LONDON

OCTOBER 1956

“The first thing anyone noticed was the damned smell, before we even came to the place,” the man said as he expertly mixed a Scotch and soda in a delicate crystal lowball glass. Taking a sip, he nodded in satisfaction, before placing in the center of the conference table the silver tray with glasses, cracked ice, club soda, and a bottle of Auchentoshan. “Perhaps a little like rotting meat. The Yanks I was with, the Seventh Army, would not be quiet about the smell. 'The hell is that goddamn stench?'” The man's Lowlands accent wasn't quite disguised by the Texan drawl he had tried to imitate. He smoothed down his Intelligence Corps tie, took another sip of his drink, looked over his collections of guests. With the exception of the quiet bearded man in the dark suit over in the corner, they were gathered around the sitting room table in the speaker's fashionable Kentish Town flat. The night was cold and foggy.

“At any rate,” he continued after a moment, “we soon found it. Ste. Christina, six or seven white buildings in the hills. It used to be one of the premier sanitariums in all of France. The insane of Marseilles and Toulon weren't just shut up there, they actually left well in mind after a year or two. Then the Jerries moved in in 1942, and they ruined the whole place.” The Scot looked nervously over at the man in the corner. “I could get in quite a lot of trouble for telling them this. The Official Secrets Act. . .”

“Go on,” said the man in the dark suit. In the dim light of the sitting room, a yarmulke was just visible on his head.

The Scot shook his head, took another sip of his drink. “We had been told the Germans kept a garrison up at the hospital when we took Toulon. The Americans sent a company up, and asked me to come as a translator. Operation Dragoon, all the fighting in southern France, it was a confused affair. We were always lending chaps to the Americans and the Canadians and the Free French. I thought nothing of it. But we could smell it on the way up there, when we were still half a mile away. We found them in the courtyard, that was where the smell had come from. None of the Germans were left, we had missed them by a day or two. Their handiwork remained behind.” The Scot shuddered at the memory, drained nearly half his drink. “We had to count them, of course. Someone had to. It ended up being three hundred and fifty-six. Three hundred and fifty-six people, including ninety-one children. All of them mowed down with machine guns and mangled by grenades before the Germans fled. Of course, in their Teutonic efficiency, they neatly stacked up all the bodies in the courtyard, like firewood. They just left the poor blighters piled up in the August sun, to dry out and bloat.”

“Now, please, picture that in your mind and think what it means when I tell you that massive pile of corpses was the least horrible thing I saw that day.”

“We got inside the buildings, and found that the Germans had all pulled out. Most of their documents had been burned, but we found enough to piece together an idea of what happened at Ste. Christina. We captured a few low-ranking staff from the place over the next few weeks, and that completed the picture for us.” He sighed wearily, smoothed down his tie. “It was like something from the Spanish Inquisition, or maybe that American chap, HH Holmes. The Jerries always thought they were on the cutting edge of medical science, you see. And with all their new 'science' about race, well, of course they had to incorporate that.”

The Scotsman finished his drink, reached for the tray on the table to refresh it. The memories were obviously painful to him. “They would take Jews, Gypsies, Slavs, even blacks from Africa. Then they would run tests, compared against their Aryan prisoners, who were usually captured Resistance chaps from Marseilles. Then it was women compared against men, children compared against adults. They had a special pressurized chamber, where they would gradually increase the atmospheric pressure, then suddenly decrease it. Research for submarine crews, apparently. If the subject's head didn't explode, they'd die from the bends. Others were deliberately infected with malaria, anthrax, cholera, even leprosy. Not to treat them, mind, just to see if non-Aryans suffered more. There was all that business with blood transfusions, draining all the blood from 'subhumans' and pumping it into their pureblood Aryans to see if there was any ill effects. All ideas from the head researcher, a fiend named Krebs. Do I really need to go on? You get the idea,” he said, nervously smoothing his Intelligence Corps tie once more.

“Show them the photographs, Captain Farquharson,” the man sitting in the corner commanded, his voice deep and rich with the accent of Central Europe.

“I had hoped never to have to get these out again,” the Scot complained as he pulled out a leather portfolio and set it down on the table like he was letting go of some kind of disgusting reptile. “Pictures we took at Ste. Christina. All the torture devices, the wee little rooms they stuffed ten people into, the stacks of corpses. Look if you must.”

Farquharson sighed. “In the next couple weeks, we found a few low-ranking troops who had been at Ste. Christina as guards and such. They told us what went on there, who the brass had been, plenty of details. It seems the commandant, an SS man called Saxler, had arranged escape routes for many of his juniors. I suppose the chap was cleverer than anyone realized; he knew before Goering or Frank or any of those chaps that the Nazis were on their way out. Didn't stop him from dying in the retreat to the Vosges, though. Seems he helped many of the soldiers and researchers at Ste. Christina get out of the country. Like Mengele and Brunner and Eichmann, they're all out there somewhere in this great big world of ours. It isn't right. They've escaped justice.”

