by Gregg Loomis
"Won't go!" Wynn-Three announced. "My mommy's coming."
Holding onto the lip of the hole, Heim's feet pushed against the lower stones of the rough surface until his upper body was inside. His lower torso flopping like a freshly landed fish, he wriggled through, landing with an audible thud on the other side.
"You all right?" Gratz called nervously.
Indeed he was, well enough to be searching quickly through Otto's clothes until he found what he was looking for. He hardly noticed the man had stopped breathing and his skin was already chilled.
Stepping back up to the stone pile, he stood on a rock so his face was at the opening. "All is well. Hand the child up."
Wynn-Three easily fit through in spite of his wriggling and screams of protest. Holding onto the boy, Heim watched Gratz struggle.
"I think I am stuck!"
Heim had anticipated that an old mine shaft might well be dark. He snapped on a flashlight he had brought along. "I also think you are stuck."
Though not too powerful, the flashlight was more than adequate to show Gratz's face getting red. "Take an arm, pull."
"I will have to let go of the child."
"Where do you think he will go? Pull!"
Heim almost expected the pop of a cork leaving a bottle as Gratz's bulk, with Heim's assistance, finally squeezed through. He stood, gulping for air as though he had surfaced from a deep dive.
Heim was already painting the walls with his flashlight. He stood aside, beckoning Gratz to lead the way down a gentle slope that ended in darkness. "After you."
Too late, Gratz realized what was about to happen. His hand went to the Mauser stuck in his waistband but Heim already had the Luger he had taken back from Otto pointed at Gratz's head.
Gratz started to say something when a neat, round, red hole appeared between his eyes and the sound of a shot bounced from wall to wall, seeming to move forward into the dark until after Gratz had slumped into a heap on the stone floor. The noise, as well as a scream from Wynn-Three, would be muffled efficiently by the mineshaft.
Stepping over Gratz as though he were avoiding a pile of garbage, Heim played his light down the shaft, thinking. This would be a perfect place to dispose of the little boy, too. Unlikely any of the three bodies would ever be discovered.
But.
What if someone had noticed him and Wynn-Three on the lift?
But.
What if that somebody saw him return without the child?
Better to take care of the little boy later. There must be hundreds of mountain lakes nearby, a thousand deserted valleys.
The boy was near hysterical with fear. Heim shook him like a terrier with a rat. "Hush, you little shit! Another squeak out of you and you will join those two!"
Wynn-Three had never been so addressed. Teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut, staring with terrified, tear-filled eyes. Heim snatched his hand and followed the beam of the flashlight.
A few minutes later, the two entered a chamber so large the light did not reach the far wall. The ceiling, though, was barely four meters high. Rusty rails went off in four different directions, tunnels leading to different parts of the mine.
Heim was sweeping the darkness with the light when something caught his attention. Keeping the light's beam steady, he focused on whatever had reflected it. Was that the glitter of gold? Dragging Wynn-Three, he took eager, rapid steps toward the object until he could make it out. Bending over, he nudged it with an exploratory foot.
A strip of gold? No, part of a gilt picture frame. The other half was not far away, lying beside a wooden crate that was missing one side. The only thing of interest about it was the eagle stenciled on one side, its wings spread, its talons clutching a swastika, the seal of the Third Reich. With foreboding, Heim probed the darkness, revealing hundreds of similar crates, all open, all empty.
But one, two, three smaller boxes of cardboard looked to be intact. With an eagerness bordering on desperation, Heim tore one open and gasped. It was stacked with neatly bound bills, currency. A bolt of excitement shot through his body, only to end in the dull pain of disappointment. Reichsmarks, the money of Nazi Germany. Totally worthless.
The Allied Office of Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives, the Monument Men, had been here long ago. At the end of World War II, the volume of art, jewelry, antiques, and other valuables looted from Jews and conquered countries had been so immense that a special office had been set up in an attempt to restore the objects to their rightful owners. Or, more likely, the heirs of the rightful owners.
Heim felt the weight of disappointment that seemed to press him downwards. If the Monument Men had been here, there would be nothing of value remaining. He felt a surge of rage toward Wynn-Three, the devil's child that had led him on this chase that had been as dangerous as it had been fruitless. He was gripping the Luger when he realized his irrational anger was about to overcome his earlier reasoning. There would be ample time to dispose of the child.
Turning, he shuffled with the step of an old man toward the entrance, dragging Wynn-Three along.
CHAPTER 83
Oberkoenigsburg
LANG REILLY WAS STUDYING THE MAP of the ski area available at all lifts. The old man and child had been out of view so long, he was beginning to think there might be an alternate route down.
But no, there was no access to the bottom other than the way up they had taken. Not without climbing the bare ridge at the top and jumping into the abyss.
He was considering the possibility he had simply missed the pair on their way down when he caught sight of them. There at the top of the lift were a man and boy, the latter's face clearly visible but too far away to distinguish.
