GOLDEN REICH

by Mark Donahue

  Now showing enthusiasm for the plan presented by blue suit with deteriorating breath, Tom was effusive in his support. “Unbelievable! This is incredible!! That’s exactly what I was, with some great difficulty I might add, trying to say. How did you know what I was thinking and trying to articulate? You, sir, have a gift.”

  “By the way, Tom, we have really good memories about deals we make and who we make them with. We never forget, Tom. Never.”

  Tom forced a smile. “That’s very reassuring.”

  Chapter 5

  California Federal Prison—2008

  Jon expected his first night in prison to be awful. He underestimated. The noises, the waves of smells, and the utter fear he experienced overwhelmed him. He couldn’t help but think of the film Stir Crazy when Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder went nuts when they realized where they were. But this wasn’t a movie. It was real, and Jon was not at all sure he could survive. Or if he wanted to.

  Within ten feet of entering the echoing din of the cell block, Jon received his first formal invitation: “Hey baby, come on and bring that fine, tight white ass on over here, I got a little sumthin’, sumthin’ for ya.”

  The second offer, only six feet later, was even more enticing, “Hey white boy, don’t listen to that ho’ he got the crabs and clap. I got what you need.”

  As Jon continued down the block toward his cell, he heard the wails of desperation from men absent of all hope. He also smelled pine-scented Lysol trying its best but failing to hide the stale stench of dried urine, sweat, and too many men. Yet, for some reason it was at that very moment that Jon realized it had been two years to the day since his romp with the twin sisters. It was the same day he had received his $22,000,000 commission all of which was now gone. In fact, everything was gone.

  Later that night Jon, along with four other men, was placed in a twenty-four-hour holding pen until his permanent cell could be assigned. As he lay in the darkness, he heard the sobbing and incoherent mumblings of men going or gone mad and thought of the whirlwind of events that had brought him to prison.

  The Cole Commercial Real Estate Investment Trust that he founded had been a great idea. The Wall Street Journal called it “the fastest rising, best-run REIT in the country, maybe the world.” It was, for a while.

  Jon had seen signs of pending disaster early on. But by then he was deeply immersed in trying to prop up existing projects by selling new projects to investors who were not paying attention to what was happening in an unfamiliar market. All they knew was that Jon’s firm had been paying investors big returns, and they wanted their piece of the action. They were not interested in the details, which is where the devil lay in wait.

  When the Feds finally knocked on his door, Jon was almost relieved.

  Jon’s position was not helped when the judge and jury learned the details of his well-publicized income and lifestyle, which included lavish parties, luxury cars, a jet, yacht, LA condo, beachfront home, and New York City apartment. They saw the trophy wife/wannabe actress who escaped prison herself only by putting on an Academy Award–worthy performance in front of the jury. She claimed she knew “absolutely nothing about what Jonny had been doing in business.” A fact which both Jon and she knew was utter bullshit.

  Out on bail and two weeks before he turned himself over to federal authorities to begin his sentence, Jon came home and found his wife giving a rather energetic blowjob to their landscaper on the deck of their Santa Barbara beachfront home. Rather than being at least concerned at being caught in the act, she casually defended herself by saying it was her way of dealing with stress. On top of which, she explained, as she continued to hold onto the landscaper’s still very erect member, they owed this very patient landscaper over $2,000 for a new tree he had planted by the driveway and there was no money in the bank since the court had frozen their assets. “Like, what was I supposed to do, Jonny?” she had logically asked.

  The landscaper, not at a loss for understanding the ways of commerce, also provided helpful detail by saying, “It was a very beautiful orange blossom tree which I sold to your wife at a discount.” Jon tried to file for divorce the next day only to find his wife had beaten him to it.

  Jon’s attorney had suggested that if he pled guilty to all charges, agreed to forfeit his remaining assets, assisted investigators, surrendered his securities license, and acted contrite in front of the judge and jury, it was possible he might get a “light sentence” of say eight to ten years. Given that Jon was charged with felonies that could have amounted to over 100 years in federal prison, eight to ten years did, at first, seem reasonable.

  The judge accepted the plea deal and sentenced Jon to ten years in a medium-security federal prison in central California. Jon’s attorney called the sentence a “victory” and pointed out that with good behavior Jon could be transferred to a minimum-security prison in a few years and out on parole in maybe eight. As a result, he would not be appealing. Besides, appeals cost money, and Jon David Cole, Princeton grad and Wall Street wunderkind, had none.

  As Jon lay on his metal bunk his first night in prison and heard the moans and cries of the men around him, he thought back exactly seven hundred and thirty nights…and the redhead. She was his favorite. He also wondered how his ex-wife had paid the guy who cleaned the pool.

  Chapter 6

  Berlin, Germany—1943

  After months of exhaustive planning, Rolle sat in front of his unlit fireplace and stared into the empty hearth. He wondered what he had overlooked. His elderly housekeeper, Rachel, kept bringing him his favorite wine as she had done every night for years. He drank it without tasting. She had also prepared braised beef tips, fresh carrots, and potato salad for his dinner, yet the plate sat untouched on a table next to him.

