Dolan motioned to one of his men to remove the handcuffs from Eian’s wrists. “So you think your friend will show?”
“For a friend in need? Never known him not too.”
“Yeah, but will he still consider you a friend after this little stunt you pulled?”
“My loosing at cards was no little stunt, Dolan.” He paused a few seconds to look around the room. “I just had a bad run of luck.”
Dolan laughed aloud. “Some bad run of luck. You owe me a few hundred grand. If I weren’t such a nice guy, you’d be dead.”
Just as the words finished leaving his mouth Jim Dieter confidently saunters in. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mike Dolan,” Jim says sarcastically. His wife Nora strides in behind him.
Dolan points to Nora. “I see you brought back-up.”
Nora smiled. “It’s all he needs for your type.”
Dolan’s two goons smirked for a few seconds until they saw the expression on their boss’s face. Then they thought better and reached for their guns in the small of their backs, bringing them to bear on Jim and Nora.
Dolan directed his goons to put their weapons away. “We are all friends here,” he said. He then indicated for Jim and Nora to sit down on two faux leather chairs against a wall lined with ceramic gas station globes of yesteryear. “It’s been a few years, James Dieter. I think the last time we had dealings…”
Jim cut him off. “It was when you tried to have my father arrested for illegal parking,” he replied angrily.
“That’s right. He dared to park his car in my reserved spot in front of one of my finer restaurants. Silly man.”
“It was a spot with a meter. There was no sign indicating anyone owned the spot.” Jim paused for several seconds to compose himself before turning to Nora. “He has the cops on his payroll along with everyone else. So he called the local precinct and told them he wanted somebody taught a lesson. That somebody happened to be my father. He was down here visiting friends during his cancer treatments and took them to dinner. This pig had him arrested in the restaurant, in front of his friends.”
“No hard feelings, Jim,” said Dolan, his voice lacking any empathy. “How is your old man?”
“He died soon after his last visit.”
“Sorry to hear that,” replied Dolan, again lacking any empathy.
Nora had had enough. “You bastard! She yelled as she rose from her chair, coiling up her fingers into a fist. Dolan laughed at her as she took a swing at him, Dolan ducking the punch. She then kicked him in the shin, causing him to let out a curse as he fell to the ground in pain. Nora then kicked him in the ribs while he lay on the ground. “Take that you little man.”
Jim jumped up to restrain her as Dolan’s two goons approached.
Dolan waved them off. “Leave her alone,” he said. “I deserved it.” He then smiled at Jim. “You have a little fighter here. I like that. Beauty and brawn. Might come in handy where we are going.”
“So you want to tell us what’s going on?” replied Jim. “You obviously didn’t invite us here so my wife could kick the crap out of you.”
Dolan rose from his position on the floor, his shin still bothering him. “You’re right. I needed a reason to get you up here from Florida, and Eian was that reason. I knew he would come to you for help. And I knew you wouldn’t come if I had asked.” He pointed back to the faux leather chairs. “Now I have a little story for you to hear. It’s a long but potentially very lucrative story. You’ll want to sit back down to enjoy this one.”
Jim turned to Nora, she provided him with her let’s get this over with look as she took a seat, followed by Jim.
Dolan waited until he had Jim and Nora’s complete attention. “This is good. Now that we are all comfortable I can get on with my story. May I call you Jim and Nora?”
Jim and Nora looked at each other and just smiled, before turning back to Dolan. Nora cleared her throat as she spoke for the two of them: “I don’t give a flying..,” she said before stopping, correcting herself, “Just get on with your story so we all can get the hell out of here.”
Jim smiled at his wife’s response. “She is such an eloquent speaker. Wouldn’t you agree, Dolan?”
Dolan was not use to people speaking to him in such a tone. And he sure didn’t appreciate Nora kicking him in the shin and chest. He still had a bit of revenge on his mind as he casually strolled over to where Nora sat, albeit with a slight limp. “You think with your money and that stupid Pulitzer Prize that you are better than people like me? Well think again, little fish.” He slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, Nora falling hard to the floor.
