I don’t think so.”
“But he has killed eight men.”
“I can’t explain it,” Jaeger answered. “I can only clean it up.”
Menendez thought about it, then replied, “The shifts change in these factories at midnight. All this must be removed by then, and made to disappear.”
“No problem,” Jaeger said, without checking his watch. “You may expect a bonus, Herr Director.”
“So I do,” Menendez said, turning away.
Dismissed, Jaeger retreated to his Benz, already fishing in another pocket for his cell phone. There was work to do, and swiftly, to conceal the relics of a massacre.
Colonia Victoria
HANS DIETRICH LIKED his schnapps flavored with peppermint. It made his breath smell fresh, while the delicious alcohol worked on his aging brain. He never drank enough to make him drunk, these days, but did his best to keep a rosy glow firmly in place.
This night, it took more schnapps than usual.
Dietrich was troubled. Not yet worried, which implied a major threat, but certainly concerned. The news of questions being asked in Bogotá had prompted Dietrich to investigate, and what he’d learned had left him curious, confused.
Angry.
The man asking the questions was a peasant but not without connections. Subtle probing had revealed that Jorge Guzman was a minor criminal who supplemented his illicit income by informing on selected persons to American narcotics officers, perhaps even the CIA. That made him dangerous, although his interest in Dietrich had, thus far, delivered little in the way of new or useful information.
Dietrich knew that his community was not truly a secret. Far too many people shared the knowledge—and the wealth—of Colonia Victoria to guarantee complete security. There had been stories in the leftist media, complaints and subsequent investigations. Certainly, there had to be dossiers in Bogotá, in Washington, in London and in Tel Aviv.
But he was left alone, for the most part, and that was all Hans Dietrich asked of life.
That, and a chance to strike against his enemies when opportunity arose.
It was a problem, therefore, when Guzman started asking questions, seeking information that was none of his concern. When Otto Jaeger had reported it, Dietrich felt confident in ordering the usual response.
Discover who the rat was working for.
And, failing that, simply eliminate the rat.
Now, somehow, it had gone awry. Instead of one dead rat, Dietrich had two dead soldiers and six hired guns wasted. He was not concerned about the peasant labor, but Horst Krieger had been like a son to him.
In fact, considering Dietrich’s liaison’s with the young man’s mother, twenty-odd years back, there was a chance that Krieger might have been his son.
No matter.
Everyone within Colonia Victoria—the Aryans, at least—were Dietrich’s children. He had been their patriarch for half a century, dictating every aspect of their lives between the cradle and the grave. He knew, at some level, that most of those now dwelling in the colony were bound to outlive him, but death still seemed remote, despite his age.
This night, though, he admitted to himself that it felt closer.
There were enemies around him, always, but the massacre in Bogotá was something new. There had been losses, certainly. Some accidents, a fatal illness now and then, some executions in the colony. Two of his people murdered by the Jews in 1995, after they killed the damned Israeli spy.
But never, since he set foot in Colombia, had Dietrich’s men been cut down in such numbers. Never had he faced an enemy who killed so ruthlessly, efficiently, without apparent motive.
So, the bastards hated him. Of course they did. As millions hated Hitler for attempting to awaken them and teach them how to fight, to save themselves. Prophets were always vilified and persecuted. History had taught him that, if nothing else.
Jaeger had orders to continue the investigation, find the peasant Guzman and determine who directed him, who might have aided him in killing Krieger, Rauschman and the rest. Knowledge was power, and until those answers were within his grasp, Hans Dietrich knew that he was at a disadvantage.
It was not a feeling he enjoyed.
A leader of the Master Race was meant to lead, not hide while enemies worked day and night against him. Granted, it was different here than it had been in Germany, during the grand old days, but he was not without influence. If Menendez and the DAS could not help him, Dietrich would speak to someone higher in authority.
Someone who owed him much, in cash and gratitude.
His influence, combined with that of certain wealthy friends, could shake the state to its foundations if required to do so.
But, he thought, it would not be required. Serving his interest also served the interests of the men who had aligned themselves with him for profit, through the years. Men who allowed Colonia Victoria to thrive, when they could just as easily have crushed it. Having made that choice, like Faust, they had to live with it.
Hans Dietrich, imagining himself as Lucifer, the puppeteer. His reach was long, his grip still powerful.
Which made his doubts more troubling, yet.
Perhaps another glass of schnapps would calm the churning in his stomach.
Just one more, to help him sleep.
“WHAT DID YOU HAVE in mind?” Bolan asked.
“I’ve been working on this case longer than you have,” Ghen answered, “and I think you will agree that we, Mossad, have first claim on the target. Everywhere, from Europe to New York and Mexico, they are Israeli diplomats and citizens who have been murdered, maimed and terrorized.”
“Except Miami Beach,” Bolan reminded her.
“Of course. Poor Mr. Margulies. But still, a Jew with family in Israel. Did you know that?”
Bolan frowned and told her honestly, “They must have missed that in my briefing.”
“Now, you see. Israel has more against Hans Dietrich and his little monsters than America can ever claim. It is quite obvious.”
She had a point.
“So, you’re suggesting that I call my boss and tell him to forget the whole thing? That you’ve got it covered?” he said.
“Did I say that, Matt?”
“Not directly, but—”
“I am proposing we collaborate,” she said. “Pool our resources for the common good.”
“Right now,” he told her, “my ‘resources’ are a pistol borrowed from Jorge. Washington won’t be sending the Marines to help us out. I’m it, for
