Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  The trip across the Channel hadn’t been as tricky as he thought it might. There was still limited travel available for foreigners into the growing police state and, after a tense call back to Washington, Lord had been afforded a diplomatic slot on a Lufthansa flight. The security officer from the American Embassy in Berlin had met him at the cavernous Tempelhof Airport terminal, giving him a small case loaded with German reichsmarks and a message from Director Mayfield.

  Lord had connected to a smaller aircraft for the short trip to Nürnberg, reading the letter in his private seat, a cool pilsner beer in the other hand. The message, probably received by teleprinter, had been neatly retyped by someone at the embassy. Despite the message’s sterile appearance, the voice was clearly Mayfield’s. He bitched about the lack of an update; bitched about the suspicious death of an American bomber pilot in London; bitched about the complaints he had received from the “insipid Scouser” in Great Britain’s parliament. But the tenor of the note, the primary message, was urgency. Mayfield wrote that other departments, probably aided by leaks from the nervous Brits, were beginning to ask questions and that the target needed to be found and taken care of in days, not weeks. There were talks of a German accord with Czechoslovakia—a peaceful resolution. Mayfield said it was all window-dressing:

  “According to every shred of intel I’ve received, Hitler’s intentions are still the same. He is going east by force, accord be damned. Then he’s coming west. We will deal with that in time.”

  He can’t go any direction if he’s dead, Lord mused. I wonder what Hitler would think if he knew that I, an American from the United States Department of War, am right here, in his beloved fatherland, and am probably his biggest asset at the moment.

  Lord chuckled at the irony.

  “Destroy This Communiqué” was typed across the bottom of the letter and it didn’t escape Lord’s notice that Mayfield had been careful not to outright reveal the United States’ current position on Hitler. He hinted at it, but maintained plausible deniability through the crafting of his words. While embassy pouch was typically a reliable method of communication, an intercept, especially in Nazi Germany, was not without question.

  But Lord knew what Mayfield wanted; he could read between the lines. He wanted Adolf Hitler in power, for the time being, because he wanted a war between Germany and Russia. It was coming. And an assassination of Hitler might tilt the axis in favor of good sense. That was something the U.S. couldn’t afford. At least, not for the moment. Not with the Russian bear rattling its considerable saber.

  Lord reread the letter again before folding it and placing it inside his suit pocket. He always kept documents that were to be destroyed. Always. He knew, especially in Washington, that blackmail was the most valuable currency available. Most politicians would rather die than be caught, Lord thought, smiling to himself.

  The elderly server refilled his coffee and asked him if he wanted anything to eat. Lord’s German was that of a fifth-grader. He’d had four semesters at university but didn’t get to practice very often. “Nein, danke,” he answered, giving her a thoroughly fake smile. The door to the café banged open, bringing with it the sound of the splattering rain. Lord turned his attention to the slovenly creature who ambled in, deciding that it had to be the local constable.

  Upon seeing the dumpy, stain-ridden man with the Nazi armband, the server hustled behind the counter and tapped the man who must have been her husband, manning the griddle. He looked at their new customer, nodded quickly. The griddle man immediately cracked four eggs, throwing them on the sizzling skillet. After that, Lord watched the griddle man as he retrieved a thick slab of ham from the icebox, throwing it into the center of the eggs, disturbing the yolks. This seemed to be a custom breakfast, made only for a feared regular. Lord swiveled his head back to the man he presumed to be the constable. Sure enough, under the man’s mottled barn coat, a massive revolver hung western style. The man grunted as the server poured his steaming coffee. As if impervious to the scalding liquid, he turned it up, guzzling so quickly that a portion of it ran down his neck.

  The constable was sitting fifteen feet from Lord and it took about a second per foot for the smell to finally make its way over. Whiskey. Lots of it. So that was his “all night case.” Lord idly wondered how often the constable gave his wife that same excuse.

  Lord let the constable get two cups of coffee down his gullet before he approached. Just as Lord tapped the constable on his shoulder, the cook slid the steaming, oversize breakfast in front of the lawman. Ignoring Lord, the constable went for the salt and pepper. Lord tapped him again. Twisting his head with an irritated, red-eyed glare, the constable growled something undecipherable.

