The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) (2 page)

Nothing had changed here. The mountains, the trees, the tumbling waters that murmured to themselves as they raced downhill were the same, oblivious to the fact that the entire world was a place far different from when he had last set foot here. In the man’s opinion, the changes had not been good.

Ordinarily, a train ride from Budapest to Vienna would take perhaps a half a day or so, perhaps three hundred kilometers. In today’s world, the ride wasn’t even possible. The tracks, bridges, and tunnels between the two Eastern European capitals had been bombed into so much steel and stone rubble. That was the reason for traveling to a village more than twice the distance from the Hungarian capital, a necessary detour.

At least, that was what he had been told. He didn’t believe it.

His disbelief was justified seconds later. Rounding a gentle curve, he saw two American half-tracks across the rails. He recognized the specially mounted fifty-caliber Browning M1 heavy machine guns as the best heavy automatic weapon of the war. The sun twinkled on the brass shells in belts already fed into each breech. On one side was a Sherman tank, the black mouth of its turret cannon turned in the train’s direction. On the other was a line of deuce-and-a-halfs, two-and-a-half-ton trucks, canvas covers in place to shield the contents of the beds from curious eyes. About a dozen men in American combat uniforms, some swaddled in great coats, stood around, each carrying a rifle. Even at this distance, he could see the shoulder patches of the 15th Infantry Regiment.

The grade had slowed the train to a near walk. Stopping took little effort.

“Herr
Sturmbahnführer
. . . ?” The engineer asked.

Without taking his eyes off the Americans, the man replied in German, “You are not to refer to me so. I am simply Herr Schmidt.”

The engine exhaled deeply, geysers of steam venting into the crisp air, as the man swung down from the cab. He was dressed in Tirolian attire: lederhosen, green wool socks, and a felt hat sporting a brush of mountain goat hair. Though his shirt was short-sleeved, he carried his jacket under one arm and kept his hands visible at all times so there would be no mistake made as to whether he was armed. He walked along the short stretch of track deliberately, as though each step had its own significance. He carried himself ramrod straight, like a soldier marching at attention.

From one of the half-tracks, a man also in American uniform climbed down. His short Eisenhower jacket was adorned with campaign ribbons and his shoulder straps bore two stars each, the rank of major general. Instead of advancing to meet the man from the train, he waited calmly where he stood, as if high-ranking Allied officers met German-gauge freight trains in secluded woodlands all the time.

A few paces from the American, the man from the train stopped, touching the brim of his hat in what might have been either a salute or a civilian greeting. “Herr General!”

The American didn’t bother to return the gesture, whatever its significance. “You are right on time, Mr. Smith.”

The other man smiled, an expression that emphasized the scar running the length of one cheek. “Punctuality is a virtue of my people.”

His accent was almost nonexistent other than the “v” sounding slightly more like an “f.”

“Only fuckin’ one,” the general grumbled. “You have the list?”

The other man produced a sheaf of papers from inside the bib of his short pants and extended them. “Not only a complete inventory, but a car-by-car list.”

Without reply, the general motioned to a man with sergeant chevrons on his sleeves. The sergeant gave the man a suspicious look, one that said he wasn’t overly certain the surrender of all German forces just eight days earlier applied here. He said something to two other men who followed him as he walked alongside the still-wheezing locomotive.

The man from the train watched appreciatively. American soldiers slumped as they walked, like old men. They also cared little about the condition of their uniforms and less about the polish on their boots. Sloppy. Sloppy and deceiving. How could such slovenly men be such fierce fighters? If someone had suggested five years ago that American auto mechanics and shoe salesmen could be trained to beat the finest army the world had ever seen, they would have been considered mad.

“That one.” The general was walking behind the three enlisted men.

With a screech of metal on metal, the three American enlisted men pulled the door of the first freight car open. Even the cool air could not disguise the faint sour odor that wafted out.

The general made a face. “I’m afraid to ask what I’m smelling.”

