The Romen Society

by Henry Hack

  As Peter was about to turn off the main thoroughfare onto the road that lead to his neighborhood, his mood of smug satisfaction was jolted by a police car – a Maryland State Police car – blocking the entrance onto the road. Both officers were out of the vehicle. One glanced down the road and one glanced at the traffic on the main thoroughfare. The car just ahead of Peter’s Chevy had begun to turn into the street, but the officer waved him on. Peter followed closely behind the vehicle averting his eyes away from the trooper as he passed by.

  Peter began to breathe a bit slower as he headed for another road – there were three – that led to his house. The presence of the state police could be explained in any number of ways – helping out the locals who were tied up elsewhere, preventing traffic from entering an area where a fire was raging – it could be anything. But he had heard no fire whistles and no sirens. His apprehension increased as he approached the next street offering access to his neighborhood, and it spiked when he saw another state police car. Thankfully, the officer was talking with someone in a car that apparently wanted to turn onto the street, so Peter once more drove past the intersection turning his eyes away.

  The third entrance to his neighborhood was over a half mile away. This time Peter parked a few blocks away and approached the street on foot on the opposite side of the street. As soon as he rounded a bend he spotted the state police cruiser again blocking the entrance. He walked back to his car and got in. Something was wrong, and if it concerned him and his house and the Romens, he had to act immediately. And if it were nothing, only minor inconveniences would be caused, minor inconveniences that would have absolutely no effects on his plans.

  Peter drove to the nearest large shopping mall and parked between two cars in an almost full row. He took out his cell phone and went into his contacts list and pressed number one. Disciple Number One, Jack Poole, answered on the first ring. “Yes, Peter?”

  “Jack, something may be up. There are police cars blocking the entrance to my neighborhood. I can't get to my house. Take your computer, your cell phone and your cash and get out of there now. When you’re safely away, call numbers three, five and seven and advise them to do the same. I’ll call the even numbers right now.”

  “Okay, I’m moving.”

  “Good, call me when you are safely away.”

  “Okay…oh, shit the cops are here…”

  Peter heard Jack’s cell phone hit the floor. He disconnected the call and immediately dialed Disciple Number Two. After forty minutes of dialing and hurried conversations, it seemed only Disciple’s Number One and Five had been captured at their homes and the others had gotten out in time. But how long would they last – would he last – when the two captured disciples were forced into confessing, or accepting a deal? He checked his wallet for his safe deposit box key and drove to his bank. Forty minutes later, with over $23,000 in cash, switched license plates and a full tank of gas, he pointed his car toward Interstate 70, westbound.

  The Apostle Peter had used his vast computer knowledge to create a new identity. He was now Lars Jurgens, complete with a different date of birth and social security number. His head of thick brown hair was shaved off and kept that way. His former clean-shaven face now blossomed with a full brown beard, now showing a few strands of gray. His bright blue eyes were perpetually covered with dark brown contact lenses.

  Living alone in the woods of Idaho he associated with few people, content to live out his life there for the time being, safe from the authorities – he was, after all, a mass murderer and still remained at the top spot on the FBI’s most wanted list along with Bill Muller, his Disciple Number Four, the only one who was still at large. He could not pick up the leadership role left open by the sudden demise of the Savior – there was no one left to lead, and he was not yet ready to tackle the task of building a new organization. He had been thus far unable to locate and contact Bill and he knew Bill could not possibly find him. No, Lars Jurgens was content, at least for now, to stay well-hidden behind the scenes and cautiously spend the sizeable amount of cash he spirited away when he barely escaped the clutches of the Task Force. It was such a pity the Romens were cut short when they seemed to be poised on the cusp of victory.

  Some ideas were starting to coalesce in his complex, computer savvy brain, ideas that one day might bring the world around to bend to the Savior’s goals, and maybe he could accomplish much of that without ever having to move away from his brand new powerful computer. But he would need help, and he had the germ of an idea on who to get it from.

  After two full days of fact-finding, cross-checking and profiling on his computer’s search engines, Lars had a picture of who belonged to what could generically be called the White Supremacist Aryan Nations. They were white men and women filled with hate – against Jews, blacks, Latinos, liberals, the government, the ACLU, Muslims, and other so-called “Rag heads.” While it was easy to catalog what they were against, it was not clearly stated what they were for, except for a few references to racial purity and Nazi-type government.

  Amazingly his research showed there could be well over 20,000 groups with 800,000 members, numbers which shocked him. But there were just six main forms of the White Supremacist Movement – Neo-Nazis, Ku Klux Klan, Christian Identity, Racist Skinhead, Aryan Prison Gangs and Nordic mysticism. It was the last form that intrigued Lars Jurgens because the Nordic mysticism movement was a religious one, and its adherents were drawn to it because of its emphasis on warrior culture. The chief sect in the movement was the New Vikings, and conveniently, their founder and leader, Ronald O. Ericsson, lived in a small Montana city less than a hundred miles away.

