Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  Hans mustered an ear-to-ear grin at seeing the look of surprise, nay shock, upon Father Dan’s face, having looked forward to this moment since he first found out about Father Dan’s secret identity.

  Arising from his chair, neither caring for the sudden shift in tone nor the accusation, Father Dan slammed his half-empty whiskey glass down on the nightstand. “Damn it Hans, are the drugs affecting you so badly that you would accuse your best friend of something as ridiculous as this?”

  “I’m not finished yet, Dan. Sit your ass back down and listen to what I have to say.” The excitement was a little too much for him as he once again reached for his oxygen line, placing it under his nose, a wave to Father Dan signifying he was okay.

  Father Dan sat back down. “All right, you don’t have to have a heart attack before your cancer takes you away.”

  Both waited several uncomfortable minutes until Hans could proceed.

  “Let’s try this one more time.” Hans sought the right words to say to his dear friend without totally offending him. “You don’t have to worry about your previous life in Ireland. I haven’t told a soul, scouts honor.” Hans held up his hand up as if he were swearing an oath in court. “I’ve kept your little secret all this time and even deflected some inquires by our own authorities. Hell, if you remember, I even sponsored your citizenship.”

  Father Dan smiled in agreement. The citizenship party Hans threw for him lasted for 2 days.

  “I had plenty of time and chances to turn you in, if I had wanted too,” he said. “Let’s get back to the reason you’re here. It’s simple really—I want you to use some of your covert connections here in the U.S. and overseas to help my son to bring the rest of the gold back to the states.”

  “But, Hans, I…”

  Again Hans cut him off. “Enough, Dan, I’ve known about your secret identity since the first years you stepped foot on our humble shores. I’ve made it a point to have each and every one of my close friends investigated to safeguard myself from any possible threats. It’s just a precaution I take due to my own checkered past. Many years have passed since I had your records verified through an old German army friend of mine who worked at INTERPOL.”

  Father Dan’s eyes went wide with the mention of INTERPOL.

  “Have no worries, your secret will remain buried deep in some obscure file placed in a storage building in Luxembourg. I also had my friend, shall we say, borrow from your record any of the real damaging accusations made against you. Of course, this will leave you free to travel anywhere in Europe—well, almost anywhere in Europe, obviously not Ireland or England. I understand they still have a high price on your ugly mug.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Hans,” he said. “As your trusted friend and confident, I never should have tried to keep this secret from you. I truly thank you for not betraying me or my cause. It happened a long time ago and I have tried to put it all behind me.”

  Hans knew a thing or two about secrets. Reaching out, tapping his friend on the arm, signaling for him to stop, he had his confirmation. “It’s your turn to delight me in a story, Dan,” Hans said, dropping the Father portion. “I mean, I can just call you Dan, right, since you really aren’t a priest?”

  Dan nodded.

  “How did you settle on the priest disguise? Why not a trucker or a steelworker? You would have blended in easier.” He jokingly reaches for his bedpan in anticipation of the story to come. “This should be a real doozy.”

  “You really know how to make someone feel welcome don’t you? But I must compliment you on your detective skills my friend. Well, as you have obviously known for twenty some years, I am not a real priest per say, but I do live as best I can to uphold a priest’s convictions. I could not and will not soil the reputation of a religion that has provided me a wonderful refuge for all of this time—a forced one at that. Now, let’s regress to a time when I was a young naïve lad from the country with dirt behind my ears, atime when I was more than willing to blindly follow someone for the cause—becoming a member of the outlawed Irish Republican Army. It was my little way of striking back against those who ruled our land. You know the details better then I on that one.”

  A well-versed student of history, Hans motions for Dan to carry on.

  “As a common soldier, I was assigned to the Belfast Feinian group which happened to be the most radical of all the IRA splinter groups. After a few years of destroying police stations and maiming Ulster soldiers, my supervisors provided me with a new assignment. Unfortunately for me, this particular job would forever shape my destiny.”

  Dan filled his now empty glass with water, taking a sip before continuing. “My primary assignment was to destroy a certain hotel when a militant Ulster faction would be occupying its upper floors for supposed peace talks.” Dan stopped for a moment as if in contemplation, smiling, before carrying on. “Looking back now, if I had the brains to refuse the job; who knows? I might have been a history teacher in some Shannon middle school classroom.” He allowed a half-hearted smile to escape, looking out the bedroom window and thinking of what might have been.

  He continued. “After performing the mission without fail, my name happened to surface at the local police constabulary as a potential suspect. Someone had dropped the dime on me. One of my many enemies I suppose but who really knew? I required a quick vacation out of Ireland until the heat wore off. That’s when my little demon appeared. When I was trying to escape Ireland twenty-two years ago, I went into hiding at a local Catholic Church that was sympathetic to the IRA cause.

  During my time spent at the church, I helped out doing various duties—cleaning, carpentry. It was about this time that I met a mysterious man who called himself Father Perluci. He represented himself as a meek and humble man from the Vatican, out to help me in my unfortunate plight—turns out he was as much a priest as I am now. No, sir, he was an agent who used the disguise of a priest in order to put his prey at ease. Perluci worked in a little known Vatican office that is the equivalent to the American CIA or British MI-6, only the people don’t work for money. They do it for religious conviction. Perluci was well aware of my radical background and threatened to expose me to the English unless I crossed the line and came to work for them. Within a week, they provided me with an alias that allowed me to leave Ireland on favorable terms.”

