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Francisco Raúl

Bögart

All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted of any form or for any way, electronic or mechanical one, including photocopy, recording, or for any system of storage and recovery, without written permission of the owner of the copyright.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with the reality is a mere coincidence. All the personages, names, facts, organizations and dialogues in this novel are or product of the imagination of the author or they have been used in this work of a fictitious way.

Primera edición: julio de 2017

Translated from Spanish: Ivón Otero

Corrections: Ivonne Arencibia / Andreas Hultgren.

Designed cover concept: Francisco Raúl.

Author´s info:

https://www.facebook.com/franciscoraul.bogart

https://www.facebook.com/franciscoraul.info/

https://www.facebook.com/franciscoraulibros/

ISBN: 978-84-17005-52-8

ISBN Digital: 978-84-17005-53-5

Depósito Legal: M-10628-2017

Ediciones Lacre

Monte Esquinza, 37

28010 Madrid

info@edicioneslacre.com

www.edicioneslacre.com

IMPRESO EN ESPAÑA - UNIÓN EUROPEA

To my mother; (RIP)

My most treasured jewel. I do not know exactly how to define it; by her worth, experience: or both?

“And now, until you know the news about the new lands that I have discovered, in which I have settled inside my soul the Earthly Paradise is, the Governor will go with three vessels properly equipped for it to be seen further on, and will discover all he might towards those parts. Meanwhile I will send to Your Highnesses this letter and the map of the new lands, and you will agree what must be done, and will send your orders to me, which will be fulfilled diligently with the help of the Holy Trinity, so that Your Highnesses be served and pleasured. Deo gratia”.

Letter from Columbus to the Catholic Monarchs (The Land of Grace)

PROLOGUE
A UNIQUE MAILMAN
1914

QUICKLY, HE SUNK HIS back against the mud, dodging the bullets that, fiercely, hit the ground around him. With the back of the sleeve of his uniform, he wiped the spatters off his face and said to himself that hadn’t he acted intuitively reaching the trenches by a few inches; it would have been useless to protect him from the rain of bullets that came over him.

A night of macabre feast for rifles and grenades that would close with his battalion devastated by an enemy determined to leave no prisoners or injured.

He pricked up his ears trying to locate the origin of the explosions. Hisses approaching almost imperceptibly, leaving a blurry sound trace undetectable for untrained ears. He cocked the rifle, held his breath, and in a rapid move twisted his back and opened fire at the selected spot. He heard the screams amongst the noise of the fire: one down.

He barely had ammunition, in fact there was only one bullet remaining in the chamber, so he fixed the bayonet and prepared for the worst, to engage in a hand–to–hand fight with a bigger and better prepared opponent, almost suicide. He was about to cross himself, and, inadvertently, Jaibón came to his mind, so clearly, even though it was midnight and he was about to die.

Wonderful little town that witnessed his birth, in which he was supposed to grow old, have a wife and kids, and die of old, being the richest man in the world, opposite to reality. It didn’t matter, in the end dreams are just that: dreams. It didn’t matter that soon he was going to be lynched by the hostiles, or by his father, who right now must be eaten up inside for not being able to catch him and break his neck with his own bare hands.

Poor mister Heriberto, so circumspect and with a murderer for a son.

The sky varied from total darkness to scarlet red, lightning the pyre of corpses crowded together in the trenches, all of those who, just a few minutes ago, were healthy soldiers trying to win a field ruled by the shrapnel. Between the prolonged explosions and the roaring of the blasts produced by the continuous rattle of the Maschinegewehr and the Maxim 1910, the infantrymen from the Bavarian reserve were slaughtered with every flash of light. The shrieks of anguish and pain within the Teutonic lines mingled with flashes and flares: they were being wiped out.

The infantry lieutenant Kukulcán Kraus Del Sol managed to go round the death mountain, fired his rifle and was about to stand up, when he bent over like a ballet dancer as he was hit by a bullet that ripped his leaning arm off, throwing him through barbed wires and metallic crosses. He vomited a clotted gulp and sensed death around him: dark, clear, dark, clear.

– Mail, maiiiill!

The blood gulped in his throat, stopping him from shouting. He spat the clots and promised himself he would not go with the skeleton in cloak and scythe without sending that envelope, which contents he should have never stolen and should have remained in his parents’ hands, nobody else’s. Damned be the greed.

He murdered out of greed, ran away because of greed, he would now die because of greed without being able to enjoy the great life he promised himself. Greed has a dark side he was tasting it right at this moment. He had a bloody retching even though his body was numb.

Ever since he arrived to the battlefield from Havana he sensed he would be riddled with bullets, but he did not listen to his inner voice and set off to a foreign battle, as if some secret forces were pushing him. He kept the secret stolen from his ancestors by his chest while killing total strangers with no feelings whatsoever.

He had unleashed the wrath of gods and demons, who doomed him to eternally loose the greatest gift ever to be given to any human and that he kept for himself through premeditated murder: AuMitlán, the sunken golden island.

