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And now you have your first target- Sebastien Hirsch, aka The Machinist.
Captain Farquharson shot an inquisitive look over at the Rabbi, whose only response was a curt nod. The Scotsman shrugged. "I suppose one more wouldn't hurt. Otto Beck will be added to the list."
Stavrou, the Greek, leaned back in his seat. "So who is this man in Essen?"
"Yes, I suppose you were all wondering," Farquharson sighed, unlocking a desk on his drawer and producing a square of paper. It had a fairly good black-and-white print, probably from a newspaper. The man depicted had perhaps once been athletic and vital, the broad shoulders and thick arms visible under his fine suit suggested that. But it was clear that middle age and financial success had softened him. The balding head and expanded stomach told a story of the present.
"Essen is a city of industry, it always has been," Farquharson said as he made sure to set the photograph where everyone could see. "Germany's version of Coventry or Pittsburgh. Full of inventors, engineers, mechanical wizards. That's why the RAF took care to destroy 90 per cent of the city." Farquharson cleared his throat delicately. "Now that's it's Adenauer's Germany and they can once more be trusted, Essen is being restored, the factories reopened, the machines restarted. Essen will be key to rebuilding the West German economy. And this man will be key to rebuilding Essen."
"His name is Sebastien Hirsch. Executive director of Hirschwerk GmbH, a machining and mechanical engineering firm. He was born in 1904, turned his father's little machine shop into a respectable enterprise, made his first million in 1934, not coincidentally the same year he joined the Nazi Party."
Farquharson looked down at his empty glass, clucked disdainfully, and reached for the Scotch once more. "If you're wondering how a civilian fits in with the whole sorry tale at Ste. Christina, it's simple. Every machine in the damned place was stamped Hirschwerk. All of them custom made. The commandant, Saxler, or the researcher, Krebs, would come to Hirsch with a request or an idea. We want a device that measures exactly how much force it takes to break an arm. We want an apparatus for draining bone marrow and replacing it with seawater. And this man Hirsch would create such a device and have it shipped to France, all for a fee, of course.
"Hirsch was held up after the war as a prime example of denazification. The man was shrewd enough to renounce all his sympathies once Essen was under British occupation. Not his marks, though. He claimed he didn't know what his machines were used for."
Farquharson laughed, once, bitterly. "There's no way he didn't know."
Stavrou, the Greek, leaned back in his seat. "So who is this man in Essen?"
"Yes, I suppose you were all wondering," Farquharson sighed, unlocking a desk on his drawer and producing a square of paper. It had a fairly good black-and-white print, probably from a newspaper. The man depicted had perhaps once been athletic and vital, the broad shoulders and thick arms visible under his fine suit suggested that. But it was clear that middle age and financial success had softened him. The balding head and expanded stomach told a story of the present.
"Essen is a city of industry, it always has been," Farquharson said as he made sure to set the photograph where everyone could see. "Germany's version of Coventry or Pittsburgh. Full of inventors, engineers, mechanical wizards. That's why the RAF took care to destroy 90 per cent of the city." Farquharson cleared his throat delicately. "Now that's it's Adenauer's Germany and they can once more be trusted, Essen is being restored, the factories reopened, the machines restarted. Essen will be key to rebuilding the West German economy. And this man will be key to rebuilding Essen."
"His name is Sebastien Hirsch. Executive director of Hirschwerk GmbH, a machining and mechanical engineering firm. He was born in 1904, turned his father's little machine shop into a respectable enterprise, made his first million in 1934, not coincidentally the same year he joined the Nazi Party."
Farquharson looked down at his empty glass, clucked disdainfully, and reached for the Scotch once more. "If you're wondering how a civilian fits in with the whole sorry tale at Ste. Christina, it's simple. Every machine in the damned place was stamped Hirschwerk. All of them custom made. The commandant, Saxler, or the researcher, Krebs, would come to Hirsch with a request or an idea. We want a device that measures exactly how much force it takes to break an arm. We want an apparatus for draining bone marrow and replacing it with seawater. And this man Hirsch would create such a device and have it shipped to France, all for a fee, of course.
"Hirsch was held up after the war as a prime example of denazification. The man was shrewd enough to renounce all his sympathies once Essen was under British occupation. Not his marks, though. He claimed he didn't know what his machines were used for."
Farquharson laughed, once, bitterly. "There's no way he didn't know."
Let's try and move on to the paranormal stuff.
"I'll use it," Nate said. "Might as well stack the deck in my favor." He shrugged. "Any chance we could get the Pope to bless it first?"
