Black Cross

by Greg Iles

  A faint smile touched her lips. “No. That’s past.”

  She reached out and laid a finger on McConnell’s lips.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth. He felt a sudden heat across the back of his neck, and his heart beat in quick, irregular bursts. She molded her body against his, withholding nothing. “Hurry,” she said. “Schörner could come at any moment.”

  He backed toward her bedroom, kissing her and pulling her with him while she worked at the buttons of his shirt. After four years of self-denial, the mere touch of her skin, the pressure of her breasts as she drew breath against him made him flush with heat. At the edge of the bed Anna reached down, still kissing him, and pulled back the heavy duvet.

  “Zeig’s mir,” she said. “Show me how you love me.”

  As she opened to him, he had a sense of collapsing into her, of leaving behind more than the terror and uncertainty of the past three days. Show me how you love me, she had said. But what he heard was, Show me we are still alive. . . .

  So he did. Yet even deep within her, in the sweat and the groans and the moments of oblivion, he could not escape the feeling that they were making love in the shadow of a great darkness, pressing toward each other with the desperation of the condemned.

  Jonas Stern lay facedown in the snow on the east side of Totenhausen, just ten meters from the electric fence. His leather bag lay beside him. The darkness and the trees gave him cover from the watchtowers, but the dog kennels stood just on the other side of the fence. He held his breath while an SS man led a muzzled shepherd along the inside of the wire.

  He had already buried the two gas cylinders in the snow, in shallow trenches dug at an upward angle perpendicular to the fence, leaving only the cylinder heads exposed. He’d molded the plastic explosive around the seams where the cylinder heads joined the tanks. All that remained was to prime and arm the plastic with time pencil fuses. If he did it right, at the instant of detonation the steel heads would be blown away from the tanks, allowing the pressurized nerve gas to spurt through the fence and saturate the area of the dog kennels and the SS barracks.

  The cylinders weren’t the problem. The problem was the patrols. Crossing the hills from the cottage to the camp, Stern had felt as if an entire SS division had descended on the area. It had taken him over two hours to get from the cottage to the camp fence, and he had twice nearly stumbled into patrols. The two missing SS men had generated even more of a response than he’d expected. Lying in the snow beside the buried cylinders, he tried to decide what to do next.

  In his experience, military patrols, no matter what army they served, reached their lowest effectiveness in the hour before dawn. Sometimes it was better to wait them out. He had done it before, and it looked like the best course of action tonight. He would not let Schörner catch him because of impatience. The case he’d stolen from Achnacarry held a selection of time pencil fuses, giving him great flexibility in delay times. Even if he waited here until dawn, he could still set the cylinders to blow at eight tomorrow night. Thinking of Colonel Vaughan discovering the missing ordnance at Achnacarry made him want to laugh. But he didn’t.

  He heard the crunch of boot heels and the panting of another dog.

  Klaus Brandt sat alone in his office in the hospital, the dim bulb of his desk lamp providing the only light.

  “Absolutely, Reichsführer,” he said into the black telephone. “And the sooner the better. The Raubhammer gas suits were my only worry, and they have arrived. I shall test them tomorrow.”

  “I have a surprise for you, Brandt,” Himmler replied. “You must have wondered why I have always demanded schematic plans of all your equipment, as well as detailed updates on your new processes.”

  Brandt rolled his eyes. “I must confess some curiosity, Reichsführer.”

  “You will be gratified to learn that for the past year, I have had teams of Russian laborers carving a massive factory out of the rock beneath the Harz Mountains. If the Raubhammer test goes as planned—as I have no doubt it will—you will begin directing mass production of Soman Four at that factory in five days’ time.”

  Brandt drummed his fingers on his desk. If Himmler had offered anything less he would have been insulted. “Reichsführer, I do not know what to say.”

  “Say nothing. The only thanks I require will be the maximum possible output of Soman from that day until the day the Allies invade France. We’ll show Speer what the SS can accomplish!”

