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Revenge of the Good Shepherds
Revenge of the Good Shepherds
Revenge of the Good Shepherds
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Revenge of the Good Shepherds

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The Good Shepherds are growing old. To breathe new life into the team, former British Intelligence agent Alec Finney recruits ex-Marine Captain Nelson Cross and Tal Caspi, female Israeli Olympic athlete. Their mission: to recover Vietnamese gold and exact revenge on the CIA agents that killed a squad of Marines to steal it.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDov Silverman
Release dateOct 9, 2012
ISBN9781301380206
Revenge of the Good Shepherds
Author

Dov Silverman

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Dov Silverman has served as a U.S. Marine in the Korean War, worked as a Long Island railroad conductor, been an auctioneer, and even established the Autar Microfilm Service. While working so hard on the railroad, he earned his high school diploma and went on to graduate from Stony Brook University, Long Island, New York, cum laude, at the age of 39. He and his family settled in Safed, Israel in 1972. He credits a spiritual meeting with God and a Tzaddik (righteous man), Jules Rubinstein, in the Brentwood (New York) Jewish Center, with setting him on the path of study, religious involvement and settlement in Israel. His novel, FALL OF THE SHOGUN, appeared on the London Times Best-Seller List and has been published in multiple languages. He also won a 1988 Suntory Mystery Fiction Award, Japan, for REVENGE OF THE GOOD SHEPHERDS.

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    Revenge of the Good Shepherds - Dov Silverman

    Revenge of the Good Shepherds

    Dov Silverman

    Revenge of the Good Shepherds

    Silverman, Dov

    www.dovsilverman.com

    All rights reserved

    ISBN: 9781301380206

    Third edition

    License notes: ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

    Cover design: Katrina Joyner of http://ebookcovers4u.wordpress.com

    6TH SUNTORY MYSTERY FICTION AWARD WINNER

    REVENGE OF THE GOOD SHEPHERDS

    Dov Silverman

    PROLOGUE

    April 27th 1975 Two days before the American pull out from Vietnam: The Plain of Reeds, South Vietnam.

    Captain Nelson Cross commander of the most decorated Scout and Sniper Platoon in the Marine Corps listened to his men shout coarse jokes at each other. Untroubled by their sweat soaked combat fatigues they were in high spirits. After thirteen months in Vietnam, earning eleven months combat pay they were headed stateside. Cross wanted to get them out before the shit hit the fan. He scanned the tall grass in the direction of the gunfire. No enemy was yet in sight. Hell, he thought, Here, everybody was the enemy.

    His men hurried to unload the truck and trudged past him to the helicopter. One started singing and Cross smiled as the rest joined in.

    "Oh my darling, Nelly Cross.

    We know you are the boss.

    But when we're out of 'Nam,

    Your ass will be spam.

    So say the Scouts and Snipers,

    Cause we're a bunch of vipers.

    We'll follow you to hell,

    If you don't forget the dinner bell.

    Oh darling Nelly, Nelly.

    We'll all be Jelly Bellies.

    When we're state-side,

    We'll drink the damn place dry.

    With our darlin' Nelly Cross."

    He took his eyes from the grass plains and watched his men. Two by two, they unloaded a South Vietnamese army truck, carrying double-sealed ammunition boxes to a US Navy helicopter. They struggled to heave the heavy boxes up through the cargo door past a four barreled Vulcan machine gun. A giant of a man in civilian clothes with a blond handlebar mustache and long hair, reached down with one hand and pulled boxes up and in with ease. A tall, lean civilian behind Emile Radke struggled to drag the boxes into the cargo bay.

    The sound of gunfire across the fields grew louder. A Vietnamese civilian hopped out of the truck's cab and ran up to the tall, American marine captain, shoving a clipboard at him. You sign Captain Cross. My mission done. The civilian shouted orders at South Vietnamese soldiers hidden in the tall grass. They came at the double, scrambling into the back of the truck.

    Cross saw the last box heaved into the helicopter and shouted, Gunny, is the count right?

    Aye, aye sir! came the reply.

    Get your weapons! Fall the men in and prepare to board the 'copter!

    You heard the Boss! the sergeant roared. We're goin' home!

