The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  A gasp was heard from Axel as he crossed himself realizing the far-reaching consequences of the Pope’s action. Nazi ghosts had risen once more to claim yet another innocent victim.

  Dan continued. “Of course, this is where Jim’s father comes into play. His father’s unit attacked one of the gold-laden trucks that had fallen behind the rest of the Monastery’s convoy, mistaking it for the enemy.”

  “The truck was on its way to link up with a train that would take some of the loot to Germany and some of it to the Vatican. But this was not just any ordinary train. It was known as the Gold Train. It contained cargo looted by the Nazis from all across Eastern Europe.”

  Jim pondered the story for a moment wondering where the connection lay. “Why should the Vatican have to worry about something that happened over 60 years ago?”

  The same thought had occurred to Dan when first told the story many years before. “There were no witnesses to say the Pope signed under duress. Those documents and pictures you hold in your hands could be turned against the church. People could say they cooperated with the Nazis the entire time, and stole the gold, and allowed the Jews and Serbs to be killed. Remember, Jim, it only takes a single match to start a raging fire.”

  Jim wiped the perspiration from his brow, nodding in agreement before speaking. “I can see why the Vatican would want to keep this secret hidden, to retrieve the documents and the pictures if only just to burn them and get this episode behind them.”

  “Bingo, my boy!”

  Dan leaned back; satisfied the story was now out in the open. “Well, now you know the whole story and the reason why we should be getting this show on the road. It’s only going to take the Vatican team a few more hours before they realize they’ve been double-crossed.”

  “I see your point,” Jim said. He placed the documents back into their original box before turning to Schmitz. “I must apologize but as you can see, we are in a bit of a rush with some rather nasty people on our tail.”

  Jim tuned back to Schmitz. “I have one nagging question. Is it true that you worked for my father for almost sixty years, running this farm while he was in the states?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Dieter,” he replied proudly. “It’s hard to believe that so much time has passed. Of course, he tried to visit us whenever he could.”

  Jim contemplated what his father had achieved in total secrecy, looking up at Axel, a single tear sliding down his cheek. “He never told me, or from what I know, my mother, about his visits to the farm.”

  “Another secret that death’s door opens, eh, Jim,” Dan said. “We learn more about a person in death than in life.”

  “There are probably a lot of things your father did not inform you about, Mr. Dieter,” Axel said. “He was a brilliant man who did not want to burden anyone with its many details.”

  “You’re right, Axel. My father had a way of thinking things through. But there is one thing he didn’t get a chance to complete and now I must finish.” Jim looked to Axel, resting his hand on his shoulder. “Your years of loyal service to my father and to our family must be rewarded. The Dieter farm is yours. I really have no attachment to this piece of land. I only just learned of its existence a few weeks ago. Yet, you have spent your entire adult life here. It would be unjust to keep such a place that is really your home and not mine. Since I am now the official owner of the farm with my father’s passing, I can rectify this situation easily enough. I hereby decree the farm to you, Mr. Schmitz, for all of your hard work and dedication to my father.”

  Schmitz was taken back. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Dieter,” he stammered. “I’m speechless. All I can say is, yes, I accept. Thank you very much. Your generosity is most kind. Deep down I have always thought that in the end I would get to keep this wonderful piece of land. Now it has come true. I think your father realized you would make this grand gesture and the reason why he wanted you to come here in person.”

  “Axel, I have one additional question,” Jim said, his curiosity peaking. “Are you the only one still alive from the group of children who lived on the farm after the war? My father spoke of a large group of children who had taken up residence here at one time or another.”

  Axel shook his head. “No, sir, some of the others are still alive,” he said. “They moved to America, Australia, or Canada many years ago. As far as living on the farm, it is only my wife Inga and myself. We still hear from the others around Christmas or when someone dies.”

  “Your wife, Inga?” Jim inquired, yet another name from his father’s past playing out before them. “Would this be the same Inga who used her own savings account at the end of the war to help fix up the farm?”

