Full Disclosure: I started writing Chapter 25 in August 2017, nearly four years ago, when I was still young, naïve, and full of hope. Nearly four years later, I have a bachelor's degree, a full-time job, and eight months of LSAT preparation to show for it, with impending law school applications and another three years of full-time matriculation to follow. The pandemic and the abundance of free time I found myself with post-LSAT led me to renew my efforts at a chapter I had somewhat resigned myself to never finishing, and out of it has emerged not one but multiple chapters. For those of you who have stayed with me thus far, I appreciate you. Thank you for making this so much fun to do – and an escape from the stress of adulthood.
***Please note! I have made some minor revisions to the beginning of Chapter 24, and hope to make revisions to earlier chapters in the future so as to patch up some plot-holes and gaping timeline issues (because I foolishly thought I could keep this whole thing within a historically accurate timeframe, silly me. Just… please don't pay too close attention to the years, I know they're horridly off.)
"Trying to see when all lights have gone, a silhouette without a face imprinting a vision that opens my eyes to creation. Its identity will reflect what I see. Control is the way to prevail and lift up the shadows that keep me from reaching the bay." – The Solace System by Epica
Alpine Base of Operations, Specific Coordinates Unknown
Germany – 1943
The moon loomed ominously beyond the large glass windows, shrouded in heavy winter storm clouds, opaque with snow. Despite the cloud cover, the moon's ethereal white glow still managed to illuminate the sky, casting a deathly pallor over the landscape below it. The wind howled like a lone wolf, whistling along the peaks of the mountains. And, behind the walls of glass, a darkened figure could be seen, solitary and pensive. It was seldom that Wolfgang Hofstadter was afforded the opportunity to sit alone in silence, to merely ponder the world around him, or to contemplate his own role in it. As it was, he spent most of his time gallivanting about central Europe, perpetually in search of bodies to be decimated by Zemo's latest contraptions. Of course, gallivanting was not a term that he would have chosen to describe the task – however, it was a term that, in Zemo's opinion, was most applicable. But, Zemo's was a decisively troubled mind. Human suffering and general chaos were indistinguishable from pleasure in the Baron's view. Normal men – nay, human men – lusted after sex, money, power, comfort in every sense of the word. Material things that were easily procured and easily satisfied, regardless of how base or banal they might appear on the surface.
Zemo lusted after other things. Inhuman desires that were only satisfied by bloodletting, by extraordinary cruelty, by the suffering and mutilation of man. Zemo lusted after destruction, after blood and torn flesh. The screams of dying humanity were the sweetest melodies to his ears. Juden, Romani, homosexuals – Zemo was blind to these labels, they held no interest for him. He cared little for the purification of races, as the Führer so vehemently preached from his podium. He cared little for the pomp and circumstance of the Reich – the battalions of trim black uniforms, the gleaming jackboots, the crimson swastikas that bedecked every inch of every public façade, the armbands of the officers, the bumper flags that snapped in the wind. Hitler's Reich, his visions of a perfect Aryan race – collectively, all of these things held little attraction for Heinrich Zemo. Hitler was but a means to an end, and his Reich and all of its trappings – these were but spoils of war.
Hitler was merely Zemo's puppet. His extermination camps, his gas chambers, his endless supply of human bodies – these were what enabled Zemo to satiate his addiction to sadism. He could experiment, mutilate, torture, and murder to his heart's unrelenting desire, all the while protected by the guise of working for the betterment of the Reich.
But even the Führer, who had called for the brutal erasure of an entire race, had not been elbow-deep in the blood of the innocent. Zemo bathed in it. And this frightened the Führer.
Hitler had only to lift a finger to set in motion another wave of exterminations, the erection of more ghettos, the sewing of golden stars upon coat lapels – all while lounging in his pristine Alpine chalet, surrounded by his confidantes, his beautiful mistress, his dogs, bottles of fine champagne – not a care in the world for what he was doing. Yes, Hitler killed. The blood – metaphorically – stained his fingers. But never physically. Out of sight, out of mind, as it were.
Zemo, if it were not for appearances, would have drank that blood out of a crystal snifter, like a fine Schnapps.
Hitler had admired Zemo's bloodlust, had seen in Zemo a kindred spirit who also strove tirelessly for the purification of a glorious Aryan race.
But this was a façade, and Hitler was – albeit slowly – beginning to realize that Zemo's bloodlust was by no means exclusive.
The death-ray – a most unfortunate incident – had irrevocably solidified Hitler's misgivings.
Zemo did not lust after the death of the Jews, of the imperfect peoples that flawed Hitler's vision of a pure Aryan society. Zemo simply lusted after death.
And what were to happen if, say, Zemo began to lust after the likes of Hitler and his ilk? What if Hitler and his entourage would be the next in line in Zemo's spontaneous killing sprees? After all, the man had nonchalantly massacred his own fellow citizens, innocent Aryan German civilians, who had only ever been peacefully existing in their quaint little villages. If Zemo killed them with abandon, what if –
Yes, this realization frightened the Führer indeed.
And Zemo was no fool – he knew that his comfortable tenure in Hitler's Reich was drawing to a close.
But he knew also that Hitler's Reich would not survive to see the next century – if even the next decade. No, Hitler would lose the war, and with it, Zemo would lose his benefactor.
And so, there were precisely two options left for Zemo. Live out whatever remained of Hitler's Reich or his good will, and oh – perhaps flee to Argentina at the end of whatever came first.
But this option was not particularly attractive to Zemo. A life on the run had its glamour and sex appeal, certainly, but this was entirely too much effort and Zemo was a man of creature comforts. Adventure was thrilling, but he preferred to create his chaos in more familiar settings, without having to change his name or go into hiding. As it was, he already chafed against Hitler's strict orders to maintain a… low profile, as it were.
That led to the second option. Take control of Hitler's Reich before it fell – and let the blood continue to spill, blissfully uninterrupted.
This was Zemo's aim.
And he would be successful – because it would be entirely unexpected.
Hitler's ilk had long written off Baron Zemo as completely unhinged – the kooky scientist who had managed to fall into a vat of chemical-infused glue and now survived on a feeding tube, nicotine and caffeine injections, and had a proverbial sock permanently fused to his flesh. The madman who built bumbling androids, the first batch of which could barely balance, let alone shoot at a moving target without blowing themselves up.
The Nazis were terrified of Zemo, this was true. But they had convinced themselves – perhaps to sleep better at night – that Zemo was so positively cartoonish in his madness that he would never be able to successfully initiate a coup. As it was, even if by some miracle he did manage to take control of the Reich, the Allies would surely decimate him. Zemo had no friends, no allies – his extraordinary sadism, which made Hitler's pale in comparison, had sickened even the most diehard fanatics in the party. Yes, even Dr. Mengele withered in Zemo's shadow.
But Zemo had one ally left – or rather, a slave.
Wolfgang stared bleakly out from the windows, gazing emptily at the grey sky. He closed his eyes, tapping the ashes off of his cigarette, nearly burnt out. The embers at its tip glowed and smoldered, but the metal fingers that held it felt no pain.
He was a man, once.
A complete man – no robotic prosthetics, no plates of steel, no whirring and wheezing gears and cogs within his chest cavity, pumping blood furiously in the absence of a beating heart and functioning vital organs. Sharp blades did not hover beneath a paper-thin layer of synthetic flesh, ready to release at his wrists with a deft flick of his hands.
He glanced down at the stump of his left leg, and the steel prosthetic that laid on the table beside him, shrouded in moonlight. He ran the wiry, robotic fingers of his right hand through white-blond hair, perhaps the only organic thing left of him.
Yes, he had once been fully human – not an abomination of alien parts.
How it had all happened was still a mystery even to him – his memory had faded in and out, pulsating with a blinding pain, pain unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Then there was the cold – numbing and raw, it had acted as an anesthetic against the wounds, and the howling wind was like a sweet melody lilting him into unconsciousness.
It wasn't supposed to happen that way. It was an exercise – a precursor to the grand invasion of the Sudetenland – a scouting mission, clearing the way for lebensraum. No one was supposed to get hurt – no one was supposed to be abandoned in that frozen wasteland, amid whirling snowflakes, amid snow stained red with blood – alone.
XXX
Moravian-Silesian Region of Czechoslovakia – the Sudetenland
January 1926 – Approximately 2400 Hours
Though it was the dead of night, the sky had taken on a yellowish-grey tinge, the clouds heavy and opaque with snow, thousands of tiny white specks whirling about furiously. The snow squalls had been absolutely insufferable, all day long – visibility was so terribly low that the reconnaissance team had been unable to make any progress in their charting. The winds were high and bitterly cold, and the uneven terrain – both mountainous and flat, pocked with valleys. To the west, the Hrubý Jeseník mountain range towered; to the east, the wide valley of the Moravian Gate. The icy winds washed over Wolfgang's face, bright blue eyes alert and gleaming beneath the brim of his cap. He pulled the fur collar of his coat up over his ears, shivering slightly beneath the heavy fabric. He bit his lips to get the blood back into them, closing his eyes briefly. He dared not complain in front of his men – as it was, their morale was low. Most of them felt that it was ridiculous for the NSDAP to be sending out scouts into the Sudetenland to map out the future of Adolf Hitler's "lebensraum" this early, especially while Herr Hitler was unable even to spread word of his plans for Germany. The Bavarian authorities had deemed his fiery rhetoric too controversial and had banned him from the podium. The charismatic leader of the Nazi party was now forced to operate underground while puppet leaders did his bidding.
