Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  Sir Robert poured himself a glass of tomato juice, not offering General Parker so much as a glass of water. “I despise having to lie to people like the Commandant of Interpol, especially when I know damn well we screwed up.”

  “Sir Robert, if I may, Commander Robinson is one of the best we have in the business. If he chose to act in the way he did, I can only say it was out of necessity. From our initial debriefing of Commander Robinson, the team was operating with night vision goggles at the time of the incident. They viewed what appeared to be our two subjects moving about on the barge. They approached the vessel using standard sweep procedures with two on the bow and one from the stern. They noticed two subjects moving in the salon area of the barge. Not wanting to take any unnecessary chances, they raked the entire area with silencers.”

  “May I be so bold as to interrupt for a second, General?” Sir Robert said, obviously displeased, putting his glass down on his antique desk, spilling some of its contents in the process. “Why did your men rake the entire area with machine gun fire when they did not positively identify the targets? Christ, General, at least see what they were firing at.”

  General Parker had no desire to escalate the conflict into a shouting match. After all, Sir Robert was his boss. General Parker looked to the floor, wisely allowing several seconds to pass before responding. “But, Sir Robert, the team identified the correct barge and had what appeared to be the two possible subjects on board. Don’t you find it peculiar that Flaherty and Dieter were not on board, but that the French police were? This was an extreme case, a million-to-one shot. It could never happen again.” He searched Sir Robert’s face for any sign of understanding. Finding none, he continued. “As you are well aware, it is policy not to take chances where terrorists are involved. The safety of our troops is foremost. And it has always been my personal creed since I first took this job, and it will remain so until I am removed.”

  “Then until I find another position for you, consider yourself removed until a further review of this operation is completed.”

  Along French Highway Five, 278 Kilometers SE of Paris

  Dan maneuvered their truck around a slow-moving Fiat, passing it with a half meter to spare. “I hope my cousin is having a dandy of a time on the barge. He is going to have one hell of a time trying to return that thing. Come to think of it, that bastard won’t return it. He’ll sell the damn thing for scrap if he can get a few bucks for it.”

  “I thought you said he was trustworthy, a man of his word, totally loyal to his family?” Jim replied, amused at Dan’s sudden shift in attitude toward his cousin.

  “And he is all of that, my friend, but he’s not stupid. Before we departed, I told him to have a little fun with the barge. Translation for people like yourself: We stole it, and it’s his if he wants it. Hopefully the cops don’t pinch him before he has some fun.”

  “When your family gets together for a holiday, you must have one hell of a time with all of the stories of your exploits.”

  “We go on into the night, my friend, as long as the beer, whiskey, and bacon sandwiches abound, so does the bullshit. One goes with the other, wouldn’t you say.”

  Jim leaned back in the cab, placing his feet up on the dash. “You know what? I’m going to hate for all this to end. I’ve really enjoyed this little adventure we’ve been on.”

  “Don’t enjoy it too much. We’re only half done, and it might get a little hairy before we reach the states,” Dan was quick to reply.

  Jim wondered what else Dan had up his sleeve to aid in their escape. “You caught me off-guard with the barge switch and then the truck. I wasn’t ready for that one, so I have complete confidence in your future plans.”

  Dan musters a heavy Irish brogue. “Ah, a vote of confidence from the big man. I thank you from the bottom of me heart.”

  Several seconds elapse before Dan reverts to a tone of seriousness. “Just one thing bothers me about our operation so far. I know I’m not perfect, but think about the barge we rented. Even though the names we used were fictitious, what if anyone got a sniff of an Irishman and an American renting a barge? What if that frog that rented us the barge talked to someone? Usually people who take a vacation reserve those things a couple of months in advance, not on the day of sailing.”

  “You’re right on that one. We stood out like two Klansman at a NAACP convention,” Jim said.

  “And another thing, I don’t want you to get paranoid or anything, but my cousin didn’t rent this truck were driving in. He did the Irish borrow on it,” Dan said, passing yet another slow moving car.

