Sins of the Fatherland (Scott Jarvis Investigations Book 6)

by Scott Cook

  “Scott—“Clay began to protest.

  I spun around and roared, “Fucking now! Don’t argue with me, goddamit! The three of you get the hell out of here before the cops show up. Move!”

  Clay still looked like he wanted to protest but Conklin put a hand on his shoulder, “He’s right, come on.”

  Santino locked eyes with me and nodded. I returned the nod. He knew that it was more important that they stay free. In that look, I tried to communicate that I wanted him to check up on the folks back in Sarasota. I think he understood.

  “Scott…” Sharon said softly, “Jesus… what the hell’s going on?”

  I sighed and sat back behind what had been Lisa’s desk, “I haven’t a damned clue. Although I will say that I wish you hadn’t told Audrey Lambert that I was in Sarasota. She shows up and things get interesting. She could be in grave danger now.”

  Sharon looked confused, “Huh? I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday morning at Hank Lambert’s house.”

  “Then how the hell did she know where…” I muttered, “Shit… something’s not right here…”

  “You’re fuckin’ kidding, right?” Sharon laughed.

  I rubbed my temples, “What’s the sitch at Hank’s place, anyway?”

  “Same as before,” Sharon said, “I’ve got a patrol car watching the house and an occasional drive by. Nobody’s been there since. Except Clay, who came over not long after you left to fix the door.”

  “Anybody leave?” I asked.

  “That cute Cuban kid,” Sharon said, “Went out to the store. That’s it, though.”

  “Okay…” I sighed. I suddenly felt bone tired. The night’s activity was finally catching up with me. Dinner, drinks, energetic sex, several surprises, a gun fight, a foot chase, a wrestling match and now a classic spy-novel type hit.

  “You okay?” She asked, “You look wiped.”

  I snorted, “That’s putting it lightly. So now what happens?”

  “Well…” Sharon admitted, “I don’t know. The only witnesses are you and me. Your buddy here isn’t going to talk. I can attest that an assassin shot him. With just you and me here, they’ll believe why we couldn’t chase him. Your shattered window will back that up.”

  “We couldn’t have chased him anyway,” I said, “That was too well orchestrated. Somebody has planned this out very well… layers upon layers… but somebody is pulling the strings from someplace. And I don’t have a damned clue who.”

  “I think that’s kind of the idea,” Sharon stated glumly.

  “And I’m damned tired,” I admitted, sagging a little in my chair, “My mind isn’t firing on all thrusters. Or maybe some of this would make sense.”

  “Want to talk about it?” She asked.

  “Maybe later,” I said, “and Sharon… I don’t want you putting yourself in the hot seat for me on this. You’re still a cop and—“

  “You let me worry about me,” She said, coming over and kneeling beside me, wrapping an arm around me, “And I’ll worry about you, too. You okay?”

  I shook my head, “Who the hell knows… This U-boat thing is getting out of hand. Somebody is trying to scare the Lamberts off and trying to frame Brody for it.”

  “You don’t think Brody or his Arab pal are behind the shooting and… and Morgan?” She asked softly.

  “No,” I said, “I think that both parties are being screwed with by somebody else. A hidden third party. Christ Sharon… I found out tonight that there’s a Mossad agent working under cover with Brody. Joe McClay, remember the captain on Ravetti’s yacht I told you about? He’s with MI6 for all love… And then in walks a mafia Don, a couple of ex-marines including ole Conklin… I feel like my head’s gonna explode.”

  The ding of the elevator’s arrival chime rang from down the corridor and dragged our attention back to the present. Sharon went and stood next to the still taped up body of Bin-Kazar and drew her 9mm from her pocket book. She held it loosely at her side and waited.

  My outer office door was hanging open. Long ago I’d removed the pneumatic closer. For some reason, I just didn’t like that idea. I can’t really tell you why.

  Through it, as if to complete the all-star cast from the life of Jarvis strode detectives Nick Calovanni and John Bryce. Two cops I’d met a little over a year ago when I was working on the John Bartlett case. See The Ledger for further details.

