My Immortal The Vampires of Berlin (2 page)

Professor Richter relished the thought of seeing the faces of those university morons who labeled his writing as the work of a delusional conspiracy theorist. Those idiots and the governments they supported were about to be unveiled as fraudulent puppets.

Of course, it had been difficult for him to verify all of the information in the dossier, due to the passage of time or the fact that evidence had been destroyed or covered up after the war. But the game had changed; he finally had all of the proof that he needed. He was about to rewrite the history books, whether the governments that suppressed the information for the last seventy years liked it or not.

Professor Richter glanced at his watch and donned his hat. As he walked across the
Lustgarten
with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, he smiled at a beautiful woman who was talking on a cellphone.

Richter didn’t realize it, but the woman had been following him for over two hours—she was reporting his every move to someone who was stationed thousands of miles away.

2

Zig was nervous. He had been at the National Security Agency for six weeks. So far, it wasn’t what he expected.

In hindsight, it had been unrealistic for him to go into the intelligence field with the expectations of driving a bulletproof black Audi on covert missions around Europe. Instead of a life that resembled a Jason Bourne film, Zig’s German studies degree and NSA job application brought him long hours pouring over email intercepts and computer bulletin boards for signs of extremist activity in Germany. He was using his language skills and doing something good for his country, which was nice, but he simply didn’t think that he was very good at it.

Zig promised himself that if he made it through the day without getting arrested, he would find a new career. Depending on how things went, he thought he might be available for that new career before lunch.

You see, Zig screwed up on that fine Wednesday morning over his daily cup of orange tea. Long story short, he stretched the accepted interpretation of international law and NSA electronic surveillance directives when his short attention span got the best of him. He didn’t think it was a big deal to snoop through the laptop as Professor Richter surfed the net in a Berlin café. Zig’s flawed rationale was that he wasn’t really stealing anything; he just wanted to know what book was next.

He had always been a huge fan. He tracked down every book and article the professor had ever written and had even bought
Pyramids and Aliens
twice—first in hardcover and then again when the paperback came out with a blue cover. He also had copies of
The Bermuda Triangle UFO Conspiracy
,
The Secret History of KGB Astral Projection
and
Tales of Man
.

The other member of the Richter fan club was his best friend Julia, who just finished her first year at the CIA. They met back in college, in the West Chester University marching band, and they had stayed in touch ever since.

As fate would have it, Julia was in Berlin visiting her mother’s family that week. When he read her email and learned that Professor Richter was going to announce his next book at Humboldt University, he couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t be there, of course, but he was dying to know what book was next in the series, so he could beat her to the punch when he got that inevitable gloating phone call from Berlin.

No harm no foul
, Zig thought as he broke through the firewall. He chuckled as he scanned the documents folder and found what he thought was the outline for Richter’s next book. There was only one problem—it wasn’t the outline for the next book. Zig knew that he was in trouble the second he saw the cover page.

Deep inside, Zig knew the dossier was like Pandora’s Box—once it was open, there was no going back. It might be sheer entertainment and fiction, like everything else the professor had written.
But then again, it might be something else.
He just hoped Julia could keep tabs on him in case the document turned out to be authentic.

Then came the hard part. The door was open, so he knocked on the doorframe. Deputy CIA Director Christian Sheppard heard him, but he didn’t look up.

So Zig knocked again. Louder.

“I don’t have a meeting right now,” Sheppard grumbled. “Talk to Cabrini and schedule one.”

Zig knocked again. And again and again.

Finally, Sheppard got annoyed just enough to look up from his report on the Israeli subs in the Gulf of Oman. “What do you want? Better yet—who the hell are you?”

Zig was nervous; his palms dripped with sweat. “Good morning, sir. I’m Michael Zigmund. I’m an analyst in the Germany group, downstairs. I need to talk to you. It’s kind of important.”

Sheppard looked back down at his report. “Did you speak to your supervisor about this?”

“No, sir.”

“Then go back and take it up the proper channels. If it’s important enough, I’ll see it.”

“We don’t have time.”

That simple declarative sentence got Sheppard to look up. In fact, Zig suddenly had his full and undivided attention. “Does this concern an immediate threat to the national security of the United States?”

“Yessir,” Zig replied anxiously.

“What is it?” Sheppard’s expression was deadly serious. He had one hand on a red phone.

Zig gulped hard. “The incident in question happened in 1945. During the Battle of Berlin.”

Sheppard stared at him in disbelief. “The Battle of Berlin? As in ... World War II?” he asked, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

“Yes, sir. The Nazis called it Tristan. It was a supernatural weapon of some sort. Ring a bell?”

