Chapter Six.

The car, parked up a little way down the adjoining street was a very fast, pagoda-top, fuel-injected Mercedes 230SL sport with Austrian Licence plates. It was the last thing they would look for, if they had already found Treffen and were coming after her. Settling her in the passenger seat, Menke climbed in and fired up the straight-six motor, slipped the stick shift into gear and accelerated away towards the centre of Vienna. As they drove down into the Aslergrund district, Stacey turned to Menke.

'Richard; my German is good, but what was that word you called him?... Schluchten…?'

Menke grinned.

'Just a little something to convince him that we are indeed who we're supposed to be. Real Germans often refer to the Austrians and the Swiss as "Schluchtenscheisser." Roughly translated, it means "Someone who shits in gorges." It's very offensive to them and not something that's taught in language schools!'

Menke swung the Mercedes to the left off Nussdorfer Strasse into Alserbachstrasse, and drove towards the Friedensbrück Stadtbahn station. As he pulled into the parking area, he glanced at Stacey.

'We'll leave the car here and take the Stadtbahn. It's possible that one of those thugs may have seen us driving away.'

She nodded.

'Good idea, Richard; I wouldn't trust those assholes any further than I could throw them!'

He grinned;

'Well, from the way you flattened that little shit; I don't think having to throw them even comes into it!'

At the ticket window of the station; Menke bought two tickets to the Stadtpark station. From there it would only be a ten minute walk to the Hotel Sacher where Menke had booked them in earlier in the day. Menke had booked adjoining rooms on the third floor. In fact, these "rooms" could be better described as suites. Stacey's comprised an elegant bedroom, and a stylish living room/parlour with polished parquet flooring, comfortable, brocade-upholstered armchairs and sofa; an impressive, William IV-style marble fireplace, and turn-of-the-Century-style side, and coffee tables The walls were hung with impressive framed oil paintings, and a magnificent crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. The ceilings were high... at least three metres, with an elaborate plaster cornice.

The bedroom contained an enormous double bed, salon chairs, and another occasional table. The adjoining bathroom/toilet was finished in white marble, mirrors; a large bathtub, twin basins with gold taps. It must have cost a fortune. In the bedroom; one wall was taken up by fitted wardrobes. Stacey slid one of the doors open and discovered it full of clothes. All were in her size. Menke must have arranged this. He probably noted her sizes from her clothing after he had undressed her and put her to bed at the safe house in the Forest Vorst area to the south of Vienna's city centre. She chose a pretty little feminine dress and changed out of her intimidatory Neo-Nazi costume.

As she was fixing her make-up, there was a knock on the door. Opening it, she saw Menke standing there with the little notebook in his hand. He had a grim expression. Stepping into her room, he closed the door and waved the notebook he had taken from Treffen.

'This makes very disturbing reading. The Kameradschaften are expanding their influence far beyond what we took account of. It seems that those old men on the top table at the meeting were the council of Kameradschaft Kaltenbrunner, based in Wuppertal. The old Oberst-Gruppenführer is none other than Franz Xaver Schwarz. He was the Nazi Party's treasurer and administrator; and was reported to have died in an Allied internment camp near Regensburg in December 1947. He was posthumously classified by the Munich de-Nazification court as a "Major offender" but the case was closed seeing as how everyone thought he was dead. The hatred of Jews is an ancient theme, an old song dragged out by the old-time Nazis to infect the new generation as surely as Hitler and his scum did in the twenties and thirties.

The reason that these Neo-Nazis believe in many of the corrupt doctrines that the original Nazi party was founded on is that nobody ever chose to look at them in detail. They simply peddled them out to dazzle young people eager to hear that Germans were not, in fact, guilty of the greatest crimes against humanity recorded in history. These thugs have been indoctrinated to believe that Jews are an evil force that controls the world. It would appear that these groups have hidden weapons caches across Germany and Austria. What is more disturbing is the indication in here...'

He waved the notebook.

'That a new breed of the bastards is rising. They are called "Kravattennazis," literally "Tie Nazis," as opposed to the traditional "Stiefelnazis," or "Boot Nazis"... those who were in that Bierkeller tonight. What it means is that they are organized and sensible, with their eyes firmly set on controlling the machinery of the State rather than destroying it. They are policemen and bankers rather than students and workers; and no longer come from the underprivileged and marginalized; but from the middle class. Worse than that; there are hundreds of Nazis still living in Austria with false papers; and even the Federal Intelligence Services are riddled with them.'

