Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  “Like I said, I’ve tried to keep the cottage ready. You have shaving tackle, local-style clothes, an automobile, this nice house…everything has been thought out for you. From this moment forward, we can focus on finding the children,” she said, cracking an egg. Neil noticed her demeanor was much brighter than the night before.

  He drew on the cigarette, glancing around, drinking in the cottage and backyard in the full sunlight. If Emilee were with him, he could blink once and think he was on holiday in a rented cabin. But she wasn’t. And this was no holiday. He was in Nazi-occupied Austria, and Emilee was dead. Her murderer was dead, too.

  And, as Neil reminded himself, he was the chief suspect. Along with that, hundreds of children might die if he didn’t rescue them—soon.

  Well, my bright mood just blackened considerably.

  He opened the door for Schatze, noticing the puddles on the stone patio. “Did it rain?”

  “You didn’t hear it? Around six this morning it rained buckets.”

  Neil relaxed upon hearing about the rain. Hopefully it washed away any evidence of yesterday’s killing and last night’s corpse disposal.

  “Do you know the Fausts?” he asked, getting back to business.

  Madeline finished cracking eggs and began beating them. “Who?”

  “The Fausts. Gregor and Petra Faust.”

  “No. Why?”

  “They escorted me across the Atlantic. They’re a part of your movement…organization. Whatever you call it.”

  She pinched her lips together and went back to work. “I’ll let the doctor explain all that.”

  “I have a lot to learn, it seems.”

  “Go on now,” she commanded. “Now that you have your coffee, go clean up. We’ll eat quickly and go. The weather is beautiful today, especially after the rain. Cool and clear. Wear one of the wool suits we got you. Maybe the brown one.”

  Neil paused at the bedroom door, staring at Madeline. She had her back to him. The entire convoluted situation seemed surreal. Jakey’s death. The Lex Curran killing and subsequent setup. The dead German pilot. The Heinz family. The dead SS. And now here he was, in the center of the Alps, playing house with a hiding Jewish woman and preparing to search for hundreds of innocent children who were at risk of starvation and persecution. In his clandestine life, Neil had participated in many far-fetched, unconventional activities. But this mission, and the situations he had already encountered, certainly topped them all.

