"The Philistine Goliath was huge and powerful; it seemed that little David could never defeat him. But David spun his sling and loosed a stone straight into the giant's forehead. Goliath staggered and crashed to the ground so hard the earth shook. Then David took the Philistine’s long, heavy sword and, with a great swing, struck off his head."
— The Bible. Old Testament.
"Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like without me?"
— Adolf Hitler
1.
The basement of the Sterneckerbräu beer hall had likely once been used for the private, drunken revelries of state councilors. But now, by the spring of 1920, everything had fallen into decay. A single small window looked out onto a narrow alleyway. Despite the sunny morning, the vaulted room held the dimness and chill of a crypt. The gaze was oppressed by bare brick walls, from which a stingy landlord had stripped the wooden paneling before leasing this cellar. The furnishings were pathetic—a few chairs, a lectern, a table, and a safe. A state of "business chaos" reigned everywhere: piles of leaflets, posters, proclamations, and various propaganda rags lay scattered across the floor.
Seated at the table was a man—young, yet visibly worn down by life. His attire was peculiar: soldier’s boots, civilian trousers, a tattered military tunic from the days of the battles for Flanders, and a fashionable civilian tie that clashed violently with the image of a demobilized soldier whose "mental backside" was still stuck in the trenches. Hoping to catch some warmth in the cold basement, he had an equally old greatcoat without epaulettes thrown over his shoulders; a bourgeois cap covered his head.
Generally speaking, this strange fusion of petty-bourgeois and military elements in both dress and thought—so characteristic of the National Socialists—always gave their movement a peculiar, dual nature.
Whistling a flat rendition of "Deutschland über Alles," he pecked with two fingers at the keys of a battered old Adler typewriter. He would pause to warm his frozen hands with his breath before returning to work.
The door opened, and three men entered. Respectable gentlemen. All wore identical long black coats reaching down to their heels, as if from the same tailor; white scarves and unusually high bowler hats.
Noticing the newcomers, the man abandoned his work, smiled warmly, and offered a greeting. The visitors, who appeared to be foreigners, grumbled something unintelligible in return. The host was momentarily flustered; it took a few moments for his shell-shocked brain to realize that the visitors had greeted him in Dutch. "Goede morgen," they had said, which means "Good morning." That was exactly how a certain Dutchman used to offer greetings—a man who, for some reason, had been mixed in among the French and Russian prisoners of war. That was back in the terrible year of eighteen...
"What would you like to know, kind sirs?" the basement dweller inquired affably; it was clear he was fed up with the paperwork and glad for any excuse for a distraction.
"Of course, they are our primary enemy. But with our own sloppiness, we are merely playing into the hands of international Jewry."
"Forgive me, I’m just run off my feet," his comrade replied. "I can’t be everywhere at once. I’m the clerk, the typist, the courier, and the... oh, whatever! Fine, fine, I’m going!.."
Just then, the telephone rang—a prehistoric, monstrous contraption in the eyes of the strange trio.
"There it is," Schüssler lunged back, clutching his slipping greatcoat, and snatched the receiver: "Hello? Yes... He is here..."
The propaganda chief stepped forward, took the receiver from the clerk, and pressed the comical, pretzel-shaped device to his ear.
"Hitler speaking. No. Anton Drexler won't be back until tomorrow. At the locomotive depot... Yes, he understands; he’s a mechanical locksmith, after all. I cannot; I have a speech elsewhere. Definitely. What?.. What was the question?" Listening distractedly to the vocal outpouring from the receiver, the propaganda chief hurried his dawdling colleague with a wave of his hand—get going, get going.
Schüssler hurried away, slamming the door and dropping some piece of paper in his wake.
"Listen, you are dealing with nonsense..." Hitler said in a raised voice to his invisible interlocutor, "...harmful nonsense that distracts from the real work. No, listen to me! The fate of the world is not decided by whether Catholics defeat Protestants or vice versa, but by whether Aryan humanity is preserved on our earth or becomes extinct. Yes, yes, that is exactly how the question stands... Tell them that... One must think globally and... futuristically. Goodbye, I have no time. I have people waiting."
