Thomas reminded himself to breathe, thinking about the British monetary notes in the pocket of the dead man. His hand moved to his own pocket, touching the note he had brought with him. “English, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Can’t tell you who makes that aircraft, but they’ve been making the same rudder and stabilizer design since the war. Shot down a DH-Four myself,” he added with a trace of pride, glancing at Thomas’ pilot and winking. “Same exact rudder.”
“You’re certain about this?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, sir. Thing about it was,” the air chief said, “I couldn’t figure where the fella was gonna land.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if he’d been planning to go over the mountains, even through the lowest pass over at Kufstein, he would have to have been higher than he was cruising.”
Thomas’ pilot removed the cigarette from his mouth, puffing smoke as he spoke. “He’s right. Any pilot worth his salt would have slowly climbed to the correct altitude after takeoff. You don’t go lolling along low and slow and then climb at the face of the mountains. That’s nuts. Too many potent wind currents to deal with, and besides, it’s just not efficient.”
Thomas eyed both men. “So he landed?”
The air chief arched his eyebrows. “Well, that’s what you would think. But that’s what puzzled me. There’re no landing strips south of here before the mountains.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yeah,” the chief said, walking to the carafe and cursing when he realized there was only a splash left. He poured it anyway, walking back, apparently deep in thought. After considerable silence, he said, “Either your guy was scouting something—you know, looking around this area for a reason—or maybe he didn’t know what the hell he was doing, or where he was.”
“Please explain,” Thomas said.
“Well, you wouldn’t want to land that bird on anything other than hard-pack or pavement. And like I said, there’s nothing between here and die Alpen.”
“What are the possibilities?”
The air chief raised his fingers one at a time. “He was looking for something; or he put that bird down somewhere unadvisable; or maybe he turned east or west to go land elsewhere; or he climbed up and landed over in Austria. Whatever he was doing, it was peculiar. That’s partly why I remember—the other reason being the strange airplane.”
Thomas rubbed his forehead, feeling the stack of hay growing larger by the moment. “So, if you two had to guess?”
The two men conferred in quiet tones, as if their pilot talk was some sort of sub-rosa privilege, not suitable for mere mortal ears. Finally, Thomas’ pilot spoke up. “We think he put it down somewhere south of here.”
“Before the Alps?”
The air chief nodded.
“Why?”
“It makes the most sense,” Thomas’ pilot replied. “Maybe there’s a suitable strip of hard-pack or a small, private airfield that’s not on the map.”
Thomas twisted his head to the air chief, who shrugged. “The maps don’t cover private strips. No telling who has one.”
“So you think he’s nearby?” Thomas asked.
The two pilots glanced at one another. “We do,” the air chief replied solemnly.
“The killer is nearby,” Thomas breathed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The operation occurred well past the Heinz family’s bedtime, around 11 P.M. on Saturday night. The doctor, a veterinarian named Hörst Baldinger, had arrived earlier to find the man unconscious. The vet opened the man’s shirt and probed the wounds with his fingers, viewing them discriminately like he might when buying pork or liver at the Metzgerei. The wounded man awoke from the pain and asked Hörst if he could perform the surgery.
“Ja, I can patch this up. But I can’t promise your end result,” Hörst replied.
Once the man told Hörst how much he was willing to pay, he sprang into action. He was cautious about how much anesthetic to administer to the man. He had tables for farm animals, by weight, but he had never induced unconsciousness in a human being. When a farm animal died due to an overdose of diethyl ether, the veterinarian would simply shrug and tell the owner that it was allergic to the anesthetic. Nothing he could do about that. And while Hörst didn’t know this man, he did want his money, so he chose to be somewhat judicious with the amount of the diethyl he gave. Apparently Hörst was too careful; the man woke up just as the vet was shoving the last splinter of rib back in place.
Frau Heinz and her daughter Gabi stood in the doorway to Peter’s room, watching in horror as their guest’s back arched clearly off the bed. His yell was thunderous, shattering the reverie of the quiet farmhouse. The boy, Peter, had been asleep in the other room but rushed in to view the terrifying scene.
