Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4 Read online

  That left plenty of room for treasure.

  CHAPTER 9

  April 26, 1945:

  Cheb, Czechoslovakia

  Trophy Brigade Mishka

  Major Vasli Petrov sought to use surprise to his advantage and capture all three vehicles before they could possibly flee into Germany. They now approached the same village church where earlier he noticed the crossroads lay at its base. He realized the Germans would have to pass by this same point. Using his binoculars, he scanned the surrounding area. He looked for movement. Any movement at all. He then noticed three German trucks parked on a field of some sort, possibly a soccer pitch. Petrov had a clear view of an American soldier interrogating a German civilian. There appeared to be a small group of American soldiers gathered around them.

  Petrov signaled for his column to continue. He wasn’t about to have the Americans capture what was rightfully his, or more correctly, Mother Russia’s.

  CHAPTER 10

  April 26, 1945: Cheb, Czechoslovakia

  Sergeant Mike Dolan of Patton’s Third Army led his nine-man patrol into the small Czech border town of Cheb, and there-bye exceeded his orders. His commanding officer specifically ordered him to not step foot into Czechoslovakia. The Russians were already in the area and he was under orders to only scout the area to the German border for any remaining German soldiers. Do not put your men into any unnecessary danger were his orders.

  So much for orders. Dolan was looking for souvenirs. Silver dinnerware, gold jewelry, anything of value that he could take back home to Philadelphia when the war ended. Dolan was not going back as a broke, discharged soldier. That seemed to be the general theme of his unit. It was the same since they first entered Germany. In town after town they liberated, they could care less about German soldiers. They wanted the spoils of war. Of course it was illegal to loot. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower had issued strict directives forbidding such thefts.

  But Dolan and his gang had no use for Eisenhower’s directive. Over the course of the previous three weeks they already confiscated enough gold, silver heirlooms, diamonds, rubies and emeralds to fill a shoe box. Using some of his pre-war contacts when he was a numbers runner for the Philly Mob, they managed to ship most of it back to a front business owned by Dolan’s old bosses.

  As they approached the outskirts of town, Dolan noticed three German trucks on what appeared to be the town’s soccer field. Dead German soldiers lay scattered about the trucks.

  Dolan indicated for two of his more experienced men to take up positions on the opposite side of the trucks. “Cover me,” he said to those behind him as he advanced to the lead truck, his 45 at the ready. Nobody was in the truck’s cab. Dolan then approached the truck’s rear, easing back the canvas flap with his 45. He saw wood crates piled on top of each other.

  Dolan turned to one of his men. “Jenson, check the other trucks.”

  After 30 seconds he had his answer: Nothing but wooden crates.

  “Sarge,” yelled another one of men, a Private Lincoln. “I just found one of the German soldiers from the convoy,” him dragging a young German boy behind him, the boy’s overcoat two sizes too big for him. He tossed the boy down in front of Dolan.

  Dolan stared at the boy, thinking he was no more than sixteen or seventeen. “You speak English?” he inquired.

  The boy stood up, standing five foot ten, brushing dirt from his jacket. When he finished he managed a slight smile in return. “Yes, of course I do. I thought you were Russian soldiers,” he replied in a near perfect English. “I could not let the Russians have what’s in the trucks. Never deal with barbarians my father would say.” The boy wanted to know what type of soldiers he was dealing with before he provided them with any additional details.

  “What happened here?” said Dolan, pointing to the dead German soldiers scattered about.

  The young boy looked at him innocently enough before replying, “I killed them.”

  “You killed them?” Dolan laughed, turning back to his men, then to the boy. “Okay. Two questions for you kid. What do you have in the trucks that is so valuable? And why did you have to kill everybody?” Dolan pointed back to the trucks, then to the dead Germans.

  The boy viewed each man in Dolan’s squad as they assembled around him, his gaze lacking any fear. “What if I told you my cargo is so valuable you would never have to work another day in your life?”

