Chapter Seven.

It was a fine morning for June; slightly cloudy, but no real chance of rain as "Makebet" strolled down to the corner of Liechtensteinstrasse and Alserbachstrasse to get a copy of the Wiener Zeitung newspaper from the news stand at the corner of Boltzmanngasse. Glancing at the headlines, he crossed Alserbachstrasse, and strolled across the wide pavement towards Pfluggasse, and the little coffee shop where he would meet with the Kameraden… if they were there; and learn of the latest arrangements for the Aktionsbüro. It was the preferred method of passing news to the members… there were no telephone calls that could be tapped by the Police or the security forces. It was all carried out by recognition and word of mouth.

Rolf Haider sat at a table in the corner, nursing a Schwarzer Kaffee; seemingly relaxed, but with his eyes sweeping the coffee shop… the pavement outside; the wide street for anything suspicious. He glanced up as Makebet entered and walking to the counter, ordered a Milchkaffee; then turned and came across to the table. They shook hands, using the subtle special handshake of the Aktionsbüro. Haider invited him to sit and said,

'Hi Bernie. The weather looks good today.'

Bernie Eigner… for that was Makebet's real name… as far as the Aktionsbüro was concerned; nodded.

'Yeah; heard anything about when the semi-final match is taking place?'

Haider nodded.

'Yeah, tomorrow night. Afterwards we're having a booze-up at the Wiedenbräukeller; and there are a couple of special guests coming to help the party along...'

He glanced up and abruptly stopped talking as the pretty young waitress approached with Eigner's Milchkaffee. She placed it in front of Eigner with a bright smile and returned to the serving counter. Haider continued.

'Yes, we need to really be on top form tomorrow night. One of the special guests is the moneyman from Wuppertal. The other is one of the few honoured Alte Kämpfer…old fighters, still left.'

Haider's enigmatic statement about "semi-final match" meant that the information on the "Plumbat" conspiracy had been received from Antwerp.

Bernie Eigner nodded enthusiastically.

'Well, Rolf; I'm free tomorrow. If you like I can go in early and start getting the place into parade order.'

Haider gave him an approving smile.

'That would be much appreciated. We do want to make a good impression, and demonstrate to our visitors that we are not just another bunch of rowdies. What sort of time would you intend to be getting there?'

Bernie hesitated.

'I suppose the meeting will be at the usual time?'

Haider nodded.

Bernie glanced at his watch.

'I suppose at least two, or three hours will be needed to do it properly. Say around four-thirty to five?'

Haider nodded in agreement.

'That sounds OK. I will tell Manfred to expect you.'

He finished his Schwarzer Kaffee and stood up.

'I'll see you tonight then, Bernie. "Servus!"

Bernie Eigner shook the outstretched hand.

'Tschüss, Rolf!'

Back in his tenement room, Bernie Eigner opened the package that had been delivered to him by the pretty little Viennese girl he knew only as "Chaim." He knew her as a secretary at the Israeli Embassy across on Anton-Frank-Gasse in the Währing district of the city; about two kilometres to the North West. There was no way of telling if she was just a secretary at the Embassy, or whether she was actually one of Richard Menke's people. It didn't really matter; he now possessed the means to hopefully dispose of the Aktionsbüro.

From the plain cardboard box, he withdrew a tubular parcel with a printed sticker attached, which read:

Water Purification Unit.

Belco Industrial Equipment Divn.

Paterson 3.

New Jersey. USA.

He carefully unwrapped the stiff brown paper and inner tissue paper wrapping; and studied the item. It was a black cylinder; about twenty centimetres long, by ten centimetres in diameter; with a hole bored down its length. It was made of a charcoal-like substance; not smooth; but riddled with tiny pores. He picked up a length of old, wrought-iron gas pipe that he had removed from one of the abandoned rooms in the tenement block and checked the outer diameter of the pipe against the hole down the middle of the black cylinder. It was slightly larger. The hole in the cylinder would need to be slightly opened up for a snug fit; but that wouldn't be too much of a problem.

Placing the pipe and cylinder carefully to one side he lifted a small flask of a clear liquid from the box. Unscrewing the cap, he took a tentative sniff. It smelled just like alcohol. The nearest, similar smell would be Polish or Russian Vodka. Bernie hadn't known quite what to expect from Menke; but this was going to be easy. Cut the black cylinder into halves, lengthwise; wrap it around the cuts in the gas pipe… after turning off the gas, of course!... secure the two halves of the cylinder with electrical tape, and douse the whole thing with the contents of the flask. Then, all he needed to do was turn the gas back on and walk away.