Stacey stared at him.

'So that means that we cannot trust any officials here?'

Menke nodded.

'Correct. But it's even worse than that. We can only trust the resident squad we have here… and there are only five of them. It means that we cannot trust the Austrian Police, or their Intelligence service. We are on our own.'

Stacey was puzzled.

'This is probably all important intelligence for your people; but what bearing has it on the assignment?'

Menke flipped the notebook open to a certain page and began reading…

"In pursuance of the research activity into the Jew conspiracy known as "Plumbat"; it has been agreed that resourcing will be undertaken by the "Stille Hilfe" organisation central funding department. This will include all necessary expenditure disbursed in the course of acquisition of intelligence; transmission of intelligence, and the elimination of the implicated traitors to the Fatherland."

Stacey studied him.

'I see; but what is this Stille Hilfe organisation?'

Menke's expression was grimly serious.

'It all goes back to the Nazi war criminals. The general belief is that the supposed organisation known as Odessa spirited them away. The records do show that there was something called Odessa, but it appeared to start as little more than a watchword, and would become a term loosely ascribed to the group that took fugitives from Germany and Austria down to Rome and Genoa, and from there to Spain and Argentina. American Military Intelligence discovered that an underground organization at an SS internment camp in Auerbach actually existed. It was not called Odessa, but the word was employed as a codeword in order to gain special food privileges and special food consideration from the Red Cross in Augsburg. The real work was done after the war by countless organizations that assisted escaping Nazis. Some of these groups had names… "Konsul," "Scharnhorst," "Leibwache," and "Lustige Brüder"… to name but a few. Many more had no name at all.

"Stille Hilfe" - or "Silent Aid" - has existed since 1951, helping accused Nazi war criminals find refuge, avoid extradition, get a lawyer, or pay for an old age home. Its figurehead is Gudrun Burwitz, the only daughter of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, and she is as much of a Jew-hater as her father ever was. The old Nazi's world is fading, but for those still running from justice, someone is out there to help them. Gudrun Burwitz lives in Munich. She is on Mossad's watch list, but is virtually untouchable due to the fact that nothing can be proven, and, she has her own Praetorian Guard of street thugs. She has the worship of the followers of Nazi ideas. The fact that the blood of Himmler flows in her veins makes her almost a Goddess in the eyes of the members of Stille Hilfe.

Their full title is: 'Die Stille Hilfe für Kriegsgefangene und Internierte'... 'Silent assistance for prisoners of war and interned persons'; and was thought to be purely a relief organisation for arrested, condemned, and fugitive SS members. This notebook changes our whole understanding of their objectives. We suspect that the organisation possesses a huge cash reserve from the disposal of Nazi plunder.'

Stacey bit her lip.

'OK. So we're really going to have to get cute from here on in?'

Menke nodded.

'I'm afraid so. Suddenly, this has become extremely dangerous. We are dealing with a whole new can of worms here; and any thoughts of getting any help from Walner and his Counterintelligence Service have just evaporated.'

Stacey gave him a quizzical stare.

'How so?'

Menke sighed.

'Austria is always being treated as victim of Nazi-ism rather than an active, willing, and creative participant. Austria was deemed an occupied nation, the first victim of Nazi aggression because of the Anschluss in 1938, which it was most certainly not. Because of this; after the War, Austrian Nazis were not put under the microscope in the way that the German Nazis were. This has allowed War criminals to hide in a relatively safe Austria. Their memory is so short that they have forgotten the ignominy that Hitler imposed on Vienna by even erasing the very name Austria and changing it to Ostmark from Österreich. Like I said before; Austria was, and always will be the cradle of Nazi-ism.'

He closed the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked at her steadily.

'It also contains information concerning the whereabouts of many fugitive Nazis… mainly in South America. This little book is a goldmine. I must relay its contents to Tel Aviv; but first, let's have something to eat.'

She regarded him with a similar steady stare.

'And how do you propose to get a secure long-distance connection?... seeing as we consider Austrian officialdom to be untrustworthy; and you'd have to route through an international exchange. Perhaps, we should go through Diplomatic channels at the American Embassy.'

Menke smiled.

'So you think your Chief of Station wouldn't want to get involved? Or at the very least, notify Langley of our finding?'

She sniffed.

'Dammit, Richard; we are working on the same side…'

He nodded.