He walked in, shut the door briefly to do his business, washed his hands, carefully wiped the seat with a paper towel. Then he opened the door and waved everyone forwards.
"I guess you're supposed to be witnesses to this round of teenage self abuse. Come and watch."
He closed his eyes and held his breath, and tried to do it as quickly as possible, the sound of the penny scraping on the porcelain ringing in his ears. He was definitely taking truth next.
He walked in, shut the door briefly to do his business, washed his hands, carefully wiped the seat with a paper towel. Then he opened the door and waved everyone forwards.
"I guess you're supposed to be witnesses to this round of teenage self abuse. Come and watch."
He closed his eyes and held his breath, and tried to do it as quickly as possible, the sound of the penny scraping on the porcelain ringing in his ears. He was definitely taking truth next.
"Well, that's disgusting," Nate said flatly. "I should've picked truth. Oh well. Anyone got a penny?" He theatrically patted his pockets, stalling for time.
Sweet action.
The gambler shaved.
He had tried growing a beard, once, but quickly realized this was the wrong part of the world for it. Too hot, too gritty, too bright. And so every morning it was a precise shave, a few splashes of cold water, a dab of bay rum. It had become a ritual, really, unchanged by geography.
What even was this town? Fort Hadly? Probably. It had been very late when he arrived, and he had gone straight to bed. A rented bed in the back of the general store, of course. He hadn't wanted to risk the hotel, as he likely would not have been allowed a room.
Sammy Lin shrugged, rubbed a hand across his face. Smooth. Perfect. The way he liked it. He began to pull on his white suit. Lin knew these country people. A Chinese in an expensive suit, shuffling a deck of cards- just asking for trouble. Someone would want a game, and that person would underestimate him. They always did.
Of course, there was always the possibility they might just try to rob him. And so he carefully tucked the long dagger into his boot.
He took care to leave the general store out the back door. The proprietor had been kind enough to let him stay there, no sense embarrassing the man by appearing with him in public. Sammy Lin took a moment to acquaint himself, then walked into the saloon.
And so the gambler took a seat towards the back, white suit there to catch the eye. He slowly shuffled a deck of cards and waited for a challenge.
He had tried growing a beard, once, but quickly realized this was the wrong part of the world for it. Too hot, too gritty, too bright. And so every morning it was a precise shave, a few splashes of cold water, a dab of bay rum. It had become a ritual, really, unchanged by geography.
What even was this town? Fort Hadly? Probably. It had been very late when he arrived, and he had gone straight to bed. A rented bed in the back of the general store, of course. He hadn't wanted to risk the hotel, as he likely would not have been allowed a room.
Sammy Lin shrugged, rubbed a hand across his face. Smooth. Perfect. The way he liked it. He began to pull on his white suit. Lin knew these country people. A Chinese in an expensive suit, shuffling a deck of cards- just asking for trouble. Someone would want a game, and that person would underestimate him. They always did.
Of course, there was always the possibility they might just try to rob him. And so he carefully tucked the long dagger into his boot.
He took care to leave the general store out the back door. The proprietor had been kind enough to let him stay there, no sense embarrassing the man by appearing with him in public. Sammy Lin took a moment to acquaint himself, then walked into the saloon.
And so the gambler took a seat towards the back, white suit there to catch the eye. He slowly shuffled a deck of cards and waited for a challenge.
Schoenberg cautiously approached the marina, shotgun raised against any potential threats. Inwardly he groaned. Most of the slips seemed to have been vacated, and what few boats were left had obviously been worked over pretty danged good. "Oy gevalt," he complained aloud. "This whole place is ferkockt."
He made a slow advance towards the nearest boat, a 24-footer with a prow crumpled against the pier. It seemed a miracle that it hadn't been holed below the waterline and sank. While Schoenberg was pretty sure whatever gonif had come before had taken any food, water, or weapons to be found aboard the cruiser, there would be plenty left. A craft man could certainly find some use for, say, a bit of wire or a plastic bag. Back in the service, they'd have to knock together stuff just from whatever they found out in the middle of the damned desert, using skills MacGyver would've envied. A bit of wire or a plastic bag would've been a blessing.
He leaned out and gave the deck of the boat a nudge with his foot. Seemed steady enough. Cautiously, the old man stepped across the gap, onto the deck. He winced at the sudden lurch as the boat rocked into the water. "Be careful, you stupid old momzer," he scolded himself.
It must have been just enough noise.
David heard it before he saw it. The chazzers always made that rasping moan when they were on the scent, enough tummel to warn anybody. David looked back to the relative safety of the pier, but he could tell from the sound it was just one of the things. No sense abandoning the floating wreck and anything that might be on it for just one. He stepped forwards cautiously, sweat pouring from his forehead. Damn this heat.
