Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Shaking the doleful recollections from his mind, he stepped to the wooden slat sidewalk, tipping his hat to a group of young women as they passed. When they disappeared around the corner, he faced the building, noticing that the front door of Baldinger’s practice was wide open. A thin screen door was all that kept the flies out, though they were bouncing off the thin gauge screen as if it were a trampoline. Thomas stepped inside, immediately smelling the musty animal scent along with something he couldn’t readily place. Behind the main counter was a large nazi flag, hanging from the rafters. To the right, a man leaned against a pallet of stacked feed bags, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Thomas nodded to him.

  “Don’t know where the hell he is,” the man grumped. “Called his name three times.”

  Thomas marked the man as a farmer, judging by his tattered, earth-stained clothes. Thomas poked his head out the screen door, looking at the small sign hanging from twine. It indicated that Hörst Baldinger should be in. A number of flies swarmed away from the screen door and, when Thomas opened it, they whizzed inside. The same thing had happened moments before when he had first come in.

  “Is he usually open on Saturday?”

  “Yes, and this waiting is getting to me,” the farmer said. “Damned Hörst was supposed to be out at our place by eleven. My Freda’s got hoof rot and needs to get the elixir in her.” He tugged his wide brim hat on his head, setting his jaw. “I’ll bet that bastard’s probably drunk somewhere. Do me a favor, you see him, tell him Von Berg was here and he better get his butt out to Kampe while the sun’s high.”

  “I will,” Thomas answered. “Good luck with your Freda.” Thomas watched as the man pushed the screen door open, cursing under his breath as his muddy boots clunked down the wooden sidewalk.

  More flies darted in.

  Thomas massaged his freshly-shaven face. He walked behind the main room, opening a swing door to what must have been the operating room. In the center of the room was a stained table—over to the side was a large steel sink. In the sink Thomas found an empty bottle of liquor and a large, clean scalpel. He peered out of the grimy back window, seeing nothing of interest. With nowhere else to look, Thomas walked back to the center of the building before eyeing the stairs.

  As he climbed, the smell that had been intermixed with the musty, animal scent grew stronger with every step. Acrid. Coppery. Metallic. He knew that odor. In his years as a police officer, he’d smelled it many times before.

  Not good.

  The upstairs was a simple layout. A hallway with two doors, both of them open, the left one beaming rays of daylight. Thomas called out several times as he eased his way toward the openings. As he passed, he felt something in the corner of his eye in the room on the left but, being a patient lawman, he stuck his head in the darkened room on the right. There was a string above his head, which he pulled. The room was used for storage, darkened because of the boxes stacked over the windows. Everything from medicines to liquor was stored there, with no apparent rhyme or reason as to its order.

  Thomas clicked the light off, taking a long, slow breath. For some reason, he was uncharacteristically unnerved about what he might see in the other room. When he’d passed, from the corner of his left eye, he had thought he’d seen flesh, along with carmine. And for a policeman, when combined with the overpowering smell, such hues typically weren’t a good sign.

  Thomas took three steps across the hall, swiveling his head to the right. As he took in the gruesome sight, he knew he’d been correct about the odor:

  Blood.

  Sickeningly sweet. Earthy. Pungent.

  It was a smell unlike any other on earth, the odor of an abattoir. The carmine he’d glimpsed was full on red in the wet spots, blackish at its edges and deep garnet where it had dried on the sheets. The noontime light shone through the open second-floor window, allowing Thomas to view the disgusting scene in great detail. Hörst Baldinger’s hands were handcuffed to the metal rails of the cheap single bed, his feet bound by ropes to the base legs. He was spread-eagle, wearing no clothes. Covering his body, primarily on his torso, were cuts. All in all, there were probably more than fifty of them. Some were small, less than a centimeter. Others were as wide as a man’s hand, including the deadly incision that had nearly severed his neck.

  And the flies…

  The elderly policeman placed his hat over his mouth in a futile effort to help him focus. Who had done this? Thomas’ first guess was the man who’d killed Kruger. Perhaps Baldinger had known more than he’d let on. Perhaps that man had come back and made certain that the veterinarian lived to tell no more tales. But how would the man in the airplane have known what Baldinger had seen, and told?

  Thomas narrowed his eyes as he stared at the vet’s slashed neck. Just above the gash, two black stitches stood out. Thomas stepped beside the bed, avoiding the sticky blood on the floor, lightly touching the sutures. Flies buzzed away from the feast at the movements of his hand, immediately diving back in for more. The small scar was over Baldinger’s jugular vein, and didn’t appear to have been sewn together professionally. It was puckered out, like when someone who didn’t know how to sew attempted to mend a hole in their trousers. But it had clotted and begun to heal, and Thomas was nearly certain it hadn’t been on the veterinarian’s neck when he had made his proclamations to the investigators about the black airplane.

  More flies swarmed as Thomas touched the pale, bloodless arm. Burn marks. He could see where the hair was singed, scorched backward from the rounded tip of what might have been a cigar. Thomas inspected the other arm. There were marks there as well, and on the man’s legs. Thomas also noticed dark black scorching around the tip of the man’s penis.