“Perhaps they have escaped earthly justice,” the man in the corner interjected. “In our tradition, there is an angel called Raguel. And Raguel is responsible for vengeance upon the mortals who have wronged beyond all forgiveness.” He shot a look at the people around the table, looked thirstily on the bottle of Scotch placed tantalizingly on the table. “I am a rabbi, a leader to my people. How can I lead when abominations such as this walk freely?”

“That's just it,” Farquharson said quickly. “These people don't deserve to live. We have a list of escapees, the most guilty from Ste. Christina. Eleven men and one woman. What we are asking may be unorthodox, even illegal.”

“We wish you to hunt them down and kill them,” the Rabbi said bluntly.

“Essentially, yes,” Farquharson acquiesced, no longer able to dance around the subject. “Wherever in the wide world they may hide, these monsters need to face some kind of justice. My old friends in Intelligence have heard of you lot, they recommended you chaps for the job.”

“Divine justice,” supplied the Rabbi. “They are to meet Raguel.”

“Yes,” said the Scot, once again reaching for the Auchentoshan. “We will finance you, of course. Ten thousand pounds per head. Far more than most make in three years. This gentleman will also cover all of your expenses. Weapons, papers, equipment, anything within reason you may need, simply contact us and you will have it.”

“There are conditions,” the Rabbi interjected from the comfortable chair in the dark corner. “One, each target is to bear a minimum of suffering. You are to be assassins, not torturers. Two, plausible deniability will be maintained at all times. You do not know us, you have never met us. If you are apprehended by the police in the course of these missions, we will disavow all knowledge of your existence. You will be on your own. If you are killed, we will pay no benefits to your next of kin. No one will help you, no one will save you. Three, you make no inquiries into who I am, what temple I represent, my history, or my name. This is to protect you as well as me. If you are content with these conditions, then we have an accord.”

“So there you have it,” said Farquharson, in the midst of preparing a third drink for himself. “If you want out, now is the time to say. Otherwise, you are in for a long haul. Finding twelve people who do not wish to be found will take some time- years, possibly. I doubt you will find better work in the interim.”

The Scot once again looked over his audience, drawn from all over the world and seated here around his sitting room table. “So, what will it be? In or out?”

"So that's it, then?" Jean Lemieux broke the silence while briefly rapping his fingers against the surface of the conference table, timidly avoiding the glass of Scotch that he had graciously accepted when the group had met for the first time. When meeting Captain Farguharson, his first impression that the gathering was some sort of business-related affair had immediately been dispelled. He had arrived that evening in a wool peacoat over a grey tweed blazer, it was chilly and damp as the fog rolled in off the Thames, otherwise he wore dark brown trousers and a white, button-down shirt and black loafers. Ste. Christina as a name meant as much to him as the other villages that he had passed through while en route to Stalag VIII-C, though it's sordid history struck an all-too-familiar chord with him. Pausing to reflect on what had been said over the course of the briefing, his eyes passed to the others who were gathered and finally rested on the nameless rabbi sitting alone in the corner.

"I have a few questions and I feel compelled to ask. What if this becomes another Bormann fiasco? These people could be anywhere in the world, that is if they aren't already dead." Jean toyed with the crystal glass that he had set on a serviette, watching the golden brown contents swirl together with the ice that had melted. It was a shame to waste such a fine Scotch, despite his distaste for whisky in general; he took the glass and took a mouthful of the cool liquor out of respect for the host. It did take a bit of the edge out of the air as he felt the warmth spreading inside him. Shifting to an inclined position in his chair, he continued voicing his concerns over what he considered a rather inauspicious briefing,

"There's thousands of Germans being held by the Soviets, some fled to South America, too. How can we be sure they are alive? The problem is we aren't talking about Eichmann or Mengele, before tonight I've never heard of Ste. Christina." Jean finished coolly before rubbing his forehead sorely, he had a myriad of questions to ask but thought ill of hijacking the floor from the others. He was just as interested in their opinions, these strangers; two Scandinavians and a man who could only be described as of Mediterranean descent. All Europeans, save himself, though what skills they actually possessed was a mystery to him.

"A good question indeed." Astrid had remarked from her seat, her gloved hands folded left over right on her lap and leg crossed over the other, her back straight against the seat. She was wearing a Chanel suit, made of purple tweed fabric and black piping, black heels, and her scarf replaced by a string of pearls with matching earrings. Her hair was put up in a bun to complete her look. She had a glass of club soda that she had been nursing at the beginning, but had stopped when the subject of Ste. Christina had come up. The details, like the entirety of the war, were horrifying, and she was glad that there was no food, otherwise she would have left with a ruined appetite. She had been fortunate, as she had neither fought nor had she been in a country that had felt the brunt of the wrath of the Germans. She did not need to look in the men's eyes around her to tell her that when the subject of war and carnage was brought up. It felt strange to be here to begin with, discussing such a proposition, if she had to be honest with herself. Why she was singled out from all the people in the Danish resistance was a mystery, and she could only assume that she must have impressed or known the right person. It made Astrid uneasy that British Intelligence was aware of her activities, but the uneasiness could be ignored; it was a paranoia she developed during her time in the resistance, and of course the English had their fingers dipped in multiple honey pots. Still, there was business to discuss, and she bit her bottom lip to bring her back to reality. She picked up her glass again to take a few more sips; the bubbly soda felt refreshing, and cool.

