By Royal Design

By Norbert E. Reich

The United States of America has become too powerful, yet terrorist groups threaten the security of its citizens. As a result the government becomes a police state; it spies on its citizens, its closest allies, laws are enacted by executive orders, not by the will of the people.

The Royals, some of Europes aristocratic families, decide to change it all, change the balance of power.

Israel too becomes a player. The Mossad, Israels renowned intelligence agency, leads the way: Through deception though shall do war!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jun 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504359290

Norbert E. Reich

Dr. Norbert E Reich is an author and Retired physician. He resides in Florida.

Book preview

Prologue

Berlin, October, 1944

RAINDROPS CLUNG TO THE ATTIC WINDOWPANES of the elegant residence on the Pariser Platz in Berlin. Usually all the shutters were closed; they had been for many months. However, this morning the old, bald-headed man had decided to one more time look out of his study at the square below. He placed the pistol on the card table and walked to the window. It was a windy day and scattered gray clouds were rapidly moving through the sky, moving what seemed with purpose, moving as if they knew their destination. A light rain was falling, the kind you see in autumn. It would not last, he knew.

Although it was only six a.m., the square was buzzing with army personnel and vehicles. The red, white and black swastika flags which lined the square waved briskly in the wind. The old man raised a hand and stroked his gray mustache, a gesture and a habit he often used when he was in deep thought. His dark-brown eyes moistened, and quickly tears formed and found their way down his wrinkled face. Now the old man did not see the tanks, the soldiers, the Nazi flags. He saw a beautiful square lined by lime trees and filled with sunshine. He saw a lively crowd chatting freely, enjoying life. He saw the Brandenburg Gate with the statue of the goddess Victoria.

The old man was a Jew. He was Joshua Alan Bergman, a German, a Berliner, an artist, a poet of great renown. More German than most Germans, more Berliner than most Berliners. He had lived in this house since his birth, and he would not leave it. His home was located in the heart of Germany’s capital, and it had been the meeting place of all of Berlin’s political and cultural elite. Everyone enjoyed Josh’s company. They respected his directness; they appreciated his Berliner Schnauze. The Berliners adored him, and he loved them. Even the Nazis had to accept him, so great was his popularity.

Then he witnessed the crimes and atrocities committed by the Nazis, and he and his wife Martha struggled over the decision to leave the country. In the end they had decided to stay. Berlin was their home. Germany was their country. But as time went on he could no longer live with the present, no longer tolerate what he saw. He withdrew. He closed the shutters of his villa and stayed inside. But he knew. Yes, he knew.

For months he had planned it. He had agonized over it. He had changed his mind often over the months, the last few weeks and days. But he saw no other solution, no other way to escape. No other way to tell the world, no other way to tell his wife. No other way to tell his unborn child; for his young wife was pregnant with their firstborn. He closed the shutters and pulled the curtains. Then he turned and walked towards the card table. He sat back in the plush leather chair in his study, in the attic of his home. He hesitated but for a moment. He put the muzzle of the 9 mm Luger in his mouth. He pulled the trigger.

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Martha Bergman had been admitted to the delivery ward of the Charitee Hospital in Berlin as an obstetrical emergency. Dr. Sauerbruch, a family friend and chief of staff, himself had called the hospital to arrange for a bed. Martha had gone into premature labor. Only hours before had she learned of her husband’s suicide. The delivery went without a complication. Sauerbruch delivered a healthy baby boy.

Martha Bergman had spent the last several weeks of her pregnancy with her mother at their summer home on the Wannsee, one of many of Berlin’s lakes. Josh had called daily, visited every weekend. She had no idea; he gave her no clue. Why would he do it? But she knew. She knew these past years had changed Berlin, changed Germany, and with it her husband. He had become difficult, withdrawn. No longer did they enjoy the lively Berlin, all the parties with all the politicians, all the artists, all the cultural elite of Berlin. It all changed after 1933.

The Jews, their friends, were all taken away, away to places unknown. She had heard all the stories. It appeared to be a bad dream, a nightmare. Was it true? Their own lives had not been affected. Josh and she could come and go as they pleased. Yet Josh sensed it, he withdrew. They stayed at Wannsee or at their house in the city. Here it was a house of recluse. No visitors, no light. She remembered. He would draw the curtains, close the shutters. He wanted no part of the outside world. It was why she had moved away with her mother, away to their summer home at Wannsee. She was carrying his first child. She had to take care of it.

She knew Josh was greatly troubled by the conflict. He was a true German, a Berliner, but he also was a Jew. His people, his Germans, were killing his blood people, his Jews. It became a conflict too great for him. At first, he tried to ignore it. Ironically his house was in the center of it all, at the Pariser Platz, right next to the Brandenburg Gate.

