War Dog, a lord of war fanfic

War Dog

A/N: Like the description says, this is a OC-focused story. It doesn't particularly feature any of the major or minor characters from "Lord of War" but is set within the fictional universe of that film. The main character here is actually an OC from another film, "Good Bye, Lenin!". I made up a twin brother for its protagonist, Alex Kerner, and had enough fun doing it that I decided to write a story about them both in the universe of "Lord of War".

Hans Kerner stared out at the beach in front of him and the sea beyond, watching the tide come in.

He was not alone out here. Behind tall grass and sand dunes, from key points at the grand, expansive house about one hundred yards away, elite private security kept watch. Behind scopes and cutting-edge optics, trained marksmen and bodyguards surveyed their boss, and the entire surrounding area. Not a single car, boat, plane, swimmer or lost tourist could come anywhere near this beach without being noticed. If a threat was detected, the boss would be immediately surrounded by his protectors and moved to safety, and the threat would be dealt with as needed. Additionally, if Hans indicated he needed them, his guards would be there immediately. But for now, when all was well, Hans could pretend he was alone. The illusion could be maintained.

The guards were well-paid, and Hans knew every single one of them by name and by face, as did his chief of security. Shifts were constantly being switched around, ensuring that even if anyone managed to get to and corrupt a handful of guards, no plot could be carried out because the participants would by then be working different shifts. And there wasn't a single man among those armed with a sniper rifle that Hans did not personally know and trust. But that was subject to constant revision- Hans made sure he had guards he could respect, but he never let himself like them so much that he assumed anything about them. Ever the commando, Hans was always watching, always ready.

It was getting late in the afternoon, but summertime and clear skies promised it would be a while before the sun's light faded out completely. Behind a pair of Brooks Brothers sunglasses, Hans watched the waves advancing and receding, and his son, Martin, cheerful and naïve- as you'd expect him to be at six years old- playing with some shells.

Well, that and trying to bother the mole crabs again. The little burrowing creatures fascinated Martin, and while he never harmed them- Hans expressly forbade violence without a point- he was always eager to find them, catch them and examine them, and then observe them as they swiftly burrowed back into the wet sand after he put them down.

Living on- owning- Scrub Island, part of the Republic of Anguilla- Hans had all the scenic shores he'd ever wanted. Martin and his nine-year-old brother Lukas- who was behind Hans, taking some time off from watching Martin to do a series of pushups and situps- loved the island, and the mansion their father had built on it. It was beautiful, fitting any number of artists' and novelists' depictions of paradise. The house, worth so many millions but utterly beyond financial terms when you looked at the art, literature, and sheer beauty that had been built and assembled there, was Hans' pride and joy. And why not? He had earned all the money that went into it, and a best friend and comrade in arms of his had designed it.

Once a soldier of socialism, a paratrooper and air assault specialist in the vanished country the Americans called "East Germany", Hans now was his own boss in the best possible way. He owned four boats, several planes on his own airstrip here on Scrub Island, and a mansion that was the envy of the Caribbean. Hans owned twenty cars, among them some of the finest and most expensive cars in the world- a far cry from his old life, where his family had needed to wait ten years just to order a single Trabant, the DDR's only working-class automobile. Hans cherished the memory of his homeland, as he did the memory of his mother. But he also cherished the wonderful joys and privileges he had come to know- and, more important, that he had been able to provide for his sons.

From the day they had been born, the boys had known nothing but the very finest of what life could offer them, bowing respectfully as it did so. Hans would tolerate nothing less. "Das beste oder nichts," the automotive genius Gottlieb Daimler had said, in the beautiful language which Hans had taught the boys all by himself, even as he taught them English and perfected his own. It meant "The best or nothing" and Hans behaved as if life owed nothing short of that to himself, or his sons. They would not know the deprived and modest life their father had known growing up, and as a soldier. They did not need to. Their father had sacrificed and labored, watched, worked and built, all on their behalf. They would have doors opening to them wherever they turned.

But the grandeur of his life, the one he had been building ever since his career in the Land Forces of the National People's Army of the German Democratic Republic had ended with the fall of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of Germany in 1990, had not softened Hans Kerner. Not at all. Having once passed through a military selection course which some eight-to-ten-percent of hundreds of annual applicants survived, having spent years keeping his body in peak physical condition to be ready to fight as a warrior of his country, Hans had never forgotten the habits and the lifestyle he had learned. He still awoke early in the morning, long before the sun rose. He still went to bed early in the night. And he still looked like one of the old Greek statues, every muscle chiseled to perfection. Hans had a rifle range out here on Scrub Island, where he practiced multiple times a week and was already training the boys. He continued to practice judo and karate, as he had in the Land Forces, and was teaching the boys those things as well. While he looked and even acted more like a corporate CEO these days than a soldier, Hans still maintained the strenuous and active physical life of one. It would never leave him, no matter what he did.

And that was exactly how Hans wanted it. Go into the world of business after having his army career and his mother taken? Sure. Make a stunning success of that business and continue to run it with flawless military precision and constant, never-ceasing vigilance? Absolutely. But get fat, lazy and sloppy, get careless and un-alert, just because he was a success? Never.

There was no question that Hans had made a success of himself; not in his mind, or in anyone's. Whether his actions were entirely legal, ethical- there some people disagreed. But Hans had made his way in the world. Fate had seen fit to take Hans' army, his country and his mother from him. It had revealed to him that his mother had lied for years- Robert Kerner had not abandoned his family, but fled to the West anticipating that his wife and children would follow. Fate had conspired to put Hans together with his twin brother Alex and their older sister Ariane, as the three of them fought to hide Germany's coming reunification from their mother, to spare her the shock. They'd done it, but Christiane Kerner had passed away just two days before official reunification in 1990. It was a bittersweet experience for Hans, getting to pretend the DDR was alive and well and that he was serving in a strong military force at peace, with reunification and the dissolution of the NVA so close at hand.

There had been no chance of staying in the new German Army. Reunification, it was called, but the reality was the West came in and took over the East. The German Democratic Republic and all its institutions was swiftly disbanded, and in his final days in the service, Hans, a proud and skilled warrior, was reduced to assisting a bunch of common West German soldiers as they counted and inventoried all the weapons and equipment of the Luftsturmregiment 40 "Willi Sänger". That had been the greatest infantry unit in the DDR, and its members spent their last days in the military counting their own gear before the West Germans gave it away or just blew it up.

That had been the Wessies' plan, anyway.

In the last days before their discharge, Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner, the brilliant and greatly admired commander of Hans' battalion, approached a handful of his men with a plan. With his enthusiastic help and encouragement, Hans and the three men he led as an Unteroffizier, equivalent to a corporal- Wilhelm Forst, Dietrich Schäfer, Martin Kranz and Günther Vollmer- gathered about twenty-six other men, almost all of their platoon, including Oberleutnant Neumann. The deal was simple. The paratroopers would take a few 'borrowed' trucks marked up as Polish Army, drive to the armory that a whole lot of East German firearms and gear were still being counted at, and make off with as much as they could under the guise of 'picking up' a shipment intended for donation to Poland. The West Germans were visibly eager to get rid of anything 'tainted' by the Reds, the dirty communists. They would be glad to have someone show up and take a load of the stuff off their hands.

Added to that was the bonus of a heavy rain that came down on the night of the heist. The guards at the gate were so disgruntled about even being there, guarding warehouses full of East German "junk", that they barely even glanced at the false papers that Hans had worked with Oberleutnant Neumann to create. The men were waved through, loaded up the trucks with steady efficiency, and drove off into the night in record time. All in all, they took over a thousand small arms, most of which were the world-famous Kalashnikov 47s and 74s. Also taken were grenades, gas masks, land mines and rocket-propelled grenades and launchers, bayonets and magazines. but most of all, they stole Kalashnikovs, the best kind of rifle in the world.

