The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3)

by Martin Roy Hill

  That’s when I heard it.

  A scream, sharp but muffled, and familiar.

  Jo.

  There wasn’t time to think. I just reacted. I dashed up the stairs and tried the door. Locked. I hit it with my shoulder, but all that did was bruise my shoulder. I prepared to kick the door open when lightning struck me. Unbelievable searing pain seized my entire body, shooting from my right shoulder down through my legs. My muscles danced a drunken jig, and I fell to the porch. I couldn’t breathe. Fireworks of agony exploded before my eyes.

  Then it stopped.

  I still couldn’t move, but at least I could breathe. Somewhere in the darkness I heard a guttural chuckle. There was a click-click of something mechanical, followed by an insidious, high-pitched giggle.

  The lightning struck again.

  More pain arced its way through my body. Muscles tensed, contracted, and extended. I felt myself bouncing on the wooden porch like an unrestrained floor buffer. My lungs were paralyzed and I knew I would suffocate if my heart didn’t give out first.

  Then it was gone.

  I gasped for air, taking in deep gulps like a man lost in a desert drinking his first water in days. Somewhere in the shadows came that same throaty laugh, followed by the shrill giggle.

  “Hit him again,” the giggler said.

  The rasping laughter again, followed by the mechanical double click. Giggles chattered.

  Lightning hit me once more, and as my body bounced through its macabre dance, I knew for certain this time I would die.

  CHAPTER 36

  I CAME TO WITH dozens of paparazzi strobes stabbing my eyes, which made me wonder: Why would paparazzi want my photograph? I was on my back on a slickly varnished wooden floor. The wood was cool, almost cold. I tried to sit up but my muscles seemed as limp as over-cooked spaghetti. I shook my head and the flash bulbs dimmed and faded. In their place was a pinkish-white blob that seemed to be calling my name. Another shake of my head and the blob solidified into the face of C. Gerald MacIntosh. He stood above me, arms crossed, a smug, self-satisfied smirk turning his lips.

  “Ah, welcome, Mr. Brandt,” he said. “Welcome to our Alpine Redoubt. We weren’t expecting you, but I must say I am glad you dropped in.” He turned to someone I couldn’t see. “Sit him up in the chair.”

  Two sets of hands hoisted me to my feet, then dropped me into a chair also made of wood. Still unable to work my muscles, I slid off the smooth seat, banging my head on the backrest. As they jerked me upright again, one lifter tittered a familiar giggle. The other uttered a throaty chuckle.

  “That’s fine,” MacIntosh said. “You are dismissed.”

  I regained enough function in my neck muscles to turn my head and see two black-clad Werewolves snap Nazi salutes and leave the room. One wore a belt holster containing a bulky, yellow pistol I recognized as a stun gun. That explained being struck by lightning three times. Not even I could be that unlucky.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Brandt, welcome to the Alpine Redoubt.”

  MacIntosh moved behind an ornate desk and rummaged through some papers, not looking at me. A swastika carved from wood sat on the desk. Sitting next to it was a black-and-white photo in a baroque frame. A Nazi flag hung on the wall.

  “Where’s Jo?” My voice was harsh and squeaky. I cleared my throat and tried again. My voice was little stronger, so I threw in a swear word for effect. “Where’s Jo, damn it?”

  “Mrs. Crane?” MacIntosh said. “She’s here, in another room. You’ll see her shortly.”

  Strength seeped back into my arms and legs, and I adjusted my position.

  “I want to see her,” I said. “Now.”

  MacIntosh walked around the desk. He wore a black jacket, matching trousers, and a white shirt with a black tie. A swastika pin anchored the tie just below the shirt collar. What looked like gold-embroidered vegetation decorated the coat’s left lapel. The right lapel sported SS runes. A peaked cap with a SS death head sat on the desk.

  “A little early for Halloween, isn’t it, MacIntosh?” I said.

