Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (9 page)

Heidrich
rose, straightening his uniform before grabbing his hat. “Let’s see what he has
to say for himself.”

He
stepped out into the hallway to see the officer being led down the hallway,
flanked by two of his colleagues. Lupo didn’t seem nervous at all, there no
fear in his eyes. He stared directly at Heidrich as he approached, a slight
smile on his face.

We’ll
see if you’re smiling after I’m done with you.

Three
gunshots rang out from behind him. Heidrich stepped to the side, his head
spinning toward the shooter as he reached for his own weapon. But it was too
late. The man turned the gun on himself, tearing a hole through his own head
before collapsing to the floor. Heidrich turned back to see Lupo on the ground,
a large pool of blood oozing out on the tile floor, the same smile still on his
face, as if he died contented.

Heidrich
leaned over and tore open the Lupo’s shirt, but found no tattoo.

He
stood, cursing as he looked from one body to the other, realizing his case had
just died with these two men.

Two men
willing to die for their cause.

A cause
he knew nothing about.

Except
that it had just sealed his own death warrant.

Reich Air Ministry, Berlin, Nazi Germany
April 4
^th
, 1945
One month before the official surrender of Nazi Germany

Heidrich resisted cringing as the Russian shells bombarded the city
overhead. Germany had lost, yet the Führer held on, refusing to admit defeat.

And it
was the people who were paying the price for it.

And Heidrich
felt no sympathy.

If the
people had been more committed to the war effort, had thrown themselves into
the fight as he had, body and soul, Germany would have been victorious, of that
he had no doubt.

She had
to win, for she was the home of the Master Race.

A home
overrun with vermin who had weakened her in her time of need.

They had
exterminated over eleven million, displaced millions more, and if they had just
had another few years, the final solution would have been successfully
completed, and the world a better place for it.

And then
phase two could have begun.

For the
problem went far beyond the Jews and the Gypsies. They were merely the tip of
the iceberg. Russians, Africans, Orientals, Muslims. They all needed to be
eliminated to make room for the Aryan race.

Though
that wouldn’t be today.

Not now.

Now that
they had been betrayed.

Now that
they were defeated.

But this
was a war, and what had been going on for the past six years was merely a
battle.

Germany
would win the war. The Third Reich may be about to fall, but the Fourth Reich
would someday rule the world, the Swastika proudly fluttering over the capitals
of every nation the new empire allowed into the fold, willingly or not.

And from
what he had just heard, he had every confidence this new empire, this new plan,
would work.

It would
just take time.

Perhaps
a very long time.

It was
sad to think he probably wouldn’t see it, though he was honored he had been
chosen to take part. He had been officially executed yesterday for his failure
in Rome, but instead of dying, he had been given whispered instructions as the
blindfold had been put in place.

“Play
dead.”

And now
he found himself in a room with young SS officers, much like him, fine examples
of the Master Race, with the Führer himself at the head of the table, Dr.
Mengele and other senior staff on either side.

He was
fiercely proud.

“We have
failed you, Mein Führer.”

Hitler
looked at Mengele and nodded. “Yes, you have, but we have been betrayed as
well.”

Mengele
bowed slightly in his chair. “Yes, we have. But no matter what happens here in
the coming days, the eugenics program must continue so Germany may one day rule
the world as it should. The Master Race must continue, even if silently in the
background so that one day she can fulfill her destiny.” Mengele looked at
those gathered then back at their Führer. “The Third Reich has failed, long
live the Fourth Reich!”

“Heil
Hitler! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!” cried those gathered, outstretched arms
stabbing toward the heavens.

Mengele
turned toward the Führer. “And you, Mein Führer, will be at its head.”

The Führer
nodded then rose, the entire room leaping to their feet. “Gentlemen.”

“Heil
Hitler!” shouted the enthusiastic group, the Führer returning his trademark
version of the salute, bent at the elbow, before leaving the room. When the
door closed, everyone returned to their seats, Dr. Mengele taking the seat at
the head of the table. He turned to one of the senior scientists on his team.

“Your
research?”

The man
nodded. “We are limited by the times we live in, however I am one hundred
percent confident we will succeed in time.”

“How
much time?”

“I
cannot say. It could be years, decades even. It may not be we who succeed, but
our children or our grandchildren. But eventually we will succeed, and the
Fourth Reich will be born, an unstoppable army its sword.”

Mengele’s
head bobbed slightly, as if pleased with the words. He looked at those
gathered. “Germany is about to fall, but you will go on. Every one of you are
loyal to the Führer, loyal to his dream, but none of you are known. You are all
dead as far as the world is concerned, so you can continue the fight long after
men like me are dust. It will be up to you to keep the fight alive, in the
background.