Upon driving to Poland, the thirty men of the 40th sold their cargo to a buyer who had been reached through a few friends of Oberst Steiner. They sold it all and landed a handsome profit in American dollars. Oberst Steiner had insisted on that currency, knowing full well that East German marks were about to be worthless and the other Eastern currencies were no better. His prudence in ensuring the men all got a fair deal meant they would all reap the benefits they deserved. It was his final thank-you to his men, Steiner's way of both showing his appreciation for their years of hard work under his command and getting back at the West for sending a bunch of clerks to take away everything he had worked for decades to maintain.

With that, the men had scattered. Hans, Wilhelm, Dietrich, and Martin had taken their neatly typed up discharge papers, generously handed to them in advance of the actual discharge date, and headed west. After stopping in Switzerland so each man could deposit his money in a numbered bank account, the young commandos had made their way to Paris, and enlisted with the French Foreign Legion. They swiftly passed through training and were assigned to the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment. In 1991 they saw their first deployment, evacuating French citizens and certain other foreign nationals in Rwanda, Gabon and Zaire.

In 1992 they went to Somalia, seeing action on the sidelines of the civil war there as they protected French citizens and interests. In 1993 the four troopers were shipped to Sarajevo, and in 1994 they went to Rwanda again. The genocide there, which was estimated to have resulted in the deaths of between 500,000 and 1.3 million Tutsi Rwandans and moderate Hutus at the hands of Hutu extremists, was the most horrific and infuriating thing Hans and his fellow ex-NVA troopers had ever witnessed. Heavily armed, ready and willing to fight against any odds, Hans and the other paratroopers found themselves forbidden to engage. Unless the extremists attacked the French evacuation columns, the soldiers had strict orders to do nothing. The citizens they were evacuating were their concern, the orders said- anyone else was on their own.

As he rode and marched through that shattered country, Hans had done what little he was able to. He gave away food, left behind water. He and his men allowed small numbers of refugees to travel under their protection, or to hide out at the edge of the Legion's perimeter, knowing full well that the Hutus would not attack people so close to a powerful neutral force. Whenever the chance came, Hans helped the victims of the massacres unfolding in front of him.

But it was all drops in the bucket compared to what was needed. Never, ever would a few small acts by one man and a few who agreed with him be enough. After years of training and preparing to fight, and after getting to in a select few engagements during the interventions he was sent to be involved in, Hans found himself bound and unable to act when his skills were needed most. That massacre had been preventable. The Legion alone could have stopped it. But the government of France had passed on the opportunity.

Having gotten to taste the thrill of combat enough times to know there'd be more if he stayed, Hans nonetheless was disillusioned enough that he left when his five years were up. He was let out as a Caporal-Chef, a senior corporal, and once again took his friends from East Germany as they headed onward. Hans briefly debated going home, but realized once again that there was nothing there that much interested him. He disliked the West Germans and did not much want to see them continue to take over what had been his country. He did not want to come back, apply for a job in the military or police, and find himself distrusted and disrespected because he was former East German Army, because he had a record of being a good communist. After years of being distrusted by the East Berlin government because he was the son of a defector, Hans had no desire to put up with being distrusted by the idiots from Bonn.

Besides, the travel and excitement associated with life in the Legion, the chance to regularly see far-off and exotic lands, to fuck beautiful women of every skin color, and to be as independent as you could be in government service, was coming to have a lure all of its own. Having grown tired of serving masters he did not trust or respect under a socialist and a capitalist flag, Hans had made a risky, scary, and intoxicatingly exciting decision. He had chosen to go into business for himself. His ex-squadmates became his partners, and Hans set about this new venture with fierce determination.

Over the past ten years, Hans had taken that half a million Marks he'd landed from the arms sale in Germany and multiplied it a thousand-fold. He had gone from a newcomer to one of the most lucrative underground trade businesses in the world to one of its foremost innovators and entrepreneurs. Hans and four other ex-paratroopers had designed what was still the best damn private-market diesel-electric submarine out there and improved on it several times. That was the core of his success, the place where he continued to generate most of the fortune he had coming in every single month of every single year.

In the 1980s, the drug smuggling business was centered around go-fast boats. Whoever had the fastest boat was the winner. Easy enough, but as radar coverage of the waters between Columbia and the United States and Mexico got better, and government agents caught on to the trade of chasing down these boats, the game changed. The cartel bosses soon began to realize that the future of moving cocaine lay under the waves, not on them. As they were starting to develop what were now called narco-submarines, Hans and his team had come along and made an offer to some of them. Hans had pitched a business proposal, one that was simple and straightforward. In exchange for thirty percent of the profits yielded by every shipment, Hans would provide them with the means to build a true diesel-electric cargo submarine, able to move ten tons of product and run almost totally silent when it went all-electric.

The boat promised to run faster, deeper, and quieter than anything else out there. It promised a vast profit and remarkably little risk. In a time when the average narco-sub was not even close to fully submersible yet, this was a damned good deal.

More than one of the bosses had taken Hans' offer. He had also gotten something else he'd wanted in return for his submarine design- partner status in their operation. Hans proved an adept strategist, able to help devise better ways to evade government forces and officials. He and his team continued to improve their submarine design, and survived a few run-ins with men sent by rivals, and escaped capture by police or some navy more than once. Hans also made damn sure he counted his money every time, and that no one was skimming off the top. But he was too smart to just go get the money himself, or to have it delivered here. Instead, Hans used a dead-drop and agents. The cartel would come by the specified location and leave the money, and later, one of Hans' men picked it up while others made certain no one- cartel or government- was watching or waiting for them. Additionally, the agents were delivery men- they did not know Hans or much of anything about him, making them next to useless if they had ever tried to turn state's evidence or been swayed by an unfriendly cartel.

The past ten years had seen Hans find and lose what might have been true love. Ilse, a German model and photographer whose intellect had been as stunning as her beauty, had fallen for Hans as hard as he'd fallen for her when they'd met on a cruise ship plying the Caribbean years ago. She had bought all of Hans' lies about what he did for a living, which was no small feat. Had they been any less skillfully-constructed, any less authentic in how they sounded and appeared, she would not have believed him. She certainly wouldn't have let Hans father their first child in 1996, and then their second in 1999, if she hadn't believed him.

But Hans had wondered at times if she didn't at least suspect he wasn't the legitimate business magnate he claimed to be. Had she really looked into it, had she really dug and dug until she found the truth, Ilse might have learned of a time when her husband was called Hans Kerner and was a soldier in the National People's Army of East Germany. She might have learned of a time when he was known as Henry Kelman, and then a time when he began to be called Donovan Hock.

In 1996, when Hans had only been in the business for a year, he'd been lying even more than he was later on. He was far less wealthy than he pretended at that time, and in fact was still on very shaky ground. But over time, as Hans first started to master one trade in an expensive white powder and expanded to include gunpowder and its associated hardware, his wealth caught up to his lies about his wealth. It even surpassed his lies. Hans fought his battles where he had to, acted ruthlessly when he needed to, and stayed vigilant, daring and alert. He rose from simple paratrooper, sterling, honest, dependable, brave and true, to become one of the premier figures in his business and very probably one of the wealthiest men in the world.

This success drew the attention of the authorities in certain places, of course. This was why Hans developed substantial political savvy as well as business sense, and became adept at bribery and blackmail to equal extents. By the time any governments of note were interested in bringing him in, Hans had gathered enough political dynamite to destroy several important careers and damage many more. He dealt with some of the few politicians with enough business sense to see things his way, and made sure that he kept as much distance between himself and the day-to-day operations of his business as possible.

