“Listen, Gloria, I’ve gotta make this quick.”

  “Why, what’s the matter, Ed?”

  So he told her. The conversation lasted some ten minutes. Even to his own ears his story sounded mad, though it was exactly as Cowdray had laid it out to him in his consulting rooms. When he finished he was half expecting Gloria to tell him to check himself back into the hospital.

  “I know I sound kinda crazy,” he said when he was through.

  “No, Ed, you do not,” Gloria said. “There was always something a bit off about Stu. And the adoption? The process was too slick. I didn’t honestly think you were ready to go out into the world, but everyone in the chain just waved it through double-quick. Washing their hands of it, you know?”

  “I don’t know what to do, Gloria. Just a phrase or some numbers and I could go under again. My shrink warned me. What I can’t figure is what’s the purpose of this?”

  There was silence for a beat and then the sound of Gloria drawing a deep breath. “Listen, Ed. Your shrink might be on to something—there have been rumors flying around in security service circles for years. They’re mainly about the CIA. Operation CHAOS: targeting left-wing groups with brainwashing, making them commit atrocities, upping the ante against them. Some say the Tate murders were part of it.” She paused. “It’s just what I’ve heard, but you can’t trust anyone, Ed. Not anyone.”

  “I found this notebook in Stu’s safe. It has names and numbers.”

  “You got it on you?”

  “It’s right here.”

  “How many entries are there?”

  “Just eight.”

  “OK, read them out.”

  Ed did so slowly, sensing that Gloria was writing them down.

  When he got to Grant Fitzgerald, he heard an intake of breath.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Fitzgerald? That’s my deputy director.”

  And now Ed did remember why he’d recognized the name: from newspaper reports. Fitzgerald cleaning up this or that, a big, heavyset man smiling wide for the camera as another crime syndicate boss was led off.

  “Jesus,” he said. “What’re we gonna do?”

  “First, guard that notebook with your life.” She paused again, as if stiffening her resolve. “Remember Hennessey, my old boss?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Ed replied.

  “He’s the agent in charge down here. I can trust him. We’ve been in a few situations. He’s gold. I’m going to talk to him and try to figure something out. Call here again at midnight EST tomorrow. OK?”

  “Yes,” Ed replied.

  “Good, hang up now. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for everything, Glor—” But Ed found himself speaking to dead air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  All was not well with the world this September 4 in a mock-baronial house on Hoodridge Drive in Mt. Lebanon. The seigneur of the house was Thomas Pieter Vermeulen, whose name had appeared in Stu’s little red notebook and whose calls Stu had so imprudently ignored up until his demise.

  Vermeulen didn’t look like an archetypal criminal mastermind. He was no more than a slightly stooped, middle-aged man. His face, which hardly ever saw the sun, was unlined and exhibited not a follicle of hair on his skull, eyebrows, or chin; despite his babyish expression his gaze was a cold, icy blue behind the round ­spectacles he had favored since he was a young priest. He deployed the look often on the staff assembled in the control room of the mansion.

  He had once been an innocent: a newly ordained, idealistic priest fired by zeal for the Mystical Body and a burning hatred of Jews and communists. There had been many like him then but the world of the ungodly had increased incrementally until the whole earth seemed overrun with unbelievers, lawless racial minorities, and left-wing beatniks. He had once dreamed of a new world order in which the Deicides and Ungodly alike were consigned to a living hell. He was not sure anymore if he would live to see that day.

  His mission had begun on the evening of Monday, February 20, 1939. He had been in in the lobby of the Belvedere Hotel on West 48th Street waiting for the summons to meet one of America’s most notorious fascist leaders.

  Outside the hotel’s front doors a massive crowd of protesters surged toward Madison Square Garden a block away. There were handheld placards that read “Stop the Fascists” and “No Nazis in New York.” Zionist flags and the Stars and Stripes were carried side by side.

  Inside the Garden were 20,000 members of the German American Bund. The thirty-foot-high portrait of George Washington at the back of the hall was flanked by the national flag and the swastika. A banner commanded: “Americans! Stop Jewish Domination of Christianity.” It was the largest, and last, Nazi rally in American history.

