Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Give him a glimmer of hope.

  Antonio took a chest-expanding breath. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Thomas replied with a frown. Keep the pressure on.

  “Sir, I promise I never knew who bought the nighttime fuel from us. Never.”

  “The nighttime fuel, yes. Keep going.”

  Antonio pressed his hands backward through his thick wet hair, struggling to speak through his anxiety. “The former airfield custodian, Mister Brand, he died of a heart attack before I got the job. When I started, the commissioner explained the nighttime fuel to me and just told me to keep it going.”

  “Tell me the details of the nighttime fuel, son.”

  “Five or six times a year, I would come in and find an envelope of money under the door. The person who refueled during the night had a key to the lock on the fuel pump.”

  “Did you know the person or know anything about them?”

  “The one who took the fuel at night?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “I was never here when they came.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Thomas snapped.

  “No, sir. I never knew anyone who took the nighttime fuel.”

  “Do you think the dead man was the one who would buy the nighttime fuel from you?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, tears streaming down his cheeks. “But there was no money the morning of the killing, and no fuel had been taken.”

  “Okay, good.” Thomas allowed Antonio a moment to gather himself. “Is there anything else you can think of?”

  Antonio rotated his large eyes upward. “The commissioner told me something once.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He said the man who purchased the fuel was German, and not a nice person. He said if I ever happened to be here, to stay away from him and just let him have the fuel.”

  “He said he was German?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  We’re in Germany, so of course the buyer would be German. So, why would the commissioner make such a distinction unless the man taking the nighttime fuel didn’t live here in Germany?

  Thomas tugged on his whiskers. “Did the commissioner say anything else about him?”

  “Never.”

  Thomas believed him. “Antonio, did you get a share of money from the night fuel sales?”

  “Yes, sir. Whenever it happened, I would call the commissioner and he paid me a few extra reichsmarks.”

  “Was it always reichsmarks?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir. And I would log the gas as a regular fuel sale.”

  “How much over the normal price was the fuel?”

  “It was three times the normal cost.”

  Thomas arched his eyebrows. Three times the normal cost—only someone doing something illegal would pay such a price. “Very good, son.” Thomas asked Antonio a dozen more questions, satisfied that he knew nothing more. He removed his notepad, exultant that this could very well be the break he needed, especially once he talked to the man who had set this deal up—the commissioner.

  “Antonio, I need to chat with the airfield commissioner. I think he might know the fuel buyer’s identity.”

  Antonio was nervously chewing on a fingernail, his eyes averted.

  “Who’s the commissioner, Antonio?”

  “He’ll hurt me.”

  “Son, I can find out through district records.”

  Fresh tears welled in Antonio’s eyes.

  Thomas touched his shoulder. “I can approach him in such a way that he won’t know you told me any of this. In fact, if you think you need protection, I can provide that, too.”

  “He already warned me against talking, sir,” Antonio said in a fearful whisper.

  “When?”

  “Every day since the murder.”

  “Indeed?”

  Antonio began to cry.

  “Who is the commissioner?”

  Antonio looked up at Thomas and shook his head.

  “Tell me, son.”

  “It’s Constable Sauer, sir.”

  Constable Sauer, the local law who Thomas had first run off with a pistol, then run off after the murder. A leaden blanket of defeat fell over Thomas, crushing him. He had only one enemy in the entire district of Nürnberger Land, and it was Constable Sauer. Thomas massaged his closed eyes with his thumb and forefinger, wondering how Sauer had managed to be named administrator of the tiny airfield.

  “Please don’t tell him I told you, sir.”

  “You can relax, Antonio,” Thomas said, forcing a smile. “I have no interest in speaking with the constable.”

  Setting aside his disappointment, Thomas thought about the British money he’d found in Willi Kruger’s pocket, combining it with what Sauer had told Antonio about the buyer. Thomas stood from the stool, rubbing his chin as he glanced at the map hanging in a dimly lit area on the wall. “Would an aircraft need to refuel if it had flown here from England?”

  “England?”

  “Yes.”

  Antonio stood. “Other than large airplanes, I think most would.”

  Thomas thought back, remembering the timeline on that early morning. A realization struck him. When he was making breakfast, he’d heard the chirp of the tires as the airplane landed. It wasn’t another minute before he heard the gunshots. Assuming the aircraft had flown directly from England, and there was nothing to indicate to Thomas that it hadn’t, it might have been low on fuel.

  That’s why the pilot landed. Of course.

  Thomas couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this. He did a full circle, trying to contain his thoughts from spinning out of control. He focused on Antonio. “How long would it take to refuel a small airplane?”

  Antonio opened his hands, his jaw slack. “That’s hard to guess. Ours is a hand pump, so it depends on the operator and how much fuel they needed.”

  Thomas closed his eyes, struggling to remain calm. “Then just take a wild stab.”

  “Fifteen…twenty minutes.”

  Thomas’ hand again rubbed his mouth and face, his whiskers scraping audibly under his fingernails. “Was any fuel used that morning? Was any fuel missing?”

  Antonio shook his head. “Like I said, sir, there was no money left for me, and no fuel was missing. You can check the log if you like,” he said, pointing to a clipboard hanging by the door.

