Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (9 page)

“Sauer was a specialist in World War II and particularly the Nazis and what happened to them after the war.”

“That may be your key, Matt. If Wyatt and Sauer were collaborating, it might have to do with those old Nazis. Did Wyatt concentrate on a particular historical period?”

“Pretty much on the diplomatic history of the period between the World Wars.”

“Then between them, they’d be able to cover a lot of the history that impacts us today. Those were bad times.”

“Where can I find out more about the people from that time?”

“There are archives in Germany that have detailed records of the people who were involved in the Nazi party and the death camps. They’re pretty well indexed now, but you’d have to have a researcher who knew what he was doing to understand them. And, you’re not likely to get into them unless you know some strings to pull. They’re pretty much restricted to historians, and then only to a small group who study that period of time.”

“Do you know anybody who could help?”

“Afraid not. The first hurdle is getting into the archives. And, don’t forget, the records are all in German.”

“Thanks, Austin. You’ve been a big help.”

“I hope so. Let me know if you need anything else.” He hung up.

Logan knocked on my door and came in. “I had to park out on the road and walk in. The parking lot’s full of police and firefighters. I don’t think your car’s drivable.” He smiled, taking some of the sting out of the morning’s events. “You look like shit. Again.”

“That kid Jimmy from the auto shop. I got him killed, Logan.”

“No, you didn’t. Some asshole was trying to kill you and got the kid instead.”

“It was my fault.”

“How do you figure that?”

“If I hadn’t gotten involved in this thing, nobody would be trying to kill me.”

“You don’t know that. It might be somebody from your past.”

“I don’t think so, Logan. If it were, why would they wait until now to take their shot? Too much of a coincidence.”

“And you never liked coincidences.”

“I don’t believe in them.”

“You can’t undo what’s done.”

“Ah, more New England wisdom. That doesn’t help.”

“Look, Matt. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up. Let’s find the bomber and square things for Jimmy’s murder.”

“You’re right. I’ll call his family. Offer condolences. That’s about all I can do.”

I told him about my conversation with Austin. “If Chardone hadn’t taken the computers, I wouldn’t think there was a connection between the list and the murders. But there must be a link of some kind. Why else would Wyatt have sent the disc to Donna? Why would the killer take the computers? What was in there that he didn’t want anybody else to know?”

“Too bad the other files Wyatt sent Donna were corrupted. They might have told us something.”

“You can bet on it.”

“What now?”

“I did a computer search of some of the names on the list. It didn’t make sense to me at the time, because most of the ones I could find had to do with Nazis. I couldn’t make any kind of connection, but after talking to Austin I think they may have all been involved in smuggling Nazis out of Europe.”

“What’s that got to do with Wyatt?”

“I have no idea.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“I need to talk to someone who has access to the German archives from the war. Maybe there’s some connection between Wyatt, Sauer and, the people on the list. I’ve got an old friend in Germany who may be able to help.”

It was not yet mid-morning, mid-afternoon in Germany. I called the American Embassy in Berlin, and asked to speak to General Burke Winn, the military attaché. The operator told me that the general was not in the embassy, but that she would put me through to somebody who could help me.

“Marine detachment, Master Sergeant Tom Butner speaking, sir.”

“My name is Matthew Royal,” I said. “I’m trying to get hold of General Winn. I was told that you could help me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the general is at the consulate in Frankfurt this week and next. You can probably reach him there on Monday. I know he’s in meetings in Cologne today, but he’s due back in Frankfurt on Monday.”

“Thank you, Master Sergeant.” I closed my phone.

I explained to Logan that Burke Winn and I had served together in Vietnam. He’d stayed in the army, and I knew that he was presently posted to Berlin as the military attaché. He’d been there for a couple of years, and I was pretty sure he’d have some contacts that could get me into Germany’s World War II archives. Maybe I could pick up a trail there.

“I’m going to Germany,” I said.

“When?”

“Burke’s due back in the office on Monday. If I leave here Sunday afternoon, I’ll be in Frankfurt the next morning.”

“Do you think that’ll do any good?”

“It can’t do any harm.”