    The marines ran to their stacked weapons and lined up in two ranks of six each. The rattle of small arms fire was closer. A mortar shell landed a hundred yards out. The rotor of the big helicopter turned and the engine roared to life. Cross signed the receipt. The Vietnamese civilian pointed to the copter and shouted above the engine noise, I get signatures of Mr. Radke and Mr. Hockett on…. His words were drowned out by the roar of the Vulcan machine gun.

    Cross whirled. His twelve men were being torn apart by the large steel jacketed bullets.

    Firing his M-16 from the hip, the Gunny sergeant charged the helicopter. His body disintegrated in front of the four barreled machine gun, but his finger froze in a death grip on the M-16's trigger and it continued firing into the dirt.

    As if in slow motion, Nelson Cross watched the four barreled machine gun track him. It kicked up clods of dirt. Like a giant cat, he dove for the only cover, under the truck. Feeling a weight fall on him, he turned to see the Vietnamese civilian sprawled dead across his legs. The truck's body jumped. It rocked as bullets tore through it and ricocheted around him, nicking him several times. The blood of the South Vietnamese soldiers came seeping, trickling, and then pouring down on him through the holes in the truck body. He heard the helicopter rev its engine and lift off. More bullets hit the truck, igniting the gas tank.

    Cross kicked the dead man off his legs and crawled from under the burning vehicle. A sharp pain in his chest caught took his breath away. Through the smoke and dust raised by the rotor blades, he saw Emile Radke's big, heavy mustached face next to Lon Hockett's lean, misshapen leer. They peered down from the helicopter's bay door. Unable to move, Cross watched Hockett pull the pin on a grenade, hold his hand out and drop it down on him. Cross buried his face in the dirt and heard Hockett sing,

    We'll follow you to hell. Don't forget the dinner bell, my darlin' Nelly Cross.

    CHAPTER 1

    PINES AND PALMS SANITARIUM

    Eight Years Later, October 1983, Florida, USA.

    "Al tifakhdee." The taller of two well built men wearing suits and ties held the rear door of the limousine open with one hand and extended the other to a young woman.

    A third man, wearing a white smock, addressed the curly-haired man coaxing the girl from the car. Mr. Levi, if Tal speaks only Hebrew, there'll be a problem.

    No problem, Dr. Laisson. Mr. Levi smiled. Tal speaks English very well. Don't you, Tal?

    The girl ignored the question as well as the proffered hand and stepped from the car.

    Mr. Levi waved at the surroundings. Didn't I tell you this place is beautiful? Look at the rolling lawns and sculpted hedges. And there are pine trees and palm trees all around. He turned to the doctor. Are those fruit trees I see behind the cottages?

    I'm the director of this facility, not the landscaper, Dr. Laisson said.

    Ignoring the doctor, Mr. Levi said, Tal will be staying in a private cottage, won't she?

    Yes. That is the arrangement. The doctor addressed the young woman, Tal, I understand you enjoy sports. There's a field house and track just beyond those hedges. He pointed. Why don't you look around?

    With one hand, the tall, raven-haired girl adjusted the knitted shawl around her shoulders. She tugged her sweat shirt down over her faded jeans and walked off.

    Moving away, she heard Dr. Laisson say, She's a stunning woman.

    Tal is also an Israeli national treasure, Mr. Levi replied. Then in a lower cautioning tone, I know you'll take good care of her.

    Tal's dark eyes revealed no emotion or reaction. She adjusted the shawl covering her left arm, and kicked at the freshly mown grass with her tennis shoes. She walked the path through the hedge.

    On the other side, athletic equipment leaned against a small stone building. A red clay running track encompassed the manicured grass sports field. Places were marked off with lime dust for different track and field events. Several people loped around the track and a few limbered up on the field.

    Tal froze. On the far side of the track, a tall figure in a red sweat suit rounded the second turn. He ran with a long, smooth stride down the straight-away, passing two joggers on the third turn. She sensed his competitive drive as he made a distinct effort to pass a runner on the last turn before the field house. He pounded by the runner coming closer and closer to her.