  “Christ,” Calovanni said as he took in the scene, “You’re having a hell of a morning, huh Scott?”

  “If you only knew the half of it,” I said wearily.

  “Oh, we’re gonna know the whole of it before the sun shines on this disaster,” Bryce said smugly. His attitude was so unchanged from our last encounter that I was almost glad for it. As if it were something stable in a world that had become ungimbled over the past couple of days.

  “You’re not gonna start already, are you, Bryce?” Sharon asked, “Haven’t you played this scene once too often?”

  “Depends on him,” Bryce said, “He’s got a smart mouth that I don’t think will get him out of this jam. What do you say, Jarvis?”

  “Is there some problem, officer?” I managed.

  “Yeah, you,” Bryce snapped, “Got no respect for nothin’.”

  “Always show respect to your superiors… if you have any. Mark Twain,” I replied.

  Bryce scoffed. He was a young man, maybe three or four years younger than me and was still a newbie detective. He had worked with Calovanni the last time we’d met and the latter had slid into the spot I’d left vacant when I’d left the force. He was about six feet or so, lean with a crop of curly blonde hair over a face that would’ve been handsome if not for the permanent sneer it seemed to wear. Bryce was one of those guys who became a cop more for the power than for the idealism it seemed to me.

  In stark contrast to the youngest of the pair, Calovanni was a broader and shorter man with classic Italian features and still had a bit of his New York accent. He was an even tempered and intelligent man of around forty.

  “I assume this is connected with what happened over at the Hilton?” Calovanni asked, waving a hand at the dead Arab now soiling my client chair with his blood.

  “It is,” I said, “This man was part of a four man hit team that attacked my client yesterday morning… and killed my dog.”

  “Well, you certainly showed them,” Bryce said nastily.

  “John,” Sharon said in a tone that made my blood cool a bit, “You watch your ass.”

  Bryce eyed her for a long moment. Sharon was now a Lieutenant, having made this rank just after her thirty-fourth birthday in August. She outranked both Bryce and even Calovanni.

  However, they all answered to Captain Harry O’Malley, and Sharon was also split between homicide and vice. This didn’t diminish her authority, but it did create an interesting territorial situation.

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant,” Bryce said in a tone that belied the words, “you’re too close to Jarvis to be objective. I don’t think you’re in any position to take authority on this one. It could easily be seen as a conflict of interest.”

  “John,” Calovanni said, “that may be… but watch yourself.”

  Bryce shrugged, “Hey, we may all have different styles, but I get the job done.”

  “Let’s hold off on the good cop, bad cop for the moment,” Calovanni said, “But he is right, Sharon… I have to take point on this one.”

  Sharon nodded, “That’s fine. But I’m not going to sit by and watch Scott get abused for no reason. And John, if you push him too far, gold badge or not, Scott is liable to teach you a lesson. Just fair warning.”

  Bryce scoffed, “Striking an officer, huh? Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

  I sighed and rubbed my face, “if this episode of Hillstreet Blues or whatever the hell is gonna go on much longer… can we pick it up later? I’m running on fumes here.”

  “We need some facts,” Calovanni said, sitting on the end of the davenport, “Maybe you’d better
start at the beginning.”

  Sharon sat at the other end and folded her arms across her ample chest. She wore a frown that’d give me pause if I were one of her subordinates.

  Bryce chuckled and went into my inner office. He came back out with my other client chair and set it on the other side of the secretary’s desk, “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  Chapter 25

  Eastern Gulf of Mexico

  October 11th, 1945 – 0622 local time

  Alarms were blaring and the alert lights were blinking at a slow and methodical pace. Gunter Bausch thought he might be driven mad. The ship was rising from the bottom, they had that at least, yet she was laboring even at this relatively shallow depth.

  He didn’t know how the American did what he’d done. How they’d managed to detonate a torpedo directly in the line of his two eels. Yet they had, and that was what mattered. An even greater indignity was that another of their weapons had slammed into the bottom so close to Ario Vistis’ bow that the shockwave had pushed the German submarine backward and smashed her tail assembly into the granite wall of the small defile… again.

