Major Eberbach cast aside two hundred years of harsh winters and labored cultivation as he stepped out of his vehicle the instant it came to a stop upon the pristine stone of the entryway, not so much as glancing at the landscape. He reserved his energy instead for the upkeep of a dedicated scowl.

That the Swiss ambassador felt the need to keep his working home so remote from the traditional row located conveniently in town was, at least, understandable, given the national tendency towards independence (to put it kindly); but it was the cause of some resentful mental muttering on the Major's part while he followed the steps to the main entrance: a columned, stone-and-ivy affair with a majestic pair of doors falling second to the cascading iron spirals that were the lampposts.

As the Major's familiar and usually-bearable entourage recalled, he commented curtly that he would have preferred a kitchen entrance. This was dismissed as typical.

The housemaster opened the door before the Major could knock, holding the intricate iron handle with a polite, reserved smile and likely a greeting of some kind planned for the near future �

Klaus was not in the mood to entertain it. "I'll speak with the ambassador, if he's still in."

The butler was taken aback for a moment only. "He left on schedule, sir. But he's left his thanks, sir, and this." A sealed piece of stationary was produced, and the Major's team of five was shown into the parlor. Klaus spoke for all of them when he tersely refused a drink, and a chair. He broke the seal and slipped open the paper, peering over the top edge to monitor the butler's progress until he was safely out of the room. Then, convinced he was in appropriate company, he turned his placid gaze to the message at hand. The first two paragraphs, he knew, were pleasantries, and so skipped to the third:

That said, your protection while I am away is appreciated. I thank you, and trust you understand the value and significance borne in the object in question. I hope you are successful in your mission; in the meantime, you and your team are free to take advantage of the staff and whatever rooms you find necessary.

And then a signature � it was all of it simply a polite necessity, it seemed. Klaus sat in an available armchair, let the paper fall upon the table to his left, and began to inform his underlings.

His mind, somehow, managed to ignore his words. While outwardly he remained impassive, tossing out steely instructions and flat summaries, in truth � he was somewhat disgusted.

The "mission" that the ambassador had referred to in his note, and on which his subordinates were currently being re-briefed, was this: intercept an all-too-familiar adversary when he would steal into the ambassador's German residence (tonight, according to the intelligence report Klaus knew to be entirely false) and attempt to make off with a certain recent addition to the man's family collection. Klaus was not uncomfortable with presenting an artificial front in order to attain what was important, but he had certain grievances with this explanation in particular:

First, although no one had questioned this point, he wondered why anyone would consider Eroica a NATO concern at all. He had, admittedly, contributed to the difficulty of several missions in the past, but then it followed logically that he certainly should not be the subject of such an effort. His case was for the law enforcement, preferably British, and not the military. As much as Klaus would have liked to personally see to his placement in the most unpleasant prison available.

Second, the man was � occasionally, rarely, sometimes, slightly, very seldom � useful. Always beyond irritating, never enjoyable, but useful. Sometimes. And so to apprehend him might someday have proven inconvenient. Maybe.

Third was the fact that whoever had come up with this idea in the first place had known perfectly well who would be the one to execute it. This affair had been assigned to Klaus the moment it had been put to paper, and that anyone would associate him with Eroica under any circumstances, unprompted, was extremely irksome.

His real mission (known only to himself and his superiors), he reflected, was but a slight consolation. In the ambassador's study, on the third floor of this pretentious monstrosity of a mansion, there was indeed a painting as had been described to his team � and it was in fact in immediate danger of being stolen � but its 'value and significance' were perhaps far beyond the sentimental attachment assumed by the ambassador. There were rumors that this suspicious work of art detailed the locations of the defenses surrounding a mobile and active ballistic missile site some miles outside of Lida, near the Belorussian border; Klaus' commanders had deemed these dubious (albeit serious) allegations worthy of investigation, had quickly fabricated a pretense on which to send a set of agents, and now expected the painting to be safely in NATO's hands for inspection within twenty-four hours.

As he wrapped up his half-truthful explanation among the subdued colors of uniforms and centuries-old rugs, Klaus felt a twinge of � something � in the back of his mind. He was stealing paintings. He was using Eroica's name to do it. Perhaps it was superstition, perhaps the trigger of experience, or maybe only the recognition of considerable irony � but whatever it was, it was making him very, very nervous.