Chapter Three.

The Customs Officer at the arrivals desk at Lod Airport scrutinised the West German passport, and glancing up; studied the passenger who had presented it to him. Glancing back at the photograph, he said;

'What brings you to Israel, Mr Neumann?'

The young man gave the Customs Officer an amiable smile.

'Business; and if I have time, I'll try to get across to Jerusalem to see Temple Mount and the Holy Sepulchre.'

The Customs Officer nodded; stamped the visa page of the passport, and handed it back.

He nodded.

'Have a pleasant stay. Mr Neumann.'

As the young man walked away; the Customs Officer checked the photographs concealed below the top of his desk once again, just to make certain; then picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk; dialled a number, and, as the line connected to an office on the sixth floor of Mossad headquarters; spoke quietly into the mouthpiece.

The Hungarian courier, Bernát Kóbor strolled out of the main terminal of Lod Airport and hailed a taxi cab. He smiled to himself. That was too easy! These Judenscheisse Untermenschen weren't even close to being a match to his Herrenrasse intellectual superiority. During the ride into downtown Tel Aviv; Kóbor was planning his next move… the delivery of the Plumbat dossier to the Palestinian National Liberation Movement terrorist cell run by the senior Palestinian field commander, Abu Ali Iyad; that was based in Syria and Jordan. As the cab crossed Yerushalayim Boulevard into Marzuk VeAzar; he didn't notice the inconspicuous motor cycle turn out from a narrow side road in the Shim'on Ha'tsadik neighbourhood and begin to follow the cab down towards the Jaffa flea market.

The hotel that had been arranged for Kóbor was an absolute shit-hole just across from the Port of Jaffa transit sheds. The room was a dingy pigsty; but at least it overlooked the street that came in from the north… the Rehov Sha Arei Nikor. Unfortunately for Kóbor; the motorcyclist who had tailed him had parked up in the adjoining HaShahaf Street close to the Greek Orthodox Monastery and was strolling unobserved down towards Kóbor's hotel.

Bernát Kóbor was sitting on the edge of the grubby bedspread thumbing through the contents of the slim dossier when there was a quiet knock on the door. Slipping the papers under the pillow, he rose and crossed the shabby room to the door. He paused.

'Yes?'

An Arabic accented voice replied.

'Kóbor; I am Wafid al-Shatir. I have come for the documents.'

Kóbor paused again.

'Who has sent you?'

The voice replied:

'Abu Ali Iyad.'

Kóbor nodded to himself and opened the door to be confronted by a young Arab who looked to be about eighteen. He smiled. His teeth were very white. He inclined his head respectfully.

'Salaam, Mr Kóbor. You have the documents ready?'

Kóbor nodded.

'Yes. You have the money?'

The young Arab nodded and passed a thick envelope to Kóbor, who passed the dossier to him.

The young Arab glanced at the contents and smiled again. Kóbor grinned.

'Do it right, and these skies will soon become the colour of burning Jews.'

He sat on the bed and began to count the thick wad of banknotes as the young Arab turned to leave. He happened to glance up and saw the Arab pointing an ugly automatic pistol at him. Kóbor began to open his mouth to say something, when the Tokarev pistol crashed twice. The impact of the magnesium incendiary bullets hurled Kóbor back on to the bed, shredding his chest. The mattress burst into flames as the rounds ignited. Wafid al-Shatir glanced incuriously at the smouldering corpse. He spoke quietly to no one in particular.

'If you Nazi pricks thought that by stirring up the fucking desert wanderers you could bring about mushroom clouds over Jerusalem and Cairo, with the Nile cotton fields and vineyards beside the Sea of Galilee blighted by fallout; with the Middle East wasted by fire, and its children deformed for generations; then you were fucking well wrong.'

He recovered the wad of banknotes and, with the Plumbat dossier under his arm; quietly left the room and closed the door.

