by Andrew Hunt
“Music to my ears, Julian. Music to my ears.” Meinshausen grinned widely in approval. “You know, I still remember the day you stepped off the train in Berlin, all those years ago, a starry-eyed British fascist with a mind full of high ideals, aided by a splendid letter of introduction from Oswald Mosley. Your dedication to the cause has always impressed me, not to mention your sweeping knowledge of all things automotive. There’s a reason why I handpicked you to return to England to infiltrate Underhill’s team. Der Führer wants Germany to be the world’s preeminent motor racing nation. Great Britain is the main obstacle in the way of the fatherland achieving that status. You’ve contributed so much to ridding us of that obstacle.”
“I thank you again, sir,” said Julian. “I am moved by your generous words.”
“Good, because regrettably, Julian, my praise is tempered with a certain degree of criticism,” he said. “To date, nothing has gone according to plan. You assured me that bomb you planted under the Desert Lightning on Saturday would destroy the car and kill the driver if it detonated close to the gas tank. You said you rigged it so the explosion would appear to be an accident.”
“Yes, that’s true. It would have succeeded had it not been for—”
“Uh, uh, uh—please, let me finish,” said Meinshausen. “I’m distressed about your failed attempt to bomb Clive’s vehicle, not to mention the eyewitnesses at the hotel that saw you take Nigel’s life in the wee hours of Sunday morning.”
“I did you a favor,” said Julian. “He was planning to blackmail you with those genealogy documents, and he was going to tell Shaw about the bomb-making supplies he found in my bag.”
“Yes, I know all of that. You might’ve succeeded in your task, were it not for the fact that you left the door wide open for that Negro bellhop to see everything.”
“I’m sorry. I said before I wasn’t in my right state of mind.”
Meinshausen nodded. “And what about the Canadian couple staying across the hall from Nigel who reported seeing a scuffle—”
“They weren’t real,” said Julian.
“Not real? What did Metzger do? Wave a magic wand and a Canadian couple suddenly appeared?”
“No, they were tramps,” said Julian. “Husband and wife, living in a hobo camp out by the railway tracks. Metzger bribed them to give a false testimony to the police to back up the Negro’s claims. Metzger said the police rarely ever take a colored man’s word for it. He gave the bums a night in the hotel, a fresh change of clothing, a couple of free steak dinners and all the booze they could drink, in exchange for claiming to be in the room across the way from Nigel and seeing that ex-cop Lund assault him. The hoboes thought they’d died and gone to heaven, and because Metzger was the hotel detective, the police took his word for it that they were who he said they were. For all I know, they’re both long gone.”
“Hmm, I see,” said Meinshausen. “And Vaughn Perry? What possessed you to take his life?”
“Metzger did it, not me. I just went along to help,” said Julian. “Metzger wanted to steer the police away from me by strong-arming the bellhop into giving false testimony to frame that Lund chap. In exchange, I helped him get rid of Perry. Metzger set up Perry’s death to look like an overdose. Metzger used to be a police detective. He said cops never look into overdoses. They always assume it is what looks like—a fool addict getting sloppy.”
“A sly one, Metzger,” said Meinshausen, with a tinge of disgust in his voice. “When his name came up on a Gestapo list of foreign sympathizers earlier this year, I admit I was intrigued. After all, he was head of security at the hotel where Clive Underhill would be staying. I made my first trip out here two months ago just to meet with him in private. I devised a plan that would involve him placing a tasteless, colorless, odorless poison into one of Clive’s meals—a poison that could not be detected by any postmortem tests. It would cause heart failure, which is what Clive’s death certificate would say. This was our backup plan in the event that your little bomb failed to do the trick. Metzger agreed to help, but demanded money. I gave him what he asked for. After Clive went missing, Metzger wanted more money to coerce the Negro into lying to the police. If I’d known Metzger’s allegiance came at such a high price, I wouldn’t have asked for his help in the first place.”
“I never liked him,” said Julian. “I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I. We’ve a substantial dossier on him. Voss has been monitoring his movements since we got here. It alarmed us when he quit his job at the Hotel Utah.”
