Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  Angels Fallen

  by

  FRANCIS JOSEPH SMITH

  Copyright by Francis Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, journal, or on-line.

  First Printing

  PUBLISHED BY AMAZON

  www.amazon.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my Father; You never saw the final version

  but

  I know you were looking over my shoulder the entire time.

  FACTs:

  IN the early spring of 1945, a German train comprised of 46 rail cars packed with five tons of gold, 700 pounds of diamonds, 1,200 paintings, 5,000 Persian rugs, and 1,000 cases of silverware, left Eastern Europe and the advancing Russian army, hoping to reach the safety of Germany within a few days. In early May 1945, after two months of dodging Allied Forces, the US Third Army captured the train. On final accounting, it was missing 17 of its original 46 rail cars and most of its gold and silver cargo.

  ON October 21, 1946, a Top Secret report from a US Treasury Agent declassified in 1997, quoted a "reliable source in Italy" who alerted his superiors about confiscated monies sent to the Vatican Bank "for safekeeping," A sum largely in the form of gold.

  IN a 1998 report issued by the US State Department, Nazi Treasures were identified as having been illicitly transferred to the Vatican Bank after the end of WWII. The Vatican has repeatedly denied any involvement in crimes or the disappearance of any treasure.

  SINCE 1945, the Vatican has refused to open its wartime records to substantiate its innocence……….

  CHAPTER ONE

  TODAY, 9:30 a.m., VATICAN CITY

  Saint Peters Square on a sunny May morning contained the usual tourists as Father Jonathon Lester turned down a narrow service alley a block off the main square.

  Father Jonathon Lester was close to forty-five, lean and fit, standing a hair under six feet, attired in an elegantly tailored black jacket with matching pants. A stiff white clerical collar graced his neck.

  At the alley’s end a solitary door greeted him—a brass plate attached to it read in English and Italian, “Staff Entrance Only.” As he reached for the door’s buzzer the door swung open with a loud, audible metallic click. Father Lester laughed to himself as he realized dozens of security cameras had monitored his progress down the alley. After entering, Father Lester watched as the door slowly closed behind him, its titanium bolts sliding effortlessly back into place within the buildings two-foot-thick concrete walls.

  He nodded to the uniformed guard who now blocked his entry. “Good morning, Heinrich,” he said.

  The burly middle-aged guard stepped aside in acknowledgement, well aware of Father Lester’s identity. “Welcome back, Father. It’s been a couple of weeks since your last visit,” he replied in perfect English. “No need for a walk-through.”

  He motioned Father Lester around the metal detector.

  Father Lester smiled in return. “Thank you, Heinrich. You know how I try to avoid this building as much as possible.”

  Heinrich grinned, fully aware of Father Lester’s aversion to the Vatican Vaults. “Yes, I understand. Shall I notify the boss of your arrival?”

  “No, let me surprise him this one time,” Father Lester said over his shoulder as he walked the remaining 10 meters to where an empty elevator awaited him. He stepped inside and waved back to Heinrich as he pulled the cage doors closed behind him. Once alone, he withdrew a 9mm Beretta from his worn shoulder holster, holding the weapon in his palm as if weighing it. Satisfied, he withdrew a bulbous silencer from his jacket pocket and expertly screwed it into place.

  It was almost eleven o’clock. He’d have to hurry.

  Take a deep breath, he thought as he watched the floors tick off one by one.

  A soft shudder signaled the elevator had reached its destination: The Vatican Vaults—considered one of the most formidable facilities in the world with its hand-carved tunnels dug deep into solid Italian bedrock ten stories below St. Peter’s Square. For over 60 years the vaults had proved a formidable deterrent for any enemy to penetrate.

  “Jesus forgive me,” he said aloud as he stepped into the brightly lit concrete hallway that offered itself. A black windbreaker draped over one arm concealed his weapon. He felt a rising excitement inside him.

  No more than ten meters away at the end of the hallway, a member of the Vatican’s elite Nobel Guard snapped to attention, an Uzi machine gun slung low across his chest.

  “Personal bodyguards to the Pope,” thought Father Lester. “His Excellency must be close.”

  A Dell laptop in front of the young Nobel Guard employed the new Scanworks Facial Recognition Software. A camera mounted atop his desk continually scanned Father Lester’s features as he approached. Within seconds an exact match appeared on the computer screen in front of him displaying both his picture and profile.

  The young soldier touched the tip of his blue beret in acknowledgement. “Good morning, sir,” the soldier barked mechanically. Behind him a thick steel door slid open in response.

  Father Lester nodded as he walked past. Suddenly he stopped, whirled around, flung his raincoat to the ground, and pointed his Beretta at the soldier’s head.

  The young soldier’s eyes went wide before he could react.

  “Bang your dead, Johann,” said Father Lester, his free hand slicing through the air in a sign of the cross at the young guard. “You owe me twenty euro’s this time. Next time it’s fifty.”

  The young soldier shook his head at being caught off guard by the Vatican’s Chief of Special Action Teams. “Bastard,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Father Lester allowed a slight grin to escape as he entered the bunker.