"In that case, I suspect that what we would be looking for is proof of their death. These concentration camps were state secrets. I myself never heard of them until the news announced their existences; it was only whispered that 'enemies of Germany' were being taken to places scattered across Europe, if that. How many camps and projects do we still not know about? The Nazis were also burning files as armies were matching on their doors, from what I have heard. More secrets lost." She winced, and took another sip of her soda. Her gaze passed over each man in the room, though she lingered on the Rabbi a little longer than the others, before shifting to the glass in her hand. "I also suspect that we wouldn't be paid as much as we are to simply walk down the street and kill these people. Of course we would be searching for people in that wide an area--the widest of areas. And it is going to be troublesome. But that is what we did over the course of the war; we dealt with troublesome issues."

Nestori had never been in London before, though he had imagined it to be as big and beautiful as Helsinki. He had underestimated the capital of Britain, he knew that the very second that the ship arrived to the harbor. An enormous city reeking with enormous buildings, some of which were still being repaired from war. It was a pity that the town had been a target of Germany bombardment, this fine city and it's civilians. Unfortunately war was like that; those not participating in it would also suffer.

He was good in English, at least people did understand him in London. And he was decent in map-reading, so it wasn't long before he found himself in the Conference room. Five other people around a conference table with drinks on a silver plate. He had taken a glass of fine whisky, though he was not too sure if there were local habits of enjoying it. He was a farmer, his best suit he had- which he was wearing now- was red and white -flannel and a hunting jacket, with leather shoes to accompany with some cotton trousers he saved for finer occasions. He had taken those with spare trousers and another flannel when he had left his farm.

His brother and sister had been asking where he was going, as the fall was coming and they needed to get vegetables in the ground fine time before winter. He had said that there had been job opportunity for him that would help the farm greatly, though he didn't go to detail about what he was going to do. Nestori didn't know either, but as it was related to his military career, he assumed it wasn't anything too nice. However he was willing to do this for his farm. They would need bigger fields, forests of their own and animals if they wanted to live. And the Romani would need payment too. None of them had been special at school, and farming was the only thing they knew they could do. That future had to be saved.

---

By the time the presentation was over, he had forgotten his farm completely. His whisky had halted on it's way to Nestori's mouth. His hand was shaking a little. The story had been horrendous; Piles of dead bodies, torture, forced infection, terrible end of a life for men, women and children, for Christ's sake. The picture that could be watch only fueled the hatred inside his head.

Nestori knew little about Nazi acts. Finland had sent some of the Jewish people to Germany during the Continuation war and that had outraged people in government. And to think that some of them might have faced a fate such as that... It wasn't a war crime. It was crime against god himself. Main twelve people behind the act were out there in the world, saved by a now dead SS-personnel. The men around the table were to find and assassinate them for fine amount of money and justice. Nestori gritted his teeth together before taking another sip from his whisky.

By the time he had put the glass on the table, the concerns were out there about the success of this mission. Though Captain Farquharson made an excellent selling speech, the american man with blue eyes and short blonde hair was half right. World was a big place, and there was no guarantee that they would find the twelve easily. Nestori didn't think that the mission was futile, however. And neither did the beautiful woman who Nestori thought was from Sweden, judging by dialect. Nestory nodded to the woman's speech before clearing his throat.

"Well, we have a start of a track. And I want to hunt these devil children." Nestori said, giving some pauses between the sentences. He took a small sip from his whisky, licked his lips and then watched at Rabbi and Captain. "But I worry. If I can meet my family while searching them all..."

"Those are excellent questions," the Scotsman said, nodding. Unnoticed at the table, the Greek took a glass of Scotch.

"The fact of the matter, lads and lasses, with one exception we don't know where they are. The war was a confused affair, we're still sorting through paperwork, interrogating prisoners, finding hidden archives. We will be learning new things for years to come, and that's even if no one comes forward voluntarily with information. We have analysts, archivists, informants working on this."

The Greek took an appreciative sniff of the whisky, before a careful sip.

Farquharson continued. "As such, we couldn't possibly dream of separating you from your families, not for a long period. If we discover a potential lead, we will inform you at your homes and arrange for your travel. Your job is to be the, um, shall we say elimination. The collation and triage of intelligence will be done mostly by others."

