A good man.
Thomas thought back to the English money and aircraft. He thought about Wilhelm Kruger, a former deserter. And then he pondered what Frau Heinz had said—that Neil Reuter was helping Jewish children. The mystery was both deep and wide. If Thomas were to involve the polizei, and eventually the Sipo, they would almost certainly plow into this case like bulls in a china shop. Life—if it were to get in their way—would have no value to them.
Especially the lives of Jewish children.
“Help Peter. Help Gabi,” he whispered. Those were the woman’s dying words.
Thomas understood his own emotions well enough to know that this wasn’t his subconscious acting things out in a way that was beneficial only to him. He truly believed in what he was doing.
As he left the farmhouse, Thomas repeated Frau Heinz’s dying words, again and again.
“Help Peter.”
“Help Gabi.”
“Neil Reuter…a good man.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The old Opel Blitz truck bounced on the rutted road that led north to Hausham. It was late in the afternoon; Saturday school should be out by now. Since Hitler had seized control, in addition to the calisthenics he had forced upon the nation’s youth, school had been extended by a full day every other week. His belief was that the Germans, and all in his Aryan empire, should be smarter than the remainder of the world. He was a fanatic about the youth, constantly harping that in his thousand-year Reich the true investment should be bestowed on the children, for it was they who would carry the legacy. While Thomas didn’t disagree with the fundamentals of investing in the young, anyone with half a mind could see the multiple prongs of Hitler’s efforts were all pointing in the direction of sustained global war. Thomas had seen it far too many times in his life. It couldn’t have been any more clear to him had Hitler possessed a pair of bloody fangs like a vampire, overcome by bloodlust.
Thomas shook his head in an effort to clear it. The thoughts dominating his mind were dark, intensified by in the harrowing events of the last several hours. As he rounded a bend, he narrowed his eyes at a small figure in the distance. With the shifter in neutral he eased the truck into the high grass at the side of the rutted Hausham road where he shut off the ignition and stepped out. There were only two residences on this entire road, and one of them he hadn’t yet reached, so the figure had to be young Peter Heinz.
Thomas closed his eyes, murmuring a prayer for strength. Oh, how he dreaded this. He opened his eyes, taking deep breaths and steadying himself. One could do this a thousand times and, if he had any kind of heart, it would never grow any easier.
The Heinz boy stopped a hundred meters away.
“Peter Heinz?” Thomas yelled, coughing afterward.
The boy didn’t move.
“I’m one of the policemen that came to your house.” Thomas rasped, holding his handkerchief to his mouth before saying, “I need to speak with you, son.”
Peter moved cautiously, taking half steps until he was across the road from Thomas.
“Son, I’m…I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.”
“Gabi,” Peter said.
Thomas shook his head. “No, son. I don’t know anything about her. But…well…I’m afraid your mother has…she’s…she’s passed away.”
The adolescent young man blinked only once. He opened his mouth, pausing for a moment before finally speaking. “Passed away?”
“I’m buffering too much,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry to tell you this, son, but she was murdered. I just discovered her.” Thomas moved across the road, grasping the young man and pulling him into a bear hug. To his surprise, the boy accepted the hug but didn’t cry, probably in shock. After a moment Thomas pulled back and held the boy’s shoulders.
“I don’t know who did it, yet. But I promise you, I’ll find out. They will be made to pay for what they’ve done.”
Twin streams of tears trickled down the boy’s face. Otherwise, he was still and quiet.
Thomas examined Peter. The sadness was surely there, festering, and would probably come out in droves later. But this young man seemed destined to be a warrior. In his short life, it appeared he had already learned to compartmentalize his emotions. It looked to Thomas as if the news the boy had just received, instead of sending him to his knees, had been like a great combustible log thrown onto his internal fire.
“Son, I know what you just heard is horrible beyond words. But I need you to do something for me, something very important.”
Peter pointed toward the house. “I want to see my mother.”
“No, son. No,” Thomas answered with resolve, guiding Peter to a sitting position on the hard, jutted road. Thomas took a knee beside him, keeping his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But if you really want to help me, perhaps you can help me understand why someone would have wanted to hurt her.”
“Okay,” Peter whispered, still staring in the direction of the house.
Thomas spent ten minutes questioning the young man, learning all about Neil Reuter and his alias of Dieter Dremel. Thomas learned about the airplane crash, Reuter’s injury, and the emergency surgery performed by the now dead veterinarian. Satisfied Peter Heinz had told him the unmitigated truth, Thomas removed a folded envelope from his trouser pocket, pressing it into the young man’s hand. “I want you to go back into Hausham, Peter, and find the local constable. Give that note to him. He’ll probably take you to Miesbach, or perhaps even Rosenheim, and that’s fine. Tell him, and any other police, every single thing you know. Tell him to protect you from danger. Can you do that?”
Peter stood, continuing to stare in the direction of his home.
Thomas placed his hand on Peter’s arm. “I’m going after whoever did this.” He turned Peter back in the direction of town. “Go on, now. You are being very brave, but you don’t have to. It’s okay to grieve and be upset.”
