Chapter 22
The Thuringian Forest
The men had rested well in the surprisingly comfortable quarters in the mountain. Further down the hall, a fully equipped kitchen was stocked with meals-ready-to-eat, the staple diet of soldiers and astronauts. If not exactly gourmet cuisine, it was at least nourishing and had provided the men with the fuel they would need to complete their next task. They had one more mission to complete before Ortwin arrived, and 24 hours to do so.
After they had breakfasted, Ortwin called the men together and explained their next task. They were divided into three teams which departed the facility at 30 minute intervals so as not to draw any unwanted attention. Once they had completed their mission, they were to return to the mine, one member of each team being given the code for the massive steel door.
The first team had possibly the easiest task, their destination being the pretty town of Nordhausen merely 3 kilometres down the hill. An ancient market town, it dated back to the 900’s, although the best efforts of the RAF in 1945 had pretty much levelled the mediaeval buildings. Given that the town’s two main products were tobacco and alcohol, some felt there was a degree of karma at work.
After a period of benign neglect when the town had been part of East Germany, reunification had brought the reconstruction of the mediaeval buildings, if not the main industries. It was to this small, rural, slightly plastic and disneyfied version of the past that three professional killers drove on a cold January morning.
Like so much of small-town Germany, Nordhausen was suffering from the global economic depression. In truth, the town had been suffering since re-unification. The guaranteed state support that had kept the outdated and inefficient manufacturing industries had been withdrawn, and market forces had unleashed their full Darwinian power. Like most of the East, unemployment had soared as businesses had failed and although the Federal government had tried its best to help out, over 20% of the population received some sort of income support.
In this environment, there were plenty of people who were willing to do almost anything for some extra cash. Sadly, for one, their greed would literally be the death of them.
The men spent 30 minutes wandering the town, before selecting their target. They had been walking past a newsagent. Inside, they saw a man hand a card to the agent, give her some coins, and leave, hands deep in pockets, slouching into the distance. Minutes later, the newsagent pinned the card to the noticeboard in her shop window. It was offering freelance gardening services at 10euros per hour. It ended with a name, Peter Lautner, and a mobile phone number.
Typical of an Ossie, one of them thought. Who in their right mind would hire a gardener when the snow lay feet deep on the ground? However, they had been trained no to overlook an opportunity when one presented itself. The leader of the group called the number and was pleased when the man’s initial suspicion turned to gratitude when he explained that he had found the card in the window and was in urgent need of some assistance with gardening.
Peter was only too happy to oblige, particularly when he learned that the gardening in question was in a heated greenhouse, and he would be protected from the elements. They arranged to meet him 30 minutes later in the main square of the town. He had no family whom he had to worry about.
In due course, they spotted Lautner, shuffling into the square carrying a large green canvas holdall. Out of the bag poked a pair of garden shears which drew a smile from his new employers. There would, of course, be no need for him to use them, but his enthusiasm seemed almost sweet.
One of the men got out of the jeep and approached Lautner who was looking around anxiously, hoping fervently that the call had not been a hoax. Greeting him, he led the gardener to the jeep. If Lautner was surprised to be driven to his job in a blacked out car with three other men, he showed no sign of it. Presumably the lure of some extra euros had dulled his critical faculties, although from his appearance, they were hardly the sharpest to start with.
He had never been in such a luxurious vehicle, and allowed himself to look around, taking in the leather and the electronics which littered the dashboard, all of which were a far cry from his father’s Trabant. All of which also served to distract him from his fellow passenger in the back seat.
Which was unfortunate, because had he payed more attention, he might have seen a hand slip from a pocket, a hand holding a handkerchief. As it was, the first he knew of it as he looked out of the window, was a slight sweet smell which suddenly appeared. He was turning around when a strong hand clamped a handkerchief over his mouth, and the world went black.
About the same time as Peter was losing consciousness, another black jeep was pulling into the university town of Gottingen, where the Brothers Grimm had taught. Untouched during the war in a gentleman’s agreement which also sapred Oxford and Cambridge, the highly pedestrianised town retained much of its eighteenth century character. This made the team’s task slightly more difficulty, as there was little chance of them bundling some poor unfortunate into a car.