  “Translationonce again for the uninitiated—it’s stolen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  VATICAN TEAM – DIETER FARM – WEIMAR

  After a series of wrong turns and an hour of driving, Perluci reached the Dieter farm, adding a bit of complexity to what should normally have been a 15 minute drive. Upon his arrival, he met with the assembled team members. After a few minutes of discussion, Perluci and the Lieutenant agreed it would be best to directly question the owner of the farm.

  Perluci knocked on the farmhouse’s wooden door. He had already positioned the remaining Vatican Special Team members by the farm’s barn.

  No need to overwhelm anyone at this point.

  After several anxious moments, the door opened to reveal a man of Perluci’s own age. Jim had warned Schmitz to expect additional visitors. Schmitz decided it best to play along. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” He first eyed Perluci, then the Lieutenant.

  Perluci removed his hat, placing it in his hands out of nervousness, not respect. “Good morning, sir. My name is Mr. Perluci, and this is my adjutant, Lieutenant Lern. This may sound a little ridiculous to you, or it may not, depending on your situation. We are hoping to ask you a few questions regarding some church property that could be located on your farm.” He turned to indicate the plowed acreage behind him with a sweep of his arm.

  Schmitz tried his best to look dumbfounded. “Is this some type of joke, or are you really trying to sell me something?”

  A forced smile creased Perluci’s face. “No, sir, we are looking for something that was apparently lost around the closing days of World War II.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir,” Schmitz feigned. “I have lived here for over 60 years and have never seen nor heard anything about church property on this land.”

  “I really don’t want to play games with you, Mr. Schmitz,” Perluci said. “I don’t have the time nor the patience. It is Mr. Schmitz, isn’t it? Yes, your expression betrays you. If you would allow me to continue, maybe I can refresh your memory.” He removed a tattered leather notebook from his breast pocket, referring to its contents. “In April 1945, you deserted your post at an anti-aircraft emplacement and escaped Berlin with a group of children in the care of one Captain Hans Dieter. Captain Dieter brought yourself and the 12 other deserters to this farm.” He paused, looking about the farm’s property before continuing. “In 1946, Captain Dieter immigrated to America, first settling in New York City and later in the Hudson Valley. Since that time, you and your wife, Inga, have been appointed caretakers of the farm.” He paused for several seconds as he looked at the Lieutenant then back to Axel. “We at the Vatican believe Captain Dieter secreted some property here on this very farm. The property I speak of belongs to my employers, and we were hoping you would assist us in recovering it. We tend to think Dieter utilized some of the product as an insurance policy to protect himself and his family. Now, assuming the documents stayed hidden, all was well. But with his recent demise, we suspect the new owner might try something rash.”

  Schmitz appeared visibly upset, reaching for the doorframe to balance himself. How were these people able to gather so much information? What else were they aware of? Could they be out to blackmail Inga or himself? Schmitz started to panic. He had to rid himself of these people before it was too late. He couldn’t slip up and betray Mr. Dieter.

  “As I stated
earlier, gentlemen, I have no idea what you are talking about, so if you would kindly leave. Or maybe I should call the police to escort you from my property.”

  Perluci sensed Schmitz was about to break and decided to press on. “Come now, Mr. Schmitz, you wouldn’t do that. Do you know why? Of course you do, because such an incident would draw attention to this farm and its Nazi past. How about your wife’s past? Now for the sake of not wanting to draw attention to our mission, can we reach an understanding? We just want to search your property. If we find nothing, we will be on our way. You will never hear from us again.”

  Schmitz realized he was trapped with no easy way out. “Alright, I don’t see any harm in just poking around as long as you don’t disturb my animals or crops. But I insist on going with you.” He grabbed his slicker from just inside the door, stepping out on the porch, positioning himself between the two men.

