Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Sal unlatched the hasp and lifted the square door about an inch. He hadn’t seen the outline on the floor—it had been artfully concealed. He lifted it all the way, estimating its size as thirty inches square. Sal then peered into the darkness of the cellar, pushing the terrors of snakes from his mind as his curiosity centered on what the hell was down there.

  “Well, go on,” the old man said. “It’s still got ‘lectricity ‘cause I still pay the bill. Pull cord’s on the right as you go down the ladder.”

  Sal eased his way into the dark square, realizing when he was fully on the ladder that the cellar was deeper than he expected. At the bottom, he waved his arm to his right, finally grasping the string. He whispered a prayer that there would be no more snakes.

  “Boy, what the hell’re you waitin’ on? We gotta leave in less’n thirty minutes.”

  Sal shut his eyes and yanked the string. When he opened his eyes, he quickly forgot all about snakes. Hidden beneath the ramshackle hut was a fastidiously organized military bunker.

  The walls of the cellar were carved into the rocky earth and bolstered with angle iron struts and strong timbers. The neatly swept floor was cut straight from the desert rock. To Sal’s right was a workbench and, sitting before it, a quality swivel chair like the ones in the lab back at the precinct. On the bench were a number of tools and implements, as well as an ancient-looking box. Sal first walked to the box, opening it and narrowing his eyes. Inside were small tubes of glue, pigments in various skin tones, assorted watches and eyeglasses. It seemed to be the type of thing an actor or a makeup artist would own. He lifted the top tray to find a high-quality wig of sandy-colored hair underneath.

  “What color was Cleve’s hair?” Sal asked, directing his voice upward.

  “Black. You’re looking at the wig.”

  Sal didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the box and walked to the back wall. It was partially hidden in the shadows cast by the single hanging bulb. On the wall was a sloped rack with a number of oily-clean weapons: shotguns, rifles, pistols. Sal lifted one of the pistols, an old Colt Army Special revolver that Sal was familiar with. Sal examined it and realized that it had been outfitted with a new barrel. The pistol was unloaded. Sal clicked the cylinder out, holding the barrel to the light. He had carried this same type pistol for years, remembering the twists of rifling from the hundreds of times he had cleaned his own. This barrel, however, was far different. The rifling was far more extreme than a normal model—called a gain twist—probably making the pistol hyper-accurate, but only from close range.

  Sal spoke upward. “Sir, you said your son was a killer?”

  “I did,” the old man replied.

  “Did you know that before he died?”

  “No, sir. I assumed it after findin’ that keep you’re in.”

  “So you don’t know for certain?”

  “I knew my son. But, no, we never talked about it.”

  Sal believed the old man.

  Continuing his search, Sal looked over the other weapons; none were uncommon, but all had a reputation for reliability and accuracy. It was a professional’s collection and, judging by the Colt he had just viewed, probably modified to suit the shooter’s tastes. Somehow Sal didn’t think these were used to protect a useless mine that had probably been cleaned out of all its precious ore ninety years earlier.

  Sal walked back to the trap door, calling out to the old man. When he appeared above the trap door, Sal asked the senior Mixton if he knew how to drive.

  “Boy, I was driving the first horseless carriages when you were droolin’ on your mama’s teet.”

  Sal tossed his keys up. “Your gas station isn’t far. When I finish here, I’ll walk back.” The old man stared at him for a long moment before Sal assuaged him. “I won’t steal a thing and I’ll leave it as I found it. I promise.”

  “Gonna be hot as hades,” the man said as he disappeared. “Hope you’re up to it.”

  Sal waited until he heard the familiar sound of the flathead Ford V-8 crank, and then the crunch of grit and rocks as the Ford bounced its way back up the rutted path toward the ghost town of Bouse.

  For the next half-hour, Sal scoured every square inch of the space, finding nothing other than tools for a skilled gunsmith, along with several additional costumes and a package containing a fake beard. He looked over each of the weapons and was particularly taken with a beautiful Belgian FN-Herstal 1889 bolt-action rifle. The rifle was highly modified and probably accurate over an incredible distance.

