Chapter Six.

Rolf Haider sat at a table in the corner of the little coffee house in Pfluggasse, in the northern suburb of Thurygrund; nursing a Schwarzer Kaffee as he invariably did, most days at this time in the afternoon. Since the explosion in the Wiedenbräukeller in Döbling which had taken out virtually all the members of Aktionsbüro Babenberg in one fell swoop, he had decided that discretion was definitely the better part of valour in regard to his dealings with the new Neo-Nazi faction that had manifested itself in Vienna in recent times. It wasn't that he had abandoned his far right-wing beliefs; but he had been lucky as far as the Wiedenbräukeller incident was concerned. At the moment of the explosion, he had been down in the cellar changing beer barrels. He had just managed to make it out of the cellar trap door before the upper floor and roof had collapsed.

This new, so-called "Aktionsbüro Siegfrid" that had formed were just a bunch of street thugs with little grasp of understanding of the ideology and aims of true members of the New Order; and Haider really didn't want anything to do with them. Consequently, he spent his time writing inflammatory racist articles for several pan-European underground publications, and was continually being sought by Interpol and other various Police authorities, on various public order and incitement to racial hatred charges. None of them had ever managed to trace him. Rolf Haider was careful and cunning. He only ever used a pseudonym when he wrote; and this was known only to him.

He didn't notice the powerful motorcycle that pulled into the kerb a little way down the street. The rider and his pillion passenger slouched against the machine as they enjoyed a cigarette… nothing out of the ordinary there, it would seem… except that the two motorcyclists were Rani and Yarin; and they were keeping close surveillance on the solitary man at the table by the window, in the little coffee house. They weren't the only ones watching the coffee house.

On the far side of the adjoining Bindergasse which ran across the northern the end of Pfluggasse; two men sitting in a battered, old, parked-up black Mercedes-Benz 190 watched the motorcyclist and his pillion passenger watching the man in the coffee house window. The windows of the car were heavily tinted, but anyone who happened to glance at it could vaguely discern the shapes of two men inside, one in the back seat, and another up front behind the wheel. Both men were young and wore black clothing. The driver was idly flicking a lighter as he kept watch on the little coffee house; and the passenger was fiddling with an old Mauser bolo pistol.

Rani glanced at Yarin.

'We're a little too obvious out here. Let's go in and have a coffee.'

Yarin nodded, and followed him across the pavement to the little coffee house. As they entered their target glanced up briefly and then returned to writing studiously in what appeared to be a spiral-bound school exercise book. As they walked past; suddenly, a squeal of tyres and the sound of an engine racing in low gear burst through the quiet hum of conversation and chink of cups in the coffee house. Rani glanced out of the window and saw the old Mercedes-Benz powering up the street outside. The rear passenger window was rolling down and he glimpsed the sinister barrel of the Mauser swinging towards the window of the coffee house. He dived at the man at the window table and dragged the man down to the floor yelling for everyone to get down as the plate glass window shattered in a shower of flying shards under the impact of the bullets.

Rani cursed to himself. Bastards! The gunman had the pistol set on full auto… ten rounds fired haphazardly into a busy café. There was nothing remotely professional about that. The old Mercedes-Benz accelerated away along Pfluggasse as Rani glanced around for Yarin. He was OK; kneeling over a girl who had caught one of the ricocheting bullets in her arm. All the other customers seemed to be unharmed.

Rani helped the man at the window out from under the table. The man's face was chalk-white and he was shaking uncontrollably. He opened his mouth to say something; but Rani spoke first.

'It seems somebody doesn't like you. That was deliberate. You were the target.'

The man blurted out'

'Who the fuck are you?'

Rani gave him a tight grin.

'Somebody who can save your ass... if you co-operate. Now, sit down.'

The man pulled away.

'Fuck you. I'm getting out of here.'

Rani shrugged.

'OK, Haider. We'll just let you explain to the Police what that was all about. I'm sure they'd love to have a chat with you about your literary works.'

