Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Thomas walked to the door, running his hand over the black paint that had been used to paint over the word. Such a sight was not uncommon; old, used police cars were often sold near the end of their useful life. But Thomas felt he knew this particular constable’s car. He moved to the rear, staring at the Austrian license plate. The flat-head screws were twisted tightly into the bumper. Thomas touched the surface around one of the screws, pulling his wet finger back with the residue of paint and metal filings. The plate had been installed recently and Thomas would bet his farm and livestock it was stolen.

  He checked the far side of the building. There was a fire escape above, and only one rear door on the first floor. He walked around to the main entrance. As soon as he stepped through the first set of doors, an overly solicitous doorman took Thomas’ coat and hat. As soon as the coat was off, the doorman turned up his nose upon seeing Thomas’ plain worker’s clothes, asking him if he might be in the wrong place. Thomas ignored him, pushing through the rotating main door into the swank lobby.

  Brahms played softly, coupled with the din of a large crowd of guests forced to stay inside on such a dreary evening. In the center of the lobby, sitting at a round, gilded table, four beautiful people appeared to be laughing at a joke or a funny story, doing their best not to spill their fancy cocktails. The men wore extravagant suits and polished shoes with shiny buckles. The women were decked out in dresses of the finest, flashiest design, matched with all the requisite accouterments. Thomas passed the group, taking note of the large number of military officers and SS. He headed to the concierge desk. The uniformed man working behind the massive walnut counter was smoking a cigarette, reading something, concealing it below the shelf. Upon sensing Thomas’ presence, the concierge snapped to attention with a beaming smile. The smile quickly faded as he eyed Thomas.

  “Good evening,” Thomas said.

  The concierge arched his brows.

  Thomas placed his hands on the counter. “I need your help.”

  “You’re not a guest.” It wasn’t a question.

  Thomas flipped his aged badge onto the counter top. “I’d suggest you do whatever it is you need to do to improve your attitude. I’m pressed for time.”

  Shaking his head in irritation, the concierge moved from behind the desk. He stopped before Thomas, clasping his hands in front of him in a practiced manner. “I’m Fritz. How might I assist you?”

  “Fritz, I need to see your guest list.”

  The concierge pursed his lips and closed his eyes. “Police or not, I cannot allow that without a judge’s order and I have precedence to back me up. We have many influential guests here in our hideaway city who…well, as you can imagine…they don’t want their identities known for obvious reasons. And many are ranking party officials, I might add.”

  Thomas tucked the badge into his pocket, curling his finger to the concierge. “Come close, Fritz.”

  The concierge rolled his eyes and leaned closer, turning his ear.

  “You get that damned list right now or I’m hoofing it over there to the Hofgarten and speaking to my SS friends, who have great interest in what I’m doing by the way, and I’m telling them Fritz the concierge from the Tyroler Inn is highly uncooperative.” Before the man could protest, Thomas lifted a crooked finger. “I’ll also report you as a sexual deviant of the juvenile persuasion, a thief, an enemy of the National Socialist Party, and a sworn opponent of the Anschluss.” Thomas offered a thin smile. “And I’ll tell them that when I told you the SS was interested in what I’m here doing, that you said ‘to hell with the SS and everyone serving in it.’”

  The concierge straightened, horrified.

  Thomas winked. “Does that top your court order, Fritz?”

  “Yes,” the concierge whispered.

  “Now, you can avoid all that by just getting me the list.”

  The suddenly sweaty Fritz rushed to the front desk, back in moments with a leather-bound book. “Use it as long as you need it,” he said, nearly throwing the book at Thomas.

  “Thank you, Fritz.” Thomas carried it to a chair in the corner of the lobby and slowly perused the names: Hammerschmidt from Herborn. Jaworski from Waldgirmes. Humphries from Dublin. Glinke from Wettenberg. Von Berg from Giessen. Barreto from Venice. Düking from Frankfurt.

  The next one made Thomas cock his eye: Diplomat guest.

  Nothing else beside the title. There was no name and no address.

  “Fritz!” Thomas called out.

  Fritz sprinted across the lobby.

  Thomas stabbed the black ink. “The diplomat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I honestly don’t know his name,” Fritz said with a shaky voice. “They have privileges of privacy and that is the unvarnished truth on the heads of my children.”

  Thomas turned his eyes up to the concierge. “Relax, Fritz.”

  Fritz exhaled and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Do you know the diplomat by face?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. An excellent tipper and he’s used my…services…several times.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  The concierge hesitated, licking his lips. Thomas glared at him, widening one eye. C’mon Fritz, those camps are waiting.

  “I’m almost certain he’s American.” Fritz removed his wire-rimmed glasses and nervously polished the lenses with a handkerchief. “Would this have anything to do with Standartenführer Aying?”

  Thomas remembered what Neil had told him about Aying. “It might.”

  “Because they’re probably still in the bar, together. The diplomat had me retrieve the SS commander a short time ago.” Fritz cleared his throat. “I assume, since you’re here on the SS’s behalf, that you’ve made Standartenführer Aying’s acquaintance?”

  “Why don’t you let me ask the questions, Fritz?”

