Why is Dorfmann here? he wondered, cringing inwardly.
Dorfmann commanded the Gestapo in New Germany. The New Nazi Party governed most of what had once been Europe, now held in an iron grip by Nazi forces.
Dorfmann only answered to Kaiser Wilhelm II, political leader of New Germany. Bruno feared only one thing from Dorfmann . . . that he might discover his racial impurity, his Jewish mother, even though Bruno had made certain all her birth and death records had been destroyed. But Dorfmann was tenacious, always digging to expose enemies of the New World Order.
While Bruno held a higher military rank, and commanded the New World Order Army, he continued to worry that somehow Dorfmann would discover his dark secret, even though Bruno’s New World Army was more or less politically hide-pendent of New Nazi Germany.
No one told Bruno Bottger what to do, quite simply because he held the power, the military might to crush anyone who stood in his way . . . or had, until this upstart Rebel Army led by General Ben Raines came to Africa.
Raines was proving to be a more difficult adversary than Bruno thought in the beginning. Among the worst bits of news, Raines’s forces, headed by that bitch Jackie Malone, had wiped out one of Bruno’s elite Special Forces squads in Zimbabwe.
The devil woman’s troops had killed them down to the last man, including the squad’s commander, Major Cheli, a feat Bruno had thought was impossible. Cheli had been among his best recon specialists in difficult terrain. To take him and his Bantu scouts by surprise implied an expertise in jungle warfare Bottger could only envy, and fear.
Bruno’s trusted bodyguard, Rudolf Hessner, stuck his head through the doorway. “General Dorfmann is here from Berlin to see you.”
“Show him in.”
General Dorfmann entered the expansive office where an old Nazi flag adorned Bruno’s back wall. Dorfmann saluted, his stocky, muscular body still fit even though he was well past the age of fifty. He wore a copy of the old Nazi uniform, as did all New Nazi soldiers, right down to the knee-high black leather boots and bill cap.
Bruno merely nodded, not returning Dorfmann’s salute as a show of superiority. Neither did he stand up behind his desk, giving Dorfmann an indifferent stare.
“What brings to you Pretoria, Herr Dorfmann?” he asked, feigning indifference, as if whatever it was could hold no significance for him.
Without being asked, Dorfmann took a seat across the desk and removed his cap, pushing a hand through his naturally blond hair, pale blue eyes riveted on Bruno.
“A matter of great urgency,” he said in his heavy German accent. “Word of several military defeats for the New World Army has reached Berlin. This Tri-States Army has the kaiser worried, wondering if they will turn toward New Germany sometime in the future.”
“I do not intend to let that happen, Herr Dorfmann.”
Dorfmann nodded, plainly unconvinced. “We have learned a great deal about this General Raines from a man who fought him in the Western Hemisphere, a Simon Border. Border’s mercenary army was soundly defeated by Raines. These Tri-States Rebels grow stronger, acquiring more equipment and more followers. Their so-called Manifesto continues to attract people from all over the world.”
“I’ve heard of this Manifesto,” Bruno said, suspecting there was more behind Dorfmann’s unexpected visit. He was, after all, Gestapo, not a military field commander. Bruno still wondered why Dorfmann was here, and if he posed a threat to him.
“It has tremendous appeal to the oppressed, to starving men who believe in the foolish tenets of democracy,” said Dorfmann. “The SUSA has been built on these principles. But Raines has military power as well as gilt-edged promises to offer believers, and now it appears he has too much military strength for you to contain him. As I said, the kaiser is worried.”
Bruno gave Dorfmann an empty smile. “Tell the kaiser not to worry. All is going according to plan. I am luring Raines and his Tri-Staters across the continent toward South Africa. Then we shall cut off all his sources of supply. He is doing exactly what I had hoped he would do.”
Bottger yawned, as if bored by the conversation. “I have pulled my most effective troops back to the South African borders, in order to attack Raines after his supplies are no longer forthcoming.”
“But the losses? We hear of so many of your defeats at the hands of the Rebels lately. . . .”
