A/N: Content Warning: this chapter includes references to alcohol and is more graphically violent than those preceding.
The streets of West Berlin are busier than their Eastern counterparts. As I make my way through town I pass American soldiers, civilian couples, business men, and even a few children. The road is filled with cars honking their horns and once in a while an engine backfires. The bustle dies down as I exit the center of the city and make my way into a slightly seedier part of town closer to my intended destination. A road leads directly South from the club to the American center of command and barracks and the easy access attracts many enemy soldiers on a regular basis. After I walk for about an hour in total, I spot my objective.
The club is the most brightly lit building on the block. It has a brick facade and is three storeys high, but the only windows with light shining out are on the ground floor. Above the entrance is an awning and a large sign that says "La Belle." When someone opens the door to go in, I can hear jazz music seeping out momentarily. Across the street from the club is a narrow space between two buildings. I casually make my way over to the spot and slip into the shadows.
I pass the next 25 minutes observing the street and sidewalks. A few groups of people enter the club. Most are dropped off by their rides. Pairs and groups of soldiers in casual dress pour in and out. Some are picked up or brought around by taxis, others come and go on foot. A few men who leave are propped up by their companions to prevent drunken stumbling.
Then, a small cargo truck with United States army markings arrives and parks parallel to the curb directly outside the building that's adjacent to the club. Three young soldiers jump out and enter the entertainment venue together. This couldn't be more convenient. The intelligence gathered in preparation for this mission was accurate. The Americans like to get drunk here, and they've been sloppy.
I get down on one knee and open the briefcase I've been carrying. I take out the two magnetic pulse charges and find the small switches on the side of each of the devices to activate them. I remove the peaked hat I've been wearing and put it in the bag along with my jacket. Then I pull the forage cap out and stuff it in my pants pocket for later. No one coming in or out of the club, minus several women, have been dressed formally, so the wardrobe adjustment is necessary.
When the street is clear for a moment, I dip out of my hiding spot and cross the road to the sidewalk behind the army truck. I walk discreetly alongside the trailer, and when I get to the front of the vehicle I quickly swipe my left hand up and under between the tire and the frame without breaking stride. The magnets lift out of the glove and immediately cling to the metal with a quiet thunk. Then I enter the club.
Inside, the atmosphere is dimly lit and smokey. The smell of cigarettes, cigars, and liquor is strong. A small jazz band is playing on a low stage in the corner farthest from the door, and the bar is along the back wall across from the performers. Around 125 people are dancing or socializing with each other throughout the open floor. I scan the room until I find the three men of interest standing and talking in a corner close to the counter. Then I make my way over to the bar.
"I'll take a pint of whatever's the cheapest dark draft you have," I tell the bartender in German. A moment later he hands me a tall glass of foaming beer and I toss him a few American dollars out of the billfold. I turn around, lean back against the counter and take a sip of the drink. It tastes terrible, but it's a means to an end. I look over at the group of soldiers I followed into the club. They're standing around smiling and watching some girls mingle from afar. I nurse the beer for a while, keeping my eyes on the group as covertly as possible, while watching the band play and patrons dance around the stage. Eventually, one of the targets makes his way over to the bar and orders another drink for himself. He leans forward and looks at me.
"Are you from command? I don't think we've met," he says.
"Yes. I just arrived this afternoon," I reply.
"Swell. I'm David Janson," he says, offering his hand.
"Charles Fowler," I respond, giving a single shake.
"Pleasure."
After exchanging these formalities, the soldier is served his drink and we chat about Berlin and the army. I let him steer the conversation and he orders several more drinks while I keep my attention on his friends and the room around us. Once in a while he walks away and exchanges brief words with his compatriots as I watch from my spot. He quickly returns and we pick up the conversation each time. The jazz ensemble continues to play, and after several pieces they introduce an attractive woman in a red sparkling dress and diamond necklace. She begins to sing in a sultry voice.
"Ain't she a beauty?" Janson asks halfway through the next song. His eyes twinkle as he gazes at the woman.
"She's a real catch."
