The Wolf's Hour

by Robert R. McCammon

“You need a pilot,” Chesna repeated, and Michael had to agree. “I’ll fly you to Norway. I can arrange to find someone with a boat. From there, you’re on your own.”

  “What about me?” Mouse asked. “Hell, I don’t want to go to Norway!”

  “I’ll put you in the pipeline,” Chesna told him. “The route to Spain,” she clarified, when he continued to look puzzled. “When you get there, my friends will help you find a way to England.”

  “All right. Fine with me. The sooner I get out of this viper’s nest, the better I’ll feel.”

  “Then we’d best get packed and out of here right now.” Chesna went to her room to start packing, and Michael went to the bathroom and got the mud off his face and out of his hair. He took off his trousers and looked at the wound across his thigh; the bullet had grazed cleanly, cutting no muscles, but it had left a scarlet-edged groove in the flesh. He knew what had to be done. “Mouse?” he called. “Bring me the brandy.” He looked at his hands, the fingers and palms crisscrossed with razor cuts. Some of them were deep, and would require burning attention as well. Mouse brought him the decanter, and made a face when he saw the bullet wound. “Get the bottom sheet off my bed,” Michael instructed. “Tear a couple of strips out of it, will you?” Mouse hurried away.

  Michael first washed his hands in brandy: a task that made him wince with pain. He would smell like a drunkard, but the wounds had to be cleansed. He washed the cuts on his shoulders, then turned his attention to his grooved thigh. He poured some brandy on a washcloth and pressed the wet cloth against the wound before he had too much time to think about it.

  He had need of a second washcloth, and this one he jammed between his teeth. Then he poured the rest of the golden fire over the red-edged wound.

  “Yes, that’s what I want from Frankewitz,” Jerek Blok was saying into the telephone in his suite. “A description. Is Captain Halder there? He’s a good man; he knows how to get answers. Tell Captain Halder that I want the information now.” He snorted with exasperation. “Well, what do I care about Frankewitz’s condition? I said I want the information now. This moment. I’ll stay on the line.” He heard the door open and looked up as Boots entered. “Yes?” Blok urged.

  “Herr Sandler’s train hasn’t passed through the rail yard yet. It’s over ten minutes late.” Boots had been downstairs on another telephone, speaking to the rail master at the Berlin yards.

  “Sandler told me he was putting the baron on the train. Yet the train’s still on the rails somewhere and Baron von Fange comes up out of the river like a damned toad frog! What do you make of it, Boots?”

  “I don’t know, sir. As you said, it’s impossible.”

  Blok grunted and shook his head. “Breathing through a hollow reed! The man’s got nerve, I’ll say that for him! Boots, I’m getting a very bad feeling about this.” Someone came on the line. “I’m waiting to hear from Captain Halder!” he said. “This is Colonel Jerek Blok, that’s who this is! Now get off the phone!” Red splotches had surfaced on Blok’s pale cheeks. He drummed his fingers, reached for a fountain pen and a sheet of pale blue notepaper with the hotel’s name on it. Boots stood at ease, hands clasped before him, waiting for the colonel’s next command.

  “Halder?” Blok said after another pause. “Do you have what I need?” He listened. “I don’t care if the man’s dying! Did you get the information? All right, tell me what you have.” He picked up the pen and held its point poised. Then he began to write: Well-dressed man. Tall. Slim. Blond-haired. Brown eyes. “What? Repeat that,” Blok said. He wrote: A true gentleman. “What’s that supposed to mean? Yes, I know you’re not a mind reader. Listen, Halder: go back to him and go over this once again. Make sure he’s not lying. Tell him… oh, tell him we can inject him with something that’ll keep him alive if we’re sure he’s being truthful. Wait just a moment.” He put his hand over the receiver and looked at Boots. “Do you have the key to Sandler’s suite?”

  “Yes, sir.” Boots brought the key from his shirt pocket.

  “Give it to me.” Blok took the key. He had promised Sandler he would feed Blondi her morning chunk of raw meat; he was one of the few people that Blondi seemed to abide, other than her master. At least she wouldn’t fly at him when the door was unlocked and the cage opened on its trip wire. “All right, Halder,” Blok went on. “Get back to him and go over it one more time, then call me. I’m at the Reichkronen.” He gave Halder the telephone number, then hung up. He tore the blue sheet of notepaper off its pad. Blond-haired. Brown eyes. If that was true, it certainly didn’t match the baron’s description. What had he been thinking? he asked himself. That the baron—and possibly Chesna, too—was somehow mixed up in this? Ridiculous! But the baron’s mention of “iron fist” had almost made him shit in his pants. Of course it was just a phrase. A common phrase anyone might use. But the baron… there was something not right about him. And now this situation with Sandler’s train off schedule, and the baron coming up out of the river. Of course the baron had been taken to Sandler’s train. Hadn’t he?

