Chapter 5

On Monday morning, Peter and Franz went to their cavern. They took the rear entrance to the cave to avoid questions from the hard-working gunsmiths in Peter’s shop. The entry is located one-hundred feet behind the gunsmith shop in a wooded area. Peter frequently uses it to leave his premises, without anyone noticing that he left. They sat by the make-shift table. Each had a mug of coffee, and they studied the city map of Villach. They found the warehouse and the street where the four girls disappeared.

Interestingly enough, a hotel was only one block away from the warehouse. On the back of the map, they advertised dance nights, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Management reserved Tuesdays and Thursdays for private parties. Because the hotel was less than a half-mile from Vassacher Lake, it was the most famous hotel. It drew young and old to this vacation spot. People spent the day by the lake — ice-skating and curling in the winter, sunbathing and sailing in the summer. A few went fishing for bass and trout. Franz showed Peter where the four girls turned during their escape. According to the map, only two houses were on this side street.

“That shouldn’t be too difficult to find,” said Peter confidently. “Do you want to take a ride now? Or do you have a better idea?”

“Let’s go. Villach is the obvious place to start. Let’s just hope that we get lucky. We can take my truck. It’s less obvious. I parked it behind your shop.” Peter and Franz left the cavern the same way they came in — through the alternate tunnel hidden by large, thorny shrubbery.

Two years ago, Franz dug the tunnel. It was part of his drug rehabilitation. Whenever Franz needed a fix, he screamed and operated the pick and the shovel twice as fast until he was too tired to think. He crawled to the bunk and fell asleep, forgetting his fix. Peter knew what Franz thought, and he said, “I bet that you still remember digging the tunnel.”

“Yea, I sure do. I developed bigger muscles. It’s your fault, my good friend.” Peter gave Franz a friendly push, and they picked up the pace to avoid getting sentimental. They stopped by Peter’s home. “Hilde, I’m going with Franz. We’ll be back soon.” Hilde knew that they involved themselves with their secondary work.

“Be careful, both of you,” she said, concerned. Franz drove west through Austria’s most beautiful countryside, filled with resort areas, lakes, rivers, and trout streams. They saw Austrian chalets along the hillside, cows grazing in the pastures, bell ringing, hanging from the neck of the lead cow. A few idyllic restaurants were open for business. One hour later, the friends arrived in Villach.

Franz remembered his way to the warehouse, and he parked the truck one street away under an old linden tree. Both men donned caps, glued on mustaches to their upper lips, and slipped on thin rubber gloves. They took flashlights, their 0.38 caliber pistols with homemade silencers screwed to the end of the barrels. Peter sandblasted the internal silencer blades, absorbing additional noise and improving silencer efficiency, a special procedure that only master gunsmiths know. He learned that during his engineering classes. Carefully, they walked down the cobblestone road, with their rubber-soled shoes, and approached the warehouse’s main entrance. Peter tried to open the door, but someone locked it. Franz checked the window next to it, and it wouldn’t open either.

“Did you hear that?” asked Franz.

“Hear what? I didn’t hear anything.” The friends stood quietly and listened. A few seconds later, someone drove an old car on a side street. It was a backfire, and its echo resonated.

“It must have been the car,” said Peter, relieved.

“Probably a VW. They backfire frequently.”

They continued searching for a window that wasn’t locked. Franz tried the next window. He pushed it carefully, and it opened. It was rusty, and it squealed, but no one heard it. They climbed in. Enough light shone in through the dirty windows that they could see. They stood there and listened, but no one was present. The first floor was nearly empty. Overhead, a series of rusty beams crossed the room’s width, providing a place for chains and hooks for lifting merchandise. In the back, the occupants left a van parked near the door. They drove it into the warehouse through the back door. Franz checked the trailer, using his flashlight.

“Someone customized it, said Franz.” They installed heavy locks on all doors, barred windows with steel rods, and mounted benches with cushions and restraining belts on each side of the van. Nothing of value was in the glove compartment. They left the van, and on the right, they saw steps leading to the second floor.

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Peter, disappointed. They walked up the steps. A heavy-duty door on top was closed, but no one locked it. This floor was entirely different — not luxurious, but functional. Couches stood along one wall, a bathroom and two open showers were along the opposite wall. Heavy steel bars covered the windows, with thick, drawn curtains in place. An area for eating was in one corner. In the other corner, someone had an office, constructed with windowed partitions. Peter looked at Franz, “Let’s go see what’s in the office.” They found a desk with a phone and a torn ink pad stuck to the desktop; chairs, a filing cabinet, and a black and white TV in the corner, rabbit ears mounted on the wall. Franz checked the desk — nothing of value, except a magazine. Peter opened the crooked and corroded file cabinet drawers. He pulled and pushed a few times before it finally opened. All he found was a bottle of bourbon, a pad of paper, and pencils. Someone wrote on the top page and then tore it off. Peter picked up the pad and looked at it from the side when he saw imprints on the top page. “Look at this, Franz, someone wrote something on the pad.”

