by Adam J Watts
It would be a daring move on his part, but Seb knew it was necessary to study the daily routine of his enemy. If he could find out where he went, when he did so and why this was done, he stood a far better chance of finding Caitlin. Hackbeil must have her hidden away somewhere. He may even have put her to work in some capacity.
Seb pondered this idea for a moment and found it increasingly difficult to imagine Caitlin being forced to do anything she did not want to do. Then again, this was a nation where the ruling government openly encouraged torture. He hoped she had complied thus far. The thought of her being hurt in any way always struck a telling blow to his insides.
This particular walk had been a pleasant one thus far. The late afternoon sun did its best to provide enough heat and light for the residents of a darkened street. He had stopped briefly to take in the architecture of the building. Prinz-Albrecht-Straße had formerly housed
the Museum of Decorative Arts and it certainly showed.
Security at the entrances and exits of the building was tight. No possibility of getting inside with fake papers, let alone none at all. He would need to think this one through. It was time for a sit down and a warm drink.
***
In some respects it was hard to believe that you could find a pleasant little cafe within striking distance of such an organisation. Seb had heard the stories. Terrible things were reported to happen in the lower levels of Security Service headquarters. Whether this be the extracting of information and teeth, or yet more orders to hunt down Jews, there was nothing good emanating from within those four walls.
Having had some time to think, he had formulated a plan. As things stood, the best way inside the building would be to adopt someone else's identity. Menial tasks such as cleaning or janitorial work would almost certainly be outsourced on a contractual basis. If he could find himself a male worker from either of these departments, he may be able to get inside.
A couple of hours, one newspaper and several cups of coffee later Seb had spotted something. It was a good thing too, because the cafe owner was starting to become suspicious when he showed little signs of leaving. At the far end of the street a small van had pulled up outside Sicherheitsdienst.
He watched intently as the driver of the vehicle spoke to one of the guards. After a brief question and answer
session and the scrutinising of his credentials, the workman appeared to be directed to the tradesman's entrance.
There wasn't much time, but if he could get from the cafe to the street adjacent to Prinz-Albrecht-Straße he may be able to work his way through a back yard, over or around any obstacles and come face to face with the workman. He set off walking at a brisk pace. Anything more than this would have raised suspicions.
***
Having already cleared security at the front of the building, Seb seriously doubted that this chap's paperwork would be checked again. Quietly he scaled the last metal fence between him and his new target.
He landed approximately one hundred yards away from the van where the labourer was unloading equipment. Seb scanned the area. He couldn't see any security personnel and began to creep forward one step at a time.
Injuring this innocent man was not his intention. He would simply render him unconscious, steal his uniform / papers and tie him up in his own van.
One swift blow to the back of the neck did the trick and Seb bundled the limp body into the rear of the van.
Ten minutes later he emerged wearing the loose fitting boiler suit and picked up a toolbox. Standing at the back door he knocked twice and waited to be let inside. He was greeted by this year's winner of Mister Personality who simply eyed him up and down before grunting and stepping to one side.
'Thank you,' Seb told the man in a cheery voice.
'My pleasure,' the guard replied in a deliberately sarcastic tone.
This did not bother Seb, as his first objective had been achieved with minimal fuss. He was inside the lion's den and sarcasm had little effect on him at this point.
'Third floor,' the guard said to his back. Seb turned around. 'Pardon?'
'Third floor!' he repeated a little louder, 'You are here for the central heating ja?'
'Yes,' Seb replied, 'Thank you once again.’ With this he tipped his hat and disappeared around the corner.
The third floor was the last place Seb would visit, unless of course this was where he could find information on Hackbeil. Instead he worked his way down a long corridor and arrived at a pair of elevators. Fortunately there was a sign next to them depicting which departments were located on each floor. He needed something that resembled records, so selected the basement level.
Whilst descending in the lift, a thought suddenly struck him. He needed a change of identity. A manual labourer would rarely require access to sensitive government records and even if something did need fixing down there, Seb sensed that special authorisation would be needed to do so.
