Prince of Tyrants

Marcellus’ thriller considers the possibility that Hitler did not, in fact, commit suicide. ...the plot aims for—and hits—entertainment... A fun, fantastical adventure in historical revisionism.— Kirkus Reviews

Copyright © Rabb Marcellus 2015

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Kirkus Review

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Novels by Rabb

Chapter 1

Alexandria, Virginia – October 5, 2014

It was a secret room, nestled in the basement of a nineteenth century, brick house off King Street. It had taken Paul Keasler nearly a decade to complete the room’s construction and move his collection of Nazi mementos into the space.

Keasler was now 93 years old and he frequently found himself coming down to this sanctuary, this haven of his past, to read and reminisce about the war.

Paul stood before an enormous, red oak table in the center of this hidden vault. He stared at the wall in front of him, admiring the framed pictures of Adolf Hitler and his inner circle. More recent color photographs had been added of a man and woman sitting on a blanket atop a grassy lawn. A large picnic basket sat on one side, while small children played happily next to it. Similar pictures occupied the rest of the space and Paul had hung them all with special care.

A red, black and white Nazi banner completely occupied a second wall, while still more unit banners and the insignia of the Waffen-SS or Schutzstaffel, hung proudly on a third wall.

His prize possession, however, was a life size, color oil portrait of Adolf Hitler in full military uniform. It was easily six feet tall and hung prominently on the last wall.

Carefully, measuring each step, Paul haltingly moved his bent and feeble frame around to the end of the table where he pulled back a wooden chair and sat down, ever so slowly. His white hair was thin and all but gone; but beneath bushy white eyebrows, his eyes were still a bright green. A once handsomely sculptured face was now pale and deeply lined, filled with the dark spots of extreme age. Skin hung loosely under his chin, almost touching his chest when he bowed his head to read.

Gently, he reached under the table to a drawer that had been meticulously hidden from sight. He opened it and inside was a leather bound book, also old, like himself. Paul removed the book from its hideaway and placed it on the table. His hands caressed the book, and touched its gold letters almost in reverence. Across the cover was inscribed:

Das Journal of Obersturmfuhrer Otto Beck

This journal had been started when he was assigned to Adolf Hitler in 1945. He’d since changed his name and hidden for most of his adult life. But now, in this quiet moment, he was once again Obersturmfuhrer Beck.

Just as he opened the journal to its first page, he heard the sound of thunder outside and looked up. How appropriate, he thought, his absorption with the journal temporarily interrupted. The storm reminded him of the Russian artillery’s rumble and blasts as it closed in on Berlin in April of 1945. Memories of momentous times came flooding back. Glancing at his journal once again, Paul smiled and began to read the words he’d written when he was still Otto Beck:

March 2, 1945

Today, I was assigned to be the Fuhrer’s aide by General Heinrich Müeller, head of the Gestapo and one of the few remaining with the Fuhrer. He said he had met with the Fuhrer and had given him an update on the Seven Needles operation. Müeller told me that in 1938, he had personally purchased seven estates in seven different South American countries. Each had been fenced and secured with gestapo personnel wearing plain clothes. A family, loyal to the Fuhrer, had been chosen to staff each estate.

Every property had been transformed into a fortress, complete with arms, food, and all the necessary comforts. Each had been prepared for the unlikely exile of the Fuhrer, should Britain and France call his bluff. In addition, tons of gold bullion and various countries’ currencies had been moved into these estates during the course of the war.

When I asked, Why needles? he laughed. Needles in a haystack, Beck! Difficult to find!

My assignment is to arrive at the Fuhrer’s bunker on or before April 20, 1945 and help with the movement of the Fuhrer and Eva Braun to Argentina.

The plan is to release everyone, who has personal knowledge of the Fuhrer, just after his birthday party. The Fuhrer and Miss Braun will then leave the bunker on April 22, to be replaced by the Fuhrer’s double who will be managed by Goebbels and Bormann. Hitler’s personal secretaries and other aides have been sworn to secrecy and must remain to complete the subterfuge. The Fuhrer’s double will be shot and his body will be provided as proof for the Russians.

I am so proud to be chosen for this assignment, Heil Hitler!

There was an unfamiliar noise upstairs, then a squeak from one of the floor joists overhead. Paul closed the journal and returned it to its hidden drawer. It was very late and apprehension immediately turned his stomach into knots. Slowly, he stood and began to shuffle toward the open door. Has someone broken in? he wondered nervously. His eyes widened as he heard the familiar squeaks of the wooden stairs leading down to the basement.

Paul tried to rush for the door, to close it and lock himself away from the intruder, but, it was too late. A man, clad completely in black, stepped into the room. He pulled off his hood and just stood there, staring at the frail spectacle in front of him.

He was a tall, powerfully built man, middle aged, with olive skin and dark eyes. He was distinguished and clean shaven, but the toothy grin on his face was frightening. His features were plainly Jewish, and Paul’s apprehension deepened.

