The Trinity (50 page)

Chris can feel the stare of the MoDP officer as he waves the priest’s car off the base. Chris is embarrassed to be seen in the company of the priest and Brad, even though he knows the officer knows nothing of the Trinity, and knows nothing of Chris’s secret life.

“No time to eat, no time to eat,” Crowley says as they spill out of his car in front of his cottage.

Carefully, he shows them his weapons of choice: empty bottles of South African wine soon to be filled with gasoline and oil, with gasoline soaked rags as wicks. And then, lovingly, he picks up the metal spiked ball at the end of a wooden handle that he has leaning against the wall by the fireplace. Chris was frightened by the sight of it the first time he saw it, and is even more terrified now. Crowley could bash his head just for spite in an instant. Chris hopes his secret with the Tayside Police is safe.

“This,” he says, handing the weapon to Brad, “is Thor’s Hammer.”

Hinckley grabs the weapon with two hands, studying his fists as they clench the wood.

“Go on,” Crowley urges with an enthusiasm similar to what a parent shows at Christmas as a child unwraps a special gift. “Let’s take it outside and give it a few swings.”

The trio walks into the scrubby woods behind Crowley’s cottage. Thin, young hardwood trees jockey for position in this small forest. Brad swings the spiked ball in a circular motion over his head and forces a three-inch-wide sapling down in one swing. That’s how powerful and heavy the weapon is.

“Excellent, excellent,” says Crowley, who all but claps his hands. “You are indeed a true and natural Viking. No lessons necessary for you. You will be able to do the same with Jewish men, women, and children?”

“Sure, Father. Niggers and gooks, too.”

“That’s my boy. Let’s get going.”

They return Thor’s hammer to the living room and hop in Crowley’s Austin, which is rapidly approaching dilapidation. Crowley makes Chris the timekeeper and Chris sets his watch, utilizing the stop clock function of the digital watch he bought at the exchange in Pensacola.

“Of course, this won’t be one hundred percent accurate,” says the priest, speaking of their rehearsal. “We won’t be igniting anything tonight. I just want to get our parking situation crystallized, as well as our stations in front of and behind the synagogue.”

They drive to Aberdeen in relative silence, parking a street away from the synagogue and approaching it from the back, via a wide and clean alley. Chris and the priest position themselves, Chris standing in front of the window and Crowley in front of the door. Brad stands on the city sidewalk, allowing himself a wide-angle view of the front of the synagogue, enabling him to see any and all would-be escapees.

“We will probably only spend about four minutes here, gentlemen, and by then I suspect we should hear sirens. When we do, I want you to drop everything, and the three of us will run in three different directions. I will proceed across the alley, and the two of you with your younger legs will have to run a bit farther. Chris, you run one block north, one block west, and then backtrack to the car. If no one is watching, I want you to walk instead of run. Remove your mask as quickly as possible, discarding it anywhere. Brad, the same goes for you, except you will travel south instead of north, and you both should find me driving up and down the same street where we parked. I expect to pick up both of you as casually as someone waiting for a taxicab. I wish to see no signs of commotion. If you think you are going to be seen, then don’t get into my car. I want you to hide, until night falls, if necessary, at least until several hours after the sirens have subsided. I will make sure you each have cab fare to get back home. And, most importantly,” he adds, shaking a plastic container of pills, “should you be arrested, you can’t be taken alive. You will swallow seven of these and wait for the Valkyries to arrive.”

They drive back to Lutherkirk. They agree to meet at Crowley’s cottage on Friday at 5 p.m.

“We will have an immaculate feast,” promises Crowley, “and plenty to drink. We have to be well fed to undertake such a task, and we have to be relaxed and well rested. We will drink plenty, but we will drink early. In bed by ten and off to Aberdeen by eight Saturday morning.”

The priest drops Brad and Chris off at the gate of the base. They walk to their room as Brad talks in an agitated excitement about the blow they are going to deal to the Jews around the world. Brad immediately climbs into his rack when they reach their room, and Chris retrieves his sea bag from his locker. His sea bag serves as a sort of dirty clothes hamper. He walks to the laundry room attached to the barracks lounge and does his washing.

He also calls Holliday and tells him of their rehearsal and their estimated time of arrival in Aberdeen.

“Thank you, Mr. Fairbanks,” replies Inspector Holliday. “We will see you Saturday, then?”

Chris mumbles in affirmation and returns to his laundry, mindlessly watching the washer until it stops spinning.

Wednesday and Thursday night, Chris can’t sleep and he can barely eat. His thoughts are a mixture of lust and fear and longing. Images of Karen and the priest alternate space in his consciousness, and he pictures a variety of scenarios for Saturday.

His favorite daydream has the police swarming all over them immediately Saturday morning, almost as soon as the feet of the Trinity hit the Aberdeen sidewalks.

He will then ride back to Brechin with Karen, and the rest of his days in the Navy and life will flow with tranquility.

But he also has horrifying daydreams. The priest finds out, somehow, beforehand that Chris has betrayed him. He sodomizes him again by force and then kills him, either in Aberdeen or while he sleeps Friday night in his cottage. And in his least favorite daydream, he survives until the police come, but Karen is not there, and their relationship is over. This horrifies him more than death. He has no other reason for living, other than Karen.

