The Morgenstern Project

by David Khara

  He went to the living room, grabbed his black coat, and searched its pockets for his cigarettes. On his way out, he picked up the baby monitor, which was equipped with both audio and video features. Jeremy smiled as he opened the front door, his eyes on the miraculous device that showed his bundle of joy soundly sleeping.

  Once outside, he raised his collar to shield his neck from the winds that had been sweeping the Atlantic coast for several days. A flame. A puff of smoke. The delicious sense of happiness.

  Sitting on the steps of his white frame house nestled in a neighborhood inhabited mostly by New York City retirees, Jeremy reflected on the journey that had led him from his personal rock bottom to salvation as a husband, father, and simple business owner. Who would have believed that just a few years earlier, he was a hotshot trader on Wall Street? Who could have imagined that one night, after getting hammered, he had slipped behind the wheel of his Aston Martin and caused the death of a small child?

  Not many people.

  Definitely not Greg. The computer geek was trotting up to the house, carrying his beloved backpack. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his puffy North Face jacket, which made him look even heavier than he was.

  “You’re super early,” Jeremy hollered after taking another drag of his cigarette.

  Greg didn’t respond. The grim look on his face was a stark contrast to his usual jolly appearance. He hurried up the steps before taking Jeremy’s extended hand. Jeremy squeezed it with enthusiasm, relieved that there were no hard feelings from their little dispute earlier in the day. But Greg didn’t let go.

  “Fuck, let go. What are you doing?”

  “Shut up and get back in your piece-of-shit house,” Greg whispered in a tone that sounded menacing.

  He underscored his words by drawing a gun equipped with a silencer and waving it in Jeremy’s face.

  Jeremy was shocked. Then he burst out laughing. “You’re such an idiot. You almost had me there. Are you taking up paintball?”

  “I can assure you, this thing’s not loaded with paintball ammo. I’ll prove it.”

  Greg pointed his weapon at a tree in Jeremy’s front yard and pulled the trigger. The sound took Jeremy back to the shootouts he had lived through in Europe with Jackie and Eytan.

  Greg was definitely holding a real pistol.

  Instinctively, Jeremy lifted his hands in the air.

  “L-l-look,” he stammered, “I’m sorry, all right? Tolkien’s first one hundred pages aren’t boring at all. You were right. Are you happy?”

  “I don’t give a shit about Lord of the Rings,” Greg said. He was clearly growing impatient. “Now get in that fucking house, or I’ll punch you in the face.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working for the Consortium,” Jeremy burst out. Now he was furious.

  Greg hit Jeremy with the back of his armed hand.

  “I warned you,” he sneered before giving Jeremy a rough shove. “Now shut your ugly face and get inside.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The mission itself was a cinch. Capturing a civilian was child’s play. The only obstacle was the location: a home in a gated community. While discretion was key, leadership accepted a certain number of casualties as long as the objective was achieved. The three men in the back of the white van passed around the photograph of their target. Lieutenant Delgado took back the picture and slipped it into the pocket of his black combat pants. He readjusted his earpiece and made sure his mike was securely fastened. He put on his facemask, as did his team members. They loaded their machine guns and one by one gave the thumbs up. The driver started the vehicle and pulled onto the road, heading toward their objective’s location.

  As usual, Delgado was in the dark about his boss’s motives. But he didn’t care, and neither did his men. As far as they were concerned, national security took precedence over all else.

  Five minutes later, the vehicle stopped. Delgado gave the commando across from him a nod. He slid the side door open and leaped out. Weapon in hand, Delgado bolted toward the house and mounted the front steps. His three subordinates followed. He scanned the perimeter and lingered a few seconds on the smoking cigarette butt in an ashtray on the window ledge. The subject’s file had mentioned that he was a smoker. The lieutenant tested the front door and smiled as it gave way without resistance. In two minutes tops, Operation Jeremy Corbin would be completed.

