The Vast Conspiracy

by Samuel J. Stevens

His SAC had told him he’d be perfect for this case, with a name like Larsson and the face to match. The New York City Vanguard Party meeting would eat him up. Of course, in this case, his name was Steve Hanson, and he was a computer programmer, not a Bureau agent.

He pulled up to the location, a German restaurant in Greenwich Village. Eccentric types lived here, he thought, Nazis were no different he guessed. But they said they weren’t Nazis or something base on their web sites. They sounded like Nazis to him though.

He went into the restaurant and told the hostess he was here for the meeting. The girl, bottle blond with six ear piercings and a floral tattoo that ran up her neck rolled her eyes. She took him upstairs. “I guess you look the part,” she said, showing him to a private room. She had one of those “equal” sign pins on her shirt. It must have been her protest.

The others—about fifteen of at a long table—barely noticed him. They did not look like the thugs he’d seen in old Bureau files. They looked indistinguishable from the trendy hipster kids that populated the Village and Williamsburg, the only difference being they wore suits. Cheap ones, too. Not that Larsson judged; after all, he made a modest Federal salary.

Their leader was Lance Martin. He was a university dropout with a large trust fund. Unlike most of the others he wore a Hugo Boss suit and an Omega watch. He spoke with a lisp. Not that that meant anything, Larsson thought.


Larsson sat down. “Hey, how you doing?” the man across the table said to him. He was older, late forties or early fifties, Italian looking. “Don Giancana,”

“Any uh, relation to—”

He shook his head. “What, are you prejudiced against Italian-Americans or something? Think we’re all crooks?”

“No, not at all,” Larsson said, shaking his head. His hands sweat a little.

“That would be a first at these meetings. You look like a Waffen-SS poster.”

“Oh, yeah, both of my parents come from Swedish ancestry.”

Giancana leaned back, sipping a beer. The rest of the table, Larsson noticed, drank expensive wine. “You from the Midwest?”

wine in glass

“Yes, Minnesota.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Oh, my name’s Steve Hanson.”

“What brings you to New York?”

“Computer programming.”

“You’ll be a shoe-in here. I work construction myself. Union delegate stuff too.”

Larsson tensed up. Was this part of organized crime in some backward way? He’d make a note of it later. “What do we do at the meetings? I spoke to Lance on Skype the other day but he didn’t give me too many details.”

“We shoot the shit, eat, have a drink for a while,” Don motioned for a waiter. “Speaking of which, let’s get you one—and then we have our floor discussion about our tactics and all that.”


“Yeah, mostly placing posters around Columbia and NYU. Gets the ashkenouz all wound up.”

“Excuse me?” Larsson said softly.

“You know, the Jews, the sons of Abraham.”

Lance stood up at the head of the table, clinking a glass with his knife. Don rolled his eyes. Some of the others at the table gave Don a dirty look. Larsson thought it was odd for a bunch of college students to be rude to an older man like that.

“Welcome to this monthly meeting of the New York City Vanguard Party, hopefully soon the National Vanguard Party as soon as our merger with the National White Worker’s Party is finished.” Lance seemed to over-smile, Larsson thought. He’d ask his psychologist girlfriend about it later.

One of the members close to Lance raised his hand.

“Yes, William?”

“The NWWP isn’t going to merge with us.”

“Oh. Why?”

“They’re too far right; they’re not going to be respectable enough for national politics.”

Larsson knew about the NWWP from another agent colleague. Apparently it consisted of a plumber in rural Idaho and his internet radio show fans. Not that that was any reflection on plumbers or the state of Idaho.

“Well, what about the Northwestern Euro-American Front?” Lance said, sitting back down.

“Well,” William said. “They said our inclusion of non-Nordic European Americans calls into question our principles. Which is why I proposed removing a certain non-white from this gathering months ago.”

Larsson looked around. They were all white men.

“Oh!” Don piped up. “Just say it to my face next time!”

William pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

Lance sighed. “And what about the Identity Movement in Virginia?”

“They’re Christians and don’t support our inclusion of LGBT members that contribute to our movement. Besides, their leader is a prole like the NWWP’s is.”

“But don’t we need a big tent?” another member said. He looked like a college student. “No punching our allies.”

“You have a point, Stephen,” Lance said. Larsson studied him. He didn’t care what people did in their bedrooms but Lance seemed to be batting for the other team. “Do you have a report for us, Stephen?”

“Yes, we in the NYU chapter,” Larsson made mental note of that, “placed some posters around campus last week. We triggered a lot of kikes.” Stephen looked like he needed some sunlight and exercise. His cheap black suit fit like a sheet on him.

“Very good,” Lance said.

“You’d think looking at World War Two footage all day would get a kid to talk like a man. I half expect him to reach for an inhaler,” Don said quietly.

“What did you say?” William said at the other end of the table.

“Nothing,” Don said, finishing his beer.

“Any other business?” Lance said.

Everyone shook their heads.

“As a final item, I wanted to welcome our newest member, Steve Hanson.”

“Hello,” Larsson said. “Glad to be here,” he strained as he looked at the pale gaunt faces staring at him.

“Well, unless you have anywhere else to be, you’re all welcome to stay. I have the place booked until midnight.”

The group settled back into their own conversations. Don looked at Larsson. “You want to get a real drink instead of this pisswater? I know a good place a few blocks away.”

Larsson looked around. Two of the men were sitting very close to each other. He knew it wasn’t politically correct to think, but they made him a little uncomfortable. “Yes, I’d like that,” he said. He noticed his hand was shaking. He’d taken down armed criminals with less sweat soaking into his shirtsleeves.

They got up and left the restaurant. About a block away, Don said, “Who sent you, the Bureau?”

Larsson’s heart stopped. “Ah—”

“Don’t worry.” Don took out an NYPD badge and ID card. “Detective Mark Lucchese You might as well have Fed branded on your face, my friend.”

“Oh,” Larsson said, relaxing and showing his own badge. “Paul Larsson, FBI.” He took a breath. “So, have you gotten anything on them?”

“I’ve got Lance-y boy—aptly named if you ask me—on a solicitation pinch.”


“Yeah a male one,” Lucchese chuckled. “You ever met a normal guy named Lance?”

Larsson narrowed his eyebrows. He wondered if the detective was really just one of them.

“Take it easy, just a little joke.”

“Do they have any foreign backing, buying any guns?”

The detective laughed. “Sorry.” He sobered. “Listen, this isn’t Al-Qaeda type stuff, where they actually shoot people or blow shit up. These guys? They sit on the internet all day and then come here to gossip about each other.” He shrugged. “For me, it’s the easiest undercover assignment in the world.” He looked away. “And trust me, Agent Larsson, give it six months and you’ll see half these guys at the American Jacobin Club meeting uptown after the junior high cheerleading antics catch up with them.”

Larsson nodded. A few months spending more time with his girlfriend sounded nice. He’d make sure his report reflected that the NYCVP warranted further investigation.

Samuel Stevens most recent story for us was “Greener Country Grass.”



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