Beckoning to Yarin, who had tied a towel around the injured girl's arm; he started to walk towards the door. The sound of Police sirens was getting closer. Leaving Haider standing there; they mounted the motorcycle; Yarin fired it up, and accelerated away towards Alserbachstrasse. Rani glanced back. Haider had emerged from the café and had crossed the street. Now he hurried away towards Bindergasse. Rani smiled. Alex; who was waiting with Yarin in the Opel parked up around the corner in Bindergasse; would pick him up and follow him on foot to wherever he was intending to go to ground.

Rolf Haider hurried across Liechtensteinstrasse; the street at the eastern end of Bindergasse, and hurriedly turned right into Lichtentaler Gasse; forty metres further north. He walked briskly along the street trying not to look too suspicious, until, under the shadow of the twin towers of Schubertkirch, his nervousness became too strong to control and he glanced furtively around; but didn't see anything suspicious. It was only about another fifty metres to the turning into Badgasse, and hopefully, safety in the dreary little apartment... if that was a word that could actually be used to describe the attic room he occupied in the large, fading, neo-classical town house that had long since been converted into pokey dwellings that weren't much better than the notorious Zinskasernen... the turn-of-the-Century rental barracks or tenement blocks that had once blighted the northern area of the city.

He paused on the corner of Badgasse, and warily peered around the corner; pressing himself against the washed-out, and traffic-grimed stucco of the building. The street was clear... there was no sign of that old Mercedes-Benz. He'd almost made it! Swiftly he covered the last few metres and slipped into the enclosed open space in the middle of the surrounding six-storey buildings. Nothing moved; no one lurked in the shadows. Quickly, he ran across to the rear entrance of the wing of the building where he lived; hurried inside and banged the door shut. Breathing hard; he paused and listened, as he peered up the stairwell. There was nothing… no movement, or tell-tale noises… except for the faint sound of the never-ending, fucking Wagnerian dirges that the old fart, Franz Mitterwallner on the fifth floor played on his pissy wind-up gramophone from morning 'till fucking night.

With a sigh of relief, Haider began to make his way up the narrow stairs; pausing at each landing and listening, before he continued on up the next flight. At the door of his apartment, he hesitated, before slipping his key into the rim dead latch and cautiously opening the door. The apartment was empty… just as he had left it earlier this morning. Closing the door behind him, he threw his coat onto the armchair and placed his school exercise book on the table; then went across to the stove to boil a kettle and make a strong cup of coffee to settle his nerves. Whilst he waited for the kettle to boil, he tried to figure out what the fuck that was all about in the coffee house back in Pfluggasse. He just couldn't believe that anyone would want to kill him… but the man who had thrown him to the floor had said that he was the target. Whose target?... And why? Then, there was the bit about "cooperate and they'd save his ass." Cooperate about what?... And with whom? The kettle began to whistle. He turned off the gas and made himself a cup of strong, black coffee. Then, he sat at the table and began to read what he had written so far of his latest racist diatribe.

Twenty minutes later; several cups of strong black coffee had calmed Haider down and he was engrossed in the poisonous article that he was writing for publication in the vehement German Neo-Nazi magazine: "Sieg." The strains of the Wagnerian overture penetrating from old Herr Mitterwallner's room drowned out the sound of a car quietly reversing into the enclosed open space in the middle of the surrounding buildings. The two men in the car scanned the open space for any movement. There was none. Yarin reached into the glove box and removed a compact leather pouch containing a small glass vial containing transparent liquid... a Nes Tziona biological institute-manufactured, debilitating drug; and two hypodermic syringes, complete with a selection of individually-packaged needles. He selected a medium-gauge needle and attached it to the syringe. He then pushed the needle through the rubber stopper of the vial and withdrew a measure of the liquid. Having expelled any air from the syringe, he replaced the protective sleeve over the needle and nodded to Alex. They left the car and walked across to the rear entrance of the wing of the building where Haider lived; paused for a moment, and quietly stepped into the building.

