"You have a husband?" he asked, his gaze resting on the gold band on her right ring finger—her mother's wedding band.
"No. "
"A lover then?"
"Of course not. "
"Why not?"
"Because . . ."
Magda hesitated. She didn't dare tell him that except in her dreams she had given up on the possibility of life with a man. All the good men she had met in the past few years were married, and the unmarried ones would remain so for reasons of their own or because no self-respecting woman would have them. But certainly all the men she had ever met were stooped and pallid things compared with the one who sat across from her now.
"Because I'm beyond the age when that sort of thing has any importance!" she said finally.
"You're a mere babe!"
"And you? Are you married?"
"Not at the moment."
"Have you been?"
"Many times."
"Play another song!" Magda said in exasperation. Glenn seemed to prefer teasing to giving her straight answers.
But after a while the playing stopped and the talking began. Their conversation ranged over a wide array of topics, but always as they related to her. Magda found herself talking about everything that interested her, starting with music and with the Gypsies and Romanian rural folk who were the source of the music she loved, and on to her hopes and dreams and opinions.
The words trickled out fitfully at first, but swelled to a steady stream as Glenn encouraged her to go on. For one of the few times in her life, Magda was doing all the talking. And Glenn listened. He seemed genuinely interested in whatever she had to say, unlike so many other men who would listen only as far as the first opportunity to turn the conversation to themselves. Glenn kept turning the talk away from himself and back toward her.
Hours slipped by, until shadows began darkening the inn. Magda yawned.
"Excuse me," she said, "I think I'm boring myself. Enough of me. What about you? Where are you from?"
Glenn shrugged. "I grew up all over western Europe, but I guess you could say I'm British. "
"You speak Romanian exceptionally well—almost like a native."
"I've visited often, even lived with some Romanian families here and there."
"But as a British subject, aren't you taking a chance being in Romania'? Especially with the Nazis so close?"
Glenn hesitated. "Actually, I have no citizenship anywhere. I have papers from various countries proclaiming my citizenship, but I have no country. In these mountains, one doesn't need a country."
A man without a country? Magda had never heard of such a thing. To whom did he owe allegiance?
"Be careful. There aren't too many red-haired Romanians."
"True." He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "But the Germans are in the keep and the Iron Guard stays out of the mountains if it knows what's good for it. I'll keep to myself while I'm here, and I shouldn't be here that long."
Magda felt a stab of disappointment—she liked having him around.
"How long?" She felt she had asked the question too quickly, but it couldn't be helped. She wanted to know.
"Long enough for a last visit before Germany and Romania declare war on Russia."
"That's not—"
"It's inevitable. And soon." He rose from the stool.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to let you rest. You need it."
Glenn leaned forward and pressed the mandolin back into her hands. For a moment their fingers touched and Magda felt a sensation like an electric shock, jolting her, making her tingle all over. But she did not pull her hand away . . . oh, no . . . because that would make the feeling stop, would halt the delicious warmth spreading throughout her body and down along her legs.
She could see that Glenn felt it, too, in his own way.
Then he broke contact and retreated to the door. The feeling ebbed, leaving her a trifle weak. Magda wanted to stop Glenn, to grasp his hand and tell him to stay. But she could not imagine herself doing such a thing and was shocked that she even wanted to. Uncertainty held her back, too. The emotions and sensations boiling within were new to her. How would she control them?
As the door closed behind him, she felt the warmth fade away, replaced by a hollow space deep within. She sat quietly for a few moments, and then told herself that it was probably all for the best that he had left her alone now. She needed sleep; she needed to be rested and fully alert later on.
For she had decided that Papa would not face Molasar alone tonight.
TWENTY-ONE
The Keep
Thursday, 1 May
1722 hours
Captain Woermann sat alone in his room. He had watched the shadows grow long across the keep until the sun slipped out of sight. His uneasiness had grown with them. The shadows shouldn't have disturbed him. After all, for two nights in a row there had been no deaths, and he saw no reason why tonight should be different. Yet he had this sense of foreboding.
The morale of the men had improved immensely. They had begun to act and feel like victors again. He could see it in their eyes, in their faces. They had been threatened, a few had died, but they had persisted and were still in command of the keep. With the girl out of sight, and with none of their fellows newly dead, a tacit truce had formed between the men in gray uniforms and those in black. They didn't mingle, but there was a new sense of comradeship—they had all triumphed.
