Wyatt's Revenge

by H. Terrell Griffin

  I knew Chief Bill Lester would arrive soon. I put another pot of coffee on and went back to the walkway that ran in front of my condo. I stood at the rail and watched the police and fire personnel. They mostly just stood around, talking quietly. Many of my neighbors had moved into the parking lot and were standing in clumps, talking and watching the activity. In a few minutes, I saw Bill Lester pull up in his unmarked car. He talked briefly to his officer and then started toward the building. He saw me and waved.

  He got off the elevator and shook my hand. “You okay, Matt?”

  “Yeah. I guess. Somebody meant that bomb for me.”

  “Without a doubt. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  “Fresh coffee’s brewing.”

  “Good. I need it.”

  We sat in my living room, drinking coffee and talking. “Who wants you dead?” asked Bill.

  “I don’t know of anybody.” I was telling the truth.

  “I’ve called in Manatee County. They’ll handle the murder investigation and the state will look into the arson angle.”

  Longboat Key is about ten miles long and divided in the middle by the county line. The northern half is part of Manatee County, and the southern end lies in Sarasota County. The Longboat Key Police Department was very professional, and that was one of the reasons crime was an anomaly on our island. When the rare major crime did occur, the county sheriff was called in to investigate. The deputies worked for the sheriff, but reported to Bill Lester.

  “Is this connected to Wyatt’s death?” he asked.

  “Bill, I’ve got no idea. Maybe it was mistaken identity.”

  “I don’t think so. You own the only Explorer in this complex. Anybody smart enough to put that bomb together isn’t stupid enough to make that kind of mistake.”

  “You’re probably right. But I can’t think of any reason anyone would want to kill me.”

  “Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms is coming in to look at the mess. Maybe they’ll find some sort of signature. Bombers tend to use the same technique, and the ATF boys can usually find a connection between bombings. We’ll see what turns up. In the meantime, you need to be careful.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I was responsible for young Jimmy’s death. Not directly, but I must have gotten too close to somebody, and now they were trying to kill me. They’d gotten Jimmy instead. The army called it collateral damage, but that wouldn’t be much comfort to the young man’s family. He was still dead.

  I called Logan’s cell phone.

  “Somebody just tried to blow me up.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody put a bomb in my car last night.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, but the kid from the auto repair shop was killed.”

  “Shit. I’m on my way.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Marie’s.”

  “Stay there. I’m fine.”

  “She’s about to leave for work. I’ll be at your place in ten minutes.”

  I could always count on Logan. He’d have been on his way to me even if Marie were still naked in bed begging him to stay.

  My phone rang just as I hung up. It was Austin Dwyer.

  “Matt, that’s strange company you’re hanging around with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the people on the list you sent me are Nazis. Or at least, they were. They’re all dead now. The Klarsfelds are still alive. They’re French Nazi hunters. They’ve spent most of their lives bringing old Nazis to justice.”

  “Nazis?”

  “Yes. As in Germany, Third Reich, all that.”

  “Shit.” I told him about the list, Wyatt’s and Sauer’s murders, and that the only thing the killer had taken out of Wyatt’s apartment was his laptop. I also told him that Sauer’s hard drive was missing from his computer. “I thought the list might be a lead to who killed them and why.”

  “There is an interesting coincidence to the names on the list. Most of the people were involved in the ratlines.”

  “Ratlines? Isn’t that something on a sailboat?”

  “I think so, but in this case it’s a reference to escape routes the Nazis used to get out of Europe after the war. Are you familiar with ODESSA?”

  “The city?”

  “No, the Organisation de ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, which translates as the Association of Former SS Officers.”

  “Yeah. They were part of the effort to get their people out of Europe.”

  “Right. But, they weren’t as big a deal as some people believe. Actually, there were a number of ratlines. Some were run out of Italy by priests. One of the names on that list was an Argentinean bishop who was involved in getting Nazis out of Europe and into Argentina. Several of the names on the list were Croatian priests who had moved to Italy and were involved in getting the members of the Ustashi, the Croatian Nazis, to South America.”

  “What in the world does that have to do with a couple of history professors getting wacked?”

  “Maybe nothing. On the other hand, there’re still people around who believe in that master race crap spewed by the Nazis. And some of the Nazis are still alive. Every now and then, one turns up in Argentina, or even in the U.S. France recently prosecuted one of their Nazis, and Italy tried one of theirs for war crimes a year or so ago.”

  “Do you think Wyatt was onto something dealing with old Nazis?”

  “Could be,” said Austin. “The ones who’re still alive are pretty well hidden. Maybe Wyatt came across some information that would bring some of them out of the shadows.”

  “Sauer was a specialist in World War II and particularly the Nazis and what happened to them after the war.”

  “That may be your key, Matt. If Wyatt and Sauer were collaborating, it might have to do with those old Nazis. Did Wyatt concentrate on a particular historical period?”

  “Pretty much on the diplomatic history of the period between the World Wars.”

  “Then between them, they’d be able to cover a lot of the history that impacts us today. Those were bad times.”

