Meyer-Hofmann AG

6

The Odeonsplatz got its name from the concert hall and ballrooms built by King Ludwig the First in 1825, the Odeon’s. Built in the classical style of Leo Von Klenze, the building was famous for its great acoustics. The neighbouring Leutenberg Palace, built to house the stepson of Napoleon, had the same ostentatious façade, and the buildings soon spawned a rash of similar developments, turning the newly named Odeonsplatz into Munich cultural centre. That was to change again after the second world war. Due to Munich’s strategic value, the home of companies like BMW and Dornier, the city was the target of intense bombardment. The destruction that it reaped was extreme, leaving only the two buildings’ façades and a few columns standing when the war was over. The reconstruction led to the Odeon being rebuilt, but this time, to house the Ministry of the Interior, whilst the Leutenberg Palace was rebuilt to house the Ministry of Finance. At that time, the allies were making themselves busy tracking down the Third Reich’s ill-gotten gains, so it would not have been prudent for Meyer-Hofmann to be seen to have any major assets during that period. But their close connection with the emerging German government allowed them to channel large sums of money into the country’s reconstruction, and especially the two government buildings on Odeonsplatz. As thanks for this support, Meyer-Hofmann was able to acquire a large plot of land directly opposite the Odeon’s. It ran from the corner of Brienner Street to Gallery Street. They immediately set to work on the prestige project, building shops and offices around small gardens known as Hofgarden, reserving only a corner of the property on Gallery Street for their use, which later became their private club. Its positioning was perfect—being so close to local government, Meyer-Hofmann was able to keep more than a passing interest in German politics, and those of Bavaria.

Thanks to their special relationship with the Bavarian Government, there was little problem with planning permission. The plans received only a cursory look from town planners before being passed, which allowed Meyer-Hofmann to be imaginative with their designs. The exterior of the buildings was classical, complementing the grandeur of the Odeonsplatz and the Palace. Where the real innovation had been used was below ground. Like many new German buildings, the entire structure was built on concrete cellars. What the plans did not show, was that these cellars were two storeys deep. The lower floor appeared nowhere on the official plans and covered both buildings and gardens. Had a planner taken time to visit the site during construction, he may well have questioned the depth of the foundations. But at that time, there was building taking place all over the city, and the last place to suspect violations was directly opposite Government buildings.

The secret basement rooms ran the full length of the buildings and gardens, with access through the elevator and stairs in the club. Like many basements, they housed storage and amenities. The basement was totally self-sufficient. With its power and water supply, it had been built to survive a direct hit from a non-nuclear device. It was typical of Meyer-Hofmann’s philosophy, being thorough and conscientious, as well as brutal and uncompromising. These basements would protect their more sensitive files, and three rooms of over two hundred square metres had been dedicated to record keeping. Next to the rooms were libraries, which were later updated to hold computers and modern communications. A large store room would also be converted to hold the bank of servers, which constantly hummed in the background and became the hub of Meyer-Hofmann’s data storage. Long corridors connected the labyrinth of rooms and offices, clearly signposted to help members of staff find their way around the maze. Security was a priority, and Von Klitzing’s signature could be seen at every corner. Guards were posted throughout the basement; Von Klitzing believed that trust was good, but control was better. You could not enter the Meyer-Hofmann basement without being controlled. Should anyone enter the Meyer-Hofmann lair uninvited, it would most certainly be a one-way ticket. The guards had their rooms and an impressive armoury in the middle of the basement, the most secure of which was the interrogation room. Sealed by a steel door, its walls and ceiling were insulated by soundproofing materials, making it look like an empty recording studio. The illumination was provided by strip lighting mounted along the edges of the ceiling, and an impressive group of spotlights hanging on a small aluminium scaffold in the centre. Mounted on the wall next to the door was a red fire hose, but that was the sum of the decorations on the dull grey-panelled walls. The room held only three pieces of furniture. In its centre was a high-backed oak chair, which would have been at home at a medieval dinner table. It had been secured to the polished concrete floor, above a drain sunk into the middle of the room. Thick leather straps were attached to the chair’s back, arms, and legs by solid steel bolts drilled through the hardwood. The chair’s seat had been removed, giving access to the drain below it, and leaving just a sharp wooden rim to take the weight of its occupant. By the wall sat a small metal table on wheels, of the type commonly found in hospitals. The table had three shelves. The top shelf held many articles also found in a hospital: syringes and vials, a scalpel, and rubber gloves. The second made more homage to a handyman, holding a hammer, pliers, and screwdrivers, as well as nails and a glue gun. The bottom shelf held a large yellow car battery charger and booster. A single small dial measured the charging current whilst two thick cables dispensed the charge via large bulldog clips on the end of the cables. Next to the table was a strange-looking chair. It was shaped like a saddle and mounted on two large rubber springs that allowed it to move freely around its axis. This assembly was mounted on a more traditional office stool base, allowing it to roll easily over the concrete floor.