As he rode north towards the shabby Neveh Tzeddek district where he had rented a cheap, dingy room in a scruffy house that backed on to a sprawl of run-down warehouses in a nondescript backstreet; Wafid al-Shatir was wondering what these Neo-Nazi bastards would try next. The Brotherhood would have to be ready and alert. Wafid al-Shatir was Lebanese; and one of the founder members of an ultra-nationalist secret military society and militia that was being set up by pro-Israeli, right-wing Christian activists in Lebanon.

Officially, it would become known as "Al-Tanzim"… "The Organisation"; but already, he, and his brothers-in-arms were being called "Shadows of The Nephilim"… referred to in the Scriptures as "Fallen Angels… the offspring of sexual relationships between the sons of God and daughters of men… the heroes of old, the men of renown." He smiled to himself… Fallen Angels! Night was drawing in. He switched on the motorcycle's headlamp and twisted open the throttle as he sped through the darkening streets.

A dilapidated Peugeot 404 had pulled up in the shadow of the warehouse wall opposite the house where Wafid al-Shatir had a room. A swarthy man dressed in nondescript Western clothes got out of the passenger side and looked up and down the street. The street was deserted. He pulled out a silenced pistol and shot out the street lights closest to the car. He then climbed back into the car and waited. The rasp of a motorcycle exhaust echoed down the street. The two men in the Peugeot huddled down as the motorcycle stopped opposite, and its rider switched off the engine; kicked down the side-stand, and climbed off the machine. He then ascended the steps to the front door of the house, opened it and went inside. A light came on briefly and was then extinguished.

Saudi hitman, Mansour Al-Amri gingerly lifted a squat cylinder from the Peugeot's glove box. He held it up carefully for Zaki Al-Zahrini... the other man, to see, and grinned evilly.

'This will see to the little Fatah shit. It's a white phosphorous bomb. When it explodes, it will scatter little blobs of phosphorous all over him and his room. They burn when the air hits them. They're like little suns... they burn at over five thousand degrees. The air catches fire and everything melts.'

With his pistol in one hand and the bomb in the other; Al-Amri crept up the dingy staircase to Wafid al-Shatir's room. He paused, pulled the safety pin from the bomb, shot the lock, and kicked in the door. Wafid al-Shatir was scrambling for his Tokarev pistol as Al-Amri tossed the bomb into the room. Wafid Al-Shatir saw the squat cylinder bounce across the floor, and, forgetting his gun, rushed towards the door. Al-Amri punched him hard in the face, causing him to stagger back into the room. Al-Amri dropped his gun and slammed the door shut; hanging onto the doorknob with both hands and all his strength as Wafid Al-Shatir frantically tried to wrench the door open from the other side, screaming out something in Lebanese Arabic.

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash, a dull explosion; and the door ripped off its hinges, throwing Al-Amri across the corridor into the wall opposite as dense white smoke belched out of the room. He shoved the smouldering door away and staggered to the stairs; as dreadful screams stabbed through the swirling white smoke.

Outside in the car; Al-Zahrini looked up as the glass of the window in Wafid al-Shatir's room bulged, and blew out; with blinding white gobbets of phosphorous splattering away into the night air. Snatching at the ignition key he started the engine as Al Amri staggered down the steps to the car. Slumping into the passenger seat, Al-Amri yelled.

'Let's get the fuck out of here!'

Al-Zahrini jammed the steering column gear shift into first and punched the gas pedal. He glanced up at the window and immediately wished he hadn't, as, through the swirling white smoke he glimpsed a flailing, fiery human torch clawing at itself as it staggered across his line of sight.

The two-kilometre drive across central Tel Aviv to the Hadar Dafna building at 39-41, King Saul Boulevard took Silberberg a little under ten minutes in the evening traffic. As he turned into the underground parking lot, he glanced at Stacey.

'The Director General has asked to see you. Miss Mckenna. We'll take the stairs to the lobby and then, take the elevator.'

