When he reached the mobile care unit where the children were being treated, Jane caught sight of her father. She jumped off the cot and ran to him, crying hysterically. Fletcher picked her up and hugged her tightly to his chest. Her tears were dripping down his cheek as she kept repeating, “Where’s Mommy, where’s Mommy?”
Bobby, at first glance, seemed under control. He walked up to his father and announced, “Dad, I saw Mom get killed. He shot Mom and hit her with his gun. I couldn’t do anything.” Then he blurted out, “Why weren’t you there, Dad! You would’ve stopped him! I know you would!” Then Bobby looked down at the floor and broke down in tears.
Bobby’s stinging words and the taste of Jane’s salty tears multiplied the feelings of rage brewing within him. It was as if a demon was tearing him apart from inside. Fletcher said to himself, “You’re damn right, I would have killed every one of those bastards!”
He felt as if his blood was boiling within his veins. Even his natural fatherly instinct to comfort his children, at the time they needed him most, was clouded by this unstoppable force. He convinced himself that the only way to deal with Bobby and Jane’s suffering would be to unleash his fury on their mother’s killers. Fletcher had succumbed to this singularity of purpose, to bring the full force of his wrath against all those responsible.
Fletcher’s racing thoughts were interrupted by a nurse, speaking in Hebrew, who told him that the children needed rest. She returned them to their cots as the physician in charge approached Fletcher. He spoke in English.
“Mr. Fletcher, I’m so sorry for your loss. Thankfully your children were not physically harmed. Mentally, however, they have just experienced a tremendous trauma. It will take some time until they recover.”
“We have had a great deal of experience, unfortunately, with children whom have survived similar acts of terrorism. We have a program which may help decrease the risk of future psychological complications. We feel that it’s in the best interest of your children to place them in this program.”
Fletcher’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was listening but not listening.
The doctor concluded, “That would mean placing your children in our inpatient facility for one week.”
Fletcher thought to himself, “A week is about how much time I need.” He finally looked directly at the doctor, answering, “Yes, of course, if you feel it’s necessary. You have my permission.”
Fletcher’s mind quickly shifted back toward formulating a plan. He would need accurate intelligence, and fast. Being familiar with the operations of terrorist organizations, he understood that there was probably a complex hierarchy behind the attack. He suddenly recalled having heard in the Defense Minister’s helicopter that one of the terrorists had been captured alive.
Fletcher thanked the doctor, then searched for Rachel Bronot. He found her sitting behind a folding desk, in an open tent, reading a report from Naval Intelligence.
Fletcher asked, “Who’s the terrorist you caught?”
Bronot looked up. “We don’t know. He’s refusing to answer questions. He’s arrogant and completely unrepentant. If it wasn’t for the law, I would personally...well, you know.”
“I understand. Is there any way that I might see him?”
Bronot hesitated for a moment, considering the legal implications.
“Well, we could walk over to that truck over there, maybe we’ll see something,” she said.
Bronot escorted Fletcher through a crowd of heavily armed soldiers. He recognized at least two of them who had been part of a large-scale mission into Syria in which he had been present as an observer. The reason for such heavy security was not only to prevent any attempt at escape, but also to deter citizens from vigilante justice.
The truck was a non-descript eighteen-wheeler with a uniquely designed semi-trailer unit. Within its thick steel walls were six interrogation cells. Due to an Israeli law which outlawed the use of physical torture in the interrogation of terrorist suspects, intelligence services had partnered with psychologists from Israel’s top universities to develop alternative methods to extract information. The process which they developed began by immediately isolating the terrorist within the container. Through strict isolation and stimulation depravation, the terrorist eventually becomes detached from his former life, associating reality with only the four corners of the cell. Within weeks and sometimes months, the terrorists inevitably break down and cooperate with the investigators.
Fletcher was familiar with this method. He knew that it was effective, but he could not let precious minutes and hours slip away. He needed information now.
