Robert Conroy - Rising Sun

When pushed, Camarena would admit that he didn’t give a damn for either nation. The United States had stolen Mexico’s northern provinces a century before and turned them into the states of Texas, California, Arizona, and New Mexico, among others. Germany, under Hitler, had become a monster. So too had Japan, and the Land of the Rising Sun posed a greater threat to Mexico than did Germany.

Camarena and his associates hated the United States. However, his government had decided to side with the Americans against Germany. He thought he saw expediency in this decision as the U.S. was so close and Hitler so far, but he saw absolute evil in Hitler. Camarena almost couldn’t comprehend the reports of Nazi atrocities he was getting from diplomats and others in Europe. Nor could he abide the idea of a militant and expansionist Japan being victorious. If they defeated the United States, Japanese ships would then be able to cruise up and down the western Mexican coast without any interference from the joke that was the Mexican Navy. Mexico would be dominated by the yellow-skin savages even more than she was by the gringos north of the border. Therefore, backing the U.S. was the lesser of two evils and Camarena dedicated himself to that purpose.

Camarena and his allies had engineered the killing of the traitor, Juan Escobar. It pleased him that the American FBI agent, Harris, had been able to observe justice being served. Unlike so many Americans, Harris seemed to play fair. The police had closed the case. They’d quickly concluded that Escobar the traitor had been killed in a street robbery gone very badly awry.

That left the Germans who’d been left behind in Mexico and who had been directing Escobar’s moves on behalf of the Japanese. At first the Americans wanted them left alone, but now they gave the go-ahead to dispose of them. Camarena was glad. He would take care of the human garbage, not for the United States, but for Mexico.

First, Camarena had a series of notes sent to the remaining Germans from someone who identified himself as a friend of the late Escobar. The notes said that the Mexican police had found out about the Germans’ activities and would arrest them shortly if they didn’t flee. Since they weren’t in uniform, they would be shot or hanged as spies. The “friend” suggested that they move to a place in the country and suggested just such a place.

Thankful, the remaining Germans moved out to a small one-story house in the middle of a field about fifty miles from Mexico City. Camarena was a captain in the Mexican Army and his companions were all officers who felt like he did about the Nazi filth.

There were a total of eight well-armed Mexicans in on the raid, not a great numerical advantage, but they hoped that a middle-of-the-night assault would catch the Germans either asleep or exhausted from their daily bouts of drinking. At least this night there were no whores in the house.

There was only one guard stationed fifty yards down the dirt road leading to the shabby house, and Camarena took care of him personally. He snuck up on the half-drunken idiot and sliced his throat. He gave a signal and the others rushed the windows, smashed the glass, and threw in hand grenades that exploded with a roar.

Incredibly, not all the German swine were killed by the blasts. Two men staggered out the door. Their clothes were torn and they were disoriented and bleeding badly. Camarena’s men quickly gunned them down. Camarena led his men into the house. Inside, it was a pile of broken furniture and mangled bodies. They counted the pieces and decided they had gotten all of the Germans. The house was a long ways away from other houses and the bodies might not be discovered for some time.

As they drove back to Mexico City, Camarena decided that he would telephone Harris and let him know that the garbage had been taken out. Harris and others like him needed to know that Mexico didn’t need help doing everything.

HARRIS TURNED HIS RENTAL CAR ONTO THE LONG, WINDING driveway that led to the compound’s elegant main building. Once the place outside Atlanta had been a farm, but it had been rebuilt a few decades earlier in a style reminiscent of the antebellum South. The people who’d done the renovations hadn’t been able to enjoy them. They’d lost the property in the Depression, and it now had new owners. It reeked of money.

The old man on the rocking chair on the wide porch looked vaguely familiar to Harris. His body was thicker and the hair, what was left of it, had gone gray. Of course, twenty-five years will change a man. It sure as hell changed me, Harris thought. He parked the car and got out awkwardly. He was overweight and having problems with his knees. The doctors said it was arthritis and old age. Screw the doctors.

“What took you so long?” the old man asked.

“I had better things to do.” Harris answered.

“Are you taking me back?”

Harris plunked himself down on a chair beside Krause. “Why the hell would I do that? You didn’t break any laws by running away. We were going to turn you loose anyhow, just not quite so soon.”

“I’m Gunnar Kuess now. I used the ID I had and made myself a new life. I’m from Norway and I became a U.S. citizen a number of years ago. I’m a good American. I even voted for Nixon and Goldwater, and I was devastated when that little piece of vermin killed Kennedy. You may be able to invalidate my citizenship and send me back, but my wife was born here, as were my two children, so they are safe.”

“Guess what? We don’t much care. The government would find it very embarrassing. Besides, a whole lot of people think you’re a hero for turning against Japan and Hitler.”

Krause was puzzled. “Then why are you here?”

“First, I’m hot and would really like a beer, and second, I’m long retired from the FBI. Hoover can go screw himself as far as I am concerned. This is a private job. Did you see the movie The Longest Day ?”

“Of course,” Krause said with a laugh. “I’m a big John Wayne fan, and it told me a lot about the invasion of Normandy and what a fool Hitler was. I also read the book. I’ve read quite a number of books about World War II. What a tragedy. How could people get duped by Hitler? And, yes, I am including myself.”

“Good, ’cause we’re coming up on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Battle of the Baja and there’s going to be a movie about it, along with a companion book. The producers and writers want input from all the major participants, including those who took part in the planning of what was referred to as the ‘Immaculate Deception.’ I found Dane and Farris very easily since we exchange Christmas cards. You, however, took a little longer.”

But not much longer, Harris thought. It was almost as if Krause wanted to be found. He’d run from California to Georgia, posed as a refugee, and gotten a job in a gas station. No problem there, since he was too old to be dodging the draft and had papers saying he was from Norway. He was a decent mechanic and proved himself to the owner. After a few years he married the owner’s daughter. Krause was an even better businessman than a mechanic and now owned a chain of quick oil-change shops and was, if his current house was any indication, quite well off.

“What if I don’t want to talk to anyone?”

“You might not have a choice. Look, if an over-the-hill retired FBI agent can find you all by his lonesome, anyone can. And believe me, people will wonder about the man who turned his back on Hitler and helped the United States.”

This was not quite true. Although finding Krause hadn’t been all that difficult, Harris had contacted a lot of friends and called in a lot of markers to do it.