by Adam J Watts
‘Thank you Obergruppenführer Fleischer. To hear this from you is a great compliment.’
Upon entry Herman had acknowledged that they were not alone in the room. He had almost expected – or was that hoped? – that there would be an increased presence. From his experience; the more officials present, the greater the importance of the meeting.
It was only now that the man sat in the corner, elected to speak.
‘Can we dispense of the pleasantries, gentlemen?'
Fleischer’s response was an interesting one. He almost cringed at the intonation and was only too willing to take the taller man’s advice.
This could mean only one thing; the man to whom Herman could not allocate a name was of a higher rank than the Obergruppenführer.
‘Yes of course... Herr Hackbeil, do you know why you are here?'
Herman answered succinctly, as the chubby man waddled back to his desk.
‘The Reich has chosen me to undertake an important task.’
‘That is correct,’ the voice from the corner announced.
Hackbeil could see from Fleischer’s face that he did not approve of these little interruptions, but was powerless to prevent them. Methodically the Obergruppenführer
pushed his spectacles further up his nose and continue to speak.
‘You have been chosen to perform a special task overseas. I must warn you however, the operation may require certain measures to be taken.’
Fleischer’s ulterior motive had not gone unnoticed by Herman.
‘I understand, sir. I am willing to do whatever it takes to secure a better future for the Fatherland.’
What happened next startled him. The superior officer -
- previously hidden in the shadows -- had somehow positioned himself behind the Hauptsturmführer.
‘Excellent! We could certainly use more men like you Herr Hackbeil. Heaven knows we will need them in the coming months.’
At that moment, Fleischer slid a file across the desk and towards Herman.
‘Everything you need to know can be found inside this dossier. Included are the necessary travel arrangements and paperwork.’
Just as the Hauptsturmführer was reaching for the file, he was startled by the senior officer's crop making contact with the folder. The sound emitted from the stick was not too dissimilar to that of a gunshot and as such, echoed his superior's remark.
‘We trust you will destroy the documentation once read? You know about our policy regarding failure.’
Unfortunately Herr Hackbeil was aware of the aforementioned policy. Failure would not be tolerated.
If the operation were compromised, it would be his sole responsibility to correct the situation.
‘If you jeopardise the security of Reich you will be removed,’ stated Fleischer.
Not removed from his position. Simply removed…
As he turned, Herman could see the tall, thin man smiling and his hand on the door knob.
‘I will make killing you my personal duty.’
The words were still ringing in Herman’s ears as he vacated the property. The threat of death was not exactly the conclusion he had envisaged.
***
The plan had gone horribly wrong, of that there was no doubt. Not only had he failed in obtaining both halves of the paperwork, but he had ordered the deaths of three people. Actions like that do not come without serious consequences.
What was he to do though?
Stratton's assistant had been shrewder than reported. He had escaped, taking with him the technology. Herman needed leverage and fast.
What better than to utilise a weakness? Okay, the acquisition of a hostage was troublesome, but he was convinced it would reap dividends come the final hour.
If only the bitch would stop moaning.
He could hardly hear himself think and time to calculate the next step was sparse enough. He needed to find a way of contacting Beasley; to make a proposition.
But how do you reach a man on the run? What means can you use to communicate, when you have no forwarding address? These were all problems he would need to deal with and quickly.
For now though, all he could do was sit back and watch the scenery go by. After boarding the morning train to Berlin, he and his associates had found an unpopulated carriage and attempted to keep the girl quiet.
As he pondered the solution, the voice of the superior officer invaded his thoughts. The realisation of this sent a shiver down Herman's spine and he pushed the image to one side. It was at this exact moment that he realised upon an idea.
He would review the dossier given to him by the treacherous Gerald. Perhaps he could obtain details of Beasley's friends and family. If he could not contact the man himself, he would go through the network until he found someone who could.
This notion gave the Hauptsturmführer a distinct sense of satisfaction and he relaxed into his seat. From here on in, the journey might not be so bad...