  “Kurtis, you must eat, you are losing too much weight. It is not good.”

  “They think me a fool. They think I believe Operation Rebirth is to perpetuate the Führer’s legacy. I know better.”

  “Would you like me to warm up your plate? The food is cold now.”

  “They want me to execute a plan that will destroy Germany for decades. I know what they are doing. But to whom do I turn? Bormann? Himmler? Becker?”

  “Kurtis, please eat something. You need your nourishment.”

  “They’re all part of the cabal. Yet, I will be the one hung with piano wire if the plan is discovered. I, the loyalist.”

  “Kurtis, if you are not going to eat, it is time for you to go to bed. No more wine, please.”

  Emptying his glass in a single gulp, Rolle, with Rachel’s help, rose from his chair and headed for the bedroom. But his slurred monologue continued. “I created the plan for them. But I also created a second plan. My plan. It will ensure Germany will not be destroyed and those who tried to deceive her punished.”

  With Rachel’s help, Rolle fell into bed. She removed his shoes and pants then covered him with a quilt she had made for him on his tenth birthday.

  “That’s fine, Kurtis. You sleep now and when you awake, I’ll have breakfast ready for you.”

  “My plan will protect Germany. My plan will save Germany.”

  “Good night, Kurtis.” Rachel turned off the light and shut the bedroom door.

  The next morning Rolle entered the kitchen and appeared rested. “Good morning, Rachel.”

  “Good morning, Kurtis. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, but I do have a bit of a headache.”

  “I tried to get you to stop after that first bottle but…”

  “I shall listen next time.”

  “What time is your train?”

  “Noon.”

  “And when will you return home?”

  “Rachel, I have waited till now to tell you, but it may be a long time, many months, before I return.”

  “Many months? But where are you…?”

  “I cannot
tell you where I am going or when I shall return. I’ve left money for you next to my bed. I have also alerted Dr. Dyke to look in on you. You’ll be fine.”

  After several minutes, Rachel asked, “Is this part of that Operation Rebirth plan you spoke of last night?”

  Rolle froze when he heard Rachel’s question.

  “I mentioned Operation Rebirth? What else did I say?”

  “Only that you felt there were those who were using you to…”

  “What else?”

  Rachel tried to change the subject. “Nothing. Nothing else. Would you like more coffee, Kurtis?”

  As Rachel spoke, Rolle rose from his chair and stared at Rachel. “What else did I say? You must tell me.”

  “Nothing, Kurtis, you told me nothing more.” As she spoke, Rachel tried to move away from the kitchen table, but Rolle grabbed her arm. As he did, a look of resignation came slowly over her face. “I knew this day would come. After you turned your parents in to the Gestapo, I did not have the heart to abandon you. Even after what you had done. But I knew if you could do that to them…”

  “My parents were threats to our cause…”

  “But they loved you, Kurtis, as do I…”

  “You have treated me kindly, Rachel, but I should not have said…what I said…if others learn…”

  Rolle rose from his seat and moved directly behind Rachel where he could smell the perfume he had purchased for her as a Christmas present years earlier. She had worn it every day since. He moved his hands to her shoulders, then her neck.

  “Will there be pain, Kurtis?”

  “No pain, Rachel.” Rolle quickly twisted Rachel’s head until her neck snapped with a loud crack. “See, Rachel. No pain at all.”

  Chapter 7

  Berlin, Germany—1943

  At precisely noon, the gleaming black train lurched from the station. Rolle glanced at his watch and smiled at the irony. The country was losing a war, but the damn trains still left on time.

  “Colonel Rolle, it’s very good to see you. Would you mind if we shared the ride to Paris?” An overly polite and slightly effeminate SS Major Berne stood next to Rolle’s seat and hoped his question would elicit an invitation. The major was wearing a new, freshly pressed black with red trim Hugo Boss–designed SS uniform. He had seen Rolle as he entered the train moments before. He had concluded that sitting with a colonel for a few hours might be a career-enhancing exercise.

  Rolle had also seen Berne as he had entered the train. He remembered he had always thought him a fool. Rolle also suspected that Berne was homosexual and wondered how he had escaped a trip to a prison camp years before. Not looking up at the smiling Berne, Rolle replied in a low, disinterested monotone, “I prefer to sit alone, major, but I do admire your new uniform. Quite fetching.”

  “Certainly, Colonel Rolle, as you wish,” replied an embarrassed yet still smiling Berne as he backed away from Rolle’s seat with a slight bow. He wondered if he would still be a major by the end of the trip.

  The Brandenburg was Hitler’s personal train and preferred mode of ground transportation. It was used exclusively by the Führer, except for this trip. The train had been originally named Amerika but after the United States entered WWII, Hitler had renamed it. The unmarked train was powered by two sleek black locomotives, which pulled eight heavily laden freight cars along with two luxury club cars that carried forty passengers and crew.

  Several minutes after leaving the station, the Brandenburg slowly picked up speed as it clamored west through the expansive railroad yard. It rumbled into the industrial section of Berlin and finally broke free of the dirty gray buildings into the lush green German countryside.

