Chapter Five.

Evening sun lit the tree-lined avenue as Stacey made her way towards the Schloss Schönbrunn Gardens. The city was warm and hazy as it reflected the golden light. People jostled by on their way home from work and tourists strolled past her at a leisurely pace as they took in the sights of the city. She wasn't the only person walking unhurriedly along the avenue. He stood at the entrance to the park watching the passing pedestrians; and one in particular. A voice behind Stacey made her turn suddenly.

'Shall we take a walk, Fräulein Brasack?'

She hadn't heard the man approach her.

'A perfect evening for a stroll in the park. Nice jacket, by the way.'

The contact from Aktionsbüro Babenberg wasn't quite what she'd expected. The man was elegant and self-assured; urbane, and expensively dressed. There was no sign of swastikas, tattoos, or jackboots, but nonetheless, she sensed a distinct element of danger. There was a definite hint of cruelty and latent brutality hidden underneath the smooth façade. As they strolled along the avenue a gleaming black, Mercedes-Benz 300SEL pulled up alongside the kerb and Stacey felt her heart-rate increase imperceptibly.

'Our ride, I believe,'

He nodded towards the car.

'After you, Fräulein Brasack.'

A man stepped out of the back of the Mercedes-Benz and held the door wide open. The invitation was inherently clear. Once she got into the car her options were limited. She would effectively be a prisoner. She couldn't see any escape if their intentions were sinister. A large group of pedestrians stepped off the pavement and paused; waiting for traffic to clear before they hurried across the avenue. For a moment, Stacey was surrounded and separated from the men and the Mercedes-Benz. This was a chance... she could run... slip away into the Schloss Schönbrunn Gardens. She could make a break for the cover of the trees. She took two steps towards the park entrance and paused. If she ran, the operation would be blown wide open before it had even started. The group of pedestrians dispersed and left her exposed on the pavement. Smooth guy moved back to her side, and, almost as though he had read her thought; smiled, and quietly said;

'Tempted to run? Not a good idea, Fräulein.'

Walking across to the car, she turned round and looked the man straight in the eye. In a cold, imperious voice, she replied:

'I'm still here, aren't I?'

Smooth guy smiled in acknowledgement.

'Sehr Gut; now to business.'

He climbed into the plush rear seat beside her. The man who had opened the door, got into the front passenger seat; and the driver slid smoothly out into the traffic flow and accelerated away. They drove through the evening traffic with the driver keeping a close eye on the mirror, obeying all the traffic signals, and sticking rigidly to the speed limits; but there was no obvious sign of pursuit. It was tempting to look over her shoulder, but Stacey resisted the impulse. She could not afford to take any risks which might give the game away.

Evening sunlight glinted on the Donaukanal as they pulled up outside a shabby Bierkeller named the Wiedenbräukeller in a run-down quarter of the northern district, Döbling. Smooth guy got of the car and held the door open for Stacey. As she slipped out of the rear seat, he took her arm, and, checking that, other than a passing postman on a bicycle; there was no one around in the shabby street; guided her across the pavement to the three steps leading down to the entrance of the Wiedenbräukeller. Inside; it all looked fairly normal. Patrons sat at wooden tables drinking copious amounts of beer; waitresses dressed in quasi-national costumes carried vast glass steins of beer to the tables… nothing to suggest that it was anything other than what it appeared to be. Smooth guy guided her across the large room to an inconspicuous door next to the bar. As they passed; he nodded to the barman, who reached below the highly polished bar top and pressed a concealed switch. Softly, the door clicked slightly ajar, and smooth guy reached out pushing it open; ushering Stacey inside, and closing it firmly behind them. They stood in a small lobby that was occupied by a young, thuggish-looking heavy, who leapt to his feet and shot his right arm out in a Hitler salute. He stepped smartly back and opened an interior door for them to enter an inner chamber. Smooth guy motioned for her to enter.

As she opened the door she was not expecting to be confronted by what she saw. The inner chamber was filled with rows of wooden chairs which were occupied by at least thirty young men; most of whom were dressed in the typically Neo-Nazi costume of cropped hair, black army pants; high-laced combat boots, and a black shirt with a black and white collar… two of the three colours that comprise the flag of the Third Reich… being black, red, and white. There were also several who wore quasi-Wehrmacht uniform; and several with white shoelaces in their boots… the badges of the really militant Neo-Nazis… a gathering of the Aryan Brotherhood.

