Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  The photo had the desired effect. He was already a broken man.

  Perluci continued. “I only have a few minutes before the guard comes back, so I will be brief. First, I have a question for you. Were you assigned under the command of a Captain Hans Dieter?”

  He eyed the door over Peter’s shoulder as he awaited a response.

  Peter traced the outline of his wife’s slim figure with his forefinger, not bothering to look up, the past several years of imprisonment suddenly erased as he did. “Yes, I was, but how did you come across this information?” he spat out.

  Perluci smiled. “We in the Vatican also have our own intelligence unit. I will not bore you with details about our little operation because we have so little time, so just answer the questions. Did you or did you not participate in a military action against a German military truck that you latter found to contain a load of gold and other assorted objects?”

  For the first time since receiving his wife’s photo, Peter looked up, suddenly concerned about the direction the conversation was taking. He had to be a KGB agent—a plant.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. You obviously have the wrong man or unit. We only attacked Soviet troops and vehicles, not the damned German military.”

  Peter started to rise from his seat in order to leave.

  Perluci rose quickly from his chair, catching Peter with a sharp right jab to his abdomen. “Sit down and listen to what I have to say,” he barked.

  Doubled over in pain, a look of surprise spread across Peter’s face at the small man’s agility and strength. He wisely chose to sit back down as instructed, still flinching from the pain.

  “Do you think I enjoy doing this?” Perluci spat out. “Now, as I said before, I have little time and patience left. Let’s get to the dirty side of my work. Do you happen to remember a woman named Monica Dems? I should hope so—because she happens to be the other person in the wedding photo I supplied you. She is well”, pausing for its full effect, “and very much alive, for the moment.”

  A look of horror spread across Peter’s face. It had been five years since he last saw his wife. He often wondered if she ever remarried, not that he would blame her. Five years is a long time with no communication. He looked to Perluci. “You bastard, how do you know these things?”

  “As I told you, I work for the Vatican Intelligence Network. We have our people located everywhere. Nothing will happen to your wife if you provide me with the information I want to know. Just relax and answer my questions.”

  Perluci was confident he had the man right where he wanted him. The picture worked to perfection, conjuring up some of the old memories.

  Peter sat back down in his chair, head hung low. “I didn’t think a man of the cloth would resort to such blackmail,” he said, eyes narrowing.

  Perluci wasted no time. “After many interviews and checks and rechecks, our records indicate that your unit was the only one to have been in the area of our shipment. This leads us to believe you and your unit might have been involved in its disappearance. Now after four years of searching, I have only tracked two people from your unit who are possibly still alive. I only want to know where the gold and documents are hidden. My request is simple, yes?” He flashed a toothy grim. “If you do this, I will see that your wife gets a new apartment and money to live on until you get out of this rat hole in a couple of years.”

  “What if I choose not to cooperate?” Peter asked, knowing full well the consequences, but still trying to negotiate nevertheless.

  He was handed yet another photo, this one taken more recently and clearly without her knowledge. “It would be a shame for such a pretty woman to suffer an untimely death,” Perluci said.

  Peter fingered the photo of his wife. “All right you bastard, you have me.” He withdrew a cigarette from the open pack Perluci had provided earlier. “I never wanted anything to do with that mission. It was Captain Dieter’s fault.”

  After ten minutes, Peter Dems had provided his version of the story.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PRESENT DAY – VATICAN CITY

  “Mr. Perluci, I have excellent news for your Special Action Team,” Father Lester said excitedly. “Only moments ago we received a message from our contact in New York. The time has finally come. They are going for our products. It seems your team is a go.”

  Father Lester patted the Beretta 9mm he carried in his jacket pocket as a Special Action Team member, secretly wishing to follow along. His being a priest negated that possibility, regulating him to Vatican City duties where he could only use his weapon for self-defense and protecting the pontiff.

  Perluci paced about his office as if a caged animal set to strike. “Damn it, I knew that old bastard would finally crack and tell us where it was—or at the very least our agent would retrieve the info. For years I have been telling anyone who would listen. We must be patient and wait him out—that and a little prodding from our agent would eventually get him to talk. Well, our patience has finally paid off.”