Sheppard took off his glasses, brushed his dyed auburn hair back and sighed loudly. He was annoyed as hell. “No, that doesn’t ring a bell,” he grumbled. “In fact, the NSA and CIA both stopped worrying about witchcraft, ghosts, astrology, psychic submarine tracking and all of that other supernatural crap a long time ago. You’re wasting your time. More importantly, you’re wasting my time.”

“Well, how about—”

Sheppard cut him off. “Look, kid. I’ve never heard of Tristan. Whatever it was, it happened far too long ago to affect our mission in the here and now, which is to protect the United States of America. Put the
Harry Potter
books down and get back to work.”

“With all due respect, sir, maybe you aren’t high enough up the chain of command to know about Operation Tristan,” Zig said rather innocently. “May I talk to the President?”

“The president of what?” The conversation was growing tense and strange. He contemplated calling security.

“The United States. He was just sworn in.”

“I know who he is, asshole,” Sheppard shot back. The rogue analyst no longer seemed dangerous, just incredibly stupid with no social skills whatsoever. He wondered if someone put him up to it.
Are we on Candid Camera? Punk’d?

Zig held up the dossier. “Sir, can you please look at this? It’ll only take a minute.”

Sheppard didn’t look at it. Point of fact, he would rather carve his eye out with a spoon than be badgered into doing something by an analyst. “Mr. Zigmund, how long have you worked here at the NSA?”

“Six weeks.”

“Six whole weeks?”

“Yep.”

Suddenly, the stupid questions made sense. The guy was a newbie—a computer nerd run amok. Sheppard decided to screw with him. “Maybe you were absent that day, but you should have gotten the memo that we typically don’t grant first-year analysts an emergency meeting with the President to discuss World War II. And even if he had time to meet with you, there is nothing you can tell President Duarte about World War II that he doesn’t already know—I gave him
The World at War
DVD set for Christmas, which is narrated by Laurence Olivier. And let me tell you something else.”

“Sir?”

“That son-of-a-bitch was the best narrator in the history of human civilization—and probably a couple of other ones too. Including the chimps. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently.”

Zig was stunned silly. The conversation wasn’t going as he had imagined. Technically, he was being openly mocked. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “Sir, this is really serious. I think I found something important.”

“Fantastic. Now, go write a report about it. Use Times New Roman, double-space everything and use lots of goddamn commas—you can never have enough goddamn commas. But just don’t bother me again, I have work to do.”

“But the President...”

“Is that coffee?” Sheppard asked, pointing to the red ceramic cup in Zig’s hand.

“Orange tea, actually.”

“Whatever. Drink your drink and get the fuck out.”

“But-but-but ...”

“Drink your drink and get the fuck out.”

“I don’t understand—”

Sheppard talked over him. “That’s what this bouncer used to say at the
Chapeau Rouge
in Prague. Today, I’m giving you the same advice that they dish out at the best bar on Earth when it’s time to go home. Drink your drink—”

“I got it ... I got it ... thank you.”

Sheppard pointed to the door.

At least I tried
, Zig thought as he walked out. His consolation prize from that debacle of a meeting was that he didn’t have time to confess to stealing the dossier from Richter’s computer. Which meant that he could keep his job for a few more weeks while he sent out resumes.

Then, the strange and chaotic Wednesday took an unexpected left turn. Zig literally did a double take when he saw the stars in front of the elevator—they were on the shoulders of General John Hastings, the Director of the NSA.
This is no coincidence,
Zig thought.
This is fate. God Bless America.

His approach immediately caught the attention of the two Secret Service agents who were constantly at the general’s side, a precaution that former President Obama had implemented after the abduction and murder of two British intelligence officers in Brussels a few years ago.

“General Hastings, can I please talk to you for a minute?” Zig asked.

Hastings ignored him. He looked at his watch.

Secret Service agent Michael Jones stepped in front of Zig and eyed his badge. “You don’t have the credentials to speak to the general without an invitation,” he said. “In fact, you’re not even supposed to be on this floor. Scram.”

Zig disregarded the attempt to shut him down. “General Hastings, can I talk to you? Please.”

Sensing that Zig had no intention of leaving, Agent Jones grabbed his arm. “Sir, even though you’re a NSA employee, I have to ask you to leave now or you will be subject to arrest.”

“But I need to talk to the general,” he said loudly. “I have something to show him.”

Agent Jones tightened his grip on his arm and called for backup. Zig pushed him away. The papers flying into the air marked the exact moment when the situation had officially passed the point of no return.

The Secret Service moved fast. Zig shouted as the agents wrestled him to the floor. “General Hastings! I need to talk to you! Please! This is important!”

General Hastings stood to the side and silently watched the raucous wrestling match. When Zig was finally in handcuffs, he stepped right over him and into the elevator.

Zig desperately called out to the general one last time as the doors closed. “Operation Tristan!”

3