  Before Lars Jurgens dared a visit to Ericsson in Slate Hills, Montana, he had to do two things – write down, in detail, his plans for the New Vikings, and find Bill Muller. All the times he had tried to find Bill he drew a blank. The last time he tried was four months ago. It was time to try again. He turned to his computer and brought up a people-search program. He typed in the name Wilton Rissmoller and the social security number 177-98-6033 and hit “Search.” In less than ten seconds Bill’s address popped up as 1037 Charleston St., Apt 4B, Las Vegas, NV. There was no associated telephone number, and after a futile search, Lars concluded Bill’s number was unlisted, or he used a cell phone exclusively. That Bill had a job in Vegas did not surprise Lars one bit. He wrote a brief note to Bill, sealed it in an envelope, put a stamp on it and walked the hundred yard wooded path to his mailbox. He placed it inside and raised the red metal flag. It should be on its way in two hours.

  Wilton Rissmoller, devoted Disciple to the Apostle Peter, had always paid strict attention to Peter’s admonition to him and the other disciples to always be ready to flee on a moment’s notice. He had no cumbersome PC; all his data were kept on his fourteen-inch, lightweight laptop. All his documents – passport, birth certificate, diplomas – were either in his wallet or the leather laptop case. His cell phone was clipped to his belt and his cash was hidden in the trunk of his Prius. The Prius also contained about half of his wardrobe – clothing, underwear, socks and shoes – and two weeks supply of allergy pills and cholesterol medication. He tried to keep his second floor apartment clean of his fingerprints and hair, although he was not a fanatic about it. Should the police find his prints or profile his DNA from a strand of his hair, it would serve them no purpose. He had never been fingerprinted and was not in any DNA date base.

  Rissmoller was known to his fellow disciples only as Bill Muller. He assumed a few of the others also did not use their true names. Peter had told them to pick a name – their real one or not – and stick with it. Only he knew their real names, social security numbers and all their personal data as it had been necessary for the comprehensive background checks they all had to endure before being accepted into the Romens. Rissmoller, using his real name, was an instructor in mathematics at a local community college. He taught four courses and had no trouble keeping the position while leading the life of a disciple.

&nb
sp; One of his main mathematical interests was the science of probability. This spilled over to a study of the odds of winning various games of chance which led to a love of, but not an addiction to, gambling. He played mostly online, but visited the casinos in Atlantic City every so often. Therefore it was not unexpected when he received the call from Peter to flee he would end up in a place where there was gambling, but which was far, far away. Within thirty seconds of Peter’s call Rissmoller was out the door, down the steps and into his Prius. He, too, pointed it toward I-70, westbound.

  By the time he had reached Las Vegas he had shaved his professional Van Dyke beard and trimmed his shaggy hair. He had also traded in the Prius for a Honda Civic which he registered in Nevada, destroying the Maryland plates. After four months of moving freely about, his anxiety over being a wanted fugitive had somewhat waned, but the fires of terrorism still burned brightly within him. They had been so close to changing the wasteful, deadly, poisonous ways of the country – so close!

  Now, although he was a few hundred dollars ahead in his gambling endeavors, his several thousand dollar stash he had fled with was getting low. He had to get a job, and that meant giving his real name and social security number to a prospective employer. He wondered if the alarm bells would go off when he did so. He applied for a dealer’s position at the Bellagio. The latest recession was over and the high-rollers were starting to come back to Vegas. All the casinos were hiring and the employment manager welcomed him and had him fill out all the paperwork. Then he said, “Now just let’s get your prints on these cards and you’ll be on your way. If they come back clean, usually takes a week, you’ll get the job.”

  “Is it necessary I be fingerprinted for this job?” Muller had asked.

  “Yes, it’s state law. Everyone in the gaming industry, other states too I believe, have to have their prints checked. Is there a problem?”

  Thinking fast he said, “Yeah, an ex-wife back east. Alimony and child support arrears.”

  “Do you know how many guys I interview who are in the same pickle? Jeez, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”

  So Wilton Rissmoller found himself once again teaching mathematics, this time at Clark County Community College, and as the days passed by he wondered often about Peter and where he was and how he was doing. Wilton knew one thing for certain – Peter was somewhere. For if he had been caught, everyone in the country would have heard about it. Then on this hot Nevada day in May, with less than a week left in the semester, he found something unusual in his mailbox among the junk circulars and restaurant menus – an actual piece of first-class mail!

  Rissmoller’s surprise gradually turned to trepidation. Who sent this? Who knew he lived here other than his employer and the utility company? He turned the envelope over, but as on the front, there was no return address on the back. He ripped it open. The small sheet of lined, white paper had just a few words hand-written on it – “Hello #4, call me at 208-567-3389. AP.”

  Wilton grabbed his calendar book and turned to the area code map in the back. Idaho! The Apostle Peter was in Idaho!

  When Peter answered his telephone Rissmoller said, “It’s me.”

  “Great to hear from you. Can you join me here?”

  “Yes, in about ten days.”

  “I’ll mail you directions.”

  “Great, looking forward to seeing you.”