  “Damage report, now!” Bausch barked, “And shut off that goddamned noise.”

  The klaxon and its host of other minor annoyances were thankfully stilled. The new captain felt that if the din had gone on much longer he’d have slit his own throat for relief.

  “Stern planes inoperative,” Yohan Verschmidt said as he hobbled up next to Bausch, “Starboard propeller is a wreck… flooding in the after machinery and electrical engine rooms. Water is seeping into the torpedo bay also.”

  Bausch grimaced when he saw his executive officer’s face. Verschmidt was pale and the left side of his face was dark with shiny burgundy. The man’s blood made darker and somehow more ominous by the red lighting in the zentral. Yohan had struck his head on something when the shockwaves hit.

  “Are you all right, Einsvo?” Bausch asked with more concern than he felt. He was concerned, to be sure, but more for the loss of effectiveness that would result should Yohan prove unable to perform his duties than for the man himself. Yohan was a crack acoustics man after all and Bausch found him useful in spite of the enmity between them.

  “It’s all right, kapitan,” Yohan said flatly, not really caring what this madman thought, “We are rising and the crew aft is tending to the leaks.”

  “Can we load and fire another salvo?” Bausch asked.

  Yohan shrugged, “I don’t know, sir. We’ve lost contact with torpedo.”

  “Phone talker!” Bausch snapped, “Contact the torpedo room and ask chief Kumanz to make an immediate report. If you can’t raise him, run forward and get it. Where is the American, Yohan?”

  “Ahead,” Yohan said, waving a hand forward, “he’s rising for the surface as well. I can’t be sure now, but I believe he’s experiencing flooding and loss of engine power as well.”

  “Damn him!” Bausch barked, swiping at the sweat which was pouring down his porcine features, “We should’ve had him! Well, we will, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Kumanz appeared in the forward hatchway, a white rag wrapped around his head. The left shoulder of his uniform was dark with blood, “Sir!”

  “How is it up there, Oberbootsman?” Bausch asked.

  “Sound heads are jammed,” Kumanz said, “Tube two’s outer door is damaged and we can’t use it. Tube one is still operable and we’re loading a fish now… manually. The reloading gear is damaged. There is water coming in from the damaged tube as well as from the bilges.”

  “How bad?” Yohan asked.

  Kumanz shrugged, “Slowly. More than the pumps can handle, but not dangerous as yet. I think we can compensate with air pressure should the need arise.”

  “That means abandoning the torpedo room,” Bausch said.

  Kumanz nodded gravely.

  “All right, chief,” Bausch stated, “get back up there and stand by. I’m going to want to fire that eel as soon as I get a lock on those Yankee bastards.”

  “You’re still going to fight?” Yohan asked with only a very little surprise. In truth he hadn’t expected anything less.

  “Naturally,” Bausch said, “What choice do we have?”

  “Surrender,” Yohan snapped, some of his true rage and indignation showing finally, “Put a stop to this and save the lives of this crew… or what’s left of it. There is no way we can carry out our mission now.”

  Bausch laughed coldly, “I knew you sympathized with that coward Reinhardt, Einsvo. Yet I thought better of you. I didn’t think you were a coward.”

  Bausch was stunned when the larger and younger man spun on him, grabbed the front of his jumper in both of his large hands and shoved. Bausch found himself propelled backward and off balance until he fetched up against the bulkhead. Before he could recover, light flared in his vision as a meaty fist plowed into the right side of his face. The boat’s captain wavered, the darkness threatening to close in on him.

  Yet he recovered, his vision settling down into a semblance of clarity. It was clear enough to see the usually mild and amenable face of Yohan Verschmidt looming over him. The face was twisted in rage and made all the more terrifying because half of it was a glistening maroon sheen.