“Provisions
have already been made so you will have enough funding to last several
lifetimes. All of our research has been copied and moved to secret locations
that the files in front of you contain. You will be split into three units,
each working independently, compartmentalized, so should any one unit be
captured, the others will continue on.” He looked about the room, his eyes
coming to rest on Heidrich for a moment before continuing down the table. “Some
of you have been gathering religious artifacts for some time. Those have mostly
been moved to these locations, however the allies have intercepted some of
these shipments. But it is of no matter. You will recover these artifacts when
the time comes that they are needed.”

Mengele
rose, as did everyone else.

“Gentlemen,
you are the Congress. Like a congress of ravens picking at the corpses
littering a battlefield, you will take what is left of the Fatherland and
ensure that the Germany we tried to create lives on. It is up to
you
to
keep the dream alive. My generation has failed, but you, or your progeny, will
succeed. Learn from our mistakes, and the Fourth Reich will not be just a
dream, but a reality that will bring stability and order to the entire world.
And with science and the will of the gods, the Führer will once again stand in
the Reichstag, and the world will tremble at the might of the Fourth Reich!
Long live the Congress! Long live the Führer!”

Shouts
of Heil Hitler erupted, Mengele joining in before leaving with the senior
staff. The exuberance among the young men still in the room continued for
several minutes before they returned to their seats and opened the envelopes in
front of them.

And what
Heidrich read filled him at once with hope and awe, the might and superiority
of the Third Reich clear.

And
Operation Raven’s Claw was proof.

Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
September 17
^th
, 1998

Carmine Donati stared at the envelope, debating on whether to bother
opening it. He had sorted through the day’s mail long ago, setting anything
aside he felt wasn’t urgent. Now it was the end of the day and it was time to
file most of the pile in front of him into the recycling bin.

Yet this
wasn’t some flyer, it was something different.

It was a
high quality envelope, the stock not a discount store brand, though what had
him curious was the fact the return address was the museum he was now sitting
in, addressed to that same facility.

He
sighed, his eyes closing slightly as the day caught up to him. It was always a
struggle keeping a small museum going, especially in these times when people
seemed to be losing interest in their history. He tried to keep the interest
alive, urging the schools to come and visit their modest collection as often as
possible, and he’d recount the story of how his grandfather had helped hide a
portrait of Leonardo da Vinci himself from the Nazis.

And had
died for it.

His
father had instilled in him an interest in the arts and history, and though his
father hadn’t gone into the business, he had gone to university and eventually
obtained his doctorate, returning to his hometown to work at the museum, and
eventually run it, keeping his grandfather’s memory alive as best he could.

And it
troubled him every time one of the young children asked to see the portrait for
which his grandfather had died.

For he
couldn’t.

It had
never been returned.

Lost to
history.

Lost to
a war that had yet to give up all it had stolen.

He
shoved the letter opener into the top of the envelope, slicing it open. Fishing
out the single sheet of paper, he gasped, having to read it several times
before he fully believed what he saw.

It is
time for the portrait to be returned. Call when you are ready.

He
looked at the number and reached for the phone, stopping just before gripping
the receiver, his cynical mind taking over. He examined the letter again. A
plain piece of heavy stock, the message typewritten with no identifying marks
on it whatsoever. He held it up to the light, a watermark evident, but nothing
that he recognized as important.

It must
be a hoax.

But
what if it isn’t?

No one
ever knew what had come of the portrait. His grandfather was dead, and the
young man who had helped, Nicola Santini, had returned to the town after the
war, refusing to talk of what had happened, living out his days on the family
farm, almost a hermit, ashamed of something he had done.

His
involvement had been forgotten by most.

He
grabbed the phone and quickly dialed before he could change his mind.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I,
um, received a letter?”

“Is this
Doctor Donati?”

“Yes.”

“Stay
where you are.”

The call
ended and he stared at the receiver, not sure what to make of what had just
happened, though the shivers racing up and down his spine suggested his
subconscious was terrified of what it might be. He hung up the receiver and
looked about, it suddenly feeling as if he were being watched.

Stay
where you are.

That
meant someone was coming.

But who?

And what
was their motivation?

It
suddenly occurred to him that they might think
he
had the portrait, and
they wanted it returned. It wouldn’t be the first time the idea had been
floated that his grandfather had actually stolen the portrait and died before he
could profit from his actions.

It was
an accusation that enraged him every time it was suggested.

A knock
on the front doors of the museum startled him and his heart leapt into his
throat as he slowly rose. The museum was closed at this time, the hours clearly
marked out front. It had to be them, but if it was, it meant they had been
waiting nearby for his call.

He
glanced at the postmark.

Two days
ago. Rome.

So they
could have been waiting all day today
and
yesterday.

They
might be mad you didn’t open it this morning.