"Now, I am listening to you, gentlemen," Hitler said, dropping the receiver onto the apparatus's cradle and crossing his arms over his chest (a defensive posture from a psychological standpoint). "Forgive me, you never did give your names..."
"By all means," the eldest replied, introducing himself and his colleagues: "Nathan Cassel. Ezra Kor-Beit. Goldie Darjan."
The wisps of Hitler’s mustache twitched angrily and rose of their own accord. He shifted an indignant yet triumphant gaze from the grey-haired Nathan to the stocky figure of Kor-Beit, and lingered on the slender, youthful Goldie. A second later, Hitler realized this fellow was no boy at all, but a woman disguised in men’s clothing. A Jewish George Sand, the Aryan smirked. Furthermore, they bore little resemblance to newspaper hacks—those scribblers whose hands are stained with ink like a butcher's with blood. They, even the woman, looked more like fighters. Perhaps Spartacists, Commies... or from the "Erhart Auer Guard" of the Social Democrats. Jews were swarming there...
"Who are you?" the propaganda chief demanded firmly.
"I hold the rank of Major in the Israeli Army," Nathan replied, "and these are my subordinates: a Lieutenant (a nod toward the girl) and a Sergeant (a gesture toward Kor-Beit). We are from the Mossad. Special Operations Department."
"What kind of city is that? Never heard of it," Hitler said, adding acidly: "Are you already raising an army?.. International Jewry prepares for war!"
"Mossad is not a city, it is the secret service of the State of Israel. And as for the war..."
"Israel!" Hitler exclaimed, his eyes bulging so far it seemed they might drop from their sockets. "A State!? More news! And where is this... state located?" The gangly man spat again, as if ridiculing another piece of rotten meat. "In Palestine, perhaps? Or somewhere in Egypt? Or maybe..." the man with the mustache guffawed, "maybe at the North Pole or in Antarctica?!"
"You guessed it at once," Nathan Cassel replied. "But that is beside the point. This is not a geography lesson..."
"Then what is it?" Embittered, Hitler raised his voice. "What is going on here?!"
"A lesson in vengeance," the girl answered for her superior, drawing a pistol from somewhere. It was heavy for a girl’s hand, with a long tube screwed onto the barrel.
A chill ran down Hitler’s spine. Yet, it couldn't be said that he was greatly afraid. His defiant fearlessness in the face of reality was not without a touch of mania.
But he realized he was in a tight spot. He had expected something like this. From the communist traitors he had been identifying for the liquidation commission of the Second Infantry Regiment after the fall of the Soviet Republic in Bavaria (he hadn't caught them all, it seemed). Or from orthodox Jewry—from some madman like Gavrilo Princip, who killed Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo. He, Hitler, had attacked them too openly, too frantically. Society wasn't used to it yet; he should have worked more insidiously, more carefully, but now it might be too late. “Damm it, just my luck, letting Schüssler go... And I was too overconfident... Believing too much in my own chosen status...”
Apathy and despondency gripped him... but then, as if receiving a charge of vital energy from somewhere, he came alive: "No, I wasn't, I am! I am! And I shall be!! I cannot die!!!"
Some sixth sense told him clearly that an exquisite future awaited him, when all his boldest dreams would come true—perhaps with a terrible end, but not now, not for at least another quarter of a century. And in that time—brilliant victories in some fantastically illuminated world. He could already see the banners, the armies, the triumphal parades—and suddenly this veil shrouding his waking dreams was rudely and unexpectedly torn away. It sparked fury.
"What am I accused of?" Hitler asked, barely restraining himself, hoping he might still talk his way out. After all, it wasn't the first time he'd faced danger—at the front, during demonstrations, in brawls with communists at meetings... As had happened so often, a miracle would occur, and Fate would spare him, leaving him to fulfill his great mission.