Hörst placed the cup over his patient’s nose and mouth, pumping three times as the misty anesthetic mixture sent the man blissfully dozing back into blissful unconsciousness. The vet turned to the family, ogling the daughter for a moment. She’d really filled out over the last few years and Hörst planned to make a move on her the next time he saw her in town. He’d bedded several young women over the years who were simply too dumbfounded by his aggressiveness to say no. But for now, her and her mama were being a nuisance to his work. Hörst stabbed a crooked finger in their direction. “I asked you once to leave. Go in that kitchen and make some coffee, damn it, and leave me be. I need to sew him up and then he needs rest.”
The family hustled away as Hörst retrieved his cigarette with a bloody hand, tapping the ash before drawing deeply. He’d never worked on a bullet wound before; never worked on a human, for that matter. Nevertheless, he knew this man was lucky. The bullet struck him in the back, below his right lung. It had traveled diagonally, only a few centimeters under the skin. The problem, however, was the wreckage it caused to the victim’s ribs and adjoining cartilage. While it was impossible to know the exact extent of the injury, the vet felt that at least two ribs had been affected. Those ribs would take, at minimum, a month to begin to heal properly, if they ever did. The question was the distance between the shattered rib pieces, and whether they were close enough together for the body and blood to go to work and knit their way back into some semblance of structure.
Using a strong, tightly woven filament made for horses, Hörst sewed the large exit wound first, followed by the smaller entry wound, making both pucker outward. The patient would be left with tremendous scars, but aesthetics paled in comparison to the twisting and pulling pressures the wound would be exposed to, especially during coughing or sneezing. After using a sponge loaded with warm water to wipe the area, the vet drew on his bloody cigarette again, nodding to himself. His work here was done. He used a clean white sheet to dry the man’s wounds before cinching a tight bandage around his entire midsection. The vet then quickly irrigated the man’s scalp wound, sewing it up with a lighter gauge filament.
The family was huddled around the kitchen table when Hörst finally emerged. He nodded to them, mumbling a vague explanation before helping himself to a cup of coffee. He rummaged around in the cabinets without asking, finally finding an ancient bottle of brandy and adding a great slug to the coffee.
“I need to get going,” Hörst said after several gulps. “Where’s my money?”
“Not yet,” Frau Heinz answered after removing the pipe from her mouth. “Our guest was very clear that you must remain until he awakens. He will need to speak to you and be the one who pays you.”
Hörst chuckled and swilled the remainder of the laced coffee. After smacking the cup down on the wooden counter, he hitched his thumb to the room where the man lay unconscious. “Hildie, why are you protecting that man in there? I heard his accent when I arrived. I know he’s English, or American, maybe. That was a bullet hole in his side, and not a puncture from a piece of machinery, or whatever that bullshit excuse he gave me was.”
“A bullet?” Peter asked.
“Quiet,” Frau Heinz said.
/> Hörst began to pace. “He won’t wake up for hours. I want my money.”
Frau Heinz stood. “You’ll wait.”
“Then maybe I’ll just take it, damn it.”
Peter stood. “Don’t talk to my mother that way.”
Hörst’s tone turned wicked. “I admire your bravery, boy. Now step aside before you wind up unconscious like your mother’s boyfriend in there.”
“Hörst Baldinger, you cowardly sonofabitch,” Frau Heinz growled. “Don’t you dare threaten my son.”
“Right, Hildie…right you are. I shouldn’t do such a thing, especially since there’s no man here to protect him.” He cocked his head, a smirk forming. “Unless you’re the man of the house. Is that it, Hildie? Should I treat you like a man? Because, if you’re going to act like a man, then maybe I should whip your ass before I take the money…that’s how we men—”
“Stop!” Gabi yelled. Hörst turned to see the girl brandishing a large pistol, aiming it at his head.