Fletcher and Bronot entered the back of the trailer and looked through the one-way reinforced mirror of the holding cell. As he stared at the terrorist, who looked perhaps no older than seventeen or eighteen years old, Fletcher realized that just minutes ago this punk was assisting in the murder of his wife and attempted murder of his children. He knew from his experiences in Vietnam, Africa, and Lebanon, that teenagers were often used as pawns in a deadly game of politics and terror, and could be just as cruel and cold-blooded as their superiors. He had no mercy.
Fletcher turned to Bronot. He asked in an innocent voice, “Rachel, could I have a few minutes with him alone? I just have a couple of questions.”
Bronot had read Fletcher’s dossier and was quite familiar with the expertise in interrogation that he had developed in Vietnam. On the one hand, she was bound by official policy of the State of Israel that under no circumstances was any form of physical torture to be employed to extract information. On the other hand, Bronot also wanted information fast. The coordinated tactics and advanced weaponry used in the attack suggested that a powerful organization, perhaps even with state support, was acting behind the scenes. Prompt intelligence could potentially thwart an even more deadly attack in the near future.
Moreover, Bronot had a gut feeling that something was different about this attack. First of all, the target location. There were more remote beaches nearby that would have had a slower security response. In fact, the attack was perhaps a bit too suicidal, with no real escape plan despite the otherwise sophisticated nature of the operation. Perhaps it was a smoke screen for something much worse to come? Whatever or whoever was behind it, Bronot knew she should act quickly to prevent a far worse catastrophe.
Bronot looked Fletcher in the eyes. He was a handsome man who in many ways reminded her of her former fiancée, Captain Rafi Alon. Rafi had also been well over six feet tall with light brown eyes and curly brown hair. He had been a fighter pilot who was shot down over the Gaza Strip during the Six Day War in 1967. Though he parachuted safely, a Palestinian Fedayeen company fighting alongside the Egyptians captured him before Special Forces could come in for the rescue. According to witnesses, the Palestinians tortured him by forcing his head into the engine compartment of their running jeep. A few hours later they decapitated him. It took Israel ten years of negotiations to recover his body.
After her fiancée’s murder, Bronot vowed to dedicate her life to fighting terrorism. Over the course of a decade, she had worked her way up from the security detail of the Prime Minister to become the head of one of the most respected anti-terrorist agencies in the world.
Bronot was a veteran in the art of revenge. In keeping with Israel’s policy of not allowing any terrorist with Israeli blood on their hands to go unpunished, she had personally tracked down every member of the Fedayeen Unit responsible for Rafi’s death. One by one they were hunted down by her agents and assassinated.
After a long pause, she finally responded to Fletcher. “You know I don’t have the authority to allow you to question him. But I could really use a coffee. Do you promise me you’ll be on your best behavior if I leave you for a few minutes?”
Fletcher nodded. “Scout’s honor, I’ll behave.”
With that, Bronot turned her back and exited the trailer.
Fletcher was now alone with the terrorist. He entered the cell and closed the shutters b
ehind the one-way mirror. The terrorist was sitting shackled to a metal stool which was bolted to the floor of the container. He wore only a sleeveless white undershirt and boxers. He was tall and thin, with a hint of an adolescent mustache.
Ron evaluated the young man. In his mind, he saw one of the dozens of Vietnamese youth that he had so skillfully interrogated. They too, had sold their souls to follow in the footsteps of killers.
Fletcher thought to himself, “He has no idea about what he is about to face. Now he’ll get to know what it’s like to be terrorized.”
Fletcher addressed the Palestinian in flawless Arabic, without even a hint of an accent. “What’s your name?” he demanded.
The teenager looked at him with disdain. “I will tell you nothing, Yehud!” He then spit on the floor in a show of defiance.
In a flash, Fletcher sprung on the terrorist. He maneuvered behind the chair and placed the thin neck of the young terrorist in a vice grip with his forearms. He then pushed his knee into the terrorist’s back while simultaneously squeezing his arms together, emptying his lungs. Within a fraction of a second, the terrorist was unconscious.
Moving around to the interrogator’s chair, Ron sat the terrorist upright and pulled down on his jaw, opening his mouth. He then pulled out his tongue.
