by Tim Wheat
“It looks like we are heading to San Francisco, transporting these dead bodies.”
“That’s what I’ve heard too. I can’t say I’m real happy about flying all cramped up with dead guys. I suppose the boss doesn’t care since the two of them get that whole other plane all to themselves.”
The two men left their bags behind, and exited the plane via the rear door. A slight feeling of dread entered Chase, and he hoped his friend was not in one of the bags. He knew his mission was on the other plane now, however, so he moved to the rear door, and seeing no one around, made his way back to the other B17.
Chase had heard a number of different voices upon the trucks arrival, but it seemed they had all left. Time was short, though, and he knew they would soon be back. As he walked from one place to the next, however, the man he saw in front of him left no doubt he was in the correct place. Standing less than thirty yards away, speaking on the phone, was the man who had tried to kill him.
Chase ducked under the tail of the aircraft, made sure he wasn’t spotted, and entered the craft through the rear door. Instead of returning to his hiding space in the tail of the plane, however, Chase stayed closer to the bomb bay. From this vantage point he could see the weasel, and was confident he would not be spotted. It seemed to him the other men didn’t care much for their boss either, and he doubted any of them would make their way on his plane.
After hanging up the phone, the weasel turned, walked to the B17, and entered the plane through the nose. A maneuver which had been difficult for Chase, proved to be a breeze for the smaller man. Peering around the corner, Chase watched as the man climbed through the navigator’s compartment, and ascended to the cockpit. Within seconds he felt the plane shudder, and begin moving.
“That was quick,” he said out loud. The noise inside the aircraft was substantial, and he knew they would not be able to hear him in the front. Chase smiled as he retreated to his hiding place in the tail. He doubted either of the men in the cockpit would make their way rearward during the flight. Pulling a piece of canvas over the corridor aft, he completed his concealment.
The plane was off the ground now, and Chase was on the second flight of his life, when something caught his eye. It was almost imperceptible at first, but it seemed bolts were disappearing from the floor twenty feet in front of him. Two minutes passed, and he watched in fascination as the bolts continued to fall. Training his weapon on the area, Chase wondered what he was watching. Then the last bolt fell, and the piece of metal dropped into the sky. First one hand, then a second, appeared through the hole in the floor, and what he saw amazed Rex Chase. Almost as if he had been flying alongside the aircraft, George Ahiga poked his head through first, and then lifted his body into the plane.
Chase had not seen Chief in quite a while, and he looked different. He looked like he had been through a war, and Rex imagined climbing through hatches in the middle of the sky could not be his idea of fun. Approaching from behind, he decided to greet his shivering friend the only way that seemed proper. Popping the magazine from his gun, and removing the round from the chamber, Chase eased behind Chief, pressed the weapon against the back of his head, and shouted above the engines.
“Ticket, please.”
***
George froze in his tracks for a second, but then turned, his eyes wide.
“What in the world are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question” Chase said, lowering the gun, and extending his hand. Chief gave it a vigorous shake, a large grin on his face.
“I tell you what; you’re the last person I thought I’d see up here. I thought my goose was cooked.”
“Well, you’re lucky our friend up there didn’t see your high wire daredevil act. I don’t think he’d care to see either of us stowing away on his plane.”
“You’d be right there. So, what are you doing here?”
Chase and Chief moved to a spot in the plane where they couldn’t be seen from the front. Rex told the story of how he had gotten there, starting with running into the weasel at the baseball game, and ending with Mary Elizabeth’s death.
“I boarded a plane and headed straight here. I’m going to find out who he is, and where he is headed, and I’m going to kill him, and whomever gets in my way,” Chase’s voice emanated hate. George had never seen his friend like this.
“Well, I can tell you that his name is Hans, and he works for a man named Dietrich Hoff.” George relayed the information, and then briefed Chase on his time at the camp. He told him about Angela, the professor, the gun battle, and how he had come to be in the B17. Chase listened with intent as his friend relived every detail of a trying couple of days.
“I think it’s safe to assume Hans will be reporting to Hoff in the near future,” Chase said.
“I believe you are correct, my friend. Are you sure you’re ready to use that forty five?” George was asking a question someone had asked him a long time ago. Killing another man was not for the faint of heart, and though he knew Chase to be determined, he was not a killer. His response, though, was not what George had expected.
“I’m not going to kill him with this forty-five. Not if I can help it. I’ve got something extra special planned for our good friend Hans.”
*******************
46.
William Rodger Idlewood was seventy-seven years of age, but you wouldn’t know that by looking at him. His gait was not that of an elder, and his thick silver hair made him seem younger. Strolling down the street, a paper in one hand, and a book in the other, he whistled as he walked. He had been a good friend of The Organization since its inception, and when the General had called to arrange a meeting he had jumped at the chance.