Woermann found himself incapable of sharing their optimism.
He looked over to his painting. All desire to do further work on it had fled, and he had no wish to start another. He could not find enough ambition to get out his pigments and blot out the shadow of the hanging corpse. His attention centered now on that shadow. Every time he looked it appeared more distinct. The shape looked darker today, and the head seemed to have more definition. He shook himself and looked away. Nonsense.
No . . . not quite nonsense. Something foul was still afoot in the keep. No deaths for two nights, true, but the keep had not changed. The evil had not gone away, it was merely . . . resting.
Resting? Was that the right word? Not really. Holding back was better. It certainly had not gone away. The walls still pressed in on him; the air continued to feel heavy and laden with menace. The men could slap one another on the back and talk one another out of it. But Woermann could not. He had only to look at his tainted painting and he knew with leaden certainty that there had been no real end to the killings, merely a pause, one that might last for days or end tonight.
Nothing had been overcome or driven out. Death was still here, waiting, ready to strike again when the occasion suited it.
He straightened his shoulders to ward off a growing chill. Something was going to happen soon. He could feel it in the core of his spine.
One more night . . . just give me one more night.
If death held off until tomorrow morning, Kaempffer would depart for Ploiesti. After that, Woermann could again make his own rules—without the SS. And he could move his men out of the keep immediately should trouble start again.
Kaempffer . . . he wondered what dear sweet Erich was doing. He hadn't seen him all afternoon.
SS-Sturmbannführer Kaempffer sat hunched over the Ploiesti rail map spread out before him on his cot. Daylight was fading fast and his eyes ached from straining at the tiny interconnecting lines. Better to quit now than try to continue under one of the harsh electric bulbs.
Straightening, he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. At least the day had not been a total loss. The new map of the rail nexus had yielded some useful information. He would be starting from scratch with the Romanians. Everything in the construction of the camp would be left to him, even choice of the site. He thought he had found a good one in a row of old warehouses on the eastern edge of the nexus. If they were not in use or not being put to any important use, they could act as the seed of the Ploiesti camp. Wire fences could be strung within a matter of days, and th
en the Iron Guard could get about the business of collecting Jews.
Kaempffer ached to get started. He would let the Iron Guard gather up the first "guests" in whatever haphazard fashion they wished while he oversaw the design of the physical plant. Once that was underway he would devote more of his time to teaching the Romanians the SS's proven methods of corralling undesirables.
Folding the map, he found his thoughts turning to the immense profits to be earned from the camp, and of ways to keep most of those profits for himself. Confiscate the prisoners' rings, watches, and jewelry immediately; gold teeth and the women's hair could be taken later. Commandants in Germany and in Poland were all becoming rich. Kaempffer saw no reason why he should be an exception.
And more would come. In the near future, after he got the camp running like a well-oiled machine, there were certain to be opportunities to rent out some of the healthier inmates to Romanian industry. A growing practice at other camps, and very profitable. He might well be able to hire out large numbers of inmates, especially with Operation Barbarossa soon to be launched. The Romanian Army would be invading Russia along with the Wehrmacht, draining off much of the country's able-bodied work force. Yes, the factories would be anxious for laborers. Their pay, of course, would go to the camp commandant.
He knew the tricks. Hoess had taught him well at Auschwitz. It was not often that a man was given an opportunity to serve his country, to improve the genetic balance of the human race, and to enrich himself all at once. He was a lucky man . . .
Except for this damnable keep. At least the problem here seemed to be under control. If things held as they were, he could leave tomorrow morning and report success back to Berlin. The report would look good:
He had arrived and had lost two men the first night before he had been able to set up counteroffensive action; after that, there were no further killings. He would be vague as to how he had stopped the killings but crystal clear as to whom the credit belonged. After three nights with no further deaths, he departed. Mission accomplished. If the killings resumed after his departure, it would be the fault of that bungler, Woermann. By then Kaempffer would be too involved with setting up Camp Ploiesti. They would have to send someone else to bail out Woermann.
