“You hear me, bub?” the shorter one asked, his accent distinctively Bostonian. The two men stopped several feet away from Sal.
“Sorry, guys,” Sal said with a grin, automatically producing his badge, “but I don’t usually make it a habit to explain myself to dickheads who I don’t know. I’m here on police business and I’d advise you both state your business—or piss off, before you end up spending a night in my jail.”
In a lightning move, the shorter of the two belted him in his stomach. Now Sal knew where the man had gotten the broken nose. He’d once been a boxer, and the body blow Sal had just taken had robbed him of his wind and almost certainly bruised his liver. Sal kept his feet, his hand moving to his holster.
The taller of the two men grasped Sal’s arm, wrenching it behind his back and making him grunt in pain. As he did, the shorter one reached into Sal’s jacket and came out with his pistol.
This was a bad situation. Very bad.
The tall man put his mouth to Sal’s ear, speaking in a southern accent. “Dickheads, huh? How ‘bout I pop your shoulder outta joint?”
Grinding his teeth, Sal tried to formulate a response. After a moment he simply wheezed, “Who are you?”
Crooked nose was in front of Sal, with Sal’s pistol in his left hand. He used the pistol to kick his own hat backward, eyeing Sal with an open face. “Never mind who we are, Zorba. You got any idea where Reuter is?”
Sal finally had his breath. “Neil Reuter? I was hoping you might know. I’m with the Saturday Evening Post. Reuter’s a month behind on his bill and I’m here to coll—”
Sal’s words were cut off by another hydraulic blow to his gut.
Definitely a boxer…
He slumped forward, unable to get a breath. The tall one torqued Sal’s arm again. “Where’s Reuter, asshole?”
Sal shook his head, his mouth opening and closing for air. He heard the one with the broken nose tell the taller one to ease up. The man kept his grip on Sal’s wrist and collar, but released the tension of the hold. After what seemed like a minute of trying, Sal was finally able to gasp glorious breaths of air. The shorter one waited a moment before asking the same question for a third time.
“And I’d suggest you answer without being fresh if you want to avoid more pain.”
Sal offered a defeated nod but was unable to speak.
“Talk,” the short one commanded.
When Sal recovered his wind for a second time, he gasped his words. “I don’t know where Reuter is.”
“Got any leads?”
“Hardly anything.”
“Hardly means you’ve got something,” the taller one said, giving Sal’s wrist a squeeze.
“I do, but I’m still trying to run it down.”
“Tell us,” the short one demanded.
“But I haven’t proved it out, yet.”
“Boy, I’m warnin’ you,” the tall one growled, jerking Sal’s arm up again.
“Ow! Okay, okay.” Sal lifted his eyes to the short one. “We got word that two guys have been milling around Reuter’s estate. They’ve been acting suspiciously, hiding back behind the bushes and…”
“And what?” the tall one asked.
“They’ve been seen sliding their hands down inside each other’s trousers. Sick stuff.”
“What?” the short one yelled, screwing up his face.
Sal brightened. “Yeah, and you know what? Come to think of it, they match your descriptions. Tall and ugly, and the other one’s a crooked-nose midget.”
“Hold him tight,” the short one said. He pushed up his right sleeve and ripped the air with a vicious right hook, catching Sal in his cheek and making his knees go limp.
When Sal’s head cleared, he was down on all fours. He lifted his head to see a dark Ford roaring away. Something black flew from the Ford’s window, tumbling into the wet grass beside the driveway. After staggering to his feet, Sal retrieved the item, his pistol. His head slowly clearing, he walked—still quite unsteadily—to the unmarked car and sat inside. He lifted the radio, keyed it, opened his mouth—but said nothing.
As the shorter one had been punching Sal, he had seen the man’s shoulder holster and .45 automatic. And down on the man’s waist was what looked an awful lot like a leather pouch containing credentials and a badge.
