Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  Bormann drained the brandy snifter and realized the music had stopped. The phonograph needle was riding around the last groove of the record with a soft “chick… chick… chick.” Forcing his bulky frame out of the soft armchair, he walked to the phonograph, turned the record over, and heard the first loud, pounding notes of “The Ride of the Valkyries” fill his study.

  In a rare buoyant mood, he refilled the brandy snifter and walked to the bank of tall, floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the outside wall. The curtains were open, as he preferred; and he paused to take in the breath-taking view of the dark valley and the snow-capped Andean mountains beyond. He tipped his head back, tossed the fiery red liquid down the back of his throat, and was savoring the glow of the raw alcohol as the tall window in front of him exploded in his face. The glass shattered into a thousand glittering shards. A powerful blow punched him in the center of his chest, knocking him over backward onto the carpet like a floppy rag doll. He lay stunned, but alert on the floor. He tried to get up, but he could not move. He opened his mouth and tried to call out, to summon the guards; but only a bubbly moan came out. His face was cut and bleeding from dozens of slivers of glass, but he felt no pain. What could have possibly happened? Could someone have thrown something through his window? Yes, something had broken the window and struck him in the chest. A rock? Yes, that must be it.

  He managed to lift his head a few tottering inches off the carpet and look down. The cold night wind blew through the gaping hole in the window, lifting papers off his desk and tossing them around the room like autumn leaves. The maid would have to pick them up, he thought as his eyes dropped lower, to his chest, where he saw a neat red hole in the center of his crisp white dress shirt. That was when the awful truth crashed down on him. No, this could not be happening, he thought as he ordered his body to rise. No! No! Not now, he groaned, as his head dropped back on the carpet and a soft moan escaped his trembling lips. Then his eyes turned dull and lifeless, and they blinked no more.

  Michael saw the man’s round face and receding hairline in the scope, and had no doubt who it was. He took a deep breath and let half of it out, relaxed, and gently squeezed the trigger. The recoil of the large-caliber hunting rifle drove the stock into his muscular shoulder, but he felt nothing. The window glass shattered and the man was blown backwards into the room. As he told Earl Hodge, he usually hit what he was aiming at with a rifle, and he had not missed.

  The sharp Crack! of the rifle slowly faded away into the night, and as Michael exhaled, he heard a voice call to him on the wind, “You can’t let them get away with it, Mikey… You can’t let them get away with it.” He spun his head around, knowing it was Eddie’s voice, but there was no one there. Eddie had been right, though. They did not get away with it, not Heinz Kruger and not Martin Bormann.

  Michael held his breath again and listened, his ears straining for any sound; but there was none — no shouts, no barking dogs, no whistles, and no alarms. There was nothing to hear in the clear mountain air except that damned recording of Wagner blaring on and on. It was as if no one else had heard the rifle shot; as if this had been a personal matter between him and Bormann, and it was settled the only way it could ever be settled.

  He pulled back on the rifle’s bolt with a loud Click! He watched the gleaming brass casing flip out on the rocks, and laid the rifle on the ground next to it. He had no use for it any longer. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and turned toward the trail, knowing he had to put as much distance between himself and the chalet before first light as he could, because he now had places to go and things to do. There was an oyster dredge in Rock Creek, South Carolina, that needed a helping hand; and a long overdue rain check to redeem, if she would still have him.

  Before he set off down the mountain trail, he turned his head for one long, last look at the chalet. "Burn in hell, you bastard," he said with a satisfied smile, "Burn in hell!”

  Reaching into his pants pocket, his fingers found that old, battered, silver cigarette case. He pulled it out and stared at it for a long moment, then tossed it on the rocky ground next to the rifle and the brass shell casing, knowing all of his debts were now paid in full. Tomorrow morning, Bormann’s flunkies would find the bastard’s body and begin their frantic search of the hillside. They would find the rifle and find these two pieces of shiny metal lying next to it. Eventually, they would figure it out and get the message. Next time, maybe they would be a bit less arrogant, a bit less cocky. Next time, maybe they would be a bit more careful around windows at night; because they will never know who might be out there, watching and waiting in the dark.

