by Helin, Don
Sam followed Popeye into his office, about twice the size of Sam’s office. The poster covering the wall behind the desk startled him. It showed a picture of Adolph Hitler with a caption below the dictator’s sneering face: “I’ll be back, and this time no more Mr. Nice Guy.”
Nazi memorabilia lay scattered around the room— uniform hats arrayed on a rack next to the desk, pictures of Nazi officers on the walls, and armbands stacked up on a bookshelf next to Popeye’s desk. A full-dress German uniform decorated a mannequin in the corner.
Popeye faced him across the desk. “It’s not our place to question General Oliver.”
Sam bit his lip to maintain his cool. “I didn’t question Oliver. All I said was that I didn’t know what mission he has planned for us. Do you?”
“No, I don’t, but we must be prepared to do whatever is necessary.”
“Look,” Sam replied, “we’re supposed to be on the same team. Let’s not cross one another, at least in front of the men. If you have problems with what I say, we can talk it over in private.”
The two glared at one another. Sam wouldn’t be the first to blink in this game of eyeball chicken.
“Let me handle situations like my face-down with Buster. I need to establish my authority. Your piping in doesn’t help.”
Popeye sat down in his swivel-tilter armchair. He leaned forward with his elbows on the scarred executive-style desk. “Please sit.” He motioned with his left arm toward a wooden chair in the corner.
Sam pulled the chair up to the desk.
“A great deal is riding on the successful accomplishment of our mission. I just want to make sure the general’s plan works.” Popeye ran his fingers through his unruly white hair. “Fuckers have crucified us. I for one ain’t gonna take it anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
“Do you know what it means to get crapped on by your government after you’ve given them your best?”
Sam shook his head.
“My grandfather was an SS colonel in the German Army.”
He said it with such pride.
“The Jews destroyed my country. After we were so close to victory. The glorious Third Reich brought to its knees. All because of the Jews.”
Sam nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. His best friend in the military school had been Jewish. His friend’s grandmother had spent two years in Auschwitz—watching her parents spirited off to the gas chamber, being starved and beaten, then somehow managing to stay on her feet during the death march to the next camp near the end of the war. She was one of the few who survived and the only one in her family.
“Ever hear of ODESSA?” Popeye’s voice pulled Sam back to the present. His eyes shone. A smile curled up his lips under the drooping moustache.
It took all of Sam’s patience to sit there and listen. “The name sounds familiar.”
“The ODESSA was formed by the CIA after the war to take care of high-ranking German officers. The intelligence bastards knew the enemy had become the Russians. The U.S. needed the German intelligence apparatus if they were to have a chance against the Communist horde.” He smiled again. “They were smart enough to recognize the skills of the German officers and planned to take advantage of them.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Not many people have. My grandfather befriended the bishop in Vienna during the war. The bishop knew what heroes the German officers were. He helped hundreds of SS officers escape by obtaining Red Cross passports, then visas to Syria. He gave them tickets for a ship and money to tide them over.”
“The Catholic Church did that?” Bile rose in Sam’s throat. Very little surprised him anymore, but this did.
Popeye ignored Sam’s comment. “My grandfather arrived in Syria with his family. That’s where he met the CIA representatives. They told my grandfather they valued his skills and would protect him. He believed the liars. Our family, along with a number of other SS officers and their families, left Syria and settled in Argentina.”
“Why Argentina?”
“Can’t tell you.” Popeye lit a cigar and drew on it. “I was born in Argentina.”
Sam waited.
“My grandfather’s mission was to meet with Arab groups. He helped them form cells that would rid the world of the Jews and their supporters once and for all.”
Sam exhaled. “How long did this go on?”
“It was a grand plan. One of my grandfather’s friends, Otto Skorzeny, helped install Nasser as president of Egypt.”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“That’s right, Thorpe: this was a big deal.” He smiled. “A very big deal. Skorzeny brought together groups of top SS soldiers to help him get the job done. He met with success.”
Popeye seemed to glow as he spoke.
“Skorzeny trained terror cells for the PLO. He even helped Ali Hassan Salameh, the leader of the Black September Group, kill nine Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics. That was one of our finest hours.”
“Weren’t the senior SS officers tried at Nuremberg?” Sam looked at the mannequin in the corner. He wondered if Popeye’s grandfather had worn that uniform.
Popeye laughed. “Only the ones the CIA didn’t want. They got the rest out of Germany. And I can tell you, plenty of officers wanted to be smuggled into Argentina.”
Sam waited for him to continue.
“My grandfather did everything they asked him to do, all their damn dirty work. He did it well.” Popeye took another puff on his cigar. “You know what he got for a reward?”
The smoke swirled toward Sam.
“Bastards killed him. They would have killed my father too, but before he died, my grandfather got suspicious. He moved us up country.”
A framed picture of Popeye standing with three other men, all dressed in Nazi uniforms, hung on the wall behind Popeye.
Popeye followed Sam’s eyes. “My comrades. We are the leadership of the Pennsylvania Skinheads.”