This didn't mean that the various authorities didn't try to make trouble for him, however- it was a massive game of chess, with Hans on one side and various officials and authority figures on the other. Even with all the people that he bribed and befriended, Hans couldn't stop naval patrol aircraft from trying to hunt his submarines down. He couldn't stop some of the boats from getting seized while still under construction, or from having to be scuttled to avoid capture at sea. But as long as most of the submarines were built, loaded up with their cargo, and made it to return for another trip, Hans made money and the game went on. The same went with the boats, ships and trucks that moved firearms that customers had requested. Hans lost now and then, but not often.

These days, it was surprisingly difficult to prove Hans had anything to do with much of the business he oversaw. His stock market investments, his founding-partner status within the Argus Private Military Corporation- that was all out there, and anybody who cared to could learn about it. And the fact that Hans had not filed any form of income tax in years- that was entirely legitimate, since the Republic of Anguilla required no such tax.

And the small government of Anguilla had plenty of reason to treat Hans well and keep him around. With all his surplus wealth, Hans had the ability to be quite generous. He voluntarily helped fund all of Anguilla's public services and utilities, including its small self-defense force, and its police. Hans donated money every year to the island's school system, and made sure to keep key figures, like the prime minister and the chief of police, on good terms with their wealthiest resident.

Hans kept his money close, and paid his informants, politicians, and bankers well. In his dealings with his former comrades-in-arms- Dieter, Martin and Wilhelm- Hans was unfailingly honest and fair. When Dieter was killed in a gunfight at a meeting gone bad in 1998, Hans had hidden the truth from his family and seen to it that the money his partner possessed was given to them in the form of a "life insurance policy" and then a "lottery ticket" a year later.

Ilse was lost just a few years ago. No one had killed her; she'd just been struck by a car in New York City, shopping with her husband. Hans had made sure that the man driving the car was held responsible for his actions and then some. He might have forgiven a personal slight, might have allowed someone criticizing him or his reputation. But not taking Ilse. Not even if it really was an accident. There could be no forgiveness for that.

Hans had wanted to withdraw from everything for a while afterward, but had not allowed himself the privilege. He needed to provide for himself, for his sons. He could not neglect his business affairs out of grief. And above all, Hans knew he could show no weakness. People who dealt in arms and cocaine did not have much tolerance for that. It wasn't a side of the world known for its compassion.

Since then, Hans had taken plenty of chances for physical intimacy- women he met, high-priced whores he hired, beauties the cartel sent him- but had not tried to find love again. He had found that and lost it and did not care to try to look another time. Keeping himself active in bed, enjoying himself whenever he needed it, was enough for him. As for making sure he had a legacy- well, he was already seeing to that. Lukas and Martin would be more than ready to take control of the business when the time came.

All the while, Hans had continued to oversee his business and lie to his brother and sister on the sporadic occasions that he spoke to them over the phone or exchanged letters. Alex and Ariane thought that Hans was a legitimate businessman but had a vague sense of just what kind he was, apart from the notion that he was involved in "shipping" and "transportation."

It was actually pretty close to the truth, which, in Hans' experience, made it easier to remember and stick with.

"Daddy!" Martin exclaimed, startling his father, who had begun to doze off as he reminisced. The little boy, surprisingly muscular for his age and size, had caught a couple of mole crabs and was proudly holding them up in his hands.

Hans shifted on his long white deck chair, lifting his sunglasses and pushing them onto his short-cut brown hair. "Yes," he said in perfect English, "those are mole crabs. Got four this time, huh? Bring me five and I'll play you the new piano piece I wrote once we get back to the house."

"Okay!" Martin agreed immediately, and he raced back to where the waves were lapping at the sand. He stopped and looked around, realizing he needed a bucket. "Lukas," he said, "kommt her! Ich brauch hilfe!"

"Was ist es?" Lukas replied.

"Loooo-kassss," Martin said, drawing out his brother's name. "Bitte, bitte!"

The red, yellow, green and blue plastic toys that Hans had brought for the boys to play with included a red plastic bucket. Martin liked to fill it with sea-water and put enough sand at the bottom for mole crabs to have some room to burrow. He'd forgotten it, and now needed it filled and readied for use- but he didn't want to lose the mole crabs he'd captured.

The young soldier encounters a difficult situation, Hans thought, so he turns to one he knows he can depend on absolutely: his brother.

"Ja, ja," Lukas agreed, finishing the last of his situps and coming over with the bucket. He took a moment to flex his well-developed chest, arm and shoulder muscles impressively as he stopped in front of Martin, who promptly made a face at his brother. The boys playfully bickered in German as Lukas prepared the bucket, Martin dropped the mole crabs in once it was ready, and together they worked to dig through the sand.

Hans thought about telling them that they had a schedule to keep, that an armored black Bentley Arnage was set to be coming across the concrete-and-steel bascule bridge that provided a land route from Scrub Island to the rest of mainland Anguilla inside of half an hour. The staff were busy preparing dinner, and then later on Hans was set to have another guest paying a visit. First family, then business, and Hans intended to keep it that way.

Even as he smiled, looking on with pride and happiness as his boys worked together to accomplish a goal, Hans was sobered by the realization that while he had done well to make this day possible- making the calls and buying the round-trip ticket needed for his twin brother Alex to come to see him- it was the first time he had really even tried it. Today was to be the first time Alex and Hans saw each other in fifteen years.

It was also sobering to realize how fast age had caught up with him. Hans had served in two different armies, gone into business, found and lost the most beautiful woman in the world, and had two wonderful, wonderful sons. He was thirty-six years old, just a couple years shy of forty. And even though his vigorous and active lifestyle ensured he easily and routinely passed for twenty-six, his real age was still there, and Hans could feel himself beginning to slow down. He was not old, but neither was he young anymore. It was strange. There had certainly been moments, in the Legion and in his lucrative and dangerous business career, where it looked like Hans would never see age thirty-six or even come very close. But he'd made it.

Yes. Owner of an island, a vast and beautiful Caribbean mansion, collector of cars, planes, boats, art and literature, Hans had most definitely made it.

Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Martin and Lukas found the required one more mole crab and then some. They in fact located nearly twenty in all, and Hans was proud of the teamwork they displayed. When the one bucket began to grow too full for all the mole crabs to have room to burrow into the sand, the boys got another. Then they turned one of the sand castle molds upside down, fixed it in place in the sand, and used it as well.

Across the water, a gleaming black car, big and elegant-looking, approached the bridge to Scrub Island. Guarded on both ends by Argus Private Military Corporation security agents, the bridge was not only able to be raised in the middle to allow the passage of boats- or to deny passage to unauthorized vehicles- but it was also equipped with weather-proof, flawlessly-hidden explosive charges. In the event that the house came under assault, the bridge to the main island could be blown and the reinforced platoon guarding the estate mobilized to defend it. Machine guns, land mines, automatic rifles, sniper rifles, STA and STS missiles, and a SORA 122mm truck-mounted artillery piece were all ready for battle at just 120 seconds' notice.

But as artfully camouflaged as they were, none of it could be seen by the casual observer. The mines didn't even work unless they were turned on. To the casual viewer, this was just a grand house with an impressive-looking, stone-laid driveway and black-painted steel front gate. And that was, of course, what

The car halted at the checkpoint on the far side of the bridge. The guards checked the identity of the driver and passenger, then waved the vehicle through. The men on the other side of the bridge also checked it. Each time, as the guards made idle banter and asked polite but formal questions of the driver, hidden cameras and mirrors aided them in searching for anything hidden underneath the car. Scanners and detectors searched it for anything that should not have been there. Once again satisfied that the car and its occupants were safe, the Argus men opened the gates and the Bentley drove through.