  “Sprechen Sie English?” Lord asked, doing nothing to hide his accent, not that he could if he wanted to.

  “Nein,” came the reply. And then the constable fired off another phrase that Lord didn’t understand but guessed, solely by tone, that the phrase was akin to the English phrase “piss off.”

  Lord reached into his pants pocket and removed a wad totaling one hundred reichsmarks. The small bills were wrapped in a rubber band, a perfect attention-getter. He tossed them onto the sticky counter and stabbed them with his left index finger.

  Again he asked, “Sprechen Sie English?”

  The constable held a hunk of egg-soaked ham in front of his mouth as his eyes alternated between the food, the money, and Lord. He jammed the food into his large oral cavity and spoke as he chewed. “A little.”

  “The money is yours, but I want a half-hour of your time in return.” Lord gestured to a booth near the back of the café. The constable smacked his mug on the counter for a refill. In another minute, he shambled to the booth with his freshened coffee and plate of arterial hardeners. The woman hurried back with a refill for Lord and a fresh set of silverware for the constable, who accepted it before waving her away.

  “What the hell do you want?” the constable grumped, twisting the wad of bills from Lord’s grasp. He snapped the rubber band and inspected the money before arching his eyebrows and pocketing it.

  “I’m looking for two men.”

  “So?”

  “I want your help.”

  “You’re American.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Another large bite. The constable allowed a gulf in the conversation as he gnawed on his food. Finally, he managed to get the large portion down his throat and said, “I spent seven months in an American prisoner camp on the Belgian border. Those who didn’t learn English died. I learned.” He sucked his teeth. “So, as you might guess, I hate Americans.”

  “Even Americans who want to give you money?”

  “How much money?”

  “Much more than what I’ve paid you.”

  After shoveling in a mouthful of egg, the constable said, “Exceptions can always be made.”

  Despite his grubby appearance, the constable’s English seemed excellent. Lord felt he might have found his man—assuming the constable knew anything about the airfield where the German defector would have refueled. Greedy people are an operative’s easiest mark, and this one made no bones about his desires. Lord repeated his need. “I’m looking for two men.”

  “You said that already. What’s in it for me?”

  “Another hundred, for now. And no one can know I’m here.”

  “Do you speak German?”

  “Some, but since I’m paying you, I don’t feel like making the effort.”

  The constable sawed another piece of ham. He sandwiched it between pieces of butter-drenched bread and stuffed his mouth so full he was forced to breathe through his nose. He sounded like a bulldog with breathing problems. After a full minute of chewing, he managed to swallow before swilling his coffee. “Wasser!” he yelled over his shoulder. He turned back to Lord.

  “Tell me about these men.”

  “One is American. Dark hair. He has one blue eye, and one green. Dapper. Big guy. Dangerous.”

 
“And the other?”

  “The other I’ve never seen, but I know he was a German pilot back during the war and flies here from England.”

  The constable’s head snapped up. His green eyes, rimmed in hangover red, focused as his pupils constricted. “A pilot who flies from England?”

  “Yes.”

  The eyes continued to stare at Lord before the constable nodded once, stirring the remaining egg. He began to chuckle, his great belly bouncing up and down as the liquid inside his stomach could be heard sloshing.

  “Well?” Lord demanded.

  “I know everything about these two men,” the constable said. He ran his bratwurst index finger through the yolk, slurping it with his mouth. “But it’s gonna cost you far more than another hundred, doughboy.”

  The Department of War man’s mouth broke into a wide grin, displaying his perfectly square teeth, which appeared as if they had been leveled with a belt sander.