Damned stupid hunger for gold. It was of no use now. He spat blood: white, black, white, and black. If Don Heriberto saw him crucified like Christ on a barbed wire iron cross, he would turn his face and say: “you deserve it for your dishonesty”. He would be right as usual, although now it was useless to get into regrets anymore: Dark, clear, dark, clear.

Bleeding like a pig on its way to the slaughterhouse, Kraus felt life abandoning him and a chill went through his mutilated body. In the end, he would die poor and crippled. The only thing that could clean his troubled conscience a little, would be to keep death away long enough to send the letters and the map with the coordinates back to his parents, and that way preventing a greater evil:

«Not now virgencita, not now, let the mail come, please ».

The gunshots passed over his head and the clatter of the carbines did not let him move inside the damp and filthy hollow in which he had landed, tangled in the barbs, that not only held him stiff like a dismembered marionette, but were getting deeper and deeper inside his guts with every death rattle. One of the sharp–pointed steels pierced part of his face and tore one of his eyes off, which lay hanging lifeless: «I’m really, really fucked».

He managed to turn his face and met the unrecognizable face of the messenger. Clear, dark, clear, dark. The spatters of blood and mud made him look like a theatre actor.

Coño Adolfo, you startled me!

The messenger sat next to him to avoid the impacts, lit a cigarette and put it in the lips of the dying man. He pulled out something that was a handkerchief once and stretched it in his hands.

– You have more holes than a funnel, Herr Kraus – he whispered while wiping some of the dirt off his face. He tried to remove the wire but the man shrieked with pain so loud that he stopped. – I hope you didn’t call me to ask for the time because your lack of vision – and pointed to the tore eye.

From his face, it was clear that the young man did not understand the phlegmatic joke. He searched in his clothes and, with an almost inhuman effort he pulled out a bloody and yellowish envelope. He looked at it through the flashes of the explosions and with great effort, and a bit of doubt, handed it over to the man in charge of the correspondence, who put it in its withered belt.

– I need that the content of the sheet reaches its destination and that you promise me that. Swear it! It is vital, Adolfito! Vital! – The organic liquid, gushing out from his nose, did not let him continue. It was the last thing he said. Ironically, he did not focus on the document as he died, but almost had a lethal erection pondering on the beautiful women from Jaibón he did not possessed because he was too busy chasing fortune.

The mailman waited for the soldier to exhale in peace with the last smoke of the cigarette, choked with his own blood. He left him to rodents and birds of prey and struggling between wire fences and tracer bullets he sought refuge in a safer place. The battle, which lasted days, ended with thousands of bodies scattered all over and a resounding defeat.

Although he promised to send the envelope, as hard as he tried, he never seemed to find the right opportunity. The days of intense battle, the subsequent neglect for a meaningless war, as well as the bad luck of being hurt in one of his legs, delayed over and over the transference of the odd and bloodstained envelope.

Two months later and with only twenty–five years of age, the German military emissary was awarded the Eisernes Kreuz 2 Klasse or EK II. Although he concealed the great joy that the coveted Iron Cross gave him, he was really disturbed by his indecision between continuing to carry the bundle or unravel its content. Finally, curiosity prevailed over duty and, taking into account that Herr Kraus will not summon him from the grave, he opened up the envelope.

What he thought was a last hour love letter or the will for the frugal possessions of the mean peasant turned into soldier, put him in possession of an unexpected, colossal, unique, huge secret. The odd bundle consisted on several manuscripts and a map, written in a language completely different from German or Castilian, and engraved on soft and smooth leather that, judging by the texture, you might think it was from a human being. The plan contained a series of clear coordinates indicating that near the west coasts of Cuba there was a little island, apparently sunken, or at least that’s what the fishes jumping over its surface meant.

The illustration, representing the figure of a native giving off golden rays, in one of its ends was implied that there was a hidden treasure in the marked spot. After giving it a lot of thought, checking the language of the writing and going over every sentence from the dead man, he determined that the language could not be other than Maya.

Poor Herr Kraus killed in a fight that was none of his business; his mail would never get to its final addressee.

Searching around in the German bookstores, he managed to get hold of a Yucatecan Maya – German Dictionary. He bought it with his meagre savings and for a whole week, seated under the faint light of the town tavern, he translated the linen. Unhappy with the result, he dipped himself in the bookstores again until he found Alphabetical Coordination of the Voices of the Maya Language, from 1898. At the same time, he had to find another dictionary, this time Spanish – German. What he read bewildered him so much that, from that moment on, he would change his character forever.

Bold and exceptional mailman, the lively Adolf Hitler had succeeded in finding his own El Dorado. Unaware of the sinister forces that wrapped around him, once he touched the manuscript, the demonic breath of Ah Puch, God of the death, impregnated him with the urgent need to get hold of the treasure at any cost: greed swapping owners.

Only one thought crossed his mind since he folded the manuscript and promised him not to read it again until he was a hundred years old: To take possession of the riches described in the wrapping and be crowned emperor of the universe.

