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Klaus cracked open his eyes, trying to ignore the pain pounding inside his skull.

Creakily, he sat up. His hands were tied behind his back, making movement awkward, but by shuffling and shifting, he levered himself upright with his back braced against the wall.

The room smelled musty. Dust floated in the thin shafts of sunlight slanting down from a high window. A dust-covered table and two plain wooden chairs were the only furniture. A jumble of anonymous wooden boxes stood stacked against one wall, and leaning against them, there were two paintings in heavy, ornate frames.

He blinked hard, willing the fog to clear from his mind. Where was he? How did he get here? Who had tied him up like this? The same people who had beaten him up, no doubt- his ribs and shoulders throbbed, but as far as he could tell, nothing seemed to be broken.

Muzzily, he stared at the paintings. Something stirred behind the fog, some almost-recognition. He should know about the paintings, he thought. The word ‘foppish’ surfaced, but without connotation or context. Had he heard someone use the word with regard to the paintings? He couldn’t recall.

Think, think! Where is this place? Why am I here? Why am I tied up like this? What should I remember about those paintings? And… who the fuck am I, anyway?

For, uneasily, Klaus realised he had no idea who he was.

Through the closed door, he heard the sound of distant footsteps. Several people; men, judging from the heavy footfalls. There were voices, but he couldn’t make them out. The sounds grew louder, closer – and then there was the scraping of chairs being moved as the men settled in the next room.

Were they the ones who’d put him here? Why had they put him here? Why was he a prisoner? Klaus strained to listen. At first, the muffled voices made no sense, and then he recognised some words. Russian! He frowned.

I can understand them. Am I Russian?

No, that didn’t seem right. After all, he wasn’t thinking in Russian. His thoughts were coming in a mixture of German and English.

So am I German? Am I British?

A gust of laughter came through the walls, followed by a voice that sounded familiar.

Whose? Do I know that man?

He focused hard, and heard the words, –—a haul worthy of Eroica, without question—”

Eroica? Who, or what—?

Klaus turned his gaze back to the paintings, and recognition struck with blinding force.

The art thief, Eroica. I’m Eroica! I stole those paintings!

Memories rose up in his still-fogged brain. Eroica, the master thief. Eroica, whose thefts were works of art in themselves. Eroica, who always got whatever he wanted. Yes, that must be it: he was a thief. He’d stolen those artworks. And whoever those men in the next room were – he was their captive.

So who are they?





The shafts of sunlight had shifted and become much weaker the next time Klaus drifted back into consciousness. His head still ached, but less so; his bruises had settled into a dull, nagging burn. He shifted around, flexing his limbs as best he could. He felt thirsty, and his stomach twisted with hunger.

In the adjoining room, a dull buzz of conversation told him the men were still there. Were they planning to bring him food and drink, or were they just going to leave him be?

In the dimmer light, it was impossible to see the images on the two paintings. They were just dark rectangles in gilt frames.

Klaus tried to remember where he’d stolen them from. A museum? A private house? Some public building? Nothing was beyond Eroica’s capabilities. Eroica was the Prince of Thieves.

Except, now he’d been caught, and he was being held by these men. Interpol? Surely Interpol wouldn’t hold him like this, tied up in a dusty store-room.

They spoke Russian. Were they Bratva? Were they thieves stealing from thieves? But what did they want with him? Why tie him up and keep him here? Klaus strained to remember. Had he offended someone in some way? Trespassed on someone’s territory?

Through the wall came a wave of laughter, and the tones of ribald mockery. One voice rose above the laughter, and he heard clearly, –What would Iron Klaus say to that?”

Iron Klaus.

He turned the name over, probing for significance. Yes, the name was familiar. And then it hit him.

He was in love with Iron Klaus. He, Eroica, loved a German spy called Iron Klaus, who did not return his affection. He felt a small pang of sorrow. He couldn’t remember what his beloved looked like; he couldn’t remember the sound of his voice. All he knew was that the love Eroica had for Iron Klaus was pure and strong, forged in fire, undying – and that love would keep him alive through whatever ordeal the Russian thugs in the next room had planned for him.





Darkness fell. Klaus remained conscious. His muscles ached. His bruises throbbed. His thirst and hunger tormented him.

The men had left the adjoining room some time ago, tramping away in a group. For what seemed like many hours, he’d heard nothing but the creaking sounds made by the building itself, and the occasional scuttling of a rat in the ceiling.

The paintings in their gilt frames were just blocks of darker shadow, leaning against the solid black jumble of boxes.

