Forever Knight / Hogan's Heroes
He took careful aim. < Yes. This was the man. > There was no question in his mind about that. He had seen their pictures too many times for there to be any doubt. He had memorized their faces as a child. He was one of them. One of the ones who had helped to bring about the downfall of Utopia. He would pay for his part in that. They would all pay. It was up to him to see that they did. It was his destiny. He followed the man, centering him in the crosshairs of the scope until he could get a clear shot. He had to do it right the first time. He doubted there would be a second chance. With deliberate concentration, he squeezed the trigger.
**********
The play of the lights from the police and other emergency vehicles reflecting off of the chrome and glass of the Carter Electronics corporate office buildings, intermixed with the lingering hues of the sunset, gave the area a surreal, kaleidoscopic appearance. The whole effect was almost like an impressionist painting. This was no special effects treatment, though. This was reality. The owner had been shot and killed as he was going to his car.
The sun had barely set when Nick Knight received the call from Captain Stonetree to report here instead of to the 27th precinct. He was getting ready to go in to work in a few minutes anyway, so he simply headed for the Carter complex instead of the precinct. It was only a few miles from the loft, so he was there in almost no time.
He pulled the teal green Caddie into the parking lot and headed for the yellow tape that defined the crime scene. He showed his badge to the officer guarding the perimeter, and ducked under the tape.
Doctor Natalie Lambert spotted him at almost the same time as Detective Don Schanke did. They both converged on the detective.
"Sorry they had to drag you out so early." Schanke said as he fell in step with his partner. "But Stonetree wants this one wrapped up with as little fuss as possible. So … he put his best A number one team on it. That's you and me, partner." He held out his hand to his partner and as he did, he waved a partially eaten souvlaki sandwich under his nose. "Wanna bite? Best I've had yet, and you know what a gourmet connoisseur I am. I found this little vendor's stand over on Carlton that makes a souvlaki to die for."
Nick swallowed down the gag sensation as the smell of the garlic and onion laden delicacy assaulted him. "No thanks. You know my dietary restrictions. Souvlaki is a definite no-no for me."
"Aw, come on, Nick. Just one little bite won't kill you. Tell him, Doc." He held the sandwich out again. Nick could feel his stomach beginning to spasm. A few more minutes of this, and he would have to find a very private place. It would be difficult to explain why he was upchucking blood.
"I'm afraid he's right, Skank. He may not die from it, but he would get awfully sick. Believe me, he's better off sticking to his diet." Nat looked at Nick with an 'You-had-better-be-doing-just-that' expression.
"Okay, but he doesn't know what he's missing." Schanke said as he finished the last bite and stuffed the wrapper into the nearest trash can.
< Oh yes I do. > Nick turned to Natalie Lambert. "What have you got?" He quickly changed the subject.
"Victim is male. Caucasian. 75 years old. From all appearances, it was either a gangland killing or possibly a professional hit. My guess is that the bullet came from a high powered rifle. Small entrance wound, but the exit wound took off most of the face. From the approximate angle of entry, I'd say the sniper was probably on the roof over there." She pointed to a small maintenance building at the edge of the parking lot, about twenty feet from the scene of the shooting. "Forensics is trying to find either the slug or a casing, but so far they've come up empty."
"Could it have been a gangland killing?"
"Not unless the gangs are going really high up on the food chain these days." Schanke flipped through his notebook. "According to his grandson, David Carter." He pointed to a thin young man talking to one of the uniformed officers. "He is, or rather he was, Andrew Martin Carter. President and founder of Carter Electronics. …" He glanced at his partner.
Nick's face was even more pasty than usual and he was looking at something that the others could not see.
" … You okay, Nick? You look like you've seen a ghost or something."
**********
"Red Dog Leader to Big Boy One." Nick called into his mike. His RAF squadron, code named Red Dog, and the Blue Goose Squadron had the not so enviable job of escorting six American B29's, known as the Big Boy flight, on a bombing raid deep into Germany. The RAF squadron's job was to keep the Luftwaffe busy while the bombers delivered their payload. "Do you see any sign of Papa Bear's signal?"
"Big Boy One to Red Dog Leader. That's a negative. But we should be spotting it soon." The pilot replied. "We're at the coordinates Goldilocks gave us."
Papa Bear was an OSS Allied Underground unit operating somewhere in the vicinity of Hammelburg. Who they were, and exactly where they were located, was classified as Eyes Only Top Secret. That meant that this information was strictly on a need to know basis. The only people privy to that information was another top secret unit code named Goldilocks that was based in London. According to Goldilocks, the planes were supposed to be looking for a signal from Papa Bear to show the direction to the ball bearing factory. What that signal would be, they weren't told. Just that they would know it when they saw it.
"Red Dog Leader, I've got something at one o'clock." The pilot of Blue Goose Three said.
Nick looked where the fighter pilot indicated. There on the ground was a series of very small reddish lights in the shape of a very large arrow. In a few seconds, they were gone, but by that time, the entire unit had laid in their course for the factory.
"Red Dog Leader. This is Blue Goose Leader. Bogeys at eight o'clock. Closing fast on your tail." The leader of the second escort squad informed him.
"Blue Goose Leader, that's a roger. You take these boys on the shopping expedition. We'll greet our guests." Nick banked his Spitfire in a hard left. The two other fighters in the Red Dog Squadron followed him.
"Red Dog Leader, They're still on your tail." Red Dog Two announced. Nick looked behind him. Sure enough, three Messerschmitts were behind him. Just as he began to bank, a hail of machine gun fire ripped through the cockpit. One of the bullets caught him in the back. He felt the hot poker of pain as it exited through his chest, leaving a baseball sized hole. Grimacing in agony, Nick pulled the plane into a hard climb and looped behind his attackers. He glanced down and saw Red Dog Three engage one of the planes. In a matter of minutes, the Messerschmitt went spiraling to the ground, smoke curling from its engine.
"One down. Two to go." Red Dog Two announced as he took off after one of the remaining fighters. Seconds later, it joined the first one heading for the earth, smoke spewing from it's tail section.
"Red Dog Two. Red Dog Three. Catch up with the escort. I've got your playmate's ugly brother in my sights. I'm making him my personal project. This one is mine." He clasped his chest. The bleeding had slowed, but he was still bleeding freely. He needed blood. Lots of blood. And soon. He reached into his jacket for the flask he kept for emergencies. It wouldn't be near enough, but it would hold him until he could get some more. All that was in his pocket however, was bloody shards of glass and metal. He must have taken more hits than he thought he had.
Nick pulled his plane in line with the German plane just as it banked a one hundred eighty degree turn hard right. Suddenly, it was heading straight for him. As the pilot opened fire, Nick felt as well as heard the explosion. Black smoke billowed from his engine as it sputtered and the plane began to weave out of control. He spun out of the path of the Messerschmitt at the last second. Nick pulled hard on the control stick and managed to maneuver his disabled plane even with the fighter. Almost arrogantly, the German pilot waggled his wings in a victory maneuver. Nick gave one last pull on the joystick. His plane banked hard left and suddenly he was heading directly at the other fighter. He pushed the machine gun trigger as hard as he could. He might not survive the crash, but he was going to make certain that the other pilot didn't either.
Just as the planes touched, Nick flipped the eject switch. There was a deafening roar as the canopy slid off. The next thing Nick knew, he was catapulted about twenty five feet above the two exploding aircraft. As if in slow motion, he began to fall to earth. He was painfully jerked back to reality as his parachute opened. A few yards away, he saw the German's parachute open as well
< So. He's a survivor too. >
**********
Toronto, Present
" … Or something." Nick replied, shaking off the memories. < It has to be a coincidence. It can't possibly be the same person. Andrew Carter is a fairly common name, after all. > "What about the possibility of a professional hit."
"Doubtful." Schanke said. "According to the grandson, Carter was squeaky clean. Didn't do drugs. Wasn't into kinky stuff. The worst was an occasional Toonie bet with a bookie. Hardly worth killing him for. Why don't you talk to the boy."
Nick slowly walked over to the young man. "David Carter?"
The youth turned to the detective. He appeared to be in his late twenties. About five feet eight, with a thick shock of unruly dark blond hair. He had a thin angular face and sharp blue-green eyes. He was the spitting image of his grandfather.
Nick swallowed. Hard. < There were too many similarities for this to be a coincidence. > He held his badge case in front of him. "I'm Detective Knight. I understand you've already talked to my partner, Detective Schanke. I hope you won't mind answering a few questions for me as well."
David shook his head. "That's okay. I don't mind." He even sounded like his grandfather.
"Do you know of anyone who would want to kill your grandfather?"
David sighted heavily. "No, Detective, I don't. My grandfather was one of the nicest men who ever lived." He slowly shook his head. "Did you know he built this company from the ground up? He and my grandmother started it in their garage as a demolitions company after World War Two. Did a booming business too, if you'll pardon the pun. Eventually, the market for that kind of stuff dried up. There's not that many things to blow up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. At least that's what Granddad always said. How he managed to say corny things like that and keep a straight face, I'll never know. But he did. That was just his way.
When computers became the big thing, they gradually shifted to manufacturing computer parts. Until Gran died, it was strictly a family business. Then Granddad decided to go public and offered five thousand shares at twenty five dollars a share. They were gobbled up in just three days. After that, it took off like the proverbial scared rabbit. Yesterday, it closed at 115 7/8 on the Canadian Market, and there are more than seven hundred fifty thousand shares of common stock outstanding. Two years ago, it made the Fortune 500 list. Carter Electronics is now one of the leading manufacturers of solid state microchips, not only for computers, but also for cell phones, radar detectors, TV's, DVD and VCR recorders and players, and all sorts of other electronic goods. For the past two decades, that's all the company has been doing. He moved the headquarters to Toronto about fifteen years ago. According to him, it was a better market here. Of course he was right. We've been growing by leaps and bounds ever since.
Even from the very beginning, he had a soft spot for members of the armed forces. Most of his employees were, and still are, veterans. Even though he was a big corporate executive, he never forgot who he was or where his roots were. Every so often, he'd go down to the floor and work the line. Just to remind himself where he came from. The guys really appreciated and respected him for that. How many CEO's do you know who would come home at night covered with glue and with solder burns all over their hands?
Just this past Boxing Day, he gave every employee five shares in the company as a bonus for making the year a profitable one. He felt that since they did the grunt work, they should also get in on the rewards.
As far as I know, any one of his people would gladly go the last mile for my granddad." He wiped a tear from his cheek.
"What about someone outside of the company."
David shook his head again. "If he had any enemies, no one knows about them. As I said before. Everyone loves … loved him. He was on the board of several philanthropic foundations. He volunteered at the hospitals and nursing homes. Sponsored a multitude of activities and projects for kids and teens. The new playground project for the inner city schools was his idea. He's funded at least twenty troops of boy scouts and girl guides for underprivileged kids. And he's sponsored I don't know how many little league soccer teams and leagues. He always had a helping hand for anyone who needed it. At least twice a month he'd be on the serving line at one of the homeless shelters.
Did you know he did terrific impressions? Despite his size, he made a very believable Santa Claus. The kids at Children's Hospital absolutely loved him. He's been playing Santa for them for as long as I can remember, and probably long before that."
"Then you can't think of anyone who would want him dead?"
"No sir, I can't."
**********
Natalie Lambert's head came up with a start as she felt the cold hand on her neck. Her surgical mask, which was hanging around her neck, caught on the focus knob of the microscope she had been peering into. This forced her head back down again and her chin collided with the eyepiece. A pinpoint of blood welled up from the point of contact.
"I'm sorry, Nat." Nick Knight said. "I didn't mean to scare you like that." He kissed her lightly on the jaw where the eyepiece had opened a small cut. Even though the cut was almost miniscule, there was enough blood that he got a taste. < Cinnamon and Roses. > The vampire roared to life. The beast wanted her. All of her. He could feel the traces of gold beginning to fleck his eyes. His fangs ached to be released. It would be so easy. < Just one taste. One little taste. > He closed his eyes and forcefully willed the monster back into the farthest reaches of his subconscious.
