Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery

by H. Terrell Griffin

  The desolation of the city matched that of his soul. His war was over, but he knew that the stunted remnants of his spirit would remain, raging forever at some amorphous thing that transcended the understanding of sane men. And on this day, the American had come, like a vengeful wraith, intent on retribution and, with a little luck, great wealth.

  He walked farther into the backyard. He noticed air vents set into the ground, short black stovepipe-like structures with steel mesh covering the openings. The slight hum of a generator emanated from the one closest to him. He moved about, finding more of the vents, each one emitting the quiet sound of working equipment. He went back toward the wall where the bodies lay and worked his way to the corner. He peered around the edge of the wall and saw what appeared to be an entrance to a basement, two doors on hinges lying almost flat on the ground. It was what he’d been looking for.

  The American moved toward the doors, reached for the handle of one of them, and pulled it open, standing away as he did, the door between him and the opening. Nothing happened. No movement. He looked over the door and saw stairs descending into a dim space. There appeared to be some sort of anteroom at the bottom, and he could see artificial light splaying outward from the area.

  He put one foot on the top step, his rifle pointed downward, his finger on the trigger. He moved cautiously, one step at a time. He stepped down and stopped, waiting for a noise or movement, rifle ready. Nothing. He moved down another step. He came to the bottom of the stairs and stopped again. He saw a large open room with bunks and a rifle rack, the weapons stacked.

  A row of cells lined the right side of the room, their bars glinting in the artificial light of overhead fixtures. They were all empty. Stacks of shelves containing row after row of files lined the opposite wall. Four men in black uniforms sat at a table in the middle of the room, a plate of food in front of each of them.

  The American stood quietly for a moment, unobserved. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said in English. The men jumped to their feet, hands in the air, looks of surprise on their faces. “Who’s in charge?” asked the American, this time in German.

  “I am,” said a tall man with blond hair. His eyes were ice blue, unblinking above a dueling scar etched into his right cheek. His tunic was open, tie askew, white shirt open at the collar. “I will surrender my command to you, but I expect to be accorded the honors due my rank.”

  The American looked steadily at the commander, aware of each of the other men around the table. He was pointing his rifle at the group, the stock under his arm, finger on the trigger. “Are there others here?”

  “Nein. We are the only four who survived the bombing. We’ve been waiting to surrender to an American officer.”

  “Who ordered the civilians upstairs shot?”

  “I did,” said the tall German. “They were enemies of the people. Jews.”

  The American pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the German commander in the chest, knocking him backward, a look of disbelief clouding his face as he died. The sound of the shot was loud in the confined space, and the other three men ducked instinctively.

  “Stand up, you bastards,” said the major in German, waving his rifle at them. The men complied, looks of fear darting over their faces. “I ought to shoot you all. Every goddamnned one of you.”

  “Sir,” said one of the men, “we are soldiers. We have surrendered.”

  “You are murdering bastards who don’t deserve to see another sunrise.” The American pulled a photograph from the pocket of his fatigue pants and held it up so that he could look at it without taking his eyes off the men he held at gunpoint. “Which one of you is de Fresne?”

  No one answered. The American looked at the picture again. He spoke rapidly in English. “I’m going to shoot each one of you, but I have orders to bring de Fresne back safely.”

  One of the men raised his hand, and spoke in American-accented English. “I am he,” he said. “These idiots all know me by a German name. None of them speaks English.”

  “Step away,” said the American.

  De Fresne moved a few feet to his right. The remaining two men began to move too, having finally realized what was about to happen. The American shot each of them in rapid succession. He then handed his pistol to de Fresne and stepped back, his rifle trained on the Frenchman. “Shoot each of them in the head. I want to make sure they’re dead. If you even think about pointing that pistol at me, you’ll be as dead as they are.”

  De Fresne did as he was told, putting one bullet into the head of each man. He then turned the pistol around, holding it by its muzzle, and slid it across the floor to the American. The major picked up the pistol, pointed it at the Frenchman, and leaned his rifle against the wall.

  “Take your clothes off,” said the major. “Every stitch.”

  The Frenchman didn’t question the order. He left his clothes in a pile and stood naked. The American removed his backpack and slid it across the floor to the Frenchman. “There’s an American uniform in there. Put it on.” De Fresne complied.

  The major took a set of handcuffs from the side pocket of his pants, held them up. “Put your hands behind you and back up to me slowly.”

  De Fresne was nervous as he stood in the uniform of an American private, hands cuffed behind his back. “May I ask what we’re doing?”

  “Monsieur de Fresne, I know a lot about you. I know that you stole twenty million dollars from the Jews in southern France, and I know that it’s in the Confederated Bank Suisse in Zurich. I want part of that money. I’m not greedy, so half will be about right.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. We can discuss it, or you can join your buddies over there.”

  “A quarter of the money.”

