The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3)

by Stanley Salmons

  His eyes blazed. “Traitor!”

  “No, not a traitor. To be a traitor you have to start by being loyal, and I was never loyal to you. On the contrary, I despise you and everything you stand for.”

  “It was a different story when I let you take Delfina to your bed!” He spat the words.

  The mention of Delfina, whose lifeless body was lying in the next room, sent a shaft of pain and anger through me. I clenched my right fist, about to smash it into that chalky face. But standing there now Müller appeared aged, shrunken, and I knew it would provide no satisfaction; on the contrary, it would be degrading..

  The urge subsided. “You really fell for that, didn’t you?” I thrust my head forward. “I have news for you, Müller. I never touched that girl. I took her to my room so she wouldn’t have to endure any more than she’d suffered already.” I poked him in the middle of his bony chest with two fingers, hard enough to make him gasp. “At your hands.”

  He was breathing hard. “What are you going to do?”

  I stepped back and folded my arms again, contemplating him. My loathing of this man was so intense that just taking him to face justice wasn’t enough; I wanted him to stare into the abyss. “You’re going back to Germany – I’ll let them charge you there. What will they throw at you? Rape, torture, kidnap, unlawful imprisonment, forced labour, prostitution, money-laundering, providing assistance to proscribed organisations… They’ll have a bloody field day.”

  He scowled. “Never, my lawyers will oppose extradition.”

  “They won’t get the chance – you’re coming with me. You know all about the SS, don’t you? Remember what happened to Adolf Eichmann? He was kidnapped by Mossad and he stood trial in Israel. Well, he was a war criminal, and so was your grandfather, and so – in your own way – are you. And your prosecution will be just the start of it. I’m going to dismantle the rest of it: Lipzan, the Guardians of the Reich, the whole nasty network.”

  He moved, then winced, clutching at his thigh. He’d probably fallen or been knocked over. He hissed, “That you will never manage.”

  “Oh, but I will.”

  I went back into his office and glanced around. The display screen on the desk was smashed, but it told me where to look. I peered under the desk. It was a familiar, if slightly antiquated, set-up: a small – no doubt well specified – computer, connected to an external data storage unit for continuous backup, and a secure modem/router. The presence of that local data storage unit was significant. It meant that everything I needed was right there, on something no bigger than my phone. I detached it from the connecting cables, took it back into the other room, and waggled it in front of his face.

  “You see? It’s all here, all the evidence I need.”

  “Encoded!” His thin lips curled in a smug smile.

  “So well that my friends at the NSA won’t be able to decrypt it? I don’t think so.”

  The smile faded. I unbuttoned the flap of the other shirt pocket, the empty one, and made a show of dropping the unit in and refastening the flap. He followed it all with his eyes, his mouth making small movements as if he were chewing words that refused to emerge.

  Then more screams came down the corridor and he grimaced. “What is that dreadful noise?”

  “That dreadful noise is your wife, Müller. It seems the girls hate her even more than they hate you. But perhaps only slightly more.”

  I glanced around the room, saw a padded table with straps, similar to the one in the other room. I returned my gaze to him and jerked my head at the table. “Is that where you ‘entertained’ Delfina? And all the others?”

  Another scream sounded, longer and even more agonized than the others, then it cut off abruptly. There was an ominous silence.

  He passed his tongue over his lips. “Get me out of here.”

  “All in good time. First—”

  A loud explosion made both of us jerk round. It seemed to come from the other wing. Thoughts flashed through my mind. The rebel soldiers are out there. Some have jumped into the remaining vehicles and this is the advance guard. Or the Buzzards have arrived already and, ignoring my orders, they’re shooting up the building.

  I pointed at him as I turned to hurry out. “I’ll be back. You’d best stay just where you are if you don’t want to run into those girls.”

  I crossed the room and ducked through the gap under the dangling door. Outside acrid smoke was still billowing along the corridor and I could hear crackling from the transmitter installation. The generators were probably still pouring out their high tension electricity into ruptured cables.

