Apostle of the Tyrants

By Anthony Hulse

Disgraced soldier, Jack Foley is summoned to York by his eccentric ex-father in law, Professor Charles Fanshawe, who is convinced someone is replicating Hitler’s initial atrocities. He persuades Foley to investigate with the lure of half a million pounds. Foley teams up with German journalist, Monica Ritter, and they become involved in a series of gruesome murders, which leads them on a quest for the killer. The professor discovers his original theory was wrong, and now believes the killer’s motive is far more frightening than he could have imagined. When her father disappears in Rome, Jessica, Foley’s ex-wife joins the manhunt. Together, the trio unravel a complex plot, and a list of suspects is suggested in a coded book by the professor. Interpol Captain, Nino Bartoli heads the investigation, and suspicion falls on Foley. A horrifying sequence of global murders follow. A complex and terrifying book that will leave you guessing the identity of the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291859928

Book preview

Apostle of the Tyrants

Apostle of the Tyrants

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-85992-8

Cover design : Death’s head @ iStock

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Chapter One

The shimmering night lights illuminated the city of York and triggered a reaction in the driver. The vibrant city at night resembled so many of the war-torn countries he had served in. He harboured the memories, and his body ached for the adrenalin rush the army once provided, but cruelly withdrew.

Jack Foley braked outside the ornate gates and turned off his engine. He gazed at his reflection in his mirror. He had retained his military style haircut, even though his ex wife, Jessica beseeched him to grow it longer. Their parting seemed inevitable, mainly due to his constant rants and tantrums, regarding his unjustified dismissal from the paratroop regiment.

At the age of thirty-five, Foley’s face was rugged, yet handsome. His grey eyes that had witnessed so much carnage were kind, and his small button nose belied the combative nature ingrained in him.

He looked towards the large mansion. The red-bricked structure stood proudly in the impressive grounds of the Fanshawe residence. Jessica had made it abundantly clear that after the divorce it would be appropriate for them both to remain friends, but from a distance. So why had she begged him to call at her father’s home?

He started his engine, the black BMW rolled forward, and the security cameras trained on his vehicle. The gates opened and he followed the long driveway; the colourful flowerbeds and the manicured lawns almost invisible in the gloom.

Four other cars occupied the ample parking ground outside the mansion, and Foley manoeuvred his vehicle towards them. He left his car and the bitterness of the April evening prompted him to put on his sports jacket.

He strode proudly across the gravel-based compound, and found it difficult to progress without resorting to a military gait. Even though it had been almost two years, he still possessed his regimental traits.

The tall front door of the mansion opened, bathing the porch in illumination. Jessica stood before him, arms folded, her natural beauty deeming cosmetics unnecessary. Her chestnut mane was tied up, her almost perfect figure still evident, beneath her unflattering green, woollen cardigan and denims.

Foley stared into her ice blue eyes and kissed her on the cheek. Jessica. You called and so, here I am.

And how is Harrogate, nowadays?

The same as when you left it. Are you going to invite me in?

He followed Jessica into the mansion and she led him through the marvellously lavish hall into the study. The interior of the mansion appeared so medieval, and several coats of arms and historic paintings embellished the panelled walls. A roaring fire blazed away fiercely in the open grate, and a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon stood on the walnut table. Jessica had undoubtedly not lost her craving for champagne.

Foley settled into a leather armchair and regarded his ex-wife curiously. He had lost none of his passion for her, and his loins ached teasingly.

Jessica poured out a glass of champagne before she turned towards Foley. Would you care to join me, Jack?

You know I hate bubbly, or is your mind tainted by the booze?

There’s beer in the cooler. Listen, I wouldn’t have invited you here if I wasn’t desperate.

Foley helped himself to a beer before he slumped once more in the armchair. "You must be desperate, sweetheart. What were your parting words? "I cannot bear to be with you, Jack. The dismissal from the army has polluted your mind. You want pity, but my compassion is running on empty. Ah yes, I remember them well."

