Eden's Gate

by David Hagberg

  He sat in silence for several minutes, looking out across the rocky slopes of a series of hills that rose to the snowcapped mountains in the distance. The view this morning didn’t seem so nice as it usually did; in fact, the countryside looked ominous. How many secrets were buried in America’s wild west mountains? How many should be?

  He called Thomas Mann’s encrypted number in Washington. “Good morning, General. I hope that I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  “On the contrary, Konrad, it’s always good to hear your voice. Have you heard from Helmut?”

  “That’s why I’m calling, sir. I think that we might be facing something serious out here.”

  “Are you at a secure location?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Proceed.”

  “The FBI is apparently pressing its investigation into Helmut’s connection with the shooting out here on the fourth,” Aden said.

  “Did you get that from your chief of police?” Mann asked.

  “Yes. And frankly from some of what he told me this morning I think that he may develop into a separate problem as well. Possibly a serious threat, and certainly a delicate one to resolve.”

  “Is he beginning to fall apart?”

  “He mentioned making a clean breast of it to the authorities,” Aden confirmed.

  There was a silence for a moment, until Mann was back. “I will leave the handling of that matter entirely to your discretion. After all, he is your creation.” The message was clear. Mattoon was Aden’s problem, and not the problem of the organization.

  “I understand, Herr General.”

  “Now, tell me what the other problem is, and how I may be of assistance.”

  “There most definitely was a shooting at the Grand Hotel, but the body disappeared from the hospital’s emergency room and no one knows how that could have happened. The blood at the scene has been positively identified as Meyer Goldstein’s. But the old Jew is still very much alive in Vienna. In fact he never left there.”

  “It would seem that Mr. Browne is a confidence man.”

  “That’s the conclusion I’ve come to. But I can’t find so much as a hint about such an operation in the CIA’s or FBI’s files. Nor have our German contacts turned up anything. If Browne pulled off the stunt alone, he is a very adept independent operator. If he wasn’t working alone I don’t know who helped him.”

  “It’s the last part that concerns you most.”

  “It’s too coincidental. Just the right man for Helmut’s German operation shows up at just the right time and supposedly kills an old Jew.”

  “Helmut was in Germany as of two and a half weeks ago, but he dropped out of sight,” Mann said.

  “He’s back here. Or at least his wife is. She showed up last night aboard their Gulfstream which flew in from Miami. She told Mattoon that Helmut was in Washington, but their plane made no stops so I suspect he’s out at the compound as well.”

  “At least that much bodes well,” Mann said. “His operation in Germany apparently went without a hitch; otherwise I would have heard something.”

  “What exactly was his operation?”

  “I don’t know all the details except that Helmut stumbled across some Nazi documents that pinpointed a large cache of diamonds in a flooded bunker. Worth somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars. Quite a considerable sum.”

  Aden was impressed. “Of which the Friends would get ten percent.”

  “When the time is correct.”

  “Someone must have known about the diamonds and sent Browne and the Goldstein impostor out here to get inside Helmut’s organization. The Russians?”

  “It’s a possibility that we must consider. I’ll look into it from here. Lukashin is an open book. But that still doesn’t address the larger problem.”

  “No. If Browne works for the FBI, Helmut won’t be the only one with a problem. They could be working with the BKA and all of us could be in trouble.”

  “If Berlin had anything other than suspicions about who Helmut really is, they would have acted by now. I was thinking about the Israelis. The Mossad. We’ve seen this sort of thing happen before.”

  “Yes, we have,” Aden said. In each case when the Bureau or the Israeli intelligence agency or some other law enforcement organization got too close, the Friends arranged a fatal accident for their own man rather than let him fall into the wrong hands. Everyone who signed on for protection understood the risks.

  “I have a friend in the Bureau. I’ll ask him to make some discreet inquiries. Perhaps we can get to the bottom of this mystery. For Helmut’s sake. For all of ours.”

  KALISPELL

  Back in his office Chief Mattoon took a couple of Turns, shut his door, and sat down to have a think. He was bright enough to know that he was in way over his head, but he didn’t know where to turn.

  So far as he could figure it he had several options; trouble was that none of them was foolproof. If he went to the FBI and told them everything they might offer him a plea bargain; maybe a couple of years at a federal country club somewhere. After all, he hadn’t killed anyone, not even Dick White, his old boss. But Aden warned that inside prison or out, someone would get to him. Talk and he was a dead man. He had no illusions that the FBI could protect him forever.

  If he stuck with Aden and did everything he could to protect Speyer, the FBI just might find out the entire story on their own. At the very least they would nail him with accessory to murder. Maybe even conspiring with a bunch of foreigners to commit treason. Hell, he might be a bad cop but he wasn’t a traitor.

  The third option would be to go through the motions of the investigation while appearing to cooperate with the FBI and with Aden. In the meantime he would cover his own ass.

  He picked up his phone and called Special Agent Linda Boulton down in Helena. “Good morning. This is Carl Mattoon. I might have something for you.”

  “Good morning yourself, Chief,” Special Agent Boulton said. “Have you made an arrest?”

