Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Peter’s face was emotionless until he drank in Neil’s image with widening eyes. Then Peter’s face took on a look of horror, followed by relief. The boy exploded into tears, nearly collapsing as he fell against Neil, locking his arms around his waist. Neil frowned, pulling the boy to him as the sobs wracked him with tremors, his mouth buried into Neil’s chest as he moaned. Neil patted Peter’s back, confused as to why this homecoming would cause such emotion.

  Something was wrong. Badly wrong.

  Neil moved Peter backward, quieting him until he could ask the question, “Peter, where’s your mother? Where’s Hildie?”

  Peter’s eyes widened again. It was the expression of someone who thought the other should have known the answer to the question. His wet mouth hung open in horror, and finally Peter yelled out, “She’s dead. They killed her. They killed my mother!”

  ~~~

  Thomas knew he didn’t have much time in Innsbruck. Because today, or tomorrow at the latest, the numerous investigators would swarm in after piecing together the murders of Hildie Heinz and the veterinarian, Baldinger. Thomas would be thrown off the case and probably tossed in jail. He scanned the mostly-deserted streets of the rainy city, reckoning that he probably had twelve to eighteen hours before he was arrested—at best. Until then, Thomas planned to keep looking.

  Having just arrived in town, he was following Herzog Ottostrasse to the southwest, creeping along in his truck, wondering if he should begin with the hotels and pensions. The bright colors of the row buildings were muted by the low gray clouds and wet weather, tugging down his previously excited mood like leaden weights. Innsbruck was larger than he thought it might be, leaving him slightly overwhelmed. Thomas viewed the numerous buildings across the bluish-green water of the quick-moving River Sill, distressed at the amount of area he would have to search.

  Something caught his eye. Across the river sat a young man on a bench, staring directly at Thomas.

  The river and split rail fences were the only boundaries between Thomas and the young man, a separation of perhaps a hundred feet. While many parts of his body had begun to deteriorate, Thomas had always been blessed with good distance vision, and even in the light mist, his eagle eyes did not fail him on this day. Because the young man sitting on that river bench was the Heinz boy—Peter Heinz. Thomas skidded the old Opel Blitz to a stop on the empty street, taking in the surprising sight.

  Peter was not alone. Sitting next to him was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes, peering through the mist at the man.

  He was patting Peter between the shoulder blades in a consoling manner. Peter turned and said something to the man, gesturing to Thomas. The man twisted his head to look at Thomas, and that’s when Thomas realized he was now staring eye-to-eye with the man from the airplane.

  Again.

  The man Hildie Heinz told him about. The mysterious man who’d kept Thomas awake at night for weeks.

  The man who killed Wilhelm Kruger.

  A good man.

  ~~~

  “There’s the policeman,” Peter mumbled, aiming his finger across the Sill.

  An instant jolt of fear shot through Neil, but when he processed what Peter had said, he automatically assumed he was speaking of the regular Innsbruck Polizei. Perhaps Peter had already encountered them since arriving. Then he followed Peter’s pointing finger across the river and joined eyes with a man he hadn’t seen in a month.

  For the third time in ten minutes, Neil’s heart redlined.

  Because stopped across the river in an old pickup was the man from the airstrip in Velden. Neil never forgot a face, especially a face that belonged to a man who’d fired a rifle at him. His mind lurched back to that fateful morning. The old man had arrived just after Neil had shot Willi the German, and Neil clearly remembered his brief encounter with the old man, seconds before his first—and last—stint as the pilot of an airplane.

  And Peter just said the man was a policeman.

  A policeman?

  The man exited the truck, seemingly transfixed as he stared across the river. Neil’s eyes were riveted on him until Peter broke the reverie, his voice distant, defeated.

  “I bet he’s here because I didn’t do as he told me to.”

  “What did he tell you to do?” Neil breathed, his eyes remaining on the old man.

  “He told me to tell the police about my mother.” Peter rubbed his eyes. “But I didn’t. I drove the truck here, instead.”