  “I’ve got to feed that damned bird,” Blok said. The bloody meat was kept in a refrigerator in Sandler’s kitchen. “Stay here and listen for the phone,” he told Boots, and then he left his suite and strode to the door down the hall.

  4

  Chesna’s chauffeur had brought the Mercedes from the Reichkronen’s garage to the courtyard, and as Wilhelm and Mouse loaded the suitcases into the trunk, Chesna and Michael paused in the lobby to say their goodbyes to the manager.

  “I’m so sorry about that dreadful accident,” the florid-faced man said with a ceremonious wringing of his hands. “I do hope you’ll return to the Reichkronen for another visit, Baron?”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Michael was clean and freshly shaved, and he wore a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a gray-striped necktie. “Besides, the accident was my own fault. I’m afraid I… uh… was a little too relaxed to go roaming along the riverbank.”

  “Well, thank God for your presence of mind! I trust the brandy was satisfactory?”

  “Oh, yes. It was fine, thank you.” In Chesna’s suite the maid would find a washcloth that looked as if it had been bitten almost in two, and a strip of the bed’s bottom sheet now bandaged Michael’s thigh.

  “Freulein van Dorne, I wish you and the baron the best of luck,” the manager said with a crisp bow. Chesna thanked him, and slid a generous amount of appreciation into the man’s palm.

  Chesna and Michael walked through the lobby, arm in arm. Their plans were set: not for a honeymoon excursion, but for a flight to Norway. Michael felt pressure gnawing at him. Today was April 24, and Chesna had said they would need a week at the least to get their fuel stops and security precautions arranged through her anti-Nazi network. With the Allied invasion of Europe set for the first week of June, time might become a critical factor.

  They were almost to the front entrance when Michael heard the thump of heavy footsteps coming up behind them. His muscles tensed, and Chesna felt the tension ripple through his body. A hand grasped his shoulder, stopping him about ten feet short of the doorway.

  Michael looked up, into the bland, square face of Boots. The huge man released Michael’s shoulder. “My apologies, Baron, Freulein,” he said. “But Colonel Blok would like to have a word with you, please.”

  Blok strolled up, smiling, his hands in his pockets. “Ah, good! Boots caught you before you could get away! I had no idea you were leaving. I only found out when I tried to call your room, Chesna.”

  “We just decided about an hour ago.” There was no hint of nervousness in her voice; a true professional, Michael thought.

  “Really? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Because of the incident, I mean.” His gray, lizard eyes moved to Michael and then, heavy-lidded, returned to Chesna. “But surely you didn’t plan on leaving before saying goodbye to me? I’ve always thought of myself as part of your family, Chesna.” His smile broadened. “An uncle, perhaps, who meddle
s more than he ought to. Yes?” He withdrew his right hand from his pocket. Held between the thumb and first finger was a golden feather. Michael recognized it, and his stomach clenched. Blok, still smiling, fanned himself with the hawk’s feather. “I’d consider it an honor to take you both to lunch. Surely you weren’t thinking of leaving before you ate, were you?” The feather twitched back and forth, like a cat’s whiskers.

  Chesna stood her ground, though her heart was pounding and she smelled disaster. “My car’s packed. We really should be going.”

  “I’ve never known you to pass up a leisurely lunch, Chesna. Perhaps the baron’s habits have rubbed off on you?”

  Michael took the initiative. He held his hand out. “Colonel Blok, it was very good meeting you. I hope you’ll attend our wedding?”

  Blok grasped Michael’s hand and shook it. “Oh, yes,” the colonel said. “Two events I never miss are weddings and funerals.”

  Michael and Chesna went through the doorway and started down the granite stairs. The colonel and Boots followed. Mouse was waiting, holding the Mercedes’s door open for Chesna, and Wilhelm was putting the last suitcase into the trunk.

