If he fucked up, it was his ass, plain and simple. No margin for error in this board game, he thought as his eyes rapped the ceiling above, following the sway of the sinister talons on the tree clawing outside his window. From now on it was the big time.
You'd better stay awake, Paddy, he heard in his head. It was not quite his own thoughts alone, but a warning from somewhere deep inside, there where we find the truth we'd rather avoid. Patrick's throat was dry and his hand fell gently on his piece, caressing the blue steel of the barrel and sliding back to grip the butt for comfort. It was not loaded at the moment, but the shape of it had an enthralling comfort to the contours of his hand. He was nervous about his German not being up to par. He felt agitated by the level of sophistication of the criminals he would have to deal with and masquerade as. Patrick's mouth twitched into an inadvertent smile as he could almost hear Sam telling him, Oh, shite, man! Every scumbag and thug you have ever encountered have taught you well, son. You just behave accordingly. Those lads taught you well, so take off the skirt and whip Fritz's arse! and with the spurt of courage his friend's pretended assurance granted him, Patrick Smith welcomed the beckoning oblivion of blissful sleep under the angry skies of Katzwang.
The following morning was a frigid, windy onslaught to wake the senses and Patrick enjoyed the crispness. Besides, he needed a cold wave of air to wake him and keep him perked for the assignment ahead. Like a boy on his first day of school, long before a fresh shirt and polished shoes had become obsolete, he eagerly groomed himself to look as professional as possible. His cover would be modest, something he could easily improvise, but it still depended on the mark whether he would be allowed in to the inner sanctum of the villain he was trailing. All that MI6 had ordered for this mission was for him to point out the rogue agent working illegally for Eickhart — nothing more. It sounded simple, but as a DCI he was well aware that undercover operations took months, sometimes years, to break. Intelligence was not always freely available for those who merely paid attention.
He would have to employ his knowledge of psychology, of biological agents and German history to defragment the personalities he would encounter to effectively pinpoint the culprit's position. At least, that is what he told himself to prepare mentally as he finished his breakfast and made his way to the lobby where he would wait for his escort to arrive.
Patrick sat down with a newspaper while waiting. It was twenty minutes before his rendezvous time and he thought to look distinguished when his handler came in. It made him smile. He felt like a little boy playing James Bond, pretending to be suave, pretending to be elite, and pretending to die when he was shot by the villain. But in this game there was no pretending to die, a sobering thought indeed. This was real and he was dealing with a Nazi war criminal, not Santa Claus. It was not long before he started reading the paper to polish his German and surprisingly discovered that he still had a very good command of the language. Save for one or two words here and there he understood the articles completely.
His eyes found one article in particular that sent a spike of adrenaline through his body. It was a report about a local resident of Katzwang having had an attempt on his life recently on his holiday in Tibet. The man, Walter Eickhart, had been paralyzed in a fall after running from attackers.
No way. The so-called threat to the European Union and terrorist? And I'm meeting him today. Coincidence, Patrick thought as his eyes ran over the familiarized lettering. His training and years in crime had taught him never to judge prematurely, that even the most frail had grips of steel extending from well-funded palms.
"Herr Braun?" the receptionist chimed from the counter, but Patrick did not pay her any mind. "Herr Braun," she repeated in a louder tone bearing some annoyance at the man ignoring her in clean earshot. Patrick jolted from his relaxed state, responding in turn to the lady who was holding out his paperwork to be signed before he left.
Stupid. Stupid, he reprimanded himself inside, as he realized that forgetting his cover could cost him his life. Thankfully, this time it was just a harmless receptionist. A more trained eye would immediately recognize this novice mistake. Quickly he jumped up and apologized, using the interesting newspaper report as an excuse for his absent mindedness.
"Herr Braun," he heard again from the direction of the inn's front door and this time he reacted immediately.
"Ja?" he replied and turned to find his escort approaching. He was a pleasant-looking older man dressed in a black suit, slight of build and bald. The man smiled at him.
"Wilkommen, Herr Braun," he beamed, and extended a hand to Patrick.
Don't say thank you, you idiot. Remember, for fuck's sake, Patrick's inner voice hounded him again and he continued his conversation in German. The man introduced himself simply as Dieter and he collected Patrick's luggage as they proceeded to the car waiting outside. The vision greeting him, punched him with nostalgia. Impressed, he nodded at the sight of the old 1930s Ford before him. It was in immaculate condition and sported white walls and chrome, which gave it a lavish look of all the things he had expected Eickhart to be — extravagantly wealthy and branding a taste for the antique charms of the old world.
Inside, the car smelled like leather and cigar smoke. Patrick felt like a distinguished man just sitting in it as they traveled through the town of buildings with large triangular rock walls under brick orange tiled roofs. Walls fencing the properties were old and grey, some crumbling and covered in mossy residue, which reminded him of the churchyards in Dumfries.
The towering spires of the old churches and the rolling water of the channel greeted him with a sense of mystery. Dieter informed him that the town was as ancient as it appeared, sprung up somewhere in the Middle Ages and fraught with old secrets, battle sites and catacombs born from historical disaster. For the duration of the drive to the secluded home Patrick ran the papers he was given through his thoughts to remind him of who he was supposed to be. His contact at MI6 had furnished him with the necessary jargon for his supposed profession, architecture. Terminology and the very basic variations of structures it accompanied flashed in his mind and he hoped that Eickhart would have as little knowledge of the vocation as he had.
As the car entered the small paved road to the massive house, Patrick knew why the old man needed an architect, and one of special clandestine qualities such as himself. The vast mansion was divided into six different structures of stone and steel, each bearing a resemblance to the other, but differing in the number of windows. To the left stood a thick tubular tower fashioned from old rock and mortar. It reminded Patrick of the medieval fortresses from where strongholds were ruled by savage kings guarding precious treasures, where monks were wizards and queens were enslaved. Behind it, detached from the rest of the house, was a smaller building built from the same materials as the tower. Stained glass adorned its three arched windows and apart from the absence of a spire, he could tell that it was a church from olden days. It was hidden somewhat in the idyllic tall looming lindens and pines swaying gently behind the buildings.
There was no fence enclosing the main house, which he found suspect, but he would ask about that once he had established more trust. Patrick's instinct as a detective prompted him to record every detail of the area — the cars in front of the mansion, the exits, even the faces of the two gardeners busy weeding near the fountain. To his surprise the mansion was relatively modest considering Eickhart's apparent wealth and this made him wonder if the modesty was a ruse to disregard rumors of his involvement in international war trade.