Lebensraum was absolutely imperative to Herr Hitler's grand equation – the German expansion into the East, the permanent settlement of the German people in an ethnically pure German nation, one of pure and perfect Aryans, for eternity. This was the key to the foreign policy of the NSDAP – and the NSDAP would rule Germany, it was only a matter of time. They gained more supporters by the day – Germany would soon be returned to its former glory, the greatest empire in the entire world. Germany would no longer be humiliated, crushed down by Western European warlords – nay, France and England would no longer be able to lord their victories over a weak and trembling Germany. The fatherland would be returned to righteousness. And so, this small force of men – some thirty souls, shivering in the bitter cold, tirelessly mapping out new territory, preparing for future invasions, for the fabled Lebensraum – here they toiled for future glory.
Of course, Wolfgang thought bitterly, they had made miniscule progress – so uncooperative was the weather. A terrible blizzard had set in only two days after the team had arrived in the Sudetenland, and it had made itself quite cozy, for it did not seem to have machinations of leaving anytime soon. A shrill voice interrupted his thoughts. A soldier stood by him, shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering so loudly that he seemed to stutter.
"Herr Obergruppenführer, please – can't we g – go home now? We've been here for d – days and we've made little to no progress."
"Quiet, you fool!" Wolfgang snapped. "Don't you understand that we're on the cusp of a revolution? Of history?"
The soldier looked doubtful. "Herr Hitler hasn't even gained power yet in Berlin, Mein Herr. Why are we charting new territory if we might not even survive long enough to invade – "
Wolfgang lashed out at the soldier with a gloved hand. The soldier yelped in pain, gripping his cheek tightly.
"You will not disrespect the party, you imbecile! We will be in power, soon enough. Open your mouth again and I'll shoot you where you stand, do I make myself clear?"
The soldier shuddered.
"Do you understand?" Wolfgang snapped again, glaring icily at the young man. The soldier nodded feverishly. Wolfgang pursed his lips. "Away with you then. Back to your post!"
And the memory faded away – no trace of how it had happened or when, or why – only pain and cold and numbness and blackness.
He was lying in the snow – blood red slush pooling about his limbs. The nausea was overpowering – the tang of blood was in his mouth, his vision was blurred. He lifted a hand to his face – but there was no hand left, only a gaping, bloodied stump, the flesh frayed and gushing blood. He felt terrible, raw and pulsating pain in his left leg – he tried to lift it, but there was no feeling – only pain. His throat was raw – he had screamed and screamed and cried out and begged, but no one was there. His men – what had happened to them? Had they died, too? He remembered fire – a terrible blast, a landmine or something – some sort of explosion, terrible and wrenching and loud. But where were the others? Where were his men, where had they gone? It was as if they'd all disappeared, leaving him alone in the snow, writhing and crying out for help in vain.
Then, sweet blackness – death was coming to release him. But no – no, he couldn't die. What would happen to Angelika? She was only just a few months pregnant – what would happen to her, to his child? Who would support them? No – Zemo would take care of them, surely. Zemo would find his body – Zemo would take care of everything –
XXX
Berlin, Germany – 1936
Bright white light stung at his retinas, his vision blurry. His heart raced, his head pounded – he blinked rapidly, white blob-like forms standing over him, their blurred lines gradually solidifying into clear outlines, white lab-coats, magnifying specs, curious eyes. There was a voice then – gentle, warm – it glided on the air musically, silky soft. A familiar voice – one he had known from childhood. The two white forms parted like waves instantly, and a man in black and grey stood over him.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, my good man." His voice was soft and lilting – his tone smiled.
Wolfgang tried to answer but his voice was a mere rasp – his throat was parched from disuse.
Slender gloved fingers pressed against his lips. "Don't try to speak, my boy. It will take time for your voice to recover. You have been unconscious for quite a long while, a decade now."
Wolfgang felt his heart punch against his ribcage. He bolted upright, but leather straps lashed into his chest, pinning him down. "Where is my wife?" He rasped hoarsely. "Where is Angelika? What do you mean, a decade? What year is it? What happened to me, where am I?"
The slender gloved fingers pressed against his chest now, lightly pushing him back down against the gurney that he was strapped upon.
The man in black and grey bent over him, his face mere inches from Wolfgang's own. Pale skin, a sharply pointed chin, silvery hair slicked back, and hazel eyes that glinted with honeyed poison, drilling sharply into him. His smile was genteel, but there was something raw and feral in that wickedly sharp-toothed grin.
The mask had not graced his face, then. Not yet.
"Now, now, dear boy, do calm down. All your questions will be answered soon enough, fear not!"
"Zemo." Wolfgang gasped through gritted teeth. "Where is my wife?"
The man smiled sadly. "Oh, my dear boy." He said softly, resting a gloved hand on Wolfgang's bare shoulder. "I am so terribly sorry. Your wife passed away some months after your accident. Complications during labor, so the doctors told me."
Wolfgang swallowed hard, his throat raw and sore. "And what of my child? Did the child survive?"
Again, the sad and thin-lipped smile. "The child died shortly afterward."
Wolfgang's voice cracked. "H – how long have they been dead?"
"Ten years now. The accident happened in 1926, you remember. It is now 1936."
Wolfgang felt breathless, his heart pounding in his chest. "Did – did Angelika – did she know, what happened to me? Did she know that I was – I was here, with you, wasn't I? I was in your care?"
Zemo shook his head, that sad smile seemingly stitched to his face. "Unfortunately, Wolfgang, when your body was delivered to me from the Sudetenland, you were quite literally deceased. Your body was ravaged. I had no choice but to deliver the news to your wife that you had perished. I told her that there was some hope that I could reanimate your body – with my inventions. But sadly, I knew that it would take years to reassemble what was left of you, and of course, there was no guarantee that you would revive, regardless of my efforts. She took the news fairly well, I think. She was a strong woman, your wife. I did my best to comfort her, I promise you that, my dear boy. Her death and the child's were truly blindsiding. But, rest assured, my boy, I took the greatest care to ensure that they received a proper burial."
Wolfgang let his head rest against the gurney beneath him, closing his eyes. "Dear God." He whispered. "Zemo, what happened to me? I don't understand – I don't remember any of it, just a terrible explosion and then – then I was lying in the snow, I was bleeding, I was alone, I don't know what happened to the others – "
"A landmine was set off – perhaps by Czech rebels, they knew that the Nazi party was eyeing up the Sudetenland for German expansion. Unfortunately, you caught the brunt of the blast – it effectively amputated your left leg and your right arm. As for your men – they thought you had perished in the explosion, and they were not entirely incorrect. You bled out from your wounds, but your body was returned to my care in time for me to enact a medically-induced coma. You have been in a vegetative state for ten years now, while my technicians operated on your body, gave you a new heart, new organs, replaced your limbs with prosthetics."
Here, Zemo smiled. "As well as some – other additions that will be quite useful to your weapons arsenal."
"Why did you keep me alive, Zemo?"
The smile remained on Zemo's face. "Whatever do you mean, my dear boy?"
"My family is dead, Zemo. Why am I still living? Why go to so much effort to keep my corpse sustained – I don't understand. I – Zemo, my family – " Wolfgang's throat had seized up, his heart pounding, and he felt hot tears welling in his eyes.
The plastic smile on Zemo's face seemed to twitch and convulse, and it twisted into a savage scowl. His long slender fingers reached out and grabbed Wolfgang's jaw, thrusting his face upwards. Zemo bent over him, his eyes gleaming mere inches away from his face.
"My dear boy, have you learned nothing? Your disgusting sentimentality was the reason for your disgrace! You were to be my prodigy, Wolfgang! The model soldier of Hitler's army! And you lost it all, you imbecile! You humiliated me, you destroyed my reputation – you let that damned Schmidt play you for a fool! Now is your chance for greatness – and yet you sit here sniffling and sobbing over your dear dead family!"
His breath was cold against Wolfgang's skin. "Forget them, Wolfgang. Avenge their deaths with perhaps more – violent pursuits. Thanks to my inventions, you now have the destructive power of an entire army of men. You are quite literally un-killable – unstoppable. You will annihilate my enemies now, my dear boy."
Wolfgang's blood boiled. "Forget my family?" He hissed. "That's it – that's what you expect me to do? To just put aside my grief so that I can be your little slave, as I always have been? You wanted this all along didn't you – you simply couldn't pass up the chance to make my corpse into your newest toy? Blindsided by Angelika's death, really? Do you take me for a fool? You hated her, Heinrich! God knows you were probably elated at the news of her death!"
