Valkyrie, Part 4
New Berlin - 1954, night
Alfred parked the car a block away from the meeting hall. Anne, Conrad, and Hans got out. Anne popped open the trunk and set a large case on the sidewalk. She opened the case and tossed two submachine guns to Conrad and Hans. Then she picked up her pistol and fixed a silencer to it.
“You fine with something like that?” Conrad said.
“I’m a quiet person,” Anne said, “Unlike you two with all that firepower.”
“You best be heading off now,” Alfred said, “The meeting’s approaching the halfway point.”
“You heard him,” Anne said, “Nobody else’s coming. Nobody’s leaving.”
Hans peered around the corner and watched the entrance to the meeting hall. Two neo-Angeloi men in makeshift uniforms stood watch, armed with shotguns.
“They need guards, huh?” he said.
“They know the whole city hates them,” Anne said, “And they
davka always complain about everybody else being violent.”
“Did the war not teach them anything?” Conrad said.
Anne dropped them with two quick shots to the head.
“All clear,” she said, “We have a short window.”
They ran down the street and crouched next to the door.
“Check if she’s in there,” Anne said.
Conrad took out a notepad and drew a sigil while Hans spray-painted a corresponding sigil on the door. Conrad then put his thumb to the paper, and the sigil on the door glowed blue. They could now make out the ongoing conversation inside.
“…shadows, biding our time,” a woman declared, “The crooked liberals in Constantinople, led by the traitor Papen and equalist Adenauer, used cowardice and dirty tricks to steal the great war for our souls. Yet they can’t or won't do the same to liberate the eastern provinces from the godless equalists. Let it be known their time has come, and we shall soon take the fight back to them. Soon, we shall remind them we are still here. We will not be forgotten. For the future of our race and our children, we will take back our nation! Jai Hind! The Angeloi protect!”
“The Angeloi protect!” the other neo-Angeloi shouted. "Jai Hind!"
“That’s her,” Anne said, “Maximiani ‘Maximine’ Portas, also known as Savitri Devi. Believed Gandhi was the reincarnation of Krishna. Wife of Asit Krishna Mukherji, editor of the newspaper
New Mercury and member of the Rasa Party. He’s dead now. I slit his throat in Kathmandu last year.”
“What’s so important about Portas?” Conrad said.
“She is a close associate of Alfred Hoffman,” Anne said, “She’s working with him on something called Project Vidar.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound intimidating,” Hans said.
“The Athanatoi is interested in Project Vidar,” Anne said, “Preliminary intelligence suggests it is a plot to revive the Angeloi cause and resume the war. How it concerns Hoffman, I don’t know. I’m just here to kill him.”
She pointed to an air vent above them.
“Boost me up,” she said.
The two men lifted her up. Anne grabbed onto the vent. She tore off the grate and dropped it into Hans’ hands before climbing inside. Conrad tossed a wireless headset in after her.
“Put it on,” Conrad said, “It’s a prototype made by my colleagues at the Bureau of Defense. We can communicate wirelessly with it.”
Anne put on the headset. “Isn’t that nice.”
She crawled through the vent as quickly and quietly as she could. Below her, she could hear the muffled voices of Portas and the other neo-Angeloi, still being sore losers about the war. Seriously, how pathetic could they be? Hiding in a rundown building in one of the seedy outer neighborhoods of New Berlin devastated by the Tawantinsuyuan occupation, plotting world domination with only a handful of men and women? Angelos must be rolling in his grave.
Anne arrived at the end of the vent and opened another grate into a backroom. She pulled herself out of the vent and dropped down onto the floor. Then she tapped the headset.
“I’m in,” she said.
“Good,” Conrad said, “We’ve used our spells to figure out the place’s floor plan. Hans?"
“Okay, so you want to head into the hallway, turn right, and take the second door on your left,” Hans said, “That should be where she keeps her documents. Hurry. The meeting sounds like it’s wrapping up.”
“Don’t worry,” Anne said, “I’ll handle it.”
She entered the hallway and immediately noticed a guard standing outside the room she was looking for. He hadn’t noticed her yet, so she took out a knife and threw it at him. The blade embedded in his back, and he fell. Anne ran over, pulled out the knife and slit his throat before he could say another word. She cursed as she stepped away from his body. There was blood all over her hands now. She was getting sloppy. How could she pick up and read files like this?
