Basic Law

by J Sydney Jones

  Georges nods at this knowingly, the others simply keep focus on that invisible distant point. Rudi gives a thumbs up blessing to the mission, and then the eight of them sling rifles over their shoulders. Kramer takes along his day pack for good measure. There is a path parallel to the road that leads back toward the forestry road. They walk single file along the path for several minutes, Kramer taking point. The others have been around too long to complain about someone else taking the lead.

  The path is densely overgrown, and Kramer picks slowly through the undergrowth, careful not to break twigs underfoot or catch his rifle on a branch. Despite the chill of the day, he is soon sweating. The sound of the hitch and jostle of weapons against bodies is hard to muffle. Randall stumbles over a root and falls in a clatter onto the side of the path. A covey of larks is startled, flapping overhead and calling out. Then the forest is quiet again, deadly still.

  “I need two volunteers,” Kramer whispers, realizing that this travel en masse is absurd. “The rest stay behind until we take care of the guard.”

  “Marco, Peter. You go with him,” Rudi says to two of the men.

  “Volunteers,” Kramer says again.

  “That’s us,” Marco, the slight, wiry-looking young man, says. He moves like a cat through the woods; Kramer senses he is a good man to have on your side. Peter simply nods in assent; he’s the bigger one, with hands large enough to crush melons. He reminds Kramer of some of the kids he grew up with in Oregon, big and rough and born to work in the woods, the kind you didn’t want to meet Saturday night in town after a few too many beers.

  “Okay,” he whispers. “But my way. We don’t kill unless absolutely necessary.”

  Marco and Peter glance at Rudi who blinks his eyes in assent.

  This time, Marco automatically takes the lead, and it’s Kramer’s turn to make no complaints. They move on slowly for several more minutes, and suddenly Marco slashes his right hand upward. They stop, craning their ears. A faint humming is coming from the path ahead of them. They move on, hunkered over, peering through the lush greenery and the humming grows louder, finally attaching itself to a body only fifty yards ahead of them.

  The guard is pissing against a tree, humming some pop melody out of tune. His urine flows in a golden arc, illuminated by a sudden ray of sun penetrating the thickness of the forest. Marco looks back at Kramer and smiles. Without warning, he strips off his rifle, hands it to Kramer, and begins sprinting down the path. The guard is shaking the last drips, still humming to himself, when finally, too late, he hears movement behind him.

  Marco dives onto the guard, knocks him to the ground, and thrusts his forearm over the man’s mouth as he drives his knee into his groin. The guard curls into a fetal ball and a sharp crack to the side of his head from Marco’s pistol stops him groaning. Peter and Kramer rush to the scene and help pull the guard behind a thick stand of trees. Peter takes strong nylon twine from his NATO jacket and binds the guard to the tree, then rifles the man’s pockets, finds a soiled handkerchief, and stuffs it into the man’s mouth to keep him silent.

  Kramer sends Peter back for the others while Marco and he stand for a moment in silence waiting. He feels his heart pounding blood in his ears. “Next time, wait for my orders,” Kramer says finally.

  “It was opportune,” Marco replies, looking down the trail.

  “Yes, but there may be more than one opportunity.”

  Marco turns his eyes on Kramer, blinks once slowly, then nods. “As you like.”

  The other six come through the brush.

  “He’s sure to have periodic call-ins,” Kramer says, nodding toward the tree where the guard is bound. “We have to move quickly now, or his silence will tip the others off.”

  One direction to move: down the trail toward the huts. They fan out: Marco, Randall, and the twins on one side of the narrow dirt road and Kramer, Rudi, Peter, and Georges on the other, all keeping as close to the tree line as possible. At one point, they hear a car engine start up, its engine revving. Kramer halts and scatters them into the foliage at the roadside, but then the engine is turned off. Birds are singing, unaware of the silly games men are playing below. They set out again.

  The first hut comes into view in a little clearing before Kramer expects it. He pulls back away from the road, motioning the others to do so as well. Luckily, no guards are posted on the perimeter. Suddenly, the door to the little hut opens, and a heavy-set man in a brown and black uniform comes out, zipping his pants and buckling his belt.