  Delgado and his men continued silently and swiftly. Their synchronized movements allowed for optimal coverage and limited their target’s ability to escape. They checked the kitchen, the living room, the laundry room, and the bathroom. No dice. There was just one door left on this floor. It was beneath the staircase. And it refused to budge. While his accomplices surveyed the surroundings, Delgado got ready to break the lock. He stopped when he heard a baby whimpering upstairs. The crying was soon lulled by what sounded like a nursery rhyme.

  ~ ~ ~

  The basement was a dream man cave. Taking up half the space was a bar with a zinc countertop that looked like it was straight out of a nineteen-thirties Parisian bistro. Across from the bar, a recently purchased pool table sat under a stylish light fixture. Four crimson leather chairs were positioned in front of a monolithic flat-screen TV. Superhero movie posters decorated the walls, along with a few black-and-white prints of legendary jazz musicians.

  Jeremy was holding Annie in one of the chairs and keeping a close watch on Greg. For his part, Greg was shifting his focus from the father and daughter to the door at the top of the stairs and then back again. In light of the computer geek’s unforeseen abuse, Jeremy thought it wise to comply with his commands, even though they were as weird as shit. His latest instruction had Jeremy pointing Annie at the camera of the baby monitor, which Greg had snatched from her crib. Greg had then callously pinched the little girl’s calf to elicit the desired response. The nutcase was now asking Jeremy to croon a lullaby.

  Jeremy tried to shake off his fear. At the nutty ball, this guy would definitely be eating all the cashews.

  ~ ~ ~

  The four commandos slinked upstairs and arrived in a hallway. Hugging the wall, they followed the crying all the way to a dimly lit room. Delgado entered first. The baby’s bedroom looked like the display window of a toy store. Tons of early-learning games and stuffed animals filled the shelves all around the room, which had a whimsical border of farm animals. In the center was a round crib with bubblegum-pink bedding.

  The lieutenant walked past the changing table and approached the crib. He grabbed a corner of the quilt and raised it carefully to come face to face with... The receiving end of a baby monitor! The screen showed the face of an unhappy baby, and the speakers relayed her sobs. At the same time, muffled cries were coming from the hallway. Before he had time to turn around and shoot blindly, blood splattered the little wallpaper duckies.

  “No prisoners,” Delgado heard someone behind him whisper just as he felt a knife pierce his neck.

  ~ ~ ~

  All right, it’s official. He’s totally lost it, Jeremy thought as he listened to Greg talk to himself. For two minutes, the guy had been saying, “Yes... Okay... Got it.” From what Jeremy could tell, Greg wasn’t wearing a mike. The man was losing touch with reality, probably from spending his life playing Call of Duty. Jeremy swore that if he got out of his ridiculous hostage situation alive, he’d change the theme of his store to attract a more boring clientele. Right now, botany sounded like a safe bet.

  Fortunately, the loony tune seemed to be calming down. He stuck his gun in his belt and turned to Jeremy, who was trying to soothe his daughter.

  “It’s all good,” Greg declared, clearly relieved. “We can go back upstairs.”

  With his eyes still glued to the wacko, Jeremy stood up slowly. He carefully placed his now-sleeping little girl on the seat of the leather chair and without warning rushed at Greg. The bookseller had mastered the tackling stance: knees bent, arms open wide, head lowered. Greg, however, managed to react with surprising speed for a guy of his
tubbiness. He spun around, successfully dodging his attacker. Jeremy went flying into the bar. Luckily, no damage done. He got back up, shook it off, and prepared for a second assault.

  “It would be real swell if you showed up one of these days. I’m gonna have a hard time calming him down,” Greg yelled seconds before ramming Jeremy with a flawless corkscrew punch. But he lost his balance and fell to the floor, along with Jeremy. Greg also lost the upper hand. Jeremy mustered up a second wind and subdued his abductor by pressing a knee to his throat.

  “Who the fuck are you talking to, you psycho freak!” Jeremy shouted.

  Greg let out a series of unintelligible sounds as he pointed to the leg threatening to crush his windpipe. Jeremy eased some of the pressure.

  “To him,” Greg spit out between coughing fits.

  “Who’s him?” Jeremy insisted, adding a bit more weight.

  “I believe he’s referring to me.” Jeremy looked over his shoulder. The voice was so familiar, but so unexpected.

