Kraabe hung onto every word, a liberated smile on his face. It was like he was experiencing a second childhood.
We’ll see how his face looks if lead really starts flying, Neil thought ruefully.
He found Falkenberg, asking him if his soldiers knew the train was to be defended at all costs, even against their fellow Germans.
“That’s why they’re wearing civilian clothes, Herr Dremel. These are elite soldiers. You could tell them to shoot their own brother and they would ask you, ‘Head or heart?’” He and Neil positioned the soldiers up and down the length of the train, inside the door of the boxcars, surrounded by crates of weapons. Neil viewed each of the doors, satisfied that no one would see the dozens of children hidden behind the crates.
Falkenberg would follow the same general route in his staff car, and would keep in contact by syncing the staff car’s transmitter with the radio on the train.
Ten more minutes passed before the Opel Blitz reappeared, a small amount of steam escaping from the hood. “Never knew I could drive that fast,” Thomas pronounced. He followed Neil into the steam engine’s control compartment, tormented by a coughing fit from the small climb. Neil glanced at Peter and the engineer, both wearing concerned looks over Thomas’ paroxysm.
Holding a scarlet-blotted handkerchief to his mouth, Thomas pointed to a location on the map with his finger. “It’s here, at the water tower. It’ll be on your right side as you travel,” he rasped. “You should be able to see it from quite a distance, but you’ll have to be a crack shot.”
Neil nodded, marking the spot with a grease pencil. “How high?”
“About three meters. Should be a level shot for you if you’re up here.”
After studying the map another moment, Neil straightened, extending his right hand. “I can’t thank you enough, Thomas. You could’ve ended everything if you had not been open-minded.”
Thomas accepted Neil’s hand. “Not everything in this world is black and white. Besides, I haven’t been too pleased with my own government since I was a younger man than you.”
“Well, regardless, you’ve been invaluable.” Neil turned to Peter. “Peter, say goodbye to Officer Lundren.”
Obviously sensing the gravitas of the moment, Peter hugged Thomas, telling him he was the last person to ever speak to his mother. Thomas accepted the boy’s hug, clapping him solidly on the back.
After a moment the old lawman pulled back and nodded with finality to the group, saying, “Good luck, because I think you’re going to need it tonight.”
“You’re clear on what you’re going to do?” Neil asked as Thomas backed down the five-rung metal ladder.
“I’m very clear.” He stood on the ground, looking up at Neil as he stifled a cough. “Let’s just hope I’m not too late.”
As Thomas drove away, Neil could see him bent double, coughing and retching.
Having stepped back into the cab of the locomotive, Neil instructed the engineer to get the train moving. It was now nearly one in the morning. Less than four hours to freedom.
As the locomotive began to move the train, accelerating faster than normal due to the downhill grade, Neil watched Peter as he studied the engineer’s actions. Schatze was on her hind legs, her front paws resting on a ledge, enjoying the growing wind from the speed of the train, blissfully unaware of what might lie ahead.
Neil left the group, moving to the rear of the locomotive. He stood on the elevated platform, letting the chill night air blow his hair backward as he removed a brand new pack of cigarettes from inside his sweater, along with his lighter. He held a cigarette between his lips as he unsuccessfully tried the lighter several times, his mind overrun in melancholia as his thoughts raced between Jakey, and then Emilee, and then their unborn child, and then Gabi, and then Madeline, and then Thomas Lundren. As the track leveled out, Neil tossed the unlit cigarette away and went to work—he hoped it would help him clear his mind.
Below him, in a crate, was an MG-34, identical to the one he had placed in the caboose with Doctor Kraabe and the German soldiers. Neil removed it, tossing the crate and padding over the side and placing the spare barrel and accompanying asbestos glove in a notch at the edge of the platform. He ripped six individual rounds from the belt, placing them in his pocket, then set about locking and loading the machine gun with the belt of ammo from the steel box. Neil called to Peter, instructing him how to feed him the belt in the event of a firefight. A quick study, Peter understood the concept.