"Alright, I will do it," Konstantinos Stavrou said abruptly, fingering his cheap tie and knocking back half the glass with one gulp. "Include me. I am ready."

The Scotsman blinked, taken a little back by the sudden outburst. "Um, very well." The Rabbi sat quietly, but looking closely, one could see the corner of the man's lip twitching in what just might have been a smile. "As I was saying, right now we only know for sure the location of one of our, um, targets. Essen, in Germany itself."

"It will be a gesture of your sincerity," the Rabbi said. "A good faith kill, to bind us all together with his blood."

"If we feel it was handled in a satisfactory manner, then we will happily present you with the other eleven names and what information we have available," Captain Farquharson said, running a nervous finger over his mustache. "An audition, so to speak. I know the Farmer and the Violinist are willing to participate, but you two. . ." He gestured to Astrid and Jean. "If you wish to leave this room, we'll not hold it against you. We'll happily compensate you five hundred pounds for your trouble."

"I am also in as well. Essen, you say? Very well." Astrid raised her glass a little in a toast before drinking the rest of the soda and setting it down quietly. She blinked soon afterwards, as if being suddenly hit by the gravity of her words, but she shook her head and gathered her bearings once more. "I take it by when you say a 'satisfactory manner,' you are referencing your request from earlier that we are to keep the kills quiet, clean, and that they cannot be traced back to any of us? Perfect. Who here speaks German? Also, if I may offer an early suggestion, there's no rush for us to go to Germany yet. We could remain here in London and plan before heading to Essen." She bit her lower lip for a moment and glanced at the other people again, weighing her words and whether she should continue to speak.

Jean looked down to the almost empty glass in his hand, setting it aside rather than finishing it. His blue eyes flashed to the blonde sitting across from him, she was dressed handsomely and quite beautiful and earlier he had noted the faint hint of an accent. For a moment he wondered how she would decide before glancing away to the farmer and the olive-skinned violinist, what a queer bunch, he thought with an amused smirk. Both men seemed eager, perhaps their motivation to kill surpassed his own personal vendetta. That did not mean much, though, blood can be shed so easily but revenge had to be fostered over many years of patience.

When she did speak, he paid close attention until she was finished and noted a touch of hesitation. "Ich denke, ich kann von Hilfeleistungen sein." He announced with a smile before shaking his head, "My apologies, I can help in this matter. I spent some time around Jerry, which I hope is adequate enough." there was nothing for him to hide but still he left his part of the war where it belonged; in the past.

"I will make the necessary arrangements so that I can see this deed done," He paused as a second thought came to mind, "...however, I will not accept payment. Death is the price I ask, for twelve names I ask for one." It might not have been the wisest move on his part to make demands but the opportunity was too good to be passed on. These men had ways of finding information that he could never hope to, so while he was doing their dirty work they could do his. Straightening out the cuffs on his sleeves, he looked to the Rabbi and studied him for a moment.

"Otto Beck, he was a guard at Stalag VIII-C. A sadist who took pleasure in beating men to death for no other reason than he could, when the war ended his deeds went unpunished at Nuremberg and now he is out of the reach of justice by lawful means." Folding his hands over the other, he felt a chill run through him but let none of it spill outwardly. It was destiny, this meeting, that whatever fates presided were shining down onto him. Twelve men would die, no, twelve beasts who would die as beasts.

"I will help give you justice if you do likewise, and then we will have an accord."

Captain Farquharson shot an inquisitive look over at the Rabbi, whose only response was a curt nod. The Scotsman shrugged. "I suppose one more wouldn't hurt. Otto Beck will be added to the list."

Stavrou, the Greek, leaned back in his seat. "So who is this man in Essen?"

"Yes, I suppose you were all wondering," Farquharson sighed, unlocking a desk on his drawer and producing a square of paper. It had a fairly good black-and-white print, probably from a newspaper. The man depicted had perhaps once been athletic and vital, the broad shoulders and thick arms visible under his fine suit suggested that. But it was clear that middle age and financial success had softened him. The balding head and expanded stomach told a story of the present.

"Essen is a city of industry, it always has been," Farquharson said as he made sure to set the photograph where everyone could see. "Germany's version of Coventry or Pittsburgh. Full of inventors, engineers, mechanical wizards. That's why the RAF took care to destroy 90 per cent of the city." Farquharson cleared his throat delicately. "Now that's it's Adenauer's Germany and they can once more be trusted, Essen is being restored, the factories reopened, the machines restarted. Essen will be key to rebuilding the West German economy. And this man will be key to rebuilding Essen."

"His name is Sebastien Hirsch. Executive director of Hirschwerk GmbH, a machining and mechanical engineering firm. He was born in 1904, turned his father's little machine shop into a respectable enterprise, made his first million in 1934, not coincidentally the same year he joined the Nazi Party."