What was in those boxes? Did they contain more artworks? Eroica was famous for the daring of his heists. Stealing one carefully selected object or the entire contents of a gallery- nothing was beyond the skills of the greatest art thief the world had ever known. Klaus remembered that; but he could not remember where he had stolen these paintings.

Footsteps sounded in the distance, growing louder as they approached the room. Outside the door, the footsteps came to a halt. There was a rattle of keys, the door opened, and a light was switched on. Three men came into the room.

Klaus looked from one to the other. He had no idea who they were. No idea if he’d ever seen them before.

One of the men approached, pulled his arms up roughly, and cut the ropes tying his wrists. Another placed a plate of food and a bottle of water on the floor within reach, and the two stepped back quickly.

The third man spoke, in Russian. –We are all armed, and there are three of us. Do not try to escape. You will end up dead.”

Klaus peered at the man. This was the half-familiar voice he had heard through the wall. Was the man’s face familiar? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He couldn’t be sure. But the man was Russian; why would he know a Russian?

–These fine paintings!” the man said. –Eroica has done us a favour, stealing these. It saves us the trouble.”

–I didn’t do it for you, shithead,” Klaus snarled. –I steal to surround myself with beauty.”

A momentary look of puzzlement passed across the Russian’s face. Klaus saw him glance at the henchmen standing on either side of him before he took a step forward.

–So— Eroica does not like to share?”

–Damn right I don’t!” Klaus retorted. –I don’t risk my neck so scum like you can scavenge the fruits of my labour!”

This time, there was a flash of amusement, which the Russian wiped off his face in an instant and replaced with a threatening scowl.

–You should watch your mouth, Eroica. You could get into trouble if you offend us. Grisha— the handcuffs.”

One of the thugs stepped forward and cuffed Klaus’s hands in front of him.

–Enjoy your dinner, Eroica,” said the one who was doing all the talking. –We will be in the next room. You can’t escape. Don’t waste your time trying, Prince of Thieves!”

The door closed behind them, and Klaus reached for the water bottle.





The three Russians went into the next room and closed the door. Sitting down at the head of the table, the leader allowed his amusement to overflow into a quiet chuckle.

–What is it, Comrade Bear Cub?” the one called Grisha asked. –What is amusing?”

–Sit down, Grisha. Borya, put the coffee on. This is a rich joke indeed, my friends.”

The other two looked at each other. Mischa the Bear Cub was not known for his sense of humour.

Careful not to be heard through the thin walls, Mischa kept his voice low. –We know, Comrades, that the man in the next room is Iron Klaus von dem Eberbach. It seems, though, that Iron Klaus no longer knows that. It seems that Iron Klaus has suffered some derangement or amnesia on account of the beating you gave him, Comrades – and he now believes that he is the thief Eroica.” Mischa’s eyes crinkled with dark merriment. –This is a good joke, if it is true. Of course,”– and his expression snapped back into its customary poker-face– –Iron Klaus could be feigning his condition. But if he really does think he is Eroica, it presents some interesting possibilities.”

Borya placed three mugs of coffee on the table and sat down. –I do not know much about this thief, Comrade. Can you give me more information?”

–The thief Eroica has a long history with Iron Klaus. He has interfered in my work many times, on Iron Klaus’s behalf. He is an aristocrat, and a homosexual— and it is widely believed that Eroica and Iron Klaus are lovers.”

Grisha nearly choked on his coffee. –Lovers? Do you mean— that Iron Klaus is a faggot?”

–He doesn’t act like one,” Borya growled. –He fought back hard enough! He nearly broke my arm! He is a hard man to subdue. A fighter.”

Comrade Mischa smirked with amusement. –He is a tough man. A good agent. A difficult enemy. Who can say what passes between him and Eroica– but the stories have circulated for years. And the thief Eroica is said to have proclaimed his love for Iron Klaus in public. What conclusions are to be drawn, Comrades?”

Grisha and Borya looked at each other, confounded.

–Now, Comrades,” Mischa continued, –tomorrow, when the helicopter arrives to take us back to Moscow with the art works, we have to decide what we will do with Iron Klaus. It will generate too many inconveniences if we kill him; and taking him with us is out of the question as we will have no room for him. Now, if Iron Klaus believes he is Eroica—”

Comrade Mischa’s gleeful grin, so out of character, shocked the other two Russians as they listened to him outlining his plan.





Officers at the Interpol Bureau acted quickly when they received the anonymous tip-off.

The message was vague; a call from a man with a Russian accent, with the information that the art thief Eroica could be found at a certain location. The directions were not clearly described, but the name of a town had been given, so a task force was sent to investigate.

