The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel
Page 28
It was all just as well, in her opinion. The demons suited to high-energy magickal combat were hard to yoke and quick to slip away, while those that granted such talents as healing, transformation, and animal control could be yoked at lesser costs and held for longer durations.
It helped that the Nazi forces in Stalingrad lacked even rudimentary magickal wards for their men and equipment. Unfortunately, the Red Army was just as vulnerable. Anja hoped neither Kein nor his dabblers had focused their efforts against the city’s defenders.
Anja glided through a concrete ruin. She reveled in the rush of air beneath her wings, her heightened awareness of direction, her sharpened visual acuity. Traveling as a bird was a pleasure of which she never tired. However, she had learned the hard way to fly only at night, and to be mindful of hungry Russian sharpshooters with a taste for poultry. The most dangerous moment of any nocturnal excursion came at the end, when she descended into a gap between two buildings so ravaged they resembled broken teeth. If she saw anyone within a block of that stretch of dirt and wreckage, she would climb away and keep flying.
Certain it was deserted, tonight she landed and resumed her human shape—a change she effected in midflight so that she hit the ground in a crouch, behind cover.
Back on two feet, she scouted the path to her comrades’ underground camp. Distant cracks of rifle fire echoed, but nothing closer than half a kilometer. The machine-gun chatter she heard was even farther off. So far so good.
Caution, patience, diligence, suspicion: Those were the traits that kept Anja and her comrades alive. A soldier who didn’t stick her head up was far less likely to have it shot off. It was an easy lesson to learn—all it took to drive the point home was being peppered one time with a friend’s bloody brains, courtesy of a sniper’s bullet.
She darted through the husk of an old theater that no longer had a roof, past its rows of scorched seats to a camouflaged trapdoor on what remained of its stage. She knocked twice, then once, then twice again. From below she heard bolts being retracted. The heavy plate was pushed upward, and she slipped under it and hurried down its stepladder into the network of tunnels and other excavations the Red Army had turned into a base of operations below the city.
Familiar faces noted her return. Some lifted their chins in greeting, others waved. A few pretended not to see her. She had learned not to take offense when that happened. Packed into close quarters, robbed of even the semblance of privacy, people did whatever they could to preserve the illusion of personal space. It was just part of surviving, a fact of life during wartime.
Everywhere Anja looked, people huddled for warmth under threadbare blankets, rubbed their palms in the smoke from twig fires, and filled their hours with busywork to fend off the cold and the boredom. She envied the lucky few who scrounged sips of vodka from unbroken bottles, an increasingly rare treasure. It had been weeks since Anja had enjoyed a drink, forcing her to contend with her yoked demons while sober. To keep control, she had released all except a few spirits, but even those were wearing her down, brittling her patience and sharpening her temper.
Almost at her bedroll, Anja felt relief at the prospect of sleep—only to see her tunnel neighbors shoot her fearful looks as she approached. Oleg and Anton averted their eyes, but Nadezhda—the bravest of the lot—opened hers wide, an attempt to warn Anja of danger.
Unable to imagine what had them spooked, Anja hurried to Nadezhda and gently took the young woman aside. “What’s wrong?”
Nadezhda said in a terrified whisper, “Political officers!” She looked around, and locks of her unwashed blond hair fell into her eyes. “They asked about you.”
“Why? What did they—?”
Nadezhda backed away while staring at something behind Anja.
Anja turned to see a pair of Soviet political officers. They were always easy to spot, with their crisp uniforms, clean boots, smart haircuts, and smooth faces. Neither one wore rank insignia, which were only slowly coming back into fashion in the Red Army as the war imposed its need for a clear chain of command.
Even bereft of rank, it was clear the older of the two men was in charge. He removed his hat to reveal his shaved-bald head. He tucked the hat under his arm, adjusted his round wire-frame eyeglasses, and stepped forward. “Comrade Anja Kernova?” He waited for her nod of confirmation, then continued. “We’d like a word with you. In private.”
“And who are you?”
