“We’re only two hours from port,” the waiter said. “Can I get you gentlemen a celebratory drink? Bloody Mary perhaps?”
Faust brusquely asked for privacy. He turned to Neil, clearing his throat and tugging on his collar. “When exactly did you leave San Francisco?”
“Why?”
“It’s important.”
Neil’s eyes swiveled around the bar. His past two weeks were a blur, especially when throwing the confines of the ship into the mix—a place where days don’t matter. “It was the Tuesday afternoon before we sailed. I flew out that day and it took me two days to get to New York. Why?”
Faust shook his head as if disappointed in something. He spoke what must have been a Finnish curse word.
“What?” Neil asked.
“Dammit!” Faust said, slapping his own leg. “I told them you were too unstable. It was right there in the report.”
Neil didn’t care for Faust, and right now the man was irritating him to the point that he wanted to flatten him. “Faust, what the hell are you talking about?”
Faust’s eyes were rimmed in red. “You vengeful, prideful bastard.”
Neil maintained his calm. “What exactly are you referring to?”
“You could have slid into Austria unnoticed,” Faust admonished, his breath heavy. “Slipped in and saved our children.” Tears rimmed Faust’s eyes as he spat his words. “But you had to go and make it a damned suicide mission. People are depending on you. This is bigger than one man.”
Neil opened his hands, feeling his anger growing. “Spit it out, Faust. What are you talking about?”
Faust tried to say something but was stricken by a sudden coughing fit. He tried to clear his throat, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. Seemingly unable to speak, he removed an envelope from his pocket, a ship-board telegram, the envelope marked by a gold embossment of the Queen Mary. Hesitantly, Faust placed it on the glass-covered table as he hacked into his handkerchief.
Neil took the envelope and, after the report from the other night, wondered what other tricks Faust had up his sleeve. Irritated by the coughing, Neil snapped his finger to the waiter, motioning for him to bring Faust some water as his cough became more violent. Finally, gasping for air, Faust leaned back and sipped the water, eventually taking large breaths as his eyes bulged. Faust was beet red as he turned his bug-eyes to Neil and used his thick hand to shoo the waiter away again. He seemed anxious that Neil read the telegram.
The envelope had already been slit open. On the back, Neil noticed the message had been received the night before and signed for this morning. He pulled the card-stock paper two-thirds of the way out. Neil read downward, reading it three times without taking a breath.
Lex Curran murdered. Found Aug 4. Dead at least a day or two from gunshot. SFPD and DOW manhunt for Neil Michael Reuter underway. Source tells me DOW suspects Reuter on run to Europe under false identity.
The Verandah Bar spun like a carousel. Neil gripped the telegram, twisting it as if the angle might change the meaning of the words. Eventually he managed to breathe, wetting his dry mouth as he turned his blue and green eyes to Faust.
“Who sent this?”
“Meghan Herman,” Faust rasped.
“How did she know?”
“She visited you. The police are probably talking to everyone close to you.” Faust’s tone changed to accusatory. “Your selfish actions have jeopardized everything.”
“Is this authentic?” Neil asked, shaking the card paper. “Not another motivational trick you’re pulling?”
“I wouldn’t create a hoax over something this important.”
Neil’s shaking wasn’t immediately noticeable. It took several seconds to come on. His hands began to twist the telegram, pulling it apart at its middle. All of the sleepless nights, the vomiting sessions, the nightmares, the utter hatred, the voices in his head—the indescribable contempt he held for Lex Curran—were now vanquished and, in Neil’s eyes, unjustifiably.
Lex Curran, his reason to live, had been taken from him.
Ripped away.
“Noooooo.” The sound came from below Neil’s throat. It was involuntary, a moan from the depths of his soul. He turned his attention to the glass ceiling, morosely viewing the broken sky as he took a minute’s worth of deep breaths. Finally, he folded the ripped telegram, tucking it into the breast pocket of his charcoal pinstripe. He collapsed backward in the chair.
