Friedrich Rainer awoke from a restless night of vague and disturbing dreams, covered in a sheen of sweat and feeling every minute of his sixty-eight years. Muscles in his lower back spasmed painfully, and his prostate throbbed with a dull and persistent ache that radiated down through his rectum. Perhaps the most annoying of all was that it now took several minutes for his tired eyes to focus every morning, even after putting on his trademark pair of eight-hundred Mark tortoise shell-rimmed bifocals.
Getting old was shit, but that all paled in comparison with what ran through his mind this mild June morning.
Hans Kleisner was dead, killed by some Arab fanatic they said. Hans had become a controversial writer known the world over for his searing fictional portraits of real-life despots and other politicos, a man who had made many enemies and very few friends. But mere words had not motivated the nervous ascetic young man to wrap his arms around him as the semtex strapped to his youthful body had detonated, blasting them both to atoms.
Rainer knew the real truth: what had killed Hans Kleisner was not his books, but his membership in a nearly forgotten cabal of young German officers dedicated to wresting control of their country from a sputtering madman bent on world domination, a group dedicated to restoring true democracy. Hans Kleisner, like Rainer, had been a member of Der Weisse Adler: The White Eagle.
Rainer put on his glasses, squinting while he eased himself off the mattress, careful not to awaken his wife. He turned, looked down on her and smiled.
Thirty years his junior, she’d come into his life two years before during a Lufthansa shuttle flight from Bonn to Frankfurt, where he’d been traveling to close a deal on new factory space for his company. The closing had gone exceptionally well, and Ilse, one of the flight attendants on the return leg of the journey, had flashed her expensive capped teeth and her ample cleavage, leaving no room for doubt that she found the distinguished-looking industrialist to her liking.
And the truth be told, Rainer hadn’t been looking.
Managing to survive both the war and Hitler’s purging of the Wehrmacht officer corps in the wake of the assassination attempt on July 20, 1944, Rainer elected to stay and help rebuild his ravaged country after the surrender, rather than flee to the Americas as others had done. His patriotism paid off in an opportunity to join a fledgling pharmaceuticals firm, which soon became the preeminent company in West Germany. And his beloved Gerda had been there every step of the way, indispensable to both his life and his business, until breast cancer stole her beauty and her life at the age of fifty-four.
A widower now for nearly a decade, he’d grown accustomed to his solitude, preferring to satisfy the occasional urge with discreet high-priced escorts who knew how to pleasure a man and asked for nothing but their fee in return. The rest of his energies he devoted to his business. Now the “Direktor” of the firm of Horst und Freideke, he was one of the most respected businessmen in Germany, and one of the richest. Still, he hadn’t realized how lonely it all had become...until Ilse.
With her, there had been an immediate attraction, which surprised him as much as it had delighted her. They’d dated for six months, getting together whenever their hectic schedules permitted, spending most of that time in bed. Ilse turned out to be a consummate mistress in the art of lovemaking, approaching the act with a joyous abandon and a practiced hand. She was what his old Wehrmacht comrades would have called a Nerz, after the libidinous weasel-like mammals farmed for their luxurious pelts. That she also loved to wear mink coats was an irony not lost on Rainer.
They were married after a short engagement, and the wedding made the society pages of all the major papers. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung called it “a zestful and elegant affair.” But what surprised nearly every one of those invited to the ceremony was that Ilse was an intelligent, well-bred woman who had a great sense of humor, and knew how to throw a party.
Now, after two years of wedded bliss, Rainer was beginning to wonder if he would be able to keep up with her for much longer. Their lovemaking the night before had been as strenuous and as deeply satisfying as always, but now he felt like a pugilist’s punching bag: bruised and pummeled. He sighed, thinking that if she killed him with her appetites it would not be such a bad way to go.
Smiling again, he walked to the window, wincing when the muscle in his back spasmed yet again. He stifled a groan and focused his attention on the black Mercedes idling just inside the gate of his estate. Including the man in the house, and the two roamers on the grounds, the two men in the car brought the number to five. He’d hired them after the first of his old comrades had died mysteriously six months before. That crime remained unsolved, a seemingly random mugging.
Oh, these bastards were clever, he had to give them that. They were meticulous in making sure that every death appeared to be the work of a common criminal or the cruel hand of fate. Kleisner was only the most recent, and the most personal. He’d been a close and dear friend. Rainer had kept in touch with the others in Der Weisse Adler only sporadically. They never held reunions. Their secrets were still feared by many in power. Now, it looked as if their existence would no longer be tolerated.
How long could he hope to elude them? How long could he hope to remain alive?
He forced those questions from his mind, turned from the window, and limped into the bathroom, his bare feet slapping against the rose-colored Tuscan marble that covered the four hundred square foot expanse. He examined himself in the full-length mirror, appraising his physique with a critical eye:
Waist a still trim thirty-four inches.
Hair still full, though now a luxuriant white.
No ugly wattle under the chin.
All in all, not bad for nearly seventy.
He turned and stepped into the multi-nozzle Swedish shower and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature to just this side of scalding, and let the spray sluice over his aching flesh. It felt like a tiny bit of heaven.
While he lathered his body with the scented soap his wife insisted he use, he went over his schedule for the day: 9:00 meeting with his board of directors, 10:00 conference call with the Wehrmacht Veterans Association to help gain additional funds for disabled soldiers, 11:00 meeting with the engineers planning the new robotic production line, Noon lunch with Ilse. He smiled, remembering her lusty cries from the night before and felt himself growing hard.
Not now, you old fool.
Then again, why not? Men of his age had to count themselves lucky they could perform at all.