    Tal leaned forward from the hips; her eyes turned pitch black. Her full lips flattened against her teeth as he passed. He continued another lap without slackening his pace. Her head moved slowly, dark eyes following him. Coming in to the last turn, he pressed even harder. She knew he would sprint to the finish line a few feet beyond where she stood. She watched his arms pumping, knees high as he strained for the finish line. Then his stride broke down to a tired walk. He stopped on the grassy infield, dropped his head and leaned forward with his hands on his, knees panting, facing her not forty yards away.Nelly Cross' broad chest heaved like a bellows with each breath. He raised his head and noticed the attractive young woman staring at him. She began rocking back and forth heel to toe and back again. She limbered up with the practiced ease of a trained athlete. She cart-wheeled her arms, did stretches and sit-ups, never taking her eyes off Nelly Cross.

    He watched her reach over her head with her right hand and pull off the shawl and sweat shirt. She threw her shoulders back and her unfettered bare breasts quivered. Nelly Cross let out a puff of breath in admiration. She snapped open the buttons on the front of her jeans, let them fall and stepped out of them. Nelly approved the pink bikini underpants that stretched easily across her flat belly. She had well developed thighs. He appreciated the definition of her back as she turned and jogged to the field house. She selected a javelin from the rack; he realized that this beautiful woman had no left hand. Her left arm tapered to a smooth delicate stump at the wrist.

    Nelly watched her move away from him, across the clay track onto the grass field, hefting the long silver javelin to find its exact balance. She turned and stared at him once again. She raised the javelin over her right shoulder and ran toward him, her stride lengthened. She arched her back, pointed the stump of her left arm to the sky and hurled the javelin.

    Nelly watched the shiny metal shaft catch the sunlight as it soared to its apex. He remained mesmerized watching it descend directly at him. The metal point buried itself a foot deep in the earth between his legs. The javelin vibrated then swayed like a giant metronome before his eyes.

    Emitting a primitive cry, Nelson Cross ripped the javelin out of the ground and flung it away. You're still trying to kill me, he roared, and charged the girl.

    Tal's eyes darted, searching for something to defend herself with. She saw the red track suit bearing down on her. Mussa leapt at her. Instinctively she threw up her left hand for protection, but it wasn't there. Leaning sideways, she caught him on the cheekbone with her left elbow, but the fury of his charge carried her backwards. She fell with Mussa on top of her. She fought with frenzied strength to get out from under, but his arms and legs held her fast. His green eyes reflected her flashing hate. Certain she was going to die Tal Caspi bared her teeth and tried to bite a chunk from his face. He pulled back.

    Neither Tal nor Nelly heard Dr. Laisson shout at the security men, patients and nurses who ran to help. Leave them alone! Stand off!

    With Mr. Levi at his shoulder, the doctor leaned down and shouted into Nelson Cross' face, Go ahead! Kill her! Do it! Let's see if you can do it!

    Laisson watched Nelly's eyes and saw the fury dissolve, Tal Struggled fiercely against the powerful hands of the Marine Captain.

    Tal, Tal, look at his face, the doctor leaned closer and whispered. Hear me. Look into his eyes. It isn't Mussa. It's not Mussa!

    The smell of Cross's sweating body engulfed her. Scenes of Munich replayed in Tal's mind. The march-by with the flags of all nations whipping in the wind in the 1972 Olympic Stadium. Bands played, people sang, cheered and gave speeches about peace between nations. The entire stadium came to its feet when she entered with the Israeli flag. The blue and white Star of David, lead the small Israeli sports team past the reviewing stand. At 17, Tal was the youngest competitor to qualify for the javelin throw and the most favored to bring Israel its first-ever Olympic medal.

    On the day of her final competition, she met David at 4:30 a.m. They jogged until sun-up to relieve the tension and returned to their dorm in the Olympic Compound at 31 Connolystrasse.

    I wonder where the German security men are? David asked.

    Tal shrugged. She pointed to a group of eight men in red training suits walking toward them. Each carried a black leather athletic bag. Maybe that's the new security crew.

    David held the front door open for her. There's supposed to be a guard in this vestibule, he said.

    Tal bounded up the staircase, calling to David behind her, We'll tell Moshe when he wakes up.

