Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  “And the Nazis took your business from you?” Gabi asked.

  The forger dipped his head. “I didn’t wait on them. I closed my shop and disappeared.” He brightened. “But my wife and my babies made it out. They’re awaiting me, and you, in a sense.”

  “How many children do you have?” Gabi asked.

  “Nine.”

  Neil and Gabi looked at one another. Such an answer provided a moment of needed levity. “How old are you?” Neil asked.

  “Twenty-nine.”

  Gabi grinned as Neil shook his head, stupefied. “Wow,” was all Neil managed.

  “Potent,” Gabi added, drawing an amused look from Neil.

  “Why did you stay in Austria?” Neil asked.

  “Because my work here isn’t done. And that’s why you’re here. Now, may I see what it is you’ve brought me?”

  As Neil removed the documents again, the forger grunted, peeling off the fake goatee to reveal a young, albeit red and irritated, face. He removed the passé fedora, displaying a tight, dense head of dark brown hair. The forger leaned over and studied the stained Dieter Dremel documents. “All of this is quite standard. Reproducing each one should be simple. I could have them for you in an hour.”

  Neil nodded as if this was satisfactory. “There’s more.”

  “From my cousin?”

  “No. Something I acquired from the Nazi leadership.”

  There was a collective pause. “If you’re trying to pique my curiosity,” the forger said, “you’ve managed.”

  Neil reached under his shirt and removed the stolen Nazi credentials from the pouch, placing them before the forger unopened. The man’s thin fingers moved to the emblazoned booklet before he looked at Neil.

  Neil winked.

  The forger opened the identification, and then he was motionless for a half a minute. He turned his head to Neil but didn’t speak for a moment, apparently having trouble swallowing. Finally he asked, “Is this genuine?”

  “You tell me.”

  The forger snatched it off the small table and hurried to the worktable. He switched on the white light and adjusted the magnifying glass. Just then, there was a knock downstairs. The forger rushed down, returning up the creaking stairs with a silver service of steaming coffee.

  “Pour us some, would you?” he asked Neil, hurrying back to his worktable and peering at the document from every conceivable angle.

  Neil poured three cups of coffee, handing Gabi hers. He placed a cup next to the forger.

  The forger straightened. “About the identification…” He pressed his lips together, seeming as if he might burst at any moment. His hand rested on the booklet. “Do you realize what this is?”

  “Yes. I have the official identification of a Reichsleiter. Specifically, the Reichsleiter of the Hitler Youth.”

  The forger closed his eyes, displaying a tight smile like a professor filled with pride over the precocity of his star pupil. “Precisely, my Herr Dieter. The identification of one of the most powerful men in all the Reich. In fact, only twelve or thirteen such men are known to exist.” The forger’s eyes took on a reproachful look. “Does he know you stole it?”

  “I’m sure he knows it’s missing. It was taken at a most opportune time, and I left no traces. Would he possibly get in trouble if his contemporaries, or even Hitler, thought he lost it?”

  The forger’s face answered that question.

  “Then, no, even if he does think it is missing or stolen, I would hazard he will not report it.”

  “He might even contact a forger to make a copy,” the forger said with a chuckle. “So what shall I do with this prized document?”

  “Alter it.”

  “But Herr Dremel, another Reichsleiter, or Hitler himself, would know you aren’t genuine.”

  Neil placed his china coffee cup back on the service, moving close to the forger, touching his shoulder. “That’s fine, but I won’t be using it to get close to a Reichsleiter. I only need it to get what I want in Innsbruck.”

  “So Dieter Dremel is a Reichsleiter?”

  Neil turned to Gabi, nodding. “Yes, he is. He’s Reichsleiter of External Clandestine Services or, in other words, a man few would know exists.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Precious hours.”

  The forger sat down at the drafting table, removing what looked like a surgeon’s scalpel from a leather pouch. “Then I need to get to work. Would it trouble you if I ask for privacy? I’d hate to mar this treasure and I work best alone.”