  In the main corridor I encountered a group of girls running towards me, scuffs of dirt and soot on their clothes and faces. Behind them, more smoke.

  Maria was with the ones in the lead. I caught her by the arm.

  “Maria, what happened back there?”

  She was breathless, but her face was flushed with triumph. “We set fire to the kitchen. That was one of the gas canisters.”

  “What about the staff?”

  She smiled.

  I had a fleeting mental image of the four: the chubby, Asiatic chef, his tall European-looking partner, the man from Tegucigalpa who’d been butchering the meat, the young sous-chef.

  She must have registered my expression, because her smile faded. “Mr Müller gave them one plastic disc only. Every night all four would take turns with one girl.” Her eyes flashed. “I expect it was his idea of a joke.”

  Half a dozen girls came hurrying out of the middle corridor, Camila in the lead, her plaits bouncing, her dress spotted with blood.Two of the others were carrying bottles. I pointed and looked at Maria. “What’s in the bottles?”

  “Cooking brandy. It burns very well.”

  Camila dragged at Maria’s sleeve. “What are you waiting for? Come on.”

  “Maria,” I said. “We need to get all of you outside to wait for the transport. The rebel militia could be here any moment. For your own safety you must go out at the front.”

  I was hoping the factory supervisor would have some authority over these girls, but she had other ideas.

  “Not yet.” She brandished her scissors above her head. With a cheer the others did the same, and they ran on down the corridor. Their shouts receded.

  I looked along the middle corridor. My room was down there but I couldn’t concern myself with that. At the far end a fire had taken hold and in the flickering light I saw the dark shapes of two bodies. It wasn’t hard to put together. Those two must have retreated to their bedrooms and barricaded the doors. The girls had piled up combustible materials, sprinkled them with brandy, set them alight, and then waited. Smoke would have trickled underneath the doors and built up in those small rooms with the windows that didn’t open. And smoke meant fire, and fire made a person panic. The men opened the doors and ran out and the girls were waiting for them with their scissors. Who were they? Baer? Tilmann? The two surgeons, Wayne and Chuck? I’d have few regrets about those two…

  A thick cloud of smoke billowed up from the kitchen end of the main corridor and I had to back away. I’d made a serious miscalculation. In my anxiety to tell the girls they were free I’d left the automatic rifle in the van. That was when I found out Delfina was already with Mrs Müller and all I could think of was to run to her. But now the corridor was ablaze and it would be impossible to get out through the rear door. The rifle was all I had now to fend off that militia, so I’d have to get there via the front entrance and hope they hadn’t arrived yet.

  I ran back to the lobby. The girls were reappearing from Müller’s corridor, pursued by yet more smoke. Either the high tension cables had finally ignited a fire, or the girls had set one with those bottles of brandy. But I wanted Müller; I needed him to give evidence. I was about to go back for him when the security door opposite slammed open and Wayne and Chuck appeared.

  There were two soldiers with them, and each was fanning a semi-automatic pistol. My own pistol was in its holster, and I wa
s directly in the line of fire.

  44

  Before I could react the girls surged forward, shouting and screaming, and heedless of the danger they hurled themselves at the men. At that range the soldiers couldn’t miss. Above all the noise I heard the shots ringing out and watched in horror as they went down, one after another: Camila and Victoria, and others whose names I’d never known. I’d drawn my own semi-automatic by then but the girls continued to press their attack and I couldn’t get a clear shot. The four men backed steadily towards the entrance. They made it as far as the lobby when the magazine on one of those pistols ran out. I saw the panic on the rebel soldier’s face as he reached for another magazine; then there was a blur of movement, a flash of steel, and he was clasping his neck, blood pumping between his fingers. All around him open scissors rose and fell, rose and fell, and he disappeared from view. The two surgeons and the remaining soldier continued to back away, and the soldier levelled his weapon. At last I had a clear shot. It took him in the chest and he dropped. Through the glass doors behind him I could see the two surgeons running around to the right. They were heading for the garage.

