Office of The Prime Minister, Kiryat HaMemshala, Jerusalem, Israel, November 30th, 1963
Prime Minister Levi Eshkol sighed as he placed the phone back over the reciever, before leaning back into his chair, taking a moment to enjoy the afternoon sunlight shining in through his office window. The talks with President Kennedy had been... taxing, but considering the subject of their negotiations, that was hardly a surprise. Running his hand through his thinning hair, he couldn't help but feel the exhaustion in his bones. He'd begun to feel his age more and more lately, even as positive as today had been, he couldn't quite shake his weariness as he once had. It was days like this when he wondered if perhaps it was time to look toward reducing his workload, but somehow there never seemed to be a good time for it. There was always so much more that had to be done... sometimes it felt like drowning...
He tried to avoid thoughts like that. There was no time for the despondent indulgences of an old man. And Israel still needed him.
"So what's the verdict, Prime Minister? Did they accept the proposal?" The voice brought him back to reality, and Eshkol turned to the speaker, his deputy minister Abba Eban, sitting in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk, one leg crossed over the other. The younger man looked nervous, not reassured by the grim look on his superiors face. Eshkol nodded his head, trying to clear the dismal thoughts.
"Yes, sorry for worrying you, Eban, I got... distracted. President Kennedy was understandably a bit skeptical about our proposal for Zemo, the Americans have suffered greatly at his hands as well, they are reluctant to give another nation a say in what will be done with him..."
Eban frowned "The whole world has suffered at that madmans hands, even his home nation, America does not have sole claim to the pain he has wrought! If they wish to make a spectacle of justice, they can use his pawns!"
"Yes, that was my view as well, and the President did come around to it. There will be an international tribunal to decide Zemo's fate, where all his sins will be adressed."
"Why, that's great news!" Eban said, only to become uncertain again, as he saw the expression on the Prime Ministers face "Sir, this is what we had hoped for, but you don't look like you've won a victory for our people at all."
"Because, Eban, I fear that this is no victory at all" Eshkol said, rising from his chair and walking over to the window, giving him a magnificent view of Jerusalem spreading out beyond "When President Kennedy agreed, I did not feel relief, or vindication, or even some abstract sense of justice. I just felt... resignation..."
"But why would you possibly feel that way?"
Eshkol sighed "Eban, do you know where Zemo has been all these years?"
Eban shook his head "No, no one seems to know..."
"Indeed, and part of me, some small, tired part of me, wishes he had remained there for the remainder of his wretched days. That he had died in some forgotten corner of the world, and let his name turn to dust. And he would have been forgotten in time. But now... The tribunal must take place, Zemo must be made to pay for everything he has done, and he will... but I fear that in doing so, we will create a martyr out of him, something far more dangerous than he would have ever become if he had simply faded from history..."
Though Levi Eshkol didn't know it, he wasn't the only one who despaired at this thought.
....
The Chancellor's Office, Palais Schaumburg, Bonn, West Germany, December 1st, 1963
Ludwig Erhard had not expected to face a challenge of this nature, atleast not this early into his role as chancellor, but then again, few would have.
The attack on the American President had shocked the world, such a brazen strike would have been bad enough on it's own, but for a regular human, to cause such devastation would be nearly impossible without an army, even a bomb wouldn't have been close to enough. This group, the Masters Of Evil, had done it with only six people, and it was only luck that they hadn't managed to decapitade the U.S government in the process. That superhumans were dangerous was nothing new of course, even Germany had seen it's share of clashes between them and nonpowered military during the war that the fledgling republic wasn't likely to forget it. But an attack of this magnitude, and in peacetime? It had seemed unthinkable, until it wasn't.
But somehow, despite the shock, that all seemed to fade once it was revealed who the leader of the Masters was. And long-forgotten horrors made themselves known again.
Baron Heinrich Zemo. The Butcher Of Leipzig. The Most Hated Man In Europe. Still alive after all this time.
