Unlikely Hero-19

Refresher: when we left the story way…back in Jan. Mathew Ahern had left his nephew Garth in the NY while he traveled to Germany on business. Garth had become upset with his caretaker Kayla Smith. 1

On an errand for Mathew, Kayla took an early train into Manhattan, harassed by a group of teenage boys, she left the train and they followed her. She entered the first open restaurant only to discover a lone overweight white man was the proprietor.2

Unlikely Hero-193

By Geraldine Fitzsimmons4

End of chapter 165

New York 19796

Outside noises along Columbus Avenue publicized the switch had been thrown converting the leisurely nightlife to the hectic day life on the streets of New York City. For a brief moment, Kayla Smith stood beside the proprietor of the restaurant and stared at the open door. She heard the horns of cars banged on by impatient drivers. The beep, beep of a garbage truck in the act of backing up reached her ears. Behind her came the sound of a dripping coffee urn and in front of her the mumbled snickering of four teenage boys.7

Then the restaurant man shuffled by her on the stubby legs forced to maintain the balance of a rotund body. He was moving closer to the door with the welcoming grin stretching his chubby paste-colored cheeks. More customers are all he sees, Kayla realized. 8

It was in her mind to yell, you damn fool, slam the door. It was too late. The first of her four tormentors stood inside hip-hopping in front of the elderly white male. The graying halo of the proprietor’s thinning hair, circling his ivory skull, barely reached the black teen’s chin.9

“Mornin’ boys,” the man said. “Be a good fellow and grab that stack of papers.” He pointed to the pile of morning newspapers that had been left just inside the security gates. The youth closest to the pile lifted them and dropped them into the outstretched arms causing the man to grunt under the load. 10

Kayla didn’t wait to see what occurred next. She spun around and made her way quickly towards the restrooms. Any kind of feeble lock between her and the youths appealed to her. She could hear the old fellow babbling away and marveled at his ability to hide the nervousness he must be feeling. 11

“You boys up early for a Saturday. If it’s coffee you’re wanting you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”12

Kayla’s hand hit the women’s room sign. She was just about to rush inside when the opposite door to the men’s room came open. A man stepped out. She saw the white apron wrapped about his waist, and it just reached his knees. His white tee shirt was stretched so tight over bulging muscle it mimicked a second skin and the brown flesh beneath it added a slight beige tinge to the colorless tee. He was wiping his hands on a paper towel. ‘Joe Fraser,’ she breathed a sigh of relief, ‘you’ve got a twin’.13

“Good morning,” he said with a white toothy grin and suddenly, for Kayla, the morning was looking much better. She returned his smile and changed her destination. She walked behind as he went towards the service counter. Then she grabbed the end stool. If the boys decided to sit at the counter, at least they wouldn’t be able to surround her. It wasn’t her intention to be a catalyst for trouble.14

Her stomach was only two hours past Darlene’s waffles; still she ordered sausage and eggs with her coffee. She’d sit right here as long as she could and kill time anyway possible.15

The youths didn’t bother with the counter; they made small purchases at the cash register area. The old fellow was still yapping away, though the boys only answered with clipped short sentences. Kayla couldn’t keep herself from glancing to the side. One of them caught her and grinned. He then popped a pink piece of gum between his white teeth and bit down hard. She swung her eyes back to the man pouring her coffee. She heard a group snicker coming from the boys. 16

The man behind the counter didn’t seem to notice the obnoxiousness of the youths. That fact should have further alleviated any lingering concerns Kayla had. All it did was irritate her. This was her city. She worked, paid taxes, and obeyed the law, yet she could be harassed and nobody gave a damn. All he said, “How do you want your eggs?”17

“Just scrambled.” Kayla figured they’d be easier to force down that way. She didn’t want to insult the man by neglecting to eat the food he prepared.18

“You lads have yourselves a nice day.” 19

Kayla’s head tipped to the side so she could see. The old guy was coming around the curve of the register desk and the teens were swinging on out the door. The boys had apparently lost interest in tormenting her and were probably off to torture someone else. Her eyes caught sight of the payphone. She could report the incident. What would she say-- four brats followed her, asked for money, and intimidated her. Yeah, right, she could imagine the jokes floating around the police station. Sure ‘Dorothy’ but you’re not in Kansas now.20

It was just these past two weeks were getting to her. Playing ‘Babysitter’ had sounded like fun when she’d offered--and it had been. Garth immediately became her little buddy. Darlene’s condescending attitude aggravated her but she handled it. Hugh’s attempts at flirtation she found comical. Joel was a love. Last evening, she’d just finished congratulating herself in how well she was managing the situation when everything blew up. Why had she given her damn opinion? She should have let Hugh remain the bad guy. What harm anyway in two boys sharing the same bedroom. It was nonsense. And then to lie about it…. She nodded as the fry cook refilled her cup and said, “Thanks.”21

