The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3)

by Martin Roy Hill

  “A story?” Olasko made a face as if he stepped in dog crap. “You some kind of a reporter?”

  “Yeah, freelance,” I said.

  “And you know Glasgow how?”

  “We met on a panel at a writers’ conference a couple of years ago,” I said. “He was helping me with research on another story.”

  “Another story? Not the story about the Crane killing?” Olasko demanded.

  “No.” It was a lie, of course, but I not only wanted to play my cards close to my vest, I wanted to keep them inside the damn vest. I can play a mean game of poker, too.

  “So, what was he helping you with?”

  “Jonathan’s a historian—well, he was a historian—with a specialty in Nazi Germany,” I said, treading the truth as close as I dared. “I write books and I’m researching one on how Mexico’s large German immigrant population nearly led that country to declare war on the U.S. during World War II. That’s why I was in La Playa de Cortés. There was a large German colony there in the Thirties and Forties.”

  “Mexico joining the Nazis?” he snorted. “That’s one I never heard before.” He shook his head then said, “So, the only connection between these two murders is your research?”

  I nodded.

  “How?” Olasko demanded.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Olasko turned toward Mike.

  “You got any suspects in the Crane murder?”

  Mike looked at me and shook his head.

  “It’s not our case anymore,” he said. “The Feebies took it over.”

  “The FBI?” I nearly shouted. “Why?”

  “They just said it was a federal case and for us to butt out of it,” he said. “Frankly, I thought you might know, Pete.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one who brought up the Israelis.”

  Olasko held up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “First Nazi Mexicans and now Israelis? What the hell are you two talking about?”

  “I simply pointed out to Mike that two small-caliber rounds in the back of the head is a classic Mossad assassination tactic. That’s all.”

  “Mossad?” Olasko said. “That’s their CIA, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “And how the hell would you know how they kill people?”

  “I covered the Gulf War—you know, Desert Storm,” I said. “We heard rumors of Hussein’s people being knocked off that way by the Mossad before we launched our attack.” I didn’t tell Olasko they were more than rumors and that I knew one of the assassins.

  “Let me get this straight,” Olasko said. “We’ve got Nazis in Mexico, Israelis, and now spies and assassins. What fucking kind of game are you two involved with?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. Mike simply said, “I guess you need to ask the bureau that, Olasko.”

  “I think I will,” Olasko said. “I just think I will.”

  When they finally left, I poured myself three fingers of Scotch, added some ice, and sat at my desk. Jack leaped onto the desk—his leg obviously improving—and I scratched his neck while I dialed Jo’s number. Her voice was thick when she answered the phone, and it occurred to me she may have taken pain pills for her leg.

  “So, I’m not a murder suspect anymore?” she asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Well, not as far as the SDPD is concerned,” I said.

  “Hmmmmm,” she said.

  “Listen, you’re tired. We’ll talk tomorrow and I’ll fill in the details.”

  I hung up, sipped the Scotch, and watched Jack groom himself. He stopped, rose to his feet, and stared toward the front door. A moment later there was another knock at the door. I opened a drawer, grabbed a large set of scissors, and answered the knock.

  It was Mike McCarty again.

  I let him in. He raised an eyebrow at the scissors in my hand.

  “Adding to your scrapbook?” he said.

  I put the shears away and picked up my Scotch. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” He sat at the kitchen table as I poured us each three fingers. After giving him his drink and sitting myself at the table, Mike said, “Pete, just what the fuck have you gotten into?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Mike.” I knew him too well to think I could B.S. him.

  “We’ve known each other a long time, Pete,” he said. “Since before you went to work in Mexico. And I remember that last crap you got me involved in that brought the feds down on my ass. I didn’t mind it then—too much—and I don’t now, just as long as you don’t play me.”

  I took a long swig of Scotch and considered my words.

  “I’m not playing you, Mike,” I said. “Truth is I don’t know what I’m involved in. But it concerns Frank Crane.”

