by David Cline
“If you need anything else, please call. I will always be happy to help in any way I can.”
The double oak doors shut behind her and Stalbridge walked around the table and withdrew another cigar from the box. He lit it with one quick motion and sat back against the soft chair. “I will never understand art,” he said. “Some people place a big rock outside of a museum and call it art.” He puffed on his cigar. “Some artists don’t do anything but leave the canvas blank and they are celebrated as geniuses.”
“It wasn’t always like that,” Danville said.
Stalbridge held up a hand. “Chris,” he said, “you were right. Deep down I think I knew but didn’t want to believe it.” He put a hand behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. “Hitler escapes Berlin and takes the Nazi organization underground where it has been hidden for 80 years without any sign. Now, they have resurfaced with the desire to build a fourth Reich. They have a collection or art and ancient relics worth north of a billion dollars sitting in some old building in Paraguay. Wood and Wilkins entered and explored Noah’s ark.” He tapped ash onto the tray. “God help us. It sounds even more ludicrous when I say it out loud. Am I missing anything?”
Danville grinned. “The Nazi’s numbers must be relatively few, or something would have leaked over the last half century,” he said. “Remember that during the 1930’s and 40’s Germany was on the cutting edge of every type of technology. Energy, weapon development, engineering. In fact, many historians speculate that, if given a few more years to develop and manufacture everything they had coming online, Germany would have easily won the war.”
Danville paused and thought about how to best articulate his next thought best. “Now,” he said, “we know many of the Nazi’s top scientists and engineers disappeared before the end of the war. They were smuggled out of Germany, just like this painting.” He gestured up toward the revolving portrait. “Many times in war, when defeat is imminent, there is absolute disorder. Everyone is out for themselves, trying to save their own skin. However, there was an organized effort to save Germany’s top minds. Why do you think that was? And where did they go?”
“South America?” Stalbridge ventured.
“Exactly,” Danville said. “After a World War, every country involved is busy licking their wounds and greedily looking toward their own future. Governments squabble over who owns what and who owes who. While the entire planet was focused on the Nuremburg Trials and the bloody conflict with Japan, a new faction of the Nazi party was quietly established in South America. Armed with Germany’s top minds and funded with enough money to purchase a country. They kept a low profile and bided their time as they continued their advanced weapons research and development.”
“How much of this is conjecture versus stone cold fact?” Stalbridge asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s hard for me to believe this could all happen without even rumors of the truth circulating. How could we have had it so wrong?”
“There were plenty of rumors back in 1945,” Danville said. “Stalin’s own soldiers were the ones that first discovered the bunker and the shallow grave with burnt corpses. Stalin was quoted saying that he believed Hitler was still alive and had escaped west. Our own FBI and CIA dedicated some time and effort following up on foreign reports that Hitler had escaped to Argentina. I think it was easier for everyone to believe the version with the suicide in the bunker. People wanted closure and were anxious to get the war behind them. After a few years and a new generation, the account given by Trevor-Roper, who was appointed by British Intelligence to investigate conflicting evidence surrounding Hitler's final days, became the accepted version of what happened.”
Danville shrugged. “So, to answer your question about how much is mere speculation, I would say about fifty-fifty. Although, more evidence supporting my theory continues to surface daily.”
Stalbridge tapped a finger against the top of the table. His eyes looked distracted, as if lost in thought. “Who was the mastermind behind it all?”
“Ah,” Danville said. “A man who has been sidelined by popular history. Most experts considered him simply as Hitler’s ineffectual secretary.”
“I assume he was far more than that.” Stalbridge said. “What was his name?”
“Martin Bormann,” Danville said. “Perhaps the most brilliant economic and political tactician in Nazi Germany at the time. He was an administrative genius. Known as the Brown Emminence, Bormann was the personification of power behind the throne. He controlled who had access to the Führer. In 1943, it was Bormann who recognized that the Nazi empire’s collapse was only a matter of time. He began the process of transferring the wealth of Europe out of Germany. All capital, artifacts and art would be sent overseas, along with all colluding companies and patents. Billions was relocated into Argentina.”
Stalbridge coughed and cleared his throat. “Why Argentina?”
Danville’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm. He knew Stalbridge wanted to gather as much information as possible before he decided how best to take the next step. He closed the laptop in front of him. “After the treaty of Versailles following WWI,” he said, “Germany was stripped of all its colonial possessions. The colonies in west and east Africa, Marshall Islands, New Guinea, Kamerun and Totoland, were all taken overnight.
Stalbridge nodded as he blew another ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
“What they couldn’t take away,” Danville continued, “was the huge German populations that had been established in Patagonia Argentina and Chile. At the time they were not technically colonies, rather large groups of Germans living in sovereign countries. South America experienced huge spikes of German immigrants between the wars. During WWII, Argentina was the only country in the world with its own Nazi party with over 30 thousand members. Juan Domingo and Eva Peron, prominent politicians at the time, would later become the two most important people in post-war Argentina. They had been in the pay of German military intelligence since 1941.”
