A Gift from the Gods

by Martin Gunn

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I want you to investigate a man,” replied Laura.

  “Why? Is he cheating on you?” sighed the world-weary detective.

  Glassman found it hard to believe that anyone would want to cheat on such an attractive woman.

  “No – it’s nothing like that,” assured Laura, “there are things about this particular man which don’t add up and I need … want… to find out more about him.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “I can’t do that,” Laura shook her head nervously.

  “Are you in a relationship with this man?”

  “Err…no, not really,” hesitated Laura.

  “But you have slept with him,” stated the ever-perceptive investigator.

  “Is that relevant?” asked Laura defensively.

  “I don’t know yet,” mused Glassman. Laura had given him the answer he was looking for in not so many words, “tell me about this man.”

  “His name is Gary Brand, at least that’s what he calls himself,” she added, “he claims to be Dutch, but a friend of mine thinks his accent, slight though it may be, sounds more like German. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  “Why lie about a thing like that?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Recently I noticed a tattoo on his upper left arm,” Laura pointed to her own arm to indicate the position, “just two letters, ‘AB’. We think it might be his blood group.”

  The significance of this tattoo was not lost on Glassman. Both his parents were survivors of the holocaust, being lucky to get out of Bergen-Belsen alive. He knew exactly what the tattoo meant.

  “This is an old man then?”

  “No,” argued Laura, “that’s just it. I would say he is in his mid-thirties and is very fit for his age.”

  “Then he can’t possibly be Waffen-SS, he’s too young.”

  “That’s not the only thing,” continued Laura, “I am a biochemist, and he paid me and my colleague David, to kind of back engineer a drug so that it could be replicated. We have never seen anything like it. He also commissioned my cousin to build a strange timer device from schematics that look like hieroglyphics.”

  “And your cousin understands them?”

  “He is very clever,” confirmed Laura, “Scott has a particular talent for deciphering puzzles. This one was no problem for him.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Glassman put his finger to his lips and pondered a moment, then he sprang forwards and picked up the telephone.

  “Bear with me a moment,” Glassman frowned as he began to dial.

  Laura waited patiently, she could hear a phone ringing in the receiver and eventually a muffled voice answered.

  “Solomon,” greeted Glassman, “I’m sorry to bother you at such short notice, but I have a client with me, and I could do with some help from your extensive records. Would it be possible to bring her round now if that’s okay?”

  Putting the phone down, Glassman looked up at Laura.

  “Can you spare an hour or so? There is someone who I would like you to meet,” enthused Glassman, “his name is Solomon Neuhaus and he has a massive collection of Nazi information.”

  “Okay, if you think it will help.”

  “If he can’t help, then no one can,” replied the PI standing up and putting on his jacket.

  The journey to Neuhaus’s residence took a little over half an hour, and as Laura pulled up outside a large detached house, Glassman turned to her.

  “Solomon is a little wary of strangers, so let me do all the talking. At least at first.”

  They walked up the path and Glassman rang the bell. The door opened to reveal an old man, tall and slim with white hair and a well-trimmed white beard. He sized them up, then invited them in. Once pleasantries and introductions were out of the way, Solomon got down to business.

  “What is this all about?”

  “We are trying to establish the identity of a possible Nazi,” stated Glassman.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Gary Brand?” replied Glassman, looking at Laura, who nodded in confirmation.

  “I have lists of most Waffen-SS soldiers enlisted before and during World War Two,” advised Solomon, “but I don’t necessarily have any detailed files on them all.”

  They followed him into a room with wall to wall metal cabinets and a small table in the centre. Immediately he went straight to a drawer, opened it and pulled out a folder. Placing the file on the table, Solomon turned the cover over and began to scan down the list of names typed in alphabetical order.

  “There are a couple of Brands here, but neither are called Gary,” he stated eventually, “and there is no file on any of them either, since I haven’t marked them with an asterisk.”

  Turning to Laura, Solomon asked, “What can you tell me about this man?”

  “Well, he is tall, good looking with fair hair and piercing blue eyes.”

  Realising that he would need more than this, she continued, “One thing I noticed though, he had a countenance about him,” Laura paused for thought, “a kind of aristocratic arrogance, I guess.”

  “Right, assuming he is using a false name,” mused Solomon, thinking out loud, “let’s check titled names. German nobility often used von in front of their surnames, like Manfred von Richthofen, the First World War fighter ace.”

  Flicking through the pages, he finally stopped at the ‘V’ section of the list and began scanning down the column of names with ‘von’ in them. Suddenly his finger stopped.

  “This is interesting,” he announced, looking up at his two visitors, “there is a Hauptsturmführer Baron Gustav von Brandt listed here; that’s a captain. I suppose there is some logic in keeping your false name similar to the real one, don’t you think?”

  “Do you have anything on him?” asked Glassman excitedly.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” uttered Solomon.

  He walked over to another cabinet, opened a drawer and started flicking through it. Eventually he returned to the table with another folder. Placing it on the table, he opened the cover.

