Codename:Snake – Iii: Return Fire

By M.M. Rumberg

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

Inadvertently, Stefan Hirsch has uncovered massive fraud among high-ranking US government officials. He is a danger to them and must be eliminated. Agents are sent to make him “disappear.” Stefan tries to fight back but the resources used against him are overwhelming and closing in.

His tormentors are unrelenting and death can be seconds away. And now they are also after his wife and child. He cannot let his guard down and knows he must strike back, but how, against such massively overpowering odds?

Author Picture (use the same picture on the previous Xlibris novel –
CodeName: Snake – II Trust No One)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664194984

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

One

1963 - Thailand

Do they really want me dead?

Stefan Hirsch shaded his eyes as he stepped out of his air-conditioned hotel into the bright morning sun in Bangkok. Humidity and smog hung over the city, his shirt already sticking to him. He walked across the street to a café and ordered coffee and toast. When the waiter brought the toast Stefan realized he’d forgotten to tell the waiter he wanted it dry, without butter. He sighed and ate it anyway. Down the street he bought a cup filled with sliced mango from a fruit vendor, walked to a nearby park bench, and ate it.

The start of the day was beautiful but his mind was clouded with the deadly issues he faced, and no amount of delicious fruit would change that. He’d completed his missions—both of them successfully—and was getting ready to head home, but his gut told him something was wrong…deadly wrong, and he was going to pay dearly for it. He was sure a bullet to the head awaited him.

Am I paranoid? Are they going to come after me? A few people wanted to rob me because I looked like a rich tourist, and that’s part of life here in Asia. All tourists could encounter it, although most didn’t unless they strayed from the main tourist areas…but my own agency now surely wants me dead. He had no qualms about killing assassins who were after him—psychopaths hired to kill him—even though he hated the killings. He also knew it was what he had become—an assassin for hire. How different am I from them? It was one thing to kill Nazis during the war and hunt down the ones who had escaped, but going after drug lords and political dictators, well…it had become something else.

Others might have no objection to this type of work, but he did, and it distressed him. Headaches and upset stomachs plagued him when he was a mission. He was an assassin...a good one.

He thought about things he had done, places he had been since World War II had ended, time spent tracking Nazis, and was mostly satisfied. No, satisfied wasn’t the correct word. He had done the right thing. It was when the government had contacted him to continue doing what he was so good at doing, as they said, that things began to slip and slide into other areas, dark, questionable areas he didn’t want to think about, but couldn’t stop thinking about. And now the mistakes….

Every time he was tasked with a hit triggered a memory. And now he was the target. He remembered the first time he had taken action. He was seventeen and a prisoner in a concentration camp in Italy, run by the Germans and Italians. He and his mother, father, and brother had been captured and forced to endure the brutal conditions in the camp. His brother had died there, as had his mother. At least they had died quickly. He didn’t know what happened to his father since his father was taken from the concentration camp. Stefan assumed he’d been killed, but it wasn’t until the end of the war when Stefan would eventually meet him again, thanks to the Red Cross. But his father was a broken man.

While a prisoner, Stefan was so enraged at what the Nazis and Fascists were doing, he fashioned a knife out of a long sliver of wood and killed his guard while on a work detail outside the prison camp. He managed to escape, eventually making his way to England. The British SAS—the Special Air Service—trained him to be an assassin, taught him all the tricks of the trade, and sent him back into Germany to kill Nazi officers…to cause confusion and fear in the officer ranks, and he did that job superbly.

After the war Stefan joined with Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi hunter, and continued using his talent for hunting down his quarry. During that time an American agent, John Adamson, and a British agent, Robert Smythe, contacted him to continue to hunt Nazis in East Germany and Russia.

But now…now all the killings, all the deaths…weighed heavily. At times he could smell the shroud of death hovering over him, smothering him. He wanted it to end, wanted to be free from it, but am I too deep into it? Will it ever end?

