The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3)

by Martin Roy Hill

“Relax, Brandt,” Sanders said. “A slip of the tongue. I keep forgetting the Feebies moved into their new Kearny Mesa headquarters.”

  “The FBI? Why are we going to the FBI?”

  Sanders shrugged. “Slumming?”

  I finished reading the file while keeping a wary eye on Sanders’s driving. Take Interstate 8 east long enough you end up in the Cuyamaca Mountains or the desert beyond them. There was no reason I should suspect that Sanders, a government agent, wanted to dump my body in the wild outback, but there was no reason I shouldn’t either. After several miles, Sanders took the I-15 off-ramp north and from there the exit to Aero Drive. I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  The FBI’s new San Diego field office loomed over Aero Drive from atop a knoll like a medieval Scottish castle. Sunlight gleamed off gray-gilded glass. The western end of the structure made a lazy curve where it met the intersecting street. That and the grayness of the building changed the illusion of a castle into that of a bunker.

  “Are those windows lined with some kind of metal mesh to prevent eavesdropping from outside?” I asked.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Sanders grunted. “Like the Bureau knows anything worth listening to.”

  He turned into the complex and, after taking a tour of its parking structure, we got out and walked toward the building. Its front side was not as imposing as the street side, more office-like than bunker-like. Inside, Sanders flashed his Customs badge and creds to someone behind bullet-proof glass, then led me through a heavy, reinforced security door, down a hallway, to an elevator.

  “Fucking place reminds me of the opening credits from ‘Get Smart,’” Sanders said as the elevator doors closed. “Too much money and too little brains.”

  “Professional envy, Sanders?” I asked.

  “Fuck you, Brandt.”

  The door opened and Sanders led me down another empty hallway to a door marked “Conference.” He gave the door two sharp raps. The door opened and a man with short, mousy, brown hair looked out, nodded at Sanders, then looked at me.

  “This Brandt?” he said.

  “It ain’t Batman,” Sanders said.

  The man swung the door wider and let us in. It was a claustrophobic conference room with a small, rectangular table. Chairs surrounded the table like Indians circling a wagon. The far wall was glass and looked out over Aero Drive, the view obscured by thin, metal mesh. A large black man sat on the far side of the table, near the glass wall. Opposite him sat Jo.

  The black man stood and waved us in. He was in shirt sleeves, an automatic pistol holstered on his left side, and an FBI badge clipped to his belt on the right. He walked around the table and held out his hand.

  “I’m Special Agent Elroy Russo of the FBI,” he said, shaking my hand. He indicated the brown-haired man. “This is Special Agent John Fryer, my partner. Obviously, you know Customs Special Agent Sanders and, of course, Mrs. Crane.”

  I walked over to Jo and took her hand.

  “Are you okay?” She nodded, but said nothing. I turned to Russo. “What the hell are you holding her for?”

  “Peter, it’s okay,” Jo said. “Really.”

  “Mrs. Crane is not being held,” Russo said. “She’s not even a person of interest. The fact is, we need her help. And yours.” He gestured toward a chair. “Please have a seat.”

  I sat, as did Fryer and Sanders. Russo poured a glass of water and pushed it across the table toward me. He looked at Sanders.

  “He’s been briefed?”

  Sanders nodded. “Up to a point,” he said. “He knows about Crane and the League. And the gold.”

  “But not about our op?” Russo asked.

  Sanders shook his head. “Ty—Epstein—said he would only brief Brandt on the Mossad’s knowledge.”

  Russo nodded his approval.

  “You know about the Mossad?” I asked.

  “The Mossad started this investigation,” Russo said. “We’ve been working with them.”

  “Peter, what are you—what are they talking about?” Jo asked.

  “Perhaps you should let Mrs. Crane read what Mr. Epstein gave you,” Sanders said.

  I handed Crane’s personnel file to her.

  “I prefer my maiden name—Rice,” Jo said. She tossed open the file and read. Several silent minutes went by. The deeper she read into the file, the tighter the muscles around her jaw became. When she finished, she slapped the file on the desk. Her eyes were dark cores of anger. Her full lips compressed into a tight, thin line. She glanced at me, then looked at Russo.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  Russo took the file and handed it to Fryer.