Neil Reuter wished he were dead.
“Did you do it?” Faust asked.
It was just what Neil needed to hear. He straightened, aiming a finger at Faust’s face. “All of the digging you did obviously revealed nothing about me. I’ve spent two agonizing years mourning my wife and son, thirsting for revenge against that bastard Curran. He ruined my family, and damn near made me kill myself in the process.” Neil’s head dipped; his eyes closed; his bass voice uncharacteristically feeble. “Everything’s now ruined. Everything…”
The two men remained still and quiet for a moment. Faust reached inside his breast pocket, offering a clean handkerchief to Neil. Neil pushed it away.
“You’re telling the truth,” Faust breathed. “You didn’t kill him.”
Neil lifted his head.
“I know this is difficult,” Faust said. “But if you didn’t do it…then who, Neil, who would have done such a thing?”
Faust was correct to ask such a question. Neil thought back to his personal liquidation, considering all of the things he knew, the things he’d been ordered to do—and the damning evidence locked away in his brain. Everything was coming at Neil with the force and speed of a locomotive. He was stuck somewhere in a muddle of despair, anger, and bewilderment.
“Regardless of who did it, Neil,” Faust said, opening his wallet, “there’s something I want to show you.” From inside the wallet, he pulled a black and white photograph of a girl of perhaps five. She had a thin, lively face with enormous, expressive eyes. “You might hate me, and with good reason. Regardless, this is…this is my granddaughter,” Faust said, his voice cracking. “She was six in this picture. She’s almost ten, now.”
Neil viewed the picture before looking at Faust again.
“They lived in Düsseldorf. Her father, my son-in-law—and a damned capable man—was on one of the initial Nazi lists of probable Jewish threats. According to the Nazis, he was a militant Jew who might pose some sort of threat to their Reich.”
Neil’s mind was still awash in Lex Curran’s killing. He twirled his finger to hurry Faust along.
“When the Germans and Austrians came for him, he supposedly resisted. They murdered him and my daughter, after...” Faust began to tremble. “After they raped her. I have many eyewitness accounts of the savagery they endured.” He gathered himself, holding a fist over his mouth as his eyes again filled with tears. “But our dear little Fern made it out with a family friend. She’s hiding with the group of children you’re going to Austria to rescue.”
Despite being overcome with his news of Lex Curran, Neil dipped his head, defeated. There was so much tragedy. Faust gripped Neil’s arm, squeezing it tightly. He pressed the picture into Neil’s hand. “Keep this, Neil. Her name is Fern. She’s as innocent as your son who never got a chance at life. You remember her as you move forward, dammit. And when you find her, you hug her tightly for me. And you bring her out.”
Neil was silent.
Faust sniffed a few times and managed a smile. “You see, not everything’s ruined. I’m truly sorry about all that happened to you. And I regret hiring that report out on you. That was a mistake. Despite all that, you’re doing something far bigger than just yourself. Put your own grief aside to help Fern, and the hundreds of others. Perhaps your suffering can prevent theirs.”
Neil stood, walking to the window, watching the ocean slide by. He pressed his hands back through his hair, summoning strength. Faust was correct. This was bigger than Neil. Somehow, he’d have to press through.
Faust crossed the Ver
andah Bar to Neil’s side. “Are you okay?”
“No. But I will be.”
“You think about that child. Think of your own pain and imagine hers.”
Neil wiped his face, nodding to Faust.
“Now, I don’t know this for certain, but I would imagine there will be people waiting on you when we dock. The Department of War is after you, too. I can’t begin to imagine the resources they have at their disposal.”
Neil lifted the picture of Fern. He considered it for a moment, imagining his own son at her age. A tremor passed through his body.
Then, he heard Jakey…
Press on, Neil. You’ve come this far. Don’t stop now.
