by Peter Parkin
As well, a fleet of several more submarines carried cash, precious jewels, and artwork, most of which had been stolen from the wealthy Jews he’d ordered exterminated.
The reports indicated that the submarine fleet landed under the cover of darkness on the shores of Brazil, but maybe that had been wrong. Maybe, instead, it had been Buenos Aires, Argentina. Either way, authorities in at least one of those South American countries had enabled him and had continued to enable him for the following decades. Linc surmised that there must have been enough riches in those submarines to spread around.
He thought back to the words of advice that Herman had offered to him: “Stay at least two steps ahead of everyone else.”
Senator Lincoln Berwick was convinced beyond any reasonable doubt, that Herman Braxmeier was Adolf Hitler. He felt honored to have been entrusted with this history-shattering secret.
Linc chuckled to himself when he realized how insightful Herman’s words had been. He had indeed kept himself at least two steps ahead of everyone else.
30
“So, what did you think of him?”
Linc winced. “I was astonished. I thought I’d lived a momentous life up until that moment, but after meeting him and being privy to this secret, I’m humbled.”
Meagan smiled. “Good to hear. Did you glean any kind of spiritual revival from him?”
Linc shook his head. “No, nothing of that sort at all. He’s certainly not one of my historical heroes. But, I’m astounded by one thing. His ability to survive against all odds.”
Bob nodded. “Yes, it is incredible, isn’t it? While most of us may not agree with his master plan and how he executed it, one thing that can be said about him is that he was probably the most powerful leader the world has ever seen. He had the ability to convince anyone of anything. And he did it with masses of people at a time. Hitler was the perfect example of the power of oratory. The power of image. Even if he was a cruel asshole—and a twisted thinker—the one and only ability that was needed to lead and influence people, he had in spades.”
Looking his protégé square in the eye, Bob wrapped up the lesson. “I’d like you to take that thought with you as you enter the primary season, Linc. Doesn’t matter what your policies are, how wrong they are, or how impractical they are, your ability to fire up the masses is the one skill that will give you victory. This is the point we were trying to get across to you the last time we met. The need for more anger. The need to stoke fear. These are the things that Hitler did so well—and look at the power it gave him. But he wasn’t humble enough to know when to stop. He pushed his agenda too far, too fast.”
Linc leaned back and rested his feet on top of the desk.
“I get the message. Thank you for bringing me in on this secret. I’m indebted, and actually quite titillated by the knowledge.”
Meagan smiled at him, the warmest smile he’d ever seen from her. But her words betrayed the smile. “Good. Just keep that secret to yourself, or you’ll be killed.”
Linc lowered his feet to the floor. “There’s no need to say that to me, Meagan.”
She immediately changed her demeanor. Had made her point, in the brutal way she always did, and was ready to move on.
“We have another issue to talk about. Another attack is in the early stages of planning, once again in Boston.”
“Why Boston again? Isn’t that a bit of overkill? Maybe we should pick a different city this time around?”
She shook her head. “No. Boston is particularly terror-sensitized right now, after the Marathon bombings and the Quincy Market attack. Our polling indicates a swing in favor of Republicans, which, for a Democratic stronghold like Massachusetts, is nothing short of a miracle. We need to capitalize on that fear sentiment. The Democrats are weak on security, and your messages are starting to take hold across the country, but, surprisingly, also in Blue states like Massachusetts. If you can swing states like that, you’re guaranteed to win the White House.”
“Okay. Tell me something, did you get your ideas about false flag attacks from Hitler’s legacy? I studied the guy in history classes back in college, though not in too much detail. But I did a lot of reading after getting back from Argentina. It seems as if the little man arranged for the arson attack on his own Parliament building, the Reichstag, back in 1933. He used that event to blame the Communists, resulting in the arrest and execution of sympathizers and liberals.
Linc was on a roll. “But more shocking than that, he used it to deny journalists freedom to speak or write anything critical of the Nazi party. Personal freedoms were taken away after the Reichstag burned down, including freedom of protest. And, largely, he managed to do this with very little opposition, because somehow, he convinced the people of Germany that the Communists were on the verge of an overthrow of their government. And, within a few short years, the purge on Jews began.”
Bob shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t like to talk about things that extreme. That’s not what we’re trying to accomplish. Right now, we just want to win and grab power. But, I agree with Meagan about the fear angle, and, you’re right, Hitler’s act against the Reichstag was definitely a false flag. It’s been used many times since, of course, but that was a terrific model of what could be done to sway public opinion.”
Linc crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you guys paid off an elected official to get access to the promenade the day of the Quincy attack. But how did you get those three idiots to become assassins?”
“We used ‘cut-outs.’ People who were connected to the ISIS terror movement, but not committed to it. For money, they’ll act as organizers, to recruit fools who actually believe all that Islamic fundamentalist crap. We paid them, they recruited these three fanatics who thought they were acting for the cause, and they carried it out to perfection. They weren’t even from the Middle East—these jerks were American-born.”
“I see.”
Meagan jumped in. “We do, however, have a slight problem.”
