A Room Full of Night

by TR Kenneth

  “This is more. This is much more,” Rikhardsson said. “We’re the kind of corporation that gets the job done, not the kind that worries about a sterling reputation. Our clients certainly don’t worry about theirs.”

  Portier contemplated the faces around him. “This is about more. Maguire showing up at that apartment means he’s in possession of information we have sought since ’42.”

  “What kind of information?” Vanderloos sputtered.

  “Heydrich’s SD was involved not only in maintaining the secrecy of the death camps and the Final Solution, but it also kept hidden the most secure operations of the entire war. I needn’t remind you, Heydrich was very adept. We didn’t officially know about the Holocaust until our military and the Red Army stumbled into the concentration camps.”

  “Specifics please,” Rikhardsson demanded.

  A muscle jumped in Portier’s jaw. “With the V-1 and V-2 rockets, Hitler was, of course, developing secret weapons, which he believed would win the war. There was one that was even more secret than the rocket program. We have exclusive historical evidence that Heydrich was cloaking an operation through the Škoda Werks plant outside of Prague that was much further along than first thought. Heydrich was assassinated, Germany was bombed to smithereens, and the secret weapon information disappeared. No one could find out what Heydrich had after that. Not even Hitler. Der Führer went to his bunker hoping that the ‘secret weapon’ would somehow be found and win the war for him. But the only things discovered after Heydrich’s death were the documents ordering that apartment 12A was to be kept intact in perpetuity. The directions were absolutely clear. And for all these years, we’ve done exactly that. We’ve been too afraid not to do it. One thing out of place, one thing destroyed, and we may be out of luck ever finding what Heydrich was hiding.”

  “What are you saying? That Heydrich may have collected some fissile material? Big deal. The world has a surplus of that, if you haven’t heard. Just ask North Korea,” Sadler piped in.

  Portier snapped back, “We don’t know what state of development this weapon was in, we don’t know where it is, we don’t know who has access to it. We don’t fucking know anything. And this is unacceptable. For me. For Tarnhelm.”

  “Why haven’t we forced the information from Maguire?” Vanderloos interjected.

  Portier tossed a stack of papers on the table. “This is his dossier. Our analysts say he’s the worst sort to respond to torture.”

  Vanderloos sputtered, “He’s a nobody! Surely we can—”

  “All we will do is manage to kill him—and there goes his information.” Portier nodded to the dossier. “A deranged gunman took out several bystanders in a Starbucks. Maguire’s wife was one of them. With a leg shattered by bullets, he still managed to get his dying wife behind a barricade, reach the dead security guard’s gun, and take out the gunman. The press called it a pure act of suicide. If he can function under that kind of emotional and physical pain, there’s not much more we can do to him that’s short of killing.”

  “We’re a security and information company—there are other ways,” Roberts said.

  “Yes. We need information. As of right now, we don’t know what he has, or who he’s talked to.” Portier gave a meaningful pause. “Nor who he’s working with.”

  Portier’s expression took on a nasty new edge to it. “I needn’t remind you gentlemen that we supply information to the Sinaloa cartels as well as to the NSA. This man and his questions are unsettling; he will eventually be swatted like a fly. But before that happens, I want everyone in this room to know that every person in our organization is to be put on this. We must know what he knows.”

  He looked at the face of each member of the board. “We sit upon a precipice, gentlemen. We’ve brought Tarnhelm into the 3rd millennium. The Marianas Web does indeed exist because we created it. Our information infrastructure includes the development of the darkest of web platforms and continues all the way down to receiving the mundane reports of our network of janitors who pick through the trash baskets. Our entire raison d’être is built upon security information, which we use and trade like cryptocurrency.”

  He stared at the board. “When there’s chaos in the world, we make money. We like it. But there will be no chaos in this organization. None.” He shook his head. “Maguire’s interest in the apartment in the Dresdenhof could make public a connection to us that has been long suspected. In which case, we are ruined. The Israelis will cease doing business with us, along with the Americans. That will leave us with the Chinese and Russians, and I don’t have to tell you, that while technologically proficient, they have all the finesse of a bunch of offal-swilling peasants being seated at Epicure. Without connections to information on the West, they would be gone also. Then. We. Are. Finished.”