  “We want your help,” he said, “to find the gold.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “PERHAPS WE SHOULD FIRST fill you in on our investigation,” Russo said. “Since it began with Agent Sanders and his friend, Epstein, I’ll let him start the briefing.”

  “Several months ago, Ty—Ep—oh, fuck it,” Sanders started. “Tygard contacted me with information about some Nazi gold and this League for Freedom and Responsibility. The Mossad has a mole—”

  “Sanders!” Russo said.

  “Relax, Russo. Brandt already guessed they had a mole just from reading the file,” Sanders said.

  I nodded. “It was pretty obvious.”

  “Anyway, the Mossad developed intelligence that the League had discovered a cache of old Nazi gold hidden somewhere in Mexico and was planning to smuggle it across the border. Tygard brought the information to me because smuggling is Customs’ jurisdiction and, as you know, he and I have worked together in the past.

  “After several weeks, we realized the League was planning to use the gold to influence elections—”

  “You mean bribe politicians, don’t you?” I said.

  “Bribe, entice, induce—it doesn’t matter a fuck to Customs, Brandt,” Sanders said. “What was important to us was the plan to smuggle the gold into the U.S..”

  “Illegally influencing elections—by bribery or other means—does, however, matter to the FBI,” Russo said. “That’s when Agent Sanders brought the case to us.”

  “They’re Nazis, you know,” I said. “Fascists. They don’t call themselves that in public, but they have all the hallmarks.” I pointed to Crane’s personnel file. “It’s all in that file.”

  “That’s politics,” Fryer said, waving the subject away with his hand. “That doesn’t concern us. Broken laws do.”

  “Being a Nazi isn’t a crime anymore?” I said. Fryer shook his head. “Used to be, back when my dad was fighting them in Europe. Should be still.”

  “Trust me, Mr. Brandt,” Russo said. “As a man of color, I feel exactly as you do. And I’m sure our Mr.—” He shot a glance at Sanders. “Epstein feels the same, considering. However, we are bound by our jurisdiction and the laws we are charged with enforcing.”

  “Fuck the Kraut-lovers, Brandt,” Sanders said. “We’ll get them one way or another. But back to our investigation.”

  Russo nodded. “We learned that Mrs. Crane’s husband—”

  “I told you I no longer go by that name,” Jo said. “I am Joanne Rice. Say it three times, agent, so you’ll remember it.”

  “Sorry,” Russo said. “We learned that the League directed Frank Crane to retrieve the gold. We made a plan to intercept him with the gold, but things didn’t go as expected.” He looked at Sanders.

  “Don’t look at me,” the Customs agent protested. “We wanted to stop him at the border. You’re the guys who wanted to catch him handing it over to the League.”

  Russo held up a hand.

  “The fact is Crane never gave the gold to the League,” Russo said. “He apparently had other plans for it.”

  “Crane was planning to go on the run,” I said. “He was in debt from bad investments, and he knew that made him a security risk to the League.”

  “Yes,” Russo said, nodding. “Instead of turning the gold over to the League, he hid it.”

  “But the
League was already suspicious of Crane and was spying on him,” I said. “They grabbed him before he could flee.”

  “Exactly,” Russo said.

  “See, I told you Brandt wasn’t your ordinary dipshit reporter,” Sanders said, grinning at me.

  “Gee, thanks for the compliment, Sanders,” I said.

  “Anyway, the League grabbed Crane and tried to get him to tell them where the gold was,” Russo said. “When he wouldn’t, they killed him and torched his body.”

  “After torturing him,” Jo said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Russo said. “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you’ve no idea where the gold is?” I said.

  “Only the one bar Ms. Rice has,” Fryer said.

  Jo looked at me, startled.

  I gave her a reassuring nod. “Remember, I took photos of the ingot to show to Jonathan Glasgow?” I explained. “He must have shared it with Tygard. They were old acquaintances. Tygard must have passed the information on to the feds.”

  “And from that moment on,” Sanders said, “Tygard has had you under surveillance, Brandt.”

  “As we have had Ms. Rice under surveillance,” Russo said. “Protective surveillance.”

