Chapter 13: The Deceived
On the day of the transaction, Julian Klein was in Frankfurt.
Down the Gartenstrasse he went, following the voluptuous contours of the river Main that flowed under a half-clouded sky. The wind was that of frigid late November, crashing over his stubble-shaded face and wavy chocolate hair that swayed behind him in the draft. He buried his chin into his coat while he weathered the clutches of winter in contemplative solitude. Like the few souls that passed him now and again, he was deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, staring into space; unlike them, however, his were of a more sombre nature. He awoke at dawn that morning, preparing himself mentally and physically for what he had to do. His mind was now singularly focused, every sense sharpened by discipline and years of training. Although, sharp as they were, Klein's senses did not register everything that occurred around him; for little did Klein know that on that day, he had two shadows.
One was cast by the light of the eight o'clock sun, shining through the clouds whenever an opening formed in their canvas.
The other was Alfred Hoffman.
He followed Klein from a cautious distance, having removed his spectacles and donned a tuque to dissimulate his habitual appearance. After leaving Leipzig, Hoffman tailed Klein's vehicle to Frankfurt, where the latter procured himself a room at a hotel. When he was not following the Apotheosis agent around the city as he went to eat or sightsee, he would stake out Klein in his car, parked on the other side of the street before the hotel. He spent the better part of the past two days in that car, going so far as to sleep there as well. It was rough going, but he had suffered though worse before; the trenches of war make men of all who enter them.
On the dawn of the third day, Hoffman was starting to have his doubts. Perhaps Klein really was waiting to meet with this Xavier. Perhaps his convictions were ill-founded after all. But then he changed his mind; Klein was definitely hiding something, perhaps something big. He was more certain of this than any other thing in his entire life. Even the strong conviction he held in his ideals was drowned by the voice of his instincts resounding in his heart and mind. And when Klein exited the hotel that morning, brooding and resolute, Hoffman knew that this was the day he would expose him once and for all.
When exactly he would be exposing him for soon became the issue.
The walking signal flickered, and Klein crossed the intersection, followed by Hoffman fifteen seconds later. He had been on Klein's trail for well over forty minutes at that point. He was not as familiar with that part of Frankfurt, and for all he knew, they might very well be going in circles; however, this was the farthest Klein has strayed from the hotel yet, so he deduced that Klein must finally be ready to carry out whatever task compelled him to forsake Leipzig for Frankfurt. Alas, he still had no idea what this task could possibly comprise, and it continued to pester him as he followed Klein onto the Kennedyallee.
Where, oh where are you taking me?
While Hoffman wondered what was in store for him, the Witnesses were standing by, knowing exactly where Klein was headed.
"They are nearing the complex now," noted June into his MultiCell, gazing down from the rooftop he stood upon.
"Yes," agreed March, positioned down below, across the street from the establishment. "I can perceive Klein now."
Klein's temporal precursor began to manifest, a translucent humanoid tendril reaching out from beyond the corner of the adjacent street. It slithered on the sidewalk, weaving through the precursors of environing humans, before crossing the street in direction of the large complex that loomed before March. The Witness turned to see June, who had just rejoined him, and put away his own Cell.
"How are we to proceed?" inquired June. "It will be no easy feat to secure a passage for Hoffman."
"Possibilities abound at every turn," replied March. "We need only look in the right places. And if there are none, then we will simply have to sway things in our favour."
June said nothing, reflecting on March's words, the same words the Overseer had spoken to the Witnesses in their training. And March reflected as well; since departing from Leipzig, he had begun to recall many of the Overseer's teachings, seeking some morsel of wisdom, however small, that could aid him in his mission.
"For now, let us enter and analyze the premises," suggested March. "We must determine what variables we have to work with."
"Agreed," offered June.
June shifted near March's position, and the Aube Division Witnesses then crossed the street to enter the Robert Koch Institute.
A few minutes later, Klein appeared on scene, turning onto the street where a pair of suited men once stood. He carried onward along the sidewalk, weaving his way through environing strangers, before crossing the street in direction of the large complex that loomed before him. Hoffman came soon after, watching Klein scale the stone steps at the entrance. He stopped across from the building, speculating what kind of business Klein might have at the Frankfurt branch of the RKI, the nation's top authority in disease prevention and control. He began to narrow the possibilities, and the conjectures he formed held disturbing ramifications. With haste, Hoffman pressed on to the Institute.
