The Führer’s Prophecy

Book 0: The Reich Trilogy

by Brian Klein

Genres: World War II

Synopsis

January, 1939
Adolf Hitler makes an infamous speech at the Reichstag threatening 'the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe'. This vile public proclamation is seized upon by his fanatical supporters who christen it 'The Führer's Prophecy'.

November, 1943
A sinister plot hatched inside Block 10 of the notorious Auschwitz deathcamp is known only to a handful of Nazis as Operation Gesamtkunstwerk. It's a plan originated by Hitler, Himmler and Mengele and now, almost eighty years later, it's finally ready to be actioned by the direct descendants of the Führer.

April, 2022
As the world emerges from the Covid pandemic, an encrypted zoom call involving five participants, based across four continents, approves a plan that could have unimaginable consequences for the State of Israel. Chief Inspector Nicolas Vargas of the Buenos Aires Police Department and Lieutenant Troy Hembury of the LAPD join forces with Lea Katz, an elite Mossad agent, in a race against time to try and prevent the unthinkable consequences of Operation Gesamtkunstwerk.

Release date: April 18, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 100000

Sample

The global Zoom meeting was drawing to a close. It was no different to thousands of others taking place across the world at the same time, except the encrypted passcodes required to gain entry were impenetrable. The participants were based in four continents, with varying time zones, and the call had been scheduled to start at 23:00 GMT. Despite their different nationalities, all the contributors were fluent in a second language – German. The Zoom gallery, displayed on the five computer screens, revealed the images of the participants but didn’t list their names. The call lasted just under an hour and the host brought it to an end with a disturbing declaration.

“The ongoing pandemic is a gift. It’s already helped us cover our tracks with some of our tests and now the main operation needs to be brought forward. In the name of our grandfather, we mustn’t squander the opportunities it brings.”

The other four participants nodded in agreement. Just before they logged off, the host resumed speaking.

“One last matter to cover. Eva, this one’s for you. I’m emailing through details of the escape plan for an old family friend who is currently languishing in a maximum-security cell. We badly need an operative in the field whom we can trust and, after ten years of incarceration, his loyalty to our cause is undeniable.”

In Buenos Aires Eva Castillo closed her laptop and reached for the glass tumbler of Jim Beam that sat on a red leather coaster on the brushed steel desktop. She drained the contents in one swallow and walked across the tumbled marble floor towards the fifteen-foot-high curved glass windows, a signature feature of her waterfront penthouse apartment in Puerto Madero Harbour on the east side of the city. It formed part of a luxury high-rise development comprising some of the most expensive real estate in Buenos Aires.

Eva glanced down at the spectacular pedestrian suspension bridge spanning the harbour and the picturesque dockside restaurants that attracted tourists and locals alike. The area was renowned for its upscale steak and seafood bistros, and she smiled to herself as she spotted the usual queue snaking around the front of El Mirasol, her favourite eatery. She knew a simple text to the maître d’ always guaranteed her a table overlooking the water, regardless of the waiting times being handed out to hopeful customers who stood in line. She was born to entitlement and privilege which, to date, had smoothed her path through life.

Eva loved playing the card that, right from birth, she was destined for a life in politics because her parents had named her after the First Lady of Argentina, Eva Perón. In reality, her Christian name was a tribute to her paternal grandmother, Eva Braun; the wife of the most notorious dictator of the twentieth century. She’d inherited the natural beauty of her grandmother, with her crystal blue eyes and curly strawberry blonde hair combining to stunning effect. At twenty-nine, she was the youngest senator in the National Congress and deputy leader of the extreme right-wing party Sovereignty. In the recent midterm elections, they had caused a political earthquake by winning twenty-three per cent of the national vote, reflecting the popularity of the growing fascist movement inside Argentina.

