Chapter Nine.

The ten-kilometre drive back through the city to the Währing District, where the Israeli Embassy was situated, was fast and loud. Maxine Bergmann kept the flashing blue beacon and alarm siren on as she powered the big, six-cylinder Commodore through the rain-drenched, shining streets. Within no more than fifteen minutes, she turned off the main thoroughfare through Währing, and negotiated the quiet streets until she came to Weimarer Strasse; a suburban street that ran north. She stopped at the junction of Weimarer Strasse and Anton-Frank-Gasse; leaving them a thirty-metre run sheltered by the trees that lined the road, until they reached the gates of the Embassy. Switching off the alarm siren, and turning in the driving seat, she spoke to Menke.

'Good hunting, Richard.'

She nodded to Stacey and turned back in the seat as they stepped out into the rain. Leaving them on the corner, she slipped the Commodore into gear and swept away, with the blue beacon still flashing. With a slight squeal of tyres she swung the car into a right hand turn, some fifty metres up the road; disappearing from their sight as the flickering blue light slowly faded from the frontages of the shadowy buildings as she headed back towards the main thoroughfare. Under Menke's umbrella, they hurried down Anton-Frank-Gasse and reached the gates of the Embassy. A bored guard peered at them from his little guardhouse. Menke flashed his I.D, and the guard grudgingly came to the gate. Menke pushed his I.D. under the guard's nose again.

'I wish to see the Chief of Staff. It is a matter of National Security.

The guard peered at Stacey.

'And who is she?'

Stacey withdrew her Black-covered, U.S. Diplomatic Passport and handed it to him. Flipping it open under the security light he saw the Eagle's broad, outstretched wings on the Seal of the U.S. Department of Defense. Combining that, with the unmistakeable, circular blue printed seal on Menke's I.D… the four, vertically curved, shadow-relief lines and Hebrew scripture… "Magen VeLo Yera'e"…"Defender that shall not be seen" … the motto of Shin Bet… or Shabak as it was more commonly known, he breathed in sharply. The Israeli internal security service, AND an American Intelligence agent!

He hurriedly opened the gate to admit them, and directed them towards the Embassy building. As they crossed the courtyard, he returned to his little guardhouse; picked up the telephone, and quickly dialled a number.

Malachi Spelling; Mossad Deputy Chief of Station, Vienna, met them in the lobby of the Embassy. He was dressed in an elegant silk robe he had thrown hastily over pyjamas, and was wearing a very English-looking pair of carpet slippers. He gave every appearance of having just been woken up; but his bearing was businesslike as he greeted Menke and Stacey. Glancing at his watch, he peered at them over the top of his half-frame spectacles, and spoke.

'Good morning, Richard; Miss Mckenna. How may I be of assistance?'

Menke shook his hand.

'I need to get an urgent signal to Headquarters. It concerns the Antwerp Protocol. Is the communications room functioning at this ungodly hour?'

The Deputy Chief nodded.

'Twenty-four-hour watch, Richard.'

He glanced at his watch again. It read 3am.

'It'll be four in the morning over there. You won't get any reply from the top floor much before six o'clock, our time. You two may as well get some sleep here until then.'

Menke shook his head

'Sleep, we could use; but this is too important. We have a fanatical Neo-Nazi on our hands, with intelligence that he intends to use to spark a major conflict in the Homeland. The bastard is running; and we believe that he is about to escape from Austria, bound for the Middle East where he will pass over the intelligence he carries to our hostile Arab neighbours.'

Malachi Spelling sat down at an ornate writing desk.

'We have been expecting you… and Miss Mckenna. The Director of her Agency signalled me a few days ago.'

He pressed a bell push beneath the top of the desk, and continued.

'It was considered imperative by both your Agencies that you should be properly equipped for this undertaking. Consequently, certain materiel has been forthcoming, and is at present waiting for you here.'

