BLACK SUN
Book Three of the Chronicles of Jeremy Nash

Jeremy Nash is framed for the murder of a crypto-historian and to clear his name he must decipher a series of Nazi World War II clues left by the historian. He is helped on his quest by the historian’s daughter and a Nazi hunter. In the process Nash teams up with a group of treasure hunters looking for Nazi gold.  They discover a long lost Nazi base at the South Pole that contains a primeval bacteria which a Neo-Nazi group of high-powered businessmen plan to create a second Jewish Holocaust and push Europe into civil war.

PROLOGUE

Time is running out, shuddered Professor Alfred Tillman as he nervously made his way through the damp night towards his flat in Kreuzberg.  
Kreuzberg, near the old American Checkpoint Charlie crossing point into East Berlin, was a neighborhood suspended between two worlds. A ghetto slum for immigrants, it also served as a criminal haven for drug dealers.  Tillman knew the neighborhood wasn’t safe during the best of times, let alone the dark of night.
He picked up his pace.
Shortly, he rounded a corner and found himself on an even bleaker street.  Trash cans everywhere.  Open sewage in the streets.  Tillman wrinkled his nose and ducked into a dilapidated four-story apartment building.  He paused at the name registry, found the one he was looking for, and rang the bell.
“Who is this?” asked a suspicious voice on the other end of the intercom.
“Alfred Tillman.  I need to speak with you.  It’s important.”
The voice turned affable. “Oh, yes, professor.  Please come up.”
The door buzzed open.  Tillman was just stepping through the entrance when he heard the sounds of footsteps on the sidewalk. A man was turning the corner on the sidewalk outside, walking casually toward him, smoking a cigarette.
Tillman quickly and silently closed the door behind him.
*  *  *
A moment later the aged professor arrived at Evrin Ibrahim’s flat.  The room was wildly decorated in Turkish motifs. Intricate hand-made mohair carpets lined the floor.  Delicate vases stood on rosewood pedestals, surrounded by hanging oil lamps and ornate hand-carved furniture. Such unexpected luxury and refinement was a shocking contrast to the squalor of the miserable neighborhood and apartment buildings.
“Would you like some hot tea, my friend?”
Tillman nodded.
Ibrahim disappeared into the kitchen. As Tillman lowered himself to a couch, he heard a siren approaching from outside, growing louder in the still night – is it an ambulance?  He felt a panic.  Ibrahim returned to the living room with two cups of tea.
“Cream and sugar?” he asked.
“Yes, both please,” Tillman replied.
“What are you doing out in a night like this, my friend?” Ibrahim asked, carefully handing the steaming cup to Tillman.  Nearly as old as the professor, Ibrahim was a Turkish immigrant whose kind face belied his troubled past.
“I need a favor.”
The Turk sat on the edge of his couch sipping from his delicate cup. “And what favor would this be?”
Tillman reached into his pocket and handed Ibrahim what looked like a small receipt.
His Turkish friend examined it. “What’s this?”
“It’s a valet stub where I parked my car.”
“This is a valet receipt in old East Berlin.  What are you doing with a car there?”
Tillman stepped over to the dark window and slowly moved the curtain aside.  The wet street below was alive with flashing lights. “It doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that you give it to my daughter as soon as you can.” He turned and reached into his satchel, pulling free a sealed envelope. “And give her this, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Ibrahim replied.
“Tell her that this is as far as I could go.”
“Why not give it to her yourself?”
He knows something is wrong, thought Tillman.  Perhaps I should just tell him — no.  Better to not involve Ibrahim.  Already I could have made a grave error by coming here tonight.
“She’s out of town tonight, and I…” He stopped talking and let his voice trail off.  Tillman was never a very good liar, and his friend deserved better.  He stepped away from the window and held the envelope out to Ibrahim. “Will you do this for me, my friend?”
“Of course, Alfred.  As soon as she returns.”
“Thank you. Now I must go.”
The Turk stood suddenly. “Why not stay and talk some more?”
Trust me, my friend, Tillman thought.  I would not leave the warmth of your home if I didn’t have to.
Instead, he said, “No, thank you.  Not tonight.  I–” But he was interrupted by an unusual muffled sound coming from the hallway.
Immediately, Tillman’s heart thumped once.  Hard.  From somewhere in his throat.
Are they here?
Ibrahim frowned and headed for the door.  Tillman almost stopped him, but decided against the act.  After all, if the noise was nothing, he would have alarmed his friend for no reason.  And Tillman was not in the mood to answer questions.
But are you in the mood for dying?
Ibrahim opened the door and Tillman, prepared for anything, was mildly surprised to see two paramedics carrying what appeared to be a man and a woman down the hallway on stretchers.