  The steel wheels clattered over the tracks and produced a repeatable white noise that had a sleep-inducing affect on most people. But Rolle knew sleep was impossible. Instead he remembered, as he did almost nightly, the first time he had seen and heard Hitler speak in the late summer of 1926. Rolle was sixteen years old and spellbound by a man who spoke directly into the hearts of every German patriot.

  Yet Hitler’s words and plans were more than jingoistic rhetoric. They were a clearly defined road map. They were specific, concise, and fearless. His words were quite simple and brilliant.

  As a teen Rolle had joined the Greater German Youth Movement later named the Hitlerjugend, League of German Worker Youth. His every free moment was spent furthering the growth and development of the Nazi party. However, he realized his father, a respected history professor at the University of Berlin, was vehemently opposed to Hitler and everything he stood for. To avoid confrontations, Rolle did not tell his father of his decision.

  Rolle’s mother tried her best to avoid the political arguments that grew louder and more intransigent each time they occurred between father and son, and inevitably, led to yelling and door slamming.

  In 1932, Rolle, armed with two college degrees and with the recommendations of several of his commanding officers, was hired into a low-level position within the government’s economic operations department. By the mid-1930s, and despite his youth, Rolle was given ever more responsibility in helping reorganize Germany’s fragile monetary system.

  Rolle quickly became respected as a young man with both superior intellect and devotion to government. Long hours, coupled with brilliant suggestions that led to many innovative and successful programs, helped define him as an “insider,” someone to be admired, reckoned with, and even feared.

  Power was not something Rolle sought. He used it only when he felt it necessary to achieve a goal he knew was in the best interests of Germany. Rivals soon realized they could challenge him only so far because of his power. Many learned too late that to push him was to put their careers or even their lives at risk.

  Rolle reveled in his status and responsibility. At the same time, he regretted that in over seven years of meetings with the Führer, including several at the Berghof, Hitler’s Bavarian retreat, he had not spent any time alone with Hitler. Yet, at early group meetings with the Führer, Rolle was struck by Hitler’s reserved nature. His questions were thoughtful and to the point. He seemed to grasp whatever Rolle or others presented. He was also courteous, polite, and always thanked Rolle for his efforts.

  Things changed in early 1943 when Rolle confirmed that the rumors he had heard over the previous five years were true. His country was indeed killing millions of its own. Even though they were Jews, and Rolle did not deny they had to be removed, why not simply deport them and send them to Jew-loving counties like the United States or Great Britain?

  Rolle felt the killing was pragmatically inappropriate. It was not that killing for a cause was not a valuable tool in running a government; it clearly was the best tool in many cases. But the mass murder of men, women, and children was fraught with unneeded political risk, especially if the international community discovered such actions.

  What troubled Rolle more than the mere killing of Jews was the knowledge that many of his superiors were stealing millions of Deutschmarks from the German government, seemingly with the approval of their superiors.

  By the fall of 1942, Rolle was aware that millions in cash had been transferred to checking accounts in South American banks. In addition, regular trips to Switzerland by couriers taking with them cash, gold, and securities under the guise of “investments on behalf of the German people” had become commonplace. Rolle was told by his immediate superiors that these investments were legitimate, but he knew better.

  Yet, his options were limited. If he went to Bormann with this information and the investments were indeed authorized, Rolle’s career and perhaps his life would be in jeopardy, for he would be charged with going over the heads of his immediate superiors.

  If Bormann himself had authorized such theft, it was likely Rolle would have been shot without ever leaving his office. What Rolle knew for certain was an army of individuals who cared little f
or their country, and much for their own wealth, were sucking his beloved country’s resources dry. And he was powerless to stop it.

  It was obvious to Rolle by the spring of 1943 that Germany was going to lose the war. Not for lack of will or brain power but because his country was running out of money.

  Chapter 8

  Arizona Minimum Security Prison—2012

  After spending four years in three different prisons within the federal system, Jon Cole’s hair displayed a touch of gray that went nicely with his orange prison jumpsuit. At thirty-nine he was still in good shape due to his daily visits to the weight room and his three-mile jog around the prison grounds. But the previous six years, including the pressure of the trial, had taken a toll on Jon physically, emotionally, and mentally. He had changed. He recognized those changes but had not yet determined if they were for the better.

  Given the unrelenting boredom Jon faced every day, he had developed a tendency to daydream. “Hey Cole, you been hanging on the damn broom for ten minutes. Get the hell back to work.” The gentle suggestion was made by an overweight prison guard with greasy slicked-backed hair.

  “Oh yeah, I need to finish here so I can get back to washing underwear.”

  “Oh no, is Mr. Ivy League bored? Not enough mental stimulation for you? Well, look at it this way, you only got what, three and half years left? Shit, that’s easy time, boy.”

  Jon used a dustpan to pick up crap and tossed it into the trash bin. “Three more years and I’ll be qualified to pick up trash in any city in America.”

  “Heard you were lucky you didn’t get fifty years in the Big House.”

  “Yeah, ten years was a real gift. I hardly noticed the lifestyle change. And how can you beat all the great food and wine?”