Chapter Ten.

From Mosonmagyaróvár, the highway ran dead-straight for thirty five kilometres between flat, featureless countryside until it curved around to the north and crossed the River Rába road bridge on the outskirts of the next town on their route… Győr. Two Soviet troops stood at a small checkpoint and watched the Police car approaching at speed. One of them stepped out into the road with his machine carbine across his chest… then suddenly realising that neither the speeding Police car with its flashing blue beacon and headlamps full on, or the following black car… also with its headlights full on, were intending to stop; and deciding that common sense was better than bravery; stepped back to wave them through. Győr was singularly drab and depressing; a typical eastern European industrial city, grim, grey, and sooty. The broad, straight avenues were almost empty except for Soviet troops, and a few early-morning citizens going about their business.

No one took any notice of the speeding police car and its accompanying black saloon; and soon, they were back out onto Highway One; speeding through the flat wooded countryside along an almost deserted highway that ran parallel to the Danube River. The only vehicles they met along the dead-straight road to Komárom were Soviet military… most of which eased over to the side of the highway to allow them passage… the Soviet military mentality obviously took notice of officialdom in the presence of Berényi's flashing blue light and siren. Komárom was a city split between Hungary on the south bank of the Danube and Czechoslovakia on the other. As to be expected; the military presence here was extensive considering that it was a border city... albeit with both countries firmly in the occupied grip of the Warsaw Pact forces. At the crossroads in the centre of the town where the northern branch of the junction led up to the Border crossing at the Elizabeth Iron Bridge over the Danube; a large Soviet "Komendantskaya sluzhba"… military policeman waved down Berényi's Lada. Across on the corner; two more military police sat in a four-wheel-drive UAZ 69 jeep with their machine carbines cradled seemingly lazily… but pointing in the direction of the two cars. Stendal pulled in behind the police car and spoke over his shoulder.

'Do and say nothing. These Russians are twitchy this close to the border; but stopping a police car on call is not normally something they will do. Berényi will tell them that we are with him, and he is escorting us to Budapest on urgent Government business… or some such thing. It is entirely possible that, with his rank, he might be able to swing us an escort beyond the next few checkpoints. These Russians have a great respect for rank and authority… their KGB has made sure of that!'

As he spoke; the big Russian stepped back and saluted Berényi. He turned, and strolled towards Stendal's Polski Fiat. Stopping at the driver's window, he saluted. Stacey noticed that he wore an old-fashioned, KGB Sword-and-Shield emblem sleeve patch; which, together with the blue band on his service cap was rather disconcerting. However; Stendal flashed some sort of pass at him, and the big Russian snapped to attention and said:

"Spasibo Ser; my soprovodim Vas k sleduyuschemu glavnomu kontrol'no-propusknomu punktu v Almásfüzitő"…

Which Stacey translated mentally, as:

'Thank you Sir; we will escort you to the next major checkpoint at Almásfüzitő.' As he strode back towards the UAZ jeep yelling for his men to get their asses into gear; Stacey spoke.

'He says that they are going to escort us down to the next checkpoint at a place called Almásfüzitő.'

Stendal nodded.

'That figures. The road runs past Szőny oil refinery, and there's a big aluminium works on the outskirts of Almásfüzitő… with the road running right past it as well. We could easily have had trouble there… security is tight because of their strategic importance to the Russians.'

The howling siren and conspicuous red stripes of the Soviet Komendantskaya sluzhba jeep ensured a trouble-free and swift passage along the fifty-odd kilometre run to Almásfüzitő. Beyond the outskirts of the town the Soviet jeep pulled in to the side of the highway at the intersection of Highway One and Highway Ten. Berényi and Stendal pulled in behind. The big sergeant stepped out onto the highway and walked back to the police Lada. Leaning in through the driver's window he spoke briefly to Berényi, then stepped back; saluted, and walked back to the jeep which executed a sharp U-turn and accelerated back towards Almásfüzitő.

Tamás Berényi climbed out of the police Lada and walked back to Stendal's Polski-Fiat. Leaning on the roof, he bent down and spoke.

'The Russian says that he has been on the radio to his counterparts in the towns ahead and has informed them of our presence. He says that there will be no more interruptions on our journey to Budapest; and that there will be another escort waiting on the approach to the Petőfi Bridge; the point where we cross the Danube into the city. Now let's move. Are you OK for gasoline? We have about eight-five kilometres to travel, and every minute we waste gives that little shit Bernát Kóbor a better chance of evading us.'