In one swift movement, Herr Hackbeil flung out an arm and landed a blow to the now-bagged head of his captive. He paused, listening for the slightest murmur.
Nothing but silence.
Excellent he thought.
Now the journey will be a peaceful one.
Chapter Nine:
And Death Have No Dominion ~ Spring, 1939
Elizabeth Beasley had always known her son was different. Perhaps it was her own fault? More likely it was that of the boy's father. It therefore came as little surprise to the woman when Samuel did not return to mourn her husband.
The pair had seldom spoken their entire lives and the confrontation a few years previous was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Disappointment danced within the walls of her mind. Samuel was an only child and, as such, the sole heir to the family estate.
It wasn't that she feared for her future; Eliza knew that her son would never turn his back on her. His grievance lay with his father. The question was; would that grievance be laid to rest along with him?
She seriously doubted it.
He would never admit it, but Sam was not too dissimilar to his dearly departed dad. Both stubborn,
driven individuals with an unerring sense of moral justice, they even shared a passion for writing.
Samuel however, took things a step further. He was a great thinker; methodical and calculated in unnerving proportions. By no means a bad person, in fact quite the opposite. If there was a chance to put something right, he usually would.
No, what concerned his mother was the way he conducted himself. His passion for righting wrongs appeared to take precedence over all else -- including the family business.
Sam was a bright lad, but Eliza had never envisaged such an attribute to be the forbearer of bad feeling. It was her son's blatant disregard for administration that pushed her parental buttons.
It was as if he wished to bear witness to the falling of his father's empire. The notion that anything and everything he had ever touched was now tarnished.
As she released the freshly cut rose from her trembling hand and watched it fall silently to the ground the realisation hit her. She had not just lost her husband four years ago to the day: her son was gone, too.
At that moment in time, she seriously doubted her ability to welcome him back with open arms. Little did she know that her son had every right to feel the way he did. It was just unfortunate that even in death the "great man" continued to drive a wedge between the pair of them.
Chapter Ten:
Going Underground ~ Autumn, 1939
Things had gone better than expected. Seb had managed to find himself a place to stay in the city and so far, he had gone undetected. Paris would be his base for now, but he knew deep down that soon he would have to venture into the lion's den.
Germany was fast becoming a hotbed of activity. Since the successful invasion of Poland, the Nazi party had mutated into a full-blown militarised unit. They seemed hell bent on expansion and indoctrination.
Perha
ps if he waited long enough, the mountain would come to Mohammed.
He couldn't help smirking at that one.
Trying not to look like a tourist is even harder when you are lost. Slowly he meandered through the streets in search of the address he had been given by an old colleague.
Seb needed some help, the kind of help only a native would know. He needed to locate one of the many
underground cells in Paris: those that contained informants, organised crime and militia.
If finding them was proving difficult, obtaining their cooperation would be even more of a challenge. As he mulled the idea over, something caught his eye. In the distance he could see a young boy approaching an older man.
Some considerable time ago, Seb was trained to both conduct and recognise rendezvous of this nature. The young urchin did not approach the older man in the way a son or relative would. Neither did he acknowledge or speak to the gent.
They were good; if you weren't looking for the signs, you would not have noticed the exchange. A small, folded piece of paper, passed from the grubby mitt of the courier and seamlessly into the street vendor's pocket.
Who to follow? After a moment's deliberation Seb decided that the older man had more potential. The boy was, after all, just a messenger.
He would wait until the dealer had done for the day and follow him.
Fortunately there was a cafe across the street where Seb could both while away the time and keep a close eye on proceedings.
Thankfully it had already been mid-afternoon when he chanced across the trade. This meant that there were only a few hours left to kill, before the marketer headed home.
Tailing someone is easier than a lot of people think. You just have to know what you are doing. Stick to a few key rules and you'll be fine: Never get too close, don't loiter aimlessly and be prepared to overtake and circle occasionally.