When Mathew called last night asking her to get him the exact dates on the contracts with Kohl Brothers, he’d been pissed off. The German firm, he told her, wasn’t living up to their commitments. He was going to allow them a sixty day extension—not an hour longer. Thank heaven it had been after ten, so he wasn’t surprised when she claimed Garth was asleep. She’d said everything was fine. Suppose the kid told him different. No, Garth wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t a whiner. And she’d make it up to him before Mathew got home.22

The fry cook placed her order on the counter in front of her. The smell from the greasy sausage did a number on her queasy stomach. Damn, you, Mathew, she thought, if that information you need causes me to spend the morning puking from overeating, the next time you’re into heavy breathing, I’m getting me some stiletto heels and doing the hula on your bare butt.23

Chapter 1724

West Germany 197925

The night had not yet run its full course, but the hint of oppressive heat whispered that an unkind summer dawn wasn’t far off. For a large man, he stepped softly, right foot placed carefully after the left. Alex Cahill blended with the shadows and became one with them. He was moving along the infamous Berliner mauer ‘Berlin Wall’ that separated the German nations. At noon his prey was scheduled to give his final speech in this city before he headed to Bonn. Standing before this section of ‘The Wall’ in the British sector of West Berlin, Hendricks would undoubtedly deride the Bonn Government for allowing the wall to separate their people. Cahill had a silly caricature of Hendricks flash though his mind—twenty foot tall, encased in golden armor, kicking down the wall. A hint of a smile creased his lips. 26

For the last four days, Cahill, able to function on catnaps when necessary, remained in the background listening and recording. Each evening he joined other reporters for dinner and discussion of the ‘Hendricks Tales’, as they dubbed the man’s political rhetoric. Each morning, from his posh West Berlin hotel, he called in the copy that ran under his byline in the New York Press. Each night he prowled the subway and sewage systems that had been closed off years ago when the East German Government constructed the wall. 27

At ease on either side of the wall, Cahill felt the drabness of East Berlin was a cruel contrast to the neon glory of restaurants, shops and nightclubs that lit up the Western half of the city. The near auto-less boulevards of the East seemed mocked by the Volkswagens and Mercedes and Porsches that filled the roads of the Kurfurstendamm, the city’s main western drag. So much for the folly of equality professed by Communism, he thought.28

He used a sharp pick to remove a small section of concrete. The gray coloring added to the tiny bit of C4 plastic explosive hid a detonator with a minute charge of black powder. Carefully he blended it into the concrete. He moved along approximately ten feet and repeated the procedure. The resulting explosions, when set off, were intended to be noisy not deadly. He needed panic and confusion to get close to his target without being remembered. 29

The assassin in Cahill scowled as he moved down another short distance. He needed time for one well-placed bullet. In all he set five miniature bombs before he returned to where he’d left his rental car parked earlier that night. He slid behind the wheel to head for a few hours sleep.30

The reporter in Cahill grinned. Hendricks had charisma; you had to give the fellow his due. Here was a bloke who could tell a populace, hungry to reclaim its pride, about der Holocaust Jux, the ‘Holocaust Hoaxery’ and few shouted him down. “Look around you,” Hendricks would say in perfect German or English depending on the audience. “Do we appear a defeated people? No sooner did we lay aside our arms than the Allies were squabbling with one another. We have used their jealousy and distrust of each other to rebuild our nation. Europe needs a strong West Germany, No! better a United Germany, to protect it from Communism…” Hendricks didn’t rant and rave to impress his constituents. He was a soft-spoken ‘Hitler’ for a new era.31

Hendricks’ looks as well as his growing popularity doomed him. A classic blond Aryan boy with an easygoing smile and a slender body did not portray the proper German political figure. Cahill ran his fingers through his own closed cropped light hair. He experienced a cold chill, though it was uncomfortably hot in the small car. There were men in the world, he remembered, with a strong yearning towards slender, fair skinned young bodies. Creatures with so much money they could indulge any sick craving that plagued them. And there were those who maintained dens of drugs, pain, and degradation where one could purchase anything or anyone. Cahill’s teeth dug into his lower lip until he felt pain. With one hand he maneuvered the car, the other formed such a tight fist that if his nails weren’t filed flat they would have punctured his palm. Ten years ago, nine long months had been ripped out of his life changing him forever. 32

Again and again he drew deep well-spaced breaths as he forced his mind away the nightmares towards other thoughts. 33

