Deep Sea One

Chapter 31

Patrick Smith could not sleep. No nightmares were to blame, neither the weather nor the eerie wailing of the wind battering the hotel's ancient walls. Formerly a fortress, the inn was well restored and opulent, so he spent most of the evening after dinner exploring the place. He had never been to Bavaria before and he wished Sam could help him partake in the considerably tougher weight of their beer, but regrettably he had drunk alone. And so it was as if he had drunk for both of them.

Not a believer in the paranormal, he had no apprehension about specters in the age-old structure's nocturnal halls, but rather the day to come. All his life he had desired the position he was now on probationary assignment for, but now he found that he lacked the courage to go through with it. After all, it involved a Nazi war criminal and a crooked UK business located in this unknown part of Nuremburg. The very atmosphere made him uneasy, let alone the price if he should be found out. Suddenly Paddy felt dreadfully alone and the only lullaby he was afforded rested in the sorrowful moan of the night outside.

If he fucked up, it was his ass, plain and simple. No margin for error in this board game, he thought as his eyes rapped the ceiling above, following the sway of the sinister talons on the tree clawing outside his window. From now on it was the big time.

You'd better stay awake, Paddy, he heard in his head. It was not quite his own thoughts alone, but a warning from somewhere deep inside, there where we find the truth we'd rather avoid. Patrick's throat was dry and his hand fell gently on his piece, caressing the blue steel of the barrel and sliding back to grip the butt for comfort. It was not loaded at the moment, but the shape of it had an enthralling comfort to the contours of his hand. He was nervous about his German not being up to par. He felt agitated by the level of sophistication of the criminals he would have to deal with and masquerade as. Patrick's mouth twitched into an inadvertent smile as he could almost hear Sam telling him, Oh, shite, man! Every scumbag and thug you have ever encountered have taught you well, son. You just behave accordingly. Those lads taught you well, so take off the skirt and whip Fritz's arse! and with the spurt of courage his friend's pretended assurance granted him, Patrick Smith welcomed the beckoning oblivion of blissful sleep under the angry skies of Katzwang.

The following morning was a frigid, windy onslaught to wake the senses and Patrick enjoyed the crispness. Besides, he needed a cold wave of air to wake him and keep him perked for the assignment ahead. Like a boy on his first day of school, long before a fresh shirt and polished shoes had become obsolete, he eagerly groomed himself to look as professional as possible. His cover would be modest, something he could easily improvise, but it still depended on the mark whether he would be allowed in to the inner sanctum of the villain he was trailing. All that MI6 had ordered for this mission was for him to point out the rogue agent working illegally for Eickhart — nothing more. It sounded simple, but as a DCI he was well aware that undercover operations took months, sometimes years, to break. Intelligence was not always freely available for those who merely paid attention.

He would have to employ his knowledge of psychology, of biological agents and German history to defragment the personalities he would encounter to effectively pinpoint the culprit's position. At least, that is what he told himself to prepare mentally as he finished his breakfast and made his way to the lobby where he would wait for his escort to arrive.

Patrick sat down with a newspaper while waiting. It was twenty minutes before his rendezvous time and he thought to look distinguished when his handler came in. It made him smile. He felt like a little boy playing James Bond, pretending to be suave, pretending to be elite, and pretending to die when he was shot by the villain. But in this game there was no pretending to die, a sobering thought indeed. This was real and he was dealing with a Nazi war criminal, not Santa Claus. It was not long before he started reading the paper to polish his German and surprisingly discovered that he still had a very good command of the language. Save for one or two words here and there he understood the articles completely.

His eyes found one article in particular that sent a spike of adrenaline through his body. It was a report about a local resident of Katzwang having had an attempt on his life recently on his holiday in Tibet. The man, Walter Eickhart, had been paralyzed in a fall after running from attackers.

No way. The so-called threat to the European Union and terrorist? And I'm meeting him today. Coincidence, Patrick thought as his eyes ran over the familiarized lettering. His training and years in crime had taught him never to judge prematurely, that even the most frail had grips of steel extending from well-funded palms.

"Herr Braun?" the receptionist chimed from the counter, but Patrick did not pay her any mind. "Herr Braun," she repeated in a louder tone bearing some annoyance at the man ignoring her in clean earshot. Patrick jolted from his relaxed state, responding in turn to the lady who was holding out his paperwork to be signed before he left.

Stupid. Stupid, he reprimanded himself inside, as he realized that forgetting his cover could cost him his life. Thankfully, this time it was just a harmless receptionist. A more trained eye would immediately recognize this novice mistake. Quickly he jumped up and apologized, using the interesting newspaper report as an excuse for his absent mindedness.

"Herr Braun," he heard again from the direction of the inn's front door and this time he reacted immediately.