As a Nazi hunter his blood boiled with anger that some of the vermin were still out there, having escaped at the end of the war. Every time he confronted a Nazi, hatred clutched at him, and his heart filled with ice. He wanted to kill every one of them immediately, yet, somehow, he managed to control his anger, control it just enough to offer them a choice to live and go to trial or die now.

When Stefan found this latest piece of garbage, a general who had slipped out of Argentina and found refuge in Thailand, he spoke to him in German, giving him his standard offer. Come back with me to Israel and stand trial, or die here. Your choice.

The general protested in hesitant and broken German, declaring he wasn’t German. No, no. I not German.

But Stefan ignored him. He continued, This is your only choice. Stand trial or die here.

The general stuttered, protested, declared in hesitant Spanish that he didn’t understand German.

Stefan smiled and switched to fluent Spanish without missing a beat. "You want to live? So did all those you killed, señor general. Men, women, and children. Did you not think they, too, wanted to live? Did you give them a choice?"

But it wasn’t me, he pleaded. I wouldn’t do such a thing. I’m not German. I’m not a general. I’m not a Nazi.

But of course you did do it, and of course you are a German, a general, and a Nazi. Stefan cocked his weapon. Blood drained from the German’s face when he heard the ominous metallic click. General, come with me now, or die now. Believe me, it’s easier if you die here and now.

The general realized he had no choice, for he believed he would be hanged in Israel. If I could overcome him…. He leaped at Stefan, but stopped short when a bullet entered his forehead and blew out the back of his head.

Stefan grimly smiled at the putrid piece of filth before him. He took several pictures of the dead man and searched his belongings for any notes about others in his escape network. It didn’t take long. From the general’s false-bottomed suitcase Stefan removed a journal. He smiled. The little Nazi general kept good notes and had a nice stash of money. Simon Wiesenthal’s organization would make good use of the funds, and my agency would make good use of the journal. A copy of the journal would also go to Simon Wiesenthal’s organization.

Two

28 Years Earlier

1925 - Germany

Stefan, would you like to go see your great-grandfather?

The seven-year-old child’s brow wrinkled in confusion. But you’re my grandfather.

The elderly man smiled. "Yes, I am. But this man is my father, so it makes him your great-grandfather. You met him several times before, but you were very young then. Perhaps you don’t remember."

Stefan tried, but couldn’t recall. He had a vague recollection of a very old man with a long gray beard. Would his father be a great-grandfather, too?

The grandfather nodded. Yes, he would. He would be your great-great-grandfather.

Little Stefan smiled and said, Great, great, great, great. It’s funny.

His grandfather laughed and said, Yes, it is. You know, Stefan, actually, you’re quite lucky.

Why?

Because many people never get to meet their great-grandfather, let alone see him several times.

Stefan frowned. Why not?

He paused. Well, sometimes their great-grandfathers are old and no longer here.

You mean they die when they get old?

His grandfather hesitated and nodded, unsure how to explain death to a seven-year-old, or even if he should, not wanting to have him think just because someone gets old he will automatically die. On the other hand, Stefan seemed to demonstrate some understanding.

Then we are both lucky great-grandfather is here, said Stefan and his grandfather smiled in appreciation.

Stefan and his grandfather had traveled over an hour to get to this apartment building in downtown Berlin, and then had to walk up four flights of stairs. The spring weather was cool and that helped ease the ordeal of lengthy travel. His father couldn’t come because he was working. After climbing two flights, his grandfather was breathing heavily and had to stop for several seconds, and again on the third and fourth floors, but Stefan eagerly ran up to each floor and waited.

Finally they entered his great-grandfather’s apartment. An elderly lady let them in. Please don’t tire him.