"Your misfortune is that you think too 'globally,' and therefore, in the future, you will commit terrible crimes against humanity," said the one called Nathan Cassel.
"...and specifically against the Jewish people," Goldie added. "The word 'Holocaust' is unknown to you as of now, but to us, it is all too familiar... Here, look. Admire your own handiwork... Ezra, present the evidence to the accused."
The hulking man pulled a fan of glossy sheets from his pocket and thrust them under the defendant's nose. Hitler recoiled, squinting nearsightedly at the photographs depicting piles of heaped corpses and bulldozers shoving a human mess into a massive trench; and there was something else there, truly horrific...
For Hitler's vegetarian consciousness, seeing such a quantity of meat—and bones, for that matter—was unbearable. He felt nauseous.
"What is this?" he rasped, recoiling further.
"Concentration camps, gas chambers, mass executions, crematoria, millions of victims..."
Goldie's voice wavered; her throat tightened, and tears rolled down her cheeks. However, she mastered herself, raised her pistol, and racked the slide. Her companions also drew their weapons and readied them.
"In the name of the people of Israel..." Nathan Cassel announced.
Hitler was suddenly struck blind. Shock shook his frame to its core, and darkness rolled in. It was as if the sickness from which he thought he was cured forever had returned. His eyes stung just as they had at Ypres, on that cold autumn night in October 1918, when on a hill near Wervicq, he was caught under a multi-hour barrage of British gas shells. For a second, a saving thought occurred: perhaps his post-hospital life was merely a hallucination that had tormented him incessantly while his eyes turned into burning coals—and he would now wake up in a hospital bed in Pasewalk. From somewhere in the darkness, the invisible hand of a sister of mercy would approach and touch his cheek with soft warmth, and a gentle voice would say: "Corporal Hitler, wake up, it's time for your procedures."
But it was no angelic voice he heard, but the harsh words of a court-martial sentence. It was so absurd that only fragments reached his stunned consciousness:
"Preventive sentence... grateful humanity... carry out immediately."
In a frantic attempt to save himself, he tried to talk them down, employing his obvious mediumistic abilities, as if the Devil himself spoke through his lips. Но его прервали, толкнули к стене.
And then he remembered the automatic weapon weighing down his back pocket. Knowing he wouldn't have time to thumb the safety, chamber a round, or much less fire, he still whipped out the Browning and aimed it at the figures, barely visible like shadows.
Nine quiet thuds echoed under the stone vaults of the crypt-basement. Each agent fired three times. God loves a trinity.
The promising folk tribune fell dead.
"Perform the controlled circumcision," Nathan ordered Sergeant Kor-Beit, unscrewing his still-smoking silencer.
The hulking sergeant extended a bent finger bearing a massive gold ring, took aim as he leaned over the executed man, and pressed a microscopic button. The ring’s setting flipped aside, and from deep within the ring, a dull crimson light flared, bursting forth. A ruby needle slashed across the neck of the Jewish people’s primary enemy. The smell of burnt meat filled the air, like in a crematorium. The enemy’s head separated from the torso, rolled across the floor, and stopped, staring at the ceiling with wide-open, glassy eyes.
Lieutenant Darjan grabbed Hitler's head by the hair, lifted it, and holding it before her, spat in the dead Aryan’s face.
"Curse you, you snake! I've dreamed of this moment since I was a child..."
"Nothing personal, Lieutenant," the grey-haired man chided. "We are fulfilling the will of our people... Hurry now!"
Sergeant Kor-Beit unfolded a light but sturdy bag and opened the flap. Goldie threw the bloody cabbage-head into the black abyss of the bag. The zipper shrieked as the sergeant closed the flap.
"The deed is done!" he said.
"Moving out!" the grey-haired major ordered his subordinates.
2.
The brilliant April sun blinded them as they stepped out onto the street. There was a clear sky over all of Bavaria—deep, blue, and washed clean by the spring. Keeping their composure, they walked along the pavement, professionally avoiding looking around yet noticing everything.
