The Curse of the Eberbachs

The Major later had no idea how he had gotten out of bed and into the bathroom. He had never felt so awkward and groggy in the morning, and he wondered where and how they could have administered that drug which gave him such strange hallucinations. Possibly an odourless gas blown through the ventilation system to knock him out, then provoking that stupid illusion when he woke up again. Damn! He had to contact Z immediately to find out what had happened to his men! But first of all, he had to clear his head. No good stumbling around in a dazed, half-drugged state. Cold water would do the trick.

Verdammt *, von dem Eberbach! Get up on your legs and turn the tap! You've learned to do such things a long time ago! Only – his body seemed to have other ideas. He remained on the floor, with the washstand above him and a mirror over the washbasin. It reflected the open door to the bedroom, the disorderly bed in the background, his clothes folded neatly on a chair next to the bed, his striped pyjamas and underwear lying on the floor in a disorderly heap. He did not remember having taken them off – now, what -?

He finally managed to lift his body up and to look into the mirror. Pointed ears. The outside covered with dark brown hair. A dark brown forehead, brown eyes, the face set off with a mask of lighter brown. A pointed snout. An impressive set of teeth was bared. The Major growled, deep from his chest. He barked at the image in the mirror. The sound rang loudly in the small tiled room, hitting his sensitive eardrums almost like the shock wave of a detonation. Confused, the creature in the mirror licked its snout, and the Major felt a wet, rough tongue rasp over – his nose? Dark brown hairy paws on the white porcelain of the sink – realisation set in – followed by a nauseating wave.

"Ach du Scheiße!" * the creature in the mirror said with a human voice, before its eyes rolled back, and about 80 pounds of fully grown male Doberman hit the bathroom floor.

It took him a moment to identify the high-pitched, sharp sound hitting his eardrums at short intervals as the mechanical beep of an alarm clock. He had never been more glad to wake up. What a night full of strange dreams! Bah. The first one had clearly been the outcome of too much work. Those shrinks at NATO were constantly pestering him to take a few days off from time to time. He would think about it. Maybe in twenty-five years or so. He was not even thirty, for God's sake, and they were talking to him as if to a doddering old man, dammit! The second dream – obviously his mind had thought out a punishment for the forbidden kind of relaxation his body had craved in the previous dream. But now: time to begin another day and to put this nonsense out of his head.

Mercifully, the beeping alarm had switched itself off automatically. He opened his eyes. And looked at a dark brown paw on the white tiles of the bathroom floor.

Before the initial shock even could set in, there was a knock at the door, and someone called: "Sir? Are you alright in there, Sir?" It was a young female voice, with the typical soft lilt he had come to recognise in another voice, young and male ...

It must be the girl from the reception, who looked a bit like G. When he had checked into the hotel yesterday evening, she had tried to flirt with him, possibly enamoured by a tall, broad-shouldered German with brusque manners. And now she had left her desk duties to look whether he was alright. Shit. She was persistent, knocking at the door and calling out again. Women ... Leaving her post instead of calling, possibly to get a look at him ...

"Sorry, Sir, but the lady from next door complained about your alarm clock. So I thought I'd better check if everything was alright."

"I've forgotten to switch off the alarm before I went to the bathroom, and I didn't hear it inside. – Sorry about that, mein Fräulein *, " he added as an afterthought, hoping this would satisfy her and make her go away.

She doesn't give up so easily. Would you believe it? That's what you get when you're trying to be polite, damn it!

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." Rudeness always did the trick. He heard hasty steps retreating on the corridor.

Fine. That was that. Now – what to do? He shook his head slightly and took a close inventory of the bathroom, then the bedroom. The smells were strong, much stronger than he remembered: of disinfectant, of soap, of sink, of the toilet, of the washing powder they had used for the sheets, of dust, of himself. Every item in the two rooms had its own smell, or in most cases more than one, but nothing, as far as he could make out, smelled out of the ordinary. Would a dog smell gas which was odourless to a human being?

Slowly, he began to accept the thought that he was not hallucinating. By some mean and dirty trick he actually had become a dog. A Doberman, to be exact. Those friggin' Ruskies or them bloody Yanks must have developed something really infernal. He must contact his men at once –

Wait, von dem Eberbach. You are a dog. First thing: You have no hands to hold a gun or a knife. Or to open a door, or handle a phone. Furthermore, if you contact Z and convince him it's really you, what will you do? Let him take you to NATO. Possibly some of the eggheads there would be able to find out what's happened to you. But most probably the process will involve you becoming a test animal in one of their labs, and finally – dissection. He was a soldier, and giving his life for the Fatherland might be part of the deal, but he was also an agent, and an agent's deal was to stay alive as long as possible and thus be useful to the Fatherland.

