Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2)

by Christopher Nuttall

  The doors crashed open, revealing a colossal stockpile of everything from ration packets to industrial equipment. Katherine puzzled over it for a long moment, then decided that the traitors must have stripped food supplies and anything else that might be useful from the towns and satellite cities surrounding Berlin. It wasn't a bad move either, she had to admit, but it was going to cost them She was tempted to call for the refugees, to offer them the chance to loot the warehouse, yet she knew the traitors would probably arrive in time to keep the refugees from stealing everything. They’d have reinforcements already on the way.

  “Burn it,” she ordered.

  She unhooked the grenade from her belt and hurled it into the warehouse. It detonated seconds later, sending out a wave of fire that ignited everything it touched. The SS had designed the grenades to burn Slavic hovels to the ground, tiny huts built of wood, mud and makeshift brick. They were tougher than they looked, according to her instructors, but the same couldn't be said of the warehouse’s contents. The flames were spreading faster and faster, burning everything to a crisp.

  “Time to go,” she said.

  She turned and led the way back along the streets, hearing the sound of approaching cars. It was tempting to set up an ambush, to engage the policemen as they approached, but she had a feeling that it would prove pointless. She had only four men under her command, apart from the handful of SS operatives; she didn't dare risk losing even one of them if it could be avoided. Besides, there would be soldiers on the way too. Her men were good, but they would be massively outnumbered.

  The police cars roared past, followed by a pair of red fire engines. Someone had seen the blaze then, she noted; she wondered, absently, just who had managed to call in a report so quickly. Unless they’d anticipated an attack on the warehouse ... but surely, if they had, they would have made sure the building was actually secure. Clearing the nearby buildings and setting up a line of checkpoints would have made her job much harder.

  It might be better to target the fire engines next, she thought, as she watched more police cars racing past. And make it harder for them to put out any other fires.

  She glanced behind her - the inferno was still blazing, a towering pillar of flame rising into the air - and then smiled. It wasn't much - four men, a single armoured car and a shitload of supplies - but it would hurt the rebels. Now the city was under siege, they would have no hope of replacing the destroyed supplies before the Waffen-SS attacked. And they would have to cover the other warehouses by drawing men from the front lines.

  “A good day’s work,” she said, as they reached the hideout. “Get undressed, then get into bed and catch some sleep.”

  She smirked as she walked into the bedroom and started to undress. As far as anyone knew, they were a family that had remained in Berlin since the uprising - and they had the papers to prove it. Katherine had expected to have to infiltrate London or Washington - she could pass for either British or American, at a pinch - but slipping into Berlin and operating within the city had been almost disconcertingly easy. Her instructors had told her never to break cover, never to do anything that might reveal her true nature ... and yet, Berlin was hardly a challenge.

  Don’t get complacent, she reminded herself, sternly. If they search this place, our cover will be thoroughly blown.

  Closing her eyes, she went to sleep.

  ***

  “Six men dead,” Herman said, tartly. “One armoured car destroyed. Half the supplies in the warehouse burned to a crisp and the rest probably of dubious value.”

  He scowled at the mess in front of him. The warehouse was a blackened shell, the walls caved in and the steel girders looking as if they were on the verge of collapsing into a pile of debris. A hundred firemen had worked desperately to salvage what they could, but there just hadn't been the time to get everything out of the building. He had no idea what sort of chemicals the strike team had used, yet - whatever it was - it had burned hot enough to set fire to almost everything in the building.

  “A very basic strike team,” Horst commented. “Why weren't there more guards in place?”

  Herman felt his anger deepen. “Where would you have us leave undefended,” he snapped, “so we can cover a single building?”

  Horst showed no visible reaction to his words. The former SS agent had been oddly distracted, when he’d met with Herman to discuss the ongoing investigation; Herman would have bet good money that it had something to do with Gudrun. And yet, he didn't have the time to worry about it. Losing so much food would cause panic all over the city, once it sank in that rations - already small - would have to be reduced still further. Starvation - or the threat of starvation - might be enough to set off a riot that would tear Berlin apart.

  “There just isn't the manpower to cover everywhere,” Herman added, tartly. “It isn't as if we can pull troops off the wall.”

  “We might have to,” Horst said. “Taking out the food supplies ... it’s always been part of the SS commando doctrine.”

  Herman sneered. “Know a few commandos, do you?”

  “I did,” Horst said. He sounded oddly nostalgic for a long moment. “They were the sort of men who would think nothing of crawling for hours, just to get to a target, then poisoning the wells.”

  He swore. “We need to keep a careful watch on the water supplies and power stations too,” he added. “They’ll come under attack soon.”