  Someone to my right stepped toward me and lashed out with the back of his hand. The blow snapped my head to the left. My cheek burned as if on fire. I turned toward my attacker. It was Bill Chase, World-Wide’s finance officer. Like MacIntosh, he wore SS black. His beady, rat-like eyes peered through their wire rims at MacIntosh, seeking approval. MacIntosh grunted and nodded his imprimatur.

  “As much of a surprise as your visit is, Mr. Brandt,” MacIntosh said, “I think it is most fortunate. Mrs. Crane has not been very forthcoming. I hope you have more sense than she or her late husband.”

  “Where is she?” I demanded.

  My revived fingers gripped the armrests of the chair, and I flattened my feet on the floor, ready to propel myself at MacIntosh. Chase must have noticed my movements. He lashed out with another backhand. This one left the taste of blood in my mouth.

  “As I said, all in due time,” MacIntosh said. “First, I need some information from you. How did you know about this place?”

  “I’ve been researching the League and its connection to the Werewolves,” I said. “I knew Crane went to Mexico with two Werewolves. Only he came back.”

  MacIntosh nodded. “Go on.”

  “In my research, I came across a mention of the Alpine Redoubt. It wasn’t hard finding it once I looked. Your latter-day storm troopers out there don’t keep a low profile in town.”

  “Yes,” MacIntosh said. He looked at Chase. “I suppose we should do something about that.” Then to me he said, “What did your research tell you about the League?”

  I told him what I knew about the League, Crane, and the plot to resurrect the Nazi Party.

  “Really? Create a Fourth Reich?” MacIntosh nonchalantly paced around the room, but I caught him casting a worried glance in Chase’s direction. “That sounds a bit fanciful, don’t you think?”

  “I know about the Red House meeting,” I said.

  MacIntosh stopped pacing. He looked again at Chase, then turned to me.

  “The Red House meeting?” He drew the words out. “And that would be…?”

  “Following the D-Day invasion, the SS met with German industrialists and bankers,” I said. “Held it in Strasbourg at the Hotel Rotes Haus. The SS conceded Germany was losing the war but laid out a plan to keep the Nazi Party alive by sending its wealth abroad, along with the party faithful—a generational plan handed down from father to son to gain Nazi world dominance through means other than war—with money and corrupt politics.”

  “And we could do that how?”

  “By using the unrecovered wealth the Nazis stole from every country they invaded,” I said. “And by inserting your people into countries throughout Europe and the Americas. Your father and yourself, for instance.”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “He was a traitor to England,” I said. “He served as a propagandist for Hitler until the war ended. He was facing treason charges in Britain, so he fled to the States with your family.”

  MacIntosh eyed me closely. “Go on.”

  “The Red House plan got an unexpected boost from the American government when they launched Operation Paperclip and bought in thousands of ardent Nazis to take advantage of their skills and knowledge. For that matter, so did Britain and Russia.”

  The League director scoffed and nodded. “Yes, those self-righteous hypocrites in Washington and London condemned Hitler and the party, but were all too willing to make use of our brain trust—no matter who they were or what their true allegiance was. But their greed for our technology and our…special skills…played right into our hands.”

  MacIntosh crossed his arms and sighed. “Well,” he said, “you have done your homework, Mr. Brandt. And that’s quite unfortunate for you.”

  “Just as it was for Jonathan Glasgow?” I said.

  MacIntosh’s face pinched with disgust. “That man had been an irritant for years.”

  “He was on to yo
u,” I said. “He knew the truth behind the League and the danger it posed to this country—to the world.”

  MacIntosh waved the subject away. “He was a fool. Totally without credibility.”

  “Without credibility thanks to you,” I said. “You used your influence with corrupt politicians to make sure no one took his theories seriously. You used your connections to have him derided as a nut-case, a conspiracy theorist.”

  MacIntosh made an affirmative nod. “It was effective propaganda,” he said.

  “So why kill him? Why bring that kind of attention to Jonathan and his work?”