When you travel by Delta Airlines, you always change in Atlanta. It’s a rule etched in stone somewhere. My flight from Tampa to Atlanta was uneventful. I took the tram across Hartsfield-Jackson airport to the international terminal, did the customs thing, and boarded the 757 that would take me to Germany. It was late afternoon, and with the time change, the nine-hour flight would get me to Frankfurt a little before eight the next morning.

I settled into my business-class seat and was reviewing the safety placard when I sensed someone standing over me. I looked up into the blue eyes of a tall blonde flight attendant.

“Hey, soldier,” she said, “looking for a good time in Frankfurt?”

“The only problem I can see with that is that you’d never be satisfied again with Russ.

She laughed. “I didn’t know you were flying with us.”

Patti Coit and her husband, Russ, lived in the Village on Longboat Key. He was a pilot, and both worked for Delta. They were old friends of mine, and it was just happenstance that I ended up on her flight.

“Just made the reservation yesterday. Kind of an unplanned trip. How’s Russ?”

“He’s fine. He’s in the cockpit tonight.”

“Does he know how to fly this thing?”

“Probably not, but these new planes are so automated a monkey can fly them. Russ’s job is to keep the monkey happy.”

I laughed. “Well, don’t distract him.”

“Russ or the monkey?”

“Neither.”

“I haven’t seen you since Wyatt’s funeral. Are you holding up okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you taking a vacation?”

“No. I’ve got to see an old friend tomorrow afternoon in Frankfurt. Somebody tried to kill me yesterday, and I’m hoping my friend can help me unravel this mess.”

“Tried to kill you? My God, Matt, what happened?”

I told her about the car bombing and that the police had no idea of who was responsible.

“I’m glad you’re okay. Russ and I were in Hawaii until yesterday. We didn’t even go home. Came straight to Atlanta to go back to work. Why would anyone want to kill you?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if it had something to do with Wyatt’s death.”

“What’s the connection to Frankfurt?”

“An old army buddy is there, and I’m hoping he can put me in touch with some people who can get me into the World War II archives dealing with France under the German occupation.”

“The Vichy Regime?”

“Yeah. Do you know anything about that period?”

“Some,” she said, “but that’s only because a friend from college did a doctoral dissertation on Vichy. She about drove me nuts talking about it. She works for the embassy in Paris, but she’s in Frankfurt tomorrow. Russ and I are going to have lunch with her. Why don’t you join us?”

I accepted the invitation, and Patti went about the cabin taking care of her passengers. My mind kept wandering back to Jimmy Griner, the kid who was killed in my blown-up car. He had a wife and a young son. I had talked to his wife and then I called his parents. I told them that it was my car Jimmy was in. I assured them that I didn’t know who was responsible, but I was going to do my damndest to find out. I wanted to see some justice for their boy.

Nine hours is a long time to be cooped up in a plane, but I made the best of it. I dozed on and off during the trip, and at some point Russ came back and sat with me for a few minutes. I told him about the bomb and that
I was hoping to find out something in Germany. We chatted about our friends on the key, and in a few minutes I shooed him back to the cockpit. I was worried about him leaving the monkey alone.

Frankfurt is a large and bustling city, the commercial hub of the resurgent Germany. Its airport is one of the busiest in the world, but we cleared customs with a minimum of fuss. The blustery cold of November in central Germany hit us as we stepped out of the terminal. We grabbed a taxi to the small hotel where Delta put up its crews on layovers, across the street from the main train station.

I took an hour’s nap, showered, shaved, and dressed in slacks, a long-sleeve shirt, and a heavy jacket. I met the Coits in the lobby, and we walked the three blocks to a small restaurant tucked between mid-rise office buildings.

We entered the vestibule, the steam heat hitting us with warm air. A woman stood with her back to us, talking to the hostess in German. She turned, a grin breaking out on her face, and stepped quickly to hug Patti and then Russ. She was beautiful; mid-thirties, five seven or so, dark hair framing her face and hanging to her shoulders, light makeup, slender with enough roundness to catch my interest. She wore a gray skirt, navy blue sweater, and low-heel pumps. A single gold chain hung from her neck, a small dolphin at the end nestled between her breasts. She took my breath away.