  Vermeulen was newly ordained at St. Joseph’s seminary in Yonkers, where he had been considered one of the most brilliant minds of his generation. Nevertheless, the summons to attend the rally had come as a surprise: the inviter was no less than Father Charles Edward Coughlin of the National Shrine of the Little Flower in Royal Oak, Michigan. Coughlin was the biggest media celebrity of his day: his weekly radio broadcast attracted audiences of 10 million. He was also the inspiration for the fascist militia known as the Christian Front. In the last year the Front had boycotted Jewish businesses and openly assaulted Jewish-looking people.

  Vermeulen had no idea how he had come to Coughlin’s attention. He had been but one of many novices at St. Joseph’s alarmed at the threat to the church by the Judeo-Bolsheviks who had, as the novices and their teachers saw it, come to dominate every aspect of American life. But to have been picked out by Coughlin was an unimaginable honor.

  Vermeulen fairly squirmed in his seat in anticipation of the approaching meeting—pride was the deadliest sin but he could not shrug off the pleasurable glow that Coughlin’s call had given him.

  He was trying to distract himself from such thoughts by reading Coughlin’s newspaper, Social Justice, which had been handed to him by one of Coughlin’s lieutenants when he had announced himself. In truth he had not gotten further than its headline: “Who Are the Enemies of Christianity in the US?”

  Another of Coughlin’s aides, a somber-looking man who would not have been out of place in a funeral parlor, approached.

  The man leaned down and said quietly, “Father will see you now.” He pointed across the art deco lobby. “Take the express elevator to the top.” There were six elevators in the bank. Five served all the lower floors, but one of the central ones had an indicator only for the fourteenth floor. It was guarded by another somberly dressed henchman.

  Vermeulen put down Social Justice, cleared his throat, ran a finger under his collar, then rose and went across the lobby, conscious that other Coughlin acolytes, less favored than he, were staring at him with envy. The aide at the elevator frisked him lightly, then gestured for him to enter.

  He punched the button for the top floor. The doors closed and there was a moment of weightlessness as the elevator rushed upward. The bell in the car indicator pinged as he reached the fourteenth floor. The doors opened directly into the hall of a luxurious suite. The room beyond the hall was dimly lit by a couple of lamps and the flickering fires in the streets far below.

  And there stood Coughlin. He was in front of one of the two floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the protest, the light reflecting off his round glasses. Like Vermeulen, he was dressed in a dark suit and dog collar. Vermeulen was surprised to discover his hero was short, only about five feet eight. From his voice on the radio and the telephone he had imagined him a giant.

  Coughlin turned from the window and beckoned his visitor to come forward. The plush shag underfoot practically swallowed his brogues as Vermeulen approached. The Radio Priest had a round face and seemingly mild eyes behind the spectacles, but his eyebrows, which were spectacularly thick, were known to arrange themselves into thunderclouds when he was aroused, as he appeared to be now. In fact, his demeanor was not welcoming but stern, and Vermeulen swallowed nervously. Coughlin extended his hand. Vermeulen took it. It was surprisingly soft and plump, like a baby’s.

  “Ah, Vermeulen,” Coughlin said. His eyes were cold and gray. “A terrible day for America when an innocent rally is attacked by Jews and communists.”

  Coughlin had a voice with that finely articulated, faintly anglicized diction so prized by radio stations in those days. The emphasis on “innocent” fell firmly on the second syllable.

  Vermeulen bowed his head. “Nevertheless, it’s an honor to be here, Father.”

  “There, there, no need to stand on ceremony,” Coughlin said, now smiling a little. He went over to a sideboard, raised a decanter and quirked one of those famous eyebrows. “Drink?” he asked.

  Vermeulen shook his head. “I don’t, Father.”

  At this Coughlin outright smiled. “Well, maybe you will—in time.” He poured himself a finger and lifted his glass. “To the Front,” he said, then gestured to two armchairs either side of an ornamental fireplace. “Come, let’s sit. Vermeulen is a Dutch name, isn’t it?” he asked when they were settled.

  “My family came over with Van den Broek in ’48, sir. I’m from Appleton, Wisconsin.”