It took them three days, but they eventually found the isolated farmhouse. The place looked uninhabited. There were no lights showing, and no smoke was issuing from the chimneys, although it was a dull, cold day. They approached the house with caution.

Inside, Klaus lay in a semi-stupor. The Russians had left him locked in, and handcuffed. They had taken all the boxes and loaded them onto a waiting helicopter, leaving behind the two unboxed paintings— –A little gift to help your rescuers know who you are!” All the furniture had been taken out, and they’d disconnected the electricity. They’d nailed a panel of wood over the window and removed anything from the room that could be used to prise the boards off. They’d left a supply of food, and several buckets full of water (the handles removed). Klaus was imprisoned in a bare, cold, dark room with just enough food and water to survive and, with the window blocked up, no way of telling whether it was night or day.

When he heard the sound of people moving around outside the building, Klaus stirred. He bit back the urge to shout out to them— he had no idea whether they were friend or foe.

–Police! Open the door!”

He sat up, tense. I might be the police. Or it might not. He waited.

Next, there was a loud banging on the door, the sound of splintering wood, and more loud shouts as heavy-booted individuals ran into the house.

Tense, silent, Klaus waited, listening to the sounds get closer and closer. The door burst open, and an officer wearing body armour and carrying an automatic weapon stood framed in the doorway.

Slowly, Klaus raised himself to his knees, and held his manacled hands up in front of him.

Someone produced a torch and shone a strong light around the room. Klaus blinked in the unaccustomed glare. He was dragged to his feet and propelled out into the light.

–We had a report that we would find the art thief Eroica here. Are you the man known by that name?” The man spoke in English.

Klaus raised his head high and said nothing.

–I ask again: are you the man known as Eroica?”

Another officer now came out of the house, carrying the two paintings the Russians had left behind. The little gift, to help his ‘rescuers’ to identify him.

The first officer signalled to his colleagues. –Put him in the van. Bring those paintings, too.”





In the cells, Klaus maintained his silence. He sat staring into space, saying nothing. He ate when the food arrived; he washed and tended to his bodily needs when the time came round on the prison schedule. The days went by.

One morning, he heard two officers walking past the door of his cell, arguing.

–—but Eroica’s described as having blond hair and blue eyes.”

–So he wears a wig. Or he’s dyed his hair and straightened it.”

–You can’t change eye colour!”

–You can wear coloured contacts!”

Klaus sighed. Eroica, the greatest art thief who ever lived, finally arrested after evading the police for so many years. They’d only managed it because he’d been captured by those Russians. He still didn’t know who they were, or which side of the law they were on. They’d taken the large haul of artworks with them– the artworks he’d stolen– and left him there to be found by Interpol.

He was sure that being Eroica, he’d have an excellent team of lawyers at his disposal. The only problem was, he couldn’t remember who they were, or how to get in touch with them.

And his ability to remain silent was wearing thin.

Then, the officers were walking past again, going back in the opposite direction. They’d left off arguing, and this time he heard one say, –—magazine with some really great photos of bears in Alaska.”

Alaska.

Something stirred in Klaus’s brain. Alaska should mean something. Had he been to Alaska? You wouldn’t think so– the place wasn’t exactly known for its art collections. But—

An art collection. In Alaska.

A series of vivid impressions flashed through Klaus’s mind. A small cabin in the Alaskan wilderness. Wolves howling at the door. And the Russian! The one who’d seemed familiar! He was there.

And then, a clear memory of a tall handsome man with long blond hair threatening the Russian with a gun.

Who was he? Was he—? Was the blond man Iron Klaus? The spy he was in love with? Warmth flooded through Klaus’s heart. Of course. Who else could it be? The love of his life would naturally be a beautiful man; beautiful and brave and fearless.

But—

Another vivid flash of memory. A dark night. Cold and stormy. He was standing on the shore of the Bering Sea, with his love beside him.

–I can tell you right now, things are going to get ugly,” he heard his own voice saying. –It’s no longer something a civilian should be involved in.”

And the handsome blond man replied, –I merely want the art collection back. So what if my adversary is the KGB?”

Klaus sat up, his eyes wide.

I’m not Eroica! The blond man is Eroica! I’m Major Klaus von dem Eberbach!

He leapt to his feet, strode across the cell, and began pounding on the door until one of the officers came and jerked the door open. Before the man could speak, Klaus bellowed at him: –I demand to see the commanding officer.”





Klaus could be very persuasive when he needed to be, and after a half-hour’s initial resistance, the Prison Governor made a phone call to NATO’s Bonn office, where he was put through to the Chief.

