Though Neil didn’t know it, the gash on his head was splayed open, displaying his skull for a full inch of its run. Fortunately, he was no longer losing blood from that wound, aided by the poultice of horseshit-laced-dirt filling the gash. But his side was a different story—it continued to ooze dark red blood. The family loaded him into the cart, causing Neil to again pass out from the pain of jostling. As they gradually made their way back to the small farmhouse, Neil woke up, grasping the older woman’s arm and repeatedly begging her not to tell anyone about his being there.
“Don’t tell your husband, please. I’ll pay you,” he murmured in German. “I have enough money to give you five years’ earnings of what you would make with this farm.” Neil then switched to English, babbling incoherently about children who were counting on him.
When they were halfway there, he fell unconscious and didn’t wake again for the duration of the slow march.
As if they were doing a normal day’s work, the family loped back to the barn with the old nag, carrying with them an American man who spoke strangely accented German. For the entire distance, amounting to a twenty-minute walk, the family never uttered another word.
~~~
Thomas Lundren led two junior officers and an ambulance down the rutted road to the airfield at Velden. The lone airfield worker had found the body shortly after Thomas’ meeting with Michener. The airfield worker had notified the local constable, who had already been called by Gerhard Michener. Michener had instructed the constable to shut down the airfield—an impossibility for landing aircraft since the airfield had no radio—but it was no matter. There had been no flight activity on this day.
By the time Thomas arrived, a steel gray sky had moved in, casting a gloomy pall over the day. Making the day far worse for Thomas, however, was the unmistakable silhouette of the local constable. He swigged from a small pewter flask, quickly tucking it inside his vest as he scowled at Thomas and his trailing entourage.
Thomas despised the man.
“Heil Hitler!” the constable roared, popping his heels and extending his arm.
Thomas knew the constable’s exuberance was deliberate. Though he didn’t want to, he dutifully returned the salute.
“Thought you retired,” Constable Bernard Sauer said with a sneer.
Thomas turned to the two junior officers, handing them a bundle of small white flags attached to pointed sticks. “Search every square meter on and around this entire runway. If you find something you think could possibly be evidence, flag it but don’t touch.” Thomas instructed the medics to wait before doing anything.
Turning back to the constable, Thomas managed to be polite. “Bernard…I appreciate your coming and providing security. You can go now.”
The constable was Ordnungspolizei—known as “Orpo”—ordinary police but reporting under the Interior Ministry of the Reich. He was most definitely a party member and was the de facto law for the sparsely populated areas of Velden and nearby Vilseck, mainly because no one else wanted the job. With the large military Kaserne and the long stretches of farmland, about the only service he provided was locking up drunken servicemen who happened to stagger too far from their post. Known to be as crooked as a German Shepherd’s back leg, Constable Sauer was quite overweight, with a neck that oozed out over his tight collar, rippling upward to his moon-like alcoholic’s face. Deep-set in the center of the flat face were two beady eyes, both of them icy blue with oversized black pupils.
Thomas and the constable had a history.
Back when Thomas and his wife had first settled in Velden after his retirement, Constable Sauer had shown up within a week, attempting to shake Thomas down for protection money. Thomas had played along that day, never telling Sauer his name or what he had done for a living.
“And what will this money buy me protection from?” Thomas had asked.
“All sorts’a things,” Sauer had replied, slurping tobacco juice that tried to escape the corner of his mouth. “These soldiers around here—no good shit-eaters, all of ‘em—will bust in your barn and steal you blind. The monthly payment’ll ensure that I look out after you and the missus.”
“Then what are my taxes for?”
“Taxes don’t buy you shit from me. This here’s a local insurance policy.”
“Really,” Thomas had said. “Do I pay you now?”
“Right now and every month, by the first. Not a day later.”
Thomas offered up a tight grin. “Wait here, please.”
It had been a warm spring day. Thomas was in his early sixties at that time, and his suspenders hung around his waist as he crossed his yard with no shirt on, all skin and bones. He stepped inside the house and told Greta to go to the bedroom. When she’d locked the door, he retrieved his gift police pistol, which he held behind his back. Thomas wasted no time in exiting the house. He crossed the yard quickly then revealed the weapon, leveling it squarely at Constable Sauer’s head. Sauer wore a pistol of his own, in a hip holster hanging low from his fat body as if he were some American cowboy. Thomas got the jump on him that day. Sauer stood there in shock, tobacco juice now oozing from his open mouth, dripping from his chin onto the dusty grass.
“Constable Sauer, I was the high policeman in the entire state of Middle Franconia for fourteen years. My only regret is never hearing about you before because, if I had, you would be in prison right now.” Thomas stepped closer, his heart visibly beating against his thin skin. “Now get in that damned car and don’t you ever set foot on my property again. You have been duly warned. If you ever do come back, for any reason, I’ll consider it a threat and I will shoot you dead.” He motioned with his pistol for Sauer to get moving and, not without an ominous stare, Sauer did.
They had seen each other a few times since then and, when they had, Sauer had allowed Thomas a wide berth. They’d never spoken a word since that day. Thomas knew what kind of man Sauer was, but it was no longer his place to intervene.