  Herman cursed. He’d gone without food for a couple of days, during his military service, but humans couldn't live long without water. Three days, his instructors had said, if the person going without was in reasonably good health. The old and the young would need water far more frequently ... the thought of being without water was definitely enough to spark off more riots. If the SS managed to cut or reduce the water supplies, Berlin was doomed.

  He took one last look at the ruined warehouse, then glanced up in alarm as he heard an aircraft flying over the city. These days, with the Luftwaffe badly weakened, it was a dead certainty that it wouldn't be friendly. The SS bombing raids were pinpricks, compared to the sheer immensity of the largest city in the world, but they did some damage and wore down morale. He couldn't blame the civilians for slowly losing their cool under the constant sniping, shelling and bombing.

  “We need to go back to the Reichstag,” he said. “And see if we can speed up the detective work.”

  “I would be surprised if we cracked their cover so quickly,” Horst admitted, as they headed for the car. “They’ll have been trained for far more unfriendly places.”

  “We have to try,” Herman said. He’d need to put forward recommendations, too. Random searches would annoy the population, but they might just uncover something of value. At the very least, it would warn the SS cell that they might have to be prepared to move at any moment. “Who knows? Maybe their cover will be too perfect.”

  Horst snorted, sitting back in his chair. “Their papers will be perfect because they’ll have come from the official producer,” he said. “There won’t be any obvious forgeries to find.”

  Herman smiled. “You mean, like yours?”

  “I passed the entry exams for the university,” Horst said, flatly. “There was no fakery.”

  Herman was reluctant to admit it, but he was impressed. Gudrun had almost worked herself into a coma, preparing for the exams. He’d even seriously considered withdrawing permission for her to attend the university when he’d realised it was affecting her health, unlike the exams he and the boys had taken when they’d left school. And yet, he knew she had done well. He wished, suddenly, that he'd told her just how proud he was ... back before she’d turned into a politician. It might not have been traditional for a girl to go to university - it made it harder for her to find a husband - but he’d been proud of her. Those exams had been nightmarishly hard.

  And that means that Horst is smarter than he looks, he reminded himself. He couldn't have passed for a student if he wasn't.

  Horst leaned forward and clo
sed the partition, ensuring that the driver couldn't eavesdrop on them. “Herr Wieland,” he said, formally. “I have a question.”

  Herman kept his amusement off his face. He had a feeling he knew precisely where this was going. But he merely nodded, inviting Horst to continue. There was nothing to be gained by making life too easy for the younger man.

  “I would like to marry your daughter,” Horst said, after a moment. He sounded nervous, too nervous. Herman found himself torn between amusement and concern. “I ... I believe I could make her happy.”

  Herman considered it, carefully. He knew that Horst and Gudrun had some kind of relationship, if only because he wasn't blind. They inclined towards each other, particularly when they thought they weren't being watched. They'd been careful, he had to admit, but nowhere near careful enough to conceal the truth from him. And, even a mere year ago, it would have been cause for a number of pointed questions.

  And yet, the thought bothered him. Gudrun was hardly his youngest child, but she was his only daughter. Putting her into the hands of an unworthy man would torment him for the rest of his life, if the marriage went sour. Divorce was almost unheard of in the Reich, if there were children. He’d been called out to far too many domestic battlegrounds where the husband had beaten the wife, or the wife - desperate and unable to escape - had mortally wounded the husband. He was damned if he would allow Gudrun to remain in such a household ...

  “I see,” he said, carefully. He kept his face carefully blank. At least Horst was doing it properly, seeking his approval before formally popping the question. There were no shortage of horror stories about young couples, fancying themselves in love, who ran away when their parents rejected the match. “Is she pregnant?”

  Horst flushed bright red. “Not ... not to the best of my knowledge.”

  Herman allowed himself a moment of relief. Everyone joked that a blushing bride could deliver a baby in six months, rather than nine, yet it wasn't something he would have wanted for Gudrun. Most people would politely ignore the proof that a happy couple had been sleeping together before exchanging vows, but Gudrun was a politician. She had enemies, he suspected - and if she didn't have them already, she'd have them soon enough. One of them would be happy, no doubt, to call her out for sleeping with her husband before the actual marriage.

  And then he frowned. If Horst and Gudrun had been sleeping together, she might already be pregnant and not know it.

  He met the younger man's eyes. “And how do you plan to support her?”

  Horst looked back at him, evenly. “Right now, I am drawing a salary from the Reichstag,” he said, simply. “If I lose that position, for whatever reason, I am a trained commando and covert operative. I should have no difficulty volunteering my services to the Wehrmacht.”

  He smiled. “Technically, I am also entitled to an SS stipend, but I suspect that won’t be paid.”

  Herman had to smile, despite his concern. “And how will you treat her as a wife?”

  “I recognise that she has a career,” Horst said. “And I will do nothing to interfere with it.”

  “Really,” Herman said. “And will you be a house-husband?”

