The secret basement rooms ran the full length of the buildings and gardens, with access through the elevator and stairs in the club. Like many basements, they housed storage and amenities. The basement was totally self-sufficient. With its power and water supply, it had been built to survive a direct hit from a non-nuclear device. It was typical of Meyer-Hofmann’s philosophy, being thorough and conscientious, as well as brutal and uncompromising. These basements would protect their more sensitive files, and three rooms of over two hundred square metres had been dedicated to record keeping. Next to the rooms were libraries, which were later updated to hold computers and modern communications. A large store room would also be converted to hold the bank of servers, which constantly hummed in the background and became the hub of Meyer-Hofmann’s data storage. Long corridors connected the labyrinth of rooms and offices, clearly signposted to help members of staff find their way around the maze. Security was a priority, and Von Klitzing’s signature could be seen at every corner. Guards were posted throughout the basement; Von Klitzing believed that trust was good, but control was better. You could not enter the Meyer-Hofmann basement without being controlled. Should anyone enter the Meyer-Hofmann lair uninvited, it would most certainly be a one-way ticket. The guards had their rooms and an impressive armoury in the middle of the basement, the most secure of which was the interrogation room. Sealed by a steel door, its walls and ceiling were insulated by soundproofing materials, making it look like an empty recording studio. The illumination was provided by strip lighting mounted along the edges of the ceiling, and an impressive group of spotlights hanging on a small aluminium scaffold in the centre. Mounted on the wall next to the door was a red fire hose, but that was the sum of the decorations on the dull grey-panelled walls. The room held only three pieces of furniture. In its centre was a high-backed oak chair, which would have been at home at a medieval dinner table. It had been secured to the polished concrete floor, above a drain sunk into the middle of the room. Thick leather straps were attached to the chair’s back, arms, and legs by solid steel bolts drilled through the hardwood. The chair’s seat had been removed, giving access to the drain below it, and leaving just a sharp wooden rim to take the weight of its occupant. By the wall sat a small metal table on wheels, of the type commonly found in hospitals. The table had three shelves. The top shelf held many articles also found in a hospitaclass="underline" syringes and vials, a scalpel, and rubber gloves. The second made more homage to a handyman, holding a hammer, pliers, and screwdrivers, as well as nails and a glue gun. The bottom shelf held a large yellow car battery charger and booster. A single small dial measured the charging current whilst two thick cables dispensed the charge via large bulldog clips on the end of the cables. Next to the table was a strange-looking chair. It was shaped like a saddle and mounted on two large rubber springs that allowed it to move freely around its axis. This assembly was mounted on a more traditional office stool base, allowing it to roll easily over the concrete floor.
Britt Petersen had been strapped to the wooden chair for the past five hours. She was cold and shaking uncontrollably. They had stripped her naked and hosed her down with ice-cold water, before strapping her to the oak chair. She had straps to her ankles, calves, hips, chest, neck, and head, as well as her elbows and wrists.
This is overkill, she thought
The head strap made it difficult for her to even turn her head, and the strap around her neck would cut off her air supply if it was any tighter.
My God, I am a woman, what do they think I am going to do?
The straps cut into her flesh, making any movement painful, and although the room was virtually empty, she felt very claustrophobic. The cold crept up her legs and torso from the wet concrete floor, making an unrelenting journey towards her heart. Once it arrived there, she was sure she would die. The morning had begun full of hope and confidence, but those feelings were now gone, blown away by the logical conclusion that she would not leave this place alive. After her capture, they had brought her straight to this building, and although she did not know exactly where she was, she surmised she was probably being held in the Company’s club. Her escape from Munich had been a disaster. She had known they were looking for her, but she could not run any sooner. She had planned to take a train to Stuttgart, and then Zurich, before catching a plane to Copenhagen, where she could cross the bridge to her hometown of Malmö, in Sweden. But first, she had to set up a safety net, for the eventuality that she did not make it. The information she had collected was dynamite—it would ruin Meyer-Hofmann and all of the bastards on the board, including her husband. She had needed to make sure it reached the public domain, whether she lived or died.
It was impossible to tell what time it was when her cell door finally opened. She recognised Von Klitzing immediately; she had researched all of the current members, as well as their fathers and grandfathers. Von Klitzing’s father had been an Obergruppenführer in the SS. His speciality was interrogation, and if her understanding of the recollection process was correct, he might as well have been the man entering the room. Despite his years, Von Klitzing moved across the room with ease. First steering the hospital trolley to the side of her chair, then wedging the saddle seat between the cheeks of his bottom and gliding expertly across the room, coming to rest exactly in front of her. He had brought a thermos and a glass with him, and proceeded to pour hot brown liquid into the glass. Without speaking a word, he lifted it to her lips, and she drank gratefully. Of course, she had no way of knowing what he was giving her, but whether he injected her or she took his drugs orally, she was in no place to stop him.
It tastes like sugared breakfast tea, but who could tell? she thought.
The main thing was that it was warm, and she felt the frost being pushed back, her life being extended.
A woman’s beauty did not often move Von Klitzing, but he was moved now by the woman in front of him. As the colour flooded back into her cheeks, he felt the urge to help her, to protect her, and even briefly considered it. Pushing himself far enough away from her to see her completely, he sat for a while and thought through his options. His right forefinger pressed into the middle of his lips, and he involuntarily pulled down his bottom lip, revealing the stained, yellow dentures of his bottom jaw.
“Well, well, Mrs Petersen, you led us a merry chase.”
His tone was friendly, but she saw it for what it was, just a game to him, just another inconvenience. She hoped he did not know all of what she had achieved in the past months. He was bound to have a good idea, or she would not be here, but her only chance was to scare him, sow the seeds of doubt in him. Doubt that he had not covered all the bases. That without her, he would be unable to trace every move she had made, and therefore unable to make an informed judgement of the danger that her information presented.
Let the game begin.