Jim swiftly jumped up from his chair before striking Dolan in his gut, then with a one two combination to his head. Dolan went down hard. His two goons did not have time to react as they fumbled for their weapons, now leveled at Jim. Jim eyed them as he assisted his wife up from the floor.
“I didn’t think a mobster like you had to hit a woman for his courage,” he spat out at Dolan.
One of Dolan’s goons helped Dolan to his feet. He brushed himself off, blood trickling down from his nose. “I apologize to you and your wife,” he said. “I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.” He indicted for one of his goons to get Nora some ice. “I just want you two to listen to a story. Then we can all get on with our lives. Fair enough?”
The goon brought some ice wrapped in a towel. “Here you are, miss.”
She thanked him before eying Dolan with suspicion. The bruise on the side of her face spoke volumes about the person that stood in front of her. “Let’s just get this nightmare over with.”
“Ah, but it’s just beginning, my dear,” Dolan replied.
CHAPTER 12
May, 5, 1945: Cheb, Czechoslovakia
Petrov, Dolan, and Cornelius sat around a small fire they had used to cook dinner. Potluck stew. Each had something from their rations to toss in to the pot: Petrov, potatoes; Cornelius, carrots and onions; Dolan, dried beef. Dinner now finished, Petrov passed around a bottle of Vodka. It was the end of a long day, a day that had started with them positioning the bodies where it looked as if a firefight had broken out between the Germans, Americans, and Russians. A firefight where everyone lost. Petrov and Dolan would vouch for each other’s story. Cornelius, if he was to be believed, would vouch for both Petrov and Dolan. They thought it was more logical than burying the bodies and trying to cover up what had transpired. At least this version of the story sounded credible.
Now all they had to do was hide the paintings.
For this, Petrov and Dolan would require Cornelius’ assistance.
Dolan passed the bottle back to Petrov before turning to Cornelius. “So your father told you he wanted the convoy to pass through this town where we now sit because fuel would be prepositioned here to refill the trucks in order to make it to your destination in Bavaria?”
Cornelius nodded.
He continued. “So you knew the convoy would have to loop into Czechoslovakia for a few miles before returning to roads leading into Germany?”
Cornelius once again nodded.
Dolan continued. “And when all of the drivers and passengers were out of trucks relieving themselves on the soccer field you just shot them where they stood.
Cornelius grinned. “I unslung my MP-40 and shot them in the backs like my father said too. They were all SS soldiers. Germany’s worst. They got what they deserved.”
“Yours are made out of steel, my friend!” Dolan said aloud. “You are one crazy son of a bitch!”
Petrov handed the bottle to Cornelius. “Drink a toast to those SS going to where they belong.”
Cornelius took a long swig. In a second or two, his face became beet red and he started to cough.
Petrov and Dolan laughed aloud, Petrov slapped Cornelius on the back. “Is this your first time drinking?” he asked.
Cornelius coughed once more. His voice was a bit hoarse as he replied: “Schnapps and some beer I stole from my father’s p
rivate supply. Never hard liquor like your Vodka.”
“Well my boy,” said Dolan, “with the money we get from selling these paintings, you can buy all of the beer and schnapps you want. Hell, you can even buy the brewery where they make it.” He passed around an open pack of Lucky Strikes. Cornelius declined. Petrov removed one from the pack and placed the rest into his tunic pocket.
“Sure, keep the pack,” said Dolan sarcastically. He waited several minutes as Petrov lit his cigarette and apparently enjoyed the taste.
Cornelius had another sip of vodka. He looked to be acquiring a taste for the Russian’s drink of choice.
Dolan realized the time was right. “Okay, since we are all a bunch of SOB’s. I mean we all killed our own people for what is in the trucks, right? We all have the same drive. The same quest. None of us wants to be poor when this war is over. Am I right?”