  “If necessary,” Horst said.

  Herman frowned, inwardly. House-husbands were vanishingly rare in the Reich, more common in dramas about the horrors of living in America than in the real world. A man was expected to work to support his family, leaving the wife to take care of the home and raise the children. Indeed, the only house-husband he’d ever met had been a cripple, whose wife worked as a secretary to pay the bills. And no one could have denied he was unable to work.

  But for a young man, barely out of school, the humiliation would be unbearable.

  He put that thought aside for later consideration, then glanced out of the window and nodded towards a destroyed building. “One would argue that this is hardly the time to get married,” he pointed out. “You might both be dead tomorrow.”

  “We are aware of the dangers,” Horst said, stiffly.

  Herman nodded, considering it. He had no reason to dislike Horst personally, even though the young man had been in the SS. At least he’d done the right thing at the right time, saving Gudrun’s life before she'd ever realised it had been in danger. And he’d been willing to approve Konrad as a prospective husband ...

  “I must discuss the matter with my wife,” he said, finally. Adelinde would kill him, perhaps not metaphorically, if he made the decision without consulting her. “But then you will have to convince Gudrun to marry you.”

  “I know,” Horst said. He looked relieved. If Herman had said no, it would have made his life very awkward. “But I wanted your approval first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  29 September 1985

  Horst found it hard to keep the relief off his face as the car pulled into the underground garage and came to a stop. He’d done a number of hard things in his life, but asking Herman for his daughter’s hand in marriage had to be the hardest. And yet, perhaps, it would soon be the second-hardest. Herman might have approved the match - he certainly hadn't said no - but asking Gudrun would be the hardest of all. She might say no, or insist that they waited until the end of the war, or ...

  He shook his head. It wasn't going to be easy, but if he’d wanted an easy life he would have stayed on the farm. He could have avoided joining the military or the SS, simply by being in one of the protected categories of jobs. And yet, if he hadn't, he knew the uprising wouldn't have taken place. The spy who was sent in his place might not have been so inclined to listen to Gudrun, let alone decide to join her.

  Herman had a point, he admitted silently as they made their way up to their office. A pair of trusted guards stood outside, with strict orders not to admit anyone unless they had been cleared by Herman personally. There was a war on ... and Gudrun was almost certainly at the top of the list of people Karl Holliston intended to purge, if he won the war. And Horst himself might not be on the list now, but he certainly would be if Holliston ever found out just how badly he’d betrayed his masters. Horst knew the SS too well to imagine they would ever be satisfied with vague reassurances and evasions, not after the uprising. They would strip him down to the bedrock, then shoot whatever was left for the single greatest act of treason since Von Braun had fled the Reich for the United States.

  And so we may as well live while we can, he thought, morbidly. Enjoy the war, for the peace will be terrible.

  A handful of reports sat on the desk. Herman sat down and started to go through them while Horst poured two mugs of coffee. The coffee was already starting to run out, he’d heard, although the Reichstag had a huge cellar crammed with everything from fancy French wines to imported food from America. It wouldn't have done for the Reich Council to be deprived of the good things in life, even though the rest of the Reich was slowly starting to starve as food prices went up. Volker Schulze had ordered half the food handed out to the civilians, keeping them alive ... in hindsight, that might have been a mistake. They'd have done better to start rationing from the very beginning.

  “Police coffee,” Herman commented, as he took a sip. “You do very good coffee.”

  Horst kept his expression carefully blank, suspecting he was being needled. The coffee was as dark as Karl Holliston’s soul, with no milk nor sugar to lighten it. Gudrun had winced, the first time he’d made coffee for her, although he did have to admit she’d drunk it anyway. But then, such coffee was intended to keep the drinker awake, rather than anything else. The sour taste was a bonus.

  “Over the last week, seventeen staff went out of the Reichstag,” Herman said, when Horst didn't deign to reply. “As you can see” - he held out the papers - “fifteen of them were absent for more than three hours, two of the remainder only returning to start their shifts the following morning. And yet all seventeen of them sleep in the building!”

  “That doesn't prove anything,” Horst pointed out. Indeed, he was tempted to dismiss t
he two who’d clearly spent the night elsewhere. The SS wouldn't want to run the risk of having their agents dismissed, just because they’d gone to a bar or a brothel. “They may have friends or family within the city.”

  “Some of them do,” Herman said. “But they’re very much in the minority.”

  Horst nodded. The Reich Council had been reluctant to hire Berliners to work in the Reichstag, although he'd never been sure why. Indeed, there were nearly five hundred staffers in the building and only fifty of them had been born and raised in Berlin. But it hardly mattered now ... unless, of course, the Berliners could be dismissed from consideration because they stood out like sore thumbs. Or was that what they were supposed to think?