Angels Fallen (6 page)

“But why did the
Vatican send you here?” Hans asked. “What was their purpose?

D
an nodded. “The Vatican needed the use of someone with my obvious talents.”

He
rose from his chair, patting his friend on the hand. “As far as helping your son, I will protect and help him in any way I can.  I promise you on my mother’s grave. And one more thing; don’t you die on me until we get back.  Did you hear me you old coot? You still owe me a night of storytelling over an excellent bottle of cognac.”

“Get out of here
you Irish Mick before I call the English embassy.” A lone tear escaped down his cheek, wondering where all of the years had gone.  “Could you please tell my son to please come in here for a moment?”

Dan exited to the an
teroom, taking a seat on a hard-metal chair opposite the day nurse, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Jim walked into the bedroom
before slowly closing the door behind him, moving to his father’s bedside, and taking his cold almost lifeless hand into his own.  In doing so he briefly experienced a childhood memory when his father would bring him some hot chocolate or a comic book when he lay sick, temporarily taking away the sting of whatever had ailed him.

Jim smiled
. “Well, did you get everything off your chest Dad? I know you and Father Dan go back a long time.”

A grin greeted him.  “Yes, everything is out in the open between us now,”
Hans said softly, pondering how to broach the next subject. “Let’s be truthful, Jimmy. I don’t think I’ll be alive much longer. I sure as hell won’t be alive when you find the gold, so I want you to do me one last favor.” He motioned for Jim to sit down in a chair by his bedside. 

”Please sit where a son belongs, beside his
Father, and let’s just talk awhile.”

Venturing outside for some well-deserved fresh
air, Jim bid a hasty retreat from the mansion.

The sudden rush of air seemed exhilarating. Pausing at the house’s entrance, he noticed Dan standing alone by the edge of the west
wing garden. 

Dan
stood smoking one of his trademark Ashton cigars, by now half gone.  He tossed small white pebbles at the coy fish that resided in the pond’s murky waters, watching them rush off in a variety of directions in response. 

Dan exhaled small white ringlets
.  He noted Jim’s approach out of the corner of his eye before turning to face him. “May I be so bold as to inquire what your old man had to say? Did it have anything to do with the expedition we are about to embark on?”

“No, on second thought, don’t tell me anything.  Your face says it all. But did he happen to tell you about my actions in Derry
, or Cork, or any of the other distant places that I’ve tried to extinguish from my dreams each night while I sleep?  Or did he tell you the main reason we both drink in excess is to extinguish the past in which so much of our lives are intertwined—the killings, death, bombings.” He took a long drag on his cigar, exhaling after several seconds before continuing. “I have something to tell you my friend.  War is horrible at best.  If you are lucky enough to live through it you want to spend the rest of your life in peace.  Your father and I are part of a different breed of men, one that is gradually leaving this world’s existence for another hopefully better one.” He dropped the remainder of his cigar on the gravel path, extinguishing it with a well-worn black loafer. 

Laughing aloud, Dan continued. “Listen to me go on, will you? Well don’t worry, when the action starts, I’ll be fit to hold up my part of the task. Th
e one thing you can be certain of is that I can be depended upon, my young Dieter.”

The floral displays stood six feet high to the rear of the regal
, walnut casket.  Row upon row of multi-colored roses, orchids, mums, daffodils, and other assorted flower arrangements provided a vivid backdrop for the burial of Hans Dieter.  He was surely looking down from his heavenly perch enjoying the politicians pulling at their Armani shirt collars, sweating in the midday sun as they bid him farewell.

The dignitari
es were out in full force, with even the governor flying in from Albany.  Politicians never seemed to stop seeking votes, even trying to capitalize on death itself. Each provided glorifying speeches of Hans’ past deeds. 

As the casket was lowered into the freshly dug earth, Dan played his final role as Father Dan, providing his blessing before walking over to where Jim stood in respectful silence. “Your father would have enjoyed it this way. No long prayers or an ungodly viewing. Just put me in the ground and get on with your
life is what he would have said.  A dead body starts to stink if it’s left around too long.”

Jim replied with a nervous laugh
. “Yeah, that and make sure everyone has a toast of schnapps when the blessing is finished and toss the glasses into the grave with me so I have something to use in the afterlife.” 

Dan glanced at the mourners gathered about. “W
ell, judging by the attendance, he had a lot of friends. You should be proud of that.  Your father had wealth in three ways:  family, friends, and money itself. Judging by his funeral today, all three were in attendance.”

IN THE LAST
row, hidden by the large turnout, an attractive, well dressed, middle-aged woman removed a cell phone from her purse, dialing a prearranged number.

“The Angel is in the ground,”
she said nonchalantly before hanging up. 

She gracefully walked past the mourners clustered in thei
r small groups recalling Hans’ life until she reached his open grave.  She paused as if in silent prayer, blessing herself before tossing a white rose on top of his casket.  She turned in time to catch Dan’s eye, smiling at him, waving her cell phone. 

The signal was passed.

For the first time in over four years of dutiful negotiation, the Geneva-based International Red Cross
was granted permission to visit the Soviet Union and several of its “work camps.” The camps contained thousands of German prisoners of war, prisoners from a war that ended for most in 1945. 