In 1918, already being corporal, with a second Iron Cross on his chest, (this time of the First Class) and many ideas fluttering in his brain, Hitler goes in search for his old comrade in arms, Ernst Julius Röhm. It did not surprise him to find out that he had joined found joined the nationalist assault militia Frikorps, the military arm of the National Socialism. Despite their personal differences, they were both diehard extremists and hated the current German course.

Röhm listened carefully to the next world dictator, who explained to the insubordinate soldier his clear desire to join the National Sozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei: “so, from there, my dear comrade in arms – and he did not flinch – take over the country: Are you with me or you’re out?”

Six months later and with the utmost secret, Hitler himself created the Team Köpfe zu Rocky or as it would be known backstage: KR, a tactic action unit with the sole purpose of intervening in any conflict where the lives of selected brains and followers of the future Führer were at risk. Röhm was commissioned General Commander. The KR acted all along the race for power of the German dictator, protecting people that the Führer, for unknown reasons but related to the sunken city, wished were kept away from the public eye.

In 1921, by specific order of Hitler, a young stranger named Ferdinand Röhm, who said to be an unorthodox relative of the confessed homosexual Ernst, was sent to Cuba. Ferdinand had only one and emphatic target, to locate the reef and protect with his own life the confidential assignment from Adolfo Hitler.

Almost ten years went by since the Führer knew the existence of the sunken city until he had the economic and logistic power to carry out such an undertaking. Once in Cuba and guided by the notes in the margin, handwritten by Kukulcán himself, Ferdinand located the village where Kraus was born, called Jaibón, extracting its secrets the way a good nazi knows how: massacring. The first murder of the list was the parents of the parchment thief. Once dead, nobody could link the document to the nazi.

Little by little and without drawing attention to themselves, different branches specialists arrived to the 22º.01’N 84º.18’W coordinates. They immediately began the works to search the island and its enormous riches. In a few months, there were more than three hundred nazis in Pinar del Rio.

In 1930, members of the Serbian organization Bela Ruka, affected by the KR actions in the rescue of relatives and others related to Gavilio Princip (hired assassin guilty of the death of archduke Francisco Fernando), decided to create the Gvozdenom Rukom organization (Iron Hand). Their goal was to eliminate every KR that came across their paths. According to Serbian secret records, Maximiliano, son of Francisco Fernando and Sofia, financed the organization for years, in retaliation for his parents and younger brother murder.

In 1942, Ferdinando Rosado Pérez (according to his identity card) was living placidly in the province of Pinar del Rio and acted as mayor of a small town named Jaibón, at the northeast end of the district, next to La Guadiana Gulf, located at 22º.01’N – 84º.18’W. The small town, all those years ignored, was home to not more than three hundred villagers, according to a census of the time.

The counting did not reveal (this came out later on due to the horrifying tragedy that shook the locality), that most of the supposed peasants had a Teutonic origin. Ferdinando Rosado Pérez achieved what neither the Spaniards, nor the fevers or modernity could: to put to rest underground everyone who was not an Aryan, and turn AuMitlán into the most profitable enterprise of the fascism. That year, a series of strange and toxic events broke out.

Röhm, became a reckless insubordinate after he managed to put together an army more prepared and with more resources than the SS itself under his command. In response, the Führer ordered to behead him during the well–known Night of the long knives of 1934. His substitute has been preparing for the occasion for a long time then.

In 1941, pieces of documents found in the incinerator of a house used as headquarters for quick response German Special Forces, made out signs of the existence of a clandestine Team that handled targets that had nothing to do with the international conflict. The word Cuba was discovered between the flames, as well as the acronyms KR and bits of a map where the Cuban province of Pinar Del Rio was highlighted.

The high command of the Red Army sensed that Hitler’s interests responded to questions of economic as well as strategic importance, and for unknown reasons Cuba was involved. A special task force called Operaratsiya Bragation, known as Pyotr and constituted by experts on counter–insurgency, was created to investigate about it. This group was trained for an undercover operation with destination Pinar del Rio.

One year later, in 1942, the President of the Cuban Republic, Fulgencio Batista, contacted the North American military intelligence to investigate strange incidents taking place in the Pinar del Rio province. The high command of the Special Operations Section of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) sent his best man, Colonel Peter Hollebeck Duncan, alias Redhead Peter, in reference to his red hair.

Peter’s meddling and his good performance as head of the group that worked with The Jaibón suicides, as the tabloids called it, gave raise to unexpected consequences for the world balance and the specific Führer’s order to hunt him together with his family, but Peter Hollebeck has been trained by experts, was no coward and didn’t like being underestimated. Redhead not only found out about the existence of the KR in the middle of the Caribbean, but also the real reason for the creation of that unit.

AuMitlán was sunk on April 20, 889 A.D. Because of his mean, insane and psychotic ways, Kukulcán Kraus Del Sol opened up the Pandora’s Box once he handed over the manuscripts to a man as arrogant, intuitive and determined as few. The German, Russian, Serbian and North American forces find themselves suddenly dragged into an unprecedented scheme, while the demons found the pleasure of freedom because of the affront from a greedy and unscrupulous mortal.