'True; but is he? We know that Washington isn't too keen on letting Israel develop a nuclear deterrent.'

She gave him another steady look.

'That's as may be; but the Director assigned me to liaise with your people, and will have certainly have signalled him about it.'

Menke nodded resignedly.

'Yes; but the last thing we need are Uncle Sam's spooks stomping all over us, and doing John Wayne impressions all over Vienna. We need to stay deep undercover; especially now that we know that these Sieg Heil boys have almost unlimited capital at their disposal.'

He smiled.

'But all that's for later. Now, let's go and eat.'

They ate in the spectacular hotel Dining room… a place with crystal chandeliers, thick linen napkins and heavy silver cutlery, where the waiters lined up behind them and whipped the covers from their plates like a troupe of conjurers performing a sleight of hand trick. The menu was also spectacular. They both chose Wiener Erdäpfelsuppe... Viennese potato soup; followed by the main course…Tafelspitz… a large slice of boiled beef with served with roasted slices of potato, and a combination of minced apples and sour cream mixed with horseradish. To Stacey, it was very reminiscent of what was known in America as a Santa Maria steak.

Menke had ordered a '67, dryish, white Weissburgunder wine as a perfect accompaniment to the food. For dessert, he chose Apfelstrudel. Stacey decided to be very girlie, and chose the classic Viennese Sachertorte. This was a dense, fluffy chocolate cake, adorned with a thin layer of apricot jam and dark chocolate icing. It was the sort of dessert that guaranteed to add about five pounds to the waistline just by looking at it. Menke was enjoying himself. Tel Aviv had mandated this assignment so critical that expenses accrued would not be audited. OK; so the hotel rooms cost half a month's salary; and this meal would cost the other half, but what the hell? Tomorrow they might be both dead; such was the nature of the game that they were now playing.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The following morning, after breakfast in the hotel Dining room, Menke called for a taxi. The ubiquitous, white Mercedes-Benz diesel took them out through central Vienna to the Friedensbrück Stadtbahn station where they had left the Mercedes sports car the previous evening. Apart from the decision to leave the car there in case it had been recognised by the Wiedenbräukeller Neo-Nazis; Stacey realised that Menke had another reason for this decision… only taxis and the truly insane dared to drive in the inner city. Their driver; a portly Viennese, spent most of the journey leaning on the horn and yelling profanities at his fellow road users. It would appear that Viennese road etiquette consisted purely of horn blasting, fist waving and graphic Germanic expletives.

Having collected the Mercedes sports from the Stadtbahn car park, Menke turned out into Alserbachstrasse and drove down to its junction with Liechtensteinstrasse. Turning right, he drove up the street lined with high apartment blocks and slowed outside one of the last surviving Zinskasernen... rental barracks, or tenement blocks; in Vienna. These were the Austrian counterpart of the notorious Berlin Mietskasernen… labyrinthine tenements built around successive courtyards. Most of Vienna's Zinskasernen had succumbed to the wartime bombing; but this one… five storeys high, with a seventy-metre-wide façade decorated in an ugly Renaissance Revival style, had pertinaciously refused to succumb to the whim of the modern planners and hadn't had the common decency to collapse under its own weight, age, and measure of neglect. It squatted defiantly between two modern apartment blocks; a sun-obscuring edifice concealing a seemingly endless maze of dismal, dank, inner courtyards where the sunshine never penetrated.

Menke parked up the Mercedes a little way up the street under the shadow of one of the modern apartment blocks. Walking back towards the grim, turn-of-the-century monolith; from ten metres distance, the pungent aromas of greasy cooking emanated from the tenement block. Access to the block was by way of a gated, arched entrance which led into a squalid alley. Menke paused at the paint-chipped and rusting iron gate guarding the alley, and turned to Stacey.

'One of my assets lives in this rat-nest. Stay close and stay sharp.'

