On a positive note, young Hans Gruber had gone to East Germany where he had joined the East German secret police force, the Stasi. His sources said he was quickly rising in rank. Good. He had even survived the scandal when his wife, the former Astrid Schneider, had been murdered by her brother, a man driven crazy by the war.
Today Hahn had to be even more careful than usual. Today was the day he went to the post office to pick up the envelope that contained his monthly allowance. It was his only source of income and he lived in fear that his unknown benefactor would either die or get caught.
He entered the small grubby post office building after checking to see if anything was out of the ordinary. Some familiar people were coming and going along with the inevitable scattering of strangers. Nothing looked wrong. He had no idea how Eichmann had been found but he did know that the man had made himself a family. Probably someone blabbed or bragged. It was another good reason to live alone, which he did. If he needed sex, there were prostitutes in the neighborhood and he only frequented the regulars.
A truck driver leaned on his horn and began to curse loudly, attracting everyone’s attention. A woman pushing a baby carriage jumped in front of him. Hahn was distracted by the woman and barely noticed that someone had bumped him until he started to lose his balance. Something was terribly wrong. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He collapsed onto the sidewalk and heard people calling for help. Someone looked down at him with real concern. He heard a siren screaming and growing closer.
The ambulance stopped and medics jumped out. They put Hahn on a gurney and into the vehicle. As they drove off, Hahn heard people comment that the poor man had been fortunate that the ambulance had been so close.
After a few blocks, the siren was turned off and Hahn, still unable to move, realized that he was living a nightmare. They drove in silence for a few minutes and into another building. He was removed from the ambulance. He could see that they were in a large garage. The men laid him on a table where they cut off all his clothes and replaced them with a hospital gown.
A man leaned over him. His expression was cold. “Hello, General Hahn. Yes, we are Jews, and, yes, we are Mossad. And how we located you doesn’t matter. I don’t know and wouldn’t tell you if I did. Probably someone talked. Money always does that, although sometimes fear works as well, as you well know.
“At any rate, you are now going on a plane ride, a very long one. You will be transported by a private aircraft that has you listed as a severely psychotic mental patient who must be kept tranquilized for his own safety and that of those on the plane. The destination is listed as a sanitarium outside Paris, but, of course, we won’t go there. Your final destination will be Tel Aviv.”
The Israeli spat into his face and laughed as the spittle ran down Hahn’s cheek. “Mazel tov.”
Germanica - eARC Page 40