Fletcher removed from the lapel of his gray sports coat the collapsible needle he had brought from Vietnam known as the “Death Pin.” With an uppercut motion he stabbed the steel needle through the tongue of the unconscious terrorist. The needle was fully extended, reaching from the terrorist’s Adam’s apple to between his eyes. He then twisted the needle, waking him. With the point of the needle inching toward his forehead, the terrorist tried desperately to move his tongue to avoid being cut by the needle.
The terrorist watched intently as Fletcher slowly removed a butane lighter from his front shirt pocket. He flicked it open, using the flame to heat the shaft of the Death Pin. The terrorist’s eyes were frozen in fear watching the base of the needle turn red while feeling a sensation of intense burning envelop his tongue.
Moving the flame from the shaft of the Death Pin to in front of the terrorist’s terror-stricken eyes, Fletcher began to speak slowly.
“Soon you will face a death that only a few unfortunate men have experienced. First, you will experience such intense pain that you will empty your bowels all over yourself. Then you will beg me to kill you, but I won’t. I want to enjoy watching you die in agony. Your only chance to stop this is to answer all my questions.”
The terrorist sat with his mouth open wide, trying to move his lips away from the glowing needle as Fletcher returned the flame to its base. The cherry glow of the tip of the needle became orange as an incredible wave of pain shot through the terrorist’s tongue.
Fletcher calmly asked, “Let’s try again. What is your name?”
Without hesitation the terrorist answered, “Muhammed Fellah.” With his tongue trapped by the needle, it came out as a mumble. Fletcher had long ago developed the ability to understand what was said with the Death Pin in a suspect’s tongue.
“What was the purpose of your mission?”
“To kill as many Jews as possible.”
“What is the name of your organization?”
“The Palestinian Liberation Guerilla Army.”
“Was there anyone else involved in your attack who didn’t come to the beach?”
“Yes, our leader, Ali Rajad.”
“Where is he now?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know. He got off the ship early, near the Lebanese border.”
“What ship?”
“A Liberian freighter. The Banju.” The terrorist winced. He was ready to answer any question that might help end the pain.
“Why did your leader come along?” Ron asked.
“He didn’t say. Maybe something to do with three canisters he was playing with on the freighter. He put them into a suitcase when he got off a rubber boat like ours.”
Fletcher took out a blue handkerchief and used it to remove the burning hot Death Pin. Immediately the pain dissipated. A moment later, Rachel Bronot returned.
“I got you a cup of coffee, Ron, let’s drink it outside.”
The crowd had begun to thin out. Bronot and Fletcher made their way to the shore. The two walked slowly south in the direction of Tel Aviv.
“Well, did he volunteer anything?” Bronot asked. She already knew the answer, having watched a live video feed of the interview from her car.
“Actually, he was talking so fast, he bit his tongue.” Fletcher remarked with a smile.
Fletcher reviewed with Bronot the information he had obtained from the terrorist. Then it was his turn for questions.
“Who is Ali Rajad?” Fletcher asked.
“He’s the head of a small but vicious terrorist organization called the PLGA, Palestinian Liberation Guerilla Army. We simply call it, the ‘Plague,’ for short.”
She continued, “Rashid is probably responsible for at least a hundred deaths in Israel in the past few years. His organization makes Black September look humane in comparison. I understand that lately he has been running a sort of terrorist-for-hire agency. Rashid’s clients want various operations done but want to keep their involvement a secret. Rashid will do almost any kind of operation anywhere in the world for the right price. In the process, he has made a small fortune for himself.”
“I don’t remember any operation against the PLGA recently,” Fletcher said.
“Unfortunately, you’re right. His keeps his base of operations deep inside Lebanon, near the Syrian border, too deep for our commando raids. We’ve bombed it in the past, but he just sprouts up again.” Bronot said, with obvious disappointment in her voice.
As they turned back toward the relief area they walked in silence. Fletcher was thinking about how best to investigate the PLGA, while Bronot could not stop wondering about the three mysterious cylinders of Ali Rajad.