Around the corner, a vehicle that looked like a Packard—but equipped with a much more powerful engine and reinforced suspension—was supposed to be waiting for them. However, the car was nowhere to be seen. Or rather, it was hidden by a gathered crowd. Nathan wedged himself into the thick of the onlookers and immediately recoiled, a grotesque image forever etched into his visual memory: a mangled Studebaker lying on its side, the Packard’s radiator crumpled like an accordion, its doors caved inward. And a vast amount of shattered glass. And blood.
Onlookers jostled the policemen; the policemen pushed back. Rumors and chatter echoed from all sides: "The driver was killed instantly... right there..." "Which driver?" "The one in the Studebaker. He slammed into the Packard at full speed." "And who was in the other car?" "They say it was empty, just parked there. Otherwise..." "His own fault. They swig schnapps first thing in the morning and then get behind the wheel..." "Too true." "They drive like madmen, ready to mow you down. Especially these 'New Germans.' They think because they got rich on the people's misery, they're allowed anything." "Well said. It was safer with horses..." "The laws need to be tightened!" a man of bourgeois appearance declared gloomily—a typical völkisch type. "Right you are, genosse." "You'll answer for that 'genosse' as an insult, you filthy Inter! Probably served in the Red Army, you red-ass. Where were you in May of nineteen? Pity they didn't hang all of you when the Soviets were liquidated..." "I was where I was! We have freedom of speech! Long live the Soviet Republic!" the Red wailed and began to sing: "Wacht auf, verdammte dieser Erde!.." "I'll show you freedom, you crooked-mouthed devil... with a baton to the skull," the policeman snapped. "That’s the spirit," the völkisch man chimed in. "That’s the Bavarian way, and I’ll lend a hand..."
But the policeman, shamed by his lack of restraint, bellowed in a more official tone: "Don't press in, citizens! Go about your business, this isn't the cinema." "And if I'm unemployed, Herr Officer, where should I go?" "Wherever you like, just get out of my sight." "There you go, just like my wife..."
The crowd, hungry for a spectacle, clamored and grew like a rolling snowball. Approaching his team, Nathan said in a muffled voice: "The car is gone. Smashed to bits." "And the mobile platform?" Goldie asked, horror in her eyes. "Likely the same..." "What do we do?" Kor-Beit panicked, clutching the bag under his arm as if he could hide it that way. "Maybe I should go take a look?.." "Stay calm. We wait for the outcome. If the apparatus is intact, we’ll claim the car. If not..." "The electronic controller is testing the circuits right now," Kor-Beit commented with technical precision. "Most likely, the device is beyond recovery. If so, the self-destruct pyrotechnic charge will trigger." "We have to warn the people!" Goldie fretted. "No need. Everything is accounted for," the technician reassured her.
Hardly had he spoken when smoke began to billow from the crash site. The crowd recoiled. And when a fountain of brilliant sparks erupted, everyone began to scatter. The policemen retreated with the dignity of soldiers. The stage of the drama cleared, laid bare to their sight. As expected, the cause of the commotion was the long-suffering Packard. Or rather, its remains. They suddenly flared up as if doused in gasoline. That was what everyone assumed. The twisted metal burned like paper, blazing with a fierce flame. The heat of the thermite mixture, melting the metal, reached even the mysterious trio standing at a distance.
Finally, the fireworks exhausted themselves. The fire died out as abruptly as it had begun. No one was hurt—except for the aforementioned trio. They had lost their means of transportation. And not just across space...
"Well, that’s that," the elder summarized. "We’ll have to go on foot."
And so they walked, trying not to break any traffic rules to avoid being detained. This proved difficult, as no rules seemed to exist. And they call themselves Germans! The sidewalks were packed with people, and the roadway, like most Munich streets, was saturated with a flow of automobiles and horse-drawn transport. People dashed across the streets not just at intersections but wherever they pleased, darting literally under the noses of drivers. Trams clanged, cars croaked, honked, and beeped. Everyone steered wherever they wanted. It was a hell called an urban street in the 1920s.