Who will think they are being followed, if you appear to have gone past them, minding your own business? Just another of Gerald's tricks of the trade.
As expected the street vendor headed towards a less-than-desirable part of town.
The journey was relatively short and Seb only needed to use the circling technique once.
Soon they found themselves not outside a house, but a questionable drinking den. Seb wondered if this was a regular thing for the salesman. A quick drink on the way home perhaps, but something told him the venue was as alien to his new-found associate as it was to himself.
Not wanting to spook the Frenchman, Seb waited outside for a few minutes.
Naturally, the light inside the club was even dimmer than that of the streetlamp he had been leaning on. The bar however was seemingly well lit and attracting weary punters like moths to a flame.
Slowly Seb weaved his way through a blend of people and tables. Eventually he arrived at his destination. No matter how intently he surveyed the scene, he could not locate the street vendor.
The barman interrupted impatiently.
'What will you have?’
'You choose. Merci,' Seb replied and proffered a note in his direction.
The bartender looked offended.
'No, no my friend. At Franc's, for new customers the first drink is always free.’
Seb thanked the proprietor before asking for the location of the toilet. He needed to track down the man he was trailing, but he needed to use the facilities more.
As soon as he felt the gun in the back of his neck, he knew he had been sloppy. The urinal was one of the few places he could have been taken by surprise. His assailant must have already been in the toilet, as he never heard the door.
'You have been following me.’ The voice was French and softly spoken.
'I have,' Seb replied calmly.
Swiftly, the stall holder struck a blow to Seb's ribs.
'Why?’ he continued in a harsher tone.
Seb winced before replying.
'I need… your help.’
This response appeared to take the Frenchman by surprise and for a brief second the pressure from the barrel of the gun was lessened. A second was all Seb needed.
Quickly he swept his left leg behind that of the vendor's and pulled forward. His attacker was now off balance and poised for a fall. Using the back of his forearm Seb brushed the gun to one side and landed a blow to the throat with his other hand.
This had the desired effect and stunned the Frenchman. Diving to his left Seb made a grab for the gun. With the revolver firmly in his grasp he pointed it at the floored attacker.
'My turn to ask the questions.’
'Who are you?’ The marketer spat between spells of heavy breathing.
'If I told you that I would have to kill you.’ Another blow rained down on the ailing man. 'I don’t think you want to die in a toilet.’
There was no argument. Instead his assailant simply sat in silence with his head propped against the sink.
'You are waiting to meet someone. Who is it?’ The vendor shook his head in defiance.
'I don't want to hurt you. I already know the answer. I just want it confirming.’
'I do not believe you!’ The street seller snapped back. Seb sighed.
'You are a low-ranking member of a local gang, my friend and you have been given a message to pass on to someone important.’
The man on the floor looked outwardly stunned.
'How could you possibly know that?’
'I know a lot of things. Now get up.’
Taking him by the arm, Seb dragged the babbling man to his feet.
'Where are you taking me?’ He enquired, genuinely concerned for his life.
Seb winked at the man.
'I'm not taking you anywhere. You are taking me. To the meeting.’
***
After some further persuasion, it was discovered that the meeting was scheduled to take place in the cellar of the bar.
Underground activity of an illegal nature was bound to have some form of security in place. The use of a courier to pass unmarked messages freely throughout the city was just one level of this. Co-signs and passwords were another.
The lowly gang member tapped out the predetermined knock on the old wooden door.
Seb kept the gun lightly pressed against his spinal cord as he did so.
There was no audible sign of acknowledgement from within, except for that of the dead bolt sliding out of place. As the door creaked open Seb increased his force behind the barrel of the gun and ushered the courier into the room.
At first the darkness and the overall stealth at which Seb had entered the room aided his cause. The men inside did not notice their fellow member's newfound friend. That was until he made his presence known.
Using the courier as a form of human shield, Seb spoke out into the semi darkness.