“He warned me he was going to,” said Julian. “The police and the FBI coming around, asking a lot of questions, really spooked him.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Tell me. Do you know where he went?”
Julian shook his head. “Last I saw him, he said he was going to hide behind the Walls of Jericho. I don’t know what he meant. He did say the Negro bellhop was planning to go to the police to confess the real story of what happened. That’s why Metzger abducted him. He says he’ll put the bellhop out of his miseries when you fellows pay him the money you owe him.”
Hiding in that small space, I’d just heard so much that I wasn’t sure where to begin. Which revelation upset me most? That Julian Pangborn—that mousy mechanic I could hardly understand—was a spy working for the Germans? That it was a bomb that nearly killed Clive out at the Salt Flats? Or that Winston “Blue” Booker was in imminent danger, and—for all I knew—might even be dead?
They all chilled me to the bone. And then add to that what I already knew or suspected: that the McKennas were a fictional creation of the sick mind of Dooley Metzger, and that Vaughn Perry’s death was a murder staged to resemble an accidental overdose. But the most troubling to me was the fate of Booker, the most purely innocent figure in this whole terrible ordeal. He was a sweet kid, and he didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a monster like Metzger. I desperately yearned to take Booker back home to his parents. But now I was starting to wonder if I would ever see him alive again.
“Tell me something,” said Meinshausen. “Why did Metzger want Perry dead?”
I raised my head high enough to peek through the tinted glass to see Julian’s surprised reaction to the question. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About the plot?”
“Plot? What are you talking about?”
“Clive, Vaughn Perry, and Rudy Heinrich. They were schoolmates at Oxford. They used to be called the Three Musketeers back in England. They were inseparable. They’ve stayed friends over the years. They were all in on the plan.”
“Please explain this plan. I don’t know what you mean.”
“They were going to stage a fake kidnapping,” said Julian. “They wanted to make it look like the Platinum Legion kidnapped Clive. They went to great lengths to write doctored ransom notes and find a hiding place—a cabin—way out in the wilderness, where Clive could lay low. Clive always wanted to explore some canyons that were located in some remote part of Utah. I can’t remember what they were called.”
The Canyons of the Escalante, I thought to myself, as I took in Julian’s words. So that’s why Clive asked me on Saturday night to show him around down there.
“Why stage a fraudulent abduction?” asked Meinshausen. “What have they to gain?”
“That all depends on who you ask,” said Julian. “Vaughn hoped the kidnaping would get played up in the press and result in the FBI cracking down on his father’s precious Platinum Legion. He hated the Platinum Shirts. He thought they robbed him of a father.”
“And Clive?”
“It gets him out of the crowds and the spotlight, and into the wilds,” said Julian. “You know they’re making a movie about him now? Clive wanted to get away from all that. And besides, he saw it as a way to help Heinrich.”
“Heinrich?”
Julian nodded. “Yeah. Heinrich wanted to remove Clive from the competition, thereby making him the world’s fastest motorist. Heinrich p
lanned to use his victory as leverage to escape Germany.”
“That’s quite a revelation,” said Meinshausen. “How do you know it’s true?”
“Because last week, Heinrich showed Clive a letter, written by Dr. Goebbels himself, promising him that if he set a new land speed record on the Salt Flats, the Reich would issue stamped exit visas for Heinrich’s family, and his wife, Gerda Strauss, to sail to Shanghai.”
“How interesting. Dr. Goebbels never informed me of such a letter.”
“Heinrich has it,” said Julian. “I didn’t know until recently that he’s a Jew. I hope something is done to knock him down a few pegs.”
Meinshausen ignored that last comment. He began walking toward the P9. I held as still as I could, keeping low, yet coiled up in fear about the prospect of Winston Booker being murdered. He checked his look in the window’s reflection. Had it not been tinted, he would have seen me in the cockpit. After running his hand over his head, he opened his mouth and slid his tongue over his front teeth.
“How do you know all of this?” he finally asked.
“I overheard it from a men’s room toilet stall at the Old Mill,” said Julian. “They thought they were alone, Clive and Rudy. They spoke candidly to each other.”
“You still haven’t said why Metzger murdered Perry.”
