Codename:Snake - Ii: Trust No One

By M.M. Rumberg

From the author of the award-winning CodeName:Snake, The Evil We Kill, comes the second volume of the dramatic story of an assassin driven by revenge. The Nazis killed his family, and now his mission in life is to seek out Nazis who escaped Germany at the end of WWII.

The Cold War is in full swing as Stefan Hirsch goes behind the Iron Curtain, a spy, to slow Russian development of their space program and eliminate Nazis working under Russian protection -- Nazis who worked on the V-2 rocket program and now are helping the Russians.

But a traitor turns Stefan in and he has only seconds to escape. The Russians mount a massive search for the assassin known as The Snake. Stefan knows that in the treacherous game he is playing, his life is on the line, and as the Russians close in, he can trust no one, and they have orders to shoot to kill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664156494

M.M. Rumberg

Mort is a retired U.S. Air Force Officer who served as a Rescue and Survival technician teaching escape and evasion and survival techniques to aircrew members. He survived a tour of duty in Vietnam and barely survived two tours in the Pentagon as a computer systems action officer. He was also an information technology consultant and a manager with a large international health care insurance company. He earned a Doctorate in Education and has been an adjunct professor of computer sciences for several universities and community colleges in the Washington, DC, area. Mort was a volunteer with the Alexandria, Virginia, Police Department and the Animal Welfare League of Alexandria. His novel, CodeName: Snake, The Evil We Kill, won a national award and several of his short stories have won national recognition. Now residing in California, he is busy working on several new novels and many short stories. Visit the author’s website: mmrumberg.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mar del Plata, Argentina

1951

Stefan Hirsch slowly picked his way through the tangle of trees and shrubs. It was barely noon and the temperature was already oppressive. Mosquitoes continually attacked him. He’d slathered on mosquito repellant and wore a long-sleeve shirt, but it only seemed to challenge the flying beasts. He wiped his brow as a trickle—a torrent—of sweat ran down his back. He stopped to check his map and compass, and continued on for another twenty minutes. Finally, he crouched behind a tree at the edge of the thinning forest, leaned against it to rest for a minute, blending into the shadows, letting the forest settle and accept him. He didn’t move, just studied the area in front of him, and let the noises of the forest’s crawling things begin again. His target was less than a hundred meters in front of him.

Stefan focused his binoculars and scanned the area—a small, upscale bedroom community of a hundred or so homes. No one appeared to be about, but it didn’t mean people weren’t there. They would simply be inside avoiding the stifling heat. Cars were parked along the streets, so he assumed the people were inside the homes, especially one particular man and his wife—his targets—targets he’d spent six months tracking. He was close to his objective, his prey, and his anticipation ran high. He was sure his targets would run and that’s why Stefan waited in the woods, hoping they’d run this way…right into his arms. Others waited on opposite sides of the woods, just in case.

During the original planning for this operation, Stefan placed himself in the group that raided the house, but the strategists thought if the man and woman did manage to escape, the better position for Stefan was in the forest, in the most likely direction for escape—and right into Stefan’s arms.

But what if they went the other way, into the forest to the north? argued Stefan.

It’s way too thick, impossible to go through. Besides, we’ll have people there just in case. Your direction is where the paths lead to the road. That’s the way he’ll go.

The logic was sound and Stefan finally agreed.

He checked his watch for the hundredth time, watched the second hand slowly tick toward twelve o’clock. Twenty seconds to go. He couldn’t hear the noise of the cars—three cars filled with police. Everyone looking for one man and one woman.

Perhaps his targets were napping. No matter. Soon they’d be permanently asleep. He stood, checked the sidearm holstered on his right side, making sure for the dozenth time there was a cartridge in the chamber and the safety was off, hefted his rifle, and slowly continued picking his way through the dense foliage. Ahead were his targets, a camp kommandant and his wife, evil scum of the earth, Nazis who had escaped from Germany after the war. He had finally located them and was here to kill them or take them to Israel for trial—to pay for war crimes committed during the war.