He turns and looks at me with a smirk on his face. "Well she's mine, so don't get any ideas."
"Whatever you say," I reply.
He grins and asks, "Where are you from, anyway?"
"Detroit. And you?"
"Chicago," he says with an ironic chuckle. "You don't sound like you're from Detroit."
"Hmm," I give a closed-lip smile - more like a grimace - and a small shrug. "I guess I've taken after my mother more than I thought. The Brooklyn in her never left."
Janson nods in understanding, "I've never met a New Yorker who didn't sound like one." I don't say anything. "You know, you look strangely familiar to me," he remarks.
What an odd thing to say. "It's the United States Army, Janson. Draft or no draft, it's always a small world."
"'Draft or no draft,'" he scoffs, "My pop volunteered. As did I."
"And mine was killed. I didn't."
Janson looks at my single gloved hand with an indecipherable expression. "Doesn't seem to have done you much good."
We stand in silence as the young man watches the band and singer. The bitterness he expressed disappears from his face as he takes in the show and his most recent vodka tonic is drained from the glass. As a new song begins to play I look back over to the group in the corner I've been observing. The men have been joined by a couple of young women and are clearly flirting.
"Is he a Baptist or something?" I ask, gesturing at the dark skinned member of the group who hasn't touched a single drink.
Janson looks where I point and laughs, "Ah!" He steps over to the man and throws his arm over his shoulders to pull him into our conversation. "Charles, this is Lee Brown. He drew the short stick for designated driver duty tonight."
Brown smiles sheepishly. "It's probably better this way. I know the wife would prefer it."
I offer him my right hand and he takes it. "Charles Fowler, nice to meet you."
"Charles tells me it's his first night in Berlin," David informs the other American.
"I see. How are you finding it so far?" Brown inquires.
I take a moment of consideration. "So far, it's better than Korea."
Brown looks interested. "You came from Korea?"
"I was deployed there for a while. Got wounded and they decided to pull me out. Now I'm stationed here."
"Sounds like you've guaranteed your distance from the rainforests then," Brown says.
"Rainforests?" I ask.
"And out of learning Spanish. There are rainforests in Guatemala, right?" chimes Janson.
Before I can respond or ask for clarification, the third member of the trio - a tall blonde man no older than twenty - barges into the triangle we've naturally formed.
"Janson! You stole my sidekick! There's a reason I stick with the one wearing a ring, you know!"
"Curtiss, you idiot, were you born in a barn? We're having a conversation here," Janson scolds.
The soldier looks at me and dips his head in contrition. "Ah, Entschuldigung. Pardon the interruption, mister…?"
"I'm Charles Fowler. And you are?"
Brown pats the intruder on the back. "Charles, this is Jack Curtiss. He can't hold his beer."
"That's ridiculous!" Curtiss retorts, "I'm holding it right now." He lifts his mostly empty pint glass in front of Brown's face.
"Thank you for illustrating my point," Brown says while gently lifting the glass out of Curtiss' hand and setting it down next to him on the bar counter.
From there the conversation proceeds as expected. I recount my cover story to Curtiss, and after he's caught up the men banter about women -marriage, in the case of Brown -, drinking, and complaints about work. I listen closely and join in once in a while. The mission remains on the forefront of my mind and I decide that any possibility of intelligence gathering disappeared along with the sobriety of the louder two soldiers.
I look at my watch and then set my empty glass of beer down on the counter behind me. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the barracks."
"Oh come on, already?" Curtiss teases, "It's your first night at La Belle, live a little!"
"Not tonight, sorry. Next time," I insist with a smile. Then I take the forage cap out of my pocket and put it on, showing my determination to leave.
"All right then, nice to meet you, I'm sure we'll see you around and you can regale us with your tales of Korean conquest," Janson jokes. A gloss has gone over his eyes, and even though he's looking directly at me, it's almost as if he were looking through my head.