The next afternoon, Bernie strolled up Rotenturmstrasse and caught the four-o'clock Stadtbahn train from Schwedenplatz. The journey north to the Heiligenstadt Bahnhof took a little under twenty minutes, and after a short walk up Eisenbahnstrasse, he arrived outside the Wiedenbräukeller. In his duffle bag, he carried cleaning materials; beneath which, were concealed the black cylinder, the flask of liquid; a miniature hacksaw, and a roll of electrical insulating tape. He turned off the street and descended the three steps to the entrance of the Wiedenbräukeller. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door. He heard the sound of bolts being drawn and the door opened, and the Innkeeper peered out.

Manfred Renner looked, to all intents and purposes like your archetypal jovial "Gastwirt"… Innkeeper…that is; until you looked a little closer. The first impression was of an iron-grey, Prussian haircut above a florid, jowly face. However; upon closer inspection it would be seen that his mouth was a thin mauve line, almost lipless and puckered. His left eye was fixed in a sightless, glassy stare, and his left hand was withered and claw-like. Renner's rosy complexion was not obtained from good living bonhomie; more, it was the result of burning gasoline from the funeral pyre of his panther tank in the Normandie Villers-Bocage, when he'd left half his face behind as the only survivor to crawl out of the side hatch of what had become a burning coffin for the rest of his crew.

One might also think at first that he was just a bit ungainly in his manner of walking; but this was down to the tin leg he creaked around on… another souvenir from the Villers-Bocage in June 1944. His face lit up in the best attempt at a smile that he could manage.

'Hello, Bernie; Rolf told me you'd be round to set up the room. We're using the room upstairs for the meeting tonight. Just go on up; I'm down in the cellar cleaning the lines and venting the new casks. Call down if you need anything.'

Bernie made his way up to the meeting room. Looking around; he noticed that the gas pipe for the stove behind the bar that they used to warm up the various sausage dishes served with the beer ran along the skirting. Probably, the best place to cut the pipe would be around there behind the bar. They wouldn't begin cooking until after the initial cigar-lighting ceremony, so, a fair amount of gas would have accumulated and there would be no chance that the stove would be lit before the ritual cigar lighting had taken place. Coal gas was at least fifty-per-cent hydrogen, and would rise, seeing as how it was lighter than air. The alcohol-soaked carbon filter would absorb the sulphurous, rotten-eggy smell of the gas; and, if the explosion didn't get them all, there was always the carbon monoxide… which would make them a little dopey anyway; and hamper them from escaping the resultant fire.

Bernie smiled to himself… curtains for the Kameraden! He pulled out the false panel beside the stove and exposed the gas pipe. He grinned. How obliging of them! They'd even installed a stop tap in the gas pipe far enough away for him to isolate the supply before he made the cuts. Taking out his miniature hacksaw, he made two parallel cuts in the wrought-iron pipe about five centimetres away from the stop tap. He carefully removed the cylindrical carbon filter and separated the two halves that he had cut earlier. Placing them around the pipe, he secured them with strips of the electrical insulating tape. He then unscrewed the cap on the little flask and carefully poured its contents over the length of the filter, being careful not to spill any of the alcohol on the floor. With the flask empty, he checked for drips beneath the filter. There were none. The pores in the carbon body had absorbed the entire contents of the flask. He smiled again. These Israeli spooks were damned clever!

Sliding the panel back into place, he slipped the miniature hacksaw and roll of tape back into his duffle bag. He would switch the gas stop tap back on after he had prepared the meeting room. Moving to the sink, he washed out the flask thoroughly, and refilled it with schnapps from a bottle behind the bar. If Manfred Renner appeared, he could always say the flask was a snifter that he had brought, and would the Innkeeper care for a drop?

