Oberst Bunkt sat at his desk and listened to his aide and the aide’s assistant, Oberleutnant Christopher Mullen.  The report was on Claire Daniels, cousin to Federal Agent Danny St. Claire. 

“Miss Daniels,” the aide began, “currently lives on Holly Ave. in Manchester, New Hampshire with her secretary, Rachel Jackson.  Here is a recent photograph of the two taken at a book signing.”  He passed a black and white photo of the two women to his superior.  Bunkt scanned the photo quickly and laid it on his desk.  “The black woman is assistant, confidant, and general house help.  Daniels also has a cook that lives up the street with her father, who drives the two women around and does handy work.  Neither woman in the house is married, divorced, or involved with anyone at the moment.  Further, there is no indication that these two are involved with each other.”  He forced the words out of his mouth, the very thought of two women together grating against everything he had been taught in the Youth Corps.

“Are there any others involved at this time?” Bunkt pressed.

“Yes, sir,” replied the Hauptman.  “The fiancé of St. Claire has been a steady guest of the house.”   Another photo, this time in color from Vogue magazine, passed to the Oberst.  “She is a designer in Washington and New York,” he said.

The aide saw his superior’s eyes light up a little at the tall, Nordic beauty with the long mane of hair, the great breasts and the hips for bearing many children of the Fatherland.

“Finally, there is a librarian.”  Mullen handed the Oberst a photo of Dawn.  “She is the director of the local public library and a friend of the shwartz.”  The Nazis often referred to what they considered inferior races by their skin color or religious designation, thus denigrating them even further. 

“This is why the Americans will never rise above the status of animal in the world order.  They align themselves with Jews and Negroes to the detriment of the pure race of men.”  Bunkt laughed.  “It is so easy to slip by their meek resistance.”  The Colonel looked directly at his aide.  “What is the intelligence estimate on the situation?”

“The Gestapo has reviewed the data and has concluded that the women are no threat to the plans of the Reich.  The Daniels woman is a mystery writer and will undoubtedly use this murder to her benefit, deriving some kind of plot from it, but she has no proven ability to solve anything beyond fiction.  They have assigned a three to the question.”

Early in the formation of the Secret Police, the Gestapo had created a numbering system for severity of their reports.  Anything below a five was considered routine and not given much attention.  From a six to an eight was considered serious enough for someone to investigate beyond a cursory glance and a nine or ten got the full attention of the bureau closest to the geographical area affected.

Bunkt stood up and clapped his hands together once, signaling the briefing was over.  “Thank you gentlemen,” he said, more out of courtesy than respect.  “You may return to your duties.”

Once the two men were out of the room, he picked up the phone and dialed a long distance number.  When the other end picked up he spoke, “reports indicate there is no threat from Manchester.  We will continue.”  After hanging up, he walked out into the morning sunshine of the nation’s capital, and toward a lunch date with a beautiful blonde actress, visiting from California.