There it was, seated in the sumptous leather pilot's chair. The chazzers weren't smart enough to undo seatbelts, so all this one could do was reach and moan. Not likely to get up. David looked over the graying corpse, saw the bandage wrapped tightly around the arm. No wonder the boat had crashed. Chazzers couldn't drive from nothing.
It moaned some more, and David was satisfied it was restrained. Sighing, he shrugged off his backpack, reversed his grip on the shotgun. The butt was walnut, heavy and hard. He had done this a couple times before, back in Egypt. "Sorry, buddy," he said as he took a couple deep breaths. "But if you're gonna sit there like that, not much point on wasting a shell, nu?"
They had taught him to aim for the temple whenever practical, so he did, making sure to lean back away from the arms as he did so. Once, twice, three times, a fourth for good measure. When David was done, it was like someone had dropped a watermelon off the roof. He panted, leaned a hand on the dash, tried to catch his breath. "I think I need a minute here."
He made a slow advance towards the nearest boat, a 24-footer with a prow crumpled against the pier. It seemed a miracle that it hadn't been holed below the waterline and sank. While Schoenberg was pretty sure whatever gonif had come before had taken any food, water, or weapons to be found aboard the cruiser, there would be plenty left. A craft man could certainly find some use for, say, a bit of wire or a plastic bag. Back in the service, they'd have to knock together stuff just from whatever they found out in the middle of the damned desert, using skills MacGyver would've envied. A bit of wire or a plastic bag would've been a blessing.
He leaned out and gave the deck of the boat a nudge with his foot. Seemed steady enough. Cautiously, the old man stepped across the gap, onto the deck. He winced at the sudden lurch as the boat rocked into the water. "Be careful, you stupid old momzer," he scolded himself.
It must have been just enough noise.
David heard it before he saw it. The chazzers always made that rasping moan when they were on the scent, enough tummel to warn anybody. David looked back to the relative safety of the pier, but he could tell from the sound it was just one of the things. No sense abandoning the floating wreck and anything that might be on it for just one. He stepped forwards cautiously, sweat pouring from his forehead. Damn this heat.
There it was, seated in the sumptous leather pilot's chair. The chazzers weren't smart enough to undo seatbelts, so all this one could do was reach and moan. Not likely to get up. David looked over the graying corpse, saw the bandage wrapped tightly around the arm. No wonder the boat had crashed. Chazzers couldn't drive from nothing.
It moaned some more, and David was satisfied it was restrained. Sighing, he shrugged off his backpack, reversed his grip on the shotgun. The butt was walnut, heavy and hard. He had done this a couple times before, back in Egypt. "Sorry, buddy," he said as he took a couple deep breaths. "But if you're gonna sit there like that, not much point on wasting a shell, nu?"
They had taught him to aim for the temple whenever practical, so he did, making sure to lean back away from the arms as he did so. Once, twice, three times, a fourth for good measure. When David was done, it was like someone had dropped a watermelon off the roof. He panted, leaned a hand on the dash, tried to catch his breath. "I think I need a minute here."
I guess Isaac takes it, then.
Name: Whitney "Whit" Chang
Age: 29
Occupation: Human resources clerk
Appearance:
Personality: Whit is a pretty bland person, really. Non-confrontational, no real sense of humor, fairly consistent moods, not noticeably chatty.
Skills: People just don't notice her. She's like any other person you might pass in the street and pay no attention to. Nothing about her stands out, but that is a skill in and of itself. She also possesses basic data entry and collation skills.
Brief Bio: A completely unexceptional businesswoman from Vancouver, Whit's only real goal in life was to keep her head down and get by without making waves. But then her younger brother went missing and a note came in the mail. . .
Inventory: Smart phone, suit, housekeys, ballpoint pen, small handbag
Age: 29
Occupation: Human resources clerk
Appearance:
Personality: Whit is a pretty bland person, really. Non-confrontational, no real sense of humor, fairly consistent moods, not noticeably chatty.
Skills: People just don't notice her. She's like any other person you might pass in the street and pay no attention to. Nothing about her stands out, but that is a skill in and of itself. She also possesses basic data entry and collation skills.
Brief Bio: A completely unexceptional businesswoman from Vancouver, Whit's only real goal in life was to keep her head down and get by without making waves. But then her younger brother went missing and a note came in the mail. . .
Inventory: Smart phone, suit, housekeys, ballpoint pen, small handbag
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