Britt Petersen had been strapped to the wooden chair for the past five hours. She was cold and shaking uncontrollably. They had stripped her naked and hosed her down with ice-cold water, before strapping her to the oak chair. She had straps to her ankles, calves, hips, chest, neck, and head, as well as her elbows and wrists.

This is overkill, she thought

The head strap made it difficult for her to even turn her head, and the strap around her neck would cut off her air supply if it was any tighter.

My God, I am a woman, what do they think I am going to do?

The straps cut into her flesh, making any movement painful, and although the room was virtually empty, she felt very claustrophobic. The cold crept up her legs and torso from the wet concrete floor, making an unrelenting journey towards her heart. Once it arrived there, she was sure she would die. The morning had begun full of hope and confidence, but those feelings were now gone, blown away by the logical conclusion that she would not leave this place alive. After her capture, they had brought her straight to this building, and although she did not know exactly where she was, she surmised she was probably being held in the Company’s club. Her escape from Munich had been a disaster. She had known they were looking for her, but she could not run any sooner. She had planned to take a train to Stuttgart, and then Zurich, before catching a plane to Copenhagen, where she could cross the bridge to her hometown of Malmö, in Sweden. But first, she had to set up a safety net, for the eventuality that she did not make it. The information she had collected was dynamite—it would ruin Meyer-Hofmann and all of the bastards on the board, including her husband. She had needed to make sure it reached the public domain, whether she lived or died.

It was impossible to tell what time it was when her cell door finally opened. She recognised Von Klitzing immediately; she had researched all of the current members, as well as their fathers and grandfathers. Von Klitzing’s father had been an Obergruppenführer in the SS. His speciality was interrogation, and if her understanding of the recollection process was correct, he might as well have been the man entering the room. Despite his years, Von Klitzing moved across the room with ease. First steering the hospital trolley to the side of her chair, then wedging the saddle seat between the cheeks of his bottom and gliding expertly across the room, coming to rest exactly in front of her. He had brought a thermos and a glass with him, and proceeded to pour hot brown liquid into the glass. Without speaking a word, he lifted it to her lips, and she drank gratefully. Of course, she had no way of knowing what he was giving her, but whether he injected her or she took his drugs orally, she was in no place to stop him.

It tastes like sugared breakfast tea, but who could tell? she thought.

The main thing was that it was warm, and she felt the frost being pushed back, her life being extended.

A woman’s beauty did not often move Von Klitzing, but he was moved now by the woman in front of him. As the colour flooded back into her cheeks, he felt the urge to help her, to protect her, and even briefly considered it. Pushing himself far enough away from her to see her completely, he sat for a while and thought through his options. His right forefinger pressed into the middle of his lips, and he involuntarily pulled down his bottom lip, revealing the stained, yellow dentures of his bottom jaw.

“Well, well, Mrs Petersen, you led us a merry chase.”

His tone was friendly, but she saw it for what it was, just a game to him, just another inconvenience. She hoped he did not know all of what she had achieved in the past months. He was bound to have a good idea, or she would not be here, but her only chance was to scare him, sow the seeds of doubt in him. Doubt that he had not covered all the bases. That without her, he would be unable to trace every move she had made, and therefore unable to make an informed judgement of the danger that her information presented.

Let the game begin.

“I only have three questions for you tonight. What do you think you know? Who have you told? And where is your evidence? Once you have given me this information, I will let you go.”

