I showed my passport to the Marine guard at the door of the Consulate and told him I was looking for the military attaché’s office. He directed me down a hall and up some stairs. I found it easily enough. The door was open and I walked in.
A young man wearing a U.S. army uniform sat at a receptionist desk. The epaulets of his long-sleeve green shirt held a small brass insignia, indicating the rank of sergeant. The black plastic name tag over his right breast pocket bore his surname, Olenski. He was working at his computer, intent on the monitor screen.
I cleared my throat and got his attention. He looked up from the screen and said, “Can I help you, sir?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for a raggedy-assed corporal named Burke Winn.”
He looked a little surprised and discomfited. “I’m sorry, sir. The military attaché is a brigadier general named Burke Winn. I never heard of a corporal by that name.”
“Would you be kind enough to ask the general if he knows a raggedy-assed corporal named Burke Winn?”
“Sir, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“Son, I think you’re going to get a major league ass chewing if I leave here without that question being asked.”
“May I tell the general your name, sir?”
“Matthew Royal.”
The sergeant picked up the phone and punched two buttons. “Sir,” he said into the receiver, “there’s a gentleman here inquiring as to whether you know, and I’m quoting sir, a raggedy-assed corporal named Burke Winn.”
The sergeant was silent for a beat, then, “Says his name’s Matthew Royal, sir.” He pulled the phone from his ear, stared briefly at the receiver, a puzzled look on his face, and hung up.
The door to the inner office burst open, and out strode a man in army green, wearing his uniform tie and jacket with one silver star on each epaulet. The area above his left breast pocket held eight rows of ribbons, topped by the Combat Infantry Badge. Paratrooper wings were pinned to the pocket flap. He had a unit patch on his left sleeve that I didn’t recognize, with a ranger tab over it. His right sleeve, the one on which a patch designating the unit with which he served in combat would appear, had the patch of the Army Special Forces, the storied Green Berets. He was about five foot ten and probably weighed two hundred pounds. It looked like all muscle. He had shaved his head completely bald, and I could see a fringe of a day’s growth of stubble bordering the crown. He had a grin on his face.
“Matt, you old hound dog. God, it’s good to see you.”
He grabbed me in a bear hug, lifted me off my feet, set me down, and kissed me square on the cheek. “Sergeant,” he asked, “do you know who this frigging civilian is?”
“No, sir.”
“This is the former Lieutenant Matthew Royal, who had the honor of being my commanding officer when I was but a raggedy-assed corporal. He pulled that ass out of the fire on more than one occasion. I left the Nam, and the next week he got his ass shot off. Just couldn’t do it without me.”
“I didn’t even want to try, Sergeant,” I said, glancing at the young soldier.
The general turned serious. “Ski, this guy won the Distinguished Service Cross in his last firefight. You know what that is?”
“Yes, sir. The second highest award for valor the army gives.”
“Right you are, Sergeant. And then he and a beat-up old major named Wyatt pulled some strings and got me into West Point. Without them, you’d no doubt be working for some candy ass who’d never seen a war. You owe this man, Ski.”
“Yes, sir. I rightly do. As I understand it, sir, because of Mr. Royal, I get to work for a raggedy-ass corporal.”
“Don’t forget I’m a general and you’re a sergeant, and generals are supposed to be shown respect by sergeants.”
“Yes, sir,” Olenski said, and winked at me.
Winn grabbed my arm and said, “Come on back, Matt. Let’s do some catching up.”
I hadn’t talked to Burke since he was at West Point. I went up for his graduation and commissioning. Wyatt was there, too, and we wet him down like a new officer deserved. Lots of booze and plenty of war stories. Then, I’d let him drift away, just as I’d done with most of the people from that period of my life. I’ve often wondered if it was because the war memories always involved dead soldiers — some of them my soldiers — the ones I couldn’t save. And the fact that those memories were just too painful to relive.