  Neil considered the possibilities of escape. He looked to his left. The nearest bridge accessible to the policeman was nearly a kilometer away. However, if he was able to get turned around, there was another bridge only a hundred meters behind him. But his truck was on a one-way street, and another car was approaching from behind.

  “Come on,” Neil said, pulling Peter from the bench. They hurried back across Innstrasse, staying to the left of the restaurant. Neil heard the grinding of gears. He looked over his shoulder to see the old man motioning to the driver behind him as he struggled to turn the old truck around.

  There wasn’t much time.

  They splashed through the back-alley puddles to the Horch. Neil yelled for Peter to get in and get down. He grimaced as the engine refused to crank. The smell of petrol filled the cabin.

  “Why are we running away?”

  “That man is trouble,” Neil grunted as he removed his foot from the accelerator, turning bleary eyes to Peter. He made a conscious decision to no longer mince words with the boy. “Peter, get your butt down in the floor and be quiet until I get us out of here.”

  The excitement seemed to have taken immediate effect on Peter. His color had returned, appearing as a rosy flush on his cheeks. He nodded, twisting himself into an impossibly small ball in the floorboard of the Horch, not unlike Madeline had done days before.

  Neil growled his frustration, keeping his foot off the gas as he turned the skinny key—start you old nag!—of the Horch. After what seemed minutes, the engine sputtered twice, wheezing under the starter’s power, finally catching and sending puffs of white smoke pluming down the alley. Neil backed from the parking space before roaring out of the alleyway and onto Höttinger. He pushed the engine hard as the Horch accelerated up the hill, doubling back onto Riedgasse, heading north, away from the cottage in the event his pursuer suspected where he was headed. Once he was five blocks north, Neil slowed to a normal speed and began to breathe again, scanning for the policeman’s truck.

  He needed to get Peter to the cabin but feared the location might be compromised. After a moment’s thought, Neil made the decision to risk it. What choice did he have? He’d have to debrief the boy—not in a harsh manner, but he had to know what Peter told the old man. And was the old man truly a cop? Or was he just telling Peter that to gain his trust? After all, he had been at the airport the night Neil killed Willi the pilot. Maybe the old man was in cahoots with Willi, and was here for revenge. That would be better for Neil. Far better. A pissed-off crook would be considerably easier to deal with than a policeman—especially in a police state.

  Whipping right onto Innstrasse, Neil removed his fedora and sat low in the seat. As he rolled down the street, he spotted the Opel Blitz. It was parked and Neil could see the old man hurrying into the back alley where Neil and Peter had disappeared. They drove past the alley, Neil noting the German plates on the Blitz. He had to slow in heavy traffic two blocks later. The traffic was caused by the line for valet service under the shallow portico at the posh Tyroler Inn.

  Relaxing somewhat, especially with the old man on foot and chasing his tail, Neil fell in line behind a limousine, waiting for a coming auto to pass so he could go around the mini traffic jam.

  “Everything okay?” Peter asked.

  “Just fine, Peter,” Neil answered in as soothing a voice as he could manage. “Just a few more minutes. While we wait, tell me what you know.”

  “I only know about my mother,” he said, his voice hitching. “And
that veterinarian.”

  Neil turned. “What about him?”

  “The old man, the policeman, wrote down that the veterinarian, Doctor Baldinger, had also been murdered.”

  Motionless for a moment as he digested this news, Neil finally and numbly nodded his understanding. He felt the desperate need to examine the situation but knew he first needed to get away. He watched his mirrors and the adjacent streets, looking for the old man. Although he hadn’t yet returned to his truck, Neil was on edge over how long the traffic was taking to clear away.

  Hurry up, damn it!

  The crowd under the portico was heavy as people, their stomachs stuffed with Sunday lunch, struggled to stay dry while they awaited their ride.

  The people…

  With nothing else to do but wait, Neil’s eyes suddenly zoomed in on one person…

  The earth ceased its rotation, screeching to an abrupt halt.

  There was no sound. No movement. Everything stopped, all except for the motion of one human being. He was the only operational organism in the universe, and he stood fifty feet in front of Neil Reuter.