On a raised stage at the front of the chamber a selection of middle-aged to elderly men sat facing them. The walls were draped with red-white-and-black swastika banners, and, on the facing wall behind the stage was a large, bronze, NSDAP Parteiadler… the Nazi Party Eagle, with outspread wings, and clutching a garlanded swastika in its talons.

Stacey glanced around. The walls on either side were decorated with swastikas, red-white-and- black-streamers, and Nazi symbolism… Rune symbols, including the Wolfsangel; a silver copy of which hung from the pendant chain around her neck; the SS Sigrunes… the silver, twin lightning symbols; the SS-Totenkopf… the skull-crossbones insignia; and the Sonnenrad, the Black Sun; both with, and without its central swastika.

As smooth guy closed the door and turned towards the stage; every man, including those at the top table; stood and gave a perfectly synchronised Hitler salute. Smooth guy returned the salute by merely raising his right forearm from the elbow, in the same way that Stacey had seen Adolf Hitler give the salute in the old newsreels. He escorted her to the stage and turned to address the gathering. As she faced the room, she felt the eyes of the old men at the top table boring into her back. He began his address.

'Comrades; May I introduce our guest who has come to join us in our endeavour to make the Middle-East, Judenfrei… once, and for all time. May I present to you, Fräulein Steini Brasack; only daughter of the Hero of The Reich; SS-Standartenführer Kurt Brasack, who commanded the 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich on the Eastern Front in 1943…'

He was interrupted by one of the elders sitting at the top table. The old man was hawk-faced, with close-cropped hair, and a razor-straight parting along the left side of his head. He was wearing an expensive grey suit, white shirt, and a red-black-and-gold-striped tie. His eyes were a washed-out blue… the blue of the sky on an icy winter's morning; deep-sunk into their sockets, but bright and piercing… the eyes of a fanatic. He opened his thin-lipped rat-trap mouth and spoke with a peremptory, brittle Berliner accent;

'I take it we have unequivocal proof of the young lady's pedigree?'

Smooth guy snapped to attention.

'Oberst-Gruppenführer; I…'

Stacey decided it was time to act. She drew her shoulders back, turned to face the old man; and stalked towards the top table. At the foot of the stage she stopped and snapped her heels together. Withdrawing a manilla envelope from inside her leather jacket, she placed it on the table in front of the old man and took two paces backwards; coming to attention once again. The old General gave her a rheumy stare and emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table. He glanced at the items and poked at them with a skeletal, manicured finger. She watched his jaw muscles tighten as he picked up a red linen-covered, NSDAP Mitgliedsbuch… the Party membership card; and studied it. His eyes flickered to Stacey again, and then returned to the table. He picked up the SS Member's Identification Card… the SS-Ausweis. He drew a ragged breath.

Before him on the table lay three of the most coveted decorations that the Third Reich could bestow upon its warriors. Glinting in the light from the Gothic-style chandeliers were "Das Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes mit Eichenlaub und Schwertern"... The Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords, and Diamonds; "Die Große Ausführung Goldene Parteiabzeichen der NSDAP"… The large version Golden Party Badge; and "Der Blutorden"...The Blood Order; denoting that the recipient had taken part in the ill-fated 1923 Munich Putsch. The old man raised his eyes to Stacey.

'How did you come by these precious relics, child?'

She raised an eyebrow disdainfully.

'Oberst-Gruppenführer; you would be sorely mistaken to consider me a child. My father was executed by Mossad Jüdische Schweine in Cape Town, almost three years ago. Through contacts with authorities sympathetic to our cause, I was given a safe-deposit box containing these possessions of my father, together with other items.'

The old man nodded.

'Can you tell me the Oath of your father's Panzer Division?'

She nodded.

'Yes, Oberst-Gruppenführer; it is "Meine Ehre heißt Treue"... "My honour is loyalty." It is also engraved on the blade of his Ehrendolch... his honour dagger.'

The old man rose to his feet.

'You still have his Ehrendolch?'

She nodded, and reached into the neck of her shirt. She brought out the pendant and held it out towards him.

'I also wear the symbol of his Division... "Die Wolfsangel" in honour of his memory.'

The old man drew himself up to his full height.

'It seems that you are indeed the daughter of SS-Standartenführer Kurt Brasack. It is a privilege to meet you, Fräulein.'

