No danger of that today. In fact, Bannion started to sweat. He estimated that it was at least 70 degrees at the top of Madonna.
Bannion kicked off down the long chute that led from the chair lift to the trail breaks. Some younger skiers whooshed by him and headed down the lift line itself, an almost-vertical route this high up in the mountain. He smiled. These American kids were becoming fearless. Soon they would dominate Alpine skiing. Bannion played hooky from his business at least once a week (in New England, in ski season, nobody took work all that seriously) and, as a lark, occasionally filled in as an instructor at the Madonna Mountain ski school. Most of his students could ski rings around him, but they – and the other instructors – seemed to enjoy his “old school” techniques, which were rapidly becoming obsolesced by new skis and bindings. They also enjoyed his stories (carefully edited, of course) of European skiing.
Watching the kids whoop down the lift line, Bannion decided against any “diamond” skiing. The snow up here would soon be turning to mush, and meltwater would be running in rivulets. A nice leisurely five-mile traverse down Upper Chilcoot to Midway to Curley’s Cutback would be a fitting end to a day of skiing. This would be his tenth run and would end at the pub at the base lodge, which made an excellent glühwein. He could almost taste it.
As expected, the first half of his run was slow going. The softening snow gripped his skis and made turning an effort. Bannion’s calves and thighs burned pleasantly. But he was poling effortlessly and thoroughly enjoying himself. Even his right knee was cooperating, although he knew it would probably act up later. It still had bits of metal in it from the war.
It took him ten minutes to reach the cloud bank. Despite his many years on many slopes, the sudden change from bright, clear air to a soupy mist was disconcerting. A sudden sense of foreboding overtook him. Usually a dauntless skier, Bannion pulled off to the side and stopped. Another skier swished by and just missed him. The man fell, cursing. Bannion, realizing that he had halted at an intersection of trails, apologized. The man brushed himself off, glared at him, and kept going. Bannion followed, cautiously. But he had lost his rhythm and even skiing down this easy trail was an effort. The dismal mist seemed suffocating and he had a feeling that something unpleasant awaited him at the bottom of the mountain. He shook the premonition off and violently poled ahead.
A minute later he emerged into the clear. It was much colder, maybe by 40 degrees. Now he was skiing on hard, crunchy frozen snow, virtually ice. And going much too fast! The chill he suddenly felt had nothing to do with the sweat now freezing to his chest. He tried to stop but hit a patch of solid ice and flew off the trail into the tree line. His left ski caught an evergreen and he twirled around it and splashed into a snowbank. He lay there a moment, catching his breath and taking inventory. He pried snow out of his eye sockets, ears, nose and mouth and began tentatively moving his limbs. The knee hurt, but not much more than usual. No broken bones. Fortunately, the safety bindings had released. Bannion tasted blood, but realized it was only from a cut lip. He felt that momentary exhilaration that follows any near catastrophe one comes through relatively unscathed.
CHAPTER 2 — CROWN & ANCHOR
“You OK?”
Bannion looked up to see three teen-age boys hovering. His spectacular spill was attracting a crowd. Two of the boys reached in and pulled him to his feet. He spit out a mouth full of snow.
“Jeez, Mister Bannion, you looked like a plane crash going in there,” one of the kids said.
He thanked the boys as he clicked his boots back into the ski bindings. One of them handed him his poles.
“Gotta be careful on ice,” the boy said.
They were clean-cut New England lads who reminded him of the boys he met during his first days in the German military. With a wave of their poles, they were off.
If they only knew how careful I have to be, the former SS Colonel thought as he watched the youngsters ski down the slope, handling hairpin turns and moguls with ease. Ach! To be young again. With the Vietnam War now raging, he hoped the kids would avoid the draft. They probably would. Their parents had money, which meant college and a deferment. Fighting a land war in Asia made no sense. Even that crazy General MacArthur knew that much. But the cornpone Texan now in the White House wanted to prove how tough he was. Boltke knew from personal experience where such posturing led. Well, he thought, the war in Vietnam couldn’t last much longer. After all, how long could the Americans put up with the carnage, even if it was helping to cull the lower classes? The country would run out of minorities well before Asia runs out of Asians.