Wyatt kept up with many of his soldiers, and I knew that he and Burke had maintained a correspondence over the years. Wyatt would always tell me when he’d heard from Burke. I knew he’d been promoted to brigadier general just a few months before. And I knew that Wyatt had kept Burke up to date on my life.
Burke’s office was less impressive than I would have expected. There was room for a large executive desk and chair, a credenza, and two side chairs. A sofa took up one wall. As I sat in one of the side chairs, I saw on the credenza a framed picture of three soldiers in battle dress, holding M-16s. They were ragged and dirty, and very young, and I could tell by the way they held their bodies that they were exhausted.
Burke pointed at it. “Remember that?”
I peered more closely. It was a picture of Wyatt, Burke, and me. I remembered the day it was taken. We had just come out of the bush after a patrol that lasted several days and included a couple of firefights with North Vietnamese regulars. It was Burke’s last day in the jungle. He was heading home that evening with orders to report to the United States Military Academy at West Point.
Burke picked up the photograph, a serious look on his face. “The day this picture was taken Wyatt told me that I’d be a general one day, and that I should always remember when I was but a raggedy-ass corporal. He said it’d make me a better officer. That picture has been with me at every step of the way.”
“Wyatt’s dead,” I said.
Burke leaned back in his chair. He put his hand to his eyes and groaned quietly in anguish. “No. Not Wyatt. What happened?”
“Some sonovabitch shot him in the back of the head.”
“Any idea who?”
“I know who. A rogue cop named Chardone. He won’t be executing anybody else.”
“You took care of it, L.T.?” he asked, using the nickname the troops had for fresh lieutenants.
“I did.”
“Thank you. Do you know why he was killed?”
“No. That’s the reason I’m here. I’m chasing a theory. If I’m right, I’ll know why, and I’ll know who ordered the hit.”
“And then there will be justice.”
“Yes. Legally if I can, and if not, jungle justice will be done. One way or the other, I’ll take Wyatt’s revenge on the bastards who killed him.”
“What can I do, Matt?”
I told General Burke Winn everything that had happened from the moment Wyatt had been killed. I told him everything I had found out about the people I thought were behind his murder. And I told him that when I had the package all tied up neatly, payment would be exacted.
The general leaned over his desk, his face an impassive mask. “There’s a man named Thomas Speer who lives in Dusseldorf. He works for the German federal government and is in charge of the SS archives that survived the bombings. When the federal government moved to Berlin, they left the archives in Bonn. It almost takes an act of Congress to get into the archives, but Speer is in charge, and he’s an old friend of mine. I’ll make a call and arrange for you to meet Speer. The bigger problem is that most of the documents are in German and the others are in French. You’ll need a translator.”
“I’ve got one.”
“I’ll call you after I talk to Speer. I’ve known him for years. He’s married to an American named Kim, who was my wife’s roommate at Catholic University.”
We reminisced some, mostly about Wyatt, and I gave Burke my cell phone number. He had a diplomatic party that night and couldn’t join Jessica and me for dinner.
I left the consulate and decided to walk a bit. It w
as a crisp fall day, the temperature hovering in the low fifties. I headed south on Giessener Strasse. I would walk until I got tired, and then find a taxi. I crossed Marbachweg and walked along a wooded area that bordered a large cemetery. As Giessner Strasse crossed Marbachweg, it became a four-lane thoroughfare, divided by a grassy median. The traffic was heavy in both directions, and the exhaust fumes of diesel busses tingled my nose. I heard a horn blowing behind me, a long, loud blast. I looked over my shoulder and saw a black Mercedes moving slowly in the outside lane, the one nearest the curb. A large truck had slowed behind the car, the frustrated driver laying on his air horn, gesturing angrily at the driver ahead of him. I saw a rifle barrel poke out of the open passenger window of the Mercedes, drawing a bead on me. I didn’t think. I just dove headfirst into the shrubbery along the sidewalk, rolling further into the forest as I heard the crack of the slug rend the air above my head.
