Angels Fallen (5 page)

Schmitz busied himself in the hayloft preparing the barn for what was expected to be a harsh winter when he noticed two familiar figures approaching from the farm’s dirt road.

“It can’t be,” he said, mopping the sweat from his brow with a well-worn handkerchief.  “Look, look,” Schmitz shouted below. “The Captain and Goot have returned,” pointing at the fast approaching
figures. “Go and round up the rest of the boys and tell them the Captain and Goot have returned. Hurry now!”

Sch
mitz jumped down from the loft plopping safely into the hay cart positioned below.  “Captain, you have come back,” Schmitz yelled excitedly, jumping into the arms of Dieter, him staggering back a few steps under the boy’s weigh
t
—
undoubtedly a product of Inga’s delicious cooking.

“Schmitz it’s good to be home,” he said, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug.  “You can’t
believe how much I’ve missed this place. It’s been a long time without home-cooked food and pleasant surroundings.”

“Captain you must see what we have done with the farm,”
Schmitz said, yanking on Dieter’s sleeve. “We have cleaned the fields and the surrounding area of the overgrowth and even planted beets and turnips in their place. We even painted the farmhouse and put on a new roof with material we stole.”

“Borrowed,” Inga corrected him, having walked down to where the boys now stood
and wiping her hands on a stained apron. A smile graced her face that she only reserved for Dieter.

“Yes, excuse me,
borrowed
from the American soldiers in town,” he said. We even bought chickens and a milk cow with some money Inga had saved.”

Surveying the house, Dieter took note of the new roof and the surrounding fields and nodded approvingly. “You
have transformed what was a rundown farm into a home,” returning Inga’s loving gaze, knowing it was her motherly spirit that had transformed the farm into a real home.

The remaining boys made their way in from the fields gathering around Dieter and Goot, all offering their congratulations on a safe return home.

“Now to more pressing matters,” Dieter said. “Herr Goot and I haven’t had a decent meal in months and could quite possibly eat a bear,” rubbing Goot’s stomach for effect. The boys laughed heartily in response. “So if there’s enough food for Goot and myself, let us proceed to the table and eat our full share.  There is additional work to be done.”

O
nly Goot realized what Dieter was secretly referring to. 

Hans refilled his glass with a jigger of Irish, returning the half-empty bottle to its bedside perch. He felt like standing by the window one last time but exhaustion had settled in.

Father Dan and Jim sat on the edge of their chairs, awe struck by Hans’ revelation. A defiant Father Dan helped himself to the bottle, refilling Jim’s glass after his own. 

“It can’t end there Hans
. Tell us more you old coot,” Father Dan demanded.  “You have to tell us what happened to everyone who was involve
d—
Schmitz, Goot, Inga, the rest of the boys.”

Hans shook his head at Father Dan’s simple request, having unburdened himself of a story he had not en
trusted to anyone but his dear departed wife.  “I told you before we started that my story would shock you and by the look on your faces it worked.

Hans quickly
downed the remainder of his glass before continuing. “Don’t worry, in due time you will be privy to the information which you seek.  You will become detectives and find additional pieces of the puzzle on your own.”

Wishing he were ten years younger and able to go along himself, Hans relished the journey they were about to undertake.
He looked down at his pale hands holding an empty glass, purple and green veins clearly visible; he could see his body was slowly withering away.
The meat was leaving the bones
his grandmother would say. After all these years, he finally understood the expressions meaning.

Father Dan and Jim
sat discussing the story Hans had just relayed to them.

“Okay,
gentlemen,” Hans said, halting their conversation in mid-sentence, “I did withhold one small but very important detail of information from my tale.” A mischievous smile creased his face. He toyed with the glass he held in his hand, the pause planned. Reaching for another pain pill he washed it down with water, foregoing the Irish for the moment. He turned to fluff his pillow then laid his head back.  Comfortable once more, he began. “Now after my unit ambushed the truck, we moved the gold back to my family’s farm and I buried not one but two piles of gold and documents. The rationale was simple. If by chance one pile was discovered we still had the other as a safety net.  Later I retrieved one pile, deciding to keep the remainder of gold and documents hidden in the best possible place I could think of.  It was my insurance policy against anyone thinking of taking action against my family.”

“All right,
dad, you know the situation better than any of us,” Jim said. “But I do have a question concerning your story?”

Hans nodded
for him proceed.

“What
ever happened to the older gentleman in your story, Mr. Goot? Did you ever see him again?  He sounded like a real interesting character.”