  Outdoor crappers need no guards, Kramer thinks.

  This man heads back to the left toward what Kramer sees now to be a second hut. Parked next to it is a purple Mercedes, its hood up and another man leaning over the fender, his torso lost in the guts of the car. A voice calls from inside the hut, “Is that fixed yet?”

  The man under the hood mumbles something Kramer cannot understand, and then Vogel walks out of the second hut, dressed in a town suit with a heavy overcoat on.

  That’s three of them, Kramer tells himself.

  The goon from the toilet comes up to the car and peers into the engine now, then slaps the man with his head under the hood on the back. “Christ!” he says, grinning at Vogel. “Max is a regular mechanic, all right. Got grease up to his eyeballs and a dead engine.”

  He laughs loudly, taking great delight in his own banter.

  “Get the damn thing fixed,” Vogel hisses. “I’ve got to make that call soon.” He turns in a huff and goes back into the hut.

  The headless mechanic stands up suddenly, stretching his back, hands on hips and a pained expression on his face.

  No-Neck. The one who killed Gerhard.

  Kramer watches him as he gets the kinks out of his back, then bends over his task once again, the other guard watching over his shoulder.

  Rudi has come up to Kramer’s side now. “There are only three of them,” he says.

  “That we can see,” Kramer says in a low voice, never taking his eyes from the huts.

  His eyes jerk to the right at the sound of a door slapping shut. In the opposite corner of the clearing is the third hut, partially hidden from view by the foliage surrounding Kramer. Parked near it is a tan Volkswagen van. Kramer sees a uniformed man making his way from the third hut to the crapper, but can’t make out the features through the underbrush until the man gets to the door. It’s the blond Hitler Youth look-alike from the Munich headquarters.

  Old home week.

  “There’re the rest of them,” Kramer says, nodding toward the third and larger hut. It looks like it may be the bunkhouse for the camp, but without windows there’s no telling. A second guard comes to the door of this hut and flicks a burning cigarette out onto a large, round charcoal pit in front.

  At least five of them, Kramer thinks. And no telling where Maria is—with Vogel or with the Hitler Youth.

  “What now?” Rudi says.

  “We wait a little. See what we can see.”

  He tries to make his voice sound calm, but he does not feel that way. The anger eating at him cries for action, but he knows he has to rein that in.

  Vogel comes out once again, drawing Kramer’s attention back to the huts. He leans over the car, looking at No-Neck’s work, shaking his head impatiently. Then he stands upright, blowing vapor bubbles into the cold air. The first guard is still standing by the car, getting a kick out of it all.

  Behind them, a sixth figure is suddenly standing in the door of Vogel’s hut. Kramer makes him instantly: No-Neck’s partner.

  “She says she’s got to take a piss,” he yells to Vogel.

  Vogel jerks his head back to the door. “Then take her to the fucking toilet, you idiot. Do I have to do everything around here?”

  The man in the doorway flexes his jaws, but says nothing. He goes back in the hut and returns a moment later, guiding Maria out of the building. Her hands are bo
und behind her and a white scarf covers her eyes, but she looks unharmed.

  Kramer feels his heart soar.

  “That her?” Rudi whispers at his side.

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s time to dance, then,” Rudi says.

  Kramer closes his mind down, channels the anger. He glances across the road. Marco is checking it all out, his eyes narrowed to slits, his jaw set. He turns to look at Kramer, and their eyes lock for a moment. Kramer jabs his finger to the left, and Marco nods. He, Randall, and the other two men begin fanning out around the huts to the left, hidden in the bushes. Kramer and his three move ahead on their side of the road to circle to the right. He keeps his eyes on Maria and the goon as they slowly proceed toward the outhouse. The brush tears at Kramer’s face. He thinks he and the others must be making enough noise to wake a drunk, but no one in the clearing appears to notice.