Although the sound was switched off on her cell phone, Eva felt the faint buzz created by the arrival of a fresh email and retrieved the super-encrypted iPhone from her jean pocket. The incoming message displayed no subject, just an attachment that she immediately double-clicked. The top half of the screen showed the colour headshot of a man she’d never met but whom she felt she knew intimately. She could see the Word document contained ten pages of copy but, for now, she was content simply to stare at the distinctive features of prison inmate 477815, otherwise known as the Black Scorpion.

The maximum-security wing in Valledupar Penitentiary was not for the faint-hearted. It was the first prison to be built inside Colombia using US funding and was designed to secure inmates who were seen as a potential threat to both the Colombian and US governments. Its clientele was a heady mix of drug lords, serial killers, rapists and political extremists and, more than two decades after its opening in April 2000, it had deservedly earned the reputation of being the worst hellhole in South America.

The prison stank of vomit, faeces and urine because prisoners only had access to running water for three hours a day. Most of the time they deposited their liquid and solid excrement in plastic shopping bags and dumped them in the communal areas scattered around the sixteen-hectare site. Most of the fourteen hundred prisoners were lifers, confined to tiny barren ten-foot-square cells for twenty-three hours a day, surviving on a diet of stale bread, rice and peas. Visitation rights were down to the goodwill of the warden, of which very little was ever shown.

Matias Paz, also known as the Black Scorpion, was one of the inmates. He was approaching the tenth year of his life sentence, having been found guilty of the multiple murders that terrorised Buenos Aires in January 2012. At the time, Paz fronted a corrupt security company that took orders directly from the CEO of a major US-based pharmaceutical corporation, who was exposed as the secret son of Adolf Hitler. Paz had found himself at the centre of a worldwide firestorm as he became the ugly face of a show trial that dominated the front pages across the globe for almost two months. Throughout the entire process, he didn’t utter a single word.

Now in his sixties, Paz was a former mercenary and lifelong fascist. He still didn’t carry an ounce of spare fat on his muscular frame, and before his incarceration he’d dyed his platinum-grey hair jet black to disguise his age. For many years he had kept two glossy black-skinned emperor scorpions in a large terrarium in his office, earning him his nickname.

He was just over halfway through his morning workout, simply dressed in white vest and underpants, when he heard footsteps approaching his cell. This was highly unusual as the guard who patrolled his level and dropped off his food twice a day, always at the same time, wasn’t due for another seven hours. Paz cursed under his breath – the disruption to his routine and the consequent break in concentration meant he lost count of the number of press-ups he’d completed, so he’d have to start again. A few seconds later the metal hatch in the middle of the cell door slid open and the guard’s face filled the void. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Paz – an event like this hadn’t happened in the previous ten years of his incarceration.

“Get some clothes on, Paz – you have a visitor. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

The Black Scorpion was stunned. He’d not had a single visit since the day he’d entered the disgusting institution. He scrambled out a reply.

“Who … is it?”

“It’s your nephew, Theodor, and it’s your lucky day. The warden has sanctioned the visit.”

The hatch slid back into place and Paz made a grab for his brown dungarees, neatly folded on the mattress of his bunk. The imminent visit was indeed unusual, particularly as he didn’t have a nephew.

* * *

The compact rectangular visiting room was stark. The white paint that had been applied to the plastered brick walls twenty years before had long since discoloured and now resembled a weak cappuccino. In the centre stood a small square pine table with a chair on either side – one of which had its legs cemented directly into the grey concrete floor. Two iron manacles secured to that end of the table were tightly clamped around Paz’s wrists and, to complete the restraints, a four-inch-wide black leather safety belt secured his chest to the back of the chair. He felt like a trussed chicken and the message was clear: the warden may have granted him a visit, but he was obviously taking no chances with his high-profile inmate.