The lobby of the Hadar Dafna building was somewhat shabby; with a flight of broad steps that led out into King Saul Boulevard. The ground floor appeared to be a bank, and a sign directed customers to a public cafeteria on the first floor. Silberberg steered Stacey to an unmarked door in the far corner of the lobby and produced two keys. He explained that one key opened the door and the second opened the elevators that rose through Mossad's eight floors. He said that the headquarters was a building within a building… with its own utilities… power, water, and sanitation; and was separate from the rest of the tower block.

As the elevator sped up through the heart of the building; Stacey wondered what the Director General would have to say. The elevator whispered to a stop and the doors slid back to reveal a long, featureless corridor. Silberberg ushered her out and led her along the silent corridor to a door which bore a small nameplate engraved with four Hebrew letters that spelled out "Ramsad." In the intelligence community's plethora of abbreviations and acronyms, this one meant "Rosh ha-Mossad"… Head of the Mossad.

Silberberg knocked on the door and opened it; inviting Stacey to enter. Sitting at a modern office desk was a man in his early forties, with a receding hairline. The whole room was unexceptional and functional. The man rose, walked from behind the desk, and extended his hand to Stacey.

'Shalom, Officer Mckenna. I am Zvi Zamir; Director General of the Mossad. Please take a seat.'

He motioned to a comfortably upholstered chair off to the left-hand side of his desk. As she sat, he returned to his chair and opened a folder on the desk. Glancing at the single sheet of paper closely typed in Hebrew characters; he put his elbows on the surface of the desk and folded his hands, with fingers interlocked, under his chin. Holding Stacey's eyes in an unwavering gaze, he spoke. His voice was soft and assertive.

'Officer Mckenna; we have encountered a problem with the Nimrod situation. It appears that one of our more tenuous allies' operatives has compromised the entire operation.'

Stacey studied him.

'How so, Director?'

He leaned back in his chair.

'We are hoping it was a case of mistaken identity; but we are not totally convinced that it was. One of our "Sayan"… our "Helpers" intercepted the Hungarian courier, Kóbor; acquired the dossier that he was carrying; and retired him. Our Sayan was incinerated in his room, as was the dossier. We are certain this act was carried out by Saudis, on their assumption that he was Fatah… a member of the covert Palestinian National Liberation Movement. He was, in fact, a Lebanese right-wing, Christian activist working with Shin Bet. We now have a major problem. When Fatah notify their source in Europe that the documents have not been forthcoming; it is certain that replacement documents will be despatched. It appears that the last few weeks have been completely wasted. Your Director has asked me to direct both you, and Officer Shepard to return to Vienna and prevent the despatch of any further documents.'

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

He consulted the thin file on his desk.

'Prime Minister Meir, and Defense Minister Dayan have ratified a State Death warrant which authorises the assassination of all individuals involved; albeit directly or indirectly. There will be no captures, no interrogations; no arrests. The goal is to expunge those who can be found, and in so doing, terrorise those who cannot be targeted. Our Metsada branch will provide a team to accompany you; and you will all operate with complete autonomy, completely outside the Israeli and U.S. governmental structures.'

He closed the folder, and opened another.

'The rules of engagement for this operation; which, as of now, is designated "Operation Malach Hamavet" have been agreed between our two Directorates, and are simple and unequivocal. Targets will only be acted against after the team has attained one hundred percent identification. If this cannot be achieved, regardless of how much time or energy has been devoted to such a target, the action is to be terminated. Any "collateral damage" is not permitted for the duration of this operation.'

He closed the second folder.

'Officer Shepard is on his way back from your Field Station as we speak. When he arrives, you will be both taken to our training facility north of the city where you will meet your team. That is all, Officer Mckenna. Silberberg will take you down for a coffee whilst you await the arrival of Officer Shepard.'

He stood and moved around the desk to her. Taking her hand, he smiled.

'I wish you well, Officer Mckenna. We shall not meet again. Shalom.'

She rose and replied,

'Thank you, Sir; Shalom.'

