A wall of soft snow reached the ceiling of the tunnel. A series of splintered pine boards, the remnants of an old wall of rough sawn softwood, two by fours, littered the entrance, where the Condor had crashed through.
His eyes rolled across the carnage, settling on the remains of a single board with words written in red upon one side.
Gutwein picked up the old placard, wiped off the snow. The notice read: MARYLAND MINE COMPANY – CLOSED. NOT SAFE TO ENTER.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
He recalled several private and government owned gold mines in Germany had been closed at the start of the war, because of fears it would distract the number of abled bodied young men from their war efforts.
Had the same thinking occurred in the United States?
If that was the case, and the mine had indeed been closed, there might just be a chance that the Condor wouldn’t be spotted for some time. It could possibly be off limits until the next summer had passed, by which time, he could have removed the nuclear components of the bomb. He could still ready it for delivery to its intended target.
Gutwein’s mind raced to the wings that had been stripped upon landing. They would be out there in the valley somewhere. He would need to take them apart and bury them within the mine shaft. After that, he would need to board up the entrance once more. If he could do all that, perhaps there was still a chance he could complete his mission.
Gutwein placed his gloved hands into the wall of snow and pulled. A small heap of snow fell on him. As expected, the recently broken snow was soft. He tried again, and more fell. There was still no sign of light, which meant he’d been buried deeply. How deeply, only time would tell. There was no reason to believe the crash hadn’t caused an avalanche that had now covered the outside of the tunnel.
Either way, he wouldn’t be able to dig through it with bare hands.
Gutwein returned to the Condor. Inside he searched the cargo hold for maintenance and survival equipment. He withdrew tool after tool, throwing each one aside as their apparent use failed to help him escape. At the bottom of the small hold were a few maintenance tools, including a hammer, which he might use to dig his way out through the ice.
It took another four hours to work his way through the wall of ice and snow and climb out into the open.
Outside, the sun was already setting.
There was nowhere for him to go today. He climbed back into the tunnel and returned to his aircraft. There he retrieved two large carry bags. They were designed to help keep them all alive if they had achieved their mission.
It seemed like a waste at the time, but now he became curious. What had those in the SS Intelligence department thought to provide him that might just save his life?
He unzipped the first bag.
There was enough food for three persons to survive a month. Rationing it well, by himself he could survive several months – well into the spring, and even summer. He exhaled slowly and smiled. It removed the immediate rush to free himself from the confines of the mountain. There wasn’t a lot of water, but he could always melt the snow. It would take time, but he could do it.
He ate a small meal of cold, dried food rations as he studied the topographical map. He used a pencil to circle the three potential low-lying mountains that were within their range. None of them was close to the target. It took a while, but by the time he was ready to go to sleep, he felt fairly confident he’d located the rough area of their crash site.
He was silently thankful for the difficult terrain. If it was hard for him to get out, it would be harder for someone to come in and locate his wrecked aircraft by accident. Perhaps he could still develop a plan to retrieve the bomb when the ice thawed in the summer? It might take a long time, but so long as he was still alive, there was still hope that he could complete the mission.
Gutwein opened the second backpack. He had already guessed what was inside. Now that he knew his immediate survival was no longer in jeopardy, the contents of the second bag would be more important to him.
There were three passports.
He selected the one that he was supposed to take. The name was William Goodson. He studied the American passport German Intelligence had provided him.
Would it still work?
So long as he didn’t try to cross any borders, would anyone care to check?
If they did, would he be shot as a spy?
His eyes then turned to the counterfeit money. It was in the local currency. Abwehr, the German military intelligence service, had provided it. They had stockpiled a number of fake currencies throughout the war for spies. Of course, Gutwein’s mission was the last to have any real consequence, so they’d simply stuffed a duffle bag with the American hundred-dollar notes. There was enough money there to allow him to live as a very rich man. So long as no one found the Condor, no one would ever believe that a German had flown across the Atlantic to start a new life.
He examined the first bundle. Would they suffice, or would they, too, be discovered as fakes and seal his fate as a German spy ending in his execution?
He shook these thoughts from his mind. They weren’t his responsibility. Someone else had made the decisions which would ultimately determine whether he lived or died. He would need the identification papers and the money if he were to survive. His German officers in intelligence had either done their part well or not.
He loaded a backpack with survival rations, cash, and what had become his most treasured possession – a small, leather bound journal, in which he had documented the entire event.
He glanced at the strange bomb sitting in its purpose-built cradle. Studying it, he carefully ran his hands along the edge of it. The entire device appeared sound and intact. It had fared far better than the Condor or his men.
The big question remained, would it still work?
It would take time, but so long as he lived, he might still have a chance to complete his mission. It would just take a lot longer than he’d originally hoped.
His family, his friends, and his country had all been taken from him. He felt a terrible stab of shame, as he realized that he was thankful that his life had been spared. But perhaps he needn’t feel guilty. Perhaps this was meant to be.