  The man reached into his overcoat with both hands, removing a cigarette from one pocket and a box of matches from another. Cupped his hands. Lit the cigarette. Smoothed his hair. Stared downward at the rear end of the frozen lady in front of him. The corner of his mouth turned up. Picked a bit of tobacco off of his tongue. Glanced around.

  Leering.

  A demon in tailored clothing.

  Preston Lord.

  Preston Lord, United States Department of War.

  Preston Lord, Operational Director of Covert Services.

  Preston Lord, scourge of the earth.

  The earth resumed its rotation. Sounds occurred again. The coming auto passed. Neil coughed, wracked with a spasm from the sudden shock. When it passed he blinked the blur from his eyes, studying the man under the awning.

  Yes…it’s him—it’s Preston Lord, here in Innsbruck.

  With the road momentarily clear, Neil floored the Horch, passing the assembled line of cars with his head turned to the left so Lord couldn’t see him.

  Peter had obviously seen the change in Neil’s demeanor. “What’s wrong? Did you see the policeman again?”

  Realizing he was speeding, Neil eased off the gas pedal. He twisted both hands on the steering wheel as he made his way toward the cottage, nearly overcome by the substantial events of the last ten minutes. The meeting with Falkenberg. Learning that Anton Aying was Jakey’s killer. Finding Peter. Hearing about Frau Heinz’s death. Seeing the man from the airstrip. Learning that veterinarian had been murdered. And then, like a toxic cherry on top, discovering that Preston Lord had tracked him here.

  Laboring to call on his past, Neil did as he’d been taught, deliberately pushing aside the multitude of problems and focusing on only one thing: escape. He motored smoothly, checking mirrors, vigilant for anything out of the ordinary.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Peter asked.

  Though he was doing a fine job of focusing on driving, Peter’s query brought all the problems flooding back. As Neil turned the Horch onto the ascending road to the cabin, he decided to let Peter in on the truth.

  “Everyone knows I’m here, Peter. Everyone.” Neil glanced down at his young friend, shaking his head. “Holy shit, Peter,” Neil said in English before switching back to German. “In all my years, with all I’ve done, I’ve never had the noose clamp down like this before. Ever.”

  “Yes,” Peter echoed in English. “Holy shit.”

  Neil somehow managed to return Peter’s wan smile.

  “Remember when you taught me to chop the wood?” Peter asked after a moment.

  Neil drove on in silence.

  “Do you remember when you taught me to chop the wood?”

  “I remember.”

  “You told me not to swing too hard and to let the axe do all the work.”

  Neil turned back to Peter.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t swing too hard. Maybe you already have the tools.” Peter’s eyes were bright and wide. “Let your tools do all the work.”

  “Remind me of that later, okay, Peter?”

  They pulled into the driveway and stopped at the top of the hill. Neil sat motionless for a moment, still gripping the steering wheel. He closed his eyes, again running down the laundry list of what he was going to have to deal with.

  My God, he thought. Aying, the SS man I’d already been warned about, is Jakey’s killer. Peter is here. Hildie is dead, murdered. A man purporting to be a policeman—who knows I killed Willi Kruger—is here looking for me. And…Neil hammered the steering wheel…Preston Lord is here, too. And that can mean only one thing.

  He’s here to kill me, and who knows who he may have brought with him?

  Neil opened his eyes, resuming his plan of one thing at a time. He glanced back down the road. It was clear. They hadn’t been followed so, for now, the escape was a success. Now, on to the next task—reuniting Gabi with Peter, and telling her the news. A dollop of dread blunted Neil’s soul.

  Pressing the clutch, Neil allowed the Horch to coast down the hill. He stopped in front of the cottage, switching off the engine.

  “Peter, I think you better let me tell your sister about your mother.”