  “You dirty pile of dog shit,” Yohan growled, “You murdering, self-serving Nazi fuck! I should do us all a favor and snap your pig neck right now! How dare you call me a coward! You who slew a good man in cold blood while his back was turned…”

  Yohan’s hours of frustration, weariness and regret were boiling over in an almost uncontrollable fury. To both men’s shock, the first officer’s large hands were clamped around Bausch’s meaty throat.

  Bausch knew true fear then. There was no one to stop Yohan. He knew deep down that he was despised, even by those among the crew who supported him. And now that the situation had degraded so far, the crew believed by now that their new captain cared little for their personal safety or comfort. And Bausch also knew that this popular and genial man who was beginning to squeeze the life out of him could easily sway even the most devoted Nazi proponents to his side.

  “Sir!” Came a nervous frightened and insistent voice. It was Ernst Schumer. Bausch still had enough of his wits about him to appreciate the irony that this pipsqueak was the one who’d save his life.

  “Einsvo!” Schumer insisted from the conning tower.

  Yohan turned, releasing Bausch and stepping to the other side of the zentral, “What is it?”

  “The American is on the surface,” Schumer said, “he’s altering course… and opening his forward outer doors!”

  Yohan glared over at Bausch, who was straightening his uniform in an attempt to re-center himself, “I guess you’re going to get your wish, pig. Here comes our adversary now. They want your blood for what you did to them… and you know something, Gunter? I don’t blame them a bit.”

  From somewhere and at some time, Bausch couldn’t possibly imagine when, Yohan had retrieved a pistol. The big Luger’s barrel was now aimed squarely at Bausch’s chest. Bausch opened his mouth to say something but no words would come.

  “That’s right,” Yohan said, “You keep your fat fucking mouth shut, pig.”

  The zentral was silent. A palpable tension seemed to cling to the air like fog. The crew waited anxiously to see who they’d be serving next.

  “Raise the American on the radio as soon as we’re on the surface,” Yohan ordered the room at large.

  “Sir…” Another sonarman said from beside Schumer, “Our radio equipment is damaged. I’ve got no power from here.”

  Yohan let fly a string of German invective, “Phone talker! Pass my order on to the radio room.”

  The young man at the sound powered phone did so. While he waited for the response, Yohan glared at Bausch who returned the glare with equal hostility.

  “Radio room reports electrical damage,” The phone talker reported, “They’re not sure how long…”

  Bausch smiled, “Too bad for you,
Einsvo.”

  Yohan climbed halfway up the ladder into the conning tower, still holding the pistol in Bausch’s direction. He leaned in close to Schumer, “Listen to me, boy. We’re going to die soon. This boat is going to the bottom and there’s nothing we can do about it, do you understand?”

  Schumer’s face was pale and tears began to flow down his cheeks. Tears for the tragedy of this morning and tears for his mother, who would lose another son to a pointless war. He managed to nod.

  Yohan’s face eased from its set of hard anger and softened, “I’m sorry, Ernst. This is no way for a young man to end his life. Do you know where the emergency rafts are stored on deck?”

  Ernst’s eyes went wide, “I… yes, sir… but…”

  “”We’ll be on the surface soon,” Yohan said sternly but not unkindly, “When we do, I want you to go on deck and break the raft out. It has enough supplies to keep you safe for a long time. There’s food, water and a radio. Launch the raft when the time is right and radio the Americans. They’ll take care of you.”

  “When will I know?” Ernst whispered in despair.

  “You’ll know, son,” Yohan said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder, “You’ll know.”

  “Aye, aye,” Ernst managed to croak through his tears and the sobs that he could no longer hold back.

  With that, Yohan Verschmidt slid down the ladder. He turned to Bausch, who by now had collected himself and wore a cruel smile on his face. Standing next to him was one of the enlisted matros who’d held the machine guns and fired on the American. To Yohan, this seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Bausch laughed cruelly, “Now what do you do, Einsvo? Not only are you a coward, but a fool into the bargain. Didn’t you think—“

  The Luger barked and a tongue of flame leapt from the barrel. What was left of Gunter Bausch’s brains splattered against the bulkhead behind him and his lifeless body crumpled to the deck like the heap of trash it was.