Read Online The Schliemann Legacy by D.A. Graystone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: D.A. Graystone
Tags: Espionage, Revenge, Holocaust, Terrorism, greek, Terrorists, Troy, treasure, treasure hunt, holocaust survivor, terrorism plot, mossad, nazi art theft, nazi death camps, nazi crimes, schliemann, nazi loot, terrorism attacks holocaust
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big score. All slaved for a better life, yet never had enough to satisfy themselves. They played the game the Overlords had created to subjugate the masses. Someday, Duman knew, the people would see their folly. They would be free and he would be the man who freed them. He would not be a leader, for the people did not need a leader.
He was their Savior.
Duman had seen the truth in Russia. There, he had discovered the possibilities open to the people although the perverted socialism of Russia was not the solution. The Russian Revolution had been a valiant attempt, but the course had fouled. The new rulers were no better than those of the past. The Tsars still reigned with bureaucratic titles and military uniforms. The current leaders, with their political machinations, replaced the rich and noble as the privileged class while ordinary people lined up for bread, meat, and toilet paper. Like flies on rancid meat, the scavengers had settled on the system, consuming the choicest morsels for themselves. In the end, even the leaders of the Politburo must die. Only another revolution - a world revolution - would reform the system.
Duman's burning desire was for world revolution. For years, he relentlessly pursued his dream, fighting, killing, and plotting. He created cells throughout the world, training the faithful, arming them, showing them how to disrupt their respective countries, governments, and religions. He guided them through demonstrations, strikes, and uprisings. The unrest fuelled the revolution. Next came riots, burnings, and assassinations.
Like a sea crashing against the shore, the demoralizing violence eroded the foundations of the governments. The revolution spread slowly, forcing governments into submission. The small countries would crumble first because they were the least stable. The democratic governments would fall next. Their free rule provided ample opportunity for disruption and subsequent escape. In time, however, the revolution would touch everyone. Then, the people would take over. The people would enjoy self rule and true freedom.
Duman glanced across the river at Notre Dame. The sight of the exquisite structure bathed in light helped to bring his racing mind under control. Although he despised what the church represented, he could still appreciate the beauty of its architecture.
* * * * *
Located in a seventeenth century building on Rue St Julien le Pauvre, the inn was both discreet and moderately priced. Duman ignored the front desk and ran up the small staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He stopped at the landing in front of room number three. He'd paid the rent for another two months and knew Chanda, whore that she was, would be incapable of resisting the free lodgings. The DST wouldn't bother to inform her of his escape and, unless she had seen a news report, she would imagine herself safe.
He knocked once.
"Just a second, please."
Duman felt elated at the sound of her voice. He could hear rustling from inside the room and knew what she would be wearing.
"Yes, what..." Chanda froze with the door half open. She stared at him, fear leaping into her eyes as they locked with his deep blue ones. She said nothing, but the ancient doorknob rattled from the force of her trembling.
Her expression was all Duman needed to convince himself of the truth. He smiled, his eyes becoming soft and inviting.
"Aren't you going to let me in?"
After a moment, Chanda threw the door open wide, giggling nervously as it banged against the wall. "Sure, come in. I...I didn't expect to see you. When you didn't come back, I mean, I thought... Would you like a drink?"
Duman eased the door shut, locked it, and quietly slid the dead bolt into place. He leaned against the frame and watched as Chanda turned to pour him a Scotch. As he suspected, she was wearing the short silk kimono he had bought for her in Hong Kong. It clung to her young figure and, when she bent over, he could see the pink curve of her naked
He was their Savior.
Duman had seen the truth in Russia. There, he had discovered the possibilities open to the people although the perverted socialism of Russia was not the solution. The Russian Revolution had been a valiant attempt, but the course had fouled. The new rulers were no better than those of the past. The Tsars still reigned with bureaucratic titles and military uniforms. The current leaders, with their political machinations, replaced the rich and noble as the privileged class while ordinary people lined up for bread, meat, and toilet paper. Like flies on rancid meat, the scavengers had settled on the system, consuming the choicest morsels for themselves. In the end, even the leaders of the Politburo must die. Only another revolution - a world revolution - would reform the system.
Duman's burning desire was for world revolution. For years, he relentlessly pursued his dream, fighting, killing, and plotting. He created cells throughout the world, training the faithful, arming them, showing them how to disrupt their respective countries, governments, and religions. He guided them through demonstrations, strikes, and uprisings. The unrest fuelled the revolution. Next came riots, burnings, and assassinations.
Like a sea crashing against the shore, the demoralizing violence eroded the foundations of the governments. The revolution spread slowly, forcing governments into submission. The small countries would crumble first because they were the least stable. The democratic governments would fall next. Their free rule provided ample opportunity for disruption and subsequent escape. In time, however, the revolution would touch everyone. Then, the people would take over. The people would enjoy self rule and true freedom.
Duman glanced across the river at Notre Dame. The sight of the exquisite structure bathed in light helped to bring his racing mind under control. Although he despised what the church represented, he could still appreciate the beauty of its architecture.
* * * * *
Located in a seventeenth century building on Rue St Julien le Pauvre, the inn was both discreet and moderately priced. Duman ignored the front desk and ran up the small staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He stopped at the landing in front of room number three. He'd paid the rent for another two months and knew Chanda, whore that she was, would be incapable of resisting the free lodgings. The DST wouldn't bother to inform her of his escape and, unless she had seen a news report, she would imagine herself safe.
He knocked once.
"Just a second, please."
Duman felt elated at the sound of her voice. He could hear rustling from inside the room and knew what she would be wearing.
"Yes, what..." Chanda froze with the door half open. She stared at him, fear leaping into her eyes as they locked with his deep blue ones. She said nothing, but the ancient doorknob rattled from the force of her trembling.
Her expression was all Duman needed to convince himself of the truth. He smiled, his eyes becoming soft and inviting.
"Aren't you going to let me in?"
After a moment, Chanda threw the door open wide, giggling nervously as it banged against the wall. "Sure, come in. I...I didn't expect to see you. When you didn't come back, I mean, I thought... Would you like a drink?"
Duman eased the door shut, locked it, and quietly slid the dead bolt into place. He leaned against the frame and watched as Chanda turned to pour him a Scotch. As he suspected, she was wearing the short silk kimono he had bought for her in Hong Kong. It clung to her young figure and, when she bent over, he could see the pink curve of her naked
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