Jessica put down her glass and lit a cigarette. If it wasn’t Basra, it would have been somewhere else. Belfast, Afghanistan. Hell, they sure fucked with your mind. The look of love in your eyes that I admired when we first, met vanished long ago. I divorced you not only because of what happened in Basra, but also because of your mistress. Jack, you were in love with the army.

You were fully aware of my ambitions when we met. Anyway, I think you overreacted. You weren’t the only wife to have her husband posted overseas.

Enough. Don’t patronise me. You know too well your posting overseas had nothing to do with our separation. I’m pretty certain you craved bloodshed. I could see it in your eyes when you described to me your first killing. Christ, Jack, you no longer possess the compassion and sense of decency I saw when we first met. I didn’t want to know about your victims; couldn’t you see that?

Foley composed himself before he answered. A convenient excuse for a divorce, eh?

Meaning what?

Once a snob, always a snob, eh? The little, middle class girl who married a common soldier must have been so embarrassed when I was put on trial. Not forgetting the unconditional discharge. What would your snotty friends from Oxford think?

Oh grow up, Jack. You were impossible to live with. I grew tired of your nightmares and your boasts about your heroic conquests. Christ, without regular combat, I think you would have been carted away to the loony bin.

Foley swallowed a mouthful of his beer and glared at his ex-wife. So, why am I here?

With the arrival of another vehicle, the headlights illuminated the room. Jessica sauntered towards the French windows and gazed out. It’s my father. He’s sick, I’m certain. He’s going to tell you an incredible, but bullshit story and then make you an offer. Don’t accept his offer or his fantasy. He’s sick in the mind. Perhaps he’ll listen to you.

She turned towards Foley, her nimble fingers entwined around her champagne glass. I’m really worried about him. Ever since my mother died, he’s not been the same. He’s now obsessed about some outrageous notion there’s to be another holocaust. Anyway, I’ll let him tell you himself, but take no credence to what he says. Even his colleagues from the university have grave worries about his sanity. I know how much he likes you, but please don’t encourage him.

The door opened and a short, stocky man sporting long shoulder length, grey hair stood before them. The clean-shaven man removed his spectacles, and his face lit up when he saw his visitor.

Jack, you made it. Splendid. I’m sorry I’m late, but...

Jack’s only just arrived, father.

Indeed.

Professor Charles Fanshawe was a brilliant historian and lecturer; his accent cultured, his choice of garb less impressive. His checked jacket and beige slacks typified his lack of fashion sense.

Make yourself comfortable, Jack, he said, and held his hands above the flames.

The professor turned and smiled at his daughter. Jessica, darling, a nice pot of jasmine tea would go down really well.

Jessica hesitated, no doubt suspecting a ruse to isolate her from their conversation. She reluctantly exited the study.

This year has not been kind to me. First of all, my Rosa, and then your divorce. God, how that gnawed at my innards. When you two married, I was so happy. I could see I was inheriting an intelligent, kind, warm son in law, and I could see in both of you that you were so in love. As in so many instances throughout these ravaged centuries, war drove a cruel wedge between two lovers. Jack, I know you. No, I mean I really know you, and there was no doubt in my mind you had nothing to do with those tortured prisoners in Basra.

No, but the men responsible were in my charge. Charles, even though I had nothing to do with those two boys being beaten to death, I was tempted. My God, was I tempted. We watched as the two youths hurled petrol bombs at our colleagues. We witnessed helplessly the three men burning to death. Understandably, some of my company wanted to execute the killers right there and then, but no; I adhered to military regulations and apprehended them. During the night, three of my men tortured and beat the prisoners to death, and when the news was made public, the Iraqi officialdom demanded retribution. My superiors were only too happy to comply with their wishes, in order to protect the regiment’s good name. Anyway, you know the rest. The killers were given prisoner sentences and I, even though proven I was not responsible for their deaths, was given a dishonourable discharge.

Those imbeciles demanded justice, but an innocent man was made a scapegoat, groaned the professor. Do you know, Jack; I implored Jessica to show compassion and to take you back. That girl has unfortunately inherited a stubborn streak from her father. She earned a degree in history, and if she had taken my advice she would have had a thriving career, but no, she chose to open a bloody herbal shop. She has a rebellious streak running through her has, that one… Before I leave this earth, my wish is to see you two together again.

