Hansen Their Last Secret

Declassified
1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62675-745-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 179 Seiten

Late Fall--Present Day. In the safe of an aged billionaire, seventy-year-old documents containing results of biological secrets from the last days of Ravensbruk and the Nazi Regime are found in an old briefcase that once belonged to General Keitel of the Nazi High Command. Coincidentally the same day in Maryland, newly declassified WW II documents are released to the Freedom of Information Act website obeying a Presidential mandate to declassify old documents. A flight manifest for General Eisenhower from 8 May 1945 shows his plane carried two extra people. Insignificant to most, highly significant to one. A manhunt is instantly set in motion.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hansen, Carl

Leseproben

CHAPTER THREE BERLIN “Take your hands off me, young man. I’ve done nothing wrong,” Ivan covered the dropped voice modulator he’d released over his shoulder with a kick of the snow. “You’re wounded, sir. Please come back to my car. I told you to halt! Next time, you’ll be dead! We shoot to kill people who don’t comply. Didn’t you hear me?” Dietmar Wedlin, a wiry, fit, thirty-something German policeman with his sniper’s rifle shouldered, took Ivan’s bloody pocket watch, wiped it on Ivan’s overcoat sleeve, put it in Ivan’s overcoat pocket, looked at the arm wound, then led Ivan back to his cruiser quickly, his hand grabbing the bloody arm firmly above the wound. “I heard you,” Ivan said looking Officer Wedlin squarely in the eye. “Let’s walk quickly. It will keep up your blood pressure,” Dietmar said trying to read Ivan. “So, you have a death wish, like suicide by police?” “No, I like waking up every morning. I’m ninety son, so why did you?” “Training, sir. Shooting you will keep me awake at night. Please sit, accept my apologies, you need first aid. You’re bleeding, badly.” Dietmar pushed Ivan down in the backseat, and got out the first aid kit. “Scarf’s a good attempt. Apply firm pressure here, above the wound. I’ll put a clot and pressure dressing on it to stop the bleeding. You take a daily aspirin?” “Yes. Let’s leave it alone and wait for the ambulance.” “We need to apply the clotting pad. I’ve done this many times.” Field dressings open and ready, Dietmar removes Ivan’s scarf careful not to touch his blood, then puts his gloves on. Dietmar gets Ivan out of his overcoat and jacket then cuts off the silk shirtsleeve. He pushes on Ivan’s fingers to apply more pressure. The bullet hole, mid upper arm, seeps despite the pressure. He glances up at Ivan’s face assessing the loss of blood. Best to keep him talking. “A flesh wound. Don’t think it’s arterial. But you’re losing too much blood. Once again, I apologize.” “Doing your duty can be difficult. Do your best, I’m feeling cold.” Dietmar takes his pulse. Irregular. He sees beads of sweat on Ivan’s upper lip and forehead, now. Dietmar hurries, applies coagulation pads and a pad-like pressure bandage, wrapping it firmly with self-adhering gauze, tying it off expertly like he was back in Operation Afghanistan Freedom. Taking Ivan’s good hand to hold pressure on the dressing, Dietmar cleans Ivan’s bloody arm with sterile water and sterile hand towels. He takes his pulse again, unchanged. He lays Ivan in the back seat, searches the coat pockets then covers Ivan with his coat. Sirens have gone another way. Dietmar speaks with Dispatch, holding onto Ivan’s wallet, “Five more minutes? What other calls? Ya, ya, OK. Out. Mr. Kimirov? We’re always on the watch for terrorists. It’s standard training, for a decade, now. And... we Germans, don’t like to be called, ‘swine hundt.’ The cameras saw you stand up on the toilet and put something in the tank. The smallest hint of a terrorist act will get you killed these days. We shoot first. Ask questions later if... you’re still alive. Terrorism is extremely serious business, Mr. Ivan Kimirov,” Dietmar reads Ivan’s ID. Ivan was looking at the ceiling, thinking, ‘Part three of his mission accomplished,’ “That’s why you shot me? You think I’m a terrorist? I’m hardly the profile. As a former plumber, I was checking the water level with my fingertips. The tank was flushing poorly. Just applying my trade. Feeling useful. You’ll understand this, when you’re an invisible, old man. So did you find anything? Like a bomb in the tank?” “Sir! You mustn’t even joke about planting bombs. Even that, is an arresting offense, too. So? You’re American with a lingering European accent, I can’t place.” “I lived in New Jersey, then Upstate New York. Taught Russian at