  “There are good Catholics in the heartland of this country,” Coughlin said. He gestured at the window. “But here in the east? We know who reigns here. Who silences the voices of believers with their lies. The left-leaning Jewish newspapers and their communist friends.” His brow furrowed even more. “I know I invited you to join our Bund allies at the rally tonight but this demonstration has led me to take a painful decision: I will not be attending.” He saw Vermeulen’s disappointment and held up a hand. “My bodyguards tell me it’s too dangerous—they are habitually overcautious, but, given the high emotions and the chance of actual bodily harm, I, for once, have to agree.”

  He took a sip of his drink and stared into the middle distance for a beat or two.

  “So, it comes to this,” he said with a sigh. “Freedom of expression is dead. And if we cannot communicate what is actually going on in America, what hope is there? They speak of the persecution of the Jews, but what about the persecution of Christians? Silenced by the howling mob. Our cause is under threat.” He paused. “Dire threat. Thomas—may I call you Thomas?—I have to confess I always thought this evening would end like this. I’m going to tell you a secret. I came to New York City not for the rally but for another purpose altogether.” He fixed Vermeulen with those compelling gray eyes. “You are that purpose.”

  Vermeulen felt the same rush of pride he had felt at Coughlin’s telephone call and when entering the elevator. He was sure he flushed.

  Coughlin went on regardless. “We are of like mind. Our faith is under attack. Democracy is dead. We must choose another path.

  “To that end I am about to tell you something that cannot be shared.” He paused again to let that sink in, then went on, “A great movement, greater than the movement taking place tonight, is afoot. These American Germans think jackboots and swastikas are everything. But though Hitler began as a Catholic, he may very well now be an atheist. We will follow our own path to power.” He paused dramatically. “God’s sword is not only figurative. The Bund have no weapons, but we do. I’m talking 30-06 Springfields and Enfields, Browning automatic rifles, bombs. Loyal Fronters have gathered them. Many are National Guardsmen. When the time comes, and it is coming, Thomas, we’ll take over the public utilities and the radio stations, round up the Jews and their cronies in Congress, take control of the Federal Reserve, and install a new government.”

  Vermeulen was both stunned and elated. He had never heard sedition uttered so baldly, or with such conviction.

  A great roar as of a wounded beast came up from the street outside. A shadow passed over Coughlin’s face at the noise.

  “But there is a problem—a major one. I have influential friends: friends in Congress, in the armed forces, in the secret services. They tell me things. There’s bad news—our movement is under scrutiny. The FBI is very interested in what we do. There are informants in our ranks. The weapons and explosives that have been taken from the armories have excited the agents. It could be, Thomas, that Roosevelt’s lackeys will close in on us before we are ready.”

  “I hope not, Father,” Vermeulen said.

  “Hope may not be enough, Thomas.” Coughlin paused again and once more smiled softly at the younger man. “I’m going to ask something very special of you, because you are a special soldier of Christ. Are you ready for an exceptional duty?”

  Vermeulen swallowed. “Anything, Father.”

  “Good, but it will be a hard road, a very hard one. I have devised another plan should our current one fail. It must have no savor of the Front, bear no reference to the Mystical Body. In short, it will be untraceable to me. I have given the naming of this organization of which I want you to be a major part much thought.” He paused again. “I hear the brothers were most impressed with you at the seminary. Magna cum laude in Greek.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Vermeulen said.

  “Then I hope you will recognize the name I have chosen: Typhon.”

  The Callicoon seminary syllabus had confined itself to the Greek New Testament, but Vermeulen had read his fill of myths and le­gends. Typhon was one of the deadliest creatures of mythology, with a hundred fire-spitting serpents wreathing his body. Only Zeus had been able to defeat him.

  His expression must have given him away. “I see you approve,” Coughlin said. “All those who look upon Typhon will fear and obey him. A new order will arise in America—the unjust will be cast out.”

  Then he laid out his plan.

  It was nearly dawn when Vermeulen exited the Belvedere. Outside, the streets were littered with discarded placards, flags, and ripped items of clothing. Trash-can fires smoldered, filling the deserted street with acrid smoke. He stepped over a swastika banner and walked south toward Penn Station with a light step and, for the first time since leaving Wisconsin, joy in his heart.