"She was a distraction to you." All traces of the honeyed tone were gone now, replaced by a savage sneer. "She filled your head with fairytales and drew you ever farther away from the force that you were meant to be."
Zemo's slender fingers glided across Wolfgang's cheek. "She wanted a husband who would be doting, docile, and attentive – not a spy who would be constantly absent, secretive, dangerous, even. She wanted to divert you from your destiny, my dear child – for, a child is what you are, Wolfgang, and always will be." He smiled coyly. "You are far too emotional, far too flighty and passionate to understand what is best for you, Wolfgang. You have not grown enough to understand – to relish in the killing, to revel in the bloodshed. You are a child that must be taught and I, as your instructor, am obligated to teach you. I would be failing you if I were to let you stray from your chosen path, Wolfgang."
He lifted his fingers lightly and stood back from Wolfgang, smiling down at him genially.
"It is good that she is gone, Wolfgang. Now, you can focus – no petty distractions."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Wolfgang spat, chafing at the leather straps that bound him.
Again, that honeyed smile. "I am your teacher, Wolfgang. Your father, practically – I raised you from your youth, I shaped you, I crafted you into the man you are now. I am all that you have left, and I do care very much for you – I would hate to see something terrible happen to you."
"I won't work for you."
The honeyed smile twisted into a snarl. "Don't toy with me, Wolfgang."
Wolfgang let out harsh laugh. "What are you going to do to me if I don't, Heinrich? Kill me? Go ahead, please. I implore you."
"Of course I won't kill you, you silly thing. I'd be giving you exactly what you want, and we can't possibly have that. I'll merely torture you to the point of exhaustion, or sedate you, or something like that, until you come to your senses."
Wolfgang smiled at him bitterly. "You can't force me to work for you, Heinrich. Torture me, threaten me, scream at me, curse at me – I would much rather be dead than alive right now. I know that it's easy for you to forsake your family and think only about Heinrich Zemo, but I really prefer my childish sentimentalities over your vanity."
Zemo sighed. "I had hoped it would not have to come to this but, seeing as though you refuse to come to your senses,"
A shot rang out – metallic, it echoed across the white-washed walls of the laboratory.
Wolfgang felt his head snap backwards against the steel gurney. The smell of burning rubber filled his nostrils and a searing heat blistered across his skin – but no pain.
As his vision cleared, a dark object in Zemo's right hand came into focus – a handgun, still smoking at the barrel.
The baron smirked at him. "There, satisfied? In case you were thinking of trying to commit suicide, or something foolish like that."
Wolfgang blinked, that foul stench engulfing him.
Zemo's smirk quirked into a frown. "Of course, having said that, I've just sacrificed at least two weeks in order to repair the damage. My assassin can't very well be strolling around Berlin with a gaping hole in his forehead."
Wolfgang said nothing, his throat dry, his tongue feeling unbearably swollen and parched in his mouth.
"As I said, my dear boy, you are unkillable. Your body is capable of withstanding the impact of virtually all weapon fire. The metal will be dented, the silicon covering that now functions as your 'skin' will tear, but that is all. Machine gun fire will shred your outer layers, of course, but the infrastructure remains protected. The most outer layers of metal are pliable for maximum flexibility, but your bones have all been reinforced with titanium, if not replaced altogether by prosthetics, as with your arm and leg. Your heart and internal organs are mechanically-operated, and therefore easily reanimated, and reinforced titanium shields your heart from damage. The heart itself is completely artificial. The only truly organic thing that remains within you is your blood – and, of course, your brain. Your blood powers the heart, makes it pump and beat, the blood travels through your arteries, and sparks the electrical currents that power your limbs, your external weaponry. Your brain commands it all, sends signals to the prosthetics, allow you to operate all weaponry at your own will."
Zemo paused, reaching for a small mirror from the operating table beside him. He held it up before Wolfgang's face. "See? The bullet damaged only the outer layers of metal, but the skull beneath has been completely covered in reinforced titanium. A bullet to the cranium has absolutely no chance of damaging your brain."
Wolfgang stared bewilderedly at the reflection in the mirror thrusted before him. Gnarled metal ends twisted outwards around a gaping crater in his forehead, where the bullet had impacted, a tiny silver shell still smoldering from within. A slender hand reached over his forehead, long fingers brandishing a pair of tweezers. With a tug, Zemo freed the shell, revealing a glimpse of the solid titanium beneath.
"With a flick of your wrists, you operate twin sabers – retractable and hidden beneath the flesh. I believe they will be your favorite addition, given your fondness for swordplay."
Zemo smiled. "Your prosthetics also possess other weaponry, and of course, all will be revealed to you in the next several weeks – it will take time to become acquainted with your new body, your new capabilities. I suspect a maximum of three months will be necessary to reorient yourself. Berlin has changed so beautifully since your accident – I think you will be exhilarated by the progress the Reich has made."
"Zemo," Wolfgang spoke up.
The baron cast a cursory glance at him, still held fast to the gurney. He sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes – dramatic as always. "Ah but of course, I have forgotten. You want to die, is that it? You want to commit suicide?" Zemo clucked his tongue. "Such a pity it is that literally nothing will kill you. My dear boy, you could crunch cyanide between your teeth, but I would still be able to revive you. Only I possess the keys to killing you, and if you think that I'll give you them out of pity, you are mistaken."
"Zemo, what do you want from me?"
Zemo sniffed, offended. "My dear boy, you need not sound so resigned."
Wolfgang chafed harder at the leather straps that bound him, pushing against them hard, the leather straining, popping, tearing apart as he thrust his shoulders upward.
The leather broke with a loud snap. Wolfgang sat up straight to face Zemo, trembling with anger.
He shook his head at his mentor. "You did not save me, Heinrich, out of the kindness of your heart. You salvaged what was left of me because it was advantageous to your wants – not mine. And you think that because of my 'petty sentimentality' – which you despise so much – I will drop everything and work for you, sell my soul to you, just because you taught me how to hold a sword when I was twelve years old."
He looked down at the metal prosthesis that replaced his right hand, flexing the alien metal fingers. "So what is it that you want so desperately for me to do, Heinrich?"
Zemo stared back at him, the cocky smirk vanished from his face. "I want you to kill."
"Who?"
Zemo's eyes were glassy and empty – almost as though entranced. "As many people as you possibly can. I want you to shock, Wolfgang – to utterly blow the minds of everyone in Hitler's inner circle, of the SS, the SD, the Gestapo, to shock the hell out of them, Wolfgang. To frighten them, to surround them. The Reich will fall if it continues under Hitler's leadership. You have been gone for too long now to understand but – the man becomes more paranoid by the day, isolating himself further and further, he is descending into hysteria. He is not deserving of power, Wolfgang. He gets up on that podium and screams and waves his fists but once he steps down, he is a withering shell. He does not understand true power, or what it means to possess it or the measures he must take to acquire it. He surrounds himself with stupid, lumbering fools who have snubbed me, my weapons – he thinks me mad and he is terrified of me. But he needs me."
Zemo began to pace back and forth, his voice rising, quickening as he spoke. "I am building an army, Wolfgang. An army of androids – an unkillable army that will obliterate Hitler's forces. And he will never expect it – he fears me, Wolfgang, he thinks I'm unhinged. But he surrounds himself with men that insist that I'm simply too mad to launch a coup. As it is, Himmler's goons stalk my every movement. But otherwise, their hubris thwarts them – they think me mad, but easily contained. I want to show them that they're wrong, Wolfgang. And I intend for you to do it for me."
Wolfgang shook his head slowly, confused. "What do you mean, Hitler needs you? If he's really that afraid of you he would have put you before a firing squad long ago, never mind what Himmler tells him."
Zemo grinned, his eyes wild. "I am the last of Hitler's 'deep science division', the last of the scientists recruited to equip his arsenal for the coming wars. Johann Schmidt, Wolfgang von Strucker – all gone, all ousted, because they could not disguise their lust for power. But me? Surely I am simply too 'kooky' to understand the weight of such things, to strive after them. It's all in good fun, of course. I don't mind playing into their delusions – making them think that I truly am losing my mind, breathing in chemical fumes and the like all day long. The crazier I look, the more convinced they become that I am only a harm to myself. And the more reluctant Hitler is to let me go – he recognizes the value of my weaponry, he recognizes that I am the only scientist left to even begin to supply him with the weapons he wants. HYDRA hasn't produced a single rifle in years, so busy is Johann gallivanting in Scandinavia in search of archaeological relics. So long as I keep up the charade – kooky chemist, engine grease in my hair, wild gleam in my eyes, unkempt uniform – Hitler keeps me in his employ. And the more access I have to his inner circle, the easier it will be to pick them off one by one by one until the Reich is mine."
Zemo laid a slender, cold hand on Wolfgang's cheek, making him shudder inwardly.