  “You have my word, Reichsführer. But what of my work here? My laboratory equipment and staff, my hospital?”

  Himmler made a clucking sound over the phone. “Forget that little workshop, Brandt. At the Harz factory you will have everything you need, but with twenty times the capacity. You will of course bring your technicians with you. I have already arranged to have Totenhausen converted into a poultry processing plant.”

  “I see.” Brandt was taken aback by this. “And my test subjects?”

  “You mean your prisoners? If your work is done, liquidate them. We must have absolute secrecy.”

  Brandt lifted a pen and doodled on the notepad on his desk. “Perhaps I should wait until the Raubhammer demonstration is completed, just to be sure.”

  There was a chilly silence from Berlin. “You have doubts about the demonstration, Herr Doktor?”

  Brandt cleared his throat, cursing himself mentally for his overcautiousness. “None whatever, Reichsführer. I shall begin dismantling the laboratory tomorrow.”

  “And your prisoners?”

  “Nothing will remain.”

  Fifty meters away from Klaus Brandt, Major Wolfgang Schörner poured a glass of brandy and sat on his sofa. Ariel Weitz had only just delivered Rachel to his quarters, as tonight’s work had kept him much longer than usual. It had been a messy business, but now he could relax. Rachel nodded once to him, then moved toward the sofa, her fingers automatically lifting her shift over her head.

  Schörner rose quickly and pulled the garment back into place. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I have something to tell you. Something you will very much want to hear.” He led her gently to the wing chair.

  She sat with her hands folded on her lap and waited.

  “Have you ever heard of Eindeutschung?” Schörner asked.

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Eindeutschung is a program for the reclamation of Nordic-Germanic racial elements from the occupied eastern territories. In this program, children between two and six years of age who exhibit Nordic traits—as yours do, especially the boy—are taken into one of the Lebensborn homes. Today, I am happy to say, I was able to obtain a promise that space could be made available for your children at the home in Steinhöring.”

  Rachel’s pulse quickened. “What is a Lebensborn home, Sturmbannführer?”

  “Ah, I forget. You have been isolated. Lebensborn is the Fount of Life Society. It was established by Reichsführer Himmler to assist unwed mothers of pure racial stock in delivering and raising their children. The facilities are models of cleanliness.”

  “And these homes . . . they accept children of parents who are not of ‘pure’ racial stock?”

  “They do, yes. It’s a matter of biological selection. But I have already vouched for your children. The senior man at Steinhöring is a friend of my father.”

  “I see.” Rachel thought for a moment. “What happens to these children after they reach the age of six?”

  “Oh, they are adopted long before then. The demand far exceeds the supply.”

  “The demand? Who demands them?”

  “Why, good German families of course. Frequently families of childless SS officers.”

  Rachel closed her eyes.

  Schörner could not contain his excitement. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. It’s the perfect solution!”

  “They would be raised as Nazis?”

  Schörner looked put out. “As Germans, Rachel. Is that so terrible?”

  “I would never see them a
gain.”

  A strange smile played over Schörner’s lips. “Children are not the only ones taken into the Eindeutschung program, Liebling.”

  Rachel cringed at the intimate word. Her relationship with Schörner had been nothing like she’d expected. Rather than simply using her for sexual relief, he seemed intent on creating some grotesque parody of domesticity.

  “What are you saying?” she asked, trying not to trust the glimmer of excitement she felt. “I could go with my children?”

  Schörner’s smile disappeared. “That would not be possible. However, all is not lost. I shall be reassigned very soon. My parents are still alive in Cologne. I believe it might be possible for me to take you there and have you employed by them as a servant, as part of Eindeutschung.”

  “But I am a Jew, Sturmbannführer.”

  “Stop saying that! Papers are easily enough had, especially in the current situation. Do you want to survive or don’t you?”

