Rick looked around in the small room through his left eye.

Gray cement walls outlined the ten by fifteen foot space on three sides. The fourth, of course, was bars, thick metal bars arranged in a rectangular cross pattern with spaces too narrow for anyone to slip through. The floor was cement. He looked up and saw that the ceiling was too. It was difficult to measure the distance with only one eye, but he guessed it was maybe ten feet off the ground. On the wall opposite the bars, up high, was a small rectangular open space, also filled with bars.

For the first time in his life, Rick was in a cell.

Only this time, his jailers weren’t the police. Or even Americans. He was in Germany and his captors hadn’t followed any of the rules of justice he knew of. He certainly didn’t expect any of this. In 1943 maybe, but that was twenty years before he popped out of his mother’s womb.

He sat up on the thin dark blue blanket covering his ‘bed’ and turned his head to look once more at the tall youth dressed in an all gray uniform.

The only colors on him were the black swastika patch on his left arm band. And the angry color of hate in those blue eyes. He glared back at Rick while he twitched the short wooden baton hanging from his belt.

Rick wondered if it was the same baton which had beaten his sides so severely. There was no way to tell. They had kept on beating him until he blacked out with pain.

And woke up in this hellhole of a cell.

Rick turned to the small high window. Was it his imagination or did it seem a little darker than the last time he looked? Or was it from a cloud passing overhead? The window was so high, almost at the ceiling level, that he couldn’t see the ground level outside. He couldn’t even tell if he was in a city or in the country.

The breeze of cool air from that wall told him the window space was open to the outside. He sniffed and thought he smelled fresh cut hay. Since he couldn’t hear the sounds of traffic, he concluded he was in the country.

Which meant he had been taken from the café in Cologne and transported while he was unconscious. He could be anywhere in Germany now. He didn’t even have any idea how long he had been out. At the speeds some Germans traveled these days, he could be hours away from Cologne.

But one thing was clear. From the German cross insignias on his guard’s cap and chest, he was probably still in Germany.

He felt a bit cramped and straightened up his shoulders, only to be greeted by a sharp stab of pain in his chest. Something hurt him in his right eye and he put his hand up to it. Ouch!

He looked up around and found a stainless steel sink with a small mirror above it. With difficulty and plenty of pain in his chest and legs, he stood and made his way to the mirror.

And was greeted by the face of a monster.

His right eye was almost lost in a puff of swollen tissue surrounded by black skin. He touched it tenderly and noticed blood on his fingers. Probably his own. The right side of his mouth was puffed up too and he could make out a crack in his lips. The whole right side of his face looked like it belonged to someone else, maybe Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

He turned the two faucets and got only cold water. Carefully, he rinsed the blood off his hands and then splashed cold water on his face. Surprisingly, it felt good.

His handler, Karla, had told him this might happen, but of course, one never expected it. It just seem so unreal, all of it. After all, Germany and America were allies now.

“Get some rest, Amerikaner!” blurted out the guard. “Tomorrow you go before the tribunal for a taste of our kind of justice!”

Rick returned to his bed and sat. He lowered his face into the palms of his hands, carefully, of course, to minimize the pain, resting most of the weight of his head on his left hand. The trouble with being in a cell was having nothing to do while you faced whatever future someone else decided. He took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

How the hell did I get myself into this mess?

#

It all started years ago, back in Ann Arbor, when he got a call from Loren Blackwell, Vice President for International Development of Smithson Corporation. At the time, Rick wondered what the man would want with him since in all his years at the firm, he had little to do with any part of the firm’s overseas operations. Heck, he hadn’t even been out of the country.

He closed the door to the man’s spacious office and stared at the bald, heavy set fellow behind the large dark wood desk, set against a backdrop of bright sky from two walls.

“How’d you like to serve your country?” asked Blackwell.

Rick thought that was an unusual question to be asked at the office. Little did he know how much his life would be changed in the next five minutes. That short meeting lead to an opportunity--and a danger--unlike any he had ever faced before.