There was a knock on the door, and a young man entered carrying two elegant black leather attaché cases. He placed them on the desk in front of Malachi Spelling; smiled at Menke and Stacey, and left. Spelling clicked the catches of the first attaché case and glanced inside. He closed it again and pushed it towards Stacey. She gave him a quizzical glance and opened it. It contained several passports from various countries, including The United Kingdom, Canada; The Federal Republic of Germany, Switzerland, and the State of Israel. They each contained her picture; all under different names and nationalities; and considerable amounts of currencies pertaining to each country. Spelling then pushed the other attaché case across the desk to Menke. Opening it, Menke saw that the contents were identical to those in Stacey's case… with one notable exception. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, he withdrew a black Diplomatic passport for the United States of America. Opening it; he saw his photograph with the legend that the holder was Richard Merrill; Assistant Attaché. Spelling gave a wry smile.

'That came by Diplomatic courier yesterday morning; sealed pouch.'

He glanced at Stacey.

'Your people mean business on this particular assignment. I also had a personal communication from Director Helms. We are to give you both, every assistance we can. I have been in contact with The Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee in Jerusalem, and you are hereby accorded complete Diplomatic status and immunity on behalf of both our countries for the duration of the assignment; which, as of now has been allocated the designation: "The Nimrod Manifesto"… which is really no more than I would expect from the planners of either of our Agencies. You two about to embark on one of the most righteous missions since The Shoah; and they name it after a mythical mighty hunter who was in opposition to Jehovah!...'

He was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone on his desk. Picking up the handset, he merely said,

'Yes?... Thank You,'

And replaced it on the base unit's cradle. Turning to Menke, and pressing a bell-push concealed under the edge of his desk, he said,

'The communications room is ready for you. Hirschell will take you down.'

There was a quiet knock on the door and the young man who had brought the black leather attaché cases entered. Menke rose and moved to the door. The young man smiled, and stepped back.

'After you, Officer Menke.'

Then followed Menke into the corridor and closed the door.

Malachi Spelling studied Stacey.

'This is a dangerous assignment that you are about to undertake, Agent Mckenna. Are you armed?

She nodded.

'Yes, Sir; a Walther PPK/S, nine-millimetre Kurz, with ninety-five grain, jacketed hollow points.'

Spelling nodded.

'Fine. I was going to suggest a Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight Revolver; five shot, thirty-eight calibre; in a Berns-Martin, Triple-Draw holster. That's what many of "our" female operatives are equipped with; but your Walther definitely has the edge with stopping power.'

Stacey nodded;

'True; and ammunition is available everywhere. Besides which; the extension spur of the magazine gives a grip that you just don't get with a revolver… and that makes all the difference in the sort of situations we get into.'

Spelling smiled.

'Very true. What sort of carry do you use?'

Stacey unbuttoned her jacket and opened it to reveal the Walther snug in its holster nestling against her left breast.

'It's an unstamped, Chic Gaylord. The Feds and Secret Service guys back home consider it to be the best undercover rig. It’s the only shoulder holster that doesn't give away its existence with a bulge; and it's damn quick on the draw. The other thing about my choice of weapon and load is; if the target really wants to put up a fight, a few punctures from the standard, point three-eight Special will never stop him. Unless he is hit in a vital spot, he'll go on shooting right back. In contrast, just one shoulder hit with a Kurz, jacketed hollow point will knock a man off his feet and take all the fight out of him.'

Menke returned and sat down again. Malachi Spelling closed the file on his desk and leant back in his chair.

'Did you manage to contact Tel Aviv, Officer Menke?'

Menke nodded.

'Yes, thank you. My Director has confirmed my Rules of Engagement for "The Nimrod Manifesto." It is needful to inform you, and Agent Mckenna that I am now operating under the auspices of Metzada; and the outcome of this operation… however involved it may become; may not be in keeping with the foreign policy of the United States.'

Spelling studied Menke over the top of his half-frame spectacles, and then spoke.

'OK. In that case, get back to your hotel and wait to be contacted. I'll contact Langley and arrange for them to put in what they call "the plumbing" for Agent Mckenna…'

He glanced at Stacey.