"So that is precisely what I wish you to do, my dear boy. I want you to kill people, any people, innocent civilians, men, women, children, Jewish or otherwise – but the trick is for no one to know who you work for, who you are, where you originate from. You will operate completely independently from me – at least, on paper you will – leaving the inner circle at desperate pains to find out where on earth this new menace is coming from. I want you to close in on them, isolate them, surround them, put so much fear in them that they crack under the pressure. And then, when the time is right, you'll kill all of them. You understand, yes? The picture seems clear?"
"I think you're insane."
Zemo smiled broadly. "So much the better!" He cried gleefully.
"And why should I do it?"
The gleeful smile dissolved into a savage scowl. "Ah, yes, this again. I'd so hoped we'd moved on from that – I suppose having shot you in the head was not persuasive enough?"
"I am not convinced, no. You're insane, but insanity has never been of any particular consequence to you. Because you can do it. And you can do it without me. You've no bargaining chip to use against me, Heinrich. Alright, so you've stated that I apparently can't kill myself even if I tried. But what if I were to kill you first? Or simply walk out of this godforsaken place and find someplace dark and dingy to rot away in? Who the hell's going to stop me, if I'm so 'unkillable', as you say?"
Zemo inhaled sharply. "If you will not do it for me, you will do it out of your lust for revenge."
"What are you talking about?"
Zemo smiled darkly. "I did not send you on that doomed mission, Wolfgang. Adolf Hitler did. And his troops left you there to die. I saved you – and had your wife and child lived, Wolfgang, I would not have stood in your way, no matter how much I disagreed with your marriage. I cannot undo what the past did to you, but I will make damn sure that Adolf Hitler suffers for what he did to you. In fact, you can make him suffer personally."
Zemo looked away, as though suddenly pensive, deep in thought. At last, he spoke again. "And when you have finished what I have asked of you, I will let you die, Wolfgang. Do what I ask of you and I will return you to your family. And of course, I will provide you with comfortable lodging and the freedom to do as you please in the meantime."
He returned his gaze to Wolfgang's, smiling softly. "Is that so much to ask, Wolfgang? Don't you want to exact revenge against the men that sent you on a mission that they knew fully well was doomed to fail? You don't really think they thought it would succeed, did you? For Hitler to send his rising star, the heir to the Schutzstaffel, still but an embryo within Hitler's psyche – do you really think he would have sent you on that mission if he had wanted you to stand where Heinrich Himmler stands now? And what of Johann Schmidt, Wolfgang? Do you know what Johann Schmidt is doing now? Why, the man basks in his fully-equipped facilities in the Alps, free to do whatever he damn well pleases, free from the tethers of the Reich. Do you think he stood at your wife's side when the news was delivered to her that her dear husband had perished? Do you think he stood at her bedside where she lay dying, where your child writhed in agony before it too breathed its last breath? No, Wolfgang. He did not. Do you feel at peace, knowing that he walks this earth unfettered, unburdened?"
Wolfgang trembled. "Johann loved Angelika. It was me he hated – not her."
"My dear boy, why do you insist on deluding yourself? Johann is too preoccupied with his own machinations of becoming the successor to Odin to care about what happened to your wife, to you, to your child – all meaningless. Think of what he did to you, Wolfgang – think of how he humiliated you, knocked you down, made a mockery of you. Don't you yearn to crush him under your heel?"
XXX
Wolfgang stared down at the robotic hand, the cigarette now burnt out. He wriggled the metal fingers, allowing black ash to shower to the floor.
He still struggled to understand why he had accepted Zemo's offer – or rather, perhaps his threat. He often wondered if he'd bowed to the pressure out of fear. Zemo would have been relentless in his pursuit of Wolfgang's loyalty – he expected his loyalty, his obedience, his complete and utter willingness to serve him. It had always been this way, and perhaps Zemo was right to expect it. Wolfgang had always – no matter how hard he had chafed against it – given in to Zemo's pull. And it had driven a wedge between him and all that he had ever held dear.
He remembered Angelika's face, porcelain-white and stained with tears – she had hated Zemo with every fiber in her being, had hated the influence that Zemo exerted over him, the slavish sense of duty Wolfgang had felt in serving his old mentor. She had railed against his desire to work his way into the ever-powerful Nazi party – still in the embryonic stages of development when he had set out on that ill-fated mission in the Sudetenland. She had pleaded with him to seek out some other path, some other way of life, not one that was filled with secrets, danger, killing. It had agonized her to see Johann – her only kin left in the world, for whom she felt solely responsible – fall victim to his own fantasies, completely absorbed by his lust for power. Johann had grown colder, more apathetic – and Wolfgang was arguably the reason why.
Wolfgang had never hated Johann – he had felt sorry for the man, an exceptional talent that had too often been overlooked by Hitler's inner circle as fanatical – too fanatical for the most exclusive cult in the universe, the Nazi party. He had never truly begrudged him for winning that stupid 'death duel', all those years ago. Really, he should have felt indebted to him. Johann had let him survive, and had convinced Hitler that Wolfgang's talent merited his survival, not his demise in a competition for the model Nazi conqueror. But it was a dog-eat-dog world, and Wolfgang too craved praise and promotion. When Johann had been excommunicated from the party, Zemo had eagerly sponsored Wolfgang's acquisition of his post – and Wolfgang had not protested against his mentor.
His marriage to Angelika had only poisoned already sour relations – Johann had perceived it as a direct threat to his authority, that Wolfgang would dare to steal what was rightfully his. Angelika was Johann's property more than his blood. But Angelika had urged that the marriage take place – angered by what she viewed as her brother's petulance. And she had paid the price, ultimately. While Johann virtually cut off all contact with her, Wolfgang's own career sent him to the far reaches of the earth, ever farther from his lonely devoted wife.
The sole constant among it all had been Zemo – masquerading as the benevolent father-figure of an orphaned baron, his single protégé.
Zemo had taught him everything he knew, had given up his own family to raise him, orphaned at the age of twelve when his parents had died in an automobile accident. Zemo had taken Wolfgang on not only as his student, but truly, as his own son. Zemo was young then – newly married, with an infant son of his own, but he had welcomed Wolfgang into his family, had comforted him and guided him through the grieving process. Time healed the numbness that his parents' sudden deaths had left in him, and Zemo had stood as his bulwark – omnipresent, smiling and gentle, an embodiment of fatherly love.
Yet, beyond that benevolence, there was a decisively wicked streak in Zemo. That warmth and kindness quickly gave way to savage sadism, the smiling face melting away, replaced by raw fury, by an unquenchable desire for destruction.
Wolfgang closed his eyes.
Zemo was a performer – and Wolfgang, ever devoted and ever blind, almost always fell prey to his mentor's intoxicating tales, despite the warnings of all who had ever surrounded him.
Wandering alone through the corridors of the Baron Zemo's castle, the screams of the Baroness Hilda echoing sharply against the stone and marble, mingling with Heinrich's sharper tones, their voices growing strained, the Baroness struggling against him, crying out in fear, in pain – a solid sickening crack as bone collided with stone – and her cries were suddenly stifled, smothered.
Little Helmut – a pale, quiet, sickly child, yearning so desperately for his father's approval, yearning for his love and praise. Helmut Zemo and his mother worshipped the earth that Heinrich walked upon, slavishly devoted to him, desperate to please him, both of them pining hopelessly for his love, his affection – terrified to disappoint him, terrified of awakening Zemo's vindictive wrath.
Heinrich beat his wife and son routinely, and he smiled gayly through it all, knowing the pull he exercised over them, knowing that their silent loyalty and obedience were his.
And Wolfgang had witnessed their suffering, but had remained silent. Out of cowardice, out of fear – even now, after so many decades, he did not know. Perhaps it was out of his own slavish loyalty to Zemo – so compelled to serve him, so taken in by his lilting tone.
Yes, compelled – compelled to serve, compelled to bow under his pressure, compelled to follow like the blind sheep that he was.
Angelika had seen it.
Wolfgang swallowed hard, feeling hot tears well in his eyes.
Their last words, before his departure, before her death, had been bitter and hateful.
He removed the gold wedding-band from his left ring-finger and pressed it into his wife's pale palm, clasping her delicate fingers over it. He held her hand with both of his, holding it against his chest for some moments.
This was their last goodbye. If only he had known it then – perhaps he would not have been quite so cold to his grief-stricken wife.
"I want you to keep this – it is safer with you than it is with me, God knows. And, this way you will have a reminder of me, something to keep you company while I'm gone."
Her tear-stained face and beautiful blue eyes stared up at him, angry, but sorrowful, too.
"You say that as though you might not return." There was a deep sense of misgiving in her eyes, a sense of reluctance, almost. "Why do you follow that man, Wolfgang? Don't you see it? Don't you see that hungry gleam in his eyes, like he's lusting after something – he's out for blood, he's dangerous, Wolfgang! He's using you to push his agenda, you're his foothold in Hitler's entourage. He doesn't care about you or your safety, he only cares about himself! You'd do anything for him, you'll follow him to the ends of the earth, on whatever ridiculous mission he sends you on without a single thought for your own life, your own wellbeing – only thinking of pleasing him, like he's your master and you're his slave!"