Before she had time to consider an answer, she heard a loud thud and a crack. Confusion disrupted her thought process, and then came the pain. Starting in her left hand, it screamed up her arm, ripping its way up to her shoulder. It tore its way around her ear and into her brain, drilling its way into her head, and then exploding out, in a firework display of light, heat, and indescribable agony. She could hear her scream radiating from the pit of her stomach, blasting out through her throat and battering the walls of the room, determined to alert all Munich of her plight. But there it stopped, extinguished by the wall’s insulation. The guard sitting only two metres away, behind the steel door, heard nothing. Her eyes looked down for the source of the pain, and, blurred by tears, they found the hammer’s head buried between the metacarpal bones of her left hand. It lifted slowly out of the crushed mess, revealing her fingers, which were now bent in unimaginable directions. Her pinky finger and ring finger had formed a claw, whilst her middle finger was pointing directly at the ceiling, as if she were giving herself the “bird”. Her forefinger and thumb were twisted at right angles to the right. She made the mistake of trying to force them consciously back into line, before being punished by another brutal bolt of lightning pain. Looking up at Von Klitzing in disbelief, she found herself unable to comprehend what had just happened.

“He gave me no time to answer!” She thought.

Then their eyes met, and she knew. His expression was unchanged. The man showed no emotion; he was a blank. He had no empathy; this was not a game. She was shaking even more now. Shock was starting to set in, and her entire body seemed to be trying to escape its skin.

“Now that I have your attention, Mrs Petersen, I would like an answer to my questions.”

As his tone became more demanding, Britt drew in a deep breath and tried to control herself. Her hand still throbbed so that she dared not move it. She pushed the breath down towards her stomach and held it, while, at the same time, trying to press herself into the chair for support. The lack of a proper seat made this difficult, but she found herself calming down and was able to prepare her lie. But just as she was about to deliver it, her body heaved, her stomach turned, and she erupted. The tea had done its job: she vomited, defecated, then urinated, all involuntarily.

What is happening to me?

She had lost control. Strangely, her main worry was the humiliation.

What must I look like?

She screamed again.

“No…!”

Von Klitzing moved himself swiftly out of the way, allowing the stool to carry him a safe distance from the wretched woman. Experience told him that it would take a few minutes before she was finished. He watched her struggle with her dignity, her face contorting in despair, every ounce of self-respect making a beeline for the drain under her seat. It amused him to watch people reduced to their base form.

They are no better than animals, he thought.

As her stomach spasms finally calmed down, Britt was able to grasp a modicum of self-control. Commanding her body to stop its madness, she fought with herself to show at least a little defiance to the beast sitting opposite her. His eyes hovered over her, relishing her discomfort and pain. She wanted to fight back, to scream her defiance, but fear had the better of her, and she watched as his gaze dropped to the drain. Slowly, he moved back towards her, reaching down towards the grate. She saw an opportunity, and forcing the last dregs from her body, splattered him with all that she had left.

Screaming with anger, the old man jerked back away from her, this time misjudging the stool’s stability as it tilted violently to the left, ejecting him to the ground like a bucking bronco.

A small feeling of satisfaction filled her, watching him haul himself up from the ground, for the first time showing his age, his right arm covered in her shit. Preparing for the next assault, she closed her eyes and braced herself. He stooped towards her, but she felt no impact. Instead, when she opened her eyes, he was standing in front of her with a smug grin on his face, holding a small stained plastic bag in his hand. He now held the first piece of her insurance policy.

The bag contained the USB stick she had hidden earlier in the day, and she watched as he walked calmly to the door, where he passed it to the waiting guard.

“Soon we will know what you know, Mrs Petersen. This is going very well.” He smiled.

Staring at him through disbelieving bloodshot eyes, her mind berated her for being so stupid.

How could he have known? Of course he knew; every novice border guard knows that trick!

After waiting at the door for a while, he returned, pulling something behind him.

This could not be happening; how could he know?

“There are more!” she blurted.

Snot and sick smeared her top lip and chin, and shit was splattered on her legs and feet. The cold water hit her full in the face, as he hosed her down for the second time that day. The water pressure blasted her back into the chair, ripping at her skin like a knife, ice-cold barbs, robbing her of any grain of resistance. When the water moved to her damaged hand, and pain again ravaged her, it seemed even worse than before, clawing at her brain, ripping at her will to live, killing her.

Von Klitzing started the second pass, seeking the stubborn dirt, watching the fight disappear from his victim until she passed out. He shut off the water and returned the hose to the wall mount. A bell sounded, and he opened the door. The young guard handed him a ream of papers, together with a large white bath towel. Returning to her, he placed the papers on the table, and then began to dry her with the towel.