  “The same beautiful lady, Mr. Dieter,” Axel replied, the pride evident in his tone. “Yes, I know we had some bit of an age difference.”

  “My father implied she was in her early 20s in his story. That would put her in her early 90s by now. Am I right?”

  “You are correct, 92 this past May,” Axel said. “It took some time, but I finally convinced her I was the only man for her. Of course she waited a few years after your father left, hoping he would eventually send for her,” looking away awkwardly, “but we both realized that was never to be.”

  “Yes, my Dad said he left pretty quickly with the war’s conclusion, his new business taking priority.”

  Axel pointed over to a silhouette of a farmhouse in the distance. “You passed Inga’s former home as you came down this back road. Your father and Inga grew up on adjoining farms. When they were teenagers, your father would sneak over after sundown, meeting in the barn or back here by the creek, talking for hours on end. This went on for years until your father went off into the Army. Of course, he returned on leave whenever he could, one time even promising to marry her. When your father was released from the prisoner of war camp, their agreement suddenly changed, with him leaving several months after that. I don’t know if it was out of spite or true love, but Inga finally gave up waiting for your father, marrying me in 1950.” His smile almost lit up the night. “I am indebted to your father for three things Mr. Dieter: escaping from Berlin with my life, the privilege of working this farm, and my wife Inga.”

  Dan, quiet up to this moment, allowed the two to reminisce before choosing to speak. “I’d say that’s a lot to be thankful for, Mr. Schmitz: life, livelihood, and a partner.”

  “I truly am, sir,” Axel replied, now looking over to Jim. “When your father first returned to the farm,” pausing to ponder the date for a moment, “it was a good nine years after the war’s conclusion, and he was already married to your mother,” smiling, patting him on the shoulder. “Your father never once forgot us. Since the end of the war, we have received yearly checks for the upkeep of the farm and to provide for our every need.”

  Jim nodded. “One day you must allow me to visit under different circumstances and meet her, if I may, since it is now your farm. We seem to be under some major time constraints right now.” He pointed to Dan readying the truck for travel. “Well, enough of this. More importantly, I will have my lawyer send you the deed for the farm when I return to New York.”

  “I understand, Mr. Dieter,” Axel said. “Good luck in all of your endeavors. Gentlemen, until we meet again,” he said, his hand extended. “It’s beginning to turn light, and from the weather forecast it should be good driving weather for you. When I return to the house, I will tell Inga I have met the son of Hans Dieter, and he is just as generous and caring as his father. My wife Inga will take great joy in knowing that. She always carried a torch in her heart for your father.”

  “Now she will carry one for you.”

  Vatican Special Action Team at the Dieter Farm

  As ordered, the Lieutenant maintained his position by the farmhouse since early afternoon; the only activity he noticed being the occasional farm animal wander by.

  “Our targets have not, repeat, not shown up, Mr. Perluci,” the Lieutenant said into his credit-card-sized cell phone. “Maybe we
should interrogate the owners of the farm to see if they have any information concerning our friends.”

  “Absolutely not,” Perluci replied angrily. “You will not harm the workers nor the owners of the residence. We have no quarrel with them. That is not our way. Do you understand me? Times have changed. Our people no longer perform such actions.”

  “What I meant to say is maybe we could just flat out ask,” the Lieutenant said. “If they do not want to answer, that is up to them. The farm’s owner may not even know a Hans Dieter.”

  “Point well taken Lieutenant, but let’s not bother them until we get clearance. I will call back to the Vatican and explain the situation to see what actions are to be recommended. We must also alert them to the possibility that our property has already been removed.”

  The Lieutenant paused, pondering an idea that crossed his mind at the river. “Did anyone ever think that Dieter’s son may want to keep this under wraps as long as we allow him to keep the gold?”

  “Yes, it was discussed once or twice,” Perluci said. “But my desire is still to have a simple exchange, their lives for our product. Everyone just walks away from this little bit of history.”