If they were cops, they weren’t FBI—that was for sure. The by-the-book feds didn’t come hard and heavy like that. And they weren’t staties, either. Sal would’ve known. He searched his mind for more agencies but couldn’t come up with anything realistic. He decided to file away what had just happened in the “shame folder.” Unfortunately for Sal, his shame folder was bursting at the seams.
They called me Zorba. How’d they know I’m Greek? I could pass for Italian, Armenian, lotsa backgrounds. They knew who I was beforehand. So, who the hell were they?
Sal eyed his swollen cheek in the rearview mirror. It was red and hot and was going to be a real beauty in a day or two. Using his thumb and index finger, Sal grasped his rear upper molar and wiggled it. There was movement, but not too much.
“Let’s hope that tightens back up,” Sal muttered, stepping from the car as he rubbed his cheek. He lifted his hat from the mouth of the driveway, brushing it off and donning it. Then he walked back to the gate and rang the bell on the two-way intercom. Thankfully, Agnes Gentry answered.
A moment later, the electric gate hummed open.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NEIL FOUGHT TO STAY AWAKE. He lit a cigarette and rolled down his window. It was just past 10 P.M. as Willi announced their arrival in the dark crossroads of Eynsford. They turned off the main road, making their way down a dirt trail between rows and rows of some sort of knee-high crop. The moon was partially obscured, occasionally illuminating Neil’s arm resting on the door of the truck as he smoked in silence. A solitary triangle of light floated toward them on the right side of the vehicle. Willi’s truck squeaked to a stop. Without a word, the German got out. Neil pushed open the door and stepped out, stretching and taking in his surroundings. The light was above the door of a large barn. There was little else to see.
Neil was sick of traveling and dreaded the long flight that lay before him. As Willi walked into the barn, Neil continued to stretch as he pondered all he’d endured on this day. The news about Lex Curran’s murder was by far the most sapping, more so even than the cold morning swim. Combined together, the horrible news, the brutal swim in the frigid Atlantic, and then the police chase underground, all without the benefit of proper rest, had left him feeling like he’d been awake four days, and not just one.
He hefted his grip from the cluttered rear of the eighteen year-old Model TT truck, the exact same type that had been sold in droves back in the States. Resting the grip on the tailgate, Neil opened it and removed the olive-oiled Colt 1911 that had worked so well in the tube tunnel. He reloaded the weapon and chambered a round. Neil checked the dual safeties of the Colt before stuffing the heavy pistol into his waistband.
He could hear Willi calling him. Neil walked to the triangle light, watching as the pilot pushed open two colossal barn doors. Neil helped him secure the doors and then watched as Willi proudly swept his arms over the purplish silhouette of his private airplane, stored in the large working barn along with murmuring goats and pigs. It was a De Havilland Hornet Moth, Willi told Neil, using the tone an arrogant salesman might use if he were truly in love with his exclusive product.
“She’s a state of the art bi-wing aircraft with side-by-side seating and enough room for your luggage, and then some,” Willi pronounced majestically. As the German began to light lanterns, Neil could see the airplane had been brush-painted flat black, and was devoid of any markings which might denote it as British.
“Whose barn is this?” Neil asked.
“See the farmhouse over there?”
Neil turned, squinting through the darkness. “I guess.”
“The barn and house belong to my partner,” Willi answered. “Now, w
here’s my money? I have to pay him for fuel and storage.”
Neil stepped away and counted out half of the full price, minus the fifty he’d already paid, just as they’d agreed upon. Willi took the money and walked away with a kick in his step, headed to the farmhouse. While he waited, Neil studied the airplane and its external working parts.
Though he wasn’t a pilot, it fascinated him how airplanes were such straightforward pieces of machinery. Each component had a particular purpose, and its failure would almost certainly result in catastrophe. The entire contraption was an artful concinnity of singular pieces, working together to effortlessly defeat a force so many had died trying to tame since the beginning of time.
In an automobile, if a tire blew, a person simply steered to the side of the road and changed it. Neil used his hand to move the elevator up and down. But if this part flew off, Neil and Willi would be done for. Though he was no pilot, Neil knew airplanes couldn’t be flown without an elevator.