Peter hesitated for a moment. Then he dipped his head and headed back toward Hausham. Thomas watched him walk, his books slung over his shoulder, held by their strap.
Thomas dipped his head, trying to gather himself.
After Peter had rounded the bend, the old lawman pulled himself back up into the Opel. He backed up, doing a three-point turn on the rutted road before heading south, thinking about the chain of events that would soon occur.
The Hausham constable would read the note and would learn about the Heinz woman and the veterinarian. And once the higher authorities learned about it, they would swarm both crime scenes, looking for any scrap of a clue about where Thomas had gone. Perhaps Peter’s testimony would lead them to Innsbruck, perhaps not. But that was okay with Thomas. If he were yanked off the case, he would simply accept his fate. On the other hand, if they had no way of knowing where it was he had gone, well, that was fine with him too.
The warmth of the day was quickly replaced by a chill as the sun disappeared behind the mountains in the distance. Thomas rolled up his window and hummed a soothing hymn to himself as he neared the northern range of the mountains he was set to cross. He would need fuel soon, and that’s when he would find a place to sleep. He would go to Innsbruck in the morning, when he was rested and his mind was clear.
It wasn’t clear at the moment. Thomas was so very sad for young Peter Heinz.
~~~
Peter waited until he could no longer hear the old man’s truck. He stopped, standing on the crown of the road as he stared at the minimalist buildings of Hausham, two kilometers away. He dug into his pocket, retrieving the envelope, seeing the smudges and fingerprints from the policeman’s dirty hands. Peter carefully refolded the envelope, replacing it in his pocket. He took several deep breaths before his body began to shudder. Dropping to his knees in the center of the road, Peter Heinz’s cries became angered wails as he beat the ground with the side of his fist.
He was an orphan now. His tears were for his mama—she had deserved better. She’d worked so hard, through sickness and occasional injury, alwa
ys putting herself last in order to provide for him and Gabi. Mama had held his head many nights as he lay sweating with a fever or after a bad dream. And while her hands were rough and calloused, there was something ever so gentle about them as she smoothed his hair backward, comforting him as she rocked gently, back and forth.
Peter would never experience her again.
He cried for nearly an hour. Cold darkness set in.
Under the light of a rising moon, Peter stood, wiping his nose with his sleeve. The tears had run out. He stared at the lights of Hausham. He touched the envelope in his pocket. He turned around, glowering in the direction of the farm.
Peter pulled the letter out. He ripped it open. He read the letter in the light of the moon.
After pocketing the letter again, he slung his books into the brambles, well off the rutted road.
Peter Heinz sprinted to the farm.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THE FESTIVAL WAS KNOWN AS THE SALZBURGFEST and, as the forger had said, it was impossible to miss. Neil dressed as plainly as he possibly could, wearing oversize glasses he had purchased earlier in the day. They were off the shelf, providing little magnification, but with Neil’s already good vision, they quickly gave him a headache.
Gabi and Neil arrived at a quarter before seven. It was nearly dark, the wide expanse of the festival lit by lights strung diagonally over the dusty walking areas. If they had been in the United States, Neil might have thought he was at the state fair back in Sacramento. Just like back home, carnival barkers yelled from their tent, proclaiming their game, ride or activity as the best at the entire fest. Beer tents were the rule of the night, dominating every thoroughfare with their broad dimensions and the live music played on each tent’s stage. And, of course, Nazi flags hung everywhere.
Neil spotted two soldiers, both members of the SS. They were standing at the corner of two of the temporary thoroughfares, chatting, their arms resting on their slung machine guns. Having no idea if the authorities were searching for him, he decided to use a risky maneuver to find out.
“Are you ready to get your feet wet?” he asked Gabi.
Once Neil had explained the “feet wet” idiom, Gabi nodded once. “Do you even need to ask such a question?”
“Then here’s what I want you to do.”
Neil moved between two darkened tents as Gabi strode to the two SS soldiers. She’d purposefully dressed in her blandest clothes but couldn’t conceal her beauty. The two soldiers straightened upon seeing her, both of them gushing when she stopped to chat. They’d been standing by a table, which she sat on, crossing her legs. Neil watched the conversation progress. Then they both shook their heads, shrugging off what she was telling them.
One of them grabbed her elbow.
Neil could hear his heart in his ears. No, c’mon you two, don’t be assholes.
Gabi smiled good-naturedly. She tried to disentangle herself as a few items fell from the table.
The other soldier touched her back, his hand sliding down to her rear end. They were trying to move her off the street, laughing as they jousted with her, as if forced sexual encounters were just as normal a part of the festival as candied apples. Then she said something sharply and it got their attention. Both soldiers smiled. One lifted his sleeve and tapped his wristwatch. Gabi pointed to the other side of the festival, making a big show of tapping his watch before she rubbed his arm.
She walked away from them, her fake smile dissolving as she stalked by Neil, turning left by the nearest beer tent. Neil waited a moment and followed. He caught her sitting at a table by a cotton candy confectioner. The owner of the tent began to protest their using his empty table until Neil threw three reichsmarks at him.
Gabi rested her face on her hand, speaking through heaving breaths. “I did it. When I first approached them, I told them there was an American man here. They couldn’t have cared less. It didn’t even register.”