“What’s that?”
“You went to West Point with that man we’ve been using in some of our ads—Sandford Beech? A professor and scientist at MIT, the Lincoln Laboratory?”
Linc flinched. “Well, yes, you knew that. And we decided that our ads could use his medal-tossing stunt at the ceremony as a means of attacking anti-American behavior.”
“Let me get to my point, Senator. Yes, he’s a bona fide American hero and clearly a rebel. And he lost his family the day of our attack. What you don’t know is that we paid off the deputy mayor of Boston, a greedy little prick named Christopher Clark. He’s also taking payments on the side from the Cosa Nostra, for things they want done from time to time.”
Linc was listening.
“Well, apparently, Clark received a threatening visit from the one and only Sandford Beech. Tried to extract information from him. Told him he knew that he was involved in the Quincy Market attack—apparently, from a tip received by Beech from the Cosa Nostra. He, no doubt, has friends there, too. Clark is in a bit of a panic now. He asked his controller at the Cosa Nostra to put out a hit on Beech. They never got back to him. Nothing but silence. He knows the mob is working both sides of the street, so he feels he can’t trust them anymore. Shows how stupid he is, thinking he could trust gangsters.” Meagan shook her head, looking disgusted.
“He’s asked us to do something about Beech. Feels the man may be getting too close to the truth, and, of course, Beech is motivated by revenge due to the loss of his family. So, we have some decisions to make. Is Beech as dangerous as he sounds, and could he be trouble? And, while we still need a paid-off stooge in the Boston hierarchy, is the deputy mayor now a liability for us? Should we dispense of him?”
Linc stood up and walked over to his bar. Poured himself a Scotch neat. Didn’t offer any to his guests. He felt an unfamiliar pang of conscience, and, strangely—nostalgia. Sandy Bee
ch could be killed if he gave the word here and now, in this room. But, for some reason that he couldn’t explain, he hesitated. Sandy had always been there, as a friend at one time, an adversary, and now as an enemy. He was part of Linc’s history, part of his identity, and a symbol of a victory that Linc had achieved over the only person he’d ever felt was a worthy opponent.
“Leave Sandy alone for now. We’ll talk about him later. As for that Clark fellow, kill him.”
31
All were still safe and sound back in New York.
And all was quiet in Boston.
Sandy had been home for a couple of weeks and had just finished chatting with Judy over the phone. Bill and Lloyd were still staying at her home in Queens, all hunkering down together. Judy told Sandy that she was enjoying their company, and that they all felt much safer staying in one spot right now.
Bill was able to head into his office each day, since he worked in New York. But, each night he returned to Judy’s house.
Lloyd had hired twenty-four-hour security to watch over his wife Cassidy in Houston, and the excuse he’d given NASA for his absence was recovery from the car accident.
He hadn’t told his wife that the car accident had been a deliberate act on his part to avoid an attempt on his life. He’d tell her eventually, after all this uncertainty was out of the way. For now, she didn’t need to know. She didn’t know about the security detail either. They were pros and knew how to conduct surveillance without being noticed. But she was always in their sight and in close range. Lloyd was comforted by that.
Their mission to conceive a baby would just have to wait for a while.
Sandy was happy to sense a relative calm in Judy’s voice. Having two capable guys like Bill and Lloyd staying with her for the foreseeable future, was no doubt reassuring for her.
She’d gone into a panic when Vito had dropped Sandy off at her house after his ordeal with the thugs at Triple-L. He knew he hadn’t looked too good—in actual fact, more like death warmed over. Face bruised and cut, eyes swollen up like baseballs, and walking hunched over from the multiple punches to his gut.
Judy and Cynthia nursed him back to health, while Bill and Lloyd largely stayed out of the way. When he was in the mood to talk, though, they were all ears.
All were astonished to hear of what he’d learned at Triple-L, and horrified at what they had done to him after discovering he was an imposter. Sandy just thanked his lucky stars that he had a special friend like Vito Romano. Not many people could brag of the Cosa Nostra saving their lives. The world worked in strange ways sometimes.
But they were all in a strange place in their lives right now.
Judy and her daughter Cynthia were at risk because of the amateurish attempt by John Nichols at blackmailing Linc. And Judy had now heard the tape recording John had made back at West Point, the tape that he’d been using for blackmail. If Linc, or his thugs and handlers, got the notion that perhaps John had made a copy of that tape, then Judy and her daughter were in peril.
Bill Tomkins had survived an attempt on his life, and the life of his niece, in his very own office.
And Lloyd Franken had survived the hit on him by deliberately slamming his car into a tree.
John Nichols was dead, from what was most likely a faked suicide.
And Hank Price was dead from an apparent car accident in Seattle, but all suspected that was a hit as well. Too much of a coincidence.
Of the five boys who were in the van that fateful night decades ago when the underage girl was raped and lost her life, only three remained alive. And one of those three appeared likely to be the next President of the United States. He was the one who had everything to lose if the truth about that night were disclosed.
If that tape ever surfaced.