Luck. Fortune. Fate. Was there a reason he had been spared?
Gutwein’s lips curled into a Machiavellian smile of purpose. God had given him the means and opportunity to finish his mission. Now, he had all the time in the world to take revenge on those who had taken everything from him.
Chapter One
Green-Wood Cemetery, New York – Present Day
Alex Goodson had always known he was different.
He had been an awkward kid. As a young adult, he fell short of being attractive, and a long way off being liked by anyone. He had blond hair, which he carefully combed with the precision that bordered on the wrong side of obsessive compulsion. He had a moderately pleasing face, with light blue eyes, a prominent nose and a strong jawline. His teeth were white and evenly spaced. His face bore the remnants of an acne-filled teenage-hood with a series of small pockmarks. The rest of his skin was an unnatural and sickly pale color – the result of inadequate exposure to sunlight rather than disease.
He spent most of his time in front of computers, where he didn’t have to interact with other people. Despite his apparent lifestyle of inactivity, he had the sort of wiry physique that never really filled out to match his clothes. As a consequence, his suit today appeared conspicuously big for him.
The weather was pleasantly warm for early spring, approaching 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Speckled sun filtered through the new foliage of the red oak trees that lined the southern pathway. The unique fragrance of blossoming magnolias filled the air. Alex couldn’t quite place the smell. To him, it smelled like tropical fruit – something between mango and papaya.
Breathing in deeply through his nostrils, he grimaced as he stood waiting through the funeral service. The overly sweet fragrance seemed unnaturally strong this mornin
g.
The priest droned on. The people in the crowd had their eyes down in prayer.
Alex didn’t listen. Instead, his eyes rolled along the row of juniper trees that lined the south path as it meandered down the undulating hills of the cemetery. Somewhere in the vicinity of six hundred thousand graves filled those mounds. Alex smiled as he imagined the colorful lives of those who were buried. Some struggled to succeed in life, others were rich, some talented, others were merely unlucky – all were now dead.
Something about the concept amused his morbid curiosity. It brought home the simple concept that whatever we achieve on earth, we all end in nothing. His mind wandered aimlessly. He recalled that the hill was once the very spot where the Battle of Long Island was fought in August 27, 1776. The first major encounter of the American Revolutionary War to take place after the United States declared its independence on July 4, 1776. It was a victory for the British Army and the beginning of a successful campaign that gave them control of the strategically important city of New York. In terms of troop deployment and fighting, it was the largest battle of the entire war.
The background murmur stopped. The Catholic service had finished.
Alex closed his eyes for a moment and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. These things came easily to others, but this sort of thing was foreign to him – he had to put on his act and give the performance that was expected of him. He felt confident he could do it. It just took a little more effort than it did for everyone else, that was all.
The dull thud of soil falling on wood made him open his eyes. Alex watched as the first pile of soil was being shoveled onto the lowered casket. His face was impassive, unemotional, and unreadable.
Alex glanced at the faces of those who surrounded the pit. They were staring at him, but their expressions weren’t impassive. He could read those expressions with ease. They looked at him as though he was a monster. They may as well be speaking out loud – they said, “How come this fucked up kid can’t even cry at his own father’s funeral?”
Alex smiled. It’s what he’d learned to do when he felt awkward. He had a nice set of teeth – always diligent with the brushing, you know – and somehow his smile generally set people at ease.
He saw instantly it was a mistake. In this case, it seemed to do the opposite. People seemed to be even more confused by him. Whatever he was doing, it appeared wrong to those watching. Alex knew he was so different, he simply didn’t know what sort of emotion he should be feeling, given the circumstance.
The truth was, he didn’t know how he felt about his father’s death. He’d never been close to the guy. He was never quite up to the old man’s standard, whatever the hell that was supposed to be. His father had treated him kindly. It wasn’t as though he’d been an angry man or violent toward him. It was more a case that his father had no idea what to do with him. When Alex recalled his father looking at him, it was as though the old man was filled with regret and disappointment. Deep down, Alex was grateful that his father had at least tried to hide those things from him.
Alex scanned those faces again that looked upon him now as people departed. Some awkwardly walked past him without saying a word. Others provided him with some sort of meaningless physical gesture. A pat on the shoulder, a gentle embrace of the arms, or an overtly dutiful handshake. Some of the people, he knew. Others, he could guess where they’d come from. Some men and women were in uniform, from the days when his father had flown helicopters in the Vietnam War. Others had been friends of the family for years.
There was one man who Alex definitely didn’t recognize. An older man, who wore an expensive suit and split his time evenly between checking his watch and glancing up at Alex, as though waiting for an invitation to speak. When the man finally accepted Alex wasn’t going to invite him, the man approached on his own accord.
The man offered his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Goodson.”
Alex took it and met the stranger’s light gray eyes. There was no sign of sadness, like the other guests. Alex asked, “Were you responsible for my father’s death?”
“No. Goodness no. Of course not!” The stranger was startled by the absurd question. “What are you talking about? I was told he had a heart attack in his sleep!”