Danville scratched the back of his head. “I think the temperate climate would have been attractive to winter weary immigrants. Buenos Aires had a European feel. Many Nazis settled in San Carlos de Bariloche, a city where German is spoken by everybody there to this day. Even the architecture of the buildings looks like they belong in the Alps, not Argentina.”
“How many Germans fled west?” Stalbrdige asked.
“The deeper I dig, the larger the number becomes,” Danville said. “I would feel safe to estimate well over 100 thousand made the long journey across the Atlantic.”
“You don’t think every Nazi that escaped to South America was aware of what was going on at the time?” Stalbridge asked.
Danville shook his head. “I believe the majority were kept in the dark. It would have been advantageous for Hitler and Bormann to establish themselves amongst Nazi sympathizers and fellow Germans. A country with no government overbearance where they could influence the laws passed, without their names attached. Where they could purchase enormous tracts of land without raising suspicion. They knew it would take time to accomplish their ambitious goals. They needed to establish a foundation that would outlive them.”
“You think the time has come?” Stalbridge asked. “After 80 years of hiding in obscurity, they are ready to make their move to establish a fourth Reich?”
Danville hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Back in Brazil, Wood had asked me if the name Odessa had any important significance.”
“Was he referring to the huge multinational conglomerate?” Stalbridge asked. “I believe Odessa is the parent company for many subsidiaries. They have chips in just about every industry. Energy, aerospace, mining, aerodynamics…”
“Are they publicly traded?” Danville asked.
“100% private,” Stalbridge said. “One of the biggest private companies in the world, if not the largest.”
“Interesting,” Danville mumbled. He looked across the table. “Codename Odessa first reached American ears on July
3, 1946. Allegedly, it was an international Nazi underground organization set up to facilitate secret escape routes for SS members. They had an entire network of safehouses stretching across Europe and the Middle East which allowed them to avoid capture and prosecution for war crimes.”
“I know Odessa goes to great lengths to keep a low profile,” Stalbridge said. “However, it would be impossible for an organization of their size to remain invisible.”
“Just like Martin Bormann,” Danville said in a tone full of suspicion. “Where are their headquarters located?”
Stalbridge shrugged. “The only reason I know they exist is because S.A.T.R.A. has butted heads with them in the past. I can ask around and see what I can find.”
Danville tapped his fingers on the table. “Wood said Odessa is a threat to the entire world.” His mind raced as he tried to connect the pieces together.
Stalbridge stood and walked toward the doors. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I will find out as much as I can about Odessa. You tell me the instant Wood and Wilkins make contact.” The large oak doors closed behind him.
Danville continued to tap his fingers. With a sudden thought, he flipped his laptop open and searched for Odessa’s website. Their landing page was simple enough. Large stock images obviously bought online covered each page. The text was verbose and vague. He searched for an address and contact information but came up short. The only thing he found was a large map of the world with 23 countries colored in where they had current operations.
After he had searched a few minutes in vain, Danville exited the conference room and made his way toward the stairs. A company that big would have to keep records. Foreign governments must have given them permits to work in their countries. Litigation must have been brought against them multiple times. He smiled to himself as he entered his cluttered office. Thankfully, finding hidden information was Danville’s favorite hobby.
Chapter 18
The pickup truck bounced violently down a bumpy road. The night was pitch dark. Amara was tossed up and down like she was on a rusty trampoline. She wiped the blood from her forehead before it trickled into her eyes. The man at the wheel seemed to travel as fast as possible without losing control. She tried to soften the blows against the truck bed by using her arms like shocks.
When the jarring eased slightly, she leaned over the side to look ahead, but nearly had her head taken off by a low hanging branch the width of her thigh. The initial shock had worn off and adrenaline pumped through her body like octane.
She squinted at the guard who accompanied her. He leaned casually against the cab, like someone stepping outside of work for a smoke break. His rifle was pointed lazily in her direction. The expression on his face surprised her. He did not look angry or crazy, but bored. Just someone doing their job.
The men who had taken her at the beach had not bothered to tie Amara up. She could jump and make a break for it into the trees. She studied the foliage whirring by and tried to estimate how fast they traveled.
Everything beyond the pickup was a dark blur. She estimated their speed at 40 miles per hour. What would it look like to jump from a high cab and hit the rocky road at such speed? She grimaced. The guard would immediately alert the driver and the truck would screech to a stop. If by some miracle she did not sustain a serious injury, she would have to race blindly into the trees, dodging gunfire. Amara did not like her chances.
The truck lurched downward as the front tires abruptly dropped. She tried to brace herself, but was not quick enough. She was hurled toward the cab. Her head slammed into the bed as she rolled forward. The guard lashed out at her with the butt of his rifle as if swatting a fly. She jerked her head to avoid the blow and scrambled back to a safe distance.
Amara needed to act soon. Smashing the road at 40 miles an hour was better than whatever awaited her at the end of this journey. She reached up and caressed her head. A large egg had begun to form just above her hairline.
Amara looked past the guard through the truck’s rear window. She could just distinguish the dark outlines of two people against the bright headlights. What did they want with her? The police officer had confirmed it was her to the other men. Was she being reprimanded for going through the archives? For some reason, she thought these people had more sinister intentions for her. Had they somehow discovered what she was investigating?
