Track Down

By Marshall Borden

Two precocious eight year olds meet on a soccer fi eld in Jerusalem.
They form a life long bond. University completed, its time to go to work and the lads seek career opportunities as agents for Interpol.
Success follows them in their new profession. The Secretary General of Interpol decides to capitalize on his new recruits talents and they are given the assignment of heading up a task force to recover stolen art looted by the Nazis during WWII. This task brings them into conflict with dangerous organizations still today lumbered with the misplaced
devotion to the great WWII evil Nazis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456878382

Book preview

1

Egan Bentley, a handsome young Englishman and his partner Simon Gratoff a tall, good looking, young Russian Jew—two of Interpol’s new young agents—have white knuckle grips on whatever they can find inside their Mercedes taxi as it hurtles through the traffic outside of Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires. Horns blare, tires squeal, drivers scream, curse and shake their fists as they yank their cars out of the way of the large black SUV that pulls up along side of Simon and Egan’s Mercedes taxi. The taxi and SUV take up the entire highway. The passenger side window of the SUV slips down and a hooded monk seated in the passenger seat, shouts in German and motions at his driver urging him forward;

Schnell! Schnell!

The monk points a Glock 9mm through the open window. The Mercedes taxi driver sees the gun and instantly jams the brake peddle to the floor simultaneously with the bark of the Glock. In doing so he catches the SUV driver by surprise and the SUV flies past the taxi. The Mercedes tire’s scream and smoke as the taxi does a complete three hundred sixty degree spin and comes to a stop still in the middle of the road.

A bullet from the 9mm has creased the taxi driver’s head and he slowly tips over in the front seat, blood oozing from his scalp. Simon and Egan peer over the back of the front seat.

My kingdom for a bazooka; Egan mumbles.

The SUV driver reacts quickly, gets his car under control, throws it into a one hundred eighty degree spin and comes to a stop aimed directly back at the taxi. The SUV driver jams his foot to the floor on the accelerator.

Egan yells at Simon; Help me get him out of the way! Egan dives over the back of the front seat and begins to push the driver aside.

Simon helps Egan shove the driver out of the way as he quickly clamps his handkerchief on the driver’s bleeding head wound.

Egan finally slips into the driver’s seat and screams;

They’re coming back! Hang on!

He throws the transmission into drive and slams his foot to the floor on the accelerator. The taxi’s tires scream and smoke. The SUV and taxi now roar toward one another head on.

It has become a game of chicken.

Simon and Egan scream in unison; OOOoooooooooo, SHIIIIIIT!

The people who had been forced off the road have climbed out of their cars and trucks and are milling about. Their yelling and screaming, rooted in anger, suddenly turns into yelling and screaming in fear. They dive for cover as the taxi and SUV hurtle toward one another at high speed.

At the last instant Egan wins the game of chicken. The SUV driver yanks his steering wheel hard and the big SUV swerves out of the way, barely missing the taxi. However the quick turn is too much for the big vehicle and it rolls over on its side smashing into several of the stopped vehicles. The SUV finally comes to rest on its top, smoking with its wheels spinning silently in the air.

Simon looks back at the carnage. Are we still alive?

Egan grins broadly; Of course, ol’ man. I wasn’t the favorite of our driving instructor for no reason.

Hubris, dear boy, your hubris is showing. Simon mumbles as he looks back at the big black SUV upside down looking like a great puppy on its back waiting for someone to scratch its tummy.

A blue Volkswagen, driven by a second monk, quickly pulls to a stop beside the upturned SUV. Simon continues watching as the monk that fired at them struggles out of the upturned vehicle, limps to the Volkswagon and gets in.

Did you see that? Simon asks.

Egan looking into his side view mirror nods. Yes.

What do you suppose this all means? Simon asks.

I’ve got half an idea but I’m not sure, Egan responds. How’s our friend?