His right arm shot out in the infamous "Hitlergruss"… the "Hitler salute." The rest of the top table leapt to their feet… as did the remainder of the gathering. The walls echoed to several repetitions of "Sieg Heil" which was immediately followed by the audience snapping their heels together… that somehow lacked the desired effect, seeing as how their high-laced combat boots had rubber soles and heels, and not the steel heel-plates of real jackboots; as, ramrod straight, with right arms extended rigidly in the Hitlergruss they bawled out the banned second anthem of the Third Reich… the Horst-Wessel-Lied… "Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!... SA marschiert mit mutig-festem Schritt..." "The flag on high! The ranks tightly closed!... The Stormtroopers march with bold, firm step..."

Stacey stood rigidly to attention with her right arm extended, as the group bawled their way through all six stanzas that the SA Stormtroopers used to sing in spite of the fact that only the first four stanzas were ever included in the official Nazi anthem. The last two stanzas were composed to honour the Nazi thug and pimp, Horst Wessel, after his murder… which had raised him to Martyr status in the Nazi movement. As the words of the song echoed around the chamber. She was aware that the old General's eyes had not left her for a moment. As they reached the last line and the raucous singing ceased; the old General dismissed her with a perfunctory wave of his gnarled hand, and bent to study the artefacts once more.

Stacey smartly about-turned and stalked back towards the far end of the chamber; aware of every eye appraising her as she strode down the aisle between the rows of seats. As she passed each line of chairs, she studied their occupants. It was very much a mixed bag. Many were the icily handsome, blue-eyed, blonde Aryans; reeking of Übermenschen superiority; others were unremarkable… save for the cropped hair and blatant tattoos. Others were the archetypal Bierkeller street thugs… low-browed knuckle-draggers with necks wider than their foreheads; and several bore a remarkable likeness to text-book Neanderthals. They did, however, share one common trait. None of them would give a second thought to killing one of their own who dared to betray Aktionsbüro Babenberg. Stacey retook her seat next to smooth guy at the back of the chamber. He smiled, and patted her knee.

'Wunderbar! You have the poise and proud bearing of a true Reichsparteitag Mädchen. You have made a great impression on the Oberst-Gruppenführer.'

Stacey smiled and gently removed his hand.

'Thank you, Herr…? I did not, however come all this way merely to make an impression on an old Reich hero; no matter how venerated his rank was in the Schutzstaffel.'

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Smooth guy nodded and gave a wry smile.

'No more than I would expect from you as the daughter of a Hero of The Reich SS-Standartenführer who was a Real warrior, instead of being like our armchair heroes on the top table. My name is Peter Treffen; and I hold the rank of Untersturmführer in this fellowship…'

He was interrupted by the old General, who gave them a chilling piercing stare.

'If you two have quite finished with the conviviality; we have pressing business to attend to.'

Treffen straightened in his seat.

'Zu Befehl, Oberst-Gruppenführer.'

The old man nodded, and opened a file that had been handed to him by another man sitting at the top table. He cast a peevish glare around the assembly, and addressed them in his brittle voice.

'This is the latest report on the undertaking to eliminate the traitors to the cause who have betrayed the Fatherland in their opportunistic avarice. Our Werewolf team report that so far they have interrogated and executed three of the traitorous swine who were involved in the plot hatched by the Judenscheisse to bribe the West German petrochemical company, Asmara Chemie, to supply the Jew homeland with nuclear materials.

We await further developments in Holland and Belgium, bearing in mind that the Jews' nuclear appetite has grown out of their conviction that SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Heydrich's Endlösung… the Final Solution of the Jewish question now justifies any measures they take to ensure their pathetic survival. When we receive confirmation that the material is indeed in the possession of the Jews, we will despatch a Kommando to the Jew Homeland to destroy such material and notify their Arab neighbours of their malignant aspirations.'

He closed the file and stared down the chamber. His gaze fell on Stacey.

'Fräulein Brasack; approach the top table.'

Stacey rose from her chair, and, drawing herself erect, shoulders back and head held high; stalked up the hall to the top table; aware that every eye in the chamber was apprising her bearing. Five paces from the platform, she came to attention with an admirable snapping together of her heels she gave a Fuhrer-style salute; bending her arm from the elbow, and, in a sharp, snappy voice, said,

'Jawohl, Oberst-Gruppenführer?'

The old man studied her for a few moments. He nodded imperceptibly to himself. Yes; she was a perfect Reichsparteitag Mädchen. He glanced at the ravishing blonde seated languorously to his right… last year’s Miss Nazi… married now, and about five months pregnant. He returned his gaze to "Fräulein Brasack"; and nodded to himself. Yes; if she remained with Kameradschaft Babenberg, she would make a worthy successor. He returned his gaze to a paper on the table in front of him.