  “Because, like you, Mr. Brandt,” MacIntosh said, “he was beginning to know too much.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “YOU ONLY HAVE YOURSELF to blame for that, Mr. Brandt,” MacIntosh continued. “You took that gold bar to him. Without that, Glasgow would have remained just another old fool.”

  I had already whipped myself for adding Jonathan to my list of ghosts. I wasn’t in the mood for anymore self-flagellation.

  “Fuck you, MacIntosh.”

  I was ready for the blow from Chase and let my head roll with it. I didn’t even have to shake the sense back into my head.

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “why’s the gold Crane smuggled into the country so important to you? You obviously have money enough to bribe anyone you want.”

  “Wealth begets power,” MacIntosh said. “Greater wealth begets greater power. Hitler understood that. He acquired the gold reserves of the countries he occupied and used them to make Germany the most powerful nation on earth.”

  “Well, it made Hitler and the party more powerful—and wealthy,” I said. “I’ll give you that. But it didn’t do Germany much good.”

  MacIntosh started to say something to Chase, but I interrupted him.

  “Tell me something, MacIntosh,” I said. “If the Red House plan for world domination was supposed to be—” I searched my brain for a proper word. “Was supposed to be sub-rosa, what’s with the SS monkey suits?”

  Chase took another swing at me, but I was prepared and ducked. He swung wide, and I plunged my left fist as deep as I could into his pudgy belly. The air went out of him, and he bent double and dropped. I took too long enjoying the sight of him writhing on the floor and never saw MacIntosh launch his own backhand at my face. The blow snapped my head to the right, and I saw those damned strobe lights again. When they cleared, I took some satisfaction in seeing MacIntosh nurse his hand.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, nodding at his hand. “I’m a little hard-headed.”

  MacIntosh shook his hand, then ignored it. He straightened his jacket and said, “You’re quite right about the uniform, however. This monkey suit, as you call it, is purely ceremonial,” he said. “We wear it on rare occasions as a reminder of where we came from, but not of where we are going. Our uniform today, and for the future, is a tailored business suit with an old-school tie and a flag pinned to our lapel.”

  MacIntosh brushed something off his shoulder. Probably his conscience.

  “We no longer focus on the old tactics of storm-trooping and odious vitriol,” he said. “Instead, we talk of finances, economy, personal rights, and religion. We don’t speak directly to race, but to heritage and national exceptionalism—American exceptionalism in this country, British, French, or whatever in other countries. And we speak of national culture. If someone sees through our charade, we tell them it’s their own rhetoric that pushes normal citizens further to the extreme. They are the problem, not us. We are the true standard bearers for American values, principles, and traditions—it’s our opponents who are un-American.”

  “True patriots,” I sneered.

  “Yes, in a way, we are,” he said. “We stand for the ideals that made Germany great and powerful under Hitler. Military power and personal strength. Unquestioning obedience to power. And purity of body and soul. It worked in Germany. There is no reason why it won’t work here or in Europe or Latin America.”

  “You expect people to just fall in line behind you and your crap?”

  “Oh, they are, Mr. Brandt. They are falling in line.” He stepped behind the desk and shuffled some papers. “You see, Mr. Brandt, every country is controlled by wealth, and that wealth rests in the hands of a very elite few. Those few agree with us. They may not actually realize who or what we are, or even care—but they agree with our policies and follow our suggestions. A position paper on trade, an article on immigration, or even a simple whisper in the ear, and they make things happen for us. Politicians control the world, Mr. Brandt, the wealthy control the politicians, and we control the wealthy.”

  “Just as Hitler came to power with the help of German and American oligarchs,” I said.

  MacIntosh put down the papers. “And everyone else follows. Give them a cause to believe in, and the average person will follow anyone. Abortion. Immigration. Even racial purity. Especially racial purity—even though we no longer use that term. Did you know, Mr. Brandt, the anti-black Jim Crow laws of the American South inspired the Third Reich’s anti-Jewish Nuremberg Laws?” MacIntosh answered his own question with a nod. “Yes, they did. Those state laws prohibiting the mixing of blood between the colored races and whites inspired the Führer. So much so, he had them used as a template for German laws prohibiting the marriage between Jews and Germans. And while those laws—both America’s and Germany’s—are no longer in effect, the sentiment very much remains.”