He glanced at his watch; a-quarter-to-five. The preparation of the room would take him an hour or so; he would switch on the lights before he switched the gas back on. This would prevent any possible spark from the switchgear blowing the place up prematurely; and would allow the gas leak to reach a critical level… according to what Bernie had read; this was about nine percent… not a lot!... and seeing as how the gas would rise… when it ignited; the initial flash-over might well incinerate the bastards where they sat… even before the shock wave tore them to pieces. Nodding to himself, he began to set out the tables and bring up the Swastika banners and all the rest of the paraphernalia from the chamber downstairs to decorate the walls of the upstairs room.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Menke brought the Mercedes sports to a halt at the gates of the American Embassy at Boltzmanngasse 16. A Marine Security Guard approached and asked their business. Stacey produced her identification card. The guard saluted.

'Yes Ma'am…'

He pointed to Menke.

'And what is your business, Sir?'

Menke produced his Mossad identity card. The guard studied it and visibly stiffened.

'Yes Sir; go ahead, Sir,'

He stepped back and pressed a bell push. With a thin whine, the gates slowly swung open, and Menke drove into the parking lot at the rear of the impressive, white, five-storey Baroque building. Entering the building; their passes were checked again by large Marine Security Guard Gunnery Sergeant. His ice-pick eyes scrutinised them; then he spoke to Stacey.

'Yes, Ma'am? How may I help you?'

She looked him straight in the eye and said;

'We wish to see The Cultural Attaché concerning Mission Directive, Priority A.'

"The Cultural Attaché" was the CIA Station Chief. The CIA Station Vienna occupied a large portion of the fourth floor of the Embassy. The Gunnery sergeant didn't even flicker.

'One moment, Ma'am. I'll notify them that you're here.'

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. Tersely, he spoke into the mouthpiece:

'Two accredited visitors for The Cultural Attaché… yes, Sir; Mission Directive, Priority A... right away, Sir.'

He replaced the handset and pointed to the elevator opposite his desk.

'Fourth floor, Ma'am. There will be someone to meet you.'

The elevator whispered to a halt and 'dinged' cheerfully as the doors slid open to reveal a young man waiting for them. As Stacey and Menke stepped out into the anonymous white hallway, he introduced himself.

'Good morning, I am Grant Covington; Assistant Cultural Attaché. Please follow me.'

Stacey smiled quietly. "Assistant Cultural Attaché" indeed! To her knowing eye, Grant Covington was a CIA operative with diplomatic cover. The black-covered Diplomatic passport cloaked a multitude of sins. The mere production of it was enough to wrong-foot most authorities. No one with any sense at all wanted to create a Diplomatic incident with the good ol' U.S. of A.

If he was ever challenged that he worked for the CIA, he would deny it, and even if he wasn't an operative, he’d still deny it. It was standard tradecraft procedure to use deflection techniques to distract anyone from even thinking along those lines. He led them along a long, impersonal corridor, at the end of which, there was another door from behind which, came muted sounds of phones ringing, people talking, the teletype terminals beating out their messages; and the steady rattle and clack of the cypher machines.

A large Marine Security Guard Master Sergeant sitting in a chair outside the door watched them approach with dispassionate eyes. Grant Covington stopped at a door halfway along the left side of the corridor and knocked. The door to the office was made of polished mahogany, with the legend: "Cultural Attaché" engraved on a polished brass plaque attached to it. To the left of the door, in the wall, was a metal plate with two small lamps… one red, the other green. The green lamp illuminated and was followed by the decisive click of an electrical lock operating.

Covington opened the door and ushered them inside. He remained in the corridor and closed the door behind them. They found themselves standing in an "L"-shaped office with a high ceiling and some expensive leather furniture. The walls were painted a pleasant shade of pastel blue, upon which were hung several framed maps of the United States and Europe. Across a deep-pile, dove-grey carpet was a desk with a dark leather top. The desk had very little on it except a square of felt, upon which rested a chromium writing set. An ivory-coloured telephone was placed on the right-hand side of the desk, along with various stationery items, and a wire basket containing several buff-coloured folders.

Behind the desk sat an imposing man in a business suit. He was a big, handsome man, aged about forty-five. His shortish dark brown hair was turning silver at the temples, and his large, long face was sunburned. His grey-blue eyes studied the newcomers from above an almost classically straight nose and a clean-cut square jaw that had been meticulously shaved. Behind him, in the corner to the left was placed an artistically draped Stars and Stripes flag; and, and in the corner to the right, a similarly artistically draped, gold-fringed, blue flag bearing the CIA seal. He motioned them to sit, and lifted a teletype printout from the wire tray on his desk. He studied it and then spoke with a soft, mid-west accent.