  “Go!” Madeline playfully yelled, pointing a dripping whisk at him. He nodded, hurriedly topping off his coffee before he made his way to the bedroom.

  ~~~

  Thirty minutes later, a clean-shaven Neil sat at the kitchen table in a brown wool suit. The suit fit well enough through the upper body but was at least an inch too short at the legs. He’d tugged downward on the pants and decided they would make do. Sated, he pushed his plate away and unbuttoned the snug-fitting vest, feeling a certain kinship to the plump porker he’d just eaten. Neil’s legs and calves were tender and sore, reminding him of his advancing age and the weakened physical condition caused by his injuries. Neil made a silent vow to get back in shape as soon as this was all over. He snugged his hands behind his head and stared at his temporary roommate.

  “Tell me about Doctor Kraabe.”

  Madeline leaned forward. “You needn’t concern yourself with his character. He’s a fine man with impeccable morals and he’ll inform you of a number of things you might find helpful.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “When we ride over there, I’ll have to hide in the car.”

  “Why?”

  “No one knows where I am.”

  “You didn’t hide last night.”

  “It was dark.”

  “What if we get stopped?” Neil asked.

  “We won’t.”

  “We could,” Neil countered. “What if the SS are looking for their man?”

  “It’ll be fine,” she replied.

  “Just in case…if we get questioned, what do we do?”

  “The senior soldiers and SS might know me but I doubt the rank and file have a clue about who I am. If we do get stopped, you have all the legal paperwork, with the proper stamps and seals, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Just stick with your cover about having lived abroad for many years, but now you’re back for good. They won’t hassle a wealthy Austrian with a nice car unless you’re doing something very wrong.”

  “And if they ask about you?”

  “Tell them I’m a hooker,” she answered, twisting her mouth into a smile. “And that’s why I’m hiding in the floorboard.”

  “Okay.” He leaned forward in the chair. “What’s the situation like in town, now that the German military is here?”

  “Well, first you have the people who live here year-round, the residents. They welcomed the Nazis, for the most part. Innsbruck is a tourist town, so plenty of people don’t live here—the vacationers—and they’re a mixed bag of political beliefs and what not.”

  Neil stood and re-buttoned the vest. “Go on.”

  “Then you have the outright complicit—they’re the locals who’ve gotten into bed with the Germans—and there are plenty, believe me. They cannot be trusted. And then, of course, you have the Nazis themselves. Nearly all are fanatical, and the politicians or military Nazis can take everything you own with a wave of their evil wand.” She stood. “It’s best to keep your head down and not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “Are there many who are sympathetic to the Jews?”

  “Doctor Kraabe is, and there are others, but most are too scared to show it. I can’t say I blame them,” she said flatly.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Outside, Neil walked behind the garage and looked at the partial grave of the BMW motorcycle. As he thought, the rain made the ground appear even. He walked back up to the garage, viewing the Horch in the daylight.

  Lengthy and painted gray with glossy black trim, it had a look of elegance and exclusivity. Neil frowned at the mud on the tires and sides, reminding himself to wash the car later. Inside the car, a faint whiff of last night’s activity overpowered the smell of new leather. He rolled down the windows and waited on Madeline.

  At the bottom of the steep road, where they’d loaded the corpse of the SS, Madeline crouched into the floorboard, tucking her knees up to her body and placing her chin on top of them.

  “If we get stopped, that’ll be hard to explain.”

  “I’m a hooker, remember? You’re embarrassed.”

  “Which way do I go?”

  “Left, back into town. Cross the river at the first bridge and stay on Holzhammerstrasse. You’ll see a small park on the left, and several blocks after you’ll see the Kraabe mansion. You won’t miss it—huge and white with black shutters.”

  Neil drove slowly, watching as the people moved about the town like any American city. There was no visible military or SS presence and, thankfully, no roadblocks. Madeline peered up through the side window.

  “You’re doing fine. It’s only a block away.”

  Neil drove on.

  ~~~

  Standartenführer Anton Aying leaned back at his desk, propping his polished boots on the shiny oak. He asked the telephone operator to put him through to the Waffen-SS detachment barracks situated just a few kilometers away. The detachment was basically a half-sized Kompanie, with the other half serving in Salzburg. The local group was commanded by a fresh-faced, ambitious Obersturmführer named Beck. According to what Aying had heard, Beck’s family were influential industrialists, hailing from Stuttgart. Therefore, since his arrival several weeks ago, Aying had deliberately ignored him—something he did with any underling who attempted to ride a high horse. But today, Aying needed Beck’s assistance. The entire matter was more curiosity than anything, Aying realized, worrying about some beaten-down tramp.

  “But I just didn’t like the way the prick stared at me
,” he whispered as the phone buzzed.

  When the phone was eventually answered, Aying announced who he was, then instructed the clerk to find Beck. The breathless young man could be heard running from the phone, yelling to the others that Standartenführer Aying was on the phone.

  Aying couldn’t help but smile.

  “Sir! This is Obersturmführer Beck, sir! I’m at your undying service, sir!”

  “I hate an ass-kisser, Beck,” Aying lied, studied his nails. “Last night, I sent one of your men, a Hauptscharführer, on a small job. Frankly, I was not pleased when he didn’t return to me as I instructed.”

  The young SS leader sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re referring to Hauptscharführer Ludwig, aren’t you?”

  “Was he the one who killed the painter?”

  “I wasn’t here yet, sir. But, yes, from the many tales I’ve heard, he was.”

  “Then, may I ask you this? While he was a bit in-the-bag, why in the hell would that dumb shit not do as I told and report back to me?”

  Beck paused. When he spoke, his tone was different, worried. “Sir, Ludwig hasn’t been seen since late yesterday afternoon. We did learn that he went into town and drank at a restaurant. The last report we have was Ludwig riding a Kompanie motorcycle, driving along the river to the west.”

  “And he hasn’t returned?” Aying asked sharply, lowering his feet to the floor.