I think it’s too late for that, Charles.

We’ll see. So, what are you doing now? I mean, have you found employment?

Foley cracked open another can of beer. I work for a security agency, protecting celebrities. They conveniently erased my unconditional discharge from my record of course, before hiring me.

You mean, you’re a bodyguard?

Foley nodded. Why have you sent for me, Charles?

The professor rubbed his hands together and looked over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. He settled in an armchair opposite Foley and his eyes showed excitement. Actually, it was Jessica who invited you, but I was about to. What I’m about to divulge to you, goes no further than this room. Do I have your word?

Of course.

The professor continued. "As you know, I’m a noted historian, lecturing at the University of York. Although the Second World War is not one of my specialist subjects, I do possess a fair modicum of knowledge concerning the conflict. It was simply by chance that I discovered something rather remarkable, if not coincidental. Perhaps remarkable is not the word I’m looking for. Terrifying may be more appropriate. You see, I was browsing through the Times and came across an article concerning the death of a baby girl in Hamburg."

The professor proceeded to fill a pipe and Foley noticed how gaunt he looked. The huge bags beneath his eyes were testament to his lack of sleep.

Eva Knauer, the baby girl in question was blind and physically deformed. The child’s parents, according to several witnesses, loved and doted on that baby, despite her disabilities. On March 23rd, Eva was discovered dead in her crib. She supposedly suffocated, smothered by a pillow, and her parents were charged with her murder. The jury found them guilty of murder and they are now serving life sentences. 

Sorry, Charles, but I don’t follow.

Oh, you will, Jack. You will. I’ll now endeavour to bore you for a few minutes with a history lesson. Please be patient. The professor puffed on his pipe. Shortly after Adolf Hitler came to power, he signed a decree, permitting euthanasia of disabled infants and the elderly. You see, he attempted to devise a solution to justify killing the vulnerable, aspiring later to include gypsies and Jews. His ambition for a genetically pure race seemed a possibility. For years, he sought the answer, and in 1938, an opportunity presented itself. The father of a blind and physically deformed baby, sex unknown, visited Werner Catel, director of a paediatric clinic in Leipzig, pleading with him to terminate the life of his child. Catel of course refused, stating such an act was against the law. The pleas reached the attention of Hitler, who immediately sent his personal physician, Karl Brandt to visit the baby and terminate the life of the child.

I still don’t follow, Charles.

You will, if you’ll kindly let me continue. You see, this was the beginning. That poor child was the catalyst for the holocaust. The first victim of Hitler, if you like. He stressed that the killing was an act of mercy, and so Hitler had his justifiable incentive. Hitler then authorised the wholesale slaughter of the disabled, but of course never made it public. Hitler sent buses with blacked out windows to dispatch the patients to centralised mental institutions. They were starved, shot, and given lethal injections. They were experimented on with lethal gases, including the same gas later used in the death camps.

But, how could he get away with this? asked Foley.

The professor puffed pensively on his pipe and shrugged his shoulders. How did they get away with the holocaust? It happened, Jack…it happened. The mass butchering of the disabled finally ended in 1941, with the intervention by catholic Archbishop of Muster, Clemens Graf von Galen, who denounced Hitler from the pulpit. Hitler, realising the Catholic community would oppose his actions, aborted the program and dispatched the soldiers and scientists from the mental institutes to concentration camps in Poland and Russia, where they utilised their services. One thing I failed to mention. The surname of Hitler’s first victim… Baby Knauer.

Foley thought pensively before he responded. The same name as the baby who died in Hamburg? Okay, I can see the similarities, but surely a coincidence.

"I too initially believed it was coincidental, but not anymore. You see, I learnt that a reporter working for The Hamburger Abendblatt, a local newspaper, had been assigned to investigate the case, and so I e-mailed her. At first she shunned me, but when I disclosed my findings, she cooperated. You see, she believes the parents of Eva are innocent."