  “We’re not negotiating, de Fresne. You have a choice. One-half or none. Dead men don’t need money.”

  “Kill me and you won’t get any of it.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “Okay. How do we get to Switzerland?”

  “We don’t. I’m going to get you out of Europe, and we’ll get the money transferred back to the States after the Germans surrender.”

  “How?”

  “I’m OSS. I can do a lot of things without anybody asking questions. For now, you’re a soldier in my custody. Keep your mouth shut unless you’re asked a question. Nobody’s going to look too closely at an American OSS major with a private for a prisoner.”

  The major holstered his pistol and picked up his rifle. He motioned to the steps and followed de Fresne out. The OSS would be here anytime now. This was the Gestapo headquarters for the Frankfurt region, and the army wanted the records stored there. If he met any of his colleagues on the way out, he had a story for them. He’d been planning this for weeks, and had left a trail of evidence concerning a private who was fraternizing with the Germans and selling them weapons. His people knew he was looking for the soldier and would think nothing of the fact that he’d found him.

  They made it back to the jeep without running into Americans. Dusk was approaching, and the air had cooled further. The major unlocked one end of the cuffs and relocked it to the seat frame on the passenger side of the jeep. De Fresne had been quiet during the walk, treading carefully with his hands locked behind him, afraid of falling and not being able to catch himself. The American had walked a few paces behind him, his rifle in a ready position and trained on the Frenchman’s back.

  “Where to now?” asked de Fresne.

  “Out of Germany.”

  “Not France, I hope.”

  “Holland.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Transportation Stateside.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I’d like to know where I’m going.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Okay.”

  The American negotiated the ruined streets of Frankfurt and out into the country. Military Pol
ice checkpoints were situated every few miles on the main roads. At each stop, the major showed his credentials and explained that he had captured the prisoner in Frankfurt. No, the prisoner didn’t have any ID. He’d lost it while on the run. The major had been after him for three months, and had finally caught up with him. He’d been selling information and weapons to the enemy. The private had been hiding in other military units while on the run. With the fluidity of the front, a lot of men were losing contact with their units and were attaching themselves to the first outfit they found. It wasn’t unusual for a strange soldier to be with a unit for a few days and then disappear back to his old company.

  They stopped overnight near the French border. “I’m going to turn you over to an MP outfit for the night. They’ll feed you and give you a cot in a cell. I’ll tell them you’re not to be interrogated. Don’t make small talk. You might get tripped up on some little thing that any American would know about and you don’t. If anybody is persistent in trying to talk to you, tell them you are under orders from me to keep your mouth shut.”

  When the American picked de Fresne up the next morning, the Frenchman was frantic. “You told me we were going to Holland. I know where we are. The French border isn’t ten kilometers from here.”

  “I didn’t want to spook you. We’re going to get on an American military train at Strasbourg. That will take us to Lyon. From there, we take another military train to Nice. The trains are moving troops. The French won’t stop us, and even if they do, unless someone who knows you personally recognizes you, you’ll just be another soldier in custody.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m putting you in a military prison.”

  “What?”

  “Just until I can get you out of Europe. You’ll be safe there. Nobody will know anything about you except that you’re being held for the OSS.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t think you’d like being turned over to the French either, but those are pretty much your options.”

  “Okay. How long do I have to stay in jail?”

  “A month or two. The war is still going on. There’s fighting in Italy, but when that settles down, I think I know how to get you out. As soon as I can get you to Rome, you’ll be on your way to America.”

  “Rome is in American hands.”

  “Yes, but northern Italy isn’t, and I haven’t figured out a way to get you to Rome except by some sort of ground transportation. That means waiting until your German buddies are out of Italy.”

  “Can you guarantee that I won’t be handed over to the French?”

  “Yes. I can also guarantee that you will be handed over if you so much as hint to anyone that we have an arrangement. You’ll be watched constantly, but you won’t know by whom. You won’t be allowed any visitors except me. If you try to escape, I’ll know about it, and you’ll be given to the French. Are we clear?”

  “How did you arrange all this?”

  “Planning. And I’m an OSS officer.

  “You mentioned that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “We’re being followed,” Jock said, when we were about an hour out of Fulda. “I didn’t see him until we got on the autobahn. A white Audi.”

  “Can you tell how many are in the car?” I asked.

  “At least two. I can’t see into the backseat. Don’t turn around.”

  “How long have they been with us?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably since we left the Blattners’ apartment. He’s stayed right with me, about three or four car lengths behind.”

  Jessica was in the front passenger seat, and the Blattners and I were wedged into the back, with Frau Blattner in the middle, her husband’s arm around her. I leaned forward. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s go on to Frankfurt. Maybe we can lose them there.”

  Jessica had turned in her seat, facing Jock. “And if we don’t?”

  “We’ll kill them.”