  One thing struck Sal—where was the ammunition? Unless there was another hiding spot, the ammo certainly wasn’t here.

  Once he was finished searching the bunker, Sal realized how incredibly thirsty he was. The dry desert air had parched him, making him wonder if there was an old well or some water source close by. He pulled the light cord and ascended the ladder, but something stopped him at the threshold from the tidy bunker to the hovel upstairs—it was the gap in the reinforced floor. It was several inches thick, hence the heavy trap door. Sal reached down and pulled the light cord back on, climbing back up and peering into the gap in the floor. The gap could be seen on all four sides of the doorframe, nothing more than the space between the reinforced bunker and the chintzy construction of the shack above it.

  Sal turned, examining each crevice on the four sides. He stopped on the one behind him, the one a person would not naturally look at due to the ladder’s orientation. There was something in there, behind the grime and shadows. Using his pinky, he gained a purchase on the object’s edge, sliding it to him.

  It was a book, a thin book.

  Sal pulled it out, blowing away the slight accumulation of desert dust. There were no markings on the outside. He opened it to a page in the middle, noticing that the pages were clean and white. This was not an old book as the coating of dust might suggest. Sal glanced at both pages, digesting the handwritten words laid down in an easy-to-read, decidedly male script. He looked at the first entry on the left page. Its words took his breath.

  107.34: San Diego, California, number 14, CM, MS. Simulated holdup by the bay as CSJ walked to his house from his mistress’ home. Clean. Headshot from close range after full confession. Stayed in town for six days before we pulled out. The police and newspaper found the mistress and proceeded in that direction. The manner of death, and the killer, were an afterthought. UPDATE: 199.34: complete success. Locals closed case as a mugging gone awry.

  Sal reread the passage three times. He wanted to go on but knew he needed water. Struggling to wet his mouth, Sal locked the trapdoor, replaced the bed and staggered out into the blaring sun. Hand shading his eyes, he glanced around for a well or a reservoir—anything to give him just a few ounces of water. Seeing nothing, and wondering how the hell Cleveland Mixton had stayed alive out in this wasteland, Sal glanced at the journal. Was this what it appeared to be? He pondered the weapons, the tools, the costumes…

  And he remembered the old man’s revelation about his son—a cold-blooded killer.

  Already overheated by the sun, Sal found a sliver of shade next to the shack, scanning the area for snakes before he sat down. Resting his elbows on his knees, he used his already damp handkerchief to mop his head and face.

  “This is an assassin’s journal,” Sal said aloud. Unable to resist, he flipped the book open, reading a few other passages. They seemed to be in chronological order, each coded at the beginning before brazenly describing a killing. Sal had been ignoring the big question since he’d been shown the cellar, but now decided to ask it: Had Cleveland Mixton been working all alone, or did this somehow tie back in to Neil Reuter?

  Despite his burgeoning curiosity, Sal’s physiological needs overtook his desire to know the truth. He needed water. Badly.

  Sal stood, removing his soaked shirt and undershirt, wrapping the undershirt around his head before trudging up the hill. On his way out, he noticed an ominous sight. Above the eastern cliff, towering over the old mine, circled three turkey vultures,
their red heads visible from hundreds of feet. They seemed to be staying aloft from the currents propelled upward by the ridge, patiently waiting for Sal to collapse, presenting his offering of a fattened, fleshy lunch.

  Nearly delirious, Sal extended his middle finger, cackling as he yelled, “Not today, you pricks! I’m not dying today!”