She knew how much Josh struggled. She knew the depth of his despair. Their child would be born into a world of no hope, a world at war. Yet his suicide had surprised her. It should not have. Josh was an artist, an idealist. He could not deal well with the realities of life. But she had to. She was going to be a mother now. She had obligations, responsibilities; she had a child to take care of.

Martha Bergman knew once Josh was gone, the Nazis would show her and her child no mercy. They had tolerated them, because Josh’s reputation was so great. Not only did his Berliners love him, but also all Germans and much of the rest of the world respected him. The Nazis had no choice but to tolerate him.

Now he is dead. What will happen now she had thought. I need to protect, to save my child. It will only be days, probably hours, before my child and I will be treated as any other Jews. Deported. We will be taken to a concentration camp, and we will be left to die. I must act, and I must act now. This is what Josh always wanted, to save the Jews. All I can save now is our child.

Martha had a decision to make and she had to make it now, here, at the hospital. This was her only chance. It was the most difficult decision a mother could ever make. She needed support, she needed her husband, and she needed her God.

Her husband was gone, but not his memories, not his dreams. And God was still with her, because she believed deeply in God, in the Jewish faith. She was a Jew first, a German and Berliner second. And she did it. It only took seconds. It happened between the nurses’ shifts at eleven p.m. The nurses on the three to eleven shift were about to leave, and the new shift was ready to take over. It was report time. The nurses of the old shift would report to the nurses who had just arrived, what was going on, who did well, who needed what, a routine which never changed. That was her opportunity, fifteen minutes, but she did not need that much time, she only needed seconds. And she did it, urging her sore and weakened body to the task, tearing her priceless child from her. No one would ever know.

CHAPTER I

Napa, California, September

HE LAY CAMOUFLAGED AND MOTIONLESS ON the ground. His face touched the warm, rich soil. He savored the scent of the succulent grapes above, which were hanging heavily on the symmetrical rows of vines. The sun had just disappeared over the mountains to his left. The man was alone. However, he knew others were nearby. At least two of them, that was standard procedure. He did not know their names or their faces. He wore a dark-green jump suit, the kind paratroopers wore. Underneath he wore an Armani tuxedo and black Gucci shoes. My wedding uniform, he thought with a smile.

It was twilight now. He could hear the festive crowd only two hundred yards ahead. He lifted his head. He had an unobstructed view of the stage where the father would give away the bride. He noticed the many guests beginning to take their seats. With hands covered in latex surgeon’s gloves, he removed the small patch of grass that covered the hole he had dug earlier. He pulled out the black, airtight plastic case and removed the components to the Savage-Anschutz .223 sniper rifle. Practiced hands assembled it.

He removed the Leupold optical infrared sight and fitted it. He stroked the cool metal of the barrel. Always at this time memories of his father came back to him, when he had shown him how to fire a hunting rifle. The same rules applied in this dark trade: one shot, one to kill. He opened the chamber and loaded one bullet. He placed the Savage-Anschutz next to him.

There was almost complete darkness now, and he could feel his heart pounding against the soft ground. Adrenaline was kicking in. He lived for these moments. Suddenly the music began: Wagner’s wedding march. He nestled both elbows on the grass between the vines and brought the sniper stock to his cheek. He monitored his breathing. He waited.

Then he saw the couple, at first just their heads because the crowd hid the rest. He watched them, arm-in-arm, approaching the well-lit stage. He would only have a second. Steady fingertips adjusted the scope for windage and elevation. His target moved grotesquely in the infrared glow.

The father of the bride did the expected and stopped at the center of the elevated stage, which was lavishly decorated with red roses. And when he did, three shots almost simultaneously thundered through the calm valley, blowing the head from the Arab’s torso, whirling it through the still night air and landing it four feet in front of the stunned bridesmaids. Blood, bone, skin and brain fragments spattered the expensive designer gown of the dead man’s daughter. The torso was lying prone in a pool of blood amidst the many rose petals spread over the stage. But the body did not lie still. It twitched. It lasted a second, maybe two.

The three assassins had not used silencers. On the contrary, they wanted noise. They wanted pandemonium, confusion, hysteria, and chaos to make their escape easy. But at first there was only an echoing silence. The music had stopped. The crowd was stunned. The silence lasted for a breath. Then what the assassins had expected set in. All hell broke loose, screaming, crying, calls for help, and blind running to get away. Women kicked off their shoes to run faster. Men grasped their children. All seemed to be heading to their cars in the parking lot. Then one of the killers pulled the main switch of the electric box. The vineyard was engulfed in darkness.

