Rhineland Inheritance (18 page)

“Karl says he has found the man who runs the smuggling ring. He and his gang managed to get this from him—don't ask me how. All he would tell me is that the shadows of this city are his friends. Anyway, Karl wants to be paid for the information. Part will go directly to him and his gang, and part to the other gangs that have helped out. The chaplain and I are supposed to dispense the funds.”

“How much?” The colonel groaned.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“Good grief! Why not make it ten million? I'd have just about as much chance finding it.”

“Yessir, I told him that,” Jake replied calmly. “Karl will wait until the goods have been collected by our men—if we give our word that he will receive either the money or half of everything we gain from the arrests. The choice is ours, not his.”

Colonel Beecham stared at him from beneath grizzled brows. “That boy is willing to trust us?”

“Not us,” Pierre corrected. “He trusts Jake, and only Jake.”

“What about this idea of spreading the dough around all the other kids?”

“I wondered about that too, sir,” Jake replied. “It appears that during his stint in the hospital, Karl started growing a conscience.”

“He's always had one,” Sally countered. “He's finally found somebody to use as an example.”

“All right,” Beecham said. “I've got meetings scheduled with the brass in Frankfurt this afternoon. The plane's due here in two hours. I'll try this out on them and see what they say.”

“Quietly, please, sir,” Jake asked.

“A big amen to that,” Sally agreed. “Make sure they
understand this has to be kept quiet. There'd be a real explosion if Connors were to catch wind of this.”

“Leave it with me. Connors isn't the only one with allies in the top brass. I'll do my utmost to make sure this thing stays under wraps.” He looked at Jake and said, “Burnes, I'm leaving you in charge.”

“Me, sir?”

“I know, I know, it's against my better judgment too. But O'Reilly is coming with me, and Saunders is still laid up.” Major O'Reilly was the colonel's second in command. Captain Saunders, head of administration, was down with inflammation of an old chest wound.

“Sir, I'll try—”

“Spare me,” the colonel growled. “Just try and keep the base intact. Do you think that's within your power?”

“Yessir, I'm certain of it, sir.”

“We'll see.” Beecham looked doubtful. “I keep asking myself how much damage one man can make in one day. But I've learned not to underestimate you, Burnes.”

“Thank you, sir. I guess.”

Jake took to carrying the little pocket New Testament around with him, pulling it out and glancing through it when he had a free moment. Most of it seemed to be just a jumble of old words, incomprehensible sayings, and strange commands that did not seem to have much to do with any problem he faced. But he drew comfort from the act of reading, not so much at the time, but afterward. There was a different flavor to the hours of that day, despite the fact that he felt like a blind man when the Book was in his hands.

That afternoon Sally found him bent over the text in the infirmary's cramped waiting room. “What have you got there, soldier?”

“Nothing,” he said, embarrassed. He jammed it back into his pocket and buttoned down the flap. “The chaplain's asleep.”

“Not anymore. I just went up to see him. I walked right by you, but you were so caught up you didn't notice me.”

“That's not possible.”

“How easily they forget.” She pointed at his pocket. “What is it?”

“Nothing, Sally. Just a Bible.”

“Just, the man says. Is this the chaplain's idea?”

“Who else's?”

“You'd better watch it, soldier. You've got all the makings of a great man.”

Jake glanced around the room. “Who are you talking to, Sally?”

“I'm talking to you,” she said. “Do you know what we are, Jake Burnes?”

“Misguided fools?” he suggested. “Poor lost souls?”

She stepped up close to him and said, “We are friends.”

“I'm happy for that,” Jake said quietly. “But I can't help wishing for more.”

“Don't look down on friendship,” she countered. “Most people go through their whole lives without one true friend of the other sex.”

Jake thought about that and then said what came naturally to his mind. “Seems to me friendship would be a nice way to start something deeper.”

She pulled away from him. “That's the problem with wisdom. Sometimes it comes out with the very last thing you want to hear.” She started for the door. “I'm off to sort through some papers. Go see the chaplain, soldier. Tell him I said to watch it with the wisdom. You've got too much of it already.”

