Neil fell back asleep. An hour later, he started from a dream.
“Now over Koblenz,” Willi pronounced.
Neil had visited Koblenz once before. He peered out the right side window, seeing the spotlighted great fort at the confluence of the Rhine and the Moselle rivers.
“Beeindruckend, nicht wahr?” Willi asked.
“Yeah.” Then, as if he were drugged, Neil fell asleep again. He dreamed of the Fausts, his contacts from the Queen Mary, picturing them eating a great feast while he was bound and whipped before them. He stared back in a type of self-induced masochistic fascination as Petra Faust eyed him with that neutral gaze of hers while he was savagely lashed. Through it all, Neil was somehow aware that it was just a dream. Later in the dream, as his whipping intensified, Neil watched as Petra sliced a hunk of extra rare roast beef. After a sip of her red wine, when Neil teetered on the verge of bleeding to death, her mouth turned upward and she licked her scarlet lips, beckoning him with the curl of a finger. Her painted fingernail left a trail of scarlet through the air like lipstick on a mirror.
“I need you,” Petra said in a lusty voice. “We all do.”
Then, Petra somehow transformed into Lana Stone, sitting nude before Neil. Her pose was far from ladylike. And, somehow, it all seemed reasonable. Lana blew a kiss to him, telling him to love her the same way he had in Santa Monica. Before he could act, Neil heard maniacal laughter and turned. Standing behind him, dressed like a Great War doughboy, was Lex Curran. He had a long trench knife raised high and ready to strike.
“Now it’s your turn, Pale Horse,” Curran said, cackling.
Neil awoke with a shudder, only to find Willi holding the stick with a single finger, smoking a cigarette in the faint yellow light of the cockpit. There was smugness all over his face. Willi pronounced their location as somewhere over the growing metropolis of Frankfurt.
“How long?”
“Maybe an hour before we refuel,” Willi said with a wink. “Maybe less.”
After shaking off his dream, Neil chatted about the airplane a bit before willing himself back to sleep. With so much ahead of him, he knew these intervals of sleep would come in handy later. By the time he was again snoozing, they were pressing southeast over the fruitful grapevines in the Franconia winemaking region near Würzburg. After a few more moments, Willi peered out of his side window, eventually turning in the direction of a moonlit landmark.
Neil felt the banking of the aircraft, opening his left eye only to see Willi focused upon his task. There was something about the rush of the wind and the vibration from the aircraft that lulled Neil, again and again, into a comfortable sleep.
Following another brief doze, Neil sat up, stretching as best he could. He lit a cigarette, pulling open the vent window to wake him up. He accepted a cup of coffee from Willi’s thermos. It was lukewarm, but good and strong.
Judging by Willi’s increased activity, Neil could tell they were preparing to land.
~~~
After spotting the distant lights of Nürnberg at his one o’clock, Willi veered twenty degrees to the left, throttling back just a hair. He kept it straight and steady, flipping a switch to eliminate every light source inside the cockpit as he descended to five hundred feet AGL, flying strictly by stick and rudder as his eyes scanned for the radio tower in Velden. After ten minutes of flying low, Willi sighted the tower—red light blinking on top—off to his left, chiding himself for being five kilometers too far to the south. A light wind was probably the reason and, at this speed in the blackness, he had no way of calculating its force as it crabbed the aircraft in a diagonal line.
Once he had the bead on the tower, Willi furtively removed the Parabellum pistol from his jacket pocket and tucked it under his left leg. He glanced over at the American. The man was staring out of the right side of the aircraft, seemingly still half asleep.
He won’t be half asleep for long, Willi thought as a devilish grin ignited his face.
The former Luftwaffe pilot made a beeline for the radio tower, peeling right when he was about a kilometer away. He knew this runway very well, and the sequence of landmarks that needed to be lined up to find the proper heading was absolutely critical. Willi found the first mark out of his side window, which was the assemblage of straight tracks signifying the rail depot. He aligned the aircraft along the westward tracks, looking to his eleven o’clock for the grain tower. Once he found it, he used the rudder only to adjust heading, pushing down on the stick but maintaining his speed.
The runway was quite long, something that would work in Willi’s favor. Since he had no idea exactly what the wind was doing, the landmarks necessitated that he land to the northeast—typically incorrect with the winds at this time of the year—but he had no choice. There were no landmarks to come in from the opposite direction at night, and no lights marking the runway. So, in the event he was landing downwind, he had to counter this with a fast landing, which would prevent an unwelcome stall.
Now Willi once again illuminated the control panel. Having accounted for the height above sea level of the refuel point, Willi descended through two hundred feet AGL, making out the lighter shade up ahead that represented the gravel and tar runway. Keeping the nose straight was requiring a slight amount of left rudder pressure. The good news was that Willi could now tell he was landing into a light headwind, a rarity in summertime at this heading.