Stendal glanced at the fuel gauge. It indicated just above a quarter-tank. He nodded.

'Yeah... plenty of gas provided you don't decide to go supersonic! She'll do about ten litres per hundred kilometres at speed; and I've about fourteen litres left, so we should be all right.'

Berényi nodded and glanced back at Stacey and Menke.

'You two OK?'

Stacey nodded.

'Yes; we're both fine, thank you, Major.'

Berényi nodded and turned back to Stendal.

'OK. Let's go!'

It took slightly less than three-quarters of an hour at the speed that Berényi was driving to reach the outer suburbs of Budapest. True to the Russian's statement; there were no holdups in the remaining town that they travelled through… to the extent that traffic was halted at town centre intersections by local police and Soviet troops as soon as they heard the howling siren of Berényi's police Lada. As they made their way into the city; Stacey thought how much it resembled a hillier Paris, with the same huge, ornate public buildings, baroque neoclassical, and Art Nouveau architecture evident in the apartment buildings; and wide tree-lined boulevards.

As they approached the four-lane Petőfi Bridge, they were waved down by another Soviet sergeant. He was obviously the escort that they had been promised. He too, had one of the red striped, Komendantskaya sluzhba jeeps; and, exchanging a quick word with Berényi; fired up the jeep, and took off across the five hundred metre, deck truss bridge with screaming siren; followed closely by the police Lada and Stendal's Polski-Fiat.

Coming off the bridge onto Nagykörút… Budapest's famed Grand Boulevard; he increased speed along Ferenc körút and József körút then turned at the intersection into Rákóczi Avenue; following the inner city streets until he turned into Dózsa György Street and pulled into the kerb whilst Berényi turned into the Seventh District Police headquarters.

Parking up in the yard, Berényi motioned that Stendal should park up beside the police Lada. As Stacey and Menke got out of the car, a stocky young man in a brown, short-jacketed uniform came out of the building and stood at the top of the steps. He was in his thirties, with a pleasantly ugly, prematurely-lined face and a broken nose; but his eyes were cold… watchful. Stacey studied him. This was not a man to be dismissed lightly; or underestimated in any way. Berényi called him across and introduced him.

'This is Lieutenant Sándor Reisz. He's with the "Nemzeti Nyomozó Iroda" ... the National Bureau of Investigation; I suppose you could say it's our version of the American FBI. He has extensive files available on our home-grown Fascists. He has also been made aware of whom you both are.'

Sándor Reisz smiled and shook hands with them. He studied Stacey and Menke.

'So; you're Nazi-hunting? This must be a particularly bad bastard for both Mossad AND the Central Intelligence Agency to target him.'

Menke nodded.

'Bad doesn't even begin to come close. It is imperative that we detain him before he accomplishes the next stage of his mission.'

Sándor Reisz nodded.

'Might I ask who he is and what he is trying to do?'

Berényi butted in.

'No, Lieutenant you may not… unless our two guests see fit to apprise you of it.'

Sándor Reisz… taken aback at Berényi's brusque retort; frowned.

'But, Major; how may I help if I have no information?'

Menke stepped in swiftly. Having any trace of rancour between the two officers would not be helpful with what was at stake. He had seen an opening that would retain the status quo between these two policemen. Turning to Sándor Reisz, he spoke quietly.

'Reisz is a surname of Old German origin; and with a long Jewish pedigree. Is that why you are an expert on your home-grown Nazis?'

Berényi's attitude changed immediately. It was patently obvious that he was not aware of this fact that Menke had astutely revealed.

Sándor Reisz nodded.

'You are correct, Officer Menke. I am Jewish… but it's not something that I advertise. It wouldn’t be helpful in my investigations. Budapest is riddled with Fascists… from members of the Government down. They still refer to our beautiful city as "Jewdapest"… and it really riles them that their Nazi buddies didn't manage to completely wipe us off the face of the Earth last time.'

Menke nodded.

'Then you are on our need to know list, Lieutenant Reisz.'

Turning to Tamás Berényi, he spoke.

'Let's find a quiet office, Major… then I'll fill Lieutenant Reisz in on what we need to do.'

Berényi's office was on the fourth floor overlooking the parking area. A young sergeant was waiting at his office door. He handed Berényi a thin file. Opening it; Berényi studied the contents of three thin report sheets. Glancing up; he looked across at Stendal, and spoke.

'It looks as though this is going take a while. There have been no reported sightings of Kóbor as yet. You might as well take our guests out for a meal. Go and introduce them to some real Hungarian cuisine.'

Stendal nodded.