The four cardinal points and its colors were unleashed for greediness and death, concealing the number one, until the German mailman rose like future owner of all the riches on earth, in case of figuring out the parchment and riddles.

Ah Puch was satisfied with the slaughter amongst the Dzul. The ones responsible for all the plunder in the underworld would pay for it. Only the arrival of a Pharaoh or the descendant of an extinct Pharaoh to be brought back to life would satisfy Ah Puch’s thirst, protecting the miserable human race from the holocaust. That man existed, there he was, born on April 20, 1889, and exactly a thousand years after AuMitlán was sunk. If that dog could somehow overcome the damages of time, all the obstacles from the parchments and descends to the entrails of AuMitlán in...

In 1942, three state–of–the–art military airplanes from the United States of America Air Force were flying over the waters of the Strait of Florida, two with the purpose of training the Cuban war pilots and the third one to investigate the death of hundreds of inhabitants at Jaibón town. Peter Hollebeck felt the salty air caressing his face and bored he wondered whether this would just be another case of suicidal fanaticism.

He was wrong.

Coded message (no date)

From: Marshall Rommel Urban, field Commander. KR Central Squad

TO: Mein Komandant.

In the morning of today (no date), Jaibón has been penetrated by Russian commands. Waiting for immediate orders. For the time being, the operations with AuMitlán have been suspended. Jaibón is compromised and we do not know whether there is a mole.

R / Coded Message (no date)

From: Commander

To: Marshall Rommel Urban, field Commander. KR Central Squad

Kill them all, no exceptions. Enemies and our own. Use the Sarín to test its power.

Good work, Marshall.

BOOK ONE
THE SARÍN HUNT

“The place was decorated with a swastika and a picture of Adolf Hitler. The speakers began to howl. There was only 15 of us, but we went into action. We smashed them against the windows. Most of the Nazi panicked and fled. We hunt them to beat them.”

Meyer Lansky (But They Were Good to Their People)

PETER, YOU ARE GONNA GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK
1983

WALTER WAS USED to the military transport since the first time his father got him on a Hercules. The fragile commercial flights didn’t please him and awaken his phobia, increased by the fact of being tied up to the seat with a belt and dealing with the turbulences; so, the bad mood flooded the recently released Pan American Super Snake MD 82.

The sign “Please keep your seat belt fastened”, annoyed him, as much as not having a parachute on his back, until he told himself he had to stop being so immature and demanding, because the flight Miami/Bogotá, except for some isolated bumps, was going smoothly: “I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, shame on me”, he said to himself as he watched the flight attendants come and go serving snacks.

He made himself comfortable in the soft seat, opened up a map and concentrated on the truly important thing: Annie’s rescue.

The recently over battles in the island of Granada had left him exhausted and he needed to relax considering what was about to happen in the following hours. He assured himself that, at least while in the air, he would loosen up, and therefore he had to forget about the damned belt.

Now the important thing was to design a good strategy to rescue his sister. He searched the zigzagging stripe between Pamplona and Cúcuta and calculated in his head the amount of support forces he might need, until his seat partner, who was contemplating the views and hasn’t opened his mouth till then, suddenly, find it appealing to become a parrot. He squeezed the map; it was the definitive prove that he, exhausted soldier, was not allowed to rest. That’s why he could not stand civilians.

The Granada conflict had been exhausting and terrible, especially for the ultra–secret mission inside the battles against troops and civilians from Cuba and Granada to locate and dig up dozens of clandestine cemeteries originated from the assassinations occurred under the President / Prime minister Bishop, also killed, that took him longer than expected. Despite the mission’s success, he would’ve preferred a thousand times that the dozens of graves he found would’ve never existed.

All the time he was the head of the Seal Team Six, Peter’s words were always in his head: “it’s not that simple, kid, every one, once they are in the top, think they have the power to determine over right and wrong, and that includes whether you live or not. Look and learn from Auschwitz and the infamous Soviet Glavnoye Uptavlenie Lagetov. It doesn’t matter which doctrine you fight for, in the end it all comes down to power and more power. Against so much tyranny there’s only one force that proves to be anti–establishment enough…the family. Above everything and everyone else, the lineage, if it remains united, gets indestructible, never mind the regimen or government, the time or shortage, ethnicity or religion. Family is an empire”.

The battlefield proved him that only the good ones went over the edge and continue to exist. The ones with a strong spirit, the ones who went a step beyond, the ones who had someone to welcome them when they return home. It was them, and no others, the ones who live on with no scars from the war, the ones who renew unscathed under the definite idea of what’s imperative: the return home.

Granada meant the acid test that proved him that the governments are capable of sending hordes to battle for such mean reasons as keeping up appearances, pushing borders, wiping out beliefs or getting hold of natural resources.

Unfortunately, the world is not perfect. Many people are not aware of the adjustments taking place in it every day which involves violence; therefore, they don’t notice, or care, when an exhausted man must be left alone, as was the case with the inconvenient travel mate.

