Dead Letter Office, Swiss Connection: Old Friends

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North meets an old...friend, Infonet courier Hans Mittlesteadt, who has information on what Russovich was looking for--and, more importantly, where it might be found.



North absently scratched at his recently clean-shaven cheek, occasionally glancing down to the grainy photograph that Doug and Amanda had come up with. The lanky albino in the too-heavy coat couldn't be anyone but Arkady Russovich, and Jake had definitely fingered the other individual as Hans Mittlesteadt.

As soon as David saw the photograph, though, he'd been shocked. He supposed that he should have recognized the name, but he certainly recognized the face. Moreso because he hadn't seen Mittlesteadt in over twenty years, and the man hadn't aged a day.

Sometimes, he thought, coincidence dropped a perfect connection right into your hands. For a courier specializing in secure deliveries, Hans was thankfully a creature of habit when on familiar soil, and it was easy enough to trail him to a comfortable cafe overlooking Lake Geneva.

He's unarmed, David surmised from the courier's even stride and the cut of his suit, but of course, he doesn't need to carry a gun...

North, however, did. Brushing his fingertips over the knurled handgrips of the automatic pistol holstered at the small of his back, he walked casually to the table Mittlesteadt had occupied and took a seat.

"Guten Tag, sergeant Mittlesteadt," David said, as if greeting a familiar acquaintance. "You're looking well."

The courier was enough of a professional to hide his surprise behind a wry smile. "Herr Nord, yes? So nice of you to join me." He took a sip of his coffee, sizing up the man across from him over the rim of his cup. "It has been a long time."

"Almost, eh, twenty-four years now?" North found himself slipping into the comfortable cadence of his native language as he mentally set aside the conditioned reflexes and memories of his identity as David North and once more settled into the man he was when he'd met Hans for the first time - Cristophe Nord, field agent of the Ministry for State Security, the secret police of East Germany during the Cold War.

"And look at you, you still look like the prettyboy kid selling contraband in Lichtenburg. I can still remember it now, the look on your face when you realized what would have happened to you in prison." North smiled wolfishly, recalling one of his first investigations with the Stasi. "Or, yes, if the Volksarmee had learned you were a mutant? Ach, the inevitable transfer to those research facilities run by the Soviets, do you remember the rumors about those?" He shivered dramatically. "So lucky back then, to have someone who understood your predicament, who did you such a favor."

He stopped for a moment to accept a cup and saucer from a waitress, pausing to sip at the coffee. "Ah, Turkish. So difficult to find a place that prepares it properly. So the years have been kind to you, Hans."

"I like this place," Mittlesteadt replied easily. "Good coffee, a nice view," he indicated the lake with a tilt of his head, "pleasant company." His face held a look of wary amusement. "And yes. The last twenty four years have been much better than the previous ones. It is a much different world that we live in now, ja? Mutants not only accepted but sought out for their specific talents--a change I would guess that you have benefitted from as well."

The man's gaze sharpened, focusing on North. "Now, Cristophe, do you want to continue to reminisce about the old days, or would you like to tell me what favor you have decided to call in after these many years?"

Smiling over his cup, North nodded. "You were always too clever by half, Hans. So let me be brief. Five days ago you met with Arkady Russovich. You haven't left Geneva since, so I am to assume it wasn't an Infonet assignment - and couriers rarely meet with their contacts directly, or so I hear."

Reaching across the table, North plucked a thin biscotti from Hans' plate, snapping in half and stirring his thick coffee. "Arkady Russovich," he repeated the name. "What did he want, and what did you give him?"

"And you always look too deeply into things you should leave alone, my friend. I'm sure it made you very good at your profession, but it makes me worry about your personal health." He regarded North for a long moment, considering, as he took another sip of coffee.

"Russovich was asking about a machine, some sort of synthesizer," he said finally. "Carbon, carbonium, something like that. It sounded very much like science fiction. He came to me because it was apparently due to be delivered by one of Infonet's couriers, but never made it to its destination."

Mittlesteadt shrugged lightly. "I will tell you what I told him, since we are such old friends," he said dryly. "If this synthesizer machine still exists, there are worse places to start than with looking for other things that Infonet never managed to deliver."

North's expression didn't change, but the cup in his hand rattled momentarily on the saucer. "Carbonadium. The carbonadium synthesizer. A missing delivery, indeed. So tell me, Hans, since we are such old friends, where would one begin to look for these 'misdirected' packages? I would imagine that with Infonet's recent shift in leadership, someone would be trying to move these off the market quickly."

That got him a thin smile. "You know how it is when you have a change in management--things...disappear." He held up his hands to forestall the inevitable comment. "Not my doing, this time. I've retired from that sort of business. But I still hear things."

Mittlesteadt wiped his lips with his napkin, then stood, dropping the napkin on the table. "There is to be an auction, soon, I'm told. All sorts of packages that were difficult to deliver. I would imagine this is where your friend Russovich is looking; perhaps this synthesizer is among them."

"That would be... fortuitous," David agreed, casually sliding a pen and paper across the table. "I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with Herr Russovich myself. We have a... passing acquaintance of our own."

The courier glanced down at the paper dismissively, then brought his gaze back to North's. "I have no means of contacting him. Remember, he found me." Mittlesteadt dropped a pair of bills on the table to cover his tab. "If I were you, I would take a vacation to Sun City, in South Africa. I hear it's going to be a very interesting place, starting in the next two days. Perhaps Russovich will be there. He certainly could use some sun."

"Indeed he could," David murmured as he finished the last of his coffee, dropping a few Euros on the table as well. He stood, then turned back to Hans. "I'm glad to see you've done well, Hans. Just remember - those Soviet programs you avoided? Russovich didn't. I wouldn't recommend crossing his path a second time."

"Believe me, Cristophe," Mittlesteadt's smile was razor-sharp, "the sooner I'm done with the both of you, the better. Enjoy your vacation."