The Quisling Covenant

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke took a deep breath and glanced at a note card, “To paraphrase Thomas Paine, ‘It seems we are poised and have every opportunity and every encouragement before us, to form the noblest purest constitution on the face of the Earth. We have it in our power to begin the world over again. A situation, similar to the present, hath not happened since the days of Noah until now. The birthday of a new world is at hand and a race of men, perhaps all this planet contains, are about to receive their portion of freedom.’ I’m going to turn the meeting back over to Lieutenant Kuriname; excuse me, it’s Lieutenant Commander Kuriname, who will conduct the rest of your briefing.”

  Akiro divided the group into three ten-man squads, with an officer team leader for each and a Non Commissioned Officer to be shared by all three. The NCO was to function as the group’s collective First Sergeant. “Each of you has experience as members of an elite light infantry or special operations force with specialized training. You form the second element of this team. This will be a joint operation; a tightly coordinated strike force whose mission is still being defined. You will be assigned to pair up with one of Chief Sanderson’s men. They will train you in the ‘finer’ aspect of Close Quarters Combat and weapons training. I will brief you on the details after this meeting. Team Leader for Alpha Team, after that briefing, you will take your folks for your final medical evaluation.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Later that evening, incense wafted the confines of Kuriname’s living quarters, which served also as his office. He sat traditionally on the floor, mostly in darkness except for three candles. His mind was whirling; too many options, too many obligations, too many thoughts. He knew he was not in “balance.”

  The ringing of the phone on his desk brought Kuriname’s sense of time back to the present. Rising, he stepped to the phone, picking it up on the fifth ring. “Kuriname,” he finally said.

  “Excuse me Sir; do you have a couple of minutes?”

  “Sure Ben,” Kuriname answered, recognizing Benjamin Nehen’s voice. “Give me a couple of minutes. What do you have?”

  “A couple of the men have a question,” Nehen said. “Is it alright if we come up?”

  “Sure.”

  Five minutes later, knuckles rapped on the door. “Come,” he said. The door opened and three members of his newly created team walked in. The largest of the three, Benjamin Nehen, was dark skinned with high cheek bones and jet black hair cut in a short buzz.

  “We have a question, Sir. What are we calling this new team?”

  Kuriname motioned for them to find seats. “As a matter of fact, at the moment, we don’t have a designation. Why, do you gentlemen have an idea?”

  The second man spoke up, Darrell Avonaco; his appearance was similar to Nehen’s but he was shorter and stockier. “We do, Sir. Several of us with Native American ancestry have been talking about it.”

  “If we aren’t already labeled,” Charles Whitehorse said, “we have a thought.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  Nehen started, “Sir, Darrel and my roots go back to the plains Indians, specifically the Cheyenne. The Cheyenne had six military societies; one was called The Dog Soldiers or Dog Men. The Dog Soldiers stood as a last ditch rear guard group to protect the tribe if attacked. They wore a particular sash, called the Dog Soldier leash. In time of battle, a Dog Soldier would impale the sash to the ground and stand the ground to the death.”

  “Once committed, they would be either victorious or dead for they had made their stand. They were fierce warriors. Here is a painting from the twentieth century a gentleman named Vic Roseberry created depicting one of them. Would you consider naming the unit The Dog Soldiers?”

  “You know,” Kuriname said, “I’m vaguely familiar with them. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.” He pulled out a large piece of drawing paper and placed the Dog Man painting in front of him. With a pencil in hand, he began sketching. “I’ve been toying with another concept that would honor my Japanese heritage. During the Second World War there was an American combat unit called the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, composed almost entirely of American soldiers of Japanese descent. Even though many of their families were locked away in internment camps, they fought valiantly against the Axis powers; primarily in Europe.”

  “The 442nd was a self-sufficient force,” Kuriname continued. “The 442nd is considered to be the most decorated infantry regiment in the history of the U.S. Army. So many were wounded, its nickname was ‘The Purple Heart Battalion. ’ Their motto was, ‘Go for Broke. ’” He finished the sketch and surveyed his work. Holding it up he said, “This is a rough, quick idea but what do you think of this as a unit patch?”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Paul Rubenstein sat in the living room, his curiosity pinging around the room; finally he dialed the number on the card.

  “Guten Morgen.”

  “This is Paul Rubenstein; you asked that I call you?”

  “Herr Rubenstein, it is nice to hear your voice. Do you know who I am?”

  Paul frowned, “I know what the card said but that can’t be possible. That person is dead.”

  “No,” the voice said with a gentle laugh. “I assure you my friend that I am very much alive. Is it possible that we speak in person?”

  Paul pondered the request for several minutes before his curiosity won out. “It is. Where are you located?”

  “Actually, I’m in Honolulu staying at the Astoria Hotel. Can you meet me here?”

  “No,” Paul answered. “Actually I’m recovering from a slight ‘accident.’ How about you come here?” Paul gave the address and directions to his home.

  Could it be true that he still lives? The voice sounds right, but that is impossible. If it is true what does he want? What could it possibly be about? I thought he was dead. His thoughts had been rolling in his head since the call that morning, now it was afternoon and those thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell ringing. Rubenstein pushed his wire framed glasses back up on his nose and rolled his wheelchair to open the front door.