It would have being nice to have a pleasant talk to relieve the boredom of being so many hours on an airplane, if the topic of conversation would have being of the interest of Walter Hollebeck; for example, the fastest way to get to Pamplona, the amount of weapons and logistics to gather within the next few hours, and even how many murderers he should throw to the bottom of a well before rescuing his sister. All topics that the little man with the sharp–pointed mustache and mouse’s look didn’t master, therefore, nothing he had to say would result in a productive conversation.

Of course, the small and annoying travel neighbor could never imagine that behind the long and blonde hair, the enormous glasses and the simple look, a Special Operations officer was hidden: “had he known this, he would have kept on watching the clouds”. Instead, the little one turned his face to him and, as if noticing for the first time the strong biceps behind the beach shirt, opened his mouth in awe and began to chatter with a tinkling voice.

– Did you see what a beautiful landscape? Oh, right, sorry, you have the aisle seat, bad luck, uh? Anyway, I’ll explain you. The exceptional sight it’s the eastern Andean mountains. It raises over six thousand feet above sea level. Hummm, even here you can feel the coolness of the Altiplano.

Walter grunted and kept on examining the damaged map of the north of Santander. The complaint had no effect. His annoying neighbor was not going to be discouraged with indifference.

– If you want I give you my seat, you won’t regret it. No? Well, your loss, notice that in a while we will begin the descent and then you can see the true meaning of beauty at its finest. Bogotá is spectacular, my friend, spectacular you can say. Its streets, its pleasures, its entertainments…

Walter tried to concentrate and place the screeching, piercing little voice in a deep corner of his subconscious as if it was just an ambience noise, which he barely achieved since those high decibels could be anything but music. He must put some things in order before landing and could not waste any time with such inconveniences. The flight from Granada up to the base in Virginia lasted the exact time to pick up his new passport, some cash, call Jack and set off to Miami. From there, with his fake identity and enough haste, he boarded the Pan Am plane to Bogotá, to try to get to Pamplona before the killers hunting his sister and brother–in–law. The sparkling midget was not in his plans.

– Would you like anything else to drink, sir?

– A Coca–Cola, please.

He drank the beverage straight from the can, what caused a domino effect to his seat partner. Perhaps it was the gurgling of the liquid through the young man’s throat, perhaps the thirst, but the neighbor restarted his endless nagging, this time about the Colombian Cumbia and how relaxing is to swagger to the beat of the drums.

– People do not know that Cumbia comes from here as well as from Panama – Walter mumble something and continued searching the map–. See what I mean? Ignorance is a bad symptom, sir… What did you say your name was?

He played deaf, although he was starting to get mad. He took his Walkman, which he had bought specifically because of its turbo Bass, raised the volume and devoted himself to his favorite hobby: Led Zeppelin. He leaned back the seat and let the little man talking to himself until it was announced that the plane would be landing shortly. His muscles involuntarily tightened once he realized that the individual was still braying.

– … but the joke was on them, because of the city filled with gold, streets to walk by and the golden metal in the shape of stones all over the place, nothing at all. Gonzalo de Quesada is an idiot, but well, at least they gave us the name of the airport: right? Sir…

– Agapito, Agapito Echemendía – Walter replied.

– Well yes, Agapito, this place we are walking on now is the only one left from the golden empire. By the way, are you staying in Bogotá?

Walter sighed, shrugged his shoulders and kept on walking with long strides. There was no human way of getting rid of the fat dwarf that has been getting on his nerves for almost an hour with his seemingly endless harangue and that now, all sweaty for dragging the huge suitcase, was juggling to keep up with the twenty–year–old man with blond hair, beard, green eyes, glasses and absent–minded trying to make his way through the crowd towards the immigration booth: «This guy is going to drive me crazy, no matter how hard I tried to shake him off of me; the harder I try, the worse it gets».

– What do you think?, this is the history of the origins of El Dorado International Airport – panted the dwarf as he placed himself behind him in the passport checkup line – although the truth is that it turns out to be quite boring to talk about the Spanish conquerors and their raptures of greatness – a rogue look on his face –. So, changing the subject, if you remain in the city… can I have you as a guest in my residence, mister Agapito? – the tone, once friendly, became lascivious, revealing the slightly veiled intentions of the little pervert–. Bogotá is a dangerous city and is evident that you’re not from here. I have everything under the sun in my house, Agapito – no “mister” anymore – and for free.

It was the straw that breaks the camel’s back, the limit. The suggestion had been so direct and lacking in tact that Walter decided to stop right there what could end up being a problem. The dilated pupils of the little man surveying his features, the saliva bubbling in the corner of his mouth, the desire of the flesh. The camouflaged Agapito sighed in resignation, smiled faintly and as he duck, whispered to his ear.

– It’s a really tempting offer, sir. I imagined the room in a Luis XV style, with its enormous feather–bed, the pink silk curtains, aromatic candles, massage in the bath, salts and incense, huge television with dazzling gay pornography. Humm.

The midget licked his lips with pleasure. Agapito had fallen into the trap.

– I would gladly go and enjoy life foolishly. How is it? La vida loca! But you would be in great danger in my hands, sir – he noticed the instant change in the man’s expression–. By any chance, have you heard about the hired assassins of the seventh order?