He began to contemplate his target once again. Hendricks had tossed his hat into the ring to test the waters; in a rather mediocre election he didn’t stand a chance of winning. He was simply out to make a name and strengthen his support base. A little known fellow he didn’t yet require tight security. A few trusted bodyguards and aids traveled with him. Police presence would be minimal at the speech as it had been throughout this tour. It was the nonsense Hendricks spieled, not the off chance he might win, that caused the media frenzy. 34

Thirty –five years allowed for far too many survivors still being around for one to rewrite history, but this seemed to be the young politician’s intention. If you wanted to believe the concentration camps were well-run prisons used to house the enemies and traitors of the Nazi Government, he provided the salve to soothe your conscience. If you were expected to watch Hollywood portrayals of the mighty Deutsch armies scattering like sheep before the power of the Americans and you bowed your head in shame, he gave you excuses so you could lift your head. Someone felt he should be unconditionally silenced, and Cahill’s bank balance would grow noticeably when this was accomplished. 35

Cahill was comfortable in Berlin. He knew the city and now he had prepared a way-out if his plans went astray. A careful participant in his chosen field he had seen to opening several exits. One would take him under the wall and into the abandoned housing on the opposite side; another would force him to shimmy through the rat-infested old sewer pipes. Either would provide a portal into East Berlin. Cahill had no intention of using them except as a final option. To be forced to do so could mean the end of his literary career. He enjoyed the life of Alex Cahill that he’d inherited and often wondered what the real Cahill had been like.36

The counterfeit Cahill pulled into his reserved parking area in a garage several streets away from his hotel. He didn’t use the hotel garage. When on a news assignment he used only taxis or press vehicles, so his absences were never noticed. A premonition plagued him; as if he had an itch he couldn’t reach. So he scratched at his chin and discovered he needed a shave. The idea that coppery facial hair might contrast with his neatly cropped dyed blond head bothered him. He retrieved an electric razor from the glove compartment and plugged the altered connecting cord into the car’s cigarette lighter. He held a tissue under his chin to catch any fly-a-way hairs and cleared his face of the short stubble.37

Several new acquaintances concerned Cahill. The Australian reporter was one. The fellow didn’t give off a single vibe that he wasn’t what he professed to be, but Cahill had a bad feeling about him. Oh, his accent was perfect and he casually interacted with other newsmen, like he’d been a member of their alliance for years. Still, he didn’t give off the rogue attitude normally associated with Aussies. He also seemed to lack that secretive way of thinking concerning his work--a protective instinct about his copy one expected from fellow reporters. Pressmen didn’t share information until after their story was posted. On several occasions, Harrison had given up a bit of useful info to others as if he was trying to elicit similar responses. 38

And then there was the reporter from the Herald. Darien was a rookie all right, dumb as shit. Trying to impress everyone, as if he’d done this forever. All buddy-buddy he tried to latch on to Homer Jones, the only other English reporter following this particular story. When stuffy old Homer cut him dead, he’d switched his attention to the American. Cahill rather enjoyed the young man’s enthusiastic conversation and allowed him companionship while others tried to ignore him. 39

He cleaned the razor carefully making certain there wasn’t a single hair left before he replaced it, meanwhile reflecting on what he’d seen the previous night. 40

Well after everyone was snuggled in their beds, Cahill had vacated his room. He had just made the turn towards the lift when he had to step back into a blind corner of the hallway. The door of Harrison’s room was opening slowly. “Holy Shit,” he’d muttered to himself. The man in the half opened doorway paused to scan the corridor before he stepped out. Darien?41

Cahill again checked his naked cheeks in the rearview mirror. ‘Darien visiting the Aussie?’ Neither gave any indication of being friends. What the hell were they doing together at two am? ‘A lost time during a bitching and boozing session? Possible.’ But then Darien should have come through that door with no hesitation perhaps even a bit unsteady. Instead Darien had seemed cautious, his features hard and serious belied the boyish image he usually portrayed. 42

Cahill slipped out of the black wetsuit and rubber boots and stashed them in the boot of the car. Beneath it he’d worn running shorts and a tee shirt, a perfect outfit for an early morning jog on a hot day. He settled his feet into a pair of Nikes and slipped a sweatband around his forehead. A water bottle added the extra moisture needed at his armpits, his head, and waist. The sneakers already smelled of sweat and his feet incased in the rubber boots for hours had the proper odor. He briskly walked towards his hotel as if cooling down from a morning run. 43

As he came through the lobby, he waved at the desk clerk. The man called back in English, “A moment Mr. Cahill, you have a message.”44