Burke broke the companionable silence first. The burly man brushed the crumbs off his lap, drained his beer can, crumpled it, and tossed it casually aside. “Tony tells me you’ve got some pretty strong views on race problems, Karl. Is that a fact?”
Ah. Now it begins, Halovic thought. He nodded firmly. “That is a fact, Jim.” Then he shrugged. “I know these views are not popular in America, but truth is the truth. The white races all over the world are being buried by a sea of inferiors of blacks, of Jews, of Arabs…”
He was heartened by the other men’s reactions as he continued his often-rehearsed tirade. Burke and McGowan both smiled and nodded as he made his points, dearly pleased by what they were hearing. Even Keller seemed to relax slightly.
Burke nodded sharply again when the Bosnian wound up his peroration with the assertion that “time is short. We must act soon and in force before we are drowned and our race with us.”
The older man pursed his lips. “You’ve sure got that right, Karl.” He scowled. “God only knows the riggers and the rest are getting uppity as hell in this country.”
That brought rumbles of assent from both Keller and McGowan.
Burke took another beer out of the cooler, drank deeply, and began outlining his own extremist views. Not surprisingly, they paralleled those Halovic had just laid out in every significant detail. He seemed delighted to find a kindred spirit from overseas especially from Germany. His two followers chimed in occasionally, but they always deferred to the older man.
They are sheep, Halovic thought with contempt, all the while smiling and nodding himself. They go wherever they are led.
“Are there many others like you over there in Germany, Karl? Men who’re willing to stand up for the white race?” Burke asked at last.
“Yes. Many.” Halovic paused significantly to make sure he had their full attention. “And not just in Germany. There are others like us all over Europe.”
He stabbed at the grass with his finger as he continued. “We are organising. Mobilizing. Arming! We are strong and growing stronger. The moment of truth is drawing near. Soon we shall strike. First in my homeland. And then in the other nations of Europe.”
“Outstanding!” Burke’s enthusiasm, unlike Halovic’s, was wholly unfeigned. He turned to McGowan and Keller. “What’d I tell you boys? We’re not alone in this fight. See, all we’ve got to do is provide some god damned leadership and the pure whites will rise up to join us!”
Halovic took a deep breath. “So you have organisations such as mine here in America?” he asked carefully.
“Hell, yes, Karl!” Burke grinned proudly. “You’re looking at the leader of one of the biggest!”
The Bosnian listened with hidden disdain and open admiration as the older man outlined his plans to “retake” America from its racial and genetic enemies. His wild-eyed schemes a linked series of attacks and assassinations were intended to spark a nationwide rising of the white race. To fire a revolt that Burke believed would be spearheaded by his own fanatical group the “Aryan Sword.”
Madness, Halovic thought coldly. But perhaps he could make it a madness tinged with a tiny grain of truth.
“We don’t have the numbers I’d like. Not yet,” the older American admitted. “But we’re recruiting pretty fast. People around here are waking up to what’s going on.”
“That’s true!” McGowan asserted loyally, backing up his leader. “With the Ramseys, we’ve got fifty-two members counting the kids who’re old enough to carry a gun.”
Halovic tried hard to look impressed. In truth, those numbers were somewhat larger than he’d expected. Under all his drunken bluster, this man Burke must have the charisma needed to draw ignorant and gullible people together under a banner of hate.
He leaned closer to the older man. It was time to make his move. “That is wonderful news. Great news. I had hoped to find a movement of courage here in America. You see, I am here to build an alliance across the seas. The war begins soon and we must fight together side by side against the Jews and the blacks and the rest.”
The Bosnian pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Burke. Titled “The Jewish Plan,” it had been picked up months ago at a white supremacist rally in Maryland by an Iranian agent posing as a journalist. “This was my guide.”
“Jesus! That’s Harry’s pamphlet. I helped him run it off,” McGowan exclaimed in surprise.
The atmosphere changed abruptly. Burke’s face was suddenly a mask, unreadable. Halovic noted that Keller’s hand now rested on the barrel of his rifle. He fought the temptation to reach for his own concealed pistol. He had known that this would be a moment of crisis. By their nature, hate groups like the Aryan Sword were run by secretive, paranoid men. They would not like the notion of a stranger actively searching for them.