  “Uh, certainly, sir.”

  “The bar, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thomas stood, retrieving several reichsmarks from his pocket, handing them to Fritz along with the hotel register. He crossed the lobby, following the smell of beer, smoke and perfume. Ragtime music began to clash with Brahms, becoming overbearing by the time he reached the rear of the building. A set of double French doors opened to a darkened room, marked by purple lighting. Thomas walked inside, amazed at the noise. Only in a resort town on a rainy Monday evening could you find a packed bar at dinnertime.

  He walked around the establishment, careful to watch where he stepped. The bar contained multiple step-downs, barely outlined by floor lighting that one would miss if his eyes weren’t accustomed to the semi-darkness.

  Thomas didn’t know the music, but it certainly was loud, coming courtesy of the live, two-piece ensemble at the back of the Berlin-style bar. A drenched man was bent over the keys of the piano, the sweat pouring off of him the way the rain had cascaded off of Thomas minutes before. He was banging on the keys with stiff fingers, somehow managing to create a cousin to actual music in his manic frenzy. Another man, this one with longish, sweaty black hair and an enormous nose, leaned over his band mate, his eyes closed, thumbing a large bass in rhythm, creating the frenetic cacophony of modern song.

  Thomas made his way back to the front of the saloon, pushing up to the mahogany bar, holding a ten pinched between his fingers until the busy bartender yelled to him, taking his order. Thomas ordered a mineral water and beckoned the bright-eyed bartender in close.

  “Do you get many Americans in here?”

  The bartender slid the change over as he shouted his reply. “Not as many as we used to.”

  “Have you served any recently?” Thomas shouted.

  The bartender nodded immediately. He stood on a stepstool, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the throng. Thomas watched the man’s eyes, knowing he was looking for someone in particular. After ten seconds of looking, the man zeroed in, pointing to the right side of the bar. He leaned down, keeping his hand helpfully pointing at the
table. “Right over there. Been in the hotel a day or two. Fancy American. He’s sitting with the man.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Standartenführer Aying.”

  Thomas tried to see them, barely catching a glimpse of their sunken round booth. “Who is Aying?”

  The bartender grinned crookedly. “You’re obviously not from here.”

  Thomas shook his head. “No.”

  The bartender leaned all the way over the bar so that his mouth was almost touching Thomas’ ear. “He’s only the most powerful man in all of Tyrol. And you don’t want to be on his bad side, if you get my drift.” The bartender leaned back, winking.

  Thomas nodded his thanks, sliding his change back as a considerable tip. He grasped his water, never taking a sip, and crossed the bar in the direction of Aying and the American. When he was ten steps away, a large SS soldier stood, blocking Thomas’ way. The lightning-like SS runes stood out boldly on the man’s uniform, like a deathly stop sign to those who were unwelcome.

  “I want to speak with Standartenführer Aying and the American.”

  “No visitors,” the SS man replied.

  Thomas leaned around him, making eye contact with the SS Standartenführer who had gray eyes to match his uniform. Thomas made a talking motion with his hand. The Standartenführer was smoking a cigarette; he narrowed his eyes and curled his finger at the burly bodyguard. The guard poked Thomas in his slight chest, telling him to stay put. After listening to his boss for a moment, the giant returned and leaned down to Thomas.

  “What do you want?”

  “The American man they’re both looking for,” Thomas said, gesturing to Aying and the man he presumed to be Preston Lord. “I’m looking for him, too. And I have some information they might be interested in.”

  The man listened to Thomas, holding a solitary finger up for Thomas to wait. As he leaned over and relayed the information, Thomas saw both men’s reaction as if their seat suddenly became electrified. Aying pushed his bodyguard out of the way and curled his hand at Thomas, sliding over so he could sit.

  From the depths of depression just days before, Thomas’ excitement level now soared to the heavens. Both men stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to spill his guts—something he might eventually have to do. Literally.