“See this right here,” Neil said, pointing to a rectangular indention on the side of the gun. “Hot brass comes flying out from here, so make sure you stand away from it. I’ve seen red-hot shells actually stick to a careless soldier’s cheek before, cauterizing itself to the skin.”
“Ouch,” Peter said, wincing.
Neil removed another cigarette from the pack, bending over behind the windbreak of the engine compartment, cupping his hands and getting one lit this time.
Peter frowned. “I thought you stopped smoking to heal.”
Neil exhaled through his teeth, the white smoke disappearing in the rushing wind. He tapped Peter in the chest with his fist. “Sometimes, Peter, it’s okay to break a few rules.”
Peter’s eyes stayed locked on Neil’s for some time. Then, without expression, Peter disentangled the pack of cigarettes from Neil’s hand, taking one and sticking it in his mouth. He tugged the cigarette from Neil’s mouth, pressing the tip to his own and puffing until it was lit. With Neil still motionless, Peter pushed the cigarette back into Neil’s lips and replied with two words.
“I agree.”
Neil arched his eyebrows but offered no objection.
How could he?
It was the same feeling Neil had experienced when Peter had outmaneuvered him at checkers.
The two men smoked in silence.
After their brief smoke together, Neil spent the next hour traversing the cars, checking on the children, the soldiers and Doctor Kraabe.
~~~
Things progressed rapidly at the corner table in the Tyroler Inn Bar. The two men, Preston Lord and Anton Aying, were piss drunk. Slurred words. Fumbling fingers. To Madeline’s frustration, Aying took an immediate liking to Gabi and Preston Lord to herself. After a short break, the two-piece band was playing an encore. It was nearly 1 a.m. Madeline dragged on a cigarette, rolling her eyes as Lord’s fingers groped around at her midsection while he occasionally tried to kiss her face and neck.
Aying, despite his inebriation, was a bit more suave in how he went about things. He’d turned in the booth, facing Gabi. In both of his hands he held one of hers, kissing it and murmuring ridiculously flattering phrases to her. Neither man seemed the least bit suspicious about why the girls had come to them.
Ego, Madeline thought. Pure ego. How many countries have toppled due to one man’s swollen self-admiration?
And it wasn’t until the band stopped playing that Aying motioned for the waiter, whispering something in his ear. Minutes after that, the concierge, a different one from earlier, appeared. Aying stood, pressing a wad of bills into his hand as the concierge nodded and rushed away.
“What was all that?” Madeline asked, leaning over the table and slurring her own words in an attempt to sound genuinely drunk.
“I’m getting a suite.”
“Why?” she asked, beginning to panic.
She had to be with Aying. She absolutely had to.
“Preston’s already got a nice one, don’t you Liebling?” Madeline asked.
“I do. It has a big bed, too,” Lord said, rotating his eyes to Gabi.
“Just hold off on that room, okay?” Madeline asked Aying. She motioned with her head to Gabi. “We need to powder our noses. Be right back.” She held Gabi’s gloved hand, pushing through the diminishing crowd and into the hotel lobby restroom.
Gabi untwisted a mint from the counter and said, “Haven’t we held them long enough?”
“No,” Madeline hissed through clenched te
eth. “Not nearly long enough, and we have to get them in one room together.”
“Why?”
“We just do. That way we can stay in contact with each other.”
“How do we keep them together?”
Madeline applied lipstick, pressing her lips together. “Never you mind, just cooperate with me when we get out there. Once we all get to the room, play them along a bit, maybe another half-hour, then tell them you have to run back to the bar for something you forgot.” Madeline aimed a finger at Gabi. “But go alone. Do not let either man accompany you.”
Gabi’s eyes narrowed. “I’m confused, Madeline. What are you planning?”
Madeline gripped both of her hands, squeezing tightly, smiling reassuringly. “Just do it, okay?”
Gabi nodded, a concerned look on her face.