  “We must rid ourselves of that apartment! Why do we still keep it?” Sadler demanded.

  “There are secrets in there. Heydrich’s secrets. He was methodical. Meticulous. Diabolical. We’ve never known why he placed the apartment in trust. We’re afraid there could be messages there: in the pattern of shattered glass, in the level of whiskey in the bottle. We’ve yet to figure it out and until we do, the apartment stays intact.” He released a weary breath. “After all these years, after all our research and study, we have yet to decipher anything. We don’t dare get rid of it until we do. If Heydrich had developed a weapon, perhaps the only way to save ourselves from it is the message of that apartment.”

  “An answer to a question we don’t know,” Vanderloos interjected.

  “Exactly. Besides, at Heydrich’s unexpected death, his trust required we keep the apartment intacta in perpetuity, and that same trust started Tarnhelm in Stockholm in ’46. That trust is what made us, gentlemen, but nonetheless, it marks us like a tattoo.” Portier rolled his eyes in frustration. “Whether we like it or not, the Heydrich connection is absolute and irrefutable once made. Whoever traces us to the apartment can trace us all the way back to the RSHA, the Reich Security Main Office. I will not see our corporation compromised by stupid Nazi bullshit.”

  He took a long, stony look at the faces around him. “And I will not allow a loose cannon to operate in our midst.”

  “What are you implying?” Vanderloos spit out, incredulously.

  Portier answered woodenly. “The words speak for themselves.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vanderloos complained. “You sound as if you believe one of us could be working with him.”

  “I would never be so incautious as to imply that.” Portier’s gaze still circled the occupants at the table.

  “Roberts,” Sadler overheard Rikhardsson whisper mischievously, “you’ve always had an interest in diamonds, have you not? Particularly pink ones from Australia?”

  Sadler saw the heat rise in Roberts’ cheeks. The man stared back at Rikhardsson with the same chilly stare the Scandinavian gave him.

  Under his breath, Sadler heard him retort, “At one time or another, herringfucker, I think everyone at this table has taken an interest in diamonds.”

  “The longer the man remains active, the more of a threat he becomes,” Zellner announced to the table. “I say we bring him in.”

  “We’ll get more information if we manipulate him. We know that from other operations,” Sadler said.

  “I think it’s prudent to send in agents to get to the bottom of this. Find out what he knows, who he’s talked with,” Roberts added nervously.

  “Put him in the Baltic!” For emphasis, Vanderloos beat his fist on the table.

  All the men seemed shocked by the sudden pounding.

  All except Portier.

  “That is an inevitability,” Portier said. “But in the meantime, I would like to remind everyone of the seriousness of my intentions.” His gaze slid over to the only other door to the conference room.

  Everyone knew the room. The old bomb shelter. The nickname among them was The Honor Room after the SS motto. It was Tarnhelm’s sick joke, homage to SS
Reichsführer Himmler’s ridiculous fascination with “Aryan” occult. If you were the focus of questioning, if you were put in time-out in The Honor Room, then either way, like the witches in Salem, innocent or guilty, you were dead.

  Sadler had to give the old SS credit where credit was due: they were cartoon villains, but they certainly did not lack style and substance in their villainy. And God knows, they were good at their jobs. Like Tarnhelm was now.

  “We deal in information. That is our business. In fact, there is no business if we cannot be relied upon to keep our secrets,” Portier said, ambling around the table.

  He paused at Roberts’ seat, but he didn’t look at him. Regardless, Sadler saw the blood violently drain from his face.

  Portier turned his attention to Rikhardsson. He stared at the Viking who sat stiffly, defiant and yet trapped. Then, without further contemplation, Portier announced, “No one is going to take Tarnhelm for a ride.”

  He pressed a button on the table. Four large men arrived, each in bespoke dark gray suits. Each looking like they ate bull sharks for breakfast.

  “Mr. Roberts, it has come to my attention that you’ve been running a side operation in illegal gem trading in Liberia. Would you care to elaborate?” Portier paused and looked him dead in the face.