“Matt Royal,” said Patti, “this is Jessica Connor. Jess knows everything there is to know about Vichy France.”

“Well, almost everything,” said Jess, and displayed a smile that made me fear that I was going to faint. I’m not kidding.

We were shown to a table, and Patti explained that I was a friend from home and why I was in Europe. “I told him you did your doctoral dissertation on the Vichy government. Matt,” she said turning to me, “did I mention that Jess is fluent in both German and French?”

Jessica took a sip of her wine. “Why do you think your friend’s murder had anything to do with a bunch of Fascists who’ve been dead for more than half a century?”

“Wyatt was a historian,” I said, “and he was working on something that had to do with Vichy. He was in contact with another history professor at the University of Florida who was murdered the same day as Wyatt. The only thing we have concerning his research is a list of names.”

I handed her a copy of the list. “I’m told that many of these people were involved in the Vichy government and others were Croatian Fascists. Some of them were priests and others were Argentines. Somehow, they all relate back to Vichy, and I think if I can put the lines together, I might be able to figure out why Wyatt was killed.”

“What brings you to Frankfurt?”

“An old army buddy of mine is a general and is the military attaché to Germany. He’s been working out of the consulate here for the past couple of weeks, and I’m hoping he can get me into the German archives dealing with Vichy.”

“Maybe I can help,” Jess said. “I don’t have to be back in Paris until Monday.”

“I’d really appreciate it, Jess.”

“I’m staying at the Intercontinental. Call me after you’ve seen the general. We’ll have dinner.”

We finished our meal as Patti and Jessica reminisced about their college days. Russ rolled his eyes a couple of times, but otherwise seemed content to sit and listen to stories he’d heard dozens of times. I was content just to sit and watch Jess.

I asked the Coits to join Jess and me for dinner that night, but they had to be rested for the flight back to Atlanta the next day. They begged off and went back to the hotel. I put Jess in a taxi, and got another for myself. I gave the driver the address of the consulate on Giessner Strasse and sat back in the seat, visions of Jessica ruining my concentration on the scenery passing by.

I showed my passport to the Marine guard at the door of the Consulate and told him I was looking for the military attaché’s office. He directed me down a hall and up some stairs. I found it easily enough. The door was open and I walked in.

A young man wearing a U.S. army uniform sat at a receptionist desk. The epaulets of his long-sleeve green shirt held a small brass insignia, indicating the rank of sergeant. The black plastic name tag over his right breast pocket bore his surname, Olenski. He was working at his computer, intent on the monitor screen.

I cleared my throat and got his attention. He looked up from the screen and said, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I hope so. I’m looking for a raggedy-assed corporal named Burke Winn.”

He looked a little surprised and discomfited. “I’m sorry, sir. The military attaché is a brigadier general named Burke Winn. I never heard of a corporal by that name.”

“Would you be kind enough to ask the general if he knows a raggedy-assed corporal named Burke Winn?”

“Sir, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Son, I think you’re going to get a major league ass chewing if I leave here without that question being asked.”

“May I tell the general your name, sir?”

“Matthew Royal.”

The sergeant picked up the phone and punched two buttons. “Sir,” he said into the receiver, “there’s a gentleman here inquiring as to whether
you know, and I’m quoting sir, a raggedy-assed corporal named Burke Winn.”

The sergeant was silent for a beat, then, “Says his name’s Matthew Royal, sir.” He pulled the phone from his ear, stared briefly at the receiver, a puzzled look on his face, and hung up.

The door to the inner office burst open, and out strode a man in army green, wearing his uniform tie and jacket with one silver star on each epaulet. The area above his left breast pocket held eight rows of ribbons, topped by the Combat Infantry Badge. Paratrooper wings were pinned to the pocket flap. He had a unit patch on his left sleeve that I didn’t recognize, with a ranger tab over it. His right sleeve, the one on which a patch designating the unit with which he served in combat would appear, had the patch of the Army Special Forces, the storied Green Berets. He was about five foot ten and probably weighed two hundred pounds. It looked like all muscle. He had shaved his head completely bald, and I could see a fringe of a day’s growth of stubble bordering the crown. He had a grin on his face.