They reappeared at the booth to find Aying and Preston Lord standing. Just then, an attendant appeared, handing both men their overcoats and hats. Madeline put her arm around Gabi’s waist, pulling her close.
“I hope neither of you are tired.”
Lord’s eyes went wide as his mouth fell slack. He placed a palm on the table for support. Aying, however, expressed mild distaste as he turned away. The concierge reappeared, placing a heavy gold room key into Aying’s hand and murmuring something to him.
“Are we ready?” Lord asked.
“To the lift,” Aying commanded.
At the elevator’s door, Aying instructed his junior SS man to go home and be back at eight in the morning. The attendant closed the two gates before moving the brass throw-lever up, setting the elevator in motion. They stopped at the top floor, Preston Lord’s floor. When the gates were opened, Madeline tugged on Aying’s hand, simultaneously grabbing Gabi around her waist.
“The two of you should come with us,” she breathed. “It’ll be twice as much fun.”
Gabi took the cue, moving her hand up and down Aying’s chest and whispering to him, “I agree. Let’s all be good friends, tonight.”
The attendant, a short, middle-aged man with a dark Caesar’s crown, breathed deeply at the sight. He looked down in embarrassment, but noticeably twisted his head to make certain he heard everything.
Aying nobly lifted his chin, cinching his arm around Gabi’s waist, pulling her back into the lift. “I’m a proper man and a traditionalist. Perhaps, Herr Lord, this type of thing goes on in the United States.” He irritably motioned Lord and Madeline on. “But here, we do things a bit differently.”
As the attendant locked the gates, Madeline and Gabi joined eyes. Gabi’s eyes showed remorse. Madeline’s sparkly eyes displayed understanding.
She waved goodbye.
For the final time.
~~~
Madeline entered Lord’s quarters, a Roman-inspired corner suite with commanding views of the mountains to the north and east. Each peak was highlighted by moon glow, casting purplish light down on the majestic formations. Lord removed his jacket and pulled out his tucked-in shirt, unbuttoning it, tossing his cufflinks to the floor. From the bar he took a bottle of unopened Scotch, breaking the seal and guzzling from it. Lips glistening, a carnivorous expression on his murine face, he crossed the floor, grasping Madeline roughly and rubbing himself against her.
Madeline pushed away from him, her mind racing through a pit of dread as she moved by the window. The evening had been a disaster. The exact opposite of what she had intended to happen had happened, and even when she tried to save it with her best, and most ribald effort, it had failed miserably. And now, here she was, stuck with this creepy American who played no role in her own personal scheme.
He crossed the room again, still swigging liquor, and this time tried to yank her dress down over her breasts. She pressed him backward, irritation on her face.
He tried again.
She shoved him.
Preston Lord slapped her without hesitation. Pop!
The violent action was exactly what Madeline needed. She leaned back against the paned window, staring at him, her face registering appropriate shock. The salty taste of drawn blood mingled with the saliva in her mouth. Lord’s wet lips glinted as he leered at her, looking like a vampire in the darkened room. Madeline thought back to Neil’s descriptions of this man, just after he had come back with Peter. Neil relayed several accounts about Preston Lord, the American he was so surprised to have just seen. Neil detailed a rumor, one he believed, about a coed Lord had allegedly raped, afterward using his influence to deflect the investigation elsewhere. Neil also relayed the tales of several of the team’s killings and how, after reflection, he felt Lord had ordered the individuals killed for his own personal gain.
As her face throbbed, Lord continued to ogle her, gritting his teeth in a maniacal smile.
A monster.
Just like Aying.
Different. But same.
Madeline forced a smile. “So, you want it rough, do you?” she asked, lashing out and scraping his skinny chest in a cat’s swipe, drawing blood.
He touched the claw marks, chuckling.
Madeline undid her tight black dress, pushing it to the floor, leaving her heels on.