'As of now; you are in the "Black." We must retain Plausible Deniability for the entire operation. Whatever you have to do; your Agency and this station in particular, just don't want to hear about it. That does not mean that we won't afford you full materiel support; but seeing as how this has been upgraded to a false flag op; the twenty-four-hour rule of your people doesn't apply for you for the duration of the mission.'

In spook parlance, this meant that an operative missing for more than twenty-four-hours in the field was considered to have been terminated by the opposition. He glanced back at Menke,

'All I need before you go back to your hotel are Agent Mckenna's and your "Professional names." I need to signal them to the other Stations between here and Tel Aviv.'

Menke nodded.

'Seeing as how Treffen knows us; we might as well use the names he knows us by. I am "Bruno Heynig"; and Agent Mckenna is "Fräulein Steini Brasack." We'll keep the passport identities for what the Americans call "Backstopping" purposes.'

He was interrupted by the telephone ringing again. Picking up the handset, he listened to the voice on the other end, and then glanced at Menke.

'It's for you, Officer Menke; a Kriminalobermeister Bergmann at Vienna Central. She says it's important.'

Menke reached for the phone and put his hand over the mouthpiece.

'Sorry, Sir; she dropped us off, and knew we were here.'

Spelling waved his hand unconcernedly.

Menke nodded, and spoke into the mouthpiece.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

'Yes, Kriminalobermeister?'

His face tightened as he listened to Maxine Bergmann. He gave a terse "Thank You," and replaced the handset. Stacey and Malachi Spelling waited expectantly.

Menke spoke.

'We won't be going back to the hotel. Treffen has just been spotted boarding the night express for Budapest. The Polizei just missed him. Do you have a car we can use? We need to get after him.'

Spelling nodded.

'Yes; but I can do better than that. Let me make a phone call or two.'

He pressed the bell push under the desk and Hirschell appeared. Picking up the phone; Spelling said,

'Jimmy; take Officer Menke and Agent Mckenna down to the kitchen and make them a decent cup of coffee.'

Hirschell nodded.

'Yes, Sir!'

And invited Menke and Stacey towards the door.

After savouring two cups of exceptional Viennese coffee; Jimmy Hirschell brought them back to Malachi Spelling's office. He met them at the door. He nodded to Hirschell who silently disappeared, and turned to Menke and Stacey.

'I've arranged for a helicopter to pick you up on the sports field of the Heeresgeschichtliches Arsenal across in the Landstrasse District. It's about six kilometres across the city to the south-east. Kriminalobermeister Bergmann is sending a patrol car to get you across there.'

He accompanied them down to the lobby entrance. The Polizei patrol car was waiting outside the gates of the Embassy. Spelling turned to Stacey.

'Just remember, Agent Mckenna; you're in the "Black." So when you start up what your people call "The ol' Fayettenam two-step" out there; be aware, you're flying free and all you'll have left to fall back on is your Diplomatic Passport. At the moment, I don't know what Tel Aviv's take is on this; but just stay sharp.'

Stacey nodded.

'Thank you, Sir. From here on in, I'll be going dark. Nice to have met you.'

As she and Menke walked out into Anton-Frank-Gasse; Stacey saw that the waiting Polizei car was the same anonymous black Opel Commodore that had brought them from Treffen's apartment block earlier that morning; and that it was again being driven by Maxine Bergmann. As they climbed into the rear seat, she turned to them.

'We missed him by less than five minutes, Richard. The express was out of the station by the time that we reached the platform. I'm afraid it's all down to you now.'

She turned back; engaged first gear, and accelerated away. As she reached the Währinger Gürtel ring, she switched on the flashing blue beacon and siren; swung right, and floored the accelerator pedal. Again, the ride was fast and loud; with the speedometer needle seemingly glued to the 130 K/mh mark as she blasted through the empty city streets. The ride through Aslergrund and Innere Stadt was a wet blur; pierced by the whirling, brilliant beam of blue light from the Polizei beacon splintering off the drenched streets and shadowy buildings.

