The Last Reich

Book 0: The Reich Trilogy

by Brian Klein

Genres: World War II

Synopsis

A heinous, co-ordinated plot to attack a series of prominent synagogues, located across five different continents, is scheduled to take place on Yom Kippur - the Jewish Day of Atonement. For that one day of the year, celebrated prayer houses will be packed to the rafters with Jewish worshippers and the results could prove to be devastating. The mastermind behind the attacks is a direct blood descendant of Adolf Hitler - his grandson, former Republican presidential candidate, John Franklin. Artfully manipulating a number of fanatical, Neo-Nazi para-military groups across the globe, Franklin is looking to fulfil his grandfather's legacy and land a major blow against Jews located across the world.

But in reality, the attacks are nothing more than an ingenious smokescreen for a far more sinister plot, which if successful, could severely unbalance geo-politics in the Middle East, sparking a global war between the Superpowers.

Chief Inspector Nicholas Vargas of The Buenos Aires Police Department and Troy Hembury, the Head of Internal Security for the White House combine forces with senior colleagues at the FBI and Mossad, in a race against time to try to uncover the truth behind "Operation Atonement" and thwart the plan, as the consequences of failure could be disastrous for world peace.

Release date: July 18, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 100000

Sample

The Little Fox, The Indian Ocean

September 2023, Fifteen months later

The turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean glistened under the relentless rays of the midday sun as the white super yacht cruised majestically across the water, hugging the northern coastline of Mauritius, as it made its way towards Madagascar.

Unusually, the sixty-four crew on board the two-hundred-and-forty-foot cruiser had only two VIP passengers to attend to. That didn’t make their life any easier, however, because one of them was the boat’s owner, and John Franklin was as uncompromising as ever, always demanding the impossible from his staff at breakneck speed.

His companion, Daniel Anderson, was far more chilled, but thrived on the incessant, almost manic, energy generated by his older half-brother, and they were as one when it came to achieving their goal. Both were driven by two powerful and destructive motives: destiny and revenge, an intoxicating cocktail that made them a credible threat to contend with, particularly as their ambitions were backed by unlimited funding courtesy of a giant Nazi nest egg, residing in a covert Swiss bank account.

The half-brothers were the only remaining grandchildren of the man universally regarded as the most reviled dictator of the twentieth century. Seventy-eight years earlier, Adolf Hitler had fled his war-torn bunker in Berlin at the tail end of the Second World War and created a new identity in Southern Patagonia, where he lived with his wife, Eva Braun, and his faithful lieutenant, Martin Bormann, under the alias Franklin. The choice of surname was a deliberate nod to one of America’s most revered presidents, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, as Hitler’s long-term plan was for one of his direct descendants to become the political leader of the most powerful country in the world. To this end, in 1946, he had fathered a son, Richard, who’d moved to San Francisco in his early twenties, where he ran a massive pharmaceutical corporation, backed by millions of dollars Bormann had stealthily moved out of Germany during the last few months of the war. Richard Franklin went on to father five children, four boys and a girl, all from different mothers, and now, many years on, only John and Daniel were left.

During the previous fifteen months, they’d worked relentlessly, skulking in the shadows, using their power, wealth and influence to create an unholy axis of evil, comprising a small number of leaders of extreme right-wing fascist political parties and high-profile terrorists based across five continents. These men, who proclaimed themselves saviours rather than politicians, were riding the tide of economic meltdown created by a global energy crisis, war in Europe and soaring inflation. They’d grabbed power and influence as desperate people searched for answers outside of regular democratic politics to put bread on the table.

Franklin and Daniel were relaxing on a couple of loungers, enjoying a light lunch on the pool deck: a Caesar salad washed down with a bottle of Cloudy Bay, a much sought-after New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. Daniel looked quite different from the clean-cut young man who’d confronted his half-brother the previous year in El Calafate, due to the bushy blond beard now sprouting on his face.

The pair were in the middle of discussing the recent election of a new president in Equatorial Guinea, a high-yield oil-producing state in Africa. His political campaign had benefited from a donation to the tune of fifteen million dollars, courtesy of one of their black bank accounts. The whirring sound of helicopter rotors interrupted their conversation, and both men looked up towards the west. Franklin was the first to spot the incoming aircraft. The H225 twin-engine Super Puma was his latest toy; a twenty-eight-million-dollar purchase, making it the most expensive helicopter in the world. On board was a ragbag collection of right-wing fanatics whom Franklin had been nurturing for a while. Some of them already held political power, others were on the brink.