  Father Lester stared at Perluci for a moment, secretly admiring the agent they had placed in America. “Obviously our deep agent is an extremely patient man to have waited so long.”

  “Patience?” Perluci snarled. “I don’t think so, Father Lester. Our agent is not one known for his patience. No, sir. We have that bastard under wraps for atrocities he performed as a member of the Irish Republican Army before he moved to New York in our employ.”

  Father Lester appeared confused as he stood in front of Perluci’s desk. New to the position of Special Action Team operations chief, he had reported only 2 weeks earlier. Father Lester was a “pup,” as Perluci would commonly refer to him.

  “I don’t understand,” Father Lester said. “What type of atrocities would cause such a man to turn and work for us?”

  Perluci points to a well-worn mahogany chair, motioning for Father Lester to sit down.

  “I take it a story is brewing?” Father Lester said.

  Perluci nodded before lighting a cigarette. “Nasty habit,” he said, dropping the match into an ashtray before starting. “As we both now know, he was bloody IRA. In my opinion not a true follower, but a decent chap just the same. Now, let’s regress a few years. This is probably long before your time. I imagine you were still a student learning your catechism,” taking a stab at Father Lester’s youth. “It was during the early seventies that the Catholic and Protestant factions were once again fighting in Ireland. Our boy had an excellent IRA cover as a respected and well-educated teacher who, for all appearances, was a neutral. Now, this cover earned him the trust of both sides, able to lure the top two men in the Belfast Ulster Protestant Wing to a supposed truce meeting in Tulagee, Donegal. The Protestants, the trusting souls they were, showed up at the meeting with their families in tow and the organizations top two lieutenants. They hoped to squeeze in a nice long holiday along with the meeting. Our man Flaherty had a different idea. He used the disguise of a bellboy to wire the place with 20 pounds of C4, waiting until the appropriate moment before blowing the place to bloody hell. He killed ten people in that blast including three small children.”

  “My God,” Father Lester said, applying the sign of the cross. “Our man is a ruthless one.”

  “Yes, ruthless when he wants to be,” Perluci was quick to respond. “Add to that sixteen assassinations of various petty criminals for crimes against the IRA, and you have Flaherty. He needs us, Father Lester, and we need him.”

  “What about the son of Hans Dieter — James Dieter? Seems to be on the straight and narrow to me,” Father Lester said, thoroughly engrossed with the story. “Only now, from what our agent tells us, they seem to be operating as a team.”

  Perluci banged his fist on the desk in order to drive home his point. “Don’t lose the main flow of the story. It’s not him we were after, but something his father has or had.”

  Perluci’s outburst caught Father Lester by surprise.

  Perluci smiled at him before
continuing, his voice mellowing as he spoke. “Dieter’s father used to be a captain in the German Army, a pretty good one from what I understand, rising up through the enlisted ranks. Many years ago I had the pleasure to track down his unit’s survivors, unfortunately, locating only two—our Captain Hans Dieter and a man called Peter Dems.” Perluci thrusts two dog-eared photos in front of Father Lester, both courtesy of the German War archives in Hamburg before continuing. “The rest were dead, evidently killed in the final days of the war. Dems, I located in a Russian prisoner of war camp in 1949, where I understand he unfortunately met his demise. But Dieter, the lucky bastard that he is, had already escaped to America.”

  A look of confusion spread across Father Lester’s face. Perluci realized he had to provide the man with a little more background.

