Amongst My Enemies by William Brown

Author:William Brown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Military action adventure thriller, WW II Vigilante Justice, Men's pulp cold war thriller, CIA KGB Mossad Nazi SS hit men, Underwater gold u-boat mystery
Publisher: William Brown
Published: 2021-11-19T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sucre, Bolivia

The hour was late. Martin Bormann sat in his study, slumped in his favorite red-leather armchair. It was carefully positioned in front of the high, vaulted fireplace so he could stare deep into the flames. Up close like this, the heat from the white-stone hearth drove the evening chill from his old bones, and the dancing flames drew him in and helped him think. The rest of the room remained shrouded in darkness, as the rolling melodies of “The Flying Dutchman” played on the phonograph. Bormann loved Wagner and he loved it loud, so the big orchestral sound echoed off the stone walls and out across the craggy mountainsides. As the years passed, he had come to appreciate “The Flying Dutchman” more than the others. It had an interesting theme, he thought: a man who was damned to wander the earth forever without ever being allowed to return home. Yes, that was an interesting theme, and one he could understand all too well.

When he had important decisions to make, he disliked being rushed. He preferred to dissect each problem slowly and carefully, holding it up to the light and turning it around and around so he could look deep inside and carefully study each facet, evaluating its strengths and weaknesses, looking for the slightest flaw. Like a diamond cutter with a large rough stone before him, he could lose himself in the intricate geometry for hours on end. Why not? Time was one commodity of which Bormann had an endless supply. Then, after he finally decided what his move would be, he would wager everything on one swift stroke with a mallet and a sharp blade, creating another gem or mere dust.

Tonight he had two such delicate decisions to consider. First, there was the unfinished business with that cursed U-boat; and second, he must finalize the invitation list for his grand annual party here in Bolivia. The party was no trivial matter. For the past five years, he hosted a lavish gala each July 29 for a large but very influential group of South American guests. They would include the ruling elite, conservative politicians, army generals, diplomats, bankers, bishops, and other high-ranking Catholic Church leaders, because they were the finely woven fabric that supported his growing empire on the continent. Without them, he could not function.

The party was now only four weeks away and his invitations must go out. In a country like Bolivia, Peru, or Colombia, where the leadership was barely a generation away from a mud hut in the mountains, there was no social register or “Blue Book.” To an ambitious army colonel or a local mayor whose wife had developed a sweet tooth for the good life, Bormann’s invitation served the purpose. When they received one of his engraved invitations, hand-delivered by a uniformed, heel-clicking chauffeur; that small white envelope was instant confirmation of a man’s place in the power elite. To be overlooked meant he had not yet arrived; but to have once been invited and never invited back was far worse.

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