If Linc’s DNA were ever connected with what happened to that fourteen-year-old girl.
Senator Lincoln Berwick was the only one who had the motive to kill John and Hank, and to have attempted to kill Bill and Lloyd. And now, there was reason to fear he had the motive to kill Judy as well and possibly even her daughter as collateral damage.
Sandy, on the other hand, believed that, for now, he was relatively safe from the murderous motives of his arch-enemy and former best friend.
Ironically, though, he’d created his own perils lately.
His disguised visit to Triple-L had clearly been a bad idea, and he was lucky to have escaped with his life. Thanks to Vito.
It was a good thing he’d had a well-documented fake ID that day to go along with his disguise. Since Triple-L was linked to this whole strange story, if he’d been identified he would also be on the hit list now.
He’d also created his own peril with the attempted shakedown of Christopher Clark. That was another little covert operation that had gone south. Clark had been more careful than Sandy, with one of his thugs hiding out in the park that night.
And now, according to Vito, Clark had tried to get the Cosa Nostra to kill him. Thankfully, the mob had ignored the crooked politician’s request, but Sandy figured that wouldn’t stop the fat little man. Clark was clearly worried that he was a threat. Not necessarily a threat physically, but a threat to his livelihood.
In reality, though, Sandy was a threat to him for a significantly more noble purpose.
Sitting in the lonely confines of his study, Sandy remembered back to that day.
That day when a bloody hole appeared without warning in the forehead of his lovely wife.
He replayed in slow motion the sight of the horse collapsing on top of his two wonderful children, crushing the life out of them.
And discovering that Deputy Mayor Christopher Clark, out of pure greed, accepted money to clear the way for it all to happen. Arranged permits for Boston Party Pleasures, a company that didn’t even exist, to run three horse-drawn wagons onto the promenade that day—wagons that contained cowardly assassins waiting inside, waiting to slaughter hundreds of innocent people.
Christopher Clark, the official who’d ordered the barricades taken down to allow those wagons to enter a pedestrian area where they never should have been.
Christopher Clark, who had received untold sums of money deposited into a numbered Bermuda bank account three months before the terrorist attack.
Money deposited by Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone, two top officials with Lincoln Berwick’s presidential campaign. A campaign that was doing its level best to instill fear in the hearts of Americans, angrily preaching of the evils that lurked around every corner. For the sake of votes, and only votes, propagandizing people to believe there were terrorists hiding under every bed.
And it was working.
Lincoln Berwick had just waltzed to victory in both the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries. His message was getting through.
Sandy’s family, and hundreds of others, were slaughtered so that Lincoln Berwick could garner votes.
The more he thought, the more his hands trembled with rage.
Vito Romano had given Sandy two things when they’d last met a few days ago.
First, was a gun—a “throwaway” as he had described it to Sandy. Untraceable.
Second, was the address and directions to the lakefront cottage that Christopher Clark visited every weekend without fail.
Sandy poured himself a drink and walked out into the living room. Stared at the piano that he still hadn’t had the heart to sell. Saw his wife and daughter sitting together on the bench, pounding away at the keys, singing duets totally out of tune. Laughing, tickling each other.
He wiped a tear from his eye.
Then Sandy whispered the names of his family.
“Sarah, Whitney, Liam.”
Over and over again he whispered their names, and eventually there were just too many tears to wipe away. The front of his shirt was soaked, and he collapsed to his knees on the floor in front of the
piano, sobbing uncontrollably.
Sandy raised his head and gazed up at the framed family photo sitting on the ledge of the piano.
Once again, he whispered in the deathly silence of the room, and brought his hands together as if in prayer.
“I’ll make things right, I promise.”
32
Sandy was enjoying the usual coffee clutch with his students after one of his lectures at the MIT Cambridge campus. The usual suspects, the most vocal being Jonah, Janice and Kyle.
Over the last few months they’d each been doing political research, due to the presidential primaries being in full flight right now.
“What’s your opinion so far, Dr. Beech?”
Sandy stirred some sugar into his coffee. “Well, Kyle, I try not to pay too much attention to it. The process is so long, and I don’t like who’s winning the Republican primaries so far.”
Janice passed the cream over to Sandy. “You mean that Senator Berwick guy?”
Sandy nodded. “Yep. He’s already enjoyed landslides in Iowa and New Hampshire. South Carolina and Nevada are next, and it looks like he’ll win there too.”
“He scares me, Doctor.”
“He scares me too, Janice. And I know him personally from back in our West Point days. He’s always been kinda scary.”
Jonah stuffed his books into his knapsack. “I have to get going. Class in five minutes. But, I wanted to ask you. Is what that Senator’s been saying in his speeches true? Someone like him should be in the know, which makes me think I had better listen to him.”
Kyle turned to Jonah. “You mean all that stuff about new terrorist attacks and sleeper cells in every city?”
“Well, yeah. Makes me wonder. Is he right? We’ve already had a lot of mass shootings. He makes it sound like more are being planned and ready to happen. I mean, he’s a senator. He should know, right?”