  “No, sir. According to the others here, such behavior from him is highly uncharacteristic. We’ve begun looking for him.”

  Aying glanced at his watch. It had been more than sixteen hours since he’d sent Ludwig on his mission to find the tramp. Even if Ludwig, in his drunkenness, had passed out somewhere, he should have surfaced by now. Meaning, in Aying’s mind, something foul had probably occurred.

  “And you don’t think he would have deserted?” Aying asked.

  “Absolutely not, sir. While I didn’t know him all that well, I trust those here who say he had a hard-on for his role as a Schutzstaffel.”

  “Watch your language, Beck. You sound like a savage,” Aying admonished, ever the hypocrite. He used similar language every waking hour.

  “Understood, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “What is your unit protocol for a situation such as this?”

  “Normally, sir, we don’t alert outside authorities for a full twenty-four hours. But, well…since you’re involved…”

  “But you’re now searching?”

  “With our own men, sir.”

  “Just be silent a moment. I’d like to think.”

  Aying leaned his head back. Could the vagrant have killed the Hauptscharführer, a man armed with a submachine gun and a motorcycle? Highly unlikely. Given the rocky, unforgiving terrain, Aying would give far better odds on finding the Hauptscharführer dead in a ditch, the victim of a drunken crash. He’d read dozens of reports of SS dying on motorcycles. But the vagrant shouldn’t be ruled out, either. Anything is possible. Aying lifted the handset.

  “Beck, I don’t like alerting anyone other than Schutzstaffel to our internal business. And that goes especially for problems. Makes us seem weak. Understand?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “So, stop whatever search you’re performing and send your entire detachment west. They’re to search for Ludwig, the motorcycle, and a tramp of approximately forty to fifty years of age. He had a large, scraggly dog with him that was brown and grey. The tramp was probably two meters tall. His hair was dark and he had a heavy beard. He was wearing old, soiled clothing. Do you have all that?”

  “I’m making notes. Got it, sir. You sent Ludwig after this tramp, you say?”

  “Not pertinent. If you find the tramp, arrest him and bring him to me. And make sure you shoot his dog on sight. Probably has rabies.”

  “And when we find the Hauptscharführer?”

  “I have a feeling he’s dead. But if he’s alive, of course, bring him to me.”

  “Dead, sir?”

  “He was drunk. He either wrecked or…”

  “Sir?”

  “He either wrecked or that vagrant killed him.”

  There was another long pause. “Sir, may I ask what gives you that feeling?”

  “No, you may not. Update me before eighteen-hundred hours.” Aying hung up the phone. Again, he propped his boots on the desk and removed a cigarette from his case. He briefly viewed the fine engraving on his new lighter before igniting the cigarette and puffing thoughtfully.

  Isn’t it strange when life sends you little mysteries? Aying reclined in the swivel chair and blew smoke rings into the still office air.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  DOCTOR KRAABE’S HOME WAS INDEED A MANSION. Neil exited the car and drank in the fine points of the manor. The house was stately, but built like a bomb shelter. Made of deep gray granite, it had been designed in the Gothic Revival style that was so popular in the 19th Century. If it didn’t have so many bright flowers and bushes, it might even seem spooky. Doctor Kraabe must have employed groundskeepers to keep the massive home and surrounding yard, which covered at least four normal lots, in its pristine condition.

  Neil leaned back into the car. “Are you coming?”

  “I’ll go in the back. Just go up to the front door.”

  After removing his hat, Neil held it to his stomach in a polite gesture and pressed the buzzer. A short, older woman with high cheekbones and wide eyes answered the door. She wore a uniform and spoke accented German.

  “Guten Tag, gnädige Frau. I’m here to see the doctor. My name is Dieter Dremel.”

  The lady nodded politely. She ushered Neil into the foyer and instructed him to wait a moment. Neil gazed at the oil painting above him, knowing nothing of its painter, but considering its beauty. It wasn’t but a few seconds before a tall, slightly hunched man appeared from what looked like the living room. He wore a shabby two-piece gray suit with a loosened tie, and the expression on his face showed surprise.

