After lighting perhaps the best cigarette he had ever tasted, he grunted as he settled into his seat, glancing left at the faint strip of orange on the horizon. It would be daybreak soon. By that time, Neil needed to have a great deal of distance between himself and Willi’s body. The old man who saw what had happened could be a problem, and would know the killer escaped in a black airplane—one with a bullet hole running straight through it.
But the authorities would have no clue of which direction Neil went. Perhaps they would put out a description of the airplane, but that would be about it. If they learned who Willi was, it was unlikely they would travel to England to try to determine who he was associated with.
The growing light displayed the ground moving steadily underneath him. Mile after mile passed, each one a small victory for Neil. He was far enough up to see the outlines of the farms, and could see the occasional road pass by underneath. As he finished his cigarette and allowed the nub to be whisked from his hand in the small vent window, Neil finally confronted his main problem, larger than the holes in his side or the man who had just seen and shot at him.
Neil’s greatest concern was where—and more importantly, how—he was going to land this airplane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THOMAS FIRED ONLY THE SINGLE SHOT AT THE AIRPLANE. He stayed in the same shooting position long enough to see the airplane gently bank and turn to the south, the rounded rudder gliding like the dorsal fin of a shark through the starry sky. After watching the airplane until it was no longer visible, Thomas stood, ejecting the warm shell and dropping it into his left pocket.
He walked to the dead man, peering over him before kneeling down. His body was still quite warm, emanating wisps of vapor in the chill morning air. Ambient light from the approaching sunrise aided Thomas’ vision as he examined the fresh corpse. Grasping the man’s pants, Thomas rolled him far enough to expose the hand trapped underneath him, and that’s when he saw the Parabellum. It appeared to be old and military—a gun Thomas was most familiar with and perhaps the most common handgun in all of Germany. Feeling as if he had gone back in time twenty years, Thomas searched the man by starting with his pockets. He found no identification, but he did find a wad of odd-looking currency. Later, when he was back at his house, Thomas would learn the currency was British.
And that’s when Thomas would become keenly interested. He liked to be keenly interested.
But before then, Thomas checked the man’s other pockets, finding cigarettes, a lighter, some keys and several coins. He didn’t, however, find any identification. Thomas kept one note of the currency and one of the coins, tucking them into his jacket pocket with his bullet casing. Finished, he patted the dead man on his shoulder, murmuring a few words about justice, and stood.
Thomas searched the area, finding the dew-soaked remainder of a freshly smoked cigarette in the grass just off the tarmac. He soon found another, probably blown to the grass by the wind of the prop. The sun still wasn’t visible on the horizon, but the eastern sky was now morning purple, allowing him to walk back to his house without fear of stepping into an abandoned well. When he arrived, he dumped out his mug of coffee and poured another cup, closing the opening on the stove so the burning wood’s heat would only escape from the front. Thomas sat at the table, pushing his cold breakfast away. After a scorching sip of the strong black liquid, he examined the paper money and the coin, immediately realizing it was British. Thomas spoke passable English, certainly enough to recognize the twenty-pound note.
“English money and a German military pistol,” he said aloud, rubbing his freshly shaven face. He stared at the money for a number of minutes, his fingers drumming a tattoo on the table. Thomas Lundren was deep in thought.
His mind made up, he stood and crossed the kitchen into the small den, retrieving a large book from a shelf. From the book he took an old map, tan from age but folded perfectly. He smoothed it on the tabletop. After another sip of his coffee, Thomas retrieved a pencil and a long piece of string from a drawer in the kitchen. He leaned over the map, using his thumb to hold the string over Velden—his location. Pulling the string due south, all the way to the southern border of Germany, Thomas drew a heavy lead line, terminating at the resort town of Bad Tölz. He then drew a lighter line to the left of Bad Tölz, near Weilheim, and one to the right, at Rosenheim. This created a triangle to his south: the alleged murderer’s possible flight path. The largest cities on the alleged murderer’s route were Regensburg and Munich.
Those cities were where he would begin, if his plan panned out.
Thomas took a red apple from the bowl on the table, slicing pieces with the clean blade of his pocketknife as he worked out his plan. Upon finishing the apple, he brushed his teeth, washed his face and combed his hair. After placing the British money in his pants pocket, he locked the house and drove to his former home city of Nürnberg.
There was someone there he needed to see.
~~~
Thirty minutes later, Thomas Lundren parked the old Opel Blitz in front of the Middle Franconia Main Polizei Bureau. Nervous, he tugged his hat onto his head before wiping his face with his handkerchief. He stepped from the truck and glanced around, briefly recalling the decades he spent in this very bureau. The horse carriages were now replaced by loud, intrusive automobiles. On the outside of the building, the gas lamps had been traded for electric lights, probably operated from the convenience of a single switch. Power and phone lines ran to the building, snaking in from all directions to create an unsightly tangle. From an open window upstairs, he could hear music, courtesy of one of those radios everyone now seemed to own and worship. The world’s modernization had all happened so fast.