Rinsing off the soap lather, he turned the water cold, not surprised to find the old cold shower cliché had the desired effect. He toweled off and dressed in one of his charcoal gray double-breasted suits, accenting the robin’s-egg blue shirt with a yellow paisley “power tie.” He laughed at the American expression. Power had nothing to do with one’s tie, and everything to do with one’s actions.
He then snuck past Ilse’s still sleeping form and took the wide curving staircase down to the ground floor.
The house man, a thuggish-looking Westphalian named Rudi, sat at the kitchen table thumbing through the newspaper, a steaming cup of black Turkish coffee resting on the table next to his Hechler & Koch MP5K machine pistol with integral silencer. Rudi raised his dark eyes as Rainer entered the room and started to stand up. “Please, sit down,” Rainer said, motioning with his hand as he moved to the walk-in larder. “And please put the gun away. If we are attacked by marauding hordes, I think you will have time to draw it.”
“Sorry, Herr Rainer,” he said, slipping the “Hech” back into a shoulder harness.
As he did every morning, Rainer fixed himself a simple breakfast of Muesli cereal and hot black coffee. He joined Rudi at the small circular table and they conversed while he ate, each talking about the other’s experiences. Rainer nodded at the tiny demitasse cup filled with the acrid Turkish brew. “How can you drink that, Rudi? It tastes like something a camel spat up.”
Rudi shrugged, an easy smile softening his rough features. “Got used to it when I lived in Istanbul. Now, I can’t drink anything else.”
“You’re lucky there’s a Turkish contingent in the Fatherland, now. Otherwise, I’d think it would be hard to come by.”
Rudi nodded, his face suddenly clouding. “Maybe so, but I wish they’d stay home. Too many of ‘em here now.”
This last comment disturbed Rainer, not only because the young security man seemed like a pleasant fellow, but because it sounded exactly like the neo-Nazi drivel that so many of the young were spouting these days. Didn’t history teach them anything? Then again, perhaps it was human nature to trivialize the advice of one’s elders. Either way, it amounted to the same thing. Hate was making a comeback. Rainer decided to change the subject. “Anything in the paper?”
Rudi knew what that meant. He shook his head. “Nothing new, anyway. The latest on your friend is that no terrorist organization is claiming responsibility. They’re saying the bomber was some kind of lone wolf.”
Rainer nodded, his mind churning. It’s them. It’s them. It’s them....
Rudi started to say something, then cocked his head, listening intently to something coming in over his earpiece radio. The microphone, into which he now spoke, was hidden inside his sleeve. “Ja.... All is quiet.... Jawohl, I’ll be right out.” He turned to Rainer. “That was Baldric. Our shift is ending. I’m to meet him outside. Erich will be right in.”
“Very good. I’ll see you tonight.”
Rainer watched the big man lumber out of the kitchen, then turned on the tiny Blaupunkt television resting on the counter. He switched channels until he found the news, hoping to hear more about Hans, but knowing that if he did it would add nothing to what he knew to be the truth. He sat staring into his cereal while listening to the latest statistics of rapes and murders.
“How can you watch that drivel, Freddy?”
Rainer turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway, her satin robe barely containing her womanliness. Christ, she looked good in the morning, he thought. What does she see in this old soldier?
“I wanted to see if there was any more news about Hans.”
Ilse moved across the floor, her hips swinging invitingly, her green eyes flashing. “Can I persuade you to be a little late this morning?” she asked threading her arms around his waist.
Rainer smiled and caressed the back of her neck, something that always made her purr. “You probably could, but Erich will be in any minute. Besides, if I were to succumb to your charms, as I so often do, you would then have to answer to my board.”
Ilse’s eyes widened. “My God, I forgot. Today is the day.”
“Yes, today is the day. And if I don’t get going, it will likely be my last as Direktor of Horst and Freideke. Besides, if the vote goes my way, I’ll want to celebrate at lunch.”
A wicked smile crossed Ilse’s face. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
“Both. Now let me go, or I shall not be responsible for my actions.” He pinched her bottom, making her squeal, and walked toward the front of the house, collecting his briefcase from his office on the way. She followed, still playing the seductress.
Reaching for the door, he stopped, remembering something. “Is it all right if I take your car again? I think something is wrong with the BMW.”
“I hate it when you drive my car,” she said, the seductive mood spoiled. “The last time, you let some idiot put a dent in the door.”
“My dear, it’s not as if I wanted him to do it. It just happened.”
“But if something is wrong with yours, how will I meet you for lunch?”
Rainer bowed to her inimitable logic. “You’re right, I’ll take mine.”
He opened the door and walked onto the circular drive, his gait slowing as he noticed that the black Mercedes was gone, the gray BMW belonging to the next crew not yet in its place.
Strange. Shift changes were always overlapping. And where was Erich? He glanced at his watch and frowned. If he did not leave right now, he would be mired in traffic and would be late for his board meeting, the consequences of which would be fatal to his career. He looked back and saw her standing there, one bare, well-formed leg showing through the slit of the robe.
I am a lucky man, he thought.
“Stay inside until the next shift arrives, all right?”
She nodded and blew him a kiss. “Good luck, Liebchen!”
Waving, he opened the driver’s side door of his jet-black BMW 750IL and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed inside, and placed the key into the ignition.
Sighing at the injustice of Hans’ death, Rainer twisted the key, completing a circuit that led to a detonator plugged into a half-pound of semtex wired to the BMW’s undercarriage. There was a nanosecond’s delay before the massive explosion shattered the luxury car into a million fiery fragments, blowing out every window in his fifty-room mansion and leaving his hysterical widow to watch helplessly while his shredded corpse burned to cinders.