  “And this guy Glasgow?”

  “It shouldn’t have,” I said. “That’s what I don’t understand. Jonathan was just another writer, a conspiracy theorist with a lot of knowledge about the Nazis.”

  “And this crap about Nazis,” Mike said. “What the hell do Nazis have to do with Crane’s murder?”

  “I think it might have something to do with gold smuggling,” I said. “Nazi gold.”

  ☼

  McCarty listened while I gave him the Cliff Notes version of the gold story. I left out Jo and the gold ingot in Frank’s floor safe; gold is as good a motive for murder as any. I left in Glasgow’s theory about Nazis trying to bribe the Mexican president, my trip to La Playa de Cortés, Guzman’s story about his father and the German sailors, and the man Guzman saw whose description matched Crane’s. I left out the two men with Crane and how they became a smorgasbord for land crabs. Mike was a friend, but he was also a good cop and his professional integrity would have made him alert the Mexican police about the bodies. I didn’t want to chance an extradition order that might leave me spending the rest of my life in a Mexican prison.

  McCarty played with the ice in his drink while thinking over what I told him. I sipped my Scotch and tried on my best honest face. I didn’t think he was buying it.

  “So, how did you get from Frank Crane’s murder to missing Nazi gold?” he asked.

  I saw in his eyes he thought he had me, but I was ready to call his bluff. Like I said, I’m a damn good poker player myself.

  “It was a hunch,” I lied. “Like I said, Jonathan Glasgow was a conspiracy theorist. It was his belief that, despite Germany’s defeat, the Nazis never surrendered after the war, but spread out across the world and used hidden caches of gold to fund their continued growth. I contacted Jonathan about a group called the League for Freedom and Responsibility. He identified them as having roots linked to another group that worked for the Nazis in the U.S. before the war. Jonathan believed they were still, if not true-blue Nazis, then fanatical fascists.”

  “And this connects with the Crane murder how?”

  “Crane was a League member,” I said, “and had close connections with its leadership.”

  “And how did you—or this guy Glasgow—come to connect this League with Nazi gold?”

  “A leap of faith on Jonathan’s part,” I said, stretching the truth to the breaking point. “He had done research on a German attempt to bribe the Mexican government to declare war on the United States. That’s why I contacted him. He had some information on a German ship—he called it a commerce raider, a cargo ship equipped with hidden weapons—and that it might have docked outside La Playa de Cortés at a quay once used by rumrunners. He figured the ship had gold onboard and when the bribery attempt failed, the Germans buried the gold nearby. He said the Nazis hid a lot of gold around the world in case they lost the war.”

  It was sort of the truth, at least close enough to survive scrutiny.

  Mike swirled what was left of his drink and studied my face. Then he swallowed the rest of his Scotch and stood.

  “Well, that might explain why the feds took over,” he said. “I buy your story up to a point, Pete, but only up to a point. I still don’t think you’re telli
ng me everything. What about this Crane woman and you?”

  “What about her?”

  “Come on, you two were hot and heavy for a while before she married Crane,” he said.

  “That was then, this is now,” I said. “All water under the bridge. Been there, done that. Let bygones be bygones.” I fell silent when I ran out of clichés.

  “Yeah, sure,” Mike said. “Sure.” He stepped to the door. “Just keep me in the loop, Pete. You know how I hate surprises.”

  “I will,” I said.

  He stopped at the door and looked at Jack.

  “Why the hell did you get a cat?” he said.

  “Everyone needs love,” I told him.

  CHAPTER 26

  IN THE MORNING I took a run to sweat out the guilt building inside me over Glasgow’s murder. It wasn’t the first time a friend was murdered, and Jonathan and I were really only acquaintances. But I had left a long trail of dead friends, acquaintances, and colleagues over the years, some murdered, some killed in wars—not that there was much of a difference. The shrink I visited when my nightmares became bad again called it “survivor’s guilt.” Robin, my late ex-wife, put it another way. “You stink of death, Peter,” she once told me. “It follows you around.” It was one of the reasons she became my ex-wife.