Neil stood stone still, eyes closed. His mind reached back, before pain and sorrow, before Emilee, before the war and before his emergence at Gallipoli. The air was sweet smelling and cool in the summertime mountains of eastern California, the forest floor a carpet of pine needles. He remembered the heavy hand of his Shoshone elder, resting on Neil’s adolescent head, instructing him in his deep and caring voice.
“How can anyone find you if you aren’t there?” The elder studied Neil, not expecting a response. With his finger, the elder made a line across the sky. “The hawk glides without a sound.” Gestured to the edge of the wilderness. “The fox pads through the forest, instinct telling him where each paw should strike the ground, inaudible to his prey.” He aimed his hand at a rocky cleft between two mountains. “The lynx roams his precarious territory, knowing what he must do to survive, eating prey, avoiding predators, keeping rivals at bay. Adapting. Thriving.”
The elder grasped young Neil’s shoulders, turning him to face the forest, the mountains, then tilting his head back to the sky. “So, young hunter, which shall you be?”
Neil opened his eyes, nostrils flaring as he considered Faust and his warning. Pocketing Fern’s picture, Neil nodded to Faust. “I’ll get Fern out.” He walked from the bar, headed below decks, his speed increasing with each step.
The Pale Horse ran again.
~~~
As Neil hurried to his quarters, he noticed a porter three doors down, gathering luggage for passengers who’d already left their cabins. Neil stepped into his own cabin, spinning the porthole window on its horizontal hinge and measuring its size. No, that wouldn’t work. The only way he might fit would be to remove the window altogether and, judging by its construction, Neil didn’t have the time or the tools.
He sat at the desk and scrawled a note to Gregor Faust. Then, after securing his pistol, his identifications, and the diamonds, Neil quickly stuffed his clothes and shaving tackle into his two pieces of luggage. Confident there were no identifying items in his luggage, he removed the two metal tags with Freeman Jennings’ name and address. Neil then summoned the porter.
“I want you to find Gregor Faust and give him these two bags, and do it before the ship gets into port,” Neil said.
“Before, sir?”
“Yes. I’ll be busy until we port. I’m headed up to cabin class and saying my goodbyes to a young woman I met during the cruise.”
“Gregor Faust?”
“Yes. Go now, please.” Neil tipped the porter handsomely, disappearing in the opposite direction.
Hurrying through the maze of passageways, Neil made his way up several levels to the main galley. After a modest tip, a sous chef provided Neil with a rubber mat and oilskin. Neil locked himself in the nearest bathroom and created a pocket-sized waterproof bundle for his critical items. He used string to bind the oilskin, repeating the process on the outside with the thin sheet of rubber, wrapping it all around in an effort to make it waterproof. Neil fastened his Colt behind his back, running his belt through the trigger guard to ensure its security. Knowing he’d done all he could do, he began to search for his exit point.
One level above the galley were five staterooms, not as nice as Faust’s, but significantly larger than Neil’s cramped quarters. The five sprawling cabins each had an outer door that opened to a small indentation on the side of the ship, creating a viewing deck. Neil knew this because one of the rooms had already been vacated and was open as a maid cleaned inside.
He smiled at the woman, told her he forgot something, and stepped through the room, acting as if he were the guest who had stayed there. Instead, Neil eyed the coast of England as it slid by, assuming the beaches in the distance to be at least a mile away. He stepped outside on the port side of the ship, looking down—it was at least twenty-five feet to the water. He swiveled his head, peering upward. Several levels up, numerous arms could be seen resting on the railing, heads craning over, fingers pointing. This was not the side of the ship to jump from, starboard was. No one would be looking in that direction—there was nothing to see. Neil tipped his hat at the maid, hurrying across the ship, finding an identical set of rooms on the opposite side. Most of them were unlocked and vacated, their occupants probably above decks, awaiting their port call.
Neil noticed a steward, busying himself with a cart of dirty towels. Neil passed the young man, moving aft until he found what he was looking for. After stuffing the waterproof packet deep in his pocket, he set a trash bin aflame, making certain it was at the base of a granite and tile stairwell. The fire, other than the smoke, would be innocuous. Neil waited for the smoke to build. When it did, he pounded on several doors and yelled “Fire!” The steward shot around the corner, his eyes wide with fear. Neil yelled that the aft companionway was blocked by flames, and to hurry forward to inform the fire-fighting team.