  Neil and Gabi had spaghetti downstairs while the forger plied his art.

  ~~~

  Much later that Saturday evening, in a cozy, fire-lit Innsbruck bar on the south side of the river, Colonel Leo Falkenberg cradled his Märzen lager in his hand, swaying softly to the sound of the music coming from the piano in the adjacent room. His hand rested just under the skirt of his date, a young Italian girl he had met earlier in the day. It was almost time to leave, and he was quite drunk. Tomorrow was to be a busy day, what with the military inspection he was due to perform. He would need to bed this one quickly before sending her on her way. He was confident she’d pursue him at a later date.

  And tonight, he needed the rest.

  Just as he was about to stammer a lurid suggestion in his limited Italian, a striking young lady entered from the main room of the saloon. She wore an exquisite outfit and her pretentious, haughty carriage mimicked that of a cinema star. Falkenberg snatched his hand from underneath the Italian’s ruffles and widened his eyes as the striking lady stopped in front of him.

  “Colonel Falkenberg?”

  “At your service,” he whispered, rapt.

  She removed a folded note from the gap between her luscious cleavage. “This is for you.” One of her hazel eyes winked at him before she turned and departed.

  Falkenberg stood, walking to the window to watch as the lady disappeared up the street. He’d never seen her before and, despite his drunkenness, was surprised at the ferocity of his erection. As he turned back to his date, he saw only her back as she exited the bar in a huff, leaving with him the tail end of her torrent of Italian curses. She turned at the door, making a gesture that could only be described as vulgar.

  Turning away, Falkenberg drained his beer. It was probably for the best. He’d had so many women since arriving in Austria that he had, upon a guiltless and introspective examination, neglected his military duties. Falkenberg smoothed his hair down, telling himself, from here forward, to slow down and focus on his duty.

  But Leo Falkenberg’s duty had nothing to do with the Reich or the Wehrmacht. His duty was to himself, and himself only.

  As the room slowly whirled in a haze of alcohol, he remembered the note, barely hanging in his left hand. He sat down, steadying himself as he unfolded it, reading it three times with all the concentration he could muster. Upon finishing, he carefully refolded the note and placed it in his golden cigarette case, afterward sitting perfectly still for a full minute. Falkenberg’s hand was over his mouth as he pondered the note’s contents.

  Then, Oberst Leo Falkenberg dropped twenty reichsmarks on the table, donning his officer’s Schirmmutze hat as he exited the bar and staggered toward his new home. He would take a headache powder and sleep late tomorrow morning, inspection be damned. Falkenberg needed a complete night of rest.

  Because tomorrow promised to be a landmark day.

  And it had nothing to do with inspection and everything to do with the note he’d just received.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  NEIL WORE ANOTHER OF HIS NEW SUITS, this one a toned-down gray. There was a chilly mist falling so he mated a charcoal waistcoat with his suit, topping off the outfit with a near-black fedora. Though he couldn’t have cared less about fashion, it was rather important he look the part. Gabi and Madeline were sitting on the sofa in the cottage, staring at him as he adjusted his hat in the mirror. Schatze slumbered between the women.

  “There’s a p
istol for each of you,” Neil said, pointing to the cushions underneath them. “If anyone at all comes through either of these doors—”

  “We are to shoot them without hesitation,” the two women said simultaneously, cutting him off. Their collective tone was devoid of humor.

  Neil nodded. “Look, I know you both want to help, but in this case, there’s absolutely nothing you can do. A man like this Falkenberg fellow is already going to be skittish. Let me speak to him first, then, together, we can decide what to do.”

  Madeline crossed her arms. “Why are you going ahead with this ruse when you don’t even know where the children are? It makes no sense.”

  “You’re right, Madeline, it doesn’t seem to make sense.” What the hell has made sense in the last two years? “But once we find the children—and we will—we’ll have precious little time to extract them. Doing this now will save us later. And besides,” Neil said, remembering the déjà vu-like feeling he’d had last night when he heard of St. Rupert, “something about the hiding place is right in front of us. I can feel it.”

  “I can’t,” Madeline said flatly.