They had to mobilize all their attention and be extremely cautious. They yielded the way to strollers and those in a hurry with a courtesy uncharacteristic of true Bavarians. They crossed intersections with the talkative crowd, yet they were still nearly struck by another stray car.
Nathan cursed and instinctively looked at the bag Kor-Beit was carrying.
To avoid further risk, they decided to take a carriage; one happened to be nearby. But as soon as they approached the cab, the horse grew agitated, snorted, and recoiled from them. Perhaps it caught the scent of fresh blood. Not realizing this, Kor-Beit tried to steady the horse, grabbing it by the bridle. At that, the animal went completely wild, neighing fiercely and rearing up. The driver cursed: "Teufel!" and swung his whip at the suspicious youth.
They had to take the tram instead. A wooden car on iron wheels rolled up, decorated with garish advertisements. Boarding was organized, strictly in turn; here, the Bavarians showed their discipline. A young girl gave up her seat to Nathan. He refused at first, then sat on the wooden bench and thanked the thoughtful fräulein. Nathan and Goldie stood nearby, pressing as close to their chief as possible. The conductor approached them and took the fare. Nathan paid for everyone. Clinking the pfennigs of change, the conductor thought that a gentleman like this belonged in a Rolls-Royce, not in a rattling tram full of commoners. But the rich have their whims. Or maybe he wasn't rich anymore—bankrupt, likely. What times these were! No Kaiser. No strong hand. Nothing. Just democracy. Imagine: the good old Reich—a republic! And where will it lead? Lord, help us all.
To mislead any potential pursuers, Goldie—noticing the conductor’s suspicious gaze—asked how much longer until the "Odeonsplatz" stop. The conductor replied that it wouldn't be long, exactly five stops, and that he would announce it specially for them. Having answered, the conductor turned away to his post, glancing back at Goldie once more on the way, shrugging his shoulders as he hoisted himself onto his rightful seat.
"Well now, if anyone asks him, he'll say that such-and-such people got off at Odeonsplatz," Nathan thought. "Capable girl. Speaks with a Berlin accent. Even a hint of a Mecklenburg dialect. Unlike Kor-Beit, who has no head for languages... Though he is brilliant at sub-quantum electronics—a God-given talent—a top-tier athlete, a national javelin champion, and no slouch in hand-to-hand combat..."
"Sendling Gate," the conductor announced, and when boarding was finished, rang the bell for the driver. "Next stop, National Theater."
People entering the car bumped into Kor-Beit's bag as they moved down the aisle, and Goldie flinched every time. "Put it here," Nathan pointed to the floor by his feet.
Kor-Beit set the bag down next to the basket of a certain citizen sitting beside the chief. With his head tilted to one side, shielding himself from everyone with the cover, this gentleman was reading a Russian book titled Crime and Punishment.
At the next stop, a schutzmann entered the tram. Seeing the policeman, Kor-Beit and Goldie instinctively thrust their hands into their pockets. Nathan turned to stone, pulling his head slightly into his shoulders.
"Oh, look, blood!" exclaimed the girl who had given Nathan her seat. She hadn't gone anywhere and was standing close by.
Half the car turned at the cry. Nathan threw a worried look at the bag. From beneath it, along the dusty slats of the floor, flowed thin streams of blood, looking like red mercury. The worst part was that the schutzmann took an interest. He approached the Mossad agents, seemingly reluctant, yet getting closer and closer.
"It seems to be leaking from YOUR bag?" the cursed girl said, addressing Nathan.
"Impossible," the grey-haired man hissed through his teeth. "It's waterproof."
"Blood isn't water," the persistent fräulein argued illogically. "And bags aren't leakproof unless they're made of rubber..."
The girl had no intention of being deliberately insolent to the dignified gentleman. She hadn't given up her seat out of respect for his grey hair, but only because he resembled her boss, in whose office she worked as a secretary—the kind who makes advances but never thinks to offer a raise. Perhaps if he did, she would be more compliant... It was all so irritating; it was no wonder she snapped.