Hans smiled. “
It was because of him the three months I spent interned in the American POW camp were a lot easier to deal with.  It was during our imprisonment that I informed Goot about my little insurance policy.”

Hans gaz
ed up at the ceiling, his mind wandering back to days long past before continuing.  “Unfortunately, my friend Goot was to experience none of our riches. A heart attack claimed him less than a month after we left the POW camp. We were in the process of moving the second pile of gold and documents to a safer location when it happened.  At the time, I was pretty certain no one from my unit was still alive, but what if one of them had mentioned their share of the pot to a friend or two? Moving it alleviated our fears.  No one could steal what they couldn’t find.  As we were preparing the second pile of gold for movement Goot suddenly grabbed his chest, falling to the ground in obvious pain.  He motioned me to his side, whispering what would become his dying words. It was something that would comfort me all of these years. In his last breath he said, ‘If it weren’t for you and the boys coming along, I would have died a lonely old man on an empty farm.  You gave me hope once more. I was lucky enough in life to have had two families.  Thank you, my friend.’” 

F
ather Dan was the first to speak: “He sounded like a hell of a man.”

“That he was,” Hans
was quick to reply.  “I acquired the best possible tombstone and coffin so he could rest comfortably in his eternity.  This, gentlemen, is one of the main reasons why you two must return to the land of my birth to gather the gold and documents, if it’s just to honor Goot.”

Jim and Father Dan concurred with a simple nod.

“Now,the gold will be easy enough to find.  It’s located on acreage that has been in our family for over six generations. That farm means a lot to m
e—
more than all the money I have in my possession.”

Hans reache
s for Jim’s hand, looking into his son’s eyes. For a moment he views a bit of his wife staring back at him. He obviously had his mother’s eyes and smile.

“Funny, isn’t it?  Y
ou learn many things about a person when they die.  You get to rummage through their personal things, possessions they have guarded closely in life, things only they would find value in.  You’ll be in a room full of junk and wonder why or what story is behind a certain picture or item.  Me, I’m beating you to the punch. I have provided you the story, now you need to live the ending.”

Hans sat back
, content with his story being in the open. After several awkward minutes he turned to face his son. “Jim, I need a minute or two of privacy with Father Dan. There are several issues I would prefer to say to this old Mick in private.”

Jim nod
ded. “No problem, Dad. I can just wait outside.” Jim turned to Father Dan, silently mouthing the words,
“You’re in trouble,”
before leaving the room to take a seat in the anteroom. 

The bedroom door now closed, Hans
slowly focused on Father Dan. Picking up the bottle of Irish, he carefully refilled the contents of both glasses before proceeding.  “And now we can turn our attention to the infamous Father Dan Flaherty, or should I just call you Dan?”

Father Dan was about to speak in protest.

Hans cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Hold your tongue until I’m through.  And may I remind you that this has been a long time in coming.  Ever since you first set foot in my humble house some twenty plus years ago, one big lie has been hanging over your head.”

Father Dan tried to protest but Hans
once more cut him off with a wave of his hand.  “Please allow me to finish before you consider rebuffing me.” 

Dan nodded silently in agreement, wondering why the sudden change in demeanor. 

Hans smiled. “The main reason you came to this country was to escape the British and Ulster factions in Northern Ireland. For they don’t take too kindly to a man like yourself being involved in the IRA’s militant activities, do they?”

Hans mustered an ear-to-ear grin at seeing the look of surprise, nay shock, upon Father Dan’s face, having looked forward to this moment since he first found out about Father Dan’s secret identity.

Arising from his chair, neither caring for the sudden shift in tone nor the accusation, Father Dan slammed his half-empty whiskey glass down on the nightstand.  “Damn it Hans, are the drugs affecting you so badly that you would accuse your best friend of something as ridiculous as this?”

“I’m not finished yet, Dan. 
Sit your ass back down and listen to what I have to say.” The excitement was a little too much for him as he once again reached for his oxygen line, placing it under his nose, a wave to Father Dan signifying he was okay.

Father Dan sat back down. “Al
l right, you don’t have to have a heart attack before your cancer takes you away.” 

B
oth waited several uncomfortable minutes until Hans could proceed.

“Let’s try this one more time.” Hans sought the right words to say to his dear friend without totally offending him. “You don’t have to worry about your previous life in
Ireland. I haven’t told a soul, scouts honor.” Hans held up his hand up as if he were swearing an oath in court.  “I’ve kept your little secret all this time and even deflected some inquires by our own authorities.  Hell, if you remember, I even sponsored your citizenship.”