  Perluci looked at the Lieutenant, satisfied he still possessed an adequate interrogation technique after all these years. “Fair enough, Mr. Schmitz. Just think, we can be out of your life forever after this minor inconvenience.”

  “That is all I require,” Schmitz said, “to be left alone and live out my days on this farm. Is that asking too much?” He put on his slicker and corduroy hat, glaring over at Perluci with sullen eyes. He sensed his chance to take a quick verbal jab at his unwanted company. “To tell you the truth, I never knew you were in my life to begin with.”

  Perluci turned to the Lieutenant, then his Vatican guards. “Let’s start in the barn and work our way toward the rear of the farm, near the graveyard and the river intersection. Look for anything out of the ordinary, especially recently disturbed earth. If anything were removed, it would have been sometime during the past two days.”

  “You sound as if you know this area better than myself,” Schmitz said, allowing Perluci to walk ahead. “Please, I insist. You lead the way, and I will just follow along in your so-called investigation.”

  They took almost 30 minutes to scour the property lines located along the east bank of the river tributary for any telltale signs of recent diggings. Satisfied there were none, they approached the rear of the property in the vicinity of the Dieter family graveyard. Located at the south end of the property, it was a walk that would normally take, on an average day, 10 minutes from the farmhouse. But this was no average day.

  Perluci sketched in his notebook as they walked, obviously saving them for later reference. They now approached the 30 by 10 meter wrought iron fenced cemetery. “Exactly how many people are buried in the graveyard, Mr. Schmitz?” said Perluci as he opened the gate, leading them into the well-kept grassy sanctuary, stones of various heights all in orderly rows.

  “You seem to know all about the farm and its contents, Mr. Perluci. You tell me,” Schmitz spat back in response, trying to extract some satisfaction for his inconvenience.

  Perluci smiled at Schmitz’s obvious play at sarcasm. “You are right Mr. Schmitz,” again referring to his notes. “The Dieter family cemetery had it first internment in 1778. Over a period of some 200 plus years, 25 Dieter family members have chosen to be buried here. The information I am lacking right now is the date of the last internment. Could you possibly fill in that minor detail, Mr. Schmitz?”

  Schmitz pondered a response, looking at the burly Vatican Special Team members stationed on either side of him before answering. “I really don’t recall,” he stammered, “it must have been some time before my employment here. Why do you ask?”

  Perluci pointed toward an area in the rear of the cemetery. “Because from that freshly overturned dirt, I would come to the conclusion,” adjusting his reading glasses to look at the headstone’s engraving, “one Peter Goot was just interned. Did he happen to die recently?”

  Perluci bent down to examine the remainder of the writing on the tombstone. “No, I don’t think so, because you would have remembered something so recent.” He looked accusingly to Schmitz then to the tombstone, writing down the date of Goot’s death in his notebook. “Lieutenant, I think we have found our answer. This Peter Goot was obviously an accomplice to Hans Dieter’s little job, and Mr. Dieter evidently buried the gold and property with him in the actual grave itself. Am I right, Mr. Schmitz?”

  Schmitz looked away.

  “I would say this soil was disturbed within the last twelve hours by the looks of its moisture content.” He picked up a handful of earth before allowing it to filter through his fingers back onto the ground. “Also, compare the depth of the tire tracks for those entering to the ones leaving. This leads me to the conclusion that they left here laden with our property.”

  Schmitz searched the faces of the men surrounding him, wondering if they could possibly be cold-blooded killers. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Perluci. The river flooded last week and disturbed this particular grave causing me to reposition the tombstone yesterday.”

  “Just the tombstone was disturbed, yet you dig up the entire grave? Come, come now. I don’t think so, Mr. Schmitz; but it was a good try,” Perluci said. He slowly approached Schmitz, leaning in toward him, allowing his face to be only inches from his own. “We will take up no more of your time, Mr. Schmitz. We have our answer. Let us go, Lieutenant. We must report back to The Vatican at once.”

