[h3][center]Jakob Norheim[/center][/h3]
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The tall, blond man sitting across the table barely seemed fazed by the glass of clear liquid in his left hand, even for the half-empty bottle of an unknown spirits standing in front of him. A glass of beer also stood there, peacefully coexisting beside the bottle as it hadn't been touched yet, compared to the two other men already drinking theirs. No, the Norwegian had been in need of something stronger that simple beer that night. 

Who could blame him? He hadn't been killing Nazis for nearly two weeks straight now. Was it the sense of duty and purpose that kept him from stabbing them, or the bottle? Both? Perhaps. 

Jakob looked casually up at Robert after having explained the plan once again. "Remind me again how you're going to get that intel out of his brain after we've filled it with lead? Scoop it out with a spoon?" He said as if it was the most natural thing in the world to say, emtpying his glass of spirits in one clear swoop, before continuing. "You better be correct about these [i]contacts[/i] of yours, Robert. It's one hell of a gamble in gathering them all right in the middle of the fucking Reich, and I'd really like to not repeat the mission of '42, remember?"

Suddenly the beer disappeared from the table, now finding its way down Jakob's mouth and into his stomach. It was time to prepare for the mission. He stood up from the table and straightened his uniform, the recognizable uniform of an Waffen-SS Unteroffizer, his alibi a recovering gunshot wound in the leg. Even the limp he made looked authentic. "At least the snow won't be a problem for them, so they should be here soon."

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[h3][center]Silvio Colani[/center][/h3][hr][hr]

"Fucking snow-piece-of-shit, good for nothing boots. Even my Mah' could've made them better!"

The lone voice of what presumably was a very angry man could be barely dechipered through the thick woods just outside of Ulm. The darkness of night kept the apperance of said man unknown, but one hearing it - who would be none, seen as everyone piled up inside during the winter snow - could mistake it for someone of an American stature. Perhaps even New York? Not that anyone normal in the Third Reich would understand that, American movies hadn't been common around those parts of years. But the voice lingered on, and with it the sounds of footsteps in the snow, and even more cursing. 

Silvio Colani, Sergeant and SOE-operative, couldn't feel any more miserable than he already was. For the past three years he'd been fighting in warm climates, even enjoying combat in his ancestoral homeland of Italy. But no, now he had to be in the middle of Germany, in the middle of winter, in the middle of it all snowing down. He cursed some more, now in Italian, as he slowly made his way towards his destination; "The Dark Bear". He'd been contacted by a certain, well, Contact not too long ago, and then found himself being pushed out of an airplane. The parachute-lessons he'd been given were scarse, and his fear of heights didn't exactly help. Hadn't he'd been man enough, he swore he would have pissed his pants. 

It didn't take long for Silvio to find the beerhall he was looking for, even for his sparse knowledge of German. It was far easier to pass off as an Italian, which was exactly what his papers now stated he was. In his normal, civilian clothing, he was now officialy an Italian wine-farmer who'd been contacted by the local SS-department for wine meant for Christmas. And so far it had worker, even his bottles of wine hadn't shattered yet. 

As he stepped inside the beerhall, he was met by a small crowd of people celebrating God knows what, though the bald head of an SS officer caught his attention. Of course it would seem that the ugly, bald bastard - who frankly looked like an evil seal tucked into a stiff SS uniform, repayed the attention, for now he was heading straight for Silvio. 

"Oh cazzo, ecco il sigillo..."

The confrontation was brief, but intense, as the bald Nazi-seal clapped Silvio on the shoulder and spoke to him in German, none of which Silvio really understood except questioning who he was. He tensed up for a few seconds, before calmly reaching into his backpack and pulling out a bottle of wine. He could feel the eyes of the room follow him, even their fingers on the triggers gnawed their way into his spine. Seconds felt like hours, days and weeks, before the Nazi-seal cheerfully grabbed the bottle of wine, tasting it and cheerfully letting go of Silvio. 

Which was good, for Silvio had no idea what to do if he found the disassembled Thompson at the bottom of his backpack. Luckily it didn't happen, and so he rushed - somehow slowly - up the stairs and to the room where he was told to meet. He knocked on the door, and stepped inside. 

"...snow won't be a problem for them, so they should be here soon."

"That goo'pilin outside? Jesus Christ, you're lucky I'm not some dead snowman out there right now. Mother Marry, it's facciu fridda outside! You couldn't have picked a better place to meet, could you mamaluke?"