The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3)

by Martin Roy Hill

  Finally, I reached over the driver’s seat and patted Tygard’s shoulder. “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what, my friend?” Tygard said.

  I tapped the rifle. “And everything else. You, too, Eric.”

  “I am certain I have no idea what you mean,” Tygard said.

  Nordem said nothing.

  “Sanders has been calling you all day,” I said to Tygard.

  “I’ve been here, doing surveillance on the redoubt,” Tygard said. “No cell reception.” He pointed to what looked like an oversized cell phone. “Eric and I had to communicate using satellite telephones.”

  Nordem still said nothing.

  I guided Tygard to my Mustang and the four of us got out. There was still sporadic gunfire in the distance and indistinct shouts and screams. A yellowish-orange glow rose into the night sky from the direction of the redoubt. As soon as Nordem got out, he ripped off his SS tunic, pitched it into the woods, and screamed a curse. I glanced at Tygard.

  “Eric has lived three years with the devil,” he whispered. “Three years of having to pretend to embrace that vile rhetoric. It tears at a man’s soul.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “More than that,” Tygard continued, “he spent those three years atoning for his father’s sins.”

  “That I don’t understand.”

  “Like many German Jews under Hitler, Eric’s father concealed his Jewish heritage,” Tygard explained. “But his father went beyond that. He joined the Waffen SS. Eric didn’t find out until he was in his late teens. His father was unrepentant, insisting he was simply trying to stay alive under Hitler. Eric disowned his father and immigrated to Israel. He eventually came to us, hoping to expiate his father’s actions. Ironically, it was his father’s service in the Waffen SS that got Eric his position as MacIntosh’s orderly, and Eric suddenly found himself living a lie not unlike his father’s.”

  Tygard walked over to Nordem and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Soon, my friend, you will be home in the motherland.”

  Nordem knocked Tygard’s hand away. He spun toward Tygard, his pale face twisted with rage.

  “Don’t call it that!” he said. “Never call it that. Motherland, fatherland, homeland—it’s all fascist talk. They’re just countries. Just countries with ordinary people—not superior people, not exceptional people, just ordinary, goddamn people.”

  With that, Nordem fell into Tygard’s arms and wept.

  There was nothing for Jo and I to say, so we left them there. I took a blanket from the trunk of the Mustang and wrapped it around Jo. She was shivering; her skin was pale and cold. She was going into shock. I cranked up the heat in the car and lead-footed it back to Alpine.

  ☼

  The headline in the morning paper read: “Hate Group Riot.” Underneath it, the subhead said, “Nine Killed, Dozens Injured. Authorities Seek Cause.”

  It was two days since we had fled the Alpine Redoubt. The local TV news and daily paper had babbled about nothing else. A gathering of white supremacist nationalists, for reasons unknown, had turned violent. Nine bodies were found in or around the ashes of a fire-ravaged building. Three bodies had been shot and had remnants of ropes tied around their feet. The remaining bodies were shot, stabbed, or beaten to death. The identities of the dead had not been determined. Local police and federal agents were continuing to investigate.

  The Los Angeles bureau chief of the news magazine I freelanced for called to ask me to cover the story. When I told her I was part of the story, she went silent. I promised her I would have a much more comprehensive story than anyone else would have, but it would take time. Right now, I had wounds to lick.

  I finished my coffee, folded the paper, then picked up Jack’s carrier. He had been eyeing the wood-and-wire box suspiciously all morning. I set it down, opened the door, then grabbed Jack before he could trot away. “Come on, Dr. Jack. You’ve got hospital rounds to make.”

  We drove to the hospital and made our way to the third floor, where Jo’s room was. The doctors had kept her sedated since the paramedics brought her in, saying it would help her body and mind heal from the abuse dealt to her. They scheduled her to come out of it that morning.

  She was awake when we walked in. When she saw me, she tried to smile but the pain was too much. Her face was puffy and swollen, the bruising diffused across her face. She saw the carrier and looked at me curiously.