colleges up there. Parents were lucky Russians, allowed to immigrate when I was fifteen. Those City girls loved my accent. I live in Paris now and keep an apartment in New York City.” “I see that. Protocol says I must check your ID with Interpol. The ambulance will be here soon. Until then, you lay still. We’ll wait to see what my partner finds.” While Dietmar turns away, Ivan sits up to look at the station clock then stands up, “I’m getting a cramp.” Ivan stretches his leg for effect. “No you don’t, big man. I don’t want to catch you if you faint. Sit.” Dietmar gently pushed Ivan back down into the seat. “You’ve drawn a crowd with your ridiculous sirens, son.” “Sirens are protocol. All terrorists get the siren. Listen to me, Grandfather Ivan Kimirov. Whatever you did back there, I want you to know you’re lucky I saw how old you were. I winged you, on purpose. I’m sure you’ve got a very interesting story to tell.” Ivan smiled, looking deep into his eyes, ‘Clairvoyant, too.’ “That’s what I thought,” Dietmar said, knowing this rich old man held volumes in that white head of his as he scanned Ivan’s ID again, into his hand held computer. ‘Kimirov. What’s familiar about his name?’ Dietmar felt Ivan’s eyes on him, as he put Ivan’s wallet in his bulletproof vest. “Are you related to Mavra Kimirov, the jet set, party girl, the sexy, petite, auburn haired, bad girl, minx. Constantly in the news, with A-list actors, and polo players?” “Never heard of her. I read. I don’t watch TV or Twitter.” “I can imagine you’re on senior chat rooms, swapping war stories.” “Not many left to swap with, son.” The computer beeped. Dietmar reads. “You’re ninety-four, not ninety and a former interpreter? You understood me when I spoke German?” “Not all of it, I’m long out of practice. And what’s a year or two when you’re already fine wine?” The second ambulance was coming. If the ambulance got to Ivan, he’d be in the news in a matter of minutes. While talking, Ivan picked an escape route. A team of five including, a small fine boned man, his identity hidden behind aviator sunglasses, a Rastafarian cap and a matching scarf wrapped high around the neck, watches them from the crowded sidewalk. People stare, drawn to Ivan’s arrest, glaring at Dietmar as he waited on the “watch list” question. Two from this team wearing earpieces, head to the station. The remaining team listens in with audio enhancers. The small man holds his scarf high at the throat, fingers spread wide. To the learned eye this is a woman, unconsciously telegraphing her sex. Mavra Kimirov watches Ivan through binoculars, as Dietmar instructs Ivan to stand. Dietmar pats Ivan down, and finds a small handgun in Ivan’s groin. “This is not an invisible gun for an invisible enemy, Grandfather of Mavra Kimirov,” Dietmar shouts at him. “Her life is far removed from mine is what I meant when I said, I don’t know her. My own blood and I just discovered sadly, I don’t really know her at all.” “When you are asked a direct question, you give a truthful answer! A simple yes would have saved you from being arrested!” Dietmar was pissed, their bond broken. Mavra’s men watch her for a reaction. Not a sigh or a twitch. From her vantage point, Mavra Kimirov and her team watched as Dietmar cuffs Ivan with his hands forward. Dietmar pushes Ivan down in the back seat. Gunshots fracture the frigid night air down at the train station main terminal. The crowd screams and scatters, taking shelter in doorways, between cars and run for the shelter of the open shops. Dietmar’s in Ivan’s face, “Schisse! Did you do with this?” “Purely coincidence, my boy.” “My gut says you’re involved. You’re not too old to be a terrorist!” Exchanged gunfire, now. Dietmar, a tri-athlete runs full out toward the station. His partner calls him on the radio. “Diet, I’m shot!” “Coming, Hans! Stay put, Ivan Kimirov! If you know what’s good for you! Move and I’ll put a bullet in your head!” “Circumstantial, nothing more.” Ivan calls after him. Running full out, an instinct makes Dietmar look back. Ivan’s gone. He calls in Ivan’s description, “Schisse, you old pain in the ass! Gunfire at Friedrichstrasse station. Wound in right upper arm, terrorist suspect, ninety four year old, billionaire Ivan Kimirov, ID confirmed, on the run, one block north of the station. Re-route ambulance for Hans, he’s down at the terminal!” Ivan had laid down in the back seat to undo the handcuffs with a key he always kept in the sleeve of his favorite, lucky topcoat near the buttons. Cuffs off, Ivan pops his head up. With the scattered crowd looking at the stationhouse, Ivan slips away unnoticed. Mavra Kimirov stands on the running board of the...