Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (5 page)

No response. He put his hand on her arm. She pulled back and turned away.

“Look, I don’t know what’s troubling you, but if you sit out here all night you’ll freeze to death. And that won’t be good for either of us.”

She turned and looked at him, a hint of a smile on her face.

“I’ll buy you coffee. After you warm up, you can tell me to buzz off.”

He took her hand. This time she let him lead her to a diner about a block away. Her slender fingers, even inside the torn gloves, felt soft in his.

They sat down in a booth. She unwound the scarf from her neck and pulled down the hood. Her soft blonde hair shone even though it was dirty and matted.

Sidney motioned to the waitress, who brought coffee. “Is this your first time in Montreal?”

No response.

“I’m Sidney Kramer. Can you tell me your name?”

She stared down at her coffee and wrapped her fingers around the cup. They were pretty fingers, although the nails were chewed and broken. He wondered how those fingers would feel on his skin.

“Do you have family here?”

She shook her head no.

He ordered juice and a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. When the order arrived, she grabbed the bacon and shoved it in her mouth, ate the pancakes without a fork, and gobbled up the eggs, using toast to mop up the runny yolk.

He loved to watch those long fingers. She looked up at him a couple of times. Once, he thought he saw a smile.

When she finished eating, she glanced at him but said nothing.

“Do you have any place to go?”

She shook her head no.

“I have a spare room you can use until you find something else.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t try and take advantage of you. I want to help you.”

She smiled and spoke for the first time. “Thank you.”

What a beautiful smile,
he thought. Sparkling white teeth and large, full lips.

They walked back to his apartment. When she removed her coat, he could see that her sweater was torn in places. Her pants had several frayed spots. He could smell her as soon as she entered the living room.

“Look, why don’t you go in and take a bath. I’ll run to the store and get you a change of clothes.” He chuckled nervously. “I’m a little short of women’s dresses.”

That got another smile.

Sidney led her through the one bedroom and closed the bathroom door behind her. He left the apartment and walked to the nearest department store, about six blocks away. The clerk seemed suspicious when he asked her to help him pick out clothes. “For my sister,” he told her.

When he returned, the door to the bathroom remained shut.

“I’m back,” he called. “I’ve got you some clothes.”

She did not respond.

He knocked on the door. “I hope they fit.”

Still no answer. Had she done something dumb? His heart raced as he turned the handle and pushed the door open. She sat on the toilet, still fully dressed.

“Can I help you?” Sidney asked.

She didn’t complain when he took off her sweater. Then he unbuttoned her pants and helped her step out of them. He undid her bra, taking his time because his fingers shook and he was breathing hard. He pushed her panties down, letting his fingers trail down her soft skin. Her hips were so smooth. She stepped out of the panties.

Sidney didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman. Here she stood, naked in front of him.

She didn’t say a word when he helped her into the tub. Didn’t even look at him as he bathed her. But he knew this was the woman for him. Whatever had happened to her, he’d take care of her. And then, he thought, with a body like that she could take care of all his needs, too. He felt himself getting aroused.

Sam followed Popeye into his office, about twice the size of Sam’s office. The poster covering the wall behind the desk startled him. It showed a picture of Adolph Hitler with a caption below the dictator’s sneering face: “I’ll be back, and this time no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

Nazi memorabilia lay scattered around the room— uniform hats arrayed on a rack next to the desk, pictures of Nazi officers on the walls, and armbands stacked up on a bookshelf next to Popeye’s desk. A full-dress German uniform decorated a mannequin in the corner.

Popeye faced him across the desk. “It’s not our place to question General Oliver.”

Sam bit his lip to maintain his cool. “I didn’t question Oliver. All I said was that I didn’t know what mission he has planned for us. Do you?”

“No, I don’t, but we must be prepared to do whatever is necessary.”

“Look,” Sam replied, “we’re supposed to be on the same team. Let’s not cross one another, at least in front of the men. If you have problems with what I say, we can talk it over in private.”

The two glared at one another. Sam wouldn’t be the first to blink in this game of eyeball chicken.

“Let me handle situations like my face-down with Buster. I need to establish my authority. Your piping in doesn’t help.”

Popeye sat down in his swivel-tilter armchair. He leaned forward with his elbows on the scarred executive-style desk. “Please sit.” He motioned with his left arm toward a wooden chair in the corner.

Sam pulled the chair up to the desk.

“A great deal is riding on the successful accomplishment of our mission. I just want to make sure the general’s plan works.” Popeye ran his fingers through his unruly white hair. “Fuckers have crucified us. I for one ain’t gonna take it anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“Do you know what it means to get crapped on by your government after you’ve given them your best?”

Sam shook his head.

“My grandfather was an SS colonel in the German Army.”

He said it with such pride.

“The Jews destroyed my country. After we were so close to victory. The glorious Third Reich brought to its knees. All because of the Jews.”

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. His best friend in the military school had been Jewish. His friend’s grandmother had spent two years in Auschwitz—watching her parents spirited off to the gas chamber, being starved and beaten, then somehow managing to stay on her feet during the death march to the next camp near the end of the war. She was one of the few who survived and the only one in her family.