  The soldiers started speaking excitedly amongst themselves. “Gold,” shouted a young private. “Cash,” shouted another before Dolan raised his arms to quiet them. “Why don’t we let our new friend tell us,” he said before turning to the young German boy.

  The boy knew he would survive the day if he could just string them along, especially the Sergeant. He was the key. “What if I told you its more valuable than gold, or silver?”

  “I’ll take diamonds,” shouted another soldier.

  Dolan raised his arms once more before fixing a steady gaze on the boy. “Who or what is to stop us from killing you and taking what we want.”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t think you will. You look too smart to do that. However, if you want to die in a horrific explosion that destroys your newfound wealth, than be my guest. Only I know how to deactivate the explosives hidden in each of the trucks.”

  Dolans men started to back away from the trucks.

  Dolan grinned. “I like this kid,” he said. Maybe we can do a deal? You and me?” He pointed once again to the dead German soldiers laying about. “I like your style.”

  The boy knew he was in no position to make a deal. They had him outnumbered. They could just shoot him and take their chances with the cargo. He eagerly nodded. “We each get a percentage. You, Sergeant, will get twenty? Does that sound fair?”

  Dolan was finished toying. “Okay, what’s in the trucks that was worth killing your fellow soldiers?”

  The boy had a gut feeling about the Sergeant. In addition, he had a captive audience as he looked from soldier to soldier, each looking as if they had already spent their newfound monies. “Paintings, gentlemen. Old Master paintings, but not just any paintings. These are from Adolf Hitler’s private collection. Only the best of the best.”

  “How much are they worth?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “In your American dollars, possibly around $200 million. Maybe more. It depends on who the buyers are.”

  Whistles and catcalls soon ripped through the air.

  Dolan had other notions. He would never have to work another day in his life if he played his cards right. His head swirled with ideas. But first things first. “All right, gentlemen, line up,” he ordered his men. When he noticed them taking their time he lost his patience. “Now!” he screamed.

  Each of them scrambled to line up, at arm’s length. “All right boys, lose the weapons,” he ordered, pointing his M-1 carbine at the group. They looked at him as if he were mad.

  “But Sarge,” one of them stammered.

  Dolan wasted no time in shooting the man in his midsection, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

  “I said weapons on the ground! Now!” he screamed once more.

  “You’ll get hanged for this,” said Corporal Slade. He motioned for the rest of the men to drop their weapons. They all complied.

  Dolan smiled. “You’ll need witnesses for that.”

  “You bastard!” said Slade, now realizing the predicament they were in. “Your own men?”

  Dolan spoke to his new German partner. “Go and gather the weapons.”

  The boy performed as ordered, slinging each rifle over his shoulder before returning, dumping them beside Dolan.

  “Now pick up one of the weapons for yourself.”

  The boy hesitated before he chose his MP-40. He expertly inventoried his bullets. Satisfied, he pointed the weapon at the soldiers.

  “Anyone moves you shoot them!”

  The boy looked first to him, then the soldiers. “You want me to shoot your own men?”

  Dolan smiled at h
im. “You’re right. Everybody on the ground. Slade was the first to protest. “What the hell are you doing, Dolan?” he said. “I’m not laying on the ground. Have you gone mad?”

  Dolan didn’t hesitate, quickly raising his M-1 and shooting him in the head. The rest of the men laid down without further protest.

  MAJOR PETROV HALTED HIS little convoy. If his assumptions were correct, they were only a hundred meters or so from the Americans on the soccer pitch. He turned to his second in command: “Lieutenant Kuznetsov, I want our two trucks to burst from the woods before the Americans have time to react. We will take up a side-by-side position as we exit the woods.” The Lieutenant walked over to the second truck to relay the Major’s plan.

  “And no shooting,” yelled the Major loud enough so all could hear.

  DOLAN BEHELD HIS new partner. “How old are you, kid? And what’s your name? I don’t feel like calling you kid or boy all of the time.”