The Soviets
simply stated the prisoners were needed to “rebuild” their war-torn country.

The world press called it slave labor.

Before the Red Cross team departed from Geneva—three of its seven members were killed in a suspicious hit-and-run accident—run down as they crossed a street to an awaiting Taxi.

An
American and a Britain were hastily arranged to replace the first two; the third—a priest—showed up as the plane was boarding.

THE CAMP COMMANDER
, Major Fedorov, strolled up to the camp’s newly constructed wooden reviewing platform with the Red Cross representatives in tow. A sharp Siberian wind howled in greeting.

He was
in his late forties; his black hair had a hint of gray, his green-gray uniform impeccable. The prisoners often referred to him as “
the little
bull
” due to his penchant of stabbing them with the dagger he kept secured about his waist. Even his own men hated him.

Upon reaching the top of the steps, he turned to his aide-de-camp in dismay upon viewing frost on the metal chairs
.  Punishment could be expected for this lack of attention.
Major Fedorov elegantly withdrew a white cloth from his pocket, and playing the gracious host, wiped the frost that had accumulated on the chairs overnight before allowing the representatives to sit down.

Satisfied that his guests were comfortable, he directed his attention to the prisoners who occupied the muddy parade ground before him, assembled row upon row, exactly as they had rehearsed for the past two weeks.

The prisoners shifted from leg to leg in the biting cold—a Siberian wind playing out across the parade ground now mixed with a light snow. The prisoners dug their hands deeper into their light fabric garments.

“I will make this speech short due to the work that awaits you in o
ur mines,” Major Fedorov said, his voice resonating across the dismal camp.  “As your internal rumor mill has probably informed you by now, we have honored guests from the International Red Cross.  They are based in Geneva, Switzerland and claim to be a neutral organization. They have the simple job to check the conditions at our fine establishment.  These ladies and gentlemen are here to register your complaints and review our general living and working conditions. Their delegation also includes a Catholic priest for any of you who proclaim that religion as your faith. Those of you who are Catholic will be allowed to visit for five minutes with the priest to confess your sins.  To speed the process, I would like all of those prisoners of the Catholic persuasion to identify themselves and step out of line. If you do not, I will personally search the records to find out who is Catholic and invite you to my office for a more personal visit.  I guarantee you will not enjoy the visit.” He smiled, patting the ceremonial sword that hung around his waist. 

Of
the 770 odd men assembled in the courtyard, ten stepped out of line as instructed, walking in an orderly procession to where the priest and Major Fedorov awaited them.

“Good, g
ood, we have volunteers.  Follow me and this gentleman into my office,” Major Fedorov ordered before turning to face the priest.  “Father, you will have five minutes with each prisoner.  After that they go back to work for Mother Russia.”

The small, balding, almost gn
omish Red Cross representative was quick to reply. “That is most gracious of you, major. I am your humble servant.” He made a slight downward tilt of the head as if the major were royalty.  Of the ten prisoners who were assembled in front of them, Peter Dems was selected or “arranged” to be the first man to enter the commander’s office, being hustled out of line by a brutish guard and harshly pushed to the front. 

At one time
Peter Dems had been considered a handsome man, standing 6’1,” 200 pounds, with a thick head of blond hair and piercing blue eyes.  Since his arrival in 1945, pneumonia, plague, and typhoid ravaged his body taking their toll. He now appeared gaunt and weak. 

“Welcome, my son.  P
lease do sit down,” said the Priest, otherwise known as Antonio Perluci of the Vatican Intelligence staff, recently assigned to the International Red Cross for this one mission. He closed the door. A small widow in its center allowed the guard to observe the proceedings. “Has it been long since you have spoken to a priest of your faith?”

Peter
eyed the man for several seconds, not really knowing how to respond to such a ridiculous question. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Padre, but what the hell do you think we do in here?” he replied sarcastically.

Perluci glanced
over Peter’s shoulder to see if the Soviet guard was still monitoring their conversation. Convinced he was indeed alone with the prisoner, he proceeded. “We are here to monitor the conditions of the camp and to possibly relay any messages you may have for family and friends.”

Peter tried to gauge this man for trickery. He knew it would not be beneath the Soviets to create an elaborate ruse just to torture the prisoners. “Father, I really don’t have anyone at home who would still care enough to want to hear from me. Most of my family was killed in bombing raids during the early years of the war.  I was hoping to just talk about current events. We don’t receive outside news in this god-forsaken place.  Hell, for all I know, the war could still be going on.”

Perluci looked to the door once more, seeing the guard had evidently tired of his post. Perluci removed a wedding photo of Peter and his wife from his jacket pocket, slipping it across to him. Perluci lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Please, I already know who you are. You have changed much from when this photo was taken over six years ago. I imagine Soviet food and confinement do not agree with you.”

Peter stared at the
photo.  Tears began to well in his eyes.

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 agen
t
—
a plant.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. You obviously have the wrong man or unit. We only attac
ked 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
s
o
—
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 s
pread 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.  “Al
l 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.