Apparatus 33 by Lawston Pettymore (bearly read books TXT) 📕

informed him was most likely the landing zone for a German immigrant. The Mossad found immigration records for a Helmut Gorgass, but no further mention. Helmut Gorgass vanished upon arrival.

However, rumors did circulate describing a foreigner who spoke Spanish with a slight German or Greek accent, an elderly recluse by the name of Procrustes Damastes. Damastes lived on his vineyard estate named ‘Absinto’ and never left the fenced and gated property. As such, no good photograph of him could be acquired without alerting him, possibly sending him back into hiding. Damastes did have a live-in housekeeper of an age that matched sister Kathe’s, but the report made no mention of a dog. Damastes sold his grapes, paid his taxes, caused no trouble for the locals, and was therefore of no interest to either the Brazilian or Israeli governments.

Brazil was still working through their quarrel with Israel over their surreptitious expatriation of the Nazi war criminal and favorite new neighbor, Adolf Eichmann, whom they had been coddling, along with Argentina, since his arrival in 1945. This enmity would not be diminished if they discovered another coterie of armed agents on their soil abducting another esteemed citizen.

With lives and international relations both at risk, the Mossad insisted on solid, court admissible evidence. A blurry photograph that could have been faked, or one of a face that could be altered by a competent taxidermist, would not do. Instead, they required a blood sample, x-rays of known fractures, and/or dental impressions at minimum. Blood samples, x-rays, or dental impressions did nothing to answer Nicolaus’ questions about Pyotr, and he knew Todtenhausen would not volunteer these to anyone in any case.

Mossad’s indifference to the possibility that this Damastes was actually Todtenhausen began to infect Nicolaus’ resolve. The possibility that the truth behind the disappearance of his twin brother would be lost in the fog of the war’s end became a possible outcome. But as he was pondering over a bottle of celebratory Arak, an epiphanic voice screamed in his mind’s ear. The name of the man’s vineyard, Absinto, was the Spanish name for the bitter root used as the basis of Absinthe, known in English as wormwood, and in German as Wermut.

But there was more. He began digging deep in his memory for an opera he had seen a decade ago, he pulled it out, dusted it off, and read it as if cramming for an exam. Damastes was the mythological innkeeper of Greek lore, famous for surgically modifying his guests so they fit his beds perfectly, a metaphor today for the type of logic that bent facts to fit a preferred conclusion. The Romans had the same character in their portfolio, and his name was Procrustes. Todtenhausen’s first name was Procrustes.

By the time the bottle of Arak was empty, Nicolaus had planned the entire mission. Nicolaus was going to Brazil to confront Damastes. He would not wear a bodysuit or a false nose, or glue on a mustache to get x-rays, blood samples, or teeth impressions for the Mossad.

After all, how likely was it that Todtenhausen or Kathe, or even one’s own mother, could recognize a twenty-nine-year-old by a glimpse of that person as an emaciated child twenty years earlier? The only mammal in the room with that kind of memory, and the one to truly fear, was going to be Geronimo, and that beast from Hades would surely have poled back across the Styx years ago.

Instead, Nicolaus was going to Brazil to confront Todtenhausen, trick him into talking, then, with that harpy Kathe watching, kill him.

AGGREGAT 4

DEAD MAN SWITCH

Denouement

I arrived by rental car as arranged for my introductory appointment with Todtenhausen, under the pretense of buying his entire harvest of grapes, bearing a gift in the South American tradition—a carton of wine, labeled by Halina’s capable hands as from an obscure, California wine producer. But only six of the bottles actually contained wine—a German Gewurztraminer, readily available in Israel. Kosher, of course. The other six were filled with a thick paste of fertilizer and some oxidizer, also blended by Halina from available stores on the kibbutz and resealed as if never opened.

A bottle in the center contained a timer that would ignite the other five bottles two hours after being armed unless I reset the timer – a dead man switch - by simply twisting the cork stopper. She assured me the explosion would be biblical, leaving nothing standing within a radius of thirty meters, and nothing alive within forty.

The plan was as unrehearsed as it was unsophisticated. I would keep the charade of being a buyer, presenting the case as a gift, open one of the non-fertilizer bottles, toast our venture, and extract some details in as innocent a manner as possible to avoid rousing suspicion. Todtenhausen’s answers to a few pointed questions that only he could possibly know would be sufficient for me to let the timer expire, well after my departure, of course, and hopefully after finding out more about Pyotr’s demise. Tricking him to confess his identity would be the improbable grand slam hattrick.

I admit that I was not serving this revenge completely cold, or even fully baked.

My foot crunched loudly on the pea gravel of the parking area in front of the casita, the sound surely heard through the open cocina window from which wafted the fragrance of recently served lunch, indubitably a German sauerbraten stew. Old habits die hard, especially culinary ones. I was already reassured that I had found him, and this extra bit of evidence had me shaking like a guilty child lying about breaking a family heirloom.

Hidden by the trunk lid of the car, I set the time to two hours. This conversation will be over in two hours and I’ll be on my way back to my new home in America, or I’ll be dead.

To calm my nerves, I took some deep breaths, and mentally rehearsed my backstory while carrying the heavy case to the casita door. I