Without a trace of apology, the other man replied, “This train has been moving for nearly three months now, collecting art and treasure from both Hungarian and Austrian museums who wished to prevent it from being taken by the Russians. Many of the crew lived in these cars without benefit of modern conveniences such as soap and running water. Also, a number of these cars were used in the resettlement program, moving Hungarian Jews to the camps.”

The general gave the other man a glance, the same sort of look he might have reserved for a child molester.

Without seeming to notice, the man from the train added, “As per our, er, understanding, I took the first cars I could find, Herr General. Since much in these cars comes from those deportees, I had no idea of your, er, sensibilities on the subject.”

The general inhaled deeply; whether to mix as much clean air with the smell or because he was without answer was impossible to tell. He looked inside the first car. Rolls of cloth were stacked upon each other. “Rugs?”

“Rugs and tapestries. A few fine tablecloths as well.”

And so it went: art, silverware, fine porcelain, antiques, coin collections, even boxes of gold wedding rings that spoke more than other items about what had happened to their prior owners.

At the end of the train, the general dismissed the three enlisted men, indicating he and the other man should take a brief walk along a narrow deer trail.

The general brandished the list. “This inventory, it is complete?”

The other man, his hands clasped behind his back, shook his head. “Oh, no, Herr General.”

The man in uniform stopped in his tracks so suddenly he might have hit an invisible barrier. “No? What the hell d’ya mean? Our agreement clearly specified
all
.”

“Of course, Herr General,” the other man said amicably. “You wanted the entire Reich stores of goods confiscated from deported Jews. You were quite clear.”

The general’s frustration level was clearly growing. He was not someone used to having explicit directions ignored. “Then what the hell . . . ?”

From the direction of the train came a ragged series of gunshots, their echoes bouncing like pinballs from hill to hill.

Undismayed, the man in civilian clothes nodded toward the sound. “A little insurance to make sure I don’t join our poor friend, the engineer, and his crew.”

“Exactly how much . . . ?” The general was too flustered to finish his sentences.

The civilian turned to go back up the path. “Enough. Michelangelo’s Virgin, a Van Eyck, some trinkets. No furniture. Too bulky. All in all, probably fifteen to twenty million or so of your dollars.”

“You sum’bitch!” the general exploded. “I shudda known better than to parley with some goddamn Kraut!”

The other man was unperturbed. “I might remind you, General, that a number of your superiors would be . . . shall we say ‘interested’ in what you’re doing? I’m aware you have the power to requisition furnishings for your headquarters, but seventeenth-century boulle desks and Flemish rugs? Not to mention a half-ton or so of wedding rings plus jewels both set and loose.”

The general’s hand went to the holster on his belt. “I oughta . . .” He grimaced, fighting for self-control. “For your information, all this property is going to a warehouse in Salzburg until the legitimate owners can be identified.”

The man in lederhosen met the other man’s eyes with his own blue stare. “Of course, Herr General. I’m certain your men shot an unarmed engineer and two crew members trying to escape. All you have to do is live up to the bargain we made and the rest is yours.”

“How do I know that?”

The civilian gave him a smile that was as cold as the mountain air. “You don’t. You
do
know that without me, you’ll never see the rest.” He glanced up the hill and extended a hand to rest on the other man’s shoulder, two old comrades returning from a walk. “Now, shall we go back to your men?”

West Berlin, Germany
Templehof Flughof (Airport)
December 1988

The U.S. Army version of the Beech King Air A300 bucked like a rodeo bull. The pilot, a career major, muttered into his headset while the copilot, a first lieutenant, shifted his gaze between the instruments and the open book of Jepps approach plates on his lap.

“Look at that,” the major observed, staring into the snow-filled sky. “Like flyin’ in a fuckin’ bedsheet. We’ll be damned lucky not to cut this one short.”

The lieutenant nodded his agreement. With short runways and surrounded by apartment buildings, Templehof was not a place anyone wanted to miss an approach and go around, to reach the minimum published descent altitude, have no sight of the runway or its environs, and have to climb steeply out to regain approach altitude.

He returned to the Jepps. “Five hundred, sir.”

The major liked to have the altitude read to him, the distance between the plane’s height and the missed approach point. That way he could keep an uninterrupted lookout for the first light, the runway “rabbit,” or anything else that would visually establish the approach.