I pick up my briefcase, give a loose salute to the Americans as I walk away, and leave the club. Then, I begin my trek Southward, keeping my head on a swivel and my eye out for a good place to enact the sabotage I've been waiting to execute for two days. After walking for about four klicks, I've left the city behind me and the buildings have become few and far between. Instead of disappearing, the street lamps have been placed more frequently along the edges of the road, and there's an abundance of light. I assume this is because of a desired increase in security with the nearing border and European military barracks. After another half kilometer, a hill rises up on the East side of the road. I do some math in my head and calculate that my designated border crossing near the rendezvous is less than a kilometer away. This spot is as good as any. I climb the hill and after finding a good vantage point I lay low in the shadows to wait with my eyes set North.
Two hours pass before I clock the American cargo truck driving down the road a kilometer away. As foreseen, Brown is sitting in the driver's seat. I pull the detonator switch from my pocket with my right hand and wait for them to pick up speed further out of the city. They drive past where I'm hiding and when they cross between two street lamps I press the detonation button. The pulse coming from the charges makes a soft booming sound. The front right side of the truck instantly rears up and the back tires screech. The vehicle flips onto its left side. Then it rolls three times before landing upright, yet crushed and lopsided, less than a meter away from a tree beside the ditch on the West side of the road. Black smoke illuminated by the full moon and the closest lamps billows from under the hood. Perfect. I return the detonator to my pocket and grab the briefcase before making my way down the hill and across the street to the wreckage so I can make my assessment. Once I get to the truck I walk behind and around it and set the briefcase down against the tree. Then I step over to open the driver's door.
The handle to the door has been damaged and the latch is stuck shut, so I use my left hand to wrench it open. Inside, Brown is slumped forward against the steering wheel, his arms limp and hanging at his sides. His head is turned and facing out. His forehead is bleeding, his nose is broken and glass is protruding from his left eye. I check for a jugular pulse with my first two flesh fingers and find nothing. No signs of breathing either. Then I proceed to the back seat.
Curtiss' body almost falls out of the vehicle when I open the door. I reflexively catch it and pull him out, laying him out on his back on the ground. His right arm is broken and contorted in an unnatural direction. I realize that there's a warm stickiness on my hand that got there when I automatically caught his head to stop the fall. He's likely sustained massive trauma to the brain. I wipe the blood off of my hand onto the headrest where he had been sitting. Then I look for his pulse. Again, nothing.
I return my attention to the body of the designated driver. I reach under his chest to unbuckle his seatbelt. Then, I pull him out and lay the body on the ground next to Curtiss. For a moment I look over my shoulders to check if anyone is watching my activities. We're all alone. I bend down and slide my arms under Curtiss' and lift him up. Then, I shove him into the driver's seat, buckle the seatbelt and position him similarly to how I found Brown. Then, I slide Brown into the back seat.
I evaluate the two bodies and decide one detail must be changed. With my left thumb and pointer finger, I grasp the piece of glass embedded in Brown's left eye, and pull it out with a single jerk. The bloody shard slides out of his eyelid easily. I toss it into the pile of crushed glass on the dash. In the same moment, a shallow cough comes from the front seat. One more passenger.
I slam the doors shut and walk around the back of the truck to open the front. Janson has somehow removed his seatbelt (if it was ever fastened in the first place) and he is sitting bent limply over the dashboard, which is pinning his legs down. I grab him by his right shoulder and push him back against the back of his seat to get a full view of the damage. His jaw is clearly broken, hanging open and off to the side. Blood and drool are streaming from his gaping mouth. His torso is completely soaked in blood and a shard of metal is protruding from his right side. I can hear gurgling coming from his throat with each labored breath. His lips move together slightly and he makes a weak whining noise like he's trying to say something, but there's no way he'll be able to vocalize anything comprehensible. His eyes are on me, expectant, desperate. He almost certainly would die from his injuries. - No witnesses.
The objective is clear. Get it over with. Janson's wide eyes follow my hands as I place the right on his chin, pushing his mouth shut, and I set the gloved one on the crown of his head. With a swift twist upward and sideways with the right hand and downward with the left, there's a cracking and final wheeze, and the gurgling stops. I let go, and his body falls forward again.
