Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  360.34: Sagaponack, New York, number 20, CM, PH. PH himself came along as this one was deemed personal. No confession was sought as command indicated absolute guilt of espionage and traitorous actions. JKQ had hosted a party. After all guests were gone, PH entered alone, shooting him three times. I heard the first shot at least an hour before the final two. UPDATE: 101:35: officials have not closed case. State it appeared to be a robbery but also suspicious. PH tells me their suspicions are of no concern—that he left zero evidence.

  The New York Times had nothing on the following day. Sal opened the edition from two days after the murder and found the article on page 3. It wasn’t as helpful as the Denver Dispatch story had been. Possibly because Sagaponack was out near the eastern end of Long Island, and also because the police seemed to be more tight-lipped about the case. What Sal did learn was the deceased, “JKQ”, was a man named James Kenneth Quinby, a forty-four year-old inventor with hundreds of successful patents. The Times writer was a stick-to-the-facts type, and other than listing the man as a popular and wealthy member of Hamptons Society, it gave Sal no indication of why anyone would want to kill a socialite from a wealthy enclave of Long Island.

  Especially for espionage.

  Sal crushed out the Chesterfield and stared at Musselwhite’s calendars. He could have easily cross-referenced the dates immediately after taking them from Reuter’s former financial man. But true to his pattern of investigative activity, Sal first liked to prove global theories—in this case, actual murders occurring—before he went on the hunt for firm evidence involving those global theories.

  The first global theory, in Sal’s mind, had now been proven. The journal certainly appeared to be the diary of a member of a team of assassins. Thus far, it seemed that Cleveland Mixton had indeed been a cold-blooded killer, as well as the author of the journal. Despite their common names, now Neil Reuter’s other “old Army buddy” visitors, Harold Baker and Michael Smith, would be worth checking out.

  But, for now, Sal wanted to focus on “PH”.

  He glanced again at the date of the Quinby murder and then removed Musselwhite’s 1934 calendar from the pile, riffling to the second to last page, briefly admiring Musselwhite’s handwriting and organized system for note-taking. Then Sal ran his index finger across the dates as they neared Christmas.

  And there it was.

  In clean script, as plain as the half-smoked pack of cigarettes that lay before Sal, Musselwhite had made a notation on December 21st:

  Neil out until 1/2 (NYC)

  Sal reread it three times, reminding himself to breathe. Then he checked the dates of the other murders that contained the initials “PH”.

  The Venezuela killing had occurred in July of 1933. He hurried through the pages of Musselwhite’s 1933 calendar, unable to quell the frantic tension that was coming over him. Distantly, as if she were down in a deep well, Sal could hear Eunice calling to him. He ignored her—not now, Eunice! Haven’t you ever seen a man learning about a quartet of professional assassins before?—as he located the date in question and saw Musselwhite’s familiar black continuance line leading from the previous page. He licked his thumb and flipped back a page. There it was:

  Neil out of office for holiday (Mexico)

  “Detective Kalakis!” Eunice yelled again, apparently unworried about her personal volume since there was no one else downstairs.

  Holding up his finger to buy another minute, Sal hurried to find the final entry. Two positives proved a strong coincidence; three would convince Sal that “PH” was somehow Neil Reuter. He’d still have to find what PH stood for, but if he were gone during the Glendale killing, Sal would be convinced that Reuter was his man.

  The killing took place in April of 1935. Sal thumbed the diary to the time period, knowing full well that Glendale, a suburb of Los Angeles, was only a long day’s drive from San Francisco. But the killing had been on a Wednesday, so Reuter would have been out of the office all day. He located the week, traced a line across the paper, and stood straight up when he saw the entry:

  Neil in Los Angeles

  “It’s him,” Sal whispered to himself. “Cleveland Mixton, Harold Baker, and Michael Smith were a killing team…with Neil Reuter.” Sal’s shaky fingers tapped out another cigarette as he stared at the mess of books and newspapers spread out before him.

  “Detective!”