He opened the swing-out doors on the right side of the aircraft, loading his grip in the rear compartment. Since tonight was cool, Neil assumed it would be chilly at altitude. He unbuckled his new suitcase and removed his just-purchased waistcoat, folding it and wedging it under the seat. While he had a few moments alone, Neil pulled the Colt from his waistband, placing it under the seat, in the folds of the jacket. He looked to the farmhouse, narrowing his eyes.
Willi the German, with his simpering smile and smart-ass ways.
Do I trust him?
It took Neil less than five seconds to formulate a simple answer—no. However, allowing Willi some measure of credit, Neil rarely trusted anyone until a great amount of time had passed—especially a person who makes his living by breaking the law. But there was a palpable element of scheming about his new friend. Since his time in the Army, Neil had made a living by judging people and their motivations. There was something about Willi, an air of duplicity that Neil had picked up on from the first moment they’d met.
Or perhaps Neil, exhausted and on the run, was simply being paranoid.
Still, thinking through what was about to occur, Neil knew he was entering Willi’s world. He’d been taught—preached to, in fact—that when stepping onto another’s turf, you’ve allowed yourself to be more vulnerable. And not only was the airplane Willi’s lair, now Neil was headed into the teeth of the tiger that was the growing threat of Nazi Germany. And as soon as they crossed the channel to continental Europe, he would need to be permanently on guard.
Neil’s eyes danced as he ran through a list of potential scenarios and outcomes. After several seconds, he jerked the Colt from the waistcoat, cocking the hammer before replacing it. The grip safety would keep the pistol from going off unwantedly, but at least now the weapon was ready for immediate use. Ten more minutes passed before Willi returned, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
“The hell took you so long?” Neil snapped.
Willi inspected Neil’s baggage, cinching the strap over Neil’s case. He turned to Neil, sensually rubbing the skin of the airplane. “Just like my baby here needs servicing every month or so, Frau Janzen needs an occasional servicing, too.”
“Who?”
“Frau Janzen, the wife,” Willi said, hitching his thumb to the farmhouse. “My partner who owns this barn is a Dane. I fly. He stores my baby, gets me the fuel, and shares in the profits of our little tax-free import-export business. Herr Janzen was an airplane mechanic during the war, so it’s a good partnership.” Willi’s decimated teeth were tough to see in the scant light as his mouth widened again. “A very good partnership,” he said, making a vulgar gesture with both hands, “especially when he’s away while I’m here.”
Neil snorted. “You and the wife?”
“Oh, yes, me and the wife. Viktor is off drinking tonight, probably won’t even be home at all. He quit touching her years ago. I suspect I’m not the only one she takes, but when I am…” Willi shook his head and stacked both hands over his heart.
Neil curled his lip—there’s another reason not to trust this asshole. “Can we just get on with it?”
“Impatient, are you?”
“Yeah, I am. And I’m about to get really pissed off.”
“Say no more.”
After Willi went through what Neil felt was a cursory amount of pre-flight checks, they pushed the surprisingly light aircraft from the barn. With Willi’s guidance, he and Neil walked it across a grassy yard, over a gravel path, and onto a rough meadow of threshed grass. Once there, Neil could hear the cooing and clucking of sleeping hens in a nearby coop. Willi spun the tail of the aircraft ninety degrees to the left and then walked to each wingtip, peering down the outer edge of the wing. High above, the quarter moon was now fully visible. Willi adjusted the tail once more and then set out in a jog, straight ahead, blending into the inky night. It was another minute before Neil saw a flame and then could make out Willi’s shape as he ran back to the aircraft.
Willi arrived breathless, quickly adjusting several controls from outside the airplane. He instructed Neil to sit in the left seat. “Hold your hand right here,” he said, moving Neil’s hand to a lever. “When the engine catches, push it slowly in. Not before.” Willi flipped two switches upward and moved to the front of the airplane. He turned the prop slowly, several times, the sucking sounds of the pistons clearly audible. “You ready?” he asked.