  Thomas felt it was better than a fifty-fifty chance that the men in that airplane had come here to refuel and something had gone wrong. And that meant, when he joined eyes with the man who was obviously struggling to pilot the airplane, the airplane was low on fuel.

  His mind hearkened back to the air boss at the airfield in Zorneding. He told Thomas that anyone flying as low as that black airplane was—with the Alps looming ahead—was either looking for something or didn’t know what they were doing.

  Thomas would bet on the latter, especially after seeing the airplane do a ground loop.

  He thanked Antonio, pumping the boy’s hand before exiting the shack and starting back to his house.

  “Wait! Herr Lundren, wait!”

  Thomas stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “I’m not in trouble?” Antonio asked, his face a mask of confusion under the triangle of light.

  “No, son, you’re not,” Thomas said with a smile. “In fact, I thank you for your help.”

  Thomas marched in the direction of his house, stepping confidently in the dark night, unworried about stepping into the old hidden well. His mind was already back in Nürnberg. A week earlier, Thomas’ pilot and the Zorneding airfield employee, with the help of a book on modern aircraft, both confidently identified the airplane in question as a De Havilland Hornet Moth. But the one thing Thomas had paid little attention to was the range of the Hornet Moth.

  The book was in his temporary locker at the police station, along with a handful of other items that had not helped him to this point. As excited a
s he was, Thomas knew he needed to rest. His coughing fit after his brisk walk confirmed it. He turned in after drinking some water and reciting his prayers. Tomorrow morning, he would drive back to the city in the hopes that the book would help him determine the range the Hornet Moth could have achieved on a single tank of fuel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  IF A PERSON DIDN’T ALREADY KNOW about Grinelli’s Trattoria in North Beach, they probably wouldn’t have gone near the place. With one grimy window fronting Stockton Street, the restaurant looked more like a failing laundry than an eating establishment. But Sal, like many locals, knew all about it, and when his brain worked overtime, his hunger did as well. Grinelli’s family-style lunch was easily the best deal in the Bay Area.

  It was just past one in the afternoon. The two men sat at the round table in the back corner. Disgusted with himself and his gorging, Sal jerked the napkin from his collar and leaned back in the booth, pushing the last few bites of lasagna away. He loosened his belt and stared at Preston Lord.

  “Okay, bud, I’ve told you everything I’m gonna tell you until you give me the goods.”

  Lord lifted Sal’s cigarettes and Sal nodded. The Department of War man tapped one out and toyed with it in his narrow, delicate fingers. “I’m incredibly impressed that you learned as much as you did. You’re a helluva detective.”

  Sal stared at him, silent. He was immune to false flattery, unless it was coming from the mouth of a beautiful woman—all bets were off, in that case.

  Lord pointed the cigarette at Sal. “So why haven’t you told anyone about all this?”

  “Because I knew the feds would send in someone just like you to take over.”

  Lord’s thin lips twisted into a smile. “As I said, you can have the glory, detective. You’ve actually uncovered a great deal of information we didn’t even know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” Lord said, placing his hand on Cleveland Mixton’s journal, “these killings were never authorized. Neil’s team began to take it upon themselves to defeat so-called enemies of the state. They began to think of themselves as crusaders.”

  “But you employed them.”

  “Yes, but not as assassins. Reuter and his men were supposed to be DOW undercover.”

  “What do you know about the victims in this journal?”

  Lord lit the cigarette and shrugged. “All types. Killers, a few spies, several businessmen who authorized killings of their own in their quest for power…that type of stuff. Truly unsavory people.” He motioned to the journal. “I’ve no doubt every single one in that diary fits the same bill.” Lord dragged on the cigarette, cocking his head. “Give Reuter’s team some credit. Like weeding a yard, they were doing American citizens a favor.”

  Sal defied his full stomach and leaned forward. “You’re telling me you didn’t authorize any of those killings?”

  “That’s precisely what I’m telling you,” Lord replied crisply.

  “If you had authorized those killings, would you admit it?”

  Lord twisted his mouth into a grin again. “What do you think, detective?”

  “I thought so.” Sal settled back into the booth, quiet for a moment. “So the United States government is complicit with setting up and employing a team of assassins? That’s insane…I don’t care how revolting the targets are. It goes against the bedrock of freedom and justice our country was founded upon.”

  “Are you really so shocked, detective? Defending this country involves more than a powerful military. There are millions, and I mean many millions, of people who want to impose their will on us. Our freedoms and successes drive them mad, and they’ll stop at nothing to bring it all to a halt.” Lord dragged on the cigarette as he stared at Sal. “Is killing in the name of freedom too high a concept for you to grasp?”

  Sal took the barb in stride, ignoring the question. He opened the journal to one of the killings that had involved Neil, the so-called “Pale Horse,” on Sagaponack, out on Long Island. “James Kenneth Quinby, a guy that Neil Reuter allegedly killed. I found all sorts of information about this guy being a society member who made his money off of hundreds of patents. What’s his story, and why was it personal to Reuter?”

  “You’re asking me to admit certain things,” Lord said flatly.

  “Then speak hypothetically. No admission.”