  He shook his head as the piercing voice shattered his reverie. “Damn, Eunice, where’s the fire?”

  “I’ve been trying to get your attention,” she said from behind the counter.

  “Okay, mission accomplished, now what?”

  She mock glared at him. “You had an urgent phone call come in while I was at lunch.” She pulled on her glasses, lifting a yellow note. “A Mister Weeks wants you to meet him outside the Reuter Mansion, wherever that is.” Eunice opened her hands in a “don’t shoot the messenger” pose.

  “Did he say when?”

  “It says he’s there waiting.” Eunice held the slip of paper out for Sal to take.

  “Who took the message?”

  She looked at the note again. “I don’t recognize the writing. Looks messy like a man’s, but there’s too many people here for me to make a guess as to who took it.”

  He nodded and jabbed the cigarette between his lips. “Would you set all this aside for me?” he asked, motioning to the newspapers.

  “You really owe me now, buster.”

  Sal pocketed the note, lit his cigarette, and donned his fedora. As he turned to go, he winked at Eunice and said, “I shall return, Madame.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A VARIETY OF DETAILS DASHED through Sal’s mind as he made the ten-minute drive to Hillside. While headed up Pacific, he pondered the similarities he had found thus far between all the victims in the Mixton journal: All were male. All were high profile. All were associated with a government or political angle. And each of their deaths was orchestrated in such a way that the authorities wouldn’t suspect an advanced motive.

  The assassins were supreme professionals.

  How did they get that way?

  Were they a team for hire, or a part of a much larger organization?

  A misty rain began to fall, fogging the windows of the car. Sal was almost there, turning right on Taylor before seeing a black, four-door Lincoln with two of its whitewall tires on the curb across the street from Hillside. He pulled in front of the car, which was parked illegally, facing him. Sal used a rag to rub off the condensation while the driver of the other car eyed him through his own rain-streaked windshield. The detective exited in the rain, pulling on his hat and grabbing his raincoat from the trunk. The rain was light nuisance rain—typical for San Francisco. Sal walked to the window of the Lincoln, tapping lightly. The man inside pulled the handle to open the door.

  Sal stepped back and let him out. “I’m Detective Sal Kalakis. I was told you were looking for me?”

  “Yes, detective. Good to meet you. The name’s Lord, Preston Lord.” The two men clamped damp hands.

  “The note said your name is ‘Weeks’.”

  Lord smiled affably. “In my line of work, it doesn’t pay to announce my Christian name to the nosy old spinsters at a public library.”

  Sal wasn’t amused. “Aside from your being parked illegally, what’s this about, Mister Lord?”

  Lord motioned to a towering balsam tree hanging over the stucco wall surrounding Hillside. “Let’s step over there and see if that’s a bit drier.”

  Little rain reached the ground under the massive conifer. Sal studied the man who stood before him. He was trim and wore exquisitely tailored clothes, although they were cut from swaths of a normal, bland cloth. It was almost as if he wanted to fit in with the common man, but couldn’t quite bring himself to wear something off the rack. Lord had intelligent, grayish-blue eyes and a sharp nose. His hair was fashionably short, and the shear marks in the hair above each temple displayed to Sal that Lord’s barber used a high-quality pair of sciss
ors.

  Government or not, this kid Lord came from money. Sal would bet his pension on it.

  “Who did you say you were with?” Sal asked.

  “Department of War,” Lord said, clasping his hands in front of him. “I understand you’re investigating Neil Reuter?”

  Sal nodded. “Yeah, doing it on my own, too. For a while it was just a dark mystery, but now that I’ve found a few pieces it’s turning into a puzzle. A real conundrum, but solvable.” He reached inside his inner jacket pocket and removed his Chesterfields, handing one to Lord as he took one himself. “What’s your interest in this?”

  Lord used his lighter to light both cigarettes and glanced up Taylor Street, past the main entrance of Hillside. He turned back. “Reuter appears to have been a little more than a wealthy businessman.”

  Sal didn’t respond. He smoked and narrowed his eyes, waiting.

