The Lost Throne

19

The Kaiserslautern Military Community (KMC) is the largest U.S. military community outside the continental United States, bringing in close to a billion dollars annually to the local economy and housing nearly 50,000 members of NATO personnel, mostly from the U.S. This gave the German city, located 80 miles southwest of Frankfurt, a uniquely American flavor.

During their previous trips to Ramstein, Payne and Jones had made several contacts, on and off the base, who could have helped their cause. After discussing it, they came to the conclusion that they should go to their best source for this mission — even though he wouldn’t be cheap.

The man called himself Kaiser because he was the king of K-Town.

At least when it came to getting supplies.

Payne and Jones reached him by phone shortly after their arrival in Germany. He agreed to meet them for breakfast at a small café right down the street from the former Hotel Zum Donnersberg, where Napoleon himself once dined. Neither of them had eaten a full meal since Florida, so they were starving by the time they reached the rendezvous point.

St. Martin’s Square (or the Martinsplatz) was the gateway to the old part of town, the section of the city that survived the Allied bombings in World War II. In the square was the old city hall, which now housed a school of music and several large chestnut trees that shaded the square during the hot summer months. But at this time of year, the weather was perfect for eating outside. There was a light breeze and the temperature was in the upper sixties.

They spotted Kaiser at a sidewalk table, casually sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, the same clothes he always wore. Nothing about his appearance really stood out, which was advantageous in his line of work. He was in his mid-fifties with slicked-back gray hair and bushy eyebrows above his dark eyes. They knew he was American — an ex-supply sergeant who retired from the military when he realized he could make a lot more money on his own — but little else about him.

Just the way Kaiser liked it.

“Gentlemen,” he said, getting up from his chair. He greeted them by name and shook their hands before offering them a seat. “How long has it been?”

Payne and Jones sat across from each other. That way they could keep an eye on traffic in both directions. “A couple of years, I think.”

Jones agreed. “Sounds about right.”

“I thought you guys got out of the game.”

Payne shrugged. “Does anyone leave for good?”

Kaiser smiled. “Not if they have a pulse.”

A waitress stopped by the table and handed them menus. She spoke fluent English with just a hint of a German accent. As soon as she left, Kaiser stared at them, dead serious.

“Since you are old acquaintances of mine, I’m going to help you guys out. Trust me when I tell you this: it’s a huge favor.” He leaned forward as if he were going to share a national secret. Instinctively, Payne and Jones leaned in. “Do not, I repeat, do not leave this café without ordering the sausage. I’m telling you, it’s like heaven on a plate.”

Payne and Jones both laughed, glad that Kaiser was just messing around.

“Are you trying to give us a heart attack?” Jones asked.

“Trust me, if you eat enough of this sausage, you will have a heart attack. But man, oh, man, what a way to go!”

Payne patted him on the shoulder. “Same old Kaiser. Still loving life.”

“Might as well. You only get one.”

They made small talk while glancing at the menus, which were written in English and filled with foods they were familiar with. Soft-boiled eggs, cereal, pancakes with a wide variety of fruit toppings, and a whole page dedicated to breakfast meats, some hot and some cold.

Kaiser said, “Did you know that sausage is so ingrained in the German culture, instead of saying, ‘That’s okay with me,’ they say, ‘Es ist mir Wurst.’ That means, ‘It is sausage to me.’”

Jones smiled. “Wow, I didn’t know that. But if I ever apply for a job at a slaughterhouse, I’ll be sure to mention it. Es ist mir Wurst!”

Kaiser laughed. “Okay, I can take a hint. No more sausage talk at the table. At least not until mine arrives. After that, no promises.”

“In that case,” Payne said, “let’s get our business stuff out of the way — just in case you want to debate the merits of links versus patties.”

“Dammit, Jon, don’t get me started! That’s a sensitive subject around here!”

“I kind of figured it would be.”

Kaiser laughed as he pushed his menu aside. He was ready to talk shop.

“So,” he said, “what do you need on this little trip of yours?”

“Don’t worry,” Jones assured him, “nothing too crazy.”

When it came to missions, Jones was a brilliant strategist. He had received the highest score in the history of the Air Force Academy’s MSAE (Military Strategy Acumen Examination) and had organized hundreds of operations with the MANIACs. He had a way of seeing things several steps ahead, like a chess master. So Payne let him take control of the conversation.

For a trip like this, both of them realized that they had to remain anonymous. Otherwise, the Russian government would follow them wherever they went. That is, if they even let them enter the country. Moscow commonly denied travel visas to foreign soldiers — even those who had retired long ago. And elite soldiers like Payne and Jones were automatically red-flagged.

“First things first. We need papers. Fake names, fake backgrounds. Preferably Canadian. Not only for us but a woman as well.”

“How soon?”

“Yesterday.”

Kaiser nodded. “Get me some photos and I’ll have them by lunch.”

“Next,” Jones said, “we need weapons. Two guns each. Something clean and concealable. We aren’t going through customs, but we’ll be working in public.”

“My armory is your armory. I’ll give you the pick of the litter.”

“We also need a ride.”

“From?”

“Helsinki.”

“To?”

“Saint Pete.”

“Nighttime arrival?”

Jones smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kaiser said. “This time of year, it shouldn’t be a problem. In the winter, it’s a much different story.”

“Why’s that?” Payne wondered.

“Icebergs are a bitch.”

Jones laughed, then continued, “We’ll also need a return trip. One additional passenger. Maybe some cargo. Time and place to be determined.”

“Guesstimate?”

Jones did the math in his head. “No more than twenty-four hours.”

“No problem. The boat can stay put for that long.”

Jones glanced at Payne. “Anything else?”

Payne shook his head. “Not that I can think of. Unless you have a travel advisory. Anything we need to know.”

“Maybe,” Kaiser said. “Just maybe.”

“Meaning?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “How long since you’ve been to Russia?”

Payne answered. “A few years.”

“What about you, D.J.?”

“Never been there. Why?”

“Well, it’s gotten worse for some people. A lot worse.”

“How so?” Jones wondered.

Kaiser grimaced. “I have a black friend who just got back from Moscow. Nice guy, clean-cut, about your age. He was invited by the Russian government to speak at an economic summit. Didn’t matter, though. He got stopped by soldiers every ten feet. He was frisked. He was followed. He was called ‘monkey’ to his face. He swore to me he’d never go back.”

“What about Saint Pete? Is it better than Moscow?” Payne asked.

“Things tend to be more liberal there, but I honestly don’t know. I can’t speak from experience.” Kaiser paused, not sure what else to say. “I just thought I should mention it.”

Jones nodded, appreciative of the information. “Don’t worry, Kaiser. I can handle it. I get the same reaction when I go to a country-western bar.”

“And if things get too bad,” Payne assured him, “we’ll just shoot the bastards.”