Chapter 92: Puppet Project
Kant Street.
As one of the few town districts in Berlin, it lacked the scale and cohesion of a true overseas settlement like Hamburg. Berlin's social atmosphere remained too conservative for that. Rather than forming a clean and established enclave, the area had become a loose gathering point for immigrants from East Asia and West Africa, with the Asian community as its center.
Its mixed population also made it a place where all kinds of people could hide.
Spies from various countries moved through its streets. Political activists of different beliefs met in tea houses, back rooms, and rented apartments. Ideas, rumors, intelligence, and danger all circulated here in equal measure.
The newly established Internal and External Intelligence Department had therefore been placed here.
In the early morning, the street slowly came alive.
Children chased one another around the front of a tea house, each holding strings of unlit firecrackers. Their chubby faces were full of the carefree delight that only children could possess.
A middle aged man in a suit, wearing a short beard, noticed them at once. He turned and scolded a young man behind him in a low voice.
"Tobi, what are you doing? Go manage your younger siblings. Tell them to put those firecrackers away. I'll receive the foreign guests."
Jörg sat by the window, quietly taking in the scene outside.
The lanterns swaying overhead and the couplets pasted on both sides of the doorway made him realize something he had nearly forgotten.
Tomorrow was the Spring Festival.
He had been in this world too long, and he had been too busy for too long. Busy enough that he had nearly stopped paying attention to a festival he had once celebrated for more than twenty years.
The owner approached the table, smiling cautiously.
"Sir, are you here for a meal? The dishes here may not suit your taste, but we can still provide bread and sausages."
His German was clumsy and thick with an accent, just barely understandable.
Jörg had been considering breakfast. Compared to Britain, which somehow managed to turn fish into something tragic, Germany's cuisine was already respectable by European standards. But breakfast remained intolerably repetitive.
Black coffee, bread, sausages, boiled eggs.
Always the same things.
He turned his gaze toward the owner and answered.
"No need. Do you have a basket of shrimp dumplings and steamed spare ribs with black bean sauce?"
The owner froze.
Then his eyes widened with delight.
"Yes, yes! Of course. Would you also like a basket of steamed Bun?"
"Bring that too," Jörg said. "And a cup of black tea. As for them, bread, sausages, and coffee."
He glanced toward the plainclothes guards seated at the nearby tables.
The owner nodded rapidly.
Jörg reached for a mark note, but the man quickly waved both hands.
"No need, sir, no need! This meal is on me. On me!"
Jörg shook his head.
That was one of the things he disliked most about eating in public. It always caused a stir. He took out a stack of U.S. dollars instead and set it down on the table.
At that exact moment, two children ran up the stairs from the first floor.
One of the guards immediately shifted, his hand almost going to his weapon, but after seeing Jörg's glance and confirming with a quick sweep that the children carried nothing but firecrackers, he eased back into his chair.
The owner turned pale at the sight.
He hurried over and pulled the two children to his side, preparing to scold them, only to hear this blond haired, blue eyed foreigner speaking.
"It's fine. I've rented this floor. This should be enough to cover your losses."
Jörg then crouched slightly, pinched the little girl's round cheek, and placed two dollar bills into the children's hands.
"Happy New Year."
The little girl stuck out her tongue and stared at him with wide, curious eyes.
The owner finally relaxed. He pulled the children away so quickly it was almost comical. Looking down at the crisp banknotes in his hand, he could not help feeling that this guest did not quite seem like a guest at all.
Still, that was not his concern.
A man who dressed this way, traveled with armed escorts, and paid with dollars as though they were scraps of paper was obviously a person of consequence. So the owner hurried into the kitchen himself and personally began preparing the shrimp dumplings.
Not long afterward, Heide arrived.
He had clearly rushed over as soon as he got up, and now stood at the doorway with a stack of documents pressed against his chest. After receiving permission, he stepped forward and respectfully asked, "Sir."
Jörg gestured toward the seat opposite him.
"Sit down, Heide. How is your Russian coming along?"
Heide's body immediately stiffened. His heart leapt into his throat, and he answered by quickly reciting several common Russian phrases he had memorized.
Jörg listened, then waved the matter aside.
"Enough. I'm not here to find fault with you today, but to assign a mission. Is this the list of spies going to the Soviet Union Military Academy?"
He took the list, turned a few pages, and casually scanned the attached photographs.
"It's a preliminary list," Heide replied. "Only the first man is someone I've fully confirmed as reliable and capable. His name is Udel Yori. He speaks Russian, has Ukrainian blood, is highly persuasive, and possesses a certain degree of military knowledge."
Jörg nodded, then closed the folder.
"Since I have already given you the authority, I will not interfere in your personnel selection. But if something goes wrong, you will be responsible."
He placed the list back on the table.
"I came here today to give you a broader direction. Soviet Union is only one front. I need you to continue identifying and cultivating a group of loyal agents who can be sent to Britain, France, and the United States."
Heide straightened immediately and pulled out his pen.
Jörg continued in a low, measured tone.
"They are to infiltrate schools, administrative institutions, and all levels of government systems. Ideally, they should also identify and train high ranking officials in those countries who possess weaknesses, ambitions, or political views we can make use of. Build factions around them. Factions with real political weight and the ability to guide public opinion, and through public opinion, influence national decision making."
Heide began recording every word with extreme care.
"Beyond necessary reporting," Jörg said, "this group does not need to focus on military blueprints or technical theft. Their value lies elsewhere. What I want from them is the ability to disturb the political environment and shape public discourse whenever Germany requires it."
He took another bite of a shrimp dumpling before continuing.
"The confidentiality of these individuals is to be rated at the highest level. Apart from the President, only you and I are to have the authority to review them."
Heide looked up.
"And the military spies, sir?"
"They also need to be expanded."
Jörg lifted his black tea and took a slow sip.
"I will secretly allocate three million U.S. dollars to this group. Apart from the necessary development of intelligence tools and methods, all of it is to be used as operational funding."
Heide's pen paused for a fraction of a second before moving even faster.
"There can be fewer of these nails," Jörg went on, "but they must be sufficiently concealed. Besides the military and police systems, I will have the government open the student archives to you as well. You may select anyone you need."
He set down the teacup and spoke the next words with deliberate clarity.
"This operation is temporarily named Puppet Project."
Heide repeated the name silently as he wrote it down.
"There is no need to rush," Jörg said. "The intelligence services of other countries are not fools. If we are to turn men into our puppets, we will need patience, subtlety, and the ability to recognize the right talent before anyone else does."
His gaze settled on Heide.
"I believe you can do this. Vito has already told me that you possess an unusual gift for discovery. If you can uncover spies inside the police force, then you can certainly find suitable people in the crowd and determine whether their loyalty is genuine."
By then, Jörg had finished the basket of shrimp dumplings entirely. The steamed spare ribs had also been stripped down to bare bones, the black bean sauce leaving only a lingering fragrance behind.
Heide, however, had not touched a single thing.
Food no longer existed for him.
After recording every instruction down to the smallest detail, he straightened and answered, "Yes, sir."
Jörg gave a slight wave of his hand, dismissing him.
Heide rose at once and left with the documents clutched to his chest as though they were ammunition on a battlefield.
Only then did Jörg lift his eyes toward the doorway again.
Vito had been waiting there for quite some time.
Jörg beckoned to him.
"Come in."
.....
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