“Who?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the skinheads.”
Sam didn’t reply.
“We don’t use names.” He seemed to sit up straighter. “The skinheads are the next generation of Nazi leadership. We’re dedicated to ridding the world of the Jewish influence once and for all.”
“Tell me more about the group.”
“I’ve been active with them for a number of years. They nominated me to be chapter colonel, but I had to decline because of my current job.”
“Why’s that?” Sam asked.
“None of your business.”
“What does the group do?”
Popeye smiled. “We have meetings, sponsor concerts and parties. A big part of our mission is recruiting new members. That’s why we have parties and bring in bands.”
“I’d heard you use the Internet very effectively.” Sam would have to ask his backup team for material on the skinhead movement in Pennsylvania.
Popeye smiled. “It’s made for us. The coordinator for much of our Internet capability is located in Minneapolis.”
Sam nodded but said nothing.
“I was just out there a few weeks ago to meet with him. While I was there, the FBI raided the chapter. Took a bunch of the leadership and threw them in jail. Damn near caught me in their web. If I hadn’t been late to a meeting, I’d be in jail now. Can you imagine that?”
Sam could.
“You don’t say much do you?”
“Not unless I have something to say.”
“I want you to know that this mission is important. Payback for all the crap our government has pulled on us. If you mess it up, I’ll kill you. Just so we understand one another.”
Sam arranged some papers on the field desk in his office and kept the cell phone pressed to his ear. He hated to be stuck on hold.
He’d been provided an office next to Popeye’s. The room was small, not much larger than his office in the Pentagon, but at least he didn’t have to share this broom closet with
another officer. The furniture consisted of the desk, an army cot against one wall, three folding metal chairs, and a refrigerator large enough to stack a few Bud Lights. Thankfully he did have a bathroom with a shower, although he couldn’t stand up straight in the shower without banging his head.
A new Dell computer sat on the end table next to the desk. Sam had been provided a password so he could link into General Oliver’s local area network.
Aly Kassim’s voice came on the phone. “Hello, Sam. How is everything going?”
“Fine, Aly. What’s the status of the communications equipment I ordered? It’s supposed to be here by now.”
Aly spoke in his normal measured voice. “I got your e-mail and checked on the order. It arrived at our offices in Harrisburg this afternoon. The shipment got slowed down by that snowstorm over Ohio. It’ll be ready for pickup in the morning.”
“Oliver’s getting antsy. He wants to get this operation underway.”
“What’s the next step?” Aly asked.
“Oliver hasn’t confided that yet.” Sam paused. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. I’m glad you’re on board. General Oliver seems impressed with you. Keep it up.”
“I’m signing off.”
“Goodbye, Sam.”
Sam disconnected the phone and leaned back. He looked forward to the meeting with his new FBI contact in the morning. He had a lot to tell him. After the meeting, he needed to pick up the communications gear on his way back. With that gear, training could begin in earnest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sam arrived at the Barnes & Noble in the Camp Hill Mall early for the 9:30 meeting. He circled the mall twice before parking. After getting out of his car, he stopped at a payphone outside the bookstore and pretended to talk while glancing around the parking lot.
Waiting a few minutes, he hung up the phone and walked inside, satisfied that he hadn’t been followed. It surprised him to see the number of people wandering around a bookstore on a Tuesday morning. Who were these people? Didn’t anyone work anymore?
Today he would meet his new FBI contact, Alex Prescott. His good friend and prior contact had left the FBI, distraught over the death of his girlfriend. Sam hoped that Alex knew what he was doing. He had to be able to meet Prescott without raising Oliver’s suspicions. At some point, Oliver would have him followed.
Sam sensed someone watching him, but spotted no one suspicious. Undercover work was a whole new bag for him.
He had no idea what Prescott looked like, so it would be up to Prescott to seek him out. The table of recent bestsellers toward the front of the bookstore showed that John Sanford had a new Prey book out. Maybe he’d pick it up on his way out. Sam purchased a Washington Post and walked over to the snack bar area. He liked reading the Post each day and missed it up here in Harrisburg.
He sat down at one of the café tables with a cup of coffee and a banana-nut muffin and opened the paper.
When he glanced over the top of his newspaper, he didn’t see any likely candidates for Alex. The noise of conversations sailed around him.
A young couple sat in the corner, whispering to one another. The woman didn’t seem much older than Sam’s daughter, making him homesick for Emily. If it weren’t for the impact these crazies could have on his country, Sam would be in Minneapolis with her right now. Come to think of it, why wasn’t that girl in school?
He looked in the opposite direction and spotted a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, her frosted hair sticking up in spikes. An attractive woman but, jeez, the hair.
He took a sip of coffee, then checked the front door again. Not a good sign that Prescott was late. If the guy wasn’t dependable, Sam would request that General Gerber get him a replacement agent.
Sam looked at the young woman again. She smiled at him. He glanced down at his paper, warmth spreading through him. Ever since he and Jackie had broken up, he’d found himself looking more closely at other women.
