Unlikely Hero-21

Unlikely Hero-211

By Geraldine Fitzsimmons2

Chapter 183

West Germany 19794

The Mercedes fit in perfectly with the other cars from the motorcade. It wasn’t distinguishable from the twin Alex Cahill exchanged it for. He’d hotwired then moved the twin to the opposite side of the parking garage so if someone bothered to count cars it wouldn’t show up. 5

It was hot and stuffy inside the trunk of the Mercedes. Cahill had been stuck in the trunk for better than an hour. The stink from his sweat was adding to the uncomfortable cramped atmosphere. Though he’d taken into consideration he needed air and several angles to see and shoot from, the quick change of plans didn’t allow him much time to account for the summertime heat. The ice in the plastic bags was nearly all melted and he’d soon be required to cool his flesh with tepid water. 6

If his luck held, he’d get a chance to deliver the fatal shot when they were loading luggage and carcasses into the cars. He was fairly certain that in the confusion no one would notice where the shot came from. Though it made the gun bulky and heavy, he had a silencer attached to it. To be even safer earmuffs, camouflaged as headphones, rested on his neck, positioned to be pulled up when necessary. He planned to eliminate Hendricks here in the garage where he stood a better chance of escaping unscathed. If he had to wait until they disembarked at the rally things could get hairy. With the Commies and the SAS both out for his ass, Cahill felt like he was betting his last buck on a single roll of the dice. He might get caught exiting the trunk, or worse he could well be stuck in here until he died from heat exhaustion.7

Cahill took a small cube of ice from the limited supply. He rolled it around his dry mouth then spit it into his hand. Taking what was left of the cube between finger and thumb he dotted his forehead, face and neck. Hendricks had to die before the election. He’d taken a down payment thereby committing himself to the task. 8

Mason’s news had caused him to forsake what little sleep he’d intended. He was forced to spend that time re-planning his moves. Cahill had considered killing the Irishman before he could carry out his own orders. But it was a risk that didn’t appeal to him—Mason would be prepared for something like that. He could only hope the bastard didn’t figure out that he’d go for Hendricks in the parking garage. 9

He doubted Ryan believed he would back off. Mason would catch on fast to his change of plan when he couldn’t locate him before the rally started. But then the rally couldn’t begin until Hendricks arrived on the platform—and this wasn’t going to happen. No worry any of his colleagues would notice his absence. Taking an opportunity to pick up a juicier story if one reared its head was a natural reaction of any good reporter. While the SAS could be an annoyance in the future, he’d given them no reason to pinpoint him.10

The conversations from Hendricks’ advancing party reached Cahill. He pressed his face closer so he could watch from the spy holes. The group entering his view wasn’t in a tight cluster—that was good. Careless on the part of the bodyguards but understandable, since so far the worst aggravation they’d faced was anti Nazi hecklers. 11

Suddenly from one of his small view ports, Cahill spotted the ancient withered creature slinking between two cars on his left and moving towards his location. He’s got a damn shotgun! 12

Stick-thin and hunched over, the man moved as if a tremendous unseen burden rested on his bony shoulders. The elderly male knelt down beside the trunk of the Mercedes. Cahill could hear the raspy breathed, “das Dreckschwein,” as the man lifted and pointed the heavy weapon. Cahill’s eyes followed the thickly veined hand as it caressed the barrel and traveled down until two fingers curled on the triggers. Here was the perfect assassin, he thought, the one none could be protected against because they didn’t care if they were caught or killed. Anticipating the noise, Cahill clapped his muffs over his ears. 13

Twin shotgun shells ripped into Hendricks’ face. Blood, brains, and bone splattered those closest to him. The young German did a rapid back slam into the arms of a companion, while his hands lifted as if in prayer towards what was left of his head. 14

Cahill had three quick thoughts. There are things worse than dying, could he still collect on his contract, and how in hell was he going to escape the trunk with so many congregated around it.15

Hendricks’ executioner had collapsed beneath the rear of the Mercedes. Several hard-faced and angrily shouting bodyguards were running towards him. When the man made no effort to escape. Cahill figured he’d passed out or dropped dead. He hoped it was the second or the old fellow would be mincemeat before the law arrived. Without further thought, Cahill shoved his own weapon into the hidden harness beneath his pants. He pulled off the earmuffs, plugged his peepholes with black putty to match the gun holes he hadn’t opened yet, ran grubby fingers over his face and kicked at the trunk lid while shouting, “Let me out—let me out!” 16