The digital clock on the far wall read 11:27, so Paz figured he only had three minutes to wait before meeting his mysterious nephew. He wasn’t wrong. At precisely 11:30 the door facing him opened to reveal a guard he’d never seen before, accompanying a tall, painfully skinny early twenty-something, dressed head to toe in denim. The young man’s overall appearance was unassuming and somewhat bedraggled; he was unshaven with a mop of hippy-length black curly hair. Paz figured his visitor was a struggling college student in desperate need of a decent meal. His angular features were dominated by high, pronounced cheekbones and his dark brown eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of cheap wire spectacles, looked slightly haunted as they focused on Paz. There was an ominous silence while he drew up the other chair to face his “uncle”. Neither of them seemed sure how the initial greeting should play out but then the young man broke into life – as if he had just received an action cue and launched into his rehearsed script.

“Hello, Uncle. How are you doing?”

Before Paz could reply, the burly guard who’d escorted Theodor into the room interrupted them.

“You have exactly fifteen minutes for the visit, but if I see something I don’t like, it’ll be over. Do you understand?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he strolled over to the corner of the room, just far enough, Paz decided, to be out of earshot, and began playing a game of solitaire on his cell phone.

Paz was ready to begin his interrogation of the young visitor who was pretending to be his nephew. “Firstly, we both know Theodor isn’t your real name. Who sent you and what do they want from me?”

The young man lent forward so his face was no more than six inches away from Paz. “Señor Paz, I’m an actor, a struggling actor who makes a grubby living as a waiter in a nightclub in the city. Last week I saw an online advert for a Zoom casting audition and … guess what? This was the part.”

He smiled for the first time as he witnessed a look of total bewilderment on Paz’s face. “The fee was huge and the woman who interviewed me said all I had to do was alter my appearance, take on the role of Theodor and deliver the following message to you in person, word for word.”

“Who gave you the part? And don’t bullshit me,” Paz hissed, his reply dripping with threat.

“The woman never put up a live image of herself – there was just a caption on the screen saying ‘casting director’, so I’ve no idea who she was. But she made one thing very plain, I am not allowed to answer any questions.”

Paz nodded his understanding and furtively glanced at the guard who was deep into his card game. “Go on, Mr Actor, let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

Theodor shut his eyes for a couple of seconds, his forehead creasing up – almost as if he were rebooting his brain. Then he resumed eye contact with Paz and began to recite his lines. “Next Tuesday, exactly one week from today, at 13:09, nine minutes into your daily one-hour exercise break, you’ll walk across the open courtyard to the middle of the western wall, turn and face it and maintain that position, regardless of anything that might go on around you. You’ll be safe from harm as long as you don’t move. By 13:15 you’ll be out of the penitentiary and on your way to meet an old admirer.”

The young man deliberately scraped his chair when he stood to catch the attention of the guard who glanced up from his phone, irritated his game had been disturbed.

“Guard, I’m ready to leave.”

Paz’s eyes never left the actor as he made his way across the room and out the door shadowed by the disgruntled guard. He sat passively in his chair, desperately trying to work out whom the young man was working for and what the hell was going to happen next week. For now, all he could do was wait.

The week had dragged so slowly, Paz felt as though seven months rather than days had passed since his bizarre encounter with his phoney nephew. He’d tried hard to rationalise the scenario and find some answers. His shrewd brain played through all the possible angles, yet he was always left with two questions: who wanted him out and why now? He’d been rotting for years in this vile hovel, which had the audacity to call itself a correctional institution, and suddenly, out of nowhere, an outside force was set to free him. None of it made sense.

At 12:55, after the prison officer had opened his cell door, any lingering doubts Paz had that the whole set-up might be a sham vanished. The uniformed guard, who’d never uttered a word of small talk in the preceding ten years, reached into his pocket and retrieved two tiny yellow polymer foam earplugs. He held them in the open palm of his hand and gestured for Paz to take them.

“I’ve been instructed to give you these.”

Paz stuffed them firmly inside his ears while the guard turned, and they set off down the dark narrow corridor, beginning the long walk to the communal exercise courtyard. Paz could feel pure adrenaline surging through his veins. More questions flooded his thoughts: how had his rescuers persuaded the warden to allow last week’s visit and how had they got to the guard – who’d always seemed incorruptible?

