The Schliemann Legacy (24 page)

"Humanity?" David said, unable to help himself. "You are a murderer. Pure evil!"

"What do you know of anything?"

"I was there," David whispered. "I was at Majdanek! My mother gave you that." David pointed at the scar on the old man's left cheek.

Heiden slowly ran the tip of his finger down the side of his face. He flushed as the rage within him built and the scar stood out in white relief. With extreme effort, he regained control. The spawn of that Jew bitch - fate smiled. He kept his left hand behind his back, waiting for his opportunity.

"You know nothing of my mission," he sneered. "How could a Jew understand the thinking of a great mind like Hitler's? It's no wonder we rid the world of your inferior stock. We will build, we will create, but first we must cleanse. Hitler leads the world into the greatness that it can become. Who are you thieves to sit in judgment?"

David heard the rhetoric spouted in the present tense and realized the old man had retreated into the past. A pitiful lunatic playacting at being a soldier again. God forgive me my thoughts of revenge, David thought. Disgusted with his anger, he lowered his Uzi.

Heiden lunged suddenly, swinging the automatic toward David's head. David saw the flash of metal and swung at Heiden with his free arm. The blow hit the Nazi below his right eye, sending the frail man backwards. The gun clattered to the floor. Heiden twisted and tripped over the cuffs of his pants. Unable to stop his awkward dance, the old man staggered into one of the pikes. The point pierced his chest, driven deep by the German's own weight.

David watched in disbelief as Heiden's body fell to the cement floor. Katrina stooped to check for a pulse but she knew instantly that Heiden was gone. A flash on the floor caught her eye and she picked up the ring that had fallen from Heiden's hand. She slipped it into her pocket as she stood.

David stared down at the old Nazi. He wished he could summon the earlier rage and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing Heiden dead. Instead, he felt a burning guilt. He remembered the words from the Nuremberg trials. "The heinous crimes scream for punishment, but we must have justice. Justice under the law. Without law, we become our enemy." With a final look at Heiden's corpse, he walked out of the room.

Chapter 29 - THE BATTLE

Helene huddled in the copilot's seat. This had begun as a game, she thought. Now she realized the seriousness of her actions. She had seen Viktor running through the garden firing his gun - with her grandfather close behind. Her grandfather had shot at her! She looked into the darkened back seats. Could those crates mean more to her grandfather than her own life?

She knew the objects had been missing for over forty years, but they hardly seemed that important. The bits of metal were not as beautiful as the King Tut treasures. However, if they were worth that much to her grandfather, they might be worth as much to others. That meant mounds of money. Brightening, she turned to Richard.

"Are we going to Bogotá?"

He nodded but didn't look over at her. He held the control stick with both hands. For the first time, Helene noticed the sweat standing out on his forehead and the difficulty he was having. She looked down at the blackness of the jungle below and then ahead at the distant lights of the city.

"Won't they know where to find us if we go there?"

"They don't have to."

Helene looked back at him and then through the side window. Another helicopter came into view.

Viktor.

If her grandfather would allow Viktor to shoot at her, what else would he let the huge German do? She had heard whispers of Viktor's sadism. One night, she had even heard the screams of one of his whores.

"Lose him!" she yelled at Richard. "I thought this was the faster helicopter. You promised me that we would get away. You said 'no problem.' You said they wouldn't catch us. You promised!"

Richard released one hand from the stick and, for a moment, Helene thought he was going to strike her. Then the chopper lurched and he had to grasp the control stick again.

"We were hit," he said. "We lost the hydraulics. I can't outrun him. I can't even keep us in the air. I have to set down. Then I am going to get rid of the bastard, for good."

Helene looked over at the helicopter beside them and chewed nervously on a strand of her hair.

* * * * *

Duman spotted a field outside Bogotá. Unfortunately, it was big enough for both helicopters. But he had no choice. He descended.

The landing was hard, almost jarring his hands from the controls. Helene was thrown sideways and her head struck the doorframe. She slumped to the side and Duman could see the large bump already forming below her left eye. Ignoring the girl, he shut down the engine immediately and grabbed the MAC 10 beside him. As he opened the door of the chopper, a brilliant spotlight blinded him.