The life of an accountant was almost never exciting, but work for The Organization had proven to be his true calling. He excelled in a new field, called forensic accounting. If you gave William Idlewood access to tax records, he could tell you everything about a person inside of a week. Over the phone, however, The General had informed him the timetable on this job was to be hurried. They needed to know the identification of someone right now, and that was just Idlewood’s specialty.
As he climbed the steps to his office building, Idlewood took notice of a young man resting against a large stone pillar just outside. It had been drizzling all morning, and the man looked like a wet dog.
“You need an umbrella.”
“Mr. Idlewood?” said the young man.
“I am indeed, and to whom am I speaking?”
“Robert Poppen, sir. General Reagan sent me over to do a little work with you. I believe you’re a specialist in forensic accounting, and I’m pretty good with numbers. He thought maybe I could give you a hand.”
William frowned. The General had never sent him an assistant before. Every year he got older, and every year people treated him more like his brain was going to leave him at any minute.
“I don’t need an assistant, thank you. Tell The General I’ll have his information for him by tomorrow, like he asked.” His tone was short, but friendly, and Poppen replied with trepidation.
“He insisted I be here. You see, he would like the information today if at all possible, and he thought another set of eyes would be helpful to you.”
“Fine.” Idlewood rolled his eyes, “So I take it you are some kind of expert in this Dietrich Hoff character?”
“No sir, I’m more of a mathematician and student. I’ve just had a couple of good ideas about things, and The General gave me a job, even though I wasn’t looking for one. Where do we start?”
“We start by heading through this front door my boy,” said the accountant. “We might have a long day ahead of us.
***
Over the course of the next few hours the vast resource of knowledge stored inside the old man’s head amazed Poppen. He had answered question after question, and Bobby knew they were on the right track. After catching onto a lead the old accountant leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
; “You see, young Poppen, the 1916 Revenue Act is what started my career in forensic accounting. It made it easier for me to keep track of who owned what, and how much money they had. Your friend Hoff, though, has gone way out of his way to stay out of the limelight. It seems like he is super rich, but doesn’t own anything. That, my young friend, is impossible. I’ll figure it out, but I’m afraid my old eyes need a rest.”
Until that point, Poppen’s main jobs consisted of asking questions and retrieving documents. He was learning a lot, but something had bothered him.
“Mr. Idlewood, I noticed that the 1932 tax act raised the highest tax rate on the rich to seventy-nine percent. I’ve also noticed that for a number of years Dietrich Hoff has paid that inflated tax rate. If he’s a German, wouldn’t it serve him better to do business somewhere else?”
“Bureaucrats. You know, in the twenties our tax rates were less than five percent. Heck, most people didn’t even pay an income tax, and everyone had plenty of money. Then comes this stock market crash, and the federal government’s income falls by seventy percent. Some genius decides to start taxing the daylights out of everybody instead of reducing expenditures like the rest of us. Next thing you know, we have twenty-five percent unemployment. It’s a crime what these men are doing to your future, Mr. Poppen. It’s an absolute crime.” The old man leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes again. “To answer your question, though, the situation in Europe is as dire as here. In Germany, it might be more so. We should, however, be able to find what he is doing for business here in the States. Did you grab that other file I asked you for? It was the one about the Social Security Act of 1935.”
“I did.”
“Good. I’m going to rest my eyes. Go ahead and start reading through it. Maybe we’ll find something good in there.”
Poppen’s eyes needed rest as well, but he opened the thick file and began shuffling through the papers. He was having a hard time concentrating, and he didn’t know how the old man could do work like this every day. It was boring. Mindless searching through stacks of paper wasn’t his cup of tea and Bobby observed the room around him. Idlewood’s office was large, and file cabinets lined the walls. He must have had every single tax return from every single person in the nation in them. They were working at a long table with papers covering its entirety, and Bobby noticed the lack of a desk in the office. Perhaps the old man had another office somewhere else. Then, something caught his eye, and he focused his attention on the newspaper article in his hand. “Why the Social Security Act of 1935 Is Socialism,” by Dietrich Hoff.
“I think I have something here.”
Idlewood shifted in his seat, and took heed of what Poppen was reading.
“That’s our man, isn’t it? What does it say?”
“It seems that Mr. Hoff doesn’t care much for the Social Security Act of 1935.”
“I suppose he shouldn’t. He’s rich and it raised his taxes again” said Idlewood, leaning forward and reading for himself. “Look, though, toward the bottom. Wait a minute. I know this article.”
He began shuffling through the papers in the file in a frantic search for what he knew to be there. A few seconds later, and with a beaming smile on his face, he exclaimed,
“I knew it. I just knew it. Look at this, Mr. Poppen.”
He handed Bobby a picture of a giant of a man, standing behind a podium, giving a speech.
“Ok, so that’s him. I think they already know what he looks like, though,” said Poppen.
“No. No. Read the caption,” scolded the accountant. “The answer we need is in that caption.”
Bobby looked to the bottom of the photo and read the one line caption out loud.
“Boeing businessman addresses investors. Do you think he owns Boeing?” asked Poppen, and William replied, a slight twist on his lips.