"Oh?" Natalie replied, dabbing the cut with a tissue. "Just how did you mean to scare me?"
"Not that way … I mean … I didn't mean to … " He stammered as he silently wrestled with the fiend inside him. "I mean I ... "
She slapped him lightly on the chest. "I was just joking. I guess I was so wrapped up in this slide, I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm sorry. My fault. Old habits are hard to break. I suppose I'm going to have to learn to make a little bit of noise every now and then. What was so interesting that it blocked out all of reality for you?" He thought for a moment. "Is that what I look like when I 'zone out' as you say?"
"Sort of, except you go even deeper into outer … or is that inner ... space."
"Is that something from the Carter case? Please. Tell me you've found something. This one is a real stumper. I need all the help I can get to solve this one.
"No, this isn't from the Carter case. Actually, it's part of the latest blood sample I took from you. If my calculations are correct, the blood on this slide is more like normal mortal blood than any of the others have been so far."
"Is that good or bad."
"Good. Definitely good. Keep up the good work. Keep drinking those protein shakes and taking your vitamins, and in no time flat you'll be as human as the rest of us." She put the slide back in the holder and put it in the strongbox where she kept all of the other materials related to her work in trying to find a cure for him. This she locked in her bottom desk drawer. She dropped the key into her purse.
He didn't have the heart to tell her that he had been lax in taking the shakes and pills. In fact, except for the times she was standing over him, he hadn't even taken them at all. Truth was, he couldn't stomach them. Literally. He threw up every time he tried. "Do I have to?" He made a face. "Especially the shakes. They're the most gawdawful things ever concocted by the warped mind of man."
"Thanks a lot. Are you trying to insinuate that I'm a mad scientist? I've tried to make them as digestible as possible. And for that remark, I might just double the dose."
"You couldn't be that cruel and hardhearted." He tried to make it seem upbeat, but there was more than a grain of truth there.
"Oh yes I can." He cuffed him lightly on the arm. "Speaking of the Carter case, I just finished the autopsy. Unfortunately, it didn't reveal anything that I didn't know at the scene. Death was caused by acute trauma resulting from a bullet wound to the head. I could give you the medicalese, but the bottom line is, he was shot to death." She continued. "I did get a report from Forensics though. They found the casing and the bullet. There's no doubt it's the one that caused the fatal injuries. The DNA samples from the bullet match Carter's perfectly. Unfortunately, his was the only DNA on either the bullet or the casing. Whoever killed him was very thorough in removing any personal evidence." She handed him an evidence bag. "They have only one little problem. They haven't been able to match it to a weapon ... yet. They've passed the buck to Ballistics. They're still working on it. They'll get back to me as soon as they know something, and I'll pass whatever I find out along to you."
He fingered the bullet and shell through the plastic. "Mauser."
"What?"
"This is an 8mm rifle shell. The only weapon that I know of that used that caliber bullet was a Mauser K98. Standard issue German Army World War 2. Their answer to the M1. It was heavy as hell, but disconcertingly accurate. A good shooter could hit a pinhead from a hundred yards. They were only manufactured from 1938 to 1945."
"And how would you happen to know all this … Oh yes. I forgot. You were there, weren't you?"
**********
Somewhere over Germany
Nick slowly wafted toward the ground. As he did, he carefully reviewed his options. None of them were very satisfactory. < If the Germans happen to find me, it's a certainty I'll die in a POW camp soon after the sun rises. It's doubtful they have any designated facilities for vampires.
I know Papa Bear specializes in getting people out of Germany, but since I don't know Papa Bear or his methods, it's just as likely I'll be dead before I reach England. Probably for the same reason.
There's no way I could get to the coast and fly across the Channel under my own power, even if I could find suitable hiding places along the way. It's too far away. And without blood, I'll be too weak to even make it to the coast on the ground. >
He took a deep breath and pain ripped through his chest once again. The straps from the parachute harness cut into him just below the wound. < If I don't get a supply of blood soon, I'll be too weak to do anything. It won't matter who finds me, it's probable that all that will be left of me will be a pile if ashes.
Even if I do survive, my life as Nicholas Howell, RAF pilot will be over as soon as I touch the ground. It will be time to move on. One good thing, at least I won't have to wear this ugly black hair dye anymore ... Or this itchy moustache. >
If only LaCroix had taken care of that sleazy little Austrian Corporal when he had the chance after the last war. Instead of draining the little sonofabitch, he had allowed him to make a sketch of him. Then he permitted him to walk away unharmed. If he had taken him, things would have been vastly different. Of course, if he had brought him across, as he initially intended to do, the entire course of the future would have been radically changed for eons to come. He made a mental note to give his master his thoughts on that subject at the earliest opportunity.
He maneuvered his parachute toward a small clearing. The landing was a hard one. The area was strewn with sharp rocks and trees, and bramble bushes dotted the vicinity. A mortal would probably have been seriously injured, but Nick came out of it with only a broken arm, a sprained ankle, and a mass of scratches. His clothes fared no better than he did. His jacket was a mass of rips and tears and was coated with blood from the many wounds. He could feel the bones in his arm beginning to knit as he divested himself of his parachute. He flexed his foot and felt the muscles start to reattach themselves to the bones. His chest, freed from the constraints of the harness was in the process of healing as well. All he needed was a sufficient amount of blood and in a few hours, there would be no sign of any of the injuries. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the German pilot lying a few yards from him.
"Helfen Sie mir. Bitte. Fur Sake des Gottes helfen Sie mir. (Help me. Please. For God's sake, help me.)" His voice was weak, and blood was gushing from several places. At least two of them were clearly bullet holes. His face was a roadmap of burns and scratches. The smell of his blood called to him. He made his way to him unsteadily.
Nick listened for the man's heartbeat. It was weak and shallow. His breathing was ragged and superficial. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. There wasn't much hope for him. Nick had been a physician in enough past lives to know that even with the best of medical attention, it would take a miracle for the pilot to survive the night. In seconds, Nick's eyes changed and his fangs erupted. He needed the blood to help himself to completely heal, and he could put the dying man out of his misery in the process.
"Mein Gott im Himmel! Ver ... Vas ... sind Sie? (My God in heaven! Who ... What ... are you?)" The man's eyes went wide with fear.
"Ich bin der Engel des Todes. Ich bin Gekommen fur Sie. (I am the angel of death. I have come for you.)" Nick hissed through his fangs.
"Nein! Nein! Sie sind ein vampyr! (No! No! You are a vampire!)" The pilot put his hand to his head. "Es must die Wunden sein. Ich halluziniere. Sie sind nur ein Englischer. (It must be the wounds. I'm hallucinating. You are only an (insulting term for Englishman.)" He gasped.
"Ich bin ein Englischer vampyr." (I am an English vampire.)"
The pilot screamed one last time as Nick sank his fangs into his neck.
**********
He slowly shook his head. "Yes." He said sadly, "I was there."
"My question, then, is why would anyone want to kill Andrew Carter with an antique German rifle?"
"If I knew the answer to that …" He handed the bag back to the Coroner.
"To completely change the subject, are we still on for our movie after we get off this morning?" She hoped some lighthearted banter would alleviate the angst that was starting to cloud his face.
"Yup. And it's your turn to rent the tape." The thought of spending some time with her made him smile.
"Already done." Apparently her strategy was working. She could see his mood starting to lighten.
"As long as it doesn't have vampires."
She gave a mock frown. "Oh dear! Now you've ruined the big surprise."
It was his turn to make a face.
"I'm only joking. No vampires. I promise."
"In that case, I'll see you after work." He kissed her again, this time on the forehead.
**********
"Excuse me, Inspector." The recruit said as he stood at the door to the office of Inspector Peter Newkirk (Ret.). "This fax just came for you, Sir." The cadet handed him a piece of paper.
After the war, Peter Newkirk tried to return to the life he had known before. Somehow, it just wasn't the same. He hadn't lost his touch, but after flimflamming the Nazis for four years, pinching a few quid from a drunk every now and then, or conning a rube out of a couple of pounds just didn't have the same thrill anymore.
As the saying goes, if you can't fight 'em, join 'em. So, after considerable soul searching, and more than a few pints of ale, he joined the local constabulary. But giving out traffic tickets was much to too tame for the former OSS agent. That's when he decided to up the stakes and applied to Scotland Yard. They readily accepted someone with his war record. He was able to put his many talents to good use there. It was almost as if he 'knew' what the criminal was thinking. He did know, since he used to be one of them. His record of solved cases was phenomenal. He had received promotion after promotion and the walls of his office were lined with his numerous award and commendation certificates.
Although he had 'retired', nine years ago at the mandatory age of sixty five, Inspector Newkirk was still active in crime fighting. He now taught a class in Aberrant Criminology, or 'getting inside the criminal mind' as he called it, at Scotland Yard Police Academy. Many of his own cases were used as the textbook examples. As quite a few of his students had told him, his was the best class they had attended. According to them, he made his lectures seem as if he had actually committed most of the crimes he was talkinteaching about. < If only they knew. >
The cadet saluted and executed a smart about face and marched away.
"I wish they wouldn't do that." Newkirk muttered as he unfolded the paper. "Reminds me too much of me own bloody cadet days. " His face became a pasty gray as he read the contents of the missive.
**********
D'oiseau, France
"Excusez-moi, Grandpere. Il un telephonique pour vous. Il est de Canada. (Excuse me, grandfather. There's a telephone call for you. It's from Canada.)" Regine Clarie LeBeau called to her grandfather.
"Merci, mon petit. Observez le potage tandis que je lui reponds. (Thank you, little one. Now, watch the soup while I answer it.)" Louis LeBeau said to his granddaughter as he handed her the ladle." Nous ne pouvons pas avoir les clients manger du potage brule, peut nous? (We can't have the customers eating burned soup, can we?)"
Les Cailles Pourpres was one of the finest restaurants in all of France, and Louis LeBeau, the owner and principal chef, was known world wide for his unrivaled cuisine. He had even taught at the Ecole Cordon Bleu in his younger days. He and his wife Marie, a former Underground agent code named Tigre, had opened a small cafe in their home after the war. They had done all the work themselves in their kitchen. Louis did the cooking and made all the repairs while Marie was the waitress / cashier / maitre D'. They both doubled as janitors and dishwashers. As their reputation spread, they kept expanding. He now had a veritable Maison and three master chefs working for him, as well as a staff of twenty three. He often wished that he could share it with his beloved wife. Unfortunately, Mme. LeBeau had died three weeks before they received their five star rating.
The restaurant was beginning to take its toll on the elder LeBeau as well. He was 73, after all. Soon it would be time to turn the day to day running of the place over to his granddaughter. Regine, a beautiful young mademoiselle of 19, was the third generation of LeBeau's to work in the restaurant. Her father, Robere had died in an auto accident five years ago. He was the manager at the time, but since Regine was too young to take over the responsibility of administration then, Louis had resumed the reins once more.
"Non, Grandpere." Regine said as she took the ladle and began stirring the contents of the huge pot on the restaurant stove. "Nous ne voudrions pas cela. (We wouldn't want that.) Mais puis, qui sait. Nous pourrions juste inventer une nouvelle delicatesse. Potage brule LeBeau (But then, who knows. We might just invent a new delicacy. Burned soup LeBeau.)"
Minutes later, Chef LeBeau returned to the kitchen. His face was whiter than flour. "Quelque chose ete soulevee. Je dois partir immediatement. Jusqu'a ce que je retourne, vous etes responsable des choses. (Something has come up. I must leave immediately. Until I return, you are in charge of things.)" He took off his apron and hurried out the door.