However, about a mile to the West of the city centre lay the large station, built in the monolithic style of the nineteenth century. As one of the stops on the main North South line, the station was a bustling place, and the men knew that such places always attract beggars.
The men got out of the car and walked across the broad forecourt towards the sandstone station. As they had thought, there were several unfortunates dotted here and there, trying to unlock the wallets of the stony-faced commuters. While some countries tolerate begging, Germany was not one of them, and none of the men looked like they had met with much success.
One of the beggars had a crudely made sign in front of him, announcing that he was a war veteran. While none of the men were enthusiastic about kidnapping another soldier, it would be easier for them to form some degree of trust with him, and besides, he would, in some way, be serving Germany once more.
Approaching him, they struck up a conversation and discovered that he had served in Afghanistan. He failed to fit back into society after his discharge, and had drifted through a succession of lowly paid jobs. It was not right, all those foreigners had stolen the jobs from good, honest Germans who had proven their dedication to the country.
In other circumstances, the men would have been impressed, but they had a mission, and could not afford to bring too much attention to themselves. As old comrades, they suggested the man might like to join them for lunch, re-live some of the good old days in ‘stan. He accepted with alacrity, the thought of a full stomach overcoming any worries he might have had. He got up and tucked his sign under his arm, joining them in the walk to the car.
Parked in a far corner of the carpark, there were no passersby to observe as one of the men withdrew a metal box with prongs protruding from it as they reached the jeep. Applying it to their guest’s back, one jolt was all it took to crumple his legs. A quick blow to the back of his neck was enough to take care of the rest of him. Helped by a colleague, they dumped the man into the jeep’s boot and bound his hands and feet. A minute later, the jeep sped out of the carpark.
Max had headed in the other direction and was currently hunting his prey through the streets of Halle, the birthplace of Handel and traditional centre of Germany’s salt industry. The chemical plants which had long dominated the town had closed down, leaving Halle as another post-industrial town looking for a role. Unemployment was high, a fact Max was banking on.
He would have much preferred that his target be Jewish or Turkish, or any of the other races that preyed on the German people, but knew that he could not be choosy. He could hardly ask his potential victims for their racial origin, that would attract far too much attention. He would take who he could find.
He spotted a suitable candidate sitting on a park bench. Straggy grey hair fell down over his weather-beaten face, his nose red and bulbous. He was wearing a green army surplus jacket and his shoes were millimetres away from complete collapse. He cradled a beer can in a brown paper bag, tacking occasional slugs from it.
Max reached into his backpack and withdrew a bottle. Holding it in front of him, he approached the man who eyed him suspiciously. Offering the drunk the bottle, Max was struck by his initial suspicion. However, as elsewhere, desperation was the better part of valour, and the drunk snatched the bottle from him.
Greedily gulping down the beer, he soon emptied the bottle. Remembering his manners, he thanked Max.
“Are you a missionary?” he asked.
Max chuckled. “Do you know many missionaries who go around handing out beer?”
The man smiled. “Fair enough. Who are you then?”
“A friend who likes to take care of those in need. Did you like the beer?”
“Lovely it was, a pilsner, my favourite.” Every German had his own preferred variety of beer, a matter debated back and forth across pubs the length and breadth of the land.
“I have more in car, if you want some.”
The offer was received with the alacrity of a child taking an ice cream. The man stood up and waited for Max to lead him to the car.
Max smiled at his new friend’s eagerness, but was also pleased. The car was only a couple of hundred metres away, but there was no telling how quickly the man could move. He was under time pressure before the drugs in the beer took effect. Fortunately, the man was steadier than he looked, and they made rapid progress to the jeep.
Max unlocked the car and opened the door for his new friend. He offered the man a seat, and went to the boot to get another beer. There was no knowing how long the drugs would take to have an effect, so he decided to give him another dose. There was no need, however, as, by the time he returned, the drunk had fallen into a deep, chemically-assisted sleep.
He would stay unconscious for long enough for the men to return to the Mittelwerk, so they drove off, keen to return to their new home, and confirm the progress of the other teams.