He pointed toward the pamphlet still clutched in the older man’s hand.
“This was passed to us in Leipzig,” he lied. “We knew that there were centers of resistance here in America, so I was sent to find them. But I am not alone. Others are looking too in other parts of your country.”
Burke shook his head in evident disbelief, but Halovic could see the excitement bubbling up beneath the older man’s inbred suspicion.
He allowed himself to relax however minutely. Everything was as the mission planners in Tehran had foreseen. People like Burke often talked in grandiose terms of forging an army, of leading a revolution, of blood and fire and sword. But they never seemed completely prepared to see their ideas taken seriously. The idea that someone might actually begin the race war they had predicted had them off balance.
The silence stretched.
McGowan reacted first. “This is bullshit!” he exploded. He stood up, pacing stiffly over to Burke. “What’s this guy talking about? Even assuming he’s telling the truth, what do we care about Europe’?”
Halovic checked Keller, who had not moved. The younger man’s hand still rested on his rifle.
“Tony had a good point, Karl,” Burke said carefully. “Why should we stick our necks out for you? What do we have to gain?”
“Arms. Sophisticated weapons.”
McGowan snorted, but Burke held up a hand to silence him and only said mildly, “We’re pretty well fixed for guns, Karl. As you should know.”
“Small arms, yes. But I can get you automatic grenade launchers, antitank rockets, mortars, land mines, even antiaircraft missiles. Ammunition, explosives, and detonators too. Do you have these things?”
“No.” The older man looked more interested. “At what price?”
Halovic shrugged. “Well below the price on the black market. Just enough to cover our own costs and shipping.”
“Sure,” McGowan sneered. “Now it comes out. This bastard’s a con artist. I say we let him walk back from here.” He nodded angrily toward the dark woods around them. “Or maybe we just make sure he doesn’t go back at all.”
A grim-faced Keller nodded slowly in agreement.
Halovic tensed.
“Sit down, Tony,” Burke snapped. He turned back to the Bosnian.
“You’re talking pretty big, Karl. You’d better be able to back up what you say. Now, how the hell did you lay your hands on mortars and the rest? And what makes you think you can get that kind of hardware over here without the feds going apeshit?”
He had them, Halovic realised. He shrugged. “When the two Germanys merged, there was much confusion. The old communist Army built hidden arms bunkers all over East Germany. Their record-keeping was very poor.” He smiled coldly. “My comrades and I found it easy to make some of those bunkers disappear from the files.
“As for transport…” He shrugged again. “That is simplicity itself. We have friends like you in position in ports like Hamburg and Rotterdam. And more friends in Canada who will handle transshipment for us.”
Halovic fixed his gaze on Burke. “I say we can get you the arms you want. The arms you will need. I tell you again most solemnly, the war of blood and race you have foretold is upon us all.”
The older man licked his lips, clearly tempted but still uncertain. He glanced swiftly at McGowan and Keller as though seeking their silent counsel. At last, he shook his head and stood up. “I’ve got to think more on this, Karl.”
Halovic and the others stood up with him.
Burke looked at Keller. “You take him back to his motel for now, Dave.” Then he turned back to Halovic. “And you be waiting outside your motel room at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll talk more then. Clear?”
The Bosnian nodded silently, satisfied. He would let their greed and ambition war with their cowardice and caution through the night. He was over the first hurdle.
AUGUST
21
(D
MINUS
116)
Wearing a light jacket over an open-necked shirt, Sefer Halovic stood waiting outside his motel room early the next morning. He didn’t have to wait long. A rusty blue sedan an old Chevrolet turned off the road and roared straight across the gravel lot toward him at high speed. He forced himself to stand still as the car squealed to a stop right beside him.
Burke and McGowan were in front. Keller sat in the back “Get in,” the older man ordered.
Halovic obeyed, careful to keep his hands in plain view at all times. He didn’t like the tone of Burke’s voice or the strain he could see on his face and those of Keller and McGowan. These men were operating on a hair trigger and that was dangerous both for him and for them.