“Why, you dirty little bitch,” the vet whispered, leering at her and licking his lips.
“Sit down and shut up until that man wakes up,” Gabi said, adjusting her fingers on the pistol. Her index finger moved over the trigger.
“You couldn’t use that pistol if you had a book of damn instructions in front of you,” the vet snorted.
Gabi pulled the hammer back with her thumb.
The vet’s eyes went wide in shock. Plaintively, he turned to Frau Heinz. “This is uncalled for.”
“Uncalled for?” she yelled. “You’re on a rural farm, Hörst, and you know damn well we’re within our rights to shoot you for threatening us.” She snapped her fingers, taking the pistol from Gabi and holding it on him. She didn’t uncock the hammer.
“I’ve never been treated this way,” Hörst protested, glaring at Gabi before coming back to his chair and helping himself to more brandy.
Frau Heinz wagged the pistol. “You hold every farmer in this valley hostage, every day of the year. Do you think I haven’t figured out that you’ve paid bribes to the licensing bureau to prevent any competing veterinarians from moving here? Do you think I don’t know that in other areas, people pay thirty percent less for livestock husbandry than we pay you?” She used her stout leg to kick his chair, just below his crotch. “And do you think I won’t tell everyone in the valley these things if you don’t sit here, drink that liquor, and shut the hell up?”
Hörst was ashen. “Those accusations are false. And I’m a party man, so you better be careful how you talk to me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
He pointed to the pistol. “Is that loaded?”
“Care to find out?”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” he said, pouting like a child. “I get ugly when I’m tired…when I’ve had a nip. Never hurt a soul.” He finished the coffee before pouring another cup, again integrating it generously with the liquor.
Frau Heinz spoke to Peter, telling him to go back to bed.
“Was it really a bullet hole?” Peter asked.
“We’ll talk tomorrow. Off to bed.”
Peter grudgingly complied.
“I’m staying up,” Gabi said. Her mother didn’t protest.
Hörst turned to Gabi, eyeing her up and down. “I kinda like the way you handled that gun, girlie. You’re all grown up now, ain’t ya?” he asked, drinking in her breasts for a few seconds. He looked up and winked at her.
Gabi mouthed the insult, “Alter Wichser.” Translated, it meant “old wanker.”
Chastened by her ribald slur, Hörst turned away, sipping his brandy and coffee in silence.
~~~
Thomas sat perfectly still as the converted Junkers fighter-bomber knifed through the Stygian night. There had been a moon earlier, but somewhere north of Munich they’d flown under a high layer of clouds that remained above. The pilot smelled faintly of alcohol, but Thomas was not a man to worry over such things. He was staring aged death in the face every day of his life, so what harm would flying with an egotistical, drunken pilot do?
Their plans had changed. Earlier, after three hours of fitful sleep in the hangar, Thomas called the bureau, speaking to the night officer. The sleepy-sounding man had perked up upon hearing Thomas’ name.
“I have an important message for you, Special Investigator Lundren.”
“What is it?”
“It’s from the coroner. Let me find it…okay, here it is.” The night officer began to read at a slow and broken pace. “Herr Lundren, as you thought, the victim died of a gunshot.”
“Go on.”
“Also, upon a closer search of his clothing, I discovered a pocket watch.” The policeman paused. “It was tucked into an inner pocket and had an engraving of a name…Wilhelm Spadern Kruger.”
“Wilhelm Kruger,” Thomas repeated, not recognizing the name. “Very good, young man. I assume they are doing a check on him right now?”
“There’s a good bit more in the note,” the policeman said. “A records search revealed that a man of the same name was discovered to be a deserter in der Weltkrieg. If this is indeed him, and the age of the corpse does seem to match, the Bundeswehr claims he stole his assigned aircraft and defected to England.”
England! Thomas covered his forehead with his hand, his mind racing.
