Breach

by W. L. Goodwater

  Focus, Karen.

  Focus.

  Then Jim pulled the trigger.

  FORTY

  It was raining.

  Autumn, when the leaves turned red and orange and she could ride her bike through endless puddles until it got too dark to see.

  Waiting for news from the war. Mom staring out the front window, trying not to cry in front of the girls.

  Leaving home for the university. Clogged gutters, the smell of wet asphalt, the ringing of angry words in her head.

  Why can’t she be more like Helen? Why can’t she just find a husband and settle down? Why does she have to study that damned kraut magic?

  Her name. She could hear him saying her name.

  And the rain.

  The rain.

  Karen’s eyes fluttered as the water sprayed down from the ceiling. The fire suppression system. What had set it off?

  She felt weak. Drained. Her ears rang and her mouth was full of iron.

  Tried to remember. The door was already open. The agent’s shoes. Jim. The gunshot.

  Jim had fired only inches away from her head, but she was alive.

  It had worked.

  The exertion it required had knocked her out, but it had worked. She remembered now: the awful bark of the gun, then time slowed as her magic, no, her will reached out and shattered the bullet in midair. No spell, no incantation, just pure, raw magic.

  Tears burned. Oh, God, she thought. I’m alive. There would be time later to consider her unprecedented accomplishment. But in this moment, huddled on a cold concrete floor under the shower of the overhead sprinklers, all she felt was relief.

  Karen! Through her clouded ears, she heard her name. Someone shouting.

  George stood over her, his suit darkening in the mist of water.

  She pushed herself up. If George was here, then Jim and Ehle were already gone. She had to move, had to act.

  “Karen!”

  She tried to stand. George reached out a hand, but she slapped it away.

  “What have you done?” he demanded.

  A very good question.

  “I knew it. As soon as I heard the fire alarm,” George said, “I just knew you had gone and done something stupid.”

  Her legs felt uncertain under her, but they held. How long had she been out? She needed to move, to get after them, but George stood between her and the door.

  “What set off . . . the fire alarm?”

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Fire. All over the building. Probably set by your Nazi friend after you let him out.”

  “No,” she said, swallowing. “No, no. I didn’t . . . Jim took him.”

  “What?”

  “They did something to his mind,” she said. Her head was numb and throbbed. “Jim must have set the fires as a distraction. We have to stop him. Before they get away.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere, sweetie,” George said. He grabbed her arm with hard, biting fingers. “I’m not sure what you are babbling about, but you’ve done enough already. Now we’re going to sit here and wait for your CIA friends to come clean this up.”

  She looked down at his hand, then back up at his face. “Get out of my way,” she said.

  George gaped at her in disbelief. “You are nuts,” he said. “Karen, this isn’t playtime. I’m not going to just let you walk out of here. Look at your face, for God’s sake.”

  She put a hand to her mouth and it came away red. Blood had poured from her nose and caked around her lips, probably stained her teeth. Too much magic, too much will. She smeared the blood on her wet shirtsleeve. “Move, George,” she said.

  He said nothing. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest. His thumb fingered his bulky ring; he could already be preparing to block any magical assault she could throw at him. She found herself regretting the trick she had pulled on him back at the OMRD, wishing she could use it now. George was a fool, but he wasn’t that much a fool. That trick wouldn’t work twice.

  Luckily she had others.

  “Fine, George,” she said with a sigh. “You want to know what is going on? It’s right there.” She pointed to the far corner of the room. “It’s all there.”

  He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t resist the lure of curiosity. He turned slowly, patronizingly. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked, before turning back toward her just as Karen squeezed her eyes shut and raised one of Ehle’s sunstones.

  A blindingly white flash exploded in the room. Even with her eyelids screwed shut and her face pressed into the crook of her arm, Karen still saw purple blotches swim across her vision. There was no time to recover. Pushing past George as he stumbled, she cut through the hissing sprinklers and gray smoke and went up the stairs three at a time.

  * * *

  • • •

  By the time she reached the street, Jim was gone. The BOB staff had evacuated and were milling about, each with a different story about where the fire was and how bad the damage. They were wet, tired, and confused. No one paid any attention to the magician weaving around their huddled groups.

  George wouldn’t be down for long; the next few moments were critical. Jim would be heading for the Wall. There were a myriad of openings now for him to get through to make his escape back to the East, but the CIA could lock those down with a telephone call. But he had to get Ehle out of West Berlin tonight or risk getting captured, so whoever was pulling the strings must have a plan.

  Karen reached into her pocket, grateful Jim had shown her the location of the motor pool office that first day. She hoped June wouldn’t be too upset over the broken door or one missing car. She pressed the key into her palm; the cool, sharp edges biting into her skin were reassuring. Stay calm. Don’t draw attention. She spotted the car parked on the far side of the street just down from BOB. Almost there.

  Then she made the mistake of glancing back just as Dr. Haupt and Arthur appeared. Arthur was busy shepherding his people, but Dr. Haupt’s eyes found her immediately.