'The report says that you are a linguist, 'Fräulein Brasack. Can you speak the Mischlingsjude... Mongrel Jew language?'

Stacey glanced at the old man and then dropped her eyes. No lesser ranking member ever held lengthy eye contact with someone of his rank.

'I have knowledge of Hebrew and Yiddish, Oberst-Gruppenführer. Neither are my first languages, but I am reasonably proficient in both.'

The old man nodded.

'Sehr Gut. You will join the Kommando when it embarks on the assignment I have just dictated. You will be equipped with weapons in due course.'

Stacey's eyes flicked up at him momentarily.

'With your permission, Oberst-Gruppenführer; I already carry a personal sidearm.'

He nodded.

'Kindly show it to me, Fräulein Brasack.'

She reached inside her leather jacket and withdrew the Walther. With an adept, and polished movement, she ejected the magazine, cycled the slide to eject the chambered round, and handed the weapon up to him butt-first. There were several muted gasps of admiration from behind her. This girl was definitely something very different to her initial appearance. The old man studied the weapon, and glanced at her.

'Hmm; Walther PPK/S. A powerful weapon. What ammunition do you favour?

She glanced at him again.

'Nine-millimetre, jacketed hollow point Kurz, Oberst-Gruppenführer.'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Impressive, Fräulein Brasack.'

He handed the weapon back to her. Without loading the magazine, she slipped it back into her inside pocket, stepped back, saluted again; then turned on her heel, retrieved the chambered round from the floor where it had fallen, and strode back down the aisle to her seat.

The meeting continued for the best part of an hour, and slowly deteriorated into a passable imitation of what Stacey imagined the Bierkeller meetings in Munich that led to the foundation of the Nazi party in the 1920s must have been like. As the old men ranted their anti-Semitic dogma; sprinkling their insidious poison with the old, hackneyed Nazi phrases like…"Tod dem Juden"…"Death to the Jew"… "Jüdische Kontamination“... "Jewish Contamination"; and the old, hackneyed, "Die Juden sind immer noch unser Unglück“... "The Jews are still our misfortune." As the meeting became more vociferous; suggestions coming from the floor included, arranging for an "Aktion Kommando" to descend upon the Judenplatz in the centre of the old city and target any Judenschweine who happened to be about; to nail a pig's head to the door of the Jewish City Temple in Seitenstettengasse, and to daub Swastikas on the city's kosher shops and Jewish kindergartens.

One particularly offensive suggestion which found raucous favour was to sweep the four old Jewish cemeteries and deface or destroy any graves that had survived the Nazis' mid-1940s decision to "dissolve" all Jewish cemeteries in Vienna. There then followed an extensive, vitriolic rant by a decrepit, rat-faced old man on the top table concerning the fate of SS-Obersturmbannführer Adolf Eichmann; one of the major organisers of the Final Solution of the Jewish question; who had been apprehended in Argentina by a team of Mossad and Shin Bet agents; flown secretly to Israel, indicted on criminal charges, including crimes against humanity and war crimes; and subsequently tried, convicted, and hanged in 1962. As the old man ranted and screamed that that the time was long overdue for Jewish blood to flow for this outrageous provocation; Stacey quietly asked Treffen who he was.

Treffen replied that this was SS-Oberführer Heinrich Fischer; who had been Führer der Einsatzgruppe III during the Polish campaign. She nodded, but said nothing. This old man had probably sent hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children to their deaths. The Einsatzgruppen were the SS paramilitary death squads responsible for mass killings, primarily by shooting, during World War Two. The Einsatzgruppen had a leading role in the implementation of the Final Solution of the Jewish question in the Nazi-occupied territories.

The War crimes trials at Nuremburg estimated that the seven Einsatzgruppen together with their related auxiliary troops killed more than two million people, including one-point-three million Jews. Richard Menke would certainly be eager to meet this old monster. How many more of these old men hid dark secrets about their past from the public gaze? She decided that she needed to cultivate a relationship of sorts with this Peter Treffen; whereby she could cajole him into revealing just who, and what these old men had been, and what dark secrets they held buried beneath their sham veneers of respectability. The applause for Fischer's poisonous diatribe lasted for several minutes. When it settled; the old Oberst-Gruppenführer stood and shouted,

'These proceedings are closed!'