  “Eytan?”

  Chapter 6

  Berlin, May 1942

  The clanging of metal and the grunts of the swordfighters filled the large hall of the fancy Berlin mansion. The combatants’ parries and thrusts quickly intensified as two servants, both fascinated, watched behind a wooden kitchen trolley holding towels and a pitcher of water. One of the servants was a large sixty-year-old man, and the other was a cute young woman with a round face and brown hair.

  Both swordfighters were adamant and refused to give any ground. In fact, the training session looked more like a death match. The swordsmen had the agility of wolves in their prime.

  Karl-Heinz Dietz, his hand fiercely gripping his weapon, was taking voracious delight in the combat. It had never been a friendly lunch-hour match, as proposed. His renowned guest—and opponent—deserved a little lesson, an overdue lesson, considering his high rank in Hitler’s hierarchy. A reality check would do him some good.

  These times of madness and uncertainty in the world demanded intellectual, cultural, and physical superiority. As far as Karl-Heinz was concerned, his opponent, Reinhard Heydrich, was his inferior in all three areas. Described by many as the brains behind Reichsführer-SS Himmler and the uncontested chief of the Reich’s main security office, the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, Heydrich was in need of a healthy blow to his ego.

  While Karl-Heinz relied on his extraordinary speed, coupled with a natural sense of craftiness, Heydrich took advantage of his longer reach and experience. But he wasn’t able to counter a lightning-fast assault. Karl-Heinz struck his right arm with the blunt saber. Wild with rage, Heydrich ripped off his mask and threw it to the ground, then rubbed his arm.

  Karl-Heinz removed his own mask. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his sleeve and smoothed his short jet-black hair.

  “That makes it eight to two if I’m not mistaken. Perhaps you’d like to stop here, Reinhard,” Karl-Heinz proposed as he tested his blade’s resistance.

  Heydrich’s clear blue eyes flashed furiously at the suggestion of a dishonorable surrender. He angrily slipped his mask over his face and assumed his on-guard stance.

  Colonel Karl-Heinz Dietz couldn’t decide whether to admire this man for his tenacity or hold him in contempt for his inability to accept defeat. An accomplished athlete, he appreciated a warrior’s total commitment, but not if it clouded his judgment. Karl-Heinz was driven by survival instincts. He understood the importance of reevaluating a combat situation without letting pride supersede reason. He applied this philosophy to other areas of his life, as well, especially in situations where the stakes were too low to make much difference. For him, it wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about being shrewd enough to survive until it came time to kill.

  If only we were fencing with real swords. That would spice up this competition, he thought as he inspected the tall, lanky figure with blond hair. The man was breathing heavily and appeared to be wearing out.

  “En garde,” the general ordered.

  Karl-Heinz pulled down his mask again, after giving the arrogant prick a smirk. Heydrich’s aggressive moves failed to conceal the fear in his eyes. His posture was stiffer than ever.

  Without further ado, Karl-Heinz took full advantage of his opponent’s rigid stance and lunged. His wrist was strong yet relaxed as he orchestrated simple swings at the arm he had hit before. Heydrich bumbled on until a delayed counter-parry destabilized him and opened up a prime pathway. Karl-Heinz heaved his sword at the vulnerable torso and pinned the tip of his weapon on the general’s upper abdomen. The defeated party planted his knee on the ground.

  “Enough!” Heydrich yelled.

  How could anyone be afraid of a man with such an embarrassingly high-pitched voice? Before Karl-Heinz had time to think about it, his opponent’s mask went flying across the room. It hit one of the many paintings, which crashed to the floor. Heydrich was taking his defeat quite poorly. The general broke the heavy silence with a snap of his fingers. The butler grabbed a towel and hurried to Heydrich. The young woman approached Karl-Heinz, her head lowered.

  “I assume our session is over,” the colonel said.

  The general replied with a string of curses muttered under his breath. Defeating a character like Heydrich required not only talent, but also bravado, as he belonged to an elite group of fencing masters. These men were the best in the country, maybe even the world. Humiliating him put one’s life at risk. A single glare from this man could kill just as quickly as a bullet.