The camouflaged figure slowly got to his knees, placed the gun and scope into the plastic case and into the hole. As he stood, he removed his jump suit. He placed it in the hole. Finally he removed the powdered surgeon gloves and tossed them in with the weapon. Then he replaced the square of grass. He gently stepped on the patch to pad it down. He did not have to mark the spot. He would remember, and when the time was right he would return to retrieve the gear.

Dressed in his black tuxedo, he strolled toward the wedding grounds through the rows of vines. He stopped for a second, picked a grape, and tasted it. Yes, he thought, California would have another good year of Cabernets. When he reached the scene of chaos and confusion, he joined the rest of the crowd and ran to the parking lot to retrieve the car that had been left there for him.

He drove directly to the San Francisco airport. Before he reached the Golden Gate Bridge, he pulled off the highway and into a gas station to use the men’s room. Here the young, athletic man removed his tuxedo and put on his favorite attire: loose khaki pants, brown sandals and a blue, short-sleeved Bahamian shirt. He could not wait to get back home to Miami Beach, to his comfortable apartment on South Beach.

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Innsbruck, Austria, September

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office on the fifth floor of the two- hundred-year-old fieldstone building. Large arched windows and portals were buttressed by statues of Austrian royalty. He often sought solitude and privacy in his office. Today was no exception.

Bright sunshine filled the room and illuminated the portrait that prominently adorned one of the wood paneled walls. It was a seventeenth-century painting of the man he had been named after, Emperor Maximillian I. Max looked pensively out at the street scene below. In the distance the rugged Alps were blending with the sky. A smile drifted across his lips.

He walked across the worn, antique red carpet which covered the old wooden floor. When he reached his desk, he looked once more at the portrait on the wall. Some of the bright hues of oil had faded since the seventeenth century. He noticed the firmness of his ancestor’s mouth, the eyes piercing as a hawk’s. That chin could lead crusades.

Today the portrait was different; it appeared to come to life. The emperor seemed proud, more intense, as if he was assured that destiny was yet to come. Then their eyes met. Max did not look away. He was communicating with his forefather, and Max felt a chill. He felt the sunlit nod of approval. Max was never superstitious, nor did he believe in seances, so this was a strange exchange. He sat in the chair and leaned back. He touched the large ring on his index finger. It was the ring all his forefathers had worn. It was the ring of the Habsburg dynasty. It bore his family’s crest.

Max placed his hands behind his neck and stretched. Then he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. When it was time, he picked up the telephone and made the call. The familiar voice answered.

William, he said, old friend, how are you? I believe that I may have good news for you. I think I have found him, finally found the man we have been looking for.

He braced for the staccato of questions he knew would come. They spun down the wires from Berlin.

You have? I cannot believe it. Are you certain? Who is he, where is he? You need to tell me all about him. We need to be sure. We cannot make a mistake.

William, I agree, but all in due time. You know I can’t talk about him to you now, over the telephone. Next week, on Wednesday, I will be in Berlin. We will have dinner then. How about eight o’clock at your favorite restaurant?

"Yes, of course. Max, you are right as always. I will see you then. Auf Wiedersehen."

The call ended. Maximillian von Habsburg put down the telephone receiver and looked out of his office window in the Altstadt of Innsbruck. He looked at the mountains in the distance. Now he again had a smile on his face. From this city, five hundred years ago, the Germanic people had ruled much of Europe. From Berlin, over seventy years ago, they could have ruled the world. This time, maybe, just maybe. Sunlight slanted across the seventeenth century portrait, then moved on.

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Boston, September

As a rule, Peter Schneider had no trouble sleeping. He routinely worked a long day, leaving the house at six a.m. and returning in time for supper. This was always served promptly at seven p.m. His days were structured, planned well in advance and run efficiently. Every minute was accounted for. That was the way it had to be. There never was enough time. He had learned that long ago, when he first started medical school.

Schneider had slept poorly last night. He had tossed and turned for hours until he finally decided to move to the guest bedroom to allow his wife Katie some rest. Schneider had much on his mind these days, and the fact that it was the second Wednesday of the month, the day of the monthly Executive Committee meeting at the hospital, had not helped.

Schneider showered, dressed quickly in a dark-blue blazer, light-gray slacks, white button-down shirt, red and blue striped tie, and dark-brown loafers. He walked to the kitchen of his colonial style home and poured himself a cup of decaffeinated coffee.