  Preston Lord had, indeed, found his man.

  ~~~

  Many years had passed since Neil had known such hunger.

  It took him and Schatze a little more than a full day to make it to Innsbruck. They arrived, worse for the wear and famished, late in the afternoon on Thursday, more than 24 hours after he’d departed the Heinz farm. Earlier today, following a late start due to the weather, it took five hours to walk down the icy mountain from the pass. The temperature rose sharply with the decrease in elevation, along with warmer weather that had pushed in. After stopping to eat the last can of beans, which he shared with Schatze, Neil eventually hitched a ride from the town of Jenbach. An elderly man with an old farm truck was happy to give them a lift in return for twenty of Neil’s reichsmarks.

  The back of the truck was a welcome mode of transportation for the long ride down into the Karwendelgebirge Valley. Neil napped as Schatze wedged her head through the slats of the truck’s side, enjoying the wind in only the way a dog can do. The truck bed was loaded with dirty beets and potatoes, providing a comfortable, if a bit lumpy, surface to nestle into. In fact, the lumps actually massaged Neil’s aching muscles as the old truck bounced its way down the river road toward Innsbruck. Once he’d awoken from his nap, Neil had been so hungry that he even tried to munch on an uncooked potato. He managed one choking bite, tossing the potato over the side of the truck as Schatze stared at him curiously.

  Neil wasn’t that hungry.

  It was after six in the evening when they jumped down from the truck at the outskirts of Innsbruck. Neil thanked the old man, paying him as promised. Then he turned to Innsbruck, reminding himself that this was where his friend had died.

  As they walked into the valley city, the lowering sun burned in the southwest between two mountains, splashing a riot of golden light over the picturesque town encircled by towering Alps. Neil and the dog followed the river, which rushed past in a peculiar color of sea green. A bridge sign pronounced the waterway’s name as the Sill River.

  Innsbruck itself was rustic and handsome, not unlike some of the mountain resorts Neil and Emilee had visited in the Sierras. As Neil and his new companion moved farther into the city, they found significant crowds of people on the sidewalks. The shops and restaurants grew swankier as the center of Innsbruck crept closer. Neil kept his head down, feeling quite out of place in the well-heeled resort with his shaggy hair, unshaven face and terribly soiled clothes. With Schatze loping along beside him and the now dirty canvas bag over his back, he looked less like an intruder and more like a tramp. And tramps attract cops. The very last thing Neil needed was a run-in with a polizei with nothing better to do.

  “Ich bin Dieter Dremel,” Neil murmured over and over, honing his name and accent in the event he was stopped and questioned. As he passed through the center of town, right where the Sill River snaked, Neil noticed two teenage boys skipping rocks for bounces and distance. He rubbed his stubbly face and took a deep breath. Time to be an Austrian. From the bridge he whistled for their attention and asked them where Berchtoldshofweg was. Without batting an eyelash at his words—making Neil exhale in relief—the shorter of the two boys pointed west, the direction Neil had been heading.

  “Keep going to the outskirts of town and it’ll be on the right,” the boy yelled.

  “Vielen dank!” Neil yelled back, watching as the boys forgot about him and resumed their arguing over the previous skip. Neil and Schatze picked up their pace.

  As they were just departing the inner city, they passed by a cozy-looking restaurant in a row of what looked like fine establishments. Neil and Schatze kept on the other side of the road, by the river. In front of the restaurant, a long black Mercedes eased to a stop with a faint chirp from the drum brakes. The uniformed driver exited, circling the automobile to open the suicide rear door, giving avenue to a pair of exquisite legs that immediately appeared. They were attached to an equally attractive woman. She stood and straightened her dress, her head adorned with a cherry red hat and black lace veil. Behind her was a tall man with light blond hair. He shrugged off the chauffer, donning his tunic on his own and buttoning it slowly. He was in the Schutzstaffel—the SS. Neil tried to see his rank, knowing immediately that the man was an officer—but unable to discern the rank from the distance.

  The SS officer frowned when he noticed Neil, the tramp, looking back at him. Neil lowered his head, silently cursing himself for gawking at the foreign sight. He continued his shuffle along the river path.

  Smoke billowed from the SS’s mouth as he flicked his cigarette in Neil’s direction. He glared for a moment before shaking his head and murmuring something to his lady. After she straightened his belt, the SS officer touched the woman on her rear end, guiding her into the eatery as the setting sun reflected off of his gleaming boots. Neil glanced back to see the officer look at him again before disappearing into the restaurant.

  There was something unnerving about the SS officer’s chilly stare.

  Once more, Neil looked back at the restaurant. There was no sign of the man.

  Neil continued on.