  By the time I finished my run, I had exorcised some of the guilt and a few of the ghosts. I was a sweaty lump of aching muscles and sore feet. I took a long, hot shower and, after toweling off, called Jo. She didn’t answer, so I left a message. After some breakfast, and tithing Jack his share, I drove up to La Jolla to use the university library.

  I was thinking about the skinheads Crane left in the sea cave, and the ones who attacked Jo. Like most people, I assumed all skinheads were neo-Nazis or white supremacists, but I realized I never really read anything about them. I wasn’t surprised, then, to find I was wrong.

  Appearing first in England in the 1960s, skinheads were a subcultural phenomenon that spanned the political spectrum. Some were far right and racist, others were far left, and many were apolitical. While most in the movement favored heavy boots, not all skinheads wore military-style fatigues like those who attacked Jo. Many preferred stylish clothing. Some skinheads weren’t even skin headed, but simply wore their hair short.

  The American-based skinhead group that caught my attention called themselves the Werwölfe SS, or Werewolves SS. Obviously, they took their name from the Schutzstaffel guerilla group Jonathan told me about that was formed in 1945 as a last-ditch attempt to battle the Allies. The skinhead Werwölfe were hardcore neo-Nazi and white-power fanatics. Their trademark uniform consisted of black fatigue pants, black T-shirts, and black leather combat boots. What also made the Werwölfe stand out is they seemed to be well-financed and organized. They established camps around the country for training their members in basic combat skills. They called their biggest camp the Alpine Redoubt. It was located near the small mountain town of Alpine in the Cuyamaca Mountains east of San Diego. But it wasn’t just the location that gave the camp its name. Alpine Redoubt was also the name of Hitler’s planned last stand in the Bavarian Alps, and the base camp for the 1945 Werwölfe.

  In real estate sales, everything is location, location, location. The same is true, sometimes, in investigations. I thought it more than coincidental that both the League for Responsibility and Freedom and the skinhead Werewolves’ base camp were in the same county, more than coincidental that Frank Crane traveled to Mexico with two of the Werewolves, and that another two of the black-clad thugs attacked Jo. But no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find a paper trail connecting the League to the Werewolves.

  It was afternoon when I finished in the university library, and on the way home I decided to stop for lunch. I considered eating at Margarita’s again, but having eaten real Mexican food for the past three days I opted for more American fare and drove to the Old OB Café, located on Newport Avenue in the second story of an ancient red-brick building. I bought a newspaper from a stand outside and went in.

  It was dark inside. The unfinished brick walls seemed to absorb the low lighting. At the far end was a long bar. Distressed hardwood tables squatted in the center of the main dining room, surrounded by booths with well-worn faux leather cushions. I took a seat in a corner booth from which I could see the entrance—a habit one gets into when dining in countries where dessert is often served along with a hand grenade or Molotov cocktail. An assortment of OB denizens filled the tables and booths—surfer dudes and beach babes, middle-age hippy types, a few businessmen leering at the beach babes, and two or three sailors from the giant navy base at the end of Point Loma. I ordered a cheeseburger and a beer, sat back, and opened the paper.

  The burger came just as I finished the newspaper. It was a quick read. Insightful reporting wasn’t the local rag’s strong suit. After hungrily assaulting the burger and the accompanying fries, I looked around the dining room. A man sat in the booth nearest the entrance. There was nothing unusual about him, but my eyes kept drifting back to his booth. His back was to me, but he sat in a way that allowed him to watch me in the reflection from a mirrored advertisement hanging on the wall over his booth. Still, it took more than a few glances before I realized what drew my attention. Sitting on the edge of the table was a blue trilby hat.