  He’d been tortured. Severely.

  But why, if the veterinarian had only seen the airplane, would the man from the airfield need to torture and kill him? Maybe he wanted to know what the vet had told the policemen. Plausible, but something about it didn’t quite fit.

  Thomas stepped back from the body, staring out the window into the town of Hausham, regretfully giving up his dreams of a fortified lunch. Then a thought struck him. The Heinz family! Perhaps Baldinger mentioned them to his tormentor, and that’s where he’d gone next.

  Though he’d like to call this in, the closest polizei who could truly help Thomas were far away, and there was no time to wait. He ran down the stairs, pulling the heavy door shut and flipping the sign by the door to signify that the veterinarian was away, which certainly was the truth.

  Through his coughing fit, Thomas recalled exactly where the Heinz family lived. They were smack dab in the valley south of Hausham, nearly at the base of the Alps that he had just crossed over.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  WHILE THOMAS LUNDREN RUSHED TO HER FAMILY HOME, Gabi Heinz was over the south range, in the city of Salzburg. She’d done much of the day’s driving as Neil worked on a plan in his mind. Many times during the slow drive to the city built over some of the world’s finest salt mines, an uncomfortable hush had permeated the Horch. Whenever she spoke, Neil had asked for silence. Complete silence. Gabi had sulked as Neil stared at the passing mountains, developing the strategy, working on contingencies, and then cementing each one in its own category, so that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t have to waste a precious second to think, but only react. This went on for nearly the entire drive.

  They took a room at the Österreichischer Hof, a grand hotel on the banks of the River Salzach. On the building’s top floor, their chamber was designed in Viennese grandeur. The room was dominated by a high, curved ceiling, adorned with a baby blue calligraphic frieze like something out of a children’s book. Gabi lay asleep on the bed, the coverlet pulled over her.

  They hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.

  Neil sipped coffee from the china service, staring out the window at the late afternoon Saturday traffic on Elisabethkai. He produced the saltwater-stained business card from the Hasidic forger back in New York. With his mouth full
of eggs, the New York forger had told Neil to call the man on the card, and he would instruct Neil how to reach the forger’s cousin. Neil rang the number on the generic card, speaking German to the woman who answered. The ensuing conversation was quick—Neil expressed his desires; the woman took his number and hung up. After ten minutes, a man called back. His tone was cautious. Neil told the man he needed assistance with documents. He was greeted with silence.

  “I’m a customer of your cousin from New York,” Neil offered. “Mein name ist Dieter Dremel.”

  “Dieter Dremel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Herr Dremel, during your life in North America, where did you spend Christmas Eve in 1932?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Silence.

  “Hang on.” Neil viewed the ceiling, his mind hearkening back. “Christmas Eve of thirty-two was when my wife and I visited San Diego.”

  “When you were a child, you saw your cousin break his ankle jumping off a seawall. His name, please.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Very good, Herr Dremel. Where are you right now?”

  “Somewhere safe,” Neil replied. “Where can I meet your document man?”

  “I will call you back. Or he will. Give me your number, please.”

  Neil waited a half-hour, hearing only the soft murmur of Gabi’s breathing. He allowed the Colt to dangle by his knee as he gazed out the window, awaiting the call. The mountains directly in front of him made up the geographical area known as Ober Salzburg. Rectangular shapes intermittently dotted the evergreen-covered mountainsides. Neil scanned each mountain, wondering if Hitler’s compound was visible from where he sat.

  Several years before, Neil had read a book that was almost certainly an allusion to Adolf Hitler’s early days in office, although Hitler was never named by the book’s author. It was written shortly after Hitler’s power grab, about a hunter who finds himself with the perfect vantage point to kill a European dictator at his mountain hideaway. The author, who the Department of War vetted afterward, had a background in covert services.

  Standing, Neil leaned against the window, eyeing one structure in particular, high on a mountaintop. After a moment he dipped his head.

  “Hitler’s not why you’re here. That ship sailed years ago,” he whispered.

  Damn, he could use a cigarette right now. Badly. He walked to his bag and removed the pouch. From inside he produced the picture of Fern, and Jakey’s tattered letter. Neil brushed his finger across the picture of the tiny, dark-haired girl. “Where are you, honey?” he whispered, trying not to imagine how unsettling months of hiding probably was for a child.

  He then studied Jakey’s note, each and every word. He turned it backward, upside down, looking for anything. There was something about the wording…

  The phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Call for you, sir.”

  “Put it through.” Please be the forger. “Hello?”

  “Wilkommen mein Freund!” a jovial voice said.

  “Thank you. Are you the cousin of my friend in New York?”

  “Yes, of course. I won’t say his name, but the last time I saw him he was nearly exploding from his clothes. The man enjoys his food.”

  “He hasn’t changed. Where might I meet you? I have an important item for you to examine, and I need help quickly. I haven’t much time.”

  The man hummed for a moment. “I have a thought. Do you know the festival on the east end of town? It’s enormous…impossible to miss.”

  “We saw the signs.”

  “Meet me there this evening at seven. Go to the largest beer tent and stand at the southernmost portion of the tent. I will be there, wearing more swastikas than anyone.”