The recreation yard was jam-packed, with over three hundred prisoners taking their daily one-hour escape from their dismal cells. The convicts were monitored on the ground by thirty armed guards, ably supported by four elite officers perched on fifty-foot-high brick-built turrets positioned at the corners of the exercise area. All four were armed with an M249 light machine gun, capable of spitting out 5.56 mm rounds at a rate of two hundred per minute and, between them, the machine gun nests had clear sight lines of every inch of ground inside the yard, leaving no hiding place for the inmates should trouble break out.

Paz entered through the only access – a massive fifteen-foot-high, twelve-inch-thick iron door that formed part of the south wall. He at once found himself shoulder to shoulder with dozens of prisoners all arriving for their break at the same time. Although Paz could sense the busy chatter, the earplugs were doing their job muffling the noise to a distant, unintelligible hum. He glanced down at his cheap digital watch displaying the time 13:06. Three minutes to go.

He casually strolled towards the centre of the yard, deliberately avoiding eye contact with inmates and guards, all the while desperately trying to stay calm and focused. Paz sensed a rapid increase in his heartbeat and felt a slight sweat break on his forehead. He cursed the ten years of incarceration that had dimmed the natural operational skills he’d taken into the field so successfully on countless occasions. Yet again he furtively checked the time – 13:08. Just one minute to go but nothing was amiss. Nevertheless, he made his way across to the western wall and, at exactly 13:09, turned to face it.

Forty-five minutes earlier, unsuspecting tourists in the popular coastal resort of the walled city of Cartagena, witnessed two black dots flying in above the massive expanse of the Caribbean Sea, heading directly east over the old Spanish town, heading inland. The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawks were armed to the teeth. Both choppers were loaded with sixteen air-to-ground Hellfire missiles, usually employed to take out armoured tanks, and two M134 Miniguns were mounted on the bottom of the stub wings. These Gatling gun-style rotating barrel weapons could dispense a payload of six thousand rounds a minute.

The two Hawks circled around before coming in low and fast, attacking the penitentiary from the west. Although the four turret guards had heard and watched them approach thirty seconds earlier, they had no real sense of the violent attack heading their way. That all changed instantly as four Hellfire missiles slammed into the top half of each of the turrets, obliterating the solid brick structures and incinerating the guards. The deafening shriek produced by the four-bladed rotors hit an eye-watering 160 decibels and muted the screams of terror from below. Mayhem broke out as hundreds of inmates desperately raced towards the main entrance trying to escape the assault. Dozens were ruthlessly cut down by thousands of tracer rounds that carved a path across the concrete yard, taking out prisoners and guards indiscriminately.

Paz stayed jammed against the western wall but turned to get a close-up of the murderous attack. It was sheer carnage – bloody body parts flying high into the air and corpses dancing on the ground as bodies were riddled with an endless hailstorm of incoming rounds. Paz’s mind flicked back forty-five years to the Angolan Civil War, specifically to the tiny village of Cabo in the deep south of the country, where he and his band of mercenaries had created killing fields of their own, working for the National Liberation Front.

His mind snapped back to the present when he spotted a figure dressed head to toe in black commando fatigues winching down at breakneck speed from the open door of a Hawk maintaining a hover position directly above him. The second chopper was still wreaking mayhem with its Miniguns relentlessly pursuing any remaining signs of life in the courtyard, which had, in a matter of minutes, become an open burial ground. The winchman, his features hidden by a black balaclava, was now suspended three feet off the ground directly in front of Paz, who was relishing the enormity of the attack. He instinctively moved away from the wall towards his rescuer. An unmistakable American accent yelled instructions as a leather strap was flung towards him.

“Get this over your arms and back. We are going up.”