Seeing all that, Hans knew that someone would not be long in coming out here. Just a minute or two later, Hans noticed movement off to his left, and sure enough, there came Wilhelm, who was still serving as Hans' head of security. He had relinquished a direct role in the business after Martin was killed at the controls of his own sea-plane, but Hans never failed to ask for his advice or include him in a transaction if he felt he needed his best man on hand at a meeting. Dressed in a fine black suit that concealed at all times a pistol, submachine gun, combat knife and body armor, Wilhelm seemed to have no trouble walking along the beach and somehow keeping himself clean, right down to the shoes.

"Your guest is here, Mr. Hock," Wilhelm said. "We're running a little behind schedule on this end."

Hans suppressed a smile. Solemn and duty-minded, Wilhelm Forst had long since accustomed himself to calling Hans by his adopted last name. It was formal and respectful, but Hans called Wilhelm "Willi" most of the time anyway, and had more than once said that Wilhelm could call him "Donovan" at the very least. Still, habits were hard to get rid of.

"Yes, I suppose we are," Hans said, nodding. He glanced at the boys. "Make sure our guest is comfortable, and check on the food. I want it all ready when the boys and I are prepared to make our appearance. And- stall a bit if you need to. Make sure our guest does not feel he's being kept waiting."

"Certainly," Wilhelm said, nodding. With that he turned and headed back towards the house, erect and vigilant. With him managing the security on this island, Hans had never once felt unsafe. His comrade and old friend had never failed, and never would.

The boys had noticed the exchange between the two men, but been careful not to intrude on it. They knew to stay out of the affairs of men in the household. They would be receiving steady introductions into the way things worked as they got older, and one day- when each one was a teenager- they would be told of the true nature of Hans' business. But for now, they were boys, and Hans wanted them to have a proper life as children. They did not need to worry about the running of the household right now.

So Hans turned to the boys, made a show of examining the mole crabs and being suitably impressed, and then spoke to them in the plain, honest way he had gotten them accustomed to. "Boys, someone very special is coming to see us today. He just arrived and he'll be waiting for us in the main dining room. When we get there, I want you to behave like I taught you. Be respectful, and polite, but be friendly. Make sure he knows he's welcome here."

"Yes, sir," Martin and Lukas said together.

"He's a good friend, so we have nothing to fear from him. There'll be no need to be nervous."

"Dad," Lukas said, hints of amusement in his voice, "does anyone make you nervous?"

"No," Hans said, smiling. "But don't be arrogant. Always be ready."

"Always," the boys chorused. They knew what their father meant. Despite their age, both were already becoming capable fighters. They would be experts in judo and karate before they even turned eighteen, and would be just as skilled with firearms and survival techniques. They might not have known what their father really did for a living, but they knew that the world was dangerous and one needed to be ready for anything.

"Okay," Hans said. "I want you to let all the mole crabs go. Empty out the buckets and let's get back to the house."

"Yes, sir," Martin and Lukas said. They quickly removed the mole crabs, released them back into the wet sand just beneath the shallow water, and emptied the sand and salt water from the containers they'd used. Then they accompanied their father as he strode back along the beach towards the house, looking now and then out at the beautiful, clear blue water and the late afternoon sun off to their right and the tall grass waving in the wind to their left. Ahead, the mansion waited.

It drew inspiration from Spanish and French as well as English and German architecture, each carefully blended into the design as a whole. The house was so vast and clearly cost so much that Alex, who ran an electronics store in former East Berlin, might not know quite how to be impressed… but Hans walked back to his home assured that his twin most certainly would be.

Alex Kerner looked out of the Learjet's window, past its white port wing to the blue waters of the Caribbean beneath him. It was amazing how clear and bright the water was, how easy it was to see straight through it. Quite a contrast to the dark and brooding water of the Baltic Sea and the North Sea, the only bodies of water that Germans were well-acquainted with.

His store, his wife, son and two daughters were all in Buena Vista, Florida. Thanks to his brother's generosity, the family was getting to see the famed American resort and theme park "Disneyworld" for the first time. And not in the least-expensive accommodations, either- the only ones Alex knew he could have paid for. After flying first-class across the Atlantic, Alex and his family had been picked up and driven to Disneyworld and checked into one of the finest suites offered among the resort's hotels.

It was a show of generosity, and one that Lara and the kids most definitely appreciated, from this twin brother whom only Lara had met. There was no doubt that Hans was being generous. But Alex wondered what the reason was for it. Was this really the way that Hans was accustomed to, and thus the way he insisted his kin be introduced to as well? Was he trying to impress Alex's family as well as Alex himself? Prove, perhaps, that he really was a success in the world of business?

Well, maybe there was no motive like that. Maybe Hans was just being nice and spending a lot of money to offer his brother and his brother's family a good time. It would certainly keep them pleasantly occupied while Alex flew south briefly to see his brother for the first time in a decade and a half.

Fifteen years. Had it really been that long? Alex had to admit, it was hard to believe. The two brothers, after so many years of sharing the same home and much of the same life in addition to the same face, had drifted apart after Robert Kerner, Dad, had fled to the West in 1978. Alex had eventually become a pro-democratic activist, while Hans, angry and bitter over being abandoned by his father, followed his mother into being a devout socialist, loyal to the state.

Even after learning that his mother had lied, that Robert had not abandoned his family, but had instead fled according to a plan in which he would go first and his wife would follow with the children soon after, Hans had not changed his approach. Like Ariane, the notion that he had been abandoned had too firmly taken root. Hans, socialist and soldier, had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with his father. Robert was in contact with Alex, and on occasion with Ariane, but he had not seen or spoken to Hans since the Wall fell. Alex still held out hope there would one day be some reconciliation, but Hans appeared to have shifted his focus elsewhere, moved on. He just was not interested anymore.

So what was he interested in? A lot of things that did not mesh well with the young man he had been when he and his twin last saw each other. The old Hans was solemn, devoted to socialism and a simplistic, warrior-scholar way of life. He had neither access to nor interest in the glamorous, flashy life so idolized in the West. Hans had not wanted a Mercedes-Benz, an expensive suit, or a big, beautiful house. He had not wanted money, was not interested in chasing fame or power. He just wanted to be a soldier and safeguard the working peoples of Germany and the world.

But the things he talked about and seemed interested in now… it was so different. Hans was still a solemn and thoughtful man, but he definitely talked about money more than he had in the past. He was genuinely interested in acquiring a great deal of it, and from the sound of things, he had done that and then some.

Alex glanced at the magazine in his hands. It was from last year, a TIME magazine on which his own damn face was on the front cover. It depicted a brown-haired man, relaxed yet still alert, sitting with one arm resting atop the back of his leather chair. In this photocopy of a no-doubt highly-expensive painting, the white suit the man was wearing was flawlessly clean and superbly made. Here on the front cover, it said:

DONOVAN HOCK: THE PIRATE KING OF ANGUILLA

It talked about what a successful and powerful man this "Donovan Hock" had become, how obscure his origins were, and how he had nerves of steel, expensive tastes, and the hardened, eternally-vigilant eyes of the elite infantry soldier. How he was one of the most powerful 'businessmen' in the world.