The doors opened on the basement level, but they were soon closed again. The elevator lurched into action once more, as Seb pressed the button for the next floor down. He would now be searching for a changing room
of some sort. The kind of place the guards went to change out of their civilian clothes.
Several narrow passageways later and he had located something similar. There was one man in the room, but this would not be a problem. Seb would give him five minutes to leave and if he still hadn't by the time this had elapsed, he would suffer the same fate as the workman. Only on this occasion, he would be stored inside a locked toilet cubicle.
Waiting inside said cubicle Seb heard the door to the room open and close again. Slowly he peeped through a crack in his own door. The man had gone.
He would need to be quick. Making use of the chisel in the toolbox he had taken from the repairman, he pried open one of the lockers along the back wall. Inside he found a shirt and tie, plus some black trousers.
He checked his watch. It was four o'clock. He had roughly an hour before the owner of these garments would realise they were missing. It should prove enough time, but he would need to be succinct.
***
The records department was a vast and sprawling library of documents from both before and after the current rule. Seb was surprised by the amenable nature of the girl on the desk and wasted no time in persuading her to direct him towards the files he was after.
She was quite pretty in a plain sort of way. Not his type, but useful on this occasion as she could be easily flattered into helping him.
'Unfortunately I am new here,' he heard himself saying in his best Bavarian accent, 'My boss is already angry with me for losing some files, so if you could help me I will be forever in your debt.’
'Of course. We don't want you getting into even more trouble. You are far too cute for that,' she laughed like a school girl.
Cute? I suppose it would suffice for now. As long as he got his hands on those records, he didn't care what she called him.
'Oh damn!' he exclaimed in a theatrical manner.
'What is wrong?' she enquired sincerely.
He whispered the next sentence, 'I have forgotten my security pass as well now... I am having such an awful day.’
The young woman smiled and stroked his shoulder. Seb's head rose from its downward position and his eyes met with hers.
'Take me out for dinner tomorrow night and I might forget to ask you for your pass.’
She winked. Seb played along.
'Thank you so much...?'
'Aida.’
'Aida. But I will go one better.’
'Oh?' she giggled, pushing her spectacles further up her nose.
'I will allow you to choose the restaurant.’
Five minutes later he found himself reading through the paperwork he came for. He glanced casually at his watch. It was now 4.40pm. He needed to leave. He had found out everything he could. Herman Hackbeil had been assigned to a unit planning something called
Operation Barbarossa -- an invasion of
the Soviet Union.
If he had the time to spare, Seb would have mused upon the fact that Hitler was obviously not a fan of history. Most sociopaths were not. They believed firmly in their own importance and as such, the ability to rewrite history in their own image. The fact that Napoleon had tried and failed to conquer this particular part of the planet had little influence over Germany's latest leader.
'Thank you Aida. Have you chosen a venue yet?' he said with a winning smile.
'Yes. Here are the details.’
Slowly she slid a piece of letter headed paper across the desk. Seb read her charming handwriting and pocketed the paper.
'I'll be there.’
With this he turned to leave. He was almost halfway down the corridor before she called him back. 4.50pm.
'Aren't you forgetting something?' she said playfully.
At first he thought he had dropped one of the pages he had hidden under his shirt, but soon realise she was attempting to be alluring.
'But of course.’
Quickly Seb returned to the desk and dramatically kissed the back of her hand. 'That is all you get for now I am afraid. I wouldn't want to spoil the suspense.’ He winked. 'Now I really must go.’
'Goodbye...?'
'Franz.’ It was the first name that came into his head, but it seemed to sit well with her.
Back in the elevator. 4.55pm.
'Come on, come on!' he said to himself and tapped on the side of the compartment.
He reached the changing room with minutes to spare. Hopefully the guard who these particular clothes belonged to was posted at one of the far corners of the building.
He was just about to open the locker when he heard a voice behind him.
'That is not your locker,' it said firmly.
'Oh but of course!' he exclaimed, 'it has been a long day. I do apologise.’
'No problem,' said the stranger before heading to a closet further along the row.