Thankful to finally be doing something other than freezing, he quickly climbed the stairs back into the A-frame and stepped out onto the deck still crowded with sun-worshiping skiers. The view was slightly better than below but still too far away to make out the faces. Then he saw one of those ubiquitous coin-operated telescopes. There was one small problem: a woman who looked like a sack of potatoes in bulky ski wear was using the binoculars.
Lang approached, clearing his throat.
She paid him no attention, occupied with whatever she saw at the bottom of the lower lift.
The pair in the chairlift were getting closer.
"Excuse me," he said in German.
No response.
"Mein Gott!" Lang exclaimed. "Brad Pitt!"
The woman spun around, as though she had suddenly been pinched on her ample posterior, expecting to see the movie star. "Wo? Where?"
Lang jerked a thumb over his shoulder, neatly stepping up to the eyepiece. A bolt of excitement went through him like an electrical shock as he swung the scope around, centering on the chairlift. Now that the collar to the little boy's ski jacket was down there was no doubt. He was looking at Wynn-Three.
"Where is Brad Pitt?" the woman asked, menace in her tone.
Lang pointed, backing away like a retreating crab. "He just stepped inside. If you hurry, you might see him."
He forced himself to walk, albeit with a hurried step, down to the lift. He stopped equally distant from the place he would have to get aboard to ride down or meet anyone who got off.
The man got off, dragging an obviously reluctant Wynn-Three. Lang stepped forward as they got into a chair headed to the town and then the lift down to the parking lot at the base of the mountain.
Fortunately, there was no line and Lang was seating himself in the chair immediately behind theirs when something—impulse, bad luck, whatever—made a squirming Wynn-Three turn around.
"Mr. Reilly!" he squealed in delight at seeing a face from home.
The man turned and Lang was looking into a face cratered by time and contorted by a combination of surprise and fear. Before either Lang or the man could take any other action, the chairs were swaying in mid air, slowly grinding toward the bottom. Lang sat back. There was no way he was going to lose his neighbor's son after getting this
close.
The man was twisting his body around and Lang saw the sun glint from something metallic in his hand. "Whoever you are," the man shouted in English, "drop off this lift! You can see I have a gun. If you are not off by the time I reach the bottom, the child dies!"
Reflexively, Lang touched the Browning in the small of his back. No good. The man and Wynn-Three were too close together. He glanced down. It was thirty feet to the ground below the lift, a broken leg if he jumped. At least an ankle.
"I'll jump, but wait till we are closer to the ground," he shouted back. And closer to the parking lot where Lang might have a chance to catch up or at least get a tag number.
"Now!" came the answer.
Lang could see the gun now, held so it was not visible to the skiers below but clearly pressed against Wynn-Three's head.
"Just a few more feet where I won't kill myself," Lang pleaded.
Agency training: involve your opponent in debate, stall. Anything to delay.
This time it didn't work. The man next to Wynn-Three gestured with his free hand. "Empty that lift chair immediately or I'll shoot the child and you next!"
Fortunately, this part of the lift was now only a few meters above the heads of skiers. Lang considered his dwindling options. If he jumped from the lift, there was little, if any, chance he was going to be able to catch up with Wynn-Three and his captor before they reached the parking lot and escaped. If he refused to do as commanded, the man might actually make good on his threat. The confusion that would ensue after the sound of a shot, let alone finding a dead child, would provide perfect cover for the man to get away.
Lang slid forward in his seat, clutching the chair. For an instant, he dangled from the chairlift, hanging by his arms in an effort to reduce the distance of his fall and locate what might be the softest pile of snow before he launched himself into space.
He had intended to take the shock of the fall with his knees, the way paratroopers are trained. He had forgotten, though, that most Airborne Rangers are in their late teens or early twenties. The result was as harsh as it was predictable: he landed on his feet and pitched forward, falling on his stomach in a breathtaking impact.
He was struggling to get air back into his lungs as he watched the old man and Wynn-Three reach the town and then disappear, no doubt heading to the parking lot. He hardly noticed the two ski patrols who were helping him to his feet.
"Are you all right?"
"Do you think you have any broken bones?"
Lang muttered his thanks as he shrugged them off and clumsily tried to run downhill on packed snow, a surface with about as much traction as glass. The result was that he landed face down again. The two helpful ski patrols lifted him to his feet.
"Come with us. It is not permitted to be on the slope without skis or snowboard."
"You should be examined by a doctor to make sure there are no injuries."
Helplessly, Lang let himself be loaded onto a sled. Below, there was no sign of Wynn-Three.
CHAPTER 84
Oberkoenigsburg
The Parking
Lot Minutes Later
HEIM WAS HAVING AN INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT time dragging a wailing, kicking, and screaming Wynn-Three across the parking lot to the smart car. He finally snatched the child up, holding the wriggling little boy in his arms. He smiled apologetically at the people streaming toward the lift, most of whom gave him disapproving glares. In German-speaking countries, even small children are expected to be well-behaved, not howl hysterically in public. Parents administer corporal punishment, instead of issuing "time-outs," without fear of government intervention or public opprobrium. The result is mannerly minors who are largely seen, not heard.
The doctor was getting increasingly nervous that the ruckus his small companion was causing would make indelible impressions on would-be witnesses. Better he had left the small boy's corpse in the mine.