"Donovan Hock. There's a name that is synonymous with terror, betrayal and violence. A living example of the ends justifying the means. The hero of the small island republic of Anguilla. King of the universe he has relentlessly worked to build around himself. A savage barbarian who never let anything or anyone get in his way. And yet, he is charming, erudite and intelligent. When you're in his presence you feel that he's really listening to you, that your opinions matter, that you're someone important if you agree with him. It's amazing. I have often wondered if men like Hock don't carry around their own reality-warping bubbles, and all who fall in are suddenly transported to another dimension where the hellish things he says and does suddenly make sense. At least, that's the effect he always had on me."

That was the opening article of the piece on this man, by the American journalist Michael Liberty. The name was different, the actions, the personality were in many ways different. But it was Hans. His eyes still held that same determined look they always had, that powerful desire to overcome the shame left hanging over him by Robert Kerner's betrayal. Years after leaving the military, he still carried himself like a soldier.

Alex knew beyond a doubt. It was Hans.

Apparently, his brother had, at some point, opened up his private, carefully-guarded life and home and allowed a journalist to interview him. Given the fact that the piece essentially said this Donovan Hock was a drug-running kingpin and arms dealer, one of the very best at his trade and certainly the only one who'd managed to force some of the cartels to step back and a few others to make him a partner and equal, Alex very much doubted that this Michael Liberty was welcome around Hans' estate anymore. "The Pirate King of Anguilla." It had grandeur to it, but not the honorable image that Hans had probably been hoping to convey about himself.

The thing was, a year ago this had come out, and nothing appeared to have happened to Hans. No one had arrested him, no American senator had gone out on a crusade, determined to bring the patron and benefactor of Anguilla down. And the 'business' he was said to be involved in went right on turning him a handsome and generous profit.

Cocaine. Hans had gone from being a stoic, committed and highly skilled soldier to a big-time dealer in fucking cocaine. Not cars, not speedboats. Cocaine. And guns. Can't forget those.

And somehow, he'd made sure no one could touch him, or that no one dared to. The Pirate King of Anguilla was secure in his kingdom.

Alex wasn't sure how he felt about it. As the plane came in on its landing approach and touched down, he didn't know whether to be proud of how well his brother seemed to have done since leaving his native country, or ashamed of how he had chosen to do it.

The Learjet came to a smooth stop not far from what looked like the main terminal building. This was a small airport on a small island republic, with not much to it. Off to one side, a couple hangars and buildings, all fenced in with some olive-drab vehicles and camouflaged helicopters and jet fighters around, showed that Anguilla did indeed have an air force. Not a big one, but a tourism-based republic like this one arguably didn't need an air force at all.

It was just as well that the Learjet was not meant to connect with jetways, because there weren't any at this airport. You just walked down the steps of the plane and onto the concrete and got wherever you needed to go. There were probably some shuttle buses around, but Alex, looking at the big black car waiting near where the plane came to a stop, had the feeling that he wouldn't need one.

Alex got up, took his bag down from the overhead bin, and thanked the pilots as he got off the plane. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was turning sky amber as it began to set. The air was warm, humid, and had the distinctive scent of the sea. It was pleasant, relaxing. Not at all hard to imagine why so many tourists came here. Why Alex's brother had built his home here.

As Alex disembarked, an alert-looking, well-dressed young man approached him. He had jet-black hair, cut short with military precision, and though he wore an expensive-looking suit with a red tie, Alex couldn't help but notice that this man, for all his civilian dress, carried himself like a soldier. Upright, orderly, focused. Just the type of employee Hans would want around, the type he would most approve of. Hans had always despised sloppiness, and upheld military virtues as the highest virtues. Small wonder that he'd used them so well to make something of himself in a new and different world.

"Welcome to Anguilla, sir!" the man in the suit said, holding out a hand. He spoke fluently in English, probably having been told in advance that Alex did as well. Though his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, he had a disarming smile on his clean-shaven face. "My name is Victor. I am your driver. My employer regrets that he cannot be here to greet you in person. He is waiting to receive you at his estate on Scrub Island."

"Your employer?" Alex asked with a slight smile as he shook hands with the man. He knew who it was, knew perfectly well. But he still couldn't believe it. Hans was an employer- for this man and many others. The big man, the boss. It was hard to believe.

"Mr. Donovan Hock, sir," Victor replied with a smile. "I believe you are familiar with him? His name you may not know, but his face…" Victor shrugged slightly. "If I had not seen him at the house just an hour and a half ago, I would have thought you were him."

Alex's smile grew a little, and he laughed, liking this alert, polite man. He was probably in his twenties, and was clearly loyal to his boss- something else Alex knew Hans prized highly. If Alex's brother was anything like he'd been years ago, he would want no one around him, no one on his team, if he could not trust them absolutely. It was, as much as simple warrior spirit, why he had joined East Germany's paratroopers. Hans, despite being an East German, would certainly have agreed with Gottlieb Daimler's maxim "The best or nothing".

Looking at the gleaming black Bentley sitting on the near-white of the runway, Alex considered those words again. British, but a fine automobile nonetheless, and one of the best in the world beyond doubt. Of course Hans would send nothing less than a Bentley to retrieve his brother from the airport. He would have doubtless commented that his twin deserved no less. It was a grand gesture, all of what Hans had done to get Alex here, but also a touching one. Hans had always had a thing for going out of his way to give gifts to his family. Though he'd never forgiven Robert Kerner for defecting to the West, Hans had always loved his siblings and his mother.

"A 2003 Bentley Arnage, sir," Victor commented, noticing Alex looking at the car. "Mr. Hock has expensive tastes."

"He certainly does," Alex said.

"Would you like to get going, sir?" Victor asked. "Mr. Hock is looking forward to seeing you."

"Yes, I'm sure he is," Alex replied. "Let's not keep him waiting."

"My thoughts exactly, sir," Victor agreed, moving to open the rear left door for him. Alex got in, and Victor shut the door behind him and in moments had secured Alex's luggage. Efficient, duty-minded, and sharp as a blade. That was exactly the type of person Hans would want working for him, especially in a position of trust, as Victor clearly was.

Anguilla was a beautiful island, and that was putting it mildly. Blue waters so clear you could easily see straight to the bottom even fifty yards from shore, and so light in color that the sky was the darker blue for once. The sand on the beaches was almost white.

The main island of the small republic was about twelve or fifteen miles long, and had nothing but largely flat terrain, making for easygoing driving. There were no hills or mountains here, and there were no forests… at least, not anything like what was known as a forest in Germany. They had trees in Anguilla, but they were a range of generally shorter and less substantial tropical trees. Nothing like the mighty oaks that dominated the wooded areas of central Europe. Hans had always loved the forest despite growing up in East Berlin, and Alex wondered briefly if his twin ever missed the German woods he had known as a child and as a soldier.

As the Bentley drove out of the small town that functioned as Anguilla's capital, Alex took note of the newly-paved two-lane roads. He couldn't help but wonder if his brother, with all that money he now had, had decided to throw some of it at the Republic's coffers and get the roads paved so he could have a better time driving around in his expensive cars on the island. That sounded like something Hans would do. Or, at least, something Hans would do now. Alex thought of the magazine, of the things that journalist had said about his twin. Not to mention the things he'd heard himself, and the occasional odd interaction when someone had mistaken him for a friend or business partner with the same face.

Hans had left the Land Forces of the National People's Army determined to survive in the world, and he had most certainly achieved that. But somewhere along the way Hans had changed. There was no doubt about that. He had once been a soldier of socialism, devoted to a simple, straightforward life in which he neither had nor wanted anything in the way of luxuries. Hans had been a warrior. Now, he was a businessman, if you wanted to call the things he allegedly dealt with business. Cocaine, guns, and bullets. If the story was true, Hans simply played the mercenary, selling to whoever was willing to buy. And he'd become good at it, so good that he owned an island. Alex was silent as he rode in the stiff but comfortable rear seat of the Bentley, mostly just listening to Victor as he talked about the island nation and the good work that "Mr. Hock" had done supporting its educational system and infrastructure.