  Smoke was now pouring into the lobby from every side. With the pistol in my right hand and the sleeve of my left arm over my mouth and nose, I herded the over-excited girls out through the glass doors and into the open. The ones supporting wounded friends were last; all that was left was a pathetic tangle of dead bodies. Was Müller still alive? I bent low and headed in that direction, ready to make a dash for it to bring him out, but the corridor was already burning fiercely and I was forced back by a wave of heat. It was hopeless.

  I hurried outside and shouted to the girls, “Wait here.” Then I turned to the right and ran around the end wing. Too late: the garage doors were open and the camo’d all-terrain was already racing off, bumping and lurching over the uneven ground. I dropped to one knee to fire at them, but they made it to the worn path that led to the front of the building. I watched helplessly as they accelerated away.

  I got up, returned the pistol to the holster, and stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists in frustration. After the Müllers those two were the ones I’d most wanted to nail, and now I never would. I heaved a sigh and turned to look up at the mountain – and my back went cold. A dark river of rebel soldiers was flowing along the mountain track. I could already hear faint shouts, and the nearest ones were close enough for me to make out the undulating movement as they jogged down the path, assault rifles glinting in the sun. My pulse quickened.

  There’s well over a hundred of them, and what do I have? A handgun!

  I had to slow them down somehow. If I could get to the van I had an automatic rifle in there with three spare magazines. But would I get to it? The rank and file were at the limits of the useful range of those assault weapons but they could spray bullets in my direction and one of them was sure to get lucky. I bit my lip, weighing up the distance to the van. I had to try. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the sprint.

  There was a swishing sound and I whirled just as the all-terrain with the two surgeons exploded in a ball of fire. I blinked in disbelief. A ragged cheer went up from the girls. Rooted to the spot, I registered the rapidly dissipating streak of white smoke that ended in the burning crater. In my head I saw Scottie running through the grass, the drone banking in, the rocket ripping through the air, and the fiery blast that blew him to pieces. The image vanished from my mind as the Buzzard flashed low overhead and I ducked instinctively. It banked sharply right, then left, following the line of the mountain path, the thunder of its engines accompanied by the eerie sound that always sent shivers down my spine: the buzzing wail of fast-firing cannon. A long plume of dust rose into the air, stretching all the way up the hillside. The rebel militia had got close, but they wouldn’t be getting any closer. Two more Buzzards were flying towards the mountains, their wings underslung with bombs and rockets. The air was ripped apart by the noise as they streaked over the scrub landscape and soared up into the foothills. Then multiple explosions, and white smoke erupting from the hill to the south.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and went back to where the girls had gathered.

  Behind the entrance doors the lobby was in flames and, even as I looked, the glass shattered with an enormous bang. Fanned by the draught the fire roared, erupted from the entrance, and began to lick over the outside of the building. The girls moved further out to escape the heat. They were still breathing hard, faces flushed and sooty, hair dishevelled, dresses spattered darkly with blood. I noticed the scissors some were still carrying and went round collecting them and tossing them into the inferno. Someone else could work that one out.

  Twenty minutes later the slower Rotofans came in to land. The crews jumped down and I went to meet them. The senior pilot spoke to me.

  “Colonel Slater?”

  “That’s me.”

  “This lot will fit into two Rotofans. You asked for three.” There was a slight note of accusation in his voice.

  “Yeah, that was before a couple of rebel soldiers opened fire on them. They killed quite a few. We had to leave them behind.” I pointed to the blazing building, and for a moment I couldn’t speak as I thought of the tangle of dead girls in the foyer, and Delfina lying in the debris of that dreadful room, all of them being consumed, even now, by the flames.

  He grimaced and nodded.

  I took a deep breath. “We should make a move. Some of these girls are badly hurt.”

  “Sure. I’ll radio ahead.” He glanced again at the girls. “We can’t handle that many at the base. There’s a major incident unit at the local hospital. We’ll call them in. The cops, too. It’ll all be there by the time we get back.”