  They both closed their cell phones satisfied if anyone had overheard their conversation no usable information could have been gained to assist in locating their whereabouts

  When Rissmoller left the hot, flat desert of Nevada and entered the late springtime aromas of the woods of Idaho, his spirits lifted. He turned off the air-conditioning in the Civic and opened all the windows breathing deeply of the pine and spruce scented air. Shortly, he sneezed four times in succession having forgotten to take an allergy pill. But he didn’t care. This was the earth as it was meant to be – clean, fresh, unspoiled. His Romen zeal had not diminished. He couldn’t wait to get back in the fight again, but there were only two of them left. What was Peter planning?

  After their handshakes and smiles and hugs, Peter said, “Are you willing to stay here with me and continue our fight?”

  “Of course, Peter, but with just the two of us…”

  “Hear me out, and then tell me what you think.”

  Peter told of his plans to use the New Vikings sect of the White Supremacist Movement to further their ends and attain the Romens’ objectives. Wilton nodded in agreement, but said, “Are you going to absorb them as new members with the same background checks?”

  “No, I don’t think they’ll subject themselves to such an in-depth examination, and it won’t be necessary. Here’s exactly the way we can do it…”

  After Wilton heard the details he said, “Magnificent! I’m in all the way.”

  “It’s good for us to be back in the fight, but now first things first. I am no longer the Apostle Peter, or George Richter. I am Lars Jurgens and I have all the necessary documentation to prove it. In a few hours you will no longer be Bill Muller or Wilton Rissmoller. Think of a name you would like to be and we will juice up the computer right after dinner and a celebration cocktail.”

  As Lars Jurgens manipulated the keys on the PC, the newly-named Fred Wagner watched in amazement. “You know, Lars, I consider myself fairly computer savvy, but nothing compared to what I am now watching.”

  “When I’m finished training you, Fred, you will be just as good – you need to be good because the computer and the internet will be the key to our success.”

  Frederick J. Wagner now had an Idaho driver’s license, a birth certificate with a slightly different date of birth and a social security card with a different number. The number belonged to a Frederick Wagner who had died five years ago. Lars said, “Should you need a passport, these documents will work to get you one. Oh, you should register your vehicle here and get Idaho plates.”

  “That may be a problem. The title is in my old name.”

  Lars smiled and said, “That will be no problem at all. Go get it and I’ll show you how to solve it.”

  A few days later all Wagner’s paperwork was taken care of and Lars said, “Are you ready to join me in a visit to Slate Hills, Montana?”

  “Yes, I am, but how do we convince Ericsson to join us?”

  “At some point we may have to tell him who we really are. That is the thing that should convince him.”

  “And if that doesn’t convince him, or he decides to turn us in… ?”

  “We can’t start thinking negative now. There are always curve balls and situations we can’t anticipate. We have encountered them before and have achieved victory.”

  “Okay,” Fred Wagner said, “I’m ready to go to Montana.”

  22

  Life was moving in a new direction for Harry and Susan – and moving fast. Walt Kobak had met them for dinner the day they had arrived in Washington and explained the agenda for the following day. He said, “First you will be interviewed by the FBI Director, our old friend and former boss, Jim Driscoll. He’ll then pass you on to the Secretary of Homeland Security, Randolph Newton, for an interview and job offer.”

  “Whoa, Walter,” Harry said. “What makes you think he’s going to make the offer?”

  “Harry, there is no one better for this position than you. Jim and I have already extolled your myriad virtues and accomplishments to Newton. He’ll love you and you will love him. When he was a US Senator on the hill we had no better friend in law enforcement.”

  Walt was right on the money with his assessment of the situation and Newton and Harry hit it off immediately. The interview was more of a friendly conversation and lasted almost two hours. Newton explained he was re-organizing the department into three major areas – Operations, Administration and Intelligence. He said, “Harry, you are capable of handling either Operations or Administration, but my gut feeling is Operations would suit you better
since it’s more field oriented.”

  “I agree, Mr. Newton, I would love to have that position.”

  “Than you can have it. When can you start?”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes, just like that. You do not have to be confirmed by Congress or deal with any political bullshit. I’ll take care of the politicians and you catch the bad guys.”

  “I accept,” Harry said with a big smile. “Now just who are the bad guys?”

  Newton stuck his hand out and shook Harry’s hand forcefully. “Welcome aboard, Harry. From now on call me Randy. And to answer your question, I sometimes feel the bad guys are everyone, except us.”

  Harry laughed and said, “Randy, I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Let me try to be more specific. On the top of the list are terrorists of all types – Islamic jihadists from both outside the country and homegrown, political terrorists and revolutionaries of all persuasions, and foreign spy rings operating in America. Of course, on many, if not all of these cases we work closely with the CIA and FBI. Another one of your attributes is your relationship with Jim Driscoll and Walt Kobak.”

  “Yes, that is a big plus. Unfortunately, I’m not similarly plugged into the CIA.”

  “No one is. They are a strange bunch over there at Langley – strange, secretive, but necessary to the safety and continued existence of our beloved country. But with the latest re-organization, they are bound by law to cooperate with other agencies. That cooperation is one of my top priorities. Driscoll and I have already established a rapport with the CIA director and we soon hope to establish the same on the next level down.”