Viktor landed his craft twenty feet from the Hynes 5. Duman let loose a short burst of automatic fire and the spotlight exploded.

The German dove to the ground as the light went out and crawled to the right. He glimpsed a fleeting silhouette but didn't fire. He couldn't risk killing Helene.

Duman worked feverishly on the MAC 10. The gun had jammed. He tossed the useless metal on the ground and reached into the helicopter for his revolver. Suddenly, a powerful arm reached around Duman and dragged him backwards. An instant later, he was lying on the ground, Bitkowski towering above him and pointing a .45 caliber at his groin.

"Where is the satisfaction if you just shoot me?" Duman taunted in German. "Wouldn't you rather kill me with your bare hands? Aren't you the Master Race? I saw you with those putrid Cartel boys. Are you afraid of a real man? Come on, you German pussy. Be a man for once."

Viktor tossed the gun aside, flexed his massive hands and swung his arms to loosen his strong shoulder muscles. Without speaking a word, he backed off three steps and motioned Duman forward.

Viktor dwarfed the terrorist. Duman knew that at six foot seven, the German had a serious advantage in reach and weight. But the German was at least sixty years old. Duman had KGB training in unarmed combat but he never really practiced. Bombs and guns were Duman's solution. Moving with feigned awkwardness and pain, Duman took one step and launched himself into the air. Both feet connected with Viktor's face.

Viktor landed on the ground in a sitting position, blood gushed from his broken nose. Duman recovered from the kick and turned to the helicopter, trying for the revolver.

Viktor jumped to his feet and grabbed Duman's collar, yanking him around. The terrorist thrust his knee into the German's groin. Viktor grunted and doubled over. Duman dug his fingers into Viktor's thick neck, trying to tear the carotid. But Bitkowski flexed muscles were rock hard. He pried Duman's hands apart and tossed him into the side of the helicopter. Duman hit hard, his head snapping into the metal fuselage.

Dazed, Duman tried to prop himself up as the giant stepped toward him. From the small of his back, Viktor drew a knife with a long, thick, double-edged blade. Steadily, he approached Duman - the knife ready to slash at the terrorist. Duman fought to make his body respond. Then Duman saw an arm and the barrel of a gun poke through the door of the helicopter. Helene leaned out and pulled the trigger.

Viktor's huge chest exploded into a mushy pulp. He took another step and the gun exploded twice more. The giant fell.

Duman stared at the smoking revolver, then raised his gaze to meet Helene's. Her eyes were bright with confidence and, for a moment, he almost respected her.

"Well?" she asked. "Does the other helicopter work any better than this one?"

* * * * *

"We're here, Sweetheart."

Duman turned off the Jeep's ignition and looked at the tousled blonde in the seat beside him. Asleep, Helene looked small and helpless - an innocent child except for the huge bruise under her left eye. He had trouble reconciling this girl with the woman holding the revolver. He wondered who had taught her to use a handgun. Whoever it was, he silently blessed them. Duman nudged her, then got out of the Jeep and walked around to her side.

Helene stretched and yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her fists before she remembered the bruise. She cursed and then asked, "What time is it?"

"After midnight," he said, taking her hand.

"Where are we?"

Duman ignored the question. Helene looked disoriented as he pulled her across the sodden grass toward a small shack. A crack of light barely showed beneath the wooden door. "Richard, what are we doing here?" she asked.

"Getting the hell out of this country," he said. "We still have the Cartel to worry about. They won't be happy that we broke up their little spot in the jungle. Those boys have some major egos and we just gave them quite a kick to their egos tonight. You have to be prepared for them because they will make Viktor seem like a really nice guy."

Duman was happy to see the fear creep into Helene's eyes. He was sure the Cartel would be looking and the last thing he needed was those greasy thugs sneaking up on him.

Duman knocked once and opened the door.

A man wearing a leather bomber jacket was sitting at a table. He looked at his watch and snarled as they entered. "About time you got here. Thought you weren't going to make it before dawn. Or before I got so pissed I couldn't fly." He set a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the table beside a blue pilot's cap and stood up to shake Duman's hand.