  “Ach du lieber Himmel! Excuse me Herr Rubenstein, Dear God! What has happened to you?” Otto Croenberg, former President of the German Republic, a man whose death had been reported on every major news agency in the world, stood before him.

  “I could ask the same thing Mr. President or are you back to being called SS Gruppenführer? What has happened to you? I take it the reports of your death were premature? Come on in.”

  “Yes and there aren’t going to be any more titles that I can see in my future.” Otto Croenberg nodded and entered. “Premature but I assure you, absolutely necessary or they would have been accurate. A situation I could not allow. But tell me about you,” he said as Paul turned the chair around and began pushing it into the living room.

  “Nothing serious; however, it hurts worse than it looks,” Paul said, smiling. “Doctor says everything will heal, but I’ll be down for the next few weeks. Then a couple of weeks of rehab and everything should be fine. Now Otto, while I was pleased to hear from you, especially since I thought you were dead... How can I be of service?”

  “Paul,” Croenberg said, running one hand over his bald pate. “I appreciate you returning my call; I was not sure that you would. Things in the German Republic have deteriorated, significantly. I fear there is now an unstoppable return to my country’s less tolerant history.”

  “You guys hating Jews again?” Paul asked.

  Croenberg smiled to see the bantering between him and Paul still present. “You know that there is no proof of racial superiority by any race, there are no differences between whites, Jews, blacks or Chinese, in any basic sense.” Croenberg continued, “But race has always been a convenient excuse, has it not? Going along with Nazi beliefs was simply my way of achieving my goal of power. However, there are new elements of progressivism present in my country that I fear can push everything backwards into history. So much so that I made the decision it was time for me to leave and look for... greener pastures
shall we say.”

  “Progressives, you guys are dealing with them also?”

  “They have taken our nationalism, which I did support and turned it into something I can no longer support. You can’t deal with them, you can’t reason with them. You can’t negotiate with Progressives. It is like playing chess with a pigeon. The pigeon knocks over all the pieces, then it shits on the board and then struts around like it won the game.”

  “So why are you contacting me?” Paul asked.

  “I have always held you and Dr. Rourke in high esteem, even though we have had our differences and difficulties.”

  “You could say that,” Paul agreed. “When we first met at Eden City I personally would have enjoyed killing you. But through that whole mess and...” Paul hesitated.

  “The difficulties with Zimmer and John Rourke’s deceased son, Martin?”

  “Exactly,” Paul finished. “I have to admit though; I grew to respect your more pragmatic side.”

  “I told you then that Zimmer was quite insane even if he was a genius. His wish to be master of the earth was the prime example of his insanity; his pathological side. I never hoped to be master of the earth; I was happy to be master of only a part of it. I told you then, I wanted to always have an enemy to oppose him. One force conceiving itself to be ‘good’ and the other as ‘evil.’ I however, did not realize the depths the Progressive Movement was willing to sink to.”

  “We have a similar problem here,” Paul said. “The Progressives think they are on cloud nine.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” Croenberg asked. “Where the hell is this cloud nine and where did that dumb expression come from?”

  Paul laughed, “I can actually answer that, I did a story about it once. It was tied to an old 1950s radio show called Johnny Dollar. Dollar was a high priced insurance investigator who solved cases; he met beautiful women and padded his expense account. Dollar was called on to travel to some distant locale, usually within the United States but sometimes abroad, where he was almost always threatened with personal danger in the course of his investigations.”

  “Every time Dollar was knocked unconscious he was transported to cloud nine, a wonderful place where a person was blissfully happy. So, if you were on cloud nine you were at the very peak of existence.”

  “Americans,” Croenberg smirked. “Your expressions crack me up; to a foreigner they have no meaning. You take fantasy and spread it across the world to the point that it has lost its original meaning, even for you.”

  “Alright Otto, cut to the chase. Why are you here?”

  Croenberg cleared his throat, suddenly serious. “Paul, I believe there is a substantial threat that could lead to at least an involvement with your government, possibly even its downfall.”

  Paul said, “You know I’m going to have to alert our authorities?”

  Croenberg nodded, “I knew you would want to do that, but I’m going to ask that you do it very surreptitiously. I do not wish the world to know that I am still alive, not yet. Also, I think a ‘ghost’ may be able to do more help than harm. My preference is we speak to Dr. Rourke confidentially first before involving any recognized agency, is that acceptable to you?”

  “I think that will work,” Paul said. “Okay if I call him now?”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  An hour later, John Rourke pulled into Paul’s driveway followed by his son Michael’s vehicle. Michael got out and turned to his driver, “Stand by Bill, this shouldn’t take long.” The driver nodded and Michael greeted his father and they walked up and rang the doorbell. “What is the mystery, Paul?” Rourke asked as Paul opened the door and moved out of the way.

  “You’re not going to believe this, guys. John, I have someone who needs to speak to you.”