**********
Prince M'Naka'Mah II stared at the E-mail on his screen. He picked up the phone. "Jamal. Humu nje tafadhali. (Jamal. Come in here, please.)" He said, trying hard to hide the quiver in his voice. Although, he had stepped down from the throne in favor of his son, Prince Re'Qern'Ban ten years ago, M'Naka'Mah, or James Kinchloe as he was known before he married Princess Ami'Viala over forty five years ago, had retained offices and staff at the palace.
He had met the Princess during the War when she and her husband, the real Prince M'Naka'Mah II, came to Hammelburg to negotiate a treaty with the German High Command. On orders from Goldilocks, Papa Bear had kidnapped the real Prince, and Kinch took his place. Everyone was surprised to find that James Kinchloe and Prince M'Naka'Mah II were almost exact duplicates of each other. Needless to say, thanks to their efforts the treaty fell through and Germany did not get the strategic bases they needed to hold onto their African territories. One serendipitous incident came out of that, though. The chemistry between Kinchloe and the Princess was dynamic and immediate.
Several years later, Princess Ami'Viala secretly contacted him again. Enemy agents had seriously wounded her husband during an assassination attempt. Would he pose as the Prince once more? It was vital to the survival of the country that no one knew that their leader had been critically injured. He readily agreed.
Three months later, the Prince died from his wounds. By that time, James Kinchloe was so involved in the masquerade that he could not easily walk away. Not without plunging the country into civil war and anarchy. He also found that he was falling deeply in love with Ami'Viala, and she with him. Her marriage to the real Prince was one of arranged political convenience. He did not love her, and she did not love him. To keep everything legal and moral, he quietly married Princess Ami'Viala in a small mission chapel. As part of his impersonation, he went on to make major changes in his adopted country and he felt that he had become a very positive influence on its people. He was right. Under his leadership, Qanga became one of the primary examples of democracy on the African continent. As the years went on, for all purposes, he actually was Prince M'Naka'Mah II.
**********
He watched the three men as they walked through the main lobby of Pearson Airport and headed to the taxi and limousine gate. So far, they had not noticed each other, but he had kept track of their movements from the time their planes had landed. He had watched them go through the baggage area and customs, unaware that the other two were only a few feet away.
Newkirk stared at the diminutive Frenchman standing at the other side of the lobby. "LeBeau!" He shouted. "Louie LeBeau! That is you, isn't it?"
LeBeau almost ran to the other man. "Peter Newkirk, you old son of a sea dog." He said, slapping and hugging his friend. "I thought that was you, but my eyesight just isn't what it used to be."
They spotted the black man in the African caftan coming toward them at the same time that he did. He fingered the Luger with the silencer on it concealed in the folds of his coat. Carefully, he walked up to the man. When he was almost on top of him, he brought the gun even with the man's chest and pulled the trigger three times. There was a series of pops. As the man fell to the ground, he took advantage of the confusion to walk briskly out of the area.
**********
After interviewing several persons, and ironically there were very few witnesses considering that the terminal was crowded with passengers and visitors, Nick and Schanke didn't have too much to go on. Only a few of the people who were in the immediate vicinity of the man were even aware of what had happened until it was over. Even fewer had heard what they thought were shots. No one had actually seen the killer.
Natalie Lambert came to where they were standing. "Victim is black. Male. 75 years old. According to his passport, he is Prince M'Naka'Mah II, Ruler Emeritus of Qanga, a country in Central Africa. He was shot point blank three times in the chest. From the position and angle of the entrance wounds, I suspect that all three bullets either struck the heart or passed close by. Only one exit wound, but that wrecked havoc with the left Latissimus Dorsi. Blew a hole big enough to drive a SUV through. The other two bullets are sill inside. Probably imbedded in the rib cage. Death was instantaneous. I can give you more details once I do an autopsy on him."
"I'd like to help." A man with a British accent said. "I am Inspector Peter Newkirk of Scotland Yard …Retired." He held out his hand to the detectives.
**********
Hammelburg, Germany
Nick carefully entwined the parachute through the branches of the tree. He opened his wallet, and glanced one last time at the ID picture of Nicholas B. Howell. Wing Captain. Royal Air Force. Serial number RWG149085. He put it in the pocket of the corpse and draped his ID medallion around his neck. He studied the dead pilot for a few moments. It was fortunate that he and the German were almost the same size. Dressed in his uniform and with the scratches and burns on his face and body, they could easily be mistaken for one another. Now, for all intents and purposes, Wing Captain Nicholas B. Howell, late of the RAF, was suspended from a tree in Germany. He opened the wallet of the dead German.
OberLeutnant (First Lieutenant) Gerhardt N. Bintler of the 451st Luftwaffe Kampfer-Geschwader (Luftwaffe Fighter Squadron), walked out of the clearing toward the road.
He heard a barely perceptible noise behind him and slipped into the safety of some nearby bushes. < No sense in getting caught now. > Two men came into the clearing. They both had their faces covered with swatches of black greasepaint, and they were wearing black clothes. If it hadn't been for Nick's preternatural hearing and sight, he would never have noticed them.
One of the men went up to the dead man and hunted through his pockets. He took out the wallet. The other felt at the wrists for a pulse.
The first man studied the picture with a pencil thin flashlight beam. Then he compared the information with the ID medal. "This is our man, Carter." He whispered with a thick middle class English accent.
"The Colonel ain't gonna be too happy about this, Newkirk." Carter answered. He had an unmistakable Midwest American twang. "I may not be a doctor, but in this case, I don't have to be. There's no doubt about it. This man is dead."
**********
"Is something wrong, Detective? You look like you've seen a ghost." Inspector Newkirk said.
"He almost always looks that way." Don Schanke took the Inspector's hand. "I'm Detective Don Schanke, and the man next to me who is in never never land is my partner, Detective Nick Knight.
We'll have to clear it with Captain Stonetree, but I don't see any reason why you can't help out. I take it you knew the deceased?"
Newkirk nodded and brushed a tear from his face. "I knew him very well. When I knew him, though, his name was James Kinchloe. Of course, nobody here knows that and I'd like it to stay that way." He looked around to see if anyone else was listening and put his finger to his lips. "For International Security reasons." He said in a loud stage whisper. "Hush. Hush. You understand, Detective."
"I can understand that." Schanke answered. "Unless it's absolutely necessary, we won't tell."
Mentally, Newkirk patted himself on the back. <I still got it. >
"My name is Louis LeBeau. Kinch was a … a friend of both of us. I'd like to help, too." LeBeau joined in the conversation.
"Excuse me, Detective Knight." Newkirk said, studying him intently. "Have we met before? You look familiar."
"I ... Don't think so." Nick said, turning away. He couldn't let Newkirk get too close. He might start remembering 'Captain Howell' from the picture on the ID card that he had taken from the corpse in the field near Hammelburg those many years ago.
"You probably saw his picture in one of your textbooks at Scotland Yard Academy. I understand his cases are required reading. At least they are here in Canada. Of course, Mr. Modesty here would never admit to that. So I have to blow his horn for him every once in a while. Just to keep him from getting too swell headed." It was a private joke between him and his partner. A love struck police cadet had once told Nick that she had read every one of his cases, and that she considered him as her role model. Even though they were not partners at the time, Schanke had razzed him for days about it, and he never missed a chance to rub it in.
"That's probably it." Newkirk agreed.
Nick breathed a small sigh of relief. Apparently the Inspector took Schanke's words at face value.
**********
Nick, Don, Newkirk and LeBeau walked into the autopsy room. Stonetree had eagerly given the former Scotland Yard Agent his approval to help out on the case. Particularly now that there was the possibility of an international incident. After all, the latest victim was the father of the ruler of a foreign country.
Natalie stood over the corpse, shaking her head. "This is all wrong. Terribly wrong." She muttered. "If this man is seventy five, I'm this year's Miss Canada."
Nick gently slipped an arm around her waist. "You mean to tell me you're not?" He joked. "The judges must have made an terrible mistake when they didn't pick you."
"I'm serious." Nat said, blushing noticeably. "This man couldn't be a day over fifty five, if that old. And, here's the most damning evidence. After Inspector Newkirk mentioned that James Kinchloe had been in the American Army, I faxed his fingerprints to the United States Department of Defense for verification. Guess what … I don't know who this man is … " She pointed to the body. " … But according to the United States Army, he is not James Ivan Kinchloe."
"And he couldn't be Prince M'Naka'Mah II, either." The man in the doorway said. "Because I am."
Newkirk and LeBeau turned to stare at the figure. Then, they both began hugging and slapping him.
Nick pulled out a chair and motioned for M'Naka'Mah to sit down. "Your Highness. Would you care to explain what is going on here?"
"That man is Jamal M'Begwa, my body double. His job is to protect me. With his life if need be. In my country, there is a constant and very real threat of assassination. Since Jamal and I resemble each other very closely, we frequently change places. Especially if there could be trouble. I really didn't want to do it here. I figured in Canada, the threat of assassination would be practically non existent. Jamal talked me into doing it anyway." He hung his head. "Unfortunately, he was right."
"He did his job very well, your Highness." Natalie replied. "He took three bullets to the heart for you."
Kinchloe sighed heavily. "I know. And it tears my heart out as well." He wiped an almost invisible tear from his eyes. "We were more than just employee and employer. Jamal was my friend and confidant as well. I am the godfather of his oldest boy. He was the Best Man at my son's wedding. I couldn't come forward at the airport in case the assassin was still in the area." He looked at Nat. "And on this side of the water, my name is James Kinchloe. That information cannot leave this room. If anyone finds out I'm not the true prince, it could be disastrous for my country. My friends call me Kinch. And I think we could be good friends." He smiled broadly and took her hand in his. "Very good friends."
Natalie raised her right hand and placed her left over her heart. "I won't reveal your secret … Kinch."
No one saw Nick's eyes turn bright gold for split second. < Control yourself. He is only trying to be gracious. He is seventy five, after all. And you and Natalie are … just friends. > He argued with himself. "Your secret is safe with me." He finally said.
"I can keep a secret as good as the next man. Besides, I gave my word to Inspector Newkirk at the airport." Don Schanke agreed. "So, you think this could be a political assassination?" He asked.
"If it were only this one incident, Detective Shank ... "
"Schanke." Don corrected. "It's pronounced Scang-key."
"Schanke …" Kinchloe repeated. "As I said, if it were just this one occasion, I would agree that it might have been an assassination, but since we are all here for Andrew Carter's funeral, there's a possibility that it might have something to do with Papa Bear."
"Papa Bear?" Nick gasped.
"Top Secret activity during World War Two. It has only recently been declassified. And then not everything about it. If you have a few hours, we can give you as many details as we are allowed." Newkirk added.
"If we are going to tell these people everything, why don't go somewhere besides the morgue?" LeBeau suggested. "This place is giving me goosebumps. And I don't mean just from the cold."
"I know just the place." Nick said as he held the door for the group.
"I'd like to go with you." Natalie said, "But there's a line of guests in the cold room waiting for admission to Natalie's Bed and Breakfast, thanks to a five car pile up on the Don earlier this evening."
"Natalie's Bed and Breakfast?" LeBeau asked.
"Just a little Morgue humor." Natalie replied with a silly grin.
"These Canadians are a weird bunch." LeBeau mused as he followed the others.
**********
Nick watched from his hiding place as the two men cut 'Captain Howell' from the tree and wrapped him in a blanket. They took the corpse and put it in the back of a Reichstag lorry and drove off. From a height of about fifteen feet, he followed the truck to a point about fifty feet from what looked like the entrance to a prisoner of war camp. The sign over the heavy steel reinforced wood doors read LuftStalag 13.
In a secluded spot, they met with a man dressed in an American Army Air Force Officer's uniform. The silver eagles of a Colonel were pinned to his shirt collar. There was also a smaller man in the uniform of an enlisted man in the Free French Armee de L'air.
He lowered himself soundlessly to the ground and hid behind a bush.
" … At least we got to him before the Jerries did." The one called Newkirk was telling the Colonel.