What do you want? Paul stammered. What are you doing in my house? Get out or I’ll call the police!

The man in black revealed a large knife. Using perfect German, he simply said Obersturmfuhrer Otto Beck, I presume!

My name is Keasler, Paul replied in English. Now, get out!

My name is Aaron Meyrowitz and I’m Nakam, he calmly replied in German.

Nakam! Paul’s lips began to tremble, Nakam! he whispered softly, his body slumping backward.

The man in black moved further into the room followed by two more men. I think you know exactly why we’re here, old man, his German crisp and full of hate.

Rache! Paul replied in German. Revenge, he repeated in English as he began to stumble backward, his hand sliding along the table for stability.

The man named Aaron moved quickly forward, his right hand holding the knife in front of him. You were SS weren’t you? Schutzstaffel, one of Hitler’s body guards!

Paul was tiring, his feeble legs threatened to buckle as he continued to back away. I’m Paul Keasler! I was born in Argentina. I was never in the SS! he lied.

Then, what’s all this? Aaron motioned toward the walls filled with Nazi memorabilia. He made a motion with his knife and the other two men moved around him. They grabbed Paul under each arm and lifted him off the floor.

There’s one way to be sure, Herr Beck! He stepped up and tore the shirt off of Paul, revealing his left arm. There, in fading blue, was a tattoo. His SS number, still visible from its application in 1941.

You’re Otto Beck and your number proves it. You’re a murdering bastard, responsible for the genocide of my people and now, it’s your turn! He shoved the knife into the old man’s stomach with the words, Dam Yehudi Nakam!

Jewish blood will be avenged! Paul knew the phrase well. His two captors dropped him unceremoniously to the floor.

He lay where they dropped him, curled into a fetal position with a pool of blood beneath him enlarging rapidly. As he watched, the three men left the room and casually disappeared through the door.

His eyesight began to fade. He reached out with his index finger and placed it into the puddle of his blood. With faltering strength, he moved his hand to a dry space on the floor. Using the blood that dripped from his finger, with trembling strokes he wrote the word:

NAKAM

As he closed his eyes for the last time, his final thoughts were of his beloved Fuhrer.

Chapter 2

Red and blue flashing lights streamed from North Payne Street. Four white, Dodge Chargers blocked off the street, their sides emblazoned with a wide, black stripe, broken by the word ‘Police’. That word sat prominently in the middle of their doors with ‘City of Alexandria’ written just below it.

Beside the street, an uneven sidewalk was broken by roots from trees that had been planted at regular intervals. The tall, oak trees were at least a hundred years old and they towered above small green lawns in front of each house. The lawn beside the two-story Keasler house was bordered by a driveway. Its pavement reached from the street to a backyard where it ended with a small, plain garage.

The front of the house was more picturesque. Years of rain dripping off its roof had stained the red brick with streaks of mildew. A low, brick wall ran the width of the house and supported a small porch with square, white columns that rose upward to the roof. A corroded brass plaque, with the name Keasler, was attached to the front door. The house was simple, quite unremarkable amidst all the other houses on Payne Street, except for the yellow tape.

A blue uniformed police officer moved slowly across the front porch unrolling the typical crime scene tape. He painstakingly encircled each of the square posts.

An unmarked, black, Ford—a Crown Victoria—rolled up to the scene and parked behind a police cruiser in the driveway. There was no mistaking the likeness of a motor pool car. The driver, wearing a gray suit and black tie loosened at the collar, got out of the car. A woman, also in a suit, exited the passenger side. She walked up to the driver and they surveyed the scene, moving slowly toward the front yard.

A white ZNN van passed the house and came to a stop down the street. Looks like the news hounds are already on the scent! the woman remarked.

The driver laughed, They don’t miss much!

Crime scene tape had been strung around the small yard and uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter. A crowd of curious neighbors had gathered in front of the tape. The agents pushed through them and approached the officers.

An Alexandria policeman held up his hands to stop them and said, Sir, Ma’am, this is a crime scene area. Please stay behind the tape.

The man walked confidently up to the officer and flashed his credentials. FBI, I’m Agent Frazier and this is my partner, Agent Sanders.

Agent William Frazier was a mountain of a man, fully 6’-4" weighing in at 250 lbs. Even in his fifties, he was fit and appeared to be quite the immovable object. Thick, white hair, combed straight back, framed a handsome face that was heavily lined from years of investigations. Deep set, brown eyes sat above a crooked nose that had been broken in a scuffle with a felon years ago.

His partner, Mary Sanders acknowledged the officer briefly with a solemn nod, then continued glancing around at her surroundings. She was a robust woman, in her forties, with the confidence and look of an athlete ten years younger. Short brown hair fell softly over the smile crinkles starting to form around grey eyes; eyes that took in every event at the crime scene. Her photographic memory recorded all she saw for any future reference that might be needed.

The uniformed officer lifted the yellow, crime scene tape allowing the two agents admission to the yard. Please follow me, he said, leading them onto the front porch and into the house.