“I guess.”
Willi spun the prop. The engine coughed twice before going silent. He repeated this three times. The engine never caught. Cursing in German, most of which Neil understood, Willi leaned back inside and adjusted several controls. He told Neil to be ready. Again, he moved to the propeller, spun it, and this time the engine caught, belching acrid smoke that briefly filled the cockpit. Neil eased the throttle forward until the engine roared. Willi sprinted around the prop and wing strut, knocking Neil’s hand away as he jerked the throttle back out.
“I didn’t want you to take it all the way!” Willi yelled. “You’re lucky she didn’t jump chocks or flip forward.” The engine idled roughly as Neil climbed out, allowing Willi to take the left seat. Neil sat in the right seat and pulled the door shut.
“Gotta hurry before the flame goes out,” Willi said, pointing down the runway at the light he had created. Because the aircraft was a tail-dragger, Neil had to touch his head to the ceiling of the airplane to see the flame.
Willi throttled the aircraft to the hilt, holding the brake. Neil could feel the wind from the propeller try to lift the tail of the aircraft, but he could see Willi pulling the stick to him, preventing dangerous upward pressure from occurring at the elevator. Finally, satisfied with whatever he was watching on the gauges, Willi released the brake. The small aircraft lurched forward as Willi occasionally turned to gain reference to the light at the end of the bumpy grass strip.
Once the tail was up, Neil could see the flame growing closer, a simple but ingenious tool for night takeoffs that guided Willi, not only in the direction to keep the aircraft pointed, but also indicating to him the dead-end of the runway. Running off either side or passing the light at the end of the runway would almost certainly not produce a desired result.
The small airplane levitated after the rough run over the grass, the bumpiness giving way to the smooth cushion of air at ground-effect level. Neil watched as Willi worked several knobs and spun a wheel by his seat. Seemingly satisfied with the dimly lighted gauges and controls, Willi snapped his fingers and yelled for a cigarette. Neil removed two, handing him one and lighting both. As Neil smoked, he looked out the side window, seeing the occasional light flash by between long washes of darkness.
Willi had a map on his lap and a device in his hands. He said the device was brand new, an E-6B “whiz wheel,” and it would compute everything he needed to navigate to Innsbruck. Once he’d made a few calculations, he twisted a dial on the floating compass on the top of the control panel. He leaned to Neil, yelling to be heard.
“Ten minutes to the chan
nel, then about four or five hours until we refuel. I could possibly make it all the way to Innsbruck, but winds this time of year are unpredictable, and I don’t think you want to be smashed into the German side of the Zugspitze!” Willi flashed his trademark busted smile.
“You’re the pilot,” Neil yelled in response.
The English Channel appeared right on time, an unending stretch of blackness, forcing Neil and Willi to trust in the Hornet Moth’s instruments. Neil grew more comfortable in Willi’s abilities, watching as he dutifully monitored his controls. After a second cigarette, Willi poured coffee from a small thermos. Neil declined, his eyes sleepy as he continued to watch his hired German.
He seemed like a capable pilot.
With the blackness enshrouding the aircraft, and the smooth vibration from the engine, Neil Reuter slipped into a deep sleep, never even extinguishing his freshly lit cigarette.
Willi did it for him.
CONTINENTAL EUROPE
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Neil Reuter jerked from his slumber as the Hornet Moth cruised at three thousand feet, the moonlight glinting off the numerous canals, making the earth look like the illuminated grid of a checkerboard. He glanced at Willi, still looking rock-solid with coffee in hand. “Where are we?” Neil yelled while rubbing the side of his face.
“Crossing over the arable fields of postcard Holland!” Willi yelled, toasting Neil with his coffee.
Neil nodded and closed his eyes, sleep coursing back through him immediately. The next time he awoke, he stirred before leaning his head against the cool window, staring out at the blackness.
“That’s the Ardennes forest,” Willi said. “You’ve heard of it?”
“No.”
“It’s huge. We’re over the Belgium portion right now.”
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 17