  MacIntosh picked up the framed photo, walked around, and held it out for me to see. Two men. Hitler in uniform on the right; the other man, a civilian, I didn’t recognize. Both were laughing at a toddler who was peeking around Der Führer’s legs.

  “You recognize the man to the right,” he said. I nodded. “The other is my father. He and Hitler worked closely together. And that—” A beefy finger pointed to the child. “That, believe it or not, is me.”

  “How sweet,” I said. “Do you have any childhood photos with Genghis Khan? Vlad the Impaler?”

  Chase’s fist slammed into the side of my head. I wanted to hit him back, but I was too busy trying to keep my head from falling off my neck.

  “That’s enough, Bill,” MacIntosh said. He placed the photo back on the desk. “Your sarcastic wit is not appreciated here, Mr. Brandt.”

  “I’m getting that message,” I said.

  MacIntosh sat at the desk.

  “In forming the Nazi Party, Hitler followed one true certainty,” he said. “He believed all people need to be led. Do you understand the concept of the authoritarian mindset?”

  “Everybody wants to be a little Hitler or mini-Mussolini?”

  MacIntosh sighed, obviously still not appreciating my humor.

  “No. Quite the opposite, actually,” he said. “Those with an authoritarian mindset want to be led. They need someone to lead them. The psychological condition is apolitical—you find it on the left and the right. People want someone to be strong for them, to make the tough decisions for them. It doesn’t matter what that person actually stands for. People just need a strong leader to make them feel strong, to soothe their fears, to make them believe they are invulnerable, that they are superior. But in order to do that, you first need to make them afraid.”

  “You need a scapegoat,” I said.

  “Precisely,” MacIntosh said. He turned to a small bookshelf behind him, located a leather-bound book, and opened it to a bookmarked page. “Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering said to control a people—and this is a direct quote — ‘All you must do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.’”

  He closed the book and laid it down.

  “So, you gin up an enemy,” I said “Blacks, Hispanics, Jews, abortionists, whatever.”

  MacIntosh nodded. “But, as I said, not in so many words.”

  “And the Werewolves?” I said. “They’re not exactly subtle. How do they fit in wi
th your political playacting?”

  “The Werwölfe do what they are told,” MacIntosh said. “They spread our gospel in the way they want to understand it. They recruit more followers. Occasionally, they perform distasteful but necessary tasks for us.”

  “Like murdering Jonathan Glasgow.”

  MacIntosh shrugged. “When needed, they take care of any political opposition. They are muscle. Obviously, in public we keep our distance from them for the sake of appearance.”

  “Hired thugs—your own version of Hitler’s Brownshirts,” I said. MacIntosh nodded. “What are they afraid of?”

  “All the above, of course,” he said. “Individually they are frightened little boys. Together, they feel invincible. Together they are Sturmabteilung—storm troops.”

  “And when the time comes, they’re expendable,” I said. “Just like the Brownshirts. Are you already planning your own Night of the Long Knives?”

  MacIntosh shrugged again. “When no longer needed, they will be dispensed with. At least their leadership.”

  “Like Hitler dispensed with Ernst Fromm?”

  MacIntosh nodded. “And, like the Brownshirts who remained loyal to their leader Fromm, the Werewolves who choose to not to follow us will follow their own leaders—into the grave.”

  “And who will you follow?” I asked.

  “Why, Mr. Brandt, haven’t you figured that out yet?” MacIntosh stood and smoothed out his uniform jacket. “I will not follow. I will be followed.”

  CHAPTER 38

  A QUICK RAP, AND the door swung open. A young man in a Schutzstaffel death suit stepped in. Tall, thin, blond, and very Aryan. He clicked his boot heels as he went to attention.