“That’s what pads are for,” said Franz, smiling, shaking his head.

“Wise ass.” Peter took a pencil and carefully rubbed it across the pad. Then he pulled off his right glove, used his finger, and wiped over the imprint. Peter saw an address. Below he saw a name and a phone number. Peter put his glove back on.

Grand Hotel

Ossiacher ZeileVillach, 2 9500

Adil Abu Bakr

71-330-146

“This is the address of a hotel in this neighborhood. I bet it’s the same hotel that we saw on the city map. The phone number must be from Fath Abu Bakr’s son, Adil. It’s a Tunisian number. Most likely, they got ready to call Fath’s son to tell him that his father is dead,” said Peter, proud of himself.

“Right. Good work. What else could we check?” asked Franz, looking around in the room.

“How about the beds?” Both went to the beds and tore off the sheets and mattresses. When Franz removed the last mattress, a picture dropped on the floor. Peter picked it up, and they looked at the image of an attractive young girl, no more than sixteen. Franz looked at it, “Peter, that could have been one of the girls that ran away, last Friday. Of course, I am guessing.”

“We better put the beds together, in case they come back,” said Peter. As they started to place the mattresses and the sheets, they heard a noise downstairs.

“Someone is coming,” said Peter. He drew his caliber 0.38 gun and hid behind a bed. Franz did the same, behind another bed on the other end, establishing a crossfire setup.

They waited, anticipating action.

The van’s engine started. The person gunned the engine and then shut it off. He made sure that the engine started. Then he ran up the steps, taking two at the time. Peter saw him first; he had black hair and dark skin and went straight for the desk. Why would he do that? — It was empty. He ripped out the middle drawer and turned it over. Then he plucked a piece of paper from the bottom of the drawer.

Franz stretched his neck to get a better view. He overextended himself, slipped, and fell on his rear.

The man heard the noise, and he turned. Peter had only one remedy to get out of this sensitive situation. He stood up, aimed, and fired at the Arab. Peter’s bullet found the heart, and the Arab’s knees faltered, and he fell forward. The paper was still in his hand. He died instantly in his blood-soaked overcoat.

“Sorry, Peter, I slipped — how stupid of me,” said Franz, embarrassed.

“What should we do with him?” asked Peter, more concerned about the dead body.

“Let’s put him on a bed and cover him up,” said Franz. Peter removed the Arab’s wallet and carefully pulled the paper from his hand. He put the wallet and the paper in his pocket. They dragged him to a bed; Franz singlehandedly lifted him on the bed. Then he took a picture of his face with his 35-mm camera — it might be useful if for no other reason, perhaps for the headcount. When he finished, they covered him with a blanket. Because the bed springs were weak and worn, allowing the body to sag, no one would realize that a body was on the bed. The friends left the warehouse satisfied with what they had found.

“Franz, let’s go to the street where the girls disappeared.” While they walked toward the door, they removed the gloves, and Peter looked at the picture. It could have been the picture of a female relative. He turned it over and saw writing: Love, your sister. The Arab’s wallet contained drivers’ licenses and money, both Shillings and Dinars. That was a dead end. It was just a dead lowlife Arab, working for Adil Abu Bakr. The note had a compelling message:

Have the van ready at the Grand Hotel, 3-15-1953, 2:00 a.m.

“Franz, on the fifteenth, we have a date at the Grand Hotel, around the corner,” said Peter, pleased.

“I’m looking forward to it. Perhaps we can deliver another head. Are you going to tell Sam about the Arab on the bed?”

“Yes. Later today, I will send another message.”

Peter and Franz walked down the steps when Peter stopped in his tracks and said, “How the hell are they going to have the van ready on the fifteenth? We just killed the driver, and we took the note.”

“You are right — good thinking, Peter. I always knew that you are smart.”

“What should we do now?”

“Put the note back under the drawer and hope that another Arab will come by before Saturday. And put the dead body under the bed so that no one will see him. Franz ripped the sheets off the bed, picked up the dead Arab, dropped him on the floor, and then pushed him under the bed. It sounded as if Franz dropped a two-hundred-pound sack of potatoes from ten feet up.

“Take it easy,” said Peter, shaking his head.