He smiled grimly at the ruckus his bellowing caused. Someone pulled the inside car release and the trunk popped open. He jumped out. “Some old fucker with a gun forced me in here…” He glanced down at the old man. “He dead?” 17

“noch nicht.” The bodyguards were milling about now as if they weren’t sure what to do. Gawking strangers seemed to be materializing out of thin air while Hendricks’ cronies still hovered over him. A dozen people must have asked, “Did someone call an ambulance?” In just as much time, the same number gave a name of the man who did. 18

“Oh God!” Cahill covered his face with his palms. He pretended to be noticing, for the first time, the old man’s victim. He gasped in a voice thickened by bogus disbelief. “He shot that guy?”19

“Da.” The reply was threefold. The closest bodyguard rapidly kicked the old man in the hip several times then stopped as Hotel Security came running into the scene.20

Cahill moved rapidly to confront the advancing hotel security guard. He squawked out in a jumble of German and English, “Look, I really didn’t see anything and I feel like shit but I suppose the cops will want to talk to me. I’m gonna run up to my room and shower. When the cops get here give ‘em my name, Ryan Mason. Room 516.” 21

***22

Ryan Mason arrived at the hotel in time to catch enough information from the crowd outside the parking garage to make a few observations. Apparently neither Hendricks nor his attempted assassin was dead. Should he try for Cahill at the hospital? That would be a tough call—between the police and medical staff? Better to hold back and see what more he could find out. 23

He caught a taxi. At the Detective precinct he showed his ID and requested an interview with a particular Captain. He had known this German officer for several years but was still surprised how quickly he was ushered into an office. 24

Captain Berger said, “Ryan Mason, glad you could join us,” and piqued Mason’s curiosity further. It seemed he was expected--but how and why? Berger presided over a room filled with officers. It reminded Mason of a feeding frenzy. Only Berger bothered to switch to English, and Mason’s limited German was unable to make much of a dent in the conversations of eight men trying to get their ideas across at the same time.25

“dran glauben mussen.”26

“die Dumpfbacke” 27

“Looks like you have got yourself some kind of a mess?” Mason said.28

“That’s understated.” Berger groaned and ran a finger around his shirt collar. “What brings the Irish here? Certainly not our martyred politician?” He motioned for Mason to follow as he stepped through a door marked private. “I suppose you heard Hendricks was shot. He’s not dead yet, but he might as well be. Help yourself to some coffee. You couldn’t be interested in the Hendricks’ shooting? Or could you?”29

“My case doesn’t have a connection, leastways any I’m aware of. I did hope to discuss it with you. It concerns a kidnapping.” He shrugged as he stepped past the desk. “I just happened to be staying at the Schweizerhof.” Mason poured his own coffee and added a good helping of cream.30

“You weren’t in the parking garage by any chance?”31

“Sorry. Can’t help you there. I heard the shooter is in hospital—Hendricks’ lads get him?”32

“The poor old fellow dropped over from a stroke.”33

Old fellow? Stroke? The words hit Mason like a punch in the belly but he showed no indication of surprise. “So you have the case all wrapped?”34

“Not exactly. There’s no question about the actual shooter. Weinberg is a concentration camp survivor who never healed physically or mentally. His daughter says she and her father were the only members of the family to escape death. She was an infant at the time and has no memories but her farther could never put his memories aside. She’s been concerned about suicide ever since Hendricks started spieling off and the press started printing his stuff. She never imagined a seventy-six-year-old man would seek revenge.”35

“So where is the problem?”36

“There was a man in the trunk of the car where Weinberg fell down. He claimed the old man forced him in there. While he probably kept the bodyguards from beating the life out of Weinberg before security arrived, still, what in hell was his real function? On closer examination of the trunk it was discovered it had been altered to allow sufficient air and sight to its occupant. Oh, by the way, Ryan, a couple of uniforms are camped out at your hotel.”37

“So?”38

“They are waiting for the fellow to return to room 516. Seems that’s the room number the man in the trunk supplied and the name he gave was Ryan Mason.”39

‘The Son of a bitch! ‘ Mason didn’t say it out loud. No wonder he’d been expected. He knew damn well who had been in that trunk. So, instead of feeling relief from the knowledge he didn’t need to kill Cahill, he was pissed off. He’d be wasting time proving he wasn’t the man in the trunk. ‘The wise-ass bastard set him up.’40