  Peter Heinz, still in the floorboard, nodded before he dipped his head into his folded arms.

  ~~~

  Madeline and Gabi, with nothing else to do, had absently been muddling their way through a hand of gin rummy when they heard the car outside. The two women, along with Schatze, rushed to the front door, opening it and waiting. After a moment, the driver’s door opened and Neil exited, his hat in his hand.

  He was ashen.

  “Everything okay here?” Neil called out.

  “Yes, of course,” Madeline answered.

  Neil walked around the car, opening the passenger door. Peter exited, running around the car and up the stone walkway, nearly tackling his sister as they collided in an embrace. As she hugged her brother, Gabi stared at Neil in bewilderment. Neil moved inside, watching the reunion with a pained face. He motioned Madeline to go to the bedroom and, because she probably sensed something was amiss, she quickly complied. After a moment, Neil pulled the Heinzes apart and spoke several dreadful sentences.

  Gabi’s face was a mask of horror. Then she fainted.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  HAVING LOST PETER HEINZ and the man known as Neil Reuter, Thomas Lundren drove around Innsbruck again, eventually spotting the Heinz family’s Adler truck parked on the main thoroughfare by the river. He parked his own truck in a back alley before walking around to view the converted Adler, sticking out like a sore thumb among the fine automobiles lining the rainy streets of the resort city.

  The questions were overflowing from his mind, cascading like water over a dam on the verge of bursting. Why had the Heinz boy come here? Had the man from the airstrip, Reuter, been at the farm all along and driven the boy here just now? Could the boy have been lying to Thomas before? Was Frau Heinz out of her mind when giving her deathbed confessional?

  Thomas again recalled what she had said: The man with Gabi is a good man. A very good man.

  As Thomas had stared out over the river, Reuter had seemed to be consoling the boy. Then the American had looked up and seen Thomas, and he’d been startled.

  Thomas recalled what Frau Heinz had said about the men who had tortured her, gripping him with her calloused hands: An American man…a bad man. A German man was with him…a constable. They did this to me.

  They had also, presumably, killed the veterinarian. “A good American…with Peter Heinz. Another American, a bad man, and with him a German constable,” Thomas whispered. He stepped from the old Adler to the park bench where Peter had been sitting with Reuter.

  The two men are after him, and after my Gabi.

  The two men, the bad American and the constable, are after him…“him” being the good American named Reuter.


  Thomas watched the rushing water of the River Sill, the mist having no effect on its strong flow. He scooped a pebble from the ground, tossing it into the water as his mind went all the way back to that late summer morning behind his house when he found Wilhelm Kruger lying dead on the airstrip. Reuter had registered utter shock upon seeing Thomas. And Kruger was a deserter—and by all accounts, gutter-slime—from the Luftwaffe, back then named the Luftstreitkräfte. How did he fit into this puzzle? And who was the constable who helped the “bad American” kill Hildie Heinz? Was it Constable Sauer, or was it someone else? Sauer had his hand in the illicit fuel sales all along—it had to be him.

  Thomas’ eyes flickered. A thought passed through his brain before he was able to grasp it. He had just missed something. Something important.

  He dipped his head, knowing he should involve, at a minimum, the local police. There was something brewing in Innsbruck, between two Americans, the Heinz children and a German policeman. Thus far, to Thomas’ knowledge, three people had already died as a result of this situation: Wilhelm Kruger, Hörst Baldinger and Hildie Heinz.

  Thomas removed the locket from his pocket. He opened it, wiping the first droplets of mist from the image of his Greta’s face. “What do I do, Greta?” Thomas breathed. “Should I give the case up to save those children?”

  Help Peter. Help Gabi.

  That’s what Hildie Heinz had told him with her final breath. She had begged him to do it.

  Once, many years before, Thomas had busted up a counterfeiting ring. The ring, he later found, had tentacles that went well into the senior ranks of the polizei. And while no violence had occurred, he had managed to pull the curtain off the ring by being fastidiously secretive about the entire affair. He had not even told his most trusted deputy. Why? Because Thomas knew that greed was among the most intoxicating of human motivators and, in a case like that, he only trusted himself.

  He stared at the picture of his wife, listening for her words. He could envision her, in their kitchen, handing him a cup of hot cocoa and pressing her lips together the way she would do when deep in thought.