‘Here they come, Daniel. Lambs to the slaughter. We’ll take soundings from them on their state of readiness to enact Operation Atonement, and once they’ve left, I’ll bring you up to speed on my plans for our old friends, Vargas and Hembury.’

Franklin drained his wine glass and placed it on a small coffee table next to a black leather-bound folder that he flicked open, allowing Daniel sight of two monochrome headshots of the detectives. Both had red crosshairs stamped across their faces.

Daniel took a sip from his glass and savoured the unique taste of his favourite white wine that never failed to deliver. His smile morphed into a grimace.

‘John, it’s time for retribution.’

* * *

Daniel sat next to Franklin at one end of the highly polished black walnut table that comfortably seated their ten guests. Brushed-chrome nameplates, perfectly spaced around it, identified the eclectic group of neo-Nazi political leaders and terrorists who’d been summoned to the covert meeting. They’d travelled from five continents and Daniel couldn’t help thinking their gathering resembled a meeting at the United Nations, except Franklin was no secretary-general and the main topic on his agenda was the complete antithesis of world peace.

Seven spoke English, and the three who didn’t had access to a set of black Bluetooth earbuds placed next to their nameplates. They were linked to a small group of translators in a nearby room who were poised in front of their microphones, waiting for Franklin to begin the meeting. They’d been recruited by a private head-hunting agency that had lured them onto the boat with the prospect of earning the equivalent of three months’ salary for this one job. Sadly, they’d never get the chance to enjoy their windfall. Carefully arranged around the inner circle of the table were ten brown leather attaché cases, each of which had the initials of the respective recipient embossed in gold lettering.

Most of the men had never met in the flesh before, although they were aware of each other and their fearsome reputations. The common denominator was Franklin, their secret paymaster, who lined their pockets with millions of dollars through illicit bank transfers. The former US presidential candidate rose from his seat and cleared his throat as a signal that the meeting was about to get underway.

‘Gentlemen, welcome on board The Little Fox. In case you’re wondering about the cases, they each contain five million dollars in cash which, knowing how busy you all are, is a small thank you from me and Daniel for your attendance at this intimate get-together. I know I normally transfer funds to your private accounts, but my father always taught me that cash is king, so spend this unexpected bonus on your wives, girlfriends or whores and enjoy this token of our esteem.’

General Okoi Okonkwo, who’d recently led a military coup in another beleaguered African state, smiled like a great white, displaying all his teeth, as he leaned forward and raised the case in front of him high into the air. An instant later he began violently banging it on the veneered tabletop. Within seconds, the other guests followed his lead in a bizarre, frenzied demonstration of gratitude. Franklin milked the moment before lifting his arms in a gesture that acknowledged the reaction but called for silence at the same time.

‘Friends, September twenty-fifth is only weeks away, so we have much to prepare and discuss. Let’s get to it.’

Washington D.C., United States

Troy Hembury was living on borrowed time and he knew it. An inoperable grade three brain tumour meant he’d never reach a ripe old age, but right now he was determined to make the most of his life, despite the death sentence. He’d cheated the grim reaper the previous year when his body had taken a severe battering in a firefight in Israel. Hembury had been part of a covert anti-terrorist task force created by the FBI and Mossad, who’d combined resources to combat an attack on Israel’s water supply, masterminded by John Franklin, with the backing of the Taliban. During a shoot-out at a desalination plant in Ashkelon, he’d risked his life to save his friend and colleague, Nic Vargas, and had miraculously survived two close-range gunshots to the abdomen, thanks to the remarkable skill of a surgeon in Tel Aviv.

As a reward for his heroic efforts, the sixty-two-year-old former LAPD lieutenant was offered the post of head of internal security at the White House, a role far more challenging than he could ever have imagined when the vice president first proposed it. He was the first African American to hold the prestigious position and felt truly honoured to accept it. Hembury had over a hundred security staff working directly under him and shouldered the responsibility for guarding against potential cyber-attacks as well as physical ones.

