Covert Reich (14 page)

“You will. I’m sure you will.”

She sighed. “Maybe I’ll get myself a book, too. Something to take my mind off of things.”

“You like to read?” he asked.

“When I get a chance,” she said. “I like anything where I don’t have to think too hard. A good thriller, adventure, that type of thing.”

“You haven’t gone the way of the electronic world like everyone else, you know with a Kindle, Nook, or iPad?”

She smiled and it did strange things to his insides. That feeling could not be butterflies. Ridiculous. “I have an e-reader. I mean, who doesn’t? But there is something about the printed book I don’t think I will let go of completely. You know, holding it and smelling the ink. I don’t know…it’s appealing in a weird way. God, I think I’m buzzed. I sound stupid.”

“No, not stupid at all.
I agree. About the books. I like the feel of a printed book myself.”

She smiled again and it threw him off-kilter. Again. Time to get the check and leave. But as they were walking out the door, he couldn’t help but smile. Who knew…maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mark watched them leave the hospital together. He’d noticed the cowboy dick hanging out with her all day and it made him real nervous. He’d been in and out of the lab, making sure he’d covered his ass with the files of those dead chicks, and their kids. It had not been easy though. He’d been able to get into the computer system and make some hasty changes once those girls had died, but he’d had to get a hold of hard copies to be certain nothing got lost in the shuffle.

He needed to talk to Chad and tell him what was going down. Mark was supposed to let him know what was going on with the doctors on the payroll, and with Dr. Morales who may or may not know something about them thanks to that dumb-fuck Hamilton. Chad could at least give him kudos for keeping an eye on the lab results. Maybe they could get together and have a beer over that.

Back to the problem at hand.
The doctor. Little Miss Too-Good-For-Everyone-Else must be scared out of her mind to get the cops all over this. Now she thought she needed a big protector. All the pretty little doctor needed was him. Dammit. Mark couldn’t tell Chad he had a thing for the doctor for a couple of reasons. First of all, Dr. Morales was a Mexican…or something like that. Mixed relationships went against all the codes and rules. But it wasn’t like Mark was in love or nothing. There were other things the doctor could be used for. The other reason was if Chad knew about Mark’s little obsession and that he’d been semi-stalking her outside the parameters of what his job entailed, he might get into a bit of trouble with The Brotherhood. He definitely didn’t need or want that. He had to get his shit together…be more discrete.

Mark wasn’t too worried about the dipshit with her now. Some protection the cop was. Big asshole. Hell. He hadn’t even noticed Mark following them from the hospital. He’d screamed at him while in his car watching them go into Canter’s. “You’re a big fucking bozo, cop!”

That detective was no match for him. Hollywood had its perks. Like good costume shops with all sorts of great masks, make-up, and everything you’d ever need in order to change yourself quickly and effectively.

He wanted to get closer to them. See what they were doing. He put on a UCLA sweatshirt, a pair of sweats, and a baseball cap. Glasses, too. Made him look brilliant, which he obviously was.

“Yeah.
Perfect.” He opened the car door and slung a camo back-pack over his shoulder for an added touch. He laughed.

Mark walked through the door and spotted them right away. Now why would a cop who was supposedly protecting someone take her out to dinner and then to a bookstore? What, were they in, some sort of dipshit book club? He chuckled at his own joke. But really, what the hell was going on here?

And what if she recognized him? Nah. Fat chance. She hardly glanced at him in the halls at the hospital. She wouldn’t recognize him. He worked for The Brotherhood and they didn’t hire idiots.

All he had to do was keep his special feelings for Dr. Morales a secret. She’d be his soon enough.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Peter stepped out of his silver Mercedes Coupe and strolled to the mansion his organization used for meetings with prominent backers. The ten men of The Brotherhood who financed the Covert Reich Project. The top echelon.

He stood in the doorway, his ID ready for inspection. It was a silly formality at this point, but one they followed per the parameters set forth with the initial creation of the program. Peter flashed his ID, and gave Chad Wentworth his password. How ironic was it the senator’s nephew was a simple minion?