“My God,” exclaimed Ibrahim. “That’s the Kleinman couple.  They live in the apartment next to me.”
The paramedics moved hurriedly down the hallway toward the elevators, administering to the couple as they went.
Ibrahim shut the door and folded his arms across his narrow chest. “First the Romanoffs, now them.”
Tillman had other issues to contend with–life-threatening issues, in fact–but nevertheless his old curiosity got the better of him. “What do you mean?” he queried.
“Last night, a couple down the hall, the Romanoffs, were rushed to the hospital.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“And what was wrong with them?”
“Food poisoning.”
“Ah,” said Tillman, smiling gently. “Perhaps it’s good that you didn’t offer me any food then, my friend.”
Ibrahim smiled weakly, but Tillman saw that the man was clearly troubled.  Tillman placed a hand on the Turk’s shoulder. “I must go now.  Be careful what you eat.”
“Only halal for me,” said Ibrahim, chuckling hollowly. “And only kosher for you.  Are you sure that you do not want to stay?”
“I must be going, my old friend.  Duty awaits.  Osher uvree׳ut.  To your health.”
And with that, feeling less courageous than he sounded, Tillman left.
*  *  *
    The rain was coming down harder now as Tillman made his way to the rear of his run down apartment building.  The air was chillingly cold and a stiff wind found every hole and loose stitch in his clothing.  Tillman shivered and looked over his shoulder again.  He was alone.
Thank God.
At the back entrance to the building, as he paused under a sagging overhang to search his threadbare pant pockets for his keys, he heard a noise.
A rustling, in fact.
His heart immediately slammed in his chest.  Tillman spun, ready to defend himself, but there was no one there.
He took in some breath, holding his chest.  My God, he nearly had a heart attack.
I’m too old for this, he thought.
    He was about to turn around when the sound came again.  From the nearby trash cans.  He leaned forward, peering through the dark and wetness, suddenly feeling foolish.  A small, furry thing – just as scared as he – dashed across the alley and through a broken wooden fence.  Some homeless, hungry alley creature.
    Finally exhaling, he fingered his key, found the keyhole, and opened the door into his apartment’s back hallway.
    Almost immediately he felt a presence.
    Tillman choked back a gasp.  A man was there, standing back in the shadows, near the trash chute.  Tillman nearly turned and fled but forced himself to remain calm.
    Just another resident heading out the back door, right?
    Tillman thought he knew all the residents in his small apartment building, but sometimes people came and went, friends and guests and various workers.
    It was nearly midnight.
    He shouldn’t be here, thought Tillman.  He’s waiting for me.
    Fear raged through him.  Calm down.  Deep breaths.  It’s going to be okay.
    Heart pounding, sweat breaking out along the sweep of his forehead, Tillman took in some air, summoned his courage and stepped forward.
    “Excuse me,” he said, and made a move to pass the shadowy figure coming toward him in the hallway.
    Immediately a hand, thick as a bear paw, dropped down to block his path.  Like a drawbridge.  Like a trap.  A squeaky noise escaped Tillman’s lips.
    “Good evening, Professor Tillman,” said the man in German.
    “Who–who are you?”
    No answer.  The big hand matched an equally powerful forearm roped with muscle and covered in thick blond hair – a sailor’s arm, a weight lifter’s arm.  But what Tillman saw on the inside of that forearm sent a cold chill down his spine–
    A black, stylized swastika tattooed in the shape of a twelve spoke sun wheel.
    “The Black Sun!” Tillman gasped, hardly breathing the words.
    This can’t be happening.
    Tillman backed into the now closed exterior door.  The man stepped forward, into the murky light cast by the dusty overhead bulb.  The man had dead eyes, soulless eyes.  He also had starkly blond hair, cut military short, almost a caricature of a Nazi eugenics experiment.
    Caricature or not, the man towered over Tillman, and the old Jew knew this was not good.  Not good at all.
    Tillman reached blindly behind him, his hand groping, fumbling.  Before him, the blond stranger stepped forward and there seemed to be something new in those blank eyes.  Tillman recognized it immediately and it sent another chill coursing through him.
    It was pleasure.
    My God, he’s enjoying this.
    Tillman’s searching hand found the doorknob, and just as he turned it and pushed, just as a cool breeze and some rain found him from outside, the tall German pounced.
    Tillman screamed, as loud as he possibly could, anything to wake the neighbors, but the man clamped his vice-like hand around Tillman’s throat.  The professor’s agonized scream turned into a strangled gurgle.
    Tillman vainly fought for air.  Almost immediately blackness encroached along the periphery of his vision.  And as a strange lightness in his head set in, Tillman realized that death wasn’t so bad after all.
    That was his last thought as he died looking into those dead eyes.
 

