sixty-six

“Yes, I am Albrecht Klaus Falke,” Keys Hawkins whispered with a faint German accent—his words mixed with spittle of blood and saliva. “And yes, you bitch, I killed Youssif Iskandr. I had no choice.”

Keys lay on the hardwood floor, still taped to the wooden chair by his left arm, beaten and bloodied. His eyes were swollen nearly shut and Lee knelt beside him, holding his head on her lap. Her face was unbruised—unblemished by any assault—but it showed the pain and agony Keys had endured.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I whispered to Ollie beside me at the bar entrance where I’d arrived. “Keys Hawkins was your German spy.”

“And a murderer.” Ollie slid his ball cap onto the back of his head. “I figured it out a little while ago. It only took me seventy years. I thought it was William. Damn, I’m getting slow in my death.”

Lee looked up at Raina across the room and defiantly ripped the final piece of tape off her grandfather’s arm. “What now? He’s an old man. That was over seventy years ago. What’s the point? He’s been here most of his life. He was a boy back then. A boy, dammit.”

Raina sat on a barstool watching. She seemed removed from it all—distant and unfeeling. Her eyes held no regret, no emotion, for the pain she was causing.

Beside her, B.C. leaned against the bar and drained a tall glass of booze he’d helped himself to. Perhaps he was getting drunk. Perhaps he was waiting for his final orders and readying his resolve.

B.C. said to Raina, “Okay, I did what you wanted. Now give me the cash. I’m done with this shit, lady.”

“I think not.” Raina turned to face him. “I want my grandfather’s possessions. Bring me those to me and I shall deliver your money.”

B.C. slid away from the bar. “And I told you, lady. I ain’t got that junk. Never had it. How many times—”

“Lies.” Raina gestured to Keys. “Just like him. A liar, a traitor, and a murderer.”

“It was war,” Keys grunted. He pulled himself to a sitting position beside Lee. “Damn you to hell. It was war.” His German accent was gone and he was a Virginian again. “Your grandfather pulled a gun on me. I never intended to kill him.”

Raina thrust her gun at him. “Lies! And for what did you kill him? Treasure? War profit? It was not for your country—you abandoned Germany, did you not?”

“Please.” Lee’s voice was gravel. “You’re just like William. He wanted to dredge it all up just for the truth. Why? What difference does it all make now? The truth won’t bring anyone back and it won’t change anything.”

“Raina, it was a hard time—for everyone,” Keys said and coughed blood. “The Abwehr recruited me as a boy-soldier and sneaked me into Cairo. Who would think a young musician was a spy? The Yanks and Brits couldn’t hold their tongues when beautiful dancers and booze were around. I thought Youssif wanted to help us against the Allies, like so many Egyptians did. Lots of them helped, you know. But when I met Youssif that night, he pulled a gun. I had to kill him.”

“You murdered him.” Raina’s eyes drilled through Keys.

“No.” He shook his head. “Yes, I took his trunks of treasures to create the illusion it was a robbery. But in the end, that loot was my ticket out of Cairo and away from those Nazi fanatics. I am sorry. I am truly sorry.”

Raina walked back over to Keys and pressed her pistol to his forehead. “You murdered my grandfather. How … when … it does not matter.”

“It was war,” he grunted again. “I was a boy and realized too late that the Germany I went to war for was not what I’d thought.” He coughed and took a heavy breath. “It wasn’t what many of us thought. It was an accident with Youssif, I swear.” Keys took several more breaths and steadied himself. “I couldn’t return to Germany. Hell, I knew I’d never leave Cairo alive if I didn’t find a way out. When Willy and the boys headed back here to the States, well … I used the loot as a way to hop a ride.” Another long pause and several breaths. “The rest you know.”

Raina’s eyes hardened. “A spy and a murderer.”

“You’re a murderer, too,” Lee yelled. “Claude Holister and Cy Gray were innocent men. Your family murdered them. William knew you were coming for him and wanted to make things right. I tried to convince him there was another way, I tried to keep him from going through with it. But he had to tell and he died trying to.”

Raina flashed dead eyes at her. “Justice is better.”

“Justice?” Lee stood up between Keys and Raina. “Gray and Holister had nothing to do with your grandfather’s death. They didn’t steal anything. They thought they were helping your grandfather come to the States. But you still killed them—your family did. You’re worse than my grandfather ever was. You killed for no reason at all. Where is their justice?”

Keys looked at B.C. “Did you kill Marshal and Karen Simms, too?”

“I didn’t kill anyone, mister—yet,” B.C. said with an evil, dark grin. “But I’m up for it.”

“Not yet.” Raina turned the pistol on B.C. “Now, give me my possessions.”

“And I told you, I ain’t got them.” B.C. walked away from Raina as she cocked her handgun. “Screw you, lady. I never found that damn vault. I never got past the lobby.”

“Liar.” Quick as a flash, Raina shot B.C. in the leg. He went down in a surprised squeal of agony. “I’ve dealt with others who got in my way. I was promised you would cooperate. I was promised you would assist in finding my grandfather’s killer and that afterward, you would deliver my possessions. You failed me.”