“What for, the fucker is dead anyway.” Peter returned the note, stuck it to the bottom of the middle desk drawer, and shoved the drawer in its place. Franz was meticulous about positioning and stretching the blanket over the bed.

“That’s good enough, Franz, let’s go already. Sometimes you drive me nuts with your shenanigans.” Franz smiled, and he made sure that no one will see the dead Arab.

“Is that better?”

I hope another Arab will visit the warehouse before Saturday,” said Peter concerned, ignoring Franz’s last remark.

“I’m sure a slave monger will be back. He will miss his accomplice, and that will force them to check up on him. I hope that they will look for the note. When they find it, they will act on it.” Peter nodded, but not too convincingly, pressing his lips.

Franz and Peter left the warehouse, and they walked down the cobblestone road. They found the side street where the four girls ran in, and it’s an old neighborhood. Chestnut trees lined both sides of the street, keeping the road dark and shady. The roots of the tree lifted the cement sidewalk. Franz tripped over it and nearly fell on his face. The friends saw only two houses on this street, and Peter knocked on the first house’s front door. The friends waited. Perhaps no one is home. Peter pounded on the door again — this time with more force. Eventually, an elderly man opened the door, “Yes, what can I do for you, but I’m not buying anything.”

“We are not salesmen. We just want to ask you a question,” said Peter.

“Ask!”

“Last week, Thursday evening, four girls ran into this street. One of them is my sister. Did you see them?”

“No, I didn’t. By the way, last week, I was in Vienna, visiting my daughter.”

“I see. Do you live here by yourself?” asked Franz frowning.

“Yes, I do. My wife passed away five months ago. It’s no fun, living by yourself, you know. That’s why I visit my daughter from time to time.” Franz looked at Peter, raising his brows — that’s a dead end.

“Thank you for your help,” said Peter impatiently. They walked to the second house, a Cape Cod, with a porch in front, fresh gray paint on the floor. An attractive, tall woman in her thirties with bright red fingernails answered the door. This time Franz asked whether the woman has seen four girls, Thursday evening last week. At first, the woman didn’t answer. She thought about how to go on with the conversation.

“May I ask who you are?” said the woman, cautiously. The way she asked the question, Peter immediately knew that she saw the girls. Peter decided to try a different approach, and he said, “Last week, Thursday, I saw four girls running down this street, and they entered your house. I’m concerned about them.” Peter took the picture from his shirt pocket and showed it to the woman, “I believe this was one of the girls.” The woman looked at the picture and said, “You know, it could be one of them. She looks familiar,” but she wasn’t too sure about herself.

“Can you tell us who the girls were and where they went?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“We want to be sure that they got home safely,” said Peter, persuasively. The woman looked at Peter and Franz. She trusted them, and she started, “They ran up my steps, barefooted and banged on my door. Their feet bled. I gave them old socks to put on their feet. Two of them used my phone and called their parents. A half-hour later, the worried parents came.”

“Where were you the last two days?” asked the father of one girl, “You told me that you were going dancing at the Grand Hotel and that you would come right home.”

“We did, dad. We left at one a.m. Outside, four Middle Eastern men grabbed us and chloroformed us. When we woke up, they had us locked up in a van. We were scared, dad and one girl cried most of the time. We tried to get out, but they had steel bars inside and they locked the back door. We bounced around and I have still bruises on my back. Fortunately, they only drove a short distance and stopped by a warehouse. That’s where they held us for two days — with hardly any food. They told us to take showers, while they watched. One of the Arabs did something to himself. I’m too embarrassed to say any more, dad. It was an unfriendly and disgusting place. Another Arab sat in the office watching us also, and he had a whip. He said that he’d whip us if we aren’t quit. That’s what he said. I have no idea what they were going to do with us. I asked him where they are going to take us. One Arab told us that we are going into training. I asked him, “What kind of training?” And he said, “Shut up bitch, you will find out soon enough.” Then, Thursday evening, someone shot their boss. That’s when we had the opportunity to escape. We ran like hell.”

That was how the woman related the story to Peter and Franz as she remembered it.

“Then what happened,” asked Franz curiously.

“What do you think? The parents took all four girls and left. I guess they took them home. By the way, they did thank me for my trouble, and the father said that he would report this to the police. He was a short man with glasses.”

“Did you get their names or where they live?” asked Peter, hoping to get more information.

“No, I didn’t — why should I? I was glad that they left,” said the woman, relieved.

“I can understand that. Thank you for your help,” offered Peter.

“You’re welcome.” Peter and Franz left and returned to the truck. Both knew what their next stop would be.