“I wouldn’t bet the farm on it just yet, but I’ll know within an hour.”
Over the course of the next sixty minutes Poppen watched in fascination as the thin old man moved like a panther amongst the file cabinets. Though they seemed to have no discernible system, he knew where everything he needed resided, and collected his data with speed and efficiency. Bobby decided to stay out of the way, and busied himself returning files when asked. Finally, Idlewood stopped, breathed in deep, and blew it out.
“I’ve got him. He’s a sneaky s.o.b., but I’ve got him. You see young Mr. Poppen, Dietrich Hoff has gone to a great amount of trouble to hide his business dealings here in the U.S. I wasn’t able to find a single document with his signature on it, but what I was able to find is just as good.”
“What was that?”
“I tried to think like a criminal. Why would I not want people to know what businesses I invested in? I assumed that the answer was to keep people from sniffing around my true goal. What I was able to put together here Bobby, is that Hoff has been a principle investor in Boeing since the 20’s. In his time there, he has had very little to do with the actual business aspect of things, but some peculiar patterns have emerged. It seems that he is using the company to purchase small mines and claims throughout the world. He did this by first purchasing a diamond claim in Africa, and building an airport nearby. Using the diamond claim as a front, he began using the name Experian Mines to buy up other sites around the world. It would seem as if he is trying to enter the precious gem market, but many of the mines are old iron mines. One of his more recent purchases in Arizona is such a mine. I’m afraid it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but that is what I’m finding. He used Boeing to buy a diamond mine that buys iron ore mines”
“I can’t say it makes a lot of sense to me either Mr. Idlewood. Do you think there is any more we can learn here, or are we at the end?” Poppen asked.
“I’m afraid the diamond mine is registered as an African company, but the English could give you more insight on that. Their holdings in that part of the world are still quite substantial.”
Poppen stood and offered a hand to the older man and received a firm handshake.
“It was a pleasure watching you work, sir. I think maybe I even learned a thing or two.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mr. Poppen. Tell The General I said hello.”
With that, Bobby turned and left the room full of file cabinets. He had gotten some of the answers he had come for. They now knew Dietrich Hoff was making money in America through Boeing, and that he was buying mines. Poppen wasn’t sure what purpose the mines served, but something inside told him their purchases had been nefarious. Stepping outside, the sun now shone, and billowy clouds clustered in the sky. Just yesterday Robert Poppen had been a normal college student. Now, he felt like a spy hunting down leads, and chasing bad guys.
***
Returning to the General’s office, Bobby Poppen found him to no longer be in. On his desk was a file folder with Poppen’s name on it, and inside were train tickets home, along with another phone number where the General could be reached. Looking over at the blackboard, his math formula still gracing its green face, he smiled.
“You’re gonna blow their minds with this one Bobby,” he spoke out loud, while picking up the phone.
“Operator.”
“Yes, I need to make a call to Boston, Massachusetts. The number is 617-555-8930.”
“One moment, please,” came the monotone reply.
Poppen listened as the phone rang over and over. After ten rings the operator came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, sir, no one is picking up. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No thank you.” Bobby hung up the phone and again wondered where his friend was. When he had called him before Bobby had wondered, and now he was even more concerned.
The walk to the train station was not a long one, and Poppen enjoyed the day as he strode down the street. He had never been to Washington D.C. before today, and he wished he could stay longer. Still, though, the thought that Rex Chase could be in some sort of trouble hung over his head, even as he entered t
he train station.
People bustled about, and men ran to catch trains. Bobby watched everything around him and marveled at how it all worked. Though Harvard had accepted him, Bobby Poppen was not one of the social elite, and hadn’t spent much time in train stations. His father had graduated from the university, but the market crash of 1929 had caused him to leap from his office building to his death. His mother had struggled to put food on the table, and he appreciated what she had done for him. When it was time for him to go to college, he had received a scholarship because of his math abilities, and Harvard accepted him because he was a legacy. At least his father had left him something useful in this world.
He had been daydreaming again, and Poppen found himself sitting in his seat on the train. Staring out the window at the world around him, he almost didn’t notice when a beautiful woman took the seat next to his.
“Is this seat taken?” she purred.
“Nope. It’s all yo…” Poppen turned to address the woman and stopped mid sentence. She was the most beautiful creature he had seen in his life. Her blond hair curled and rested just below her shoulders on her back, and her green, almost translucent eyes seemed to be boring a path to his soul. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “No, ma’am. The seat is not taken. I would be happy to have you sit.”
“Ma’am? Do I look like a ma’am? Oh, how dreadful” she said with hurt in her voice.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean…” He gathered himself and replied with more confidence. “All I meant was that you could sit here, if you still want to, my darling.” Poppen heard the words come out of his mouth, and regretted them in an instant. My darling? He couldn’t have thought of something more dumb sounding if he had tried. The woman smiled, though, and offered her hand.
