A Swiss Miss
Heinlein is kicking charred wood and piles of water-soaked, congealed ash. His team is directing construction workers to move this, dispose of that, clean off this expanse, and power-sledge through that section of flooring. Pipes are being torn out, fiber-optically searched and even groped by hand. Roofing tiles are being sifted through and examined.
Nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. Nichevo.
The smoldering hulk of what used to be her classy apartment in the toney Seefeld District (“across from the Rieterpark” as she described it with a relish that bordered on braggadocio) is a stinking mass of twisted structural steel, melted wiring and wet, unrecognizable debris.
His second-in-command, Sargeant Ilic Petrovic, approaches him.
“Captain, the crew has sifted through most of the debris – and I’ve just completed the digitalized x-ray tomography of the standing concrete. There are no voids here where anything is hidden. Whatever we search for – it isn’t here”.
Heinlein nods in agreement.
“Pass the word. Everybody is to change into the street clothes they’ve packed – and look sharp. Conceal all side arms. We’re heading to Bayer Bank on the Paradeplatz in the City Center. It’s about one and a half miles up the Bahnhofstrasse – the Kreis 1 District. Ritzy territory. The Russian Ambassador to Switzerland will meet us there and introduce us to a very special person who can access their safe deposit boxes.”
Within a half-hour Heinlein and his crew – ten Special Forces BratvaVarang Operatives – are pulling into a restricted multi-level parking garage off the Bahnhofstrasse a few minutes up the road from Ilse’s recently incinerated Swiss love nest. They’re met by a dark-suited executive type who approaches Heinlein like he’s some kind of international celebrity. The geek is a typical stick-up-the-ass Swiss career functionary – obsequious, mealy-mouthed and insincere. He says in clipped, emotionless German, “Follow me, please.”
Heinlein and six of his men – the rest are left to watch their van end equipment in the parking garage – weave their way through backrooms and hallways and finally emerge through a side door into a cavernous, resplendent atrium dripping with all the trappings of institutional and generational wealth that Switzerland is famous for,
Marble and brass rails are everywhere. Leather furniture, elegant Mediterranean wall-frescoes and lithe, beautiful blonde “Banking Assistants” glide throughout the place – followed by fat, balding clients in overpriced suits and puffing on cigars that smell like burning twine.
Bayer Bank is three hundred years old. It is said that in their vaults here deep below the Kreis 1 District there are stacks of gold bullion bars stamped with the Swastika and priceless artworks that were “liberated” Nazi soldiers as they invaded Vienna, Austria and Prague, Czechoslovakia during World War II.
Why is Heinlein and his crew here? Because this is where Ilse Sonnerlund kept her private accounts. And she also had three safe-deposit boxes here. If she wanted the keep the ASTRA Antidote safe – a nuclear-bombproof, three-hundred-year-old bank vault would be a good place to store it.
The problem?
Swiss Safe Deposit Boxes are sacred cows in Switzerland. Swiss History and culture have decreed that while the notorious “Swiss Bank Secrecy” may be “relaxed” under certain circumstances – what’s inside Swiss Safety Deposit Boxes is sacrosanct. Inviolable. It is their last Banking Trump Card that sets Swiss Banks apart from every other institution in every other country. Switzerland would sooner relax their impossibly difficult immigration laws than weaken their Bank Safety Deposit Box rules. It is more important than the nuclear secrets that are being studied at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN or bulking up their dwindling population.
Heinlein and his boys follow their wooden “Bank Executive” guide down a flight of stairs and into a large room that appears to be entirely walled and roofed in steel plating. Waiting there is an impeccably dressed old man with a scowling face and a bushy white mustache that hides his upper lip. Heinlein estimates that he’s at least ninety. The old codger is stooped over and leaning on the gold handle of a fancy walking cane. Standing next to him is Sergei Kirov, Russian Ambassador to Switzerland. Kirov extends his hand to Heinlein first, smiling broadly.
“Captain Heinlein. Good to meet you, Sir. I am Ambassador Kirov. I have the Honor to present to you, Monsieur Albrecht Bayer III. He will guide you to the Safe Deposit Boxes you wish to examine.”
Heinlein reaches out to grasp the old man’s hand but is rebuffed. Monsieur Bayer keeps both of his aged claws on the top of his cane and just stares into Heinlein’s eyes. “Follow Me”, he croaks in German-accented English. Obviously, the old fart is non-plussed his shots are being called by Russia.
Suddenly the far steel plate wall slides open, revealing a large open elevator just beyond it. Heinlein follows Monsieur Bayer forward, into the spacious brass and mahogany-appointed lift with his six-man crew in tow. No control panels or buttons can be seen. Apparently, the old man is manipulating something in his pocket to make the thing move. The elevator’s doors close with a finality and solidity that is unnerving. It’s like being intombed inside a creepy cube heading into the bowels of Hell.
Finally, when their iron cage doors open, they follow the patrician Bayer to a wall of gleaming, polished brass security deposit box doors – all with double-lock key access. Everybody slowly moves down the cold, cavernous tunnel past about fifty polished brass one-foot square doors – until the old man stops.