  The boy looked at him sheepishly. “Sixteen,” was his reply. “And my name is Cornelius Gurlitt. My father is Hildebrand Gurlitt, Hitler’s art dealer. He is the person ultimately responsible for devising this little robbery.”

  “Well, Cornelius, between you, me and your father, we are about to become three of the richest SOB’s in the European Theater.”

  He barely had the words out of his mouth when Major Petrov’s trucks burst out of the woods forming up side-by-side as instructed.

  Dolan appeared stunned for a moment or two, initially thinking they were Germans before noticing the big red star insignia on the truck’s hood and cab doors.

  The Russian trucks screeched to a halt not more than 10 meters from where Dolan stood.

  The Russians exited their trucks cradling their PPS43 submachine guns, pointing them in the direction of Dolan and Cornelius.

  “I thought we were allies,” said Dolan.

  Petrov smiled at Dolan. “Until we find out who is who, my men will, shall we say, keep the peace.” He walked over to Dolan, extending his hand in a bear-like grip greeting. “I am Major Vasli Petrov.” Dolan, at 5 foot 10, was forced to look up at the 6 foot 5 Petrov.

  “Hell of a grip you have there, buddy.”

  Petrov ignored him as he pointed over to the line of Russian soldiers. “And my second in command, Lieutenant Kuznetsov.” Kuznetsov dipped his head in greeting.

  Dolan nodded to Kuznetsov before turning his attention back to Petrov. “Sergeant Mike Dolan of Patton’s Third Army. And the young lad here is Cornelius Gurlitt.”

  Petrov pointed to where Dolan’s men lay on the ground. “A revolt of some sort.”

  “You could say that,” Dolan replied.

  One of Dolan’s men shouted aloud that Dolan was trying to steal valuable paintings.

  Dolan would have none of it. “Either you shut-up or you’ll meet the same fate as Slade,” was his reply.

  The mention of paintings caught the attention of Petrov. “Please let him speak,” he said.

  Dolan shook his head. “No way,” he replied. “He is my prisoner.”

  Petrov simply nodded to his men, the sound of bullets being chambered was the response.

  Dolan could see they were outnumbered. “Alright, get up,” he said to the soldier. “But the rest of you rats stay down on the ground.”

  “Come over here,” said Petrov to the soldier. The soldier eyed Dolan as he walked over to the Russian. “What did you say about paintings?”

  “Are you going to protect me from Dolan? He asked. “I think he wants to kill us all for what’s on the trucks.”

  Petrov nodded. “Of course I will. We are Allies aren’t we?”

  The soldier felt emboldened. “These three trucks,” he said, pointing to the German vehicles, “Are loaded with Hitler’s paintings. Ones from his personal collection. The German kid told us.”

  Petrov smiled at the soldier, indicating for him to go back over to his previous position on the ground. “Don’t worry you will be safe,” he assured him. The soldier had a nervous scowl upon his face.

  Petrov then strode over to Cornelius, halting when he stood toe-to-toe with the 5 foot 10 inch teenager, looking down at him. He removed the MP-40 from his hands and tossed it to the ground. He patted the boy on the head to intimidate him. “Is what he said true? These trucks are all loaded with Hitler’s paintings? I would hope to think so because my men and I have been chasing your little convoy from just south of Berlin.”

  Cornelius looked to Dolan for help before realizing none was coming. “Yes, sir,” he stammered. “They are from his personal collection. Very valuable. Extremely valuable.”

  That’s exactly what he wanted to hear, confirmation that they had located something big. Especially if they were Hitler’s personnel paintings. Petrov patted the boy on his head once more. “It’s okay. You are safe. No one will hurt you. You may grab your weapon.”

  For a second or two Cornelius actually thought it may have been a hoax, having heard rumors of Russians acting friendly one minute only to gun you down in the next. He looked to Dolan for help. Dolan tapped his own weapon before pointing to Cornelius’s weapon.

  Cornelius took Dolan’s tap to mean he was backing him up if the Russian tried anything. He nodded in thanks before bending down to pick up his weapon.