They entered a squalid world of shadowy, narrow alleyways and towering, soot and coal-dust blackened, five-storey, brick precipices that made up this squalid edifice; passing under the archway into the first hinterhöfe...an inner court where the hausfrauen of the one-room tenement dwellings threw their rubbish and the ash from coal fires into large open cans. The lingering smell of rotting food and ashes clung to the staunch, grim, towering brick cliffs. The cobbled space was narrow and deep; with a gulley that served as an open drain running down the middle. The front walls of the grimy stone chasm inclined slightly inwards, held apart by massive timber beams that spanned the gap, high up, against the grey, cloudy square of sky. At ground level, the sun could never touch the squalid, soiled cobbles, and the murky pit of the hinterhöfe was shrouded in a deep twilight. There were windows on three sides; many glazed with coarse, lavatory window glass... many without any glass at all... and closed up with mildewed cardboard. On the fourth side, an immense, blank, twenty-five-metre wall whose grimy stucco surface had blistered and peeled, exposing raw, sooty, decaying brickwork, was pierced by another shadowy archway which led into the next hinterhöfe. Menke sighed.

'You know; before the war, five or six people lived in a single room in one of these squalid dumps, with seven or eight people in the room next door, and maybe eight or ten in the rooms above and below; often with up to thirty to a lavatory and forty to a water tap. There aren't that many now; but these surviving dumps are still occupied. So much for this new, free democracy… at least, if you're poor.'

In this enormous human rookery of tenements, the air was foetid with the stench of the moist, corroded rottenness of the buildings, the choked drains, and putrid aromas of rotting garbage. In the middle of this squalidity stood an old green, cast-iron hand-pump; from which this whole labyrinthine slum had, and perhaps, even to this day, still obtained its drinking and cooking water; dripping rusty liquid into the slimy drain gulley.

Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the cobbles, causing shabby curtains to twitch as countless eyes followed their progress through the maze of the dwellings... side-wings, cross buildings; transverse buildings and inner hinterhöfen. Stacey began to long for the openness of the modern city streets as they made their way deeper into this cramped stone kennel where almost no provisions had been made for adequate light, ventilation, or green space; and every floor of the five-storey tenement would be endlessly subdivided, with five, six, or even seven front doors.

At last, Menke found the place he was looking for... the fourth "Hinterhaus"… the part of the tenement complex accessible only through the furthest hinterhöfe. Here, they had to go up to the fourth floor of the left-hand "Seitenflügel,"… the jutting wing of the building. Up there, in the third room on the left-hand side of the long corridor, they would find Menke's "Asset."

Menke turned the knob of the paint-peeling outer door of the sordid tenement dwelling. A loose stone caught under the door and screeched as he pushed it open on squeaking hinges that showered rust down as the pins grated in their sockets. As they stepped into the gloomy corridor that it shielded; the door lurched closed behind them with a hollow, resonant thud. The whole decrepit interior smelled of boiling cabbage, stale cigar-smoke; cheap coffee, unwashed bodies, sausage, and mildew; with not-so-subtle undertones of raw sewage.

The peeling walls were painted with a powdery distemper of some pale, indeterminate colour. The once-decorative plaster frieze that joined the drab walls to the cracked plaster of the water-stained ceiling was chipped and broken. The whole dismal prospect was lit by two naked light-bulbs coated in dust; dangling from spider-web-festooned, cloth-covered electrical flex. The area at the far end of the corridor had apparently been some sort of communal area, but was now sealed off by a raw concrete-block construction that served as a front wall for a further apartment squeezed into the narrow area at the rear of the ground floor.

The creaking, narrow, gloomy staircase was very dark and stank of mildew, cat's piss, and flea powder. After the first flight, it made a ninety-degree turn and continued on up to the second floor. There was another dim, fly-specked light-bulb above the turn in the staircase. They cautiously made their way up, counting the long, low, dingy landings until they reached the fourth floor. Menke knocked at the third door on the left-hand side of the drab and dreary corridor. From within, there was a shuffle of footsteps, a clink of keys, and the door opened a little way, on a solid security chain. An unseen man's muffled voice asked,

'Yes? What do you want?'

Menke replied,

'Nephilim Rising.'

The security chain rattled, and the door opened to the sight of a young, blonde man pointing a mean-looking Luger Parabellum automatic at them. He saw Menke; grinned, and lowered the pistol. Stepping back, he motioned them to enter. Closing the door behind them, he re-fastening the chain and smiled.

'Shalom, Richard. Welcome to my luxurious domain!'

The inside of the tenement building showed dim light through grimy glass. The room was small, and sparsely furnished... a bed, a night stand, and dresser, a couple of chairs, and a table. The window was obscured by a thick, reasonably clean, net curtain. The walls were solid... as were the ceiling and floor. It would be difficult for anyone to conceal any listening devices; there were no pictures on the walls, and only a single light fitting and flex in the ceiling. It was a classically typical "Safe House."

