My Immortal The Vampires of Berlin (5 page)

Professor Richter opened the door and triumphantly entered the lecture hall. His expectations of taking the stage in front of the world press and hundreds of admiring fans were immediately dashed into the rocks. There were only twenty students and a bored reporter waiting for him.

The sole press representative, American freelance reporter Tom Schmitzfy, sat in the front row, his tall spidery legs barely fitting under the desk. Tom wasn’t thrilled to be there, but he needed the work; he had recently been fired for publishing a carjacking victim’s name while the shooter was still on the loose. Tom took the odd jobs as they came so he could stay in Berlin with his girlfriend, but he felt that his real place was covering the embassies and government ministries and circulating among the dignitaries whom he counted among his friends. That’s where he made a difference.
Not covering this bullshit
, he thought.
This is not why I went to night school.

Meg Miura came in and sat down next to Tom. The striking Japanese reporter in the pink shirt and round glasses immediately doubled the press coverage and brightened the room with her smile. “It’s nice to see you down here in the trenches with us,” she teased.

Tom liked Meg, but underneath his smile, he was secretly offended that she considered him one of
them
. “This is just a short-term assignment until they find someone else,” he lied. “Then I’ll be back at the embassy. The ambassador is a friend of mine. I’ll get you an invite to—”

Professor Richter interrupted the self-serving diatribe by rapping his knuckles on the podium. The crowd quieted. “Good evening everyone. Thank you for attending.” Then he took a sip of water and silently surveyed his audience for nearly a minute. The effect was dramatic.

“As you know, I’ve done a great deal of research and writing about international conspiracy theories,” he continued. “Some of those theories turned out to be correct. And some of them—as my flea-ridden paparazzi critics so often point out—amount to little more than tabloid entertainment.”

The crowd laughed.

“But what I am here to talk about today goes far beyond the scope of anything that I have ever studied before. In fact, my new theory is not even a theory—it is an incredible collection of facts that are supported by undisputable evidence. Be forewarned, there are very powerful people in the world who do not want you to have this information.

That’s a little dramatic,
Tom thought.

“They don’t want you to know about the shadow government that joined the fight against Nazi Germany; a government that had previously stayed out of European wars for a thousand years.”

Tom looked at his watch and moaned.
If I wanted a boring and uninspired lecture about World War II, I would go back to high school. We should be talking about the shootout that just sent two Greek patrol boats to the bottom of the Mediterranean. Not this nonsense,
he thought.

“As the war ended, Adolf Hitler tried to unleash the Tristan weapon upon the Soviet Army. At the time, the Allies thought he had a nuke. But the truth is, the Nazis simply didn’t possess that technology. No, my friends, Tristan was something far more dangerous to the Allied forces than a mere atomic bomb.”

The crowd murmured.

“In fact, when Truman and Stalin learned the truth about Operation Tristan, they both immediately set out to produce thousands of nuclear warheads, well beyond what was needed to fight a war of annihilation against one another. Neither leader informed his generals that they were actually preparing to fight a far different type of adversary. A far different type of weapon.”

Tom laughed out loud. “Yeah, we know. The Nazis invented the missile and it was scary! Whoooooosh!!” The crowd chuckled as his pen played the role of a V-2 flying through the sky towards London.

Professor Richter smiled warmly and silently cursed the bastard prick reporter. “My friend, you will soon understand that I am not talking about the world’s first long-range ballistic missile. This is a much more serious matter.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tom shot back. “I meant the German jet fighter that usually exploded upon takeoff and killed more pilots than the American machine gunners ever could. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!” People laughed as he imitated a B-17 tail gunner. They were buying into his comedy act and it threatened to turn the lecture into a sham.

The professor clenched his teeth, turned red and struggled to contain his temper. “No,” he snapped. “I am
not
talking about the
Messerschmitt Me 262
which—although far more advanced than anything the Allies had at their disposal—was far too little too late to affect the outcome of the war.”

Tom was having a good time. He continued to prod him. “The big bad Tiger tank...”

Richter finally had enough of the verbal jousting. He wasn’t going to allow a quack reporter to ruin his moment in the sun. “Shut up, sir! You shut up right now!” he shouted. “You are wearing a press pass, you corrupt idiotic stooge! That means that you are here to cover
my
lecture! This is not open mike night for every degenerate dandruff licking druid with a pencil!”