  Most people would never cause Heydrich to lose face.

  Karl-Heinz Dietz, however, wasn’t most people.

  The man’s unrivaled hunting skills gave him great power. They made him far superior to the higher-ups in the system—a system with an ideology he despised as much as the way it operated. Most of those in the top ranks would have benefited from reading even a few of the books that had perished in the regime’s book-burnings. Their intellectual gaps would eventually lead to the demise of Germany’s empire.

  Reinhard Heydrich stormed off toward the stairs and leaned on the massive railing as he struggled to climb the steps. Reaching the top, he disappeared down the corridor leading to the guest bedrooms.

  The servants returned to their regular tasks, and the now solitary master of the house stood before a mirror by the door. He straightened his chin and celebrated his victory by making his signature salute.

  With the tip of his sword, he traced a perfect “J.” It was the first letter of the title used by those who knew Karl-Heinz and even those who had just heard of him. The title was solidified with each victory in battle, and it would follow him to the grave.

  Der Jäger. The Hunter.

  ~ ~ ~

  Half an hour later, after cooling down under relaxing showers, the two men reconvened with a carafe of wine in one of the mansion’s sitting rooms. Seated on the chesterfield sofa, Heydrich had regained his composure and was masking his cold and dangerous persona behind a wall of feigned pleasantries. His host was not fooled. Their shared meal and the fencing match had served as hors d’oeuvres for the day. With his legs crossed on an ottoman across from his guest, Karl-Heinz was awaiting the main course.

  “Lovely décor,” the general said as he examined the numerous military and hunting trophies on display. “I believe they sum up your career quite nicely.”

  Alongside the paintings and military plaques, animal heads, from bears to antelopes and zebras, were mounted on the walls. Heydrich took a particular liking to the lion’s head, its ferocious fangs on full display.

  “These are mere trinkets,”Karl-Heinz replied. “My most prized conquests are in my cave of wonders, but I rarely show them off.”

  Karl-Heinz was growing weary of looking at the man’s face. How long would it take him to get to the point?

  Heydrich placed his glass on the table next to the sofa. He stood up and walked over to a record player on a sideboard near double doors that led to the garden. He spent several seconds observing
a swan as it glided across a man-made pond. Then he turned back to the sideboard and started going through his host’s stack of seventy-eight rpm records.

  “Ah, Schubert!” he exclaimed. “Would there be any harm in playing one of his sonatas during our discussion?” The first notes floated from the record player before Karl-Heinz could answer.

  “I haven’t come here to enjoy your food. And certainly not to give you the pleasure of schooling me in the art of fencing,” Heydrich said, returning to the sofa.

  Finally they were getting somewhere.

  “I heard about your mission in Greece,” Heydrich continued. “You managed to succeed where the Italian army fell short. I’d like to personally congratulate you for your remarkable effort.”

  “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Reinhard. Our Italian friends have managed to make an art form of negligence and inefficiency. Cleaning up after them was a bore. I’m tired of such inconsequential assignments.”

  “Yes, heaven protect us from our Italian friends,” Heydrich sighed as he picked up his glass of wine. “Meanwhile, our troops are facing guerilla warfare in several occupied territories.”

  “The Wehrmacht is a well-oiled machine as long as the enemy bends to the rules of engagement. Our large army is useless against these small movements. They’re scattered, invisible, and determined.”

  “Hence the need for a unit as special as yours, which I’m quite proud to have created, if I say so myself.”

  As usual, the man was taking credit where it wasn’t his to take. Karl-Heinz had single-handedly built that group. It was yet another example of Heydrich’s shamelessly distorted take on reality.

  “Anyway, the majority of our soldiers are busy removing Jews from Germany’s sphere of influence and fighting on the Eastern Front,” Heydrich continued.

  “The Russian campaign is an embarrassment,” Karl-Heinz interrupted, ignoring the general’s mention of the Jews. They weren’t his concern. “The plan is a rogue strategy. It’s military suicide. The Russian winter will crush our forces. Quick battles and minimal losses, that’s my idea of an intelligent war. You don’t need a genie’s lamp to know how the invasion to the East will end.”