Chaos.
"Absolute chaos," Paul whispered, standing before the intricate door of the OKM, the guard next to him obviously nervous, seeing the Führer for the first time so close.
Yet the dampened shouts and sounds stemming from inside the room lowered the guard's mood. When Paul gave him a nod, he opened the door and entered.
The moment he appeared on the stairs leading down toward the floor, the room fell into an eerie silence.
"What is this chaos? This conflict?" Paul began, walking down the stairs, his boots striking the marble.
"The conflict..." He paused, pointing at the map. "IS THERE!" he suddenly shouted, Dönitz and a couple of other admirals lowering their heads. Whether it was shame or something else, Paul did not know.
"Reichsmarschall, tell me why this happened," Paul said, walking up to Raeder while looking at the large map behind him.
The room was completely still.
Raeder looked at Paul with a conflicted gaze, almost disappointed.
Suddenly somebody opened his mouth. It was Dönitz.
"My Führer, it was..." he began.
"No." Paul raised his finger.
"You are not in charge here, Dönitz. You do not need to stand trial for this mistake. Only when you are in charge can you be charged..." Paul's eyes lit up dangerously, the hidden message behind his comment obvious.
"This happened because we did not assign enough protection to the convoy. It is my mistake, my Führer," Raeder finally said, swallowing down his shame.
Paul met his eyes, nodding slowly.
"How much did we hurt them?" he asked, turning toward Dönitz.
"Well, the wolfpack tactics have worked terribly well. Our U-boats managed to sink two destroyers, one cruiser, and a dozen convoy ships."
"But dozens more got through," Paul remarked.
"It seems we are back to zero. Until the next fuel convoy departs, Rommel and von Lettow-Vorbeck will have to last."
"For now, we will direct all maritime forces into an absolute offensive. If we cannot have fuel, then neither shall they. Find their ships and sink them!" Paul said. He turned sharply and left the room, his boots echoing in the corridor.
I don't have time for this sideshow, Paul thought. His forehead creased in deep lines as he walked, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. Right in the middle of the hallway inside the Kriegsmarine headquarters, he simply froze. His gaze was glued to a painting on the wall. It was a masterful piece, depicting an eagle perched on a man's hand. Paul stared directly into the bird's painted eyes, losing himself in the void of its stare.
The guard trailing him noticed Paul's distant gaze but did not dare say a word. He simply watched from the corner of his eye, his own breath shallow.
Then Paul began to mumble.
"Of course..."
"Red..."
"Sickle and hammer..."
"Fluttering on top of the Reichstag..."
The guard raised an eyebrow, utterly confused by the erratic behavior. Slowly, he reached out his hand.
"Sir?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is everything okay?" He repeated the question, his hand suspended in the air, not daring to actually touch the Führer.
Slowly, Paul turned around.
"It seems I just realized what I have to do next. Good work, guard," he said. He patted the bewildered man on the shoulder before walking away, his pace suddenly quick and decisive.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Yes?"
An unkown voice:
"Plan Fall Red will be executed earlier than planned. Come to the meeting point."
Berlin, Tiergarten Park
A thin curl of smoke rose into the air, traveling toward the distant night sky. It drifted from a solitary park bench.
"Hey."
Heydrich looked to his left. A man clad in a dark leather coat was standing there, a shadow among shadows.
"Sit," Heydrich commanded, looking back up into the sky.
The man in dark leather obeyed, taking a seat on the cold wood.
"This mission is of Grade 1 importance," Heydrich stated flatly. He seemed to be admiring one star that shone especially bright tonight.
The man beside him widened his eyes, his head snapping toward Heydrich in surprise.
Heydrich grabbed the newspaper resting on his knees and handed it over without looking.
"You will find all necessary information in there. But this is only half the picture. The other half does not lie with the Gestapo, but with the Ghost Squad. Find a man named Gustaf. He is the commander of the Ghosts."
The man beside Heydrich nodded slowly, his hand shaking slightly as he took the paper. The Ghosts. He knew of them, elite soldiers, men who fought brutal, covert wars, not typical intelligence agents. But for a mission like this, perhaps their specific skills were required.