Maxine Bergmann slowed as she came down Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, and crossed Weidener Gürtel into Arsenalstrasse. She switched off the siren and turned into Ghegastrasse, which ran across the frontage of the museum. Ahead; a young Wachtmeister waving a torch with a red lens, directed them into an open, grassed area opposite the museum building where an Aérospatiale Alouette helicopter in military colours was waiting with its rotors lazily turning as the turbine ticked over. Stacey smiled. The wind was coming off the Danube… straight up the jet pipe; and there was no way the pilot was about to shut down if he ever wanted to get her gas turbine running again. That was the problem with the Turbomeca turboshaft engines; get the compressor vanes rotating in the opposite direction and you didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of firing her up. That's why Stacey preferred the good ole', All-American Hueys. Maxine Bergmann slewed the Commodore to a halt and turned in the driving seat to look at them.

'They will fly you down to a little place named Nickelsdorf, just this side of the Hungarian border. There, you will pick up a car and drive across into Hungary. The border guards will be briefed to expect you and will give you no problems. Goodbye, and good luck.'

Menke and Stacey ran across to the waiting helicopter, clambered in, and strapped themselves into the seats in the rear cabin. The pilot raised his thumb; switched on the landing light, and twisted on power. He checked the instruments and pulled up on the collective. The Alouette gently lifted into a hover. He increased the revs and pushed forward on the cyclic; keeping her straight with the pedals until he achieved effective transitional lift, then clattered away out over the treetops and banked out in a graceful climbing turn to the right.

The flight took a little under twenty minutes before the pilot brought the Alouette down into a small meadow enclosed by trees and hedges, a little way off the main highway. The enclosure was out in the middle of nowhere, and the only building visible in the first, thin half-light of dawn was a low barn; in front of which, was parked a dark car that merged softly into the shadows. Stacey and Menke clambered out of the helicopter and ran for the barn as the pilot wound on power and lifted off; with the last glow of the fading moon momentarily glinting on the whirling rotor blades. The navigation light flicked out as the pilot pulled up slowly and firmly on the collective, and the rotor blades tilted and bit deeper into the air. More throttle, and the Alouette rose clatteringly into the sky, which was beginning to blush a pale vanilla, mother-of-pearl in the east. At about thirty metres, he gave her left pedal and pushed forward on the cyclic between his knees. The helicopter swung her nose around towards the north-west and, gathering height and speed, roared away back up the path of the swiftly waning moon.

A man stepped from the shadows of the barn. Menke paused. His hand was already inside his jacket; reaching for the Beretta.

The man spoke;

'Nephilim Rising… Shalom, Officer Menke. Let's go.'

Menke withdrew his hand.

'Budapest Station?'

The man nodded.

'Jacob Stendal. I am your case officer for "The Nimrod Manifesto"… but there have been developments. I'll brief you when we are across the border.'

Getting into the car, Menke asked Stendal if there would be any problem at the border. Hungary was, after all part of the Warsaw Pact, and Communist-controlled. The Austria-Hungary border was the front line of the Cold War, and would most likely be guarded with barbed wire, walls, guards, and dogs. Stendal shook his head.

'No. Arrangements have already been made. We should be OK on the run down to Bucharest. This car looks like an ordinary Polski Fiat; but under the hood there lurks a double-overhead-cam motor from a genuine Italian Fiat 125S. This means that, if necessary, the car can touch 160 k/mh... which is considerably better than any other Ladas that we might encounter; and they will only be police who might be curious about us. You have to remember that, following the 1956 Hungarian revolution, during which, at its outset, students from the Universities took to the streets, and a quarter of a million people from Budapest joined them. Members of the State Security Department... the Allamvedelmi Hatosag opened fire on the crowd, and killed several unarmed protesters. Largely due to the animosity the Hungarians felt towards the AVH, it was permanently disbanded a week after the shootings. Since then; Hungary has spent the ensuing period of the cold war as the only Warsaw pact country without an intelligence service. The only possible danger might be from the KGB; but this is very unlikely.'

He drove down the one and a quarter-kilometre track to the main highway; turned left and accelerated away east towards Nickelsdorf. The little town was only one kilometre further on, and the streets were deserted. Once through the town; in the distance they could see the glare from the arc lamps surrounding the border checkpoint; two kilometres father along the highway. Stendal switched on the interior light and glanced at his watch.