    From the second floor landing, she looked down at David mounting the steps two at a time. Behind him, the entrance door burst open. The tallest of the red suited men pointed a machine pistol at David's back.

    Mussa, a voice shouted, kill him!"

    The big man fired and David hunched over. More bullets drove him forward and he fell in a heap on the stairs. Mussa trained his weapon on Tal, but the bullets ricocheted off the metal hand rail. She fell back against the wall to the sound of footsteps charging up the stairs.

    "Mekhablim! (Terrorists) she screamed. Lock the door!"

    Mussa stumbled over David's body. Through the glass window of the dormitory door, Tal saw the faces of her co-athletes: Yosef Gutfreund, Moshe Weinberger and Yosef Romano. They threw their weight against the door to lock it and shouted an alert to everyone in the dorm. Tal turned to see Mussa pointing his weapon at the door. He fired killing those on the other side. She reached out for the weapon with her left hand and he fired again, knocking her against the door. Mussa and the other red- suited men ran over her into the room. Blood pumped out of the place her hand had been.

    Tal was overpowered by the strength and sweat-soaked smell of the man above her. She stared up at Nelson Cross. Her body pressed up toward his, her bare breasts touching his red training suit. The fog of hate cleared. She saw the change in his face, as if he too had made a discovery. She saw that his hair was blond, not dark like Mussa's.

    Dr. Laisson helped Cross to his feet and led him away. Mr. Levi wrapped Tal in his suit jacket and followed the doctor toward the administration building.

    A curtain fluttered in Dr. Laisson's office in the Administration Building. A short, older bald headed little man with red dimpled cheeks and clear, mischievous blue eyes stepped back from the window. He observed the scene below and chuckled. He rubbed his hands with glee then closed the folders marked TAL CASPI and Nelson Cross. He returned them to the file cabinet.

    With his burglar's pick, he locked the file drawer and patted the cabinet. Tal, me dark, raven-haired beauty, I do believe you and the Captain Cross will be my next recruits. The little man hummed to himself and closed the office door behind him. With a deft flick of the steel pick, he locked it saying aloud, You'll do just fine, me ducks, just fine.

    CHAPTER 2

    THE R&H BUILDING

    New York City:

    A thousand miles east of The Pines and Palms Sanitarium, on the top floor of the seventeen story R&H building overlooking the Harlem River, a young, buxom secretary held open the door to the president's office. Mr. Hockett to see Mr. Radke, she announced, pressing her back against the door jamb, hoping the tall, lean man with the twisted face wouldn't touch her.

    As Lon Hockett passed through the doorway, he purposely rubbed his right arm against her breasts. The tips of his fingers lightly brushed her soft stomach. After she closed the door, Hockett's upper lip curled from his teeth in what Emile Radke recognized as his partner's smile. Radke chewed on his long blond mustache, watched Hockett as he would a pet snake.

    I like it when your secretaries let me in, Hockett said. You always pick them with big tits. I love tits!

    Miss Kurtz has a nice ass too.

    "Emile, you're a pervert, Hockett said, and both men laughed.

    The six foot five, three hundred pound Radke hit his desk with a fist like a ham and the sound echoed through the executive suite. "Damn, but I'm in a good mood! That shipload of weapons the Saudis paid for was blown up in the port of Tripoli. If the Saudi King wants Yasser Arafat to get more guns before he's overrun by the Syrians, the King's got to buy another shipload of stuff from us. That's three million dollars more, pure profit.'

    Plus the insurance on the ship, Hockett said. It's a wonderful business. Sell the stuff, make sure it gets wasted and they come begging for more. He lowered his long lean frame into a leather easy chair and patted the plush arms. I got to get me one like this for my office.

    Radke waved his hand. Buy two. We can afford it. He sat up and glanced at his watch. Hey, how'd you get back here so fast?

    Hockett pointed to the roof. Helicopter service. Gettin' just like a taxi cab.

    The light in Radke's eyes grew to a greedy gleam. Did you arrange everything?

    Yeah.

    The girls?

    Two.

    Radke's cheeks puffed and his face reddened over his bushy blond mustache. And they're not pros?