  Neil stepped to the door, opening it as a damp blast of wind blew into the room. “I’ll be back. This afternoon I want to study every single item we have of Jakey’s. There has to be a clue we’ve missed.”

  He left.

  Neil’s mind was preoccupied with Jakey and where he might have hidden such a large number of children along with their caretakers. And if Jakey had purposefully held back the second page to the letter, as Doctor Kraabe suggested, then Jakey would also have left Neil a clue. Frustrated with himself, Neil hammered the steering wheel with his palm, his gut telling him that there was a sign right under his nose.

  Innsbruck began to slide by. “Focus,” Neil whispered, clearing his mind for this meeting. The children’s location would have to wait. And, fortunately, there was time—albeit not much. Besides, setting the table with Falkenberg would add enormous pressure to find the children.

  Neil worked best under pressure.

  He parked the Horch behind the Innstrasse restaurant where he was due to meet Oberst Falkenberg, afterward striding purposefully through the dingy adjacent alley. Bits of splashed mud pocked his highly-shined brogues. Families milled about under the covered pathways in front of the restaurants and closed shops. Many had been to morning mass and were now in town for a Sunday meal. Madeline told Neil that, before the Anschluss with Germany, the restaurants were only open for Sunday lunch, but now were forced to stay open on Sunday evenings, and to serve alcohol all day. And in copious amounts. Soldiers, no matter their nationality, love their booze, Neil mused. Put them in charge and it’s going to flow freely. After several deep breaths, he removed his hat, swaggering into the restaurant.

  Upon his entry, two Heer soldiers near the door stood, eyeing him up and down. Neil ignored them, heading to the only other patron in uniform. The man was dining alone. Before him was a bowl of creamy soup with what looked like large potato balls in the liquid.

  The man barely looked up, gesturing with his spoon to the opposite chair. Neil handed his fedora and coat to the older lady who shuffled over. He asked for hot tea and nothing else and then he sat, staring at Leo Falkenberg.

  The colonel was blowing on a spoonful of soup. After ingesting it, he turned his icy blue eyes to Neil. “Who is she?”

  “She?”

  “You know who I’m referring to…the girl who brought me the note.”

  Neil crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “No one can know I’m here, Leo. No one.”

  Oberst Leo Falkenberg shrugged, cutting a potato ball with his spoon and eating half in one bite. “Hot,” he hissed, sucking air. After managing to swallow the massive Kartofeln, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and said, “I don’t even know who the hell you are. The local records say you’ve been gone for years, which is confirmed by your curious accent. But you do pay your taxes—a good thing because, otherwise, I would be forced to jail you.”

  Neil watched him as he spoke. He wasn’t classically handsome, but there was something regal about him. His face was slightly off kilter, but deeply-tanned with tight skin and prominent cheekbones. He was probably nearing fifty, doing everything he could to appear forty—Neil spotted a millimeter of gray roots at the base of his slicked-down, smooth brown hairstyle. As Falkenberg eyed him, Neil accepted his tea and chose to remain silent.

  “In your note, you said you needed something from me, and would offer a great reward in return,” Falkenberg said, pushing the soup back and yanking the napkin from his collar. He leaned back, mimicking Neil’s posture.

  “True on both accounts.”

  “Would the girl be a part of the bounty?”

  “No, Leo. You have no shortage of women here in Innsbruck.”

  “We shall discuss compensation in due time. Let us first discuss your request.”

  Neil tilted his chin upward, pulling air in through his nostrils. And so it begins…

  “I need a short cargo train, ready to go at a moment’s notice, at a secluded rail yard. I need paperwork for a clear, unobstructed passage to Yugoslavia. I need to know the exact—and I mean exact—routing of the train to Yugoslavia. I need twenty able-bodied men, and enough accompanying covered trucks to carry them. I need five kilos of Baratol or a similar, and equally effective, explosive, along with detonators, wire, and the sort.” Neil lowered his chin. “I need an absolute green light to do whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. And I need all of this—by this exact time tomorrow.”