Anne dried her hands as best as she could on the guard’s shirt, sheathed her knife, and entered Portas’ room. The only features in the otherwise empty room were a folding chair and a foldable table stacked with files and occult and neo-Angeloi books. Curious, she looked at the book titles, which had increasingly bizarre names:
Ancient Glories of the Aryan Race,
The Child Mind of the Mohammedan,
The Lightning and the Sun (this one was her own and unfinished),
On the Relationship between Basques and the Early Aryans,
The Serpent-Men - A History of the Primeval Snake Cult, and
Animal Cruelty: Why Those who Disrespect Animals Deserve the Death Penalty.
“Come on, Anne,” she told herself, “Focus on the mission.”
She searched through the files, which were mostly personnel reports and land surveys of various areas in Neurhomania, most of them in the region of Nsorala in the undeveloped rural south, particularly at one specific set of coordinates. Focusing on the personnel files, she found they had information on high-ranking neo-Angeloi sympathizers and even a few Angeloi officers who escaped justice in the Old World. The files listed their current or recent locations, most of which seemed to be at the same coordinates in Nsorala as well. Was there a connection with the land surveys? She thought to herself as she continued searching the files for any mentions of Hoffman or Vidar. There were none.
“No,” she said, her hand shaking, “No, impossible. It’s my best lead. Hoffman’s got to be in here somewhere. This can’t be happening.”
Her mind flashed back to the dark days of 1941, even as she fought against it. She remembered sitting on top of the staircase of her old home, watching Hoffman execute her parents. Then she remembered Hoffman shooting her, the bullet tearing through her chest as she watched him smile and pour gasoline all over the kitchen before lighting it on fire.
“No, please, no,” she muttered, “No, no!”
She heard a gun clicking behind her.
“Turn around,” Portas said, with a thick accent somewhere between Greek and Hindi, “Slowly. Hands up.”
She slowly turned around and put her hands up. Portas, a Greek woman in an Indian sari, had a gun pointed right at her forehead. She chuckled to herself as four more shotgun-carrying neo-Angeloi entered the room behind her.
“Well, well, well,” Portas said, “If it isn’t the Valkyrie herself. Here to steal my secrets.”
“Anne, respond,” Conrad said, “Anne, respond! What’s going on?”
“I’m not here for you,” Anne said, “But you’re a Rasa, so go to hell anyways.”
“Hell…” Portas said. “Such an Abrahamic concept. A place where the evil are punished for all eternity for their misdeeds.”
“Well, we don’t technically have a hell in my faith,” Anne said, “But you probably hate it as much as every other faith that’s not Christianity or Hinduism.”
“It is folly to believe the afterlife will deliver justice to the evil,” Portas said, “Justice is ultimately ours to decide, ours to give.”
“So you agree with what I’m doing,” Anne said.
“What?” Portas said. “No! Your kind has perverted justice in the Old World. You cheat and scam hardworking Aryans out of their livelihoods. You make a mockery of justice. Then you rewrite laws to suit your cause and kill anybody who disagrees with you. Honestly, we should’ve dealt with you as much as we did with the Muslim pigs.”
“You take that back right now,” Anne said.
“Or what?” Portas said. “You’ll kill me?”
“Exactly,” Anne said.
An Inquisition grenade rolled into the room. Anne noticed it just as the Enochian runes covering its surface rapidly flashed blue. She pushed Portas’ gun out of the way and hit the floor. The grenade detonated, taking out the guards with homing shrapnel and throwing Portas against the far wall. Anne rolled over and drew her gun, shooting the survivors. Conrad and Hans appeared in the doorway, firing their submachine guns at anybody who entered the hallway. Portas got to her feet and aimed at Anne, but she shot her in the arm. Portas shouted in pain and dropped her gun, clutching her arm. Anne approached her.
“Tell me where Hoffman is!” Anne demanded.
“Why should I tell you?” Portas said.
“I’m going to kill him,” Anne said.
“You can’t stop him,” Portas said, “Vidar will succeed. And even if it doesn’t, your pitiful loyalists will yet have their day of reckoning, even if it is long after we are all dead.”
She drew a knife with her other hand and lunged at Anne’s throat. Anne shot her in the head, and Portas slumped to the ground. Not wasting a second, she gathered up all of the files and ran into the hallway to join Conrad and Hans.
“Let’s move,” she said.
“But she didn’t tell us where Hoffman is,” Conrad said.
“She didn’t have to,” Anne said, “These files, they’re all pointing to a location in Nsorala. Hoffman’s got to be there. I’m not letting him get away again.”
Frankfurt - November 7, 2015, 5:30 PM
Diana, Olga, Anna, and Walter accompanied Burt past the lines of ambulances, emergency response teams, police officers, and news crews into the deserted cafe. Coroners were still rolling out bodies around them.