'Agent Mckenna; Officer Menke; welcome to Vienna…'

He tapped the printout.

'Pursuant to this signal, I am instructed to provide you with backstopping and status cover for this operation. As of now; the operation has been upgraded to a covert action program with full need-to-know restrictions.'

He dropped the printout on the desk and studied her.

'I am not included in the need to know; so anything you can give me to help with my instructions would be helpful… otherwise, I am flying blind.'

Stacey glanced at Menke. He nodded imperceptibly. She turned back to the Chief of Staff.

'Officer Menke and I are infiltrating a major Neo-Nazi organisation in the city in a combined operation between The Agency and the Israeli Intelligence Service. We have discovered that they have obtained information concerning the "Operation Plumbat" affair; and intend to disclose it to one or more of the radical Arab Nations, and possibly, the Russians. If they succeed, we all know what the consequences for Israel are likely to be.'

She studied the Chief of Staff and continued:

'They intend to send a Kommando into Israel with orders to destroy any such material they find, and to notify their Arab neighbours of Israel's "malignant aspirations." One of Officer Menke's assets has infiltrated their organisation, and intends to neutralise them with "Executive Action." This will take place tonight at a Bierkeller in Döbling. I am telling you this in order that you can ensure that none of our people are anywhere near that area tonight, which will ensure that the Station can resort to plausible deniablity.'

Chief of Staff stared at her.

'You mean to take out the entire group? There's gonna be hell to pay from the Polizei over this.'

Menke smiled softly.

'Not so, Sir. It will be made to look like an unfortunate accident… possibly, a gas explosion.'

Chief of Staff gasped.

'A gas explosion? You are going to blow up an entire Bierkeller? Just who the hell are you, Officer Menke?... Mossad?... Shin Bet?... or some other crazy hit squad?'

Menke smiled.

'Better that you don't know, Sir. Let's just say that this operation is sanctioned by the highest Authorities in both our countries.'

Stacey nodded.

'That's true, Chief; and we don't need any backstopping or cover for status. We already have cast-iron legends with these thugs. This meeting is just to bring you up to date with what will happen tonight.'

Bernie Eigner glanced at his wristwatch. Five minutes to eight. The Aktionsbüro Bamberg's entire rabble would be swaggering through the door any time now. The gas lines had been prepared; the gas was switched on, and, for almost two hours, had been slowly escaping into the room. There was a slight, musty smell; but no more than one would normally expect from the original wartime flags and banners that draped the walls. The special ceremonial box of cigars and the Viennese cut-glass crystal vase containing the long wooden spills with which to light them were laid out, according to the rigid protocol, on the top table; the remaining tables were set; and his escape plan was in order. The first arrival was Rolf Haider. As he entered the upper room, he glanced around.

'Nice job, Bernie…'

He paused.

'What's that musty smell?'

Bernie waved at the walls.

'It's those old flags and banners. We really should get someone to wash them.'

Rolf Haider grinned.

'Fat chance! You know how the old farts get a hard-on over what they call "The Redolence of Battle" that comes from them!'

Bernie grunted.

'Yeah! Well don't moan at me about the fucking smell, then!'

They were interrupted by the rest of the Neo-Nazis trooping into the room. When the lower orders were seated; the door opened and the old men of the top table arrived. Oberst-Gruppenführer Schwarz cast a cold gaze around the room and spoke.

'Tonight, we have two honoured guests attending to share in our success in receiving the information that will lead to the destruction of the Judenschwein Homeland.'

He turned and came to attention as the door opened, and two men entered. One was a meticulously-suited, sleek vision of urbanity. He was introduced as being Doktor Philipp Reinstadler; a lawyer from Wuppertal… obviously the money man from the Stille Hilfe organisation. The second man was much older; with iron-grey hair and an arrogant, strutting bearing. His mouth was a thin line in his hard-lined face made unsightly by a duelling scar. His pale blue eyes dominated his brutal face… ice-cold eyes that sucked your stomach out if their gaze fell on you. They were the eyes of a cobra. Oberst-Gruppenführer Schwarz called the meeting to order.'

'Comrades; I am honoured to introduce to you one of our revered Alte Kämpfer... SS-Oberscharführer Gustav Eisenhöfer; former administrator of the Konzentrationslager Directorate. We are honoured with his presence here tonight.'