From the grimace and the deathly pale on his face, he confirmed that, for sure, at least he knew about the assassins.

– Well, I see that you’re aware, so you’re going to remain here, really quiet, while I check my entry to the country and you won’t say another word – the midget was about to reply but Walter put a finger in his mouth–. If I hear you yawn, sneeze, complain or even whistle, what’s more, if you take a step forward, raise a foot or kneel down, I swear for the slayer virgin of the Compostela that I’ll slice your throat like an orange. And I won’t stop there. I’ll find your boyfriend and stick his own penis through the ear, leaving aside that I’ll kill your family, regardless of age or sex. Did you understand now? If you have, move your head.

He had.

The fake Agapito checked in his papers; everything in order. He received a friendly Welcome to Colombia, picked up his luggage and headed to the exit with a smile, realizing that, in the end, the flight Miami / Bogotá in the modern and newly released Super Snake MD 82, turned out to be more than relaxing. He turned his head and saw him there in line, petrified in spite of the protests. He raised his arm and throw him a kiss.

The man didn’t even blink: “I don’t know how did I came up with all that about the assassins, even less so about the slayer Virgen de la Compostela, the only virgin I know is Virgen del Cobre, in Santiago de Cuba, and if she finds out that I put her next to the assassins…”.

Outside the airport, among the crowd welcoming family and friends, he met a young Colombian, dark skin, thin and in military outfit who was waiting for him, poster in hand. He identified himself.

– Mister Agapito?

Hollebeck nodded.

– Commander Jack McConnolly instructed me about your immediate needs, sir. He wasn’t able to welcome you himself because he is after a gang of paramilitary crooks that carried out a massacre of natives in the area of San Jose de Cúcuta. The Commander ordered me to inform you that he will meet you there.

– In San José de Cúcuta? – He asked surprised.

– Precisely. You’re going to Pamplona, right? Well, first you have to take a domestic flight to Cúcuta which is about three hundred miles from here, we get down at Camilo Daza and from there we go to Pamplona by car. It’s the shortest way, sir. We will travel in a cargo Aeronorte with military coverage. Your flight awaits you, I’ll go with you. My name is Salustiano, sir, I’m a soldier from the Urban Antiterrorism Special Forces, and the Commander is my instructor, chief and friend, even though he’s a Yankee, which is saying a lot.

The green irises watched him cheerfully. The chest of the lanky Colombian puffed up with pride when he said he belonged to the Colombian special troops; good sign, and the fact that he didn’t like an American to boss him around; even a better sign. After having to put up with the unbearable and petrified short pervert, Salustiano’s words sounded like heavenly music.

That and changing to an aircraft where he could lie down on canvases, mats and ammunition boxes. Parachute on his back.

– Perfect, wonderful news that of the military aircraft. Let’s go.

But Salustiano was looking inquisitively towards the airport building, where a couple of police officers were dragging a short and ridiculous little man that refuses to move, shouting to the top of his lungs that the assassins were going to behead him.

The modified DC–6 was pretty noisy and uncomfortable, exactly what he needed to arrive to Cúcuta completely jubilant. He was travelling next to a bunch of military equipment and a group of freshmen parachutists (paratroopers), who seemed insecure, with more fear than grip, so, as a good special commando, he set his worries aside and spent the whole flight telling stories about fatal accidents due to the poor conditions of the parachutes and what an ugly sight was to see a man smashed against the ground.

Once they were completely frightened, he began talking about those parachutists that are sucked like candies by the plane engines when they jump. And he did not forget to mention those who rush headlong at others planes or helicopters while in free fall. To make matters worse, being welcome in the air by a rain of bullets didn’t sound very flattering.

The instructor had to retire to the cockpit, and they howled with laughter, but Walter continued so serious and solemn until one of the boys threw up. Unconscious compensation for the effeminate harangue of the dwarf.

It has been a while since he saw his friend Jack, giant who went to school with him in Little Creek when he started as a SEAL–4 in his youth. When he first came to the training center, Jack was the first one who tried to go too far, using the age difference (about ten years) and his experience regarding military fight. He soon realized that Walter was not exactly the kind of person who is easily intimidated. They became close friends.

Later, life made them go separate ways, he was selected to be part of the Development Group of the Naval Special Task Force or, what amounts to the same thing, Seal Team Six with only nineteen years, while the stubborn Jack started in the counter–insurgency as a trainer for the Latin–American anti–drug trafficking armed forces, specially the Colombian ones, where he made a reputation as the living military man with the most wounds in his body, in spite of being ambushed lots of times.

The friendship remained intact and they got together whenever they could. Now, it was a different and tricky, besides personal. Nevertheless, he asked for his help and immediately received it. Jack, reckless like no other and with a remarkable luck to remain unharmed despite exposing himself to bullets more times than any other human being, agreed to look after him without a word.

When the airplane steps descended, he found himself in front of a convertible military jeep and his friend comfortably waiting for him. He threw his pack to the back and hopped on the vehicle.

– Nothing better than having a personal driver! – and they hugged each other. Salustiano did the corresponding salute and sat at the back.