The lobby was welcoming, if a bit aseptic and bureaucratic. The scheme was a soft white, with greys and purples appearing here and there, reflecting the colours of the organization's logo. Of wood there was also, mostly cedar and oak, adorning the frames of doors and the siding of walls. Hoffman paced forward with small steps on the white and grey tiles of the floor, looking around. He saw Klein in the distance, standing near a water dispenser, unassuming and indistinct.
Hoffman seated himself on some benches on the other side of the room, purposing to keep his eye on the Apotheosis operative. To his left sat a heavyset woman in her fifties, and to his right was a suited gentleman; Hoffman attributed his curious lack of eyebrows to some medical condition or other. Dismissing the odd sight, he returned his sights to Klein, who had yet to make a move. Klein's eyes seemed preoccupied with something, which Hoffman realized was the receptionist at the front desk. After some minutes, she left her station, and Klein pounced, taking advantage of her absence to slip away into a corridor leading to a wing whose access was prohibited to the public without valid reason or escort.
Hoffman rose from his seat, intent on continuing the hunt, when a black woman suddenly approached him, taking him aback.
"Excuse me, sir," she asked. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, actually," replied Hoffman, flashing his pearly whites. "Would you be so kind as to direct me to the men's washroom?"
"The washrooms are just around the corner," she answered, pointing to a passage beyond the lobby.
"Thank you, ma'am."
She continued along her way, and Hoffman lessened his forced smile. The encounter had left a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. He did not outright despise the Blacks or the Orientals or the Jews like many of his compatriots did; it was simply that the Aryan race was superior. It was the way things were, nothing more, nothing less. His views were not shared by the populace at large, he knew; they chose to continue contesting the natural order of things as it exists. He thought them all fools for being so wilfully blind. Do they also refuse to accept that the Earth is round, or that the sky is blue? He certainly did not. In fact, he found the fact that there was an underlying order to all things a reassuring one.
Still, that did not reduce his dislike of having to humour the prolonged company of Untermenschen.
Hoffman proceeded in the direction of the hallway, and when he was sure no staff members were watching, he veered the other way and followed in Klein's tracks. Though the halls there were empty, he nonetheless advanced carefully, not wanting to risk being caught. He inched around the corner, where Klein was strolling down the way with haste. Smirking, he resumed his course as soon as Klein disappeared into the next corridor.
The hunt was on once again.
When Hoffman left the lobby, the Witnesses rose from their seats.
"Should we follow them?" asked June.
"I do not think we should," said March. "If we follow Hoffman, he may detect our presence, jeopardizing our mission."
"And yet, we must still keep them under observation," reminded June. "How are we to achieve this without being in their general vicinity?"
"Remember," replied March after a moment, "we need only look in the right places."
The Witnesses stood in the center of the lobby, tilting their heads in search of something useful.
"There," said June.
March turned his head in the same direction as June's. Affixed to the upper corner of the chamber was a small security camera.
"We can use the security network in this building to monitor them from afar," said June.
"First, making the receptionist depart," began March. "Now this. You surely are full of good ideas on this day, June."
"I suppose so," said June. "Now it is simply a matter of finding the room where they monitor the camera feeds. I will send a request to the Proxy Network to pull the blueprints of this establishment for us."
"That will take too long," noted March. "We must reach this room quickly if we are to respond to any unforeseen developments that may occur."
"Then how will we find it?" asked June.
"Let us ask the receptionist," suggested March. "She will certainly be of some assistance."
June and March approached the reception counter, where the woman that left before was now present.
"Good morning, sirs," she said. "How can I help you?"
March finished inputting a code into his MultiCell before answering.
"We were wondering if you could take a look at this."
He held the circular screen before her eyes. A string of coloured dots flashed in rhythmic succession.
Green, green, green, red. Green, green, green, red.
At the sight of the WOE Pattern, the woman was confused, but she became enamoured by the soothing lights and before long, she had fallen into a hypnagogic trance. Her eyelids closed halfway, and her head drooped forward a bit.
"Listen to my voice, and my voice alone," ordered March. "When I count to three, you will be under my complete command. One...two...three."
The woman redressed her posture, looking straight ahead with no particular expression.
"Good," requested March. "Reveal to me the location of the security camera monitoring station."
"...The monitoring room is on the third floor," she began sleepily. "In the western wing of the building. Room ...2113."
"You will forget having ever seen or spoken to both me and the individual standing to my side," resumed March. "In precisely one minute, you will regain full cognition and resume your usual activities as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred."
"...Yes."
"Thank you for your assistance," said March. "Goodbye, now."
"...Ha-have a nice day, gentlemen."
