"I think this might be the most surprising thing to come out of this project. I kind of assumed that once the War was over, that was it," Marc mused, humming thoughtfully. "The Nazis lost; the Allied defeated them. That's all there was to it."
Nath raised an eyebrow at him. "You really think it was all over, just because Hitler committed suicide and the Allies forced their unconditional surrender?"
"Well…"
"Unfortunately, mindsets don't change quite so easily," Nath told him curtly. "People still believe the crap Hitler was spewing. There's no getting away from it, even with Hitler gone. Even today."
Marc's stomach clenched, and he flushed. "I'm sorry – I guess I didn't think about it, at least not before now."
Nath shrugged. "I guess that's why I'm glad for the people who tracked down these war criminals. But there's still so much more to do."
"Good thing there are still heroes today to fight back against this kind of hate."
Buenos Aires, Argentina, June 1945
Felipe let out a breath, his brows furrowed, as he walked the street just outside the port zone, watching passengers disembark from the ships that had just arrived that morning. An American ship, a container ship making its way down the coast, a couple of passenger ships from England and Norway… and, at the very end of the line, his possible target. The Italian liner had left Ostia two weeks after the German capitulation, carrying a shipload of passengers for Buenos Aires. The passenger manifest had been submitted to the U.S. military command a week before the ship's departure, and all of the passengers had been cleared to travel. But according to their contact in the U.S. State Department, someone had made a late addition to the manifest, after the ship had already left port: a German, traveling on an Austrian passport.
The U.S. Government couldn't do anything about him. But fortunately, Felipe was not part of the U.S. Government.
Sailors shouted and cursed as the final ship was secured in place. The container ship shifted slightly in the waves as the dockworkers prepared to unload its cargo, working around the small stack of crates waiting on the quay to replace those being removed. A couple men in the uniforms of American sailors passed Felipe, moving in the direction of the bars just outside the harbor area. A little further down the line, the British and Norwegian ships had finished disembarking their passengers, who had started to disperse away from the ships. Felipe moved to the edge of sidewalk to allow them to pass, stopping in the shadow of a large tree to wait for the Italian to offload.
Felipe frowned, his arms folded. He hadn't especially wanted this mission; despite the war in Europe's end last month, the others were still in the Pacific Theater, fighting the Japanese, moving ever closer to the invasion site. They had already lost one of their number to this war. They had been lucky to avoid more than a few injuries since then – the worst of the bunch had come during a bonsai charge, when the other team had been caught by surprise. But if they had to assault Japan itself…
He shuddered.
Finally, after what felt like an hour of waiting, the Italian ship started to unload. Dockworkers began carrying cargo out of the hold and piling it on the dock in front of the ship, while a seemingly-endless stream of passengers filed down the gangplank onto the quay. Families with children, older couples, a company of servicemen returning from war, even a few single travelers. Many of the passengers immediately dispersed along the dock, moving in the direction of the exit, to meet friends and family members waiting along the quay. Two or three people started in Felipe's direction, only to veer away four or five meters away after getting a closer look at him. He shifted his posture and started toward the exit just ahead of the crowd, watching the passengers as they went, examining each face as quickly as he could. Their contact in Ostia had only been able to pass along a simple description of an older man, just past middle age, small close-set eyes, thinning black hair streaked with grey, on the thinner side and just over two meters tall. Not the most unique of descriptions, of course; at least a dozen men could fit it – but his target was traveling alone; all of these men appeared to be with a wife or family. He frowned, pausing near the gate and waiting for the crowd to file past him. Five, six… before long, almost a third of the ship's passengers had passed, none of whom met the description he had been given. Finally, the last of the passengers had made their way out of the harbor facility and begun to scatter into the city. Felipe sighed heavily, turning to glance down the street running alongside the pier.
There.
The man's hair was too light and thick, he had appeared too short on first inspection, and he had been walking with a woman a couple years younger than him when he left. But from behind, the spots where the wig did not blend in with his real skin became obvious. The woman had turned down the previous street. And Felipe could see his hunched posture. Why would the man be trying to hid his appearance so intently, if he did not have something to hide?
Felipe started after him, only to pause, looking back toward the last dozen passengers left standing on the quay. What if this man was a decoy? If he pursued this man and was wrong, he would be allowing a war criminal to walk free. This could be his only chance to bring the man to justice! But at the same time, if he did not pursue him…
His stomach clenched anxiously, Felipe made up his mind. Turning away from the boat, he put on a burst of speed, power-walking after the retreating figure, watching the rest of the street around him with his peripheral vision for any hint that someone had recognized the man. Had he made arrangements? Would someone come to meet him? Did he have protection – either that he was meeting here or that had traveled with him? Suddenly unsure, Felipe dropped back slightly, blending into a crowd of people in front of a bus stop, and watched his target walk straight away from the port facility, glancing over his shoulder a couple of times as he did so. Each time he looked back, Felipe's stomach churned and he moved to join another group of pedestrians, making sure to watch his target using only his peripheral vision. As the man walked, his glances came more frequently, until finally he seemed to break into a sprint on reaching a corner and turning down it. Gritting his teeth, Felipe sprinted after him, all stealth abandoned for a headlong dash. Reaching the corner within minutes, Felipe poked his head around it to spot his target a half-block down the street, holding his two suitcases close to his sides. As Felipe found him, however, he turned slightly to look over his shoulder, and Felipe ducked back out of sight with moments to spare. The next time he looked, the man had moved away.