The trees lining the road began to thin as they entered a clearing. The road smoothed and the driver sped up to around 60 miles an hour. Her hope of jumping began to fade. It would be death now.
“Qué quieres conmigo?” she yelled, over the roar of the wind.
“Cállate vos,” the guard said. A thin grin crossed his face.
She leaned over the side again and looked ahead. The wind howled in her ears like she was skydiving. Her hair was still damp from snorkeling and it swirled in the wind. Soon the clearing ended and they entered thick forest again.
Amara was about to sit back down when the truck slammed its breaks and slid to an abrupt halt. Amara coughed as she was enshrouded in enough dust to kill an entire field of crops. The dust mixed with blood in her mouth and she spat.
“Que pasa?” a voice yelled.
Amara pulled her shirt up over her mouth and nose like she was in a house fire. She tried to translate the furious voices, but they spoke so rapidly, it was impossible to understand.
Above her, there was a loud pop followed by a constant hissing. Amara’s senses were less than trustworthy in the dark, but she could have sworn the dust grew thicker. She stood and peered ahead. The entire truck had been covered in a cloud of thick red smoke. The chemicals stung her eyes. Two more bangs and more hissing caused hysteria to ensue. The men in the truck began to squeal like stuck pigs. This was her only chance.
She crept forward, feeling her way through the smoke. Bracing both arms against opposite sides of the truck bed, she waited. When the guards’ silhouette turned toward her, she channeled all her strength into her right leg. She kicked him as hard as she could in the face. There was a satisfying crack as her heel made contact right under the man’s nose. His head jerked back and smashed through the rear window. Dark glass rained down.
Amara jumped over the side and landed softly on the road. All sense of direction had vanished. The smoke was so thick Amara could feel its weight pressing down on her. Tears streamed down her face as her eyes tried to remove the foreign material. Soft hands clutched her arm and pulled her away from the truck. She wrenched her arm free and staggered ahead. Who attacked the truck? Was her enemy’s enemy her friend? The soft hands grabbed her again and this time Amara allowed herself to be led away.
After a minute, the air began to clear. Amara coughed until her sides were on fire. Snot resembling cherry Jell-O dripped off her chin. She blew her nose into her shirt and wiped the residue out of her eyes.
They were out of the smoke, but it was still dark. Amara glanced up at the figure who still held her gently around the arm. Shivers ran down her spine. Where eyes should have been, two glass circles resembling porthole windows in a boat reflected what little light there was. The mouth looked like half of a dumbbell hung from it.
The person must have recognized the look of horror on Amara’s face. With a quick movement, they pulled the rubbery cover off their head and handed it to her. Amara squinted and held it out in front of her. It looked like a vintage gas mask. She looked back at the person and saw the beautiful young face of a woman.
“Follow me,” she said in a thick Spanish accent.
Amara did not need to be told twice. Behind them, a burst of gunfire reverberated through the night. Voices screamed in anger. The level of rage reminded her of the stranger who had joined her and the policeman in the archives. She wanted to get as much distance as possible.
The mysterious woman released her arm and moved quickly through the trees. Amara hustled to keep up. The thought of making a break for it crossed her mind. With a little luck, she could find her way back to the hotel before
dawn.
Maybe it was because the stranger was a woman, but there was something about her that radiated trust. Where was the woman leading her? Amara’s curiosity increased the further they went.
After 10 minutes, they emerged out of the dense trees and onto a narrow dirt road. They followed it up a steep hill until reaching a gurgling stream. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the water. They crossed a rocky footbridge and entered a yard through a barbed wire gate. Warm light shined through square windows of a quaint house. Each window had intricate metal bars welded over them.
Amara was led across the patio and through the front door. Another woman met them inside with a smile. She held fresh clothes and a towel in her arms. She led Amara to the bathroom and closed the door softly behind her.
A million questions raced through Amara’s mind. Who were these people? How had they known she needed help? Was this their home? She looked around the bathroom. It was tiny. An oval mirror no larger than a football hung over the sink. Amara leaned in close and recoiled at her own reflection. She looked like someone who had applied too much makeup and then decided to take a steam shower. Her hair looked like dryer lint.
The shower was smaller than a coat closet. She squeezed in and pulled the plastic curtain closed behind her. An inch-wide pipe ran through the wall. Connected at the end was a white showerhead in the shape of a bull horn. Two red wires fastened together by a green piece of electrical tape plugged in at the top. Amara had seen these types of showers before. An electric wire inside the showerhead would get red hot and heat up the water as it flowed from the pipe. You could control the water’s temperature by the amount of water allowed to pass over the wire. Amara wondered how many people were electrocuted every year. The set up was rudimentary but would allow someone to take unlimited length hot showers. She had no complaints. She closed her eyes and let the hot water run down her face.
After a half hour, Amara felt like a woman again. She dressed and exited the bathroom. When she entered the living room she saw three people sitting on the couch, waiting for her. She recognized the two women she had already met. They looked like sisters. Between them sat an older gentleman. Amara guessed he was their grandfather. His face had deep wrinkles etched around the eyes. His hair was white and thinning. He smiled up at her and gestured toward a chair opposite the couch.