Smithson had a working arrangement with the federal government in which a few selected employees, carefully screened by the government, were invited to participate in special ‘assignments’, often overseas.

Rick was proud that he was chosen to help his country. The idea of being a part-time agent appealed to his sense of adventure, too. Inside every man is a little boy who used to play James Bond at one time or other, even if only in his imagination. Besides, there would be a bonus for these special assignments. It would be enough to get that Mitsubishi two-seater he wanted and he wouldn’t have to declare the money on his income taxes.

Two weeks later, he landed at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in Arlington County, Virginia, just outside of the nation’s capital. Two men in a sedan with very dark windows took him on a long ride to Langley for a two-week training session on the 258 acre ‘campus’.

He still remembered walking across that large marbled floor, stepping on the huge circular seal of the Central Intelligence Agency, wondering if he was doing the right thing for his family. But inside was a little boy who marveled at being invited into the inner workings of the nation’s most famous intelligence organization.

His recruiter had explained how the agency used many non-professional operatives like him, who had excellent cover stories, in roles that spared their highly trained pros from overexposure. Rick was surprised to learn there were fewer ‘spies’ than he had thought. Almost all the employees in this building were analysts and never went on field assignments. Somehow that made him special.

He was photographed from several angles, including almost naked, fingerprinted twice, weighed, and made to give a blood sample. And of course, asked a gazillion questions about his movements and any organizations he had ever belonged to.

On his second day there, he met Karla Steüben, who was to become the second most important woman in his life, after his wife, Diana. Karla was to be his handler, the key person who not only directed his activities while he was on assignment, but was also his major lifeline to safety if he ever needed it.

The first thing Rick noticed about her was her eyes. Cold, professional, and without feeling. Not once did he ever see her smile. Even though she was four inches or so shorter than he and he expected a woman’s handshake, he was caught off guard by the power of her grip. This woman meant business, all the way.

They told him he would not be needed very often, per the agreement with his employer to not monopolize his time. Whenever they wanted to talk with him, Karla would make herself visible to him in a discreet manner and when she had his attention, she would tug on her left ear lobe. That was his signal to follow her to a more secure location where they could talk.

He learned self-defense, how to use a few weapons, how to use surveillance equipment, the Morse Code, and the operational CIA digital code, as well as vital skills to avoid detection while being followed. He spent evenings during the whole training period in a small two-man dormitory style room on campus and never got to visit Washington, except for a measly three hours prior to his flight back to Detroit.

He made a mad rush to purchase the obligatory gifts for his family. He figured he’d have time on the plane to come up with a good cover story for the business trip he had told Diana he was on.

As he leaned back in his window seat on the plane, he had time to reflect on the past two weeks. While he was so busy in training, he was lost in another world, a world of drama, glamour, and adventure. Now that he was back in ‘civilian’ life, only hours away from walking into the front door of his home, reality nagged at him. This could be dangerous. Spies get killed or arrested. He pictured himself in some cold, lifeless prison, far from home, perhaps out of reach of the American Embassy.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

#

Two months later, his visit to Langley almost forgotten, he toted his briefcase back to his car in the almost empty parking lot, the vehicles lit only by the streetlights. It got dark quick in mid-November in Michigan.

Almost to his car, he noticed a movement along the rows of shrubs. A woman, wrapped in a winter coat and wearing slacks, walked under a light on a tall pole, her face almost hidden in the shadow of her large brimmed hat, and stared at him. Then she tugged on her left ear lobe.

This time they sent him to Berlin. He was to pick up a package in a small camera shop. He was curious what might be in it, but Karla said he shouldn’t be. It was best that he not know.

On the second day in the capital of Germany, he spent six hours at a small plant outside the city training a dozen Smithson employees on the firm’s new project management technology, thankful that he at least knew something about it. His hastily arranged trip left little time to prepare class lessons and material.