Paz couldn’t quite make out the exact words because of the earplugs but grabbed the strap as though it were a lifeline and, within moments, the two men were physically bonded together. Eighty feet above them the winch operator, leaning out of the Hawk’s open door, triggered their ascent. In the chaos of the firefight three prison guards had miraculously made it to the safe zone of the western wall, the only untargeted area in the courtyard. One of them fired his Fara 83 automatic rifle directly at Paz and the winchman, while the other two took aim at the small rear rotor of the second Hawk, which continued to spit out punishing rounds from its Miniguns. He felt a sudden impact as two bullets ripped into the back of the winchman’s skull, whose body immediately went limp. Soaring above the bedlam below, Paz realised he was now harnessed to a corpse.

The ferocious exchange of fire between the guards and the Minigun operator in the Hawk led to catastrophe for both sides. Now that Paz was no longer there, the Western wall had ceased to be a no-fire zone and the guards were mown down by dozens of strafing rounds and, moments later, the second Hawk stuttered in mid-air as a spray of bullets smashed into one of its rear rotor blades, upsetting the balance of the chopper. Tiny titanium fragments from the shattered blade flew into the air and the nose of the Hawk lurched forward. The gunship emitted a grinding mechanical scream as it began its descent, spiralling downwards at great speed.

The chopper smashed into what was left of the south turret and the entire courtyard shuddered from the impact, which created a giant fireball rising hundreds of feet in the air. Paz was within touching distance of the open door of the remaining Hawk when he felt the heat of the blast around him. He gasped for breath as burning hot petrol-fuelled black smoke filled his lungs. Seconds later he lost consciousness, unaware of a powerful pair of arms seizing his shoulders and bundling him and his dead companion inside the body of the helicopter. As soon as he was on board, the pilot began a steep climb and the Hawk made its exit, heading directly north for the coastline.

When Paz finally came around, he was aware of a silicone oxygen mask on his face and, at the same time, realised he was laying prone on the metal floor of the Hawk, in the narrow aisle between eight black leather seats. A male crew member was kneeling in front of him and, as soon as he saw Paz stir, shouted a greeting, fighting to cut through the deafening noise created by the rotors. Paz struggled to hear until he remembered the earplugs, which he took out and threw to the floor. His eardrums were instantly assaulted by the cacophony of sound that boomed around the tiny cabin. The man moved closer and tried again, pointing to the oxygen mask.

“Mr Paz, we just wanted to clean out your lungs from the blast. Try removing it now.”

Paz gratefully obliged, slipping off the mask and taking a large gulp of fresh air that helped clear the fog from his mind.

“How long was I out?”

The man glanced down at his watch. “Maybe fifty minutes.”

Paz nodded. He sat up gingerly, leaned forward and looked to his right through one of the large square side windows. The Hawk was flying fast and low, speeding over the stunning turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

“Where are we heading?”

“Take a look over there, Mr Paz.”

The man pointed north, where a large white dot could clearly be seen in the distance. Paz narrowed his eyes until he could make out an enormous boat ahead of him.

“That’s your new home. A sweet upgrade from your previous lodgings.” The crew member laughed at his own joke.

Paz ignored him and maintained his gaze on the superyacht below. Every second that passed brought the seven-tier luxury boat into clearer focus and, three minutes later, the Hawk was ready to begin its descent manoeuvre onto one of the two helipads marked out on raised platforms at either end of the top deck. The landing was smooth and surprisingly easy. As soon as the three rubber tyres made contact, one of the crew slid open the door and Paz was ushered to the opening. He clambered out and stooped under the still whirring fifty-three-foot rotors and set eyes on a slim olive-skinned male running towards him. The man, in his thirties, was tall, slim and elegantly dressed in a light blue designer linen suit. He smiled warmly and offered his hand, which Paz happily accepted.

“Welcome aboard The Blonde Lady, Mr Paz. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anwar Al Kathib. Please follow me. Your saviour is extremely keen to meet you.”