The Glittering black Mercedes-Benz 300SEL cruised sedately across Vienna, heading south-east towards the Landstrasse District. As the driver negotiated his way through the swathes of middle-class boulevards into the heart of the district; the elderly man in the back seat was deliberating upon how he should handle the situation into which he was about to set foot. He had called an extraordinary meeting of the present Viennese Neo-Nazi faction in a disused warehouse just off Lechnerstrasse. An embarrassing situation had manifested itself that needed their immediate attention. The old man was former SS-Obersturmführer der Waffen-SS Joachim Hamann; once Kommandant of Rollkommando Hamann; a small mobile unit that had committed mass murders of Lithuanian Jews in the countryside during July and October 1941, and effectively accomplished the destruction of Lithuanian Jewry. He was now auditor of the "Stille Hilfe" organisation attached to the council of the old Nazi, Kameradschaft Kaltenbrunner, based in Wuppertal.

"Stille Hilfe"...or "Silent Aid" was a Nazi organisation which had existed since 1951, helping accused Nazi war criminals to find refuge, avoid extradition; engage legal counsel, or finance an old-age home.

He opened his briefcase and withdrew a document which he studied intently by the courtesy light in the roof of the Mercedes Benz. The close-typed contents were concise.

"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."

Stille Hilfe had indeed financed the operation. The information regarding the Israeli acquisition of a substantial quantity of Uranium Oxide for use in Atomic weapons had been forwarded to Israel's Arabic enemies in the Middle East by the Viennese Neo-Nazi organisation known as Aktionsbüro Babenberg. The problem was that the information had not arrived at its destination. This humiliating state of affairs had the fucking paw-prints of the Mossad Judenläuse written all over it. Since the Wiedenbräukeller explosion in Vienna's northern district of Döbling, that blew the entire Aktionsbüro Babenberg to hell, the information would have to be re-assembled from the ground up.

He glanced out of the car's window. A sprawl of factories and markets; pierced with a maze of streets and railway tracks met his gaze. The air was thick with coal smoke and steam. The dingy, monotonous-grey apartment blocks lining the streets blocked out the sky and were caked in the perpetual industrial grime dating back to the Austro-Hungarian Empire days. This dump was as far away from his bright, modern surroundings in Wuppertal as it was possible to imagine.

The Mercedes-Benz whispered to a halt at the end of an alley that ran almost parallel to the river. The walls were sheer brick cliffs towering over ancient, worn cobbles. The driver got out, and having checked the immediate vicinity; opened the rear door for his passenger to step out onto the pavement. Joachim Hamann nodded to him and turned the corner of a shabby warehouse into the narrow, squalid alleyway; his eyes shifting over every shadow and boarded-up doorway with practised swiftness; searching for any signs of movement amongst the shadows. There should be nothing but you never could be absolutely certain. The long arm of the Judenscheisse agents was everywhere. Satisfied that he was alone and unobserved; he quickened his pace towards his goal... the building across the next street at the far end of the alley.

As he approached the end of the alley, he paused again. There was no sound other than the wind moaning across the gaps in the semi-derelict building opposite. Warily, he pulled his old Luger pistol from under his coat; chambered a round, edged forward, and glanced up and down the mean, deserted street that was bathed in a drab orange glow by dim, sodium street lamps. There were too many shadows between the vague pools of light cast by the street lamps for his liking. Hamann took a deep breath, and stepped out of the alley to cross the street. There was nothing there. Quickly he crossed the street and found the side door of the building down a short, dead-end alley. Grasping the grubby doorknob, he pushed at the door which creaked open as the wind off the river briefly lifted a layer of dust which resettled across the rickety, empty shelves that lined the raw lath-and-plaster walls. The sickly, urine-yellow glow of the dingy street lamp opposite shone through the gaps in the roughly boarded-up window. The glass was grimy and opaque, and diffused the thin light; throwing the furthest reaches of the room into shadow. The whole place smelled as though it had been standing abandoned for some considerable time.

