Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

The group kept pace with their feet stamping through the first verse, Bremen’s voice so strong and clear it rang out in perfect pitch and tone. As the second verse beckoned, others licked their lips in preparation, and it began in chorus.

The men fell silent. The German marching song had had the effect Bremen wanted, unifying the men in song. He remained standing as the others slowly took their places, amongst much back slapping and laughter. He waited, his eyes blazing and his chest heaving, looking across the table at men he had known for years. Slowly, all returned the stare, respect and determination written all over their faces.

“It is great to be back together with so many friends. Heinz is a great loss for us all, and I will personally miss him immensely, but there is no more time for memories. We may not procrastinate a minute longer. Heinz gave me a second chance to prove my worth, and I do not intend to let him down a second time!”

Reichard looked up nervously at his son, knowing the words were aimed at him. Debating whether to make his own apology, he looked at the table. All eyes were on him.

“Reichard!” Bremen called.

Pulling the antique Lugar pistol from his belt, he turned to his father. Reichard’s face fell as he stared down the barrel of his own weapon and up into Bremen’s unforgiving eyes.

“N—!”

The bullet hit him before he could start the sentence. Bremen was standing no more than three metres from his target. It punctured a hole in Reichard’s forehead, a fountain of blood and brains exiting the back of his head. The force of the impact and his failed attempt to rise from the chair tipped him backwards, his body hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thud, accompanied by the gasps of the assembled audience.

Looking back at the room, Bremen growled at the shocked men.

“Failure will no longer be tolerated!” He wafted the gun around the stunned faces.

Seconds later, the large door to the room slammed open, and three stewards rushed in, each carrying an MP 40 submachine gun.

“Clear up that mess!” Bremen demanded.

The men glanced in unison at Von Klitzing, who gave a small nod of acknowledgement, before setting about their task.

Von Klitzing looked down at Reichard. His blank gaze was a warning for all in the room. He had expected this—he knew Bremen all too well. He was Hofmann’s right hand, young, brash, and arrogant. The older men’s days would now all be numbered, Bremen would see to that. Von Klitzing’s psoriasis started to play up again, his scalp itching and his infernal right ear screaming for attention. Looking to his right, at his son, he saw no sanctuary for himself, only a grim smile greeting him. Von Klitzing knew exactly who his son had become and that he would be the greatest danger to his personal longevity. But awakening the children had been a necessary evil. Hofmann had been right about that.

My generation has failed, but the next will succeed! he reassured himself.

“You men know why you are here. The events surrounding Herr Hofmann, whilst unexpected and disappointing, have no effect on our course,” Bremen continued. “I will take control of the offensive, with immediate effect. There should be no further delay. The events of the past few weeks have forced our hand—we must move our plans forward. You will all find your orders in the folders in front of you.”

There was a rustling around the table as the men opened the sealed manila envelopes, which had, until then, lain untouched on the table in front of them. Their orders, printed on paper bearing the Meyer-Hofmann letterhead, included a general summary of the operation, with the title Campaign Summary, their individual orders, and, where necessary, extra documents.

Von Klitzing pulled out his personal itinerary, which included an economy ticket to Tel Aviv, leaving in two days’ time.

This is going to happen. He felt the excitement build in his stomach, a feeling he had not had for some considerable time.

“We attack on all fronts simultaneously. Banks, stock markets, political opponents, and, of course, the Middle East. Fredrik will return to New York and control financial operations from there. The markets should be feeling the squeeze within the week. We have already recalled lines of credit we were offering to two medium-sized American Banks that have over-extended themselves. They will not find any other source of finance. We will force them into liquidation. The press will be informed, and we will start to sell off Meyer-Hofmann’s assets across the board tomorrow. This will further destabilise the markets. We will be able to buy them back for a fraction of the price at a later date.” He gave the room a moment’s time, looking around the table to make sure that all had understood.

“I want the older members of the board to return to their jobs and work on damage limitation for our holdings. We don’t want to hurt our friends any more than necessary, although none of our holdings will escape the financial repercussions. Herr Von Klitzing is to go to Tel Aviv and bait the Israeli hook.” He threw this information into the room without looking at Von Klitzing.

“Anton, you will lead our forces on the ground in Iran.” He spoke directly and warmly to Von Klitzing’s son. That surprised and upset Von Klitzing in equal measures.

“Herr Ducker, you will support the Arab uprising. We need you to position and fire the tactical nukes into Israel. I know this will most probably be a one-way ticket for you. On behalf of the board, I thank you for your sacrifice!” Bremen clicked his heels together and nodded in Ducker’s direction.

The others at the table knocked the surface with their knuckles as a chorus of “Hear, hear. Hear, hear,” rang out. Ducker smiled, but it was forced. He had just been chosen for a suicide mission.

“I have sent a group of clones to carry out sniper attacks. We will start hitting political leaders and key members of state when the social unrest begins.”

“Professor Furtner and Dr Ecker will accompany me to Austria. There, they will continue their research. I hope that, together, they will find a way to make the recollection procedure more powerful.” That sounded more like a rebuke than an order. Dr Ecker looked sheepishly at the floor beneath his feet.

“Our search for Franz Meyer’s descendants continues. I expect no such failure again!” He was now glaring at Ecker.

“The control centre will be operational in the morning. From there, we will have an overview of the entire theatre of war.” Another pause for effect.

“This will not be a simple operation, and I expect setbacks. But if you remember who you are and why you are here, we will prevail. Good luck, Gentlemen. Heil Hitler!” He saluted.

“ Jawohl !, Jawohl !” the table called out in agreement. “Heil Hitler!” The men saluted in chorus.

The report of gunshots had brought half the Munich Police Department to Starnberg. As in most of Europe, gun crime in Germany was a rarity, and the Munich police were taking no chances. Günther Müller had to start showing his badge some five kilometres from the crime scenes, with all roads in and out of the area closed off. When he and Monika finally got through to the site of the double shooting, there was a plastic tape perimeter, and a dozen police officers making sure no one got too close. Within the barriers, men in white suits made themselves busy searching the area. Every square metre was being examined, with markings on the road and pavement, helping the officers to catalogue the search for evidence. Looking at the man’s body, it was obvious that it had been moved. Bloody footprints led from a pool of blood in the centre of the road, the body crumpled in a half-foetal position.