  Lord smiled as he placed the cigarette in the groove of a gleaming white ashtray. “Okay, detective, this is all hypothetical. Jimmy Quinby…yes. I’m hypothetically quite familiar with that one.” He relaxed into the softness of the booth, looking away as he began to recall. “That dirty sonofabitch was the quintessential trust-fund scumbag. I grew up with a silverish spoon, detective, but Quinby took the proverbial cake. His inheritance was so big and so deep that he set up a research company, employing all manner of scientists doing nothing but searching for new technology two shifts a day, seven days a week. He was like Edison times ten.”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “No, detective, except that he took personal credit for each invention he patented.”

  “So you killed him for being a prosperous, glory-seeking asshole?”

  Lord ground the nub of the cigarette in the ashtray. “They killed him for brazenly speaking to the Russians, to the Germans, and for attempting to contact the Japanese.”

  “Why was he doing that?”

  Lord leaned close. “Quinby’s company had made incredible advancements in a technology which uses radio waves to detect objects such as airplanes and even ships, much farther out than the eye can see. Others were on to it, too, but Quinby had the best technology. So, instead of selling it to his own country and making himself wealthier, he had to act like some half-ass spy from a Saturday matinee.”

  Sal ran his finger over the passage. “But this says it was personal for Neil Reuter. Why?”

  “We’re going to be in a war soon, detective. You, me, and everyone else in this great nation. That invention could save us or break us in the air, or at sea.” Lord fingered the pack of cigarettes. “But Quinby got greedy and contacted our soon-to-be enemies. While I have great interest in finding Neil Reuter, there is no denying the man is a patriot. Anyone who betrays our country, like Quinby did, automatically becomes Reuter’s enemy.” Lord slid another cigarette from the pack. “And that’s why I think Reuter has gone to Germany.”

  “Germany?”

  “You realize I’m now giving you the meat of the story?”

  Sal shrugged.

  Pulling the journal to his side of the table, the Department of War man flipped to the latter portion Sal had shown him earlier, where Mixton outlined the group’s desire to kill “H.” Lord’s index finger traced the passage. “See right here? ‘H’ stands for Hitler—Adolf Hitler.”

  Sal didn’t follow world news very much, but he certainly knew who Adolf Hitler was, as well as his beliefs of Aryan dominance. And Sal, possessing the olive skin and dark hair of a true Greek, didn’t much care for the fanatical Nazi leader.

  “You think Reuter’s gone to Germany to kill Hitler?”

  Lord stood and pulled on his overcoat. “Most assuredly. I think he finished his business here, killed Lex Curran, and has gone to Germany with every intention of assassinating Hitler, possibly even as a martyr.”

  Sal grabbed the dangling belt of Lord’s overcoat to prevent him from walking away. “And after killing all of these American citizens, why the hell would you care if he did that?”

  “Why would I care if he killed Hitler?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like Hitler,” Lord replied.

  Sal screwed up his face. “You like Hitler?”

  “Indeed.”

  “He’s bat-shit crazy. He’s violent and he’s quickly becoming our enemy.”

  “He’s the lesser of two evils, detective. Hitler in Germany, Stalin in Russia. Have you read about the purges in Russia, detective? Read the accounts. They’ll make your skin crawl.” He nodded as if he’
d made some sort of decision. “As of now, we’re pulling for Hitler. At least until Germany and Russia tear each other apart, at which time we’ll go in and pick up all the pieces.”

  Sal frowned at the glee on Lord’s face as he spoke about what would probably amount to millions of deaths. “But what about Hitler’s beliefs? Doesn’t he think people like me should be deported from Germany, or worse, because of my skin tone?”

  Lord detached Sal’s fingers from his belt. “We’ll deal with little Adolf in due time. For now, we want him on the throne, doing our dirty work for us.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “There’s something in the car that you need to see. It’ll demonstrate to you exactly what I’m talking about. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Sal had not told Lord everything. In fact, all he admitted was his discovery of Reuter’s past. He held back the part about Meghan Herman. Because Sal still didn’t quite trust this Preston Lord fellow.

  He watched the Department of War man walk away before digesting some of what he had heard. First, if Neil Reuter had indeed been running a killing team, there was no way in hell Lord and the DOW were going to allow Sal to maintain his investigation. Perhaps they would allow Sal the latitude to prove Neil killed Lex Curran, maybe even give him an award for what he had uncovered, but it seemed fanciful to think they would permit him to take the case and all the glory that would go with it.

  Sal stopped thinking, squinting his eyes as he pondered Lord’s solitary revelation.

  Neil Reuter was planning to assassinate a world leader?

  The reality hit Sal like a sledgehammer. If Lord really thought Neil Reuter had left the country to kill Adolf Hitler, and if the United States wanted Hitler to live, then that would mean Neil Reuter and his entire team were enemies of the state.

  They would have to be killed.

  Sal blinked as his mind lurched into high gear. This was extremely weighty knowledge—the type of intel that could get a small-time detective in big trouble. Concurrent to those thoughts, Sal heard the rumble of an engine and saw a streak of black through the grimy window. It was Preston Lord’s Lincoln speeding away.