  “Nothing so exciting as all that. But it looks as if our own friend Herb Sloan and his wife are back in town.”

  “That’s good news. Have you gone out to talk to him?”

  “Not yet. They just flew in last night.”

  “From where?”

  “That I don’t rightly know yet. But I’m checking. But I was wondering if you wanted to come up here and sit in on the interview.”

  “Arrest him.”

  “You see that’s just the point here, Special Agent. I can’t go around arresting our prominent citizens without some kind of evidence. Might be I could bring him in for questioning, but that’s all. I was hoping that you might be able to provide me with something I could charge him with. Something that’d stick. He’s got a damned good lawyer down there in Helena.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Konrad Aden.”

  “I know the name,” Linda Boulton said. If she knew that Mattoon was playing games with her, she didn’t let on. “Okay, I’ll see what I can come up with. Meantime you sit tight up there. I don’t want Sloan running off again.”

  “I surely hear you,” Mattoon said. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  HELENA

  Linda Boulton hated men. They were all slime. As a woman she’d endured her share of shit at the FBI’s school in Quantico, and even more shit, though of a subtler variety, during her nine years on the job. The fact that she’d made SAC of an office—even such a remote one as Helena, Montana—without sleeping with someone was an achievement in itself. One that she and her live-in lover were proud of.

  That Mattoon was in league with Helmut Speyer and his mob up there in Kalispell was a foregone conclusion in her mind. She saw all the signs. The son of a bitch was protecting the Germans, probably for money. The chief had been spending more than he’d earned for about five years now. But even more interesting to her this morning was the addition of another name: another scumbag, this one a prominent attorney a
nd businessman right here in her own backyard.

  She telephoned Tom Fletcher in Washington. He was the deputy director in charge of the Bureau’s Espionage and Counter-Intelligence Division, and one of the very few men who weren’t out to screw the world. He was gay, which meant he was able to see what she thought of as the “big picture” when it came to relationships between people. His only fault was that he hadn’t come out of the closet.

  “How’s it going,” he said when Linda Boulton’s call was transferred to his office.

  “Good morning, Tom. Have you got a minute?”

  “For you, kid, anything. What’s up?”

  “It’s the Helmut Speyer investigation. I’m at a crossroads and I could use some help. Or at least some wise words.”

  “The Germans have backed down, if that means anything, so I don’t know that we have an active investigation other than the Fourth of July shooting.”

  “I’ve put too much work into this, so I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Does the name Konrad Aden mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “I want to take a close look at him and I want your help.”

  KALISPELL

  After lunch Helmut Speyer walked down to the firing range and confidence course where Sergeants Carl Heide and Hans Rudolph were running the men through the usual weekly small arms and hand-to-hand combat drills.

  Besides Ernst and the air crew, there were thirteen members on his staff at the compound, led by his two top sergeants. All of them were members of the Friends, of course, and therefore perfectly trustworthy. Most of them had been here less than six months.

  Speyer watched the automatic weapons rapid-fire practice for a couple of minutes then waved Heide down from the spotting tower.

  “They’re looking good, Sergeant.” Speyer had to shout over the noise of the gunfire.

  “Thank you, sir. They haven’t lost their edge. Welcome back, Herr Kapitän. Your mission was a success?”

  “It went without a hitch. But now we need to start on the second phase. Have Sergeant Rudolph take over here. I have another job for you.”

  “Yes, sir, just give me a moment. He’s down on the wall. I’ll call him on the field phone.”

  Speyer watched the men shooting. They were very good, their training superb, in fact. He would match them against the elite force of any country, including the U.S. Navy SEALS. But then German soldiers had always been the superior fighting machine when compared to any army on earth. Given the right leadership they were invincible.

  Heide switched on the red flashing light down range and the five shooters stopped instantly. When they spotted Speyer they snapped to attention, their weapons at ready arms, and saluted. He came to attention and returned their salute. Really fine men, he told himself.

  “Sergeant Rudolph is on his way.”

  “We’ll go over to the hangar,” Speyer said. “We have much to do and everything must go according to a very precise schedule.”

  “I understand, Kapitän.” Heide was like Baumann. They were both cut of Prussian stock, and had they been born fifty years earlier they would have gone far in the Wehrmacht or even in the SS. Heide was tall, solidly built with a high forehead, blond hair, blue eyes, and a rugged, very capable demeanor. Set him to a task, any task, and you could consider the job as good as done. No delays, no excuses. All of the men here were like that, but Sergeant Heide was about the best behind Baumann.

  They headed up the hill, out of the woods past the Bell Ranger parked on the helipad, toward the big hangar. The Gulfstream was still parked on the apron, the hangar doors closed. “Are you going to miss this operation up here?” Speyer asked.

  “I won’t miss it, and I don’t think the men will either. But this place has been good for us. With no outside distractions there has been plenty of time for training.”

  “Now that phase is coming to an end.”

  “Yes, and naturally they’re starting to wonder to what use they will be put.” Heide gave Speyer a shrewd look. “When the weapon has been carved out of a block of steel, and loaded, it’s of no use to anyone to leave it in storage.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Sergeant Heide nodded in satisfaction. “From the nature of our training, I’ll assume that this will develop as an urban operation.”