'Good idea, Tamás. We'll go across to Márkus's place in Thököly Way. He does the best Bécsi szelet... our Hungarian version of Wiener schnitzel, but made of pork; in Budapest.'

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

Berényi nodded and glanced at Menke and Stacey.

'Believe me, he's not wrong. You really will enjoy that.'

As they walked out into the Police Headquarters yard, a young policeman came running after them and said that there was a phone call for Stendal; who hesitated and looked at them apologetically.

'Damn! It's probably the Embassy. You go on. I'll catch you up. Márkus's place is only two streets north in Thököly Way… at number 38. You can't miss it.'

Stacey awoke with a jerk of panic and fear, heart pounding with a burst of adrenalin. She was in absolute blackness. She felt nauseous and bitterly cold. It took awhile to for her to gather her thoughts and recall what had happened but it couldn't be good. She remembered disjointed images... it had all happened shockingly quickly. She lay crumpled where they must have dumped her; face-down on a cold concrete floor. For some reason she couldn't feel her hands. She realised that she was tied up and handcuffed; hands behind her back with both palms facing outward, her thumbs and shoulders turned into twisted distorted positions. This was not good. She tried to wiggle her fingers. Her wrists throbbed and burned from the tightly bound ropework cutting off the circulation to her hands. She tried to turn over and cried out in pain. The slightest struggle was designed to cause maximum pressure on her elbow and shoulder joints. Whoever had tied the knots was highly skilled. Any rapid or violent force would be likely to cause dislocation. She lay still and breathed through her nose as she waited for the pain in her arms and shoulders to ease.

Where the hell was she? The air was heavy with damp and decay, and smelled old and stale. The silence was oppressive. She guessed the sensory deprivation was deliberate and a crude attempt to disorientate and frighten her. She struggled to gather what thoughts and memory of the recent past were still with her. She remembered leaving the Police headquarters with Menke and walking towards the city centre to find this Márkus's place that Tamás Berényi had suggested; in Thököly Way; two streets across to the north where they served real traditional Hungarian food. Whilst they were eating, he would arrange to put out an all station alert for this Bernát Kóbor. She remembered walking down Szászház Street from the Police Headquarters and seeing an old man approaching. He accosted them; asking if they could spare a couple of Florint or a few Fillér coins for food. As Menke put his hand into his pocket for a few coins, they were jumped from behind. All Stacey remembered was the sound of some shots being fired; a hard, painful blow on the back of her head... and nothing.

There was no sense of any presence in the darkness. It must mean that Menke was safe... and if that was the case, they would be searching for her. Slowly her memory returned. She remembered a van... hands pulling at her roughly. A bag had been jammed down over her head. After that, she'd been thrown into the vehicle none-too-gently, and then someone rammed a hypodermic needle into the side of her neck. She had no idea why they wanted her... and who were they? Stacey forced herself to concentrate. She wasn't going to help herself by lying here. Perhaps they had simply dumped her. She should try to escape.

Gritting her teeth, she fought through the pain in her arms and began to wriggle her way across the floor. After what seemed to be a lifetime, her head struck something hard. She stopped and took several short gasps of air whilst the sharp spears of pain from the position of her arms in the rope bindings stabbed at her shoulder joints. It was a wall... a rough, brick wall. Working her way to a sitting position with her back to the wall might relieve some of the strain in her arms. Digging her heels into the concrete floor, she thrust his hips upwards and nearly passed out with the pain. The wall provided a little support, and in due course it became somewhat easier. She waited for the aching to die down again. The silence, like the darkness, was complete. Her injuries were stiffening with bruising. She gritted her teeth again;

'Dammit, girl; Man up!'

She groped for the wall behind. Her hands felt swollen and useless and the tips of her fingers were becoming numb. It was definitely brickwork that she was leaning against; she was in some sort of building. So if this was a room, then there must be a door. It was simply a question of finding it. Before she had managed to figure out just how she was supposed to find a door in pitch darkness with her arms pinioned in this fashion, she heard the voices of several people talking. Judging by the echo of footsteps on stone they were descending a set of stairs. This was it, then; they hadn't abandoned her. There was a rattle of chains and the turn of a key; and a door opened off to the right. A pair of flashlights cut through the darkness and the sudden blaze of light was blinding. The beams skimmed across the floor and settled on her as two men entered the room. Without a word, they grasped hold of her. She began to struggle instinctively, her shoulders lancing with pain. One of the men cuffed her around the side of the head as the second man grabbed her on the other side of her body.