  “Okay. You have seen the records and are already familiar with the theft of our product, but not how the actual events transpired,” Perluci said. He was restless with the story he had told many times before—the results always the same. He continued. “Captain Dieter and his troops had no way of knowing what was on the truck. I’ll give them that. They were under the impression the truck contained the enemy as it sped towards their position, not fellow German soldiers and Vatican guards whose cargo were crates laden with gold bars and important Vatican documents. From all reports I’ve read they say the fog was so thick they had no chance for a positive identification. If confronted with the same situation, my own reaction would have been the same. But I’m providing too many details here,” taking a long draw from another freshly lit cigarette. He exhaled, looking to Father Lester. “After the ambush, Dieter’s troops received a seven-day pass, routinely awarded after six months of combat. Then, using Dieter’s rank, they were able to commandeer a German military truck. They retraced their steps to the front lines in order to dig up what they had wisely buried only hours before. With their luck still holding, they escaped hours before a Soviet offensive that would have kept the gold and documents hidden forever. With a pass in hand, they were able to travel unchallenged back to the town of Weimar where Dieter’s parents lived on a farm, promptly burying our product somewhere under its 300 acres. Where, you ask? We have no idea, but we are positive it’s on the farm. This information has been verified by Dems, the man I interrogated back in 1949. He possessed no reason to lie.” A sly smile broke out on his face revealing some secret pleasure. “He had too much riding on it.”

  Father Lester sat quietly, wondering what Perluci meant by his last comment. Looking up, he was about to ask, but Perluci cut him off.

  “In the nineteen fifties, our people scoured that farm top to bottom,” Perluci said, now rambling, shaking his head, his face turning beet red. “Evidently our product had been relocated years before,” turning back to face Father Lester, his hands turned upward to reveal empty palms. “Nothing. We had nothing to show for our work, so we finally chose to back off and await Mr. Dieter’s next move. It’s been sixty plus years of waiting and one hell of a chess game if you ask me. A game we will eventually win, Father Lester—I personally guarantee it.”

  New York City, NY

  Emerging from Pennsylvania station Dan and Jim were greeted by an endless sea of yellow cabs, all jostling for a prime position at its entrance. Brilliant sunshine bathed the area as the afternoon temperature approached a balmy eighty degrees.

  Well-dressed office workers took advantage of the weather by fleeing their high-rise buildings in mass seeking a lunch break away from the office.

  Dan steered Jim to one of five lunch carts, each proudly proclaimed to sell New York’s best hot dogs, getting in line behind four well-dressed financial types.

  The time had come. Dan had to broach a subject he kept hidden for so long, looking from side-to-side, wondering how best to go about it.

  How do you go about disclosing a past you kept hidden for so long?

  Dan coughed a few times in order to clear his throat before tapping Jim on the arm, gaining his attention. “Since your father obviously neglected to inform you of one important fact, I guess it’s up to me. The phony priest part you are already aware of. What you don’t know is that I’m also ex-Irish Republican Army.”

  A rush came over him with the truth finally disclosed.

  The four yuppies halted their conversation in mid-sentence, mouths agape, turning to face Dan and Jim.

  Dan turned and nodded. “Well, chalk one up for me, Dan. My Dad did inform me. But thanks. I was wondering how long it was going to take you.”

  Dan stared hard at the yuppies until they thought better and moved on, orders in hand. He waited until they were out of range before continuing. “Now on to some particulars for our mission,” he said, effortlessly switching gears. “If we are to travel overseas, we’re going to require passports. I recommend Canada, New Zealand, and U.S., with credit cards to match. It will help us to blend in just in case we are being monitored by anyone with the capability to follow electronic transactions.”

  Jim shook his head as he applied onions to his Coney Island dog, dropping some onto the wax paper in the process. “Electronic transactions? Passports?”

  “You just heard me say I was with the bloody IRA. Well, at least up until 1988, when I had to run for my damn life or the Ulster faction would have killed

  me—correction—will still kill me if they get the chance. And from what I understand, they have a rather large price on my head. To be truthful, young Dieter, I know some bloody awful people if need be.”

  Jim nodded. “Is that what you were alluding to back at the estate when you said you had trouble sleeping, mentioning the names Derry and Cork?”

  “Let’s just say I had differences of opinion with certain people and leave it at that. I don’t want to stir up any old memories. They should stay just that way—old memories.”