  “Dieter Dremel?” he asked, cocking an eye at Neil.

  “That’s me,” Neil answered.

  As the two men measured one another, Madeline appeared. “It is him, doctor! He arrived last night.”

  Kraabe took Neil’s hand and pumped it violently up and down. “Freut mich!” he exclaimed over and over.

  “Shall we sit?” Madeline asked.

  They sat in the doctor’s home office, evidenced by the clay models of body parts and the numerous medical books, some in English, which surrounded them. The maid brought them hot tea and water. Neil stood and whispered something to the maid. She nodded and disappeared. Neil sat and exchanged niceties with the doctor until the maid returned with an open pack of Austrian cigarettes and an ashtray. Neil lit one and, although it was stale, he exhaled in relief as he nestled into his chair, wincing slightly as his side hitched.

  Madeline pointed to Neil’s side. “He’s been badly injured, doctor.” She pursed her lips like a busybody older sister. “That’s why he was so late arriving.”

  “I’m fine,” Neil said.

  “Injured? Show me,” Kraabe commanded in a tone reserved for doctors used to getting their way.

  Neil shook his head. “Doctor, I’m here to help, and honestly, I’m anxious to get on with things.”

  Doctor Kraabe snapped his bony fingers, his face hardening in an instant. “Show me right now. How the hell can you help us if you’re hurt?”

  Neil paused before sticking his cigarette between his teeth and pulling the three layers of clothing up over the pinkish, healing scars. Doctor Kraabe turned the lamp to Neil’s side and perched his glasses on his nose, pulling his head back to an optimum viewing distance. With a surprisingly rough motion, he fingered the front and back wounds, humming lowly.

  “Gunshot,” he finally murmured.

  “Yes,” Neil answered, suppressing a grunt as the doctor roughly tugged at the exit wound.

  “I wasn’t asking.” Kraabe made Neil turn and then instructed him to raise both arms above
his head and stretch side to side, bending his torso.

  Neil was limited in his motions.

  The doctor sat back in his chair and removed his glasses, putting the stem into the corner of his mouth. “Extinguish that cigarette.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Put it out,” Kraabe commanded.

  Neil crushed the cigarette out.

  “Did a doctor patch you up?”

  “Veterinarian,” Neil said in English, unsure of the word. “How do I say that in German?”

  “Ein Tierarzt,” Kraabe replied. “That’s why he used such heavy-gauge filament. Do you feel well?”

  “Sore, but yes, I feel very well. I walked over the northern range of the Alps to the first valley.”

  “No fever? No vomiting?”

  “No.”

  “Congestion. Blood in mucus or urine or any blood whatsoever?”

  “None.”

  “Well, you may feel a sight better than when it first happened, but the bones and cartilage aren’t yet fully healed,” Doctor Kraabe stated. “And even though the manufacturers don’t want people to know it, those little death sticks you keep placing in your mouth slow the healing process.”

  “Cigarettes?”

  “Yes. Don’t smoke another one.”

  Neil turned to Madeline and frowned. She was resting her chin on the back of her hands, smirking at him. Neil let out a long, resigned breath. “Okay, doc, no more cigarettes.”

  “I’m quite serious,” Kraabe said.

  “So am I,” Neil replied. He gestured to Madeline. “I need to ask him about the past. Understand? Do you want to stay in the room?”

  Madeline’s smirk dissolved. “I’ll step out for a few minutes.” She grabbed the cigarettes and walked away. Neil thought he heard her going up or down a set of stairs. He turned.

  “What can you tell me about my friend Jakey? What exactly happened to him?”

  Kraabe poured tea for both of them, spooning in some sugar for himself before sliding the tray to Neil. The doctor sat back in an ancient leather chair, settling until he found what must have been his favorite position, and then he pondered the question for a moment as he stared over Neil’s shoulder. “Jacob was as meticulous as the finest surgeon, at times. Rough as a corn cob at others.” Kraabe glanced at Neil, smiling sympathetically. “He had, once again, nearly completed what was thought to be an impossible task, but somehow they found him out.”