THE

CAPTURE

OF CLAUCKE.

Sussex 1930

The Common worldwide known spy is a bad one. One that would have been feared had he not slipped the tongue or let off one too many a tale to his pier. To spy is to be a mute, a shadow one. who does not speak. There have been many spies in my generation, one being a close rival; S. CLAUCKE the common spy.

Seldom have I witnessed a more amateur spy as the renowned agent who I have already mentioned, in ways I may occasionally take a tweak out of his long lasting career, and at some times I feel a common disgust against his fancy towards parties and his reputation of being overly boasting for this is the reason I turned him in covertly of course, My name is Charles Wollin’s and I am here as a narrator to this unfortunate story.

LONDON JULY 22nd 1914.

The cold story of Claucke was one that I have the great misfortune to tell. One may call me a thief of title and award but I saw it fit for the success of the war and the ensurement to the defense of Britain against the Kaiser’s Germany. The beginning of this story must be kept at strict detail due to the severity of the tribulations that occurred while Charles was in Germany for the spying of many forces training in Bavaria at the time. Now the cause for our mission must be kept secret for the sake of peace in Europe. We were briefed the month before that given many delay’s we were now on a boat heading over to Germany our mission was clear : capture and bring back a certain official who had important information.

MUNICH

The crossing to Germany was a somber affair, muffled by the constant threat of discovery and the damp chill of the North Sea. We arrived under the shroud of a moonless night, our identities buried beneath the guise of simple merchants. Claucke, ever the showman, had insisted on a wardrobe far too fine for a common trader, and I spent much of our first week in Bavaria smoothing over the ripples of suspicion his flamboyant mannerisms left behind.

Our target, a high-ranking official within the Kaiser’s inner circle, was rumored to be sequestered in a fortified estate near Munich. The "important information" he carried was nothing less than the mobilization schedules that could decide the fate of nations. As we moved closer to our objective, the tension among the local forces was palpable; the air tasted of imminent iron and smoke.

It was during a cold rain on the outskirts of the training grounds that Claucke made his first critical error—a slip of the tongue at a local pub. ( I personally didn’t want to be there but as we had to I went. ) Siegfried let his tongue slip with one of the bartender’s when he asked where we were from and our names as we were supposed to. I said Norway, when asked our names he said “ SIgfried “ trying to cover it up I switched the subject of the conversation to one of sport’s. The bartender leaned over the scarred wood, eyes narrowing as they flicked from Claucke’s silk-lined cuffs to his muddy boots.

"You travel far for mere lace-peddlers," the man grunted. "Where did you say you hailed from?"

Claucke’s chest swelled. A performer’s instinct took hold. "We are of—"

"Norway," I interjected, my voice a sharp snap.

"Norway?" The bartender’s gaze didn't waver. "And your names?"

Claucke smiled, that dangerous, stage-lit glint in his eye. "Siegfried—"

I felt the air in the room turn to iron. "—Siegfried is the name of the horse he lost his wages on this afternoon," I cut in, leaning forward. "A tragedy of the turf, wouldn't you agree? I told him the beast had no lungs for a sprint."

The bartender paused, the suspicion in his eyes warring with the universal language of a bad bet. I didn't give him time to choose.

"Tell me," I pressed, "does the local favorite here have more heart than that Nordic donkey?" The bartender was taken aback, a smile plastered on my face concreted my story more than my action ever could and then he chuckled and got some more beer for everyone. That was one of the many times where I was the only fit one.Besides, Sigfried was too much of an actor and a boastful voice ,was something to dread in this business. It meant that he was a liability. “ Is there much to do here?” I asked casually and tipped back for a glass. “ Sure Sir there's one over in the city by the name Hofbrauhaus over at Altstadt Lehel.” he said, still a hint of suspicion as he eyed our car outside. The evening ended quietly as we drove through the busy night streets of Munich on our way to the train station. When we departed our cab, the smell of train steam filled our lungs and a sense of danger overcame me. At instinct I reached for my gun ( I had served in the Boer war. And well remembered the consequences of not taking my gun.) when I saw a guardsman next to a small post. Which was something to be wary of, ( although I do admire his helmet. A Picklehaub.) he had the kind of determined statue-like pose. Such as the Royal guard. He followed my every motion carefully which chilled me from any warmth I had left. and I was left with only fear. During my conversation with an official by the ticket booth I noticed the soldier pacing around checking everyone's ID’s I eyed Sigfried a warning look, and he per usual ignored me. And when the soldier came around to us Sigfried introduced ourselves well at first.But then ruined it by boasting of his many acts in Britain “ My Hometown “ he was going to say. ( Which was contrary to our Id’s because we were “ Born “ in Norway.) I quickly made up for it again, “ Bjorj banged his head when he was a child. “ Eyeing Clauke's wounded persona.I smiled calmly, laying out my words. Eyeing. But uneasiness backstage’d every word. The soldier’s cold grey eyes followed me, the glint of the train light’s bouncing off his pupil’s. Making me quiver and shiver. After a prolonged pause we boarded our train heading for Berlin. The Alea Iacta est .

The gala at the Bayerischer Hof was a sea of Prussian blue and stiff silk—a place for a ghost to hide, provided the ghost remained silent. But Claucke was never a ghost; he was a peacock.

While I remained in the shadows of the mezzanine, noting the precise arrival of the attaché from the War Office, Claucke was already three glasses deep into a vintage Riesling. I watched with a mounting, cold disgust as he held court near the orchestra. He wasn’t merely blending in; he was performing.

"The trick to the Transvaal," I heard his voice carry over the violin's swell, "is knowing that the Boer will always look for the sun at his back. I learned that much in '01, though the official records might say otherwise."

A silence—short, sharp, and deadly—rippled through the nearby cluster of German officers. One man, a Captain with eyes like flint, tilted his head. It was a slip so amateur it bordered on treason. He had practically handed them his curriculum vitae on a silver platter just to see a few debutantes swoon. In that moment, as the Captain’s hand moved instinctively toward his notebook, I knew Claucke wasn't just a liability; he was a corpse in a dinner jacket. I swooped in like an eagle, to remove my friend from the room. Claucke was baffled with the sudden movement. When suddenly gunfire rang out and the sound of yells and body’s falling erupted. Yell’s took out as we ran outside to an alleyway. Where I noticed a man in black. Now in my career, one in black is one to stay away. For black is the sight of trouble. Claucke reached for his gun to shoot ,but then I pushed Claucke to the floor . A fatal move for a spy for the next thing I knew was that I was slowly slipping away blood streaming down into the drainage.

C.W Davis

Lover of Harry Potter. And art lover.

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