Alex nodded in confirmation. He had no doubt foul play was involved. “Then you have nothing to feel sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.” Alex paused, unsure how to address the stranger. “Mr. –”
“Whipple. Abel Whipple.”
Alex nodded. He’d never heard the name before, which meant he’d never met this man. Despite his often stumbling, artless behavior, Alex had an eidetic memory. “How did you know my father?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. Not really. I knew of him, but that’s a very different thing than knowing a person, isn’t it?”
Alex nodded again. Not really understanding what the man meant, he remained silent.
“I’m a lawyer, you see,” Abel continued. “If it’s not too much to ask, given all the trouble you must be going through, could I arrange a time for you to come by my office?”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthcoming when we first met. I’m not really here for your father. I’m here to see you.”
“Me?” Alex smiled, making the curve of his lips appear genuine, but it was as practiced as any actor. “What do you want from me?”
“You are the beneficiary of a certain will. As executor, I’d hoped to attend this matter as soon as it is reasonably convenient for you.”
The executor of my father’s will. So that’s why he’s here.
“How about right now?” Alex asked.
Abel’s bushy eyebrow’s narrowed. “Now?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Mr. Goodman, don’t you want to attend the wake?”
“No.” Alex’s blond brows drew down as he stared at the distressed, sorrowful, and somewhat baffling faces of those who probably knew his father better than he ever did. “There’s nothing left for me here.”
Abel looked up at him, his smile obsequious. “Very good, sir. Now would be perfect.”
Confused by this form of address, as well as being the recipient of an attitude and facial expressions he’d never experienced, Alex didn’t understand what they meant. Only one thing seemed clear: the man must be a very expensive lawyer.
Chapter Two
The yellow cab stopped out in front of a large building at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East Street in New York City. Alex followed the lawyer through the revolving doors, past the glistening lobby and into a private elevator with a waiting attendant. The lawyer, content that he’d achieved his goal in herding Alex to his own office, remained silent throughout the entire trip. It would have made most people uncomfortable, but Alex found the lawyer’s reticence comforting.
He rode the elevator to the top floor, where the lawyer stepped out. The entire office appeared more like a luxurious penthouse than a law firm. It had floor to ceiling glass in every direction, giving expansive views of Central Park. A large placard in golden writing identified the firm as Whipple and Easley. Alex noted the name of the Prestigious law firm and wondered what the hell his father could possibly have to do with such a place. A woman in her mid-forties approached. She was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and spoke with the refined authority of someone who’d studied at an Ivy League university.
She smiled politely and glanced at him with immediate recognition. “Good afternoon, Mr. Goodson. I’m sorry for your loss. My name’s Rebecca Thompson. I’ll be joining Mr. Whipple to execute the last will and testament of the late Mr. Goodson.”
Alex met her professional cordiality with his practiced smile. “Good afternoon.”
“May I organize a drink, or refreshments to be brought up for you?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” Alex dropped into a chair in a boardroom styled office, at the edge of a table that offered at least twenty seats. Opposite him, the two lawyer
s took their seats. He glanced around the room. Everything about it said mega-expensive – from the rich mahogany table, down to the lavish carpet and gun barrel view of Central Park.
“I’m sure you both have more pressing matters. I’m here to see what request my late father has made of me that he couldn’t ask me in person, and then I’ll be off.”
Whipple smiled. It was surprisingly warm. His previous unctuous façade pulled back, leaving an expression of real disbelief. “Mr. Goodson, why do you think I asked you to come here today?”
“To execute the last will and testament of my late father. Although, to be honest, how he managed to afford your services honestly dumbfounds me.”
“I’m sorry, son, were you under the expectation you are here at the bequest of your late father?”
“Yes,” Alex said, studying their faces, unable to read their expressions.
Abel Whipple took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. He spoke with an unreserved sympathy. “Your grandfather, Mr. William Goodson was in fact our client. I’m afraid I never had the privilege of meeting your father when he was alive.”
At the mention of his grandfather, Alex felt his heart speed up. “My grandfather died nearly ten years ago. Why are you contacting me now?”
“Mr. William Goodson retained our services throughout the past forty years of his life. But it was only the year before he died that he took on a very specific request for our assistance.” Whipple made a big show of taking a deep breath and sighing. “You see, he wanted you to receive some items of particular importance to him.”
Alex felt incredulous. In his logical world, this made no sense. “Why now and not ten years ago?”
Whipple shrugged as though it wasn’t his place to wonder at such things. “Your grandfather was quite explicit. You weren’t to receive the items in question until after your own father should pass – of course I’m certain he didn’t expect his death to occur so soon.”
Alex had known his grandfather well. In many ways, he knew the older man much better than he had his father. Where his own father was impatient with his inability to achieve normality in society, his grandfather simply accepted him as he was. “Do you know what he left?”
The Heisenberg Legacy (Sam Reilly Book 11) Page 4
