Falkenberg seemed to measure Neil’s every word. When Neil removed his hand, Falkenberg lifted the credentials and opened them. No matter how hard he might have tried, he was unable to contain the widening of his eyes as he processed the identification with the monolithic phrase Reichsleiter. He was no doubt thinking of the other, more famous Reichsleiters: Bormann, Goebbels, Himmler.
Neil’s heart was on the verge of stopping. His mouth was dry. His palms were wet. But he remained impassive and unmoving, watching Falkenberg.
The German colonel placed the credentials back on the table only to snatch them back up and hold them very close to his face. He seemed to study each letter. Neil held his breath, hoping beyond hope that the Salzburg forger had done the trick with his meager set of tools. After a gulf of time Falkenberg narrowed his eyes, closing the booklet and carefully replacing it on the table.
Neil waited, finally allowing himself to breathe. He kept his palms flat on the table, fearful the German colonel might see his tremors.
Finally, Falkenberg dipped his head, a gesture of respect. “Mein Reichsleiter, thank you for choosing me.”
Neil snatched the ID from the table and replaced it in his pocket. “I’m Dieter Dremel, wealthy local. Got it?”
“But of course.”
“You may hear other things about me. This is by design. The denizens of the Thousand Year Reich cannot know its own people are staging such an event.” Neil chewed a corner of his lip, as if he were proud of the layers of deception he had worked so hard to create. “Do you understand this, Leo?”
An enthusiastic nod. “Yes, of course.”
“If anyone asks about what you are doing, I will assume you have enough intelligence to think up a credible excuse.”
“I certainly can, mein Reichsleiter.”
“Call me Dieter.”
“Of course, Dieter.”
“You will be handsomely compensated. The benefit of my office is a budget that is staggering, even to those in our Führer’s personal directorate.” Neil tossed a wad of ten thousand reichsmarks, skittering over the table and onto Falkenberg’s lap. “Another ninety thousand when the train, the trucks and the men are standing by. The remainder will be given to you after the train is in Yugoslavia.”
Falkenberg had questions, Neil could tell. But now he was afraid, afraid to push.
Or was he setting a trap?
The German swallowed thickly. It seemed genuine. He gulped water before whispering, “And did you say there will be more money, a remainder?”
“Another hundred thousand. Two hundred grand for a day’s work, all within your authority.” Neil smoothed the lapels of his damp suit. “I hope you have what it takes, Leo.”
“Of course I do, mein…excuse me, Dieter,” Falkenberg said, clearing his throat. “And in this operation, what is the train to be used to transport?”
“If you ever breathe a word of this…”
“Never,” Falkenberg said with respectful force.
“Children, Leo. Jewish children. They’re orphans, being taken to Palestine. They will be detained and imprisoned in Yugoslavia in order to set off a world condemnation of the Slavs.”
“Savagery.”
“They won’t be harmed.”
“Well, who will ever know?”
“I have the press of many nations primed. There will be eyewitnesses, photographs and even newsreels.” Neil forced a smile as he opened his hands. “Most people can find it in their heart to empathize with a child.”
“But won’t the Reich look bad for causing the children to flee in the first place?”
“Good question. But, no. We’ve prepared propaganda packages that deflect any anti-Semitism to the Russians and the Brits. Jews aren’t only fleeing the Reich.”
Falkenberg’s hand massaged his neck at the collar. “Well, I’m in no position to question your methods. Your request is possible, but could be difficult for even me to fulfill.”
“I have faith in you. And money for you.”
Falkenberg’s eyes looked away. “I’m certain I can come through.”
Neil leaned closer. “There was a man working for me, the man who smuggled the children here. He was a Jew…and he was murdered without my directive.”
Falkenberg’s eyes widened. “A Jew, you say? Working for you?”
“Leo…we have many, many Jews in our employ. The Führer has his beliefs, but I’m in the business of getting things done. This man was highly skilled and was killed in connection with the very request I’m making of you.”
“He was killed in the explosion, wasn’t he?” Falkenberg whispered, staring off in the distance.