Farquharson looked down at his empty glass, clucked disdainfully, and reached for the Scotch once more. "If you're wondering how a civilian fits in with the whole sorry tale at Ste. Christina, it's simple. Every machine in the damned place was stamped Hirschwerk. All of them custom made. The commandant, Saxler, or the researcher, Krebs, would come to Hirsch with a request or an idea. We want a device that measures exactly how much force it takes to break an arm. We want an apparatus for draining bone marrow and replacing it with seawater. And this man Hirsch would create such a device and have it shipped to France, all for a fee, of course.

"Hirsch was held up after the war as a prime example of denazification. The man was shrewd enough to renounce all his sympathies once Essen was under British occupation. Not his marks, though. He claimed he didn't know what his machines were used for."

Farquharson laughed, once, bitterly. "There's no way he didn't know."

"So you're not unleashing us on staff members yet. Just a complicit, independent contractor." Astrid chewed on her lip and eyes looked up towards the ceiling with a thoughtful look brightening her face. "Choices! So many choices!" She sighed, her eyes closing for a moment before looking back down at the gentlemen before her. "Such things do not need to be discussed now, however. Especially in the open. I think I may retire for the evening, if that is all that we will be discussing tonight. Will we each be getting copies of this information? Or if not, would you mind that I take notes? I will hand them over to you when we have eliminated each target, of course, so that the information can be properly filed away or destroyed. I don't care."

A robbery gone wrong? A trip down the stairs? Or the remorseful engineer, creating his final invention: his death? There were many possibilities to taking a (presumably) rich man cleaning his bloody hands down for the count. And if she had to be honest, the faked suicide seemed the most attractive. It would coincide with his supposed ignorance at the horror wrought by his inventions, and make the man seem devastated at their misuse. Of course, that also depended upon the man himself. Then again, everyone had secrets, and the truly suicidal never tell anyone of their intentions. She once again tilted the empty crystal glass in her hand, and ran a nail between the grooves to distract the chill that ran up her spine for the second time that night. She was discussing the murder of a man. A horrible man who deserved to die and be judged by God, yes, but such a thing was not to be treated lightly. This was no casual matter to her. If there was one thing Astrid wished to avoid during this whole business, it was to sink to the level of depravity that the Nazis did: she wished she never fell to the point that she treated all these lives like chess pieces, or animals to be slaughtered. She did not block the chill, nor did she wish it to go away. Instead, she focused on it, and savored it. She told herself to never let go of that feeling: it would be a bittersweet reminder in the time to come.

Sebastien Hirsch. Man leading western Germany to new age of technology in Essen. Behind that righteous and ambitious man was a ruthless businessman who created machines to torture, kill and make experiments with the unlucky residents. Nestori took another sip from his whisky. It burned his mouth like acid. And as it went down his throat, he had the small spark of murderous intend in him. His lips twitched to a small smirk that he forcefully tried to kill.

Though he started to understand that he wasn't the only one in this group that knew about killing (Of course, though. They wouldn't have been called otherwise). The American man had a man he wanted to be found and killed. Added to the Raguel's list. Killing intent or wish of vengeance so strong that he didn't even take payment. The Swedish woman was already asking details of the manner of this death. She was beautiful, intelligent... And dangerous. And as for the Violin maker... He had been as eager as Nestori to take on this job. He was silent listener, with only one or two comments every now and then. Professional.

Nestori took a deep breath in and blew air slowly through his nostrils as he was thinking about the job. He didn't speak German but a word or five (thanks to a German medic in his team who was among "The Foxes" for a few missions). Nor did he know much about these factories where they made these machine. But perhaps he could work as a paying customer. He tapped his fingers against the glass of whisky, thinking what he'd possibly could ask for.
A small smirk came by his lips as the Swedish woman started to talk again. "If you're to leave now, I think our employers won't be here next time we meet." He said to the woman, before turning his head towards the Rabbi and Captain. "What kind of business is this... Sebastian's engineer business? He creates these small medical items? Or bigger machines too?"

"Hirsch is primarily a medical supplier," Farquharson answered. "Iron lungs, custom-made wheelchairs, hyperbaric chambers, the like. A great deal of that equipment in Germany was either lost in bombings or dragged back to Russia. They accept other work, of course, but that is their specialty." Farquharson shrugged. "That's as much as I know, I'm afraid."

"It has become clear to me," Stavrou said delicately, "that we have acheived about as much as we can here in London. We cannot hope to do any sort of planning without first doing reconnaissance and surveillance." He sighed. "We will need to travel to Essen, the belly of the beast. We will have to see his home, his office, his places of leisure. See about his employees, family, the police in the area. I imagine he may have friends in Bonn, so we must be careful." Stavrou looked at the woman and the other man- American, was he? "Perhaps you two could pose as potential investors or customers, get inside the factory to have a look around, maybe even meet the man himself. You can have false papers drawn up, yes?" he asked Farquharson, receiving a quick nod in response. "Only once we've carefully surveyed and figured out when and where he is weakest will we obtain our weapons and do the deed. At least, this is how I would recommend." He gave a quick nod and smile around the group. "Konstantinos Stavrou, by the way. I was a lieutenant, but do not worry about that. We're all civilians now."