  The crowd around them kept changing as their lunches were quickly eaten, fast food from one of the many carts that crowded the area being the choice of most.

  “I don’t believe it,” Jim said. “Under that mild exterior lies a real ruthless bastard. All right…done. I won’t dig into your past or bring up the issue again.”

  “Good. Leave it for a later date,” Dan said, knowing that given time the issue would once again rear its ugly head. “I have some new instructions for you since our little discussion on the train. I need you to grab a cab and head over to the Empire Hotel on 34th Street. I took the liberty of already reserving a suite in your name. You will pay only in cash. Don’t use any of your old credit cards or money cards. They are to be trashed…disposed of… ripped into shreds.”

  Jim stood ready to object, but Dan cut him off. “I’m going to buy us some new identities from friends I have over in Brooklyn. I’ll meet you in the hotel room by five o’clock. We can have an early dinner and discuss what our next step will be. Now let’s find a camera shop and get some passport photos for our new identities.”

  Vatican City, Vatican Intelligence Bureau, Rome

  Perluci paced back and forth trying hard to contain himself after reading the latest e-mail message from the US. “Our information says they are right on schedule and will meet us in a few days time at the Dieter farm. Only then can we proceed with the retrieval of what is rightfully ours.” He pointed a crooked finger at his supervisor, Father Lester, to reinforce the point. “I knew the old sly fox still had our product hidden at the farm. That’s why he didn’t sell the farm after all these years.”

  Father Lester was well aware of Perluci’s frequent talks with his old friend Pope Benedict, but, hell, he was a dinosaur compared to the newer more experienced agents. Even the Pope should realize he wasn’t the right man to lead this mission.

  “Mr. Perluci, in your opinion, do you think we will have to activate our action teams in order to secure the farm in case of a conflict?” Father Lester surveyed the man for any sign of weakness in his response.

  “Absolutely not,” Perluci replied sarcastically, actually sneering at the insinuation. �
�Hell no! I will go alone and meet our long-lost friend. Between myself and our man, we should be able to handle the American.”

  “Be reasonable man, you are pushing 86 years old,” Father Lester shot back. “You are not the same young buck you were some sixty years ago. This could turn out to be a dangerous situation. You could be killed. Who’s to say our man hasn’t turned? You are assuming he is still an asset, but in reality, he could become an adversary.”

  Perluci slowly shook his head. “I have to save the Church—The Vatican itself. You have no idea what is about to happen if this is exposed to the world-wide press.” He forcefully pointed to a chair. “Sit down, and I will tell you the rest of the

  story— something that only four people are aware of,” holding up his fingers for emphasis, “and you are about to become the fifth.”

  Father Lester stared hard at Perluci for a few seconds before sitting down.

  Perluci nodded to him. “Do you remember your history from World War II?” he said as if addressing an errant school child.

  “But of course I do—I have a Doctorate in 20th century warfare.”

  “Yes, of course, Perluci sneered. “While I was making history, you were learning it some 50 years later. Are you familiar with the Yugoslav front in World War II?”

  Father Lester nods.

  “Good, now I will tell you the part the history books omitted. In 1945, with the war going badly for the Germans and their Croatian Allies, the powers-that-be needed a relatively safe place to hide all of the gold they had looted from Yugoslavian Jews now held in Concentration Camps scattered across Poland and Germany. Which between the Jewish gold and the gold from the looted Yugoslav treasury, it amounted to over $500 million in today’s money.”

  Perluci walked over to where Father Lester sat, he leaned into the man. “Now for the real juicy part. The nastiest Nazi bastard of all, Heinrich Himmler, bartered a secret agreement with Pope Pius XII. Our Holy Father quietly offered them the services of the Vatican Bank if the Nazis would stop killing the Jews held in the camps. In effect, bartering Jewish gold for Jewish lives. But Himmler had another thought in mind. The war would soon be over, and he knew they would be on the losing end. He would need access to money—lots of it. The Vatican provided its personal assurances that if the looted gold were deposited into the Vatican Bank, it would be safe from Allied probing once the war was over.”