Narrowing his eyes, Neil said, “You know about it?”
“It’s the reason I’m here. My previous colleague died in an explosion with a Jew and two whores.” Falkenberg nodded and clucked his tongue. “This explains everything. My predecessor was rumored to be taking money from Jews who were trying to escape.”
Neil’s hands strained on the edge of the table, his veins blue and bulging. “Who did it, Leo? Who killed my man?”
Falkenberg’s eyes moved over Neil’s shoulder, their pupils constricting as the skin tightened on his face in a grimace. Another blast of chilly, damp air made the candles flicker as Leo slyly pointed. “Probably him.”
Neil turned. A man stood in the far entrance by the bar. He cut a dashing figure, wearing the striking uniform of an SS Standartenführer. Like Falkenberg, the SS man was equivalent to a colonel. He removed his polished hat, the Tötenkopf—the SS death’s head—glaring with its vacuous eyes. Two junior SS men flanked the Standartenführer, standing appropriately, just behind him. The man surveyed the empty restaurant, handing his overcoat and hat to one of his men as he settled his gaze on Neil and Falkenberg.
Neil remembered him, quite well.
He was the man he’d seen upon first arriving in Innsbruck. The man who’d almost certainly sent the other SS after Neil, the SS who was currently decomposing with dead cows south of town.
The Standartenführer strode directly toward their table, glowering at Neil the entire way.
~~~
Thomas Lundren turned west, seeing the sign that announced Innsbruck as only eight kilometers away. He coughed into a white handkerchief, eyeing the fresh red blood spattering the cloth. Thomas lifted his eyes back to the slick road, his heart pounding in his chest. It didn’t beat fast due to his worsening condition; it raced due to his nearly uncontained excitement.
A lawman’s instinct is sometimes his greatest ally. And a conscientious lawman learns to separate instinct from hope.
This was not hope. Something was happening in Innsbruck. Something bigger than Thomas. And every fiber of his sick being was telling him—screaming—that time was of the essence.
He pressed his foot on the accelerator, pushing the old Opel as fast as it would go.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
THE SS STANDARTENFÜHRER WOVE HIS WAY THROUGH THE TABLES. He’d be upon them in fifteen seconds. Neil whipped his head back to Falkenberg. “Who is that man?”
“His name is Aying and he’s very powerful and influential here in Innsbruck, and in the SS.” Falkenberg’s voice lowered. “And he’s about as dangerous a prick as you’ll ever meet.”
“He can’t know who I am,” Neil hissed.
Aying halted at their table, clicking his heels and staring down at Neil as if he could see into his soul. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Falkenberg, speaking loudly. “Leo Falkenberg, did you clear the restaurant of the fine Innsbruckers with only your annoying presence, or did you break my rules and do it by force?”
Falkenberg glared up at him. Neil felt the palpable tension as a chilly quarter-minute passed.
Aying squeezed Neil’s shoulder, too hard for social grace. “And you, sir. Have we met?”
Neil glanced up and shook his head.
“Standartenführer Anton Aying,” the SS man said, offering his hand.
Neil took it, givi
ng it a quick, firm shake.
“Stand up, man.”
Neil stood, eye-to-eye with the tall SS man.
“What’s your name?”
“Dieter Dremel.”
Recognition flooded Aying’s face. “Ahh, Herr Dremel, the owner of the home up on Berchtoldshofsweg.”
Though his heart skipped about three beats, Neil made certain to look politely unimpressed. “You know where I live?”
“But of course, Herr Dremel. The charming cottage up on the hill. Several of my officers requested its use for their own, and when we checked we learned that you’ve been abroad for many years.” Aying canted his chin downward. “Allegedly.”
Neil ignored the insinuation. He turned to Falkenberg, giving a quick nod before moving to leave. Aying caught Neil by his arm.
“While I’ve not been successful in meeting with you at your home, I feel convicted that we’ve met before.”
“I don’t believe so, Standartenführer, but I’m happy to make your acquaintance,” Neil said, allowing his tone to belie the compliment.