Riding in an expensive car, with his wife and kids staying at a first-class resort suite in America, on a trip all paid for as if the cost was irrelevant, Alex didn't know whether to be proud of his brother for making such a success of himself, or bothered, even ashamed, by what Hans might well have done to achieve so much. It wasn't much fun to contemplate the possibility that the man who shared your face had changed greatly and, for all it mattered, was now someone else.

They pulled to a stop after a fifteen-minute drive to one end of the island, as they neared a bridge that linked Scrub Island and the main island of Anguilla. The guards manning the posts at either end of the bridge checked Victor's credentials, and Alex's, making sure they were both who they claimed to be. The powerful motor of the Bentley idled like it belonged to some big cat all the while, and the car's air conditioning kept the interior cool even with the heat coming in through the two open windows.

The guards themselves interested Alex. They were well-armed, carrying automatic rifles as well as a hip-holstered sidearm. They were probably wearing body armor, and the pale uniforms they wore proclaimed them to be members of ARGUS PMC. Alex had heard of them. They were none-too-popular with the modern German government, thanks mostly to their tendency to evade paying corporate income taxes and suspicion on the government's part that Argus was taking contracts from just about anybody with enough money to hire them. But they were slick bastards, and officially the company was in good legal standing anywhere it operated. Nobody had yet been able to prove otherwise.

Once they were cleared at the second checkpoint, Victor drove the Bentley up the stone front drive of the massive, elegant, imposing house. It was something that a novelist might have dreamed up. Alex was no expert on architecture, but Hans must have hired one, because this house looked like a blend of a couple styles and designs. Some might have disliked that approach, even sneered at it, but they weren't looking at this place. It was more than a Caribbean estate. It was a monument to riches, to the very idea of success.

And standing on the long, sloping front steps, wearing a white suit that had to cost thousands in any currency, was someone who Alex knew well. He hadn't seen him in a decade and a half and he still knew him instantly. And in spite of anything he might have done, in spite of whoever he had chosen to become, Alex knew in that moment that he still loved his brother. Alex felt his throat closing up, but fought to keep himself under control. He needed to be direct with Hans, to not let emotions get the better of him.

The Bentley stopped, and while Alex, who was not at all used to being driven around, was tempted to get out, he waited for Victor to open the door.

"Thank you," he said, nodding appreciatively to Victor.

"You are welcome, sir," Victor replied.

Sir. That was something else that Alex wasn't especially used to, and most definitely not in the "Lord of the Manor" type of "sir" that was applied to wealthy, powerful men and their associates.

"Hey, uh, you don't have to call me that," Alex said. "It's really-"

"Alex!" Hans called out, and Alex turned to see his twin coming around the back of the car, apparently unwilling to wait. Hans had his hand held out, and Alex shook it. His twin's grip was strong and confident, much like he was, and he met Alex's gaze steadily.

"Good to see you. Donovan Hock."

"Is that what they call you now?"

Hans laughed. "Your English is excellent, Alex. And your sense of humor." He glanced over at Victor, as well as two other men who had come out of the house. "Take our guest's luggage inside, gentlemen. Please check everything again, and ensure the room is properly ready."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Hock," Victor answered, and he and the other three men removed Alex's bags from the car and headed inside.

Hans watched them go, then turned back to his brother. "It's been a long time, Alex," he said in German.

"Fifteen years," Alex said.

Hans smiled, setting a hand on Alex's shoulder. "Look at you. My brother. You look well, Alex." He paused. "It's wonderful to see you again."

"Likewise," Alex answered. In spite of the distance that had developed between them, Alex was still glad to see his twin.

"Shall we go inside?" Hans said, gesturing towards the front doors of the mansion.

"I don't see why not," Alex answered with a shrug.

Hans laughed. "All right. Then we will."

If Alex was impressed by the outside of Hans' island home, he was amazed at the inside of it. Tastefully designed and decorated, stealing liberally from German, British, Italian and French designs and ideas, the house's interior was a monument to a classy model of success. Elegant statues and expensive paintings lined the halls. Many of them, Alex noticed, were related to the outdoors, or to martial prowess and bravery. One statue was of Mars; another was of Alexander the Great. Another was of Napoleon Bonaparte, and a fourth was of Frederick the Great.

He might wear a suit that cost thousands and live in a mansion worth millions, but Hans was still a soldier at heart, still a warrior. It showed in how he carried himself, too; in the way Hans squared his shoulders and still wore his hair short and trim. And beneath that expensive suit, Hans was still in superb physical condition, a fighter of powerful gifts. Alex found himself respecting this observation about his brother, admiring the fact that success had clearly not softened Hans any. He might have adopted a startlingly worldly and sophisticated lifestyle, but he remained tough and sharp as ever.

Then there were the boys. Lukas, age nine, looked remarkably like his grandfather, Robert, a man he had never met. He was vigilant, intelligent, and mature, regarding Alex with polite curiosity and a certain wariness. The younger boy, Martin, had gray eyes and silvery-blond hair. Six years old, and even he looked ready to fight Alex if he had to. Both of the boys did; like their father, they had every appearance of being physically active and were no doubt receiving early lessons in martial arts. But they were also energetic and courteous, and Alex found himself enjoying this first meeting with his nephews more than he had expected to. It made complete sense that Lukas and Martin were dignified and well-mannered; Hans had never been able to abide rudeness.

It was startling to see just how much the boys knew. Through talking with them, Alex found they were well-informed and ready to talk about basic geography, politics and military matters. They had an air of readiness about them, a confidence, that Alex was not at all used to seeing in boys their age. They were equally ready to talk and to fight. And from the way they talked in such detail about the Soviet-bloc weapons displayed behind a glass case along one of the halls, they were definitely ready to fight using firearms. They also knew each other quite well, and Alex noticed a genuine closeness and sense of affection between Lukas and Martin. Their bond was no trivial one, and they lived and played as they would fight if they ever had to.

In a vast room that looked out on the ocean and appeared ready to host as many as a hundred guests, there was displayed the greatest collection of art Alex had seen yet in this house. This grand room was large enough to be a house all by itself. Two reading rooms with hundreds of books and a fireplace, a dining area that looked fit to be a five-star restaurant, a fountain at the center of the room that easily topped ten feet in height… it was intoxicating to even imagine having access to the kind of wealth required to build and acquire all this.

Seated comfortably in the dining area, Alex spent two hours speaking with Hans, Lukas and Martin while finely-dressed staff waited on them, serving food that Alex could not have taken Lara and the kids out to eat if he'd saved relentlessly for a year. Alex asked polite questions about what Hans had been doing since he'd left Germany in 1990, and Hans gave polite answers. Not all of them were entirely informative, however, and Alex noticed that Hans seemed to be telling a rehearsed tale about becoming a "businessman." According to Hans, he owned a variety of transportation and shipping companies and firms, and was also heavily invested in certain private business ventures- like Argus PMC.

"Being a founding partner," Hans remarked, "I get quite an excellent price to have them protect my property." He smiled, gesturing with a glass of port to the tan-clad men who stood to either side of the sturdy-looking door to his personal wing of the house, the set of rooms where Hans and his sons slept.

"You really believe they-"

"They'll do their job if they need to, I guarantee that."

"I meant, do you need a private army guarding your house?"

Hans shrugged. "Success like this can make people jealous. You can make enemies no matter how hard you try to stay polite. It is much better for me to be ready and not need these private soldiers than to have something happen and not have them."