  Dulerie Airport, 41 Kilometers southwest of Paris

  The drive from Weimar to Dulerie was accomplished in a brisk seven hours, primarily on major highways with some small back roads thrown in for good measure. They never knew if they were being followed.

  Adhering to Dan’s strict timetable they were able to arrive at the Dulerie Corporate Airport complex, 41 kilometers southwest of Paris, in plenty of time. The small airport was known for its transatlantic corporate jet service between America and France, used primarily by high-profile corporate executives who preferred the quaint atmosphere over the madhouse at the Orly International Airport some 20 kilometers north. Dan imagined the same criteria, selecting an airport with little traffic. They also required the services of a functioning corporate airport due to their accomplice leasing a corporate type jet and the need to blend in.

  Motoring past the airport’s six empty service hangars, they were afforded the view of what appeared to be the only jet occupying the airport’s concrete tarmac, a Boeing 777. It also happened to be the aircraft leased by Dan’s relative.

  Jim envisioned a smaller business-type jet where they could still be comfortable but in close quarters. But with a 777 they would undoubtedly have plenty of room.

  He maneuvered as close as possible to the aircraft.

  “This is a beauty, Dan,” Jim said, exiting the truck to perform a closer inspection of the aircraft. “I only have one more question to throw your way. How do we clear French customs and get permission for this baby to take off?”

  Dan motioned for Jim to follow him over to the aircraft’s stairway, stopping short of actually walking up. “Yes, there always has to be one stick-in-the-mud. Up to this point, I have performed a majority of the planning. For the operation to procede, some of your previous military contacts will now come in handy. I need you to call in a favor from your associate in the French Department of Defense. I imagine he’s located high enough in the bureaucratic food chain to merely request clearance from one of his equals for our trip to proceed. If he is, he can run blocker for us on the customs issue. Hell, the United States military does it all the time.”

  Jim stood facing Dan, knowing deep down that he was right. They couldn’t possibly depart French airspace without proper clearance. “You want me to just casually call one of the French Undersecretaries of Defense and say that I require a rather large favor of him.” Jim picked up an imaginary phone as to speak. “Yes, Mr. Undersecretary, could you sign our manifestation sheet so we can bypass French customs and take our cargo of Nazi gold out of your country?”

  “Well not as crude as all that. Work with me now, Jim. I envision the discussion a little differently, a little more risqué. The French l
ove that sort of action. Tell him the cargo is a bunch of rich passengers on a little joyride from the United States to visit Paris. Being a close friend, you hate to ask for any favors, but one of the passengers on board is a female movie star who doesn’t need her identity betrayed by some customs’ inspector. Top it off with….. she is going through a very nasty divorce.”

  “Do you realize that you spoke those words with a straight face as though it were all true? You can lay some of the best bull I have ever heard, and being in the service for 20 years I’ve heard some whoppers.” He paused for a moment to digest what was being requested of him. “It just might work. I haven’t talked to him in over three months, at least since he was appointed to his new position. Hell, what have we got to lose? Okay, I’ll go along with your story. He just might buy it. Lead me to a phone my good man.”

  Dan pointed up the aircraft’s steps. “Use the one in the plane while I pop open a bottle of Brut. After all, it is the breakfast hour.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  FRENCH MINISTRY OF DEFENSE – PARIS

  In the two months since assuming his position as Undersecretary of Defense, the Honorable Jacque La Tour was still acclimating himself to the workings of the position. He already aligned himself with the ruling party, settling in comfortably with the fold. Regular golf outings and expensive dinners were the norm. Of course, contractors or lobbyists always made sure the bill never found its way to him.

  Short in stature with the build of a wrestler, roughly handsome to most, always impeccably attired, Jacque La Tour had been educated at the Special Military School of Saint-Cyr otherwise known as the French Military Academy, the equivalent to the United States West Point. Since graduating many years before, he had assumed a number of increasingly influential posts, mostly diplomatic, culminating with his most recent position upon military retirement.