  “Interesting.”

  “A man like me doesn’t survive in our current state without being very flexible regarding outward appearance.”

  The meeting was set.

  Gabi was still sleeping when Neil hung up the phone and walked to the desk. He viewed the four remaining diamonds, the largest ones. On the table, in a briefcase, was the sum total of what the other diamonds had yielded earlier today. When he and Gabi had first arrived in Salzburg, just before lunch, Neil walked into the center of the city, finding the most exclusive jeweler in town. After relentlessly assuring the cautious young attendant that he was in no way a criminal or a Nazi, the fellow had taken him to the back, leading him up a set of partially hidden stairs. In an office overlooking the Kurpark, an aged jeweler had spread the remainder of the diamonds on a sheet of purple felt, bending a desk lamp over them as he examined them with an eyeglass.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked without looking up.

  A flash of panic seized Neil as he thought they might be fakes, but that was impossible. He’d already sold some in London and also Germany. “Does it matter?”

  The man shrugged and placed them, one at a time after examination, into a pile.

  “Are you the owner?” Neil asked.

  “Not anymore,” the man answered, studying the diamonds. He was obviously Jewish, wearing a yarmulke.

  “Who is the owner?”

  “The father of the young man who helped you. He purchased the store from me many years ago, when we saw what was coming. It’s a bit of a false front but I refuse to leave my home.”

  “Do the authorities know you’re here?”

  “Only if you tell them.”

  “I will not,” Neil replied.

  After what seemed an hour, the old man had summoned the younger clerk by jingling a bell. He whispered something to the clerk, who nodded. The clerk was gone for twenty minutes. During that time, Neil tried to get the old man to tell him what the diamonds were worth.

  “The bank is only open until noon. Let’s first see if he can make the withdrawal in time.” The jeweler spoke German, but his accent sounded unlike anything Neil had yet heard.

  The sound of the bolt turning was finally heard from down the stairs. Breathless, the young man appeared with the type of cheap briefcase a bank gladly gives to their best clients. Neil opened it, thumbing the neat stacks of bills. “How much?”

  “Nine hundred thousand reichsmarks,” answered the old man, stacking his hands on top of one another. “About a third of their market value in the free world, but you won’t find a better deal in Hitler’s empire.”

  Neil had sucked back a burst of anger at the low price. He rubbed his face as he spoke. “Why so low?”

  The man removed his yarmulke and massaged his scalp. “The stones will have to be exported to be sold. Fine items such as diamonds have lost tremendous value under Hitler. He is building a war machine, in case you haven’t noticed. Values shift like sands with public consciousness, and currently, items such as freedom and liberties and rights hold much greater worth than mere hardened rocks.”

  That thought had stuck with Neil the remainder of the day. After the transaction was complete, he departed the store and used his time efficiently, visiting a camera shop, and then an equipment co-op on the edge of town, specializing in construction and excavating materials. After a final shopping trip to a general store, he’d come back to the grand hotel to find Gabi sleeping. It was then that Neil ordered the coffee and phoned the forger, making his plans while overlooking the greenish water of the River Salzach.

  When the forger called, Gabi had awoken from her nap. Now that she was awake, Neil lurched into action. His face was tight and pinched, his actions hurried as he hustled around the expansive suite, transferring his purchased items into several flour bags.

  “What are you doing?” Gabi asked, sitting up in bed.

  “If you didn’t hear, the meeting with the forger is set. Once he gets me what I need, every second will be dedicated to finding those children. If you want to go home from here, I won’t blame you.”

  He was in the middle of pouring the last bit of powder into the third bag of flour when she touched his shoulder. He sealed the bag and turned to her.

  “Do
you not remember the things I said to you at my house?” she asked. “About the life I would like to lead, if it’s only for a day?”

  Neil closed his eyes for a moment. “Gabi, that kind of talk sounds great coming out of a person’s mouth, believe me. I know because I’ve said it. But you’re going to learn some things in the next ten years of your life that are going to give you—”

  “Stop it,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare tell me that I’m too young to know how I feel. I’m aware of my emotions and can damn well make decisions for my life. Do you understand me?”

  “Gabi.”

  She jabbed his chest with her index finger. “Do—you—understand—me?”

  “Of course I do, Gabi. I’m not trying to be patronizing when I suggest you might want to go home. When I was out running my errands, I saw the soldiers and their automatic weapons, and it finally hit me how close this little tinderbox is to igniting.” He touched her cheek. “I’m brusque only because I want what’s best for you, for your future.”

  “And yours?”

  “I’m no one’s future, Gabi.”

  Gabi moved close to him, grasping his hands.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Gabi kissed him. “You’re my future, Neil.”

  “You’re kind, Gabi, but this is real life. What I’m planning is reckless and deadly.”

  “Tell me the plan. I want to actively participate.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, dammit.”

  As she had done with him several times before, when she spoke zealously, her eyes rimmed with tears and her lip trembled.

  Why not?

  “As you say, Gabi.”

  “No. I want you to say it.”

  “Gabi, I will welcome your help.”