  The Lieutenant nodded. “Mr. Perluci may I suggest we try and restart this operation in the United States? We know where this Dieter lives and he most likely will be with our man Flaherty, that is, if Flaherty doesn’t remove him from the picture first.”

  Perluci pondered the idea for a moment before responding. “No, at this juncture of the mission it would not be Flaherty’s style. If he were going to kill Dieter, it would have been right after the property was located, meaning Dieter would be dead at the farm somewhere and displayed prominently. I do believe you would have noticed something along those lines.”

  “So what do you suggest, Mr. Perluci?”

  “If we don’t get clearance to interrogate the farm’s owner, then we can meet in the United States with Mr. Dieter to discuss options. Of course, we always have the choice to hurt him financially, but that will be a decision for a later time. For now, I will join you at the farm in 15 minutes.”

  CHAPTER 31

  AUTOBAHN – OUTSIDE OF FRANKFURT

  Jim exited the autobahn west of the city of Wiesbaden. He searched for one of the popular gas station/cappuccino businesses that seemed to be springing up all over Europe.

  “How about a quick shot of some caffeine?” Jim asked. “I think we could use it before we hit the road again.”

  Dan rubbed his eyes. “Agreed,” he said. “Now do I want the large or super-size cup of coffee? No — how about a keg?”

  “The super it is,” Jim replied.

  “And some donuts.”

  Dan watched Jim disappear into the store portion of the gas station. He casually glanced about the parking lot for any suspicious cars or trucks. If they were being followed, the attackers would probably wait until the truck was about 30 kilometers west of their current position. It would be more isolated and conducive to a hijacking, but that’s only if they were being followed, and if Perluci knew the lay of the land.

  Perluci was a smart bastard. I’ll give him that.

  Right about now, his boys were either a few meters behind them lurking in the shadows or on their way back to Rome, tails between their legs. God forbid if they were behind them. Dan was ready for a fight as he fingered his Mac 9 machine pistol he kept secured under the passenger seat, another gift from his cousin. If they were an intelligent bunch and chose to return to Rome to regroup, it was only a matter of time before they would meet up.

  “Here we go, the big cappuccino and a box of crawlers,” Jim said rather loudly, tossing the box of donuts down beside Dan, and handing him his coffee.

  “I like it,” Dan said. “The jocularity persists even at an ungodly hour such as this. Now switch sides. It’s my turn to drive, for we have a schedule to keep.”

  “No problem there friend,” Jim replied, walking his way around to the passenger side, allowing Dan to slide across to the driver’s seat.

  Jim settled into the passenger seat, trying to locate a comfortable spot to place his coffee cup; finding none, settling on the spot between his legs.

  “So do you have any boats picked out yet or just the location?”

  Dan casually opened the box of donuts, choosing a cinnamon crawler. I have everything down to the color of the boat’s rug in the bathroom, or the head as they call it on boats,” he replied, satisfied with his choice.

  “You are a man for detail, Dan. I must say that. I suppose the boat is around 50 feet in length with an onboard Jacuzzi the size of Lake Michigan.”

  “Jimmy, in my dream it’s 54 feet long with both a sauna and a Jacuzzi, I’ll have you know,” he said before selecting yet another crawler from the box to satisfy either hunger or nerves, never able to distinguish between the two, “but first things first.” A look of mischief crept into his eyes as he looked about the parking lot. “I would now like to inform you about the rest of my plan. That is, if you agree.”

  Jim sipped his coffee. “Do I really have a choice?”

  Dan banked the truck west towards the autobahn. “We have a rendezvous in five hours just outside of Paris with a converted Boeing 777. The jet is a rental from a Dublin company that I’ve done business with in the past and should be well equipped for both comfort and cargo. The person making the airfield arrangements is also doubling as the pilot for this leg of the journey. He also happens to be another close friend who is a corporate pilot and happens to have a little time off. Of course he will be rewarded handsomely for working during his vacation time.”