The entire room then stood rigidly to attention and sang the old pre-war Austrian Anthem… "Sei gesegnet ohne Ende"... "Be Blessed Without End"; to the tune of Haydn's "Deutschlandlied." Singing it had been banned for a time after the war, and a new anthem had been created; because the same tune, with different words, was also the anthem of the Third Reich. As the gathering thundered towards the climax of the last verse; one of the blonde, apprentice Übermenschen moved to the side of the chamber and opened a door. With the anthem completed; the top table, followed by each row, moved with military precision to the door, and disappeared. Treffen grinned at Stacey.

'Now the drinking begins! We have an abovestairs private room where we can drink and sing without disturbance.'

Stacey smiled sweetly. There was no way on God's good earth that she was about to become involved in a drunken session with these animals.

'Very well, Peter. I'll have just one drink; then I must get back to my Hotel.'

He grinned, and tried to slip his arm around her waist.

'It's no problem. I can give you a ride back.'

She eased herself out of his clutches.

'No; it's perfectly all right. I'll have a drink and then, I must go.'

He was about to say something; but the look in her eye; the almost imperceptible cold edge to her voice, and the memory of how adept she had been handling the Walther she carried; caused him to suddenly reappraise his conduct. He smiled; but the smile was false. It was obvious to her that his intentions had definitely not been what he was now hastily attempting to convey to her. The abovestairs room of the Wiedenbräukeller was reached by a narrow flight of stairs. The room itself was adorned in like manner to the downstairs chamber… with two notable exceptions. On the far wall, a huge "Reichsadler" silver eagle filled the wall; with the tips of its wings almost touching the corners of the room. The Reichsadler's head looked to its right shoulder whereas the Parteiadler in the chamber below looked to its left shoulder.

The whole representation bore a striking resemblance to the photographs Stacey had seen of the main hall of the Krolloper… the Kroll Opera House in Berlin which the Nazis had used for sittings of the Reichstag throughout the Nazi régime; even down to the wall covering behind the Reichsadler of pleated silk arranged to suggest a huge sunburst emanating from behind the bird. The other notable difference was the line of portraits along the wall opposite the bar. Hitler, Himmler; Heydrich, Eicke, Hanke; Dietrich… the Führer and his Black Angels gazed impassively down on the carousing Sieg Heil acolytes.

The buxom young waitresses dressed in Bund Deutscher Mädel summer uniforms… white blouses, dark blue skirts, and black neckerchiefs; black shoes and white ankle socks; with their flaxen hair wound up into "Gretchenzöpfen"... Gretchen-braids; moved between the long tables, dispensing large steins of beer, dishes of Bockwurst and pungently garlic Knackwurst; deftly avoiding the grasping hands that attempted to smack or grope their buttocks as they passed by.

Treffen sat beside Stacey at the end of the table attempting to make stilted small talk, as the rest of Adolf's children sharing the long table eyed him enviously. Stacey picked up the litre stein of "helles"… a light lager; and, as the gathering watched critically; drank half the contents in one long swallow. The rest of the table drummed their steins on the tabletop in appreciation. Then they began singing; starting with the viciously anti-Jewish, SA combat anthem: "Blut muss fliessen"… "Blood must flow". This was followed by the Hitler Jugend anthem: "Es zittern die morschen Knochen"..."The rotten bones are trembling"; and the old SA anthem: "Deutschland erwache"... "Germany, Awake!" Stacey finished her beer and stood up to leave. Turning to Treffen; she said quietly;

'Everything is possible, Peter. Just don't try to rush things.'

His face brightened considerably as she faced the table and snapped her heels; then said,

'Thank you, gentlemen. All right, let's give them something to chew on!'

A great cheer rose from the tables accompanied by a rhythmic drumming of steins, as they burst forth with another raucous rendition of the Horst Wessel-Lied. She strutted down the room and paused by the old Oberst-Gruppenführer and his cronies. She came to attention and snapped her heels; giving them a Führer-style salute; bending her arm from the elbow. Crisply she said,'

'Thank you gentlemen, for an informative meeting. Sieg Heil!'

The old Oberst-Gruppenführer took her hand and kissed it in a manner reminiscent of the Old Prussian etiquette. He spoke; His voice was not quite so brittle this time… probably due to the half-bottle of Asbach brandy he had already consumed.

'A pleasure to meet you, Fräulein Brasack; Good night.'