  How many times had she gone to Dr. Haupt for advice? How often had his wisdom kept her path steady and sure? She’d probably have never graduated from the university without his guidance. Her younger self—Dr. Haupt’s eager pupil at St. Cyprian’s—wouldn’t even recognize her now. But it had been that wisdom and that path that had led her to this moment, fleeing from her mentor and about to steal a car from the CIA. Sometimes life took unexpected turns.

  Dr. Haupt’s old advice came back to her: Trust your instincts, not your fears. Now she had an addendum: Trust yourself, and nobody else.

  She unlocked the car and slid in behind the wheel. Through the hazy windshield she could see Dr. Haupt; he was trying to get Arthur’s attention. And he was pointing at her.

  Sorry, Doctor. I’m not sure which side you’re on anymore.

  She turned the ignition and the car rumbled to life. In the cool autumn air, she could sense it, as she hoped she would: that same strange magical signal she had felt in East Berlin when they went to find Ehle. It was pulling her east.

  FORTY-ONE

  It had all happened so fast. Too fast. He tried to stop himself, to stop and think and reason his way forward, but there was too much noise, too many voices, too many open (green) doors demanding he enter.

  And then she appeared. How had she known he’d be there? She knew everything, that’s how. It was all part of the plot.

  But what plot? If she was working for the Soviets, what did she want with Ehle?

  No, he knew it was true; he could still feel the cloying effects of her poisonous love magic in his veins, in his head. He knew it now. She had to be stopped. That was why he had done what he did.

  He’d closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger. He couldn’t bear to see her face . . . like that. The thought made his skin want to crawl right off his body and he couldn’t blame
it.

  They had already put some miles between them and BOB, but he couldn’t help but look in his rearview mirror every few seconds. When he did, he saw the prisoner bound and gagged in the backseat. He was still unconscious; Jim had hit him pretty hard back in his cell. He hadn’t meant to do it. His hand had moved not out of anger but inevitability. How can you fight what you cannot stop?

  In the distance ahead he could see the silver glow of the Wall, muted and pale like a clouded moon.

  You killed her. You shot her in the head.

  “Shut up,” Jim said before realizing no one had spoken.

  Returning to BOB had been strange, like walking across your own grave. None of it had felt real: the exchange across Glienicke Bridge, the drive through Berlin in gray dawnlight, Arthur and Garriety and all the others. They were images that belonged to another life, to some other man. Not like the green door. That was real. That was his. The green door and the look on Karen’s face when he pulled the trigger.

  They were close to the Wall now. He turned the car south, driving parallel to a part that was still intact, though nevertheless patrolled by West German and Allied soldiers. It was late, but everything was still lit brightly by spotlights and jeeps and tanks.

  But Jim wasn’t bothered by the checkpoints or the soldiers swarming over them like ants. No, his eyes were fixed on his rearview mirror. There was a black car following him. It wasn’t getting close, but it had been back there too long, through too many turns. Another complication, like Karen appearing in the doorway. Another obstacle to be removed.

  They were nearly there (where?). That building ahead, with the faded blue sign over the rolling doors, rotting with disuse. The tunnel was inside. He knew that, somehow. Just as he knew he had to take the prisoner through the tunnel to those awaiting them.

  The thought of going into another tunnel made his hands tremble. He had not forgotten the last one. He could feel the sudden burning flash and the rocks and sand ricocheting all around him. Dennis was just ahead of him; then he was gone, vanished in the roaring collapse.

  Dennis. He hadn’t been there at BOB. No one even mentioned him. It was like he didn’t exist. Had everything in his life before been a lie? Was anything true anymore?

  He pulled up next to the building and slammed the car into park. His shadow stopped half a block back, engine idling. He recognized the car. He wasn’t sure how they’d found him or what they were going to do. But that didn’t really matter anymore, did it?

  Jim grabbed the pistol from the passenger seat.

  Keeping his car between him and his unwanted followers, he got out and swung open the rear door. Nap time’s over. He prodded his prisoner with the barrel of the pistol until his hazy eyes opened. The man blinked and stirred, until his gaze focused on Jim.

  “Let’s go,” Jim said, motioning with the gun. He didn’t move. “We don’t really have time to mess around, pal. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

  Down the street, he heard car doors opening. The prisoner still hadn’t moved. Jim’s head began to throb; it felt like his brain was suddenly turning against him and threatening to blow. He forced his eyes shut, tried to ignore the pain, the icy, stabbing pain, but all he saw was the green door opening slowly, his own hand on the knob, cold against his palm, like the gun, cold and inert, then kicking back as it fired into Karen’s face.

  “Move,” Jim heard himself say. “Or I will kill you.”

  Ehle slowly unfolded his legs and slid out of the car. Jim hazarded a glance behind them; four men had exited the trailing car and were moving closer. Otherwise, the street was empty.

  They reached the rear entrance with the sound of footsteps behind them. Jim wrenched the heavy door open despite uncooperative hinges and shoved Ehle inside. He put his shoulder into the door and it groaned closed. He found an old chair nearby and propped it up under the handle. It would buy them a few moments at best, but maybe that would be all he’d need.