That evening, he dined alone in the Frau Lieber Haus restaurant. He carried his small cloth bag, deliberately chosen to be without a label, and walked half way around the block and then turned back, memorizing the faces of the men and women he passed. A hundred yards later, he paused, and turned around again, keeping an eye out for anyone who had been behind him before and now just happened to be coming his way again.

Convinced he was not being followed, he caught a bus and headed north, stopping and changing buses twice more and always checking to see who might get off the same bus.

The night air was cool and he was glad his coat had a lining.

Recognizing a street name from the map he had memorized, he visited a public restroom. Only one overhead light was on and he took a stall at the end close to the light and opened his bag. Removing a small mirror, he hung the strap over the coat hook and arranged it so he could see himself. From his trusty bag, he removed a moustache and eyebrow pencil. Five minutes later, he had darker eyebrows and a fine German moustache. He turned his coat inside out to show its plaid pattern and removed a small cap from one pocket.

Minutes later, he opened the door to a camera shop and casually browsed the display cases, stealing serendipitous glances in the glass case along the wall to see if anyone was watching him. The only other customer was a man wearing a beige trench coat and a miner’s cap, with a scarf around his neck. The man’s nose was bent to the left side of his face. Rick wondered if he had been born that way or had been in an accident.

Maybe because it was his first assignment. Maybe it was just his overactive imagination. But Rick didn’t like the way the man glanced at him.

A portly man wearing plaid suspenders came over and asked with a German accent, “May I help you, mein Herr?”

He fit the description Karla had given Rick, but he had to follow through the procedure. “Yes, do you have a Klaxon 221?”

Frowning, the clerk replied, “Ya, but I think that model vent out three and a half years ago. May I show you a finer but less expensive camera?”

Recognizing the proper answer phrase, he replied, “Yes, that might work, but I have to have it by Tuesday.”

The man’s eyes smiled back every so slightly. The exchange of codes was complete. The man took him to the end of the long display case and opened a drawer. He pulled out a camera on a display case and placed it on the glass countertop.

Rick carefully slid the case over closer and with his left hand, removed the small black pillbox hidden from the view of any other patrons and placed it in his coat pocket, all while apparently turning the camera over to look at all sides with his other hand. “No, this is too complicated. My wife wouldn’t want it.”

The proprietor replied, “I’m sorry, sir, but that is the simplest model I have.”

Rick shook his head. “That’s okay, I was just looking.” He handed the camera back to the man, turned, and left.

Walking out into the cool night air, he turned in the direction he had come. He had gotten only half a block away when he heard a shot from behind him. Tensing up, he expected to feel a sharp pain in his back, but when none came, he slowly turned around to steal a look.

The heavy set shopkeeper lay on the sidewalk, his face contorted in pain, dark red blood spurting from his mouth. His eyes locked on Rick.

A bolt of adrenaline woke up all his senses and Rick recalled his instructions: do not lend aide. Just get the hell out of there and fast!

He spun around and ran, dodging in and out of crowds, heart pounding as he took quick glances behind to see if anyone was following. The stranger in the scarf was less than fifty yards behind.

Fear gripped his legs and Rick ran with all the speed he could muster. A street side meat shop looked busy. He ducked down to hide himself as best he could and ran the last few steps and ducked inside. Shoving people aside as needed, he made his way to the back of the shop, ignoring the protests of the butchers. He took off his coat as he made his way along racks of skinned pigs and slabs of beef.

He slipped on a piece of dark red meat on the floor and caught himself on a cart handle. It would not do to break a leg now!

He inverted his coat once more and donned it just in time to see the exit door. He stripped off his moustache as he ran for it. In seconds he was outside, where he turned back in the direction to the camera shop, keeping his hat pulled down almost over his eyes. When he got to the street corner, he slowly lifted his face and scanned the crowd. The scarfed man stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, not thirty yards away, looking in every direction.