He pulled the knob of the throttle, easing back as he grasped the lever for the flaps, lowering them to their first position while the Hornet Moth approached the end of the runway. Realizing he was a bit high, Willi slipped for a few seconds—a method for burning off altitude without adding a great deal of unwanted speed. Following the next setting of flaps and allowing the aircraft to decelerate, Willi forced the aircraft down a bit, making it touch down as he bounced upward half a meter before settling into a fast roll down the strip. It wasn’t a pretty landing, but a good pilot knows how to fudge certain situations, and not being absolutely certain of the wind conditions, Willi was more than willing to be unconventional. In the end, he would have rated his landing as sehr gut, especially considering the circumstances.
But now there were more important things to consider, like how much money this American was carrying. Willi watched from the corner of his eyes as the man again tried to stretch in the cramped space. As the aircraft slowed to a crawl, he saw the man’s hand go to the door lever.
“Stay close,” Willi yelled over the rush of the wind and the engine.
“Where are we?”
“Not far from Nürnberg.”
“Is anyone here at the airfield?”
“Only hares at this early hour. No one else.”
Willi kept his eyes on the American as he exited the aircraft, stretching in the cool, predawn morning before urinating into the high grass at the edge of the runway. A piece of Willi wanted to simply throttle up and take off. He could be in Nürnberg in fifteen minutes, and could ransack the American’s cases without fear of retribution.
But what of the American’s valuables that might be on his person? Earlier, his money had come from his jacket, and while the American’s heavy coat was underneath the seat, he might have moved the money to his wallet. Willi recalled seeing it earlier—a big, thick wallet.
And Willi wanted that wallet.
He allowed the engine to remain on idle. He had plenty of fuel to make the short hop to Nürnberg. And if he were to leave this American—or kill him—he didn’t want to try to hand-prop the Hornet Moth by himself. After slipping out the open door, Willi, like his passenger, stretched before relieving himself. As he did, he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do. They were standing well away from the noise of the Hornet Moth and the American was just tapping out a cigarette.
“Another for me?” Willi asked, wiping his hands on his trousers and offering up his tainted smile in the indigo moonlight.
The man tapped another out, cupping his hands around a match. Willi waited until
the American was lighting his own to whip the Parabellum from behind his back. There were ten feet between the men, and Willi’s directives were stern and simple as he spoke over the distant drone from the prop.
“Do not move,” Willi demanded, flicking his cigarette to the tarmac.
The American lowered his own cigarette, his brow furrowing. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Put your wallet on the ground. Then empty your pockets of all money, that fancy gold lighter I saw earlier, and anything else of value you might have. I want your watch, too. And I will be searching you, so don’t try to be cute.”
“Why are you doing this?” the man yelled.
“I believe in insurance,” Willi retorted. “Once we’re in Austria, I’ll give it all back.”
“My ass.”
“I promise. But I don’t trust you and this will guarantee me that you’ll cooperate.”
The American shook his head in disgust, finally motioning to the De Havilland. “Everything’s in my jacket, in the airplane.” He tossed his cigarette and began walking toward the aircraft, shaking his head.
Just as the American was mere feet from the Hornet Moth, an electric current of fear shot through Willi. He should be the one retrieving the American’s possessions. And why would everything, watch included, be in the man’s jacket? Something wasn’t right.
“Stop!” Willi yelled. When the American heard the command, he lunged the last few feet to the passenger door of the airplane.
It was a confirmation to Willi—the American was making a move. Willi lifted the old pistol and popped off a round. Even over the idling engine, the singular cracking of the nine-millimeter round sounded like a thunderclap, booming in Willi’s ears as an arrow of flame erupted from the barrel. The impact of the round threw the American up against the airplane. He leaned against it for a moment before turning, sliding down the strut of the landing gear to a sitting position.
“I told you to stop,” Willi yelled in German, shaking his head as if he were admonishing a child. He stalked to the man.
The American’s head was slumped forward as his left hand held his side.
“You better not move a damned—”
As Willi spoke, the American’s right arm elevated, holding a handgun much larger than Willi’s ancient Parabellum.
And, unfortunately for Willi, he had lowered his Parabellum after shooting the American.
Willi didn’t have time to react.
The gun at the end of the American’s right arm exploded into white and orange light, and the immediate sensation for Willi was that of being struck in the chest by a cannonball. The bullet impacted him squarely in his sternum, lifting him from his feet and propelling him straight backward before skidding to a stop at the edge of the runway.
Willi spent his last brief moment on earth speculating about this American. Who was this man, who could withstand a bullet to his back and still be able to grab and fire a pistol with pinpoint accuracy?
Willi’s curiosity, as well as his life, ended seconds later.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PRESTON LORD STARED INTO THE TUMBLER containing at least two ounces of single malt scotch. He swirled the drink, watching as its syrupy surface rippled, the product of years of coaxing to achieve just the right flavor. Using his middle finger and thumb, Lord lifted the tumbler to his lips, turning it upward. The warm liquid with the carefully cultivated taste bypassed his mouth altogether, rushing down his throat and into his stomach, joining the ten ounces he’d already ingested. He’d be drunk for many hours to come.