  Rachel stared at him in wonder. It was a measure of the gulf between them that Schörner could sit there and offer what he thought was salvation, while she saw only grief and pain. “Sturmbannführer, I do not consider life without my children worth living.”

  Exasperation flared in Schörner’s voice. “They would be given the best of care in a Lebensborn home!”

  “Until they were adopted by an SS family.”

  “Of course!” He forced himself to calm down. “Listen . . . who knows? Perhaps after the war we—you—could locate the adopting parents and convince them to. . . ” Even Schörner fell silent at this ridiculous fantasy. “Rachel,” he said firmly, “my ability to protect your children at this point is negligible. You must decide soon. The alternative is—”

  “What?”

  “Must I say it? Brandt’s work here is nearly done. After that . . . I cannot tell you more.”

  “I cannot decide this! I must have time to think.”

  “But your children would survive. Isn’t that what you want?”

  Yes! cried a voice in her mind. The war will be over before long, and the Nazis will lose. You could find them! You could tell every woman in the Circle what you are doing, so that after the war people would know you were telling the truth. Perhaps you could even mark the children in some way, give them a small scar to help prove they were yours after the war. They would probably have forgotten you, of course, and they might have changed a bit under the influence of SS parents, but—

  Rachel leapt to her feet. She was too torn even to make sense of her own thoughts. “Do you require anything further of me, Sturmbannführer?”

  Schörner moved toward her, then stopped himself. “No. You may go. But think about what I told you. These are desperate times, Rachel. We must not close our minds to radical solutions.”

  She stared at him for a long time. Then she turned, walked to the door, and knocked for Ariel Weitz.

  Anna swept back her hair from the dampness at her neck. She was lying naked beneath the duvet she had brought to the cellar from upstairs. Two pale candles on the floor gave the only light. McConnell lay on his back, with her head in the crook of his arm.

  “It will be dawn soon,” she said. “Maybe we should go up the hill. If Schörner catches Stern, we won’t get another chance to carry out the attack.”

  McConnell pulled her closer. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because even if those bastards caught Stern—which they won’t—they couldn’t make him talk. Not in a week. That nut would slash his own throat with a broken bottle before he’d talk, just to spite them.”

  She laughed softly in the darkness.

  “Why don’t you try to sleep?” he said. “I’ll watch over you.”

  “I cannot sleep,” she said. “The way this has all happened . . . you and me . . . the Wojiks being caught . . . what we must do tomorrow—I can’t force it out of my mind long enough to sleep. And it will all be over soon enough, in any case.”

  McConnell turned and looked into her eyes. “Do you think Stern came here with orders to kill me?” he asked, giving voice to his suspicion for the first time. “If I was captured, I mean.”

  Anna’s face grew somber. “I think he did, yes.”

  “The cyanide capsule, right?”

  “Yes. They always give one. Especially to someone like you, who is valuable because of what they know. I guess they were afraid you wouldn’t take the capsule if you were captured.”

  He rose up on one elbow. “But I was captured, Anna. Last night. Stern told me not to tell you. The point is, he didn’t kill me. He could have—easily—but he didn’t. He killed two SS men instead.”

  She stiffened. “The missing patrol? Stern killed them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ach, where are the bodies?”

  “The sewer in Dornow.”

  “My God. Schörner is bound to find them before tomorrow night.”

  McConnell took a deep breath. “Maybe. But it’s odd, isn’t it? About Stern disobeying his orders, I mean.”

  “No. He likes you.”

  McConnell laughed. “He doesn’t like me.”

  “Perhaps ‘like’ is the wrong word. He respects you. You are something he can never be.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Innocent. Naive. Full of hope.” She pulled the duvet up to her chin. “American.”

  “I don’t feel very naive. And I’ve got damn little hope, if you want to know the truth.”

  Anna turned under the covers and pulled him close. “It’s mad anyway, you know. Why didn’t the Allies just bomb Totenhausen to rubble?”