  “Have you learned that, detective?”

  “Are you here to try to take my case from me?”

  Lord shook his head. “No, no, not at all. Sorry. I should have told you that first thing. I don’t want to intervene, or to try to take any credit. In fact, I’m here off the record. I’d like to quietly pass on some information that might help you.”

  “Lemme see some ID first.” Sal studied the waxy Department of War identification before nodding. “Okay. Let’s hear it, Mister Lord.”

  Lord exhaled a stream of smoke. “We think Neil Reuter might have been involved in the murders of several people, and may have had a hand in others. Many others.”

  Sal fought to remain expressionless. “Go on.”

  “We’re trying to piece it together, but it seems that perhaps Reuter was involved with some acquaintances from his time in the Army, and that their actions may have been grave, and completely rogue.” Lord stopped and stared at Sal. “Have you found any such corroborating evidence?”

  “My investigation is the business of the San Francisco Police, unless you have an order from a judge that I share information with you.”

  Lord didn’t respond for a moment. He tossed his cigarette over the stucco wall and stepped an inch closer to Sal, his eyebrows lowering as his voice took on an edge. “Based on those newspapers you pulled this morning, I’d say you’re following a similar line of thinking.”

  Sal didn’t care for any man, no matter who he worked for, stepping into his personal space and taking on an aggressive tone. He poked Lord’s chest and said, “Back up, bub. I may be a cop, and you may be a fed, but I won’t hesitate to drop an ass-whipping on you.”

  “The way you did my two men?”

  “Those pricks were your guys?” Sal asked, remembering the two lugs who’d worked him over in this very spot.

  “They didn’t know who you were.”

  “Like hell,” Sal said. “Goons like that oughta be behind bars. Now, I said back up.”

  “I apologize if they were rough with you. One of them boxed in the Navy and has always been quick to use his hands.”

  A boxer…I knew it. “Thanks for the apology—now back the hell up.”

  Lord stepped back, showing his palms. “Look, detective, if you want to be a Bolshevik, then that’s your choice. I actually expected that from a local cop. But you should also realize that I have my own agenda…and it’s back in D.C. I couldn’t care less about San Francisco.” He smiled with his mouth only. “So, if you don’t want to give me what you have, then I will make it my mission to give this case to the FBI. In fact, it won’t take more than one phone call.”

  “You said you came here to give me something.”

  “I will. And, in return, I want to know what you know. We think a few of these items might have critical associations to national security. But as far as the local murder case and your locating Neil Reuter, and even connecting the dots to the other killings, you can have all that. I’ll allow you to publicly break the case, even the federal connection—when the time is right. Hell, they’ll probably make you chief of police.” Lord took a step back. “But you have to tell me everything, and I mean everything.”

  “Give me something first,” Sal said noncommittally. “Just so I know you’re on the up and up. And when you do, I’ll decide if I want to move forward.”

  Preston Lord gnawed on the inside of his cheek before nodding. “In the war, Neil Reuter was, perhaps, our most highly-decorated intelligence officer.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Sal said. He dropped his cigarette onto the damp sidewalk and ground it under his foot. “I actually spoke to your people and they said he was just an above-average officer. There was nothing about him being superior.”

  Lord smiled knowingly. “You think records can’t be altered?”

  “Give me something else.”

  “Reuter was a shadow…a natural at the intelligence game. In the war, he’d go far behind the enemy lines and assimilate. He’d impersonate German soldiers and sabotage their equipment or even assassinate their officers.”

  Eyes narrowed, Sal listened intently. “What was his actual job?”

  “At first he was simply an intelligence officer, but he was so good at getting to the nerve-center of the enemy, he eventually became a type of sapper, able to cripple the enemy without ever firing a shot. No one knew how he did it…that’s why they called him the Pale Horse. He was a bit of a ghost. It was as if he was able to take on the very soul of an enemy sol—”

  An alarm clanged in Sal’s head. He halted Lord with a raised hand. “What did you just say he was known as?”

  “Pale Horse. Why?”