Stefan, holding his grandfather’s hand, entered the dimly lit room, the window shade pulled down to keep out the bright light. A smell of medicine and pine oil lingered, and Stefan wrinkled his nose. The old man was lying on the bed, propped up by two pillows behind him, rumpled sheets and a dark gray blanket around him. A white beard covered much of his face. The old man reached out, put a hand on Stefan’s shoulder, and patted it, reached for Stefan’s hand and held it. He smiled. His eyes were kind.

Stefan wanted to pull his hand away, but didn’t. The old man’s hand was soft and warm. The top of it was wrinkled and had brown spots on it.

Ah, Stefan. It is so good to see you again. You don’t remember, but I saw you when you were a little baby. He smiled. You were so cute. He stopped and looked at Stefan’s face. You know, Stefan, your father and grandfather tell me many good things about you.

Stefan blushed, turned, and looked up to see his grandfather nod and smile, and turned back to the old man, his great-grandfather.

My boy, he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, I have a big favor to ask of you. You must carry on a big tradition in our family. He coughed softly.

What is it, great-grandfather?

The old man chuckled at what Stefan called him.

It is a very old tradition, my son, one passed on through the generations. Do you know about tradition? He coughed again and wiped his lips with a handkerchief.

The young boy frowned. Umm, I’m not sure.

Ah, well. A tradition is something done long ago, and we continue to do it because it is good. It is the right thing to do.

Oh, I know. It’s tradition to go to school and to follow the holidays.

The old man nodded. That’s right. That’s what tradition is, but this tradition I tell you will be a little different than those, but just as important. Are you ready?

Stefan nodded.

It is to always do the right thing. It is our tradition to always do the right thing. It is our burden, our responsibility, and our treasure. He stopped for several seconds. To always do the right thing. You must never forget it. The old man closed his eyes.

Stefan watched his great-grandfather’s chest slowly rise and fall and wondered if he had fallen asleep.

Then the old man opened his eyes again, and looked at Stefan. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Yes, great-grandfather. I must always do the right thing.

Very good, Stefan. Now I want to give you something. I know you are only six-years-old, too young to fully understand it now…

I’m seven, great-grandfather.

Ah, forgive me. You are growing up so quickly. Seven-years-old. He smiled. Already seven. Such a big boy, and soon you will be eight. He nodded. Stefan, I have something for you. He paused and wiped his lips again with a handkerchief. When you are older, you will understand, but I want you to have this now. The old man pointed to a small, brown leather pouch on the end table next to the bed. Stefan, please give me the bag. He coughed a few times, a deep cough, and used the white handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

Stefan reached over to the end table and gave the little bag to his great-grandfather.

Thank you, Stefan. The elderly man smiled and slowly pulled the top to open the bag. He turned it upside down and a gold chain spilled onto his hand. He closed his eyes for several seconds, breathing slowly. Stefan looked up at his grandfather, who nodded reassuringly then turned back to the old man. His great-grandfather’s eyes opened, he coughed again, reached over and took a glass from the end table, and took a sip of water. Stefan’s grandfather reached out to help.

Stefan, I want to give you something, he repeated. You know about tradition, how important it is.

Somehow Stefan understood it was not a question, but an affirmation. He nodded.

I want you to have this gold chain and Star of David, said the old man holding up the chain and showing it to him. It will always remind you of tradition and to always do the right thing. He coughed again several times. He took Stefan’s hand and placed the chain and Star in it. Stefan’s hand was dwarfed in his great-grandfather’s large hand. He closed Stefan’s fingers over the Star and chain by gently wrapping his hands around it, holding one hand on top.

Stefan felt the warmth and softness of the old man’s hands.

When you get older, you should wear this. It will always remind you of our tradition.

To do the right thing, said Stefan.

His great-grandfather smiled and nodded. Yes. I know you will wear it proudly, my grandson. He coughed again several times, then took a deep breath, and looked at Stefan. You will grow up and be a good and wise man. The elderly man coughed and closed his eyes again.

Stefan, said his grandfather, bending over and whispering, please wait outside. We mustn’t tire him out. I’ll be out in a minute.