Each nodded. “Keep going,” said Petrov, “You are, as you Americans so fondly say, on a roll.”
“Okay,” he continued. “Now how do we smuggle the paintings out of here and how do we sell them on the open market?”
Cornelius giggled as he passed the Vodka bottle back to Petrov. “My father owns a piece of property only ten kilometers from here in Germany. It is very isolated and has its own mineshaft. It used to be a silver mine until the turn of the century when the silver ran out. That is where my father told me to store the paintings. And that is the direction I was heading when you gentlemen came upon me. Originally I was planning to drive one truck and store its contents in the mine. Possibly return for a second truck if time allowed. But now with the three of us, we can drive all three trucks to my father’s mine and split our haul four ways.”
Petrov and Dolan both eyed each other. They laughed aloud, thinking Cornelius was getting tipsy. “You mean three ways, my little friend, not four ways,” said Petrov.
“No,” Cornelius replied, “We have to include my father. He was the one who orchestrated this whole operation. He just has to make it out of Berlin before the Russians overrun the city.” He looked sheepishly at Petrov. “No harm meant by what I said.”
“No offense taken,” Petrov replied. “Some of my people can be very nasty.” He smiled at his own response.
Dolan passed the bottle back to Cornelius. “I forgot your father’s name. What is it again?” asked Dolan.
“Hildebrand Gurlitt, Hitler’s art dealer,” he replied. “He is, or was, very famous in the art world. Not that he can paint or anything like that but he understands art and the art world. This along with the value of paintings makes him a very valuable commodity. Best of all, my father also has many connections in Switzerland. Auction Houses mostly. Connections that have enabled my mother and I to live very comfortably.”
Petrov turned to look at the boy more closely than before. “You must be joking?” he said. “Hildebrand Gurlitt is your father?”
“So you have heard of him?”
Petrov knew from his Trophy Brigade briefings before he departed the Soviet Union that Hildebrand Gurlitt was in Hitler’s inner circle. He was one of the top guys. Petrov was instructed by his boss before he left the Soviet Union, ‘follow him and you will find where the treasure is hidden.’
“Yes, I have heard of your father,” Petrov replied. “And none of it was good. But how do we know you are not pulling our leg trying to save your skin by associating yourself with a well-known thief.”
The boy shook his head. “No,” he replied, “I am not lying. All of my proof is in the trucks.”
Petrov leaned into Dolan, a wide smile on his face. In a low voice he said, “If what the boy says is true, we are not talking about a million or two in those trucks. We are talking potentially hundreds of millions.”
Dolan had already realized their importance. His sharp criminal mind had already derived a conclusion. He realized the Nazi’s essentially had no fuel left. And what precious little fuel they did have was only doled out for high value items or to the major players. So whatever was in the trucks had to be worth some serious money. A lot of money. But he played along with his new business partner. “I have the whole American army on my heels. I’m assuming you likewise have the whole Russian army on your tail. So if we don’t want to lose our newfound wealth we better get cracking before they arrive.”
They pushed some dirt onto their fire. Within seconds, it was extinguished.
“Lead the way,” said Dolan to Cornelius.
Cornelius jumped up into the first truck, Petrov in the second, Dolan followed up in the last. They all started up the trucks in unison before moving off slowly into the night.
CHAPTER 13
May, 5, 1945: Preisdorf, Germany
Dawn was approaching as they neared the small German town of Preisdorf, a good 20 kilometers from their previous location in Cheb, Czechoslovakia. Cornelius alone knew the location of his father’s property. Dolan and Petrov had no choice but to trust the young boy as they navigated what looked like, at times, cow paths. The 20 kilometers drive should have taken only half an hour to drive under normal circumstances but along the way they had managed to avoid known American army checkpoints courtesy of Dolan, and circumvented the main roads if they could.