As Stefan approached the edge of the wooded area, the outskirts of the target’s neighborhood, he stopped and checked his binoculars again, finally seeing the three police cars approach the Nazi’s house, exactly on time. With strobe lights flashing, the cars stopped around the house and four men in each car stormed out. The men were dressed in black, wearing bulletproof vests and balaclavas. The front door was smashed in and several men charged in and raided the house while the others spread out, ready to shoot anyone confronting them.

They created enough noise that occupants of nearby homes opened front doors and windows, the occupants wondering what was happening. Two other men were taking photos of every face they could see. Soon as a face appeared it was recorded. The pictures would be examined to see if any of them were escaped Nazis. Stefan stood at the outer boundary of the community, watching, ready to pounce on the Nazi and his wife if they managed to escape the raiding party. He wanted to take them alive, but he had no qualms about killing them both.

Seconds after the house was raided, one man came out and radioed Stefan that it was empty. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. So much for the element of surprise.

The next radio transmission told him it appeared some clothes were gone, the occupants tipped off somehow. The other police officers came out, some carrying boxes—intel. As quickly as they arrived, the raiding party got back into their cars and drove off, strobes still flashing. The whole operation took less than two minutes.

Stefan was devastated. He had planned this for months, tracking his prey, making absolutely sure he had the right man—and he had failed. He turned and walked back into the woods for about a hundred and fifty meters to the road to where he left his motorcycle. Dejected at missing this opportunity to get the Nazis, he drove back to his hotel where he’d meet the others to try and analyze what had gone wrong.

Tomorrow he’d implement Plan B. He hoped to have another chance to get the Nazis, but this one would be in an open area with people around, an even higher chance of failure, and much more dangerous…if the targets even showed up. Other agents were at the bus terminal, some were watching the trains, known hangouts, and obvious places in an attempt to cover all the bases and be sure to get them. At least I have another chance, thought Stefan…. The target was an arrogant SOB and clearly a man of habit…and some habits were difficult to change.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Stefan was sitting outside on the plaza at an oceanside café in Mar del Plata drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. The air smelled fresh, the scent of salt water carried across the beach on the gentle breeze. Occasionally, he would glance over and admire the sailboats gently bobbing on the blue water of the harbor. The nearby dock was about fifty meters away. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, appreciating the sun’s warmth. Several gulls flew overhead, circling, looking for something interesting to explore. Occasionally, one or two would land on the plaza, squawk at Stefan as if asking for food, and failing to receive a handout, would look for scraps on the ground, then take off again. Earlier, the waiter had hosed down the plaza in front of the café and had just finished sweeping away most of the remaining debris from the night before.

Elections were approaching. Posters, some torn or marked with graffiti, adorned building walls. The posters of Perón seemed to be the most popular, and politically he seemed to have the upper hand. As was usual in many places around the world when it came to politics, passions ran high. Arguments frequently broke out over unintended or deliberate slights to one political candidate or the other, notching up the volume, fanning emotions, and adding to the nighttime tumult. Add the easy flow of alcohol to the mix, and the droning volume skyrocketed, as did fistfights.

Most places were not open this early, and at eight o’clock this café was mostly empty and quiet. The majority of locals were perhaps not yet awake, preferring not to arise before nine. Stefan had trouble getting used to the Argentine way—sleeping so late in the morning and not eating dinner before ten. It was not unusual for things to still be hopping at two.

To Stefan, the morning solitude was a nice change from the usual late-night boisterous revelry in the area. At this time of day, mornings in Mar del Plata were usually quiet and he preferred them that way. People will be out soon enough, he knew, but right now he appreciated the calmness of the moment and the absence of people.

Sitting outside near the café’s front window, the only other customer outside in the plaza, was an elderly man drinking coffee, also reading a newspaper. Inside the café one couple was eating breakfast, the one waiter on duty and the cook were talking. Stefan immediately noticed two men in dark suits enter the plaza and head in his direction, walking purposefully as if they were soldiers or police. Their determined walk would make them stand out in any setting, he thought. They’re not here for coffee or small talk, not the direct way they’re approaching my table.

Stefan casually reached into his jacket pocket and removed a .25 caliber handgun and held it on his lap under the newspaper and pushed the safety off. Without a word the men came directly to his table and sat, uninvited.

Mind if we join you? said one, his Spanish quite good.