  Blok’s trying to stall us, Michael thought. Why? The colonel had obviously found Blondi’s carcass and other signs of an intruder in Sandler’s suite. If he was going to make an arrest, why hadn’t he done so already? Michael walked Chesna around to her side of the Mercedes; Blok followed right behind them. Michael felt Chesna tremble. She also knew the game had taken a dangerous turn.

  Chesna was about to slide into the car when Blok reached past Michael and took her elbow. She looked at the colonel, the sun on her face.

  “For old times’ sake,” Blok said, and he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “Until later, Jerek,” Chesna answered, regaining some of her composure. She got into the car and Mouse closed the door, then went around to open the door for Michael. Blok followed on his heels while Boots stood a few yards away.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Baron,” Blok said. Michael got into the Mercedes, but Blok held the door. Wilhelm was sliding behind the wheel and putting the key into the ignition. “I hope you and Chesna will enjoy the future you’ve chosen.” He glanced up toward the courtyard entrance. Michael had already heard it: the low growl of a vehicle approaching across the pontoon bridge. “Oh, this I forgot!” Blok smiled, his silver teeth gleaming. “Sandler’s servant got control of the train. They found Sandler’s body, too. The poor man; an animal had already gotten to him. Now explain this to me, Baron: how could someone like you, a pampered civilian with no combat experience, have killed Harry Sandler? Unless, of course, you’re not who you seem to be?” His hand went to the inside of his black SS jacket, as a truck carrying a dozen Nazi soldiers entered the courtyard portal.

  Michael had no time to play the offended baron; he shoved his foot into the pit of the colonel’s stomach and knocked him backward to the paving stones. As Blok fell, a pistol was already in his hand. Mouse saw the glint of the Luger’s barrel, aiming at the baron. Something inside him roared, and he stepped into the line of fire and kicked at Blok’s gun hand.

  There was a sharp crack! as the pistol went off, and in the next instant Blok’s hand had been knocked open and the Luger spun away.

  Boots was coming. Michael raised up out of the car, grabbed Mouse, and hauled him in. “Go!” he shouted at Wilhelm, and the chauffeur sank his foot to the floorboard. As the Mercedes lunged forward, Michael slammed his door shut and a hobnailed boot knocked a dent in its metal the size of a dinner plate.

  “Get the gun! Get the gun!” Blok was yelling as he scrambled to his feet. Boots ran for the Luger and scooped it up.

  As Wilhelm tore the Mercedes across the courtyard, a bullet hit the rear windshield and showered Michael, Chesna, and Mouse with glass. “Stop them!” Blok commanded the soldiers. “Stop that car!” More shots were fired. The left rear tire blew. The front windshield shattered. And then the Mercedes was crossing the pontoon bridge, its engine screaming and steam spouting from a bullet hole in the hood. Michael looked back, saw several of the soldiers running after them as the truck turned around in the courtyard. Rifles and submachine guns fired, and the Mercedes shuddered under the blows. The car reached the opposite bank, but the right rear tire exploded and now flames were licking up around the hood. “The engine’s going to blow!” Wilhelm shouted as he watched the oil-gauge needle plummet and the temperature-gauge needle riot past the red line. The rear end was slewing back and forth, and he could hold the wheel no longer. The Mercedes went off the road and into the forest, angling down an incline and crashing through thick underbrush. Wilhelm fought the brakes, and the Mercedes grazed past an oak tree and came to rest amid a stand of evergreens.

  “Everyone out!” Wilhelm told them. He opened the driver’s door, grasped its arm rest, and popped a latch beneath it. The door’s leather interior covering fell away, exposing a compartment that held a submachine gun and three ammunition clips. As Michael got out of the car and pulled Mouse along with him, Chesna opened a compartment beneath the rear seat that yielded a Luger. “This way!” Wilhelm said, motioning them farther down the incline into thicker tangles of vegetation. They started into it, Chesna leading the way, and about forty seconds later the Mercedes exploded, raining pieces of metal and glass through the trees. Michael smelled blood. He looked at his hands and found a thick smear of red on the fingers of his right hand. And then he looked back over his shoulder, and saw that Mouse had fallen to his knees.

  Blok’s shot, Michael realized. Just below Mouse’s heart, the shirt was soaked with crimson. Mouse’s face was pallid, and glistened with sweat.

  Michael knelt beside him. “Can you stand up?” He heard his voice quaver.

  Mouse made a gasping noise, his eyes damp. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll try.” He did, and got all the way up before his knees caved in. Michael caught him before he fell, and supported him.