"Do you think we could send the body back to England?" The Frenchman said. "I think his family would like that."
"I agree, LeBeau." The Colonel said. "At least that way, there will be some closure." He turned around and rapped a few times on the top of a cut down tree stump.
The 'top' opened and a Negro wearing American Army Staff Sergeant's stripes on his jacket stuck his head out of the opening.
"Kinch. Get on the horn to Goldilocks." The Colonel said. "Tell them we're sending Captain Howell's body back on the next sub run."
"Will do, Colonel Hogan." The black man said as he disappeared back into the 'stump'.
Nick smiled. Although LaCroix and Janette would know that the body wasn't his, at least there would now be a formal end to his life as Nicholas Howell.
< They must be the mysterious Papa Bear. > He grinned and put his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. < Who would have ever guessed they were POW's. > He had to admit that it was a perfect cover. Even Aristotle or Larry Merlin couldn't come up with something this good.
He waited until all of the men descended into the 'stump' and then headed for the road. He knew what he had to do. He looked at the sky. If his reckoning by the stars was correct … and if he could find a suitable hiding place for the day … he could be in France by tomorrow night.
When the war first broke out, he had been given the names of several people in the Resistance movement who would welcome Nicolas de Brabant into their midst. At that time, and under pressure from LaCroix, he declined their offer. It was better for everyone, him in particular, if he did not get directly involved in the war. LaCroix was most adamant about that and his retribution could be far worse than anything the enemy could dish out. As far as his master was concerned, the mortal's battles were only supposed to be treated by their kind as a ready supply of free food.
Now, however, it was an entirely different story. Now Nick knew he had to get involved.
**********
Janette pulled Nick to the end of the bar. "Who are … they?" She asked, pointing to the three elderly men with him and Schanke. "And why did you bring them here. You know I do not cater to the Geritol set."
"Humor me and indulge them. They're only three old soldiers who want to swap war stories. Besides, they're part of a case I'm working on."
"You will owe me for this one, Mon Cher." She said, giving him a lingering peck on the cheek. " … And I can think of several …" She traced her index fingernail down the length of his jawline. " … Very creative ways to collect."
"I'll bet you can." He said returning her kiss. "Later. Right now, I have business to attend to."
"Police business. Is that all you can think of?" Janette pouted. "You never have any time for my kind of business."
Nick answered her with a sensuous leer.
"Later it is, Mon Cher." She smiled amorously and returned the leer.
Several hours and several pitchers of beer ... and a bottle of Nick's 'special blend' ... later the trio was concluding their story.
" … And after the war, the government announced that it was going to bulldoze Stalag 13 and planned to auction it to some entrepreneur who could then use it for a commercial property. So, Schultz bought it as an investment and gave each of us a share in it. He wanted to turn it into a memorial or a museum of some sort." Newkirk said in closing.
"Unfortunately, before we were able to do anything with it, NATO declared the site a top secret area. That meant it was off limits to everyone. In fact, up until three months ago, they even went so far as to deny that it even existed." LeBeau added.
"Wait a minute. Time out." Schanke said, holding his hands in a 'T' "How did Sergeant Schultz get involved in this? I thought he was the enemy."
**********
"You know, Louie." James Kinchloe said as he stuffed his clothing into a duffel bag. "I'm really going to miss this place. In a way, I'm kind of sorry the war is over."
"You've got to be kidding." Newkirk broke in. "You mean you're really going to miss all of this? Don't tell me you actually liked the bugs. Or the dampness. Can't forget the mold and mildew. The heat in the summer. The cold in the winter." He thought a few moments. "But then again, we did have some good times here. Remember the time we smuggled those USO girls who were trapped behind the lines into the barracks right under Klink's nose?"
LeBeau kissed his fingertips and rolled his eyes. "Oui. That was one of the better assignments we had. Ooh La La!"
"Or the time we built that blimp in the compound and told everyone it was a giant tent for the Fuhrer's birthday party?" Newkirk reminisced.
"My favorite assignment was when we pretended that Hitler was coming here. I got to play the part of Der Fuhrer." Carter straightened to his full height. "I must admit. I did a great job." He took a comb and held it under his nose. "Heil Hitler!" He thrust his arm stiffly in front of him.
"What about the … " LeBeau started. He stopped suddenly as the door opened and Sergeant Hans Schultz came in.
"I see nothing. I hear nothing. I know nothing." The rotund German intoned. "Please. Do not stop on my account. I'd love to hear all about your escapades here. Just do me one favor. Bitte Shoen. (Please.) Don't blow up the tunnels when you leave."
"What are you talking about?" Kinchloe asked with as much self-control as he could gather on short notice. "What tunnels?"
"Have you been hitting the schnapps a little too hard, Schultzie?" Newkirk said putting his fist to his mouth and tilting it upward.
"No I have not been hitting the schnapps, Corporal Newkirk. I'll have you know I am completely sober and completely serious. Now that the war is over, I can tell you everything. I know what you have been up to here at Stalag 13. I know all about the tunnels. And the phony bunk bed that leads to the underground workrooms. And the flagpole that you rigged as a radio antenna. I mustn't forget the doghouses either. I even discovered the tree stump."
"Tree stump?"
"The hollow tree stump that is the exit point for one of the tunnels that go under the fence. Come on, you guys. Do you really think I am as dumb as I look? I've known that you were sabotaging the war effort and that you were smuggling downed airmen and soldiers out of Germany practically from the start. . I know all about the USO troupe, too. It didn't take much to figure out that you were a secret unit operating behind enemy lines."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"Why should I? I didn't like that madman in Berlin any more than you did. In fact, if it weren't for my wife and my orphaned nephew, I would have helped you a lot more than I did. I couldn't risk leaving them without a husband and uncle. I mean, who do you think arranged it so that there was always convenient equipment and materials available when you needed them? And who looked the other way when you pulled some of your more harebrained schemes? Like when you built that coal gasification station and told everyone it was a sauna. You even had the High Command convinced you had a health spa here, but I knew the truth.
I was not the only sympathizer in the camp, but I am pretty sure I am the only one who figured out the whole story. I always said 'I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing', but I saw, heard, and knew everything. So I turned a blind eye and let you hoodwink me. I didn't even tell the Commandant.
Besides, Why would I jeopardize a good thing when I had it? Corporal LeBeau makes the best Peach Strudel I have ever tasted. Even if I hadn't known what was going on, he could have bribed me with it. It was that good." He gave a mock evil look. "And if you ever tell Frau Schultz what I just said, I will have you all shot at sunrise." He grinned widely. "In fact, I will shoot you myself."
**********
Colonel Wilhelm Klink poured two glasses of Zinfandel and set one in front of Robert Hogan. He raised his glass and touched it to the rim of his former enemy's. "To Victory." He said as he took a sip.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Colonel Robert Hogan asked. "In case you haven't heard, Germany lost the war."
"I know we lost. Thanks in a large part to you and your men." He said with a grin.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, come now Colonel Hogan. We are both officers and gentlemen. The war is over. We can both speak freely. If you and your men had not been so good at what you do, the outcome of the war might have been a lot different. We might have won. That would not have been the best thing for everyone involved."
"I haven't the foggiest clue as to what you are talking about."
"Don't you? What about the tunnels? Don't you think I know that he whole camp is honeycombed with them? Then there is the microphone in the Fuhrer's portrait that is the real thing? I mustn't forget the hinged platform under the stove that leads into one of the tunnels. That is how you got in and out of my office without being caught, isn't it?
And the fact that periodically everyone would take their smoke break at the same time. I suppose it was just a coincidence that it always happened on the same night that there was an Allied bombing raid. You would line up in the shape of an arrow pointing to the target for that raid and light your cigarettes at the same time. One would have to be blind not to notice that.
And what about the men who would mysteriously appear and disappear from the camp? Really, Hogan!" He rolled his eyes. "You don't have to be a genius to know that not all the men here were actually prisoners of war. That some of you were assigned to Stalag 13 with orders to wreck havoc on the Warmacht."
"You knew about us?"
"Colonel … May I call you Robert? Of course I knew about you and your men. One does not achieve the rank of UberColonel (Full Colonel) in the Luftwaffe by being as dumb and bungling as I appeared to be."
"But why didn't you stop us? You had it in your power to execute any or all of us at any time. Why did you let us go on?"
"Because, if that idiot in Berlin would have had his way, the history of Europe in the Twentieth Century would have been set back seven hundred years to the Dark Ages. He had to be stopped.
I helped whenever I could. I made sure that my car was available whenever you needed it. I looked the other way when you 'stole' information from my files. Information, by the way, that I made sure that you knew was there. I tried my level best to confuse and hoodwink those who were trying to apprehend you. I doctored the records to hide the fact that certain prisoners were no longer in camp. That way, my record of no escapes was always intact. That really threw them off the track. After all, how can someone escape from here when the records clearly show that he was never here in the first place?"
"I still don't understand."
"I am a career soldier, Hogan. From a long line of career soldiers. I couldn't jeopardize my professional life by doing anything overtly treacherous. I did what little I could whenever and wherever I could. Then there was General Burkhalter and Major Hochstetter to contend with. While I am nowhere near as spineless as I pretended to be, there is one area where I was not faking cowardice. The Russian Front. So, I kept my mouth shut and did my small part to help you. Of course, I never told anyone what I knew. Not even Sergeant Schultz."
Robert Hogan nodded. "Very well. Colonel Klink … Wilhelm." He raised his glass. "To the Victors. To all of us."
**********
"Naturally, we always thought of Schultz and Klink as part of our team after that." Newkirk closed.
"What about them? Where are they now? Could they be involved in these murders in any way?" Schanke asked.
"Not very likely." Newkirk replied. "You see, they're dead.
Schultz went back to Hammerschlagen and reopened his toy factory. The Nazi's had confiscated it to manufacture war materials. Fortunately, it had not been too badly damaged, and he was able to rebuild it without too many problems. He made a very comfortable living from it, too. That's how he was able to purchase Stalag 13. When Mattel bought him out twenty years ago, he became a very wealthy man from the deal. He was a major contributor to many charitable and philanthropic organizations.
He never had any children of his own, but he and his wife did adopt his nephew Wolfgang, and he had six children, nineteen grandchildren, and four great grandchildren, with three more on the way at the last count. Wolfie is 60, still very much alive, and is now the general manager of the Hammerschlagen Mattel Factory.
Hans Schultz died of an abdominal hemorrhage nine years ago. Frau Schultz died three years ago. Heart attack."
All three men bowed their heads in a moment of silence.
"Colonel Wilhelm Klink was exonerated as a war criminal, thanks to the testimony of Colonel Hogan and most of us. Unfortunately, because he was the Commandant of a Stalag, he was drummed out of the service with a bad deportment discharge. That's a little better than a dishonorable one, but only a little. We couldn't prevent that.
He stayed in Hammelburg and devoted the rest of his life to his hobby ... music. Not very many people knew that he was an accomplished violinist. He performed with, and conducted the Hammelburg Symphony Orchestra for many years. In his later years, he chaired the music department at the University of Hammelburg. He died two years ago of cancer. He never married. He always said that the military and his music were his family.
Since he had been a high ranking German Officer and had been discharged under less than honorable circumstances, he was not entitled to a military funeral or a twenty one gun salute. So, after everyone had left the cemetery, as many of his former 'prisoners' as we could find gathered there and gave him his salute."
Again they bowed their heads.
"What about Colonel Hogan?" Nick asked.
"Robert Hogan married Hilda Valdis, Colonel Klink's secretary." Kinchloe continued the story. "They moved back to Cleveland Ohio where they had two sons, Bobby and Willie. They still live in Cleveland. Unfortunately, Hilda is in a nursing home. Alzheimer's. Bobby is a fireman and Willie is a priest. You may have heard of Bobby's daughter, Roberta Hogan. She's going to be the pilot of the next Space Shuttle.