  A scowl crossed Jess’s face. “Great. Just great.” She turned abruptly and stared out the window.

  Jock looked at her, grinning. “Or we could let them kill us.”

  “We could go to the police,” said Jessica.

  “That’s not an option right now,” I said.

  “Bullshit. It’s always an option.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Trust us on this one, Jess. Somebody wants us dead. Probably all of us, and until we can figure this out, we have to stay away from the cops.”

  She turned and stared coldly at me, not saying a word. She turned back to the window. I didn’t think even a little whiskey would help this situation.

  The berms of the highway were stacked several inches high with dirty snow and ice, but the roadway itself was clear. The occasional snow-covered village, a setting befitting a postcard, appeared at the edge of the superhighway. Trees with bare limbs flanked the road, framing fallow fields pocked with deposits of snow, giving the terrain a gaunt appearance.

  Jock kept a steady speed in the Mercedes, the speedometer topping ninety miles per hour. Our pursuer stayed with us. There was quiet in the car, the only sound the swoosh of tires on wet pavement. The Blattners had said nothing, and Jessica had gone silent too. Traffic picked up as we neared Frankfurt, dusk falling on us.

  Jock took an exit ramp at high speed, and pumped the brakes as we came to the intersection with the surface road. He made an abrupt turn to the right, throwing the Blattners against me. He showered down on the accelerator, gaining speed rapidly. He braked, snapped the car into a left turn, and then pulled into a parking lot in the middle of the block. He cut the lights and pulled into an empty parking space. I looked to my right and saw the Audi rush by.

  Jock backed out of the parking space and pulled onto the street, following the Audi. We stayed several car lengths behind, our lights off for part of the way. The Audi slowed and pulled into a parking spot on the street. Jock made a right turn onto a side street, cut the lights and U-turned. He eased back up to the stop sign, looking to his right toward where the Audi was parked.

  “He can’t figure out what happened to us,” Jock said.

  The Audi pulled out into traffic with us following. We drove for several miles through residential streets and finally onto a four-lane thoroughfare. After about ten minutes, the Audi turned left onto another residential street. Jock pulled to the curb at the corner. We watched the brake lights of the Audi come on a half-block away. The car turned into a driveway and disappeared behind a house. Jock sat quietly for a few minutes, then opened his door. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned in a few minutes. “The house he pulled into is a mansion. I’ve got the address. Maybe we can find out who owns it and get a line on why they’re after us. We can’t do anything else tonight.”

  “Too bad,” said Jessica. “Now you won’t get to kill them.”

  Jock glanced at her. “Jess, I hate killing. I really do, but sometimes it’s necessary. I’m sorry we got you into this. We’ll make arrangements to get you back to Paris.”

  “You didn’t get me into anything. I joined up to help Matt. I’ll go back to Paris when we finish this.”

  “Are you sure, Jess?” I asked.

  “Yes. De Fresne was responsible for a lot of deaths, and it looks like he might still be in business. I want him finished.”

  The deal had been struck. She was with us, even if reluctantly. I patted her on the arm. “Can I buy you a whiskey?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jessica laughed, loud guffaws gushing from her diaphragm. She couldn’t stop. Her breathing came in gasps. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The others in the car started laughing too, not sure why, but caught up in the contagious hilarity. It was a release from the tension of the chase, of the killing of the Arab, and of the near-death experience in the Blattners’ living room.

  Jessica patted my hand, her laughter subsiding. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Jock was still chuckling. “What th
e hell is so funny?”

  “We’re alive, Jock,” I said. “We’re alive, and we’re on our way to get some whiskey.”

  We drove to the Frankfurt suburb of Bad Vilbel. Jock negotiated the streets as if he knew the area well. We turned into the driveway of a house that might have been occupied by a middle class family, and drove around to the back. Jock turned off the engine.

  “We’re here. Herr and Frau Blattner, you’ll be safe in this house. It’s owned by my agency and is staffed with a maid and a bodyguard. I’ll help you with your bags. Matt, you and Jess stay here. I won’t be but a few minutes.”

  They unloaded the bags from the trunk of the Mercedes and disappeared into the house. They were expected. I turned to Jessica. “Are you really okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never seen anybody shot before. That’s all. It took the wind out of my sails. Who is Jock?”

  “My best friend.”

  “Do all of your friends go around killing people?”

  “Jock is different. He works for our government and does things that nobody wants to talk about. They’re things that have to be done, people who have to be neutralized for the good of our nation.”

  “By neutralize, you mean kill people.”

  “Sometimes. When it’s necessary. Like today. If Jock hadn’t been willing to kill the Arab, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We’d be dead. People like Jock do what they do so that the rest of us can live like human beings.”

  “I know you’re right, and I know we have to have people who do the dirty work. I’ve just never thought much about it, and I certainly never thought I’d be a part of it.”