  Immediately Laura gave out a gasp and put her hand to her mouth in shock. A black-and-white portrait of a man in uniform was clipped to the file. There was no mistaking it. Staring back up at her was a familiar face, looking a few years younger perhaps, but it was definitely him. The man she knew as Gary Brand was this Nazi officer.

  “That’s him,” she blurted out, “that’s Gary Brand.”

  Sitting down at the table to steady herself, Laura’s mind was racing. How could this possibly be?

  “What does the file say about him?” enquired Glassman.

  “Well, there isn’t much,” verified Solomon, “it would seem that he spent much of his early career chasing religious relics; he was transferred to some research base between Munich and the Austrian border, then around 1943 he disappears without a trace.”

  Laura barely heard any of this, her mind was going over the recent revelation of finding out Gary’s true identity. What had she got herself and David into? And Scott – he was still working for him.

  “Can we have a copy of this file please Solomon?” asked Glassman.

  “Of course,” replied Solomon, somewhat confused. He didn’t understand how such a minor Nazi who, if still alive, would be in his seventies by now, could be of any significance.

  On the journey back to his office, Glassman looked at Laura,

  “I’ll take on the case; my fees are $200 a day, plus expenses. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” confirmed Laura, “when will you start?”

  “I’ve already started,” replied Glassman. At least now he had a name and a face to go on. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  ***

  David didn’t linger a moment longer than necessary at work
, he was anxious to hear Laura’s news from her meeting with the detective that afternoon. When he arrived at her house, she hadn’t been home long. A visibly shocked Laura answered the door, and let David in.

  “Laura – what happened?”

  “I was taken to see a Nazi expert, who had a photo of him,” she murmured, “Gary’s real name is Gustav von Brandt, and he’s a Baron would you believe.”

  “So, I was right, he is German.”

  “Look at this,” Laura’s voice was shaky, as was her hand as she handed him a copy of the photograph, “this was taken around the time of the Second World War. He was a captain in the SS.”

  “But he hardly looks any different!” exclaimed David, studying the image.

  “I know,” agreed Laura, “I’ve been thinking about that on my way home. Do you think it’s possible that the drug we worked on, is some kind of age arresting serum?”

  “Yes of course, that makes perfect sense,” enthused David, “we know the drug feeds off bacteria and viruses to maintain cellular integrity. So, if the cells don’t degrade; the person won’t degrade. He could stay the same age, possibly indefinitely.”

  Sitting down next to Laura, David marvelled at the thought of such a notion. He looked at Laura.

  “My God,” was all he could say as Laura hugged him for reassurance.

  “David,” she whispered, “what are we going to do?”

  He thought for a minute or two, and then answered.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, this man could be dangerous,” he repeated, “the way I see it, we are safe as long as Gary … this von Brandt guy, doesn’t know that we know. So, for the time being we’ll keep it that way. Okay?”

  Laura nodded her agreement, it seemed the only logical thing to do.

  “The questions that now needed answering are, how the hell did he get here from the 1940s? And what on earth is that component that Scott is working on?”

  ***

  Mclean – Virginia, Two miles from CIA Headquarters.

  20th August 1985

  The front door opened on Slater’s apartment and he stumbled inside. Hazel was in the kitchen making breakfast; she whipped round with a start as she heard the commotion. Moving quickly to the hallway, she saw Slater looking rough and clutching a familiar-looking CIA file.

  “Good God, Liam,” she exclaimed, “what happened to you? I have been worried sick. You have been missing two whole days.”

  “Let me sit down,” mumbled Slater, lunging into the living room.

  He slumped onto the couch and closed his eyes, then opened them as a wave of nausea began to consume him.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Water, please.” He winced.

  Hazel returned with a glass of water and handed it to Slater, who drank it down in two thirsty gulps. Without warning, a wave of nausea came over him again. Slater leant over the side of the couch and retched. Very little came up apart from the water he had just taken in.

  “I need to lie down,” he spluttered, holding his forehead, “help me up.”

  After helping him to the bed, Hazel watched with concern from the doorway as he closed his eyes. When she was certain that he was asleep, Hazel moved to the telephone to make a call. She dialled in a number and waited for a response from Slater’s case officer, Darren Garner.

  “He’s back,” she confirmed, succinctly.

  “When?” replied Garner.

  “About thirty minutes ago. He hasn’t said much, he’s feeling a bit rough. I’ve put him to bed.”

  “I’ll be over directly,” Hazel could hear the concern in Garner’s voice, “don’t go anywhere.”

  “Understood,” she verified.

  Noticing the tatty file on the coffee table, Hazel picked it up and glanced at the red letters stamped on it Above Top Secret. The temptation to read the file was overwhelming, and just as she opened the cover, she stopped herself and put it down. One thing that she had learned in this job is; it is better not to know.

  Forty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Hazel opened it, to reveal a man in his early fifties, tall with a slight paunch, and well-dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. Hazel recognised him immediately.

  “How is he?” asked Garner, looking stern.

  “He’s still in the bedroom,” she frowned, letting Garner in, “can I get you a coffee?”