The Thuringian Forest
The men had rested well in the surprisingly comfortable quarters in the mountain. Further down the hall, a fully equipped kitchen was stocked with meals-ready-to-eat, the staple diet of soldiers and astronauts. If not exactly gourmet cuisine, it was at least nourishing and had provided the men with the fuel they would need to complete their next task. They had one more mission to complete before Ortwin arrived, and 24 hours to do so.
After they had breakfasted, Ortwin called the men together and explained their next task. They were divided into three teams which departed the facility at 30 minute intervals so as not to draw any unwanted attention. Once they had completed their mission, they were to return to the mine, one member of each team being given the code for the massive steel door.
The first team had possibly the easiest task, their destination being the pretty town of Nordhausen merely 3 kilometres down the hill. An ancient market town, it dated back to the 900’s, although the best efforts of the RAF in 1945 had pretty much levelled the mediaeval buildings. Given that the town’s two main products were tobacco and alcohol, some felt there was a degree of karma at work.
After a period of benign neglect when the town had been part of East Germany, reunification had brought the reconstruction of the mediaeval buildings, if not the main industries. It was to this small, rural, slightly plastic and disneyfied version of the past that three professional killers drove on a cold January morning.
Like so much of small-town Germany, Nordhausen was suffering from the global economic depression. In truth, the town had been suffering since re-unification. The guaranteed state support that had kept the outdated and inefficient manufacturing industries had been withdrawn, and market forces had unleashed their full Darwinian power. Like most of the East, unemployment had soared as businesses had failed and although the Federal government had tried its best to help out, over 20% of the population received some sort of income support.
In this environment, there were plenty of people who were willing to do almost anything for some extra cash. Sadly, for one, their greed would literally be the death of them.
The men spent 30 minutes wandering the town, before selecting their target. They had been walking past a newsagent. Inside, they saw a man hand a card to the agent, give her some coins, and leave, hands deep in pockets, slouching into the distance. Minutes later, the newsagent pinned the card to the noticeboard in her shop window. It was offering freelance gardening services at 10euros per hour. It ended with a name, Peter Lautner, and a mobile phone number.
Typical of an Ossie, one of them thought. Who in their right mind would hire a gardener when the snow lay feet deep on the ground? However, they had been trained no to overlook an opportunity when one presented itself. The leader of the group called the number and was pleased when the man’s initial suspicion turned to gratitude when he explained that he had found the card in the window and was in urgent need of some assistance with gardening.
Peter was only too happy to oblige, particularly when he learned that the gardening in question was in a heated greenhouse, and he would be protected from the elements. They arranged to meet him 30 minutes later in the main square of the town. He had no family whom he had to worry about.
In due course, they spotted Lautner, shuffling into the square carrying a large green canvas holdall. Out of the bag poked a pair of garden shears which drew a smile from his new employers. There would, of course, be no need for him to use them, but his enthusiasm seemed almost sweet.
One of the men got out of the jeep and approached Lautner who was looking around anxiously, hoping fervently that the call had not been a hoax. Greeting him, he led the gardener to the jeep. If Lautner was surprised to be driven to his job in a blacked out car with three other men, he showed no sign of it. Presumably the lure of some extra euros had dulled his critical faculties, although from his appearance, they were hardly the sharpest to start with.
He had never been in such a luxurious vehicle, and allowed himself to look around, taking in the leather and the electronics which littered the dashboard, all of which were a far cry from his father’s Trabant. All of which also served to distract him from his fellow passenger in the back seat.
Which was unfortunate, because had he payed more attention, he might have seen a hand slip from a pocket, a hand holding a handkerchief. As it was, the first he knew of it as he looked out of the window, was a slight sweet smell which suddenly appeared. He was turning around when a strong hand clamped a handkerchief over his mouth, and the world went black.
About the same time as Peter was losing consciousness, another black jeep was pulling into the university town of Gottingen, where the Brothers Grimm had taught. Untouched during the war in a gentleman’s agreement which also sapred Oxford and Cambridge, the highly pedestrianised town retained much of its eighteenth century character. This made the team’s task slightly more difficulty, as there was little chance of them bundling some poor unfortunate into a car.