He’d been a career policeman for almost forty years, a divorcee with very few ties, so he’d happily upped sticks from his home in Los Angeles and rented a two-bed condo in the fashionable Georgetown neighbourhood of the US capital. The apartment was carved out of a red-brick Italian-style villa located on Grace Street Northwest, less than two miles away from his world-famous workplace at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Hembury’s weekday routine involved a twelve-minute commute in his dark blue Toyota RAV4, which ensured he was normally sitting behind his desk inside the West Wing of the White House by six a.m.

It was Friday morning and his thoughts were already drifting towards the following night when his beloved LA Clippers were arriving in town to play a pre-season friendly against the Washington Wizards at the Capital One Arena. As he closed the street door of his apartment block and sauntered down the concrete steps leading to the sidewalk, he automatically reached for his car key inside his jacket pocket and glanced towards the SUV in its normal spot about twenty yards away. He’d no reason to notice the man sitting in the driver’s seat of a black Ford Focus, parked on the other side of the street about thirty yards away. He was facing the opposite direction, his eyes glued to the wing mirror which he’d deliberately angled to observe Hembury’s departure. His gloved hands were resting on his knees, a small detonator in one and a smartphone in the other.

As Hembury’s leading foot hit the pavement, the bomber flicked a switch and all hell was let loose on the quiet suburban street, courtesy of a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device. The ear-piercing blast and shock wave created a booming thunderclap heard by thousands within the city, including the incumbent of the Oval Office just over a mile away. The fireball that ensued, spewing out white-hot metal and glass debris, rocketed skywards over two hundred feet and a thick plume of black smoke formed a treacherous cocktail with the ignited contents of the Toyota’s fuel tank. The sheer power of the explosion catapulted Hembury’s body high into the air like a rag doll, along with dozens of pedestrians who were close to the centre of the blast. Four of them died instantly and grotesque, blood-soaked body parts rained down onto the street alongside hundreds of fragments of twisted metal wreckage.

The bomber’s passive facial expression didn’t alter as he watched the horrendous carnage he’d unleashed play out behind him. Moments later, he sent a pre-written WhatsApp note to a smartphone over five thousand miles away in a suburb of Buenos Aires. The recipient of the message was standing in the doorway of a small shoe shop in a narrow side street in San Telmo, the oldest neighbourhood in the city. She glanced down to confirm the content of the message, then her eyes locked onto a narrow driveway leading to a small car park beneath an apartment block, which served the sixteen residents of the building. She knew full well that parked in Space 12 was a silver VW Golf Mk7 that she’d spent three hours working on overnight. She checked the time on her phone before retrieving a small detonator from her coat pocket. Seconds later, a massive explosion ripped through the concrete-pillared car park and putrid smoke poured out onto the street, totally obscuring the red-and-white wooden entrance barrier.

Three floors above, in Apartment 12, Chief Inspector Nicolas Vargas of the Buenos Aires Police Department was abruptly woken from a deep sleep by the seismic blast rocking the foundations of the building. Vargas was one of the city’s senior detectives, having held his rank for well over a decade and was regarded as having the most astute brain on the force. He was a widower who’d lost his wife many years earlier and had slept alone ever since, never quite coming to terms with the reality of his loss. Despite being a striking-looking man in his early fifties, he’d no interest in filling that void and instead distracted himself with an unrealistic workload, which meant his mind was permanently juggling far too many complex cases, which was just how he liked it.

Vargas could feel the walls of his bedroom vibrating from the after-effects of the explosion, and as he struggled to focus his senses, his phone pinged. His deep-set caramel brown eyes flickered as they peered through the darkness at the familiar green WhatsApp icon. When he read the message, the Chief Inspector knew he’d been the target of the attack.

Washington D.C., United States

Hembury propped himself up in his hospital bed and reached across to the bedside locker for his cell. Apart from a pounding headache, courtesy of mild concussion, and some minor scrapes and bruises, he was unharmed. Any doubts he may have had concerning the motive for the bombing evaporated when he caught up with the WhatsApp message that had landed on his phone immediately after the blast. It was identical to the one received by Vargas.

I’m sure you both realise these little incidents have simply been a warning. As you can see, I have the resources to take you out whenever I want and trust me your deaths will happen before the end of September. For now, I’m content to know you’ll be constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering where the next strike will come from.

If the content of the message was threatening, the signature was chilling: no name or initials revealed the identity of the sender, just a red swastika emoji sitting on a black background. As Hembury stared at the Nazi image, his screen broke into life, registering an incoming call from Vargas in Buenos Aires.