Dealt with others? My blood—if I’d had any—ran cold. “Ollie, did Raina kill Angel? Did she run Angel off the road to stop her from getting back to warn Keys?”

“Slow down, kid.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let this play out. You’ll get your answers—and if we’re lucky, so will I.”

“Please,” Lee yelled as tears flooded her face. “If you’re using us as hostages …”

“Hostages?” Raina laughed a strange, crazy laugh. “You are prisoners. Now move away from your grandfather. My family has waited seventy-two years and I will not wait any longer.”

“Shit, Ollie,” I said, “what now? Time for one of those unplanned plans of yours. Like, right now.”

He bit his lip. “Why? Keys—Albrecht—deserves it. He killed Youssif—he killed my friend. I’m not worried about your murder, kid, I’m worried about mine. And maybe this crazy bitch is right. Maybe it’s justice.”

No, it wasn’t. “Murdering Keys isn’t any better, is it? Are you that sure she’s right?”

He looked at me and then at Keys and Lee. “Oh, crap. Come on.” He walked over and knelt down beside Keys. When I joined him, he took hold of Keys’s shoulder. He said, “A Jerry spy is a Jerry spy to me. But I’ll give you one chance …”

The Egyptian heat washed over me like a wave and when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I was inside Youssif Iskandr’s home in 1944. Shelves of pottery and artifacts lined the walls. Two long tables were stacked with papers, books, and more stonework. Beside the tables were two heavy trunks. Their tops were open, displaying trays of bundles wrapped in cloth and paper. I recognized the chests—they held Youssif Iskandr’s Egyptian treasures, and soon they would be loaded onto a rickety cart drawn by the old mare outside.

Ollie stood beside me. “We’re back again, kid. This is—”

“I know.”

Two voices rose from the other room—men’s voices. They argued in broken English. One had a German accent and the other a thick Egyptian one.

“What have you done, Youssif?” the German demanded. “You play these games with me? Who? Who is behind this?”

“No one. I don’t know what you say. Stop it now. Let me make some tea—”

Youssif crashed through the door across the room from us and landed against one of the chests. The German—a stout, hefty man dressed in khaki pants and a loosely tucked-in cotton shirt—
followed. He was a very young Albrecht Klaus Falke—Albert “Keys” Hawkins. He was perhaps nineteen or twenty and much stronger than the aged Youssif Iskandr.

Keys grabbed Youssif by the arm and dragged him back to his feet. “Answers. I want to know, Youssif, who is behind you? What have you done?”

Youssif broke free and lunged for a nearby bookshelf, but Keys was on him. The two struggled and knocked the table over. Several pieces of pottery and statues shattered on the floor. They crashed into the second table and continued the battle. Youssif knocked Keys backward into a shelf, and books and papers cascaded down. Then Youssif dashed to the first shelf, took something from behind a large, wide volume of work, and jutted it at Keys. A gun.

Ollie grabbed my arm. “Oh, shit. I forgot about the gun I gave …”

Keys dove onto Youssif and they grappled for control of the gun.

Youssif yelled, “Swine! Get out! Out of my house!”

A shot.

They fought for the revolver—twisting and pulling—grunting and sweating. Youssif kicked him hard in the groin and Keys faltered. But as he did, Keys wrenched the pistol sideways.

Another shot.

Youssif slipped to the floor and lay unmoving. He was facedown, his life flowing out onto the stone floor around him.

Keys fell to his knees, the pistol still in his grasp, his face twisted with fear and uncertainty.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Spirit Ollie’s chin dropped to his chest. “It was my fault. I gave Youssif the gun just in case. I was supposed to be upstairs but Keys got here too early. He must have been testing Youssif. Damn, I gave Youssif the gun, kid. It was me.”

The room spun and the darkness ebbed and flowed around us. The air cooled and the desert turned to barroom hardwood.

The ceiling fan settled into a soothing rhythm above me. I stood beside Ollie and looked over at Keys and Lee as though we’d never left. Ollie’s face was defeated and dark—the pain of the history he now found himself responsible for welled inside him. “Dammit, kid. This was my fault. I gave Youssif the gun. If I’d only been earlier …”

“I’d put that down, Raina,” a voice said from behind us. “I’ve got a gun on you. If you move, I’ll shoot.”

Raina whirled around, fired off two quick shots toward the bar entrance, then bolted down the hall beside the bar. A second later, a door banged—first open, then closed. Two more shots rang out.

She’d made her escape.

“Ah, one less to worry about.” Franklin Thorne eased into the bar behind us. He brushed the snow off his head with one hand and leveled a semiautomatic at B.C. with the other. “If you kindly do not move, you might live the night.”

“Thorne?” Lee said. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced at her and Keys. “I trust you are both all right?”

Lee shook her head and took Keys by the arm, helped him stand, and walked him to a barstool nearby. “He needs an ambulance. What are you doing here? I don’t understand.”

Neither did I.

“Thorne ain’t Thorne, kid.” Ollie laughed. “And he ain’t no bank man, either.”

My head spun. “So, Raina is a whacko revenge-seeker. Keys is a World War II German spy. And Thorne …”

“Thorne came here for William’s loot.”