Those boys who helped him after his spill had been right, of course. He had been careless. Hitting a tree head on could be fatal. He was still buoyed by his narrow escape. That glühwein, spiced mulled wine, would taste doubly good now. Ten minutes later, brushing off snow from his fall, Bannion walked into the Crown & Anchor, the English-style pub in the base lodge where the ski school instructors and their charges would soon be gathering. They would enjoy his retelling of his near disaster on the slopes.
The pub was already half full, and most of the patrons were congregated near the fireplace, trying to warm up and dry off. Like Bannion, their lower clothes had been soaked in the mush near the top. The room had that intoxicating aroma – at least to skiers – of drying wool, burning embers, cigarette smoke and spiced drinks common to après ski the world over. He took a seat at the bar where Alice, a saucy wench who was his favorite barmaid, was already pouring his glühwein. She put two cinnamon sticks in the mug – he was very particular about that – and placed it in front of him. He was about to tell her about his crash – with suitable embellishments, of course – when she said, “Guy at the corner table has been asking for you. Has a funny accent. Told him you’d be in about now.”
All thoughts of the steaming glühwein banished, Bannion swiveled slowly in his chair to see a man staring at him intently from a solitary table in the corner. He was dressed in street clothes and looked wildly out of place. His face slowly broke into a thin, grim smile and Bannion’s heart froze in his chest. Mossad?
How in the world did they…? But no. The man looked vaguely familiar. Then it hit him.
“Mein Gott!”
“What did you say, Walt? Walt? You all right? Walt?”
He realized that Alice was talking to him. He had exclaimed in German! He gathered his wits.
“No. I mean, yes. I’m fine. Just an old friend.”
With that, Bannion stood unsteadily and walked over to the table. The man jumped up and held out his hand. There was a black attaché case on one of the seats next to him.
“Hello, Colonel,” the man said, in accented English, “It’s been a long time.”
Rudolph Boltke looked around quickly. He ignored Erik Zyster’s proffered hand. He wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have preferred the Israelis. He quickly pulled up a chair.
“For God’s sake,” Boltke hissed. “Sit down. For a moment I thought you were going to give the fucking party salute! What are you doing here? How did you find me? I thought you were dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Zyster said as he sat.
Zyster still looked like a weasel, but a healthy weasel. He was thin, but gone was the sallow complexion. Instead his skin had a darker, weather-beaten hue common to someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. Before Boltke could say anything else, they were interrupted by Alice, who appeared holding Boltke’s mug.
“You forgot your drink, Walt.” She placed it on the table and looked expectantly at Zyster. “You want a refill?”
“Yes, please,” Zyster said. “Another schnapps. And bring my friend another drink, too. Perhaps something stronger, eh, Valt?”
The little shit is mocking me, Bolke thought.
“Bourbon,” he said, shortly, earning a surprised look from the barmaid.
After what seemed like an eternity, Alice returned with the drinks and then left them blessedly alone. Zyster smiled.
&nb
sp; “When the Russians bombed … the camp … my laboratory was completely destroyed.”
“Yes, I know. We didn’t even have time to look for survivors. The Red Army tanks were only a kilometer away.” Boltke was lying. There had been time. But no one cared one way or another if anyone in Zyster’s house of horrors got out alive. In fact, Boltke expected (and hoped) that the Russians would make short work of any survivors. “How did you escape?”
“I was in the freezer when the bombs hit,” Zyster said. “It was the most sturdy room in the facility. Very unpleasant, of course, without power once the generator stopped. The corpses began to decompose.”
Boltke looked around. No one could hear them, thank God.