‘Nic, you beat me to it. Are you okay? That bastard Franklin is evidently back.’

‘Tell me about it – but I’m fine. Thank God you’re okay too. I’ve been trying your cell for the last two hours, so you really freaked me out. My apartment’s not looking too clever, though, and as for the car …’

The two friends spent the following few minutes bringing each other up to speed with details of their respective blasts. Vargas was horrified to hear about the innocent civilians who’d lost their lives in the Georgetown bombing. It was currently the lead news story in the United States, with wild media speculation as to the true motive of the car bomber, which, given the sensitivity of the situation, the FBI was keeping firmly under wraps.

‘Troy, car bombs normally fall into two categories – those used to kill the occupant of the vehicle in a specific assassination attempt and those used to kill as many people as possible who are in close proximity to the bomb, like the Oklahoma City car attack. It’s clear both our bombs fall into the second category. That lunatic had no intention of taking us out this time – he just wanted to let us know he’s gunning for revenge.’

Hembury adjusted his position in the hospital bed so he was more upright.

‘I get that, but why now? We’ve heard nothing for well over a year, and what’s the significance of the end of September?’

Vargas was sitting at a corner table in a small coffee house a few hundred yards away from his apartment block, which had been evacuated immediately after the blast. He downed the dregs of his Americano and struggled to come up with a logical reply. Before he could offer anything helpful, Hembury cut back in.

‘Nic, I’ve got Berrettini on the line, which is hardly surprising given the circumstances. I’ll call you back.’

Mike Berrettini, the deputy director of the FBI, had worked with both men the previous year on the extraordinary case involving a biological attack inside Israel that was masterminded by the same man who’d just declared his hand as the source of the bombings: former Republican presidential candidate John Franklin. The three detectives had formed a mini taskforce, working closely with the director of Mossad to thwart the plan to sabotage Israel’s water supply, and since then Berrettini had led an international manhunt to track Franklin down, with little success.

Hembury’s mouth gave way to a wry smile as the deputy director’s familiar voice boomed down the line.

‘Troy, what the hell? The blast is the lead story on every network. You definitely okay?’

‘Woah, Mike, slow down. I’m fine. What do you know about the bombings?’

‘I know Franklin was behind them and it’s clear he’s gunning for you guys.’

Hembury couldn’t help but be impressed by the way Berrettini cut through any small talk and came straight to the point.

‘Mike, how on earth can you know that so quickly?’

‘Easy, the arrogant bastard sent me a WhatsApp.’

Washington D.C., United States

Twenty-four hours after the attacks, Vargas, Hembury and Berrettini gathered in a secure meeting room on a subterranean floor inside the J. Edgar Hoover building on Pennsylvania Avenue. Vargas had taken the red-eye from Buenos Aires and travelled straight from the airport to FBI headquarters to discuss the latest intelligence the deputy director had put together. It was the first time in over a year the three men had met in the flesh.

After a round of bear hugs, they sat down at an oblong metal table with Berrettini taking his place at the head and Vargas and Hembury sitting either side. Berrettini gestured towards a glass coffee percolator and a white ceramic tray containing a selection of croissants and Danish pastries.

‘Help yourselves, guys. Make the coffee strong. I think you’re going need it.’

Hembury smiled and did the honours, pouring out three steaming cups, while Vargas grabbed a pain au chocolat, which he devoured in a couple of mouthfuls. Berrettini took a large gulp of black coffee and then fired up his laptop. The Italian-born deputy director wasn’t an imposing man in the physical sense: his short stubby frame carried at least two stone in excess weight, his ratty black hair, which crowned a rotund olive-skinned face, was showing early signs of receding, and his unkempt beard was heavily frosted. Despite his modest appearance, though, Berrettini was recognised as a brilliant strategist with one of the sharpest intellects in the Bureau. His ice-cool brain moved seamlessly through the gears as he began the briefing.

‘In a few minutes, we’re joining a Zoom with Sir Christopher Denton, the director of GCHQ in the UK, but before that I need to bring you guys up to speed, and the first question I’m sure you’re both desperate to hear an answer to is – why now? Why has Franklin come back into play at this time?’

Hembury shuffled in his seat and glanced across at Vargas who acknowledged the look and then switched his gaze back to Berrettini.