  Sal was correct. He would not die…today.

  ~~~

  After staggering the seemingly eternal distance back to the gas station, and stashing the journal along the way, Sal drank nearly a gallon of water from a rubber hose before uttering a single word. Finally sated, and feeling like a taut water balloon, he spent a few minutes discussing the bunker with the elder Mixton. Sal was certain the old man had no idea about the journal. Finally, he thanked the old man for his cooperation, told him nothing of the journal, and asked him not to disturb Cleveland’s home.

  “I’ll be back next week,” Sal said, shaking the man’s hand.

  He left the elder Mixton with his phone number and work address before driving to retrieve the journal. Sal then drove an hour north to Bullhead City, allowing the whipping wind to air-dry his sweat-soaked clothing. In Bullhead, he located a ranch-style motel, reserving a room for the night. Sal purchased some sandwiches and sat in the room, reading in front of a whirling fan.

  It was now mid-afternoon and, with the drapes pulled shut, Sal read each journal entry slowly, processing the locations and apparent codes as he munched a minced chicken sandwich. If Sal had the code right, the twenty-seven entries all took place between 1928 and 1936. None had occurred since 1936, which seemed odd because, before then, the longest gap between a presumed killing was only five months. Sal had to guess that the onset of Cleveland’s cancer was the reason the killings stopped.

  Cleveland Mixton’s journal contained twenty-seven descriptions of what Sal felt had to be calculated, contracted assassinations. In each of the simple entries, Mixton detailed what the killing was set up to look like, and then usually provided an update regarding the investigative authority’s eventual view of the death. In each entry, there was a number beforehand, like the 107.34 before the San Diego killing Sal initially read about. Sal theorized the number was most likely the date from the Julian calendar, the 107 signifying the 107th day of the year, and 34 signifying 1934. Therefore, 107.34 would indicate the killing took place on April 17th, 1934, assuming Sal had counted the days correctly, and that 1934 wasn’t a leap year.

  Twenty of the entries indicated killings in the United States. One took place in Canada. Three in Mexico occurred all at once, although in that particular entry the names of the victims all seemed American, so perhaps it didn’t involve locals. One occurred in London. One took place in Venezuela and one in Berlin, Germany. No wonder Cleveland Mixton’s mine had been a failure. The man was never home.

  Also included in each cryptic description was a set of initials. In every entry “CM” appeared, presumably the initials for Cleveland Mixton. Sometimes his initials were accompanied by one or more of the following: MS, HB, or PH. Sal thumbed quickly through his notebook, going back to the names of Neil’s frequent visitors; they were Harold Baker (HB) and Michael Smith (MS). After reminding himself to breathe, Sal shook his head as he thumbed through his notes, searching for anyone with the initials PH. Neil Reuter would have been NR, and nowhere in any of his notes did Sal have anyone with the initials PH.

  Nowhere in the journal were the initials NR.

  After reading each of the entries, Sal lay on the bed and thumbed through the pages, reading the occasional notes between the entries. It seemed that Cleveland Mixton had been taking orders from someone else, although he never editorialized his comments. His occasional reflections seemed quite machinelike, as if he were built to do nothing but follow orders. There was an entry in 1934 regarding the possibility of the team being “busted up,” but then, two months later, an entry for a “high profile” killing in Alabama indicated business as usual.

  In one of his last entries, before the final killing in Venezuela of a man with an apparent Hispanic name, Cleveland detailed over two pages the team’s desire to eliminate “Harry” and their efforts to prove they had the mettle to pull it off. Sal scoured his mind, having no idea who “Harry” might be. Sal did know that “Harry” was the name to symbolize the letter “H” in some phonetic alphabets, although in the U.S. military’s phonetic alphabet, the word “How” was used instead. In his notebook, he made notations of “PH” as an unknown assassin and “Harry” as a possible victim. After each he added an enormous question mark.

  Sal studied the journal until well after sundown. He had already made the decision not to call this in. If he were to do so, a professional assassin’s journal, especially one from across state lines, would certainly be commandeered by the feds. Along with the entire investigation. Sal didn’t want that. This case was his baby. He’d give it up, but not just yet.

  And at some point soon, Sal was going to find the thread of Neil Reuter’s involvement and piece all of this together.

  “Maybe he was the money man?” he pondered, standing and stretching. “Maybe it was him giving all the orders. What could he have gained from having these people killed?” Sal thought about Reuter’s estate, his wealth…

  It appeared Reuter had done nothing but gain.

  The detective ran the faucet, throwing gloriously cool water on his face, then mopping it off with a towel. Attached to the motel was a small restaurant. In their window they had a sign advertising the “coldest beer north of the ekwator,” spelled exactly that way. Sal decided to check it out for himself, and he did so with the journal again tucked safely in his waistband.

  The beer was good. And very cold.

