying it in the eastern sun with his other papers. He then broke down his Colt, drying it, making a mental note to find gun oil at some point.
The diamonds were fine. He blotted them dry before turning his attention to the lighter. He pulled it apart and, using a napkin, carefully blotted the water from each of the pieces. Once it was situated next to the drying documents, Neil made sure he still had the keys the forger had given him. He did, and was satisfied that he’d made it through the swim with all of his items, even if some did happen to be damaged.
It was time. Neil stared at the wet shipboard telegram.
“Lex Curran is dead,” he said aloud, after rereading the telegram. He said it over and over, his tone hardening. Each time he said it, his right fist beat the thi
n cushion. Neil felt as wronged as he had since Emilee had been ripped from him two years before. He’d never had the words to describe to anyone the inconceivable level of injustice one feels after a senseless murder. There is no way to prepare for it, no way to explain it. And while time does help a person cope, Neil never felt as if the wound healed. He simply learned to live with it. But now Curran, too, was gone. And not only did Neil never get the satisfaction of killing him, he’d been set up for the murder.
If Curran was indeed dead, he reminded himself. A big if.
He had to keep the notion alive that the entire production on the ship, including the telegram, could have been an elaborate setup to keep him moving. But for whatever reason, Neil had a feeling that this telegram was the real McCoy. After a half-hour of stomach-churning rumination, Neil’s hunger pushed him into action. He pulled on the tight shoes and exited the berth, locking it and finding the nearest attendant.
“Where’s the dining car?”
“Two cars back, sir.”
Once he made his way rearward, he purchased two deviled ham sandwiches, crisps, two glasses of water and a cup of coffee. The cashier also gave Neil a small bottle of olive oil. While it wasn’t gun oil, it would prevent the saltwater from damaging his Colt.
Neil stared long and hard at the rows of bottles behind the bartender, focusing on the vodka.
As the train rushed on toward London, with sixty more minutes to go, Neil made his way back to his berth, balancing his food and drinks on a tray.
There would be no alcohol this day.
~~~
Upon the express train’s arrival at Embankment Station in London, Neil stayed in his berth, scanning the platforms for any type of surveillance or waiting police. He noticed two beat cops, chatting idly as the passengers exited and made their way to the station. They didn’t seem to be examining the crowd for anyone at all—except comely young ladies—and were obviously engrossed in a funny tale, judging by their hysterical laughter. Neil gathered his things, moving rearward before leaving the train with the throngs from 2nd class. He felt naked without a hat, dipping his head as he passed the bobbies, never earning a glance.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 13