  FRANTIC ACTIVITY ALLOWED Father Lester to gain entrance without much fanfare. He eased through the initial ring of standard government office cubicles, low fabric walls, and gunmetal gray desks before reaching his objective: the offices of the Vatican Special Action Team. Its members frequently compared to those of the American Navy SEALS or British SAS but on a much smaller scale, with the Special Action Team lucky to number in the low teens. But they all handled their respective government’s silent, dirty work.

  Father Lester eyed his superior, Monsignor Sims, as he sat on top of his desk, one leg draped over its side, the other firmly placed on the concrete floor, the Monsignor speaking forcefully into his cell phone.

  Monsignor Sims nodded to Father Lester as he handed him a Cuban Romeo y Julieta cigar. “Sit down, I’ll just be a minute,” he mouthed.

  Head shaven bald, tall but muscular, a white clerical collar topped his black shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms the size of small tree trunks, betraying his younger days as a Boston College offensive lineman. He looked nothing like a man who possessed the full authority to speak and deal on behalf of the leader of the Catholic Church.

  After a few seconds, Father Lester realized the conversation was in Hebrew—one of six languages Monsignor Sims spoke fluently.

  “I no longer have it, we no longer have it,” Monsignor Sims replied angrily before slamming his cell phone on the table. “That arrogant bastard,” he said aloud before he realized Father Lester was staring at him. He paused to compose himself, smiling as he turned to face him. “I know how you detest visiting our little hole in the ground, but I wanted to inform you personally of the news. We have a potentially embarrassing situation whose existence, if it were leaked to the general public, would utterly disgrace the Holy See.”

  A puzzled look spread across F
ather Lester’s face.

  Monsignor Sims handed Father Lester a red folder before continuing. “Our contact in the United States sent that message to us over thirty minutes ago. It seems that after some sixty plus years in hiding our enemies are returning home for a little scavenger hunt. You know what that means don’t you?”

  Father Lester casually scanned the message, having written his doctorate on the papers original theory in his former life of clandestine service for the British Government. “Yes, I understand,” he replied assuredly, “retrieve our product and protect the church at all costs.”

  AT A FAST PACE, Monsignor Sims hurried through the lush grounds of the Vatican Gardens stopping at the Lourdes Grotto, eyeing the Pope deep in prayer. He waited patiently until the Pope looked up, signaling for Sims to join him as he sat on wooden, patio-style chairs, still admiring the grotto.

  Monsignor Sims took a deep breath before he joined the Pope, taking a chair beside him.

  The Pope nodded in greeting. “What news do you bring me, Monsignor?”

  “You must forgive me, Your Holiness. It’s the worst possible kind. I have just authorized the elimination of some of our enemies—all in your name.”

  The Pope reached for Sims’ hand, nodding. “We can’t always afford to play by the rules. Death comes to every man at one time or another.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MARCH 1945

  145km NORTH of BELGRADE, YUGOSLAVIA

  A dry wind sliced its way through the sprawling old growth forest, the sun having set an hour before. Captain Hans Dieter knew his enemy lurked before him waiting, watching, just as a jungle cat readies itself before striking on its helpless prey.

  He was a man of medium height, light brown hair, and piercing blue eyes. A dirty and disheveled army uniform clung to his unwashed body; on his head rested a leather officer’s cap tilted to the side.

  Dieter strained his eyes in the night’s darkness as he absently pulled at a week’s worth of stubble that graced his chin.

  Suddenly a flare burst upon the night’s sky followed by a burst of automatic fire no more than 500 meters forward of his position.

  “Here they come,” Dieter shouted to the fourteen weary souls that constituted the remains of his command.

  Cigarettes were quickly extinguished as the men took up defensive positions on his left and right.

  From the enemy’s position came the high-pitched roar of a single diesel engine.

  Within minutes Dieter and his troops viewed two round beams of light weaving in between hundred-year-old birch trees—the vehicle speeding towards their position.

  Dieter had no desire to see the inside of a Russian prison camp. “Open fire,” he commanded.

  Fourteen weapons heeded his call. The soft thud of lead as it impacted sheet metal and shattered glass signaled their limited success as the vehicle still pushed forward, weaving in and out of control before crashing into a cluster of trees only meters from the Germans’ position.

  Dieter scrambled to the front of the truck, now laying on its right side, its two left side wheels still spinning as if struggling to right itself.

  Looking to his left, he viewed his men expertly move to encircle the truck. When in position one of his men motioned toward the driver’s cab. Dieter nodded. Still crouching, he pushed his weapon up and over the truck’s hood and fired on full automatic, spraying the front cab from side to side. He ejected the empty cartridge in one smooth motion as he sprung up, inserted a new cartridge, and crept silently along the truck’s undercarriage using it as cover until he reached its rear.

  Using hand signals, Dieter motioned for two of his men to take up positions on each side of the truck. He counted to three before casting aside the truck’s heavy canvas flap. Streaks of moonlight aided him as he peered in. Dozens of small wooden crates lay scattered about the bodies of seven bullet-riddled corpses.

  Dieter closed the flap in disgust. “We killed some of our own soldiers,” he said aloud. Opening the flap once more, he used his flashlight to better view the carnage, focusing its narrow beam on the bodies nearest to him.

