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Book: Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) by J Robert Kennedy
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Authors: J Robert Kennedy
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Congress. Like a congress of ravens picking at the corpses
littering a battlefield, you will take what is left of the Fatherland and
ensure that the Germany we tried to create lives on. It is up to you to
keep the dream alive. My generation has failed, but you, or your progeny, will
succeed. Learn from our mistakes, and the Fourth Reich will not be just a
dream, but a reality that will bring stability and order to the entire world.
And with science and the will of the gods, the Führer will once again stand in
the Reichstag, and the world will tremble at the might of the Fourth Reich!
Long live the Congress! Long live the Führer!”
Shouts
of Heil Hitler erupted, Mengele joining in before leaving with the senior
staff. The exuberance among the young men still in the room continued for
several minutes before they returned to their seats and opened the envelopes in
front of them.
And what
Heidrich read filled him at once with hope and awe, the might and superiority
of the Third Reich clear.
And
Operation Raven’s Claw was proof.
Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
September 17 th , 1998
Carmine Donati stared at the envelope, debating on whether to bother
opening it. He had sorted through the day’s mail long ago, setting anything
aside he felt wasn’t urgent. Now it was the end of the day and it was time to
file most of the pile in front of him into the recycling bin.
Yet this
wasn’t some flyer, it was something different.
It was a
high quality envelope, the stock not a discount store brand, though what had
him curious was the fact the return address was the museum he was now sitting
in, addressed to that same facility.
He
sighed, his eyes closing slightly as the day caught up to him. It was always a
struggle keeping a small museum going, especially in these times when people
seemed to be losing interest in their history. He tried to keep the interest
alive, urging the schools to come and visit their modest collection as often as
possible, and he’d recount the story of how his grandfather had helped hide a
portrait of Leonardo da Vinci himself from the Nazis.
And had
died for it.
His
father had instilled in him an interest in the arts and history, and though his
father hadn’t gone into the business, he had gone to university and eventually
obtained his doctorate, returning to his hometown to work at the museum, and
eventually run it, keeping his grandfather’s memory alive as best he could.
And it
troubled him every time one of the young children asked to see the portrait for
which his grandfather had died.
For he
couldn’t.
It had
never been returned.
Lost to
history.
Lost to
a war that had yet to give up all it had stolen.
He
shoved the letter opener into the top of the envelope, slicing it open. Fishing
out the single sheet of paper, he gasped, having to read it several times
before he fully believed what he saw.
It is
time for the portrait to be returned. Call when you are ready.
He
looked at the number and reached for the phone, stopping just before gripping
the receiver, his cynical mind taking over. He examined the letter again. A
plain piece of heavy stock, the message typewritten with no identifying marks
on it whatsoever. He held it up to the light, a watermark evident, but nothing
that he recognized as important.
It must
be a hoax.
But
what if it isn’t?
No one
ever knew what had come of the portrait. His grandfather was dead, and the
young man who had helped, Nicola Santini, had returned to the town after the
war, refusing to talk of what had happened, living out his days on the family
farm, almost a hermit, ashamed of something he had done.
His
involvement had been forgotten by most.
He
grabbed the phone and quickly dialed before he could change his mind.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I,
um, received a letter?”
“Is this
Doctor Donati?”
“Yes.”
“Stay
where you are.”
The call
ended and he stared at the receiver, not sure what to make of what had
littering a battlefield, you will take what is left of the Fatherland and
ensure that the Germany we tried to create lives on. It is up to you to
keep the dream alive. My generation has failed, but you, or your progeny, will
succeed. Learn from our mistakes, and the Fourth Reich will not be just a
dream, but a reality that will bring stability and order to the entire world.
And with science and the will of the gods, the Führer will once again stand in
the Reichstag, and the world will tremble at the might of the Fourth Reich!
Long live the Congress! Long live the Führer!”
Shouts
of Heil Hitler erupted, Mengele joining in before leaving with the senior
staff. The exuberance among the young men still in the room continued for
several minutes before they returned to their seats and opened the envelopes in
front of them.
And what
Heidrich read filled him at once with hope and awe, the might and superiority
of the Third Reich clear.
And
Operation Raven’s Claw was proof.
Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
September 17 th , 1998
Carmine Donati stared at the envelope, debating on whether to bother
opening it. He had sorted through the day’s mail long ago, setting anything
aside he felt wasn’t urgent. Now it was the end of the day and it was time to
file most of the pile in front of him into the recycling bin.
Yet this
wasn’t some flyer, it was something different.
It was a
high quality envelope, the stock not a discount store brand, though what had
him curious was the fact the return address was the museum he was now sitting
in, addressed to that same facility.
He
sighed, his eyes closing slightly as the day caught up to him. It was always a
struggle keeping a small museum going, especially in these times when people
seemed to be losing interest in their history. He tried to keep the interest
alive, urging the schools to come and visit their modest collection as often as
possible, and he’d recount the story of how his grandfather had helped hide a
portrait of Leonardo da Vinci himself from the Nazis.
And had
died for it.
His
father had instilled in him an interest in the arts and history, and though his
father hadn’t gone into the business, he had gone to university and eventually
obtained his doctorate, returning to his hometown to work at the museum, and
eventually run it, keeping his grandfather’s memory alive as best he could.
And it
troubled him every time one of the young children asked to see the portrait for
which his grandfather had died.
For he
couldn’t.
It had
never been returned.
Lost to
history.
Lost to
a war that had yet to give up all it had stolen.
He
shoved the letter opener into the top of the envelope, slicing it open. Fishing
out the single sheet of paper, he gasped, having to read it several times
before he fully believed what he saw.
It is
time for the portrait to be returned. Call when you are ready.
He
looked at the number and reached for the phone, stopping just before gripping
the receiver, his cynical mind taking over. He examined the letter again. A
plain piece of heavy stock, the message typewritten with no identifying marks
on it whatsoever. He held it up to the light, a watermark evident, but nothing
that he recognized as important.
It must
be a hoax.
But
what if it isn’t?
No one
ever knew what had come of the portrait. His grandfather was dead, and the
young man who had helped, Nicola Santini, had returned to the town after the
war, refusing to talk of what had happened, living out his days on the family
farm, almost a hermit, ashamed of something he had done.
His
involvement had been forgotten by most.
He
grabbed the phone and quickly dialed before he could change his mind.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I,
um, received a letter?”
“Is this
Doctor Donati?”
“Yes.”
“Stay
where you are.”
The call
ended and he stared at the receiver, not sure what to make of what had
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