by Peter Parkin
Sandy said nothing, which he figured was his best chance of staying alive.
“I’m a careful man, Stuart, or whatever your name is. I know that you didn’t fly in on American Airlines to JFK last night.”
Sandy thought, At least I know now that it’s still the same day.
He decided to talk a bit, to buy some time.
“Did I say American Airlines? Sorry, I meant United. And you must have misunderstood me. I flew in to LaGuardia, not JFK.”
“Ha, ha. You’re a funny man. Nice try. After my men escorted you here, I checked United as well. No sign of you. Any other airlines you’d like to suggest?”
Sandy swallowed hard. Should have kept my mouth shut.
“Now, here’s where we’re at, you and I. You must have had a reason for conning your way into an appointment with me. Whatever that reason is, I’d like you to just tell me so we can get this over with.
“We’re not killers, Stuart. My men aren’t even armed. We create life, we don’t destroy it. We go to great lengths to keep our facilities secretive, because the American public just wouldn’t understand what it is we do. I’m sure you can understand that what we do is special, and important. And, it’s work that must continue. I would like your support for that secrecy.”
He continued. “I’m guessing that you’re an investigative journalist. Am I right?”
Sandy kept his mouth shut.
“You’re doing a story, right? Somehow, you heard about us. And, of course, it would indeed be one hell of a story, probably Pulitzer Prize material? The biggest thing since Watergate, but even bigger.”
Sandy tried moving his arms. Could feel cramping starting in his shoulders.
“Uncomfortable, are you? We could cut you loose if you’d just clear this up for us. You wouldn’t be the first reporter who came after us. We’ve had several over the years. And, we’ve paid each of them off, quite handsomely.
“We know full well that reporters have their bases covered—usually other associates who are in on the story, too. So, I’m sure you’re smart enough to have done that. Killing you, if that’s what you’re afraid of, would do nothing for us. Because, we don’t know how long the trail is. We’re better off coming to an agreement with you, giving you enough money that you’d be motivated to kill the story and use that money to pay off your associates, editors, whoever. Make sense?”
Sandy nodded.
“Good. So, let’s try this again. What’s your real name, and what media outlet do you work for?”
Sandy had no idea what came over him, but he regretted it as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Joseph Goebbels, of the Third Reich Journal.”
Derek’s face turned beet red. His cruel little mouth opened and closed, with no words. Instead, he turned and motioned to one of the two thugs sitting in the corner.
The man rushed over, and Sandy braced himself.
A fist hit him square in his left eye socket, knocking both him and the chair over onto the floor. The man grabbed the chair by the slats and slammed it upright again. Then, another fist, this time into the right eye.
Sandy felt the ache in his eyeballs, radiating outwards to the top of his head and to the tip of his chin. For a few seconds, everything was a blur. But suddenly, his sight was clear again, but he could sense the encroachment of swelling around his eye sockets. His vision was gradually being blocked by the swelling, slowly but surely.
“Thanks, Jim.”
Derek turned his head and called to the other man.
“Alfie, get over here. I think it’s time we did a tag-team on our friend here.”
Through his narrowing vision, Sandy saw the bulk of Alfie arrive to stand beside the man named Jim. Both stood with their fists clenched, awaiting their next orders.
“Stuart, be reasonable. Do you really want to suffer like this? Tell me what I want to know.”
Sandy thought that perhaps he could buy some time. Give him a phony name of a reporter at the New York Times, or something. But, he knew that would only buy him minutes. Derek would simply check the validity of that answer on his computer.
Easy to google anyone and anything these days—answers within seconds. Just like how the evil geneticist had had the good sense to double-check Sandy’s account of the airline and airport.
In other words, it was hopeless. There seemed to be no way out of this.
Then suddenly, there was.
The locked metal double doors burst open.
Four men rushed in, one of them holding some kind of battering ram. The other three had very large pistols in their hands, made even larger by the silencers attached to the barrels.
All four were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. Sandy’s quick brain told him these weren’t cops. The silencers were dead giveaways.
Derek jumped to his feet and raised his hands. His two thugs did the same.
One of the mystery intruders pulled out a knife and cut away the duct tape that surrounded Sandy’s body. The other three walked over to Derek and his men, and rammed the long barrels of their guns against their foreheads.
They said nothing. Without hesitation, two of them pulled the triggers of their pistols sending Jim and Alfie to the ground. Eyes and mouths open wide in shock, perfectly shaped circles in their foreheads.
After they hit the ground, just for good measure, the killers put one extra bullet into each of their brains.
Derek just stared down at them, stunned by what had just happened, as the third killer held his gun steady against the good doctor’s temple.
Then this third killer spoke for the first time.
“You’re the lucky one, Dr. Schmidt. Your life will be spared today. We might collect at a later date. Bye.”
One of the men gently helped Sandy up out of his chair, but he immediately crumpled to the ground. Just like a fireman saving someone from a burning building, the giant of a man picked Sandy up, slung him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes, and jogged with ease through the door and out into the parking lot. The other three men followed.