Outside in the other room, Stefan heard his great-grandfather coughing, and heard their muffled voices talking for a minute. His grandfather took him home shortly after that, and Stefan kept his hand in his pocket tightly holding the gold chain and Star of David.

A week later his great-grandfather passed away. At the funeral, Stefan, wearing the chain and Star of David around his neck, closed his fist around the Star and held it tight. Tears formed in his eyes and he felt a great sadness settle on him.

Stefan, now thirty-four-years-old, thought back to that time and recalled the distant memory, no longer remembered the detailed characteristics of his great-grandfather, what he looked like, other than he was an old man with a long, white, frizzled beard, and a mop of white hair. He still had memories of the room and could picture it—a narrow bed, a dresser, and a small end table. The memories triggered a smell of pine oil.

Three

1963 – Washington, DC

Several people—three men and two women—sat at the conference table and cringed inwardly at the director’s tantrum. This is the second time Hirsch has screwed up in a major way. He’s crippling us taking out our deep cover agents. What the hell is the matter with him? Has he gone blind?

The people at the table knew the question was rhetorical. Even if it wasn’t, no one would dare respond, their eyes wide in caution and fear. They knew the director had a nasty, mean streak, and knew the director would be angry. The details of the briefing had not been good, the last mission outcome not a positive one.

He slammed his fist down on the table. Pain rattled his hand and shot up his arm, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he clenched his teeth and called Stefan Hirsch several more offensive names.

Get out! All of you get out! Breathe a word about this to anyone and you’re dead meat. Do you understand me?

They all answered, Yes, sir, as they quickly picked up their papers and left the conference room.

The director smiled inwardly. He knew in minutes it would be all over the agency, which was what he wanted. He wanted Stefan Hirsch’s name besmirched with dirt, wanted everyone to know Hirsch was no longer welcome in the agency. He was a marked man. If anyone saw him, they would hurriedly let the director know and wait for Hirsch’s life to end. Can’t keep a secret in this place.

While the director, Jordan Brightson, was well known within the company’s walls, his employees only addressed him as director or sir. Only a few highly ranked government officials ever used his name.

Everyone in the agency thought the director looked more like a mouse than a man, though not one of them would dare hint at it if he were anywhere nearby. At five-feet-five, his skinny face, pointed nose and ears, and narrow chin, emphasized his smallness and underlined his nervous, mousy look. Even so, aside from his looks, everyone knew he was a powerful man. Few in Washington knew of him, his reputation, or what he did, but those in the government, and especially those within his company who did, all feared him and the company’s dirty little secret.

In real life, few people wanted to be associated with hired killers, but to those who dealt with the issue of life and death, it was sometimes considered a necessity. Intelligence agencies such as the CIA and other clandestine organizations had the reputation of being the ones to work on highly contentious problems out of the country, but much of the wet work went to the psychopaths who worked for the director—in the separate, hidden part of the director’s company.

The director went to his desk and removed a small container of pills from the center drawer and took two. Minutes later, when he had quieted down, he punched in five numbers on the phone. I want you here. Now.

Five minutes later, Greg Ashton, six-feet tall, fit, middle-aged with a receding hairline, walked into the director’s office. From the tone of the phone call Ashton knew he wouldn’t be asked for his opinion on some issue—he knew the director was already pissed. He’d heard about the director’s outburst earlier, but wasn’t fully sure what it was about. Without being told, he sat in one of the chairs in front of the director’s desk and waited. Something was up, something big and important.

The director sat behind his desk, dwarfed by the large leather chair and huge wooden desk. He noted that Ashton hadn’t waited to be invited to sit. Arrogant bastard. Just what I want. Greg, I have a mission for you.

Ashton stared at him, his face noncommittal. The director never calls anyone by his given name. This must be important. Greg Ashton was an electrical engineer by training and an assassin by trade. He, like Stefan Hirsch, functioned in an engineering capacity, worked on problems, and reported back on the vulnerabilities of the bosses in foreign companies—and sometimes eliminated them. Their engineering backgrounds and contracting jobs provided legitimate cover for any wet work.