“Fortunately I had a lantern,” Zyster continued. “You remember, we never went anywhere without a lantern because there were so many power failures. It was almost a week before the Russians dug me out. By that time, of course, the writing was on the wall. I could hear their voices. Screams and shots as they dealt with the guards or any German they caught. That’s when I really appreciated the bodies of the dead prisoners in the freezer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the corpses were recent, still clothed in their prison garb. I found one of a suitable size and donned his clothes. As I said, the corpses had thawed, so it wasn’t that difficult. When the Russians opened the freezer, they saw the Star of David on my sleeve and assumed I was a prisoner who had been put in there while still alive. Apparently, they put nothing past the Germans.”
With good reason, Boltke knew. And despite his revulsion for the man sitting across from him, he was fascinated by the horrid tale of survival. He was not sure if he could have done what Zyster did.
“I, of course, acted the part of a man who was nearly driven insane by my so-called ordeal. I babbled a lot. In Yiddish. I had picked up some useful phrases from my patients. I feigned amnesia. The Russkies made me into a bit of a celebrity.”
“Didn’t they check your arm for an identification number? They must have been on the lookout for impostors, even those found in a freezer!”
Zyster laughed and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. There was a large jagged scar on the forearm.
“I had my medical kit with me, to take samples. It was simple enough to lift a patch of tattooed skin off a corpse and graft it on to my arm. It wouldn’t last, of course. I had to work in such dim light and with one hand that my stitches were not up to my usual expertise. But even that worked to my advantage. The infection and swelling masked the poor job.”
“For God’s sake, man, roll down your sleeve. Do you want to attract attention?”
Zyster laughed and pulled down his sleeve. He finished his drink and then waved over the barmaid.
“My friend would like to buy me another drink, my dear. We’re celebrating.”
Alice looked at Bannion.
“Yes, two more, please. And make mine a double.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked.
“A reunion,” Zyster said happily. “Old friends. From the war.”
“I didn’t know you were in the service, Mr. Bannion,” the girl said. “My dad was a Marine. What were you?”
“Army,” Bannion said in a strangled voice.
While the girl went to get another round, he turned on Zyster.
“Are you insane! Talking about the war!”
Zyster laughed.
“What are you worried about? You didn’t tell her whose side you were on. Besides, you can make up a war. The Americans have so many it’s hard for people to keep straight.”
The drinks came and Zyster resumed his story.
“I’ve always been thin and after a week entombed with all those bodies it wasn’t hard to convince anyone I was what I appeared. A poor, abused Jew driven mad. The mad part wasn’t all acting, I have to say. The last two days in the freezer with all those stinking corpses was hell after my lantern went out. Compared to that, my escape from a refugee camp and then from Europe was a picnic. I eventually found my way to Paraguay. Filthy little country, but Stroessner and his junta are sympathetic to German refugees. Ach. I can’t complain. The climate has done wonders for my constitution. Lots of sun and fresh air.”
“Then why leave? And endanger us both? And how did you find me?”
Zyster smiled.
“All in good time. Let’s enjoy our drinks. This is a delightful little Wirtshaus … Mr. Bannion … but I think we should find some place that is more private, don’t you? There is something I have to show you.” He reached over and picked up the attaché case. “In here.”
Boltke/Bannion thought quickly, a germ of an idea forming in his head.
“Yes. You are probably right. We can go to my house. I presume you have a vehicle.”
“Yes. I rented a car in New York. Don’t look so worried. I have excellent papers. I am traveling as Alejandro Santiago, a Paraguayan physician. I have kept up my medical knowledge. I can pass easily. I am quite fluent in Spanish.”
Out in the parking lot, they walked to Boltke’s Toyota Land Cruiser.
“Where are you parked?”
“Right over there.” Zyster pointed at his rental. He looked at the Land Cruiser. “Tell me, is this a type of Jeep?”
“It’s made by Toyota. Four-wheel drive. Very handy in these parts.”
“Japanese?”
“Yes. They produce marvelous vehicles.”
“It makes you wonder how we lost the war.”
“It was easy,” Boltke replied. “You just have to declare war on everyone else on the planet except the Dagos. Now go to your car and follow me.”