She came back around, with the touch and smell of the soft, clean towelling on her ravaged skin.

He is actually quite gentle, she marvelled to herself.

Starting with her hair, he towelled it dry, before removing the rest of the vomit and excrement from her face, chest, torso, and legs. There was nothing sexual about the way he did this; on the contrary, he moved as if drying a child, firmly, quickly, and with parental authority. When it was over, he threw the towel onto the floor, and the brief interlude in her interrogation was over. Picking up the papers, he took a small pair of eyeglasses from his breast pocket and began to read. She watched him, hoping to see fear in his eyes, but there was no emotion. When he finished, he looked up and spoke to her calmly.

“This is a very comprehensive piece of work, Mrs Petersen. Well done! How many copies did you make?”

The lie sat on her tongue for a second time. She would only have one chance at this. She did not want to spit it at him—he had to believe her.

“Four.”

She tried to keep her voice matter of fact, but could not tell if she had been successful.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

She had no way of knowing if he had found any of the other USB sticks. She only knew he was not surprised to find the one she had hidden up her arse. Finding that, he had probably spared her more pain, but it made her nervous that he knew about the others as well.

“You found one. I sent another one home, to my parents’ house in Sweden.”

He was aware of a package intercepted on the way to her house, but not of its content.

“One is in a safe deposit box at the Commerce Bank in Ottobrunn.”

He knew about this as well. She had bought the box only two days before. As long as she was alive, it would be difficult to get to, but were she to pass away, her husband would be able to access it.

“And the last one, is on its way to the Süddeutsche Zeitung.” She tried to deliver this line with some bravado.

The Süddeutsche was Bavaria’s leading newspaper. It was her big hope. Should the newspaper have the courage to print her evidence, Meyer-Hofmann would be finished.

“Who did you send it to?”

“Michael Hörnig,” she answered without delay, defiant, hopeful of at least a small victory.

Hörnig was the chief investigative journalist at the Süddeutsche and had become renowned for uncovering all manner of corporate scandals.

He would have a field day with this. She smiled to herself, and the thought seemed to help her gain a bit more self-control.

Her body started to settle down, and she was able to sit more upright, despite the rim of the seat digging deeper into her bare flesh.

Von Klitzing also allowed himself an inner smile. He’d had Hörnig in his pocket for years. Many of his biggest stories had been at the expense of Meyer-Hofmann’s competitors. You didn’t need to be a genius to work out who his confidential source was. When Hörnig received the USB stick, they could be sure of his discretion. Von Klitzing thought it through.

She could be telling the truth; it all adds up. She has confirmed my suspicions, and the whereabouts of the sticks makes sense. She was bound to want to keep one on her person, which meant swallowing it, or sticking it in one orifice or another. My special blend of breakfast tea never fails. She would want to make her information public, and the newspaper would have been the perfect choice, were Hörnig the reporter he purported to be. The safe deposit box at the bank does not represent a problem, and the stick she sent home has been secured. I think everything is back under control. I will need to take a look at our security precautions, especially the rules governing our employees spouses, but it would appear the danger has passed. He decided that he believed her; Only saving her findings on the USB sticks makes sense.

His musings had taken some time, and she had watched him pace the floor around her chair. Occasionally examining her, rubbing his chin and ear, scratching his head. Then staring at her, as if he could see into her soul for the answers that he sought. As he paced, she became hopeful that she may escape this with her life. When he stopped in front of her, she looked up at him expectantly.

He had made his decision; he believed her. She breathed a sigh of relief and watched as he reached over to the table.

The realisation, as he took the scalpel in his right hand, hit her in the stomach with an almost physical force. With one swift movement of his right arm, he pulled the scalpel across her neck. Passing between the restraint and her chin, the blade severed the jugular artery, releasing a torrent of her life blood. At first, she was not sure what had just happened. There was no pain, but she had felt the impact. It was the blood that confirmed the severity of the injury. She pulled desperately at her straps, as if she may be able to save herself were her hands free, but to no avail. Again, their eyes met, disbelief in hers, curiosity in his.

In his younger years, in both lives, he may have taken more time with her. But he was getting too old for that, and she reminded him on some level of his daughter, Eva. Still, watching a human being die somehow never got boring. They were all different, and so he contented himself with standing and watching her bleed to death.