“That woman certainly needs a friend,” Chaplain Fox said, after Jake had told him of their conversation. “Friendship is such a serious responsibility, though, I sometimes wonder whether people would accept the challenge if they really knew what they were letting themselves in for.”

Jake inspected the man resting comfortably in the elevated bed. There seemed to be a marked improvement in his condition since the day before. A number of his bruises were more pronounced today, but his entire demeanor had been helped by the night's rest. “I've met some strange ducks in this war, Chaplain. But I do believe you take the cake.”

Fox smiled. “I once heard an old pastor describe himself as nothing more than a simple truth-teller. That is the ideal I set for my life. Just to tell people the truth.”

“What if they don't want to hear it?”

“Sometimes what people object to isn't so much the truth itself as the way it's communicated,” Chaplain Fox replied. “I believe God does not use the From-On-High routine with us very often, because being talked down to makes the message much harder to swallow. No, instead He uses plain, simple folk like you and me. And He tells us to be humble in everything we do and say. So I find a lot of people willing to listen to me. They may disagree, but that is their choice. At least I have done my bit.”

“Maybe God uses you as His errand boy,” Jake said. “But I doubt if He's gotten all that much out of me.”

“Oh, I don't know.” The clear gaze rested on him. “Take care of your new friend, will you, Jake?”

“I'll try,” he said without conviction. “I don't know whether she'll let me.”

“Just live up to your own responsibilities, and learn to give the rest to God's care.” The chaplain turned his face toward the ceiling. “If you'll excuse me, I think perhaps I'll rest a little now. All this truth-telling is exhausting.”

Sally found Jake later that afternoon checking preparations at the feeding station. “Beecham's come through again, soldier.”

“He's back already?”

“Next thing to it,” she replied, waving a yellow paper. “Take a look at this.”

Jake wiped greasy hands on his apron, accepted the cable, and read, “Held over here. Tell Burnes he has green light. Proceed with caution. Wolves about. Beecham.”

“That's it, then,” Jake said, feeling the familiar old pre-combat adrenaline rush.

Sally was watching him. “I assume you read the closing lines.”

“I'll take care, Sally. I promise.”

Her gaze turned flat, opaque. “Yeah. Right,” she said. “Tell me another one, soldier. You can hardly wait for the chance to go marching into battle.”

“I am going to take care,” Jake repeated, putting as much feeling into it as he could. “For you as much as for me.”

The hardness melted away, exposing the wounds of another time. “Oh, Jake,” she sighed. “Why do you have to say those things.”

“You know why,” he replied. “Now go tell Pierre to join me. He's playing Papa in the créche.”

Sally searched his face and started to say something, then stopped, wheeled around, and scrambled across the rubble heap. Jake watched with a hungry heart as she left.

“That's some dame, sir,” Sergeant Morrows said, stirring a steaming cauldron nearby. He was grinning from ear to ear as he voiced the words.

“Hand that ladle to somebody else and come over here, Sergeant.”

“Aw, hey, I didn't mean anything by that, sir. Can't you take a joke?”

Jake turned on his heel and stomped out of range. Sergeant Morrows followed reluctantly. He stopped a pace away and protested, “Honest, sir—”

“As far as anybody else is concerned I am chewing you out,” Jake said softly. “So keep your face screwed up.”

Morrows ducked his head, kicked at a stone, said, “Yessir.”

“I believe I can trust you, Sergeant.”

“I'd like to think so, sir.”

“Can you find another dozen or so men who know how to button up their lips and keep them that way?”

“As many as you like, sir.”

“We're going on a raiding party, Sergeant. As soon as it's dark.” Jake glanced at his watch. “That gives you less than two hours to round them up and get them ready.”

Morrows looked as if he had just sucked the juice from an overripe lemon, but nothing could hide the gleam in his eye. “Is it to do with the treasure, sir?”