THE SET UP

Siegfried Stobl was the seed of a new pure progeny and a Knight of the Holy Lance of the Black Sun Society–a Nazi Society that was outlawed after World War Two.  The Black Sun members were the elite of the Thule Society, a secret international organization of old whose goal was to defend the world against Jewish domination.
For Stobl, killing those unworthy to be called the Master Race was not only a duty, but his pastime hobby as well.
It was also, in fact, damn fun.  One of Stobl’s few real pleasures in life.
Unfortunately, the Jew had screamed, and loudly.  Now Stobl had to move quickly.  He easily hefted Tillman over his shoulder, and carried him swiftly down the first floor hallway to Tillman’s bare apartment.  Stobl had already jimmied the lock.
Once inside, the German closed the door and carried the body into the living room, where he dumped it unceremoniously across a worn rug.
But Stobl wasn’t done yet.
He took full and determined breaths that filled his nostrils with the old and musky smell of the apartment as he went to Tillman’s file cabinet against the far wall.  He rifled through it until he found what he was looking for.  It was a large folder labeled ‘Volks-Agrarindustrie’.  He removed the contents from the file folder, rolled them up, and shoved them deep into his jacketed pocket.
Next, he moved over to Tillman’s computer and booted it up.  As it hummed and groaned, he withdrew a memory stick from his pocket and inserted it.  In a short while he had uploaded the entire contents.  That done, he launched an email application and watched as a series of emails quickly appeared in Tillman’s inbox.
Finished, he searched the hard drive for anything referencing ‘Volks-Agrarindustrie’, and then deleted it.
    Only one thing left to do.
Stobl systematically walked around the living room, knocking over furniture here and there, emptying drawers and tossing their contents on the floor, making enough noise to guarantee the attention of neighbors.
    He quickly exited the apartment and disappeared into the night.
 

THE HOTEL

    Poor, crazy bastard!
    Jeremy Nash was flushed by applause and adrenalin. After his much publicized lecture at Germany’s famed Des Liein Skeptics Club in Humboldt University, he decided to take a walk through Berlin to the Brandenburg Gate before returning to his hotel.
    His thoughts, predictably, were on Alfred Tillman, the Jewish scholar and professor.
    Or, as Nash had previously preferred to categorize him – “the nut job”.
    Immediately, he regretted his choice of words.  After all, Nash had just been informed by one of his colleagues that Tillman, a crypto-historian who had been hounding Nash for years about various Nazi conspiracies, had been found murdered just that evening.
    What did you get yourself into, you old man, you crazy bastard?
    It had stopped raining and Nash could see a hint of the moon behind the retreating clouds as the celestial body cast an eerie silver glow on the wet streets.
As an expert debunker and bestselling author of conspiracy theories, myths and legends, Nash had often been confronted with kooks before.  It came with the territory, all his adult life contained a never ending supply of those who aggressively confronted Nash on his skeptical inquiries into those shady untruths waiting to be exposed. But this Tillman took the cake.  As a well-known crypto-historian, the man’s delusions of German conspiracies to push forward the master race – dating back to World War II – bordered on the paranoid.
He should have been committed.
Nash paused, lifted his face to the cool wind, and hoped the insane professor was finally at peace.
He also, briefly, wondered who had killed him.
He turned back at the Brandenburg Gate, back to where he was staying. Later, deep in thought, he almost missed the entrance to his glitzy hotel. Too flashy for him, but the skeptic club had paid his way, and who was Nash to say no to complimentary champagne and fresh berries in his hotel refrigerator?
Nash stepped into the brightly lit foyer.  It was late and the entrance was mostly empty.  Nash had traveled alone and planned to spend the next day perusing the various sights and sounds of Berlin before heading back to his home in Roswell, New Mexico.  Roswell – an ironic home base for one of the world’s foremost skeptics.  Nash liked the juxtaposition.  He thought of himself as bringing balance to an otherwise delusional town.
He was seriously looking forward to settling in with his laptop, finally getting around to working on his long delayed book, A Taste of the Apocalypse, and uncorking that free bottle of champagne.  Which was why, when a rotund, red faced man hurried up to him, Nash inwardly groaned.
The man thrust a police badge in Nash’s face. “Herr Nash?” he asked in English with a heavy German accent. “Jeremy Nash?”
Nash noticed two other figures approaching–two other imposing figures.  Nash frowned. “I’m Jeremy Nash.  What can I do for you, officer?”
“Herr Nash, you are under arrest.”