The Heritage Paper (15 page)

Otto had observed the US enough to know its greatest strength was also its biggest weakness. When attacked, it would predictably fire back with all its might. But in doing so, it would create an opening for its enemies. It reminded Otto of a celebrated boxing match he attended during his youth in New York, where the German, Max Schmeling, used a similar strategy in defeating the American negro Joe Louis, once again proving the superiority of the German race.

On June 3, 2000, Otto used his many contacts around the world to assist top cell members in moving to Prague, and would later help their entry into the United States, where they’d enroll in an aviation school in Venice, Florida. Otto didn’t try to conceal the alias he’d used during his post-war years in the United States—he officially ceased being Otto in 1945—and even went out of his way to make sure his involvement was discovered if the mission was successful, which he did in very
traceable
emails. Only if they failed, as he expected, would he be forced to remove all links that could connect his alias to these savages. One way or another they were going to meet their maker that day.

In the days and months following the attack, the response was as expected. First, the US began restricting rights of the people just as von Hindenburg had done in Germany. Then they threw a wild punch—a convoluted and vague plan termed the War on Terrorism—leaving themselves open for defeat. When this war turned into a protracted struggle it tore at the US’s resolve. Little did they know that it was just the appetizer.

And now the main course was about to arrive. Otto smiled at the Candidate and said, “Destiny has arrived.”

Jim Kingston, the Democratic nominee for president, looked out of the tinted window of the limo and almost laughed at the scene taking place before his eyes. Limos carrying both candidates were jockeying for position outside of the Sterling Center. With one day to go, even parking spots were a fight to the death.

Kingston exited his vehicle and waited for Aligor Sterling to be helped out. Kingston considered him his secret weapon in this battle, and anyone who underestimated him based on his age or physical handicap, did so at their own peril. Aligor had more energy than men half his age, and even found time to attend a presentation this morning at a school to support an old friend.

He looked out to see Theodore Baer standing in the distance, along with his longtime henchman, Emil Leudke. Baer’s silver hair matched his silver tongue—the one he used as a weapon to spew his 500-watt personal attacks. He always looked so innocent—the cuddly Teddy Baer—but looks could be deceiving. And like Aligor, Leudke was still a worthy opponent, despite his advancing age. He was the one most responsible for Baer’s meteoric rise, and some would say that he was really the one running for president. Kingston always pictured Leudke talking into his protégé’s earpiece like a scene from the
Manchurian Candidate
.

When the two candidates shook hands a fireworks display of flashbulbs went off like it was the Fourth of July. It was like a duel from the Old West where two gunslingers were going to step paces at sunset and solve things the old-fashioned way.

Aligor was completely against what Kingston was about to do ... which was to stand side-by-side with his bitter rival and admit to the world that they were wrong to place that staffer in Baer’s camp to tape his off-the-record conversation, even if he technically knew nothing about it. He doubted any campaign manager in the world would think this was a good idea.

Kingston knew he could have taken the easy way out. The tape actually helped him—moving him five points closer in the latest polls. But then again, he could have taken the easy way out in the entire election. All he had to do was sidestep the war issue—say he didn’t deal in hypotheticals. That he would hope to broker peace, but would never rule out force if necessary. Political talk. Election speak.

In another time, Kingston might have taken that path. Throughout most of his youth he was rudderless. But when his father died at a young age and he was forced to be the “man of the house,” his perspective completely changed. Like turning on a light switch, he suddenly knew who he was and where he must go. And tomorrow he was confident that he would arrive there. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

The four men moved into the high-rise that was the headquarters for Sterling Center. They emerged an hour later and Kingston stood before a microphone and apologized for his campaign’s behavior, taking full responsibility for what he called an “underhanded tactic.”

When asked by the media why he took this unprecedented step, which was likely to his detriment, Kingston looked into the camera with his honest, pale blue eyes and said, “This is an election about one issue—the future of America. Will it be a courageous leader in the world, or will it build fences and hide from it? The American people have the biggest decision of their lives tomorrow, so I think it’s important to move past this pettiness, and get to the important issues that face the voters … the future of the world is in their hands.”

Veronica’s mind continued to wander as she drove the winding countryside of Rhinebeck. Just a few hours ago, her biggest problem was the chaos of trying to get her kids to school. Now she was following the woman who may or may not have had an affair with her dead—murdered?—husband, on her way to visit some infamous Nazi who she’d never heard of before this morning, and who must be well over a hundred years old.

Never a dull moment.

The light drizzle turned into pounding rain. Veronica turned on some music. She wouldn’t be so cliché as to play “November Rain” from Guns N’ Roses, and instead went with “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. It was a perfect description of how they were rolling at the moment.

Flavia pulled into the entrance of the St. Marks Cemetery. After parking the Jeep, she got out and began walking toward the headstones. When Veronica chose to follow, she felt another chill. She hoped it was just the cold rain, but suspected it was a warning she wasn’t heeding.

Youkelstein seemed the most excited of the group. He had a bounce in his step as Flavia held his hand and led him over the wet ground. He finally got to use his umbrella for its intended purpose, and like the gentleman he was, he held it over Flavia’s head.

How cute.

Eddie caught up to Veronica and put his protective arm around her. She’d yet to tell him how sorry she was for his loss of Ellen. But this wasn’t the time. As long as they were involved in this—whatever this was—he’d put on his tough-guy policeman facade.