  “P…H,” Sal whispered, adding a pause between the two initials as he stared through the mist toward the bay.

  “I don’t get the significance,” Lord said, irritation in his voice.

  “P-H,” Sal breathed over and over. Finally, as Lord stared at him quizzically, Sal turned and walked across the street. When he reached his car, he turned back to Lord. “Let’s get out of this rain and grab a bite. Whadya say?”

  Lord shrugged.

  “C’mon,” Sal said. “Follow me…it’s a short ride.” He cranked the car, pulling up the street until Lord could get his Lincoln turned around. Though he was indeed hungry, Sal also wanted a few minutes to think about what he’d just learned.

  Pale Horse!

  The two cars drove away from Hillside, the intense mist swirling in the cars’ wakes.

  ~~~

  Thomas Lundren stood all alone, staring at the yellowish lights of his house in the distance. The rolling meadow dropped several meters between the airfield and his piece of land, putting him nearly on the same plane as his stone chimney. He thought about Greta, his wife who had passed away, and how she would scold him over what he was putting himself through.

  “Why are you doing this?” she would ask, pleading with her tone rather than using a mass of strong words. All he would have had to do was look at her. One look was able to make a woman like Greta, a loving wife, his soul mate, understand. She would have given his hand a squeeze before nodding, resigning herself as she walked away, dealing with it through silence.

  But Greta was gone, and all Thomas was left with was an aging body that seemed to be quickly failing. Time wasn’t on his side. This was his final chance to follow his true calling—one last time. However, on a solvability scale of one to ten, this case was about a two, and the needle was edging downward, not up. If he didn’t find something, and soon, he’d have to give it up.

  It would be time to go home—go home and die.

  Thomas had driven back to the farm from Nürnberg earlier, deciding to check on things and stay the night in his own bed. But that was only a convenience. The farm was fine, being tended by the closest neighbor. Thomas found his animals in fine shape. His primary reason for coming home was to visit the young man employed at the airfield, Antonio. He had been questioned already, but something about his answers didn’t sit right with Thomas. There had been decided apprehension in his replies, especially when talking about the man
who’d been found dead.

  The officer who’d questioned Antonio, once Willi Kruger’s identity had been learned, had the feeling Antonio somehow knew the deceased.

  Earlier, before driving back here, Thomas had phoned Antonio, requesting an evening meeting. Antonio agreed, telling Thomas he first needed to go home to attend to his mother, an invalid. Despite the brief phone chat, Thomas could tell Antonio was nervous.

  It was fully dark at the quiet airfield when Antonio finally arrived, pedaling a squeaky bicycle up the dirt road from the opposite direction of Thomas’ home. The one exterior light on the shed showed Antonio’s black hair damp with perspiration, his shirt sticking to his back. Antonio greeted Thomas, unlocking the shack and switching on the lone inside light. The boy was tense.

  “Are you okay, son?”

  Antonio jerked his head around, his bleary eyes wide with fear. Struggling to swallow, he nodded.

  Thomas instructed him to sit. The career policeman pulled up a tall stool, sitting well above Antonio. “Son, after you were questioned last week, some other critical facts have come to light.”

  “They have?”

  “Yes, they have,” Thomas said in a steely tone, one that he’d not yet used with the affable young man. “And unless you come clean about everything you know, right now, I’m going to have to take you back to Nürnberg, to the main police station.”

  The young man’s swarthy face contorted, twisting into a mask of agony as he covered it with both hands. “I’m sorry, sir. I never lied to you. I promise.”

  Thomas wanted to pat the kid on his shoulder, assuaging him. An excellent judge of character, Thomas had known Antonio was a good sort from the moment he’d met him. But this was a major case, and Thomas had to let Antonio taste the fear. Had to…

  Let ‘em sweat—the age-old rule.

  After a gulf of time had passed, Thomas’ voice was firm but soothing, like that of a favored uncle or a good judge. “Do yourself a favor, son, and tell me everything. If you do, there’s an excellent chance you won’t get into any trouble.”