  ~~~

  Standartenführer Anton Aying of the Schutzstaffel paused inside the front door of the restaurant. His date, the wife of a wealthy—and much older—Munich businessman, turned and stared at him as the host had already reached their table. She shrugged impatiently.

  “Go and sit, my dear,” Aying told her. “You choose the wine.” After he slept with her tonight, he’d make damn sure her husband found out about this tryst—as well as all the other men she’d spread her long legs for. She was far too into herself. Fifteen minutes with her and Aying was already annoyed.

  Setting his irritation with the Bavarian princess aside, he stepped into the bar area of the restaurant, seeing a Hauptscharführer at the end of the long curved bar. The man’s eyelids seemed a bit heavy. Aying didn’t know the senior NCO personally, but did recognize his face as he recalled the man’s reputation. He was known for his diligence and cruelty. In fact, Aying remembered him from several months before, when the Hauptscharführer had brutally beaten a well-known Innsbruck painter, who was also a reputed homosexual. The painter succumbed several days later to his injuries. Though the painter’s sexual orientation was never proven, the message to the undesirables had been sent with an exclamation.

  Yes, the Hauptscharführer would do just fine for what Aying had in mind.

  Aying’s rank, Standartenführer, was the SS equivalent to a full colonel. The Hauptscharführer at the bar was roughly equivalent to a first sergeant—a senior NCO position. While the Hauptscharführer was a ranking NCO, Aying was miles up the SS food chain.

  “Hauptscharführer,” Aying barked as he walked behind him at the bar.

  The Hauptscharführer nearly fell out of his chair upon seeing Aying. Aying was prominent in Innsbruck and a near legend among the ranks of the SS. Stumbling to his feet, the Hauptscharführer snapped to attention, boot heels clicking, and barked out a sharp phrase that essentially promised to fulfill whatever request Aying might have for him.


  “Are you waiting for someone?” Aying asked, eyeing the three empty glasses in front of the Hauptscharführer’s spot at the bar.

  “No, sir. I’ve the evening off, sir, and was…uh…just having a beer or two.”

  Aying sniffed, estimating that the Hauptscharführer had ingested several more than a few. “Well, I’m not deliberately trying to interrupt your evening off, but I wonder if you might do me a personal favor?”

  “Anything, sir,” the man replied, nearly breathless. “Anything at all.”

  Aying tossed several bills on the counter and gestured to the bartender, telling him that the Hauptscharführer was leaving. Aying led his fellow SS outside, pointing west. “Just minutes ago, a man walked by with a scraggly dog in tow. The man looked a bit like a vagabond, what with his soiled clothes and scruff. But he seemed well-fed and…and…”

  “Sir?”

  Aying couldn’t quite put his finger on what he’d seen. “The man had knowing eyes, Hauptscharführer, if that makes sense. Frankly, I don’t like the way the Hurensohn looked at me.” Aying described the man in detail, along with the dog. “Go and find him, Hauptscharführer. Find him and bring him to me.”

  “Here, sir?”

  “Out back. I’ll alert my driver to watch for you. Do you have a vehicle?”

  The Hauptscharführer swallowed. “I, er…”

  “Say it, man. There’s not much time.”

  “I used the Sturm motorcycle, sir. And I…I didn’t request permission.”

  Aying gave the man a sour smile. “Then I suggest you satisfy my request, Hauptscharführer. If so, I’ll forget your transgression.” Aying looked for the NCO’s sidearm. “Do you have a weapon?”

  “My knife, sir. And there’s an MP-35 concealed in the sidecar.”

  “Handcuffs?”

  “In the sidecar, also.”

  “Very good, Hauptscharführer,” Aying said, tapping out a cigarette. “Haul ass and find him. Beat him, if you must. But I’d like him alive.”