Simon returns his attentions to his unconscious charge. He still has his handkerchief pressed tightly on the driver’s head wound. Bleeding’s slowed down but he’s still out cold. Finally Simon sighs. Well, my English friend, welcome to Argentina. Who the hell were they and what the hell was that all about?

Egan moves the taxi forward away from the wreckage behind them and blends into the traffic flow.

Who they were was fairly obvious. The ‘why’ and ‘how,’ are what interests me, Egan says thoughtfully. "We just get off a plane after a several thousand mile flight and they’re waiting for us—no coincidence there.

Simon picks up the thinking. They knew we were coming, they were fully informed of how we were coming and they knew our time of arrival.

Egan goes on. "So, we’ve got two men of the cloth who know who we are, they know when we are going to get here, and they want us dead."

Looks like it. Simon agrees as he lifts the bloody handkerchief. The bleeding’s almost stopped. You know head wounds always bleed like crazy and always look worse than they are.

Egan nods in thought then answers Simon with a distant; Yes. He shifts in his seat and re-grips steering wheel. Right! Let’s get to the safe house. I know they’ll have a sweeper who’ll be able to take care of this mess and get our friend here stitched up. See if there’s a city map in the glove box.

The driver comes around in time to hear Egan and answers him. OOoooo, Madre Dios, mio cabeza!!

Egan grins. Bit of a headache, ol’ man?

Si, si, muy malo! There is a map in there, on top. Ooooo. Donde . . . Where are we going?

You speak English?

Si, Senior. Yes.

Egan takes out his own handkerchief and hands it to the driver. Here, lad, that one’s pretty well soaked.

The driver sits up as Simon drops his bloody handkerchief on the floor mat. Gracias; Senior, the driver responds and puts the fresh handkerchief on his head wound.

Simon digs into the glove box and comes up with the map. Got it.

Egan answers the driver. We’re going to visit a friend in La Boca District, on Calle Palos.

Si. Stay on Pedro de Mendoza south, the driver directs him, then north on Calle Palos.

Right. Egan finds Pedro de Mendoza and they move with the traffic south. Finally, they turn north on Calle Palos. As they crossed Avenue Suarez, Egan stares into the rear view mirror.

Oh. Oh.

Simon turns to Egan What is it? What’s the matter?

It’s what I was worried about. We have acquired a tail again.

Is it who I think it is? Simon asks.

Yes. Egan answers. Our hooded friends in the little blue VW are back.

At the corner of Calle Pinzon, Egan pulls the taxi slowly to the curb and stops.

The Volkswagen repeats Egan’s actions and pulls to the curb a block behind them.

They stop too? Simon asks.

Yeees. Egan answers slowly, still looking in his rear view mirror.

Alright! Simon announces! Let’s try the old confrontational approach. He spins in his seat and stares back into the Volkswagon and directly into a large pair of binoculars that look back at him from the little blue car with its two hooded occupants. He finally turns back around in his seat.

Oy vey, I don’t believe it.

Rather bizarre, what? Egan concurs as he continues to watch in his rear view mirror.

Finally, the monk in the Volkswagen’s passenger seat puts down his binoculars. The little car makes a U turn and disappears.

There goes our ecclesiastical tail. Egan observes, still staring into the mirror.

Well, so much for that. Simon answers thoughtfully.

I hope you’re right but somehow I don’t think so. Egan responds, and gradually moves the taxi back onto the road. Let’s get our friend here taken care of.

A few turns later, Egan circles the house he was looking for on a small side street in La Boca District. He locates a rear driveway and pulls the taxi to a halt in the drive at the back of the house.

Simon pats the driver’s shoulder gently. Wait here a minute, bubee. We’ll get you taken care of.

Egan and Simon leave the taxi, cross up to the entrance of the safe house and ring.