At 6:35 a.m. the black BMW sedan pulled into the parking space marked Chief of Staff at the large teaching hospital in Boston. Peter Schneider reached for his leather briefcase in the passenger seat. The case had been a gift from his wife upon his completion of his cardiology fellowship at the Mayo Clinic more than thirty years ago. He stepped out of the car, pushed the remote control to lock it, and walked briskly to the door marked Doctors’ Entrance.

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Innsbruck, Austria, September

At the same moment almost four thousand miles to the east, the well-dressed, distinguished-looking gentleman was finishing his lunch at the Goldener Adler restaurant in the Altstadt of Innsbruck. He loved to eat out and always dressed for the occasion. Today he wore his favorite suit. It was traditional Tyrolean clothing, a deep green Loden jacket with a brown suede-trimmed collar. The pants were dark-brown knickers. The knee socks were hunter green and the shoes nut brown.

Although Maximillian von Habsburg had just finished his favorite dish of roast saddle of venison with red wine sauce, potato dumplings and red cabbage with apples, he was already thinking about dinner with his friend William tonight. What would he order, the trout or the calf’s liver? He knew he would have plenty of time to think about it on his drive to Berlin. Max settled the bill with cash and left the customary small tip. He left the crowded restaurant, walking leisurely, studying his surroundings. As he entered the small lobby of the hotel he smiled at the young blonde receptionist, tipped his Tyrolean hat, and stepped onto the cobblestone street. Max crossed the narrow, busy Herzog Friedrichstrasse and entered the building directly opposite. He took the elevator to his office on the fifth floor. Max never took the stairs.

Max had returned to his office to prepare for his drive to Berlin and his dinner with William. His suitcase had already been packed by his butler and placed in the trunk of his car. But Max had to change clothing, because he knew that his Tyrolean attire was not appropriate for his visit to Berlin.

Max left his office and walked to the parking garage outside of the pedestrian-only Altstadt. He passed many of the buildings his forefathers had built. That was why he loved this town. From here and from Vienna his family had ruled much of Europe and parts of the rest of the world. Today he felt certain that the Habsburgs would rule again. This time it would not be Europe. This time it would be the world. That was the Habsburg destiny. That was God’s will.

When Max reached the garage on Maria-Theresienstrasse, and his car on the second floor, he pushed the remote control to open the locks and lower the top of his brand new Porsche-Carrera. It was a beautiful day. He intended to enjoy it.

He removed his suit jacket, fitted himself behind the wheel, and carefully placed his coat in the seat next to him. He turned the key and listened with satisfaction to the insistent hum of the turbo engine. The drive to Berlin was long, but Max loved to drive.

He left the city of Innsbruck and merged onto the highway. Munich was less than 50 miles away. From Munich to Berlin was another 360 miles. He should be able to do the entire trip in seven hours, traffic permitting. Maybe six hours. After all, he was driving a Porsche. He pulled his new car into the passing lane and sped for Berlin.

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Miami Beach, September

It was only seven a.m., but since it was Miami Beach in September, he could feel the humidity. Dressed in shorts and black running shoes, he glided down the long driveway of Portofino Towers, his fashionable apartment building on South Beach, and headed out for his daily run. He began at a slow trot but rapidly lengthened his steps. By the time he reached the park he was cruising at his pace. His stride was that of an athlete, a true runner. His deeply tanned chest glistened with perspiration, yet his breathing was slow and controlled. He ran past Government Cut, the narrow waterway that led to Miami’s harbor. Here fashion models were already posing for photo shoots. He was oblivious. He had a single purpose: to prepare for a marathon.

He crossed the boardwalk and reached the beach. Now he was in full stride. His breathing was controlled, just as his father had taught him: breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Neophytes spend all their energy breathing. Experts control it. His eyes were focused ten yard ahead of him, also as his father had taught him. When he was young, they had often run together. They were not joggers. They were runners. There is a difference, his father had said, you can tell by the breathing, by the stride.

There were other people jogging on the beach this morning, as there were every morning. There were the beach volleyball courts; there were planes overhead advertising restaurants, bars, and shows; there were beautiful women spread on the sand, some topless. He never noticed. However, they noticed him. He was six foot two inches and weighed 180 pounds. The shape of a true athlete, muscular, not overbuilt. He was in full stride, a sight to see.

When he reached the halfway mark, four miles from home, he stopped to adjust his shoelaces. As he did someone stood over him. She said, tired already?

He smiled and looked up. This woman was beautiful, slim, toned. He stood up, wiping the perspiration from his face

She looked at him and smiled. If you can keep up, follow me.

She bolted. He followed, at first several paces behind, using the distance to admire her lean body, her long legs. Sorry, Dad, he thought, I lost my focus. Won’t