And the police? quizzed Foley. What do they think?

The professor shuffled forward in his chair and his eyes lit up with excitement. The baby was found dead, a pillow covering her face. The parents, Jan and Kristin were arrested immediately. They deny murdering their daughter, but as I’ve already told you, they were found guilty.

Seems straight forward to me, interrupted Foley.

But is it, Jack? If Jan and Kristin wanted to kill their baby, then why incriminate themselves by leaving the pillow in place? Surely, any deranged parents who wished to eliminate their child would have attempted to make it seem like a cot death. According to Monica...

Monica?

Monica Ritter is the journalist, continued the professor. According to Monica, Jan and Kristin had just days earlier reported to the police that they believed they were being stalked. Two nights before the death of Eva, the couple woke from their sleep by Eva’s crying. Jan immediately went to Eva’s bedroom and saw a man standing over the crib. She naturally screamed and the intruder fled though the bedroom window.

The professor fell silent when Jessica returned. She placed the tray on the table and proceeded to pour her father a cup of jasmine tea. Well, Jack, has my father corrupted your mind with his pathetic theory?

You know about this? asked Foley.

Oh, yes. My father is like an animated child when he believes he’s uncovered a conspiracy. He shares his fantasies with everyone.

The professor accepted the teacup from his daughter. And you believe Jan and Kristin Knauer are guilty?

I didn’t say that. Listen, father, I’ve already told you my feelings on this. Okay, so it’s possible they are innocent, and there was an intruder in Eva’s room, but this shit about her being murdered because of her surname?

Using such language does not become you, dear. Not just because of her surname, but she was also deformed and partially blind.

This intruder, asked Foley, happy to break up the family squabble. Did the police check the bedroom and window for fingerprints?

The professor blew on his hot tea. His grey mane of hair cascaded over his shoulders. Of course, but they found nothing.

Foley left his armchair and walked towards the French windows. I still don’t understand why you’ve summoned me here.

The professor looked towards his daughter before he revealed his motive. I want you to travel to Hamburg and meet Monica.

What? grinned Foley.

Jessica stepped forward. Father. You’re being ridiculous. How dare you involve Jack in your pathetic witch-hunt? You’re obsessed with your outrageous theory and it’s completely taking over your life.

Damn you, girl. If I’m correct in my assumption, then I may have uncovered the activation of another holocaust.

Foley put up his hands and could not help but grin. Charles, don’t you think you’re being a little presumptuous? This could all be a coincidence, and even if it’s not, a crazed Nazi fanatic hardly represents the threat of a holocaust.

The adamant professor stepped forward, his breath heavy. A crazed Nazi fanatic, or a cult? What if he is involved with a group of fanatics? We know there are many such pro Nazi organisations throughout the world, including one here in Britain.

Charles, if the Hamburg police don’t believe the accused, then what can I do?

Jessica again interrupted. Oh, my father’s taken this further than the Hamburg police. Do you know, he’s even passed on his obsession to a local MP and the military?

And? probed Foley.

And they dismissed him for what he is. An obsessive, over-imaginative, stubborn, old man, who believes because he has so many diplomas and a title, he should be heard. Shit, he wants this to be happening. Men like him demand historic catastrophes in order to explain their philosophy to mankind… Father, you’re losing your mind. If it wasn’t the incident in Hamburg, it would have been a coup to overthrow the government. Men like you crave scandal, controversy, and destruction.

Are you finished? growled the professor. He turned towards Foley. The facts are there, Jack. History is repeating itself and we must prevent another horrific episode of genocide. I’m willing to pay you half a million pounds plus expenses to travel to Hamburg and meet with Monica. Unravel this enigma. Nullify the epidemic before it contaminates mankind.

Foley seemed unprepared for such an offer. He considered his answer. Why me? I mean, I’m no detective.

Because, Jack, I trust you, and you are militarily trained.

For what? What exactly do you want me to do? I wouldn’t know where to start. This so-called intruder; I take it we don’t have a description?