So, contacting his men and giving away what had happened to him was out of the question. Even if he was not in the game for the moment, there still was that assignment to be met, and he could not distract his men from it because of personal difficulties, provided they had not met the same fate. Be it as it may, in the present state he would have to solve this problem alone. And they would have to work on their own until he got his human shape back – which he would possibly be unable to do without help. Oh damn! Damn! Damn! Where to turn? His butler? His father? He was on a secret assignment, for God's sake! And what would they do? What could they do? Give him into the care of some scientists – test lab – dissection. His father would probably try to hush the whole thing, because it might besmirch the family name. Besides, he loathed dogs, would not want to have one around. It could not be excluded that he would give the Major to an animal shelter, denying that the dog had ever been his son. Animal shelter might mean to be given into someone's care – God forbid! – or being put down if no one would take him in. If they found out he could speak, they would probably sell him to a circus. And maybe someone at the shelter would even think about selling an unwanted dog to a test lab – dissection again.

It seemed as if no matter whom he turned to, his future would consist of either a circus, a life as an ordinary dog, or a test lab and dissection ...

Verflucht nochmal, von dem Eberbach, reiß dich zusammen *! What about the option of staying alive, getting your human form back, and giving hell to the bastards who caused this mess? The problem is: I can't do this alone. So now, do the round again and think clearly, von dem Eberbach. Think hard. Thank God you can still speak like a human, and you've kept your human brain. So, whom do you know, who a) would believe this whole unbelievable mess, b), would probably give you shelter, and c) might want to help you to actually sort things out?

Under no circumstances will I – The thought made him growl and pad the room restlessly. He caught himself panting, tongue out. A normal behaviour for a dog which was excited or upset ... but quite unusual for a NATO Major...

Beggars can't be choosers, von dem Eberbach. Well, coming to think of it, it's marginally better than dissection ... There is, after all, a small chance to stay alive and to complete your assignment ... He could turn the whole bloody mess this way and that, this plan remained the only workable option ...

He collapsed on the carpet, hid his eyes with his paws, groaned and muttered a tired, but heartfelt: "I need a smoke."

Now that he had a destination to go to, he had to plan how to get there without attracting too much attention.

So he had to instruct Z – and maybe find out if something out of the ordinary had happened to his men. Oh damn! He groaned. Things which had never been a problem when in a human body presented a lot of obstacles to a dog. But after all, obstacles were there to be overcome, whether in man- or dog-shape.

The number was 399. The phone was an old-fashioned one, no keys to press, but a disc for dialling the number. Now how to dial without fingers, but with paws made for running and walking? Rather big paws at that? With short claws?

He remembered a wad of writing paper and a pen on the small desk near the window. Getting his front legs up on the desk was easy work, and after a few tries, he managed to get the pen between his teeth. Then he jumped on the bed and dislocated the receiver from its cradle. With some effort and a lot of support from his tongue, he managed to poise the pen over the dial disc, got the three, pulled the disc down, released the pen from the hole, found the nine, repeated the process, and, hoping the phone was patient enough for a slow dialler, dialled the nine again. With relief, he heard the beeps of a free line. His call had gone through, hopefully to the right room, and Z being there ... He looked at the electrical clock. 6:30. Still early enough for Z to be in his room ...

The Major hummed the first line from "Muss I denn, muss I denn zum Städtele hinaus ..." * followed by the first bars of "Ich hab' noch einen Koffer in Berlin ..." * That was the code informing his men of the almost unthinkable fact that he had been called away from the assignment. The recipient of the call would lead the assignment now and proceed as planned. It furthermore contained the order that, should he not be back in two days, the man in charge was to collect his possessions from the hotel room.

The Major put his snout on the cradle to end the call. That was that. Step one accomplished. Z had sounded quite normal, so he had reason to hope that everything was in order. At least his men would no longer be waiting for him.

The window was latched shut. But even if he could manage the latch, his hotel room was on the third floor, and, alas, he was not a cat. In jumping out he would break at least a few bones. No good. Remained the door.

He would have to turn both the key and the doorknob. No way he would be able to manage with his teeth and paws, as much as he would have preferred to do so. So another call would have to be made.

The number was 100. He took up the pen and, with a lot of effort, managed the dialling trick again.

The young flirt was still on duty, and the Major spit out the pen and spoke with all the old-fashioned charm increasingly despairing teachers had tried to instil into the stubborn head of the so far latest offspring of the old and venerable Eberbach family.