“Soldiers must be expendable to serve the cause, General Dorfmann. Most of the men we have lost to Raines have been these simpleminded African natives . . . Bantu tribesmen and especially Zulus. They are continually at war with each other, and when I offered the most powerful of the tribal warlords a handsome sum of money to fight for our cause, the greedy bastards accepted, as I knew they would. They die quickly, and willingly, believing they are making themselves rich. Very few live to collect the wages I’ve offered, and those who do will be exterminated when we unleash the balance of our chemical and germ weapons on them, as we pull out of Africa, to cleanse it . . . after we destroy Raines and his Rebels.”
Bottger waved a dismissive hand, as if the deaths of the natives meant less than nothing to him.
“As you know,” Bruno continued, “our ultimate goal is racial purity on this planet, as it was when the great Adolf Hitler unified most of Europe. Had it not been for the damned Americans’ intervention against the Führer, we would live in a perfect world where no genetic impurities exist.”
Dorfmann glanced over his shoulder. “May I close the door so we can speak privately?”
Bruno felt an adrenaline rush of fear course through him, making his heart pound like a trip-hammer. Was Dorfmann about to reveal something regarding Bruno’s own racial mix? Had he discovered Bruno’s Jewish lineage?
“Of course, General. Close the door if you wish.” As he said it, Bruno pressed a hidden button under his desk to alert Rudolf to the possibility of trouble.
Dorfmann got up and closed the door gently. Bruno noted he was carrying a Luger in a holster tied to his waist. Dorfmann sat back down, giving Bruno a piercing look.
“You mentioned racial purity before,” Dorfmann began. “I wanted to inform you of something, in strictest confidence, of course.”
“Of course,” Bruno said, sensing the direction Dorfmann was headed, wondering how much Dorfmann suspected, and how much he actually knew.
“There have been rumors in high circles having to do with you.”
“High circles? Who do you mean? And what are these rumors?”
Dorfmann continued to stare at him coldly. The Gestapo was a place for men with ice in their veins, and Dorfmann fit this mold perfectly. He would have served Hitler well, Bruno thought.
“The kaiser himself has mentioned it to me, as has General Borgdahl. Someone was looking into your past . . . for reasons I do not know. It seems nothing can be found about one side of your family. There are no records concerning your mother. It is as if she did not exist. The kaiser and General Borgdahl wondered if you can explain this, and give me some information about your mother so I can inform those who need to know.”
Bruno tensed, but tried not to show it, reaching for a desk drawer. General Borgdahl was head of Schutztaffel, the Black-shuts, a death squad enforcing policies within New Germany by means of executions, killing enemies of the state.
“My mother was a simple woman,” Bruno began, a well-rehearsed story he’d told German officials before. “A peasant woman from Bavaria. She was born at home and never registered with the government because the family was so poor, simple farmers who did not understand the Order.”
As he spoke he took a counterfeit file from his desk, containing forged records of the birth and death of a Gertrude Fest, his fictitious mother.
“I did, however, finally locate a few documents in the basement of a building in a small village in Bavaria. Here are my mother’s documents, what I was able to find.”
He tossed the file in front of Dorfmann, waiting, assuming a bored smile, as if he were totally unconcerned about the inquiry an
d Dorfmann’s veiled threats.
Dorfmann did not bother picking up the file, his eyes still glued on Bruno. “Come now, General Field Marshal Bottger. Those records are false.”
“False? Explain yourself.” Bruno sat up straight in his chair. He was not used to his word being questioned.
“Your mother was not Gertrude Fest. I know who she was, or should I say, I also know what she was?”
“You must explain, and please tell me who else you have told about whatever you suspect.”
Dorfmann smiled wickedly, enjoying himself. Bruno’s right hand moved closer to the Steyer automatic pistol he kept in the same desk drawer.
“As you say,” Dorfmann went on, “there are no records. However, I did find an old woman who knew your mother from childhood. I searched for a good many months to uncover this information.”
“What information?”
Dorfmann’s smile broadened. “That your mother was a Jew.”