He carried Sandy over to a black stretch limousine. The door magically opened, and Sandy was carefully placed inside. The man then joined his three friends in a black SUV parked in front, which quickly drove out of the parking lot.
Sandy slumped sideways across the plush leather seats, as the limousine also pulled away.
He heard a familiar voice. “Well, Sandy, you’re quite the sight for sore eyes.”
Sandy pushed himself up into a sitting position, and stared into the eyes of the one and only Vito Romano.
Exhaustion and pain were taking their toll, but he found the strength to ask, “How did you find me?”
Vito laughed. “Those eyeglasses I gave you. They contained a micro GPS tracking chip. You didn’t think I’d let you venture out unprotected, did you? You’re a valuable friend. Those glasses also had a miniature video camera mounted in the bridge of the frame. Isn’t technology wonderful? They transmitted your entire audio and video conversation with Schmidt to our van that was cruising around West Street within Wi-Fi range. We have it all recorded—useful stuff. And once they took you to the Bronx, the GPS tracking chip allowed us to follow to where they were keeping you.”
Sandy carefully touched one of his swollen eye sockets. “Geez, then, what the hell took you so long?”
“We decided to stop for a little pasta along the way.”
Sandy chuckled, despite the arrows of pain shooting across his face.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Back to your girlfriend’s house in Queens.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Sorry. Correction. Your ex-girlfriend.”
“How do you know about her?”
“Oh, Sandy, Sandy. We make it our business to know things.”
&nbs
p; Sandy winced as he rubbed the other eye. “Well, thank God for that.”
Then something occurred to him.
“Vito, you’re in the Boston Cosa Nostra. This is New York. What are you doing here? Isn’t this a violation of…I don’t know…some kind of code between you guys? This isn’t your turf.”
Vito smiled. “Things have changed a lot since Michael Corleone and The Godfather. We’re not as territorial as we used to be. We scratch their backs, they scratch ours. It’s the way of the world now.”
“I guess it must be. Tell me, why didn’t your guys kill Schmidt back there?”
“No need. Not necessary. His two thugs were expendable. But, Dr. Derek Schmidt might prove useful to us, especially now that we have him on video. We never squander opportunities, Sandy.”
Sandy nodded knowingly. “Kind of that ‘information is currency’ thing again, huh?”
“You got it, my friend.”
Sandy leaned forward in his seat and held out his hand. Vito took it and they shook.
“Vito, thank you for saving my life. I owe you.”
Vito pulled a glass of red wine out of the console holder and took a sip.
“You’re very welcome, my friend. And, yes, you do.”
29
Linc snuck up behind Melanie and gave her an affectionate slap on the bum. He did these little things from time to time, just to show her that once in a while he could still be a wee bit frisky.
She was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing up some carrots and other assorted veggies for dinner.
No reaction at all to his sign of affection, so Linc decided to take it a step further. He slid his hand up her skirt, and brushed his fingers against her crotch. No panties—he liked that.
She wriggled uncomfortably, and pulled his hand down.
Linc nestled his chin against her neck, and whispered, “You look sexy when you’re cooking.”
“I’m not cooking, I’m slicing. And, you might want to re-think getting so close to me while I have this in my hand.” Melanie waved the knife in the air to emphasize her point.
Linc laughed. “Oh, that turns me on even more. If you want to play rough, we can do that.”
“No, Senator, I don’t want to play rough—I don’t want to play at all.”
“Aren’t we formal? Calling me ‘Senator’ now?”
Melanie turned around to face him, holding the knife in front of her.
“I’ve decided that I’m going to call you that from now on. That’s all you are to me, now. A senator. You’re not my husband. We’re just playing pretend until you win what it is you want to win. Then, as you promised, I expect you to set me free. I’m holding you to that promise, Senator.”
Linc backed away from her. “Well, alright then. Call me whatever you want, I don’t care. Just make sure you play your role to perfection.”
Melanie placed her knife on the counter. “Where is it you’re forcing me to go next week?”
“We have to head to Iowa. The first presidential caucuses are being held, and all indications are that I’ll win. Iowa is the first on the schedule, and in five months’ time I should have locked up enough delegates to win the nomination. And make a mental note that from Iowa onward, you’ll be a busy lady. The New Hampshire primary follows Iowa, then South Carolina and Nevada. After that, seven states are up for grabs on Super Tuesday. And we continue until all fifty states and territories have voted.”
“Do I have to smile and land fake kisses on your cheek?”
Linc chuckled. “Yes, that’s part of the job. And you need to make it look like you’re enjoying it. While you’re at it, remember that virtually every woman in America wishes she were in your place.”
“Every woman in America doesn’t know you like I do.”
Linc sneered at her, then flung his hand out and grabbed her by the hair.