Veronica just stared ahead where Maggie was quoting FDR, while Jamie was stepping on the back of her shoe and then acting like he had nothing to do with it. The normalcy made her smile … but it was short-lived. Flavia stopped behind a large marble headstone that read:

Gus Becker

April 28, 1900 - May 14, 1981

A beloved servant of God.

Flavia rubbed her hand over the top of the headstone, cleaning off the accumulating raindrops. “I’d like everyone to meet Heinrich Müller—the former head of the German Gestapo.”

The pitter-patter of raindrops served as eerie background music as Flavia spoke.

“My first time in Rhinebeck was during the reading of the will. At least that’s what I thought. But the moment I set foot onto the creaky floors of the farmhouse, memories returned from my childhood. I knew I’d been there before.

“I had been flown in from my home in Florida—the whole thing was a whirlwind, and confusing for a teenage girl. I was given a letter dictated by Gus, prior to his death, explaining that my mother had helped him out when he was down on his luck, and he was repaying the favor by leaving me the farmhouse. As the story went, he had worked with my mother prior to his relocating to Rhinebeck to take the position of Chief of Police. Unfortunately, he had a stroke in 1963 that paralyzed him, and I learned that my mother was one of his few friends and colleagues who continued to visit him, and had brought me along on a few of the visits.

“He mentioned that he’d been saddened greatly by her death, and worried how her loss would affect me as I grew up. He said he followed my life from afar and hoped the farm could bring me peace, as it had for him.

“As I read the letter, the childhood trips to Rhinebeck with my mother returned to my consciousness. Including one specific memory—Gus Becker had a son. I was sure of it. But when I brought this up at the reading of the will, wondering why he didn’t leave the farm to him, they looked at me like I was crazy. I was told that he had no son—or any other family, for that matter.”

“Did you question it further?” Zach asked.

“I was always the kid with the overactive imagination, so I thought it was possible that I’d imagined him. Or perhaps it was a caretaker who I had mistaken for his son. Regardless, I wasn’t concerned with why he left me the farm. Truthfully, I really didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“But you never sold it.”

“There was something about the place. I can’t explain it, but I could never pull the trigger. I remained in Miami, where I had lived my whole life, but visited a couple times a year. The place was a money-pit—I rented it out once, but being a long-distance landlord became too much of a hassle.”

“What made you make the move here permanently?”

“The worst year of my life. The divorce was hard enough, but then my father revealed to me that he had cancer—the late stages that had spread to his liver. He had very little time left, but those last days of his life changed everything for me.”

“How so?”

“He confessed that he and my mother weren’t who I thought they were. That they worked for the CIA … they were spies. He revealed that my mother, Olivia, had worked on a case that was so highly classified that she couldn’t even discuss it with him. And he believed that case was directly tied to her death, which had been made to look like a car accident. But what he told me next floored me.”

“More so than your parents being spies?”

“While working on this sensitive case, my mother became pregnant. My father claimed he wasn’t really my father, at least in the biological sense.”

Flavia appeared to be momentarily overcome with emotion, but continued, “He died days after his confession, not even enough time for it to sink in. I no longer had a mother or father, a husband, or even a past. The only thing I had left was the farm. I went straight from the funeral to the airport, and headed to Rhinebeck to ‘sort things out.’ It’s been over five years and I still haven’t used the return ticket.”

“Your father was probably on heavy medication when he told you those things,” Veronica offered, for the first time feeling some empathy with Flavia.

She nodded. “I had thought the same thing, and began to put the past behind me … but then I received an anonymous letter. It was from someone claiming to have worked with both my parents, and it backed up my father’s statements. But it went a step further—this person had worked with my mother on that secret case.”

Youkelstein had put it together. “The reason it was so secretive was that she was working with Heinrich Müller—he was employed by the CIA following the war, after being captured by the US. There were always rumors. The CIA file on Müller was released under the Freedom of Information Act in 2001. It declared no connection to him, but as a rule, I tend not to believe those who lie for a living.”

“So you think the CIA killed your mother to cover up her work with Müller?” Zach asked.

“I believe her death was related to Müller, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the CIA, nor did the anonymous source. The letter stated that when Truman left office in 1952, he released Müller from his ‘sentence.’ Müller hated Eisenhower, the in-coming president, and it was mutual—they never would’ve lasted together. It was the last time anyone officially saw or heard from him. And it’s doubtful anyone would go looking for him, since nobody wanted to be connected to the Müller hot potato. There was no evidence that any such person had ever worked there.”

“But Olivia Conte did,” Zach said. “And she continued to visit him after he left the CIA.”

“I had no idea who Heinrich Müller was when I received the letter. I knew very little about the Nazis, other than the basic war movie stuff, so I went to the library and took out every book imaginable. It didn’t take me long to link the photos of a young Müller with those of a pre-stroke Gus Becker.”

“I can’t believe the government let that murderer walk free in exchange for information,” Youkelstein bristled, looking physically pained.

Before they could ask more questions, Flavia was on the move again, as if she didn’t want to be spotted at the gravesite. They followed her over the soggy ground like they were hypnotized. This was her show.

She strutted through the cemetery, the wind blowing her heavy, damp hair. She remained undaunted, continuing her ghost tale while on the move, “I learned that Gus Becker arrived in Rhinebeck in 1952, the same year he was supposedly released from his CIA commitment. I have no idea why he chose here, but I’ve found that he never lacked for planning or organization, so there was likely a reason.