Jack watched how the young man that had vomited needed help to get down from the plane, the laughter of the pilots, the efforts of the parachuting instructor to stay calm and the look of fear in the face of the rest of the assault team. He looked seriously at his friend and he simply shrugged.

– Great kids that you have here, Jack, very confident of themselves.

For a Commander, Jacques Alexander Mc. Connolly was an eccentric that the higher rank officers tolerated because they have no other choice. He was tall, in his thirties, over six feet tall. Athletic complexion and long black hair tied up in a pigtail where some gray hairs begin to show.

Man of clear and transparent look, his filthy biker’s Ray Ban sunglasses hanging in a strap from his neck. Were it not for his camouflage uniform he would be mistaken with an ordinary and huge hippie, something really far from the truth. Despite his unorthodox looks, no military man could match Jack’s performance and results. He was one of the best soldiers that ever was.

Nobody took risks like him and he always managed to get away with, at the most, some wound. In several occasions, they had given him up for dead in the operation room and he had miraculously survived. It was so much so that there was a rumor that he had a deal with the Devil, to which he always reply the same: “the same happens with our Lord, they both dislike me and keep me here, because in Heaven or in Hell, no way”.

During a contingency where he almost died and recovered himself, he promised Walter to tell him the truth, but with his legendary reputation of being a liar, a womanizer and a drunk, the story would not be very convincing, that’s why his friend preferred no to hear it.

While they were on the way from the Cúcuta airport to the city center, they caught up with each other.

– So, is it true you get involved in a shooting with the Cubans in Granada?

– Indeed. In fact, soon you’ll meet a friend that I rescued almost dead, good man, very capable, and now he’s in our tactics; his name is Pablo Rosabal. Granada was a fraud, Jack, a beginner’s fraud. The President Miguel despises his people and sent them to die in order to change the balance of the forces in the region, which luckily for all, didn’t happen.

– There, you really do your homework; so, Walter, what on earth are you doing here and what is it that you need?

He was not going to lie, not at this point and least to his friend, and neither would he involve him in the problem, so he chose to be blunt.

– Do you remember that my sister had to get out of Chile at full speed and exile in Pamplona after the coup against Pinochet? – Jack nodded–. Well, after all this time, when everything seemed forgotten, they come after her. I don’t know how they found her, but they did, and that is not the worst part, Jack – he swallowed –. When my mother called me, I was on duty in the island of Granada, and that madman of Peter came here.

– Is your father here? But what’s going through that old crock’s mind! He’s going to be a problem, however good a military man he was and all his training; he’s not twenty years old anymore. Damn it, he’s a dinosaur!

– He never gets tired, man, he never does; they are going to kill him. I nearly could not finish the mission to come here as fast as I could and see if I can prevent the tragedy. He is such a pig–headed, the more you talk to him, the worse it turns out. I need your help – he made a pause to delay what he was about to say –, of course, you’re not going to get involved. This is personal, Jack, I cannot allow you get involved and then something happens to you, I would never forgive myself.

Jack grimaced and braked the jeep sharply even though the traffic was really heavy.

– What is wrong with you!

– But …

Obviously, Jack didn’t like a bit that Walter asked him to stay out of this matter. They have known each other for a long time, staunch comrades–in–arms; they have looked after each other and their blood had mixed up in more than one occasion.

– But, what the hell, Walter, I am already involved, so don’t fuck with me and let me think. Do you really think I’m gonna leave you alone with these fascist beasts? The first thing we need to know is how many targets we must eliminate, not because I’m concerned about the number, but because the less they are, the bigger our chances to go by the Colombian territory unnoticed. Let’s hope we’re not dealing with an elusive shooter, otherwise we’re screwed, because it will be relatively easy for him to remain invisible – he scratched his chin thoughtfully –. There’s one person that can help us – he put the vehicle in motion interfering with the traffic, a car braked sharply and the driver shouted at him. Jack gave him the finger. Other cars joined the one honking, booing him with all sorts of insults while Jack laughed –. Salustiano; does your cousin Gervasio is still in touch with the people from the liberation movement of Priest Rojas?

The Colombian soldier answered affirmatively while he watched the traffic jam behind him.

– Ok then, let’s do this: we go by his house, pick him up and go straight to the jungle to look for reliable information. We have to filter if we’re dealing with a commando from the drug–traffic between Chile and Colombia, if so, we will know when and where they will attack and stop them. That’s the easy scenario. The hard one would be to wall Pamplona, if it’s not too late, so that your sister, her husband and the old man can escape. If they entered through Putumayo, in Caquetá, we will know it. We go to the jungle, find out, and when we return, we get provisions and weapons, many weapons.

– Perfect, chief, so if we want the generous collaboration of my cousin Gervasio, we must go south, to Los Patios. It’s not far, around four to five kilometers away.

Jack nodded. Suddenly he remembered something, turned facing Walter and clapped him hard in the shoulder.

– Fuck, Waldito, it’s been years since we used the code: Le début d’une belle amitié. I believe that since we were students: isn’t it? When I read the message it made me remember Peter and the crazy commando of Wolfsburg.