"Ah, mein Fräulein *, this is Vornweg speaking, from room number three hundred and eighty. You see, there must be a problem with the lock, and I cannot get out ..."

"Oh, that's most awkward, Sir. Did you turn the doorknob to the left? Many of our guests turn it to the right, and it will not move then, you see."

"I did turn it to the left indeed, but it will not budge, and as I don't want to destroy anything, I'm a bit hesitant to use more force ..." He laid on his German accent a bit thicker than it actually was. Judging her right, it was his baritone voice, together with the clipped German accent and the old-fashioned charm that would do the trick.

"So I would be most obliged, mein Fräulein *, if you could send someone up to have a look at the stubborn lock ..."

The Major put his snout on the cradle again. She would not miss the chance to help the tall, dark German. A bit of faked helplessness sometimes worked with a certain kind of women. Normally, he detested such treachery, he was more into ordering directly what he wanted and making people jump, but desperate situations called for desperate measures.

Now for the surprise effect. She will meet someone tall and dark indeed, he thought with a bitter sense of humour ...

The entrance in the main hall would present no great difficulties, he hoped. Even in dog form he would be able to push the revolving door ...

Hurried steps in the corridor. They stopped in front of his room. A female voice mumbling "Can't see what could be wrong now," a jangling sound, probably she had a bunch of passkeys ...

A key was put into the lock from outside, and finally the door was pushed open. The Major shot past the surprised receptionist, along the corridor, down three flights of stairs, through the entrance hall – running on four legs was definitely faster, only you didn't have the overview – he jumped shoulder first against the revolving door, hurried through without getting stuck, and finally found himself outside. He did not stop running until he was a good distance away from the hotel.

The trains going in the direction he wanted left from there. It would all be a matter of playing the well-behaved dog. A Doberman without a leash and a muzzle would attract attention sooner or later, and the last thing he needed now was being stunned and caught by the police. It would be best to walk behind or next to someone, as if he belonged to them.

Charing Cross was quite a distance. He thought of smuggling himself into the Underground, but the streets were nasty enough with thousands of different smells and sounds, people walking or running along, talking, shouting; cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles roaring along the streets, screeching brakes – no, he would rather prefer to walk than to be in a moving, shaking, clattering, smelly cage underground, crammed full with a lot of human beings who would not watch their steps. Besides, the danger of being noticed and getting caught would be greater in the Underground.

He walked briskly, and his trick of pretending to belong to the person walking next to him or in front of him worked well. A street sign said "Charing Cross 2 ½". Still two and a half miles to go ... One man he tried to walk next to had actually kicked him. He had bared his teeth and growled. Obviously an impressive sight, because the man had backed away, and the Major had run a bit and disappeared around the next corner. Now he was trailing behind a man in blue workmen's clothes. The man stopped and turned around.

"Eh, boy," He clicked his tongue, bent down and put out a hand. The mighty dog gave him a wide berth and trotted on. The Major heard laughter behind him.

"Well, George, 'ere you've got a dog with a purpose!" another voice said. "He don't talk to jus' anybody!"

Had they still paid any attention to the big Doberman, they would have seen it stop in its tracks. When the man George had noticed him and spoken to him, they had been at the entrance gate of a truck station. Though hampered by the lower dog perspective and a dog's eyesight, the Major had not missed the big sign saying "Jack – Speedy Deliveries". Besides, the oily smell of the engines and of Diesel fuel had been overpowering. That guy Spike had talked about Ashford, which was just the right direction. And it would be easier to hide in a truck than to board a train, where people might sooner or later notice an unattended dog without a collar or a muzzle, even if it hid under some seats.

He ran back and saw George and the other man walk across the inner yard. Then George slapped the other man, who must be Spike, on the shoulder, and headed for a small building, probably to get a delivery order. The Major followed Spike, who would deliver goods to Ashford. Spike opened the driver's door of a small truck, then stopped to talk to another driver who had just come in.

Lucky indeed. The truck's body was just a metal frame, covered with a tarpaulin, not a closed metal box. And one of the flaps was loose ...

With a mighty jump, the Major reached the lower edge of the truck's rear end and scrambled under the loose tarpaulin. He lay there for a moment, tried to keep still and not to pant. Then he looked around. The truck was only half loaded with large cardboard boxes. Thankfully, they were secured with huge straps to keep them in place. Spike might have been sloppy with the tarpaulin, but he had not been so with the cargo.

The conversation between Spike and the incoming truck driver had ended, the truck door slammed shut, and then the whole truck shook as the engine started. Diesel exhausts wafted in, and the truck began to move.

So far so good ... Now there's nothing to do but to wait until we reach Ashford ...