  Michael and John followed Paul into the living room; the figure of a man was outlined by the French doors as he stood looking out into the backyard. He turned; Rourke stopped dead in his tracks. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Mr. President. Please forgive the theatrics, they were unfortunately necessary. Hello Michael.” Croenberg crossed the room and extended his hand. “Dr. Rourke, as always it is a pleasure to see you.”

  Paul gave the Rourkes a quick explanation of how Croenberg had contacted him and the preface for this meeting. Croenberg cleared his throat and pulled an envelope with three closely typed pages from his coat pocket and handed it to John to open. “Several months ago our Bundesamt für Verfas-sungsschutz, the agency in charge of domestic violence, sent me a report on a gentleman by the name of Peter Vale. Have you ever heard of him?” Michael and Paul both thought for a moment before shaking their heads.

  “Indications are Vale was named after his grandfather several generations removed. It was he who created the Milice française or the French Militia. That man, Pierre Laval, was the French Prime Minister, during World War II. Pierre is a masculine given name; it is the French form of the name Peter. Pierre, therefore Peter, originally meant ‘rock’ or ‘stone’ in French; Laval means valley. A vale is a small valley, hence the history of his name.”

  “If I am not mistaken,” John said, “the Milice française, or more simply the Milice, was a paramilitary force created by the Vichy Regime, with German aid, to help fight the French Resistance. It participated in summary executions and assassinations and helped round up Jews and résistants in France for deportation. It was the successor to Joseph Darnand’s Service d’ordre lé-gionnaireor the SOL militia.”

  Croenberg nodded, “Correct, this was their emblem,” he said and pointed at the second page of the report spread on the coffee table between them.

  “The Milice frequently resorted to torture to extract information or confessions from those whom they rounded up. The French Resistance often considered the Milice to be more dangerous than the German Gestapo and SS because they were Frenchmen who spoke the language fluently, had extensive knowledge of the towns and countryside, and knew people and informers. Vale has created a new organization and I believe he is offering an opportunity to your own Progressive Party.”

  “Our Bfv had become very concerned about his activities. I referred the report to our Federal Intelligence Service, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, they deal with foreign intelligence. The BDN tracked his movements and they found he had been traveling back and forth to Hawaii under a trade visa.”

  “What kind of opportunity?” Paul asked.

  “That my friend is something I don’t know yet. But if I am correct, the end result would be the downfall of Michael Rourke’s presidency and a new era for your so-called ‘western democracy.’”

  Rourke frowned, “But you have no idea what the plan is or the direction he’s going in?”

  “Not yet,” Croenberg said. “All I can tell you is that it appears he has been in clandestine meetings with select members of your Progressive Party; the one we identified specifically was Phillip Greene. Now with my... situation, I fear all I can do is warn you of the threat. I must ask you to keep my identity a secret. The situation in my own country grew to such a level of threat that I had no choice except to remove the target by faking my own demise. I believe I can be of more assistance to you if news of my continued existence is kept quiet.”

  Michael said, “Otto, I assume you have a cover identity established?”

  Croenberg nodded, “I have known for some time that there was a strong potential I would have to disappear, so to speak. I was able to create several secure alter identities that I don’t believe can be penetrated or unwoven.”

  “Then I believe it is time to define what Vale is up to and how the Progressives are involved,” Michael said after a nod from John.

  “I trust your judgment Michael. I caution we must tread softly; Vale is a very smart but a very bad man.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Mr. President,” Tim Shaw said. “I have to tell you that the last week has been disturbing, especially with the veil of secrecy we have ha
d to employ. Even a spy novelist would have had a hard time trying to invent a more complicated or improbable scenario for espionage. Vale has established himself as an ‘asset’ of staggering potential. He is a professional spymaster and controller of a vast underground network. Vale apparently has the negotiating skills of a master scam artist. By the time the Bfv raided his headquarters in Berlin, all they found were empty file cabinets and litter.”

  “Croenberg’s contact says he wants to place his entire apparatus, ‘unpurged and without interruption,’ at the service of the American Progressive Party,” Michael said.

  Shaw nodded, “That appears to be true, and while I don’t think Phillip Greene would have invited such a man to his club, he did the next best thing. We think he was able to funnel more than $200 million in party funds to Vale’s organization. Directing operations from a clandestine nerve center, Vale has activated his network inside the U. S.A. and kept it connected to his worldwide activities.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Otto Croenberg, in the persona of Darrel Johnson, prepared to go on his “fishing” expedition. His baldness was hidden under a dark, human hair wig; his normal slight German accent was now a practiced mid-western pattern of speech. He was, after all, a master of disguises. His Italian silk suit subtlety proclaimed “money” without being ostentatious. As he previewed his appearance in the lighted makeup mirror, he smiled. His eyebrows were darker and the pencil thin mustache applied perfectly. The carefully prepared pancake makeup had taken several years off his appearance. Now appearing in his mid-forties, he felt ready.

  He picked up the ebony walking stick; its polished sterling knob gleamed. He gave a slight tug and right hand twist to the knob and deployed the five and a half-inch, doubled-edged high carbon dagger blade through the rubber tip. Turning the knob several turns to the left, he cocked and relocked the blade, making it undetectable.