“Captain Misha Krezinskov, political officer.” He indicated his younger, fair-haired subordinate. “This is Lieutenant Gogol.” With a wave of his arm, he tried to coax her away from her fellow soldiers. “Shall we?”
Anja knew she had done nothing wrong, but she had heard horror stories of people escorted away by political officers, never to return. She stood her ground. “We can talk here.”
“I’m not making a request.”
So it was an order. Her options were to comply or be executed. She sighed. “As you wish. Lead on, Comrade Captain.” Krezinskov led her deeper into the tunnel complex, and Gogol fell in behind her. They escorted her several minutes’ walk through the underground passages, to a small room with a heavy door. Inside was a chair at a desk beneath a kerosene lamp.
“Have a seat,” Krezinskov said. He set his hat on the table.
Anja sat on the chair as Gogol bolted the door shut and placed himself in front of it. She shifted her attention to the captain. “What can I do for you, Comrade Captain?”
He studied her. “I’ve been reading your service record. Barely three months since you enlisted, and already you’ve made quite a name for yourself. Did I read correctly you have sixty-one confirmed sniper kills?”
“Sixty-two. I shot an SS-Obersturmbannführer inside a Nazi command post tonight.”
“Which post, exactly?”
“The one by the hospital.”
Perplexed looks passed between the political officers. The captain regarded Anja with deepening suspicion. “You mean the one for which no one’s been able to get a sight line?” He was not amused by Anja’s faux-humble shrug. “This is the root of our concern, Comrade. You seem to have a knack for sniping targets in places no one else can approach. Not even Vasily Zaytsev has gotten so close to the enemy’s command posts.”
“He doesn’t need to. And I’m not half the rifleman Comrade Zaytsev is.”
“No, but you’re also an accomplished spy. Your record says you’ve brought us more than two dozen tips about German troop movements, supply and ammo caches, and ambushes—and that every single one has checked out. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were in the enemy’s headquarters when the Nazis made their plans.”
She had been, of course—disguised as a rat, or as a mouse—but she knew not to admit the truth. Not to her comrades, and certainly not to political officers. Atheism was an official plank of the Communist Party platform; there was no way Anja could explain that her successes were made possible by Renaissance-era Goetic ceremonial magick. Either her interrogators would believe her and she would be locked away as an enemy of the state, or they would think her insane and lock her away as a menace to the body politic. There was no circumstance in which the truth could possibly set her free. In all likelihood, it would only get her killed.
She smiled at Krezinskov. “What can I say, Comrade Captain? I have rare talents. I’m just grateful I get to use them in service to Mother Russia.”
“Perhaps you’re a German spy. Sent to give us gifts so we’ll learn to trust you—only to have you turn against us at a critical moment.”
It was hard to mask her contempt for his paranoia. “Tell me you’re not serious. Gifts? You really think the Nazis are so generous they’d let me shoot forty-nine of their officers and more than a dozen of their senior enlisted commanders? You really think them that cunning? Maybe they’ll let me put a bullet between Hitler’s eyes, just so I can win your trust.”
He seethed. Had she pushed him too far? Was he about to reward her insolence with a beating? Or a bul
let? His anger-hardened features relaxed, and he drew a calming breath. “Very well. Let’s say for the moment I accept your reasoning. Can you teach your ways to others? If you could show Zaytsev how to reach some of the targets you have—”
She shook her head, resurrecting the captain’s frown. “I’m sorry, Comrade Captain. But my methods aren’t the kind of thing I can teach. At least, not here. And not to just anyone.”
It was clear her answer had stoked their mistrust. Krezinskov shifted his hand toward the holstered pistol on his hip. That was Anja’s cue to bring the meeting to an end—her way.
She looked up at Krezinskov until he met her stare—and then she channeled the mind-slaving talent of SICARIOS as she spoke in a low, calm register. “If you’ve read my file, Comrade Captain, you know I’m loyal to the Soviet Union. It’s too bad I can’t help you teach others to do what I do, but Mother Russia needs me on the line. Don’t you agree?”