Bruno knew what he had to do, what must be done. “I will deny it, of course, since it is not true.”
“But it is true, Herr Bottger. I took down a statement from the old woman myself. Your mother was Gertrude Goldman, not Fest as you have claimed. She was even the daughter of a rabbi.”
“Utter nonsense. The old woman is lying.”
“No. She gave me exact details as to your birth, when and where. However, all records had been removed. I’m quite sure you removed them personally, so no one would know of your generic weakness . . . impurity, I should say.”
“Have you informed the kaiser or Borgdahl of these false charges in order to defame me in Berlin?”
“Not yet. I wanted to strike a bargain with you first. I am sure you will agree.”
“What sort of bargain, Herr Dorfmann?” Bruno asked, sitting back in his chair, relaxed now that he had decided what was to happen.
“I want to leave New Germany and join your Army. In the end you will control most of the world, in my opinion, unless this General Raines is your undoing. I wish to be on the winning side when these wars are over.”
Now it was Bruno’s turn to smile. “You would become a traitor to your own people, Herr Dorfmann?”
“You know precisely what I mean. Calling me a traitor is using the wrong word. You are German, even if you are not of pure blood, fighting for New Germany as well as your New World Order. It is simply that I wish to be a part of what you are doing.”
“And you’ll use blackmail in order to do it?”
“Again, you have used the wrong word.”
Bruno pulled out his Steyer, aiming it across the desk. “I call it blackmail. Where is this statement you were given by the old woman?”
“I left it in Berlin for safekeeping, a form of insurance policy. I am surprised that you feel it necessary to point a gun at me.” Dorfmann’s eyes showed no fear, as though he was confident of his position in this tendered bargain.
“Where in Berlin, Herr Dorfmann? Your life hangs in the balance.”
“In a bank safe-deposit box. Only one person has the key.”
“And who might that be?”
“You don’t really expect me to tell you, Herr Bottger. I would be at your mercy. And I know you won’t shoot me either.”
Bruno felt sure he could locate Dorfmann’s safe-deposit box and open it, using force if necessary. Few people in New Germany would challenge him, not even the kaiser himself.
“Then I must inform you of your terrible mistake, Herr Dorfmann. You have misjudged me, thinking I could be blackmailed. I will find your safe-deposit box, and destroy the statement you were given. But you will not be here to see it happen.”
Now Dorfmann drew back, his cheeks paling. “You cannot think you will get away with killing me.”
“I’m quite sure of it,” Bruno replied.
As Dorfmann fumbled at the flap covering his Luger, Bruno pulled the trigger on his 9mm automatic.
Seven hollow-point slugs tore through General Dorfmann. His body jerked in the chair seven times. Blood splattered all over the floor of Bruno’s office, just as Rudolf Hessner came rushing in with his pistol in his fist.
Dorfmann slumped to the concrete floor, making a wet sound when his body landed in a growing pool of blood, groaning, his legs quivering in death spasms.
“I was listening over the intercom,” Rudolf said quietly, lowering the muzzle of his automatic. “But you did not say the code word to come in and kill him.”
“Take his body to the lower-level incinerator and cremate him. Wipe up the blood. Contact whoever flew him down here to Pretoria and tell them that General Dorfmann has not kept his appointment with me. Tell them I’m very concerned. Inform all guards to say that General Dorfmann has not been seen entering the compound. If he has a driver waiting, go up there and summon him to the lower level. You can say the general has asked to see him at once. Then kill him and put his body in the incinerator along with Herr Dorfmann.”
Rudolf bent down to lift Dorfmann’s legs, then hesitated. “He is still breathing.”
“What does it matter, Rudolf? Put him in the incinerator anyway.”
“I’ll have to get a body bag and carry him down. If I drag him he’ll leave blood all over the hallway and stairs.”
“Do whatever you must,” Bruno said, too bored now to bother with details, putting a full clip back in his Steyer. “Make sure you take care of his driver and any aides he brought with him. If you need help, ask Johann to come with you.”
“I won’t leave anyone alive who came here with him,” Rudolf promised.