–Von dem Eberbach? Missing in action. Over a week now. Why? D’you have information on where we might find him?”

The Governor said, –Is he a well-built man, tall, about one metre ninety? Dark hair, green eyes? Loud voice?”

–That sounds like him,” said the Chief. –Has he been seen?”

–A man of that description is here, in my office.” The Governor stared at Klaus for a few moments, then said, –You’d better send a representative who can sort this out. Interpol is involved. I’ll get them to do the same, and you can work it out between you.”

Klaus was taken back to his cell, but without the rough handling this time, and after five minutes an officer brought in a pot of hot coffee and a plateful of fresh bread rolls. After that, the day passed much like the previous days, except that now, Klaus knew who he was, and he had a firm expectation that this mess was going to be sorted out.





Back in Bonn, there was the usual round of debriefing and medical check-ups.

–There doesn’t seem to have been any significant physical damage, and the bruising and cuts are all healing up well.” The doctor wrote some notes on the paper in front of him. –You mentioned temporary amnesia. Tell me more about that. How long did it last?”

Klaus didn’t mind this doctor, who had served with the armed forces and had worked in front-line field hospitals in combat zones, so he didn’t try to hide anything. In response to the doctor’s careful questioning, Klaus unfolded the whole sorry tale: not only had he forgotten who he was, but he then drew some wrong conclusions and became convinced that he was someone else. Someone who had been involved in the first stages of the mission, and was well known to him.

–It’s not entirely unknown,” the doctor said. –Our sense of self is constructed from our memories. Who you are is the total sum of all you’ve experienced. You know who you are because you remember all that. The physical trauma you experienced at the hands of those KGB operatives caused a temporary disturbance that made you forget your memories – so you forgot yourself. It’s natural that you’d try to remember your identity, particularly in the situation you were in, and not entirely unknown to come up with the wrong answer, if there were signals that were pointing you down the wrong path. What you’ve described seems like a classic illustration. And, you say that when you received some further signals, later on when you were in custody, you recognised you’d been mistaken and recalled your true identity. It seems clear that sound functioning was restoring itself, little by little.”

–That sums up what happened,” Klaus said. –The odd thing, though, was that when I believed I was the other man, I saw things as he would have seen them. The way he would have thought about them. Even though I would have felt quite differently if I was thinking as myself.” Klaus suspected he might not be explaining this very clearly, but he was edging into dangerous territory.

The doctor shrugged. –If you know this other man very well, and understand what his point of view is, it wouldn’t be surprising for you to adopt his point of view – or what you understand to be his point of view – for the time you adopted his identity.”

Klaus nodded. There wasn’t anything else he cared to say on the matter. Because, since he’d regained knowledge of who he was, he still hadn’t forgotten the feeling that went with the thoughts he’d had when he thought he was Eroica. Such as thinking, as Eroica, that his love for Iron Klaus was a thing of strength and purity – not the perversion that he, Klaus, had declared it to be, so often and so loudly. Klaus had not forgotten that: had not forgotten what that thought felt like.

There was no way he was going to mention that to the doctor.

–I’m writing a recommendation that you be given two weeks’ leave,” the doctor was saying, –for rest and recuperation. No— don’t argue. You need to get back to full functioning capacity, and time off is what you need. Take a break. Get away from Bonn. Go and stay with a friend. Whatever you like– but rest. That’s an order.”





Klaus closed up his city flat and went back to Schloss Eberbach. If he was supposed to rest, the old place with its extensive gardens and the woods and meadows of the family estate would present more opportunities to do so.

He was thankful that the amnesiac episode had resolved itself in a short time. Klaus liked to be in control, and the panic he’d experienced when he’d first realised that he didn’t know who he was had rattled him. Panic was an unfamiliar and unwelcome emotion.

Even when he’d thought he knew who he was, there was so much else he didn’t know and didn’t remember. He’d felt confused. Rudderless. Uncertainty was another emotion Klaus didn’t like.

The memory of seeing things from Eroica’s point of view stayed with him still. Should he have asked the doctor about it? No, Klaus definitely didn’t want that in his medical notes.

For the hundredth time, he turned the recollections over in his mind. Was that how Eroica thought, in reality? The feelings of loyalty and dedication that Klaus, in his confused state, had experienced? Did Eroica really see his regard for Klaus in such noble terms? And if he did, was there a possibility that if Klaus stopped reacting to him with violence and disdain, that Eroica might become less of a nuisance?

There was only one way to find out.
Chapter End Notes:
The lines of dialogue spoken on the shore of the Bering Sea are taken directly from the CMX translation of Aoike's "The Alaskan Front".
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