His blue eyes blazing with anger, his tone petulant and bitter. "You think that I'm a fool for following Zemo? Your brother is mutating into a psychotic megalomaniac before your very eyes and yet you sure as hell refuse to see it! You spend more time crying over him, wondering why he was led astray rather than accept that he's exactly what he wants to be – a madman! Johann is a ticking time-bomb, Angelika! Zemo is a politician – he's shrewd and he's ruthless but he knows that that's the only way you make progress in this world. Johann's simply insane!"
"Don't you think that I'm afraid that that's what will happen to you?" Angelika grabbed his cheek, her slight frame trembling as she stared up into his eyes. "Johann is the only kin I have left in this world and he's all but gone because he let the power go to his head. You are my husband, Wolfgang. I love you more than anything else in the world, is it a crime for me to worry also that the power will go to your head? You toil for Heinrich Zemo because you believe that he is your key to working your way up the ranks, that he's your only ally – you have convinced yourself that you need him to succeed and so you let him manipulate you, enslave you, Wolfgang!"
He let his hand drift to hers, holding it against his cheek. He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes, willing his tone to soften. "Angelika," he breathed. "Please, darling, I need you to understand. You would do anything for Johann because for all of his faults, he is and will always be your brother. You would go to the ends of the earth for him, regardless of how evil or insane anyone else might claim he is. Well, that's how I feel about Zemo. When my parents died, he was the one that took me in, that trained me and taught me everything I know today. He loved me like a son, Angelika and I love him like a father, regardless of his faults."
He sighed deeply, gazing down into her eyes, still wet with tears. "Angelika, I follow Zemo because he really is my only opening into the party. Your brother – Johann is a genius, Angelika, he's brilliant at everything. I don't know a damn thing about science or anything that Adolf Hitler and his cronies would find even remotely appealing. What I'm good at is fighting – I'm a soldier, that's my only training, I know nothing else. Zemo is a politician, he has the inner circle's ear. Zemo rubs the right shoulders and I get the job, that's just how it works, Angelika. I'm not proud of it but I need to provide for you, to provide for our child."
He pressed a hand gently against her stomach, and pressed a kiss against her forehead.
"Heinrich Zemo disgraced my brother, Wolfgang. He accused him of conspiring against Hitler and had him stripped of his rank. Johann was humiliated, Wolfgang! Utterly destroyed, exiled, cast out as a traitor – and you are going to tell me that you were merely a convenient replacement, to fill the vacancy that he left? Should I truly believe that, Wolfgang? Or is that how your bread is buttered, selling short your fellow 'patriot', as you call yourselves, to better your own career?" Her tone was icy, her eyes blazing brightly.
"It needed to be done, Angelika. Johann was overstepping his bounds – it was obvious to everyone that he was no longer interested in the betterment of the party. Johann has his own agenda – HYDRA is all that matters to Johann now, not the creation of an Aryan empire."
"You did not have to be a part of it, Wolfgang!" Angelika cried, the tears streaming down her face now. "I am not blind, Wolfgang, I know that Johann is in a dark place now and I know that he will likely never return but it did not have to be this way! You did not have to be complicit in Zemo's politics! Damn it, Wolfgang, I am so sick of the politics! This world is cutthroat and it will stab you in the back, and so will Zemo, whether you want to admit it or not. You have put your faith in Zemo the way that I have put my faith in Johann – well, look where my faith has gotten me! Johann refuses to speak to me, he has cut off all contact and I fear that I'll never hear from him again, until his name is in the newspapers with a bounty pinned on his head or they have him behind bars for God only knows what!"
Her head was in her hands, she was trembling. "Wolfgang, please, the party turned Johann, I swear it did. I am so afraid that the same will happen to you, or worse. Please Wolfgang, please don't go on this – this mission, this – whatever it is, please Wolfgang, please don't go."
"Angelika, don't be ridiculous!" He snapped. "This is a routine excursion, for God's sake!"
"A routine excursion that you cannot even tell me the location of? If it were routine, would there be need for such secrecy?"
Wolfgang inhaled sharply, thrusting his shoulders back. "Angelika, will you not put your faith in me? Will you not trust me to do what is right for you and for our family? Or would you accuse me of putting my own self-interest before yours?"
Angelika blanched. "I am not accusing you, Wolfgang, I am – "
"But aren't you? You've made it clear how you feel about the advancement of my career." His voice caught slightly.
Damn it – that petty tone.
"Wolfgang,"
"Put your faith in me, Angelika. Promise me that you will."
"Wolfgang, you know that I have the utmost faith in you. But I am afraid, Wolfgang. Please, Wolfgang, if there's any other way – "
"There is not."
Within a month's time, he was pronounced dead.
He had died for the man now called the Führer, died out of his willingness, his desperation to serve. But his name was forgotten – his name did not grace newspapers, he was not praised as a hero.
Now, he was a nameless creature – he dwelled in the shadows and he killed – anyone. Women, children, Jews or otherwise, the elderly and infirmed, the average farmer, Nazi soldiers, SS officers. He crossed all boundaries, defied all politics, pledged his loyalty to no one.
Except Heinrich Zemo.
With every person that he killed, every village he decimated, he edged closer to Zemo's goal – the complete and total destruction of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party, in order to ensure that the Third Reich was entirely controlled by the Baron Zemo. Hitler was losing the war, it was apparent, and his paranoia grew and grew, unhindered, unrestrained – he grew more impulsive, more drastic, more desperate. The Final Solution was only the beginning of Hitler's downfall. Zemo predicted that the Reich would soon fall. Zemo was convinced that he was the savior that the Reich needed to survive, the life-blood of the new German empire.
But, why did Wolfgang pursue this goal, as though it were his own, when clearly it was not? Why did he kill so relentlessly, why did he slave and toil for Zemo, when Zemo had given him nothing in return?
Why?
It was a question that he had asked himself too many times – and it was a question that he never had an answer to. Compulsion to serve Zemo, seeking glory that he felt he deserved but had been denied under the old auspices of the Reich, then not even a finalized reality?
Or was he simply a coward? Too afraid to resist Zemo's influence, too afraid to stand up for himself?
Or was it jealousy? Knowing that Johann Schmidt waltzed about as if the world were his for the taking, that with HYDRA, he had broken free of the tethers that had kept him under Hitler's heel? Johann had risen from the ashes of his former life like a phoenix, a stronger, more powerful man, a force that frightened the daylights out of the likes of Adolf Hitler, and one that the Nazi party had failed to stamp out. Johann – at least until his capture – had virtually operated as a free agent, free to do whatever he pleased whenever he pleased – a completely and utterly free man.
And what of Wolfgang Hofstadter, once his most hated rival?
Wolfgang Hofstadter still languished under the so-called tutelage of his teacher – forever a student, a boy, a servant.
Master and slave – his own wife had recognized that reality, and yet he had willfully chosen to remain blind to it.
He rested his head in his hands, cold metal fingers eliciting no sensation from the synthetic skin that covered his face and skull.
The wind howled mournfully beyond the windows, and the first snow squalls began to whirl furiously from the sky.
But a voice echoed quietly in the back of his head – a cocky, American accent that echoed strangely.
Who do you work for?
In the darkness, Wolfgang smiled to himself.
"I work for Heinrich Zemo." He whispered.
But perhaps – perhaps not for long.
The Reich would fall, yes. But Zemo was a fool if he believed that he could salvage what was left of it before the Allies swarmed Germany.
And perhaps he was not strong enough to overpower his old mentor – but perhaps someone else was.
And perhaps – perhaps Wolfgang could provide them the clues to find him.
XXX
American Barracks
London, England – 1943
1000 Hours
"Impossible." He whispered, slender crimson hands trembling slightly as they dug into the photograph.
Robert Leigh looked on from the corner where he stood, observing. It was disarming, to see this man up close, dressed down, completely removed from his element. Johann Schmidt – the image that the Allies had crafted of him, an image that Leigh believed Schmidt himself would strongly approve of – it was almost godlike.
Standing at over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, thickly muscled, bedecked in stark black leather – the man radiated power, a figure that elicited fear in the eyes of all who came up against him. He spoke and behaved as though he were a god, every last detail of his person utterly perfect, his composure bullet-proof.
It was so strange to see this man now, shoulders hunched, frame wiry and thin, every muscle held taut like a drum. Tense yet, haggard, and so very tired looking. The suspenders of his trousers hung loosely against his gaunt shoulder blades, slender arms and veiny hands betraying a sense of fragility. In particular, his ethereally long fingers, which clutched the photograph as though they were desperately holding onto life itself, betrayed human sensitivity.
An unflinching god, a creature that Leigh had believed to be entirely soulless, entirely void of conscience or humanity, had been removed from his pedestal, and made almost human. The monstrousness of his appearance seemed dulled, not quite so extreme, not quite so grotesque.
Yet, this tired, restrained Johann Schmidt paled to the godlike Red Skull in appearance only, Leigh observed.
His mental faculties were sharp as a blade. There was no insanity in the way this man spoke, no mania or fanaticism. There was calculation – there was a man who relished the storytelling, the performance.