With McGowan at the wheel, the Chevrolet skidded out of the motel parking lot and turned north onto Route 250. They crossed the lames River in silence and headed east on Route 6.
After several minutes, Halovic risked a question. “Where are we going?”
“Richmond,” Burke replied tersely.
Richmond? Why there?
Keller handed him a manila envelope. “Read this.”
Suppressing any questions, Halovic leafed though a sheaf of newspaper clippings and typewritten pages. They all concerned one man a prosperous local black businessman named John Malcolm. The first clipping, a few years old, described a new youth training program launched by Malcolm. Other articles described the success of the program and his further ventures. He was active in several social circles, and he was a popular speaker at local schools and community meetings. One of the last clippings speculated on Malcolm’s chances as a candidate in an upcoming congressional race.
The typewritten pages were a detailed dossier on Malcolm. They listed his home and business address, his children’s schools, his wife’s work, his church, his closest associates, and every aspect of his daily routine.
Halovic was impressed. Someone had done a great deal of research on this man and his movements. Its purpose was obvious. Malcolm was targeted for some sort of action by Burke’s group. He was precisely the sort of black man they would hate and fear most prominent, successful, and socially accepted. Judging by the dates, it was something they had been planning for quite some time.
He finished reading and looked up at the older man. “For what reason do you show me this?”
“We want you to kill him.”
Halovic nodded slowly. Two possibilities confronted him. If these men really were neo-Nazi radicals, this was a test of his sincerity, and by their standards, of his bravery. That was understandable. On the other hand, if Burke, McGowan, and Keller were police informers or agents, this was a trap a ploy to have him condemn himself out of his own mouth.
To buy time to think, he stared for a moment at the quiet wooded countryside streaming past before glancing back at Burke. “And if I do?”
“We’ll deal. Weapons for cash.”
Halovic considered his chances coldly. If they were serious, his course of action was clear. Killing Malcolm meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the risk of discovery. Of capture. Of failure. Of course, refusing would also mean failure. Burke and his followers would never risk continued contact with a man they did not trust. That much was certain.
He studied the dossier again. The material it contained was well organized and complete. There were no airy assumptions, no unnecessary rhetoric. It was all very professional. And his companions, while reactionary, did not appear excessively sloppy or wholly stupid.
Questions swirled in his mind. Why hadn’t they assassinated this man themselves? He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d just happened to show up at the right time.
Halovic sensed the others waiting with mounting impatience. He had taken a reasonable amount of time to ponder his answer, but if he waited any longer, he would be stalling, both them and himself. There was no other data to be had. And delay could be fatal in more than one way. Decide, he told himself sharply.
Stung into action, he nodded. “Very well. I will kill this black man for you.” Almost by reflex a workable plan popped into his brain. “You have a weapon for me?”
Burke glanced at Keller. “Show it to him, Dave.”
The younger man reached into a brown paper bag between his feet and pulled out a brand-new pair of gardening gloves, a 9mm automatic, a separate eight-round clip, and a bulky, cylindrical silencer.
Halovic recognised weapon as a Smith & Wesson Mark 22 a silenced model first used during the Vietnam War by U.S. Navy commandos. They had called it the Hush Puppy.
“There’s a rifle in the trunk if you want it instead,” Burke said.
Halovic shook his head. He would complete this operation at close range. “The pistol will suffice.”
“It’s cold,” Keller said reassuringly. In answer to Halovic’s questioning look, he explained, “it’s not traceable. A dealer at a gun show traded it to us years ago. He doesn’t keep records.”
“That is very good.” Halovic slid the clip into place, worked the action, and screwed the silencer into the pistol’s muzzle. He nodded, satisfied by what he saw. The weapon was in excellent condition.
He looked out the window again. There were more houses and stores lining the highway. A sign informed him they were nearing the outskirts of Richmond.
Burke watched him closely. “You got any idea of how you want to do this thing, Karl?”
“Ja.” Halovic thumbed through the dossier until he came to a map showing Malcolm’s movements. Then he leaned forward and jabbed a finger at the spot he wanted. “Drive here, to Elkheart Road. We will go directly to his office.””