[b]ESSEN

OCTOBER 1956[/b]

"Do you know, this stuff is actually rather good," Konstantinos Stavrou remarked as he studied the chilled glass of Riesling. "One doesn't hear much about German wine, not compared to France or Italy. But I've heard there are some excellent whites coming out of Mosel these days, so I had to try. It seems that paid off for me."

To any outside observers, the scene in the quiet lounge of the Hotel Handelshof was the same as that in any other hotel lounge across the world. A few foreigners, bored in a strange city, passing an idle hour with one another's company. The hotel was clean, imperial, miraculously untouched by the war. It was more than could be said for most of the city. Lancasters and Stirlings had pounded the city relentlessly throughout the war, and the Herculean task of clearing rubble was still going on nine years later. For every optimistic construction crew there were three bombed-out shells, glassless windows staring like eyes. In the face of such devastation, it was no wonder men like Hirsch had escaped punishment, Stavrou reflected. Men with his expertise would be desperately needed to rebuild. Not just this one huge city, either- dozens like it. 

Stavrou reluctantly set down the glass of wine and looked across the table at his companions. He had barely known them twenty-four hours, but he considered himself a good judge of character, and he was beginning to think Farquharson had chosen well while putting this team together. "Alright, down to business. We received our little package from the dear Captain," he said as he placed a small attache case on the table and opened it. It had been brought to the hotel by a courier service, directly from the airport, not an hour before. They worked fast in London. 

"Jean, Astrid, papers for you," he said as he passed two neatly paperclipped sheaves across to them. "Jean, my friend, you must get used to the name Roger Descombes, for that is who you are now. You represent a newly-built clinic in Lille and are shopping for state of the art equipment." With a long, delicate finger, Konstantinos tapped the papers. "I took the liberty of looking through those. You have letters of introduction from the French Embassy, the Robert Koch Institute, the World Health Assembly." The Greek shrugged. "They might even be real. God only knows how long of an arm our employers have."

He turned to the young Danish woman. "Astrid, my dear," he said formally and politely. "You are to be Christine Theiss, originally from Kiel. Any accent you have as a Dane might be reasonably passed off as northern," he said, nodding in approval. "The French consulate hired you as a guide and interpreter for unfortunate Monsieur Descombes, who has not learned a single word of the German in his time on Earth." Stavrou allowed himself a smile and a sip of wine at that. The man had the look of a POW, and the violinist was sure the Canadian had picked up a little in his time as a guest.

"You two should have no trouble getting an audience with Herr Hirsch with that set of papers. Look over everything at the factory- security, escape routes, all the fun things." 

Konstantinos looked over at Nestori. "Now, you and I have no papers. Instead we have the fun part." He pulled a little slip of paper out of the case, as well as a small leather satchel. "This, my good friend, is Sebastien Hirsch's home address," he said, pushing the slip of paper over to the Finn. "Our job is reconnaissance. While these two look over his workplace, we look over his home. I guess that's why the Captain, in his wisdom, sent these," he said as he opened the leather case. Inside was a complete set of stainless steel lockpicks. "I, um, really hope you know how to use these. I never learned." 

"Oh, in case you were wondering," Konstanstinos said, taking a furtive look around the lounge, "there are a few extras. What one might call a starter kit." He took another look around the deserted lounge, then emptied the final contents of the case onto the table. "Two feet of piano wire, with a wooden handle at either extremity. A fine garrote," he said, making sure everyone saw the item before putting it back into the attache case. "One cosh, lead shot wrapped in leather. SOE issue," he noted. "Two knives. One a fixed-blade Fairbairn-Sykes fighting dagger, the other a folding navaja knife, the Spanish style. And of course this fellow," he said, sweeping the item in question back into the case before any outsiders might get a clear look. "Unless I am mistaken, the Smith and Wesson Chief's Special. A new lightweight five-shot revolver made in America, intended to be concealed. As well as ten .38 rounds." He looked around the table. "I imagine we can obtain other weapons on request, but this is a fine start. A fine start indeed."

Stavrou took another appreciative sip of his wine, glad his room was being billed to his employers. "Is everyone clear on their tasks?"