Lord’s breathing became audible as he rubbed himself through his suit pants. He took another long pull on the scotch and removed his undershirt, displaying a skinny body with sinewy muscle. He moved to her, grabbing her arm and digging his own fingernails in as he pulled her to the bedroom. Madeline sucked in a sharp breath as something occurred to her. She looked back at her dress. Her clutch lay next to it.
He tossed her on the bed, slapping her legs out of the way before fully undressing.
The next four minutes were the most repulsive of her life.
When finished, Lord lay next to her, smoking a massive cigar. He stared up at the ceiling, his hand roaming her body, displaying not a hint of tenderness. It was the touch of ownership—he knew no bounds.
“Why are you in Innsbruck?” Madeline asked, the pillow nestled under her head as she stared at him, pondering what she should do.
“I go anywhere I want,” Lord replied.
“But why here?”
He twisted his head to look at her. “What’s it to you?” His German, while adequate, held no effort at all to add the proper accent.
She took his hand, pushing it backward. “Why are you here? Americans are running the other way, not coming here.”
He puffed the cigar, blowing the smoke in her direction. “I’m here to kill a man.” The way he said it—it was not unlike a person ordering a bowl of soup and a sandwich.
“Why?”
“He’s trying to wreck my plans.”
“How’s that?”
Irritation spread over him as he flicked the cigar in her direction, sending ash on her torso. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Lord smiled indulgently, though there was no good humor involved. “Your fellow Austrian, Hitler…even though he’s a fanatical, self-absorbed, world-class lunatic, is temporarily needed.”
“Needed by whom?”
“The United States...hell, most of the world.” Lord puffed the cigar. “For the time being.”
“Why?”
“Because of the Russians, you little minx. Their communism makes fascism look as pleasurable as Munchkin Country from that book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”
Madeline took two deep breaths, bolstering herself before she asked, “And what of the things Hitler and the Nazis are doing to the Jews? The expulsions. The looting and burning of businesses. The killings.”
Lord eyed her before turning his eyes back to the ceiling, placing the great cigar into his mouth and puffing thoughtfully. “Once…I guess it was seven or eight years ago…I screwed a Jewish gal up under the pier at Coney Island. Turns out, the nasty little whore gave me the crabs.” He snorted. “I didn’t notice the crabs at first. They itched a bit, but not bad enough that I knew anything was wrong.” He turned, staring at Made
line. “But those little crabs started to multiply, and the itching turned to burning and then outright agony.” He grinned. “Those crabs were kinda like the Jews. A few aren’t too bad, but Hitler’s smart. You let those bastards start multiplying and then you’re in for some real trouble. They’ll take over everything.” He jabbed the cigar into his mouth and said, “I’ve got no beef that he wants to rid the world of them.”
Allowing his words to burn into her mind, she remained quiet for a moment. Finally, she nodded to herself. That settles it. Madeline leaned over him, hand roaming. She made her voice sultry as she asked, “Can you do it again this soon?”
“Are you kidding?” he asked, putting his cigar on the nightstand.
“In just a moment,” she said, standing.
“Where are you going?”
“I hope that bar of yours has some vodka. I hate scotch.”
The moonlight illuminated Madeline’s petite body as she crossed the room, wearing only her heels.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
ANTON AYING FUMBLED WITH GABI’S DRESS as he kissed her neck and shoulder. He’d tried very hard to romance her upon entering his suite. First, he talked to her, staring into her eyes, sounding every bit the bad actor who was trying to win a part. His flowery language bored Gabi almost to tears. Aying had popped champagne, making a great production of a feeble toast about this being one of the finest nights of his life. Gabi watched him the entire time and, although she wondered where his wife and children were, she was unable to merge her current image of this insipid man with the cold-blooded killer Neil alleged him to be.
He unzipped the back of her dress, gently easing it downward as he turned her to face him. Gabi simulated a sigh, her mind elsewhere. How could she confirm that this man was as dangerous as she’d been led to believe?
“Anton?” she whispered.
He was trying to work the form-fitting dress over her hips. Pulling back, he briefly glanced at her bare breasts before looking into her eyes. “Yes, darling?”
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