    Not virgins either. They claim they're not kinky. Not a blow job between the two of them.

    Radke huffed, sat back and rubbed his shirt front with his large, rough hands. A thousand bucks says they'll agree to anything within fifteen minutes.

    Hockett held up two fingers and said, Both of them. He then raised all five fingers. Five thousand each. Spreading the fingers of his left hand next to his right, he added, Within ten minutes, not fifteen.

    Perspiration beaded Radke's forehead. Did you bring the clothes for them to leave in?

    Hockett nodded toward the door. In the box I left with your secretary.

    Radke pointed a sausage sized forefinger at his partner. You've got a bet. Ten thousand. Just tell me why you’re so confident?

    Hockett leaned back in the chair, his top lip curled. One of the broads is a cannibal.

    Radke's thick features froze in a half smile that fell to a dumb grin. His pale blue eyes searched his partner's. Lon Hockett's laugh turned to the braying of a mule. He rocked back and forth in the chair, slapped his knees and pointed at Radke. That expression on your face is worth a couple of thousand.

    The big man chuckled. Then the laughter rolled up from his stomach. OK, OK, he said, that joke will cost you ten thousand dollars.

    Suppose one of them really is a cannibal. Hockett brayed. Then your pecker is gone and you'll be pissin' in a plastic bag the rest of your life.

    Yeah, yeah. Radke glanced at his watch. We don't have much time. He held up a two page list of things to do. What about the Christmas party on Fire Island?

    It's all taken care of. Every bar on the island will be open. We started a new tradition out there.

    What if the Great South Bay freezes over?

    No problem, Hockett said. I donated a thousand bucks to the Coast Guard Station at Oak Beach. They'll keep the channel clear for the ferries."

    Ferries for Fairies, Radke said. Both men roared.

    I arranged for a special train to make a couple of trips daily from New York to Bay Shore, Hockett said, starting early Christmas Eve until the day after New Year's. Taxis will meet the trains and run the people down to the dock. Fare, room, board and entertainment will cost two thousand per person for eight days.

    How's the booking?

    We're sold out.

    Good! What about our special friends from the UN and the embassy people from Washington?

    All taken care of. Everything on the house for them except gambling. They'll be helicoptered from New York to their bungalow doorsteps on Fire Island. Other VIPs from overseas or out of state will land at MacArthur Field. Some we'll helicopter over, others we'll drive to the dock where my speedboats will be waiting.

    That speedboat ride adds a nice personal touch, Radke said.

    Hockett ticked off the words on his fingers. Food, booze, beds, all taken care of. The gambling equipment is coming in from Jersey. We should clear at least two million for eight days.

    What about our bank boat to collect from all the bars on the island New Year's Day?

    Right. The other bar owners are even paying insurance for our security service.

    Last year we had a problem with outsiders. Radke said.

    There's no way of stopping people with boats from coming over to Fire Island. Our guests will also drift to the other bars, so what?

    Put on extra security men!

    Hockett took a pad from his shirt pocket, revealing the straps of a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. He scribbled a note, looked up. Anything else?

    Have you found someone to match against Whisper White on New Year's Eve?

    Yeah. I think I got a girl.

    A girl! I hope it'll be a contest. Last year Whisper took your broad apart in nothing flat and I took your ten thousand dollars. It was no contest.

    Hockett knew he was being goaded. He planned for it.

    Who is your broad? Radke asked. Where's she from?

    Hockett shook his head. Oh no, Emile. I still think you bought my broad off last year. Either that or you screwed her up with drugs. If she knew what the loser was in for, she would have won for sure.

    Radke spread his arms wide. Lon, my old buddy. Partner! How could you think so badly of me? Radke drummed his chest with his fists. Would I do something like that to you?

    You bet your fat ass you would. Hockett said and leaned forward pointing at his partner. But this time you ain't gettin' the chance.

    Your girl is good?

    Good enough to take that Amazon of yours!

    Same bet as last year?

    Lon Hockett had prepared for this moment and wasn't about to ruin it by seeming over-anxious. In more than twenty years of betting with Radke, he'd always jumped at offers like this and lost. Now he purposely stammered. I'll back her, but don't … don't push me on the amount. He watched his partner try to cover a grin.