But to Thomas, no matter what sort of advancements came along, the operating principles were still all the same. Hard work could never be replaced by technology. Ever. No machine would ever replace intuitiveness and elbow grease. There would never be a device that could listen to a defendant, analyzing the person’s testimony for the slightest signs of guilt. No scientist would ever come up with an invention that would comfort a victim on a cold and rainy night. There would never be a device to track a suspect wherever he or she went. Police work was hard work. Human work. Thomas’ work.
Or at least it had been, until he was made to leave.
He crossed the parking lot, noting that the chief was there. His car was adorned with insignia and Nazi flags. Thomas took the stone stairs at an even pace, keeping his head low until he approached the high desk in the lobby. Behind the desk was a large portrait of Adolf Hitler, right where the state crest once was. Doing his best to suppress his grimace, Thomas eyed the desk officer, a man he didn’t know.
“Heil Hitler, how may I help you?” the officer asked.
“Yes, heil,” Thomas said with zero enthusiasm. “I’d like to see Chief Gerhard Michener. I realize it’s quite early but I did see his car outside.”
The sergeant placed his pen on the desk, offering an unapologetic smile. “Yes, he is. Comes in no later than six. But you’ll need an appointment to see him, and his rank is now Generalmajor.”
Thomas didn’t blink. “Please tell the Generalmajor that Thomas Lundren is here.”
The desk sergeant frowned, but before he could respond a senior sergeant stopped behind him, his arms loaded with papers. “Well I’ll be damned if it isn’t the old chief!”
The younger sergeant watched as the senior man put down the papers and hurried from behind the desk, taking Thomas’ hand and pumping it up and down. “Thomas Lundren, when you retire, you damned well retire! We thought you might be dead.”
Despite his anxiety, Thomas forced a polite smile. “Henry, good to see you. You look well. How is your family?”
“They’re just fine. Years ago I’d heard you came to the city on occasion, but it’s been so long since I asked anyone and…well…I hate to say…I’d kind of given up.”
“I would, too,” Thomas said softly.
“What are you doing her
e?”
The younger sergeant motioned to Thomas. “He’s here trying to see Generalmajor Michener.”
“Then send him up! The chief will be thrilled.”
“No, Henry, thank you, but this is not a social visit,” Thomas said. “I want him to be notified that I am here. If he agrees to see me, we will meet formally. I have a serious request.”
The older sergeant’s face creased. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not. Will you please call him?”
The older sergeant turned to the junior man. “Ring him up.” Frowning, the older sergeant retrieved his stack of papers, nodding at Thomas. “Good to see you, chief. Highlight of my day. I mean that.”
“Thank you, Henry, and you take care,” Thomas said as the friendly officer disappeared through a door. The younger sergeant made the call, waited a moment, and then murmured into the phone, nodding his head as he listened. He placed the earpiece into the holder and motioned to the door. “He wants you to come on up. I presume you know the way?”
Thomas nodded his thanks and went through the door he’d been through thousands of times. As he ascended the two levels of worn stairs, their centers curved downward from decades of friction, Thomas smelled the familiar odors of ink and old registry books; of bad cologne and sweat; of shoe leather and reams of paper; of cigarette smoke and saddle soap; taking him back so many years to when this had been his kingdom. When he’d had a purpose.
Back when he had mattered.
From the day Thomas retired, when they presented him his very first Modell 1883 pistol with his name engraved down the barrel, he had walked out the door and never looked back. He’d had to. When a man is forced out, it’s best to go along with the wishes of his superiors and respect their decision, even when politics are the catalyst. He had approached his retirement the way he approached everything in his life, with a kind of steadfast certainty only few men could muster.
It would have been far easier with Greta by his side.
But when he had heard those pops this morning, when he had seen the body, when he had joined eyes with that man in the airplane, fate had intervened. This mystery was brought to Thomas and laid on his doorstep. All of his retirement serenity disappeared like a fabric stage backdrop attached to a heavy weight, replaced by one final act of ambition in Thomas Lundren’s dwindling life. This was a case only Thomas could work. Only Thomas would work. Even if it killed him.
He reached the outer office and immediately noticed that Michener had yet another beautiful young secretary. From the day Thomas had hired him, Michener had always loved the Fräuleins. With bottle blonde hair and her business skirt a few centimeters too short for social grace, she stood and offered the Nazi salute and greeting before she personally welcomed Thomas warmly.
“Won’t you please have a seat?” she cooed.
Thomas watched her as she busied herself. She filed her nails and simultaneously paged through a clothing catalog while sipping a cola through her straw. Thomas noted the rings of strawberry lipstick around the waxy paper.
The secretary looked up to see him watching her. “This is my morning break,” she said with an anxious laugh. She adjusted the miniature National Socialist—Nazi—flags on her desk before again flipping the page to what looked like brassieres.
Thomas turned his attention to the floor as he collected his thoughts.
Several minutes later, he heard his old office door click and open. He looked up. And there he stood. Generalmajor Gerhard Michener was a big man with a barrel chest and a florid face. His salt and pepper hair was severely parted down the middle and pressed down tightly. He wore a dark, elegantly cut pinstripe suit and a brilliant red tie, confirming for Thomas the rumors that Michener was planning to run for public office soon, National Socialist Party of course. True to his forced, over-the-top nature, Michener’s face beamed as he flashed a hundred-watt grin and fired his right arm up.