2

In the late 1950’s, following the Suez crisis, Jerusalem’s weather on that particular day was nothing like the political climate. It was a beautiful, bright sunny day. Behind Ben Gurion Elementary School the sun baked the ground into a dusty hardpan. The heat, nor the condition of the field, however, bothered the two teams of eight year old soccer stars as they raced up and down on the tired turf. Coaches hollered instructions, school chums urged their team on, team members cheered wildly, and parents shouted their usual over zealous and useless assistance at the combatants.

Suddenly the soccer ball broke loose and started rolling uncontrolled down an open field. Two players from opposite teams also broke loose in hot pursuit. Knee socks flopping down around ankles and shirt tails flying, the two young players raced cheek by jowl after the ball. In terms of competitiveness it was World Cup. The coaches, fans, teammates and parents cheered wildly as the goalie readied himself in case the outcome went against his team.

Pele and Maradona finally came together at the ball with an audible collision and, following a good roll in the dust, they came up, instantly on their feet, and at one another in a glorious punch up. The benches emptied. Coaches, teams and parents all headed toward the melee.

The coaches and the mothers finally manage to separate the two valiant elf-weights. The Coaches held the boys apart by their shirt collars while the mother’s looked at one another, embarrassed.

Egan’s attractive mother finally points a stern finger at her son and speaks sharply with a distinctly British accent.

Egan Bentley! I’ll thank you to behave your self!

Egan, undeterred, breaks away from his coaches’ grasp, and attempts another swing at his opponent who, with a surprisingly professional move, manages to avoid the punch. The wrath of mother descends. Mrs. Bentley instantly latches on to Egan’s ear with a vice-like grip and there was considerable question as to whether or not the ear will remain attached to his head.

Simon, retaliating the missed punch, aims a good swift kick at Egan’s shins. The kick misses as well but the good looking Mrs. Gratoff doesn’t. She grabs Simon’s ear with a yank and it seriously looks like both boys may go through life with only two ears between them.

Shaking Simon by the ear, Mrs. Gratoff speaks English with a Russian accent.

Simon Gratoff! You do not play like gentleman, you do not play!

The mother’s actions are accompanied by snickers and muffled laughter from the boy’s teammates.

Mrs. Bentley changes the vice-like grip on her son’s ear to her left hand and offers her right to Mrs. Gratoff. My name is Elizabeth Bentley, I’m Egan’s mother and I am exceedingly sorry for my son’s behavior. My husband, Clive, and I certainly do not condone this type of conduct. Please accept our sincerest apologies.

Mrs. Gratoff mirrors Mrs. Bentley’s actions and switches hands and tightens her grip on Simon’s ear. He winces and with a yelp and goes up on his tip toes in pain, as his mother accepts Mrs. Bentley’s hand.

How do you, Mrs. Bentley? I am Natasha Gratoff, Simon’s mother. I too, apologize. Simon get carried away sometimes. He very competitive.

Oh, yes, I do recognize that. Elizabeth whole heartedly concurs.

Egan reaches up and takes a hold of his mother’s hand to relieve his discomfort. Elizabeth gives his ear another good twist and he follows Simon up on his tip toes, with a whine of pain.

The scene: of two mothers shaking hands while controlling their unruly and tiptoed sons with painful ear locks is worthy of a Hollywood cartoon. The humorousness of the situation is not lost on even the youngest in the gathering as stifled giggles and muffled laughter travels through the crowd. The coaches take control of the boys and Egan’s coach announces loudly;

Alright, you two, shake hands.

There is more giggling from the two teams that is accompanied by considerable staring at the ground and the kicking of dirt by the combatants.

Elizabeth barks; Egan!

Natasha warns; Simon!

Simon’s coach, with the Wisdom of Solomon, proves the peacemaker. He speaks in heavily accented English and outlines an unimaginably vicious program for the resolution of the problem. Now, we are going to make you two young gentlemen friends or I will personally see to it that your soccer time becomes double dancing lessons!