  Seven months later war had been declared in Europe. Anti-isolationist, anti-German sentiment swept the country. The Neutrality Act was repealed and on January 13, 1940, warrants were issued for the arrest of the Christian Front group known as the Nazis of Copley Square. A large quantity of arms and explosives was found in their possession. They were accused of planning an armed insurrection with the intent of setting up a dictatorship. Coughlin promptly disowned the group on the radio and in his newspaper.

  The eventual trial of the seventeen Copley Square ringlea­ders descended into chaos, then collapsed as the defense attorneys filibustered, obfuscated, and dragged up obscure precedents under the Second Amendment. After several months the trial judge died, necessitating a retrial, but this never happened. The seventeen were exonerated and their arms returned. Coughlin performed a volte-face and trumpeted their release in Social Justice.

  But on December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and four days later Nazi Germany declared war on the US. A patriotic outpouring followed. The Christian Front were damned for their pro-Nazi sympathies and vanished.

  Shortly after the declaration of war, Thomas Vermeulen had renounced holy orders and disappeared from the world. His last act was to steal seven Bibles from his sacristy.

  Vermeulen was barely seen in public again, but the Bibles would resurface: they were found with seven children by a Maine highway on a June night in 1970.

  Every year on October 25, Vermeulen had left the house, walked down the broad, tree-lined avenue to the public housing projects at Hoodridge Court and used the pay phone there to call a Royal Oak, Michigan number. The twenty-fifth was Coughlin’s birthday. The Radio Priest continued to serve at the National Shrine of the Little Flower, but his days on the radio were long over: he had been drummed from the airwaves in the anti-Axis sentiment after Pearl Harbor.

  The Christian Front was gone, but, as Coughlin had promised, another organization had taken its place. Typhon had been born out of the Front’s collapse.

  The twenty-fifth of October, then, was the day that Vermeulen imparted birthday greetings and received instruction from his leader. Typhon’s aims were the same as the now proscribed right-wing organizations of the thirties: the downfall of Judeo-Communism, to be achieved through false-flag operations intended to incite troublesome minorities into an uprising; the destruction of the government by insurgents; the reestablishment of law and order under a right-wing, Christian dictatorship. The soldiers of this new militia were not adults, as they had been in the time of the Bund, the American Nazi Party, the Klan, the Silver Shirts, and the Front, but the children Vermeulen and others had assembled in hidden locations around the country.

  It had taken decades to reach this point, far longer than Coughlin and Vermeulen had anticipated. Fundraising amidst extreme secrecy, the establishment of headquarters, the creation of the hidden camps in the wildernesses around America, the stockpiling of arms and munitions, waiting for the kids to be old enough… all had meant a delay of thirty-one years. Vermeulen’s youth and part of his middle age had gone during it. Sometimes he had despaired. His faith had wavered, but not his hatred. That last, alone, had kept him going.

  Now the day had finally come for the 1961 Maine intake. If he had qualms about using innocents to die doing God’s will, he had subsumed these concerns to the pressing realpolitik: sacrifices had to be made to preserve the Mystical Body and ensure godly leadership.

  But the operation that was to begin with Edward was not what it once would have been. Three decades ago Coughlin and he had shared a vision: seven acts of terror that would shake America. “The Angels of the Sores”—an anthrax attack on the New York subway; “of the Blood of Dead Men”—contaminated blood spread throughout the Boston public health system; “of the Polluted Fountains”—nuclear waste in the water system of Chicago; “of the Sun’s Burning Power”—a truck bomb of agricultural fertilizer, diesel fuel, and other chemicals to be exploded outside a crowded federal building in Oklahoma City; “of Darkness itself”—a smart-bomb attack on the Oakland Air Route Traffic Center causing a radar blackout and the chance of a midair collision; “of the Death of the Euphrates”—the blowing of the Hoover Dam; “the Angel who will say, like Christ, tetelestai, ‘It is finished’”—a nuclear warhead detonated in the Twin Cities…

 

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