The Witnesses then left the Lobby. Following the signs, they made their way to the third floor, where they found the security room after wandering around for a little bit. The door was locked by keypad; it opened after June energized the lock with his thumb, thereby removing the need to figure out the code. As soon as they entered, the security personnel seated at the monitoring station rose to their feet.
"What do you think you're doing?" asked one of the guards. "This area is off limits!"
A few swift, well-placed strikes later, all three guards laid on the floor in unconsciousness.
As June dragged the limp bodies to the corner, March approached the monitoring station. The screens were plentiful, taking up most of the wall. He scanned every screen, and in seconds, he was able to make out the relationship between each display, thereby creating a mental three-dimensional map for the entire Institute. Glancing to the lower corner, he spotted Julian Klein; the figure walked down a hallway on the blue-tinted display.
"I can see them," said March to his partner. "They must be a few levels beneath the ground by now."
"They are moving along at a steady rate," stated June. "I suppose all that is left for us to do is watch –"
The Witness silenced himself, and both watched the many screens. A patrol officer suddenly appeared and spotted someone just as he vanished into the next corridor.
"Someone has discovered Hoffman," noted June. "We must ensure his subterfuge. I will go."
March stopped him.
"No," he said. "I wish to go instead."
"I think it would be better if I went instead of you," insisted June, acknowledging his colleague's predisposition for failure.
"You must understand," said March, blocking June's way as he moved away from the consoles. "The Irregularity was of my doing, and the burden of its reparation falls upon me. You stay here and disable the alarm systems and all cameras save those watching Klein and Hoffman so that I can remain unobserved. I will go there and lead the guards away from them."
"Are you certain of this?" asked June.
"I must do this," said a resolute March.
"...Very well," replied June at length. "I will remain here. Hurry."
June took control of the monitoring station, switching off the camera feeds and disabling alarm systems. Once that was done, March turned, and in the blink of an eye, the Witness found himself in the lower levels of the Institute, near Hoffman's current location. Moments later, the officer came around the corner, and this time he was certain that an unauthorized person was lurking in the Restricted Levels. He was about to pursue the man when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He pivoted to see a different individual, this one wearing a lavish suit.
"Who are you?" asked the officer suspiciously in his German tongue.
"The face of your mother is appalling," replied the suited man without expression.
"What did you just say?"
"I do not think that you are beautiful."
The officer grimaced, both confused and indignant. The suited man then shoved him in the chest, causing the officer to stumble backward.
"Sir, you're going to come with me," declared the officer angrily after regaining his footing, not too pleased with the suited man's attitude.
But as he came in to detain him, the suited man shoved him again, harder this time, and the officer fell to the ground. His detainee then started down the hallway, running with a gait that suggested that he wasn't used to such an activity.
"This is Officer Lange," spoke the officer into his transceiver. "Code 15 in progress! Suspect is in B-level, heading for the research facility. Requesting immediate assistance!"
Then Officer Lange ran down the hall in pursuit of his suspect, who was standing at the mouth of the next one.
"You are incompetent in a wide range of activities," announced the suited man before disappearing into the next corridor.
March's plan seemed to be working. If anything, humans were easily agitated, especially when told things that they knew to be false. With continued derision, the Witness would surely be able to keep them distracted and focused on him. And unlike them, he would never tire, so exhaustion would not be a problem. But that did not prevent him from progressing with great prudence. He could not afford to get cornered, and neither could he cause too big a commotion, as it could indirectly impede Klein and Hoffman's progress. He wasn't sure how long he would have to keep up his act, nor how long he would be able to; but he resolved himself not to allow such uncertainties deter him. It was imperative that he succeed, lest the Directive stray even further.
After narrowly evading a second patrol officer who had come to intercept him, March wished for them to hurry themselves.
Though Hoffman did not know it, he was currently on C-level, the lowest floor of the Institute. He was surprised that no one had spotted them yet, but he did not complain, either. The amount of doors requiring passwords were cropping up at an exponential rate. And yet, Klein was somehow able to open them all. Hoffman quickly found out why that was; whenever such Klein came upon such a door, he would pull out a small piece of paper and input the codes scribbled upon them. Klein pressed the keys slowly enough so that Hoffman could memorize and replicate the codes, even if he screwed up the sequences once or twice once in awhile.
They eventually came upon another set of reinforced doors; large letters were stencilled overhead.
QUARANTÄNE-BEREICH
Hoffman's eyes narrowed as the context of the situation crystallized. After Klein had entered, he went to the door and input the code, succeeding on his second attempt, closing the door behind him just as personnel came around the corner.