"Helene, this is Captain Michael Smithers. Captain, this is Helene."

Helene stepped out from behind Duman and the man whistled softly. He all but ignored the black eye, instead concentrating on the front of the zippered jumpsuit as he took her hand. Then he remembered Duman was standing behind her and forced his eyes to meet hers. "A lovely flower you have brought with you today. Pleased to meet you, Helene."

"Likewise, I'm sure." Helene swelled her chest until the pilot's eyes dropped again.

Smithers took a last pull from the bottle and picked up his cap. "Shall we go?"

Duman told him about the three crates in the Jeep and led Smithers outside. In minutes, they had the crates loaded in a waiting DC 3. Smithers took his place at the controls and revved the plane's engines. Helene sat next to him in the copilot's position and Duman sat in the navigator's chair. Smithers taxied to one end of the dark field before pressing a small button. The remote unit emitted a tight radio signal to a gas powered generator inside the shack. Lights flared along the runway.

The overhead speakers crackled as Smithers picked up a microphone and threw a switch on the control panel. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Smithers speaking. The tower has given us a green light and we are beginning our takeoff. Please fasten your seat belts and extinguish all smoking materials. The crew and I hope you enjoy your flight and thank you for flying Outlaw Airlines." Beside him, Helene giggled, then gasped as the wheels barely cleared the trees at the end of the runway.

"Don't worry, little lady," Smithers reassured her. "I haven't hit them yet."

Duman came up behind her and knelt between the seats. "Relax," he said, placing his hand on her arm. "We're with one of the best pilots in South America."

"What do you mean
one
of the best?" Smithers said. He grinned at Helene. "Besides, look at the copilot I have."

Helene snatched his blue pilot's cap and examined the insignia before placing it on her head. "What does RCAF mean?" she asked.

Smithers glanced at the cap. "Royal Canadian Air Force."

"You were in the Air Force?"

Smithers nodded. "A Captain, no less."

"What the hell are you doing in Colombia?"

"Nosy little thing, isn't she?" Smithers said to Duman.

"I should have warned you." Seeing Helene's hurt look, Duman smiled. "Don't worry, Sweetheart. He loves to tell the story. Go ahead, Mike."

"If you insist," Smithers sighed. "You have to understand that I spent most of my life serving my country. I learned to fly during World War II - the Big One. The military was my life. Worked my damn tail off, no pun intended. Put in extra hours, flew extra missions. Hell, I flew everything the damn bastards gave me. Then, they came to me one day."

In the eerie light of the cockpit, the pilot's eyes glittered dangerously. "This big brass tells me I'm old. Too old for the new high tech shit. Going to replace me with a bunch of kids that still need their arses wiped for them. I had more experience than any of them ever would. Anyway, the deal boiled down to early retirement or stay a Captain, forever tied to a desk. Closest I'd get to a plane would be flying to Disneyland on my holidays. I told 'em to take a flying one."

Smithers lovingly patted the wall of the cockpit. "So, I took all the cash I had and bought Brenda. Named her after the whore that stole my cherry. Uh, sorry, Miss," he said with a sheepish grin. "Anyway, there's only one place to make big money and have the most fun flying. I came down here ten years ago and I've been here since. I've flown loads of Colombia's finest into Florida from the Keys to Miami. I've run guns into Nicaragua. Hell, if it grows in South America and there is somebody willing to buy it under the table, it has been in this plane. If there's money in it and it takes a plane, I'm your man."

Helene tried to hide a yawn with her hand.

"Why don't you crawl in one of the bunks in back?" Smithers suggested. "Pretty young girl like you needs her sleep."

Helene headed toward the back of the plane and Duman slipped into her vacated seat. He pulled out a chart of Jamaica, but watched Smithers out of the corner of his eye. The mention of cocaine reminded him of the pilot's ties to the Cartel and made him wonder who would hear of this flight.

* * * * *

"Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. I am shocked." Henri Mardinaud pushed his half-finished meal aside and flopped back on the chesterfield. "How could David Morritt allow this to happen? I was so happy to see him emerge from retirement. He has disappointed me."

"You knew the game would end," Martin Erhart said. "Now, we move on."