Now approaching their third hour of driving, they finally passed through Preisdorf, white bed sheets hung from the second story windows of homes in surrender, hoping to avoid the wrath of American soldiers operating in the area. Two kilometers west of Preisdorf, Cornelius steered his truck onto a dirt track that led to his father’s property. After a minute or two of vigilant driving, they reached the entrance of the mineshaft. A thick wooden door announced its opening. Following Cornelius’ lead, they each backed their vehicle up to the mine’s entrance, parking side-by-side.
Time was of the essence.
Dolan hopped down and immediately took charge. “I need you to disable the explosives on the truck,” he ordered Cornelius. “Then we can get moving.”
Cornelius grinned at him. “There are no explosives,” he replied. “I lied. I thought you would have killed me before hearing me out. At the time, I felt I had no choice.”
Dolan laughed aloud. “I said it before, I like this kid.”
Petrov clapped his hands together in anticipation. He walked to the rear of his truck and opened the trucks canvas flap. “Let’s get busy unloading these paintings. The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. Especially myself. A Russian soldier in German territory that is now under American administration.”
AFTER TWO HOURS, each of the truck’s precious cargo had been unloaded and stored within the confines of the mine. The thick wooden door at the mine’s entrance was padlocked and camouflaged with freshly cut tree branches. For added security, Dolan placed two live hand grenades, minus their pull pins, under the branches. Anyone moving the branches and unaware of the grenades location would be dead within seconds.
With the aid of daylight, retracing their route was much easier, only taking an hour and a half versus the previous three. Once back in Cheb, Czechoslovakia, they arranged the trucks in their original spots. They then set fire to the trucks to erase any evidence of their wrongdoing.
Satisfied with the arrangement of the trucks and dead soldiers, they rested and conferred under a tall elm tree. They each agreed to meet when the war was over knowing it could only last only another week or two.
Only then would they decide how to deal with their newfound treasure.
And if they could trust one another.
THEY HAD AN ADDITIONAL partner to deal with, Cornelius’ father, Hildebrand Gurlitt. After all, Hildebrand was the architect of the heist. Now all he had to do was escape out of a war-torn Berlin. Then escape the clutches of the SS, Russian and American Armies.
And stay alive.
CHAPTER 14
May 8th 1945: Cheb, Czechoslovakia
A convoy of six American army deuce and half’s, each with a white star emblazoned boldly on its hood, pulled up to the town’s sole soccer field. Soon t
hey drove onto the field, forming up side-by-side as the drivers maneuvered to a spot where a mass of bodies lay. The bodies were allegedly the result of one of the wars few deadly American, German, and Russian encounters.
Sergeant Mike Dolan of Patton’s Third Army jumped out of the lead vehicle and was soon directing the Army Investigative Unit over to the battle scene.
In front of them were the remains of three German Army vehicles, each looking as though they had been destroyed during the firefight. Beside the trucks lay bodies of the soldiers.
Opposite them stood their Russian counterparts. Major Vasli Petrov nodded to Dolan as they shook hands. Behind him were three, Russian Army ZIS-5 4x2 trucks, their drivers each standing at attention beside their respective vehicles.
After introductions, as agreed, an American second lieutenant took charge and started interviewing the Russian Major; another second lieutenant took picture after picture of the bodies.
Dolan had already his provided his side of the story, now it was up to the Russian major to collaborate.
Of course, they had already rehearsed their stories.
He and the Russian major were evidently the sole survivors.
Within the hour, each of the lieutenants had all the information they required.
The Americans had wisely brought along a two-man Graves Registration Unit with them. They reverently loaded each of the American bodies into the rear of one of their two trucks. An Army Private stood off to the side, gathering information from each of the dead soldiers’ dog tags and annotating it on a clipboard.
The Russians weren’t as respectful as they loaded their dead into one of the trucks, tossing each soldier onto the trucks floor, body on top of body.
The Americans then moved the German bodies to the edge of the field where they were placed side-by-side, US Army-issued blankets covering their faces. Hopefully, some of the locals would take the time to bury their own. If not, when the area was taken over by the respective military governors, they would eventually be buried.
Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4 Page 4