Menke's "Asset" held up a hand and moved across to the fireplace mantle upon which was an old-fashioned, Bakelite-cased wireless set. He switched it on, adjusted the tuning pointer to the Österreich 1 frequency and turned up the volume control. As the tinny, crackling strains of Viennese waltzes filled the room, he stepped back and nodded. Stacey eyed the young man suspiciously. She hadn't known quite what to expect; but it certainly wasn't one of the icily handsome, blue-eyed, blonde Übermenschen she had seen at the Wiedenbräukeller meeting. Menke grinned.

'It's OK, Steini; he's on our side. This is "Makebet." It's his code name for obvious reasons. You probably recognise him from that Neo-Nazi shit-hole last night.'

Makebet nodded, motioned to the wireless set, and grinned.

'Just in case.You made quite an impression… especially with the old Nazi shit, Oberst-Gruppenführer Schwarz… and just in passing; you won't be having any more problems with that bastard, Treffen. He's out of it for quite a while with a badly bruised liver. They're making out that he wandered out into the road completely pissed up and was hit by a passing car. It's just too embarrassing for the Sieg Heil club to admit that their shiny Untersturmführer was flattened by a girl.'

He grinned again.

'Just to set the record straight; I've been undercover with them for almost a year, now. I'm a freelancer… nothing to do with Richard's people. My mother was German, and my father… well, he was an Austrian Jew. They managed to keep out of the way of the Nazis for a while, but when the round-ups began, father managed to get my mother, who was then pregnant with me, out into Switzerland. He was picked up by the Nazis and sent firstly, to Mauthausen Concentration Camp, and eventually to Ebensee, where the prisoners were worked to death by the sadistic bastards of the SS unit Totenkopfsturmbannes Mauthausen; digging enormous underground tunnels into the mountainsides, which were to be used for the housing of armament works.

As far as I have been able to find out; he was beaten to death by a certain SS-Oberscharfuehrer Gustav Eisenhöfer; who had already killed hundreds at one of the other Mauthausen complex sub-camps at Gusen. Because of my German mother, and by being in Switzerland; as an infant, I was never circumcised; and so, with my Übermensch appearance, I can move in these Neo-Nazi circles in complete safety. I am using them to find this bastard, Eisenhöfer, so that I can avenge my father. Richard needed eyes and ears in this part of the world, and, in exchange for any information his people may pick up concerning Eisenhöfer, I keep my eyes and ears open for him.'

Menke held up his hand.

'OK, enough! Anything on the job in hand as yet?'

Makebet shrugged.

'Perhaps. I overhead Schwartz in conversation with Niedermeyer…'

He glanced at Stacey;

'He was one of those old men on the top table, and was an SS-Oberscharführer at Dachau. He fled over the border to Austria ahead of the Allied advance. He's on the executive committee of Kameradschaft Kaltenbrunner. It was mentioned that the information on "Plumbat" should be available to them within the next few days. It's on its way to them by courier from Antwerp. Obviously, we can't intercept the courier; so, my plan is to eliminate the whole rotten bunch in one go. They will call a meeting in the Wiedenbräukeller as soon as the information arrives; and while they are all basking in their success, we can blow them all to hell.'

Menke studied him.

'And how do you propose to do that?'

Makebet smiled… it was a smile that made Stacey shiver… a smile like an open grave.

'It's an old building. The gas lines are fragile. One of your firm's activated carbon filter tubes and a bottle of grain alcohol will do the job nicely.'

Menke raised an eyebrow.

'Would it work?

Makebet grinned.

'Ask your Caesarea guys! They will tell you that, with a couple of saw cuts in a gas line; and the activated carbon filter tube opened up and wrapped around the cut pipe area, then soaked in grain alcohol; this little trick will remove the tell-tale gas smell from the leak which will eventually fill the room with gas. Then, all it needs is a spark… and Boom!... Aktionsbüro Bamberg's entire rabble on their way to the Führer's table in Valhalla!'

Menke frowned.

'How could you be sure to get them all?'

Makebet spread his hands.

'There is a rigid protocol to these meetings. Everyone has to wait until the old men are settled; their drinks are served to them, and the box containing their expensive cigars is passed around their table. Oberst-Gruppenführer Schwarz is lit first with great ceremony; and only then can the rest of us light up. It's much the same sort of rigmarole as the English aristocracy habit of passing the port at dinner. If I rig the pipes early enough; the room will be full of virtually undetectable gas; and the musty smell from those fucking Nazi banners they insist on draping the walls of the room with, will mask any smell of gas that might remain.'