They dragged her across to the centre of the room and sat her down on a wooden chair. The complicated rope work was loosened momentarily, and pressure on her shoulder joints was relaxed as they re-tied her arms and ankles to the chair. The room was flooded with light as somebody flicked a switch on. Stacey flinched from the glare of the naked, fly-speckled neon tubes strung from the roof... but at least it meant she could see.

She was in some kind of vaulted cellar. The brickwork looked old and neglected; with empty alcoves set back into the walls. There were no windows or vents near the ceiling, and the single, heavy oak door was set back in the corner. Other than the chair she was sitting on, the room was devoid of any furniture... and there were what looked like faded bloodstains on the floor.

'Fräulein Steini Brasack.'

Another man stepped into the cellar. His voice was cultured, and he spoke in German. He closed the door carefully and moved around to stand in front of the chair.

'I'm pleased to see that you are finally awake. Whilst you've been out we've moved you away from the city. The Police will find it very difficult to track you. You've been unconscious for nearly two days.'

Stacey looked up at him and shook her head.

'More likely a couple of hours. You tell me I'm out of the city and make me think there's no hope of a rescue. Makes it seem like resistance is futile, and therefore, I'm likely to talk.'

The man chuckled softly.

'Really, Fräulein Brasack... if that is really your name; you think I'm playing games with you? I wouldn't insult your intelligence with such crude tricks.'

Stacey studied him.

'So, who are you, and why am I here? If I'm right, and you represent the Kameradschaft, then you need me in tracking down the American CIA bitch and that Mossad Judenscheisse who is working with her.'

The man smiled; a commiserative smile;

'I really am disappointed in you. You know precisely who I am and why I want you, but for now we'll play the game by your rules. My name is Bernhard Drescher. I'm a businessman and a patriot in much the same way, I would imagine, as you are. Although we might use different methods, I believe we want a similar outcome.'

Stacey spoke sharply.

'I don't think so. Both my grandfathers died in Plötzensee to help destroy the sick ideology that you support.'

Drescher nodded.

'Good men, I'm sure, but misguided, and lied to by those who told them that the Führer was foolish to fight on two fronts. So many wasted lives. There was no need for those men to die.'

Stacey gave him a wry grin.

'My father died in Russia for your lunatic Führer... so don't come the regretful hero with me, Herr Drescher. World domination...The New Order… that was your Nazi plan, wasn't it? But first you had to occupy England to gain access to the Atlantic. It must have really fucked things up for your comrades when they dug their heels in and decided to fight back.'

Drescher shrugged.

'It's history, and now we must look to the future. This brings me neatly to the matter in hand. Operation Plumbat. I know that you and your bodyguard Heynig are somehow involved in this Jew plot to construct an Atomic bomb. I really would prefer that you tell me what you know about this, and the extent of your investigations into the cargo of the Antwerp freighter. I fail to see what possible use such information would be to Berliner Kameradschaft Wolkenfeuer... which makes me wonder if you and your companion are actually who you say you are... and not undercover Kriminalpolizei, or Bundesnachrichtendienst.'

Stacey looked at Drescher.

'That is ridiculous. My father was Hero of The Reich; Standartenführer Kurt Brasack, who commanded the 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich on the Eastern Front in 1943... and what have you done with my companion, Bruno Heynig?

Drescher smiled. An almost regretful smile.

'It was only you that we wanted alive. My colleagues had very strict instructions. Unfortunately, your companion was expendable and they were instructed to leave him behind.'

She remembered the sound of shots. She had hoped that it had been Menke who had fired them.

'They shot him?'

Drescher smiled ruefully.

'I'm rather afraid they did. Now I'll leave you in the capable hands of Herr Nagler. You'll like him. Franzl is an artist. I'll return in an hour to see if he has persuaded you to cooperate.'

He turned and walked out of the cellar. The other man came towards her, grinning. His hard, Teutonic face was twisted into what he imagined would have been an amiable smile, had he not been so repulsively ugly. He stood in front of her and gently lifted her chin with his left hand, looked into her eyes, and slapped her hard across the face. He stepped back smiling; and spoke with a coarse Bavarian accent.

'That was just a love pat. You will tell me what Oberführer Drescher wants to know, or I promise you it will get very difficult for you.'

She glared at him.

'Go to hell!'

He smiled again.

'Your choice.'

And carefully slipped a hypodermic needle into a vein in her wrist. He carefully withdrew it after he had made the injection and stepped back, smiling again.