  Three of the dead soldiers lay clad in heavy black woolen uniforms, white piping lining the edges of their uniform, the notorious white Deaths Head emblazoned boldly upon their shirt collars. Not German soldiers in Dieter’s mind but the dreaded SS—politicalsoldiers—fanatics.

  He aimed the flashlight’s beam to the middle of the truck’s cargo bed—the uniforms of the remaining dead required closer inspection. As he drew near he noticed they appeared more ceremonial than fit for a combat soldier. Dressed in fanciful black baggy silk pantaloons that gave way to yellow stockings and soft black leather shoes, a red woolen shirt covered the chest area topped with a golden breastplate that bore the crest of a charging lion emblazoned on its face.

  Each belonged on a parade ground, not a battlefield, Dieter thought as his flashlights beam moved from body to body.

  Dieter nodded to Private Selig who now stood over him. A puzzled look graced his face. “Captain,” he said matter of factly, using the tip of his machine pistol to point to one of the smartly attired soldiers. “The ones with the fancy uniforms all have their hands tied behind their backs.”

  Dieter wondered why he hadn’t noticed something so obvious. “Here, help me,” he said to the private. They managed to ease the closest body over.

  Metal handcuffs tightly creased the dead soldier’s wrists. “Handcuffs? Why are they in handcuffs?” Dieter said aloud.

  “Let’s flip the rest over.”

  As Dieter grabbed the second body he heard a soft cry in response.

  “This one’s alive,” he said. “Let’s move him outside into the night air.”

  Once outside, Dieter gently laid the soldier on a rain slicker.

  One of Dieter’s men thoughtfully wet a piece of cloth with water from his canteen, dabbing it to the soldier’s lips.

  The soldier managed a slight smile in thanks.

  Dieter leaned over the soldier as he gingerly wiped blood from the soldier’s mouth. “Who are you my friend?”

  The soldier coughed several times. Dieter quickly positioned the soldier on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. Pools of crimson now spotted the ground beside the soldier’s head.

  Dieter leaned down beside the soldier once more. “Your time is near my friend,” he said softly. “What were you doing in this God forsaken place? Where were you coming from?”

  The soldier struggled to speak. “I am…,” he replied in German with a heavy Swiss accent, “an emissary for my Pope.” The blood flowed more freely now. “I must deliver… I must. I have many secrets in the truck.” His eyes rolled back in his head before he could finish.

  Dieter shook his head in disgust mumbling a short prayer in response.

  With time racing against them Dieter turned his attention to the remaining bodies, searching them for wallets, identity tags, or photographs of loved ones. He searched for anything that could assist them in identifying the men. After several fruitless minutes, nothing was found.

  Dieter ordered his men to strip the uniforms from the dead hoping their true identity lay beneath their garments. After several minutes the naked bodies lay side-by-side. Only a crude tattoo of a black orthodox cross was visible overeach soldier’s right breast—the Latin words Filiolus Humilis Servo scrawled beneath each.

  God’s humble servant,Dieter mumbled to himself—his Catholic upbringing betraying him.

  Speed was of the essence. No doubt the Russians were just as curious about the truck’s fate.

  Flashlight in hand, Dieter probed about the truck’s cargo one last time.

  On each wooden crate, a hastily painted German Eagle stood side by side with a royal crest—the crest matching the crest on the breastplates of the dead soldiers.

  Amid the darkened interior Dieter spied one crate whose contents lay partially spilled about.

  Curiosity edged him on. Dieter knelt closer to the box for inspection, ri
pping off its remaining wood slats.

  His eyes grew wide upon viewing its contents.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PRESENT DAY - CHEATEK, NEW YORK

  Brilliant sunshine flooded through the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Hans Dieter indulged in the view his fifty-two-acre property afforded him: lush rolling green hills, interspersed with patches of majestic oak and maple, and numerous marble statues of Greek Gods and Goddesses placed discreetly about the property. My little Versailles on the Hudson he would frequently say to his friends.

  Hans turned to the reflection in the window before him, the figure requiring no acknowledgement. His silver mane was now almost entirely gone. Nothing but empty eyes stared back at him. He turned away in disgust. The doctor’s prognosis said it was only a matter of days or possibly weeks until he would receive a visitor he had evaded for some eighty plus years.

  The soft metallic click of a spade hitting rock reminded him that he was not alone. Hans looked down to where one of the estate’s gardeners worked diligently in the prized Lincoln and Grant rose beds, pruning the same roses his long-departed wife had originally planted.

  He stood in the same spot some 40 years earlier—spying on her as she labored in the midday sun. Surely her beauty outshone the roses she was planting. He remembered how her silky, long brown hair clung to her skin as she turned to see him standing in the window, pushing back the straw hat she wore, waving to him, head tilted to one side, a radiant smile gracing her face.

  Suddenly the pleasant memory faded and another slid violently into its place. One that took place some 40 years before when she died in an apparent robbery attempt—at least that’s how the New York City Detectives recorded it. Another robbery gone astray. But all Hans could remember was his life-long love dying in his arms—taken from him in a filthy Chinatown alley.