“You seem to have acquired a great deal of the Canadian accent, although yours sounds more in line with American.” Aying rounded his lips. “I don’t hear the dragging ‘oh’ sounds in your speech.”
“As you know, ninety percent of Canada lives on the border with the United States.” Neil smiled with his mouth only. “Hopefully my native Austrian accent will come back to me in short order.”
Aying held fast. “And here you are, fresh in from Canada…allegedly…already lunching with the good Oberst Falkenberg?”
Neil was uncomfortable, not unlike an unprepared witness being grilled in a vicious cross-examination by a skilled attorney. “We didn’t dine together. I met Oberst Falkenberg earlier and was simply catching up on what our German friends are doing here, and asking how I can help.”
Aying averted his eyes to Neil’s lapel, grasping it and giving it a little shake. “Are you a member of the party? Where’s your insignia?”
“I’m not an official member, yet,” Neil answered. “But, as I said, I just recently returned. I will register at once.”
“Hmmm,” Aying mused. “That would have been my first order of business.”
Oberst Falkenberg stood and moved around the table, stepping into Aying’s space. Neil homed in on the electric stare-down which took place; it was obvious to him the two men loathed one another, just like Doctor Kraabe had indicated.
“Do you need something here, Aying?” Falkenberg snapped.
“Don’t you dare question my actions,” Aying retorted.
Falkenberg took a step closer, edging Aying backward. “Let go of Herr Dremel’s arm. He is a personal friend of mine.”
Aying laughed, at both of them, as he released his grip on Neil. “Leo, Leo, Leo…” he said, his voice trailing away in a childlike admonishment. “You should stick to your trite little job and stop pissing in ponds that are too vast for your lacking Schwanz.”
Neil watched as the two alpha males jousted, throwing veiled threats back and forth in a testosterone-fueled debate. As their strife turned mildly humorous, Aying removed a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, American Lucky Strikes, shaking one out and holding it pinched between his lips. His hand came up out of his pocket in a flash, pressing three times on a lighter.
Etched into the side of the golden lighter was an image of the Eiffel Tower.
Neil stared it at it, catatonic.
It was Jakey’s lighter.
Unless it was a copy, it was the mate, the fraternal twin to the Thorens Automatic Lighter in Neil’s own pocket. Jakey purchased the one with the Eiffel Tower at the same time Neil bought his, the exact same type of lighter but, instead of featuring the Eiffel Tower, Neil’s was engraved with Paris’s famous Arc de Triomphe.
Neil felt his throat closing but he struggled not to display any outward emotion. He managed to swallow, glancing around the room to hide his expression. He had to know. He had to find out. Think, Neil. Think!
The two officers were still quarreling, something about a local political directorate and who had authority over it. Neil could feel the sweat growing on his forehead and under his collar. His hands were trembling and his mouth felt like the Gobi desert. Aying turned to him, narrowing his eyes.
“Are you ill?”
Neil managed to lick his lips. He needed to see the lighter again.
“Dieter Dremel, what on earth is the matter with you?” Aying demanded.
“Cigarette,” Neil croaked.
“What?”
“May I have a cigarette?”
The SS shook one out, exhaling loudly, seemingly irritated at having to offer any gesture that might be taken for kindness. Almost immediately, Neil felt bolstered, as if a great jolt of adrenaline had energized him. He made a show of patting his pockets before holding out his hand. “May I use your lighter? Mine seems to have disappeared.” Neil focused on Aying’s hand as it came up out of his trouser pocket with the gold lighter.
Anton Aying resumed the argument as he absently handed the lighter to Neil. Neil turned as if it were windy, cupping his hand over the cigarette as he brought the lighter up. He twisted it around. On the opposite side of the lighter was an engraving of two letters in a fancy French script: “J” for Jacob and “H” for Herman. Neil remembered the warm Parisian day as they had sat on a park bench, discussing the new en-vogue author Hemingway while their lighters were noisily engraved at the small stand on the walking path next to the Seine, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.