  I set the carrier on a chair and took Jack out. His claws gripped my shoulders as he eyed the strange surroundings. His little nose worked overtime. He did not like the strange antiseptic smells.

  “Peter?” Jo said. “Jack? How?”

  Jack recognized her voice. He turned toward Jo, eyes narrowing, then he sniffed, still not liking what he smelled. Jo raised a hand and I let Jack sniff it. He immediately wanted down onto the bed. He sat on the edge and looked at Jo, taking in the scene while she petted him. Then he stepped gingerly onto her belly, apparently aware of her pain, settled down, and purred.

  Jo looked at me. “How did you get him—”

  “Special dispensation,” I said. “The docs thought a visit from a furry friend might speed your recovery.”

  She looked at Jack, stroked his fur, and smiled as much as she could. “I think they’re right.”

  Jo noticed the bandage on my right hand. She reached out for it. “What happened? I don’t remember your hand being hurt.”

  I shook my head. “Not at the redoubt,” I said. “I hurt it later, when I punched Russo out.”

  “What?” Jo’s eyes widened. “You did what?”

  I pulled up a chair and sat down. I glanced at my hand, grimaced, then told her the story.

  “Turns out Frank never hid the gold,” I said. “Customs stopped him coming across the border. Then the FBI swooped in and convinced Frank to work for them. It was that or face an interminably long prison sentence.”

  “Frank was working for the feds?”

  I nodded. “They wanted the same thing from him as they wanted from us, to get proof the League was involved with the smuggling and planning to use the gold to bribe politicians. Unfortunately for Frank, the League was already suspicious of him. When he couldn’t produce the gold, the League and its Werewolves tortured him. He couldn’t tell them where the gold was because he didn’t have it. Well, you know what happened.”

  Jo thought it over. Her eyes became sad, thinking perhaps of what Frank went through before he died, able to empathize with his pain all too well because of her own experience.

  “So, who has the gold?” she finally asked.

  “It’s locked up in Fort Knox, according to Russo,” I said. “Except for that ingot you found in Frank’s floor safe. He was supposed to use that to lure MacIntosh and the others into a sting, just as Russo had us try to do. Russo had Frank’s study bugged. When he learned you discovered the gold bar, he resurrected his original plan, with you as the bait instead of Frank.”

  “So, Russo, Fryer, Sanders—they were all using us,” she said.

  “Using you,” I said. “I was just along for the ride. And it wasn’t Sanders’ idea. He had to go along with it. Remember, he tried to warn us? He kept saying Russo’s plan stunk.”

  “When did you punch Russo?”

  “Right after he told me the truth,” I said.

  “And what did he do?”

  “He fell to the floor,” I said. “Then Sanders hustled me out of the FBI offices before Russo could have me arrested.”

  We sat quietly for a long time, holding hands, Jack’s purr the only sound besides the constant hubbub of a hospital. Jo stared out the window, lost in her thoughts, while I struggled with what to tell her next.

  “Jo,” I finally said, “remember when you apologized for getting me involved?”

  She nodded.

  “I want you to know I’m glad you came back into my life,” I said. My throat felt thick and the words strained. She squeezed my hand. “I’ve been thinking this over a lot. I want you to
stay in my life. I love you. And I’m not afraid anymore of making the mistakes I made with Robin. I want to marry you.”

  Jo didn’t say anything for a long time. I didn’t breathe for an even longer time. When Jo finally looked at me, her eyes glistened with tears. I knew they weren’t tears of joy.

  “I love you, too, Peter,” she said, her voice heavy and doleful. “But after what happened with Frank…” She shook her head. “I don’t mean the last few days. I mean the marriage—the whole thing was a failure, a lie. I understand now what Frank was—what he really was—but I still feel it was my failure, too. Marrying him was my mistake. I have to live with that. And I’m just not ready to chance making a mistake again.” She looked at me. “But I do love you, Peter.”

  I nodded slowly. The thickness in my throat grew worse. I blinked away the burning in my eyes.

  “So, we’ve reversed positions,” I said.