Rick pulled back to hide behind the edge of the wall, waited a few seconds, and stole another peek. Scarf man walked back toward the camera shop, shaking his head. When he was out of sight around the corner, Rick quickly stepped out and went the other way, panting with fear.

Thirty minutes later and with many, many glances behind him, Rick entered the hotel. When he got to his room, he doffed his coat and hat and went directly into the bathroom. He lifted the seat of the toilet and lost his dinner.

He slept little that night, trying to get the eyes of the shopkeeper out of his head.

#

Over the next three years, he had only short assignments, twice in England, once with a brief stopover in Paris. Every time Karla contacted him, his nerves went on alert as he recalled the face of the shopkeeper. But each mission turned out to be uneventful. Oh, he was nervous. He thought he’d always be nervous, never knowing when something might go wrong again. That tension only seemed to heighten the experiences. Deep in the inner recesses of his mind, though, he knew that if he kept at this long enough, the odds might catch up with him.

Once he delivered an envelope to a guy who appeared on the news two days later in an expose of a British double agent. That was exciting! Maybe what he did was having a real effect, even if in some small way. He wanted so much to tell Diana about it, but Karla showed him a photo of a federal prison. That deflated his enthusiasm.

He never spent much time with any other agents. Karla told him she preferred it that way so he would remain fresh and unknown to the professionals. She told him that might save his life some day.

He took to drinking more when traveling. It became a handy way to wash out the loneliness and fear. And the memory of the old man’s face, tightened up in pain, his eyes staring from inside Rick’s eyelids. Those goddamned eyes!

Then he was sent to Cologne, Germany.

He would have preferred an assignment anywhere else, but this time Smithson Corporation had a valid reason for him to be there. His new project management methodology won favor with higher management and he was sent to Cologne, or Köln, as they call it there, to teach the entire quality control and development teams the new official corporate way to track projects.

Rick was better prepared to teach this time, but memories of his visit to that country’s capital nagged his short nap over the Atlantic Ocean. When his plane touched down on the runway outside the sprawling city, his shoulders muscles tensed up.

What if he met scarf man again? Would the man recognize him? Surely not. Berlin was almost three hundred miles away.

He checked into his hotel and called Antony, his friend and fellow employee of Smithson. Antony had arrived in Bonn, just a few miles south, three days earlier. They made arrangements to meet at the company office later the next day.

Fatigued drained on Rick so he took a two-hour nap, followed by a quick shower. He was about to go downstairs to get something to eat when the phone rang.

A familiar deep female voice said, “Sorry, wrongest number.”

The code word ‘wrongest’ alerted him. He went down the elevator, found her in a booth in the bar, and slid in across from her. Her eyes were hard. As if she had seen so much pain she was beyond feeling it anymore.

The news was not good. A group of neo-Nazis had taken his darker-skinned friend Antony and threatened to shoot him unless the police released a female member of their group.

Karla filled him in. Relations between Germany and the US had turned sour because neo-Nazis were allowed to demonstrate in Chicago. The Federal Republic of Germany feared any revival of the political party that had brought so much devastation to their country and pursued a policy of harsh persecution of any Nazi activity. When the police had arrested the wife of the party’s leader on a charge of bank robbery, the neo-Nazis wasted no time in retaliating and captured a non-white employee of a hated American corporation. They threatened to execute him in less than two hours.

Karla told him something else that caught him off guard. Antony also worked for the Company, as the CIA called itself. Antony was observing several of the Nazis when he was taken. Unfortunately, the Company was short handed in this sector.

She added, “We don’t have much time to try a rescue. Would you be willing to come along as a spotter?”

He took in a deep breath and sighed. He was surprised to learn his friend was working for the CIA. “How long has he been working for the Company?”

“Several years. Before you.”

Well I’ll be damned. He never let out even a hint. Perhaps that was part of the reason why his friend traveled so much around the world.