The man led Felipe on a long, winding circuit through the city, past a couple of hotels, through two different neighborhoods, across several major intersections, until finally he paused, looked in either direction, and ducked down a back alleyway halfway down the next block. Curious, Felipe jogged after him, turning down the alley a minute after him–
–and walking straight into the barrel of a gun.
"Who are you? What do you want?" the man demanded in a thick German accent.
"I–I'm sorry?" Felipe tried, a tremble in his voice, holding his hands protectively in front of himself. "I – please d–don't k–kill me!"
"Why have you been following me?" the man growled, pushed the gun barrel into Felipe's gut.
"Look," Felipe told him, shifting his hands closer to his middle, giving his voice a soothing tone. "I'm not looking for trouble here. I'm just trying to find Juan's Restaurante."
"Where?"
"It's this great place a couple blocks from the Basilica," Felipe explained, turning his right hand over and holding it out to the side to draw the man's gaze. "They make this great empa–" Suddenly, Felipe jabbed out with his left palm, straight and bladed, and caught the man in the throat. At the same moment, he slipped his right hand under the gun and pushed it away, twisting his wrist to grabbed the man's hand and the gun and the same time, spinning the man around and slamming the back of the hand against the wall. The man grunted in pain, the pistol dropping from his hand to clatter on the ground between them. Pushing the back of his head into the bricks with his elbow, Felipe hissed, "Maybe they'll take you there sometime, cabrón."
The man meekly held his hands up. "Whatever you want, take it. I have dollars, pounds, gold–"
Felipe scoffed. "You think you can buy me off with your stolen money?" he retorted, kicking the pistol down the alley to clatter off a trashcan. "You have nothing to offer that wasn't stolen from your victims, Fromm."
The man cocked his head to one side in confusion. "I do not know that name," he insisted, his voice turning up slightly. "You must be mistaken!"
Felipe's mouth set in a thin line, staring hard at the German. "There is no mistake, Fromm. It's over now."
"How do you know that name?" Fromm's eyes narrowed, glaring daggers at Felipe.
"I know a lot about you… Doktor." Felipe's jaw clenched. "I know what you did in Italy. You will answer for what you did at Tragliata. The horrors you put those prisoners through. The monsters you created. The lives that you destroyed by your actions."
Fromm scoffed dismissively. "I did nothing wrong! I merely brought out what was already present! Der Fuhrer wished to create the pure master race; I was creating a useful subservient race, one which would fight and die and labor – all using the dregs of humanity, the unworthy, those who would have no other place in that glorious future."
Felipe arched an eyebrow at him. "The only 'dreg of humanity' I see is you and scum like you."
"You would judge me?" Fromm demanded indignantly, placing his hands on his hips. "You are nothing to me! Were it not for that American filth and their interference, my work would have progressed and all the world would have been transformed in our image! Judged and separated between those of the pure Aryan race and those fit only to serve their master race!"
Felipe growled, eyeing Fromm with a glare. "Don't hold your breath for that."
Fromm's eyes flashed, and his hand slipped into a pocket of his travel coat. "And yet you are the one who discarded your weapon!" Suddenly, Fromm pulled a small derringer from his pocket and squeezed the trigger.
"Atsaa, Let's soar!" Felipe shouted, just before the pistol went off. The bullet tinged off of his miraculous suit as it formed, and he drew his mace simultaneously, batting the pistol out of Fromm's hand and with the same blow smacking his hand into the wall. Brick splintered, spraying shards into the air around them. Fromm let out a sob of pain, cradling his mangled hand, and Águila Altíssimo shifted his grip on the mace, pinning Fromm to the wall with its shaft across the German's neck. Letting out a whimper, Fromm stared him in the face, eyes wide with fear and pain. "I'm tempted to do that to your head, Nazi," Águila Altíssimo snarled, leaning in close. "But the norteamericanos want you."
"N–no–" Fromm's breathing hitched and his eyes bulged out. "Wait… not th–the A–Americans?"
Águila Altíssimo shrugged. "Their embassy is on the other side of the city."
"I–I–I can't walk that far," Fromm stuttered.
Águila Altíssimo smirked. "Who said anything about walking?"
Three minutes later, Águila Altíssimo swooped lower and dropped Fromm the last meter and a half to the ground, where he landed in a crumpled heap on the doorstep of the American embassy. Without stopping, Águila Altíssimo flew up to land on the roof of the hotel across the street, watching intently as two of the American Marine guards bundled the doctor inside. Águila Altíssimo stayed for a moment longer, until he could be sure that the doctor would not escape, before falling backward off the rooftop, taking to the air, and catching an updraft to soar higher above the city.
One down, hundreds to go.