  Jim switched on the flashlight he had in his pocket (how had he known to bring a flashlight?) and scanned the building’s interior. The old air trapped inside smelled of oil and dirt. It looked like a machinist’s workshop, with rusting tools hung on the walls and piled on steel tables, though it hadn’t seen much use in some time. At least not machinist work.

  They found the ladder down into the secret tunnel behind a massive tool chest, right where the intel (what intel?) said it would be. Jim slid the chest aside (grateful for its well-greased wheels—who had greased them, and how had he known to feel grateful?) and stared down into the darkness that opened up at his feet. He could feel cold damp rising like fog out of a grave. He swallowed. One more time. Just one last crawl through the abyss and then he would be free (from what?).

  He heard the soft scuff of a shoe on the concrete floor and spun, pistol leveled. Three guns stared back.

  “James,” said the only man of the four who was not armed, “what are we doing here?”

  “I wish I knew, Emile,” Jim answered back. His eyes darted to each of the other Frenchmen; he didn’t know any of them but knew enough from the looks on their faces that they wouldn’t hesitate to cut him down in a hail of lead. He grabbed Ehle and forced him in front. “How did you find me?”

  Emile spread his hands. “We were not looking for you, James.”

  “I get it,” Jim said. He was close enough to the ladder to drop down, but he couldn’t drag Ehle and didn’t know how far he’d fall. “You had a man watching BOB who got lucky.”

  “It was an unexpected report,” Emile said, “when my agent told us that you fled the scene carrying your guest here over your shoulder.” He took a step closer and Jim swung his gun to face him. That brought him up short.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Emile,” Jim said. “Go home.”

  “Unfortunately,” Emile said, “it very much concerns me.”

  Jim stared at the Frenchman. “Of course,” he said. He shifted his feet back toward the tunnel opening, pulling Ehle with him. “That’s why you had someone watching BOB. You want Ehle.”

  “He is going to help us retrieve something we lost,” Emile said with an uncharacteristic smile, “before this city goes to hell and takes all of us with it. We would have preferred to work more openly with Arthur and Alec, but they are moving too slowly. On our little trek to East Berlin, I visited the site where the Soviets are working to cut through the Wall. They do not share our reticence. So please, have our guest walk over to us.”

  Jim wrapped one arm around Ehle’s neck and placed the pistol against his temple. That made the Frenchmen tighten their grips on their own guns. “You’re a popular man,” Jim said into Ehle’s ear. “I think my friends here would be very disappointed if my finger slipped, so they had better keep their distance.”

  Emile retreated and his men reluctantly did the same. “James,” Emile said softly. “I am sorry you had to be dragged into this. I cannot imagine what they did to you. I have heard the stories about the Nightingale, but this is worse than I ever imagined.”

  “Shut up,” Jim said. His head was hurting again (had it ever stopped?) and he couldn’t think when everyone was talking.

  “His magic has corrupted your mind,” Emile said. “You are not yourself. Now put down the gun before someone gets hurt.”

  Someone had already gotten hurt. He’d shot her, after all.

  “It’s too late, Emile,” Jim said. His hands were shaking; he pressed the gun into Ehle’s head just to hold it steady.

  “I am sorry,” Emile said again. “Je suis désolé.”

  His heels were on the edge of the drop now. Could he make himself jump? The only thing waiting for him down there might be a broken leg, but that was at least a chance. The hard men inching ever closer to him wouldn’t be so merciful. He’d failed, even if he survived. No, at least he’d taken care of that traitor, Karen, with her foul distorting magic that had ne
arly ruined him (before he had ruined himself). Karen . . . he could see her eyes: green, like the hills back home, like springtime, like the door that yawned wide beneath him.

  Emile was speaking, but Jim wasn’t listening. It was time. Move or die. He took a breath. Then he realized Emile wasn’t speaking English. And he wasn’t speaking French. This thought had no time to settle before the heavy tool chest, hefted by the invisible hands of Emile’s magic, slammed into him and sent everything spinning, spinning into darkness.

  FORTY-TWO

  Karen slowed to a stop, fumbling quickly to turn off her headlights. She counted four, maybe five men coming out of the darkened building. Most were armed. One clearly had his hands tied behind his back. At this distance with such anemic light she couldn’t be sure, but she did not think Jim was among them. She was fairly certain, however, that the man in the front, the one puffing away on a white cigarette, was Emile.

  At first, she felt relief. Somehow the French had found Jim first and stopped him from taking Ehle to the Soviets. Disaster had been averted. But then her mind began to whir: Why were Ehle’s hands still bound? Where was Jim? And how had the French arrived so soon?

  The questions had barely materialized before she knew the answer: Auttenberg. Emile had seemed peculiarly interested in Ehle. They must know his background with the Wall, probably even suspect he was behind the breach. So they had eyes on BOB and had gotten lucky, and now were going to make a play for Auttenberg.