Father Dan smiled in agreement.
The citizenship party Hans threw for him lasted for 2 days.

“I had plenty of time and chances to turn you in
, if I had wanted too
,” he said.  “Let’s get back to the reason you’re here.  It’s simple really—I want you to use some of your covert connections here in the U.S. and overseas to help my son to bring the rest of the gold back to the states.”

“But, Hans, I…
”

Again Hans
cut him off. “Enough, Dan, I’ve known about your secret identity since the first years you stepped foot on our humble shores. I’ve made it a point to have each and every one of my close friends investigated to safeguard myself from any possible threats.  It’s just a precaution I take due to my own checkered past.  Many years have passed since I had your records verified through an old German army friend of mine who worked at INTERPOL.”

Father Dan’s eyes went wide with the mention of INTERPOL. 

“Have no worries, your secret will remain buried deep in some obscure file placed in a storage building in Luxembourg. I also had my friend, shall we say, borrow from your record any of the real damaging accusations made against you.  Of course, this will leave you free to travel anywhere in Europe—well, almost anywhere in Europe, obviously not Ireland or England.  I understand they still have a high price on your ugly mug.”

“I’m truly sorry, Hans,” he said.  “As your trusted friend and confident, I never should have tried to keep this secret from you
. I truly thank you for not betraying me or my cause. It happened a long time ago and I have tried to put it all behind me.” 

Hans kne
w a thing or two about secrets.  Reaching out, tapping his friend on the arm, signaling for him to stop, he had his confirmation. “It’s your turn to delight me in a story, Dan,” Hans said, dropping the
Father
portion. “I mean, I can just call you Dan, right, since you really aren’t a priest?”

Dan nodded.  

“How did you settle on the priest disguise?  Why not a trucker or a steelworker?  You would have blended in easier.” He jokingly reaches for his bedpan in anticipation of the story to come. “This should be a real doozy.”

“You really know how to make someone feel welcome don’t you? But I must compliment you on your detective skills my friend.  Well, as you have obviously known for twenty some years,
I am not a real priest per say, but I do live as best I can to uphold a priest’s convictions.  I could not and will not soil the reputation of a religion that has provided me a wonderful refuge for all of this tim
e
—
a forced one at that.  Now, let’s regress to a time when I was a young naïve lad from the country with dirt behind my ears, atime when I was more than willing to blindly follow someone for the caus
e
—
becoming a member of the outlawed Irish Republican Army. It was my little way of striking back against those who ruled our land. You know the details better then I on that one.”

A well-versed student of history, Hans motion
s for Dan to carry on. 

“As a common soldier, I was assigned to the Belfast Feinian group which happened to be the most radical of all the IRA splinter groups. After a few years of destroying police stations and maiming
Ulster soldiers, my supervisors provided me with a new assignment. Unfortunately for me, this particular job would forever shape my destiny.”

Dan filled his now empty glass with water, taking a sip before continuing. “My primary assignment was to destroy a certain hotel when a militant
Ulster faction would be occupying its upper floors for supposed peace talks.” Dan stopped for a moment as if in contemplation, smiling, before carrying on. “Looking back now, if I had the brains to refuse the job; who knows? I might have been a history teacher in some Shannon middle school classroom.” He allowed a half-hearted smile to escape, looking out the bedroom window and thinking of what might have been.

He continued
. “After performing the mission without fail, my name happened to surface at the local police constabulary as a potential suspect. Someone had dropped the dime on me. One of my many enemies I suppose but who really knew?  I required a quick vacation out of Ireland until the heat wore off.  That’s when my little demon appeared. When I was trying to escape Ireland twenty-two years ago, I went into hiding at a local Catholic Church that was sympathetic to the IRA cause. 

During my time spent at the church, I helped out doing various
duties—cleaning, carpentry. It was about this time that I met a mysterious man who called himself Father Perluci.  He represented himself as a meek and humble man from the Vatican, out to help me in my unfortunate plight—
turns out he was as much a priest as I am now
.  No, sir, he was an agent who used the disguise of a priest in order to put his prey at ease. Perluci worked in a little known Vatican office that is the equivalent to the American CIA or British MI-6, only the people don’t work for money.  They do it for religious conviction. Perluci was well aware of my radical background and threatened to expose me to the English unless I crossed the line and came to work for them.  Within a week, they provided me with an alias that allowed me to leave Ireland on favorable terms.”