"What is the matter here?" the schutzmann finally asked as he arrived. He saluted, touching his palm to his funny little hat, which slanted at the back.
"Trifles," Nathan laughed tensely. "The fräulein is mistaken. It's not from mine; it must be leaking from that gentleman's basket..."
Nathan spread his knees wider and nudged his neighbor on the bench. The man sitting askew straightened his head, peered from behind the book cover, then slammed it shut and threw his hands up like an old woman.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! It’s my meat leaking!.." he cried out in a foreign tongue—Russian, it seemed.
He pinned the book under his chin, bent down awkwardly, turning crimson, and lifted his basket by the straps. It then became clear that the bottom was soaked in blood, which continued to drip.
"A thousand apologies," the Russian lamented in a strained voice, switching to German. He then had the presence of mind to tuck the book into his pocket and get a better grip on the basket.
"I went to the market, bought some meat, and it thawed. The sun got to it; what a late spring we're having, look at it pouring through the window!.. But what am I to do?! Lord God, I must do something!"
He pulled a Russian newspaper, The Exile, from his coat, started to read it, then caught himself, crumpled the sheets, and began wiping the blood off the basket. He didn't succeed much, only smearing himself. Then he stared stupidly at the bloody wad, not knowing where to put it; in despair, he shoved it into the basket and headed for the exit, looking somewhat pathetic and lopsided as he held his arm out to avoid staining his coat. Behind him trailed whispers, growing into a murmur of public indignation: "Riding around with meat..." "While the workers are bloated with hunger..." "I was at the market yesterday; they charged me an arm and a leg for a kilo of meat. I got home, looked at it—nothing but gristle. Bones and more bones! And this one, you see, has pure meat... Sly dog..." "Someone should check where he got it, whether it was at the market at all. Maybe he swiped it from a warehouse... Schutzmann! You should check his papers, see who he is..." "I cannot," the officer replied. "There are no grounds." "No grounds? He’s smeared blood all over the car!" "He doesn't look like a thief. Seems like an intellectual..." "They all seem like intellectuals until it's time to steal... Filthy Democrats. They need a Bismarck." "Exactly! High time. It's clear as day—we need a strong hand!" "They ought to be driven out. There’s a Jew sitting in the government, speculating, trading under the table." "And then there's the emigrants... Russia sends them here on purpose; they have their headquarters right here in Munich..." "They've swarmed over our heads, and Germany isn't made of rubber; we've nothing to eat ourselves..."
The "intellectual" emigrant retreated timidly, almost running like a wounded beast, leaving a trail of bloody drops behind him.
"My apologies!" the policeman said to Nathan Cassel, clicked his heels, did an "about-face," and marched off after the bumbling Russian.
Nathan took off his bowler hat and wiped his soaking-wet forehead with a handkerchief.
3.
From the tram stop, they headed in the opposite direction to throw any pursuers off the scent. They moved through the narrow stone alleys of the city center and the shaded lanes of the outskirts. Along the way, their "chameleon coats" gradually altered their color and cut. These changes occurred slowly, remaining imperceptible to passersby.
After circling the city for another quarter of an hour, they reached the railway station. Without any trouble, they purchased tickets and boarded a train that departed from the platform five minutes later. To be safe, they traveled in separate cars. All around were tourists with backpacks, boisterously singing songs, including: "Deutschland über alles!—Germany, Germany, above all!"
The Mossad agents disembarked in Uffing, near Lake Staffelsee, some sixty kilometers from Munich. The town was patriarchal, submerged in a sleepy drowse. Here lived blunt but warm-hearted folk who wanted nothing to do with the politics that electrified the Bavarian capital.
To their satisfaction, the strangers encountered no one on the deserted streets of the town, save for a local of indeterminate age leaning against a fence by a hardware store that smelled of tar. Perhaps he was a clerk, but he looked the part of a clear simpleton. He was basking in the sun, smiling. A shimmering thread of saliva stretched from his lower lip to his chin. Goldie shuddered with revulsion.