  We decided to use one of the Rotofans to transport the wounded girls on their own. A couple of crewmen were waiting inside with medical kits to do the best they could for them and they would attend them during the flight. That Rotofan took off immediately; the rest of the girls got on the other two.

  I boarded last, with Maria. A glance down the cabin showed me this craft wasn’t a modified civilian one like the SAS had used in the Yemen. Those had aircraft style seating; these were in full military transport configuration: no windows and a long bench down either side of the fuselage. I could guess that they were also armoured in the vulnerable spots. A jihadi with an automatic rifle wouldn’t bring one of these beauties down with a fluke shot.

  Maria and I took the last two places. “Did you see Colin?” I asked her.

  “The engineer? No, we couldn’t find him anywhere. Pity. He was near the top of our list.”

  Colin must have been inside the secure wing when I fired the grenades into it. The blast would have distributed him all over his beloved transmitter installation.

  Sorry, Colin, but you had your fun. And a quick death was probably a lot more pleasant than what these girls had in store for you.

  “What about Müller? Did you kill him?”

  “No, we did not kill Mr Müller. We put him on that table of his, fastened the straps the way he did on us. He could not move. Just to make sure, we soaked his trousers in brandy.” Her smooth, round face shone with the satisfaction of a job well done. “You do see, don’t you? You are the only man to come out of that building alive.” She raised her voice. “But then, you are not just a man, my dear Colonel; you are a saint.” And she leant over, cupped her hand around my neck, and kissed me long and hard on the lips. I became aware of a roaring in my ears and as she drew away I realized it was the girls cheering, clapping their hands, and stamping on the floor. I don’t embarrass easily but I could feel the heat in my face. I lifted a hand in acknowledgement and gave them a uneasy smile. Then, to my relief, the cabin doors closed. I pointed vigorously at my seat belt, the girls looked round and fumbled for theirs, and the awkward moment had passed. The engines whined up and the Rotofan took to the air.

  We flew at low level for maybe ten minutes, then we ascended to an operational cruising height. I guess by th
en we’d crossed the border into Texas.

  I thought about what Maria had just told me. I couldn’t feel any sympathy for Müller, even as I couldn’t feel any for his wife. Nor did it lessen my admiration for these women. After being tortured and cowed into submission, after suffering abuse night after night for months – in some cases years – they’d hung onto a fierce hatred, nurtured it like glowing coals until it was fanned into life by their sudden freedom. It was a triumph of the human spirit, even if the resultant orgy of violence was more like an animal frenzy. But there could be consequences. I turned to her.

  “Maria, as soon as we land, get the girls together. You didn’t kill anyone, you understand? The soldiers were shooting at you and I shot them, both of them. The fire was started by my grenades, and the other men were trapped inside.”

  She met my eyes. “Why?”

  “What you did could be called justifiable homicide, but a court might take a different view. It’s better this way. You’re just the victims of a people-trafficking operation. Okay?”

  Her lips tightened and she nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  I settled back. Behind us the Müllers, and their ugly neo-Nazi outpost, would soon be no more than a charred patch on a remote stretch of landscape.

  But the job wasn’t finished. It was time to go after the rest of Hitler’s legacy.

  45

  As the pilot had promised, emergency services were already at the West Texas Air Force base, waiting to deal with twenty-eight displaced South American women. An ambulance team took charge of the ones who were wounded, but all of them would be receiving hospital attention in due course. The Texas police were well-organized and cooperative. It helped that they were used to dealing with illegal immigrants, and not one of these young women was seeking asylum; they simply wanted to be repatriated. A skilled group of Spanish-speaking policewomen went with the girls. They would interview them and make all the arrangements for their return. Thinking ahead, I told the policewomen it was vital to keep a record of the contact details, because there could be prosecutions arising from this and the girls would be needed as witnesses. They looked at me as if I’d just landed from another planet and one of them, a lady of ample proportions, said “We know our job, sir” in a tone that lacked deference. So I left it to them, just glad it had been taken off my hands. The vehicles drove away and the apron was suddenly empty.