  Jo nodded. “Please give me time,” she said. “That was my other big mistake—not giving you the time you needed. Don’t give up on me.”

  She beckoned me to come closer. She pulled my face to hers and kissed me long and hard. It must have hurt her, but she didn’t flinch.

  Jack and I stayed with Jo until she fell asleep and the nurses suggested we leave. Jack clawed the bedsheet as I picked him up, not wanting to leave Jo. “I know how you feel, Jack,” I whispered as I disengaged his claws and slipped him back into the carrier. “I know how you feel.”

  As we were leaving, Jo called my name. I turned.

  “You’ll come see me tomorrow, won’t you?” she said.

  I nodded and smiled.

  “We both will,” I said.

  EPILOGUE

  I TOOK JACK HOME and let him out of the carrier. He dashed to his food bowls, sniffed, and—assured everything was still in place—trotted toward the bathroom to use his box. I changed into running clothes and jogged down to the beach, turned north, and ran hard along the esplanade for a mile or so, then turned back and hit it hard again. Then I did sprints along the tidal sand until my heart and lungs threatened to quit on me. Gasping for air and sweating heavily, I dragged myself across the beach and sat on the short wall separating the esplanade from the sand. I stared out at the sea, feeling tired and old—very old.

  I thought about my father and the battles he fought in North Africa and Italy against Italian fascists and German Nazis, and wondered if the horrors he endured to defeat them were now meaningless. I thought about my brother, killed in Vietnam fighting communists, and wondered if his sacrifice was in vain. I thought about the countless wars and civil conflicts I covered as a journalist, and wondered why anyone bothered. Were we all just fools tossed about by the whims of powerful, wealthy fat-cats impassioned by nothing more than greed and unbridled power?

  “Hey, Professor Pete.”

  I turned. Cindy and her friend were walking toward me on the esplanade. They each wore bikinis made of four strips of cloth held together by string. They were both tanned and lithesome, their faces young and happy, unmarked by long years of seeing more than they will ever want to see. I envied them.

  “Hey, Cindy,” I said. “Thanks for taking care of Jack.”

  “No problem,” she said. “He’s such a sweetie.” She glanced at my bandaged hand. “Oh, my god, what happened to your hand?”

  I held it up and looked at the sweat-soaked bandage.

  “That’s what happens when you don’t share your cheeseburger with Jack,” I said.

  Cindy giggled. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Jack wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s a regular cuddle-muffin.”

  They walked on and I watched them go, admiring the gentle rhythm of their swaying hips.

  “Forget about it, Brandt,” a familiar New York-tainted voice said. “They’re way out of your league. And too young for you.”

  I almost didn’t recognize Dan Sanders without his corrupt businessman suit and tie. He wore blue jeans, an untucked T-shirt, and wrap-around sunglasses. I considered telling him I already had carnal knowledge of one of the girls, but dismissed the idea. He probably wouldn’t believe me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Went by your place to brief you on the latest developments about MacIntosh and the others,” he said. “You weren’t home, so I figured you might be down here ogling teeny-boppers.”

  “What latest developments?”

  Sanders leaned against the wall, facing inland while I continued to face the sea.

  “The coroner identified the remains of MacIntosh, Chase, and Sterling,” he said. “As if we didn’t already know about them. Their names haven’t been released to the media yet, but they have been leaked to Congress and that they were found wearing Nazi uniforms. Now all hell is breaking out in DC. All sorts of people are trying to distance themselves from having anything to do with the League. Half of Congress wants immediate investigations in the activities of the League and other groups like them. The other half wants to sweep it all under the rug.”

  “The same thing Congress did after the 1933 American Putsch,” I said.

  “Whatever that is,” Sanders said.

  “Never mind,” I said. “What about the Werewolves?”

  “Scattered to the four points of the compass,” Sanders said. “Aside from the dead ones, we took a handful of the injured into custody for questioning. But most faded into the woodwork.” He shrugged again. “Give them a year and they’ll have grown out their hair and beards and joined some backwoods militia group.”

  “And Tygard and Nordem?”