“Eighteen victims,” Burt said, “Ranging in age from 6 to 86. Witnesses report seeing them choke up, almost like they were drowning or asphyxiating. Also, Ride of the Valkyries was playing over the speakers.”
“Thank you, Burt,” Diana said, “We’ll take it from here.”
Burt left the cafe to rejoin the other police officers.
“Suffocated just like at Aliya Hussein’s estate,” Diana said, “I used to come here all the time with Mom and then Alex. He loved the green tea ice cream. Some of these people look familiar.”
“What’s the connection?” Olga said.
Diana looked over a clipboard from the lead coroner. “Uh…some are Muslims, but not all.”
“You might have to rework that hypothesis, Diana,” Anna said, “Maybe this toxin isn't transmitted genetically.”
“Any surveillance?” Anna said.
“No cameras inside or on the street,” Olga said, “I would’ve found them by now. Could be why our suspect chose this place.”
“No candles,” Diana said.
“Not a single one,” Olga said, “As far as I can see.”
“Is there any other way that this toxin could be delivered?” Anna said.
“Walter, you got anything?” Diana said.
“Any number of ways, I would think,” Walter said, “It simply requires a heat source to disperse it into the air.”
He began looking around the cafe for evidence. Diana looked at an empty table and noticed a cup of tea sitting there, undisturbed.
“The cup of tea,” Diana said.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Walter said, picking up the cup of tea, “Hmm? Oh! Oh, yes, yes, that would work. As long as the water was hot enough. Ah, cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon,” Diana said, remembering the candle.
Olga flagged down a forensics technician. “I want this cup dusted for prints immediately.”
The forensics technician took the cup. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”
Meanwhile, Diana inspected Jordan’s body.
“Wait a minute, I know this girl,” she said, “Her mom’s a friend of mine. Agent Hadid. We worked together at the Berlin field office after the war.”
She looked at the body of Jordan’s mom. “That’s Agent Hadid. Oh, God. I never thought I’d have to meet her again like this."
Then she checked her clipboard.
“Wait a minute,” she said, “The other victims…they were all Jewish.”
“Let me see that,” Olga said, taking the clipboard, “You’re right.”
“I was right after all,” Diana said, “This is a targeted toxin. Every victim in this incident is either Jewish or Muslim. The common factor.”
“It’s a good thing you weren’t here, Diana,” Anna said, “Or you’d be dead too.”
“What’s the connection?” Olga said. “First it was Aliya Hussein’s family and Muslim friends. Now it’s a bunch of random Muslims and Jews. Who is targeting these people? If this is an experiment, what are they going to accomplish? They’re just killing them to prove they can?”
“No,” Diana said, “I know what’s going on.”
“What do you mean?” Anna said.
“This is a message,” Diana said, “I wanted to deny it, but I can’t. It’s a message for me.”
“You?” Olga said. “What do you mean a message to you?”
“First it was Aliya Hussein, someone who was connected to me or Mom through herself, Ismail, and Josh,” Diana said, “If I didn’t get the message before, the killer then targeted Jews, among them again people I know in a place I used to visit often. I’m Jewish. Ride of the Valkyries was played at both incidents. That’s usually associated with Mom. There’s a connection here, and it’s me.”
“Di, that’s a stretch,” Anna said, “For all we know, it could just be some crazy racist who believes Aliya Hussein conspiracy theories.”
“Let’s just head back to the Tesla Dynamic lab,” Diana said, “I’ll explain more.”
As they left the cafe, Hoffman watched from behind a news van. He approached a reporter.
“Hello, sir,” the reporter said, “Are you here to comment on this horrendous crime?”
“No,” Hoffman said, “I’m just curious about those Athanatoi agents.”
He pointed at Walter. “Do you know who that is?”
“That’s Dr. Humboldt,” the reporter said, “Civilian consultant for the Athanatoi. I think he’s one of the higher ups at Tesla Dynamic as well? Can’t imagine what he’s doing out here.”
“He’s named Bischoff,” Hoffman said.
“Are you sure?” the reporter said.
“I’m a family friend,” Hoffman said, “His father, an old acquaintance of mine, changed the family name from Bischoff.”
He then pointed at Diana. “And that woman…”
“Diana Frank,” the reporter said, “Daughter of the Valkyrie, the late Director Anne Frank. Decorated Athanatoi agent with an impressive track record of her own. She and her husband successfully resolved the Blachernae hostage crisis. I’m sorry, did you need something?”
“No, I’m just trying to place her,” Hoffman said, “She really is her mother’s daughter, ja?”
Hoffman smiled to himself. Everything was going just as expected. This was going to be fun.