The superyacht was truly spectacular. The 110-metre streamlined aluminium hull was the length of an American football pitch. It was powered by an innovative diesel-electric propulsion system that produced an impressive top speed of thirty plus knots. Its multilayered decks housed ten sumptuous staterooms, two swimming pools, a surround sound cinema, and a forty-square-foot wooden-beamed loggia. Attached to the stern was a three-man mini submarine capable of diving to fifteen hundred feet. The endless luxury was heavily protected by armour plating and bulletproof glass, as well as a ballistic missile defence system. What appeared at first glance to be an opulent gin palace of epic proportions was, in fact, an incredibly sophisticated, heavily protected vessel manned by a highly skilled crew of sixty.

The two men had only walked a short distance from the helipad when they heard the Hawk rev up and, a few seconds later, felt a savage downdraught as the chopper took off. Paz and the Arab stood and watched as the state-of-the-art Sikorsky gunship headed north towards the horizon. Paz briefly wondered where it was destined but his random thought was interrupted by Al Kathib, who turned away from the departing Hawk and gestured towards an oval glass lift protruding from the side of the deck.

“Let’s go, Mr Paz.”

After a short descent, the single door smoothly peeled open on the third level to reveal a magnificent oak-beamed double-height gallery partially wrapped in light gunmetal grey tinted glass. Paz savoured the luxury of the decor as he followed Al Kathib across the polished maple floor. The subtle cream and brown fusion of colours, creating the overall colour scheme, was broken up by giant artworks, many of which appeared to be floating in mid-air. This effect was created by a combination of free-hanging paintings dangling from semi-invisible wires and mounted sculptures on transparent Perspex plinths. In his previous existence Paz had always appreciated the trappings of wealth and power but right now, dressed in a pair of filthy, blood-strewn dungarees, he felt like a tramp who didn’t belong.

They headed for the seating area at the far end of the vast loggia, where Paz could make out the back of a fair-haired man, sitting on a chocolate brown calfskin couch. He was leaning forward, seemingly preoccupied with a large glass container positioned on a circular ivory and glass coffee table. The man sensed the presence of his guests and stood, turning to greet them. He was tall and lithe, his face dominated by a bushy light brown beard that made him appear older than he was. Paz instinctively felt he was looking at someone from his past but, frustratingly, he just couldn’t nail it. There was something about the nose and cheekbones that seemed slightly odd, and then he realised the face he was looking at had undergone significant reconstructive surgery. However, one feature remained unaltered – the man’s piercing sky-blue eyes which, at that moment, were firmly fixed on the Black Scorpion.

“Mr Paz, I can tell from the look on your face that the thousands of dollars I’ve spent trying to disguise my features hasn’t worked.”

It wasn’t until the man spoke that everything suddenly fell into place. Paz knew that voice so well. But it wasn’t from any previous face-to-face meetings – in fact, the two men had never set eyes on each other before in the flesh. The man who had masterminded his escape from the hellhole in Valledupar, the man with the unmistakable voice, was a dead man: former presidential candidate, John Franklin, who, ten years earlier, had been publicly disgraced when he was exposed as the grandson of the world’s most reviled dictator, Adolf Hitler. A man who supposedly had taken his own life.

Paz uttered the first thought that came to mind. “I knew your father well.”

“You worked for my father for thirty years. You were never friends.”

The bluntness of Franklin’s reply was slightly softened by his gesturing towards the couch, indicating he wanted Paz to sit next to him. Al Kathib took his own cue and walked across to the armchair opposite. As he sat, Paz caught sight of the contents of the large glass terrarium on the coffee table which housed two glossy black-skinned emperor scorpions. He leaned forward and studied them in closer detail, instantly captivated.

Franklin noted Paz’s reaction but was done with the niceties and keen to begin his pitch. “Consider them a gift. I’ll have them installed in your stateroom. But now we have much to discuss.”

Paz eased back on the couch and turned to face the man who, after his exposure by the world’s media, had been dubbed ‘the Counterfeit Candidate’. “I’m ready to listen, Mr Franklin. A man who brings in two Black Hawks to rescue a single prisoner has my undivided attention, espe. . .