by James Frey
It takes me another 20 minutes to find the house. It’s in a section of the city that was hit hard by the Allied bombing, one of a row of connected brick town homes. Most of the buildings are empty, uninhabitable because of the damage. This one looks empty too. Most of the windows are boarded up, and the front door has an official notice on it warning people not to enter due to unsafe conditions. But looks can be deceiving. Just because you can’t see somebody, it doesn’t mean nobody is there. Sometimes, you just have to look harder.
I don’t announce myself by knocking on the front door. This isn’t a social call. Instead, I go into the bombed-out house next door, climb the stairs to the third floor, and step through a shattered window onto a narrow ledge that runs along the front of the whole row of houses. I press myself against what’s left of the wall and slowly move one foot at a time toward the house next door. If anyone notices me, maybe they’ll just think I’m Saint Nicholas coming to deliver presents.
When I reach the closest window of the target house, I pause beside it and look inside. The bedroom behind the cracked, dirty glass is empty. When I push on the window frame, the window slides up. I slip inside, turn on the small flashlight I carry in my pocket, and look around. It’s just as cold in here as it is outside, and I can see my breath. There’s no heat. But coal is in short supply, and no one is supposed to be living here anyway, so this might not mean anything. More telling is that everything in the room is covered with a thick layer of dust. No one has been here in a long time.
Then I notice the footprints. They start just outside the door, run along a hallway, and disappear down a flight of stairs. A faint glow emanates from the second floor. Someone is here after all. I creep to the end of the hall and pause. I can hear voices. There are two speakers, a man and what sounds like a younger woman.
This is a problem. There’s supposed to be only one person here. A man. I haven’t seen him yet, but even if the man I hear talking is the one I’m after, who is the girl? Is she a wife? A daughter? Something else? I need to get a look at them.
I draw my M1911 standard-issue military pistol and walk down the stairs. It’s not my weapon of choice, but it’s what Private Peterson would carry, and nobody would think twice about me having it, so it’s what I’ve got. The voices grow louder as I descend. When I reach the landing, I pause. The speakers are in a room just to my left.
“I wish Oskar and Rutger were here with us,” the man says.
“You know how Oskar is,” the young woman says. “He didn’t want to risk anyone following us to you.”
“I think everyone must have forgotten about me by now,” says the man. “Still, he’s right to be cautious. I worry about you making visits here.”
“Perhaps it’s time for you to leave,” the girl says. “You’ve shut yourself up in here long enough. Pass the duty on to someone else. Oskar and I—”
“Lottie, please,” the man interrupts. “How many times have we talked about this? I cannot leave.”
“You mean you will not,” says Lottie. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life here?”
“I’m already a dead man. Remember?”
The man’s words chill me. What does he mean? And who is this girl? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m better off if I don’t know who Lottie is. I know from experience that it’s easier to kill someone when you know nothing about her.
“Let’s not discuss it further,” the man says. “It’s Christmas Eve. Play something for me. You know I always love to hear you play.”
A moment later, I hear the sound of a piano. It’s badly out of tune, but the melody is familiar. “Silent Night.” The girl begins to sing, and the man joins in.
I risk moving closer and looking through the doorway. Inside the room, a scraggly pine tree stands in front of a boarded-up window, its branches hung with silver tinsel and a handful of colorful glass balls. The piano is against a wall, with the young woman seated at it. The man stands beside her. Both of them are wearing long, thick coats.
I recognize the man from the photo the council showed me. It’s Evrard Sauer. I’m in the right place. But the council said nothing about the girl. Now I have to decide what to do about her. My orders were to leave no witnesses, which gives me only one option. I know what I should do—what I’ve agreed to do for my council and my line—but the thought of actually doing it doesn’t sit right with me. The girl is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hate to make her pay for that with her life.
They finish singing, and the man takes something from the pocket of his coat. It’s a present wrapped in newspaper and tied with plain white string. He hands it to the girl, who carefully opens it. A happy smile spreads across her face.
“Toffees!” she says. “Wherever did you get them?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer before taking one of the candies from the box and unwrapping it, the cellophane crackling in her fumbling fingers. She puts the toffee in her mouth and sucks on it, her eyes closed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy a piece of candy so much.