The captain concurred with a slow, numb nod of his head. “I quite agree.”
Behind him, Lieutenant Gogol stepped forward, abandoning his post at the door. “Sir?”
“It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Comrade Captain,” Anja added, “but General Khrushchev urgently needs you and Lieutenant Gogol at headquarters.”
Krezinskov picked up his hat, put it on, and faced Gogol. “We need to go. The general needs us at headquarters.” He breezed past Gogol, opened the door, and made his exit. Gogol started to follow him, but he paused to shoot a confused look at Anja.
She met his gaze with a sinister glare. “Better hurry, Comrade Lieutenant. Can’t keep the general waiting.” Gogol hurried out and jogged to catch up to his captain.
Anja sauntered out of the little room and plodded to her spot in the tunnel under the church. She’d had a long night and was ready to sleep. As she tucked herself inside her bedroll, Nadezhda rolled hers to face Anja. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Nady. Go back to sleep.”
The blond woman rolled away from Anja and sank into a troubled slumber. Anja, meanwhile, lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling and regretting her lies.
We are not fine, Nadezhda. Nothing is fine. She shut her eyes and turned her last command of the day upon herself: Go back to sleep.
32
NOVEMBER
It troubled Adair how time’s passage seemed increasingly fleeting to him as he grew older. After more than three and a half centuries, a week could slip by him unnoticed. A month could evaporate like dew on a windowpane at dawn.
Which is why it seemed to him that Cade had barely returned from his mission to Paris and now was packing his duffel, to venture alone once more into peril.
Adair hobbled through the open doorway of Cade’s room. The young man had his back to Adair. Bathed in the dawn light streaming through the window, he stuffed his last few articles of clean clothing into his bag. His leather roll of magickal tools was tied shut and propped at an angle against the bed’s footboard.
“You packed your grimoire, yes?”
“No, I burned it.” Cade noted Adair’s narrowed stare. “First thing in the bag.”
“Good lad.” Adair hop-stepped into the room. “Sorry I can’t go with you.”
“Don’t be. Someone has to stay here to guard the wine.” The young karcist zipped his bag shut, then rendered it into the unseen hands of his demonic valet.
“Remember to scout the Thule covens. Don’t go bargin’ in like a witless shitgibbon.”
“Would you relax? I handled Paris on my own.”
“From what the Maquis told Niko, you nearly got yourself killed.”
The young man frowned. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Aye. You do at that.” There was no point seeding Cade’s mind with doubts, and nothing to be gained by warning him that venturing into Germany, on a solo mission to destroy the last two great Thule covens, would be even more perilous than his mission to Paris had been.
This is why we bonded him. It’s what I trained him for.
He hoped his air of nonchalance sounded more convincing than it felt. “You’ll do fine. I wish I could be there, but I know it’s time to let you walk alone.”
Shrugging into his trench coat, Cade glanced at Adair’s crutches. “Not much choice. I’m the only one of us who can still walk.”
“You cheeky scullion! I’ll have you know my old army mates are finding me a prosthesis.”
“Great.” Cade picked up his tools. “So you’ll be running wind sprints by Christmas?”
Adair grimaced at the good-natured ribbing. “Sod a dog, you beetle-headed basket-cockle.” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small rectangular steel mirror like the ones he had made for Niko and Stefan. “I had this made for you. So you can stay in touch.”
Cade looked amused. “What, my birthday again so soon?”
“When is your birthday?”
The youth feigned offense. “Two years and you’re only asking me this now?”
“I’ve had a bit on my mind.”
Easing off the sarcasm, Cade said, “May ninth.”
“So, I missed it, then.”
“By about six months.”
“And how old are you now?”
The lad pondered that for half a second. “Twenty-three.”
“Well happy fucking birthday, here’s a magick mirror. Know how to use it?”
“Fenestra, velarium, discutio.”
“Finally—proof that you’ve listened.” He slapped the looking glass into Cade’s hand. “But take care: the enemy knows how to use it now. Don’t make the mistake Stefan did.”