  “Who?”

  “Epstein, then.”

  Sanders shook his head. “Don’t know anyone by any of those names,” he said. He stood and brushed the seat of his pants. “And neither do you, Brandt.”

  I nodded, understanding.

  “By the way,” I said, “thanks for pulling me away from Russo. I really might have killed him.”

  Sanders snorted. “More likely he’d have killed you.”

  “Maybe.” I nodded and stared back at the sea. “Was it worth it, Sanders? Was it worth Crane and Jo being tortured? Crane and Glasgow being murdered? Will it make any difference? Or will all the sacrifices of all the years of this country’s existence be tossed away by scared little people grasping any life ring—no matter how insidious—just to keep their heads above water?”

  Sanders sighed. He turned toward the ocean and adjusted his sunglasses as if trying to see something in the distance. Or maybe in the future.

  “All I know is we can’t let the bastards win, Pete,” he said. It was the first time he ever called me by my first name. “We can’t let the bastards win.”

  “I was just remembering a quote by Ben Franklin,” I said. “After the Constitution was written, he was leaving the Constitutional Convention and a woman asked him, ‘What have we got—a republic or a monarchy?’ And Franklin answered, ‘A republic—if you can keep it.’”

  I looked at Sanders. “Do you think we can?” I asked him. “Do you think we can keep it?”

  He thought about that a moment, then nodded and said, “We can if we remember what FDR said. ‘We have nothing to fear but fear itself.’” Sanders pawed me on the shoulder and added, “Like I said, Pete, we can’t let the bastards win.”

  He turned and walked away.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE FOURTH RISING IS a work of fiction. However, as with most of my novels, several historical facts and theories inspired its plot. As described in this novel, there was a well-financed attempt to overthrow the U.S. government in 1933. Labeled by the news media as the American Putsch, its perpetrators were never punished. The so-called Red House Report exists and describes the Nazi Party’s plans for its post-war survival. Operation Paperclip did, indeed, bring thousands of ardent Nazis to the U.S. And many people who were pro-Nazi before the war became powerful government officials after the war.

  The pre- and post-war connections between American businesses and the Nazis ar
e, unfortunately, horrifyingly true. The Nazi Hydra in America, by Glen Yeadon and John Hawkins, and Charles Higham’s Trading with the Enemy: The Nazi-American Money Plot 1933-1949, both offer in-depth explorations of those ties. Several researchers believe, as did the fictitious Jonathan Glasgow, that while Germany surrendered in 1945, the Nazi Party did not, that it embarked on a decades-long plan to raise a new Reich. Sara Moore’s The Fourth Reich?: The EU—An Emerging German Empire, Joseph P. Farrell’s The Third Way: The Nazi International, European Union, and Corporate Fascism, and William Stevenson’s The Bormann Brotherhood, are among many books that explore this idea. As to whether Adolf Hitler died in the Führer Bunker as history records or escaped, I suggest reading Grey Wolf: The Escape of Adolf Hitler by Simon Dunstan and Gerrard Williams, or watching the History Channel’s documentary TV series, Hunting Hitler.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARTIN ROY HILL IS the author of the award-winning Linus Schag, NCIS, thrillers, the Peter Brandt thrillers, Eden: A Sci-Fi Novella, POLAR MELT: A Novel, and the collection of short stories, DUTY. He is a former journalist and national award-winning investigative reporter for newspapers and magazines. His nonfiction work has appeared in Reader’s Digest, LIFE, Newsweek, Omni, and many others. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, ALT HIST: The Journal of Historical Fiction and Alternate History, Nebula Rift, Mystery Weekly, Crimson Streets, and others.

  He lives in San Diego, California, with his wife, Winke, son, Brandon, and their three feline overlords.

  Follow Martin Roy Hill on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Martin.Roy.Hill, on Twitter at https://twitter.com/MartinRoyHill, or visit his website at https://www.martinroyhill.com.

  If you enjoyed reading this book, please leave a review on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, or your favorite review site.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  Copyright

  Dedication