'We've got to get the timing spot-on for this. We are a little early; so I'll slow down. They'll be watching for our headlamps from the border.'

Easing off the accelerator, he brought the Polski Fiat down to cruising speed for the last eight-hundred-metres as they approached the ugly, cold-grey-concrete canopy of the Austrian-Hungarian border crossing checkpoint at Hegyeshalom. Two bored-looking Hungarian customs officers in their brown uniforms and green-banded peaked caps sat in their little cabin and watched the Polski Fiat approach. One scowling guard indolently sauntered out as Stendal brought the car to a halt at the closed red-and-white-striped road barrier with a large red disc in the centre of the pole bearing the word "Halt" in white capital letters. The remainder of the highway was blocked with more barriers, which consisted of barbed-wire-wrapped metal poles supported by twin trestles. The other guard came out of the cabin and moved across to take up a position next to the red and white boundary pillar with his Kalashnikov machine-carbine across his chest.

The first guard indicated that Stendal should wind down the door window; and snapped his fingers authoritatively. Glancing into the back of the car he curtly demanded;

'Passports and Visas, please.'

Stacey glanced at him. He was the archetypal border guard as portrayed in Hollywood spy movies… surly and humourless… with a frosty, unfriendly, and suspicious attitude; whose sole purpose in life appeared to be to intimidate and detain anyone he thought was impertinent enough to disrespect him. As they reached for their documents, the flashing blue beacon of a police car coming up fast from the direction of Hegyeshalom town made the two border guards turn and stare down the road at the oncoming vehicle. The police car slewed to a halt, and a large Hungarian policeman jumped out. His collar tabs denoted the rank of Rendőr Őrnagy... a Police Major. He yelled out to the border guard;

'Stand Fast!'

Hurrying up to the startled guard he spoke quickly, and authoritatively. Stacey caught the words "Diplomaták" and "Belügyminiszteri"... "Ministry of the Interior." The Police Major waved his hand at the road barrier pole.

'Open the barrier... Now!'

The guard saluted the Police Major and stepped forward to push down the large counterweight on the end of the red-and-white-striped pole which slowly swung skywards to allow them through. Stendal drove through and stopped alongside the Police Lada. The Police Major leaned into the Polski Fiat through the front passenger window; glanced at Stacey and Menke; and spoke to Stendal.

'I am Tamás Berényi; stationed at the Rendőrség… The National police headquarters located in Budapest, 13th District. I am to escort you there; but we have a problem. Your fugitive, Treffen is dead. He was intercepted and stopped at the rail border-crossing at Bruckneudorf. Apparently, he bluffed through the Austrian border authorities, but was caught out by the Hungarian control authorities… but not before he had made contact with an accomplice.'

He shrugged, and with an exasperated tone in his voice, continued:

'This man has been identified as a known Neo-fascist. His name is Bernát Kóbor. He is the son of one of the AVH murderers… Dőmőtőr Kóbor; who was executed during the '56 uprising. The father had been in the Communist Secret Police, but was originally with the notorious Nazi-affiliated Arrow Cross Party in the waning days of World War Two. These murderous bastards had done their best to exterminate what was left of Budapest's Jews after the Nazis withdrew from the city in late '44. They killed Jews one-by-one in the streets, as they found them, and were known to tie several victims together, shoot one of them, and throw him into the freezing Danube… dragging the others in as well. When the Russians approached during the Siege of Budapest; Dőmőtőr Kóbor saw which way the wind was blowing and changed sides. He became one of the torturers in the cellars of the AVH secret police Headquarters on Andrassy Avenue; and that's where he was killed by the Dudás militia… who themselves were seen as being right-wing. So on the face of it, Dőmőtőr Kobor's demise was quite poetic.'

Menke spoke up.

'So, what about this Bernát Kóbor? Where is he now?'

Police Major Tamás Berényi shrugged again.