Menke nodded.

'OK. I'll see what I can do. Anything else?'

Makebet shook his head.

'Nothing other than waiting for the arrival of the courier; but there is this…'

He moved to the old kitchen table and removed an envelope from the drawer. Handing it to Menke, he said;

'The name lists for Kameradschaft Kaltenbrunner, and the Stille Hilfe organisation. I'm sure your people will be very interested in some of the names they contain. There's a copy for Wiesenthal's Documentation Centre as well. Between you both, hopefully, you can rid the world of a few more of these pigs.'

Menke put the envelope in his pocket, and took Makebet's hand.

'Thank you. I'll get the stuff to you by tonight. Just make sure you're clear before they all go up in smoke.'

Makebet laughed.

'No problem. It'll make a pleasant change for some of them to go up the chimney instead of us!'

Menke frowned.

'Listen to me, you stupid Sonofabitch; make sure you're clear. We are not in the business of creating martyrs… we leave that to the Camel Jockeys.'

Makebet shrugged.

'Richard; just how long d'you think they'd let me live… anywhere; when they finally figure out that it must have been me who blew up their Aktionsbüro?... especially as I would be the only one who survived. I know they're dumb bastards… but not even they are that dumb.'

Menke sighed. His asset, Makebet was making sense. He would be a marked man across Europe for the rest of his life… which would probably be very short.

'Dammit; if you manage to pull this off; you can be out of the country by nightfall.'

Makebet grinned;

'Just like that?... Out of the country?'

Menke nodded.

'Just like that. We can have you in Tel Aviv by breakfast time.'

Makebet studied Menke.

'I'm guessing an arrangement made by Mossad? I wish! I'm not exactly their idea of a "Righteous person!'

Menke put his hand on Makebet's shoulder.

'No matter; the offer still stands. A new country, a new identity, and a lucrative and worthwhile career. Your special talents would be most appreciated… and we always look after our friends.'

Makebet studied Menke for a while. He had no doubts the work would be thrilling. It would also be dangerous and tough. Working for Mossad would be risky, he wasn't under any illusions. A life of covert operations and espionage was hardly a walk in the park. If he bought into this, they would take care of the details, and by midnight, he would be out of the country. No last words or goodbye letters; just disappeared in a puff of smoke... so to speak.

Freedom always came at a price; there would be consequences and expectations; but… torture and a bullet if he was caught by the Aktionsbüro's thugs… or, torture and a bullet if Mossad's enemies captured him on assignment…the real choice would be down to living and operating from a shit-hole like this tenement… or living and operating from a comfortable, civilised apartment in Tel Aviv? He smiled to himself… it really was no contest!

He turned to Stacey.

'I'm very pleased to meet you, Steini. I guess you're with Richard's people?'

She smiled.

'No, not quite… just something like that.'

He nodded, as he walked them to the door.

'Well; it was nice to meet you anyway. Now, I must begin planning for the Valhalla trip; so I'll expect a delivery tonight, Richard?'

Menke glanced back as he opened the door.

'Yes; Chaim will bring it to you. Shalom, my friend.'

Makebet smiled.'

'Shalom aleikhem.'

Menke's expression was grim as he and Stacey carefully descended the damp, crumbling stairs. Somewhere on the other side of the hinterhöfe, a window was slammed to, something very heavy, deep in the innermost recesses of the building, thudded dully against a wall. Menke paused; holding Stacey back behind him. Silence again; nothing but the almost palpable moist, rottenness of the tenement building, and the moan of the wind across the top of the brick chasm beyond the door. Cautiously, they threaded their way through the grimy rat run of the Zinskaserne and emerged into the street. Stacey glanced at Menke.

'What's the matter Richard? You're looking very serious.'

Menke shook his head,

'I just have a feeling that he is going to do something stupid; but I can't not get him what he's asked for. There's too much at stake.'

She squeezed his hand.

'It'll probably be all right. He seems to know what he's doing. By the way; what did he mean when he said "ask your Caesarea guys?'

Menke sighed.

'I hope you're right; but, whatever you do; don't go to any meetings that they ask you to attend in the foreseeable future. In answer to your question; "Caesarea" are the sharp end of the spear; and that is all you need to know.'