Lord’s Georgetown apartment was well appointed for that of a bachelor. Pieces of furniture from various periods and countries mingled effectively to create an academic-meets-adventurer effect. While tastefully decorated, he’d not purchased or placed a single item on his own. The apartment’s furnishings, right down to the books on the bookshelves, had been chosen by the oldest daughter of a Connecticut senator. A well-known Georgetown decorator—she’d gotten all her best clients after her father was elected—she’d also been married, of course. Lord’s relationship with her began innocently enough, and she’d commanded a hefty fee for her interior design skills. Their affair began within days of his first payment to her, although the relationship had been sadly brief. For all her decorating skill, the woman had been simply lousy in the bedroom. This had been a surprise to Preston Lord, given the woman’s history—he’d expected a tigress. She’d not reacted well when he’d broken it off. Without a word of explanation, he showed her evidence from three of her previous affairs, along with the address of her husband’s firm.
“Shall I mail these photos to him, or tell him in person?”
The decorator slinked away quietly, never to be heard from again. That had been several years before. Dozens of women had since followed.
Tonight, he’d added another notch to his bedpost, even though his mind wasn’t on sex—at the moment. He placed his hand on top of the brown expandable folder, using his fingernail to peel at the label that denoted a code and not a name. He’d been through the sealed file three times, reading and rereading the report about Neil Reuter’s assassination request.
There was little news from San Francisco. Two of his men had encountered the detective from the Lex Curran case, but he was just sniffing around with nothing of substance. In Lord’s mind, the focus was now on Europe.
Earlier, after hearing that Reuter had escaped the ship and dodged those fatuous fools in London, Lord internally pronounced his rogue employee as free and clear. They wouldn’t find him again, at least not in England. And for the moment, until he caught his next break, Lord had more pressing needs.
Physiological needs.
His tryst in the morning had left him wanting more. Shirley the cocaine addict was quite a dish, but she was old news. He could have her anytime he wanted. He needed new meat.
So, today, just before six in the evening, he’d had the official car take him directly to Boudreaux’s Bar, instructing the driver to park up on the curb, right in front. The evening was cool and comfortable after another passing storm, meaning old Boudreaux had pushed the pane windows open, leaving the youngish patrons to gawk at the important-looking Lord as he strutted inside while his driver waited.
Lord had been dropping hints to Cornelia, a junior secretary at Foggy Bottom, for weeks. And when he saw her face light up upon seeing him, he knew he had her. Lord paid for her drinks, whispered a nasty suggestion into her ear, and promptly escorted her outside.
Since that time, hours earlier, there had been little time to hunt for Neil Reuter.
Lord turned up one more slug of the scotch as the toilet flushed. He twisted his head to watch the voluptuous Cornelia exit the bathroom, the honey light illuminating the reddish delta below her navel.
“I really need to get going,” she said. “My mom’s probably worried sick.”
Preston Lord stood. He, too, was nude. He glanced back at the Reuter file, pondering what he’d read. There was no point in Lord’s running off to London right now. Reuter was too smart to use his own identification. If he were still in London, especially after being spotted, he’d have gone dark. But getting into Germany, even for someone as talented as Neil Reuter, wouldn’t be easy. He’d trip up somewhere.
And that’s where Lord would nab him.
What worried Lord most was someone else discovering Neil Reuter’s real identity. Clues might exist, especially since Reuter had vacated his post in such haste. And preventing a startling discovery by some nosy investigator would be Lord’s first order of business.
But before he sunk days, maybe even weeks, into such a manhunt, Lord aimed to empty himself of all lust and desire, lest it become a distraction on down the line.
He turned his head back to Cornelia, the secretary whose mother had moved to D.C. from lower Georgia just a few years before. Cornelia was young enough that she wore her few extra pounds well, tautly hidden on her Rubenesque frame. His eyes alternated between her large
breasts and her face. He watched as her own eyes moved downward, her mouth gently opening as she watched his manhood levitate.
“Are you sure you want to leave just yet?” he asked.
She couldn’t hide her flush as she responded in her southern accent. “You certainly have a lot of stamina. But my mama’s probably waiting up.”
“To hell with her. Stay the night,” he commanded.
Cornelia didn’t respond. He moved his hand to her body, manipulating with his fingers.
“Will you stay?”
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded.
An hour earlier, Lord had learned that Cornelia liked it rough. Until then, she hadn’t known it, either. Now he grasped her wrists, twisting them behind her. She grunted.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“You,” she gasped.
“No. Tell me what you really want.”
“Treat me like a whore.”
He threw her on the couch. She rolled over, eager for him.
As Lord tongued the dark corners of Cornelia’s body, his active hands alternating between soft pets and rough pinches, his mind went—for the last time on this evening—to Neil Reuter. He was probably asleep in some outer-London boarding house, waiting until the heat died down before he made his next move. It was likely that he would have to arrange for a forger to create his identification, and that could take upwards of a week. Lord would decide, tomorrow, whether to start right here in D.C, or go to California. Europe would probably be Lord’s eventual destination, just not yet.
But more pressing to Lord was getting his nickel’s worth out of this naughty siren that lay beneath him, writhing under his ministrations like a purring Siamese cat. He moved upward, straddling her. From the coffee table, Lord took the chunky candle he had lit a half-hour before, holding it above her breasts.
The candle was full of hot wax.
Though Cornelia’s screams were piercing, they were tinged with pleasure.
~~~
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 18