Haider had just finished writing: "Die Juden sind unser Unglück!"… "The Jews are our misfortune"; plagiarized shamelessly from the rabid anti-semitic Nazi, Julius Streicher's malignant rag… Der Stürmer; when there was a knock on the door of the apartment. Haider looked up, and called out, "Ja?"

A voice replied.

'Package for Herr Haider.'

Haider put down his pen and walked to the door. As his hand turned the doorknob, the door was pushed open and he found himself staring into the black, impersonal eye of an automatic pistol silencer that was being aimed at his forehead by a tall, well-built man who said in German, with a pronounced American accent…

'Zurück ins Zimmer, Arschloch"… "Back into the room, asshole.'

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

As Haider began to back away into the room; another man appeared. This one was tall, dark-haired, and dark-eyed. He slipped past the man with the gun, and, before Haider could react; jabbed a hypodermic needle into his neck. Haider felt whatever had been contained in the hypodermic begin to course through his veins. His limbs were refusing to obey him… but he was still conscious; although his brain didn't seem to want to work. He managed to slur out,

'What the fuck have you just given me?'

The two men grinned.

'Nothing serious; just a mild tranquiliser to make sure you don't do anything stupid.'

Supporting him with one of his arms around each of their shoulders, they hauled him out of the room; down the stairs; bundled him into the back of a grey car parked up outside, and a dark hood of some sort was pulled down over his head.. The American climbed in beside him and slammed the door as the other dark-haired man slid into the driving seat; fired up the engine, and drove out into Badgasse. Turning to the right, he gunned the engine and took off in a cloud of tyre-smoke.

Back at the safe house; Benny was laying out the ordnance and weapons in the cellar. The first of the three wooden cases contained six Uzi submachine guns; an assortment of automatic pistols; several thousand rounds of ammunition, and two M21 sniper rifles. The second case contained box of twelve, M26 fragmentation grenades, and six, one-and-one-quarter-pound blocks of Czechoslovakian Semtex explosive. The third case contained a box of German manufactured fusehead electric blasting caps, as used in commercial mining; a package marked:

"Attn. Mckenna"

And a valise of Metsada "toys"… which would probably include a selection of the latest poisons and delivery systems developed by the chemists at the Nes Tziona biological institute twelve miles south of Tel Aviv. Having checked everything out, he went back upstairs and asked Stacey to go down to the basement with him, and to bring her box of Beretta shells with her.

He lifted the package from the wooden case and handed it to her. With a thin smile, he said that it contained the items that Alex had said "was a little trick that can make them ten times worse." She felt inside the parcel and her fingers touched a small, square cardboard box. Lifting it out; she saw that the box was marked:

Dynamit Nobel.

Troisdorf - Germany

Zündhütchen - Primer.

She gently shook the box… it rattled. Benny nearly had a fit… a tight one… judging by his expression. He burst out….

'Ben Elef!... Don't do that! They're primer caps and they're impact sensitive!'

Stacey gave him a suitably admonished look.

'Sorry Benny…'

She held out the box to him.

'You'd better take charge of them! What are they for, anyway?'

He smiled; a chilling smile.

'Alex wanted your shells to have much more fatal effect… considering the pigs that we are up against. Give me the box of shells and I'll explain.'

She handed the box of Beretta shells to him. Opening it, he pulled out a cartridge and held it up.

'Nine-by-Nineteen-millimetre Parabellum; jacketed hollow-cavity slug with a load of one hundred and twenty-four grammes. It's a good stopper… but, if you're slightly off target, and although the damage will surely kill your mark; he may just live long enough to put one into you. With what we are about to make; any hit will be enough.'

He opened the little cardboard box and withdrew a flattish round metal tin. Twisting off the top, he carefully emptied the contents on to the table. The tin contained small copper cups. Taking a pair of toolmaker's measuring calipers, he measured the inside diameter of the cavity in the hollow nose of the Parabellum round. He then measured the outside diameter of one of the copper cups. He nodded.