Peter liked Chad. The kid really believed in their cause. Peter wasn’t as certain about the senator, but facts were facts. And the facts were politicians liked money and power. They tended to be greedy bastards, more like whores than anything else. Most would sell their souls if they thought it would get them what they wanted—money and power.

Money guaranteed men like Wentworth certain positions of power in life. He would be an easy puppet to control. Chad could be an asset, and he could one day be in the power seat just as his uncle surely would—controller of the free world. Chad could continue the legacy of purity. He had scored big points with Peter when he’d done the Hamilton job. A job well done. Efficient.

“How are you, Chad?”

“Very well, Mr. Redding.
Thank you for asking, sir,” he replied.

“Good to hear it.” Peter walked inside the mansion, an exact copy of an eighteenth-century French chateau. Within a few minutes, the rest of the men entered through the front door, and joined Peter in the large library. Priceless artwork adorned the walls. The smell of cigars and scotch combined into an intoxicating haze of luxury and wealth.

The compound, as Peter referred to it, could also be used as a temporary residence for visiting dignitaries whenever they came into town. It was fully staffed for those whose needs were sufficiently important for the organization to pamper, such as Senator Wentworth. All the members, however, had funded both the grounds and the building itself.

Peter walked to the front of the room, a fireplace behind him. He took his seat at the head of the table.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said as they were milling around, slowly taking their seats. The room grew quiet, and all eyes were on their leader. “I’m glad you could all be here.” Everyone knew full well no one was allowed to miss a meeting. The only valid excused absence was death.

Peter made a point of nodding his head to all of his out-of-town guests. One was from New York, a few from Dallas, San Francisco, the Beltway, and even Europe. They all nodded in return and murmured greetings.

“I think it only appropriate to address the most important topic at hand, which is the purification of our country and eventually the world.” He nodded his head toward the members from London and Germany. “You will be pleased to know I have looked over the numbers you gave me at the last meeting regarding our project. Things are proceeding smoothly and efficiently. However, we are going to require a little more funding for this vital project. Mr. Shaw will explain the reasons. As you are well aware, Mr. Shaw is the CFO of Frauen Pharmaceuticals.” He gestured for Bill Shaw to speak.

Shaw stood up in his glacially methodical way. He was in his early sixties and very old school. His snow-white hair was carefully coiffed. The shadows around his dark eyes revealed an early life of hardship. Peter knew Shaw had worked his way up, just as Peter had, and he had the utmost respect for the man. The Brotherhood had been around for nearly seventy-five years. It had started as an off-shoot of the KKK. But unlike that organization, the men of The Brotherhood were more educated, more esteemed, quite a bit wealthier, and kept a much lower profile. Such a low profile, in fact, that they flew under the radar of the government except those who were in their ranks, which there were a handful of very wealthy and powerful men.

The KKK and other factions of the Neo-Nazi movements weren’t always the best and brightest. They gloated. They enjoyed the limelight. They shouted at protests and committed hate crimes that many times they got caught committing. Not the members of The Brotherhood. Sure, there were a few loose cannons out there. And at one time, some of the men who were considered brothers weren’t working with full decks. Once Redding took over the program a few years ago, he’d made every effort to rid The Brotherhood of just that type of riff-raff. Purity meant purity, and that meant the best of the race.

“Thank you, Peter. I am going to get right down to facts, gentlemen. The drug is not resulting in the necessary spontaneous abortions. In a few cases, yes, but in others, it is merely causing more defective newborns to be brought into a world already overrun with undesirables. Now, we know we must rid our society of precisely these types. We certainly don’t want any
more
refuse. Therefore, we need more funds in order to proceed. Hitler was correct when he developed his eugenics program and we will continue to pursue his original plan. Only this time, we will succeed where he was unable.

“I think this drug will be ready for mass production in ten months time. Of course, we will continue with our experimental research. We have to expect problems like this with
any
new product. I know we are all in agreement that the sooner we rid ourselves of these welfare cases, the better off the whole country will be.”