Joachim Hamann took a deep audible breath of scornful contempt. What a demeaning shit-hole for the New Order of The Master Race to skulk in. His thoughts drifted back to Berlin, thirty years previously. Back then, the Master Race really were the Masters. Still; it was no use dwelling on previous glories. Now, he had to motivate these verdammt schluchtenscheisser; with their white-laced, rubber-soled, high boots and scruffy leather jackets. Swallowing his contempt, he made his way across the room to a door in the far wall, from the bottom of which, a thin band of light was emanating across the squalid bare floorboards. Opening the door, he paused on the threshold and surveyed the scene before him.

The room was, perhaps, ten metres square. The far wall was decorated with a reasonable imitation of the NSDAP Parteiadler… the Nazi Party Eagle with outspread wings, and clutching a garlanded swastika in its talons. Sadly, it appeared to be made of wood; but it was a brave attempt to imitate the real thing… which had invariably been originally cast in Bronze. The side walls were draped with red-and-black swastika banners; red-and-black streamers, and Nazi symbolism… Rune symbols; the Wolfsangel… the "Wolf's-hook"; the SS Sigrunes… the silver, twin lightning symbols; the SS-Totenkopf… the skull and crossbones insignia; and the Sonnenrad… the Black Sun. In pride of place to either side of the Party Eagle, were framed pictures of Hitler and Himmler.

The room was occupied by ten young men; most of whom were dressed in the typically Neo-Nazi costume of cropped hair, black army pants, or jeans; high, white-laced combat boots, and black shirts with a black and white collar. Many of them were heavily tattooed with similar runic symbols. As Hamann closed the door and turned towards the room; every man stood and gave a perfectly synchronised Hitler salute. One of them, who was slightly better dressed than the rest, came forward, and snapped to attention in front of Hamann. He gave a beautifully-executed Hitler Salute and shouted, in German; with a pronounced Austrian accent…

'Welcome, Obersturmführer Hamann. The Aktionsbüro Siegfrid is honoured by your presence.'

Hamann returned the salute; and glanced around the room. There were ten of them; smart-ass street thugs; ersatz patriots posturing as Fourth Reich warriors. It was like looking at a re-incarnation of the SA on the mean streets of Berlin during the thirties… real tough guys when they were beating up some old Jew; but put them up against some real mean bastards… like the fucking Mossad Judenschwein… and they'd shit their pants; and, as for the name… Aktionsbüro Siegfrid? They'd obviously decided to imitate Hitler's attempts to inculcate Wagnerian obsession into his thuggish followers. Hamann half-expected to have his ears assailed at any moment with the opening bars of "Die Wacht am Rhein"… or some other jingoistic shit.

Inwardly he sighed. These Schwachköpfe… morons of the "New Order" were less intimidating than the Deutsches Jungvolk Pimpfen… the ten-to-fourteen-year-old recruits of the National Socialist youth organisation that preceded their induction into the Hitlerjugend proper, at age fourteen. This lot wouldn't have survived in the Jugendwehr, a preliminary training program for high school students; let alone the three months, preliminary training course at the Vogelsang military training area located in the western Eifel region of Germany, about thirty kilometres south-west of Aachen; close to the Ardennes, Hürtgen Forest, and the Belgian border. The old Aktionsbüro Babenberg deserved their seats in Valhalla; they were true to the ideology and principles of Nazism… but these young louts gave the immediate impression that they had no real agenda besides anger and violence, and were more interested in serving their own interests in complete disregard of the truth or the interests of the cause.

Joachim Hamann knew that his assignment was critically important, and that he should not draw comparisons with his old comrades… the elite SS corps of the Nazi Party. He must utilise them to establish where in Vienna the original Plumbat dossier was lodged; but in truth, if it came to it… he wouldn't pause to piss on these louts if they were on fire.

