The Alchemist’s Code by Martin Rua Page A

Chiaia and headed towards the cafe of that name. I parked, then peered around me in search of Anna. It seemed to me that all the passers-by were uncommonly interested in what I was doing, but I concluded that it was probably just because of my slovenly appearance, so, with some embarrassment, I followed another faint trace of memory and slipped into the alley next to the Riviera. As I was passing the entrance of a building, something prompted me to enter. I peeked inside, and there she was.
    I wondered if, when I had been under the influence of the drugs her face had appeared different to what I could see now that my mind was lucid again. Or at least, almost lucid.
    The tall blonde girl with a black cap and a leather jacket who was waiting in the lobby of the building had to be Anna, and this was confirmed a moment later when, handing me a bag containing clothes, she nodded towards the stairs while she kept a lookout and quickly closed the door. Without saying a word, and being careful not to be seen by anyone, I got changed, put Spider-Man in my pocket and went back down to her. I threw my old clothes in the bin in front of the building, then she handed me a helmet and we climbed onto her scooter. Before setting off, she looked behind me and shook her head.
    â€™Your car’s left a trail worse than a skunk. They’re onto us already.”

6
The Mission – Part One
    Reconstruction based on the secret files of Group 9 and the memoirs of Sean Bruce
    Berlin, the night between the 24th and 25th of March, 1945
    Friedrich Müller, who was guarding the entrance, lit his first cigarette of the day. It was a luxury that he allowed himself more and more often, now that everything in his beautiful city was disappearing. He had bought five cigarettes on the black market with the promise that, if he survived the madness, he would finally stop smoking. He guessed that many Berliners had made similar vows: their fortitude had not yet been destroyed, but after seventeen air raids so far this year, they were all exhausted.
    You only had to take a walk around the streets by day, when the bombs were silent, to realize how much death and destruction the war had brought. He was one of those who still believed in the promises of the Führer, or at least in the idea of Germany that Hitler had instilled in the minds of young people like him. He believed in it, but the ruins around him were telling another story. The story of a country where surrender was only a matter of time. The story of a people who had been deluded into thinking themselves able to bring the spirit of the Germanic people to the world, crushing once and for all the arrogance of the Jews, the communist threat and the fragile roots of the Americans. The dream of the hooked banner which fluttered in the wind was still alive in those anguished nights when Allied bombers dropped tons of bombs on his beautiful Berlin.
    He could not let this discouragement take hold. He and his companions had a delicate mission to accomplish – something that went beyond the present, beyond Hitler, even beyond the Reich itself.
    In the silent twilight, another night of uncertainty was about to begin, and the slight noise behind him made him jump.
    â€œIf there were a sniper in the building opposite, that cigarette would make a perfect target, Sergeant Müller.”
    The captain’s voice was quiet and warm, and the sergeant gave a sigh of relief.
    â€œIt’s you, Captain.”
    â€œA bit jumpy, are we? No need for that. This mission is delicate, but we run no particular risks.”
    Sergeant Müller’s small green eyes rested on the powerful yet harmonious figure of Captain Henri Theodore von Tschoudy. The young captain of Swiss origin, whose family could trace its roots back to the nineteenth century, had little or nothing of the cliché of the Aryan soldier about him: with his flowing black hair, deep, dark eyes and strong jaw, he was one of the Third