  I dropped a twenty on the table and didn’t bother with the change. He saw me coming in the mirror, turned, and smiled. Then I remembered the blue hat and the man who wore it.

  “Tygard?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Brandt,” the man said. He waved a hand toward the other side of the booth. “How good of you to remember me. Join me, please.”

  “I thought you were persona non grata in the U.S.,” I said, not sitting.

  Tygard shrugged. “Another president, another name,” he said. “Professionally, my name is now Epstein—at least in this country. But you can still refer to me as Tygard, if you wish.”

  I met Tygard years before when I was investigating the death of an American engineer killed in a friendly fire incident during Operation Desert Storm. At some point in his past he had been a university professor, and he still maintained a professorial air about him. But in his current occupation, bad grades didn’t get you expelled, they got you killed. Tygard was an Israeli spy.

  “Please sit, Mr. Brandt,” Tygard said again. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  I glanced at the seat and had a fleeting thought it might be booby trapped. I sat anyway.

  “About Jonathan Glasgow’s murder?” I said.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “And your lady friend’s late husband, Mr. Frank Crane.”

  “You killed them,” I said.

  “Me?”

  “Or one of your assassination teams,” I said. “Two .22 caliber bullets in the back of the head. That’s a classic Mossad assassination technique.”

  “I deal only in information, Mr. Brandt,” Tygard said. “But, yes, two small bullets in the back of the head is infrequently used by my employer to remove troublesome subjects. But we were not responsible for those two murders. Frank Crane was of no consequence to us, and we certainly would never kill Jonathan.”

  The way Tygard used Glasgow’s given name caught me by surprise. I’d never heard him refer to anyone so informally, as if he were a friend. Then I remembered what Jonathan said during our meeting in the meditation gardens, that a colleague of his who knew my work wanted to meet with me. I though he meant my books. But he actually meant my past acquaintance with Tygard.

  “You’re the colleague Jonathan told me about,” I said.

  Tygard bowed his head.

  “Yes, Jonathan and I went back—well, many years,” he said. “Back to when we both led simpler lives as university lecturers. He was a good and close friend.”

  “Was he…” I let the question hang.

  “One of us?” Tygard shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no. But because of his research into his…theories…we often found it mutually beneficial to exchan
ged information. I washed his back, he washed mine.”

  “Scratch,” I corrected.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s scratch each other’s back, not wash.”

  He thought about that and chuckled. “Oh, yes, of course. Scratch.” He took a sip of wine. “Now that you know I am not the enemy, would you care to join me in a glass of Merlot?”

  I shook my head.

  “No great loss,” he said. “It’s not a very good Merlot.”

  “If the Mossad didn’t kill Crane and Jonathan, who did?” I demanded.

  Tygard pursed his lips and waggled his head. “I suspect someone who wanted to make it look like the Mossad committed the killings.”

  “Why?”

  “To spread rancor and anger against Israel, no doubt.”

  Tygard stared at me. A coy smile danced on his lips. He wasn’t going to say anything more about his suspicions. I mentally shifted gears.

  “You’ve been following me.”

  “I have,” he said. “As I did once before, if you remember.”

  “Why?”

  Tygard raised his brow and his hands in a gesture that meant, can’t you see why?

  “For the same reason I did before,” he said. “To determine how much you know about the subject you are investigating. And—” He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “To keep you alive.”

  CHAPTER 27

  TYGARD ROSE, DROPPED A tip on the table, then said, “Let’s take a walk, Mr. Brandt.”

  He paid, and we walked out into the blinding afternoon sun. Tygard stopped at the newsstand and rummaged in his pockets for change. A young man with short, blond hair and dark glasses stood nearby reading the paper and shaking his head. With a disgusted grunt, he folded the broadsheet and handed it to Tygard.

  “Here, buddy, save your money,” he said. “I can’t believe the crap they publish.”

  The stranger marched off without another glance at us, still mumbling about the news.

  Tygard tucked the newspaper under his arm without looking at it.