'Now, we are going to modify these Beretta shells into what are known as "Hotloads." A "Hotload" is a type of modified ammunition which explodes upon impact with the target, causing horrific, gaping wounds and increasing the lethality of each shot. The Hotload is produced by simply fitting a primer cap, striking face out, into the hollow point slug, being careful to keep everything neat and even, in order not to excessively affect the slug's flight stability. It is held in place with a two-part, epoxy adhesive. Geneva Convention, it most certainly isn't; but we are not in the business of fucking about with these animals.'

Stacey gave a small, involuntary shiver. Benny noticed it and smiled softly.

'It's OK. This is common stuff with us. Not being Israeli; I cannot expect you to understand. We are here to protect our Homeland and ensure that never again will they be permitted to stain the skies with the smoke of Jews. These slugs, when modified, will blow holes in them as big as a Passover Seder plate.'

Stacey frowned.

'A Passover Seder Plate?'

Benny smiled.

'Yes; the Passover Seder Plate; in Hebrew, called a "Ke'ara"; is a special plate containing six symbolic foods used during the Passover Seder. Each of the six items arranged on the plate have special significance to the retelling of the story of the Exodus from Egypt. The plate is normally about twelve inches across. These shells are ideal for close up work… and they will take a door down; but you can't use them with a silencer. A hit… any hit… anywhere, will retire the target permanently.'

She shivered… and decided to change the subject. Blowing dinner-plate-sized holes in people… even these people that the team was targeting; was not something she wanted to dwell upon.

'Benny; I've been wondering. This operation's code-name. What does "Malach Hamavet" actually mean… if anything?

He smiled;

'It does mean something; It comes from the Talmud… it's Hebrew for "Angel of Death."

Rolf Haider was completely disoriented by the time the car stopped, and he was bundled out of the back seat. With one of the men holding each arm he was guided across what felt and sounded like flagstones, until a deep shadow fell across, and blocked out what thin light he could see through the dark hood. He heard a door open; and there was a slight echo as they walked him down what seemed to be a corridor. The sound of another door opening penetrated his darkness, as firm hands on his arms guided him into… what? The dark hood was pulled off his head. Haider blinked as his eyesight began adjusting itself to his surroundings. He saw that he was in a smallish room with two other people wearing ski masks... a man, and a girl. The room was poorly lit with a single, bare, fly-specked light bulb suspended from the ceiling.

In its dim light, he saw that the room had bare concrete floors and concrete walls. He saw a table out of the corner of his eye with something... a brass kerosene pressure blowlamp with a large, blacksmith's soldering iron resting upon the support clamp above its flametube. What were those things doing here? The two men who had brought him to this place sat him firmly in a sturdy wooden chair and held him there; hands pressing down on his shoulders.

The man in the ski mask walked towards Haider. His eyes were cold, and glittered in the light. He began circling around his captive; then paused, and stepped right up in front of him. The man's eyes silently sized up Haider with a long, contemplative stare as the seconds dragged past, until he finally spoke.

'Well Haider; what are we going to do with you, now? You really should have been more cooperative back at the coffee shop when you had the chance.'

Haider glared up at the impassive, dark-brown eyes behind the ski mask.

'What's this all about? What do you want with me?'

The man bent down, conspiratorially.

'All I want is the name of the survivor of the Aktionsbüro Babenberg bombing; and where he can be found. We need to have a little chat with him.'

Haider snorted.

'I'm not going to give you a name... and there's nothing you can do about it.'

Ski mask nodded.

'Very well. Your choice. Seems that you need a history lesson in your Gestapo role models' methods.'

He motioned to the woman in the ski mask.

'Now; my lady companion is going to get very fucking Spanish Inquisitorial with you.'

He turned to her.

'OK. Light the blowlamp and get the soldering iron heated up.'

Haider was beginning to sweat. He blurted out,

'You can't do that!... The Police…'

Ski mask simply laughed; a blood-chilling laugh.