Stefan thought it a ridiculous question since they were already seating themselves, but he still objected. I prefer to have my coffee alone. Please leave.

But the two men didn’t leave…didn’t make any effort to leave. The waiter came over. One of the men ordered three coffees. Stefan’s index finger was touching the trigger—one sudden move and he would shoot. At this distance a .25 caliber, properly aimed at a neck artery or an eye, would do significant damage. Not as much damage as a 9mm or .45 certainly, but it would make the point, and Stefan was an excellent shot.

Mr. Hirsch, hear us out, said one man. "We are aware of…um, your work and would like to talk with you, and that’s not necessary by the way. He motioned with his head toward Stefan’s armament. We are unarmed and most certainly do not mean you any harm."

So, I’m in the presence of professionals, he realized, but he still kept the gun ready.

Mr. Hirsch, said the second man, I’ll come right to the point. We want you to work for us.

I have a job. From their accents, one man is British, the other American.

Frankly, we need your help. Please listen to what we have to say before you send us away. He paused, seemed to expect an immediate rejection, but Stefan stayed silent. At the end of the war there were Nazis who escaped to East Germany, into the Russian sector of Berlin. We would like you to make use of your…uh, skills and talents to…eliminate them.

They lapsed into silence as the waiter brought their coffees and placed them on the table.

Stefan was still wary of the two men but, at the same time, knew his background was perfect for eliminating Nazis. He was good at what he did. The men seemed legit, so Stefan slowly and carefully pushed the safety back on, but he kept the handgun on his lap.

Which pays well, added the American, smiling briefly.

You seem to know all about me, but haven’t introduced yourselves.

Umm, better left that way for now, said the Brit.

Stefan absently reached for a delicate gold chain hanging around his neck. Dangling from the chain was a small tube with the Hebrew letters representing the Ten Commandments. Inside was a tiny section from Deuteronomy. The Nazis had taken the chain and pendant his great-grandfather had given him. To Stefan, not having his great-grandfather’s necklace stood as silent witness, an unnecessary reminder of the atrocities the Nazis had rained on the world. After the war he bought a new one. He knew nothing could replace the one his great-grandfather had given him, but the new one became a symbol and his touchstone of destroyed, peaceful days and destroyed lives, not just of his great-grandfather, but also all of his immediate family and millions of others.

The two agents sipped their coffee. Stefan ignored his. The Brit wrinkled his face. Argentineans just don’t know how to brew a good cup of coffee, he said. God forbid they tried to make a proper cup of tea.

The American smiled. It is a little bitter.

To anyone looking in their direction they would see three men who seemed to be enjoying the morning, thinking perhaps, it’s nice when friends get together early enough to avoid the crowds. It happens too infrequently, lately.

The British agent said, So, Mr. Hirsch, even though the war is over, we have a new enemy: the Soviets. The Germans, stupid as they were, wouldn’t quit fighting even in the face of certain defeat. This stupid act of defiance to support Hitler to the last man, cost them dearly. When Marshall Zhukov beat the Allies into Berlin, they almost completely reduced the city to rubble. The Germans stupidly fought on. This did not endear themselves to the Russians who took harsh revenge on the Germans for what they did to Mother Russia and the Germans paid heavily for their refusal to surrender.

Stefan nodded. He knew this.

So, the result was chaos, and we know there are former Nazis that escaped the Allies who wanted to bring them to trial. The Nazis are now living in the Russian sector, claiming to be civilians, having never had anything to do with the war.

Many of these Nazis had the engineering and scientific skills the Russians wanted, and are now living under Russian protection.

So, the war has ended and a new phase has begun—the Cold War, said Stefan.

The agents nodded. We’d like your help in finding them, and, well….

Stefan held up a hand slightly, indicating the agent should pause. Stefan slipped the handgun into his pocket.

The two agents waited.

Four people had entered the plaza. Two, obviously bodyguards, scanned the area, making sure everything was proper. Each bodyguard carried a suitcase. One of them turned and nodded to the couple behind them waiting to enter the plaza and sit at a table. The couple each carried a small canvas bag. The bodyguards set the suitcases down at a table. One bodyguard lingered near the café building and checked it out while the other accompanied the couple to a table. He looked closely at Stefan’s table, checking faces for anyone suspicious. Once the couple was seated, he withdrew with the other one sitting two tables away from the couple, continuing to scan people and faces. They waved the waiter away.