“What did those bastards try to do to you?”
“Are you surprised? It’s been this way for nearly five years now.”
“How did you get away?”
“Told them my sister is young and curious about being with a real man. Told them I’d go get her and be right back.”
“And they bought it?”
“One doesn’t have to be bright to be in the Schutzstaffel.”
“Then we haven’t much time,” Neil said, proud of her cunning. “Let’s hurry.”
“Wait,” Gabi said, removing a balled piece of paper from the front pocket of her dress. She unwrinkled the paper, handing it to Neil. “There was a stack of these papers on the table.”
The paper contained a description of a man, approximately 40 to 50 years of age. He was sizeable, at least two meters, and had dark hair and a beard. He was thought to be a vagrant and was seen with a large and scraggly dog. Below, the text read that the man was to be considered dangerous and should be arrested on sight and brought to the Schutzstaffel, Innsbruck directorate. If the man resisted, he was to be shot and killed.
Gabi read the description and shook her head. “They won’t know you’re the man from Innsbruck. You certainly don’t look like a vagrant and there are plenty of men in that age range, who are that tall, who have dark hair.”
She was right. But it demonstrated another layer of danger in this mission—and another potential obstacle to finding those children. Neil wanted to get far away.
They had to make a circuitous route to avoid the two horny SS soldiers, taking a wide arc around the festival to where the forger had instructed them to meet him. There was, of course, a beer tent at the southernmost point, and standing at the back of the tent was a smallish man in an old-fashioned three-piece suit. He wore a wide-brimmed fedora and had a bushy gray goatee that belied his youngish face. Neil approached him.
“Guten abend.”
“And good evening to you,” the small man answered in quiet English, bowing before both of them. He didn’t remove his hat, as would have been custom. The forger was holding a large glass of beer, which he finished in several gulps, leaving a lacing of foam hanging from his moustache.
“I have no use for many of the Austrians but, I must say, like their cousins to the north, they do make excellent beer.” He flashed a charming smile at Gabi and turned to Neil.
Neil wanted to leave. “We just had a little run-in with two SS goons and I’d like to get out of here before they come looking. Is there somewhere quiet we might go?”
The smile faded from the forger. He stepped closer, placing the empty mug on the end of a picnic bench. “I need to see your papers.”
Neil glanced around before reaching into his clothes, removing the salt-stained Dieter Dremel forgeries. The forger leaned down, squinting as he gazed at them. Seemingly satisfied, he pointed to the darkness. “My lair is only a few minutes away.”
They walked away from the festival, the forger taking Gabi’s arm. She was at least three inches taller than him. “Isn’t it too late for an Erntedankfest?” she asked.
“Long before I was the product of a joyful evening between my parents, the people of Salzburg decided to celebrate harvest—first, with the traditional Erntedankfest, then, several weeks later, the St. Rupert’s Day Festival. Over the years, the two festivals combined, making one very long party. Though I’m not officially welcome, I cannot help but enjoy the atmosphere.”
They awaited a line of traffic at an intersection, headed back into the city. “Who was St. Rupert?” Neil asked, not really caring, but having nothing else to speak about.
They began crossing as the forger answered him. “He was the founder of the city, essentially the patron saint of salt.”
Gabi and the forger talked as they walked arm in arm, in step with one another. Neil slowed as they entered a darkened street. He glanced around, looking back at the city, thinking about the letter from Jakey. There was something…
Something…
Like a speeding automobile, a notion flitted through his mind, nev
er slowing for Neil to get a look at it. He stopped and closed his eyes, concentrating.
“What’s wrong?” It was Gabi. She had walked back to him, standing with her head cocked. The forger stood thirty feet away.
“St. Rupert.”
“What about St. Rupert?”
Neil’s eyes moved above the buildings, rotating between the blackish mountain peaks surrounding the salt city. He shook his head and looked at her. “I don’t know. I just keep thinking about Jakey and the letter, and I don’t know why, but something about the mention of that saint triggered something in my brain.”
“Do you need a minute?”
“No, let’s go on.” Neil followed them, his mind still somewhat preoccupied. The forger, after glancing both ways in the alleyway, entered the back door of what smelled like a restaurant. There was a darkened hallway, and a tough-looking cook peered from the lighted kitchen. When he saw the forger, he nodded and went back to his work on the grill. The forger opened a hidden door, gesturing upward.
Neil and Gabi climbed a narrow set of creaky stairs, emerging into a partially finished attic. The forger excused a non-existent mess, busying himself with tidying the already fastidiously neat space. There were no windows, the room lit by three solitary bulbs, each hanging by wires from the timber ceilings. There was a cot, a reading chair and, in the corner, a makeshift toilet with exposed pipes from the top and the bottom. In the corner of the attic was a slanted table like an engineer might use. It had an adjustable light and a large magnifying glass on a swivel.
“What did you do before?” Neil asked.
“I owned an art restoration company. For years, many of the finest museums in Austria brought their pieces to me. Vases, paintings, sculptures. I could repair them so that even the artist would have thought it was his or her own work.”
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 49