“Heil Hitler!”
Thomas stood. “Sieg Heil,” he muttered.
Michener then ushered Thomas into his office with a magnanimous, overdone greeting.
“No calls, please,” Michener said to the secretary, winking once Thomas was past. The secretary blew him a kiss before going back to her catalog.
Thomas stood before the great desk, his worn trilby hat in his hand as he waited to be asked to sit.
“Please, Thomas, over here,” Michener said, motioning Thomas to the sitting area by the window. The entire office had been thoroughly redecorated. Michener had gotten rid of the bookshelves that contained Thomas’ case files, replaced by oil paintings and certificates of merit. The sitting area had once contained a coffee-stained worktable. It hadn’t been unusual for Thomas to order a weapon be disassembled right there, so the signature of the barrel rifling could be studied in the good light of the south-facing window. Now there were oriental rugs, leather chairs, wood paneling: it felt more like the office of a head of a large corporation. Before he even sat, Thomas counted seven Nazi flags, displayed at every conceivable spot. Behind Michener’s desk, between the two windows, was an even larger painting of der Führer than the one downstairs.
My, my, my…
Thomas sat, placing his hat in his lap and both hands on his knees.
“Gerhard, I want you to know this is a formal visit.”
The brilliant smile dimmed slightly, along with Michener’s tone. “Yes, that’s what I was told. But before all that, how have you been, old friend?”
Thomas eyed Michener. “As you can see, I’m impotent against the hands of time, leaving me aged but otherwise just fine. Thank you for asking.”
“How many years since Greta passed?”
“Too many.”
“My sympathies.”
Thomas nodded.
“Have you joined the party?” Michener asked, arching his eyebrows.
“No, and if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not discuss politics. Now, about this visit…” He watched as Michener shifted uncomfortably. Rather than draw it out, Thomas said it quickly.
“I am the only pseudo-witness to a murder, one which may or may not have been discovered by now. And I want you to use your authority and to instate me as sole and lead investigator for the case. I want it all to myself, and I want complete—and absolute—authority to do as I please.” Thomas maintained eye contact, his green eyes locked with Michener’s twin browns.
Tiny rivulets of sweat emerged on Michener’s tanned forehead, trickling slowly downward. His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally stood. With his matching red pocket square, he mopped the sweat away before stepping to Thomas and gently touching his shoulder. “Thomas, are you feeling well?”
“Aside from ailments common to people of my advanced age, I feel perfectly fine,” Thomas stated flatly, staring straight ahead.
Michener moved in front of Thomas. “Well, since I know Greta’s death was a terrific blow, and hearing such a request from you in this…this unorthodox manner…”
Thomas coughed several times into his handkerchief. He stuffed it into his shirt pocket, clearing his throat. “Gerhard, I’m asking for a significant favor. I know this. And I’m not intentionally trying to put you in a bad position.” Thomas paused, crafting his next phrase. “But without me being forced to say more about why you should grant it, know this: your best option is to give me approval to do this. It won’t affect you, your lofty position, or your political desires.”
Michener’s head twitched as his eyes narrowed. Thomas knew that Michener was enough of a political animal to recognize the emergence of a power play, and a veiled threat. He also knew that Michener probably thought Thomas had no cards to play. But, in reality, Michener had no idea at the royal flush that rested against Thomas’ sternum.
Rested like a coiled viper.
If Thomas hadn’t been an expert poker player, many years ago, he might have tipped his hand with a knowing smile. He chose not to—he knew it would play out with the most impact as a total s
urprise. But Michener should have known that Thomas wasn’t stupid enough to walk into the Generalmajor’s office—the same man who pushed him out—and levy a threat without sufficient backup.
Michener pinched his bottom lip between his two fingers as he again sat. He shook his head. “Before we get to this supposed murder, I’d like to address my appointing you. That would be…well, in a word, impossible.”
Thomas shut his eyes and shook his head only once. “No, sir. If you were to study the powers granted you by the Polizei Act of 1872—an act that still stands, despite the National Socialist Party—you would find that all pensioned retirees, in good standing—and I do fit the bill, despite being forced out—are designated, for life, as inactive reserve. Meaning, I can be fully reinstated through the simple use of an article-twelve and—as you and I both know for this district—the signing authority for an article-twelve is the high captain…or, Generalmajor, as you’re now titled.” Thomas lifted a bony finger, stabbing it at Michener. “And that, Gerhard, is you.”
Michener offered a wan smile as he tapped a cigarette from an engraved silver case. He slipped one between his lips, lighting it and inhaling deeply. As he exhaled, he spoke. “I know the provisions, Thomas. But thank you for the lesson. May I be perfectly frank?” Thomas didn’t move. After several seconds, Michener continued. “The simple fact is that you were pushed out by the Ministerpräsident, and not me, because you stayed too long. It had nothing to do with your resistance to the party. You were too set in your ways and butted heads, far too often I might add, with men more powerful than yourself.” Michener took another long drag before massaging his forehead, breaking eye contact as he spoke. “It’s because of this, I simply cannot do it.”
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