  “Most definitely urban, and against a numerically superior force. But you will have the element of surprise and vastly superior training on your side.”

  “And an escape route, Kapitän? A fall back?”

  “Yes, to Eden.”

  Heide smiled. “That’s a happy thought. R-and-R in a rear echelon paradise.”

  “It’ll be better than you can possibly imagine, just what the name implies.”

  “Do we have a time line that I can share with the men? They’ll want to know when to start getting ready.”

  “Three to seven days, so I’m canceling all town leaves as of now. Will that be a problem?”

  “None whatsoever, Kapitän. What about battle dress?”

  “Civilian clothes under white coveralls. I’ll issue breast pocket patches and back logos as they’re required.”

  “Weapons?”

  “One personal choice of handgun, but nothing less than nine millimeter, with fifty rounds and silencers. Knife or stiletto for those proficient. And for the main weapon, the nine millimeter suppressed version of the Steyr Aug Para submachine gun with the optical sights.”

  “If noise will be a problem we’ll use subsonic ammunition,” Heide suggested.

  “Supply the men with both, as well as a four-man rifle grenade unit.”

  Again Heide nodded his satisfaction. “Night vision optics?”

  “Of course. And body armor.”

  “Then we will present a formidable force.”

  “A force that I will do everything within my power to avoid using,” Speyer said. They stopped. “I want you to be perfectly clear, so there will be no misunderstandings if it comes to a battle. Every single shot fired will take us one step farther from Eden.”

  “I understand.”

  “Even the threat of deadly force might interfere with our mission.”

  “But we will be there if you need us, Herr Kapitän,” Heide said. Like most good soldiers he abhorred violence, though he and the men he trained were masters at it.

  When they reached the hangar, Speyer unlocked the service door and flipped on the strong overhead lights. The back of the hangar was partitioned off by tall accordion doors. Speyer opened these and they went inside. “This should be right up your alley. It’s one of the reasons that I selected you.”

  An eighteen-wheel truck with the ADM AGRIBUSINESS logo was parked lengthwise across the back of the hangar, its rear doors opened and a ramp lowered. On the other side of the hangar an oddly shaped low-winged, two-seat small airplane with an angular canopy was parked diagonally to accommodate its stubby wingspan. A gleaming stainless steel three-blade prop was attached to a very large businesslike radial engine. This was obviously not a pleasure aircraft.

  “Gott in Himmel,” Heide said. He looked at Speyer for approval, then walked over to the airplane and ran his hand tenderly along the leading edge of one of the propeller’s blades. He went around the starboard wing, examining the control surfaces, then the landing gear and oversize tires. He checked the fuselage, which was a little more than thirty feet front to back, and studied the heavy-duty tail surfaces. The airplane was meant to maneuver in very tight places, pulling as many Gs as an aerobatic craft.

  “She’s an Ayres Bull Thrush,” Speyer said. “Built down in Georgia. We got her fresh from the factory.”

  “Yes, sir, I know this airplane.” Heide looked up sheepishly. “I meant I know of it. We never had such equipment as this.”

  One of Heide’s jobs with Stasi in East Germany had been patrolling the borders with West Germany by air. He’d flown similar planes to this one that could not only stay aloft for a very long time because of their large
fuel capacity, but could turn, climb, and dive in very sharp radii. Much of the border cut across hilly farmlands punctuated by stands of trees, small forests, and tiny towns with tall church spires that seemed sometimes to pop up out of nowhere. Most airplanes of this type were also equipped with armor plating on the bottom and a very effective crash cage of metal tubing surrounding the pilot, and in this model a passenger as well.

  “Do you know this type of airplane well enough to do some work on it? It needs some modifications. Nothing too terribly difficult, I should think for a man of your abilities.”

  “I could try, Herr Kapitän,” Heide said. “But I would have to know something about the mission.”

  They locked up the hangar and walked up to the house. Speyer got them each a beer before they went into his study. “I want the job done as soon as possible, even if it means working around the clock.”

  The airplane’s blueprints were spread out on the desk. Heide studied them for a few minutes, shifting from one set of sheets to another. “What do you have in mind, sir?”

  Speyer pulled out a second set of blueprints, these showing the airplane in its agricultural spraying version. “We need to add the fiberglass hopper, the stainless plumbing, pumps, fans, gates, and the spray-booms, plus the controls.”

  “That would have been easier done at the factory.”

  “The end use was none of their business. Can you do the work?”

  “I don’t foresee a problem.”

  “There’ll be another modification, but not until later. This has to be done first. When can you start?”

  “Are the equipment and tools here?”

  “Yes, in the hangar.”

  Heide glanced at the blueprints again. “I’ll need Hans to help me, but I think that we can finish by tonight, or first thing in the morning.” He looked up. “Is this to be flown somewhere? Do you need a pilot?”

  “Eventually. But when you’re finished with that job, I want the airplane disassembled and packed into the truck.”