  “The dark sedan outside my house,” Jo said.

  Russo nodded.

  “We beefed up our surveillance after Glasgow’s murder,” he said.

  “Why did the League kill Glasgow?” I said.

  “Tygard figures Glasgow had been a thorn in the League’s side for years,” Sanders said. “They kept an eye on him, heard he was looking into missing Nazi gold, and decided to remove the thorn.”

  “And make it look like a Mossad assassination,” I said.

  Sanders nodded.

  “The League searched Crane’s residence shortly after killing him,” Russo said, “but found nothing leading to the gold. So did we, by the way. Which reminds me. Where did Crane hide that gold ingot, Ms. Rice?”

  “A hidden safe.”

  Jo offered no more details, and it appeared Russo figured it would be useless to push her.

  “Two thugs from a skinhead group called the Werewolves tried to search my place,” I said. “They attacked Jo. I think they’re connected to the League somehow.”

  “We know, Mr. Brandt,” Fryer said. “Our agents had your home under surveillance because Ms. Rice was there. They were getting ready to—” He searched for a word, then shrugged. “To rescue Ms. Rice when the two skinheads came screaming out of the house. Our agents covertly ascertained Ms. Rice was okay, then continued their surveillance. And, yes, the Werewolves are tied to the League. The League finances them through a number of shell companies. By the way, how is your cat?”

  “He’s doing fine now,” I said.

  “We tracked your assailants to a local emergency room,” Fryer continued. He gave Jo an appreciative glance. “One of them had a broken knee cap, and the other looked like a mountain lion had mauled him. That’s one ferocious kitty you’ve got, Mr. Brandt.”

  “Where are those bastards now?” Jo asked.

  “They’re on ice,” Fryer said. “Protective custody for questioning.”

  “At that point, our Mossad friend thought it was time to read you two into the investigation,” Russo said and looked at me. “He said he knew you from that little incident years ago at ConEl and was interested in reconnecting with you. So, we arranged to pick up Mrs…Ms. Rice this morning while Epstein—”

  “Tygard,” Sanders interjected.

  “Arranged to make contact with you.”

  We all went silent for a while, as Jo and I tried to soak in everything we were just told. When I finally looked at her, she was sitting erect, shoulders pushed back, chin held high. I saw in her the determined soldier she had been when we first met. I knew what she would say before she said it.

  “What do you want us to do for you, Agent Russo?” she said.

  There was no sense trying to talk Jo out of it, so I stayed quiet as Russo laid out his plan.

  “We’d like you to make the League think you know where the gold is hidden,” Russo said.

  “Wait,” I said, jumping up. “You want to use Jo as bait? No fucking way, Russo.”

  Jo placed her hand on my arm.

  “It’s okay, Peter,” she said. “I can handle this. I’ve worked undercover before.”

  “That is precisely why we’re asking for your help, Ms. Rice,” Russo said. “Your experience with the military police makes you particularly suited for this role.”

  I glared at Russo, then Fryer, and finally Sanders. The Customs agent shrugged.

  “I know it stinks, Brandt,” he said, “but it’s the only way we can get to those Nazi bastards.”

  “And, perhaps, the only way we can find the hidden gold before they do,” Russo said. “A stash of Nazi gold like that could be worth millions, perhaps billions of dollars today. Can you imagine the kind of political influence peddling that would give the League?”

  I looked at Jo. She nodded at me and I slumped back into my chair.

  “I still don’t like it,” I said. “You were already attacked once. If it hadn’t been for Jack—”

  “I let my guard down, Peter,” Jo said. “They won’t catch me like that again.”

  “But—”

  “Peter, I’m doing this,” Jo said. “Frank and those SOBs made a fool out of me. I’m not going to walk away from this.”

  I knew there was no arguing her out of it.

  “What about me, then?” I said.

  “You’re with me,” Jo said. “My backup.”

  She looked at Russo. He nodded.

  I sighed and nodded, too.

  “But,” Jo said, “I go armed. Peter, too.”

  The agents looked at each other, then shook their heads.

  “I have a concealed carry permit from my work with World-Wide,” Jo said. “Peter has a small gun, too.”