  “But why did the Vatican send you here?” Hans asked. “What was their purpose?

  Dan nodded. “The Vatican needed the use of someone with my obvious talents.”

  He rose from his chair, patting his friend on the hand. “As far as helping your son, I will protect and help him in any way I can. I promise you on my mother’s grave. And one more thing; don’t you die on me until we get back. Did you hear me you old coot? You still owe me a night of storytelling over an excellent bottle of cognac.”

  “Get out of here you Irish Mick before I call the English embassy.” A lone tear escaped down his cheek, wondering where all of the years had gone. “Could you please tell my son to please come in here for a moment?”

  Dan exited to the anteroom, taking a seat on a hard-metal chair opposite the day nurse, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

  Jim walked into the bedroom before slowly closing the door behind him, moving to his father’s bedside, and taking his cold almost lifeless hand into his own. In doing so he briefly experienced a childhood memory when his father would bring him some hot chocolate or a comic book when he lay sick, temporarily taking away the sting of whatever had ailed him.

  Jim smiled. “Well, did you get everything off your chest Dad? I know you and Father Dan go back a long time.”

  A grin greeted him. “Yes, everything is out in the open between us now,” Hans said softly, pondering how to broach the next subject. “Let’s be truthful, Jimmy. I don’t think I’ll be alive much longer. I sure as hell won’t be alive when you find the gold, so I want you to do me one last favor.” He motioned for Jim to sit down in a chair by his bedside.

  ”Please sit where a son
belongs, beside his Father, and let’s just talk awhile.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Venturing outside for some well-deserved fresh air, Jim bid a hasty retreat from the mansion.

  The sudden rush of air seemed exhilarating. Pausing at the house’s entrance, he noticed Dan standing alone by the edge of the west wing garden.

  Dan stood smoking one of his trademark Ashton cigars, by now half gone. He tossed small white pebbles at the coy fish that resided in the pond’s murky waters, watching them rush off in a variety of directions in response.

  Dan exhaled small white ringlets. He noted Jim’s approach out of the corner of his eye before turning to face him. “May I be so bold as to inquire what your old man had to say? Did it have anything to do with the expedition we are about to embark on?”

  “No, on second thought, don’t tell me anything. Your face says it all. But did he happen to tell you about my actions in Derry, or Cork, or any of the other distant places that I’ve tried to extinguish from my dreams each night while I sleep? Or did he tell you the main reason we both drink in excess is to extinguish the past in which so much of our lives are intertwined—the killings, death, bombings.” He took a long drag on his cigar, exhaling after several seconds before continuing. “I have something to tell you my friend. War is horrible at best. If you are lucky enough to live through it you want to spend the rest of your life in peace. Your father and I are part of a different breed of men, one that is gradually leaving this world’s existence for another hopefully better one.” He dropped the remainder of his cigar on the gravel path, extinguishing it with a well-worn black loafer.

  Laughing aloud, Dan continued. “Listen to me go on, will you? Well don’t worry, when the action starts, I’ll be fit to hold up my part of the task. The one thing you can be certain of is that I can be depended upon, my young Dieter.”

  Saint Peter and Paul Cemetery, Lyndhurst New York

  The floral displays stood six feet high to the rear of the regal, walnut casket. Row upon row of multi-colored roses, orchids, mums, daffodils, and other assorted flower arrangements provided a vivid backdrop for the burial of Hans Dieter. He was surely looking down from his heavenly perch enjoying the politicians pulling at their Armani shirt collars, sweating in the midday sun as they bid him farewell.

  The dignitaries were out in full force, with even the governor flying in from Albany. Politicians never seemed to stop seeking votes, even trying to capitalize on death itself. Each provided glorifying speeches of Hans’ past deeds.

  As the casket was lowered into the freshly dug earth, Dan played his final role as Father Dan, providing his blessing before walking over to where Jim stood in respectful silence. “Your father would have enjoyed it this way. No long prayers or an ungodly viewing. Just put me in the ground and get on with your life is what he would have said. A dead body starts to stink if it’s left around too long.”

  Jim replied with a nervous laugh. “Yeah, that and make sure everyone has a toast of schnapps when the blessing is finished and toss the glasses into the grave with me so I have something to use in the afterlife.”

  Dan glanced at the mourners gathered about. “Well, judging by the attendance, he had a lot of friends. You should be proud of that. Your father had wealth in three ways: family, friends, and money itself. Judging by his funeral today, all three were in attendance.”

  IN THE LAST row, hidden by the large turnout, an attractive, well dressed, middle-aged woman removed a cell phone from her purse, dialing a prearranged number.

  “The Angel is in the ground,” she said nonchalantly before hanging up.

  She gracefully walked past the mourners clustered in their small groups recalling Hans’ life until she reached his open grave. She paused as if in silent prayer, blessing herself before tossing a white rose on top of his casket. She turned in time to catch Dan’s eye, smiling at him, waving her cell phone.