  “What’s wrong?” Chesna had stopped and come back to them. “Is he—” She silenced, because she saw the blood on the little man’s shirt.

  “They’re coming!” Wilhelm said. “They’re right behind us!” He held the submachine gun at hip level and clicked off the safety as his gaze scanned the woods. They could hear the voices of the soldiers, getting closer.

  “Oh no.” Mouse blinked. “Oh no, I’ve messed myself up. Some valet I turned out to be, huh?”

  “We’ll have to leave him!” Wilhelm said. “Come on!”

  “I’m not leaving my friend.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Wilhelm looked at Chesna. “I’m going, whether he comes along or not.” He turned and sprinted into the forest, away from the advancing soldiers.

  Chesna peered up the incline. She could see four or five soldiers coming down through the brush. “Whatever you’re going to do,” she told Michael, “you’d better do it fast.”

  He did. He picked Mouse up across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and he and Chesna hurried into the shadows of the trees. “This way! Over here!” they heard one of the soldiers shouting to his companions. A burst of submachine gun fire came from ahead, followed by a number of rifle shots. There was a shout: “We’ve got one of them!”

  Chesna crouched against a tree trunk, and Michael stood behind her. She pointed, but Michael’s eyes had already seen: in a clearing just ahead, two soldiers with rifles stood over Wilhelm’s writhing body. Chesna lifted her pistol, took careful aim, and squeezed the trigger. Her target staggered back, a hole at his heart, and fell. The second soldier fired wildly into the trees and started to run for cover. Chesna, her face grim, shot the man in the hip and crippled him. As he fell, her next bullet went through his throat. Then she was on her feet, a professional killer in a sleek black dress, and she ran to Wilhelm’s side. Michael followed, quickly making the same judgment as Chesna: Wilhelm had been shot in the stomach and the chest, and there was no hope for him. The man moaned and writhed, his eyes squeezed shut with
agony.

  “I’m sorry,” Chesna whispered, and she placed the Luger’s barrel against Wilhelm’s skull, shielded her face with her other hand, and delivered the mercy bullet.

  She picked up the submachine gun and pushed the Luger down into Michael’s waistband. Its heat scorched his belly. Chesna’s tawny eyes were wet and rimmed with red, but her face was calm and composed. One of her black high heels had broken, and she kicked the shoe off and threw its partner into the woods. “Let’s go,” she said tersely, and started off. Michael, with Mouse across his shoulders, kept pace with her though his thigh wound had opened again. His exhaustion was held at bay only by the realization of what would happen to them once they fell into the Gestapo’s embrace. Any hope of finding the meaning of Iron Fist and communicating that secret to the Allies would be lost.

  There was a movement on the left: the glint of sunlight on a belt buckle. Chesna whirled and sprayed a burst of fire at the soldier, who dropped to his belly in the leaves. “Over here!” the soldier shouted, and fired two bullets that thunked into the trees as Chesna and Michael changed direction and ran. Something came flying through the woods at them, hit a tree trunk at their backs, and bounced off. Three seconds later there was a ringing blast that knifed their eardrums, the concussion sending leaves flying. Dense white smoke billowed up. A smoke grenade, Michael realized, marking their position for the other soldiers. Chesna kept going, shielding her face as they tore through a tangle of thorns. Michael heard shouts from behind them, on their left and right. A bullet whizzed past his head like an enraged hornet. Chesna, her face streaked with thorn slashes, stopped in her tracks in underbrush near the edge of the road. Two more trucks had pulled off, and were disgorging their cargo of soldiers. Chesna motioned for Michael to back up, then she guided him in another direction. They struggled up a hillside through dense green foliage, then down again into a ravine.

  Three soldiers appeared at the top, silhouetted against the sun. Chesna fired her weapon, knocked two of the men down, and the third fled. Another smoke grenade exploded on their right, the acrid white smoke flooding across the ravine. The hounds were closing in, Michael thought. He could sense them running from shadow to shadow, salivating as their gun sights trained in. Chesna ran along the bottom of the ravine, bruising her feet on stones but neither pausing nor registering pain. Michael was right behind her, the smoke swirling around them. Mouse was still breathing, but the back of Michael’s neck was damp with blood. The hollow crump of a third smoke grenade went off amid the trees to their left. Above the forest, dark banners of crows circled and screamed.