The man that had sat in that boardroom, almost casual in his composure, who had expertly woven the narrative of the Baron Heinrich Zemo, positively reveled in his role, pouring forth information that he alone knew and he recognized the invaluable nature of that information, how Chester Phillips lusted after it, yearned to reach across that table and rip it out of Johann Schmidt. The apparent ease and nonchalance with which he had behaved then – he did not behave as though he were a prisoner, as though his life balanced on a thin line, as though a future of life imprisonment did not loom before him. Or rather, if it did, he did not care in the slightest.
But there were ironies about this man – deep ones, uncomfortable ones that made Leigh's skin itch to know more. His behavior was at once baffling and intoxicating – mesmerizing, frustrating, intriguing, infuriating. He was arrogant, but also humble. Inconsistent in his emotions – at one point, subdued, agonized, grieving, repentant – at another, confident, bold, clever, cocky. Human.
The man that had sat beyond the glass in that interrogation room had wept, hunched and trembling, like a man in mourning, so wracked by grief that he could barely speak. But spoken he had. And in that brief stretch of time, when this man had laid his soul bare before the eyes of not only his niece, but before countless Allied officers, enlisted men, civilian employees, and the entirety of the battalions that had worked to bring him down, it had been impossible not to feel… pain. In that brief stretch of time, the Red Skull had become completely separated from the man that was Johann Schmidt. Here stood not a villain of incomprehensible evil, but a man who had truly suffered – and a man who had pushed through his shame and his sorrow to admit that he had been wrong. Mina had laid every single one of his cards on the table, had confronted him with everything, and he had not denied any of it. And they had wept together – both of them, bearing their sorrow together.
And in that brief moment, Leigh understood Mina's pain. He understood why she had been willing to go to the ends of the earth for this man. In that man – in that raw, hollow shell of a man, there was humanity. He didn't doubt that Chester Phillips was still skeptical – likely thinking that this man was merely an excellent actor. The man that had sat in the boardroom alone would have proved this assumption to be true – but the man beyond the one-way mirror made Leigh doubt this judgement.
This man had recognized Leigh's American accent in that airfield – but this should not have surprised him. His German was advanced, but traces of his Southern drawl had always managed to sneak into his diction – no doubt, jarringly foreign to a trained German ear.
But Johann Schmidt had noticed, and he had done nothing. He had allowed for allied soldiers to board his aircraft – allied soldiers who would swiftly dispatch his flight crew and ultimately eliminate his final goal of razing civilization to the ground, starting with the United States.
Had he chosen to do nothing because he had been confident that he would succeed?
Perhaps – but perhaps not. A man confident that he would succeed was not likely to later admit when he failed that he had chosen, out of hubris, not to act against an enemy aboard his jet. Rather, Leigh suspected that such a man would have played heavily into the role of the victim, feigning ignorance and blaming the enemy for having foiled his grand plans. Either that, or such a man would have flown into a rage once he recognized the perpetrator.
Johann Schmidt had done neither of these things. He had not only introduced the topic, but he had admitted his error. The tone of his voice had suggested that he wanted to make that fact known – as if to convey that he had wanted the result all along, that he had wanted his mission to fail.
It left a strange feeling in the pit of Leigh's stomach – to think of this man, to see him physically, as anything other than the rawest embodiment of evil.
Perhaps he was reading too deeply into things. Or perhaps, too sleep-deprived to make a wiser judgement.
"Friend of yours?" Phillips' raspy voice cut through his daze. Schmidt still clutched the photograph, slender fingers glossing over it.
The crimson figure looked up suddenly, as though he also had been yanked out of his thoughts.
"This man is dead."
"Hmm, really. That's strange. Pretty sure this photograph was taken yesterday." Phillips retorted drily.
Schmidt sat straighter in his seat, his gaze level with Phillips'. "This man was declared dead in 1926 after a botched scouting mission in the Sudetenland. His battalion was reportedly attacked by a Czech military outfit. He was leading the battalion at the time and he was the only member of the group not to return. There was said to have been a landmine explosion or perhaps an accidentally detonated grenade – his troops abandoned him, assuming that he had died in the explosion. The details were never finalized and his body was never found. He was at first declared missing, but a search was never carried out to locate what was left of him to confirm this. He was officially declared dead some six months after the fact."
A pause. Leigh watched the silent exchange between the two men – Phillips' gaze was steely and Leigh could practically see his hackles rising. Although Schmidt's gaze was out of view, no doubt he was glaring icily at the colonel.
"His name is Wolfgang Hofstadter." Schmidt said softly. "My niece's father."
Phillips blinked. "You're shitting me, right?"
Schmidt was silent.
Phillips narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute. If you knew that the details of his death were never finalized – which would suggest that his 'death' was a complete crock of bullshit and a ploy for someone's benefit, I don't give a damn whose – you've known this whole time that this guy's been alive, haven't you?"
"Colonel Phillips, I give you my word – if it means anything to you – this is as much a revelation to me as it is to you. My brother-in-law, as far as I am concerned, is dead. I attended his funeral – though it was an empty casket that was buried. If indeed he died in a landmine explosion, there was likely not enough left of his body to fit onto a postage stamp, let alone in a pine box. I was with my sister when she received the official notice that he had been declared dead, delivered to her by a commissioned SA officer. My sister received her husband's pension up until the day she died, my niece's inheritance from the Hofstadter line is currently in the bank collecting interest. If the man is not in reality dead, I can assure you that on paper he is very much deceased."
Philips glowered bitterly. "So you know this guy through marriage? What is his relationship to Zemo then?"
"He was the ward and pupil of Heinrich Zemo. Prior to that, he was the son of a German noble, a well-known patron of the NSDAP. Zemo had been hired to train him in swordplay; his parents died shortly after in a car accident. Zemo took him on."
"According to the official report from my recon team, he explicitly stated that he worked for Heinrich Zemo." Phillips said.
"Hmm. Nice of him to do." Schmidt replied.
"You said he's insane."
Schmidt smiled coyly. "All of the brilliant ones are, Colonel Phillips. I have yet to meet a completely sane genius."
Phillips scowled.
"What was the context of his statement, that he worked for Zemo?" Schmidt asked quietly.
"Hofstadter's? According to the leader of my recon team, he asked who he worked for and Hofstadter replied with 'Heinrich Zemo'. Then, he let my recon team retreat – they weren't attacked, not a single one of them took a bullet."
"You say that he – Wolfgang Hofstadter, that is – destroyed a village prior to this exchange?"
"He was accompanied by at least a hundred androids. According to this report, he was able to withstand gunfire – one of the villagers tried shoot him down but he walked through it like it was nothing. The bullets shredded him up, but he kept walking forward until he was toe to toe with the guy. He also reportedly had some sort of retractable blades in his sleeves – he waited until the guy expended all of his bullets, walked right up to him, and sheared his head clean off."
"Retractable blades," Schmidt murmured softly, contemplative. "Ah, yes, that would make sense. Wolfgang was a master swordsman, as is Zemo. Both were fencing champions in their youth – the sabre is their favored weapon. Wolfgang was highly trained in the Japanese martial arts – ninjutsu, jujutsu, kendo, and so on. He was bred to be an assassin – he knew nothing else, only how to kill with frightening efficiency. He was slated to be the top pick for Hitler's new army, when the Reich was still a figment of the Führer's imagination."
"And you know all of this how and why?" Phillips asked. "Because I've got a strange feeling that you knew this guy long before your sister reached the altar."
Schmidt was silent for a moment, and Leigh noticed him visibly straighten, gaunt shoulder blades rigid and tensed. Schmidt cleared his throat, inhaling sharply.
"Wolfgang Hofstadter was the first in line to lead Adolf Hitler's secret police – then known as the Sturmabteilung, later the Schutzstaffel. I was the second."
Another pause – the storyteller in Schmidt perhaps, but Leigh noted icy contempt in his tone.
"The Führer was keen to revolutionize the military – to completely restructure its existing hierarchy to include individuals that the Weimar Republic and its predecessors had often neglected. Wolfgang Hofstadter was the 'traditional' candidate, shall we say, for an officer's position. Born to a German noble family, highly educated, trained in all manner of fighting styles, a university graduate – his resume glittered with all of the trappings ideal for the job. I was intended to be the 'experimental' candidate – no formal education, no training in any form of warfare, no money, no title."
"How were you selected?" Leigh asked quietly.
Schmidt turned slightly in his chair to face him, blue eyes flashing brightly. "I was a random selection." He answered. "At the time, I was working as a bellhop at a Berlin hotel. I handled Hitler's luggage and conversed with him briefly. Apparently he saw some sort of potential in me, as he invited me to serve as a candidate in a 'social experiment', as he called it that was to be commencing within a month's time. If I proved to be successful in the experiment, I was guaranteed employment."
He paused, clearing his throat. "Given that my salary at the time was barely sufficient to provide for myself, let alone my sister, you will understand that this opportunity was quite attractive. The goal of the experiment was to pit two very different candidates against each other. We were both assigned to instructors – in Wolfgang's case, that was Zemo. I was assigned to the Baron Wolfgang von Strucker – you have heard of him, yes? Or has he yet to become newsworthy in the United States?"