Peter stood. “Thank you, Bill.” He gazed across the table of men, making earnest eye contact with each member.

“I know we are behind schedule, but for our plan to work as smoothly and efficiently as possible, we can’t afford raised eyebrows over a handful of cases that may cause the authorities to take a second look. Fortunately, our asses are all well covered.”

Craig Johnson stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Peter. “We’ve all put a lot into this thing. Research costs, distribution expenses, the usual bribes, and now funding for the senator’s forthcoming presidential campaign. How much more are you expecting us to shell out? And what do you mean “our asses are covered?” Are you going to cover my bank account losses, Peter?”

A loud murmur raced through the group.

“Look Johnson, we all knew what we were buying into. We all knew the costs, and we knew they could escalate,” Peter was trying to keep any edge out of his voice. “I think we agree we have enough individual finances to keep food on our tables.” Johnson started to protest. Peter slammed both hands down hard on the table in front of him and then held up a finger, “But let me ask you,” He pointedly looked at each man. “Do any of you truly believe when your grandchildren get to an age where they can appreciate the finer things in life that they will be able to? Do you really think private education, good upbringing, nice families, and trust funds will provide for them? No! No fucking way! And I will tell you why. Entitlement. Our grandchildren may feel it. Hell, our own children likely have a sense of it. In fact, it’s my personal belief the majority of this fucking nation has an abnormal sense of entitlement. It’s despicable and disgusting. Let good Old Uncle Sam pay for the masses. Let John and Sara Brown…” he looked at Harold Brown whose grandson John just married, “…take care of Jamal and Manuel and Saddam and all their goddamned children. Why? I will tell you why. Because even though your well-educated, gentile offspring enjoy certain entitlements, the undesirables want what we and our children have for nothing! They want their Blue-rays, their vacations, furniture from some faux high-end store, their Target purchases—they want it all, but without having earned the right. They want to do it on the dole, and your grandchildren will be paying for it.

“We can make a change in this world. It’s within our reach.  It may not seem like it now. But it is. Let the undesirables go back to where they came from. Once we weed them out, once we destroy their offspring, we can take back our country. Now, Johnson, do you understand the importance here and why we need to get our checkbooks out?”

“Yes, Peter,” he muttered. “However, what about this chemist you hired? The best chemist in the world? I heard in just the past few hours that Dr. Horner is missing.”

“That’s absurd!” Peter yelled. “Horner is in the lab as we speak doing exactly what he is being paid to do!” Peter felt the blood rising to his face. “Where did you hear something so ludicrous?”

“You are not the only one with sources, Peter.” Johnson looked at him calmly. The others looked from Johnson to him and back again.

A silence shrouded the room. Peter held Johnson’s stare. “You’re wrong and so are
your
sources. Now,
Mr. Johnson
, kindly sit down so we may proceed,” Peter demanded. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Johnson, who returned his hostile gaze but reluctantly took his seat. Peter looked back at Bill Shaw. “Please continue.”

“Thank you. We need an additional five million dollars. A distinct bargain considering the impressive results we are already seeing in our experimental trials.”

Johnson muttered something, but Peter shot him a look, abruptly silencing him. Shaw ignored the interruption and loudly continued speaking.

“The money needs to be ready next week, deposited into our Swiss bank account. Come, gentlemen. A half-million apiece is loose change. Let us remember the noble goal within our reach. A pure America. A pure world. As Peter mentioned, this is for our children, our grandchildren, and generations to come. This is our purpose, gentlemen. This is for our country. For the God we believe in.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, silencing him. Shaw was a good guy, but he tended to go off on religious tangents as he was fundamentalist to the core. “Our experiments will continue to be carried out in South Central, Los Angeles and downtown, as well as our project in Harlem. The next cities to purge will include Detroit and D.C., Miami, and then, of course, all the shantytowns below the Mason-Dixon line. Most of the people in high-crime and high-poverty locations are already addicted to drugs, so it will be relatively easy to get them hooked on a new one. For street purposes we’re now calling it
Pure.
We are working diligently on making Pure effective for both men and women.”