When the Korean War broke out, Colonel Hogan reactivated his commission. He served brilliantly, and was decorated numerous times. He was even awarded the Air Medal with two clusters. That's the highest commendation the Air Force has to offer. It's second only to the Congressional Medal Of Honor. He was killed when an out of control gasoline truck collided with his jet as his squadron was about to take off on its last mission. The truce was signed the same day they gave him a hero's burial in Arlington National Cemetery."
"He survived World War Two and Korea without a scratch, only to be done in by a gonzo gas lorry." Newkirk said, his voice cracking.
"What about the others? Burkhalter and Hochstetter?" Schanke asked.
"General Albrecht Burkhalter fled the country in the waning days of the war. The latest information we have indicates that he owns a plantation in Brazil. Grows coffee and bananas, and a little M-J on the side." Newkirk said. "According to my sources, he is now 83, and as fat and obnoxious as ever."
"As for Gestapo Major Wolfgang Hochstetter." LeBeau continued. "He was convicted before the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal and sentenced to 35 years in Spandau Prison. He chose a different sentence though. He swallowed a Luger."
"He what?" Schanke asked. He had a rough idea what LeBeau was talking about.
"Somehow, he managed to smuggle a gun into his cell. He put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger." Kinchloe explained.
That was what he thought. Schanke slowly turned a sickly shade of green. "Excuse me." He said getting up suddenly. "I think I need to go to the washroom."
Several minutes later, Schanke returned to the table. His face no longer had a greenish tinge, but he was visibly weak and shaky.
"I hate to break up this little clambake." LeBeau said with a great yawn. "But it's after 3AM. At my advanced age, I need my beauty sleep. What do you say we go back to the hotel and get some rest? We can continue theses reminisces tomorrow night."
"By the way, where are you staying?" Kinchloe asked.
"Sheraton Airport." LeBeau replied.
"So am I." Newkirk added. "What a coincidence. Why don't we all go there? Then, if anyone wants to continue with this … clambake, we can do it in my room."
"Sounds like a good idea to me." The others agreed.
**********
He watched as they prepared to leave the Raven. "Damn." He swore to himself. "I must have killed the wrong Schwartzer (not too flattering term for Negro). But then again, they all look alike. And what's one of them more or less, anyway. I'm sure to get another chance at him." It had been too crowded in the club to do anything there. Maybe the hotel would give him an opportunity to carry out his mission. He quickly ducked out while they were paying the bill.
**********
"Are you sure you won't come with us?" Newkirk said as Louis LeBeau stopped at his door. "I'm only two floors up."
"No, thanks. While you night owls are used to staying up until the wee small hours of the morning, I'm on a different circadian rhythm. If I was back in D'oiseau, I'd be getting up in another hour and a half. I'm going to bed." He opened his door and went inside.
As the Frenchman went inside, Nick's vampire senses went haywire. Something definitely wasn't right. He pulled his partner aside as they waited for the elevator. "Stay with them." He whispered.
"Why?" Schanke whispered back.
"I thought I heard something inside LeBeau's room. I want to check it out."
Before Schanke could reply, his partner was gone.
"Not without me, you don't." Don retorted. He checked his holster to make sure that his gun was handy as he started back toward the room. "I have no intention of sitting through another That's-What-Partners-Are-For lecture from Stonetree."
"Then at least be quiet." Nick whispered as he stepped out of the shadows.
Schanke jumped and drew in a sharp breath. "Don't do that. You wanna give me a heart attack?" He said in a loud whisper.
Nick only motioned to the room. "There's someone in there besides our French friend. I'm sure of that. I think it might be the murderer. You cover out here while I check it out."
"And how are you going to … " The detective was talking to thin air. He held his gun at the ready and flattened himself to the wall next to the hotel door. "Why do I even bother? We are talking about Nicholas Knight here."
**********
Nick hovered outside the window. Carefully, he tested it. < Yes. > Luck was with him. The window was locked, as he had expected. But since he was on the fifth floor, LeBeau had not bothered to put the slide bar in place. A little bit of careful pressure on the casement and he heard the lock snap. The window opened easily. Soundlessly, he lowered himself into the suite.
He was right. Two heartbeats. One of them rapid. He could virtually smell the tension and anxiety. The killer was definitely in the suite.
At almost the same time, he spotted the figure in the shadows heading for the bedroom. In what seemed slow motion, he stared as the man drew what looked to be a large knife from his coat and repeatedly thrust it into the sleeping figure on the bed.
The assassin noticed the detective at the same time as Nick sprang for him. With one motion, he threw himself at Nick and jammed the knife into the vampire's ribs. Nick felt it cut through his lung only centimeters from his heart. Dazed and in pain, he fell backward. At the same moment, the man ran for the door. As he did, the man dropped his weapon. Nick was surprised to see that it wasn't a knife, but a bayonet.
**********
"DAMN! It's a card key lock." Schanke said to Newkirk. "We'll have to wait for the manager to let us in."
"Since when?" The Inspector took a small leather case from his jacket. He opened it and withdrew two wire like instruments.
"He's right. You can't pick an electronic lock." Kinchloe repeated.
"No. But I can pick that one. He pointed to the mechanical housekeeper's lock directly below the card key mechanism. Forty seconds later, he heard the telltale 'click' as the tumblers aligned.
"Man-o-man. You really are good!" Schanke said in admiration.
"That ain't nothin' to write home about. In my prime, I could've 'ad the bloody thing open in fifteen or less." Newkirk said. He put his hand on the knob just as the door opened. The figure barreled into Newkirk and Schanke, pushing them into Kinchloe. All three landed in a heap on the floor. They watched helplessly as the man headed for the end of the hall.
By the time they got to their feet, he was already in the stairwell. Schanke burst through the door, his gun at the ready. He was just in time to see the man go through the fire door two flights down. There was no way that he could get there in time to catch him before he reached the lobby either through another stairwell or one of the elevators. "DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! SHIT!" He shouted as he went back into the hall.
Schanke reached the room a half step behind the African. Newkirk was only a half step behind him.
Screaming LeBeau's name, Kinchloe ran to the bed and pulled the covers off the still form. He stared in disbelief at the sight before him. There on the bed were three pillows arranged in the shape of a person.
"If those pillows are on the bed." Newkirk asked. "Then where is Louie LeBeau?"
"Up here." The voice called from the closet.
"But how … ?" Nick said as he gave the Frenchman a helping hand down from the shelf.
"Simple." LeBeau explained. "Since we suspected that we could be potential targets, I put this in the door before I left." He picked up a scrap of paper from the desk. "When I returned a few minutes ago, I found it on the floor. That meant that someone either had been here while we were out, or was still here. I wasn't going to take any chances. I made up the bed like you saw it, turned out the lights, and then climbed up there."
"Nick!" Schanke said to his partner. "There's blood on your jacket!" He pointed to the large red stain. "How bad did he get you? Want me to call an ambulance? Or maybe Nat?"
"None of the above." Nick said. He could feel the tissue and muscles starting to repair themselves. By the time Nat arrived, the wound would be nearly healed. "He only cut the fabric and barely scratched me. Trust me. It's not nearly as bad as it looks."
"You sure, Buddy?"
"Positive." He stretched. It was still sore, but it was healing fast. Within an hour, there would be no sign that he had been injured. He stooped down and picked up the bayonet with his handkerchief. "I think we may have our first clue." He held it in front of him. "Now, if we could just be lucky enough that he wasn't wearing gloves … "
**********
"Halt. Wer geht dort? (Halt. Who goes there?)"
Nick felt the point of a bayonet in the small of his back. So close and so far. Only three more kilometers to the French border. Although his native land was still in the hands of the Bosch, he would be safer there than here in German territory. He briefly contemplated draining the soldier.
"OberLeutnant Gerhardt Bintler. 451st Luftwaffe Geschwader." Nick answered, trying to remember the information from the dead pilot's wallet. He had long since ditched the uniform for a set of clothes from an unattended clothesline. The last thing he needed to do was to walk into the Resistance headquarters in a German uniform.
"Vas tun Sie bis jetzt von Ihrer Heimatbasis? (What are you doing so far from your home base?)"
He was a long way from the 451st, and if he were caught in civilian clothes and without orders, he could be arrested and shot as a deserter. It wasn't necessarily the shooting that bothered him. He could survive that. It was the time that worried him. Executions usually took place at sunrise. He could not survive that.
He stared into the soldier's eyes and concentrated on the tha-thump of his heartbeat. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Seventeen at most. They were drafting them younger and younger. With the war going badly for the Axis, the chances were great that the lad would not live to see his next birthday. "Ich bin an einem Feiertag. Ich gehe nach Paris. (I'm on a Holiday. I'm going to Paris.)" He said slowly. "Sind hier meine Urlaubpapiere. (Here are my leave papers.)" He handed him a section of newspaper he had 'appropriated' along with the clothes.
"Feirtag ... Paris." The youngster repeated, handing the paper back, unread. He shook his head as if to clear it. "Traurig, Leutnant. Wir konnen nicht zu achtgeben diese Tage. (Sorry, Lieutenant. We can't be too careful these days.)" The guard shouldered his rifle. " Haben Sie eine gute Zeit. (Have a good time.) Heil Hitler." He said extending his right arm in front of him.
Nick returned the stiff arm salute. "Heil Hitler." He said sadly.
**********
"Wasn't there some other way to get into the room beside hovering outside the window?" Nat said as she 'bandaged' Nick's chest. "What if someone had seen you?"
"No, there wasn't any other way. Not if I was going to get to LeBeau in time. And no one saw me. I made sure of that." He winced as she ripped off a piece of adhesive tape, taking a patch of chest hair with it, and put a new strip on. "OUCH! … What was that for?"
"I could say it was because you were being a knuckleheaded brick, but the simple truth is that the tape was crooked. I don't want anyone saying I did a sloppy job, now do I?" She stared at him for a moment. "What did you just say? You felt that, didn't you? That's GREAT!"
"Of course I felt it. If somebody ripped off a layer of your skin, you'd feel it too."
"Yes I would, but then, I'm not a vampire. You're not supposed to feel pain."
"Maybe not, but I sure felt that."
They both watched as the technicians wheeled the 'body' of the Frenchman from the room. It was only the three pillows in the body bag. They had talked it over with Stonetree and everyone else involved, and it was agreed that until this was solved, it was necessary to act as though Louis LeBeau was actually dead.
She took out a hypodermic syringe filled with a clear liquid. "Drop your drawers and bend over."
"WHAT?"
"You ain't deaf. You heard what I said. Drop 'em."
"Why?"
"Because you have just been attacked by a knife wielding assassin. This … " She held the syringe up. "Is to make sure that you don't get any infections."
"You know that's not likely to happen."
"I know that. You know that. But they don't. It's only distilled water, but we have to make this look good. Now. Bare it and assume the position, Buster, or I go right through your back pocket."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Oh wouldn't I? … " She positioned the syringe menacingly above his rear end.
"Okay! Okay. Don't get over enthusiastic with that thing. Just give me a minute." He said as he unbuckled his belt.
She bathed the area with an alcohol swab. Again, it was unnecessary, but they had to keep up appearances. < Nice tush. > She injected the contents of the hypodermic into his left buttocks. "Okay. You can pull them back up."
She took out a scalpel and a clean slide. "Wait a minute. While I've got you with your pants down, I might as well take a few more skin samples. Can never have enough, you know."
"Wouldn't it be better if you took them from my arm?"
"I've already got samples from your arms. And from your chest. And your back. And your face and scalp. The only place I don't have any is from your ... "
"And they call me an evil sadistic monster." Nick grumbled as he bent over again.