  ###

  If you enjoyed the read, I would appreciate your going to its Kindle Book Page at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006LAOIWY. Click on the words “Customer Reviews” after the Gold Stars, and then on the blue “Write a Customer Review” bar, and click on some stars, and write some comments in the box titled “Write Your Review Here.” It is very easy to do and we humble writers appreciate it.

  In addition, you can visit my web site and learn more about my other novels at http://www.billbrownthrillernovels.com

  by

  William F. Brown

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WILLIAM F. BROWN

  I’m the author of six mystery and international suspense novels with over 850 Kindle Reviews averaging 4.5 Stars.

  Burke’s War, my new smash hit original e-book was released in February, 2015. It is an action-adventure tale of one man’s quest for justice. Think American Sniper meets The Godfather. It has a 4.5 rating on 149 reviews, 89% of which are Five or Four-Stars. The second book in the Burke Series, Burke’s Gamble, will be released in early 2016. Be looking for it.

  The Undertaker, my first e-book, was released in January 2011. It is a snarky, contemporary, domestic thriller with a mix of romance, humor, and stark terror that garnered an Amazon rating of 4.3 on 210 Kindle reviews, 86% of which are Five or Four-Star ratings. Amongst My Enemies, my second e-book, is a fast-paced Cold War tale of action and international suspense that deals with espionage, revenge, and missing art and treasure in the post-war years. It has an Amazon rating of 4.4 on 200 Kindle reviews, 84% are Five or Four-Star Ratings. Thursday at Noon was originally published in hardback as a Joan Kahn Book by St. Martin’s Press and by Harlequin’s Gold Eagle in US paperback and in various foreign editions. It was reviewed favorably in the New Yorker and many other major publications in the US. The Kindle e-book edition has an Amazon rating of 4.4 on 114 Kindle reviews, 87% of which are Five or Four-Star ratings. Winner Lose All is an international suspense novel set in the closing months of WWII, as one war winds down and all eyes turn to the next one. Alliances are shifting and no one is to be trusted. Old enemies become tomorrow’s friends, and everyone wants their piece of the revolutionary new German weapons technology in jet airplanes, rockets, submarines, and munitions. It has an Amazon rating of 4.5 on 124 Kindle reviews, 86% of which are Five or Four-Star ratings. In my most recent, Aim True, My Brothers, Islamist terrorism visits the shores of America as a skilled Hamas commando leader focuses his anger and rage on the US government. Left to stop him is an oddly matched group of a maverick FBI agent, the head of security at the Egyptian Embassy in Washington, and an Israeli counter-terror expert. It has an average 4.8 rating on 51 reviews, 89% of which are Five or Four-Star ratings.

  Other than Burke’s War, the other 5 stories are also available on Audible Audio Books.

  In addition to the novels, I’ve written four award-winning screenplays. They’ve placed First in the suspense category of Final Draft, were a Finalist in Fade In, First in Screenwriter’s Utopia — Screenwriter’s Showcase Awards, Second in the American Screenwriter’s Association, Second at Breckenridge, and others. One was optioned for film.

  My wife and I now live in Florida. A native of Chicago, I received undergraduate and graduate degrees from The University of Illinois, and served as a Company Commander in the US Army. As a Vice President of the real estate subsidia
ry of a Fortune 500 corporation, I was able to travel widely in the US and abroad. When not writing, I play bad golf, have become a dogged runner, and paint passable landscapes in oil and acrylic.

  You can follow my work on my web site http://billbrownthrillernovels.com, which has Preview Chapters of each of my novels, interviews, book reviews, and other links.

  Burke’s War can be found at

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TXZYQWG

  The Undertaker can be found at

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004NIFSVG

  Amongst My Enemies can be found at

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006LAOIWY

  Thursday at Noon can be found at

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008AMSH00

  Winner Lose All can be found at

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CEOKUR8

  Aim True, My Brothers can be found at

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GBFJ1IA

  Preview of

  THE UNDERTAKER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boston: where California meets Jersey…

  I knew I was in trouble when Gino Parini shoved that .45 automatic in my face and made me read my own obituary. I’m not talking about something vague or California-cosmic, like the San Andreas Fault will turn Nevada into beachfront property, or those McDonald’s French fries will seal my arteries shut, or second-hand smoke will give me lung cancer. I’m talking about my own honest-to-God black-and-white obituary ripped from page thirty-two of that morning’s Columbus, Ohio newspaper:

  TALBOTT, PETER EMERSON, age 33, of Columbus, died Sunday at Varner Clinic following a tragic automobile accident. President and founder of Center Financial Advisors of Columbus. Formerly of Los Angeles, a 1999 graduate of UCLA and a lieutenant, US Army Transportation Corps…

  That was me. I was Talbott, Peter Emerson, 33 years old, and formerly from Los Angeles. I had graduated from UCLA and I had been a lieutenant in the Army. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. There was only one of me and I didn’t die in the Varner Clinic or anywhere else last Sunday. I was an aeronautical software engineer and I had never been to Columbus or heard of Center Financial Advisors, much less been its President. Still, when you’re looking into a set of hard, dark eyes and a .45 automatic, it’s hard to argue the fine points.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  That day began normally enough. For the past two months, I had been settling into a new job as a systems designer and software engineer with Symbiotic Software in Waltham, Massachusetts. It was one of a hundred programming shops in those big, mirror-glass office buildings that dot the Route 128 Beltway around Boston. You know the kind: no hard walls, no doors, just dozens of low, pastel-colored cubicles filled with a mixed bag of grungy twenty-somethings in every size, shape, color, orientation, and gender. My cubicle was like all the others, except for the cheap plastic nameplate that said “Peter E. Talbott, Senior Systems Engineer” hanging at the entrance. Inside, the wall behind my chair featured a framed poster of Eric Clapton, signed by The Man himself, ripped-off from an LA record store back in my younger and much crazier days. On the wall across from my desk hung a beautiful Air Mexico travel poster: a color shot of a beach at sunset near San Jose down on the Baja, with a thin, solitary young woman in a bikini walking away down the sand. That was where Terri and I were supposed to go that last fall, but she got sick and we never made it. Other than the simple 8" x 10" photograph of her sitting on my desk smiling up at me, the Baja beach poster was easily my most prized possession.

  It was already 5:30 PM. Headset on, I stared at my big, flat-screen computer, pounding away at the keyboard, dressed in my treasured, but badly faded, Rolling Stones 1995 Voodoo Lounge World Tour T-shirt, blue jeans, and a worn-out pair of Nikes. Like the shoes, I was a tad older and more scuffed than the rest of the hired help, so clothes helped me fit in during those first awkward weeks after I moved there from LA. Anyway, I had just finished a crash project and was slowly coming back down as I listened to the last tracks of a two CD set of Clapton’s Greatest Hits. When I really get into a problem, the building could go up in flames and I’d never notice unless my monitor went blank.

  I leaned back in my chair, eyes closed, playing air guitar riffs along with “Tears in Heaven,” when a cold hand lifted one of the ear pieces and whispered in my ear. “Earth to Petey, you are going to have the sub-routines done by tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “You said ‘tomorrow,’ as in ‘close of business tomorrow,’ not ‘tomorrow-tomorrow,’ or ‘tomorrow morning,’ or ‘today-tomorrow,’ ” I answered.

  “I know, but I’ve got a problem and ‘tomorrow’ just became ‘first thing tomorrow.’ ”

  Looking over my shoulder was Doug Chesterton in his “harried boss” costume: a wrinkled white shirt, a cheap necktie with soup stains, and a pocket full of pens. It read MIT all the way — smart as hell, but dumb as a rock.

  “Douglas,” I smiled. “Having anticipated that you’d be a completely disorganized and unreasonable asshole…”

  “And your brother-in-law, your boss, and the magnanimous owner of the company.”

  “They’re done. I e-mailed them to you twenty minutes ago.”

  “That’s why I brought you here, big guy,” he said as he gave me a big bear hug and planted a disgustingly loud, wet kiss in my right ear, tongue and all. “You’re like a bloodhound when you get the scent, Petey, you’re absolutely relentless.”

  “Relentless with a wet ear, you moron.”

  Doug leaned in over my shoulder and looked at the screen. “Then what the hell are you still working on? Wait a minute. That’s the Anderson job I gave Julie, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t get pissed at her; it was my idea. She had some meetings at school with her kids, so I said I’d help her out.”