“Ever hear of ODESSA?” Popeye’s voice pulled Sam back to the present. His eyes shone. A smile curled up his lips under the drooping moustache.

It took all of Sam’s patience to sit there and listen. “The name sounds familiar.”

“The ODESSA was formed by the CIA after the war to take care of high-ranking German officers. The intelligence bastards knew the enemy had become the Russians. The U.S. needed the German intelligence apparatus if they were to have a chance against the Communist horde.” He smiled again. “They were smart enough to recognize the skills of the German officers and planned to take advantage of them.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“Not many people have. My grandfather befriended the bishop in Vienna during the war. The bishop knew what heroes the German officers were. He helped hundreds of SS officers escape by obtaining Red Cross passports, then visas to Syria. He gave them tickets for a ship and money to tide them over.”

“The Catholic Church did that?” Bile rose in Sam’s throat. Very little surprised him anymore, but this did.

Popeye ignored Sam’s comment. “My grandfather arrived in Syria with his family. That’s where he met the CIA representatives. They told my grandfather they valued his skills and would protect him. He believed the liars. Our family, along with a number of other SS officers and their families, left Syria and settled in Argentina.”

“Why Argentina?”

“Can’t tell you.” Popeye lit a cigar and drew on it. “I was born in Argentina.”

Sam waited.

“My grandfather’s mission was to meet with Arab groups. He helped them form cells that would rid the world of the Jews and their supporters once and for all.”

Sam exhaled. “How long did this go on?”

“It was a grand plan. One of my grandfather’s friends, Otto Skorzeny, helped install Nasser as president of Egypt.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“That’s right, Thorpe: this was a big deal.” He smiled. “A very big deal. Skorzeny brought together groups of top SS soldiers to help him get the job done. He met with success.”

Popeye seemed to glow as he spoke.

“Skorzeny trained terror cells for the PLO. He even helped Ali Hassan Salameh, the leader of the Black September Group, kill nine Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics. That was one of our finest hours.”

“Weren’t the senior SS officers tried at Nuremberg?” Sam looked at the mannequin in the corner. He wondered if Popeye’s grandfather had worn that uniform.

Popeye laughed. “Only the ones the CIA didn’t want. They got the rest out of Germany. And I can tell you, plenty of officers wanted to be smuggled into Argentina.”

Sam waited for him to continue.

“My grandfather did everything they asked him to do, all their damn dirty work. He did it well.” Popeye took another puff on his cigar. “You know what he got for a reward?”

The smoke swirled toward Sam.

“Bastards killed him. They would have killed my father too, but before he died, my grandfather got suspicious. He moved us up country.”

A framed picture of Popeye standing with three other men, all dressed in Nazi uniforms, hung on the wall behind Popeye.

Popeye followed Sam’s eyes. “My comrades. We are the leadership of the Pennsylvania Skinheads.”

“Who?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the skinheads.”

Sam didn’t reply.

“We don’t use names.” He seemed to sit up straighter. “The skinheads are the next generation of Nazi leadership. We’re dedicated to ridding the world of the Jewish influence once and for all.”

“Tell me more about the group.”

“I’ve been active with them for a number of years. They nominated me to be chapter colonel, but I had to decline because of my current job.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

“None of your business.”

“What does the group do?”

Popeye smiled. “We have meetings, sponsor concerts and parties. A big part of our mission is recruiting new members. That’s why we have parties and bring in bands.”

“I’d heard you use the Internet very effectively.” Sam would have to ask his backup team for material on the skinhead movement in Pennsylvania.

Popeye smiled. “It’s made for us. The coordinator for much of our Internet capability is located in Minneapolis.”

Sam nodded but said nothing.

“I was just out there a few weeks ago to meet with him. While I was there, the FBI raided the chapter. Took a bunch of the leadership and threw them in jail. Damn near caught me in their web. If I hadn’t been late to a meeting, I’d be in jail now. Can you imagine that?”

Sam could.

“You don’t say much do you?”

“Not unless I have something to say.”

“I want you to know that this mission is important. Payback for all the crap our government has pulled on us. If you mess it up, I’ll kill you. Just so we understand one another.”

Sam arranged some papers on the field desk in his office and kept the cell phone pressed to his ear. He hated to be stuck on hold.

He’d been provided an office next to Popeye’s. The room was small, not much larger than his office in the Pentagon, but at least he didn’t have to share this broom closet with another officer. The furniture consisted of the desk, an army cot against one wall, three folding metal chairs, and a refrigerator large enough to stack a few Bud Lights. Thankfully he did have a bathroom with a shower, although he couldn’t stand up straight in the shower without banging his head.

A new Dell computer sat on the end table next to the desk. Sam had been provided a password so he could link into General Oliver’s local area network.

Aly Kassim’s voice came on the phone. “Hello, Sam. How is everything going?”

“Fine, Aly. What’s the status of the communications equipment I ordered? It’s supposed to be here by now.”

Aly spoke in his normal measured voice. “I got your e-mail and checked on the order. It arrived at our offices in Harrisburg this afternoon. The shipment got slowed down by that snowstorm over Ohio. It’ll be ready for pickup in the morning.”