A couple appeared from one of the cabins. They seemed to have dressed quite hastily. Neil feigned panic as he informed them of the fire and told them to get above decks. Once they moved forward, Neil entered the unlocked middle cabin and peered upward from the railed indentation. Just as he thought, he was unable to see another soul on this side. Everyone was standing on port, watching England’s south shore.
Stepping over the railing, Neil checked his items one last time. Despite the rushing wind and the sound of the waves below, he heard his own pulse thudding in his ears. Though twenty-five feet doesn’t sound like much, it’s high enough to be quite scary. The water next to the ship’s hull was roiled and foamy and Neil’s primary fear was getting sucked under. He checked to see how far forward he was from the stern of the ship and the churning screws. Marking his distance, Neil leaned outward. His skin prickly with fear, he jumped straight out before dropping to the water below.
The water took Neil’s breath.
He’d originally intended to submerge in the event a stray passenger thought they saw someone jump but, as it turned out, the Queen Mary did everything for him. Just as he feared, he was sucked under.
The hydraulic force of the ship’s motion was otherworldly and sent a spike of childlike panic through Neil. The suction from the twenty-foot screws pulled at him like the current in a raging, flood-fueled river. Fighting his fear, Neil focused on the fact that his body was being twisted and tossed about by an irresistible force. He understood the physics of what was happening, knowing he would be unable to successfully fight the impelling vacuum created by the massive steel screws.
Neil was a strong swimmer and, after years of swimming in the cold and often violent Pacific, he understood riptides and how to get away from them. Using his best underwater stroke—taught as a combat sidestroke—he thrust with the pull but at an angle, the pulse of the screws growing in his ear. With each stroke, he felt himself being pulled into the screw’s immediate vortex and, just as he felt his arms were going to be the first part of his body to be chewed up by the massive propeller, Neil’s sidestroke pushed him into the ship’s wake, away from the starboard screw that had tried to dice him to bits.
Though he was desperate for air, Neil knew there would be an overflow crowd at the stern of the ship. Remaining on the starboard side as the rudder passed, Neil thrashed to stay submerged beneath the foamy churn for twenty more seconds. Finally, lungs on the verge of bursting, he allowed his head to surface as h
e gasped air, also sucking in tiny amounts of spray, making him cough spasmodically as he tried to get his wits about him. He swiveled his head to the RMS Queen Mary, watching the great ship as she churned eastward. She was a hundred feet from him. Then two hundred. Then five hundred. Neil could see a wisp of smoke coming from the balcony where he had jumped—the scant evidence of his harmless crime.
The ship kept steaming. She never slowed.
He had escaped in such a way that, unless they took the time to fingerprint the massive ship, no one would be able to absolutely confirm that Neil Reuter was ever aboard. Sure, some of the stewards or passengers might positively identify him if shown a picture, but given the general pandemonium of a docking ship filled with thousands of passengers eager to disembark, Neil liked his chance of anonymity—at least for a few hours.
And those few hours should give him the time he needed to escape England.
After a brief spate of relief, Neil again became acutely aware of the frigid cold of the North Atlantic. It penetrated him to the bone. Even in August, the water seemed as cold as that of San Francisco Bay. He pressed his hand to his chest, checking the security of his oilskin package. After jerking his wingtips from his feet, Neil began a freestyle stroke to the shore, picking a landmark in an effort to judge the current. Once he saw he was being swept slightly eastward, Neil turned thirty degrees in that direction, accepting the ocean’s energy. He soon felt himself moving at a faster rate.
As he crept closer to the Isle of Britain, Neil estimated it would take him about a half-hour to reach the shore. He could no longer feel his hands or toes, but if he kept moving, he felt certain he could survive the cold swim.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 12