The post-war trials hadn't passed justice on nearly as many of The Furher's mad dogs as they should have, it was a bit of an open secret that both the Americans and the Soviets had snapped up as many of the useful ones they could get their hands on, to help prepare them for the looming Cold War. Even the old superpowered freaks once employed by the Axis had disappeared by the wars end. Master Man, Brain Drain, Armless Tiger Man, gone off the face of the Earth. And after the initial trials, there had been too much to do to look any further, a nation in ruins, an economy to rebuild, and it seemed they could atleast begin to heal and forget...
They were never going to be that lucky.
Erhard was no fool, he knew that no matter how much the Republic wanted to pretend otherwise, the scars left by the Third Reich ran deep, you could file away symbols and take down flags all you wanted, but it would never create a clean slate. The Federal Republic of Germany was a nation built on ghosts, and with Zemo to be made to pay for his crimes at last, those ghosts had begun to stir again.
But what really chilled Ludwig Erhard to his very core, was one thought; Zemo had returned, even after all this time, so who knew what else, or who else, was still out there, waiting for the time to rise again?
...
Somewhere Outside Laurel, Mississippi, United States, December 2nd, 1963
The chamber they were standing in had originally been designed as a fallout shelter, but the bunker had been left half-finished when the original owner of the area had died in the Korean War. Samuel Bowers had followed the instructions his leader gave him, buying the land for a pittance from the owners aging parents, who had apparently no idea what their son had been building virtually in their backyard. Bowers wasn't entirerly sold on the idea of hiding away down here, like they were somehow doing anything wrong, but then again, they were resisting the corrupt pigs in Washington, and both his friends in the Klan, and his leader knew the value of subterfuge when dealing with the enemy. It wasn't a war just yet. But it would be.
The man in the black robes swept by him, striding up to the bulky pod sitting in the middle of the room, covered by a large tarp. Cables snaked out from underneath the covering, into a humming generator tucked into a corner of the room. Whatever was underneath apparently needed to be powered.
Bowers watched as the Hate-Monger ran his hands over the surface of the cover, he still didn't know what was underneath, or why it was such an important part of the Mongers plan. It had arrived just two days before, delivered by truck through the woods by two stone-faced men in military fatigues, who had helped Bowers and a few of the others bring the very heavy pod down into the bunker and set it up, before departing without saying a word. It had been rather unsettling, but Bowers trusted his leader without question.
Still, curiosity is a hell of a thing.
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking... what is this?"
The Hate-Monger turned around, his masked face as unreadable as always, though Bowers thought he could hear a trace of excitement in his voice "Ah, Mr. Bowers, it's simple enough... Tell me, what does one need to truly change the world? To take society in hand and reshape it like a shard of rough iron? What tool can be used to shape mountains?"
Bowers blinked "Er... Strength? Conviction?"
"Yes yes, both valid answers, but not quite right. You see, Mr. Bowers, strength and conviction will only bring you so far on their own. The world is bloated, corrupt, it requires discipline! Leadership! INSPIRATION! In short, an icon! A symbol for everything that is true and pure!"
"And... that's what's under there? A symbol?"
To Bowers surprise, the Hate-Monger began to laugh softly "It's really ironic, Mr. Bowers. It's a shame that Zemo's attack against President Kennedy failed, it would have made our own goals easier, but it was thanks to the chaos he caused that certain... individuals in the U.S government were able to procure this for me. Something they've been hiding away for quite some time now. It's a bit of a shameful secret for them, you see."
The Hate-Monger grabbed ahold of the covering, and pulled it away, revealing a large, coffin-like capsule made of metal, with a large pane of glass on the door showing a figure encased in ice within. Bowers stepped closer, trying to get a better look.
"See, what we need is a symbol. Someone who share our ideals, someone who men will rally behind, someone to lead an army. And it just so happens we have this man right here."
And it was there, in an abandoned bunker in the middle of nowhere, that Samuel Bowers first laid eyes on William Burnside, the second Captain America.496