**********
He leaned against the wall beside the dumpster and watched as the technicians loaded the 'body' into the Coroner's van. < That was close. Too close. > He still had to make up for killing the wrong Schwarzer. But that was only a minor inconvenience. At least he wouldn't have to worry about the Franzoser (derogatory term for Frenchman) any longer. < Two down. Two to go. > He mentally went over the evening. He was positive that he had covered all bases. The room door was securely locked. He had rechecked it after the Frenchman went to bed. < So, how did that other one get in? The blond one. The Aryan? > And why was he after him. Didn't he know that he was only carrying out the Master Plan? He had also lost Grosfater's (Grandfather's) bayonet. < Stupid! Stupid! Stupid. > At least there was no way to trace it to him. He had made sure it was clean.
**********
"Sorry, guys." Officer Mulhare said to the group gathered in the lab. "Whoever used this weapon must have been wearing gloves the whole time. No prints, not even a partial. And no DNA either. He's really good at his trade." The Forensic expert turned the baggie with the bayonet in it over several times. "Odd sort of weapon though. Military. World War Two, if I had to give a guess. Looks to be authentic, not a replica."
Newkirk took the bag with the bayonet and hefted it a few times. "German. And I'll bet my next month's paycheck that this puppy will fit on a Mauser."
"I'm not going to bet against you." Nick said.
**********
"You are out of your bloody little mind, Captain." Inspector Newkirk said. "There's no way in Hades we're going to a safe house."
"It's either that, or I place you in protective custody." Captain Stonetree replied. "There have been two murders and one attempted murder in this case so far. I'm NOT going to have any more dead bodies. Not in my district. Do I make myself clear?" His face was red and his eyes bulged. He was definitely pissed.
"You might be able to hold them." Kinchloe said softly. "But you can't hold me. Not without an international incident on your hands, that is. After all, I am royalty and the former ruler of Qanga. As such, I have the highest level of diplomatic immunity. If you even think about taking me into custody, you'll have the entire Ministry of State, as well as the Qangan Ambassador down here faster than you can blink. When they get through with you, you'll be lucky to be putting parking tickets on dogsleds in Lower Boondocks of the Yukon. That goes for my staff here as well."
"What was that, Your Highness?" No one had told the Captain the truth about the Prince. They had promised, after all.
"My staff." Kinch pointed to Newkirk. "He is my Minister of Security. And he … " He pointed to LeBeau. " … is my top Agricultural Advisor. As such, they have the same diplomatic rights and privileges under international law that I do."
Stonetree looked at Nick, who only shrugged his shoulders. The Captain was being bamboozled, but he wasn't about to tell him so. Not unless he wanted to be the one handing out traffic tickets in Lower Boondocks.
"Very well. I give up!" Stonetree said, throwing up his hands. "I won't push the issue. However, I will assign Detective Knight and Detective Schanke to act as your personal 'escorts' while you are in my jurisdiction ... And two uniforms as well."
"But … " Newkirk started to say something, but thought better of it. Knight and Schanke could come in handy in the scheme that was beginning to form in the back of his mind. He could lose the uniformed coppers anytime he wanted. "On second thought, you win. We'll take the safe house." He finally said.
*********
"Are you sure you're not a few ants shy of a picnic?" Kinchloe shouted at the Inspector as they drove away from the station. "Letting them put us in a safe house?"
"I'm not completely round the bend. At least not yet. And keep your voice down." He pointed to the driver, who seemed to be more interested in what was playing on the radio than what was being said in the back seat. "I'll explain when we get to the house."
"And it better be good." LeBeau added. "By the way, ... Your riend'undieu (goddamn) Highness Prince M'Naka'Mah the Second … I can understand Newkirk as the Security Minister, but me? Agricultural Advisor? Really!"
"After all, you are only a cook. That was the best I could come up with on short notice."
"A chef. I am a master chef." LeBeau corrected gloomily. "At least you could have made me the Minister of Agriculture."
"What do you know about growing wheat?"
"What do YOU know about making a bouillabaisse?" He slumped down in the seat and folded his arms defiantly across his chest.
**********
"That is NOT a good idea." Nick Knight said to the Englishman. "Even if it was, which it isn't, Stonetree would never go for it."
"And I suppose you have a better idea?" Newkirk retorted. "We can't just sit here like ducks in a pond and wait for the killer to strike again. We've got to draw him out. Since Kinch and LeBeau are supposed to be dead, I'm the only one that's left. It's the only common sense course of action. You've got no choice but to let me do it."
"NO! Nyet! Nein! Nao! Non! Nochi! Nogen! Nit!" Nick stood up and paced the Britisher's bedroom. "How many languages do I have to say it in? You are NOT going to act as the bait."
"And why not?"
"For openers, just because I would even let you even think about doing something as harebrained as that, Stonetree would skin me alive and hang my hide out to dry on his lodge pole. And that could be very painful to say the least." < Particularly during the daylight hours. > "You do know that he is a full blooded member of the Cayuga Indian Nation, don't you?
Another reason is because ... I ... am going to be the bait. Think about it for a few moments. We're the same height and about the same weight. If I'm wearing your clothes and a hat, it would be difficult to tell in the dark that I wasn't you."
"And what could you do that I can't. In case you've forgotten, I AM a police Inspector."
Nick homed in on the Inspector's heartbeat. "I will act as the bait." He said slowly and deliberately as he captured the man's eyes with his.
"You … bait … " Newkirk shook his head to clear it. "Not flippin' likely."
< Oh, no. Not another one. How many resistors are there running around anyway? >
"And just how do you think you're going to handle him by yourself?" This was definitely NOT in Newkirk's plan. < Of course I can always go with plan B ... As soon as I think of a plan B. >
"I can handle him. Trust me." < Besides, he made it personal when he stabbed me. >
"It's still dangerous."
< Not as dangerous as letting you do it. You could be killed. I can't. At least not that way. >
Newkirk reluctantly handed him his coat and hat. They had already exchanged shirts and pants. "Just how are you going to get past those three in the living room?" Newkirk indicated the three policemen. The two officers were watching wrestling on TV while Schanke sat at the table playing solitaire.
"Leave them to me." LeBeau said, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. The other two had joined the Inspector while he was changing clothes with the Detective.
"Come on." Kinchloe said as he herded the diminutive Frenchman to the door. "I don't know what you've got planned, but I do know I definitely want a piece of this action."
"Okay. Here's what we do … " LeBeau said as they were leaving the room.
**********
"The red six goes on the seven of spades." James Kinchloe whispered in Don Schanke's ear.
"What are you playing?" Louis LeBeau asked with as much innocence as he could gather.
"Solitaire. Why?" Schanke replied, placing the jack of clubs on the queen of diamonds.
"Isn't that a kids game?" His imaginary wings were starting to grow.
"And just what do you have in mind?" Schanke asked, pulling the cards into a stack.
"How about something more exciting?" LeBeau dangled the bait in front of the detective. "Something like Euchre?"
"Euchre?" Schanke said, taking hook, line, and sinker. "You can't be serious. My Great Aunt Magda plays Euchre at church socials." He shuffled the deck with a great show. "How about a real man's game? How about a couple of hands of Poker?"
"Poker?" LeBeau replied, mentally straightening his nonexistent halo. "Isn't that kind of complicated?"
"Nah!" Schanke fanned the deck and cut them. "It's easy. Why don't we play a few rounds and I'll explain as we go along." He made a production of pushing imaginary cuffs from his wrists and began dealing the cards. "We'll start with something simple. Something like five card stud. Nothing wild. Let's make it, say a Loonie to open and a Toonie to raise, just to keep things interesting." < Cincinnati Schanke rides again. >
**********
"I can't watch this." Newkirk said as he held the window open for Nick to climb out. "It's like shooting fish in a bloody barrel."
**********
"Sorry, guys." Schanke said, throwing his cards on the table. "That does it for me. I'm all tapped out." He picked up his empty wallet and put it in his trouser pocket. "Myra's gonna kill me when she finds out I lost all my money in a poker game. I was going to surprise her and take her to the movies this weekend. I guess that's out. Oh well, there's always the Pay Per View on the TV. Are you sure you two aren't ringers?"
"Ringers?" LeBeau said, looking more angelic little boy than Nick ever could. "Whatever made you think that? We did so good only because you are such a superb teacher." He carefully folded the wad of bills and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. The coins, he scraped into his trouser pocket. "Then, too, it could just be beginners luck." He made a show of yawning and stretching. "I think I'll go to bed."
"And I think I'll join him. After all, us old geezers can't keep the same hours as you young whippersnappers." Kinchloe also yawned and stretched.
"You know you're gonna have to confess what you did the next time you go to church." He whispered to LeBeau as they left the room.
**********
"Are you going to keep all of that?" Newkirk asked as he, Kinchloe and LeBeau met in his room.
"Why not? I won it fair and square." LeBeau replied, stuffing his winnings into his suitcase.
"And I'm the friggin' Archbishop of Canterbury. I saw you scoring the edges of all the aces and face cards with your thumbnail. That poor detective never had a chance."
"All right. All right. I'll let him win most of it back. Tomorrow. Right now, though what are we going to do about Knight? If he tangles with that killer, he's liable to get his head blown off."
"We're going to follow him, naturally." Newkirk said, holding up a tracking device. "I slipped a bug in the inside pocket of my coat when I gave it to him."
"Or we could use mine. Remember when I wished him luck? I stuck it under the collar." LeBeau held up a homing beacon.
"Anybody got a can of Raid?" Kinchloe said as he held up a micro GPS remote. "That man has more bugs on him than an abandoned picnic lunch."
Newkirk held the window open. "After you, gentlemen … and I use the word loosely." He said with a sweeping bow.
"Not that way. I suggest we go out through the front door." LeBeau checked his watch. "The mickeys I had Kinch slip into their drinks should be taking effect just about … cinq ... quatre ... trois ... deux ... un ... now." He cautiously opened the living room door.
There was a loud 'Thoomp' as Schanke 's head firmly landed on the table. The other two sat on the couch with their heads lolling against the back. LeBeau could hear their snoring over the TV. "Any other questions?"
"Yeah." Kinch said as they stepped off the porch. "How do you know when a skunk breaks wind?" He was rewarded with a mock thrashing by his companions. "Seriously, how are we going to follow Knight? We can't exactly walk."
"Simple. We take the nice detective's car." Newkirk said holding up a set of keys. "I pinched them on the way out. He's not going to be needing it for at least another three or four hours."
"I don't suppose you thought to lift their guns, too." LeBeau asked. "Just in case things should get a bit … How do you say it … sticky?"
"You mean these things?" Newkirk held up two 9mm automatics. He gave one to Kinchloe and stuck the other in his belt.
"And what about me?" LeBeau asked.
Newkirk reached behind the detective's seat and pulled out a shotgun. He cocked it and handed it to the Frenchman.
"Why do I always get the leftovers?"
Because you're such a little pipsqueak." Kinchloe replied, reaching over and mussing his hair.
"You're dead meat, Kinch … " The Frenchman replied.
"Seriously, these were from the officers. I couldn't get to the Detective's one. He was lying on that side and there wasn't time to reposition him. He might have awakened and spoiled everything." Newkirk said as they pulled away from the curb.
"I doubt that. The stuff I gave them would have taken out a herd of wild bulls in rut."
"Now you tell me."
**********
He watched as the man stepped in front of the window. Unfortunately, the distance was too great for a clean shot from here. Particularly with a gun with the silencer on. He grasped the Luger in his pocket. He should have brought the Mauser, but that would have attracted too much attention.
< I knew that Englischers were stupid. > He gloated. < But this is too brainless even for them. > He had checked the area thoroughly. There were no bodyguards, no patrols, and no beefed up security anywhere near the hotel. In fact, after the police had taken the body out of the Frenchman's room, he had not seen any sign of them. He briefly thought that this might be a trap. If it was, it was very sloppy. He could be in and out of the room before they knew anything. < But then, we are talking about ein minderwertiger mannen (an inferior race) after all. >
Even though that blond one had nearly caught him the last time, he still managed to escape. Barely. He would not make that same mistake again. This time he was ready.
**********
Nick concentrated on the ground below. Although he was well hidden from mortal eyes, the figure lurking in the shadows was plainly visible to Nick's preternatural sight. He had been watching the room for almost an hour.