The sound of the accelerating car reached me as I rolled to a stop. I crawled to the edge of the bushes and peeked out. The car and the truck were gone. Traffic was flowing smoothly, the drivers unaware that murder stalked the road.
I brushed myself off and walked back to the corner, keeping the row of trees between the road and me. I hailed a taxi and had him drop me off at the main train station. I mingled with the crowd, trying to see if I was being followed. I couldn’t spot a tail, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t there. I didn’t think the shooting was random. Drive-by shootings were part of the American culture, not the German. Somebody knew I was in Frankfurt, and had followed me. That meant that they knew where I was staying.
I pulled out the key to my hotel room, found the phone number, and dialed it on my cell. I asked the concierge to go to my room and bring my bag to the reception desk. I hadn’t yet unpacked, so there was nothing to do except retrieve the one suitcase. Somebody would pick it up later. I told him to put the charge for the day on my credit card.
I put in another call to Houston; to Jock Algren. Jock was my lifelong friend, closer than a brother since we were in junior high school. He was an operative of our government’s most secretive agency; part spy, part assassin when needed, and still on the job, although only part-time.
“Jock,” I said, “I’m in Frankfurt, Germany. Long story. I need a weapon.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in later. But I’m trying to find out who killed Wyatt, and now somebody’s trying to kill me. I need some protection. Can you help?”
“What do you want?”
“Probably a .38 snub-nosed. I need something small that will work close in.”
“I can take care of it, but you know if you get caught in Europe with a gun, you’ll go to jail.”
“I know. It’s a chance I’ll have to take. I also need some cash. I don’t trust my credit cards.”
“Meet my man tomorrow at noon at the Dornbuscher Bierstube on Schifferstrasse. Cross the river on the pedestrian bridge called the Eisenersteg, turn right for a block and then left on Schifferstrasse. The Dornbusher is in the third building on your left.”
“How’ll I know your man?”
“He’ll know you.” The phone went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was worried about my friends. If somebody wanted me badly enough, they might take a run at Patti, Russ, or Jessica. I called Russ and told him what had happened, and why I was concerned. He said that he and Patti were tired, and would eat in the hotel that evening. They’d take the crew bus to the airport the next morning, and be on their way back to Atlanta.
I called Jessica and filled her in. “I don’t know how serious this is,” I said, “but I don’t think the shot taken at me was random. Somebody might try to use you to find me.”
“I’ll check out of here and come meet you.”
“No. Pack your bags and leave them in the room. Walk out the door and get a cab. Make it look like you’re going out for the evening. Have the cabbie bring you to the main train station. I’ll meet you by the bank in the terminal. I’ll make sure nobody’s following you, and then we’ll decide what to do from there. Give me your cell phone number.”
I loitered around a kiosk that sold bratwurst and beer, sipping on a drink and nibbling the sausage. A side door leading out of the terminal was a few feet behind me. I had a clear view to the bank. I’d turned up the collar on my coat and was wearing a jaunty fedora I’d picked up in one of the shops. I’d pulled the brim of the hat low on my forehead. It was rush hour, people leaving the city for their homes in the suburbs. I was virtually invisible.
I saw Jessica when she entered the terminal and walked up to the bank entrance. She stood for a moment, looking around, puzzled that I wasn’t there. I called her cell phone, watched her dig it out of her purse, answer it.
“Don’t look around,” I said. “I see you. I want you to just stand there for a minute or two and make sure you’re alone. Hang up your phone and put it on vibrate. Put it in your pocket and when it goes off again, ignore it, but walk to your right toward the bratwurst stand. I’ll have my eye on you all the way.”
She stood quietly, hands in the pocket of her overcoat, as if waiting to meet someone. I gave it five minutes. The crowds swirled around her, but no one seemed to take notice of her. I dialed her number again, let it ring twice, and closed my phone. She turned and started toward me. As she got close, I raised my head and waved. She came toward me, smiling. A workingman carrying a lunch pail was behind her, head down, intent on his journey home. Jessica was about ten feet from me when the man reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the side door of the terminal. She jerked back, and the man dropped the lunch pail and grabbed her other arm, using his weight to propel her toward the door. She screamed, and the man said something in German. The people nearest Jessica shrugged, grimaced, and moved on.