Until today.
Constable Sauer looked Thomas up and down, his upper lip curling when he saw the badge on Thomas’ belt. “Didn’t know the polizei hired dead men.”
Thomas didn’t engage in an argument. A problem with the local constable was the last thing he desired. He took the paper from his chest pocket and unfolded it, turning it for the constable to see.
“I have been deputized with absolute power to investigate this shooting. Thank you for securing the airfield, constable. Your work is done here.”
“I ain’t gotta leave, though.”
“Actually, you do. I’m securing this airfield for my investigation and I don’t want you here. I’ve asked you kindly, several times, to go.” Thomas paused for a moment. “If you don’t leave right now, I’ll arrest you and turn you over to the Kripo. I doubt they will care for a fat Orpo from the hills.”
Sauer straightened, his eyes aflame. Defiantly, he spat on the ground before jostling to his dusty black DKW Reichsklasse sedan. He left with a screech of tires, spinning a half circle on the runway and roaring back to the east.
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief as he mopped the perspiration from his face. As he often did when frustrated, he pictured his Greta, imagining her tousling his hair the way she liked to do when he was troubled.
I’ll get through it, dear.
Thomas turned to watch the policemen as they scoured the grounds. He didn’t expect to find much else of significance, but one could never be sure. “Did you find the shells?”
Both men said no.
“No shells at all?” Thomas asked incredulously.
“No, sir,” the nearest one said.
“Keep looking.” Thomas summoned the medics to take pictures. He then carefully inventoried the dead man’s effects before turning to the medics.
“Please go ahead and load the body. And tell those jackals at the county morgue that I’ve inventoried every item in his pockets.” Thomas thanked the medics and sent them on their way.
A small civilian plane could
be heard. Rather than land, the pilot circled in a steep bank, no doubt curious about the commotion. After two passes, the engine changed pitch and the airplane flew off to the west. Watching him go, Thomas decided to finish the search and reopen the airfield.
It took Thomas about fifteen minutes to find the shell casings. They’d been blown backward, rolling all the way to the end of the runway. He first found the smaller 9-millimeter shell casing from the Luger. It wasn’t shiny at all and was marred by an oxidized green scabrous pattern. The man had been lucky the bullet even worked. Not too lucky, though. Because the man with the Luger was now headed to the morgue.
Adjacent to it, nestled into a tuft of grass, was a larger shell casing. This one was shiny and well kept. As he’d done with the oxidized casing, Thomas lifted this one with a pencil. Stamped on the bottom was “45 AUTO – WINCHESTER.”
An American pistol with American ammunition. Thomas didn’t get excited, though. American .45s, along with the other weapons that used this round, weren’t uncommon in Germany—especially in the underworld. Thomas had worked a killing in Munich once and each of the six men in the shootout had carried M1911 pistols.
“Find something, sir?” one of the two policemen asked.
Thomas closed the small bag with the bullets, made a notation on the outside, and sent the two policemen back to the station to log the evidence and to begin the paperwork for the murder. He instructed them not to turn the paperwork in until he had a chance to review it. As the policemen drove away, Thomas removed his hat and rubbed his sweaty head.
“This one’s going to be quite a challenge,” he murmured to himself. Although he had been out of police work for many years, Thomas knew a complicated case when he saw one. A good detective knows almost immediately, as did Thomas on this humid, late summer’s day.
He replaced his hat and went to the maintenance shack, greeting the airfield employee who’d been standing in the door of the hangar, watching with great interest. As it turns out, he was the airfield’s lone worker, named Antonio. Thomas had seen the young man from a distance on many occasions. Antonio had an open face and bright, expressive eyes, though he seemed to be mildly slowed by some sort of disability. Thomas didn’t feel it took away from Antonio’s intelligence at all—it just seemed to add to his response time when queried, and was the type of thing that might cause people to write him off too quickly.
Thomas liked him.
“Do you have a chart showing all airfields south of here?” Thomas asked, watching as Antonio walked to a large map on the wall. That map was broken into labeled grids, each label referencing a map of greater detail.
As Antonio busily gathered the maps, Thomas looked around. The small hangar was nothing more than a maintenance shack and was crammed with bins of parts and small machinery. It smelled of petroleum, probably because every square centimeter of floor, wall and ceiling appeared to be smeared in oil. Wearing his American-style ball cap pushed back on his head, the affable young man returned with three rolled maps, then cleared a spot on the flat work table.
“Only three?”
“Yes, sir,” Antonio answered after a short pause. “One is due south, covering Munich and the surrounding area. The other two are south, but much farther to the east and west.”
“Let’s start with the Munich map.”
Antonio rolled it out on the table, placing wrenches on each corner to keep it flat. Finally he placed a small screwdriver on the map, its tip pointing to the airfield where they currently stood.
Thomas reached into his suitcase, retrieving the map he had drawn on earlier. After unfolding it, he took a heavy wax pencil and, using a level that had been hanging on the wall, he recreated the same triangle on the aviation chart. After that, he and the young man located every airfield inside the triangle, circling each of them with the wax pencil. When finished, there were thirteen airfields, airports, and landing strips in the zone Thomas had initially created. Working out the distances in his mind, Thomas felt it would take him over a week to visit all of them. He turned to Antonio.