'A special cocktail that makes Sodium Pentothal look like Spezi Orange Cola. You will talk… sooner or later; it just depends on whether you enjoy the rough stuff. Lots of girls do.'

She spat out,

'Fuck You!…'

But was already beginning to feel woozy, with the hypnotising effect of the drug coursing through her veins; impairing her judgment and higher brain functions. The man merely smiled and hit her across the face again. He roughly grabbed a handful of her hair, and gave her another powerful slap across the face that knocked the air from her lungs in a rush. She slumped in the chair, trying to catch her breath. Damn, that hurt. This bastard obviously enjoyed hurting women. Nagler shoved his face closely to her. His breath stank of sausage, beer, and cheap tobacco.

'Just tell me what I want to know and it'll just be a few more slaps. Don't tell me, and you get wired up. Last chance, Schlampe.'

She spat out bloodstained saliva from where the last slap had driven the inside of her lower lip into a tooth.

'Screw you… you Bazi asshole.'

She had recognised his accent as being Bavarian… and this was a. particularly offensive term used by Northern Germans… and especially Berliners; for Bavarians, and to a lesser extent, Austrians. With luck; it would confirm to this bastard that she was exactly who she said she was… Steini Brasack. He merely grinned and turned to a folding table that he had brought into the room. He picked up some sort of box with wires dangling out of it, and a metal probe with a shiny tip attached to one of the wires. A winding handle protruded from one side of the box. She tensed. So it was going to be electric shock torture sending high-volts of electricity coursing throughout her body. Nagler returned and placed the box on the concrete floor at her feet. He gave her a horrible grin.

'I see that you already know what this is. It's a really nice toy based on the old field telephones. It's got a high voltage, but low current. The shocks are extremely painful, but they won't kill you, so we can play for quite a while... unless, of course you tell me what I want to know.'

He pulled off her left shoe and wound a bare copper wire around her big toe; then bent down to the box, and flicked a switch. A faint ominous hum emanated from the box. He stood up and moved in front of her with the probe in his hand. He glanced into her face. His eyes were cold and indifferent.

'We'll start with just a tickle so that you can see what you can expect.'

And without warning, he ripped her shirt open and jabbed the probe into her chest. Stacey's head jerked back as her muscles went into spasm with the electrical current coursing through her body. She heard somebody screaming ... then realised it was her. Her body was rigid, tight, and convulsing as the current crushed her... from the top of her head to the head to the tips of her toes. Nagler pulled the probe away. Stacey went limp, but her body still shook with the residual current in her nerve bundles. Another scream tore into the silence of the cellar as Nagler jabbed the probe onto Stacey's left breast stabbing a burning shock everywhere in her body, furiously shaking through her pinioned arms and legs. Nagler held it there, completely indifferent to her convulsions from the electric shock that was causing every nerve in her body to scream out in pain.

After what seemed like a lifetime; Nagler pulled the probe away and watched dispassionately as Stacey slumped in the chair; seemingly unconscious. He smiled. The next session would be good. It would be time to get up close and personal… but first… something to improve the conductivity. Switching off the box and placing the probe carefully to one side; he turned and picked up a pail of water… then threw the water over her; soaking her clothes. She came to spluttering. Nagler stepped forward; tore her shirt off her shoulders, and slapped her hard across the face again. As she blinked at him he switched on the box; picked up the probe and prodded it into her breast again. With the full amperage now available against her wet skin, Stacey's world dissolved into a maelstrom of pain… it seemed to blot out everything else, consume her every thought, make every nerve in her body shriek. And from here, it would only continue... and probably get much worse. Five minutes gone and just another fifty-five to go.

Nagler grinned.

'Well; that's changed the picture! Now let's see if you like it against your more delicate parts.'

He grabbed the neck of her sodden blouse and tore it off her. Hooking his fingers into the gore of her bra between the two cups, he jerked hard; tearing the stitching of the hook and eye fasteners and pulling the torn garment up towards her shoulders exposing her breasts. He nodded appreciatively.

'Nice tits! Now let's see if we can perk up those pretty nipples with a little tickle.'

He sloshed more cold water over her breasts and slowly brought the probe forward; jabbing it into contact with her left nipple. She felt nothing more than a slight twinge as the electrical box gave a thin chirrup. Nagler withdrew the probe and glanced down at the box. His brutal face twisted into a disgusted glare.

'Fuck it! The battery's gone.'

He dropped the probe; switched off the box, and turned back to Stacey. He slapped her across the face again.

'I suppose you think that's fucking funny. OK, take five. I'll go get a fresh battery and then we'll see who's laughing.'