  The signal was passed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MAY 1949 - SOVIET UNION

  For the first time in over four years of dutiful negotiation, the Geneva-based International Red Cross was granted permission to visit the Soviet Union and several of its “work camps.” The camps contained thousands of German prisoners of war, prisoners from a war that ended for most in 1945.

  The Soviets simply stated the prisoners were needed to “rebuild” their war-torn country.

  The world press called it slave labor.

  Before the Red Cross team departed from Geneva—three of its seven members were killed in a suspicious hit-and-run accident—run down as they crossed a street to an awaiting Taxi.

  An American and a Britain were hastily arranged to replace the first two; the third—a priest—showed up as the plane was boarding.

  THE CAMP COMMANDER, Major Fedorov, strolled up to the camp’s newly constructed wooden reviewing platform with the Red Cross representatives in tow. A sharp Siberian wind howled in greeting.

  He was in his late forties; his black hair had a hint of gray, his green-gray uniform impeccable. The prisoners often referred to him as “the little bull” due to his penchant of stabbing them with the dagger he kept secured about his waist. Even his own men hated him.

  Upon reaching the top of the steps, he turned to his aide-de-camp in dismay upon viewing frost on the metal chairs. Punishment could be expected for this lack of attention. Major Fedorov elegantly withdrew a white cloth from his pocket, and playing the gracious host, wiped the frost that had accumulated on the chairs overnight before allowing the representatives to sit down.

  Satisfied that his guests were comfortable, he directed his attention to the prisoners who occupied the muddy parade ground before him, assembled row upon row, exactly as they had rehearsed for the past two weeks.

  The prisoners shifted from leg to leg in the biting cold—a Siberian wind playing out across the parade ground now mixed with a light snow. The prisoners dug their hands deeper into their light fabric garments.

  “I will make this speech short due to the work that awaits you in our mines,” Major Fedorov said, his voice resonating across the dismal camp. “As your internal rumor mill has probably informed you by now, we have honored guests from the International Red Cross. They are based in Geneva, Switzerland and claim to be a neutral organization. They have the simple job to check the conditions at our fine establishment. These ladies and gentlemen are here to register your complaints and review our general living and working conditions. Their delegation also includes a Catholic priest for any of you who proclaim that religion as your faith. Those of you who are Catholic will be allowed to visit for five minutes with the priest to confess your sins. To speed the process, I would like all of those prisoners of the Catholic persuasion to identify themselves and step out of line. If you do not, I will personally search the records to find out who is Catholic and invite you to my office for a more personal visit. I guarantee you will not enjoy the visit.” He smiled, patting the ceremonial sword that hung around his waist.

  Of the 770 odd men assembled in the courtyard, ten stepped out of line as instructed, walking in an orderly procession to where the priest and Major Fedorov awaited them.

  “Good, good, we have volunteers. Follow me and this gentleman into my office,” Major Fedorov ordered before turning to face the priest. “Father, you will have five minutes with each prisoner. After that they go back to work for Mother Russia.”

  The small, balding, almost gnomish Red Cross representative was quick to reply. “That is most gracious of you, major. I am your humble servant.” He made a slight downward tilt of the head as if the major were royalty. Of the ten prisoners who were assembled in front of them, Peter Dems was selected or “arranged” to be the first man to enter the commander’s office, being hustled out of line by a brutish guard and harshly pushed to the front.

  At one time Peter Dems had been considered a handsome man, standing 6’1,” 200 pounds, with a thick head of blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Since his arrival in 1945, pneumo
nia, plague, and typhoid ravaged his body taking their toll. He now appeared gaunt and weak.

  “Welcome, my son. Please do sit down,” said the Priest, otherwise known as Antonio Perluci of the Vatican Intelligence staff, recently assigned to the International Red Cross for this one mission. He closed the door. A small widow in its center allowed the guard to observe the proceedings. “Has it been long since you have spoken to a priest of your faith?”

  Peter eyed the man for several seconds, not really knowing how to respond to such a ridiculous question. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Padre, but what the hell do you think we do in here?” he replied sarcastically.

  Perluci glanced over Peter’s shoulder to see if the Soviet guard was still monitoring their conversation. Convinced he was indeed alone with the prisoner, he proceeded. “We are here to monitor the conditions of the camp and to possibly relay any messages you may have for family and friends.”

  Peter tried to gauge this man for trickery. He knew it would not be beneath the Soviets to create an elaborate ruse just to torture the prisoners. “Father, I really don’t have anyone at home who would still care enough to want to hear from me. Most of my family was killed in bombing raids during the early years of the war. I was hoping to just talk about current events. We don’t receive outside news in this god-forsaken place. Hell, for all I know, the war could still be going on.”

  Perluci looked to the door once more, seeing the guard had evidently tired of his post. Perluci removed a wedding photo of Peter and his wife from his jacket pocket, slipping it across to him. Perluci lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Please, I already know who you are. You have changed much from when this photo was taken over six years ago. I imagine Soviet food and confinement do not agree with you.”

  Peter stared at the photo. Tears began to well in his eyes.