  “But of course, naturally,” Jim said, nodding at Dan’s take on events.

  Dan continued, ignoring the sarcasm in Jim’s comment. “He’s well versed in the Atlantic Ocean route, frequently flying his company’s president between the home office in the U.S. and France. So our route home should not be a problem. After our journey across the Atlantic, we then land at a small airport in Millville, New Jersey. It’s located equidistant between Philly and New York. Once we land at Millville, we off-load our cargo before the United States Customs Agency is even aware we are on the ground.”

  Jim propped his feet up on the dashboard, shaking his head in awe of Dan’s plan. “Damn it, Dan, remind me to never get on your bad side.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, my friend. I took an instant liking to you from the get-go. I could immediately sense your integrity. My grandmother, god rest her soul, used to call it Irish intuition.”

  Jim smiled. “Let’s get back to the more pressing issues at hand. How do you propose we land at Millville? If I remember correctly, don’t we have to make prior arrangements for U.S. customs to be present when we land?”

  “Details, details my friend, but luckily only minor ones. To answer your question, yes, you are correct. We normally do. Now, this is where I scare even myself with my dastardly planning. We prearrange for the U.S. customs’ agents to meet our aircraft at Newark International. This would appear to make our flight legitimate. Now, if we were to, say, declare an in-flight emergency as we approached the New Jersey coast, we would have priority to land at the closest airport, which at that particular moment would be Millville,” looking over at Jim for a response. “Pretty clever, eh?”

  “And we conveniently happen to have a truck already there to off-load our gold and whisk it to an undisclosed location. Right?”

  “See, now you’re catching on—easy as one, two, three,” Dan said, snapping his fingers before he shifted the gears to adjust for the straightaway. “You better watch out. I think I am beginning to rub off on you.”

  “I have the funny feeling this isn’t your first time arranging an operation like this,” Jim said, seeking a comfortable position.

  “Well, now that you brought it up…”

  CHAPTER 32

  MI-6 HQ – LONDON

  Sir Robert John was visiting the Prime Minister’s residence at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am, being the
PM’s first appointment of the day, in order to explain the debacle involving General Parkers’ SAS unit.

  Upon returning to MI-6 Headquarters, he ordered his secretary to immediately locate General Parker and summon him to his office. It was time to put General Parker “on the carpet” as they would say in military lingo.

  Once back in his office, Sir Robert picked up an antique wooden golf putter, a birthday gift from his wife, and angrily tossed it into the oil painting of Winston Churchill.

  “I never liked that bastard looking down on me anyway,” he said aloud, making a crude reference to Churchill.

  General Parker winced at the crashing of the putter, silently striding unnoticed into Sir Robert’s office, easing into his customary seat at the conference table. He sat there watching Sir Robert inspect the damage to his Churchill painting.

  Several seconds transpired before Sir Robert noticed General Parker out of the corner of his eye, turning on his heels to meet his steady gaze.

  “Your goddamn people screwed up royally, General Parker, they really did,” Sir Robert screamed, thrusting his fist in the air. “Do you want to know how badly, General?” Sir Robert walked around the conference table in order to stand beside him, index finger in the General’s face. “I had to meet with the Prime Minister this morning where I promptly had my butt chewed. If you think I enjoyed it, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Sir Robert straightened his tie, trying to achieve some sense of calm. “But, that’s not the big problem. I can handle the simple details with the PM. Do you want to know what really burns my ass? Just five minutes ago, I had a phone conversation with the commanders of both the Paris Gendarme and Interpol. They asked me if I knew anything about our people operating in the area of Surie, France—a simple enough request, director to director. It happens all the time. They proceed to inform me that two of their police inspectors are missing. Now this is the kicker. They were presumed to be operating on the same case and in the same area as our team. Do you believe this coincidence? How the hell did the frogs even know our people were in the area?” He walked over to his in-office bar, searching his mini-fridge for something substantial, settling on tomato juice but feeling more like a scotch.