– The last time we used it was when they put you in jail for destroying the bar and you called me half–drunk from the police station. Damn, it feels like yesterday.

Time had passed, but friendships remained, especially those who had bled together. One day you wake up and find your children using the same codes you designed forty or fifty years ago, when the Nazi bombs intended to devastate the planet for the sole purpose of making of the swastika the world flag.

Darker times, hard and uncertain, forgers of terror, but also of indestructible bonds between kindred men.

Le début d’une belle amitié. The secret code among the Wolfsburg veterans.

– Le début d’une belle amitié? – Salustiano watched them curiously –. Is that French?

Jack smiled and Walter leaned back in the seat, exhausted from Granada, exhausted from all the travelling and exhausted because of the killers that he would kill to save his sister from the jaws of power. He put his arms behind his neck, let himself get carried away by the cool air and tried not to close his eyes, but the familiar images came to his mind like slides in a projector and, without trying to offend the presents, he fell dead tired.

Le début d’une belle amitié, his father’s code for help, coined during the Second World War within a group of friends to help each other in case of trouble. He took a leap in time back to 1942, when all the hatred towards the family began and when his father, Peter Hollebeck Duncan, went through the metamorphosis from man to hero, although he never thought of himself like that.

His mom Maritza, the Painted Bögart, Annie, his nephew Peter Humphrey, Tarbh McCloud, Klaus, Taug Börmann, Ramón Goicochea, Melao Cañizares, the German fascists and commandos, the Russians, the Pinochet’s followers and many others paraded in his head. He, so clearly, saw the moment in which the office of the Cuban President Fulgencio Batista requested the US government the collaboration to clarify the strange events happening at some remote town and Peter Hollebeck, his father and officer of the OSS, was sent to investigate.

What happened next changed the course of their lives with an incredible and dark twist. 1942 turned out to be a very peculiar year.

CHAPTER I
PINAR DEL RIO HAS SECRETS
1942

DESPITE THE EARLY MORNING HOUR, Ramón Goicochea was pacing impatiently across the small room of his house. Nervous, he was awaiting the arrival of the already delayed dawn in order to go to The Cayuga. Today, one of the most famous military detectives was arriving, a combination between Charles Bronson and Sherlock Holmes.

Such a sui generis guy doesn’t happen every day and Ramón Goicochea would be the first one to meet him in person. The colonel Peter Hollebeck Duncan had been sent by the American army to solve the tangled and rare case and it’s not that there were no good police officers in Cuba; in fact there were many great, smart and competent investigators. Rumors has it that the colonel had the record of the youngest high rank officer of the American military intelligence.

The delicate matter for which the high military command, along with politicians and the President himself, have decided to ask for help consisted on the mass suicide of over three hundred inhabitants from a small locality of Pinar del Rio. To keep the press and the politicians away, it was decided to transfer the case to the military sphere. The man they would send had already solved, despite his youth, the case of the slaughter of Peruvian natives and also something related to the Asian opium.

For such reasons, he was considered an expert in such cases. Not to mention the facts that he could pilot, was a good shot and was no fool. Goicochea was thrilled; he had been chosen to be his host for his qualities in the Cuban air force and, most of all, for fluently speaking Shakespeare’s language, defeating other candidates presented by the army by sheer hard work.

What caused him the most happiness was the admiration from his wife, who had so far considered him to be just another ordinary military man and now you could see her pride when she walk around the neighborhood: Ordinary, eh? She swaggered with so much vanity that in a bragging impulse she even cooked chicken rice A La Chorrera for him, his favorite.

The night before had been exceptional regarding sex. The hammering of the bed against the wall seemed to rattle the entire building and Ramón ejaculated so violently that he thought he was gonna have a heart attack, because the famous chicken rice was half–digested. Luckily, his tachycardia was just a scare.

Esther was thrilled with Ramoncito’s progress, to work as an adviser meant to be acknowledge and, above all, a better salary. For the Goicochea family and their precarious living conditions, a promotion was a gift from the gods. Esther’s job as head of a nurse shift in the Provincial Center Freyre Andrade wasn’t nearly enough, and Maritza, his little sister–in–law, was still in school; sheer expense.

Havana of the forties wasn’t as chaotic as that of the thirties crisis, you could find a job and the city was taking off despite the traditional detractors, but as usual, the rich and the poor were hand–in–hand in their efforts, ones to maintain their status and the others to improve it. Construction was done at a fast rate, entertainment was increasing and the country was growing with the longing for leading Latin America.

Politicians and workers, peasants and craftsmen, patriots and nihilists, honest and corrupt, police officers and gangsters, everyone had their place within the city economy.

– Tell me how is this man Peter, dear brother–in–law: handsome? Strong? Does he dress well? I bet he’s like Tyrone Power in El Zorro, riding against the settlers of California, with his mop of hair and the mask…

Goicochea watched Maritza leaned on the frame of the door, dreaming about duels, towers and golden princes in their planes and dragons. Beautiful girl with her sixteen years, an angel face finished.