The man walked towards them, his eyes low yet sharp. His gaze wandered between the rows of soldiers and officers. Flanked by two tall soldiers, he arrived before General Sperrle.
Sperrle saluted him and Franco replied with the same gesture after a second of hesitation.
Franco saluted and shook hands with each of the high ranking officers. When he reached Paul, he stopped for a second longer. Their eyes met. It was an intense showdown.
"You..." Franco began, "are the legendary Major?"
Paul was surprised. Firstly that Franco managed to speak German somewhat and secondly because of the supposed nickname he had been given.
"Please, Sir, everything we achieved was by working together, I only played my part." Paul said, thinking silently: This is where you are modest.
Franco chuckled. "Of course, always modest." Then he motioned for Sperrle to go inside. The rest of the officers followed.
A small meeting followed. Franco shared his satisfaction with the Condor Legion and asked Sperrle to personally thank the Führer for his generosity. The group discussed military topics such as the coming of the tank or political topics like the growing Soviet Union.
When they finished, Sperrle led the group to a special room.
The group was greeted by about a dozen people. Some of them were guards assigned to the doors and walls. Others were holding down men wearing Spanish brown military uniforms.
"A present," Sperrle said towards Franco.
The dictator stepped forward, mustering the men before saying something in Spanish.
The men looked at each other before shouting something and spitting in Franco's direction. He stepped away quickly enough.
The guards tightened their grip, yet one of them still managed to raise his head. When his eyes met Paul's, they went wide with madness.
The burly man began shouting in broken German: "IT'S YOU, YOU BASTARD. HE FAILED, HE FAILED."
Paul raised an eyebrow before giving Sperrle a look for approval and stepping forward. He kneeled down, pulling the man's head up to his by using his long and oily hair.
"General Marques, were you the one who ordered my death?" Paul asked, his voice threateningly low.
Marques looked at him for a second, baffled, before he began laughing hysterically.
"You are a demon. Demon. Hell. DEMON." He shouted, spitting in all directions.
Paul distanced himself from the madman, searching for Franco.
"Your Excellency, may I interrogate this man. I believe he has important information." Paul asked, looking for the translator beside the dictator.
After Franco received everything through his translator, he nodded slowly.
"Major. You have given me Madrid, how can I not give you a small, fat General in return? I am not awful," Franco said, chuckling, before turning once again.
A dark room under the city hall of Madrid
"AHHH." Shouts of pain filled the tiny, cold room. The moisture was nearly sensible.
"Oberst Klausemann." A cold, quiet voice formed the words.
There was no answer. Only screams echoed through the night, painting the stony floor red.
"Oberst Klausemann." The voice asked again.
For a moment only the rhythmic sound of water dripping somewhere was heard, when a hoarse voice finally filled the void.
"American." The voice answered.
The sound of fire erupted from somewhere next to the man and a small lantern gave some light.
Paul's face was illuminated somewhat through the dim light. The bloody, tired face of Marques before him could also be seen.
"American," Paul said. "American what?" He asked, walking up and down.
"An American introduced me to Klausemann," Marques mumbled with a heavy accent.
The crease on Paul's forehead intensified. His eyes squinted.
"An old man?" He asked, his voice almost melancholic.
Marques nodded.
"Where is Klausemann now? Or the old man, where is he?" Paul asked, turning back towards the table filled with bloody instruments.
Marques did not answer and only watched Paul. Yet when Paul picked up pliers and got closer and closer, he snapped once again.
"I... I... Klausemann only told me that he wanted to go to America, to the old man and the man's boss," Marques said, utterly broken.
Paul did not answer this time. He only turned his back to Marques and walked out of the room.
When he closed the door behind him, a man clad in dark awaited him.
"Heydrich," Paul greeted the man before him with a nod.
"Heinrich," Heydrich answered. "Did you get anything out of him?"
Paul paused for a moment, his eyes mustering Heydrich.
"A lot, yet not much," Paul said, falling into deep thoughts.
"What exactly do you mean by that. We can help you Heinrich, but only if you give me something." Heydrich said, grabbing Paul by the shoulder.
"An American is responsible for all the assassinations on me," Paul answered plainly.
Heydrich tilted his head. "Good, who is he?"
Paul looked at Heydrich as if looking at a ghost. His mind raced.
"Mhm?" Heydrich asked impatiently.
"I... don't know yet," Paul whispered.
But I have a guess, he thought.
Heydrich raised an eyebrow but did not say anything further.
"We will meet again, Heydrich," Paul began.
"We will. Good luck on the home front," Heydrich said, shaking Paul's hand.
"When we meet again, I will tell you more," Paul said, turning.
Morning of the 7th of January 1937, Airport of Madrid
Paul looked around, observing the changes that had occurred since he visited the last time.
The runways were fully repaired, even modernized. The destroyed terminals were rebuilt and extra hangar space was created.
"It seems Franco was impressed by the Luftwaffe, looking at all the new infrastructure," Paul said to the man next to him.
"Well, I am a good pilot," Richthofen said, adjusting his Luftwaffe uniform. "You remember when I saved you back at the battle of this airport?"
"I certainly do and I have already thanked you often enough," Paul said, his tone almost annoyed.
Richthofen only laughed, boarding the already running transport plane.
Paul turned around once more to shake Sperrle's hand, who had come to say his goodbyes.
"Well Heinrich, our time was shorter than we hoped for. You know I tried everything I could, but the Führer was quite persistent. We will miss your tactical genius and of course Wolfrahm's too." Sperrle chuckled, watching von Richthofen disappear into the plane.
"I will keep in mind everything you told me and I will of course give von Manteuffel some more attention, if he truly is what you say he is." Sperrle said, patting Paul on the shoulder.
"You always see each other twice in life," Paul said before boarding the plane too, choosing the seat opposite from Richthofen.
The Heinkel plane began moving slowly but surely.
After what felt like a second, the plane was already flying, the ground becoming smaller and smaller.
After about half an hour, Paul watched the stewardess close the door.
"Wolfrahm," Paul said, reaching for something in the breast pocket of his straight Major uniform.
Von Richthofen's eyes watched Paul with interest and lit up when he saw what Paul took out.
"A ring?" He asked.
Paul stretched his hand out, offering him the ring.
Von Richthofen picked it up and gazed at it carefully. "An Imperial Eagle without any swastika?"
It was a simplified black engraved Imperial Eagle, wings closed, atop a small shield. No crown, no wreath, no party symbols.
Paul nodded. "I have one too," he said, taking off his leather glove and revealing a similar ring underneath.
"A silversmith in Madrid did this as a favor," Paul said, watching Richthofen.
"Looks excellent," Richthofen said, putting it on and watching it from afar.
"Did you give the General one too?" he asked.
Paul nodded. "Yes, he and Hauptmann Manteuffel are the others who have one."
"I guess to mark our... friendship," Richthofen said, irony evident in his voice.
"Of course," Paul answered, looking out of the window, watching the rays of sunlight coming from above.
There was another friend I needed to visit, Paul thought, already imagining their landing.
Some time later
Paul stood before a familiar building in the streets of Cologne. Life bustled around him, starkly lit streets, cheerful people, workers returning home, the life of Cologne.
Yet Paul's gaze was not focused on them but on the sign on the building before him. The building he had already visited often, sometimes alone, sometimes together with his friends. The last time had been to pick up the suits together with Hans for the inauguration dinner for his party-membership.
It read: "Friedrich Lehman Tailor"
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The Spanish civil war arc ends with this chapter and a new one is coming...Any thoughts?
Thank you all for the support! I appreciate every Power Stone, comment, and review.