As Rudolf left to get a body bag, Bruno gave Dorfmann a final glance. The head of the New German Gestapo, the only man in Germany who could discredit him for being part Jew, would be dead in a matter of minutes. Now, all Bruno had to do was fly to Berlin and locate Dorfmann’s safe-deposit box. Then he would have Rudolf kill the old woman who gave the statement to Dorfmann about his mother. His secret would remain buried forever. Ultimately, he would have to execute Rudolf for overhearing what Dorfmann said about his mother being a Jew.
Bottger’s knuckles grew white around the wineglass and he felt a stirring in his groin at the thoughts of how Dorfmann had looked at the moment of death—killing had always aroused him.
He shook his head to clear the image from his mind. Shortly after disposing of Dorfmann’s body, he’d had to flee his headquarters for his very life, and that bastard Raines had shot his helicopter down in flames, burning his face off down to the bone.
Bottger, saved from certain death by Rudolf Hessner, had been too ill for too long to go after the safety-deposit box Dorfmann had hidden. Once its contents were discovered, the kaiser had no choice but to cut off Bottger’s funding and brand him an enemy of the state and persona non grata in Germany.
As he remembered that day, Bottger’s hand clenched further and the glass shattered, cutting his fingers in several places.
Rudolf rushed from inside, where he’d been standing watching his master. “You’ve cut yourself,” he said, as he knelt next to Bottger and applied a soft cloth to his hand.
“I was thinking of the past,” Bottger muttered, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Rudolf glanced up at him. “Better to think of the future and President Osterman’s offer.”
“You trust her then?” Bottger asked, staring at his only friend in the world.
Rudolf shook his head. “Not for a moment, sir, but I do trust you to use her as long as we need her to get back at Raines and the SUSA.” He shrugged, squeezing Bottger’s hand to stop the bleeding. “After that, who knows?”
Bottger’s eyes flicked back to the setting sun, and the scar tissue around his mouth tightened as he tried to smile. “Exactly, dear Rudolf. After we are done with the bitch president and no longer need her support, we will do with her whatever we wish.”
THREE
Perro Loco was born Dorotero Arango in a small village in Nicaragua thirty-five years ago. Like so many of the places down there in those tim
es, the area was under the sway of one of the local “rebel” leaders, a man named Santiago Guzman. Guzman was more like a tribal warlord, exacting tribute from the villagers in the form of food, money, and sometimes the young men of the village when he needed them to join his forces. Guzman was known as El Machete, The Knife, because he always carried a long machete he used to execute those who disobeyed his orders.
One day when Dorotero was just entering his teens, El Machete came to his village and called his father out of their hut. He said he needed the boy to come with him. Dorotero’s father declined, saying the boy was needed at home to take care of his mother and sister while the father worked the fields. El Machete didn’t argue. He simply walked over to the boy’s mother and sister and beheaded them with one swipe of his long knife. When the father fell to his knees, cradling his dead wife in his arms, El Machete killed him too. Then he turned to the boy and said, “Now you have no reason to stay in this miserable pigsty of a village.”
Instead of following El Machete’s orders, the boy told the man he needed to go into their hut and gather his things. When he came out, he walked up to El Machete, pulled a sickle his father used to cut ribbon cane from beneath his shirt, and buried it in El Machete’s chest. Guzman had time for one swipe with his machete, and he laid Dorotero’s face open with it before he died, giving him a scar he would carry with him until he died.
Dorotero then went on a killing spree, grabbing El Machete’s long knife from his hand and killing three of his men before they could draw their weapons. As he stood there in the clearing in the middle of his village, one of the neighbors is said to have whispered, “Perro Loco,” meaning Mad Dog. Dorotero took that as his name and vanished into the jungle, where he began recruiting his own gang, which soon became known for their ferocity and viciousness and utter lack of mercy toward their enemies.
Such was the history of the man who now sat behind an admiral’s desk at the Mexican Navy’s base at Pariso. As his two top assistants entered the room, Perro Loco glanced at them with approval. They suited his needs admirably.
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