Farquharson coughed once again, politely, setting a cardboard folder down on the table. "First-class to Essen. Your flight leaves at ten tomorrow. I imagine you'll want a wee bit of rest first. Any further questions for me?"

"Ah, I should introduce myself as well. My name is Astrid Brøndsted, and I participated in the Danish resistance." She offered the group a nod of her head and a smile that faded away as she spoke. She rested her arm on the table, and placed her glass down on it lightly. "Between posing as investors or customers, I believe investors make more sense. Regular, average customers would have less reason to see him in person, unless we were placing an order worth a ridiculous sum of money. And while we want to catch his attention, we don't want to be too memorable: a diversion worthy of his time and effort. That should be our goal. So investment would be the safest route. I cannot speak with an American accent, and you will not be able to learn mine, so you will have to teach me yours. Wait, no." The gears in her brain were turning, and she grinned, slightly, as her eyes turned to the ceiling as she spoke her thoughts aloud. "I could act as your German escort. We can lie and say you don't speak German and so you hired a German assistant as your medium. He may lower his guard and speak frankly with his employees and friends if you're alone with them. Either works, it is your and our colleagues' choice, if they have anything to say on that matter. The reversed roles of a German speaking executive and a non-German speaking assistant could also work, but then I would again recommend I learn your accent in that scenario." She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and looked towards the man in question for an answer.

"You wouldn't believe the sort of things people will say about you in their mother tongue." He grinned as he shifted a knee over his leg beneath the table, weaving his fingers together over his waist and leaning into the back of his chair. For a few moments he paused, considering all scenarios that had been discussed before nodding to himself. "It's the best plan that can get us into striking distance, I'm sure our benefactors here could piece together a convincing enough business portfolio to dupe the Germans." Almost instinctively, Jean reached into his breast pocket for the container of cigarettes and then remembered he had quit a week ago, modestly disguising a frown by clicking his cheek.

"I am Jean Lemieux, formerly a Canadian soldier and more recently I have been teaching here in London. I have some understanding of machinery, so posing as a French investor for a certain manufacturing firm might work nicely. The Germans are fiercely competitive with France and relish a chance at absorbing French contracts. I'm sure this Hirsch chap is looking to expand into the French industrial sector, so he might want the right kind of investors to discreetly ease that transition." With a thoughtful glance, he studied the Danish woman across from him with second thoughts, her history as a member of the resistance might prove quite useful. It is the obvious truth in plain sight that many overlook, scenting deception from all other places and ignoring the one which remains right next to you. He thought about helping himself to another glass of the Scotch on the table but decided against it; better to leave with his senses intact.

"At this point, I think retiring for the evening is in order. Mr. Konstantinos is right in that we have a good deal of field work to do before we can really decide on what course of action will be taken." With a humble nod to his host, he rose from his seat and stuck his hands into his pockets casually. These strangers were about to become cohorts in bringing down evil men; a task that could take a considerable amount of time. He needed to be alone tonight, to think and to sleep.

The seed of a plan was planted, now it was time to give it some time to grow and give it the necessary nourishments. Investors, aye; Money would be a suitable bait for greedy German engineer. A suitable machine for him to invent, some project for him to be involved? That was to be planned. And a suitable way for Sebastien Hirsch to meet Raguel.

The way of dispatching the target was yet to be set in stone, though. Bullet, poison, knife, accident, explosion... They would know more whe they would be in Essen. They would need some good scouting, planning, backup plans, considerable time for planning and for action. Nestori scratched his nose; It itched when he was having his thoughts moving, or then it was a habit to help him focus. He returned to the present. The Canadian, Jean Lem... Something, was standing and pretty much ready to go, and everyone was having the same intend. There perhaps wasn't any more information to be gotten at the moment... But an ale or two with his new collegues wouldn't hurt.

So he drank the last third of his whisky, wiped his lips as he put the glass on the table, and stood up. He cleared his throat as he rose. "Aye... Let's make more plans in Essen. I hope some fine Hotel will be reserved for us, heh heh... "He chuckled and straightened his back. "My name is Nestori Reponen. Nowadays a farmer, before that some rascal against the Russians. Scouting, tracking and Guerrilla warfare is my speciality. I don't speak too much Germany nor do I have an American accent, though I guess I can do my share for ten thousand pounds... But, we'll see that in Essen." He finished his introduction. Enough information to operate with for now, and later he would tell and show later.

Konstantine, Astrid and Jean. Those were his collegues now. A violinist, a farmer, a rebel and a mechanic. It was a merry little band to bring Raguel's sword upon the wretched sinners.