    Suit yourself, Radke said. Did you ship those hand guns to our friends in Detroit, Ottawa and Mexico?

    Yeah. But I don't like being involved personally in small deals. They're more dangerous than big ones.

    Lon, it was important. A lot of our business is built on gotch'as. We do a favor for someone and then we can say, 'Gotcha! Sooner or later, they'll pay us back in spades.' Hell, I didn't even charge them for the weapons. Think of it like a credit card we can draw on."

    Is that Corsican shipment linked to a gotcha? Hockett asked.

    It's a freebie too. But not the Sicilian business. They pay up front. Radke tapped his desk with his knuckles. Last, but not least, on my list. I want Captain Nelson Cross, dead!

    Hockett sprang from the chair and leaned over the desk, staring down at his partner. His voice a whisper between his thin cruel lips. Emile, I'd most certainly like to kill that bastard myself. He turned us in for wasting a few South Vietnamese slope heads. Then he made us kill his whole squad because he wouldn't go along and take a share of the gold. We included him in the deal and he turned on us like a mad dog.

    Lon, a minute ago you were complaining about the little stuff being more dangerous. Send someone else to kill him.

    Hockett wagged his head. Not until good old Nelly tells us where the gold is! Hockett spun away, and strode to the large plate glass window overlooking New York's dark and swiftly flowing Harlem River. The only sound in the office was that of the December wind buffeting the window.

    Radke waited until he saw the easing of tension in his partner's shoulders. It's got to be done quick and quiet, Radke said in a gentle, soothing tone. If the government ever looks into Cross' story, we could lose everything.

    Hockett stared at the swirls of the current in the river below. Gold is being quoted at four hundred dollars an ounce, he said, and that dumb son of a bitch, Cross, thinks it's still selling at thirty-five dollars. Hockett turned to face Radke. If he knows where the helicopter is and we kill him, we're throwing away thirty million dollars. That's serious money. We killed a lot of people for that gold and only got five boxes before the damned pilot took off on us!

    Okay, Radke said, but we parlayed that gold into more than a hundred million dollars in cash. That's without counting the assets in our import-export business. There's another seventy million we got stashed in weapons and drugs, and all our gotchas are worth a few million. We don't need the fucking gold!

    Emile, we earned it. But it's more than that. I hate that righteous son of a bitch Cross.

    'We're not even sure he knows where it is.

    He knows! He always knew things that weren't his business.

    No chances, Lon! We're too rich to take chances! They questioned Cross in the psychiatric clinic using Sodium Pentothal and nothing indicates he knows the location of the gold.

    We used that truth serum shit and the slope heads lied to us. The navy doctors don't know how to ask. I'll wire Cross like a Christmas tree, turn on the current and listen to the bastard sing, 'The First Noel' in French. Emile, Give me Cross for Christmas. I'll bring you back a thirty million dollar present.

    Radke slammed the desk with his fist, came halfway out of his chair and pointed his fat finger in Lon Hockett's face. No Christmas presents! Assign your best men to make it look like an accident. And do it quick! Before the holidays!

    The two men glared at each other.

    I'm my best man, Hockett said. And I'll enjoy doing it.

    I know you get your cookies off like that, but now you're too rich to afford the pleasure. The Pines and the Palms is a maximum security installation. Hire some clean people who can’t be traced to us!

    Emile, you're getting old. We were the best hit team the CIA had.

    Radke sank back into his chair and waved both hands as if brushing the subject away. Let the young guys do the dirty work.

    Emile, I sure would like to get my hands on Cross. He cracked under the Viet Cong torture and I was always better than them at that stuff. Maybe, just maybe, we'd get the gold too.

    The intercom on Radke's desk buzzed and he answered, Yes, Miss Kurtz?

    Mr. Radke, there are two women here claiming to have an appointment with you.

    That's correct. Radke winked up at his partner. Send them in with the package Mr. Hockett left on your desk, and take an hour break. Lock the outer office door and put the phones on hold until you return.

    Yes sir.

    We won't be finished before she gets back, Hockett said.

    Emile Radke chewed the end of his mustache and smiled. "I know. I want her to

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