Amsterdam-Vilnius
In Vilnius, whispers clung to Mr. Landsbergis like smoke after fire. To the public he paraded as a stern nationalist, a leader who spoke of heritage and pride. In private rooms, however, men remembered his old work in cold clinics where patients left paler than they arrived. He carried the name "political doctor," not from debate or law, but from veins cut open for his experiments in another age.
Stories followed him from that era. Some claimed he measured loyalty in drops of blood, draining prisoners while scribbling notes with detached precision. Others swore they had seen him collect jars, each marked not with names but with dates, a calendar written in sacrifice. Power grew around such rumors, shaping his reputation long after the Reich had crumbled.
His father, an ally of emperors, had burdened him with one secret before death, knowledge of a lost Nazi gold train buried in Poland. The weight of that inheritance pressed against every speech, every decision. Landsbergis carried another secret, darker still, his own discovery. Two royal cargo containers, traced to Elizabeth and Charles, hidden away in Klaipėda's Free Economic Zone. Metal coffins locked beneath warehouses where only he held the keys.
Control over these secrets gave him influence beyond politics. Allies approached him with reverence, enemies with caution. In meetings at Klaipėda he entertained foreign guests who spoke carefully, their eyes flicking toward guarded doors, knowing something precious lay behind. Each deal concluded in whispers, each contract drawn not in ink alone but in silence demanded afterward.
Paranoia shadowed his steps. Papers disappeared from locked drawers, coded notes turned up in hotel rooms, faces lingered too long near government halls. He sensed currents shifting beneath his feet, forces eager to pry open containers never meant for light. His hands trembled during speeches though his voice carried firm, and still he smiled for cameras, a mask stretched tight.
One evening, after a gathering in the port, a letter slid beneath his door. No crest, no signature, only a sentence scrawled in black: "The cargo breathes in Klaipėda, and its guardian bleeds soon." He stared at the words until morning, veins burning with dread. For the first time in years, he felt hunted.
Den Haag-Vilnius
In that silence before dawn he remembered an old name spoken in Antwerp taverns, a figure called the Butcher. Tales claimed he never bargained, only carved truths from flesh. Now Landsbergis wondered if such a shadow had crossed into Lithuania, drawn not by gold nor politics alone, but by secrets meant to die with him.
Whispers travelled faster than trains. Dockworkers in Klaipėda muttered of a foreigner walking among warehouses, a giant with ruined hands stitched by old scars. Fishermen described a man who carried knives wrapped in oilcloth, never smiling, never drinking, always watching. Each account reached Landsbergis in fragments, fueling his sense of pursuit.
Old allies grew uneasy. In parliament chambers, colleagues who once praised his leadership avoided eye contact. One by one, their loyalty shifted toward safer grounds. He recognized betrayal forming behind closed doors, deals struck in dark corridors where his name carried less fear than before. Every handshake felt colder, every smile rehearsed.
Landsbergis began to hear voices during sleepless nights, his father reminding him of imperial blood, German officers urging him to guard the gold, foreign monarchs cursing him for stolen containers. He pressed fingers against his temples, hoping to silence echoes, though they returned louder, sharper, relentless. Madness no longer seemed distant; it stood beside his bed.
On a rain-soaked evening in Klaipėda's Free Economic Zone, he entered a private office where only three confidants waited. Their words cut sharper than knives. They accused him of dragging the movement into ruin, of hoarding treasures while the party starved. One demanded access to the containers, promising protection from rivals. Another threatened exposure. Landsbergis studied their faces, realizing none could be trusted. The bond they shared had dissolved into hunger for what he alone controlled.
Later, a body surfaced in the harbour, throat opened from ear to ear. No coins in his pockets, no documents on his person. Dock police muttered about smuggling disputes, though older men shook their heads and whispered, "Butcher." Landsbergis knew the message had been sent directly to him.
Sleep abandoned him entirely. He paced corridors at night, hands clutching hidden keys, listening for footsteps behind curtains. Even in daylight, paranoia stalked him. Every knock on his office door felt like a hammer. Every ringing phone became a threat. He spoke less to his aides, fearing betrayal might spill from their mouths before loyalty did.
When the meeting came, it unfolded without warning. A limousine intercepted his convoy outside the city, black windows reflecting storm clouds. Guards hesitated, then a door opened and an immense figure stepped out. Scarred hands, pale eyes, jaw shaped like stone. No introduction followed. The Butcher's presence explained itself.
They entered an abandoned factory near the docks, iron beams echoing each step. The Butcher carried no entourage, only a long case set upon rusted steel. Landsbergis followed reluctantly, heart thundering against ribs. Inside that case rested instruments gleaming faintly under broken lights—blades, clamps, saws once meant for surgery, now refined for cruelty.
"Where lies the cargo?" The voice rumbled low, weighted with certainty. Not a question, but an inevitability.
Landsbergis attempted defiance. He spoke of heritage, of political struggle, of enemies plotting his downfall. The Butcher listened without expression, then placed a blade upon the table and repeated the demand. That silence pressed heavier than threats.
Memories of drained patients returned, jars lined in order, his own hands guiding needles. Now the roles have reversed. He felt prey before a predator who never tired, never bargained. Sweat clung to his collar, breath shortened, reason faltered.
Finally, words slipped free. He spoke of Klaipėda warehouses, of hidden vaults beneath reinforced floors, of royal containers shipped under false names. The Butcher nodded once, committing details to memory. For him, extraction had succeeded.
Landsbergis reached for compromise, offering partnership, influence, even shares in political power. The Butcher's gaze never shifted. He closed the case, knives vanishing into darkness, then leaned close enough for breath to brush against Landsbergis's ear. "Empires rot," he murmured. "Secrets outlive their keepers."
When dawn touched the harbour, only gulls circled above empty waters. Parliament later reported their leader missing, last seen near the Free Economic Zone. Some whispered he fled abroad with stolen wealth. Others insisted he had been silenced by foreign agents. Dockworkers, however, told a different story. They swore a pale giant boarded a ship carrying crates marked with crowns, while another man's scream echoed through rusted beams until silence consumed it.
Mr. Landsbergis's empire of lies ended not with applause nor trial, but with a whisper carved into memory by the Antwerpen Butcher.