"The address is hidden in the text. Once you put the pieces together, you will depart immediately. Do you understand?" Heydrich demanded, finally turning to look the man in the eyes.
The agent nodded firmly.
And just like that, they parted. Heydrich walked in one direction, the Gestapo agent in the other. Both men quickly vanished into the deep shadows of the trees.
The agent looked at the newspaper. It seemed to be custom made, the so called news making no sense whatsoever. The headline was:
"Zimmermannstreet 14."
It was already morning when the same man looked at the street sign next to him, before looking at the building before him.
Slowly he stepped forward, mustering the sign. An eagle with a swastika marked it, signaling that this building was a governmental one.
Ministry for Deceased
"They call them Ghosts because they don't appear on any record, with the exception of one. Their death certificate. All of them died."
The man almost had to chuckle because of the irony of the name.
Then he knocked.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the door was opened. He did not see the person opening it, so he simply walked in cautiously.
"Not cautious enough. Who are you?" A whisper from behind him startled him, just as much as the pistol pointed at the side of his forehead. The agent had his hand on his own pistol.
"Don't be smart now," the voice beside him said, probably meaning the pistol.
The agent bit his lip.
"Gestapo. I wish to see Gustaf."
For a moment nothing, then the voice came again.
"Anything to prove that?"
"You think I carry some kind of identification? What do you think the Gestapo is, you idiot?"
"Hah," the voice sounded, mocking. "Fine, I believe you."
Finally the pistol was lowered and the agent managed to take a good look at the man. He was blonde, average height, a marked chin.
"Second door, on the left."
..
"You are?" Gustaf asked, raising his eyes toward the door.
The agent scoffed, pulling out the folded newspaper from his pocket.
"Does this answer your question?"
Gustaf leaned back, sighing, before reaching for his drawer, all while keeping an eye on the newcomer.
"I got one too," Gustaf said, throwing his newspaper on the table.
"It seems they want us to work together. My name is Kurt Maler, Gestapo." He stretched out his hand. Gustaf took it, meeting his eyes.
"I was at the Gestapo once too," he muttered, looking at the two newspapers lying on the table.
"So what is this?" Gustaf asked, laying the newspapers next to each other.
Still it made no sense. The sentences and words were simply out of context.
Maler tilted his head, stroking his chin until his eyes lit up.
"What if..." he began, overlapping both newspapers. "Something like this?"
Gustaf looked at the lines.
"It's still nonsense."
He sat back down, sighing.
"Back in the days they did not make it this complicated."
"Well, I am sure there is a reason to this, perhaps we are missing something," Maler muttered, when the door behind them was suddenly flung open.
"Sorry, sir, there is someone else," the guard from the entrance shouted.
The man entering had a presence of authority to him. A long scar on his right cheek was especially striking.
"You aren't only missing something," the man said, smiling charismatically, holding up another newspaper, "but you are also missing someone."
Gustaf stood up once again, laying down the drink he just poured himself.
"You are Skorzeny, Otto Skorzeny."
Skorzeny nodded.
"And you are Gustaf, the famous Führer bodyguard?"
Gustaf scoffed.
"I think I have risen a bit."
"A bit," Skorzeny mocked, walking past Maler without giving him a glance. Gustaf and Skorzeny shook hands, the pressure in their handshake evident even to Maler, who stretched his hands out as well.
Skorzeny looked at him.
"Gestapo?"
"Gestapo," Maler answered, shaking hands with Skorzeny, the pressure just as expected.
Now that all three newspapers lay on the table, Maler adjusted them until the sentence finally made sense, the papers lying in a cross-shaped formation.
"This is..." Maler whispered.
Skorzeny too leaned back, already a drink from Gustaf in his hand.
"That's new."
All of their gazes met on a specific point on the newspaper. It depicted, like a glued together puzzle, a man. Quite a famous man at that. His dark blue uniform almost covered with medals, was a sight to behold...
"Zhukov!" all three of them said at the same time, Maler now pouring himself a drink as well.
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