“What is so interesting?” Aying asked. As Neil had been focused on the lighter, and the realization that he was standing in the presence of Jakey’s killer, he had been too consumed to realize that Falkenberg had taken his seat, leaving Aying to stare at him.
Neil kept his eyes downward, handing the lighter back. “I was just enjoying the taste of the Lucky Strike. They’re hard to come by here.”
Aying frowned, stuffing Jakey’s lighter back in his pants pocket. “Hard to come by, only if you don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, leading Neil away and hitching his thumb at the colonel. “I’ve been through the population rolls a half a dozen times, Dremel. You are one of the wealthiest men in Innsbruck and, when I finally meet you, you’re consorting with a man like Falkenberg. In my mind, it means you either have poor judgment or there’s something amiss with your situation.”
Neil couldn’t hide it. Not his desire to help Madeline and Doctor Kraabe, nor his love for Gabi, nor even his yearning to find the hidden Jewish children could have provided him enough self-restraint to resist lashing out at his lifelong friend’s killer. He took a step closer but turned his head at the last moment.
“No, Neil! Not yet. Deny yourself just this once. Remember, timing is everything, old boy. Aying’s time will come.”
It was Jakey’s voice. Standing there in his favorite linen pullover shirt, purchased for two cigarettes in Morocco. Jakey’s tension transformed to good humor as his thin lips twisted in amusement over the unusual situation. “You’ll have your moment in good time, but if you have it now, then my death will be in vain.” He motioned with his finger back and forth, from his heart to Neil’s. “I’ve given you all you need. Complete the mission, then have your fun with this prick.” Jakey winked.
Neil turned back to Aying, glaring at him through slit eyes. He could feel himself trembling, the Lucky Strike dangling from his own lips, the smoke drifting up between them like a lace divider.
“Are you utterly mad?” Aying asked with a curled lip.
“I feel like I might be sick.” Neil clutched his stomach, gagging.
Standartenführer Aying leapt backward. “Get outside, man!”
Neil exited in a rush, causing the two SS men to snap to their feet as he passed. He staggered into the mist of the street, everything spinning. He could feel his breaths coming in ragged gasps, fully overcome as the reality of his discovery began to sink in. Across Innstrasse and a strip of wet g
rass, just in front of the concrete wall containing the River Sill, was a damp park bench. He needed to sit and think, to process the situation and to reclaim a sane progression of his thoughts.
Still grasping the Lucky Strike, though not wanting to resume the unhealthy habit, he flicked it as he stumbled through a row of diagonally parked cars, watching as it twirled to a stop next to a set of large, dirty tires. His eyes moved up from the tires, taking in the entire vehicle, a converted truck. The tag was German, marked by the initials MB for Miesbach. It had a flat, plywood bed with split rails and a missing gate. It was manufactured by Adler.
Neil knew the truck quite well.
It was the Heinz’s farm truck.
Frozen, Neil’s only action was a rapid series of blinks, his mind already on overload from the run-in with SS Standartenführer Aying.
Had Hildie Heinz driven here? Maybe she’d come to reclaim Gabi? Maybe she had important news about the manhunt.
Doing his best to set aside what he’d just learned, Neil circled the truck, studying the obvious clues. The dirt and mud on the tires were fresh. The bottom of the truck was still dripping. There were fresh streaks on the windshield from the worn wipers. Neil estimated it had very recently been parked, meaning Frau Heinz, and perhaps Peter, were probably close by.
Rotating his head, he looked up and down the mostly empty street. Two blocks northbound, on the curving road that led to Hall im Tyrol, he saw a thin figure walking the other way.
Peter Heinz. Damn it, Hildie!
Neil had warned her that this mission was treacherous, and here she was driving into the center of town and letting her boy wander about while wolves like Anton Aying prowled the streets. Neil growled in frustration as he looked back at the restaurant, making certain no one was watching. He hurried down the sidewalk until he caught up to Peter, not wanting to yell out. He grasped the teenager’s shoulder, whispering his name as he spun him around.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 51