He found himself in a long passage, where the doors were spread far apart from each other. He inspected the glass slit in the first door, and saw that the room on the other side was spacious, with various tables and surgical tools and medical equipment lain around in an orderly manner. Hoffman continued down the way, unsure of what he would find. All of the doors he encountered were locked; he began to wonder whether Klein had already entered one of these rooms, thus barring him access. However, turning right into a new hallway, he spotted an open door, jutting out slightly from its emplacement in the wall. Crouching, he approached it and slipped inside.
The room was just as large as the others. He soon discovered that it was also being kept refrigerated, and the air around was very cool. The most noteworthy aspect of all, however, were the many wide metal tables that took up most of the room's space. On each one were white drapes covering something that caused them to rise up. He ventured near one of these tables, and removed the drape, uncovering a severely bloated, deformed human face in the process.
He winced at the troubling sight, then unveiled the table. The rest of the corpse was revealed, naked and unusually fleshy; it was as though the body was entirely devoid of bones.
He was standing in the room housing the victims of the Römerberg Slush Gas demonstration.
Hoffman replaced the drape on the vaguely feminine mound of flesh. Hoffman continued his slow, analytical tour of the tables. He couldn't fathom what Klein wanted with any of the bodies; but if the apparent Apotheosis agent was willing to sneak into a restricted area, then whatever it was, it must have been very important.
As he walked, he saw an arm dangling from underneath one of the drapes. Curious, he unveiled the corpse. Upon closer examination, Hoffman was surprised to see that it belonged to one of the Apotheosis members who did not make it out of the Römerberg on that fateful day. He was about to cover him up when he noticed something out of place on the man's hand. He twisted the blubbery mass to ceiling, and what he saw shocked him.
On the man's palm was a fresh incision, cut from one end to the other.
His face mired into a terrible scowl, knowing full well what it represented. He then sensed something moving behind him, and turned about, where Klein was waiting for him, ready to stab Hoffman with a blooded scalpel. He brought it down, and Hoffman was just barely able to prevent the hit from connecting.
"NSA Mischling!" cried Hoffman in rage.
The two wrestled for control, knocking tables around as they waltzed around the room in a dance of death. Hoffman switched his grip, twisting Klein's wrist and forcing him to relinquish the scalpel. Klein delivered a kick to Hoffman's gut, breaking the hold they had on each other. Hoffman attempted to draw his Walther P38 – the P38 that has served him so well over the years – but Klein, seeing this, unexpectedly grabbed one of the drapes covering the bodies and tossed it in Hoffman's direction, distracting him long enough so that he could come in and tackle Hoffman to the ground and causing the P38 to slide across the floor.
Klein gripped Hoffman's throat, strangling him; the latter's face veered crimson, veins protruding on his forehead as he gripped and tugged at Klein's collar.
"Ver...dammt..." said Hoffman through clenched teeth.
His vision was beginning to blur, and the urge to breathe was growing stronger. With all his strength, he reached out to the scalpel lying on the floor, and with great effort, thrust into Klein's thigh. The NSA agent roared in pain, and Hoffman exploited the opening to push Klein off of him. Both stumbled to their feet, Hoffman coughing and massaging his neck while Klein staggered due to his injured leg. Seeing the Old World ambassador armed, he removed a sharp utensil of his own from a nearby tray. They encircled each other, thrusting into thin air to throw the other off.
Hoffman then lunged at Klein, who stepped to the side and slashed Hoffman's cheek with his weapon. Klein struck again, but Hoffman caught his hand. They struggled, hands high up the air, until Hoffman pulled them down, reversing the guard. He pulled down again, then smacked Klein's hands away. With Klein's hands in the air from the force of the blow, Hoffman grabbed Klein's collar and began to push him forward, catching the NSA operative off guard by the suddenness of the move. They ran in unison across the room until Klein was pinned to the wall, Hoffman's scalpel carried into Klein's sternum with the unadulterated might of their combined momentum.
Hoffman exhibited a sadistic smile as Klein slunk to the ground, grimacing and clutching his shirt. But then, Klein began to chuckle.
"You're... too late," said Klein in a rasped voice. "The NSA already knows. The days of the Old World... are over."
Klein laughed again, spurting up blood from his smiling lips. Hoffman, realizing what he meant, immediately took out his phone. A few moments passed, and the man on the other end responded.
"The NSA is onto us!" spoke Hoffman. "The transaction has been compromised. You must get out of there, now!"
He terminated the call, breathing hard. Then he looked down on Klein, who was warring with the pain that assailed him.
"You can't save them now," said Klein weakly, laughing.
Hoffman's eyes flared with a rage so terrible that Klein cowered where he sat.