It was time for the next step. If he wasn't going to come to the room, then Nick would have to go to him. < Now would be a good time to take a little 'walk'. > He decided. He put the coat on and pulled the hat over his head. He checked in the mirror. Unless there was a strong light, he could easily pass for Inspector Newkirk.
"If the mountain won't come to Mohammad ... " He said as he headed for the elevator.
**********
Newkirk pulled into the service dock behind the hotel and parked the car. Knight was definitely here. All three tracking devices were chirping and beeping continuously.
"Why park here?" LeBeau asked. "Why not the front?"
"Or maybe we could just take out a full page ad in the bloody newspaper." Newkirk replied. "You two are supposed to be dead, and I'm supposed to be upstairs in my room. The whole idea is to be as clandestine as we can. Or have you forgotten every lesson you ever learned at Stalag 13?"
"No I haven't, forgotten but it would be helpful if we knew when our killer was going into the hotel. I don't think he'd be likely to use the back entrance."
"No, he wouldn't. But we would, if we wanted to find the employee's break room."
Fifteen minutes later, a bellman, a waiter, and a cook headed toward the lobby.
"Do I have a case for discrimination here?" Kinchloe asked, fingering his bellman's hat. "I mean, this is a menial job, and I AM an African Prince, after all."
"You might call it discrimination." Newkirk replied. "But it was the only thing back there in a 38 long. Now, be quiet and watch for any suspicious people."
"I don't see anything discriminatory about that outfit, Kinch. Now, this is another story altogether." LeBeau added as he straightened his apron. "The least you could have done was find me a chef's outfit."
"You and your bloody chef's outfit." Newkirk groused. "You'd think we were doing this to you deliberately."
"Aren't you?"
"You." The desk clerk pointed to Kinch. "Bellman. Go to the kitchen and get a room service order for room 519. And be quick about it." He glared at the other two. "And you aren't supposed to be out here in the lobby at all. Get back to your posts."
"I don't like his attitude." Kinch said, looking at Newkirk.
"Never mind the attitude. Just get the room service for 519. We don't want to call any more attention to ourselves than we have to. Who knows, maybe room 519 will give you a big tip. We'll stay here and watch for anything unusual."
As Kinchloe started for the kitchen, Newkirk put his hand on the African's arm. "Never mind the room service. I think we just got bigger things to occupy our time with." He pointed to the elevator. Nick had just emerged and was heading for the front door.
"Hey! Boy!" The desk clerk called as the three headed for the front door. "Where do you think you're going? I said to get the food for room 519."
"Get it yourself!" Kinch yelled. "And I ain't your … BOY!"
"That does it! You're fired! And so are the rest of you if you don't get back to the kitchen immediately!"
"You can't fire me. I QUIT!" Kinch threw his hat on the floor. "Come to think of it, I never worked here in the first place."
LeBeau added the cook's apron and Newkirk pulled off the waiter's jacket and threw it on the pile as well.
The three exited in time to see someone keeping pace with the detective. It had to be the killer.
Newkirk put his finger to his lips and the three fell in a respectable distance from the man.
**********
< Der Englischer is even more stupid than I thought. Going out alone at night when he must be aware by now that someone is trying to kill him. Well, I won’t disappoint him. > He clutched the Luger to his chest as he fell into step behind the 'Inspector'. He was too intent on his prey to notice the three who were following him.
Nick smiled as he sensed the man following him. < Yes, it was definitely the same man from LeBeau's room. He could not mistake that scent. Pine needles and cooked cabbage (sauerkraut?). He frowned slightly as he caught three other familiar scents. Newkirk, LeBeau and Kinchloe. < What are they doing here? They are supposed to be with Schanke at the safe house. > He turned toward the back of the hotel. There were lots of nice dark places here where his intended killer could make his move. He smiled once more as the stalker followed him. As did the other three. They might pose a hazard, but he couldn't worry about that now. Not with the quarry so close.
**********
"What's he doing that for?" LeBeau asked as they watched Detective Knight head for the loading area. A few seconds later, the killer headed there as well "He's going to get himself killed without someone to cover his ass."
"That, my friend, is why we're here." Kinch said as he checked his gun.
"Yeah, but Knight doesn't know that." Newkirk checked his weapon as well.
**********
Nick memorized the area as he walked to the loading ramp. < Yes. There is always a user friendly dumpster when you need one, thanks to the omnipotent dumpster god. > He shook his head. < I've been hanging out with Schanke too long. > He mentally calculated when the killer would pass it. At that precise moment, he made his move. A millisecond later, he was behind the dumpster, and a nanosecond after that, he was behind the man. Silently, he approached and when he was directly in back of him, he leaned into his head.
"Boo." He whispered.
The man stiffened for a split second. Then he turned and brought his gun up, but before he could do anything, Nick had his wrist in a vise like grip. Screaming in pain, the man dropped the Luger. Within seconds, the other three were with him.
Nick reached into his pocket and handed his cuffs to Newkirk. "Do the honors while I call it in."
"Reinrassige Bastardhunde! (Bastard mongrel dogs!)" The man spat.
"Wie Ihre Mutter. (So is your mother.)" Newkirk said as he tightened the cuffs just a little too snugly.
"Sie haben das Recht, leise zu bleiben. Wenn Sie oben rechtes das geben, kann alles, das Sie sagen, in einem Gericht verwendet werden ... (You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can be used in a court of law ...)" Knight recited.
"Mein nommen ist Deiter Hochstetter. (My name is Deiter Hochstetter) Ich bin ein Kriegsgefangen. (I am a prisoner of war.)"
**********
Peter Newkirk, James Kinchloe, and Louis LeBeau stood beside Nick Knight, Don Schanke, and Captain Joe Stonetree. They watched through the one way glass as Deiter Hochstetter was questioned in the interrogation room.
The prisoner was about 30 years old, lean and muscular. The lights in the room gave the illusion of a halo as they bounced off his clean shaven head.
He was anything but an angel, though. According to the Interpol query Stonetree had requested, Deiter Hochstetter was a member of an extremist wing of the Neo Nazi party, commonly called skinheads. According to the report, he had been arrested numerous times throughout Europe for his activities. Among them was a firebombing of a synagogue in France, defacing a memorial to Belgians killed in WWII, and vandalism of a Catholic school in Switzerland. There were six counts of aggravated assault in Konigs-Wusterhause alone, Hochstetter's home city. Most were in connection with riots and violent confrontations with the authorities. Unfortunately, there were only two minor convictions. The rest had been dismissed for lack of evidence. There were still seven warrants outstanding for him in three other countries for his crimes. Two of them were for felonies.
This case was different. There was plenty of evidence. Ballistics had confirmed that the Luger in Deiter's possession fired the shots that had killed M'Begwa, and a Mauser found in Hochstetter's motel room was the one used to kill Carter. Further, the bayonet in police custody fit the Mauser. It was largely circumstantial, but according to the Crown prosecutor, there was more than enough to convict Hochstetter on two counts of murder and two counts of attempted murder. Of course, a confession would seal the case airtight. That, however seemed unlikely.
The officers attempting to question Hochstetter, along with the German interpreter, were becoming increasingly frustrated. Even Robert Luong, the court appointed Public Defender, merely shook his head. All Hochstetter would say to every question was the same thing he been saying since he was arrested. "Mein nommen ist Deiter Hochstetter. Ich bin ein Kriegsgefangen. (My name is Deiter Hochstetter. I am a prisoner of war.) Sie haben keine Berechtigung über mir. (You have no authority over me.)"
"You are not a prisoner of war." The questioning officer said for the fiftysomethingth time through the interpreter. "You are not a soldier. There is no war."
"Ich bin ein Soldat des Reich. (I am a soldier of the Reich)."
"Let me try, Captain." Nick said. "I know a little German. Maybe I can get him to open up."
"Go right ahead." Stonetree said, waving his detective to the door. "If anyone can get him to talk, you can."
Schanke turned to the others. "Trust me. I've seen Knight in action. He has gotten confessions out of prisoners that were ten times harder than this one."
**********
Nick sat down in front of Deiter. He tented his arms and stared directly into the German's eyes. "Do you speak English?" He asked, matching his words to the tha-thump of Deiter's heartbeat.
"Of course I do." Deiter answered flawlessly. "I went to University in New York."
"Then you will speak English from now on. And you will answer my questions truthfully."
"English … Truth … " Deiter repeated barely above a whisper.
< At last. > "Good. Now. Did you kill Jamal M'Begwa and Andrew Carter?"
"You don't have to answer … " The Defender started to say, but was waved off by Hochstetter.
"As I have said before. I do not recognize your authority. And I do not need someone of a wenig sorte (lesser species) telling me what I can and cannot say." Deiter spat at the Oriental. "Of course I killed them." There was a note of pride in his voice. "They were enemies of the Fatherland. I am a soldier. It is my sworn duty to kill my enemies. I didn't mean to kill the wrong Schwartzer, but then, what's one of them, more or less? I was after the other one. He's one of the enemies of the Reich, too. The Amerikanisch and the Franzoser were all part of a plot to keep the Reich from returning to its rightful place as the leader of the European Community. They had to die. You can understand that, can't you?"
Nick bit on his tongue to keep his fangs from dropping. < The arrogant sonofabitch. > He was sorely tempted. Only the fact that there were others present held the beast back. "Is that the only reason?"
Dieter hesitated as though he was struggling with himself. "No." He finally said. "They have the Reich's treasure in their possession. Only the stupid fools don't even know what they've got. I was hoping they would all be dead by this time, but the fools hang on to life like a pitbull with a bone. They had to be eliminated, so I merely hastened the inevitable a bit."
"What treasures?"
"The ones at Stalag 13."
**********
"Put that box over here." Gestapo Major Wolfgang Hochstetter ordered the soldier. "Then bring the paintings down next."
"When did your men ever have time to dig these tunnels?" UnterColonel (Lieutenant Colonel) Franz Griesse, Hochstetter's superior in the Gestapo, marveled.
"We didn't dig them. Apparently prisoners of war have been honeycombing the area under the Stalag for years. And that fool Klink never suspected a thing. I only discovered them a few weeks ago. Just before the Stalag was liberated. I came across the entrance disguised as a tree stump quite by accident. From there, it was an easy task to map them without anyone knowing about it. You could be down here for weeks and no one on the surface would ever suspect. I will admit, they do make the perfect hiding place for all of this gold and artifacts."
"I couldn't agree with you more. Only one thing eludes me. How are you planning to retrieve them? I understand they are going to level the Stalag and sell the land to the highest bidder to be used for business purposes. Whoever buys it will probably inadvertently destroy the tunnels in the process of building."
"Simple. I intend to buy the Stalag. Or rather, some friends of mine whose motives will not be suspect are going to buy it for me." He mentally bit his tongue. He should have kept his mouth shut. "Of course, as our Commandant, you are more than welcome to join us in our efforts." Now there was one more person to share in the booty. But then, he did know how to smooth ruffled feathers. He was Gestapo after all.
"I had better be in on this, Major. If I you had not asked me, I would have shot you where you stand."
"Then we are in agreement, Herr Griesse?" Hochstetter extended his hand. < I could always arrange a little 'accident' for my superior. An unexpected fall in the bathtub, perhaps. And there just might be a radio or some other electrical device nearby that could fall in the tub as well. >
"We are in agreement, Herr Hochstetter." Griesse shook the Major's hand. <Perhaps Major Hochstetter's car will develop brake trouble some rainy night when he is driving along the Cliff Road. >
"No! No! No! Dumbkopf. (You idiot.)" Hochstetter shouted to one of the soldiers. "Put that crate over here!"
Three days later, his aide discovered Franz Griesse in his bathtub. A fan that was perched on a shelf nearby had fallen into the water with him. He had died instantly.