"Guten ta-a-ag," he said with a lispy drawl, bowing affably as he removed a grimy cap from his head. Apparently, in accordance with village custom, everyone here greeted everyone they met. Because of this, a stranger in such places was particularly conspicuous. In terms of operational security, this was a definite drawback. It would have been wiser to set up their base in Munich itself. But someone from the brass back at the Department—someone who had likely never been "in the field"—had decided that the further the base was from the site of the operation, the calmer and safer it would be.
Someone was shuffling behind them, and again, the distinct scent of tar wafted through the air. Nathan looked back—the simpleton was trailing after them.
"What do you want?" Nathan asked in German.
"He-he," the fool laughed.
"Don't follow us..." Nathan handed him a few marks. "Here, money for beer."
The local madman snatched the bills and darted away, dancing and skipping.
They passed a shuttered wooden kiosk with a lopsided sign reading "Flowers" and approached an inconspicuous manor house; nearby, the pointed steeple of a church poked through the still-bare trees.
Goldie said: "I was so overwrought back there in the city that I feel wet and sticky; it’s disgusting. I’m going to take a hot bath—as hot as I can stand it! And then..."
"I’m afraid you'll have a long wait," Ezra Kor-Beit countered. "The water still needs to be heated, and we declined a maid. We shouldn't have declined her..."
"Oh, it’s as if I’ve forgotten where I am," the girl lamented.
"More like when you are," Nathan Cassel corrected her. Addressing them both, he said: "Well, friends, I suppose we can be congratulated on a mission successfully accomplished?"
"Let's not jinx it, Chief," the cautious Kor-Beit replied. "We still have to get out of here."
They opened the gate in the iron fence and, crunching over the gravel, walked up the path toward the white building with low French windows and a colonnaded porch. This villa had been specifically acquired by the prep team.
The villa had originally belonged to some retired admiral who was killed during the bloody unrest in late '18 or early '19. After his death, the property passed to another owner who also died unexpectedly, after which the house went on the market.
The rooms in the house were not particularly large, but they had all the modern conveniences: electricity, telephone, and so on. In the wood-paneled living room, where almost all the furniture was shrouded in dust covers, Kor-Beit began to assemble the backup mobile platform for the temporal transporter. Unfortunately, its throughput was significantly inferior to the standard unit; they would have to leave one by one. But it was still better than nothing. And yet, some of the brass had been against encumbering the group with "excess" equipment. Idiots.
The man responsible for the technical side of the mission assembled the apparatus from disparate parts that had been stashed in boxes for security. There was no telling who might break into the manor while the owners were away. The device must not, under any circumstances, fall into the wrong hands. Of course, in these times, no clever mind in Germany—or perhaps in the entire world—could have made sense of the device, strange as it looked to the locals. Even Einstein wouldn't have been up to the task, even though the postulates he discovered formed the basis for the theory of Time Travel. And yet...
Nathan drew the curtains, lit the chandelier, and began to light the fireplace. It proved a difficult task. He stained his palms and his white shirt cuffs with soot. Yes, this was a far cry from home, where a fireplace flared up with a false flame at the push of a button on a remote control.
Goldie borrowed the Chief's matches and ran to the bathroom, and soon the roar of the water heater was heard.
"I could go for a splash in some hot water right about now myself," Kor-Beit daydreamed, adjusting a micrometer screw on the transponent polzometer.
"Only after me!" Goldie shouted, appearing in the living room doorway half-undressed.
Nathan hastily looked away and, hiding behind a high backrest, sat in an armchair right over its cover; it was likely dusty, but to hell with it—he didn't feel like standing up. The fire in the grate had caught and seemed determined not to go out.
"Fine," Kor-Beit said, "I’ll just wash my face for now and take a carbonated shower when I get home. Hot baths are bad for men anyway."