ESSEN

OCTOBER 1956

"Do you know, this stuff is actually rather good," Konstantinos Stavrou remarked as he studied the chilled glass of Riesling. "One doesn't hear much about German wine, not compared to France or Italy. But I've heard there are some excellent whites coming out of Mosel these days, so I had to try. It seems that paid off for me."

To any outside observers, the scene in the quiet lounge of the Hotel Handelshof was the same as that in any other hotel lounge across the world. A few foreigners, bored in a strange city, passing an idle hour with one another's company. The hotel was clean, imperial, miraculously untouched by the war. It was more than could be said for most of the city. Lancasters and Stirlings had pounded the city relentlessly throughout the war, and the Herculean task of clearing rubble was still going on nine years later. For every optimistic construction crew there were three bombed-out shells, glassless windows staring like eyes. In the face of such devastation, it was no wonder men like Hirsch had escaped punishment, Stavrou reflected. Men with his expertise would be desperately needed to rebuild. Not just this one huge city, either- dozens like it.

Stavrou reluctantly set down the glass of wine and looked across the table at his companions. He had barely known them twenty-four hours, but he considered himself a good judge of character, and he was beginning to think Farquharson had chosen well while putting this team together. "Alright, down to business. We received our little package from the dear Captain," he said as he placed a small attache case on the table and opened it. It had been brought to the hotel by a courier service, directly from the airport, not an hour before. They worked fast in London.

"Jean, Astrid, papers for you," he said as he passed two neatly paperclipped sheaves across to them. "Jean, my friend, you must get used to the name Roger Descombes, for that is who you are now. You represent a newly-built clinic in Lille and are shopping for state of the art equipment." With a long, delicate finger, Konstantinos tapped the papers. "I took the liberty of looking through those. You have letters of introduction from the French Embassy, the Robert Koch Institute, the World Health Assembly." The Greek shrugged. "They might even be real. God only knows how long of an arm our employers have."

He turned to the young Danish woman. "Astrid, my dear," he said formally and politely. "You are to be Christine Theiss, originally from Kiel. Any accent you have as a Dane might be reasonably passed off as northern," he said, nodding in approval. "The French consulate hired you as a guide and interpreter for unfortunate Monsieur Descombes, who has not learned a single word of the German in his time on Earth." Stavrou allowed himself a smile and a sip of wine at that. The man had the look of a POW, and the violinist was sure the Canadian had picked up a little in his time as a guest.

"You two should have no trouble getting an audience with Herr Hirsch with that set of papers. Look over everything at the factory- security, escape routes, all the fun things."

Konstantinos looked over at Nestori. "Now, you and I have no papers. Instead we have the fun part." He pulled a little slip of paper out of the case, as well as a small leather satchel. "This, my good friend, is Sebastien Hirsch's home address," he said, pushing the slip of paper over to the Finn. "Our job is reconnaissance. While these two look over his workplace, we look over his home. I guess that's why the Captain, in his wisdom, sent these," he said as he opened the leather case. Inside was a complete set of stainless steel lockpicks. "I, um, really hope you know how to use these. I never learned."

"Oh, in case you were wondering," Konstanstinos said, taking a furtive look around the lounge, "there are a few extras. What one might call a starter kit." He took another look around the deserted lounge, then emptied the final contents of the case onto the table. "Two feet of piano wire, with a wooden handle at either extremity. A fine garrote," he said, making sure everyone saw the item before putting it back into the attache case. "One cosh, lead shot wrapped in leather. SOE issue," he noted. "Two knives. One a fixed-blade Fairbairn-Sykes fighting dagger, the other a folding navaja knife, the Spanish style. And of course this fellow," he said, sweeping the item in question back into the case before any outsiders might get a clear look. "Unless I am mistaken, the Smith and Wesson Chief's Special. A new lightweight five-shot revolver made in America, intended to be concealed. As well as ten .38 rounds." He looked around the table. "I imagine we can obtain other weapons on request, but this is a fine start. A fine start indeed."

Stavrou took another appreciative sip of his wine, glad his room was being billed to his employers. "Is everyone clear on their tasks?"

Reconnaissance, eh? And going so far as to break to one's house. He quickly glanced at the address, but it was one of those German street names names that he couldn't remember twenty minutes afterwards, he knew. This wasn't exactly what Nestori had in mind as he had taken this job, but as the stainless steel lock picks were put on the table, there was a slight smirk on his face.

He looked at the equipment put on the table. It was at that moment that he understood completely the nature of the mission he had agreed to take a part upon: Most probably they wouldn't be able to make it look like an accident. Or throwing them in the alley and pointing gun to their face and saying 'we know what you did, you son of a-', but instead creating an opportunity and killing him when it was best suited for. The two knives interested him the most. They weren't Puukko or Mora quality he had used to, but the one with fixed blade would suffice quite well in his hands. The revolver looked fine in his eyes, too, but they were loud for mission like this.

