Cuckoo
The keeper of the cloakroom was well into his eighties,
and his entire demeanour radiated confidence that no matter what seismic shocks
were to run through German society, some things would never change. He knew too
much of the appetites of the regional aristocracy, captains of industry and
even the new regime, to fear his daily salary, vastly inflated by commissions
would ever be threatened. And so it was that he kept a pile of daily newspapers
on a table by his desk: mostly local, but also some international; a few days
old but in The Pepperpot, uncensored. The Reich, which had come to power by
manipulation of information offered to the masses, allowed a free press here.
It was an intellectual marker that divided the haves from the have-nots, and it
also demonstrated to the club members that the Reich recognised them and
expected their loyalty.
Amused by the token of complicity Frank picked up the
London Times and was delighted to find the crossword hardly filled. He needed
something to engage him and separate him from others as he stalked his prey.
His prey was at once the writer he had been sent to engage in conversation and
also those planted in the club to observe him. Frank was not so naive as to
believe that he had been released from the camp without the authorities making
sure that he could not flee. He sat at a table slightly away from the bar,
ordered a bottle of Paulliac and addressed himself to the crossword puzzle. He
quickly established three facts: his intended target was not yet in attendance,
the position of the man sent to spy on himself, and the fact that there were
two other bodyguards in the club. These were both female and so unlike his
shadow did not look as if they were terrified of unwelcome advances from the
clientele.
Watchers recognise other watchers; so he had to make
himself not a watcher rapidly in order to conserve his advantage. It was time
to let his non-existent hair down, and so Frank began to flirt. He listened for
an accent that was not German, and was rewarded with something close to home:
Finnish. He lifted the bottle and approached the source of the northern
inflections. These were three men in their late forties, discussing hydro
electricity. Frank knew that using their
native language would gain him access to the group, and since his mother was Sami
he had no difficulty in joining them.
“Coal, coal coal; this is all they talk about! Sure they
have tonnes of it in Germany and in.... the larger Germany, but what we want
Herr Hitler to consider is the future. When the Reich reaches out to Russia, as
it must despite all the guff spouted at Stalin, then he will need an endless
source of energy. We have it! Right next to the Russian border. All we need is
the Reich to build some generators and lay some cables.”
The speaker was short, with prematurely thinning hair
which he combed in the style of the Fuhrer. He wore a heavy Swiss watch, and
his eyes were heavy with alcohol and bright with cocaine.
“Do you mean that Germany can take Russia with electricity?”
asked Frank, sipping his Paulliac to avoid the powerful vodka offered. The man
put his arm around Frank’s shoulders and brought his red lips to Frank’s ear.
“They will be fucked if they don’t have it! We just need
to convince one man,” and he shot a glance at the women Frank had identified as
bodyguards, “one, very important man, and Finland will be a major power in the
Reich.” He let his tongue rest against Frank’s earlobe, waiting for the
response. Frank let his hand fall below the table and brushed the man’s
stiffening penis. Frank felt his own penis rise, but not because of this
flirtation: he sensed a means of escape, and intended to use it. He rubbed the
cloth beneath his fingers and the man almost gasped. This was his ticket to
freedom, and he was enjoying its purchase.
“I can help you, I think. Where can I meet this important
person?” He let his hand rest.
“He is in one of the private rooms, with a .... with a
friend. Would you like to go to the private rooms?”
Frank had his plan now. He let his fingers run the length
of the man’s penis. “In the right company, I would be delighted.”
The man looked over to the bar and an agreement was made.
He stood and pulled Frank up by the hand, which he then quickly pressed back to
his groin. A ten million Mark note changed hands and they swept past the two female
bodyguards into the private area beyond the bar. Frank looked back at his
shadow; he was clearly disturbed by the proceedings, but in very unfamiliar
surroundings. Frank hoped that he would have enough time before his shadow hit
the panic button.
The private rooms were not just a number of cubicles
devoted to sex, there was a bar area in which the normal social behaviours were
abolished. Frank’s partner indicated a man sandwiched between two Asian boys. “That
is the Fuhrer’s supplies advisor. We will talk to him when his mouth, and ass,
are free. Let us have some champagne, since I note you prefer the French style.”
“I love to feel it fizzing in my throat,” replied Frank,
giving the man’s penis a gentle twist. The man opened his trousers at the same time
as ordering the champagne, and Frank felt the tight testicles. He let his
finger dip into the anus “But let us go to one of the rooms to enjoy this
properly.”
Ten minutes later Frank found himself in a deserted lane,
one thousand million marks in his pocket, blood on his fingers, semen in his
ass and free of the concentration camp. It had been an excellent evening all
round