  Roberts choked.

  Even Sadler could feel his own insides turned to concrete with sudden fear.

  “You can’t be serious!” Roberts blurted out.

  Rikhardsson stared at Roberts, along with all the others at the table.

  “You can’t believe this conniving herringfucker any further than you can throw him!” Roberts spat furiously at Rikhardsson. “I’ve been loyal for more years than this fool has been an adult!”

  Rikhardsson turned his eyes to Portier.

  “People get weary. They forget those to whom they owe their loyalty,” Portier added, his own weariness showing in his voice.

  “This is bullshit. Bullshit,” Roberts blasted.

  “Nonetheless, with this Maguire stirring up trouble, now is the time to confirm loyalty to Tarnhelm. I cannot go forward until I have complete assurance that everyone is on the same team.” Portier went to the bomb shelter door. He opened it. It was twenty-four inches of solid steel.

  “No one has proven his loyalty better than me! No one! You would not have your army of Muscle Men without me! It was my idea. My idea!” Roberts screamed in his Aussie twang.

  “And as thanks for the Muscle Men, I offer you an out. A gun is provided inside. I suggest you take it,” Portier said coldly.

  Roberts looked at the others in the room, silently begging for one of them to speak up, to defend him.

  “Look, I took a few baubles from the Liberian trade in undocumented gems, but that was only because my wife is the fucking Imelda Marcos of Tarnhelm. I mean she’s a vampire! There’s no quenching her thirst for sparkle. She’s like an old whore who must wear all her rhinestones at once!

  “You men know me! I would never betray a trust! It was more like skimming the inventory to please that bitch of a new wife so she would give up some pussy! Surely you can all understand this?”

  Desperately, he looked around the table, his very soul begging. “Someone? After all these years of service?”

  The board said nothing. The silence was absolute. Vanderloos looked especially uncomfortable but whether that was because he’d done his own skimming or the Dutchman truly felt bad for him, Sadler couldn’t tell.

  “‘My Honor is called Loyalty,’” Portier announced in a tired rumble. “Go and retrieve yours.”

  The four elegantly suited mammoths surrounded Roberts’ chair. One put a hand on his arm and forced him to his feet.

  “This is a mistake! I won’t go!” Roberts shouted, trying to twist his arm out of the grip holding it.

  Portier said nothing. He merely nodded to the gang of four.

  They held Roberts on either side and guided him to the room. Sadler watched the rest of the board heroically wash the horror from their faces as Roberts was led to the bomb shelter, a room that amounted to a walk-in safe. Inside, highlighted by a spotlight, was a semi-automatic handgun encased in glass.

  Break glass in case of emergency.

  Roberts pulled back. He fought and kicked and struggled but to no avail. He was a sixty-year-old man surrounded by more muscle than the US Olympic Weightlifting Team. He was dragged into the vault and deposited there. Everyone knew that once Sadler was inside, there would be nothing for him except perhaps his own merciful self-inflicted death. Either way, to go quickly and violently or to go mad and rot away hour by hour, the only way he would be leaving the vault would be in a dustpan.

  Crushing Roberts’ screams, two of the goons closed the door. There was an eerie and immediate dead silence. It was like Roberts had never existed at all.

  Portier resolutely looked around the table. “Loyalty, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”

  Strangely enough, there were none.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  STAG WOKE UP in the dorm of the Hostel-Berlin more surprised than rested. The room full of bunks was completely at peace, the only disturbance, the snores of the young hippies that had bailed from their night of partying. Mein Kampf was still next to him, open on the page he’d been translating when he finally passed out.

  He closed his eyes and wondered about Tarnhelm. Did they know about the writings? He couldn’t believe they’d missed them. They were, after all, a security organization. They had to know every inch of that apartment. Only they never had the key to the code.

  He’d eluded them, but the translating was going slower than he’d like. And at this point there were no real answers. What in God’s name were they so afraid of that they sent someone out to kill Harry just to get his buddy to pick up the phone? It was all darkness right now.