Greg, we need someone reduced in rank. The director looked down at Ashton, his eyes slits.

Ashton said nothing, only nodded. Like others, Ashton thought the director was a mouse of a man, but dangerously powerful. You don’t cross Jordan Brightson. Ashton knew the director had been a government contractor for years, and it seemed there was always someone who needed to be reduced in rank—but it was typically in a foreign country. This work was done quietly, quickly, and efficiently, and most of all, was untraceable back to the agency.

There is someone who is…has…caused us severe damage.

Ashton waited. Sometimes the director was not direct. Other times he went right to the heart of the matter. He guessed this time he would go slowly, as if peeling away one layer at a time.

There is someone out there using his talents against us. He waited several seconds for a response. When there was none, he asked, How do you feel about it?

Ashton was taken aback. Strange question. Usually you don’t ask my opinion about such things, you just task me.

I’m asking now.

I don’t think anyone should…uh, be allowed to hurt us.

It’s that simple?

Only way it can be. We need to protect ourselves.

What about our assets?

They need our protection, too. If word got out we couldn’t…or wouldn’t…support them, protect them, he shrugged, we wouldn’t have any assets and be able to do our jobs.

The director nodded, stood up, and walked to the window and stared out, his hands cupped behind him. He looked out for 15 seconds, completely ignoring Ashton.

Ashton waited, knowing more would come.

Finally, he turned back and said, One of our agents has gone rogue.

Ashton’s eyebrows shot up. Rogue? One of us? That’s highly unlikely.

The director nodded. Oh, it’s likely, all right. It’s happened. More than once. He needs to be stopped. The director nodded again. And I want you to do it.

Ashton’s brow furrowed. This is highly unusual. You have other assets in place to handle things like this. I haven’t done this kind of work. Not on one of us.

Yes, there are others, but I can’t use them. This man is too good, too knowledgeable. He will be difficult to find and…have the issue resolved. I need someone like you.

Sir, surely there are others….

You’re the best. You’re the one I want.

Ashton knew he was good at what he did. He had been trained by the best, but this was different. Tell me why you can’t use a team already in place.

Again, the director hesitated. Greg, he is highly placed. I can’t take a chance with this one. I need you to handle this personally. You usually work alone, but this time I want you to work with a team—as many men as you need—and coordinate activities directly with me.

The director had never treated him like this before. He was putting a great deal into this, including the personal touch. Who is it?

This person may be someone you know.

Ashton’s eyebrows shot up again. He automatically began thinking of whom he knew who might have gone rogue, but came up blank.

Can you do it? Someone you know?

Ashton stared at him. You’re not doubting my capabilities, are you?

No. It’s the idea that you know him.

"You said I may know him."

"I was being circumspect. You know him. Does it change anything?"

Personal acquaintances don’t stand in the way of our work. It can’t.

You’re sure of it?

I’ve been well-trained. I’m absolutely certain. You don’t do this work without full commitment.

How about a friend or a relative?

A relative? I don’t have any relatives…but a friend? He almost said I only know a few people I would call friends. He lapsed into silence for several seconds. Well, I may not like it, but if it absolutely needs to be done…. He shrugged and raised his hands, palms up.

You will report to me, directly. If there’s any doubt before you take this on, let me know. Any doubt. Any doubt at all.

There’s no doubt. Once I take on a mission, I take it on fully. He hesitated. You’re certain it needs to be done?

Yes. Absolutely. There is no doubt.

And it needs to be done by me?

Yes. I think only you can do this.

Who is it?

The director hesitated for several seconds. Stefan Hirsch. He watched Ashton’s face for a reaction, looking for a sign, any sign of doubt.

Ashton’s only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Stefan? A chill ran through him. He considered Stefan a good friend,