“We may be pretending here, but it’s a long haul ahead, lady. I don’t have to put up with your insults. If you want me to leave you alone, treat me the way I expect to be treated.”
Linc relished the look of fear that suddenly crossed her face. She said nothing, but he noticed that she’d swallowed hard the instant he grabbed her by the hair.
Now he wasn’t faking, or patronizing. All of a sudden he really was horny.
With his free hand, he undid his jeans and let them fall to the floor.
“Well, sweetheart, since you insist on calling me Senator, I think you need to also start acting the part of a staff member.” He laughed. “Get down on your knees.”
*****
Linc was resting comfortably in his sound-proofed office. He loved this section of his mansion. It was his sanctuary, and it gave him the complete solitude that he needed from time to time. In fact, lately more than usual. It was a handy place to hold meetings as well, one of which he would be having very shortly.
Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone were coming over for dinner. But first, they would meet in his office so they could discuss things that Melanie wouldn’t be allowed to hear.
As for Melanie, after she’d finished giving him a half-hearted blow job, he left her to clean up the mess. Told her also to put on a decent dress and some damn panties. And to behave herself during dinner. Part of her role in this was to convince his handlers that their marriage was a happy one.
He stretched out in his leather recliner and reflected on his trip to Argentina. He was still in a state of shock, but for a guy like Linc, with his innate ability to control his emotions, you would be hard-pressed to tell.
On the trip back to Dallas, he tried to pump Horst with questions, but the man basically ignored him. Linc figured he’d been given orders and was simply doing his job. But, Linc hated being ignored. It really bothered him.
The man who officially went by the name of Herman Braxmeier hadn’t talked very much over dinner. His wife, Angela, said that he was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Linc thought that was kinda funny, considering he was apparently 129 years old.
But, when he did talk, and Horst translated—assuming the translation was correct and not faked—he had some powerful things to say:
“Once in a while comes a man of destiny. One who is misunderstood by people of lesser intellect. I was that man, and I understand you might be too. We will find out if that is true or not. One thing you cannot do is collapse under criticism or assaults on your being. You must always prevail and, above all else, win and survive. One thing you must also remember—stay at least two steps ahead of everyone else.”
There were a few other mumblings from the old man, but that one statement was what Linc remembered most. Herman tried to talk about Germany, but his eyes kept misting over every time he mentioned the Fatherland.
And, while he recalled a few of his trusted Nazi officers, he struggled to remember most of their names.
The old man was clearly overcome with emotion when he talked of his most trusted comrade, Hermann Goering. Said that was one of the reasons why he had chosen the name Herman for himself, though he had made the spelling slightly different out of respect for his friend.
But he flew into a surprising rage when he mentioned Heinrich Himmler, the one who had betrayed him by holding secret peace talks with the enemy when it was clear that the war was going to be lost. Linc was astonished at the quick outburst from the man, because, considering his age, mustering up that much emotion must have taken some real effort.
However, at that moment of anger, Linc felt goosebumps run up and down his spine. Even at such an advanced age, the inflection in his voice and the violence on his face were a surreal reminder of the old newsreels of the Nazi leader giving speeches. At that moment above all other moments, Herman Braxmeier was Adolf Hitler.
At least five times during dinner, Herman just simply nodded off. Angela would prod him from time to time, and insert another spoo
nful of food in his mouth. Linc could tell that she cared about him a lot.
All she said about their time together was that they’d been married in Argentina about fifty years ago. Linc asked what Herman had done since arriving there from Germany. She just shrugged her shoulders in response. Either she thought it was none of his business, or he’d had enough wealth that he had no need to do anything at all. Linc wondered if it was possible that such a man could be content to do nothing.
Linc had done some research when he returned from Argentina. The official story was that Adolf Hitler had killed himself by gunshot through the roof of his mouth on April 30, 1945. He was hiding in his bunker in Berlin as the allies were closing in.
His wife, Eva Braun, was with him at the time, and she matched his act by ingesting a tab of cyanide. His prior instructions to his aides were that their remains were to be burned, which apparently, they were. The Soviets recovered the remains when they arrived in Berlin.
But, over the years, the accounts of how Hitler died had become controversial. Some historians discounted the records as just being Soviet propaganda. Others said that the truth was covered up.
Then, in 2009, American researchers performed DNA testing on skull fragments that the Soviets had long insisted were those of Hitler, recovered from the burnt ashes. Those tests revealed that the skull was actually that of a woman, not a man, and that she was younger than forty years old when she died.
Linc discovered that there was a voluminous amount of information about Hitler’s death on the internet, some believable, some outrageous.
But the one theory that he found credible was that once Hitler realized that the war was lost and it would only be weeks until he was captured, he’d planned his escape. The exodus became essential in his mind once he’d discovered that his close friend, Heinrich Himmler, had betrayed him.
That exodus was accomplished by submarine. A submarine just for him and his closest aides, after he’d killed his wife, Eva. He’d grown tired of her and saw her as an unstable risk.