  “See, I mean you no harm,” said Petrov to Cornelius. Petrov then looked at Dolan, winking once, before turning back to face his men. “Search each of the Americans for weapons. You also, Lieutenant Kuznetsov. Go, search them.”

  Dolan looked to be in shock for a moment. He’s going to kill us, he thought to himself. Or maybe…

  “Leave the American Sergeant alone. He can keep his weapon.”

  Relief suddenly flooded over Dolan, if temporarily. But what is he up to?

  Petrov nodded to Dolan, then Cornelius. Dolan watched as Petrov slipped his safety off his weapon. Dolan followed suit, then Cornelius.

  Petrov waited until all but two of his men were standing atop an American soldier, busy rummaging through their pockets, the other two of his men stood guard over the rest. He knew it was now or never. Petrov saw his opportunity as he pulled his submachine gun up and laid a quick burst into the two soldiers standing guard, they quickly fell to the ground, dead. He discharged the reminder of his weapons bullets into his soldiers searching the Americans for weapons; each fell to the ground as if they were a bag of cement, dead.

  Dolan had no time to react. He stood there dumfounded as the Russian major reloaded. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. “You just shot and killed all of your men.”

  “Wasn’t that the reason you already had your men laying on the ground?” he replied. “Weren’t you and this boy about to do the same? To steal the paintings and divide the riches amongst the two of you?”

  Dolan liked this guy. He was a man after his own tastes. Waiting for just the right opportunity, and then taking it all. “I guess you can say that,” he stammered.

  When the remaining American soldiers heard what was to be their fate they attempted to rise up in unison. Dolan, Cornelius, and Petrov answered them with a quick burst from their weapons. After several seconds, all were dead. Petrov took it upon himself to make sure. He walked amongst the bodies, making sure each was indeed dead.

  Dolan turned to Cornelius and in a low voice said: “I guess this isn’t exactly what you had planned?”

  Cornelius looked at all of the dead soldiers lying about them. “No, not exactly,” he stammered. “The German soldiers I killed were all S/S. They deserved to die.” He then pointed over to the Americans and Russians, their bodies intertwined. “But what about all of them?”

  Dolan nodded. “Well, speaking for the integrity of the men in my unit, they would have robbed their own mothers if it meant the kind of money we are talking about. So don’t feel bad for them.” In a low voice he continued. “And as far as the Russians, well, we might be fighting them all soon enough.”

  “You really think so?” he replied in a low voice not meant for Pe
trov to overhear. “I also didn’t plan on a Russian joining our little group.”

  Petrov overheard what Cornelius had said. He stepped around several bodies as he walked over to where the boy stood. He wasted no time getting right to his point. “I am a capitalist at heart my young friend,” he replied. Petrov then laid both his pistol and submachine gun on the ground, kicking them aside. “I mean no harm to either of you. I am but a poor soldier who has no desire to return home as a poor peasant. All I want is an equal share. Nothing more, nothing less. So, are we done bickering?”

  Cornelius looked to Dolan, they both nodded.

  Petrov could see everything was indeed in the past and continued. “Good. Then I think we have to do something with the bodies and then divide the paintings.”

  Dolan had a wide smile on his face. “I can see we are going to be lifelong business partners my new friend.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Present Day

  Clyde’s Auto body Shop

  Edgemont, Pennsylvania (15 miles west of Philadelphia)

  Eian sat facing Mike Dolan. Behind Dolan he noticed a picture on the wall of a man in uniform. He noticed Dolan and the man looked exactly alike. Dolan followed Eian’s gaze. “That’s my old man,” he said with a trace of pride. “It’s his picture from WWII. He’s also the reason I set this little game of mine in motion.”

  The last thing Eian wanted was to hear one of Dolan’s stories. It had been a good 12 hours since he had placed a call to his friend Jim Dieter for help. Eian held up his hands for Dolan to see the cuffs around his wrists. “Do you think I can get these removed? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”