"Momentary Princess," Leigh murmured.
Schmidt offered a coy smile. "You are well-informed, Captain."
"Enough interruptions." Phillips cut in. "Let's keep this show moving."
Schmidt returned his gaze to the colonel, sighing. "We were trained extensively, although my regiment was far more rigorous, for obvious reasons. We underwent a series of 'challenges', you might call them – various tasks, some that emphasized one's physical abilities, others that exercised mental abilities. Every task was considered a part of our training, to lead up to a final duel in which we were expected to fight each other to the death. The survivor would be named the 'victor' of the experiment."
"But it didn't work out that way." Phillips murmured.
"No, it did not."
Schmidt's bright eyes had grown dark and cold, his tone icy.
"So who won?" Leigh asked quietly.
"I did." Schmidt replied softly, staring at his hands, which were folded in his lap.
He was silent for what felt like ages, staring numbly at his lap. "I was in a position to kill him," he said at last, pensively. "I chose not to. Of course, I would like to imagine that there was fear in his eyes when I stood over him, my blade driving into his chest. There was fear, but not fear of death. Fear that I would not kill him – because I hesitated. I had envisioned killing him for so long a time, because he represented every enemy I had ever had, every man that denied me the right to advance, that overlooked what I was capable of because of my social class. Here was a man that had had every privilege afforded to him, while I had scraped and saved simply to feed myself, with no hope of achieving anything more than a career of menial labor."
Another pause.
He inhaled sharply. "But I could not kill him. I hated this man and I presume that he hated me, but killing him simply to prove a point to a man that I barely knew and likely could not trust – Hitler – seemed… it seemed pointless. It was such a foolish, petty reason for a man to die. And what struck me as absolutely profound was the fact that this man begged me to kill him. Because he was so terrified of skulking back to his mentor, to Zemo, and admitting that he had failed, that he had been the weaker man. He pleaded with me to kill him – to the point that he broke down into sobs, screaming at me to drive the sword into his chest, to end his plight."
Schmidt straightened in his seat, a deeply haunted expression on his face.
"I was stunned by his words. That someone would want so desperately to die because they could not bear the idea of being humiliated, of being called a failure – to tell the truth, it frightened me. I refused to kill him. I told him that he did not deserve to die for something so lacking in cause. We were not fighting for country or countrymen. We were fighting because a man neither of us really knew had told us to do so, that it was the only way to advance our careers. That seems to me a rather pointless way to die. A waste of flesh, dying for pomp and circumstance."
"What were the consequences for you disobeying the rules of the game?" Leigh asked quietly.
Schmidt smiled slightly. "Alas, I was not so noble as to take the fall for Wolfgang entirely. I admitted that I had chosen of my own volition not to kill him. But I manipulated the details in my favor. I lied to Hitler and told him that Wolfgang had cowered in the final moment and begged me to spare his life. Of course, both Zemo and Strucker were furious that I had refused to carry out the challenge – Strucker, for obvious reasons, given that I was his candidate. Zemo, because Wolfgang – whether he believed he had cowered or not– had not taken the opportunity to turn on me and kill me in my moment of 'weakness' if you will. Hitler, on the other hand, was strangely pleased. To him, it was a sign that I was not so desperate to advance my career that I was unwilling to go against his judgement."
He paused and cleared his throat. "So, I was rewarded with the position of Head of Espionage and Sabotage in the Sturmabteilung. Wolfgang was demoted to a desk clerk. But neither of us occupied our posts for very long. Partly due to my own arrogance, I took advantage of Hitler's generosity while I was still in his good graces. I asked for scientists and engineers, convincing Hitler that my potential needed room to grow, that he was wasting my talents by only using me as an assassin. I persuaded him to give me a laboratory, to give me men under my own personal command in order to create weapons for the Reich. Hitler gave me what I wanted. But I was young and foolish then, and I did not take the necessary precautions to make myself appear less… self-interested. I had an agenda of my own and I did not hide it. Hitler I convinced, but no one else believed that I worked only for the betterment of the Reich and for my part, I made no effort to convince them otherwise."
A pause.
"Zemo was angry that his candidate had been knocked down to a low-level post and he actively looked for an opportunity to discredit me. He planted the seed in Hitler's mind that I sought to overthrow him. Hitler took the bait. I was removed from my post and stripped of my rank. Wolfgang Hofstadter replaced me, per Zemo's recommendation. I was exiled to the Alps. My current facility was a 'reward for my injuries', as Hitler's spokesman termed it. Apparently, he believed that it would be a mistake to have me shot, as Zemo had wanted, and instead provided me with the tools necessary to continue my weapons development."
"And Hofstadter just happened to be sent to the Sudetenland where he supposedly just up and died? No questions asked? A landmine went off, a grenade went off, a Czech outfit attacked his battalion – nobody in Berlin thought to ask any questions?" Phillips' head rested in his hands, weathered fingers rubbing his temples.
Schmidt shrugged. "At any rate, it was not my place to ask those questions. I had been excommunicated from the inner circle, my voice held no weight – much to my sister's dismay."
"I smell a conspiracy theory." Leigh muttered.
Phillips groaned inwardly.
Schmidt was pensive. "I regret that I did not attempt to dig deeper into what happened to Wolfgang. I suppose that if I had made perhaps more noise about the subject, someone would have let something slip, but that is doubtful. As it was, I was still bitter over my own circumstances. Wolfgang was by no means my friend – he had conspired with Zemo to oust me. I cared little what happened to him."
"He was your sister's husband." Leigh murmured.
Schmidt darkened. "I severed contact with my sister immediately after her marriage to Wolfgang. A decision motivated by petty anger, I admit, but one that I was resolved to make. I felt betrayed – that my sister, whom I had sought to provide for all my life, would marry the embodiment of all of my adversaries. Perhaps it was merely jealousy – Wolfgang was a rich man, he offered my sister a much more comfortable existence than I ever could. I was protective. I felt it my duty to provide for her, to protect her. Her marriage to Wolfgang made me obsolete."
He cleared his throat. "At the time that my sister notified me that Wolfgang had gone missing, I had not spoken to her in months. Given the secrecy that surrounded his disappearance, I suspected that there had been a cover-up, or something of that nature. The Lebensraum initiative was still in its infancy, no machinations of German expansion had been made public, and it seemed preposterous that the Czechs would have attacked his battalion. After all, it was later revealed that the mission was merely for charting purposes. They were surveying the region for geographical irregularities, not readily preparing to attack it. That was all far into the future."
"But who would be plotting against him?" Phillips mused. He cast a pointed glare at Schmidt, adding, "Someone who's been scorned, 'injured', or exiled would have plenty of motive."
Schmidt chuckled quietly to himself. "I will admit that the thought crossed my mind. However, I did not act upon it – as much as I despised Wolfgang, my sister was pregnant with his child at the time. I could not bring myself to have her husband disposed of when she was so wholly dependent upon him."
Phillips sighed. "Does Zemo have enemies within the inner circle? Enemies that might have wanted to take out his protégé? What about your trainer – Strucker?"
Schmidt shook his head. "Zemo has many enemies, but none of them are bold enough to take him on directly. Even if one of them had plotted against Wolfgang, Zemo would have surely found out. He has informants in every tier of Hitler's hierarchy. He would have known if something was being planned and he would have retaliated in spectacular fashion. Nothing Zemo does is ever quiet. As for Strucker – the Captain correctly mentioned earlier that he has been rather preoccupied in his pursuit of the 'momentary princess' to have cared much for Zemo or Wolfgang's whereabouts at the time. At any rate, Strucker was a far more diplomatic adversary than I. He would not have stooped to killing Zemo's protégé as a means of getting at Zemo indirectly."
"So that leaves Zemo himself." Leigh murmured. "But that doesn't make much sense. Why would he want to kill his own student? All that work to get Hofstadter promoted, just to have him die in a mission that apparently didn't mean anything to anyone?"
"You said that Hofstadter was Zemo's ward. But how were their relations – Hofstadter's your brother-in-law, would your sister have known if they got along well, if they would have had a falling-out or something?" Phillips asked.
Schmidt sighed. "My sister had her suspicions, I suspect. She despised Zemo for the influence that he held over Wolfgang. Zemo's wants took complete precedence over all else in Wolfgang's life; my sister was marginalized from the start of their marriage. Wolfgang admitted to her that he stood by Zemo because Zemo was his only hope of moving up the ranks in the inner circle. Wolfgang had brawn – but while he was no simpleton, he was no genius either. Hitler values intellect more than strength. Fighting is a learned skill. But intelligence – that is a gift, not a skill."