  Thirty yards from the toilet, Maria stumbles, and the goon bends over, grips her arm, and roughly lifts her to her feet. Peter is at Kramer’s side, whispering as they move forward bowed like old men, “I’ll take care of the guard once they’re at the outhouse.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Kramer says, not bothering to look at Peter.

  “It’s got to be silent, or you’ll alert the rest of them,” Peter says, lightly touching Kramer’s arm. “Marco and his men won’t have time to get in position.”

  Kramer stops, wetting his dry mouth to speak. His angle of vision is better now. He can see that the three buildings form a rough triangle in the clearing, with the outhouse at the apex closest to him. Its door is facing the road, out of sight of the other two huts, and the woods come up to within a few feet of it. Still, he knows taking out the goon will require a pro. No on-the-job training with this one. Not only Maria’s, but the lives of Randall, Rudi, and the other men are in the balance. Muff the job and there’s no second chance.

  “All right,” Kramer says. “I don’t feel good about it, but okay.”

  Peter squeezes Kramer’s biceps lightly. “There will be enough action for everybody,” he says.

  “But she’s not your fight.”

  Peter shrugs. “A fight’s a fight.”

  They move on silently, nearing the tongue of wooded land that juts out into the clearing by the outhouse. Rudi and Georges take up positions further to the right, their field of fire concentrating on the bunkhouse; Kramer and Peter lie in the brush nearest the outhouse. Kramer silently takes off his leather pack.

  Out in the clearing, Maria falls again on the uneven ground, and the goon stands over her for a moment, shaking his head in disgust before bending over to help her up again.

  “Wish me luck,” Peter says, and begins crawling out of the brush toward the outhouse, using Maria’s unintentional diversion to conceal his movements.

  Kramer covers him. By the time the goon gets Maria up and they are on their way again, Peter is hidden from their view by the outhouse. He moves quickly and effortlessly for such a big man and is almost at the outhouse when Kramer realizes they’ve made a terrible mistake.

  The Hitler Youth kid is still in the john.

  Kramer frantically searches the leaf-covered forest floor for a stone or twig to toss at Peter, to somehow get his attention. The door of the outhouse opens before he can find anything. Hitler Youth steps out, adjusting his brown tie, and Peter is almost at his feet, his rifle cradled in his arms.

  They both jerk to a stop, frozen like snakes about to strike. Kramer looks beyond them to Maria just approaching the outhouse, so close to them. The goon is behind her, partially blocked by her body.

  “They’ve come! They’ve come!” the kid yells before Peter can silence him.

  Kramer has the goon in his sights, but Maria is startled by the kid’s screams and jumps into the line of fire.

  The rest happens like a slow-motion pantomime. Kramer tosses the rifle aside and is up and running, only vaguely aware of shots coming from both sides. The kid falls at his feet, leveled by a blow to his shins by the barrel of Peter’s Mannlicher. Kramer leaps over the sprawling body.

  “Down, Maria!” he yells as he tugs the pistol out of his jacket pocket.

  She automatically does as he says, and the goon is caught off guard, scrambling to get his pistol out of his shoulder holster. Kramer shoots as he runs, the first shots going wide, and hears high and piercing screams coming from Maria. The goon has his pistol out now, and Kramer lets off another quick round that misses, the gun recoiling heavily in his hand. The goon is smiling as he sites Kramer, but the front of the man’s tan jacket turns crimson suddenly, and he lurches backward as if struck by a board. A second shot rings out from behind Kramer, and the goon’s pistol hand shatters like meat under a cleaver. He looks at his ruined hand, then touches the blood on his chest with his good hand, and crumples to the ground on top of Maria.

  Kramer looks over his shoulder and nods a thanks to Peter, just lowering the rifle from his shoulder. More shots sound from the compound, and Kramer rushes to Maria. She is screaming hysterically by the time he pulls the guard off her. The man is breathing raggedly, blood coming from his mouth.

  “It’s okay,” he says, scooping Maria into his arms. “All okay now.”

  “Sam?”

  He runs with her in his arms to the cover of the outhouse, sets her down momentarily, pulls her blindfold off, unties her wrists.