"I have not lived this long to be mocked by the likes of you, Julian Klein!"
With blinding speed, Hoffman gripped the scalpel in his hand and planted it directly into Klein's gizzard. Dark red blood rained onto his hand and over Klein's clothing; chokes and gurgles resounded from Klein's mouth and severed windpipe as the undercover NSA agent writhed in agony. Hoffman held the scalpel in place, watching the life fade from his prey's eyes with animalistic delight. Only when Klein stopped moving entirely did Hoffman dislodge the tool from his throat. He then sat on the floor, catching his breath and wiping the blood from the gash on his right cheek.
He could not believe that they had been duped so easily. It was almost worse than when Dunham revealed himself as a mole in their ranks before fleeing back to ZFT. Still, gazing at Klein's slouched body, he could not help but smirk. He hadn't experienced such a rush in quite awhile. He silently saluted Klein in thanks for the ride, running his fingers across Klein's lids to pull them over his frozen eyes; he deserved that much, at the very least.
The Old World member then searched Klein's pockets, finding the Data Disk the NSA agent had retrieved from the boneless corpse of his acolyte. Afterward, he sliced Klein's own palms open to remove his Disk, and then proceeded to crush both Disks under the sole of his foot. The ritual over, he cleaned himself up as best as he could using the material available to him, retrieved his P38, and left the Quarantine Area, glad that he made it out alive to fight yet another day.
June watched Hoffman escape from the lower levels from the monitoring station. Hoffman's task was rendered easier due to the fact that all six of the patrol officers on duty that day were all busy chasing March around the B-Level; disabling the alarm systems further ensured that the incident would be constrained to the B-Level. June could see his partner gallivanting across the screens, deftly evading capture at the hands of the security personnel.
"You possess many characteristics of the opposing sex."
March then swirled around the officer, fleeing from his grip. He had been running for twenty minutes at that point. His temporal awareness allowed him to anticipate their every move, and he was therefore able to evade them with ease. However, manoeuvring the halls with six officers on this tail pushed the limits of his foresight. He used the RLTB when he could, but most of the time, they would observe the Witness before he could use it, thus locking him in place and making things more difficult than it would be otherwise.
As he hopped over an officer than had tripped, his MulitCell began to vibrate.
"Hoffman has left the premises," said June's voice on the other end. "You may leave now."
Upon hearing this, March immediately changed his strategy, bolting down the passage, turning. The officers pursued him from close behind.
And when they cut around the corner, their interloper had all but disappeared.
Little did they know that the suited man was now standing outside the Robert Koch Institute, overlooking it from a rooftop standing across the street. June was already there waiting for him after he shifted his location there following the brief moment of being unobserved in the B-Level corridors.
"Did Hoffman succeed?" inquired March.
"I have just now contacted August and October," explained June. "They confirm Hoffman's success in alerting the Old World Society of the NSA threat."
"Excellent," said March. "Then the mission has been accomplished."
A great relief arose within him. The burden of the Irregularity's reparation was lifted from his shoulders. He had redeemed himself from his mistake, and everything would soon return to routine, to the way they should be.
Down below, the humans were as dots, insect-like in stature. Among this dynamic mosaic, the Witness made out Hoffman's limping form, shrinking in the distance. He watched him until he faded from view entirely, a thought occurring to the Witness as he did. He turned his head to June.
"...Thank you, June," he said after many moments of shared silence.
"For what?"
"For assisting me in repairing my mistake."
June titled his head, then resumed analyzing the horizons, having apparently accepted the compliment. June, Alfred Hoffman, January; according to his calculations, the chances of March restoring things to the way they were supposed to have been were slim. But by the cumulative power of the Witnesses, they managed to pull it off.
For they were agents of the League of the Witnesses, and for the last several millennia they have been watching over all things, laying the foundations for the river of time and guiding entire histories on the path they were meant to travel.
As one, they could not fail.
"Shall we find something to eat?" asked June at length. "I am hungry."
"There is a pastry shop in Offenbach," said March. "The chocolate éclairs they serve there are most delicious. Meet me at the Schillerplatz, and I will show you where it is."
June walked past March and shifted to Offenbach. And soon after, so did March, and the Aube Division Witnesses began to walk eastward at a leisurely pace. The hardest part of the mission was past, and the task his Crépuscule colleagues now faced were far less complicated than what he had to go through.
They would surely be able to handle it without any trouble.
A/N: For those who might have been surprised by Hoffman's racist views, you should remember that he is an immortal Nazi. And as a disclaimer, I do not share his views, on the off chance someone thought I might.