He just looks at Heinlein and raps three safety-deposit doors with his cane. Heinlein wastes no time in pointing out the obvious to this fossilized aristocrat.
“Monsieur Bayer – Ambassador Kirov assured me of your cooperation. We wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would we? Your master keys, if you please.
The wrinkled man grimaces like he’s just been pushed into a feculent latrine and reaches down for his vest watch-fob. On it are two keys – two Master keys that fit each brass safety-deposit box door in his bank. Monsieur Bayer is the Lord of Access. Heinlein glares at him with a practiced “stink eye” and mutters under his breath – “supercilious ass”.
The aged buffoon opens both locks on each of the three polished brass doors he rapped with his walking stick and steps back.
Heinlein signals Tadek – his Spetsnaz explosives expert – to carefully examine each brass safety deposit box door and take electronic sensor readings and hand-held x-ray scans. If explosive booby-traps have been installed, now is the time to find out. Everybody stands back until Tadek finally nods the “All Clear”.
It’s Heinlein’s turn. He holds his breath and gently swings open the first door – B7177
Papers. Eurobonds mostly.
The second door – B7178 -opens with an audible scraping sound.
More papers. United States Treasury Bonds and some very old Stock Certificates in Daimler-Benz.
There’s one door left. B7179. It creaks when Heinlein pulls it open.
Pushed to the back of the safety deposit box is a medical blood vial. Heinlein’s hand trembles a bit when he gingerly reaches for it.
It’s empty. There’s a paper label on it. Printed on the paper surface in crude black Sharpie marker are two words.
“Fuck You”.
Paulus Hook, Jersey City.
Another late night, rooftop meeting.
The whipping, cutting winds off the Hudson don’t faze Longinus. He’s focused on shadows – and what will emerge from them.
Simon Magus is also alert to every sound and shift in his visual spectrum.
Their wait isn’t long. A creeping, miasmic contour slowly enters their sight field, slithering towards them.
Archon Alius, the Overlord of Vampyres – and two repulsive retainers – come into full view. The night is their element. They’re comforted by it – confident. Almost belligerent. The Archon speaks in his usual, Victorian-tinged, very proper English.
ARCHON ALIUS: “Good evening, Simon Magus. It appears you have news for me.”
SIMON MAGUS: “I return no good sentiments to you whatsoever, Archon Alius. But I do have information of interest – unfortunately, not as positive as I had hoped”.
ARCHON ALIUS (with a formal, invitational hand gesture): “Proceed”.
SIMON MAGUS: “Our efforts to reverse-engineer ASTRA and extrapolate an antidote are proceeding slowly. Our scientists may need some of your unique motivation…but remember – we need them all alive for the time being.”
“Captain” Leeds and her crew have succeeded in obtaining blood from Ilse Sonnerlund’s young daughter, Katya. She is in a secure and protected location deep inside Russia. Her blood has been analyzed.
There appears to be an anomaly: the presence of an Exogenous Hybrid Neuropeptide and Antimicrobial Peptide. “Exogenous” means lab-produced versus “Endogenous” or naturally occurring in the human anatomy.
Peptides are short chains of Amino Acids – the fundamental building blocks of proteins. They act as vital signaling molecules in the human body for functions such as hormone production and immune response. Peptides are the messengers that tell cells what to do. They are, however, smaller and more easily absorbed than proteins – hence ideal for immunity transmission. Neuropeptides are brain transmitters. Antimicrobial Peptides regulate metabolic regulation. A hybrid of both is no accident and does not normally appear in nature.
If you’re looking for an on/off chemical switch for Heme Production in human beings, this Hybrid Neuro and Antimicrobial Peptide is it. Our scientists have been advised of this development and are following this unique trail of scientific breadcrumbs. Unfortunately, progress is slow.
That is all the information I have”.
ARCHON ALIUS: “So…the great Simon Magus today only has bad news for us. We will anticipate better tidings next time. Farewell, Priest.”
With that Archon Alius recedes into the darkness. Simon Magus and Longinus are once again alone in the chill wind overlooking the lights of Manhattan.
The Master looks at his friend at the same moment that Longinus breaks into his trademark scarred-impish grin. The Roman Centurian can’t resist speaking first. He’s like a giddy child on Christmas morning. He can taste a good fight coming.
“You know he’s going to track her – and bleed her out, right? In his primitive lizard brain, mixing Katya’s blood with his Vampyre blood will transfer whatever Ilse Sonnerlund inoculated the child with. Clearly, Ilse injected Katya with some antidote we don’t yet have – Katya is now ground zero for Vampyre nation preservation. We’re setting a trap, aren’t we?”
Simon Magus smiles in response to his friend’s unerring intuition.
“Damn right we’re setting a trap. Never trust a Vampyre. Never! Our Gulfstream leaves for Russia immediately. Katya will be safe until we arrive. Our BratvaVarang brothers have the Kuznetzova Marble Palace locked tight as a drum. Heinlein, Leeds and their teams will meet us in Valdai. We’ll plan a warm reception for our duplicitous Vampyre allies. It’s time we showed these Demons who’s the boss. Lock n’ Load.“
Longinus agrees. His response is brief. “Deus Vult. Deus Gratia.”
Copyright 2026, Jon Croft
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
