Echoes in the Shadows

21

As Major Klauberger was getting dizzy over the possible long consonants at the Gestapo, his office was unexpectedly invaded by a group of unwelcome guests.

"Patray, look — even though it's broken!"

Howard, the blonde-haired pickpocket, excitedly waved a pair of slightly damaged gold cufflinks that he had found in a drawer, showing them off to everyone.

"Keep it down! You idiot, the German soldiers outside will hear us!"

Juliano, a safe cracker, dismissively glanced at Howard before continuing his search for any other lockable places in the room.

"Don't worry... We are under orders to retrieve the British pilot, and as members of the SS, no one in the Wehrmacht dares question our identity —"

Patray, known in the underworld as the "Master of Disguise," pulled out an ornate enameled silver box from the depths of the desk drawer. On opening it, he discovered it was filled with high-quality tobacco, a luxury he hadn't seen in a long time.

"Enough, Andrei, that knife looks shabby... don't bother with it!"

Howard, who had pocketed the cufflinks, turned to look at Andrei, who was holding a dagger with a mottled blade.

"You don't understand, this is a fine blade!"

Andrei responded coolly, his eyes never leaving the damascus steel pattern that revealed the knife's quality.

For the first time, Lieutenant Blayde did not intervene in his subordinates' looting activities during work. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, lost in thought, watching the German patrol soldiers moving back and forth in the yard.

At the same time, in the Netherlands, Gestapo Cryptography Office

"These are probably nulls, intended to mislead our decryption direction..."

While Major Klauberger was on the brink of sleep, Captain Iser's decryption work was still ongoing.

"Besides these, there are nulls; you need to distinguish them carefully!"

Major Klauberger's drowsiness was disrupted by the mention of "nulls". He rubbed his heavy eyelids, his brain foggy as he watched the spirited Gestapo members.

"Nulls are meaningless cipher symbols. They're commonly found in encrypted messages, specifically designed to confuse analysts like us."

Iser dutifully explained these strange technical terms to his Wehrmacht colleague, much like how Klauberger had once explained the "fire control director" at the anti-aircraft gun position.

Yawning, Klauberger found that his brain no longer ignited with an indescribable enthusiasm for anything labeled "military technology", as it once did.

Klauberger shamefully realized he was beginning to adapt to this fate. His once profound sense of military honor and professional responsibility was fading. Even his occasional forays to the anti-aircraft positions, which used to be fueled by a fiery passion, now felt more like a whim. They were akin to the Wehrmacht's supply of synthetic cream desserts, seeking only a fleeting sensory pleasure, leaving nothing but an annoying aftertaste.

In a room bustling with diligent soldiers, Major Klauberger once again felt like an ornamental piece in the grand Third Reich, beautiful yet purposeless.

An hour later, when Captain Iser approached Klauberger, beaming with pride over the newly deciphered information, he was met with the same indifferent, yawning face.

"Is this all?" Klauberger glanced briefly at the concise text on the paper, then nonchalantly pulled out several pages bearing the Nazi eagle from his briefcase, handing them back to Iser along with his own deciphered paper.

"This is based on the interrogation records of the British pilot – seems to match quite closely with what you have here!" Klauberger propped his hand on his brow, feigning sleepiness but actually concealing his real intent to relish in the discomfort of the Gestapo officer.

"You... how did you... manage it!" Captain Iser's every microexpression was a source of satisfaction for the oblivious, code-challenged Wehrmacht major.

"Ah," Major Klauberger drawled lazily, "you probably don't know, in our Wehrmacht, interrogating prisoners of war is a mandatory skill for every officer with front-line experience - of course, strictly within the confines of the Geneva Convention."

In an instant, sparks seemed to fly dangerously around the room. The word "front-line" from Klauberger's mouth particularly grated on the ears of this special group accustomed to battling from their office desks.

Having said his piece, the Wehrmacht major stood up, gracefully raising his right arm in salute to the room full of elite Aryan SS officers. Bringing his boots together with a sharp "snap," he executed a crisp Nazi salute.

"Gentlemen, good night! Heil Hitler!"

This familiar gesture, so common among everyone in the room, now carried an unmistakable undertone of mockery.

Major Klauberger, with a practiced grace characteristic of an old-school Prussian professional officer, grabbed his briefcase and adjusted his military cap with precision. He then left the room with an air of composed elegance.

After his departure, the elite Aryan officers in the room glanced simultaneously at the wall clock. Then, almost in unison, smirks of schadenfreude began to appear on their faces.