Stefan’s pulse quickened. His targets were here. This was probably their goodbye coffee—their last one before their small speedboat arrived to take them to a new hideaway. Old habits were hard to change—they came here once a week—every week, their special treat. Now, here they were, about to have a last coffee before their escape.

The couple sat across from each other three tables away from Stefan’s table. Out of his peripheral vision Stefan saw them give their order to the waiter. The man kept checking his watch and looking at the dock.

The warm sun and cloudless blue sky promised a day filled with possibilities. Several seconds passed. No one at Stefan’s table said anything. The two agents waited patiently for Stefan to digest what they had just told him, and were curious what he was waiting for, why he had told them to stop talking.

Stefan nodded and took a pen and small pad of paper from his pocket. He wrote an address, stood, and passed the note to the agents. I have work to do right now, he said, and motioned to the note. Meet me at the church, Sunday, 8:45. Sit in the back, on the right side, rear pew.

Stefan glanced at the single man across the café reading the newspaper. Apparently finished reading, the man drained his coffee, wiped his lips with the napkin, stood, and using two fingers, slowly passed them across the brim of his hat, and nodded almost imperceptibly at Stefan. The movement appeared natural, and anyone watching would not have given it another thought, but to Stefan it was significant. The man folded his newspaper under his arm and walked into the café to pay for his coffee. The two bodyguards watched him closely, relaxing just a bit when he walked into the café.

Stefan also watched as the man entered the café. The man would engage the waiter in conversation, obstructing the waiter’s view of the plaza for just a minute.

The agents read Stefan’s note and nodded. They looked at him curiously and watched as he stood, turned, and walked away at the same time as the first man exited the café.

The two agents were a little perplexed that he just upped and left them sitting there.

At the same time as the first man turned to walk outside, the couple inside stood. The woman engaged the waiter and paid for their breakfast as her partner walked out closely following the first man.

The first man and the one from inside the café walked toward the two bodyguards. The bodyguards were alert and watched them closely, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Also, they were distracted by one of the three men at the other table who was walking toward the couple. Was anything amiss? Each reached inside their jacket to draw a weapon.

Both men leaving the café each held a .25 caliber revolver out of sight along his pant leg. Suddenly uncomfortable with the evolving situation, the bodyguard on the right began to stand, but before he could react to the situation, he was shot. Barely a second later, the second man shot the bodyguard on the left as he reached for his weapon. Each bodyguard had received a shot to the head, immediately followed by a second and a third, close up. The small guns hardly made any noise, barely a popping sound. Both men put away their guns, picked up the suitcases, and continued walking out of the plaza.

At the exact time the men left the café and shot the bodyguards, Stefan walked to the couple and said, "Guten morgen, Herr Kommandant."

The man looked at Stefan, his eyes wide, and his mouth open. Stefan held a .25 caliber weapon. This time he didn’t give the man a choice to come with him and stand trial, or die here and now, as he usually did. He simply put the weapon against the man’s chest, and before the man could react, shot him twice. Then, just to be sure, shot him twice in his left eye—two shots upward directly into the brain. The man quivered, his mouth moved as if trying to speak, but couldn’t. He seemed to struggle for a second, then slumped slightly in his chair. A sigh escaped as a small trickle of blood ran down his chest, slowly soaking the front of his white shirt. He stared at Stefan, blinked, his right eye closed. The left one stayed open, its black hole gaping.

There was almost no shock value from the small caliber bullet, but at this range the damage was done. Stefan wasn’t looking for impact, he was only looking for results, results he didn’t get yesterday. The .25 caliber was quiet, and most of what little noise it did make was ignored by anyone near enough to hear the shots.

The American and British agents, still sitting three tables away, had observed Stefan, but barely heard the gunshots. It took them several seconds to realize what Stefan had just done—actually seeing him at work. The whole event with the man was over in no more than two seconds. They were focused on Stefan and did not see the demise of the two bodyguards, several tables away.