  And now the real game begins, Thomas thought, allowing his aged smile to reappear.

  ~~~

  It was nearly seven in the evening. The heavy rain made the coming night settle over Innsbruck chillingly early. The warm sunshine of earlier was a distant memory. Neil sat at Doctor Kraabe’s desk, in his study. He wrote several lines, immediately scratching over them like a madman before crumpling the paper and tossing it into the garbage can. His left hand resumed its place, pressing back through his hair as he scribbled again. Madeline and Gabi sat with Doctor Kraabe in the next room, whispering in an effort not to disturb Neil. Once, frustrated with Neil’s manic solitude, Madeline had stood to intervene. Finger over her mouth, Gabi shook her head back and forth.

  Don’t do that, Madeline, Gabi’s eyes said. He’ll explode like a stick of dynamite.

  Madeline exhaled so loudly it became a moan. She sat back down, jerking a magazine from the coffee table and thumbing through it with feigned interest.

  Peter was the only one not waiting on Neil. Sitting in the kitchen, alone, Peter listened to a German radio show. It was about a detective, a National Socialist—of course—closing in on a band of wicked Polish criminals bent on destroying the Reich.

  The back door clicked open and shut. Everyone but Neil rushed into the kitchen. Gabi turned off the radio, drawing a quick protest from Peter before he caught her electric gaze.

  Thomas stepped into the kitchen, his shoes and lower trousers soaked. “Where’s Herr Reuter?” he asked.

  Neil appeared, holding the tablet of paper with the scrawled pages. “Did you find them?”

  “I did…thick as thieves, drinking in the bar.” Thomas coughed, digging his fingers into his upper chest as if it might help. When he’d recovered he rasped, “Your American, Lord, has enlisted Aying’s help.”

  “Paying him handsomely, no doubt,” Neil muttered, staring at the wall as he shook his head. “Did they believe you?”

  “I changed the story after hearing something that was said. Somehow, some way, Preston Lord is under the impression you’re here to assassinate Adolf Hitler.”

  Everyone in the room turned their eyes to Neil. Neil, a knowing look on his face, nodded. “Yes, well, that’s been suggested a time or two.”

  “Apparently Hitler is not within five hundred kilometers of here right now, and won’t be anytime soon. Because of that, I got the impression that Lord’s not in a huge hurry.”

  “Well, he’s staying at the nicest hotel in town,” Neil remarked. “Knowing him, he’s having a working holiday.” Neil glanced at the tablet in his hand. “How did you change the story?”

  “Hitler’s retreat, in Obersalzburg…”

  “Yes?”

  “I told them you were awaiting his return, and that’s where you would strike.” Thomas’ eyes crinkled in merriment as he surveyed the room. “And I told them that I have reason to believe you’re hiding out somewhere near Salzburg.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I don’t see why not, but they didn’t rush out of the bar, if that’s what you mean.” He moved closer to Neil. “So the answer is yes…I do think they both believed me, and I think before I arrived, neither man had much to go on. In fact, Standartenführer Aying has guaranteed me an agonizing death if he finds out I’m lying.”

  Neil and Doctor Kraabe exchanged a look. Peter scratched his head, probably struggling to return to reality after the fiction he’d just enjoyed. The two women deflated and stepped back into the sitting room. Neil motioned to the kitchen table where the four men sat. Schatze joined them, curling up at Neil’s feet.

  “There’s a potential problem,” Thomas added.

  “What’s that?” Neil asked.

  “There are soldiers everywhere in that hotel. What if just one of them hears that Falkenberg is rallying a group of men? What if word leaks to Aying?”

  Neil massaged his eyes. “We’ll just have to chance it. I know of no other way.”

  “That’s dangerous,” Gabi interjected. She looked at Madeline and the two women nodded at each other.

  “I agree,” Neil said, missing the unspoken communication between the women. “But Falkenberg is being paid to keep this quiet. He wants the balance of his money.”

  “It’s still a concern,” Thomas replied.

  “Did you tell them your name?” Neil asked.

  “I most certainly did. It was necessary to do so, and to show them my special orders. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have believed me.”

  “Very risky,” Doctor Kraabe muttered.

  Peter averted his eyes. “Just think about my mother and what happened to her.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Peter,” Thomas said, patting him on the back.

  “Were they suspicious?” Neil asked.

  “Well, since I’d had that run-in with you at the airstrip, I first told them about Willi Kruger.” Thomas cleared his throat, fighting off a coughing spasm. In a hoarse voice, he said, “I told them I spoke to him before he expired, and he told me you were going to kill Hitler at the party rally, with the airplane.”

  “As in a suicide?”

  “They didn’t ask, but they most certainly believed that. In fact, your American, when I told them this, shook his head and said, ‘I knew it,’ in English.”

  Neil’s eyes widened at Thomas’ craftiness. “Very good.”

  “And I told them that, since you were shot, I knew you would have to lie in wait somewhere.”

  “Did they ask why the pilot and I had a confrontation?”

  “They did, and I simply explained it as the type of thing that happens between two unsavory people.”

  Doctor Kraabe patted Th
omas on the back. “You did very well, sir.” Thomas coughed again, into a brown-mottled handkerchief, making Kraabe stare at him with great concern.

  Neil placed his palms flat on the mahogany table. “Was Aying angry with you, for supposedly keeping all of this to yourself?”

  “I think he was more concerned with taking over. Stopping a Hitler assassination attempt, will net him a seat beside the Führer…at least in his mind it will.”

  “What about Lord?” Neil asked.

  Thomas accepted a glass of water from Kraabe. “He only had one point, and he made it repeatedly.”

  “And what was that?” Neil asked.

  Thomas pointed fingers at Neil, simulating a gun. “That you have to die.”

  Peter furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t Aying call in the rest of the SS to find Neil, if all this were true?”

  Neil patted his young friend on the back. “Two reasons, Peter. I have zero doubt that my former employer has no desire for this story to get out. If the Nazis knew an American, in the employ of the government, was here to kill Hitler, we could become mortal enemies overnight. Lord wants the Germans focused on the Russians and peoples east of here. They might even change my identity if they were to kill me.”

  “So, even though the U.S. doesn’t like Hitler, they want him to win?” Peter asked, screwing up his face.

  “Sort of,” Neil said. “Some in our government would like Hitler to run east for a while, to weaken the Russians.”