She opens her eyes and reaches into her own pocket. She takes out a package, this one wrapped in brown butcher paper. She gives it to the man. He opens it and holds up a red knitted scarf.
“I unraveled one of my sweaters for the yarn,” the girl says, sounding embarrassed. “Wool is still rationed.”
“It’s beautiful,” the man assures her as he wraps it around his neck. “Thank you.”
The girl turns back to the piano and begins to play again. This time the song is “O Tannenbaum.”
I’ve obviously interrupted their Christmas Eve celebration. And if I do what I’ve been instructed to do, I’m about to make it a whole lot worse. I still feel like something is off, but there’s no time to contact my council for further advice, so I have to make a choice based on the available information and what I’ve been told. That means completing the mission according to plan.
I accept the reality of my situation, even though I don’t like it, and prepare to act. Then the sound of a door being kicked open comes from the first floor. Wood splinters. Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs. The man and the young woman stop singing and look at each other. I have just enough time to dart back to the stairwell before three figures burst onto the landing. Two of them have guns drawn.
“Evrard Sauer,” one of them, a man, says. “You are under arrest for collaborating with the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.” He’s speaking in German, but with a heavy Russian accent. And although he’s used the more formal name for them, I know he’s just accused Sauer of working with the Nazis.
“Who are you?” the girl asks.
“Be still, Lottie,” says Sauer. “Do as you’re told.”
His voice is quiet, sad. As if he has feared this moment for a long time.
I huddle on the stairs, my pistol at the ready. Besides the two men, there is a woman in the room. She stands slightly behind the men, her hands in her pockets. As I lean forward for a better look, my foot presses against the floorboards, making a faint creaking sound. I see her tense. She turns her head toward the stairwell, and for a moment I think she’s seen me. But I can’t look away. She’s younger than I thought. My age. And beautiful. She has long dark hair and dark eyes, and for a second I’m sure that I’ve seen her before. Then it hits me—she looks like Wonder Woman from the comic books my sister Lily loves so much. I find myself frozen in place.
Then she turns away, and it’s as if a switch has been turned off and I can breathe again. I blend into the shadows, my finger on the trigger of my gun in case I need to use it. I know I will need to use it. I can’t let these people take Sauer. I think I know who they are. MGB. Russian intelligence. And apparently they want him because of his association with the Nazis. What he did for them, I don’t know. Just as I don’t know why he’s so important to my council. What I do know is that I can’t let them leave with him.
“If you come quietly, there will be no problems,” the first man says.
Sauer nods. He motions to Lottie, who stands up.
It’s time. I start to raise my pistol, aiming it at one of the Soviet agents.
Before I can fire, the woman draws her hand from her pocket. She’s holding a Tokarev TT-33. There are two shots, and her companions collapse to the floor. She lowers the gun.
“You have a choice,” she says to Sauer and Lottie. “Come with me and live, or join them.”
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About the Authors
Photo credit Matt Jordan
JAMES FREY is originally from Cleveland. All four of his books, A Million Little Pieces, My Friend Leonard, Bright Shiny Morning, and The Final Testament of the Holy Bible, were international bestsellers.
NILS JOHNSON-SHELTON is the coauthor of the international bestseller No Angel: My Harrowing Undercover Journey to the Inner Circle of the Hells Angels. He is also the author of the Full Fathom Five series for tweens Otherworld Chronicles.
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Books in the Endgame Series
Novels:
The Calling
Sky Key
Rules of the Game
Digital Novellas:
Endgame: The Training Diaries Volume 1: Origins
Endgame: The Training Diaries Volume 2: Descendant
Endgame: The Training Diaries Volume 3: Existence
Endgame: The Zero Line Chronicles Volume 1: Incite
Endgame: The Zero Line Chronicles Volume 2: Feed
Endgame: The Zero Line Chronicles Volume 3: Reap
Endgame: The Fugitive Archives Volume 1: Project Berlin
Endgame: The Fugitive Archives Volume 2: The Moscow Meeting
Endgame: The Fugitive Archives Volume 3: The Buried Cities
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