"Ja?" he replied and turned to find his escort approaching. He was a pleasant-looking older man dressed in a black suit, slight of build and bald. The man smiled at him.

"Wilkommen, Herr Braun," he beamed, and extended a hand to Patrick.

Don't say thank you, you idiot. Remember, for fuck's sake, Patrick's inner voice hounded him again and he continued his conversation in German. The man introduced himself simply as Dieter and he collected Patrick's luggage as they proceeded to the car waiting outside. The vision greeting him, punched him with nostalgia. Impressed, he nodded at the sight of the old 1930s Ford before him. It was in immaculate condition and sported white walls and chrome, which gave it a lavish look of all the things he had expected Eickhart to be — extravagantly wealthy and branding a taste for the antique charms of the old world.

Inside, the car smelled like leather and cigar smoke. Patrick felt like a distinguished man just sitting in it as they traveled through the town of buildings with large triangular rock walls under brick orange tiled roofs. Walls fencing the properties were old and grey, some crumbling and covered in mossy residue, which reminded him of the churchyards in Dumfries.

The towering spires of the old churches and the rolling water of the channel greeted him with a sense of mystery. Dieter informed him that the town was as ancient as it appeared, sprung up somewhere in the Middle Ages and fraught with old secrets, battle sites and catacombs born from historical disaster. For the duration of the drive to the secluded home Patrick ran the papers he was given through his thoughts to remind him of who he was supposed to be. His contact at MI6 had furnished him with the necessary jargon for his supposed profession, architecture. Terminology and the very basic variations of structures it accompanied flashed in his mind and he hoped that Eickhart would have as little knowledge of the vocation as he had.

As the car entered the small paved road to the massive house, Patrick knew why the old man needed an architect, and one of special clandestine qualities such as himself. The vast mansion was divided into six different structures of stone and steel, each bearing a resemblance to the other, but differing in the number of windows. To the left stood a thick tubular tower fashioned from old rock and mortar. It reminded Patrick of the medieval fortresses from where strongholds were ruled by savage kings guarding precious treasures, where monks were wizards and queens were enslaved. Behind it, detached from the rest of the house, was a smaller building built from the same materials as the tower. Stained glass adorned its three arched windows and apart from the absence of a spire, he could tell that it was a church from olden days. It was hidden somewhat in the idyllic tall looming lindens and pines swaying gently behind the buildings.

There was no fence enclosing the main house, which he found suspect, but he would ask about that once he had established more trust. Patrick's instinct as a detective prompted him to record every detail of the area — the cars in front of the mansion, the exits, even the faces of the two gardeners busy weeding near the fountain. To his surprise the mansion was relatively modest considering Eickhart's apparent wealth and this made him wonder if the modesty was a ruse to disregard rumors of his involvement in international war trade.

Suddenly fear gave way to excitement for Patrick. He looked forward to scrutinizing Herr Eickhart now and doing what he did best, sniffing around the lids of questionable characters to see what stink was held fast inside their lives. Doing so in the lap of luxury was a bonus.

As they entered the house, Dieter introduced Patrick to the housekeeper, Elsa, an attractive forty-year-old woman with hair as fair as golden thread. Her blue eyes pierced his as she nodded and smiled and she showed him to the small cottage outside in the back where he would reside while drawing up the plans for Eickhart's new wing.

Elsa said very little, as if she had no interest in who he was or what he was there for. Either that or she already knew everything there was to know about his residence there for the next few months. If he did well, Eickhart would ask his company if he could stay on to consult on the building of the underground structure.

"This is your key. My staff will clean your room once every day," she said, and looked Patrick up and down, "so don't leave your underwear lying around, ja?"

He laughed. A genuine amusement was exchanged between the two and with that she left the cottage, giving way to Dieter who had brought his suitcases.

"Elsa is a humorous lady. I like her," he remarked.

"Indeed she is, but don't let her funny streak fool you. She can be a right bitch when the mood takes her. Sometimes we think she is joking when she is dead serious, you know, one of those people so uncaring of their rudeness that it comes across as jest," Dieter replied, as he placed the cases against the wall.

"I will remember that," Patrick said.

"Would you like to accompany me to the shooting range, Herr Braun? I have a few minutes to collect Herr Eickhart for an early lunch and I am sure he is also eager to make your acquaintance," Dieter suggested. His offer sounded more like an order, which Patrick knew would be rude to refuse and he wanted to make a good impression all round. At this early stage it was imperative to exhibit zeal toward all invitations and suggestions. It would give him an air of willingness to cooperate and avert suspicion.

"Absolutely!" Patrick exclaimed.

"Do you shoot?" the driver asked, as they took to the pathway leading deeper into the woods behind the house.

"I have shot once or twice before," Patrick tried to tone down his true talent for culling criminals.

"Good, good. Then you will enjoy the armory at the shooting range. We have arms here that you didn't even know existed."