‘As you know, despite our best efforts, we’ve failed miserably to track his whereabouts. In fact, we’ve had no confirmed sighting since May 2022, over sixteen months ago, when we know he was in Israel. The trail went cold a long time ago and the sad truth is, he could be anywhere.’

As the deputy director drew breath, Vargas cut in.

‘Mike, what if the bastard is hiding out on another boat? A leopard never changes its spots.’

‘We’ve obviously been down that route but it’s a dead end. There are over ten thousand luxury yachts out there – it’s needle in a haystack territory, if indeed that’s the type of hide he’s gone for. The fact he’s suddenly emerged from the shadows to threaten you guys is, I believe, no coincidence. It’s helped confirm a hypothesis I’ve been working through for a while. Our analysts at the NSA have been collaborating with the Brits at GCHQ, monitoring a constant line of chatter between neo-Nazi groups and militants across the world, which indicates an imminent coordinated event sometime in the next few weeks. We’re seeing traces of communications between groups that have previously never worked together, so we fear something big is in the pipeline. A key word that’s appeared regularly in the chatter is “wolf”, which got me thinking that—’

Hembury exploded from his chair like a human Jack-in-the-Box.

‘Jesus – Wolf was the Führer’s nickname. You think Franklin is involved in this?’

‘Up until yesterday, it was just intuition and I couldn’t join the dots, but now he’s shown his hand, there’s little doubt he’s somehow involved. For all we know, he could actually be—’

Berrettini never completed the sentence because an alert on his laptop indicated his Zoom call was ready to go live. Vargas and Hembury gathered close as he introduced them to the director of the UK’s intelligence, security and cyber agency, who was sitting behind his desk in Cheltenham. The FBI Deputy Director cut straight to the chase.

‘Chris, thanks for jumping on the call. What’s the latest intel at your end?’

Denton was GCHQ’s eighteenth director and, at forty-two, the youngest person to hold the role since its formation in 1919. A former intelligence chief at MI5, he’d been instrumental in shaping government counterterrorism strategy following four coordinated suicide bomb attacks on London’s transport system that had rocked the capital on 7 July 2005. He was a beanpole of man, standing six foot three with a body weight of just eleven stone and an angular head that resembled an axe blade. But despite his slightly gawky appearance, when he spoke, his light hazel eyes burst into life like a pair of Bunsen burners and his words were as lean as his physique.

‘Gentlemen, it’s clear the car bombs were connected to recent disturbing chatter our analysts have been monitoring online. One of the code words used between the two bombers and their handler was Sühne, a word that’s come up at least three times in the last few weeks. As far as—’

Berrettini knew he was speaking for his two colleagues when he interrupted Denton mid-flow.

‘Chris, our German isn’t too hot. What does it mean?’

‘Its literal translation is “atonement”, but that could be a red herring, because often code words aren’t used literally. Anyway, more specifically, what I can tell you is the perpetrator in Washington hired a black Ford Focus in Detroit using fake ID and made the five-hundred-mile journey to Georgetown, where he prepped and detonated the bomb outside your apartment, Mr Hembury. He dumped the vehicle in an underground car park in Arlington and then vanished. The only CCTV we have of him is far too wide to help with any specific identification, which tells us we’re dealing with a specialist operator who we assume is no longer in the country.’

No one spoke for a moment and then Vargas broke the silence with a question.

‘What about the goon that hit my apartment? Where did he detonate his bomb from?’

‘They were partially hidden in a shop doorway across the street, but, Chief Inspector Vargas, the question you should be asking is, where was she based? Your bomber was a woman.’

The Little Fox, The Indian Ocean

Deshi Ivanov combined outstanding physical prowess with an exceptional IQ of 182. A Chechen national, she was born in Grozny in 1994 and was only a child when the United Nations declared her home city the most destroyed war zone on earth, after an estimated eight thousand civilians were killed in a bloody three-month siege during the Second Chechen War.

Two days after her seventh birthday, she watched in terror as her mother was raped and murdered by a group of young Russian soldiers high on drugs and alcohol, while her father, one of the leaders of the separatist movement, was crucified and hung from an electric pylon located on the outskirts of the city. Somehow, Deshi survived these horrors and at the same time looked after her twin brother, Vakha, who was traumatised by the brutal loss of his parents.

At the end of the siege, the siblings were captured by Russian forces who burned their tiny wooden house to the ground before transporting them, along with a small group of other children, to an orphanage in Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia. They languished there, in a. . .