  ~~~

  Sal made it back to San Francisco in just under fourteen butt-numbing, sweat-soaked hours. For the first time since the summer solstice, he noticed the days getting a tad shorter as he raced up the spine of the San Francisco Peninsula, the bay shimmering like molten gold off to his right.

  He arrived in the city at just after eight in the evening, heading straight to J. Harrison Musselwhite’s home. Fortunately, when Sal pulled into the driveway of the tidy Pacific Heights cottage, Musselwhite was in the front yard, a black garden hose in his hand as he watered what looked like a bed of freshly planted fall flowers. In Musselwhite’s other hand dangled a bottle of Pabst. He swigged it before motioning with the bottle to Sal’s dust-covered police Ford.

  “Sounds like she was on the verge of overheating. Were you pushin’ her?”

  The flathead V-8 of the Ford ticked loudly as the cool evening air rushed over the searing metal block of the engine, making it contract as if someone had doused it with cold water. Sal tipped his hat backward, nodding. “Had my foot on the floor since first light. Drove from Bullhead City in Arizona.”

  Musselwhite twisted his entire body to Sal, raising his eyebrows. Luckily for Sal, the garden hose’s range was a few feet short of his dusty shoes. “Th’hell were you doin’ in Arizona? You think ol’ Neil’s down there hiding out in one of those cliff dwellings?”

  Sal tapped out a cigarette, ignoring the question. “Where could I find Neil Reuter’s calendar? I’d like the one for thirty-six, and the years before if you could please produce them.”

  After another pull on the beer, the financial man with the hound-dog face walked behind a row of neatly trimmed boxwoods, shutting off the water. He set the beer bottle on the edge of the porch and ambled back to Sal, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shaking his head. “Neil’s secretary kept his calendar. He took them when he left. Took every one. I saw him do it.”

  “Shit,” Sal breathed.

  “Why?”

  Frustrated, Sal shook his head. He wanted a headache powder and the comfort of his own bed. Maybe, if he pushed the right buttons, he might even convince Mona to rub his shoulders.

  “Why, detective? Why his calendar? What are you hunting?”

  “I need to know when Neil was in the office, a
nd when he wasn’t.”

  “You want to know when he was in the office, or in town?”

  “In town would be helpful.”

  “Why?”

  “A hunch.”

  “I can’t help you if you don’t give me some direction.”

  “Look, Mister Musselwhite, I can’t really tell you what I’m on to, but I can assure you it’s something.” Sal lit the cigarette and shook out the match. “Not saying your former boss was dirty, but he appears to have at least been…adjacent to something untoward that was going on. Something big.”

  “Adjacent, huh? Pretty slick way of puttin’ it. I, myself, have been adjacent to quite a few things in my day. My bet is you have, too.”

  “Any ideas, Musselwhite? Any at all? How can I determine when Neil Reuter was in town, and when he was out? I’m open to all your brilliant ideas—and I mean that.”

  “Now see…that’s a better way of getting what you want.”

  “Pretty please,” Sal added, hopeful he was about to get a break.

  He was.

  “My calendars, detective, just like every other book and ledger I kept, are spot-on. I have every single appointment calendar from every year I’ve worked, post-college,” Musselwhite pronounced. “An accountant never knows when that might come in handy.”

  “Your calendars?”

  “Yep. And every time Neil was out of the office, I would have noted it, along with where he was going, because I would have been in charge of the staff on those days.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Why would I joke about it?” Musselwhite asked, lifting the Pabst from the porch and finishing it off.

  Sal resisted the urge to hug him as he ignited with energy. “Where are these calendars?”

  “Upstairs, in a box. Along with the rest of the junk my wife gives me hell for keepin’.”

  “Would you be willing to let me borrow them?”

  Musselwhite studied Sal. “You truly believe Neil had nothing to do with Lex Curran’s death?”