  “Because bombing it flat wouldn’t change anything in Himmler’s head.” Feeling the moist heat of her skin, he turned and rolled her on top of him. She shifted only slightly and he was inside again, looking up into her eyes.

  “Who thought up this mission?” she asked, refusing to move.

  “One of Churchill’s men.” McConnell put his hands on her thighs and tried to gently rock her.

  She used her weight to stop him. “Churchill is behind this plan?”

  “Ultimately, yes. I saw him. He gave me a note absolving me of guilt for the people who would die on this mission. Like he was the pope or something. Anna—”

  She sat up and flattened her palms on his chest. He watched her abdominal muscles contract as she slid slowly forward and back, her eyes never leaving his face. “Do you know what I’m going to do if I get out?” she said.

  “You are going to get out.”

  “Well . . . if I do, I’m going to become a doctor. A children’s doctor. It’s the only way I could ever live with the things I have seen Brandt do to them.”

  McConnell didn’t want to think about any of it. He pressed harder and watched her eyes as she moved above him. She seemed about to speak, but instead she leaned down and pushed her arms beneath his back, crushing her breasts between them. She buried her face in the hollow of his neck. She was physically very strong, he realized, strong enough that her arms around his back almost stopped his breathing as she clung fiercely to him. And as badly as he’d wanted her, he sensed an intensity in her that dwarfed his own. How had she survived this long? Living on a knife-edge between the mundane and madness, pretending to be unmoved by things that would sicken a coroner, holding her silence, praying for the day when she could somehow strike back?

  Anna caught her breath and rose above him again, her nails digging into his arms. She had held back a great deal of herself upstairs. She had opened just enough to allow him in, offering herself as a refuge. And he had taken her. But now she had forgotten him—or at least the surface of him. What did she feel? he wondered. What did she see with her eyes shut tight and her face suffused with hot blood? The shade of Franz Perlman, the Jewish doctor murdered in Berlin? Or was she like some desperate swimmer in a dark ocean, glimpsing a faint and distant light that promised hope and life if only she could reach it? McConnell made himself believe that. That he was that light. Th
at he could get her out of Germany alive. That he could get them both out. But when she cried out, her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips thrashing against his own, he heard only the anguished sound of someone whose light has disappeared.

  “Raus!” shouted a male voice. “Raus! Get up!”

  McConnell jerked awake and grabbed for his pistol. Anna had beaten him to it. She was sitting up with her breasts uncovered and the gun pointed straight at Jonas Stern’s chest.

  “You think that’s funny?” she said.

  “Put that thing down,” Stern snapped. “Get up and get dressed. It’s light outside.”

  Her face went white. “Morning? What time is it?”

  “Eight-thirty. The cylinders are armed and buried by the dog kennels. They will detonate automatically at eight tonight.”

  Anna threw off the covers and began pulling on her clothes. McConnell noticed that Stern didn’t look away while she did it.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She had her blouse on and was buttoning her skirt. “I can’t. I’m late already.”

  “Anna . . . Christ, you can’t go back there.”

  “She’s got to,” Stern said. “We settled this last night.”

  “Bullshit.” McConnell stood up and pulled on his shorts, then took hold of Anna’s arm. “Schörner might be sitting there waiting for you. What the hell did he tell that Gestapo man last night when he arrived to question Wojik?”

  “I don’t know,” Anna said, fastening a belt around her waist. “But if I don’t go, they’ll come for me here and you’ll both be killed. Besides, I’ve got to put the oxygen bottle in the E-Block.”

  “Anna, that bottle won’t make enough difference to—”

  “Please stop.” She took his hand. “Unless the worst has already happened, I’ll be back long before eight.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. “I’ll be all right. Keep your head down today. You too, Herr Stern. I’m counting on you to get me out of this country.”

  Stern looked from her to McConnell. “What is she talking about?”

  Anna smiled at him, then hurried up the cellar stairs. She didn’t look back when she went through the door.