There were no two ways about it. He needed to get inside this metal cupboard and the man a few yards away was preventing this. There was no time. He would have to go.
Casually Seb walked past the man as he rummaged inside his own storage compartment.
'Good weather we are having today,' he said in passing.
'Ja. For the time of year... Are you new here?' he asked while putting a shirt over his head.
With hindsight this was a foolish move by the employee of Sicherheitsdienst. Whilst incapacitated by his own clothing Seb launched into a quick, but potent attack. The man groaned slightly before crumpling to the floor.
Priorities. Seb needed to revert back to the workman's outfit. Once this was done, he dragged the unconscious employee over to one of the cubicles and sat him on the toilet. He then proceeded to tie his hands with a length
of copper wire from the toolbox and fabricate a gag using his own neck tie.
***
'Is it fixed?' the grumpy guard enquired as Seb approached him.
'Unfortunately not. I shall need to order a specific part.’
'Shit. How long is that going to take? I am on night duty this weekend and the temperature is dropping faster than a stone in the lake.’
'I think we have one back at the depot. I will bring it first thing in the morning.’
For a moment Seb thought he had seen the man smile, but this could have been a bout of wind instead.
'See you tomorrow,' he said cheerfully as the guard held open the door.
'I'll be here,' he barked before closing it behind him.
You might be, but I certainly won't you miserable git!
'Ah you're awake,' Seb said to the workman, his gag firmly in place. 'Don't try to speak. You are safe. I just needed to borrow your uniform.’
Closing the doors to the back of the van he walked around to the driver's side and climbed into the seat.
'We're going for a little ride now my friend, so sit tight.’
He started the engine on the old van and it spluttered into life.
'I'm going to take you somewhere remote. You can make your way home from there.’
Chapter Thirty-One:
End Game ~ Winter 1961
'What is this place?' Max asked his friend with a clear expression of disgust.
Seb did not know where to begin describing such a monstrosity. Having made it this far it was too late to turn around and leave, but both men would have been lying if they had tried to deny that the notion had crossed their minds.
'I thought we were past all this,' Seb reflected outwardly.
'It would seem that we only delayed the inevitable my friend.’
The room was not huge, but it was big enough. Along two of the walls were soiled hospital beds and physical restraints. In the middle of the room a solitary operating table reflected strobe lighting from its tarnished metal surface.
There was a foul smell in the air. One which Seb had not had the displeasure of inhaling since the close of his last significant conflict.
'Look...' Max said distantly, whilst pointing a gloved finger toward a chamber of some sort.
'My God. That can't be...'
But it was. How could any current day government fund such activities?
At the far end of the room -- under the orders of the deranged Hackbeil -- Cuban hands had erected a gas chamber.
'No wonder the Americans want to destroy this place.’
'Don't be so sure Max.’
'What do you mean?' he asked from their crouched hiding place.
'You know how this works as well as anyone. It was never Mr. Kennedy's intention to destroy this facility... As soon as Hackbeil and Castro are dead, Cuba falls and a special development team will be crawling all over this place.’
His words were solemn. Max took a moment to consider this possible future.
'We cannot let that happen.’
'No. We can't. That is why no nation shall ever get its hands on this research... Not even yours.’ Max nodded.
'The truth of the matter is this. No decent, ordinary person wants war in the world, but there are those amongst us who stand to profit from such ventures. We may never be able to prevent the conflicts, but we can certainly keep them from reaching new heights.’
'Soldiers designed to fight would certainly increase revenue.’
'Exactly. Less time and money wasted on training. Less room for idiosyncrasies that affect performance...'
Suddenly the conversation was cut short. The sound of several doors opening could be heard. Synthetic light flooded the room and khaki clad soldiers trampled there way along the gantry above their heads.
'I am pleased that you see things from my perspective at last Herr Beasley.’ Herman shouted above the din from around forty patent leather boots.
With a wave of his grey hand, Hackbeil ordered the South American soldiers to relax a little. 'Not so serious gentlemen. We are old friends. Are we not Samuel?'