  “God, Sam!” She throws her arms around him.

  He holds her with one arm, the pistol held up at the ready. Peter has pulled the Hitler Youth kid back into the foliage, and Kramer and Maria make a dash for its cover as well. Bullets rip into the outhouse in back of them, splintering the sides and spraying wood chips. Maria and Kramer dive into the brush, and more bullets rattle through the branches over their heads. The kid is lying on the ground near them, gripping his leg and groaning.

  “You broke it,” he says, rocking on the ground, glaring at Peter next to him.

  Kramer looks closely at Maria, tries to smile, but his lips won’t allow it. “You okay?”

  She forces a grin; there is moisture in her eyes. Then she nods quickly.

  “My leg,” the kid whimpers.

  Maria crawls over to him and pulls the khakis out of his black boots, examining the contusion. The kid yelps when she touches it gently.

  “You’ll live,” she says dispassionately. “It’s only a slight fracture.”

  Kramer hands her his pistol. “Keep him covered.”

  The discarded rifle is lying nearby, and he pulls it to him, taking stock of the situation for the first time. Peter scuttles over to his side. Shooting has stopped for the moment but the heavy stink of cordite fills the clearing. No forest noises can be heard, only the rattle of breath from the dying man near the outhouse and the kid’s groans.

  The windows of the Mercedes have been shattered; jagged ends of glass are left on the frames. Pockmarks of bullet holes show in the doors of the car and on the wooden sides of both the other huts. In front of the hut to the far right, a body lies sprawled and motionless.

  “Marco!” Kramer yells.

  There is an instant of silence, then Marco’s voice calls out, “We’re okay. One in the hut, two under the car.”

  Kramer looks closely. He can see No-Neck’s feet barely sticking out from under the car. They are rapidly pulled back in at this declaration.

  “Rudi?” Kramer calls out.

  “Okay here,” Rudi shouts back. “One down. One or two in the hut.”

  Kramer watches as Peter opens his NATO jacket and unhooks two grenades from cloth loops.

  “No,” Kramer says. “We got what we came for.”

  “What you came for,” Peter says. “I had a sister burned out in Rostock. The score isn’t quite even yet.”

  Maria looks at him and Kramer puts a restraining hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Let me try it my way
first,” he says.

  Peter hefts the grenades in his hands, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “Okay. But if it doesn’t work, these will.”

  Kramer looks back at the kid. “You know what this is all about?”

  The kid continues to rock, gripping his broken leg in his hands.

  Kramer scoots on the ground over to the kid, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I asked if you know what this is about.”

  The kid looks up at Kramer, and his eyes close to narrow slits emitting hate and fear. He shrugs Kramer’s hand off his shoulder.

  “I am prepared to die for the Fatherland.”

  “Give me a break,” Kramer says. “You know you don’t want to die. Not for this piece of real estate, anyway. What did Vogel tell you about the kidnapping?”

  The kid stares at him for a moment, then says defiantly, “That you have member lists and were blackmailing him.”

  Kramer laughs. “That’s his story, is it?”

  “I heard you threaten him,” the kid says. “Yesterday at headquarters when he summoned me. You said that in two days you would publish.”

  “That’s right,” Kramer says calmly. “But it’s not membership lists I threatened him with. Those good old boys on the lists are already lost to you. They went scampering for the high ground once a man named Müller was killed. You might have heard of Müller, actually a guy named SS-Oberleutnant Arno Semich. A wanted war criminal from World War Two. It was in the papers.”

  “Victors’ justice,” the kid spits out.

  “Yeah, sure,” Kramer says, “the party line. But plenty of the powerful in Bonn knew who he was. They were protecting him all these years. And they’re not risking their careers any further. You’ll have to find other sources of income. That’s a done deal. So, no, this isn’t about some lists.”

  The kid makes no response, remembers his pain and rocks sitting up now.

  “You’re a smart kid,” Kramer says. “Want to know the truth?”

  “Screw you,” the kid says through bared teeth.