  Falkenberg’s tilted face was stolid. He moved his tongue over his front teeth. Then he emitted a chuckle. It became a giggle before it transformed into full-blown laughter. He laughed aloud, his white teeth sparkling as he pressed his oiled hair back with both hands, looking to his soldiers, a maestro, using his hands to encourage their laughter.

  Neil glanced at the soldiers. There was no way they could have heard. They were simply laughing with their boss. He turned back to Falkenberg, who was still laughing. Neil smiled.

  Keep it up, asshole. You’re in for a big surprise.

  When Falkenberg’s laughter finally subsided, he pulled his soup back in front of him and cut another potato, grinning as he chewed.

  Neil leaned forward, making his tone harsh as he leveled his finger at the soldiers. “Send them outside.”

  “Are you daft, man? You do not give orders to me.”

  “Do it, Leo,” Neil said. “Do it now, or you will be sorry.”

  Falkenberg eyed Neil, the way a professional poker player might when he has more chips and a fine hand but his challenger has pushed his entire stack of chips to the center of the table—when the challenger’s smugness triggers an unsettling feeling. After what felt like a full minute, Falkenberg snapped his finger to the NCO, a Feldwebel. The NCO rushed over, popping his heels together in the presence of his superior.

  “Pat him down.”

  Neil stood, lifting his arms. “Weapons only, Leo. He cannot see the document I am here to show you.”

  The NCO listened to this and turned to Falkenberg. Falkenberg nodded with closed eyes, followed by the NCO patting Neil down, taking time under his arms and at his ankles. The NCO straightened.

  “Nichts, mein Herr.”

  “Then take your man and go outside. Remain by the door and keep your ears open.” The NCO dipped his head and obeyed, pushing his subordinate out in front of him. The proprietors were in the back room, probably reviewing their last will and testament, leaving Neil and Colonel Falkenberg all alone. Neil poked the tablecloth with his index finger.

  “So, about my request, it would be highly advisable for you to demonstrate your compliance.”

  Falkenberg lifted the polished silver candleholder, exposing his teeth and studying their reflection. After spiriting away a fleck of pepper with the fingernail of his pinkie, he shook his head, as if he were already bored with this. “Let’s just say, Dremel, I could possibly acc
ommodate your request, just for argument’s sake.”

  Neil removed the National Socialist Party identification booklet from his jacket pocket, laying it flat on the table, the swastika visible between his fingers. “Go on, please.”

  “What sort of monetary enticement would you be able to provide?” Falkenberg asked, his eyes darting downward at the booklet.

  “Leo,” Neil said with familiarity, “at this stage in the Reich’s development, world perception is nearly as important as the strengthening of our own empire, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Falkenberg canted an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have an opinion on such things. I am a soldier.”

  “Well, it is, trust me. Right now all of the talk is about the Sudetenland and Czechoslovakia, and Poland.”

  “So?”

  “In a matter of months Yugoslavia will be the next topic, and we need to give the world a reason to condemn its regime, and to celebrate our stabilizing presence when we engulf their country and her critical ports.”

  Falkenberg shrugged. “This is drivel. Why should I care for such things?”

  “Intelligence, Leo, reports that you had some of the highest raw reasoning scores in officer training. Surely you can see the path upward more clearly than your contemporaries, or should I seek someone else?”

  Falkenberg seemed indifferent for a moment before anger flashed over his face. His voice rose as he spoke. “You speak like you have some sort of authority over me, you piss ant. And now, sir, you’re on the verge of being arrested.”

  “Oberst?” the NCO said, poking his head inside. Falkenberg shooed him away.

  With a single finger, Neil slid the altered Reichsleiter credentials across the table. Falkenberg went for them but Neil flattened his palm over them, making him wait. “Leo, my existence is one of the Reich’s greatest secrets. I’ve spent many years of my life in North America, priming them for what is to come, setting the proper political and economic landmines to those associated with resisting the Reich. I’ve fixed elections. I’ve eliminated enemies. I’ve crashed corporations. I’ve done it all, all in the name of our Führer’s vision, and if you don’t get in lock step with me, right now, and keep my existence as secret as it currently is, you, mein neuer Freund, will be shot before the evening falls. That’s a promise.”