Stunned silence.

Then Meg leaned over and punched Tom on the arm. “This may be beneath you,” she said loud enough for everyone else to hear. “But I need the money. Since you got laid off from your uppity magazine, I think you need the money too. Let him do his shtick or get out of here.”

The students laughed; it was Tom’s turn to be embarrassed. He slunk down in his seat, pulled out his phone and pretended to check his email.

Richter felt vindicated by the show of support. He took another sip of water and composed himself. “You may be surprised to learn that the Tristan weapon was so powerful that Nazi Germany almost won the war. In fact, we are lucky that Hitler did not succeed in using his supernatural weapon. None of us would have been born.”

WTF.
Tom grimaced at the thought that he had been tricked into attending the promotional lead-in to another ridiculous occult book. He wondered if the next topic was going to be the astral projection capabilities of the KGB.

Suddenly, Professor Richter realized that he had forgotten an important facet of his presentation. He took a cable out of his pocket and plugged his phone into the podium. He closed his eyes as the powerful brass chords of
Also
Sprach Zarathustra
flowed out of the speakers on the wall.

The classroom theatrics pushed Tom over the edge. He turned towards Meg, put his index finger to his temple and pretended to shoot himself. Then he headed for the door. Game over.

Meg wanted to be somewhere else too, but she felt an obligation to her bank account to stay until the end and get the best story she could.
It could be worse
, she thought.
I could be stuck at a desk somewhere writing obituaries
.

8

Julia ran from classroom to classroom, peering into windows and disturbing bored students, all the while realizing that Richter’s presentation had probably started and that her mission—whatever it was—had already failed. She didn’t know what would happen if she couldn’t find his lecture, but it couldn’t be good.

In desperation, she stopped a kid with purple hair in the hallway. “I’m looking for Professor Richter—he’s giving a lecture here today. Do you know where he might be?” Julia spoke fluent German, but the punk looked at her as if she had just spoken a long-forgotten dialect of Apache. Sensing that she was running out of time, she grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where is the lecture hall?”

“Lady, get out of my face,” the belligerent punk replied.

Out of patience, Julia threw him against a locker, causing a scene in a hallway that was crowded with students. “I’ll ask you one more time, tough guy—where is the lecture hall? Tell me or I’ll punch your goddamn lights out!”

The punk looked like he was going to wet his pants. “
Third floor
,” he whispered.

Julia sprinted up the stairs and briefly entertained the thought that maybe the phone call from Director Waldon had been a fake. She couldn’t imagine how Richter could be a threat to national security. But then again, she knew that the CIA had no sense of humor when it came to mission assignments. The top-secret codes that Director Waldon used in their call told her that the threat level was on par with nuclear terrorism.

Julia looked into the window on the last door and saw Professor Richter speaking to a small crowd as symphonic music played in the background. His eyes were closed and he held one hand in the air, like an opera singer.

She clutched the handle of the security guard’s revolver and took a deep breath.

Here we go
.

9

Professor Richter imagined two large Hollywood spotlights going back and forth behind him as the music grew louder. He was a best-selling author, but no one in academia had ever given him the time of day.
That is about to change
, he thought
. I paid my dues. This is my day
.

Richter’s voice boomed over the music. “Over the years, there has been much speculation about Tristan, but the weapon has never been publicly identified!” Right on cue with the chord change, he slammed his briefcase on the podium and shouted. “UNTIL right fucking now!”

The small audience gasped. No one knew what he meant, but everybody knew what he said.

Richter had imagined this moment for months, but even he was surprised by the obscenity when it flew out of his mouth. He surprised himself a second time by being perfectly okay with it.
Maybe a little profanity is good for my brand
, he thought.
In any case,
I certainly have everybody’s undivided motherfucking attention right now.

As Professor Richter pulled a 100-year-old Swiss astrological chart out of his briefcase, the door flew open.

Julia made a beeline to the podium; her grand entrance took Richter right out of his game. “Excuse me,” he stammered. “Please take a seat. I’ll be happy to sign your book after my presentation.”

Julia pulled the pistol out of her pocket and pointed it at him. “I’m not here for a book signing.”