Bernie froze at mention of the name. This was the sadistic bastard that had killed his father. His eyes locked on the old man at the top table… and Bernie made a decision. This would be a kind of reparation, bringing justice to those countless victims who had no redress. This was his chance to avenge his father. It was a thing that could not be let go; never… for the dead, and for the living. For if the world should ever forget what these evil old men had done… then someday, it would happen again.

The cigars were being passed. Bernie Eigner stepped forward and drew a spill from the crystal vase on the top table. The old men fixed their gaze upon him expectantly. Even though he was not particularly religious; in reverence to his father's beliefs, Bernie silently recited the Kaddish as he struck a match to light the taper.

The explosion rattled most of the windows in the run-down quarter of the northern district, Döbling; and was heard over five kilometres away in Vienna's city centre. When the Vienna fire department arrived, all that remained of the Wiedenbräukeller was a twisted, half-collapsed confusion of rubble, billowing dark smoke, tinged orange by the ocean of leaping flames; throwing into sharp, bizarre relief, three teetering chimney stacks pointing accusingly at the twilight sky. Eisenbahnstrasse became quickly clogged with fire appliances; their blue flashing beacons throwing eerie flickers across the nearby buildings. Hauptfeuerwache Döbling… the nearest station, had dispatched their two pump vehicles, and the Alsergrund fire station had sent three pumps and a turntable ladder escape. This distant howl of sirens echoing across the city heralded the imminent arrival of more vehicles from stations further into the city.

Brandmeister Willi Rauffenburg; Chief Fire officer at the Hauptfeuerwache Döbling station, surveyed the scene of utter desolation His men were doing their best; but the remaining standing brick façade was already blackened and weakened in places, and the structure was already dripping water-soaked mortar; threatening to collapse the unsteady fabric of the shattered Wiedenbräukeller. The hoses pounded the building, but the flames kept jumping up, like orange tongues lapping at the water. His main concern was the flaring gas main. The city utility company should have shut it down by now. He wanted to get his men inside to search for possible survivors. It was a pretty thin hope… the whole site was scattered with broken, blackened, bloody bodies… and parts of bodies.

Inside, amongst the flames he could make out more bodies, still on fire, and blackening slowly… like a roast too long in the oven. The flames bubbled and sizzled, with a sound like meat burning on a spit. Shreds and pieces of charring cloth lay scattered across the asphalt… red, black and white… one scrap with a swastika still evident. Other bits of Nazi regalia were strewn about; kicked out of the way and ignored by his men struggling with the high pressure hoses. Willi Rauffenburg pushed his helmet back from his smoke blackened face, and, although he knew full well that, in his position of authority, he shouldn't even think of it; he had to force himself not to smile.

He was a thirty-year man. He remembered how, as a young volunteer fireman in November 1938; he had been ordered to do nothing as the members of the Nazi party and its various paramilitary organizations… including the SA and the SS; were joined by civilians, emboldened by the lack of police interventions, to form "spontaneous" mobs that torched most of the city's synagogues and small prayer houses during the notorious and brutal Vienna Kristallnacht pogrom of the 9th and 10th of November. He and his fellow firemen had been only permitted to intervene when the blaze threatened neighbouring, non-Jewish-owned buildings. Twenty-seven Viennese Jews had been murdered on the streets in the course of the pogrom.

As the war progressed, he had fought countless fires and lost many comrades as a result of the fifty-plus raids by American bomber formations. The Allied occupation after the war had been better… other than the immediate post-war Russian occupation; which lasted until 1955. After that; things had settled down.

Willi Rauffenburg kicked a single, battered, and scorched large metal SS Sigrune out of the way and nodded. After everything these bastard Nazis… both German and home-grown… had done to his country… the killings and forced labour of the Jewish population, and the destruction of so much of the city; this seemed like true poetic justice that had befallen these Neo-Nazi scum. Stepping over yet another still-smouldering, charred corpse, Willi Rauffenburg took a deep breath… time to act like the Brandmeister that he was.

He shouted across to his fire crew to step up the water pressure as the bottles of spirits began to explode in the cellar; but still, he couldn't rid himself of the unsettling, guilty sense of secret schadenfreude… the pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others… especially these others. That was probably because Willi Rauffenburg; the respected Brandmeister of Hauptfeuerwache Döbling was Jewish.