  The agents snickered at that. I glanced sideways at Jo. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Oh.” Jo’s cheeks reddened when she realized what she’d said. Then she smiled and said, “He knows how to use it, too.”

  “Fine, fine,” Russo said. “We’ll arrange a carry permit for Mr. Brandt, too, just to cover our butts. But I guarantee you both will be under constant surveillance at all times. Anything goes wrong—anything—we’ll be there to pull you out of the grinder.”

  Russo smiled. Fryer smiled. I didn’t smile.

  “I’d be more comforted if you didn’t wait for us to get into the goddamn grinder in the first place,” I said.

  At that, nobody smiled.

  CHAPTER 31

  “MRS. CRANE?”

  From the look on her face, the receptionist behind the bulletproof glass must have thought Jo had risen from the dead.

  “Buzz us in, Julie.” Jo stood before the desk ramrod straight, as if still on military parade. She wore a classic woman’s power suit, dark blue jacket and slacks, and a severe white blouse. I was dressed more casually, in khaki Dockers, a pullover shirt, and a lightweight sports coat. My rucksack hung heavy from my shoulders.

  “Now, please.” Jo repeated.

  Julie stumbled over her words. “I—I…”

  “Now, please, Julie,” Jo repeated.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Julie reached under her desk and pressed a button. The door buzzed as the magnetic lock disengaged, and I followed Jo into the depths of World-Wide Security. I held my breath as we entered. With my little .25 automatic strapped to my ankle, and Jo’s 9mm Beretta in her purse—not to mention what was weighing down my ruck—we had enough hardware to give a metal detector a nervous breakdown. But the only sound I heard was Jo’s three-inch heels clacking down the empty hallway.

  Jo turned a corner and stopped in front of an office with William Chase’s name on the door. She glanced at me, steeled herself, and burst through the door without knocking.

  Chase was a short, plump little man with a bad comb-over. Beady little eyes stared out from
behind gold-rimmed granny glasses. He was in shirt sleeves and tie, and the dark dampness beneath his armpits showed he badly needed an antiperspirant deodorant. At first shocked by Jo’s sudden entrance, Chase’s small, shadowy eyes quickly turned angry.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Jo?” he said.

  “Get Sterling,” Jo replied.

  Chase stuck out one of his double chins. “Give me a damn good reason why I should.”

  Jo didn’t have to answer him. Clark Sterling flew into the office. Taller and thinner than Chase, he had a long, angular face and a receding hairline he didn’t try to hide with a comb-over. He, too, was in shirt sleeves but without the pit stains.

  “Bill, Julie just called me and said—” Sterling skidded to a stop as he saw Jo. He nodded toward her. “That she was here.”

  Chase picked up the phone.

  “Yes, I was just going to have Mrs. Crane and …” He glanced at me. “… whoever this is escorted out of the building.”

  “My name is Peter Brandt,” I said, stepping forward. “And you might consider calling MacIntosh rather than security.”

  I unslung my ruck and let it drop on Chase’s desk. It landed with a heavy thud and enough force to knock over a framed photo of whom I guessed was Chase’s wife. I unzipped the bag and pulled back the sides so Chase and Sterling could see what lay inside.

  Chase replaced the phone and adjusted his glasses as he peered into the bag. Sterling’s mouth dropped as he saw the glittering ingot.

  “Now, are you going to call MacIntosh?” I said.

  Chase picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Julie, call Mr. MacIntosh and tell him I need to see him here immediately,” he said. “I don’t care what he says, he needs to be here. Tell him it concerns Zebra. No, not zebras. Just Zebra.”

  We waited. Ever the good military cop, Jo took a position where she could cover the office door against unexpected threats. I rezipped the ruck, slung it over my left shoulder, and moved to where I could keep an eye on Chase and Sterling. Sterling, World-Wide’s COO, paced the room, glancing at his watch and casting disdainful looks at Jo and me. Chase, the company’s finance officer, sat in his chair staring at the bag hanging from my shoulder as if he could still see the gold inside. With a pencil, he tapped out a beat to some unidentifiable tune. Maybe it was Deutschland Über Alles.