Schmidt paused. "But, Zemo expected that Wolfgang would submit to his control entirely – my sister suspected that Zemo viewed her as a threat to that control. Of course, one could make numerous conjectures as to why, perhaps, Zemo would have had motivation to 'kill' Wolfgang – perhaps to effectively dissolve my sister's marriage, perhaps to settle some score, it is impossible to know. As I have said – Zemo is erratic. I wouldn't be shocked if Zemo decided to kill him just to turn heads. It was no secret that Wolfgang was utterly controlled by Zemo – perhaps Zemo felt that Wolfgang's obvious connection to him was a liablity. To fake his death would be to give Zemo an assassin who could effectively operate as a free agent – completely under the radar. That alone could be quite advantageous."
"And he's doing exactly that." Phillips mused. "Up until yesterday, Hofstadter was nameless. And we had no idea who Heinrich Zemo was."
Schmidt inhaled sharply. "That is interesting." He said softly, as though speaking to himself.
"Interesting?" Leigh asked.
"Interesting that he would choose to reveal his identity – or rather, who he was working for. Zemo can hardly afford any more negative press. The German people are beginning to grow restless – they are growing more suspicious of Hitler's entourage, especially when men like Zemo start to use civilians as test subjects, and so publicly. Zemo craves celebrity, but he is no fool – I cannot believe that he would want anyone – most especially the United States – to know of him."
"But maybe Hofstadter wants to be found." Leigh murmured. "Maybe he's tired of being Zemo's plaything."
"He is leaving a trail for you." Schmidt replied.
"I'm not following the breadcrumbs." Phillips snapped. "We're going to bait him."
"With his daughter, I presume?" Schmidt stared at his hands, folded in his lap, his tone soft. There was resignation in it.
All three men were silent.
It was strange to Leigh – Schmidt had barely mentioned Mina throughout this entire exchange, and never once by name. It was almost as if – almost as if he had been avoiding the mention of her entirely, as though willing the very idea of her to disappear – so that these American men, Leigh and Phillips, would not have the chance to use her.
And, in a sense, he would not have been wrong.
"It is a valid strategy." Schmidt broke the silence, his tone flat. "After all, she is your most formidable weapon. I am curious, though – what sort of role did you have in mind for me, given that I am your prisoner, if any?"
Phillips lit a cigarette, nursing it for a moment before releasing a large puff of grey-blue smoke into the air.
Schmidt ran his tongue against thin, crimson lips – perhaps craving a smoke himself, having been deprived of it. His wiry red fingers twitched restlessly against his knee.
"With what we've seen of this guy's capabilities, she's about the only person to be able to take him on." Phillips answered flatly. "We'll send her out on the frontlines, accompanied by Leigh and the rest of Dog Company. And you," – he paused to glare pointedly at Schmidt – "you're going to Germany. The girl will catch Hofstadter. You'll catch Zemo."
Schmidt appeared to raise an eyebrow, a prominent crimson brow-bone arching at the colonel. "Forgive me for questioning your authority, Colonel, but would it not be rather foolish to send a prisoner – no doubt flanked by an extraordinarily heavy security detail – into enemy territory? Somehow I feel as though I'd stick out like a sore thumb. But perhaps you had something else in mind?"
"You'll be accompanied by an agent and allied contacts will be tracking your every move across Europe."
"No tracking device hidden somewhere in my bloodstream?" Schmidt quipped.
"Try to escape, and find out." Phillips answered flatly. He paused for a moment. "The girl – does she know about Hofstadter?"
Schmidt inhaled sharply. "I am sure that my sister told my niece everything about her father – at least what my sister knew about him. Given that he is apparently still alive, I suspect that Angelica knew very little about the life her husband led."
Phillips sighed. "This is gonna take more time than I've got." He grumbled. "Leigh – do we break the news to her that 'daddy' is still alive or what?"
Leigh shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, sir – it's natural for her to have an emotional response to it."
Phillips rolled his eyes. "No shit, Leigh. I'm asking if it's worth telling her the truth or lying to her."
"If you tell her the truth, she will not want to help you." Schmidt said flatly. "I have lied to her all her life, Colonel, because I understood that she would not acquiesce to my demands unless I created a vision that appealed to her. If you tell her that you want her to capture Wolfgang for the purpose of using him for information, and then – I would assume – dispose of him, she will adamantly refuse. She will want to save him. So you have two choices then – lie to her, and tell her that you wish to 'save' him from Zemo. Or tell her the truth, that you want to use him, in which case you will have to force her to help you."
He offered a coy smile. "You can see how well that worked for me."
Leigh cleared his throat. "Are you volunteering then?"
Schmidt smiled again. "I think I shall sit this one out. No doubt my niece has reached her limit of dramatic revelations – all the more so if they are delivered by me. No, I think a more neutral individual would be better suited to the task."
"What would you do then? Tell her or hide it from her?" Phillips interjected. "If we tell her, it's another distraction."
"But if we don't tell her, she's bound to find out on her own. And then we look just as bad as you." Leigh said quietly, looking at Schmidt.
Schmidt chuckled. "You are finding that we are not all that different, Captain." He cleared his throat, directing his gaze to Phillips. "If I were you, Colonel, I would likely choose to keep it from her – out of habit more than anything else. It is simpler that way – at least, for my purposes it would be. But for yours – well, surely you want to use my niece's… unique position as a bargaining chip to your advantage, yes? If you reveal to my niece her relation to Wolfgang, she possesses a much better chance of getting closer to him. After all, to capture him is one thing. To convince him to work with you or for you is entirely another. But if my niece were to appeal to him as his daughter, and not just some nameless Allied operative – don't you think that that would be more effective for your purposes?"
Leigh shook his head, sighing. "To hell with it. I'll tell her, Colonel, we have to get it over with before we start anything else. I can appeal to her on her level – we're about the same age, it'll be easier coming from me."
Phillips stood up. "The only thing you're doing right now is taking Schmidt back to his cell. Brad will take care of the girl – she's good in the emotional reveals department."
Out of the corner of his eye, Leigh noticed Schmidt stiffen in his seat, his ice-blue eyes stricken. But, he said nothing, and he stood up silently as Leigh moved to handcuff his crimson wrists.
Only once they were in the corridor, Leigh propelling him back towards his cell, did Schmidt speak.
"I assume that you will be dispatching me to Germany within the next twenty-four hours? Or perhaps sooner?"
He spoke in German, resuming his cool, haughty accent.
"Something like that." Leigh answered flatly, in English.
Schmidt cocked his head. "Ah – will they suspect you of treasonous talk if you speak to me in my native tongue?"
Leigh snorted. "I highly doubt that. But you know, mustn't look like I'm fraternizing with the enemy."
Schmidt's thin lips appeared to curl in a sneer. "You Americans aren't a very trusting type, are you?"
Leigh raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, I suppose I should be asking the question – do you trust me?"
Schmidt chuckled softly. "I have nothing to lose in trusting you, Captain. I have lost everything already. For the success of your future endeavors, most especially with regard to Heinrich Zemo, I would ask that you trust me in return. I understand your hesitation, but we will get nowhere if we continue to question each other's motives. And by that time, Zemo will have already won."
They stood in front of Schmidt's cell now, and the ice-blue, hooded eyes gazed coolly at Leigh, patiently waiting for his answer.
"Why are you doing all of this?" Leigh asked quietly. "You're not guaranteed asylum – if anything, you'll still spend upwards of fifteen to twenty years in prison. Why are you willing to spill your guts for people that intend to use you until your usefulness runs its course, and then throw you out?"
"You are under the impression that I care about what happens to me when all of this is over, Captain. You are mistaken. It does not matter to me if I spend the rest of my days in a maximum security prison or if I am set free. My only concern is my niece's safety, and if my helping the Americans guarantees that, then so be it. You have my word, Captain, I have no ulterior motives."
"So you're really willing to throw it all away?"
Schmidt rolled his eyes. "Throw what away, Captain?" He was growing impatient – his words were clipped. "I am one man. You have stripped me of my weapons, of my troops, of my fortress, of my tesseract – really, Captain, I am very curious to know what makes you think that I am capable enough to take on the central artery of the Allied forces alone and escape."
"Well, Steve Rogers managed to destroy an entire HYDRA factory all by himself and he was juiced up on the same cocktail as you, wasn't he?"
A hooded eye appeared to twitch. "Your good captain was incredibly young and incredibly stupid and excessively confident in his own abilities." He snapped. "I have no doubt that that confidence is serving him quite well at the bottom of the Arctic. That is where he crashed my fighter jet, yes?"
Leigh scowled.
Schmidt smiled coolly. "Pride goeth before a fall, yes?"
They had arrived at Schmidt's cell.
Leigh opened the door with a jangle of keys, and with an exaggerated flourish of his hand, gestured for Schmidt to enter.
Before closing the door, Leigh reached into his pocket to retrieve a pack of Marlboroughs. He held it out to Schmidt, along with a spare zippo lighter. "Something to pass the time." He quipped.
"Aren't you violating some sort of protocol, allowing a prisoner to play with fire?"
Leigh shrugged. "I'll trust you." He said in German.
Schmidt nodded, but said nothing in reply. His ice-blue eyes seemed to sparkle, as if amused.
Leigh shut the door with a solid thunk, locked it, and left silently.