The thought of Jackie made him sad. They’d been dating for about a year, having met during meetings of the Pentagon’s anti-terrorist task force. The attraction had been mutual and immediate. But they had drifted apart. He missed her.
Sam glanced at his watch again. His contact was fifteen minutes late. He’d wait until ten o’clock, then call General Gerber.
A man with gray hair and glasses limped into the coffee area, a pile of books stuck under his arm. He ordered coffee, and struggled to get all the books and his coffee to a table, nearly dropping some of the books on the floor.
Sam leaned forward to assist him when the woman with spiked hair walked over and helped the man balance his books. She had a tattoo of some sort on the skin that showed between her T-shirt and her skin-tight jeans.
She ordered another coffee. Walking toward his table, swinging her hips, she asked him, “Do you come in here often?”
Sam leaned back in his chair. “No.” Damn, he shouldn’t have been so abrupt. “I don’t mean to be short, but I’m waiting for someone.”
“Bet it’s your girl, right?” She smiled. “Mind if I sit for a moment?”
“I really do.” When Sam looked down he noticed a small diamond pin in her naval.
“Don’t be a pain in the butt, Colonel Thorpe.” Sam stared at her, his mouth hanging open like a kid on his first date.
“Alex Prescott.” She pulled out a chair and sat down.
Marcel Dubois leaned against the cash register near the front door of his restaurant. He straightened and smiled at the man in the dark blue suit entering. The man’s companion, a young woman whose blond hair touched the collar of her mink coat, smiled back at Marcel.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Marcel’s.” Marcel knew all of his regulars. He made it a point to give a special welcome to new customers and pegged these two as Americans.
“Reservations for Holden,” the man said.
Marcel looked at the reservation list with a practiced flourish, although he had already memorized the name. “Ah, yes, sir. Right this way.” He led them back to a table in a corner, laughing and joking with regulars along the way.
He bowed slightly and pulled out the chair for the lady. “May I take your coat, mademoiselle?”
She smiled at him and turned her back. “Thank you.”
Marcel helped her slip out of the coat and held the chair for her. Her low-cut green dress complemented her well-proportioned body. He set menus in front of each of them and snapped his fingers for the waiter. “I’ll check your coats for you. If I may be of assistance, please let me know. Enjoy your lunch.”
Marcel had opened his restaurant when he’d retired from the Canadian Army seven years before. His sense of order and strong management style stood him well, and his restaurant flourished, becoming one of the “in” places to eat in Montreal. This was the Tuesday lunch crowd. Every table in the restaurant stayed full. Today he had a wait-list.
His father would have been so proud. Thinking of his father and brother always made him sad. Marcel had loved them both so much, and the soldiers had killed them. The memories flooded back, threatening to overwhelm him.
The election of 1960 had turned his father’s world upside down. All of the things he valued had disappeared with the election of Jean Lesage as prime minister of Quebec. The “Quiet Revolution,” as people called it, had begun and with it the rejection of basic moral values. The Catholic Church had been his father’s pillar. Now the Liberals had taken power and were erasing everything.
“Marcel,” his father said soon after the election, “our way of life is gone. Nothing is sacred anymore. Mark this date as the time when Quebec lost its way.”
His father’s prophecy had proved correct. The first major change was that the Catholic Church gradually lost control of a wide range of issues, from education to social policy.
It broke Marcel’s heart to see his father wipe tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt as his big hands, scarred from years of hard far
m work, shook. Marcel didn’t know what he could do to help.
His older brother joined the Front de Liberation du Quebec. At first the FLQ simply protested the changes encircling them. But then, the movement garnered inspiration from the Marxist ideology of the Cuban revolution. In March 1963, the FLQ movement turned violent. Members planted bombs in three Canadian Army barracks. They demanded political and economic independence for Quebec.
Over the next seven years the FLQ triggered a number of incidents. They were cheered on by many in Quebec. These incidents ranged in scope from a bomb attack at an Army recruiting center, to dozens of bank robberies and armed thefts, and finally the daytime bombing of the Montreal Stock Exchange in which twenty people were injured. Marcel’s father was so proud that Marcel’s older brother, Pierre, participated in the stock exchange bombing.
It angered Marcel that his father would not allow him to join the FLQ. When a British diplomat and a Quebec government minister were kidnapped in 1970, the federal government invoked the War Measures Act and sent federal troops into Quebec.
Pierre, known by the authorities for his FLQ connections, had to go underground. Many took to the streets to protest the arrival of federal troops in Quebec. Nowhere were the protests more militant than in Montreal.
October 17, 1970 had dawned bright and clear in Montreal, the wind signaling notice of colder days to come. Marcel turned twenty years old two weeks before that October day, his whole life ahead of him.
“I want you to come with me to the protest after church,” Marcel’s father said. “See for yourself what our government is doing to us. We owe this to Pierre.”
“Do not take my son,” his mother cried. “It could be dangerous. The government has said that they will not allow protests. I already have one son who must run from the government.”