'All I know for now, is that Treffen tried to run when he was discovered. A young control officer ordered him to halt, the regulation number of times. On the last command, Treffen turned and fired a shot at the officer, hitting him in the shoulder. The young officer returned fire… fortunately… or unfortunately; depending on how you want to look at it; he was armed with a machine carbine that was set on full automatic. Treffen didn't stand a chance. Kóbor managed to evade the officers and might well have managed to get back on the train during the confusion. Our Bureau of Investigation and local police forces are keeping watch on all the stations and halts; but I'll know more when we get to Headquarters.'

Stendal sighed.

'Well, no blame on the Rendőrség… but it’s a bit of a balls-up all round.'

Major Berényi nodded.

'I agree, but, don't worry; we'll get the bastard.'

Menke spoke again,

'What's your interest in this? This is an Austrian problem.'

Tamás Berényi turned back to him.

'It's personal, as far as these Neofascist scum are concerned. I was born in the Zsidónegyed Ghetto that the Nazis built in the Budapest Jewish Quarter. The Arrow Cross militiamen caught my father trying to get medicine from outside the Ghetto for me when I was very young and sick with Chickenpox. They beat him to death in Klauzal Square and left him there to rot. My mother hid me away with friends; but they deported her to Auschwitz-Birkenau. She survived because she was young and healthy; and was put to work in the "Kanada" warehouse where the collected belongings of the trainloads of arriving Jews who had been stripped of all that they possessed were stored. These possessions were sorted out and transported back to Germany.

She never came home. Later, I discovered that she had been beaten to death for trying to smuggle valuables to bribe the kapos or guards. Getting rid of this piece of shit helps in some small part to balance the scales.'

Menke nodded.

'I understand you; but this is our job. It's not just another Neo-Nazi hunt. The outcome of this could have catastrophic effects for us all if this man succeeds. We appreciate your cooperation but please leave it to us. Remember what Confucius is supposed to have said: "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." We get a pay check for putting ourselves on the line.'

Tamás Berényi studied him acutely; then nodded.

'We'll see. Now, let's get going. We've a hundred and sixty kilometres to drive and not much time in which to do it.'

He hurried across to the Police Lada, and jumped in. Banging it into gear he took off with scrabbling, squealing tyres, out onto Highway One, as Stendal weaved through the barriers and followed him out to the empty highway. On the other side of the border, the main Budapest Highway One was one-lane, and of questionable surface quality... even now; thirteen years after the Hungarian uprising; in places, the asphalt was still scarred by traces of tank tracks. Out to the right; extensive ground clearing and earth-moving was being undertaken. It appeared that major highway construction was taking place; judging by the number of bulldozers and excavators lying dormant in the early-morning fields. The two-and-a half-kilometres drive into Hegyeshalom was rough and bouncing, across the scoured road surface... not improved by sections of worn cobbles sprinkled haphazardly along seemingly random lengths of the main road through the town. The place seemed to consist almost entirely of single-storey houses lining the main highway...and there was hardly anyone around.

Once beyond the town limits Berényi put his foot down and pushed the Police Lada up to ninety K/mh… no mean feat on these sorts of roads; albeit, there were no other vehicles about. Even with the hotted-up Polski Fiat, Jacob Stendal was working hard to keep up with him. They might have put a powerful motor in the car… but the suspension was struggling to keep the car stable over the rutted road surface. The seven-kilometre run down into Mosonmagyaróvár… the next sizeable town on the route that Berényi was taking was certainly an experience; as Stacey and Menke clung onto the Polski Fiat's rear passenger seat grab handles whilst the car squirmed and swayed alarmingly.

Mosonmagyaróvár was another uninspiring town; larger… but with the same drab, single-storey houses lining the road. Slightly less uninspiring was the attention that the flying Police car and its unmarked companion achieved from several military patrols. No one stopped them… Berényi's flashing blue light and siren saw to that; but the ominous presence of heavily-armed Soviet troops suspiciously scrutinising the two passing cars was, to say the least… disconcerting. Menke grinned.

'I wonder what their reaction would be if they realised just who we were?'

Stacey gave him an admonishing stare.

'Don't even think about it!'