After shutting the door I reach down into the wheel well with my left hand. The first charge is exactly where it should be. I pull it off the truck and place it in my pocket. I feel for the second charge and find nothing. It must have been destroyed in the wreck. I have to find at least a piece of it to be sure, but time is running out. I check my watch. It's 2345. I quickly get on my hands and knees and look under the truck. Nothing. I can't leave evidence behind but I have to get going before help arrives.
I climb on top of the truck and visually scan the wreckage and surrounding area for the charge. The thing is strongly magnetic and chances are it's still attached to the vehicle somewhere. Then, an idea comes to me. I pull the first device out of my pocket and switch it off. Then I jump off the truck, take a few steps back and pull the detonator out of my chest pocket. Here goes nothing. I press the red trigger button down. A quiet punching sound comes from underneath the truck and the cab momentarily jerks up about two inches. Found you! I quickly run back over to the truck and lift the cab up with my left arm. I duck down and search the undercarriage with my right hand until my fingers hit what must be the remains of the charge under the front bumper. I feel the device over with my fingers until I find the power switch and turn it off. I catch the mostly crushed up chunk of metal and duck back out from under the wreckage.
Time to go home. I walk back around to the tree, and as I bend down to pick up the briefcase, a popping sound comes from the truck. I look up as flames burst out from under the hood cover. I turn my back and walk briskly away from the wreck and toward the border. I climb over the hill where I had been hiding earlier. When I hit the bottom I walk for less than a kilometer before I hit the branch of river that leads to the crossing point. After walking another short distance I find myself at a chainlink fence and climb down the bank of the shallow stream. In the water, a small hole in the fencing appears, so I do a bit of tugging with my left arm and it's big enough to crawl through. With that, I'm in friendly territory and I can relax a little, but only a little, until I make it to the extraction point. I stay low and continue along the inside of the river bank.
The mission is complete and my duty has been fulfilled. I've done what I was told and I've made myself useful. The Americans will not mourn this day and I will feel nothing except accomplishment. Will my superiors be satisfied? Am I closer to the purpose I was made for?
About 15 meters away, I see the van that brought me to Berlin from the department. I stay crouched low and spy on the vehicle until I see the familiar face of the officer who sat across from me on the drive walking over to the side with a rifle slung around his shoulder. As soon as I see him I climb the entire way up the bank and begin to slowly walk towards the van with the briefcase at my left side and my right hand up, palm open, next to my ear.
Suddenly a force from behind hits me in the back of my knee and I fall to the ground. A hand goes over my mouth and I feel a sharp pain and burning sensation on my right temple. I lose all sensation in my arm and it drops to my side before I can do anything. I try calling out to my comrade but no sound comes. He turns his back and my vision goes completely dark as I try to see my attacker. Millions of questions flash through my mind in an instant and the familiar feeling of unconsciousness taking over is the last thing that occurs before I find myself sitting in a chair.
A/N: In 1986 in West Berlin, "La Belle Discotheque" was bombed. Three people were killed and hundreds were injured. The entertainment venue was known for attracting US military members, and two of the three people killed in the bombing were American soldiers. The attack triggered (or at least, the event was used as an excuse for) future American airstrikes in Libya. I chose to name the club in this story "La Belle" as a nod to this event, although the chapter takes place 32 years before the tragedy, and I do not know when the real discotheque opened, as much as I tried to find out.
Some of you may also have noticed that Bucky used American currency to pay for his beer. This was a deliberate choice, as the dollar was used heavily alongside the official German Mark as currency in West Berlin during the split, and since he was posing as an American soldier it fit best with his cover.
The line "the Americans will not mourn this day" is a recognition of the idea that accidents, especially those involving impaired drivers, are not memorialized in the same way as deaths purposely caused by outside forces. The deaths of soldiers are seen as natural. Basically, a similar mentality to the part in the Joker's monologue to Harvey Dent at the hospital in The Dark Knight where he mentions "a truckload of soldiers getting blown up" being 'part of the plan.'