As they entered the house, the aging residence greeted them with a distinct, dank odor. Ceilings were easily twelve feet high and hardwood floors were worn from years of traffic.

Following the officer’s lead, they proceeded through the foyer. The floor squeaked as they walked past a staircase leading up to a second floor. They proceeded into a dim hallway that ended in an ancient kitchen. Finally, turning right, they entered a doorway that lead to a basement.

Detective Collins is expecting you, said the officer over his shoulder. He continued down the steps and the odor grew stronger, changing to a musty, damp stench.

At the bottom of the stairs, a single exposed light bulb illuminated the concrete floor and empty, block wall to the left. Storage shelves occupied the wall to the right. One set of shelves had been displaced. Their shifted position revealed a hidden doorway, an opening that spilled warm, incandescent light into the gloom. Waiting at the threshold was a man in plain clothes, staring into the room.

He turned his head toward the stairs, his thoughts interrupted by their entrance. Ahh, FBI, I presume? he said, approaching the agents and offering his hand.

Frazier shook his hand, I’m Agent Frazier, my partner, Agent Sanders, he said, motioning to Mary.

Detective Collins, the man introduced himself.

Why are we here, Detective? Frazier asked. More than a simple homicide?

Could be, Agent Frazier. Collins led them into the room, stepping quickly beyond the threshold.

My God, Mary mouthed quietly as she stepped through the doorway; her eyes taking in the crime scene. Stunned, she turned her head and twisted around to take in all four walls.

It’s a goddamned Nazi cathedral! Frazier remarked loudly, glancing from wall to wall. His practiced eyes took in the body lying on the floor covered by a white sheet. Its edges turning red as it soaked up Keasler’s blood.

Mary pushed past the detective and approached the body. She squatted down to examine it and lifted the sheet enough to see the lifeless features of the victim.

He must have been in his nineties. She examined the stab wound in his abdomen. Looks like the killer knew what he was doing, she said, to no one in particular.

Frazier and Collins stepped up behind her to view the body. Mary dropped the sheet and stood up.

What was the time of death? Frazier asked.

Based on preliminary liver temperature, we think about 3:00 this morning, Collins replied.

They could all see NAKAM scrawled on the concrete floor, dried but easily visible.

I guess this is why you called us, Frazier remarked as he pointed to the floor.

Yes, Collins replied. Someone downtown did a search on the word NAKAM. They came up with a Jewish vengeance organization going back to 1945.

We’re familiar with them, Sanders said, lifting her head to look at Collins. Been a long time since we were involved with them, though.

Frazier looked at Collins and nodded, This pretty much makes it our investigation now, Detective.

Fine by me. Collins said as he turned to leave, I’ll have my men protect the crime scene until your people arrive. Good luck! he motioned around the room at the relics he saw, then, he was gone.

Frazier and Sanders looked the room over. It was truly a Nazi shrine. Every wall was covered with some kind of photograph, flag or display. Nothing disturbed, Sanders noticed, no struggle.

We need to know who this guy was, Frazier said as he walked around the oak table. You can bet his real name wasn’t Keasler. He sat down in the chair. Why does he have a table down here? Frazier said, as he began to think out loud. Verbalization always helped his concentration, his instincts. He must have sat in this very chair a multitude of times.

He began to look at the large desk, to scrutinize it. Suddenly, he moved to the floor and looked underneath the table. Something strange here... he pushed a panel and a drawer dropped into sight. He stood up and sat back down in Keasler’s chair to open the drawer.

Bingo!

What? Sanders asked.

Frazier laid the journal on the table. Don’t know, but it’s very old...and written in German. Looks like a journal! Can you read German?

Probably not. It’s been a long time since school, Sanders replied as she stepped up next to Frazier. It seems to say The Journal of...something leader...Otto Beck. She opened the cover and stared at the first hand written entry. It looks like a date. March 2, 1945, but I can’t make out the rest.

At any rate, we’ll need to notify his next of kin. Maybe they can help shed some light on his murder. AND...chances are we’re going to need a historian...specifically, an expert on the Nazis. Think I know just the guy! said Frazier.

Chapter 3

Georgetown University – Washington, D.C.

Modern History, a required course at the University, was being taught in a room resembling a large theatre. Its lecture pit was all but surrounded by a floor that sloped up and away towards the back of the room. Two sets of steps provided access to student seating which was already crowded for this semester.

Professor Michael Grayson was young, considering his list of credentials. Tall, nearly 6’-2", his physique was slim, yet well proportioned. Short, black hair framed a boyish face with brown eyes and steel rimmed glasses. His usual attire was old blue jeans, complemented by a dark blue shirt with rolled up sleeves. He had a surprisingly powerful voice, and its booming reverberation was a definite requirement in this enormous room.

The room was dark and in front of the lectern was a projection screen that had been pulled down from the ceiling. Grayson’s Power Point presentation filled the display with a montage of Nazi icons.