Jessica’s face was frozen in fear and pain. The man’s grip on her arms was powerful. I could see his hands straining with the effort. They were coming toward me. I stood still, looking into my beer stein, trying to ignore the commotion. As they passed by, I swung the heavy glass stein into the back of the man’s head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. Jessica turned as he released her, her eyes locking onto me. She drew back her foot and released a sharp kick to the unconscious man’s face, then looked at me, and said, “Are you ready?”
We hurried out the side door, leaving the thug on the terminal floor bleeding from the mouth. Several people near us were pointing and yelling for the police. We exited the terminal in a hurry, and I signaled for a taxi.
“What’s going on, Matt?” she asked as the taxi sped away from the train station.
“I’m not sure. Somebody’s trying to kill me, I think.”
“Does it have to do with your friend’s murder?”
“Probably. I can’t think of any other reason for somebody in Germany to try to kill me.”
“How’d they get onto me?”
“They must have followed me from the airport. Saw us having lunch and had somebody watching you. Probably Patti and Russ as well. When they missed me this afternoon near the consulate, they had you followed, thinking you’d lead them to me.”
“And I did.”
“My fault. I should have seen the guy following you. They’re pretty good. I don’t think he saw me. He probably thought you were meeting me, and when I didn’t show up by the bank, he thought I’d gotten on to him. Decided to take you instead.”
“Rotten bastard.”
“What did he say when you screamed?”
“He said I was his wife and he was taking me home. Where’re we going?”
“I don’t know. We can’t go back to either hotel. Let’s find a restaurant, and I’ll make a phone call and see about getting our bags.”
The cabbie knew of a small neighborhood restaurant near downtown that served good food. We took his advice.
Once in the restaurant, I used my cell to call the consulate. I asked for Sergeant Olenski and was told t
hat he’d left for the day. I assured the person on the other end of the line that it was extremely important that I talk to the sergeant, and asked her to call and ask Olenski to call me on my cell.
In a few minutes, my phone rang.
“Sergeant,” I said, “I’ve got a problem and need some help.”
“Whatever I can do, sir.”
I told him about my afternoon and the fact that Jess and I’d left our bags at our hotels. He agreed to go to the hotels wearing civilian clothes and pick up the bags. He assured me that he’d be discreet. He suggested a small hotel on Eschenheimer Landstrasse that tourists never used. He’d reserve us a room using his name and leave our bags with the concierge. He’d tell the desk clerk that his friends would be in later. I thanked him, and hung up.
Jess didn’t seem too upset by her ordeal. I was concerned about a delayed reaction and asked her how she was feeling.
“I’m fine, Matt. I didn’t really have time to get scared before you conked him with that beer stein. I knew you were there, and Russ had told me enough about you that I knew you weren’t going to let the bastard get out that door.”
“You’re a toughie.”
“Yes, I am. My dad was a navy fighter pilot and a POW in Hanoi for a couple of years. He raised us tough.”
“I think we’d better part ways,” I said. “Get you back to Paris.”
“No way. That sonovabitch put his hands on me. I want to find out who they are and get them all arrested.”
“You took out a couple of that guy’s teeth with that dropkick. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not even close, Matt. Not even close.”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Nope. I’m in. You need a translator, and I need some answers.”
I told her about Thomas Speer, and that I hoped he would help get us into the archives. Jess had heard his name, but had never met him.
The night wound down. The restaurant was emptying out, patrons, most of whom lived in the neighborhood, going out into the night, heading home to bed. The owner came over to ask if we needed anything else. Jess asked him to call us a taxi. In a few moments, the cab pulled up in front. I paid the check and we left.
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