  “Where can I find out more about the people from that time?”

  “There are archives in Germany that have detailed records of the people who were involved in the Nazi party and the death camps. They’re pretty well indexed now, but you’d have to have a researcher who knew what he was doing to understand them. And, you’re not likely to get into them unless you know some strings to pull. They’re pretty much restricted to historians, and then only to a small group who study that period of time.”

  “Do you know anybody who could help?”

  “Afraid not. The first hurdle is getting into the archives. And, don’t forget, the records are all in German.”

  “Thanks, Austin. You’ve been a big help.”

  “I hope so. Let me know if you need anything else.” He hung up.

  Logan knocked on my door and came in. “I had to park out on the road and walk in. The parking lot’s full of police and firefighters. I don’t think your car’s drivable.” He smiled, taking some of the sting out of the morning’s events. “You look like shit. Again.”

  “That kid Jimmy from the auto shop. I got him killed, Logan.”

  “No, you didn’t. Some asshole was trying to kill you and got the kid instead.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “If I hadn’t gotten involved in this thing, nobody would be trying to kill me.”

  “You don’t know that. It might be somebody from your past.”

  “I don’t think so, Logan. If it were, why would they wait until now to take their shot? Too much of a coincidence.”

  “And you never liked coincidences.”

  “I don’t believe in them.”

  “You can’t undo what’s done.”

  “Ah, more New England wisdom. That doesn’t help.”

  “Look, Matt. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up. Let’s find the bomber
and square things for Jimmy’s murder.”

  “You’re right. I’ll call his family. Offer condolences. That’s about all I can do.”

  I told him about my conversation with Austin. “If Chardone hadn’t taken the computers, I wouldn’t think there was a connection between the list and the murders. But there must be a link of some kind. Why else would Wyatt have sent the disc to Donna? Why would the killer take the computers? What was in there that he didn’t want anybody else to know?”

  “Too bad the other files Wyatt sent Donna were corrupted. They might have told us something.”

  “You can bet on it.”

  “What now?”

  “I did a computer search of some of the names on the list. It didn’t make sense to me at the time, because most of the ones I could find had to do with Nazis. I couldn’t make any kind of connection, but after talking to Austin I think they may have all been involved in smuggling Nazis out of Europe.”

  “What’s that got to do with Wyatt?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “I need to talk to someone who has access to the German archives from the war. Maybe there’s some connection between Wyatt, Sauer and, the people on the list. I’ve got an old friend in Germany who may be able to help.”

  It was not yet mid-morning, mid-afternoon in Germany. I called the American Embassy in Berlin, and asked to speak to General Burke Winn, the military attaché. The operator told me that the general was not in the embassy, but that she would put me through to somebody who could help me.

  “Marine detachment, Master Sergeant Tom Butner speaking, sir.”

  “My name is Matthew Royal,” I said. “I’m trying to get hold of General Winn. I was told that you could help me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the general is at the consulate in Frankfurt this week and next. You can probably reach him there on Monday. I know he’s in meetings in Cologne today, but he’s due back in Frankfurt on Monday.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant.” I closed my phone.

  I explained to Logan that Burke Winn and I had served together in Vietnam. He’d stayed in the army, and I knew that he was presently posted to Berlin as the military attaché. He’d been there for a couple of years, and I was pretty sure he’d have some contacts that could get me into Germany’s World War II archives. Maybe I could pick up a trail there.

  “I’m going to Germany,” I said.

  “When?”

  “Burke’s due back in the office on Monday. If I leave here Sunday afternoon, I’ll be in Frankfurt the next morning.”

  “Do you think that’ll do any good?”

  “It can’t do any harm.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When you travel by Delta Airlines, you always change in Atlanta. It’s a rule etched in stone somewhere. My flight from Tampa to Atlanta was uneventful. I took the tram across Hartsfield-Jackson airport to the international terminal, did the customs thing, and boarded the 757 that would take me to Germany. It was late afternoon, and with the time change, the nine-hour flight would get me to Frankfurt a little before eight the next morning.

  I settled into my business-class seat and was reviewing the safety placard when I sensed someone standing over me. I looked up into the blue eyes of a tall blonde flight attendant.

  “Hey, soldier,” she said, “looking for a good time in Frankfurt?”

  “The only problem I can see with that is that you’d never be satisfied again with Russ.

  She laughed. “I didn’t know you were flying with us.”

  Patti Coit and her husband, Russ, lived in the Village on Longboat Key. He was a pilot, and both worked for Delta. They were old friends of mine, and it was just happenstance that I ended up on her flight.

  “Just made the reservation yesterday. Kind of an unplanned trip. How’s Russ?”

  “He’s fine. He’s in the cockpit tonight.”

  “Does he know how to fly this thing?”

  “Probably not, but these new planes are so automated a monkey can fly them. Russ’s job is to keep the monkey happy.”

  I laughed. “Well, don’t distract him.”

  “Russ or the monkey?”

  “Neither.”