8
In April of 1945, the final stage of Hitler’s plan for the birth of the Fourth Reich was initiated. Hitler was obsessed with the fear that Stalin would scour the ends of the earth until he was found. Therefore, he realized that in order to disappear he would have to make sure that Stalin found the dead body of Adolf Hitler. If his plan was successful, there would be no endless search for him after the war.
Hitler had spent the last days of the war in the reinforced underground compound known the Fuhrerbunker. He was there day and night, with the exception of brief military conferences in the Reich Chancellery. In order to get to the conferences, he would ascend to an upper bunker known as the Vorbunker which was connected to the Chancellery by a tunnel. Due to air attacks and Soviet artillery bombardment, Hitler eventually changed the location of the military conferences to the Vorbunker.
The Vorbunker contained conference rooms, a kitchen, storage space, living space for Hitler’s personal guard, and a room used to board the Goebbels’ children. The lower Fuhrerbunker was approximately 28 feet beneath the garden of the Chancellery. Its concrete roof was 9.8 feet thick, and its walls were 13 feet thick. Down the middle ran a wide corridor that was used as a lounge and conference room. On the east end of the corridor was a stairway leading up to the Vorbunker, and on the west a stairway that connected to an emergency exit. South of the corridor was Hitler’s private quarters, study, and a guest room that would eventually become Eva Braun’s bedroom. Next to Hitler’s bedroom was a room for his dog, Blondi, and a concealed entrance to a passageway that lead up to an unfinished ventilation tower in the Chancellery garden.
To the north of the corridor were the Goebbels’ bedroom, Hitler’s doctor’s office and quarters, a telephone switchboard center, electrical generators, and a ventilation control room. Hitler lived in the Fuhrerbunker for 105 days at the end of the war.
On April 29, shortly after midnight, Hitler married Eva Braun in a surprise ceremony. The wedding festivities continued late into the night. By the following morning, Hitler had tur
ned his attention back to his plan.
The first step was to kill his beloved German Shepherd, Blondi. Though Hitler had developed a reputation as an animal lover, having owned several dogs prior to Blondi, he had no compunction in ordering his personal physician Dr. Werner Haase to feed Blondi a cyanide tablet. He told Dr. Haase that he wanted to test its potency in case it would be needed for any of the human occupants of the Fuhrerbunker. However, Hitler had two completely different reasons for killing Blondi. The first was in order to suggest to the inhabitants of the bunker that Hitler himself was contemplating suicide. The second was that he needed to vacate Blondi’s room to allow Dr. Schreiber to prepare his equipment.
After Blondi’s body was removed from the room, Dr. Schreiber and an assistant began to bring in boxes containing Das Maschine and its modules, as well as the necessary surgical equipment. In short order, Schreiber and his assistant established a makeshift surgical theater in Blondi’s room.
In the early afternoon of April 30, a farewell gathering for the Further was attended by about twenty members of Hitler’s staff. Goebbels had been spreading a rumor for the past several weeks that Hitler wad decided to command the defense of Berlin from the Fuhrerbunker until the very end, and, if Germany lost the war, he would commit suicide. For the past few days, senior Nazis such as Bormann, Himmler, and Goring had attempted to persuade Hitler to abandon Berlin for Ploem where German forces were still in control. When confronted, Hitler would patriotically refuse to abandon Berlin. This drama continued until the farewell party.
At approximately 2:00 p.m., Hitler ate lunch with his two secretaries and his personal cook. Afterwards, he attended yet another farewell ceremony. At 2:45, Hitler and Eva entered his study. After sitting on the couch for a few minutes, Hitler gave his new wife a parting kiss. She then swallowed a vial of poison. As soon as Eva lost consciousness, Hitler was brought into Blondi’s room for the operation. Dr. Schreiber had spent the past few weeks perfecting his surgical technique on dozens of Jewish “volunteers.” Upon Hitler’s entry, Dr. Schreiber administered a powerful, fast-acting anesthetic. Within twenty minutes he had successfully removed the necessary brain tissue needed for Das Maschine as well as those to be used in future planned modules. As per Hitler’s instructions, Dr. Schreiber kept the incisions on his scalp to a bare minimum, suturing them carefully after the extraction.
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