As she came out of the Wiedenbräukeller and negotiated the steps up to street level, Stacey felt an overwhelming sense of relief to be in the fresh night air, and away from the cloying atmosphere of stale beer, infused with the pungent aromas of greasy cooking, the fusty smell of stale sweat; permeated with the vehement counterpoint of rabid anti-Semitism. God! She needed a hot, perfumed bath to rid herself of the slightly sullied feeling she had from spending time in the rancorous atmosphere of the Neo-Nazis' lair. She turned, and began walking along Eisenbahnstrasse towards the phone booth at the corner. She had walked, perhaps ten metres when a voice called out behind her.

'Steini; wait!'

She half-turned, and saw Peter Treffen hurrying after her. He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. He pulled her around to face him. His breath stank with the sour odour of beer and garlic sausage.

'Why did you leave? Did you mean to insult me in front of my comrades? This is not acceptable conduct in the movement.'

Stacey pulled his hand away sharply. Her eyes were cold.

'And this is not acceptable conduct for an Untersturmführer of the movement. Now; go back to your friends before you do something that you will regret.'

Treffen gave a harsh laugh, and grabbed her again.

'Ha! As if a mere Berliner Schlampe could ever do anything that that I would regret!'

A cold, portentous voice behind him, spoke.

'Perhaps not; but I most certainly can.'

Treffen spun round and was confronted by Richard Menke; who had materialised silently behind them. Stacey hadn't seen or heard his approach from out of the shadows. Still grasping Stacey's arm, he truculently stuck his jaw out, and snarled,

'What the fuck's it got to do with you?'

Menke gave Treffen a grim, warning smile… an icy, chilling smile.

'It has everything to do with me when I find a cheap, piss-ass street thug threatening the Lady under my protection.'

Treffen's eyes narrowed.

'Cheap, piss-ass street thug? You have no idea who I am… I…'

Menke smiled again; only, this time; it was not a real smile. It was rather the contented smile of a cat confronting a mouse that has forgotten where its hole is. He raised an eyebrow.

'I don't give a fuck who you are, or who you think you are, you little shit. But you'll certainly give a fuck about who I am.'

Treffen snarled and whipped out a switch-blade. Eyeing up Menke with a mad gleam in his eye, he made to lunge and found himself staring into the muzzle of a large Beretta pistol aimed directly between his eyes. The switch-blade fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered onto the flagstones. White-faced, he spat out,

'OK; so who the fuck are you?'

Menke's smile faded. The muzzle of the Beretta remained steadily fixed on the centre of Treffen's forehead.

'I am Bruno Heynig; Berliner Kameradschaft Wolkenfeuer. My father was adjutant to Standartenführer Brasack when they served together in the 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich. As the daughter of a prominent SS Officer, she is considered a prime target for Zionist fundamentalists. I am her bodyguard; and will not hesitate to perforate your thick Schluchtenscheisser nut if you even dare to step into her shadow again.'

Treffen stood there as if frozen to the ground. All his bombastic, beer-fuelled arrogance had evaporated. Stacey spoke to him behind his back.

'Peter; turn around and look at me.'

As he turned towards her, she punched him hard in the solar plexus. The brass knuckles that she had slipped her fingers into whilst they were in her jacket pocket made a dull thudding noise as they contacted his beer-filled belly. He folded up like a Swiss pocket knife and crashed to the pavement, spewing up the entirety of the night's drinking bout into the gutter. She stood over him as he moaned and retched, and quietly said,

'And that's for calling me a Berlin Slut… and, Sieg fuckin' Heil to you too, Kamerad!'

Menke bent down and expertly frisked Treffen. In an inside pocket he found a small notebook. He glanced up at Stacey and slipped it into his jacket; then, taking her by the arm, he said,

'Now, let's get the hell out of here before any of his buddies come out to find him.'

As they hurried away down the dark street, she said,

'How did you know where I was?'

Menke smiled.

'We've kept a watch on you since that Nazi bastard picked you up outside the Schloss Schönbrunn Gardens. You didn't imagine that we'd leave you in there alone, did you?'

She shook her head.

'No; not really… but I didn't see anyone.

He smiled.

'No, you wouldn't; but we were there all the time. Remember the postman on the bicycle? He was the squad coordinator. He reported back to me that you were in that Nazi pigsty, and so I just drove over; parked up, and waited. The car is just around the corner. We'll have you away from here faster than you can say "Über Alles."