'That's what the poor bastards thought as they were being dragged down to the Gestapo Headquarters cells at the Hotel Métropole in Morzinplatz during the occupation. The Police didn't give a shit then; and they certainly won't now, as far as a rabble-rousing little turd like you is concerned.'

He turned to the girl, who had successfully lit the blowlamp, and was pumping the plunger to build up the pressure. She closed the flow control valve and the blowlamp began to roar as a ten-centimetre, blue flame with an orange central core stabbed out from the flametube. She gave the plunger a few more pumps and the flame began to lose its central orange core as the nozzle of the flame tube started to heat up and glow with a pale, cherry hue. She adjusted the position of the soldering iron's copper bit in the flame, and nodded to ski mask. He turned again to Haider.

'You will tell me what I want to know. How soon, depends entirely on how much you enjoy pain.'

He grabbed the front of Haider's shirt and pulled hard. With a ripping sound the buttons tore off and Haider gasped. With the shirt hanging from his shoulders exposing his bare chest, he began shaking with fear, as the girl lifted the now-glowing soldering iron from the blowlamp and began to walk slowly towards him. Ski mask stepped aside.

'Last chance, Haider.'

The girl wore a black shirt; men's pants and black military boots. Her hair, wisps of which were peeking from below the ski mask, was blonde. Her eyes, behind the ski mask, were deep-brown and expressionless. Slowly, she brought the glowing tip of the soldering iron towards his chest. Her hand was rock-steady. Haider could feel the heat of the glowing tip from twenty centimetres away as she slowly moved the glowing tip sideways until it was pointing straight at his right nipple. He could feel the delicate skin beginning to sear under the radiated heat. Ski mask grabbed a handful of Haider's sweat-soaked hair and jerked his face up.

'You realise that once she's barbecued your tits, she'll move on to much more painful places… like your prick, and balls?... And I understand that eyeballs won't stand up to any grilling at all. Just give us the information and we're done here. You'll walk out of here unmarked, and still capable of fathering lots of little fascists. Refuse; and, to put it bluntly, you are fucked. She is well versed in your Gestapo Heroes' methods of "Verschärfte Vernehmung"…"Enhanced interrogation"… which, as you are fully aware, was their rather whimsical allegory for getting confessions by any means at their disposal. Congratulations! You've inherited the hot seat; so… anything to say before she gets started?'

The heat from the glowing copper tip of the soldering iron was now almost unbearable as the girl slowly moved it towards him millimetre by millimetre. Haider could feel the skin of his right nipple beginning to tighten and scorch… any moment now, she'd move again and he would feel the shrieking pain and smell his burning flesh… and he cracked.

'All right; I'll tell you. Just get that fucking bitch away from me.'

The girl stepped back; the heat faded; but the pain in his right nipple still throbbed and burned. Ski mask stepped back into his line of sight.

'A sensible decision, Haider. Now, let's hear it.'

'His name is Jakob Kupelwieser. He lives in Nussdorf; in the apartment block at Nussberggasse 14… but, what about me? Who's out there trying to kill me?'

Ski mask shrugged.

'I have no idea who's after you… but, we can do something about that; something to make sure that you won't need to worry about them.'

Haider gaped at him.

'What can you do?'

Ski mask stepped closer. His right hand came out from behind his back, holding a silenced automatic pistol. He merely said,

'This.'

Haider didn't even have time to open his mouth to scream, before the flat, muffled cough of the pistol sent the slug punching into his forehead; with the force of its impact enough to send both the chair and Haider crashing over backwards onto the floor. Rani glanced down at the corpse and pulled off his ski mask. Chana had already removed hers, and was busy winding out the flow control valve to release the pressure in the blowlamp. As its roar faded; the flame swiftly reduced, and extinguished with a soft pop. Alex and Yarin were already dragging Haider's carcass out of the cellar as Rani turned to Chana and gave her a cold smile.

'One down. Your turn next. Let's go and have a quiet chat with this pig, Kupelwieser.'