  Doug laid his hand on my shoulder. “I’m not pissed. I’m glad. I know it’s been hell for you since Terri died, but you moved here to get a fresh start and Julie is drop-dead gorgeous. She’s divorced and she’s exactly what you need.”

  “Julie? Oh, come on, I’m just helping her out. I wouldn’t…”

  “No, you probably wouldn’t, but she would. Trust me. The faithful widower? Half the secretarial pool wants to take you home and mother you, and the other half wants to have your baby. They think you’re a saint.”

  I looked over at Terri’s smiling photo. I knew he was right, but that wasn’t what I wanted or what I needed. He saw me look, too.

  “She’s gone, Pete. It’s been a year now and it’s time you moved on. She was my sister and I loved her as much as you did, but that’s what she’d tell you, too.”

  “I know, Doug, I know.” The truth was, Terri did tell me that, almost every day at the end and almost every day since. That was where Doug and all the others had it wrong. I wasn’t alone. I still had all my memories of Terri, and my life was full, so full I didn’t have anything left to give to anyone else. Someday, maybe, but not then.

  “Look, I didn’t come out here to bug you,” Doug said. “But accounting keeps gnawing on me about your social security number. The IRS still has your account blocked.”

  “I’ve called them three times. They keep mumbling something about a ‘numeric anomaly.’ ”

  “It’s no anomaly. They’ve got you mixed up with somebody else with the same name and they think you’re dead. So, if you want to see a paycheck anytime soon, get the damned thing fixed.”

  I shrugged and put it on my list of things to do. Maybe it was number fifty-nine, but it was there. Besides, Doug was right. He was boss. More importantly, he saved my life.

  I was born in Los Angeles — a child of the Golden West, raised on a steady diet of hard rock, fast cars, Pacific beaches, and the trend-du-jour. After UCLA, I went to work at Dynamic Data in Pasadena. It was Terri who introduced me to her MIT techno-nerd brother. We both bounced around Pasadena, going from one hot software shop to another, doing what we both loved and what we were good at. I was smart, but Doug was always smarter. He sold his old Porsche and m
oved to Boston with his three mangy cats, sinking every dime he could beg or borrow into his own start-up software company, which he named Symbiotic Software. The title was just vague enough to let him take on all sorts of work. However, trading the beaches and sun of Tinseltown for a long, gray winter of snow and ice in New England wasn’t my idea of fun, so I stayed in LA. Shows what we knew. Doug’s little company found a niche and he never looked back.

  Back then, LA was the “land of milk and honey,” where the growth curve only pointed to “UP” and “MORE UP.” Like the white rabbit told Gracie Slick though, “one pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small.” Gracie had no idea how small. Outsourcing was a new word to us “left coasters.” Layoffs and downsizing were something for the Midwest autoworkers and the steelworkers in Pittsburgh with the beer guts and lunch pails to worry about. This time however, it was us smart guys with the white shirts and the glasses of Napa Chardonnay who found ourselves on the chopping block. Yep, ask not for whom the HR manager tolls, he tolls for me and for thee.

  I became a WOOWCP-WFP as we Southern Californians called ourselves — or at least the ones who still had a sense of humor. That’s a White-Out-of-Work-Computer-Programmer-With-Few-Prospects. The big aeronautical engineering firm in Glendale that I was then doing software design for was spinning off people faster than an Oklahoma tornado. Half of the parking lot was empty and the signs on the executive parking spaces had hastily painted-over names or no names at all. We’d been downsized and out-sourced to India and Pakistan and most of my friends were now calling themselves house-husbands, shoe clerks, the Orange County Militia, or alcoholics. My defense mechanism had always been a cynical black humor, but even that gets real old, real quick. So does the weekly humiliation of the unemployment line, a McJob that wasn’t worth going to, or sharing my afternoons with Oprah. When Doug phoned me from Boston and offered me the job, I packed the Bronco, did a reverse Horace Greeley, and headed east. Why not? Terri had died of cancer the year before and there was nothing holding me in California anymore. All I had left were my memories of her, but I soon discovered they were surprisingly portable. I could take her with me anywhere I went, and she never complained, not once.