CHAPTER 3 - UFO CONFIDENTIAL
“The South American network isn’t what it used to be,” Zyster said. “People have aged. Some died or moved away. And, of course, everyone is afraid of the Israelis.”
The two men were sitting at Boltke’s handcrafted wooden-plank kitchen table in the Vermont barn that he had lovingly converted into a rustic four-bedroom home. The house sat on a 20-acre parcel of land and was surrounded with hundreds of the trees that had provided the first sap for his maple syrup business. On the table between the two men was the large black attaché case Zyster had brought with him.
“But I still had a few contacts in Paraguay,” Zyster continued. “They keep in touch with their counterparts in Argentina. Last month I inquired about you, discreetly, of course, and was told where you had settled in Buenos Aires. It wasn’t that hard to find your wife. I was vouched for by people she trusted and then convinced her I had to speak to you on a matter of life and death. Gerda sends her regards by the way.”
“But why now? After all this time? What is so important?”
Even as he asked the questions, Boltke was afraid of the answer he suspected.
“After the war I wanted to take no chances. I was content with our little secret. Passions were running high. They were hanging Nazis left and right. Who would have believed me?”
Zyster opened the case and pulled out a manila envelope, which he slid across to Boltke.
“But, then, I saw that. Open it.”
Boltke opened the folder. In it was a June 1966 issue of a pulp magazine called UFO Confidential. On the cover was a colorful drawing of a “flying saucer” and a few artist renditions of “aliens” as they appeared in popular culture. There was also a photo of a scantily dressed woman with her hand to her mouth screaming. At the bottom were some teaser headlines: “Iowa Housewife Claims Cow Abducted”; “Mortician Says Government Confiscated Alien Body”; “Did Aliens Sink the Titanic?”
He looked at Zyster.
“What is this crap?”
“Page 22, Colonel. The mortician story.”
Boltke opened the magazine. The two-page article, predictably written in purple prose, was basically a rehash of several other stories that appeared in local newspapers in the Amargosa Valley section of southwestern Nevada, not far from Death Valley. Fred Offendahl, an undertaker in the town of Mercury,
claimed that when he opened the abdominal cavity of a man killed in a highway accident he discovered that many of the man’s organs, including the heart, were in the wrong place. Childlike lungs and a multi-chambered stomach. One kidney and no small intestine.
“The man also had no sexual organs,” Offendahl was quoted as saying. “External or internal.”
“Mein Gott!” Boltke exclaimed, lapsing again into his native language.
The article went on to say that Offendahl received the body because no one had claimed it, and he was being paid for his services by the county, a convenient arrangement because he also doubled as the local coroner. The mortician said he decided to open the victim’s skull and was further surprised.
“There were not one, but two distinct brains in the skull,” Boltke said, reading aloud.
“Sound familiar?” Zyster said.
Boltke flashed back to the day in Zyster’s horrible lab when he looked into the skull cavity of the man on the slab. He looked up.
“Where did you get this magazine?”
“Given our experience in … the camp … I decided to subscribe to several such periodicals. They flourished in the years following the war, when there were many alleged sightings of Unidentified Flying Objects. Mail service being what it is in Paraguay, I usually received them a month or two late. Some of them have gone out of business as the UFO frenzy has abated. Most of the sightings were proven to be frauds or natural phenomena. But I kept this subscription up, mostly to help me improve my English. I’m glad I did. I got this issue last September. I decided I had to contact you. It just took some time to make the necessary arrangements.”
Zyster looked around the kitchen.
“I don’t suppose I could get some coffee, Rudolph? Or perhaps some schnapps?”
Boltke was annoyed, but hid his thoughts. The smarmy bastard again calls me by my first name. Probably thinks we are equals, now that the war is over. I should have killed him back in 1945 when I had the chance. Those goddamn stupid Russians! He got up and went to get a carafe of scotch and some glasses. He needed time to think.
TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Page 16