Julian scowled. “I’m getting there, give me a bloody chance! On Tuesday, I rode with Metzger out to Perry’s house. They quarreled.”
“About what?”
“Metzger demanded to know where Clive was. Perry claimed he didn’t know. Metzger called him a liar. Perry threatened to call the manager of the Hotel Utah and tell him about Metzger being in the Platinum Shirts. Metzger pulled a gun on Perry and told me to tie him up. I did. Metzger threatened to kill Perry if he didn’t reveal Clive’s whereabouts. Perry got scared; insisted he didn’t know where Clive was. Metzger made good on his threat with a syringe full of pure-grade heroin.”
“Where did he get it?”
“The Platinum Shirts sell it on the streets to raise money. They hadn’t cut it yet, so it wasn’t diluted. The stuff gave off quite a bang. It wasn’t pretty. Perry was screaming and flailing and begging for his life, trying to get loose. But by then, it was too late. Metzger found a vein and—well, the smack killed Perry instantly. I helped carry the body into the bedroom. We set him up in bed to look like an overdose.”
“What a horrid way to meet one’s end. Tell me, do you think Perry was telling the truth about not knowing where Clive was?
“Yes, I do.”
“Have you any idea where Clive might be?”
“I’ve got my theories.”
“Please speak candidly,” said Meinshausen.
“I think Peter Insley is hiding Clive. Insley is with Military Intelligence. I’m certain of it. I’ve got this theory that he called on the FBI for help—you know, to get Clive to a safe place, out of harm’s way. Insley knows it would be a huge blow to England if Clive Underhill ended up dead, like his brother. You’d better bet they aim to keep him alive at any cost. That’s what I think, anyhow.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Meinshausen. “It’s hard to say good-bye. You are rather like a son to me.”
Julian shot Meinshausen a confused look. “What do you mean? I’m going with you.”
“No. I’m afraid you’re not.”
“You promised me a position in der Führer’s motorcade. Remember?”
Meinshausen turned sideways and sneezed into a handkerchief. Something about it did not sound right. It seemed staged, for effect.
“I hate summer colds,” he said quietly. “I wish this one would go away.”
From out of the darkness strode Karl von Rimmelkopf. The dim light above his head flashed a reflection on a shiny object in his hand. He moved right up behind Julian, pressed a straight razor into the wiry mechanic’s throat, and slashed it so hard I heard skin ripping and blood splashing. I watched in stunned disbelief. Unarmed, I could do nothing. At least now I knew what that canvas tarp was doing there. Julian crumpled like a scarecrow falling off of its support beam. While his body was still quivering, von Rimmelkopf began rolling him up in the tarpaulin. My heart ached from pounding. Terror filled me, down to the marrow of my bones. Why, I asked myself, didn’t I do anything to stop it? It was so sudden. I didn’t see it coming. I shook all over, fearful of never seeing my family again. I began to have a panic attack. I had to get out of there.
What possessed me to turn the key in the ignition, below the word ZÜNDUNG engraved on a metal plate, I will never know. The engine turned over right away. Simply idling, it sounded like a herd of buffalos.
The dashboard lit up in a burst of multicolored lights. It resembled what I imagined an airplane’s cockpit might look like. Dials. Gauges. Buttons. Switches. Everything labeled in German, down to the tiniest blinking indicator.
Von Rimmelkopf rushed past Meinshausen, aiming a Luger straight at me. Meinshausen leapt at him and forced down the outstretched arm holding the firearm. The gun went off. The bullet hit the ground, spraying dust and debris and tiny pieces of concrete. “Nein, nein, nein! Sie werden das auto schaden!”
Meinshausen rushed to the car and began pounding on the tinted window. “Get out! Now! Hands up, where we can see them!”
Shifting in my seat, raising my arms, I almost did as he said. Almost. At the last possible second, however, a different notion hit me.
Thirty-three
A blue button blinked below the word FENSTERSICHERUNGEN. I don’t know what it meant, but I pushed it. Hissing accompanied the movement of a series of a metal latches at the base of the canopy dome. That sealed it shut. Meinshausen struggled to open the hatch. Failing that, he smacked the window with his palm. I’m pretty sure he cussed in German.