“We running out of time,” she said quietly. She pulled up a paper bag from next to her and placed it on the table.

He could see the handle of a gun. That’s when the reality of all this hit him. Antony was in serious trouble. And now Rick was going to carry a gun on the streets. Jesus!

An hour and a half later, Rick stood on the corner of Domtraße and Unter Krahnenbäumen, once again in his overcoat with the hat pulled down. The weight of the gun pulled on his right pocket.

It was dark and few people walked the sidewalks on this Sunday evening. It never ceased to amaze him why they closed up almost all the stores on Sundays. They complain of high unemployment, but are still stuck in the old ways.

He could feel the low rumble of a freight train from Colonaden Hauptbahnhof Köln, three blocks away. He glanced down Unter Krahnenbäumen all the way to the St. Marien Hospital, blocking his view of the Rhine River. He recalled walking down the waterfront the night before, looking at the large ships docked there.

A few German folk made their ways on the sidewalks, bent over from the wind. A storm was headed their way from the North Sea. Already he felt chilled. And out of place.

In his left ear was the receiver of a cell phone, with its thin cord running down his neck to his shirt pocket. The microphone was just under the label of his coat.

He lifted the small map and opened it to review the photos of the Nazis he was to keep a lookout for. Something about the fourth one looked familiar, despite the short beard, so he studied the face--and caught his breath. Scarf man from the camera shop! Yes, there was the bent nose. And those eyes. An image of the scene in the camera shop came back, with the eyes of the shopkeeper as he laid on the sidewalk, staring back at him. He remembered the whole scene as well as his nightmares since then.

A breeze tousled the edge of the map and brought his attention back to the street. He had to remain focused, so he shook his head to clear it. How long had he been distracted by memories? He turned his wrist to check the time on his watch. If the bastards kept their word, Antony would be dead in twenty minutes.

Halfway down the block on Unter Krahnenbäumen, a van with two men in the front seat pulled over and stopped, but nobody got out. Adrenaline pumped up Rick to full alertness. Even so, he was unprepared for the sudden poke in his back.

“Don’t move, Amerikaner, if you hope to live!”

A heavy German accent was unmistakable. Stunned, Rick froze. A hand brushed the left side of his neck and jerked the cell phone from his ear and coat. Strong hands pulled him back from the corner and spun him around. Two men, wearing ski masks and mean looking eyes, pulled him with them a few paces and then into a side door. Rough hands patted him down and quickly found the gun.

“Und vat did you have in mind with this, Amerikaner?” The speaker shoved him forward and he followed one of them up a long flight of steps. They turned right into a small room, bare except for a single wooden chair in the middle. And two more men in masks. He figured the chair was for him, but apparently not yet.

A sharp pain in his right side brought a scream from his lips. Another pain came in his back. And another. And another. He tried to get away but someone shoved him and he fell.

He turned and raised his arms to defend himself and saw the men lift long batons in the air to beat him.

Blows came so fast he couldn’t stop them. The pain was horrible! Blow after blow after blow all over his body. Then something hit him in the face and he blacked out.

#

The young guard with the hate-filled blue eyes stared at him from just outside his small cell. It was getting darker and colder.

Rick wondered if his guard was one of those who had beaten him. Probably. But he couldn’t see any faces behind those ski masks. The guard mentioned a tribunal tomorrow. So I have a few more hours.

He thought of Diana and his kids. So far away now. Safe, back in America.

Please God, get me out of here!

He was hungry and thirsty, so he struggled with the pain to get up and return to the sink. Using his hands as a small bowl, he sucked water from the tap. Very brackish tasting, too, but a dying man is not so fussy. He looked up to examine his eye in the mirror. At least the bleeding had stopped.

The scared man who stared back at him was almost unrecognizable. He started shaking and couldn’t stop. His jaw quivered and he felt nauseous. Sure enough, up it came. He leaned over the sink and emptied his stomach.