Taking a deep breath; he strode to the front of the gathering and turned to face them. He could see by the expressions on their faces that they were in awe of this genuine "Alter Kämpfer"…"Old Fighter"… one of the members of the Allgemeine-SS, who had joined prior to 30th January 1933; and that he was seen by them as being one of the noble warrior caste of the Third Reich. As he contemplated their asinine, upturned faces; their expressions resembled those of the Untermensch Pavlov's dogs waiting for the sound of their bell. Clasping his hands behind his back; Hamann assumed a rigid posture; shoulders back, feet apart; steely-eyed and firm-jawed… the archetypal image of an SS man in their imaginations. Sweeping a piercing around the room, he began to speak.

'Guten Abend, die Herren!… Good evening, Gentlemen! It has become necessary for my colleagues in Wuppertal to ascertain the identities of any associates of your former Aktionsbüro Babenberg comrades. It is probable that one of them in still in possession of a dossier that was conveyed to the old Aktionsbüro by the Kameradschaft Kaltenbrunner. The original copy of the dossier which was passed on by the Aktionsbüro, failed to arrive at its destination; and it is imperative that a duplicate be resent. This assignment that you are about to undertake; if successful, will secure the information that will assuredly lead to the destruction of the Judenschwein Homeland.'

Hamann swept his steely gaze around the room to emphasise his point. The young man who had initially introduced him leapt to his feet. Hamann nodded.

'Obersturmführer; with your permission; I know of one contact. He was an Abteilungsleiter... a section leader with the old Aktionsbüro; and survived the Döbling Wiedenbräukeller bombing; although he lost a leg from the knee down in the explosion. If anyone knows of this dossier, it will be him.'

Hamann nodded again.

'Sehr Gut! You know where he lives?

The young man shook his head.

'Obersturmführer; I regret that I do not know. He has stayed low since the bombing… but, I do know where I may be able to find him on occasion.'

Hamann raised an eyebrow. A sententious silence prowled around the room; then, he spoke

'What is your name?'

The young man snapped to attention.

'Obersturmführer; It is Eberhardt… Phips Eberhardt. I am Zellenleiter… cell leader of this group.'

Hamann studied him.

'I knew an Eberhardt… SS-Obersturmführer Richard Eberhardt. He served with SS-Totenkopfverbände Standarte II, "Brandenburg" when I was in Poland. Any relation to you?'

Phips Eberhardt drew himself up, proudly.

'Obersturmführer; He was my uncle. My father was posted here after the Anschluss Österreichs as an official of the Wien Reichsgau; and married my mother, who was Austrian by birth.'

Hamann nodded. Eberhardt's fellow Neo-Nazis regarded him in a new light… a mix of admiration and trepidation… he actually had blood links to the SS! Hamann interrupted their burgeoning regard for their Zellenleiter. His voice was cold and brooked no argument.

'Knowing where to find him "on occasion" is not an option at this time. It is imperative that this comrade is located without delay. It is entirely possible that Judenschwein agents and their Scheiss-Ami lapdogs are combing Vienna for him as we speak. I would suggest that you initiate this gathering into the task of locating this man immediately. I shall return here at the end of the week and expect an acceptable conclusion to the task that you have been set.'

As he finished his speech; the whole room leapt to their feet, and with their rigidly extended in the Hitler salute, yelled out in unison,

'Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil!'

Hamann returned the salute and began to move towards the door. As he did so; they bawled out,

'Töten Sie die Juden! Wir können nicht stillstehen, bis sie alle tot sind!... 'Kill all the Jews! We cannot rest until they are all dead!'

Joachim Hamann stepped out into the night air and paused; a little troubled with what he had just witnessed. Even with his anti-semitic indoctrination; this exhibition that he had just observed had really made him wonder whether the whole Anschluss business back in '38 really had been one of Adolf's better ideas. During his years in the SS he had known, and commanded many rabid Jew-haters; but these young thugs bordered on the psychotic in their blind hatred.