He was so concerned that he was possibly the only man within a hundred square meters who did not notice the statuesque blond unloading skis from the back of a Ford Focus station wagon. Her hot pink ski outfit, though bulky, suggested the curves underneath, a figure emphasized by her height, just a little under six feet. Single men stared openly; those with female companions did so with more circumspection.
She turned to decline a polite offer of assistance with her equipment and froze.
The badly behaving child was Wynn-Three.
He was struggling with an old man who had him clutched with both arms. A faint memory flickered like a match struck in the wind. She had seen the man's face somewhere . . . his face or a photograph? Facial recognition and memory were skills that the Agency emphasized. Covert operations did not remain covert if the agent had to keep referring back to photographs in the field.
But then she thought of another possibility. Maybe she had seen him in a picture in which an artist had taken a youthful face and changed it to correspond to the subject's present age. An inexact science for sure, but one that had been used in the Agency at times, mostly during the Cold War.
But why would this particular person be of sufficient interest to justify the time and effort?
With the Cold War long ended, there were only a limited number of persons important enough to the Agency have their age-enhanced pictures circulated: terrorists, or internationally wanted criminals, who for one reason or another might have information useful to the Agency. She was fairly certain this man did not belong to any terrorist group, but she was unable to place him with certainty in the criminal category. Still, if he was significant enough to have age-enhanced pictures made, he was potentially dangerous.
Instead of moving toward the lift, she slung skis and poles over a shoulder and paralleled his movements while keeping a row of parked cars between them. She thought about using her iPad to let Lang know she had arrived and what she had found but discarded the idea. She wanted to keep the hand not resting on skis and poles free. She also considered simply stepping around the cars, Glock extended, and taking the child. There were several problems with that plan. First, any spectator might well call the police at the sight of a gun. Second, there was no way to know if the man was alone. He might well have an accomplice in the area. Finally, she could not see his hands. He might have a weapon already in hand, concealed between himself and the little boy.
No. Better to take him when the man had both hands occupied. Like when he unloaded Wynn-Three into whatever automobile was waiting. Without losing sight of her quarry, she searched the number of skiers in the parking lot. Other than those frowning at such a poorly disciplined child, no one seemed to be paying the old man a lot of attention. Perhaps he was acting alone after all.
He stopped beside a smart car, a vehicle that reminded Gurt of a roller skate with body work. She noted the Euro Car sticker on the rear. This mitigated against the possibility of someone working with him. There was no room for the child and another adult. An associate would have to have his own transportation. Still, she took a final look around before stepping from behind an Audi sedan.
Her hand instinctively reached for the Glock in the pocket of her ski jacket. No, there would be no gunplay, not with a child involved. She needed to . . . noodle this through, as Lang would say. She was unsure what pasta had to do with it but she got the meaning.
She waited until the man had one hand on the key in the lock of the car, the other holding the collar of Wynn-Three's jacket before she made her move.
Unaware of her presence, the old man swung the car door open and was leaning to stuff a protesting Wynn-Three inside. Gurt swung a ski against the back of his legs, buckling both knees, sending him sprawling in the light snow that had accumulated since the parking lot had last been swept clear.
Before he could get to his feet, she snatched the child away, holding onto his shoulder and shoving him behind her. With the other hand, she held the ski above her head like a club.
"Move," she said in German, "and the metal edge of this ski will slice off you
r head like the end of a fat sausage."
Not quite true but she was betting the man did not know that.
Heim sat up, shaking his head as though to clear it. "You are crazy, woman! That is my grandson you have there and I am going to summon the police on my cell phone."
From the periphery of her vision, Gurt could see first one couple, then another stop to witness what had to be a bizarre scene.
"Call them," Gurt said, hoping no one would decide to intervene on the old man's behalf. "Your 'grandson' is a child kidnapped from the United States. The police will be happy to know he is here." She reached behind her, pulling Wynn-Three to the front. "Is that your grandfather?" she asked in English, increasingly worried the growing group of spectators might interfere.
Wynn-Three's reddened and tear-streaked face twisted into as much of a mask of hatred as capable of a three-year-old. "Bad man! Bad man!"
"What is the problem here?"
A policeman, bundled in down jacket and pants, had arrived. With the scene between Gurt and Heim unfolding, no one had heard the very quiet BMW motorcycle on which he was easing through the circle of spectators that had formed around the smart car.
Gurt gave him a glance, the briefest of looks. By the time her eyes had returned to Heim, he had a gun pointed at her, a Luger right out of World War II.
The cop saw it, too, and reached for the flap-covered holster at his side.
Heim shot him twice, the motorcycle clattering to the pavement as he fell.
Nothing disperses a crowd of onlookers faster than a few shots, particularly when someone is hit. With screams and yells of panic, the tight group fragmented in all directions like shattering crystal, leaving Gurt looking at the Luger which was now pointed at Wynn-Three.
Heim motioned with his gun. "Try to stop me and the child dies."
Gurt held out both hands, one still clutching skis and poles. "I do nothing and you will leave the child here?"