And so it went through the dinner. Hans was genuinely eager to hear about how his brother and sister were doing, and talked animatedly of bringing Alex to Anguilla again, this time with Lara and the kids. Talking of family matters was easy and pleasant enough, and Alex enjoyed catching up with Hans. But Hans did not much want to talk about his parents. He still missed his mother, and had not forgiven his father. Even though he knew that Robert had not deserted his family as had long been the story, years of bitterness towards his father had left Hans with little desire to reconnect. Alex privately wondered if the breach would ever be healed.

Given that Hans had moved halfway across the world and now owned an island from which he commanded a small empire, Alex didn't think it likely. Hans was far beyond any need for his father at this point. He was a father himself, and appeared quite content. He had everything he wanted.

Once the dinner was over, Hans brought the group over to a priceless grand piano, and after playing a few pieces himself, had Lukas play a few more. Both father and son played like experts, and watching them, Alex thought of his own life, of his electronics store, of the modestly successful life he had steadily and carefully built for himself, Lara, and the children.

It seemed as nothing next to what Hans had achieved.

Seeming to sense his brother's mixed feelings and thoughts, Hans reached over while Lukas began playing Beethoven's "Piano Sonata No. 14." He said quietly, "You've done fine, Alex. Don't feel like you've failed somehow because you don't have all this. You don't have to be me."

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Hans invited Alex to join him in his personal study, waving him past the armed guards watching the entrance to the residential wing. Lukas and Martin shook hands with Alex, bowed to him and their father, and headed off to their personal exercise room before going to bed for the night.

"Those boys are polite," Alex remarked, and Hans laughed. "Yes. They are. I couldn't stand the idea of them ever being rude. They know how to get tough, but good manners are important."

"Wasn't it Mister Churchill who said "If you're going to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite?"

Hans laughed again. "Yes. That was him. Quite smart for an Englander."

As they walked along the well-lit hallway, Alex said, "You seem to like their cars."

"The Arnage is one of my favorites. It's quite an excellent car. Sporty and luxurious. But I have to take you for a ride in the 62 Landaulet before you go back."

"Landaulet?"

"The Maybach 62 I own. It's a masterpiece, Alex. I wanted to send it to get you today, but Victor felt like the Bentley would do. Save the best for last."

"How many cars do you even have, Hans?"

"Enough." Hans chuckled. "German, British, Italian- only the best. Nothing but the best. I'll show you the garage tomorrow. And if there's one you want to drive, tell me and we'll take it out on the track."

"You have a track?"

"Of course. Built it to run a circuit around the island a few years ago. It's a blast, Alex. We'll find a car for you."

"That's all right," Alex said, embarrassed.

Hans stopped at a door and entered a combination, opened his eyes for a scan, and then opened it, letting Alex in ahead of him. Yet again Alex was impressed. There was a million marks in here alone. Paneled in dark-colored hardwood, the room was a combination of old and new. A heavy-looking and elegantly-carved desk and cabinets formed the core of Hans' work center, as did two computers and a set of neatly-arranged documents. It was rigidly organized and neat, looking more like a luxuriously-appointed general's office than that of a corporate chief. Or maybe it was a blend of those two things. With this new style that Hans had, the way of doing things that he'd adopted since leaving Germany, it was hard to know.

"Tell you what, Alex," Hans said, setting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'll show you the garage tomorrow and you can look or drive as you like. I'm not trying to embarrass you."

"All right," Alex said. He hesitated, then added, "How'd you guess what I was thinking, Hans?"

"I might not have seen you for fifteen years, Alex, but I still know how you work." Hans laughed as he crossed around the side of his desk and sat down in an expensive and luxurious-looking leather executive-style swivel chair.

A little surprised at how casually Hans made that remark, Alex took one of the leather armchairs positioned in front of the desk. He wondered if there wasn't a threat in that statement, or at least a hint of one. But if there was, Alex was sure it wasn't intentional. Hans was probably so used to casually and politely threatening people that it wasn't unrealistic for him to do it without thinking once in a while.

But thoughts about that were interrupted as Alex noticed something else; one of the framed items hanging on the wall to his right was not a work of art. It was a case of medals and some insignia. Alex recognized the decorations as French, and happened to know one or two. There was a War Cross for Foreign Operational Theaters, a Combatant's Cross, and several others.

"From the French Foreign Legion," Hans commented. "For someone who served just a single five-year contract, they certainly appreciated my work."

"I can see that," Alex said, nodding. It was a bit ironic that a former East German soldier had wound up finding employment in the French military, but then, Germans had made up a substantial amount of the Legion's numbers for years. Ever since World War II at least, many Legionnaires had been German-born. It was not surprising to Alex that the decorations he did recognize in that case were for combat service and for bravery. Alex would have expected no less. The number of medals Hans had taken with him upon being discharged from the Legion testified to how well he had performed as a soldier when given the chance to really do so outside of training and garrison service.

"So, Alex," Hans said. "How is your family liking America?"

"They're having a great time," Alex said, smiling.

Hans smiled, too. "I'm glad. You might think I'm showing off, trying to impress-"

"You mean you're not?"

The man who shared Alex's face laughed heartily, clearly enjoying himself. "Alex, I've missed you. More than words can say, I have missed you. I'd forgotten how funny you can be."

"You could have come back to visit. You certainly have the money."

"Yes, I could," Hans admitted. "But raising Lukas and Martin and running my business ventures is very time-consuming. It isn't easy staying on top of everything." He sighed. "And… for a long time now anyway, it hasn't been a very attractive idea to go home. Too many memories." Then he brightened, and added, "Besides, much as I loved Germany… you can't beat the scenery here."

"How do the boys like it?"

Hans smiled, warming to the subject. "Oh, they couldn't be happier! It suits them well, growing up here. And thanks to how successful and fortunate I have been, I can provide them with everything they could want. I'm truly lucky to be able to give them so much."

"I didn't know transportation and shipping could make you this kind of money."

"I didn't think so either, but- as we see, it can."

Alex hesitated, then asked, "Is that why Time magazine put you on the front cover once? Why that Mister Liberty wrote a feature piece on you?"

That got a new reaction. The urbane, sophisticated Hans, who spoke English with what almost sounded like a South African accent and collected art and built a home worth millions, fell away and Hans' face went white. Suddenly Alex got a look at a different Hans, still a warrior, still a soldier, but the uglier side of one. "A savage barbarian who never let anyone or anything get in his way." Wasn't that what the article had said? Hans' eyes burned with anger… perhaps at a journalist he had allowed himself to trust, and who had turned around and betrayed that trust. Those eyes held wrath and damnation and no forgiveness for anyone who crossed him.

That look of unbridled fury was on Hans' face, in his eyes, for not even two seconds. He swiftly recovered and hid that initial reaction. But it was still shocking for Alex to see. He had known this man for what was still most of their lives, had grown up with him and shared his basic looks. But Alex had not anticipated the hard, merciless side that Hans had apparently developed, the Hans that was capable of anything if he deemed it necessary. That was something Alex had never expected to see in his brother.

"Alex," Hans said easily, his relaxed, nothing-ever-bothers-me manner coming back to him, "you are my brother and I love you. I know how smart you are. So I know you know better than to just believe any old thing you see in the papers."

"Magazines, Hans."

"Magazines, too." Hans looked earnestly at his brother from behind the desk, sitting upright, his posture still lean and military. "Alex, the world is not as simple as some people would have you believe. There is more to it than just what some book of laws says or what is allegedly good and bad. I am a businessman. I oversee a lot of shipping, some agriculture, some sales. But these things those Americans wrote about me…" Hans laughed and put up his palms, as if to say, 'What can you do?'

"So you're not a…"

"A cocaine baron? A gun runner? A mobster? A killer? They say so many nasty things about me, Alex, because they want me to fit within their narrow confines of what is right and wrong. They envy my success and are angry that I don't adhere to their naïve definitions of what is acceptable and honorable." Hans paused. "I don't know how to address everything they say about me. Where would I even start? Alex, some of it is so ridiculous that all I can do is laugh. That, and ignore them."

"So what are you, then?" Alex asked, and he found he very much wanted to know the answer. "What are you actually? I'm here. Tell me what you actually are, Hans."

Hans met his brother's gaze steadily. He spoke calmly, confidently. "I'm just a simple man trying to make my way in the world."

"You own an island and live in this palace and you call yourself a simple man?"

"Yes. I have been fortunate to do this well. But I just work hard and provide for my sons and try to raise them well. I'm no different from any other father, Alex. Money only makes so much difference."

Alex wondered again how Hans had changed so much in fifteen years. How the stoic, confident soldier of socialism had turned into this worldly, urbane billionaire. How a man who had once wanted nothing more than to be a paratrooper in his native land's army had left home and become one of the most powerful men in the world. Maybe not as famous as some of them, but you did not fuck with a man that owned an island. A damned island. How had Hans done it? How had he embraced capitalism so totally and made it work so much to his benefit?

"I know what you're thinking." Hans said it easily, and he almost sounded amused. "You're thinking about who I was back in the DDR and how I went from there to here."

"That's right," Alex admitted.

"I still have all the old books. Marx, Engels, everybody. I still miss the East and I've managed to rescue a lot that was discarded when it went away. But… Alex, the dream is over. The DDR will always be in my memory and I cherish its place there. But my memory is where it will stay. The DDR is gone for good. The socialist dream is lost. I couldn't stay in Germany, so I found a way to live in the new world the West created."

"Just a simple man, trying to make his way in the world." Alex wondered if Hans actually did believe that. He sure sounded like he believed it.

"That's right," Hans nodded. "And remember that, my brother, the next time someone tells you lies about me. Remember that when they try to tell you something about me or what I do is wrong or evil. I am just making my way in the world, and some people don't approve of how."

"So nothing they said in that magazine was true?"

"None of it," Hans assured him. "It's overexaggerated at best. I'm just a businessman, Alex. Making my way in the world. That's all it is, I promise you."

Hans spoke so eloquently in making his replies and denials, Alex found himself more than impressed; he was awestruck. His brother had always been intelligent and driven, but now, he was a self-made gentleman. Were Michael Liberty around, Alex would have told him he'd been right about how charming and charismatic "Donovan Hock" was. He was magnetic enough that even a skeptic like Alex found himself wanting to believe Hans, wanting to agree with everything he was saying. The way Hans explained it all, it made perfect sense. No wonder he'd gotten away with so much and come so far.

Alex was going to say something else, like ask how anybody could possibly make up something so specific as "Rich guy who owns an island in the Caribbean made his money by making it big in the cocaine trade and selling guns on the side." Alex also considered asking why Hans had become so briefly but intensely furious over being reminded of that magazine edition that featured him on the front cover. After all, why would it bother him for even a second if it was all made up? But Alex didn't get the chance, as there was a knock at the door.

"Enter!" Hans called out.

Victor opened the door and stepped in. "Second guest of the day's here to see you, sir."

"Excellent. Send him in."

Victor stepped back out into the hall, and Alex looked at his brother curiously just as Hans was standing up. "An acquaintance and I had plans to meet and discuss some business today. Since I have a lot going on next week, I had to put him and you on the same schedule. I apologize." He went to the door, just as a tall, well-dressed man with dark hair was coming in. Even at a glance, Alex knew him to be of the same cut as Hans was- a billionaire, probably, and no doubt one who'd made a fortune in "shipping and transportation". Hans smiled and held out his hand, and the two men shook hands.

"Mr. Orlov," he said warmly, "thank you for coming." Hans glanced at Alex. "Would you excuse me, please?"

A/N: 10-24-2017. After 13 months, I finally completed this story. It was well worth the time and effort. Not that I was working on it that entire time; rather, I am glad I returned to work on it from time to time, finally managing to complete it.

I first got the idea for this story in September 2016. My OC for the movie "Good Bye, Lenin!", Hans Kerner, twin brother of Alex, the main character, was originally featured in my story "The Bridge", set in the Tom Clancy fandom, specifically the book "Red Storm Rising." I then began to connect the character with a possible idea for "Lord of War". I wanted to write something for LOW, but decided early on that the main characters' stories had been told well enough. Sometimes that's how it is, and I do not feel I have anything to add or change about the story.

But I like the movie and its themes enough that I decided to find a way to write something for it. A disillusioned Hans Kerner, forced out of the East German military at the end of the Cold War as West Germany absorbs the East, emerged as candidate to write a story about. So I developed an idea about Hans- once steadfast and loyal in his commitment to service as an East German soldier- abandoning his old country's ideals and embracing the capitalist system as a way of surviving the new, post-Soviet world.

Hans' transformation, going from soldier of socialism to war dog, is remarkable for me to think about. Once a devout socialist, Hans changes his ways out of necessity and devises a new way to earn a living for himself. Like Yuri Orlov, he went into an illegal business determined to aim high. He took on the established players of the market and became one himself, earning his position the hard way. Over time Hans has become hardened and is capable of acting ruthlessly without a second thought. But he is still himself, and has not become a sadist. Nor is he mad with power, or lazy. Hans remains strong and vigilant, and is aware that he is not guaranteed his extremely privileged position. He will only remain where he is if he retains the traits and behavior that brought him to power to begin with.

Hans Kerner's first adopted name is in keeping with a practice of the French Foreign Legion. One can enlist under their real name, but assumed names are common. When the latter is used, the Foreign Legion creates a name based on the first letters of the first and last name. So HK, in this case. And his second name, Donovan Hock, is a reference to the 2010 video game "Mass Effect 2", specifically the successful and powerful arms dealer by that name who appears in one of the game's DLC storylines.

Hans, to be clear, has made his fortune first and foremost in one business: the cocaine trade. Cocaine is an extremely valuable drug, one that Americans are estimated to buy 100 tons of every year. While the price of it varies, cocaine, based on one estimate I ran, can be valued around $60,000,000 per ton (2,000 pounds). So based on that number, a narcotics submarine or narco-submarine able to carry 10 tons would be moving a cargo worth as much as $600,000,000. Given that Hans has established himself as a major player in that trade by 2005, owning both some of the diesel submarines used to do the shipping from Venezuela and Columbia to the coast of Mexico and at least a single plantation where the cocaine is grown, he is going to be quite a wealthy person- probably enough so that he could rival the fortune Yuri Orlov has built for himself by the end of "Lord of War".

Hans is also an arms dealer, but cocaine remains his main trade. When Yuri Orlov arrives at the end of the story, it is because Hans has arranged to meet with him so they can discuss setting up a partnership. Hans, in all likelihood, wants to increase his involvement in illegal arms dealing. He may want to reduce his involvement in the cocaine trade, or simply expand the other side of his business.

There's some references to StarCraft in here; Michael Liberty is a famous reporter in the Koprulu Sector in the StarCraft universe, and he is referenced by that name in this story. I adapted a piece that Liberty once wrote about the founder and first Emperor of the Terran Dominion, Arcturus Mengsk, making it instead about Hans Kerner- or Donovan Hock, as he is known to most by 2005 in this story.

War Dog, the title, refers to "a derogatory term sometimes used to describe non-military individuals who make money off the periphery of war. Often used to describe civilian contractors, private arms dealers, black marketeers and/or shoddy journalists", according to Urban Dictionary.