“Could be, Sergeant.” Jake scratched his face to maintain the scowl. “This has got to be on the QT, Sergeant. Strictly confidential. The colonel knows about it. He's given go-ahead. The danger doesn't come from him.”

“I understand perfectly, sir.” Morrows was having trouble restraining himself. “Where's the rendezvous point?”

“At the lay-by between HQ and the main camp. In ninety minutes.”

“We'll be there, sir. Armed and ready for the dance.”

“Go to it, then.” Jake spotted Pierre and waved him over. “Servais and I have got to see our contact.”

Sergeant Morrows snapped to attention and bellowed out, “Sir, yessir! It won't happen again, sir!”

“Ninety minutes, Sergeant,” Jake said quietly. “Be on time.”

Chapter Seventeen

Karl pointed through the blackness to a single glowing window. “He is in there.”

They were gathered on a city street reduced to heaps of rubble by the allied bombardment. They huddled in what had once been someone's basement, now a hole partially filled with the remains of the house that had stood overhead. The building across the street had fared better. The walls appeared to be intact, and the window they watched held signs of great wealth in war-ravaged Germany—glass panes and curtains.

Jake turned to Sergeant Morrows and said in a muted voice, “Have your men fan out. You take the rear detail, circle around, and make sure every possible avenue of escape is covered.”

Morrows squinted into the darkness, measuring the ground with an experienced eye, and said, “Fifteen minutes max.”

“The signal to move will be a whistle. Remember, we want this man alive. Nobody is to shoot unless the other side shoots first.”

“I've spelled it out personal to the men, sir.”

Jake spent another moment going over everything in his mind once more. Then he said, “All right. Get going.”

Sergeant Morrows rose from his crouch, gave the signal. They started forward in utter stealth. But the rubble beneath their feet was loose; as one soldier scrambled out, a rock went ricocheting down to the bottom, where it hit against a piece of roofing, then splashed into a puddle with a noise that seemed to shatter the night.

Each man froze where he was. All eyes remained on the window.

A second crack of light appeared as the door of the dwelling opened. A figure came into view, silhouetted by the interior
lighting. He stood and looked straight at them. Jake resisted the urge to duck, to move, to hide.

Then the impossible happened.

A rasping man's voice spoke at a level barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to be heard clearly in the freezing quiet.
“Bitte kommen Sie vorwärts, Herr Kapitän Burnes.
I have been expecting you.”

“I knew it was you because the other hunters would not have stopped at only one item,” the man continued on in German, his voice strangely hoarse.

“I was told you had so much treasure stuffed in your chests that you'd never notice if one piece was gone,” Jake countered. He sat alone in a cluttered parlor. His men surrounded the building. Everywhere Jake looked there were signs of wealth, relative to the rest of the German nation that winter evening—four solid walls, a dry chamber, the remains of a meal on a simple wooden table, a fire in the grate.

“Ah, there the mistake was made,” came the whispered reply. “My training stressed thoroughness in all things, Herr Kapitän.”

The man limped to one corner and hefted a high-caliber rifle equipped with a sniper's scope. “You should understand that.”

“You shot at me in the forest,” Jake said.

“Wrong, Captain. I shot at a tree. If I had shot at you we would not be speaking together now.”

The right side of the man's lower face and much of his neck had been scooped out, as though someone had attacked it with a giant razor-sharp spoon. He swallowed with difficulty, and spoke only with great effort. Jake pointed at the wound and asked, “Where did you pick that up?”

“On the eastern front,” he exhaled. “I was proving to be quite a bother, so the Russians moved up their artillery and opened fire.”

“You're lucky to be here.”

“In more ways than one, Captain. When the rout began, and the Nazi army was forced to retreat across frozen tundra with nothing to eat for days on end, I was safely back in my beloved Badenburg, settled in a comfortable hospital bed.”

“So how did you get into the treasure-smuggling game?”

“There were almost no able-bodied men available toward the end of the war,” he replied. “Even the severely wounded like me were forced into service. Not in uniform, however. No. I became servant to one of the ranking SS officers.”