"I think our part is quite clear, Konstantin. Waiting until house's empty and then I'll pick that door for us, no problem." Nestori made half a smirk. He had learned the art of picking locks while still training in military. Roommate had showed the room an easy way of how it was done, though there were four of them to try it out. He had once picked himself into a house while looking for a shelter during the scouting missions taking days, and after war he had tried and showed the trick to few of his neighborhoods. Though back then his lockpick had been iron and tension wrench too. They did gain some rust in time, but luckily he knew people that were able to handle metal.

He examined the lockpicks. He found a typical wrench, but it took time to finally find the snake-shaped pick he preferred. He fingered the pick for a while, looking at the lot.

"Hmm." Astrid had hummed to herself as she glanced through her file, before lifting and widening her eyes at the array of weapons before her. "Erm... Yes. Thank you. But do we really need these? I understand for self defense purposes, for the worst case scenario if our backs are to a wall, but surely we are not planning to use these for the actual murders. It would be foolish to assume these Nazis are not keeping tabs on each other. At some point, someone is going to be clever enough to deduce that all of these former officials from Ste. Christina are being assassinated. Using these will only hasten that conclusion to be made, which, needless to say, will make our jobs more difficult. We should strive for accidental deaths. The less we need to directly involve ourselves, the better. Regardless, I don't trust myself with a gun or any of these other weapons, so I shall stick to my scarf." She then lifted the cream colored scarf in question and fingered at its silver threads. "These are aluminum, all threaded in a net pattern. No one will break this when it's securely wrapped around their throat. And it's unassuming." She patted the scarf in question, resting around her neck with the ends to her front left. She would have to purchase some books later about Kiel: she had visited it once or twice as a child, but the details were fuzzy. Still, it was good that they kept her accent in mind, and the papers... Quite the far reach for a supposed man of God. Astrid was starting to find it hard to believe that their benefactor was a mere religious rabbi. Was he from Mossad, and the rabbi, his cover? Of course they would be looking for former Nazis. It was a possibility, but it was conjecture, and she wasn't being paid to ponder his identity. Still, the mystery behind it all was too curious, too strange to pass up. For now, she had to think about Christine Theiss' life, habits, character, and how she ended up working for the French embassy. It would take some time to create and smoothen out, but a well created Christine would be worth it in the long run for them all.

"Roger Descombes? L'Anglais ont un sens de l'humour étrange." Jean chuckled as he thumbed through the sheaf of papers containing the man he was to become, oddly enough he found himself pleasantly surprised by the Allemand wine. The file was extensive, records of known associates, business partners, investors, friends, family... a wife, Elaine, two children, Claude and Pierre, the family dog and a mistress. It seemed like his employers had snatched up a real man's life and gave it to him to play with as he pleased, though he was certain that wasn't the case. Once he was finished glancing over the file, he replaced the cover sheet and traced his finger along the edge of his glass while staring at the tools that would be implemented to see their task through to it's bloody end.

"An accident is not the only way Sebastien Hirsch could meet his end; suicide is always an option." The thought of being close to the Danish femme fatale for this mission did a little more than pique his interest, he might have some time to pick at her brain and see what secrets lurked inside. "For instance, strangulation from a garrote wire can look similar to hanging. Perhaps the deceased could have been beset with guilt and saw no alternative but to take his own life. A bit of melodrama and viola!" His fingertips snaked for the piano wire and wooden handle and then fell on the grip of the revolver.

"If getting too close doesn't sound inviting, then we could make this look like a murder... armed burglars in the night?" He polished off what wine remained in his glass and turned to Stavrou to gauge how he felt about both ideas. The wooden grip of the .38 Smith & Wesson looked much smaller than the .455 Webley he had once handled on the firing range and only chambered five rounds instead of six. Instead he opted for the Fairbairn-Sykes knife, a weapon he had used leading up to his capture. Examining the blade closely, Jean smiled and set it back with the folding blade.

"But before we can do the deed, we have some homework to do." Jean turned to Astrid and grinned.

Nestori laughed. "I'd say from three days to a week worth of learning about this city, Sebastian's job, movements and impersonating your characters before starting to break in homes or impersonate people?" He said to the lot, looking bit around the hotel lounge in case of someone was listening. They were in no hurry, so he indeed wished to know if the house would be completely empty of people when Sebastian left the place. To pick up places to escape into if things got too rough and finding something to wear in this city to not look too distinct from other people. Furthermore, he wanted to practice his lockpicking skills before getting in action.

And to be fair, it was a good Hotel they were in. Hell, he hasn't really been in hotels before today. Nestori wanted to have his share of experience about such place where the rich people would stay. He enjoyed the local beer he had ordered for himself, the care people took from his luggage and the service in place overall. This he would call life if he was a businessman! But then again, the countryside had it's own comfortable side. And besides, owning a forest, fields and house was less restricting to the hotel room he was offered. He imagined that the loan of the farm and animals and few other troubles would settle down quite well when the payment from this job would come.

((doublepost, sorry))