“The coroner’s note continues, sir. A birthmark in the corpse’s groin area matches the medical records of Kruger as relayed to me by the records bureau in Bonn. Given the age and birthmark, I’m absolutely certain of his identification.” The policeman cleared his throat. “That’s all, sir. That’s the end of the message.”
After Thomas made sure he had the spelling of Kruger’s name, he committed the officer to silence, thanked him and hung up the telephone. As Thomas stood there in the hangar, the blunt reality of what he had heard began to sink in.
“Mein Gott,” he declared to no one, taking a massive breath followed by a cough. “A German deserter, back on our soil, dead from a gunshot. And a night-black airplane racing away.” This was bigger than a simple murder. It had to be. With the Reich now acting as an imperial power, coupled with the worldly snubs; with all that had gone on at the Olympics; with the youth rallies; with the daily calisthenics programs; with the medals for fertile mothers; with the appalling treatment of the Jewish people—and, of course, with the impending war that everyone in the world knew was coming—with all of these things occurring, to know that a defector had come home in a stealthy aircraft and had been shot dead while his killer raced away. Thomas had been in law enforcement long enough to know that a mystery such as this probably ran wide and very deep.
As he considered the possibilities, allowing his victim’s identity to penetrate his brain, Thomas had paced the darkened hangar, rubbing his day-old beard. This wasn’t as simple as two men having a disagreement, no. But what could it be?
He attempted to start out by thinking small. He tried. He failed. This was not small—his every intuition, honed by many years of service, screamed that it was a component of something momentous. They could have been British agents, here to soften the Reich before a strategic infiltration. Or, perhaps, cooperating spies and, as often happens in the popcorn matinees, one turned on the other.
But there was a problem. A big one.
If the murder was indeed a piece to a much greater puzzle, the Reich would demand to know what Thomas knew, and then they would quickly relieve him. They would want this handled by the Gestapo, or perhaps some special branch of the SS. There was no way they would let a retired state police officer, and non-party member, head up such a case. And especially a retiree in poor health.
If Thomas were to play this by the book, he knew he should have hung up and called the Nürnberg Office of Special Affairs, which was nothing more than an outpost of Nazi quasi-police thuggery.
He also knew their special investigators would take over the case.
They would pat Thomas on the back, offhandedly ask for his opinion and then no
t listen to a word of it. They would give him a civilian medal and send him home, promising to call with an update Thomas knew would never come.
Yes, Thomas should halt his investigation this very moment. He should go straight back to Gerhard Michener, slap the special papers down on his desk and resign his temporary commission. He should tell Michener everything he knew. Afterward, Thomas should go back to his farm, take a nap, and then resume his daily chores. He should remain there quietly, never bothering a soul until he died from this agonizing cough. Thomas knew he should do all of these things if he wanted to avoid the sticky tentacles of the Reich.
He knew he should.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Thomas picked the phone up and rang the night officer again. He repeated his instructions that the policeman should keep this quiet. Thomas also instructed the policeman to destroy the message from the coroner.
“How?”
“Burn it.”
Next, Thomas called the coroner, an old working acquaintance, at his home. He learned that the only people who knew about the inquiry into Wilhelm Spadern Kruger were himself, the officer Thomas had just spoken with, a clerk at the records bureau, and another doctor in Bonn who’d told him about the birthmark.
Thomas was uncharacteristically forceful with his sleepy colleague. “Did you tell the clerk why you were inquiring, Konrad?”
He could hear the man lighting a cigarette. “No, Thomas, I didn’t. I remember how you liked to decide how to disseminate such information.”
“What about the Bonn doctor?”
“No. And he wouldn’t talk, anyway. I know him well.”
“Thank you, old friend. Thank you. I destroyed your communication so please keep good records.”
“It’s all safely in my office.”
Thomas made plans to see Dr. Konrad Güppertal, the coroner, very early the next day—which was now only hours away. As the pilot began his descent into Nürnberg, Thomas tried to recall the last time he had felt so alive. The sound of the powerful V-12 engines coupled with the rushing wind covered his voice as he answered his question in a normal tone.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 24