**********
"My grandfather kept a journal of his activities during the war. My father used to read it to me, along with Mein Kampf, as bedtime stories. My grandfather was my boyhood hero. He still is. My father always said that he was murdered by the Allied pigs before he could retrieve the valuables from their hiding place."
"According to the witnesses, he committed suicide." Nick corrected.
"That's the story the enemies of the Reich would want you to believe. The truth is that he would not reveal the hiding place of the treasure, even under torture. So they killed him. Then they told everyone he had killed himself to cover their treachery. It is the only explanation. My grandfather was a hero of the Reich. He would never take his own life."
"He did take his own life."
"YOU LYING SWINE!" Hochstetter's face turned red as he started across the table for Knight. The officers and even the Defender had to restrain him.
Nick concentrated on the man's wildly beating heart and by sheer mental willpower forced him to calm down. Slowly Deiter's heart rate returned to normal. "Continue with your story." He said softly.
"My father tried to buy the Stalag from the Allied dogs, but that buffoon of a Sergeant beat him to it. Then the Enemies declared it a top secret area and refused to help return it to the rightful owners, the Reich. They even denied that it ever existed.
I tried to talk some sense into that idiotic Sergeant's widow, but she wouldn't even listen to me. She said her husband had planned to turn it into a museum as soon as the NATO pigs declassified it. She was going to see that his wishes were carried out. Can you imagine that? A museum! To our enemies! And all the time, there was a fortune in gold and priceless artifacts right under her nose." Deiter leaned back in his chair smugly. "I know that she would have done the right thing by the Fatherland if she had known. She would have wanted to see that the way of life that her husband had fought for was restored. Unfortunately, she died before the Enemies released the land from their control.
Then I found out that he had given equal shares in the land to those … " he spat. " … Niedrigesleben. (Lowlifes). I had no choice but to get rid of them. The Reich needs that money if we are to take our place as the rightful German government. They are the enemy and this is war. You can understand that, can't you? After all, you are Aryan just like me."
"I am NOTHING like you." Nick hissed. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes and turned away so that no one would see the gold that was seeping into his irises. He got up and headed to the door. "Let me out of here." He said to the officer on the other side. < Before I do something that will bring the Enforcers down on me. >
They watched as the Skinhead was led to the holding cells. From behind the two way mirror, Newkirk's hands balled into a fist. "Let ME 'ave at 'im, Captain. Alone. No cameras. No listening devices. Just five minutes should do nicely."
I don't think so, Inspector." The Captain said. "Remember who and what you are. You are an officer of the law. Let the law take care of him."
"As much as I'd like to get my hands around his neck too, if we do anything to him, we would be lowering ourselves to his level." Kinchloe said.
"As much as it hurts to say this, they're right." LeBeau added. "Just thinking that he killed Carter and Jamal in cold blood, makes mine boil."
"You're all correct, of course." Newkirk said between tightly clenched teeth. "But if by some strange quirk of fate he walks, he's mine."
"Not if I get to him first." Kinchloe said with a hard look.
"You'll have to get in line behind me." LeBeau declared.
"Just make sure it's outside my jurisdiction." Stonetree added.
**********
"Treasure under the Stalag?" LeBeau said as they walked back to Stonetree's office. "That's hard to believe."
"I know who can find out for us in a very short time." Newkirk replied. "If I may use your phone, Captain."
**********
Peter Newkirk stared at the paper in front of him. He had called Wolfgang Schultz and told him what Deiter Hochstetter had said. Wolfie agreed to check it out and get back to him as soon as possible. That was three anxiety ridden days ago. The fax had arrived only a few minutes earlier. Newkirk picked up the phone.
**********
The group entered the Raven and went to the table they had occupied the first time they were there. Nick had called ahead and reserved it for them.
"This is two that you owe me, Mon Amour." Janette whispered in his ear as she escorted the detective to the table. "I will definitely collect. Big time. You can be certain of that." She licked at his ear lobe.
"I know." He closed his eyes. He knew they were tinged with yellow. It was all he could do to keep his fangs in place.
"Tomorrow night there will be a full moon. Be here at sunset. Do not be late."
Nick swallowed hard. < Janette … Sunset … Full Moon ... > Even the thoughts of what would take place then were undeniably erotic. "I'll be here." He said huskily. His kiss on her cheek was far beyond what could be considered platonic.
**********
"Now then. What's so important that you had to bring us all the way down here?" LeBeau asked Newkirk.
"This." He handed copies of the fax he had received to the others. "I wanted Detective Knight and Detective Schanke to see it as well. After all, they were the ones helped us through this."
"Yeah." Don Schanke said. "And the least you could have done was let me in on what you guys were planning. You didn't have to play me for a sucker back at the safe house, did you?"
< But you were so gullible. > "We couldn't take the chance. Would you have helped us if you knew what we were going to do?" Kinchloe asked.
Schanke thought for a moment. "Yeah. I think I probably would have. And I know I'd have liked to be in on the collar instead of being off somewhere in dreamland. By the way, what did you guys put in that drink? I felt as though I had been hit by a Mack truck."
"Just some herbs and spices." LeBeau said. < But you can't get these herbs and spices at your local health food store. They were blended especially for me by an elderly Apothecary in Chinatown. > "You did win back all your money, didn't you? So, no harm done." Louis LeBeau held out his hand. "Friends?"
"No harm done. Friends."
The Frenchman took both of the detective's hands in his. As the he released his grip, Schanke quickly checked. < Yes, the ring and watch were still there. >
Nick looked up from the paper. "Are you sure about this?" He asked Newkirk.
"Absolutely. Wolfie said he checked it three times to be sure."
"According to this, you guys are millionaires ten times over. Each one of you." Schanke added.
"Actually, none of this really belongs to us." LeBeau explained. "It was all confiscated by the Nazis from the places that they conquered. We've sort of talked it over even before the fax came in and we decided that the paintings and artwork are going to be returned to their rightful owners. Anything that we can't find owners for, we are going to donate to various museums in Klink, Schultzie and Hogan's memory."
"And Carter's memory, too." Newkirk added.
"As far as the money goes, none of us really need it that bad. It probably would only corrupt us anyway." Kinchloe said.
Newkirk made gagging noises as though he were choking.
"We are going to use it to build the museum that Schultz wanted. What's left over we are going to give to the International Red Cross to help with the resettlement of war refugees." Kinchloe continued.
"Of course, we'll keep a small amount for ourselves. Sort of as a finder's fee." Newkirk added, the choking session over. "And we'd like to give you a token for your help."
"How much of a token are we talking about?" Schanke asked.
"How does one percent of the gross sound?"
"Three hun ... hundred twen ... ty thou ... thousand doh …llars?" It was Schanke's turn to choke. Mentally he saw a new car, a house in the suburbs with a swimming pool and a sauna, one of those huge flat screen TVs hanging in the den, and Jenny going off to some exclusive private university. All paid in full.
"We thank you for the offer." Nick said. "But we can't accept the money. We were only doing our duty. Regulations. You do understand."
"Yeah ... Duty ... Regulations … " Schanke confirmed, choking once again. In his mind's eye, he saw the house, the pool and sauna, the car, the 72 inch HDTV, and Jenny's college fund flying off somewhere over the rainbow.
**********
The officer looked in on his prisoner. He would be glad when he was transferred to the Provincial prison. The temptation was getting to be too great to wring the little bastard's neck. If everything went as the grapevine said it would, he would be out of here in a few days.
His trial was set for tomorrow, and it was little more than a formality. The prisoner had not only confessed, he was proud of his actions and had never showed even the slightest bit of remorse. If he was very very lucky, he might escape the death penalty and get life in prison. Even if that were the case ... there were several factions in the joint that wouldn't mind dispensing a little jailhouse justice.
And then there were the warrants from Interpol. Most European countries followed the Napoleonic Code. Guilty until proved innocent. They didn't fool around. Especially with people like him. No matter what the outcome was, it would be a long long time before Deiter Hochstetter saw the light of day. If he ever did.
Deiter Hochstetter had been lying on his cot with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, moaning and groaning for the past ten minutes. He did not look well.
"Are you okay? You want me to get a doctor for you?" The officer asked.
Deiter mumbled something barely intelligible.
The guard moved closer to the cell. "What did you say?"
In a flash, Deiter was off the bed and had one hand around the guard's throat, pressing it tightly against the bars. With his other hand, he took the guard's gun. He stepped back into the cell.
"Let's not do anything rash." The guard said slowly. "Be reasonable. Think this through. You can't escape. You'd be dead before you reached the parking lot. So why don't you just put the gun on the floor and slide it over here to me. You really don't want to die because of some stupid act like this, do you?" Mentally, he was hoping that he would try to escape. There were plenty of policemen between here and the door who would enjoy ventilating his hide.
Deiter looked at the guard, hatred and anger flaring from his eyes. Then, he smiled. Coldly and malevolently. He cocked the weapon and put it between his lips. < It is only fitting. Grosfater was a martyr to the cause. I will follow his example. He would have been so proud ... >
The guard looked away as the shot reverberated through the holding area. Blood and bits of skull and brains spattered against the walls of the cell. He held his hands over his mouth and ran for the washroom, praying that he reached it before his dinner came up on him
**********
Natalie stood behind the couch and read the newspaper article over Nick's shoulder. It told of the dedication of the Prisoner Of War Memorial and Museum on the site of the former Stalag 13, a Prisoner Of War camp on the outskirts of Hammelburg, Germany. The picture showed three men, identified as Prince M'Naka'Mah II, Ruler Emeritus of Qanga, Inspector Peter Newkirk, Scotland Yard (ret.), and Louis LeBeau, owner of the Les Cailles Pourpres Restaurant in D'oiseau, France, all former prisoners there. With them was Wolfgang Schultz, General manager of the Hammerschlagen Mattel Factory and the son of one of the former guards at the Stalag. They all stood before four framed portraits. Wilhelm Klink, Hans Schultz, Robert Hogan, and Andrew Carter.
"I'm so glad they finally got to make their dreams into a reality." She asked as she sat down beside him.
"So am I. Now there is a permanent memorial to everyone who was ever a prisoner of war. I think it's long overdue." Nick said as he folded the paper and laid it on the end table.
"What about all the tunnels? Were they able to keep them without any cave ins?"
"According to Newkirk, they left a few of them in place as 'escape' tunnels, but they filled in the majority of the ones they had dug. They had to. It was part of their agreement with NATO and the German government. In exchange for permission to build the museum, they had to destroy every bit of evidence of the treasures that were once hidden there. Also, they had to destroy everything that even hinted that Papa Bear ever operated out of the camp."
"That sucks. They were heroes. For what they did, they should be remembered for centuries to come."
"They were a super secret organization, after all. Besides, their activities will always be remembered by their descendents and the descendents of the men they helped ... and by me. That covers a lot of future history. And maybe in some future time, what they did will be revealed. Then they will truly be heroes."
"Yes, I guess you're right. They will be remembered for years to come." She snuggled into his arms. "Now. What about tonight's movie?"
"I rented one that's kind of appropriate to the occasion ..." Nick pointed the remote toward the VCR. " ... Stalag 17."
He ducked and put up his arms as the throw pillow caught him squarely on the head..
**********
Peter Newkirk opened the display case. This section of the museum was devoted to the memory of the Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen that the Underground (of which Papa Bear was a vital part, even if they could never talk about it.) had returned to their homelands. This particular case contained mementos to the ones whose bodies were shipped back in canvas bags.
He took out a faded ID card from his pocket. He had taken it from the body of a dead pilot near here in the summer of 1943. He found it again while he was going through one of his old uniforms prior to donating it to the museum. He carefully smoothed it out and set it in the case. He touched the picture reverently. "Be at Peace, Wing Captain Nicholas B. Howell." He whispered as he shut the lid. "Wherever you are ... Whoever you are."
He paused for a moment. "You, too, Nicholas B. Knight. Whoever you are ... Whatever you are."
**********
Dedicated to the memory:
Robert Crane Werner Klemperer John Banner