  But one thing he did know was that if the SD was still around as some kind of security service, it could be everywhere, and the implications were chilling. Pissing them off was a suicide mission. But he’d never be able to find out what they were up to by making nice and heading into the sunset. His inquiries were going to bring him attention. He would have to deal with it.

  He sat up and put his legs over the edge of the bunk. Randomness was the key. It was his only advantage. Tarnhelm probably had people everywhere. He could picture someone tampering with his breakfast in the kitchen.

  Nothing like a little paranoia with your morning coffee, he thought to himself with a grimace. He stood and walked a bit, his leg stiffer than usual. The pain brought back memories of Holly. Her room-brightening smile, the comforting way she liked to stroke his chest after they made love, the moment she went to tell him about the pregnancy test and then didn’t have to when she brought his hand to her belly.

  Find what you love, then let it kill you. He could never figure out if that was Bukowski or Kinky Friedman who said it, but the real truth was that it didn’t kill you. Holly had left him behind. All the pain had just left him alive and still kicking. And thoroughly, radiantly pissed off.

  With Harry’s death, the feeling sure as hell wasn’t getting any better.

  When his leg loosened, he shrugged on his jacket. In case of rain, he placed Mein Kampf and the white silk strip in the Ziploc bag he carried his toiletries in. With both secure inside his tattered inside breast pocket, he left the hostel.

  There was a cafe two blocks away. The day was already warming, and in the sun, it was downright pleasant. He set up shop at a table by a budding linden tree that smelled strangely of honeysuckle and bleach. He was careful to sit under the awning. No telling what spy satellites could be aimed at him. He ordered coffee and rolls, then pulled out the book and began reading his latest deciphering.

  This story ends with death.

  I am not a fortuneteller, my dearest Reinhardt; all your stories end with death, and it follows that this one shall, too. You have the power to make it so, and so it must be. Every minute of every day, I think of how this may end, a
nd I hate you for it. The very night and fog that you create for others lifts you up onto the pink cloud of power and optimism. You show me the pictures of your beautiful little girl Silke. How is it that you may have pictures of a messy child grinning at you on a blanket in the sunshine, and not me? That you may see your angel-faced children—every evening if you wish it—while I may only imagine the cherub forever denied me? How dare God be that cruel?

  Yes, how dare he. And how dare you.

  You are the Hangman, and I am nothing in your wake. That is undeniable. So this story will indeed end in death. The only question is whose death shall it be? We shall have to let the play run its course. But what you don’t know is how this story began, so allow me to tell you.

  My parents were German-born Poles who worked as buyers for Israel’s Department Store. I can remember as a girl going to the Schiap Shop at the Place Vendôme, and having very grown-up tea with my mother in the Ritz. There was art school in Paris, summers in Linz and along the Wannsee. When I took my first job at Israel’s, as an artist for their ad department, I was a proud young Berliner. By then, of course, you and your kind had boycotted the store. Hardship loomed, but in my youth and naiveté, I believed everyone who said it could not last. “Things will change,” Wilfred Israel would tell me, patting my cheek affectionately. “It will get better,” he proclaimed. And I believed him. I wanted to believe him like everyone else did. After all, it made no sense why the Nazis would do such a thing. Had not Israel’s been a part of Berlin since 1815? Of course, it would continue!

  My parents’ permit was canceled in October of 1938. Wilfred Israel tried to get my parents out of Germany, but my paperwork lagged, and they would not leave me. The Polenaktion expelled them. Do you remember? Your Gestapo rounded them up. Then they were refused entry because Poland refused German-born Jews. They were held in the rain and the cold, with no food or anything of comfort. My mother wrote that the worst part was having to relieve herself in front of everyone in the courtyard. My gorgeous mother? Sleeping and shitting in a bare-earthen courtyard? There are no words for the horror I felt then. The disbelief. This could not be. My mother was on a first-name basis with Mademoiselle Chanel and Elsa Schiaparelli; my father had two thousand workers beneath him at Israel’s! No, this could not happen! I would save them! But I was caught myself. Israel’s Department Store was looted and burned in your November pogrom—the Kristallnacht. Or—if you insist as all of you do—the Reichskristallnacht—Even the infamy, you Nazis are so eager to tag all your own!