Side-long glances among the team members resonate with a frightening fear at such a deadly possibility. The cruel thought instantly silences the earlier giggling. Needless to say, there is a rapid rapprochement between Simon and Egan that is accompanied by much cheering. Everyone is pleased. The coaches lead their teams back to their respective places on the side lines and the mother’s walk off the field together, chatting.

I noticed your accent. Elizabeth observes. Russian, is it?

Yes. Natasha nods. "My husband, Michael, and I are immigrants here to Israel from St. Petersburg. Michael is importer.

Ah, yes. Elizabeth responds. We’re English. My husband is in the Foreign Service. He’s here with the British Embassy. I teach languages at Tel Aviv University.

What languages do you teach? Natasha asks.

I teach four: English, French, German and Hungarian but I speak eight.

Natasha grinned broadly. How special. Hungarian very difficult language. I am hausfrau but I speak seven languages. I would like very much if we could have tea sometime and practice.

Why, yes. I think I would like that, as well. Elizabeth responds.

The spectators, coaches and their teams had all just about returned to their places on the side line. Suddenly Simon and Egan are at it again. Natasha sees the altercation first. Oh no, look!

Elizabeth turns to see the boys, toe to toe, throwing punches. Her hands go to her cheeks; Oh dear!

Natasha starts to laugh. I think it may be friendship made in heaven.

Elizabeth also starts to laugh and agrees. I think you may be right.

3

The space in the small gymnasium was occupied by a dancing instructor, two coaches and a group of eight year old boys and girls. The dancing master was a tall, austere woman with her iron grey hair in a bun. She wore sensible shoes and walked around and through the gathering of eight year old would be dancers carrying a yard stick. She rapped the stick into the palm of her hand and counted loudly to the beat of the music.

"One; two three—Two; two three—Three; two three!"

She spoke in English with a middle European accent and the yard stick corrected hand, head, feet and body positions without much gentleness. Standing beside the tape recorder on a small table stood the two soccer coaches, arms folded, over-seeing their cruel and unusual punishment. They both worked very hard at maintaining a stern demeanor while they carefully watched Simon and Egan waltz with two very pretty young ladies.

The smooth and graceful movement of the boys as soccer players, however, did not readily translate to the dance floor. Their stiffness, black looks, occasional wincing and the short sharp cries of pain from their partners made the whole exercise difficult to watch.

"Your own feet, Gratoff, his coach yelled, Dance on your own feet!"

"One, two three, Two, two three, Three, two three… ." The instructor continued to count loudly with the music.

Smile, Bentley. His coach yelled. You’re going to enjoy yourself and you’re going to like it!

Simon snickered. Don’t laugh, Gratoff! His coach yelled. Your two left feet aren’t much to look at either.

The waltz came mercifully to an end.

And bow to your partner, the instructor directed. Simon and Egan bowed stiffly while the little ladies curtsey prettily.

Simon’s coach stepped in. Now: you two young gentlemen will shake hands.

Simon and Egan looked at one another, forcing grins down and shook hands.

Thank you gentlemen, both coaches smiled.

4

The door to the safe house in La Boca district of Buenos Aries was quickly opened by a tall, thin, Englishman. The gentleman, ascot casually perfect at his neck, and Dunhill cigarette holder clenched tightly in his teeth was greeted by the sight of Simon and Egan looking more than a little worn with their plundered luggage. The gentleman greeted Simon and Egan effusively.

Ah, by George, you’ve made it! We were expecting you a little earlier.

The English gentleman shook their hands vigorously. "I’m Commander Howard Carter, your Interpol liaison here in Buenos Aries. Now let me see, I believe your Argentine passports read: Mr. James Estus and Mr. Franco Markus?

Right; Egan introduced himself. I’ll be James Estus.

Simon said, That will make me Franco Markus.

Ah yes; welcome, welcome. You lads come highly recommended.

Carlos, Carter’s man, wearing the butlers black apron with grey