The professor placed his empty teacup on the table. Monica will fill you in on the details. Listen, all I ask is that you try. She has information on a Nazi organisation situated in Hamburg. It’s as good a start as any.

Father. You’re so callous. What you’re asking Jack to do could be dangerous.

And that’s why I chose him. Jack is no stranger to conflict. Half a million pounds, Jack. What do you say?

Foley contemplated before he made his decision. I’m sorry, Professor. The money was never an issue. Okay, grant you I could use the money, but I’m not sure I believe there’s some Nazi holocaust plot here. I mean, if this is true, then why now? I’m certain there have been many such baby Knaeurs born since the end of the war. Why now?  Sorry to disagree with you, Charles, but it’s not going to happen again in our lifetime. Adolf Hitler is no more, and good riddance. Mankind will never allow such a tyrant to ever rule again.

The professor put his hands together in prayer. Think about it, Jack. Call me in two days. Reconsider my offer, please.

Okay. In two day, you will have my answer.

Chapter Two

The one who called himself the Apostle grinned pleasingly and added his newly acquired snapshots to his dimly lit gallery. The blood red walls displayed newspaper cuttings, glossy photographs, and assorted memorabilia. Swastikas, Nazi emblems, and illustrations of Hitler’s infamous henchmen adorned this section of his gallery, and their images wavered with the effects of hundreds of lit candles.  

The Apostle carefully pasted the photographs of baby Eva Knauer in place, content with his preliminary task. How the Fuehrer would have been proud of his achievement he deemed, and stared admirably at the mega-sized photograph of his hero.

The Apostle strode briskly towards a panel of contraptions and recording devices. He activated the button and giggled like a child when the gallery seemingly came to life. Adolf Hitler’s loud, aggressive speech to his followers echoed, accompanied by a scene from one of his rallies, which covered the walls and the ceilings of his shrine.

The Apostle, who wore the uniform of an SS officer, clicked his heels together and saluted his Fuehrer. He joined in the chorus as the haunting voices echoed loudly.

Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!

SA marschiert mit ruhig-festem Schritt

Kameraden, die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen

Marschieren im Geist in unseren Reihen mit

Die Straße frei den braunen Bataillonen

Die Straße frei dem Sturmabteilungsmann!

Es schaun aufs Hakenkreuz voll Hoffnung schon Millionen

Der Tag für Freiheit und für Brot bricht an!

Zum letzten Mal wird Sturmalarm geblasen!

Zum Kampfe steh'n wir alle schon bereit!

Bald flattern Hitlerfahnen über Barrikaden

Die Knechtschaft dauert nur noch kurze Zeit!

Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!

SA marschiert mit ruhig-festem Schritt

Kameraden, die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen

Marschieren im Geist in unseren Reihen mit."

The voices faded and he ambled towards an ornate table. On the table rested a bronze bust of Hitler, a pair of the dictator’s cufflinks, a set of wine glasses engraved with Hitler’s initials, and a copy of Mein Kampf.

The Apostle reached for his beloved copy of the infamous book before he settled in an armchair. He poured himself a glass of red wine and drank from the Fuehrer's personal glass. For the umpteenth time, he began to read, mesmerised by each word composed by his mentor.

******

Hamburg.

Jack Foley left the terminal of Hamburg Airport and removed his sunglasses. He searched the faces of the waiting crowd, unfamiliar with the person he sought. His eyes settled on a placard bearing the name Foley.

Monica Ritter, was a petite woman in her mid twenties; her flat chest and short red hair most effeminate. Even so, Foley determined the tomboy in the leather bomber jacket and denims to be attractive. Her high cheekbones, green eyes, and pouting lips belied her masculine appearance.

Foley approached the unsmiling girl. Monica?

This way, Herr Foley. The slight accent and husky voice added to the allure of the German girl.

The Englishman walked swiftly after the journalist and wheeled his suitcase behind him. They reached their destination, a green Volkswagen, and Monica ordered Foley to place his suitcase in the boot.

Monica started the engine and looked across at the

Reviews for Apostle of the Tyrants

[pjfiala · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Murder, Mystery and suspense wrapped up in a great story.