“Are you a pilot?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have a telephone?”
“Yes, sir, an old one back there by the water closet.”
Thomas nodded, stepping to the phone and jiggling the receiver. “Hello, ma’am. Please ring me to the Middle Franconia Main Polizei Bureau, Generalmajor Gerhard Michener.”
Thomas waited several minutes as the call was patched through various lines. Antonio asked if Thomas was thirsty and retrieved two cold cups of cloudy well water. Finally, Michener’s voice could be heard and Thomas spoke confidently into the old phone.
“Generalmajor, this is Special Investigator Lundren…I need a fast airplane with a good pilot here in Velden. Probably will need it for today and tomorrow, maybe even the day after. And I need it this afternoon.” He listened to the expected objection for a moment before he hardened his tone.
“Considering our little talk we had this morning, Generalmajor, I’m confident, especially given your impeccable connections, that you will find a way. You have two hours.” Thomas placed the earpiece back in the cradle and breathed in deeply through his nose. Michener was probably pounding his spotless desk, cursing him for all he was worth at this very moment. But Thomas knew Michener would come through, at least until he had the blackmail material in hand.
Thomas walked back through the jumble of parts and equipment to where Antonio stood.
“Were you angry at that man?” Antonio asked.
“That was just a business call.”
“You live across the field, don’t you?”
“I certainly do. I’ve often seen you up here working, trimming the grass, clearing sheep from the runway.”
“The sheep love the grass here. But when a plane comes, they can cause problems.”
“I imagine so,” Thomas remarked. “You hungry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How would you like to walk over to my house for a bite? I could fry up some Schnitzel mit Buttergemüse.”
“I’m not supposed to leave.”
“Well, I’m in charge of the airfield today,” Thomas said with a wink. “I hereby give you permission.”
Antonio’s radiant smile offered sufficient answer.
The two men crossed the meadow to the Lundren farm. As they walked, Thomas learned that Antonio was originally from Italy, having moved here as a child. When they arrived at the farmhouse, Thomas’ coughing was so severe he had to excuse himself to the bedroom. For the first time since his cough began, he noticed flecks of blood on his handkerchief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two Days Later
NEIL OPENED HIS EYES. He felt the softness of a quilt before being overcome by hot, searing pain through his side and abdomen. The room was dim, lit only by the low honey light of a kerosene lamp across the room. Sitting on each side of the narrow bed were two young people. As the miasma of pain and bewilderment cleared, he recalled the basics of what had happened.
And these were the people who’d rescued him.
Upon seeing Neil awaken, the boy stood, his eyes wide. “Where are you from?” he asked. The young woman, who Neil assumed to be his older sister, shushed him and called for her mother.
The older woman entered the room, her craggy face twisted downward into a frown. “Why don’t you want anyone to know you’re here?” she asked in heavily accented German. She loomed over him, hands on her hips, her bosom heaving.
After a painfully deep breath, Neil spoke. “I was flying an airplane.” He managed to shrug. “I ran out of gas and crashed.”
The woman leaned over the bed, pushing downward on the pillow next to his head, making the spring mattress jar and sending spikes of pain through Neil’s body. “That airplane is down in my field clogging up my irrigation ditch. And while we carted you back here, you babbled on about us not telling anyone. My daughter tells me you were speaking of children. So, what is all this? We’ve missed
almost two crucial days of harvest.”
Neil’s mind was working better than he thought it might, especially since he could understand the woman’s fast, guttural German.
“Two days?” he croaked.
“That’s right. We wrapped up those holes in your side, occasionally stuffed your mouth with horse pills, and you’ve been sleeping and moaning ever since.”
Neil asked for water.
The young woman stood and disappeared, coming back with a pitcher and a glass. She held the glass for Neil as he managed to prop up on his left elbow. The water was heaven-sent. He sipped it slowly, taking the time to use it to lubricate his entire mouth before swallowing. Temporarily sated, he collapsed back into the down pillow.
“I guess these are your children?” he asked the woman.
“Who are you and why are you here?” the woman demanded.
Realizing she wasn’t going to be easily distracted, Neil gestured to the young woman and the boy. “Have them leave the room.”
Their mother pointed to the window. “Gabi, you go on and start at the lower field. I want three full rows of Rosenkohl out of the ground by sunset.”
The woman snapped her fingers at the boy. “Peter, clean up and get your butt off to your maneuvers.” She retrieved a pressed uniform from a handmade armoire, along with socks and shined boots, handing them to him. Neil focused on the outfit, realizing it was a Hitler Youth uniform.
The boy took the items and disappeared but the young woman, Gabi, remained, alternating her eyes between her mother and Neil. “I want to stay.”
“You go now.”
The young woman viewed Neil for several seconds before turning back to her mother, shooting her a piercing glare in the way only a daughter can do. “But I’m an adult and I want to hear what—”
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 22
