The Street Had No Name

Chapter 17

BERLIN, 1942

Von Triffel felt the movement in the fabric; things were afoot. He wished he was away from here and able to move in the realms made available to him with the Great Powers. Here, peasant magic was all that was needed and all he could access. He had to attend the meeting, time to sort out this Himmler character. He needed to make sure that they were abiding by the rules The Order had fashioned for them.

As Von Triffel was fond of saying, a dog is of no value off the leash. They believed to a man that they were special, privileged and supreme. They could not see that they were nothing without the assistance Von Triffel offered. Truth was they were a means to an end and the world they had created just a place The Order could profit and control. As Master of The North, it was his job to keep these fools in line so that was what he was off to do. It caused him angst to think that he was wasting time that could be spent finding The Scroll. He smiled at this thought though, time was relative and something he had read recently, something said by someone somewhere, he couldn’t think of the man’s name but knew him to be a Jew.

Yes it was so; time was extremely relative. Although he, Manfred Von Triffel, was able to alter the relativity a little so perhaps this time and place was not that important.

He left his office, a single red document box in his hand, and made his way to the meeting. He had dressed conservatively for the meeting; a grey silk suite, white linen shirt and silk tie, gold cuff links, black leather brogues and a small Nazi party badge on the lapel the only trapping of office in this world.

Everything about the place was overstated, he strove to understate in everything thus having the opposite effect, and it did. People deferred to him as they had always. He demanded their respect without saying a word. Those that knew of his station, at least the station he had fashioned in the make-believe that was the Reich saw him as the Rasputin of this modern day Tsar. On the other hand, those that knew him in his true position, as grand architect of the North, as grand master of The Order knew him to be both Rasputin and the Tsar combined and thrice as deadly.

He was a man born into a clandestine greatness and was very good at his job. Today, he would give the wheels of the German Fascist machine a bit of an oil, like some guardsman at a backwater station, walking along hitting the hubs with his wooden stick, making sure that all was well and ready to roll.

Then; The Scroll.