Friday. He is exhausted and listless as the time comes for him and Brad to go to Father Crowley’s house.

He takes all the letters he has written and never mailed and places them in a large manila envelope. A sort of will, he thinks, the only thing he wishes to leave behind if the worst does happen on Saturday morning. He marks the envelope to the attention of Petty Officer Second Class Karen Freeman, and leaves them on top of the desk in his room, easily found in case he never returns.

April 24, 1986

Dear Wife,

Do you have regrets? I’ve never really regretted anything before, but I’ve made some bad decisions that have put me in a bad situation. These decisions are so bad, and the consequences so steep, that I may never meet you (but I think I may already have). I could end up in jail or out of the Navy for some of the things that I’ve done. It has to do with that priest that I mentioned earlier. Even though I’ve done some bad things, I want you to know that in my heart I never felt any anger or hatred at anyone. I just wanted to be a part of something.

I have desecrated synagogues, showing a huge lack of respect for places of worship that mean so much to many people. I did it just to fit in, just to have a couple of friends. Friends like that aren’t worth keeping, I know now. I’m not any happier with them than I was without them. I was better off being alone.

Hopefully, I come out of this okay. Saturday, tomorrow, is going to be a huge day and an important one. I will become a better person because of this, and I will always try to be kind, no matter what. Love and kindness are the most important things, and tolerance too, I think. We’re not all the same, but we have to be together, somehow, in this very goofy world.

More later, no matter what.

                                                                         Love,

                                                                         Chris

Father Crowley had come home for lunch to start cooking a turkey, just like Thanksgiving. It is ready when Brad and Chris arrive at his cottage as passengers in his car. There is no time to waste waiting for a taxi; they have to eat and drink quickly and retire early. Crowley insists that their minds and bodies be well rested for tomorrow morning.

“And we must drink in moderation, gentlemen,” he says in contrast to his earlier promise of plenty to drink. “We must have full command of our faculties. We can’t disappoint—they are watching in Valhalla, and I know they are relishing this moment. It will be a defining moment in the white man’s struggle. Of this, you can be sure.”

Chris thinks briefly about the reception waiting for them tomorrow morning in Aberdeen. He had spoken with Inspector Holliday briefly in the afternoon, calling him from a payphone outside the base commissary.

“Not to worry, lad,” Holliday told him with assurance. “The finest of the island will be there, even some from Scotland Yard.”

“When are we going to tell the Navy?” Chris asked.

“When it’s done. We will make them promise to leave you alone, or else we parade the priest in front of the television cameras.”

Chris knows that scene will be ugly, explaining it all to the chain of command as Chaplain Crowley and Brad are locked away in some Scottish prison. Chris imagines a stone fortress surrounded by fog tucked away in a remote part of the Scottish Highlands.

Crowley and Brad need to be locked away for a very long time, if not forever, he thinks.

They sit down and eat the driest of turkey, and Crowley forgets about his vow of moderation. He pours them all tall glasses of wine. He constantly empties his own goblet in one or two swallows, refilling it again and again.

Chris sips his wine timidly, remembering what happened the last time he became too intoxicated in the priest’s presence. Brad drinks with abandon, finishing one glass of wine before foraging the priest’s refrigerator for tins of beer.

Fortunately, the priest doesn’t seem to be feeling too amorous on this night.

“The Jew, the Jew,” he says after their meal is done and he commands Brad to clear the table, “is not expecting this, not expecting us. Sure, sure, they know about fringe groups in the States and in Europe, you know, the skinheads and the like who chant on and on but do nothing. Look at us—we look like everyone else, normal, average citizens, but we’ve been enlightened by the will of Odin. The fog of mental control by the Zionists has been removed from our eyes. We have seen the lies of the Holocaust exposed. We have seen through the Jewish manipulation of Hollywood and the Jewish control of our central banks. Enough is enough. We, the sons of Odin and keepers of the white flame, can no longer stand idly by as our race is inbred and our children become morally corrupted by the lies of schools and churches and the media. The time is high.”

He drinks from his goblet, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and stands at the head of the table, looking very thoughtful.

“Now, as you know from history, the Jew has always been able to turn tragedy into triumph. In fact, they thrive on tragedy. The murder of one Jew two thousand years ago gave rise to the religion that has deceived the white man for ages—Christianity. And the supposed murder of six million Jews during World War II gave them what they have always wanted—the nation of Israel.” He drinks again. “That, my friends,” he says, favoring Brad and Chris with separate gazes, “was the beginning of the end. Israel gave them credibility, gave them the opportunity to war with the Arabs, and war with the Arabs was merely a practice round for the battles with the rest of the world that are yet to come. But they didn’t count on the tenacity of the Arabs; they thought the Middle East would have been under their control by 1975. And, it goes to show,” he says, laughing, “though they are a lesser race, those Arabs sure can fight. They are more devoted to their beliefs than the Jews. The Jews have more devotion to things that are material rather than spiritual. The Jews want the world. They want to control all of the money, and the only way to control all the money is to control the banks of all the countries. They already do in America and most of Europe. We are going to stop them. They won’t be able to turn the wounds we inflict on them into their benefit. We are not an identifiable enemy. We are not as big as the Romans or as powerful as the Nazis. No, we are small and lethal and completely shrouded in secrecy.”