“I won’t. But why don’t we just change the command words?”
“Because they’re not ours to change. They’re set by the demon that makes the mirrors.”
“Gotta love Infernal bureaucracy.” The young karcist hid the mirror in one of his coat’s inside pockets. “A shame we can’t spare a large one for a shortcut into Germany.”
“Sorry. Already put my last two portals into play. One got you to Paris before Kein broke it. The other’s bound for safer shores.” Adair pivoted to keep facing Cade, who circled him on his way out of the bedroom. “Kein’s been beefing up his defenses on the German border. So if you’re going into Krautland, you’ll have to do it the hard way.”
“I didn’t think we knew any other way.” Cade’s affect turned maudlin. “Look, just in case I don’t make it back—”
“Don’t say it, lad.”
“No, I need to. If I don’t come back, I just want to say thank you, for everything you taught me. I’ll try not to let you down.”
“Aye, well…” What was there to say in response? Adair choked down his upwelling of sentiment and averted his misting eyes. “Remember where you’re going?”
Cade nodded. “I hike from here to Carchuna.”
“Right. Pick up your feet, you’ll make it by sundown. What’s the driver’s name?”
“Esteban Alvaros. He has gray hair and his left pinky finger is missing.”
“After sundown, he’ll take you up the coast to Gibraltar. Where’s the letter of transit?”
Cade patted his chest. “Shirt pocket.”
“When you get to Gibraltar, show that to any man in uniform, and say you’ve orders to report to General Eisenhower. He’ll get a plane to fly you into Germany as soon as he can.” He set one of his crutches against the doorjamb. With his free arm he pulled Cade into an embrace. It was a gesture he hadn’t extended to Stefan or Niko, or to any of the other young lives he had sent into harm’s way over the years, and now his heart was full of regrets. His voice quavered with fear as he slapped Cade’s back. “Come home safe, m’boy.”
They parted, and in that moment Adair saw his raw emotions mirrored in Cade’s eyes, and he remembered that the youth was an orphan, as much in need of surrogate kin as he was.
Cade banished his melancholy with a smile, then marshaled his humor to exorcise the moment of rank sentimenta
lity. “Promise not to drink all the scotch before I get home.”
“Ach. I never make a promise I can’t keep.”
“That makes two of us. And I promise you—” He clapped Adair’s shoulder. “I will kick your ass if I come back and there’s no single-malt.”
Adair cracked a proud smile. “Understood.”
“And if you think of it,” Cade said, “… leave a light on for me.”
“That I will, lad. That I will.”
* * *
Little more than a bump on the southern coast of Spain, the British protectorate of Gibraltar swarmed with Allied troops. Cade saw Brits, Americans, Canadians, New Zealanders, Free French, and Greek partisans, all just during his ride to the headquarters, which was hidden deep underground, in a complex carved from the peninsula’s bedrock. Every cubic foot of space he had seen inside the command center had been packed tight and stacked high with food, supplies, ammunition, and fuel. Every passageway had bustled with men and women in uniform, all moving with dispatch, soldiers anxious in the face of imminent deployment.
Nearly a dozen officers had checked and rechecked his letter of transit and verified his orders before he finally reached the one person who seemed to know what was going on. A tall and imposing man with crew-cut fair hair, features chiseled by wartime hardships, and four stars on his uniform’s epaulets, General Dwight D. Eisenhower nodded as he reviewed Cade’s documents. “So,” he’d said. “You’re the one.” He handed back Cade’s papers. “My men deploy two nights from now, on the eighth. Your flight’ll go at the same time.”
And that was all he’d had to say. A series of his subordinates had whisked Cade away, passing him down a chain of handlers marked by ever-decreasing rank, until a second lieutenant had shown him to a cot in a crowded subterranean chamber with five dozen strangers.
“We’ll let you know when it’s time to fly,” the junior officer had said. He’d left before Cade learned his name or was able to ask what the fuck was going on.