It was mostly liquid and he was able to rinse it away and wash his mouth out with more water.

Voices. Were they coming? He turned to the cell door, alert, and breathing faster.

More voices. Shots! He counted three shots. Shouting. Screaming.

He quickly looked around for some place to hide and struggled against his pain to pull the blue blanket and thin mattress off the springs. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the springs, pulling the mattress up in front of him.

More shouting. More shots. Some automatic weapon this time. Screaming! My God! People are being gunned down! These guys are madmen!

Shaking, knowing he was going to be one of the dead in just a few seconds, he hid behind the thin mattress and looked up.

The guard in front of his cell was gone.

Then silence.

Voices. In English. “Rick! Where are you?”

That was Antony’s voice!

“In here!” He was surprised at how weak his voice sounded. He tried again, louder. “In here!”

“He’s alive!”

Footsteps. Then three men and a woman in front of his cell. He recognized Karla! They shook the cell door. Then a man said, “Stand back!” He aimed his automatic pistol at the lock and fired several times.

Rick ducked, hoping no bullets would ricochet and hit him. His thin mattress would offer scant protection from flying lead.

The cell door swung open and strong hands ripped the mattress from his fingers. They pulled him out from under the bed springs and helped him stand. He winced from the pain of their hands on his sore arms.

“Rick, you look like hell!” Antony rushed up and hugged him, causing a pain in his chest.

“We’ll have time for that later,” commanded the cold voice of Karla. “We have to get outta here before more of those ass holes come!”

#

When he got back to the States, he told Diana he was in a car accident and the Company provided photos of wrecked cars to back up his story. Naturally, the Company paid for all his medical bills and fortunately for him, his wounds were superficial and healed quickly. Even the swelling in his face went away in a week with proper medication. The chest pains lasted a bit longer though.

One thing was certain. He told the CIA he was through with the so-called glamorous life of a spy.

Smithson gave him a month off and he took Diana to the Caribbean to try to shake the memories from his dreams at night.

#

Five years and a few more pounds later, his secret past life was all but forgotten. He dove back into the mundane problems of an engineering company. In the evenings, he went back to school to get his MBA and made plans for a better life. Money was tight again. College tuition was so high these days and he had two girls to help out.

Antony continued to travel a lot, much to Rick’s surprise. His friend seemed to relish the dangerous life. But he doesn’t have as many kids as I do to worry about and provide for.

There were times when he thought back over the old days. The excitement of a mission on his own. Danger on every corner, or so it seemed. Being in a foreign land, doing what he did, was courting the highest danger. Part of him still had nightmares. But the little boy in him still remembered playing James Bond.

He wanted so much to tell Diana about it, but Karla reminded him of his signed statement and that he would go to prison for revealing any of his experiences. The whole thing about Antony and him being kidnapped never even made the news. And of course, the Company never explained its actions.

How long ago was that last mission? Five years. Gosh, it didn’t seem that long ago. He sighed. I’m getting too old for that kind of life. Why the heck did I do it in the first place?

This is better. A steady job. A house that needs some repair but is almost paid for. Grandkids. Only a few years away from my last child support payment. Maybe we can have some real money then. There’s never enough. I’d like to take Diana to Europe like she wants. To England and France. But not Germany. No. Not Germany.

“Rick! Are you coming out?” Diana’s voice came from the patio.

He went to the back door and stepped out. He smiled to his many family and friends who had come to celebrate his new MBA degree. Then he walked out to a table near the garage door to get a beer out of a cooler and turned.

There on the far edge of the crowd, out on the driveway, was a strange man. He looked closer. Even at this distance, he recognized the figure. It wasn’t a man, but a woman disguised as a man. Short hair, cap, thin jacket zipped up, small moustache. A woman he never thought he’d see again.

She stared back into his eyes. Then slowly, she raised her left hand.

And tugged on her ear lobe.