  “Sure,” nodded Garner and sat himself down on the couch. The first thing he noticed was the file on the coffee table.

  “Where did this come from,” he hollered into the kitchen.

  “Liam had that with him when he arrived,” revealed Hazel, knowing full well what he was referring to.

  When she came back in carrying a tray of cups, Garner was fully immersed in the contents of the file. He glanced up at her as she placed the tray on the table.

  “Have you looked at this?” he enquired, accusingly.

  “No, I have not,” her voice showed a trace of indignation, “I know better than that.”

  The expression on Garner’s face was one of doubt, but before he could respond, his attention was distracted by Slater stumbling into the room. Hazel stood up to help him.

  “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Yeah,” whispered Slater, slumping in an armchair opposite Garner. He had awoken and heard his case officer’s voice and thought that he’d better put in an appearance.

  “Where the hell have you been?” spouted Garner.

  Slater looked over to Hazel.

  “Could you make yourself scarce for an hour sweetheart?” he asked, apologetically.

  “Sure, I’ve got some shopping to do,” she agreed, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  With his girlfriend out of the way, Slater told his case officer the whole incredible story, from being abducted to returning home earlier that day.

  “And you’ve read this, I take it?” commented Garner, picking up the file.

  “Sure, I have,” confirmed Slater, “they made me.”

  “Okay,” sighed Garner finally, getting to his feet and picking up the file, “rest up today, and report to me first thing tomorrow, is that understood?”

  Nodding, Slater showed Garner to the door.

  “Tomorrow then,” reasserted Garner.

  “Yeah tomorrow,” nodded Slater.

  He closed the door and withdrew to the kitchen. All of a sudden, he realised he was hungry.

  ***

  The Warehouse – North of Los Angeles.

  18th August 1985

  It took nearly a month of intensive work on Scott’s part to build the seven timers, but once all of the components were available, the devices were assembled fairly quickly. Von Brandt arrived at the warehouse to see the seven boxes laid out on Scott’s drawing board. Scott was sitting there patiently awaiting von Brandt’s arrival.

  “Are they ready?” enquired von Brandt hopefully.

  Scott, as ever, simply looked down and nodded.

  “Have you tested them?”

  Again, Scott nodded.

  “Can you show me?”

  Picking up a timer, Scott walked briskly over to the Glocke and opened the hatch. He sat in the seat and pushed the new component into a recess on the control panel. Looking in, from outside of the hatch, von Brandt noticed that the mechanical timer had been removed. Pausing for a second, Scott flicked a switch on the timer and the inside of the machine sprang into life. A red hologram hovered around them and von Brandt stared wide-eyed, completely dumbfounded. He wasn’t expecting this.

  “How do I set it?” enquired von Brandt anxiously.

  Scott picked up a sheet of paper with instructions on. Then he went about touching the hologram, setting an arbitrary date of 1980.

  “And if I want to change the date?”
<
br />   Scott demonstrated how to reinsert a new date.

  Reading further down the sheet, more became clear to von Brandt.

  “Ah, and these spaces are for inserting grid references,” he voiced aloud, pointing at the red image, “calibrated to the Greenwich Meridian – excellent.”

  “You’ve done well Scott,” complimented von Brandt, in a desperate attempt to engage with the lad, “now I’d better get you back.”

  On the journey to Scott’s home, von Brandt noticed a small metallic-blue hatchback, which seemed to be following him. It was a Plymouth Champ, a distinctive car, since it wasn’t of typical American design, and the man behind the wheel was Glassman. He had uncovered some disturbing information on von Brandt and had decided to keep tabs on his activities.

  Just to confirm his suspicions, von Brandt took a less direct route, and sure enough the Plymouth followed. As he dropped off the boy, von Brandt noticed that his pursuer had parked up about 100 yards further back. He was intrigued as to who this mystery person might be but decided the more important issue was to go straight back to the motel and contact Kolbeck, to arrange a pick-up of the timers.

  Glassman had followed von Brandt from the warehouse, convinced that he had not been detected, and as his quarry turned into the motel car park, he decided to check out the warehouse, whilst it was unoccupied.

  Parking his car a little way down the road, Glassman walked to the warehouse and then around it, looking for a way in. He found it in the shape of an old loose board, which he found easy to prise open, and he entered. The interior was large and mostly empty, save for a makeshift office with a drawing board, and opposite this in a corner near the main doors, a stack of hay bales. Walking into the office he examined the drawing board. There was nothing there of any note, so he turned his attention to the bales of hay. After removing several bales, it became apparent that there was some strange vessel hidden here, but what he could only speculate. One of the qualities which made him such a good detective was his pragmatism; he wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. But this was a bizarre case, and what he had recently uncovered about von Brandt led him to only one conclusion, no matter how fantastic it might seem. And as Sherlock Holmes once observed – Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This object simply had to be a time machine. With this case getting weirder by the day, he covered the machine up again and decided to get out quick to collate his findings. Glassman would have to present his evidence to Laura very soon. He needed to warn her that this man was dangerous.