I found a gear lever next to the seat. I bent forward, squeezed its trigger, and pulled it toward me. The P9 shot backward several feet, jerking my head forward, only to have it snap back when the rear of the car hit the wall. I pulled the lever further back, tires squealed, and the silver giant shot forward. A pair of closed warehouse doors came toward me.
I held my breath, depressed the gas pedal with my heel, and used the P9 as a battering ram. The machine smashed through doors, shattering wood, flipping a padlock and chain through space like a twirling snake. The silver bullet fired into the sunlight as I gripped the steering wheel at ten and two.
The Bonneville Salt Flats appeared as a shimmering line west of here, with faraway mountains floating above it. Getting there was torture. Rocky terrain rose and dipped and broke out into a multitude of random bumps. The P9 bounced violently, banging and thudding and rocking its way through clouds of debris and dirt. I found it unbearably jarring. I’d never driven a vehicle this huge or fast, with this many bells and whistles. The pros trained for weeks on end to race machines like this. What chance did a novice like me stand? Slim to none, I thought.
Bobbing up and down, like a buoy in a hurricane, I tried to chart my next move.
I recalled something Julian said: “Last I saw him, he said something about the Walls of Jericho, but I don’t know what he meant.” Then I remembered that before he was a cop, Dooley Metzger worked as a security guard out at the Jericho Salt Works plant, located on a lonely stretch of shoreline south of the Great Salt Lake.
A jarring thud brought me back to the present. The P9 had jumped over a mound and landed hard. The constant scraping and screeching and thwacking of desert scrub against the car’s underside made me cringe. Thankfully, the ground began to level. But the Salt Flats remained a couple of miles up ahead.
I had company. To my right, at three o’clock, a sleek black Cadillac convertible raced to keep up with me. I glanced at the speedometer. I’d reached 100 kilometers per hour. I pressed harder on the gas pedal, but it wouldn’t go much faster. The Cadillac caught up with me. Ernst Voss opened the back door and crept out onto the running board.
When the car got close enough to the P9’s wing, he l
eapt onto the shiny silver surface. His hat blew off. He started crawling across the body, inching closer to the cockpit canopy. Meantime, the Cadillac sped up and swerved in front of me. Red brake lights flashed. I lead-footed the gas pedal. The front of the P9 rammed into the Cadillac’s bumper. The driver, Meinshausen, hit the brakes. The P9 scooped up the Cadillac’s rear. The Cadillac was now moving on two tires.
Off to my side, Voss held on for dear life. His hair blew in a hundred directions. On his stomach, he located an exterior panel near the cockpit. He pried it open with his fingers. I craned my neck to see him fish a key out of his pocket, plug it in, and turn it. The interior locks hissed. Latches slid. The loosened window rattled. He slid over to the canopy and gripped the concealed handle. A second later, the cockpit dome rose, the engine’s roar sliced my eardrums, and a wall of wind hit my face. Dust filled the cockpit. A set of knuckles struck my face. Pain, sharp and intense, shot through my body. A hand from outside gripped the steering wheel.
“Halten sie das auto!” he shouted. “Pull over or I kill you!”
In front of me, the Cadillac had come free and was fishtailing. More bumper smacking ensued. Voss grabbed my collar and began pulling me. I let go of the steering wheel long enough to buckle the safety harness around my chest and lap. That was hard to do with Voss trying to uproot me. When I finally had it fastened, I grabbed ahold of the steering wheel and planted both feet deep into the brake pedal. The P9 screeched to a near-halt. Voss flew through the air, a rag doll in the blue sky. I lifted my feet off of the brake and accelerated. Voss hit the dirt and rolled. I swerved and narrowly missed him.
For a few glorious seconds, I thought I’d shaken off the Cadillac. It appeared again, though, this time to my left, at nine o’clock. For the life of me, I could not understand why the P9 would not go above 100 kilometers per hour, which was about as fast as my Dodge would go. World’s fastest car? Hardly. A big, clunky Cadillac could easily keep pace with me. If I bore down on the gas pedal any harder, I feared my foot would smash through the floor.