The woman sat stunned. She finally realized her companion had just been shot and killed. She recovered and hurriedly reached into her purse and pulled out a revolver, but Stefan had turned the .25 caliber on her. He shot her twice in the chest and also in the eye. As with the kommandant, a little trickle of blood ran down the front of her white blouse.

The entrance wound of a .25 caliber bullet hole is small, and at this ultra-close range, appeared to do little physical damage. Internally, however, each victim’s heart was critically damaged from the lead bullets breaking up and tearing into the soft tissue. Their hearts stopped beating within seconds as the body cavity filled with blood, unable to be pumped by the dying heart. The bullets tearing through their brains were effective, and in an instant of impact, stopped functioning. The woman, too, slumped over, her mouth quivered one last time as if trying to speak, but said nothing. Not even a gasp.

Had there been a bystander watching, Stefan conducted himself as if he was talking to old friends, smiling, looking at each one of his victims. If close enough, the bystander might have heard Stefan say, "Herr Kommandant, you are a man of stupid habits. You could have escaped, but you chose to continue with your brazen habits as if you were untouchable. Well, I’m glad you did. Thank you, and rot in hell."

Stefan looked at the dock as a speedboat pulled up to the dock. The boat driver looked at the people by the café, waiting for a man and woman to board. At the very least they should be walking toward the dock. Stefan knew the boat would be exactly on time. Stefan smiled and hoped the man had been paid in advance. He watched as the man tied up to the dock, checked his watch, and looked around nervously.

Stefan pocketed the woman’s gun and reached over and took the man’s gun from his shoulder holster and pocketed it, too. He straightened them in their chairs making them look as if they were simply staring at each other, although with a closer look it would be obvious they were slumped at an awkward angle. It’ll have to do. All this time Stefan’s back had been to the front of the café, just in case the woman inside the café encountered trouble diverting the waiter’s attention and he was watching what was happening outside. Either way, Stefan thought, he would not have been able to see much.

Relatively satisfied with their position in the chairs, Stefan smiled at his work, perfectly sure the local police would be confused how both of them had managed to be shot, and unable to adequately explain it. Stupid foreigners, they’ll say, shaking their heads, surprised the woman was shot, too, adding to the confusion of how any of this could have happened.

And because they’re foreigners, Stefan knew not much police investigative effort would be expended to solve the killings because no locals had a vested interest in them. The cops would make a fuss as if there would be a big investigation, but in the end, they would do nothing. It wouldn’t take long for the police to come to the conclusion they were murdered, and if one of the cops took their wallets, as typically happened, it would be listed as a robbery gone wrong. Forensics is not yet much of a science with the local police. Investigative techniques might be better in Buenos Aires, but not here in this little backwoods town. They probably won’t even maintain the crime scene once the café owner demanded the bodies be taken away so his customers weren’t upset. It’s killing my business, he’d say, and the cops would laugh at his inadvertent joke.

Stefan hoped no one would remember him being there, but even so, he didn’t care, since he’d be long gone. Once the American and British agents left, perhaps the waiter would think he left with them. Certainly the waiter would not be sure which of the three men had been talking with the victims, and probably would want to limit his involvement. And what about the two men sitting two tables away? Who killed them? And why? No one wants to be part of a murder investigation, lest the murderer return and come after him.

Stefan mused about the possibility of the local cops trying to write up their report.

A person shot with a .25 caliber would take some time to die, so he could have shot back.

The man was wearing a shoulder holster but there was no weapon. How? Where was his weapon?

Perhaps someone else shot them and took it—a more likely scenario—but there were no witnesses even though it took place in broad daylight.

What about the two other men who were killed? Who were they?

There would be too many questions with too few answers.

By the time the local cops figured out who the victims were and high-tailed it to their house to complete their investigation, they would be told by the neighbors the police had already been there and carried out boxes of things. That would confuse things for a while.

Stefan stepped back several feet from the couple and removed a small camera from his pocket. He snapped a couple of individual pictures of them, and backing a little further away, took a picture of both of them. He also looked at the agents who had watched the whole thing and were still staring at him, and quickly took several of them. He took several of the boat driver, picked up the two canvas bags, turned