However, about a mile to the West of the city centre lay the large station, built in the monolithic style of the nineteenth century. As one of the stops on the main North South line, the station was a bustling place, and the men knew that such places always attract beggars.
The men got out of the car and walked across the broad forecourt towards the sandstone station. As they had thought, there were several unfortunates dotted here and there, trying to unlock the wallets of the stony-faced commuters. While some countries tolerate begging, Germany was not one of them, and none of the men looked like they had met with much success.
One of the beggars had a crudely made sign in front of him, announcing that he was a war veteran. While none of the men were enthusiastic about kidnapping another soldier, it would be easier for them to form some degree of trust with him, and besides, he would, in some way, be serving Germany once more.
Approaching him, they struck up a conversation and discovered that he had served in Afghanistan. He failed to fit back into society after his discharge, and had drifted through a succession of lowly paid jobs. It was not right, all those foreigners had stolen the jobs from good, honest Germans who had proven their dedication to the country.
In other circumstances, the men would have been impressed, but they had a mission, and could not afford to bring too much attention to themselves. As old comrades, they suggested the man might like to join them for lunch, re-live some of the good old days in ‘stan. He accepted with alacrity, the thought of a full stomach overcoming any worries he might have had. He got up and tucked his sign under his arm, joining them in the walk to the car.
Parked in a far corner of the carpark, there were no passersby to observe as one of the men withdrew a metal box with prongs protruding from it as they reached the jeep. Applying it to their guest’s back, one jolt was all it took to crumple his legs. A quick blow to the back of his neck was enough to take care of the rest of him. Helped by a colleague, they dumped the man into the jeep’s boot and bound his hands and feet. A minute later, the jeep sped out of the carpark.
Max had headed in the other direction and was currently hunting his prey through the streets of Halle, the birthplace of Handel and traditional centre of Germany’s salt industry. The chemical plants which had long dominated the town had closed down, leaving Halle as another post-industrial town looking for a role. Unemployment was high, a fact Max was banking on.
He would have much preferred that his target be Jewish or Turkish, or any of the other races that preyed on the German people, but knew that he could not be choosy. He could hardly ask his potential victims for their racial origin, that would attract far too much attention. He would take who he could find.
He spotted a suitable candidate sitting on a park bench. Straggy grey hair fell down over his weather-beaten face, his nose red and bulbous. He was wearing a green army surplus jacket and his shoes were millimetres away from complete collapse. He cradled a beer can in a brown paper bag, tacking occasional slugs from it.
Max reached into his backpack and withdrew a bottle. Holding it in front of him, he approached the man who eyed him suspiciously. Offering the drunk the bottle, Max was struck by his initial suspicion. However, as elsewhere, desperation was the better part of valour, and the drunk snatched the bottle from him.
Greedily gulping down the beer, he soon emptied the bottle. Remembering his manners, he thanked Max.
“Are you a missionary?” he asked.
Max chuckled. “Do you know many missionaries who go around handing out beer?”
The man smiled. “Fair enough. Who are you then?”
“A friend who likes to take care of those in need. Did you like the beer?”
“Lovely it was, a pilsner, my favourite.” Every German had his own preferred variety of beer, a matter debated back and forth across pubs the length and breadth of the land.
“I have more in car, if you want some.”
The offer was received with the alacrity of a child taking an ice cream. The man stood up and waited for Max to lead him to the car.
Max smiled at his new friend’s eagerness, but was also pleased. The car was only a couple of hundred metres away, but there was no telling how quickly the man could move. He was under time pressure before the drugs in the beer took effect. Fortunately, the man was steadier than he looked, and they made rapid progress to the jeep.
Max unlocked the car and opened the door for his new friend. He offered the man a seat, and went to the boot to get another beer. There was no knowing how long the drugs would take to have an effect, so he decided to give him another dose. There was no need, however, as, by the time he returned, the drunk had fallen into a deep, chemically-assisted sleep.
He would stay unconscious for long enough for the men to return to the Mittelwerk, so they drove off, keen to return to their new home, and confirm the progress of the other teams.
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