  “I haven’t seen you since Wyatt’s funeral. Are you holding up okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Are you taking a vacation?”

  “No. I’ve got to see an old friend tomorrow afternoon in Frankfurt. Somebody tried to kill me yesterday, and I’m hoping my friend can help me unravel this mess.”

  “Tried to kill you? My God, Matt, what happened?”

  I told her about the car bombing and that the police had no idea of who was responsible.

  “I’m glad you’re okay. Russ and I were in Hawaii until yesterday. We didn’t even go home. Came straight to Atlanta to go back to work. Why would anyone want to kill you?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if it had something to do with Wyatt’s death.”

  “What’s the connection to Frankfurt?”

  “An old army buddy is there, and I’m hoping he can put me in touch with some people who can get me into the World War II archives dealing with France under the German occupation.”

  “The Vichy Regime?”

  “Yeah. Do you know anything about that period?”

  “Some,” she said, “but that’s only because a friend from college did a doctoral dissertation on Vichy. She about drove me nuts talking about it. She works for the embassy in Paris, but she’s in Frankfurt tomorrow. Russ and I are going to have lunch with her. Why don’t you join us?”

  I accepted the invitation, and Patti went about the cabin taking care of her passengers. My mind kept wandering back to Jimmy Griner, the kid who was killed in my blown-up car. He had a wife and a young son. I had talked to his wife and then I called his parents. I told them that it was my car Jimmy was in. I assured them that I didn’t know who was responsible, but I was going to do my damndest to find out. I wanted to see some justice for their boy.

  Nine hours is a long time to be cooped up in a plane, but I made the best of it. I dozed on and off during the trip, and at some point Russ came back and sat with me for a few minutes. I told him about the bomb and that I was hoping to find out something in Germany. We chatted about our friends on the key, and in a few minutes I shooed him back to the cockpit. I was worried about him leaving the monkey alone.

  Frankfurt is a large and bustling city, the commercial hub of the resurgent Germany. Its airport is one of the busiest in the world, but we cleared customs with a minimum of fuss. The blustery cold of November in central Germany hit us as we stepped out of the terminal. We grabbed a taxi to the small hotel where Delta put up its crews on layovers, across the street from the main train station.

  I took an hour’s nap, showered, shaved, and dressed in slacks, a long-sleeve shirt, and a heavy jacket. I met the Coits in the lobby, and we walked the three blocks to a small restaurant tucked between mid-rise office buildings.

  We entered the vestibule, the steam heat hitting us with warm air. A woman stood with her back to us, talking to the hostess in German. She turned, a grin breaking out on her face, and stepped quickly to hug Patti and then Russ. She was beautiful; mid-thirties, five seven or so, dark hair framing her face and hanging to her shoulders, light makeup, slender with enough roundness to catch my interest. She wore a gray skirt, navy blue sweater, and low-heel pumps. A single gold chain hung from her neck, a small dolphin at the end nestled between her breasts. She took my breath away.

  “Matt Royal,” said Patti, “this is Jessica Connor. Jess knows everything there is to know about Vichy France.”

  “Well, almost everything,” said Jess, and displayed a smile that made me fear that I was going to faint. I’m not kidding.

  We were shown to a table, and Patti explained that I was a friend from home and why I was in Europe. “I told him you did your doctoral dissertation on the Vichy government. Matt,” she said tu
rning to me, “did I mention that Jess is fluent in both German and French?”

  Jessica took a sip of her wine. “Why do you think your friend’s murder had anything to do with a bunch of Fascists who’ve been dead for more than half a century?”

  “Wyatt was a historian,” I said, “and he was working on something that had to do with Vichy. He was in contact with another history professor at the University of Florida who was murdered the same day as Wyatt. The only thing we have concerning his research is a list of names.”

  I handed her a copy of the list. “I’m told that many of these people were involved in the Vichy government and others were Croatian Fascists. Some of them were priests and others were Argentines. Somehow, they all relate back to Vichy, and I think if I can put the lines together, I might be able to figure out why Wyatt was killed.”

  “What brings you to Frankfurt?”

  “An old army buddy of mine is a general and is the military attaché to Germany. He’s been working out of the consulate here for the past couple of weeks, and I’m hoping he can get me into the German archives dealing with Vichy.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Jess said. “I don’t have to be back in Paris until Monday.”

  “I’d really appreciate it, Jess.”

  “I’m staying at the Intercontinental. Call me after you’ve seen the general. We’ll have dinner.”

  We finished our meal as Patti and Jessica reminisced about their college days. Russ rolled his eyes a couple of times, but otherwise seemed content to sit and listen to stories he’d heard dozens of times. I was content just to sit and watch Jess.

  I asked the Coits to join Jess and me for dinner that night, but they had to be rested for the flight back to Atlanta the next day. They begged off and went back to the hotel. I put Jess in a taxi, and got another for myself. I gave the driver the address of the consulate on Giessner Strasse and sat back in the seat, visions of Jessica ruining my concentration on the scenery passing by.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO