by Dean Kutzler
Lars had seen what had been done with failures—first hand. Failures were an expense to the organization and he couldn’t agree more. All the time and money spent on training, educating and housing these enrollments could be spent in more productive ways. But the Führer was a very smart and resourceful man. He’d put the failures to good use and recycled them back into the cause. The failures would be sent down to the experimental labs and used like guinea pigs. It saved time and money in the expense of abducting unwilling subjects and it solved the potential security breach the failures would become, once severed from the organization. The organization couldn’t risk exposure at any cost. It had stayed hidden from the public eye for thousands of years. It was difficult to gain enemies when no one knew they existed.
Arno, the trainee he’d found before Wilhelm, had received an easier fate, compared to some of the others that Lars had heard about and witnessed himself in the many labs hidden in the catacombs beneath the Vatican. Despite Arno’s incompetence, Lars had liked him. They’d had the same taste in music. Rammstein, now that was a great band. He’d almost been sorry to turn him in, but failure was failure, and failure was not to be accepted on any level. He had a feeling from the beginning that Arno wouldn’t last much past his training. He’d kept complaining about the ruthlessness of it all. Foolish man. Lars had tried to teach him that ruthlessness was a tool to be used. Lars almost pitied him, but pity was a crutch for the weak.
He’d overheard the Führer give the command that day. Lars had just been dismissed after he’d reported to the Führer of Arno’s failure in reaching the lawyer in time to interrogate. Lars had still been in the hallway before the door closed. ‘Nehmen Sie ihn auf die Atemwege Labor!’ Take him to the respiratory lab! The Führer had bellowed. Lars had hidden around the corner and followed the Führer’s personal Wachen when they had dragged Arno from his quarters and down the hallway. The sight couldn’t have been more pathetic as the failure had kicked and pleaded for his life, for his family. Family ties were just another weakness. The organization was all the family he needed. He’d had to follow closely, sticking to the shadows and out of sight, because surprisingly he didn’t have security access to the labs. Other than the top members, scientists and the Führer himself, only the Führer’s personal guards were granted biometric access to the labs, the heart of the organizations research efforts. It would be a fine day when the Führer accepted Lars, through his hard work and determination, into the upper echelons of the ranking top members of the organization.
He’d watched as the guards palmed the hand scanner and waited for the right moment. Once they’d dragged Arno through the door and were too occupied by the struggle, he silently dove to catch the edge of the door before it shut, praying they wouldn’t notice the delay in its click from the electronic lock. He’d waited a few seconds, giving them time before he’d slipped in unnoticed.
Lars crept down the corridor like a black cat in shadows and carefully peered into the unnatural scenes of each room as he searched for Arno. Arno would never know how lucky he’d truly been. It wasn’t long before he’d found the room in which they’d taken him. He’d spied Arno from the small square window in Lab 32’s door just in time as the scientists were strapping him down. The pitiful sight of panic and fear on his face when they’d strapped down his forehead was reason alone to kill him. Such displays of cowardice turned Lar's stomach. The extensive training the recruitments received taught them valuable lessons on how to be strong, push fear away or, better yet, use it as a tool, not to cower in it. Arno had never been worthy to be a part of the organization or the greatness for which it stood.
One of the scientists had pulled a large barbed rubber stopper from a drawer inside a stainless steel cart and placed it on top and went to the back of the lab, while the other scientist had run diodes from a cluster of machines and taped them all over the failure’s chest while he checked the readings. The first scientist returned with a big jar of petroleum jelly and placed it beside the barbed stopper on top of the cart. The two scientists talked casually amongst themselves over top of Arno as they worked. Thankfully, all the labs had been soundproofed to deafen the horrible screams of torment from the countless subjects over the years. Arno’s eyes had widened in sheer terror at their conversation and bulged beyond ocular belief when one of them callously shoved the rubber stopper down his throat until it would go no more, effectively sealing off his mouth and stopping his protests. Arno’s fingernails dug into the nylon straps as his hands clenched at the restraints.
While one scientist firmly held the stopper in place, the other inserted an IV drip of mivacurium chloride into his arm. Within seconds, Arno’s body had stopped its struggle against the restraints and stopper. The neuromuscular-blocking drug had rapidly coursed through his veins in the proper dosage, effectively shutting down each of his muscles save for his vital functioning organs, leaving him fully awake and conscious yet unable to move. Then without warning or waste of anesthesia, the scientist had rammed a modified diode prong, like a knitting needle, down through Arno’s left collarbone. His expression went blank momentarily, then tears ran down into his ears before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell unconscious. The scientists exchanged more words then the one closest to the machine flipped a switch and adrenaline dripped into the IV stream. A few seconds later Arno’s eyes fluttered and rolled forward, back into consciousness, like a cruel joke.
Once he was sure the dosages were correct, he flipped another switch and the monitor on the machine blinked to life. The scientist watched the screen as he carefully guided the prong as it tore through tissue in Arno’s chest cavity, up over his lungs and into the left subclavian artery of his heart. Slowing with careful pressure, he snaked the prong through the artery and down into the beating organ without puncturing it, then secured the prong in place with white medical tape. The fully automatic machine was set to discharge a small electrical pulse through the prong to restart his heart when it stopped beating.
Then the most cruel thing of all had happened. The scientist opened the jar of petroleum jelly and dug out a big gob of the thick substance with two fingers. Soft peaks sat atop the technician’s fingers like freshly whipped cream as he approached the sorry failure’s face. At that moment, Arno’s eyes had caught Lars peeking in the window watching the fate he’d served him. The sorry look of betrayal had been quickly replaced by terrifying fear as the scientist had started plugging up his nostrils with unforgiving amounts of the viscous jelly.
At first his body remained calm as sweat started to run down his temples. Then his chest had started thrashing under the restraints. While the two scientists monitored the machines, one of them took a straw-like tool slightly larger than a coffee stirrer in girth from the tray. He carefully inserted the slender tool into each nostril, creating just the slightest air hole. Arno’s chest slowed to a controlled labor as the tiny holes in the thick substance blew in and out, catching and pulling. Once satisfied after some more monitoring of the machines, the scientists left the room. Lars had quickly scurried out of sight as they’d exited and left Arno alone in the room.
Once they were out of sight, he returned to the small window and continued his detached observation. Arno’s eyes were fixed on him, sensing him the moment before he stepped in front of the small square window. Lars observed, feigning no emotion as the helpless man’s lungs struggled to take in air, then painfully exerted to dispel it. He read the burning sensation ripping through the failure’s lungs in the strain of his forced gape. Sweat rained down into his eyes, flooding them with stinging saltiness now, but never once did they close or release their hard stare from the monster in that little square window.
As Lars watched for half an hour, Arno’s eyes transformed into a road map of bursting capillaries with each pained inhale and every forced exhale. His skin had taken on a bluish tinge as his lungs fought harder and harder for precious air. At one point, the machine monitoring his heart had flat-lined and Arno’s eyes ro
lled back into his skull. After a few seconds, a light flashed and the prong in his heart jumped, followed by his chest. Another two jumps and Arno’s eyes popped open, immediately resuming their hateful stare on Lars through the small window, only a bit duller than before, but still steadfast with on Lars.
The scientists had been testing the lung's capacity and functionality under extreme duress. This experiment would go on until his lungs collapsed and resuscitation was no longer a viable option. If he lasted long enough, harsh chemical inhalants would be introduced into his lungs. All the while as the machines had recorded his lung's progress, the process would last several hours, days or weeks possibly. Of course, the scientists had experimented on another subject that they had breathing a perfluorocarbons liquid. The person would literally breathe in the liquid like it was gaseous oxygen. That lucky participant had had his chest cracked open so the scientists could observe the lungs at work, while thick latex fittings had been adhered to them to constrict the organs. Normally people don’t breathe liquid, so they needed to test this under less exaggerated circumstances. Lucky for Arno.
Lars had watched for another thirty minutes as Arno’s lungs fought the good fight. He stayed longer to see how much the failure could take but he feared getting caught and he wouldn’t risk tainting the Führer’s image of him. During that half hour, Arno’s eyes had grown ever duller, yet never leaving their hold on Lar's or at least until the machine brought him back.
Before Lars left, he’d taken one hard look at the failure to make sure he never became one himself, and in that moment, he could read the silent communication in Arno’s eyes. Ruthlessness was a tool, a tool to be used. His eyes had given him up. He’d learned the lesson a little too late.
The sound of squeaky brakes drew Lars back to the present.
The nephew just pulled up in a cab.
Reminiscing was good fun, but he’d waited long enough. He had a job to do and he wasn’t going to become a failure like the last two recruits. He watched as the nephew got out of the cab lugging a huge package into the brownstone. He’d been gone for a couple hours. Lars had been smart as always for waiting because the nephew came right back out and headed down the street. That was his cue. It was unlikely that he’d return again so soon, and if he did, Lars wouldn’t let the man best him like Wilhelm had. The only shame had been his orders to not harm the lawyer’s nephew under any circumstance. He would’ve enjoyed a little hand-to-hand.
Looking into the rearview mirror, Lars removed his Terminator style sunglasses and tossed them on the dashboard. Having a bald head was suspicious enough. Cold German blue eyes stared back at him, reminding him of his father. They had even shared the same angular face and prominent jaw. He had been a failure like Wilhelm, too, and his reflection was a constant reminder of what he dared not become. That’s why he did what he had to and never looked back.
Lars finished his cold coffee in one gulp and exited the BMW. He waited for a taxicab to pass then sprinted across the street to the brownstone steps, stopping at a sidewalk can to deposit the empty coffee cup in the trash. The organization was getting close to its goal and he needed to be in the top ranks. The Führer would reward him well when he came back with the book. Lars had excelled at gathering intel. He’d been top of his class at Technical University Munich, TUM for short.
Before he found the cause, or rather before it had found him, he’d been studying computer science. His time at TUM hadn’t been wasted; he used what he’d learned to hack into the lawyer’s computer and oh what a find that had been. They didn’t actually teach the art of hacking at TUM, but as a student one quickly learned from their fellow classmates.
The Führer had been pleased, even called him his favoriten. He’d seen his intrusion for the brilliance that it was. They’d been searching for so long, longer than a few lifetimes, and all it took was a crafty computer hack. The lawyer hadn’t been as smart as he thought he’d been. Lars cracked the encryption code in a mere forty minutes. Child’s play. Once he was in, he set up the slave-software to continually run, hidden in the background like a motion sensor light, only fully activating when someone used the computer. That activity was then recorded and immediately sent back to his mainframe under the Vatican. The continuous feed also left the line open for the mainframe to access control over the host computer at any time. A simple algorithm program and a few choice key words like book, Bible and relic were all it took to sniff the info off the little hard drive in an instant. Americans were so foolish to trust Bill Gates. The lawyer would have been safer going with Steve Jobs, but not much. There wasn’t anything Lars couldn’t crack.
The Führer had been so pleased that he entrusted Lars with the immense honor of retrieving the ancient book in person. The Führer recognized his skills. He’d taken the organization’s experimental stealth jet to the states, landing at their hidden airport base and there he was, about to collect the payoff and ring in a new era for the Söhne Gottes. The Führer had said that it wouldn’t just be the Fourth Reich—he’d called it the Reich of Beginning. Once they had the power of the book in their hands, there would be no turning back for mankind. The world would be forever altered, its course corrected on the true path. It was their destiny from the beginning of creation. The Führer was a true visionary and Lars was honored to serve by his side. He’d known all his life he was destined for great things. He hadn’t known how great or realized his full potential until he joined the organization and until the Führer had shown him the way.
He casually glanced down both directions of the street in front of the brownstone, careful not to draw any attention. Luckily, this neighborhood was full of rich American pigs that rarely needed to leave their cozy beds this early in the morning. With a purposeful stride not too close to haste, he bounded up the steps. Hopefully the door hadn’t been repaired yet from Wilhelm’s hasty barge-in. The failure hadn’t even mastered picking a simple lock. Braun with no brain was the prowess of a dangerous failure of a man.
One more nonchalant glance over his shoulder, making sure no one was watching, Lars gently pushed on the brownstone door. The frame creaked and gave way as the door swung open to the continuous beep of the alarm. He quickly entered and shut the door, making sure that it wouldn’t spring back open. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small black box. Working quickly, Lars pried off the plastic cover to the alarm access panel, which revealed the inner board containing a multitude of soldered wiring along with the flashing digital display and keyboard. If the stupid alarm companies ever got smart, they would hide these panels somewhere further into the house to provide added protection. Only the residents would know where it was hidden to access it in time.
Sucking on his lower lip, scanning the alarm panel’s board, he quickly found the main transistor alongside the glowing keyboard. With a flick of his wrist, he produced the black box and it clicked to life displaying a set of red lights that undulated like the hood of Knight Rider’s car. Another flick and a small square panel on the little black box rolled back and produced a small claw attached to a black wire on a retractable spindle hidden inside.
With deft expertise, Lars pulled the claw from the black box and carefully attached it to the metal wires affixing the transistor to the board. Immediately, the undulating lights on the black box halted their brigade and remained a solid red. Silently, one by one, the little lights on the box turned green. Once they were all solid green they began to undulate once more, indicating to Lars that it was ready.
With a proud smile, he depressed an inlaid button on the box and the constant beep of the alarm fell silent. With necessity came the father of invention. Lars had developed this nifty little unit over a year ago. The Führer approved his invention to be carried by all field agents once Lars had reengineered the entire security system for the headquarters underneath the Vatican, so as to safeguard it against any fraudulent usage against the organization. The device, when attached to any digitally encoded lock, immediately intercepted the signal and
rerouted it back to the mechanism without breaking the connection, leaving the other node free to probe the lock electronically. The signal was then carefully modulated in order to allow the probe access without any interruption of power to the main signal. Once the electronic probe located the chip where the passcode was stored, the algorithm program kicked in and took full advantage of its over clocked CPU and amped up xenon diflouride battery to sniff out the code. If the design for the device ever reached the general public, it would bring new meaning to the words ‘Home Invasion’. It was a good thing Lars was an honorable man.
Now that the alarm was out of the way, he had at least a good hour or more to search for the book before the dead lawyer’s nephew came back. Thanks to his computer brilliance he knew right where to look. The intel his algorithm program sniffed off the lawyer’s computer said that he’d discovered an entrance to a hidden temple under the structure of the brownstone, just beneath the basement stairs. Wilhelm the failure said the door to the basement was located straight back from the front door and on the right.
As he casually strolled towards the basement door, he glanced down at the bundle sitting next to the wall. With his hand resting on the door handle, he toed at the bundle with his foot, his face scrunched in contemplation. He shook his head. No time for curiosity, he thought, continuing down into the basement and pulling a flashlight from his jacket pocket.
He rounded the staircase and pulled up in confusion at the sight. The intel didn’t say anything about a brick wall. The lawyer must have bricked it back up since the entry was made in the computer.
Why?
Scratching his head, Lars came out from behind the stairs and started searching the basement. Now he noticed the wheelbarrow and the trowel sitting on top. That would take too long and probably wouldn’t work anyhow. Eyeing the workbench, he strode over and began examining the rusty old tools. Half the items he’d never seen before, but the one towards the back was quite familiar. He snatched the rusty tire iron and headed back under the stairs.