“Four hundred, sir.”

The major kept a steady, sweeping stare in front. “You check on our passenger?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Yes, sir. Just before we were handed off by Center. He was sound asleep.”

“Asleep? In this turbulence? He’s either an idiot not to be scared shitless, drunk, or just doesn’t give a damn.”

“Yessir. Three hundred.”

“Berlin Approach, we have runway three six,” the major announced gleefully into the headset’s microphone.

It took the lieutenant another thirty seconds before he could make out a series of dim white lights delineating the runway. “You have the aircraft, sir?”

“I have it, Lieutenant. Give me full props, rest of the flaps. I have the power.”

The lieutenant had been only slightly happier to get his first promotion than he was to see Templehof’s massively hideous fascist architecture through the blowing snow. The Allies had built a bigger, modern, joint civilian-military field to the west of Berlin, but Templehof was much closer to the center of the city. The lieutenant supposed the older facility still operated, because no one wanted to shut down a living monument to those who had flown those months of 1948–49, landing an aircraft every sixty-three seconds, night or day, fair weather or foul, to bring food and fuel to the besieged city. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew that on the edge of the field stood a three-pronged monument to those men, a modern sculpture the ever-irreverent locals dubbed “the Hunger
Finger.” Templehof would, the lieutenant supposed, remain as long as anyone remembered the Berlin Airlift.

The buildings needed paint, and the tarmac could use paving. The field reminded the lieutenant of one of those movie stars from the 1940s now down on her luck, living on charity and Social Security.

The lighted wands of the line personnel were the only signs of life outside the aircraft as the turboprops spooled down. As the major completed the shutdown checklist, the lieutenant stooped through the cramped division between cockpit and passenger compartment.

The passenger was rubbing his eyes, clearly awakened only by a landing somewhat more rough than the flight crew would have wished. He smiled sleepily at the lieutenant and looked out of the window. Squatting to follow his gaze, the lieutenant was impressed, if not surprised, to see a black limousine pull up beside the airplane and douse its lights.

The passenger stood and stretched as high as the cabin’s low ceiling allowed. “That’s for me, I think. Thanks for the lift.”

“Our pleasure,” the lieutenant muttered, edging past. He twisted the latch and the clamshell door’s airlock died with a hiss. He stood aside as the passenger went down the stairs. “Enjoy Berlin.”

The passenger stopped and turned. “Thanks. But I’m afraid I’ve made other plans.”

The lieutenant noted that the young man had wrapped a scarf around the lower part of his face. To keep warm or avoid the East German spies who frequently photographed arriving passengers?

The major came up behind the lieutenant. “Who the hell was that?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Name on the manifest is Langford Reilly, some civilian employee from Frankfurt.”

The major stooped to watch the car glide off into the white. “Spook, I’ll bet.”

The lieutenant held up a book. “Mebbe. But he left this,
Winnie Ille Pooh
.”

The major squinted. “What’s that? It’s a foreign language.”

“It appears to be
Winnie the Pooh
in Latin.”

Now that he was actually in Berlin, Langford “Lang” Reilly was having trouble appearing composed. He felt the combined urges to vomit, urinate, and open the car door and run. What idiot idea had compelled him to volunteer for this, anyway? When he had been hired by the Agency right out of college, he had envisioned lurking about romantic European cities, Budapest or Prague, perhaps, with a silenced pistol in one hand and a local beauty’s arm in the other. As is most often the case, mature reality trumped youthful fantasy. He had taken the standard training at “the Farm,” the Agency’s facility south of Washington—cryptography, marksmanship, martial arts, psychology, and a number of subjects that, as far as he could see, bore no relationship to the courses’ names.

Training complete, he had been assigned to the Third Directorate, Intelligence. He had been disappointed. The Fourth Directorate, Operations, had been his and all his classmates’ choice. He had either been too good at the intellectual side of spycraft or insufficient in killing, maiming, and the other activities ascribed to the Fourth Directorate by the fiction industry if not the Agency itself.