Whoever passed number 24 in the otherwise unremarkable side street off the Wasserstraße in Stralsund, near the Ozeaneum, might have expected many things: perhaps an architecture firm, an environmental initiative, a startup for vertical gardens. But certainly not what actually hid behind the mirrored façade.
A building of glass and steel, draped in greenery up to its roof. Hanging gardens spilled down balconies and façades as though the forest had reclaimed the structure, though every branch was planned, every plant deliberately chosen. A climate concept not meant for public view. Only a closer look revealed the shaded panes, the discreet mirrored doors, the utterly silent elevators.
On the top floor, with its wide view of the Baltic, lay an office of ruthless efficiency. Touch displays embedded in glass, luminous lines in the floor, a floating screen above a dark wooden table. In the distance a sailboat slipped slowly along the coast. Gulls passed in flight. A ferry bound for Trelleborg moved across the horizon.
Lars sat relaxed in a designer chair, an Italian shirt loose over jeans, a watch on his wrist discreet but costly. Opposite him Felix, bare feet in minimalist shoes, legs crossed, wearing that smile of his that always hovered on the edge of arrogance. Both watched the woman leaning against the desk before them, her long legs crossed.
She wore a simple black dress, cut in a way that made its price unmistakable. Her hair was silver-blond, perfectly arranged. No jewelry but a single ring set with a deep blue sapphire. Her posture was flawless. And when she spoke, her voice was calm, precise.
“Usedom?”
Lars nodded. “All as agreed. Lotta Kaspar has signed. The relatives believe we are hospice care, end-of-life companions. No suspicion.”
“TZSFC injected?”
Felix answered, “Dosage as ordered. Four units.”
“How much longer would she have had without the serum?”
Lars shrugged lightly. “A week. Ten days at most. The woman was beyond treatment.”
“Scan completed and tattoo applied?”
“Of course. Everything is under control, as always.” Lars tapped the display before him. A schematic figure appeared, colored in yellow, red, and violet. “Breakdown of cell nuclei in liver and lungs, critical stage. Serum index at thirty-seven. Should hold steady now, at least for the time being.”
The woman gave the faintest nod. “Did she want a life insurance policy?”
Felix grinned. “No. She preferred to donate directly. Let us say a generous fee for four weeks of upright, decent living. Her heirs are already well provided for. Real estate, assets, a stock portfolio. Fortune always piles upon fortune.”
The woman’s eyes cut to him, sharp. “In future, speak precisely. Not in vulgar proverbs.”
“Understood,” Felix muttered.
“Did she ask for anything else, instead of the policy?”
“A further injection. Of course for an additional payment.”
The woman turned her gaze toward the window, where the Baltic gleamed. Her voice was as cool as a climate chamber.
“They all want that. They haggle for minutes, for hours. But they do not grasp that they are meant for something greater.”
She fell silent. None of them dared interrupt.
The woman still stood at the window. The sight of the glittering water seemed to give her strength, yet her voice remained cold. “The forensics lab has been cleared. Its contents are with the rest of her belongings in the southern bunker. Ready for destruction. It is time we continue cleaning house. Such mistakes cannot happen again.”
Lars turned toward her. “Those bunkers hold treasures, history spanning seven centuries. A shame, really.”
She gave the slightest shrug. “I regret it as well. But better that everything be destroyed. None of it is needed anymore. That was only the beginning. We are in the midst of it now.”
Felix tapped at his tablet while Lars leaned back in his designer chair. Both waited for what would come next. And it came.
“Something else troubles me more at the moment.” She stepped back from the window and sat down, not like someone weary, but like someone conserving strength. “Annika and Lukas have cleared out Meike Tiedemann’s house. All as arranged. But in the Department of Historical Coordination they noticed that two crates are missing. And of all things, the very ones that concern us.”
Felix lifted his head. “Meike was a historian. She dug deep, yes. But there was no direct link to us.”
“There was more than that.” The woman let the words hang in the air a moment, like fine dust. She looked at Lars. “Whoever holds those crates will uncover more than we can afford.”
Lars glanced at Felix. “Then we take them back.”
“Tomorrow… tomorrow you bring in Sina. After that, the performance is over.”
A brief silence. The woman rose and returned to the window. Below, a ferry slid past, gulls cried, somewhere along the promenade a child laughed. She saw none of it.
Softly she whispered, “Meike… we could have become so much more.”
A single tear slid down her cheek, silent, almost unreal. She brushed it away with a gesture born more of defiance than of grief. “You were such a fool.”
She turned back to the two men. Composed again. Cold again.
“We still have much to do.”