Lidia's tap on the door to announce dinner startled Magda out of her sleep. A few splashes of water from the basin onto her face and she was fully awake. But not hungry. Her stomach was so knotted she knew it would be impossible to get down a bite of food.
She stood at the window. Traces of daylight reamined in the sky, but none down in the pass. Night had come to the keep, yet the bright courtyard lights had not been turned on. Windows were illuminated here and there in the walls like eyes in the dark, Papa's among them, but it was not yet lit up like—what had Glenn called it that first night?—"a cheap tourist attraction."
She wondered if Glenn was downstairs at the dinner table now. Was he thinking of her? Waiting for her, perhaps? Or was he intent solely on his meal? No matter. She could not under any circumstances let him see her. One look into her eyes and he would know what she intended and might try to stop her.
Magda tried to concentrate on the keep. Why was she thinking of Glenn? He obviously could take care of himself. She should be thinking about Papa and her mission tonight, not of Glenn.
And yet her thoughts persisted in turning to him. She had even dreamed of him during her nap. Details were fuzzy now, but the impressions that lingered were all warm and somehow erotic. What was happening to her? She had never reacted to anyone this way, ever. There had been times in her late teens when young men had courted her. She had been flattered and briefly charmed by two or three of them, but nothing more. And even Mihail . . . they had been close, but she had never desired him.
That was it. Magda realized with a shock that she desired Glenn, wanted him near her, making her feel—
This was absurd! She was acting like a simple-minded farm girl in heat upon meeting her first smooth-talking man from the big city. No, she could not allow herself to become involved with Glenn or with any man. Not while Papa could not fend for himself. And especially not while he was locked up in the keep with the Germans and that thing. Papa came first. He had no one else, and she would never desert him.
Ah, but Glenn . . . if only there were more men like him. He made her feel important, as if being who she was was good, something to take pride in. She could talk to him and not feel like the book-bound misfit others seemed to see.
It was past ten o'clock when Magda left the inn. From her window she had watched Glenn slink down the path and take up a position in the brush at the edge of the gorge. After waiting to make sure he had settled himself there, she tied her hair up in its kerchief, snatched her flashlight from the bureau, and left her room. She passed no one on her way down the stairs, through the foyer, and into the darkness outside.
Magda did not head for the causeway. Instead she crossed the path and walked toward the towering shadows of the mountains, feeling her way in the dark. She could not use the flashlight until she was inside the keep; turning it on out here or in the gorge would risk giving away her presence to one of the sentries on the wall. She lifted her sweater and tucked the flashlight into the waistband of her skirt, feeling the cold of its metal against her skin.
She knew exactly where she was going. At the juncture of the gorge and the western wall of the pass was a large wedge-shaped pile of dirt, shale, and rocky rubble that had been sliding down the mountain and collecting for ages. Its slope was gentle and the footing good—she had learned this years ago when she had embarked on her first trip into the gorge in search of the nonexistent cornerstone. She had made the climb numerous times since then, but always in sunlight. Tonight she would be hampered by darkness and fog. Not even moonlight to help her, since moonrise was not due until after midnight. This was going to be risky, but Magda felt certain she could do it.
She reached the mountain wall where the gorge came to an abrupt halt. The wedge of rubble formed a half cone, its base on the floor of the fog-filled gorge some sixty feet below and its point ending two paces from the site where she stood.
Setting her jaw and breathing deeply once, twice, Magda began the descent. She moved slowly, cautiously, testing each foothold before putting her full weight on it, holding on to the larger rocks for balance. She was in no great hurry. She had plenty of time. Caution was the key—caution and silence. One wrong move and she would begin to slide. The jagged rocks along the way would tear her flesh to shreds by the time she reached bottom. And even if she survived the fall, the rockslide she caused would alert the sentries on the wall. She had to be careful.
She made steady progress, all the while shutting out the thought that Molasar might be waiting for her in the gorge below. She had one bad moment; it came after she had progressed below the gently undulating surface of the fog. For a moment she could not find any footing. She clung to a slab of rock with both legs dangling below her in a misty chasm, unable to make contact with anything. It was as if the whole world had fallen away, leaving her hanging from this jutting stone, alone, forever. But she fought off her panic and inched to her left until her questing feet found a bit of purchase.
The rest of the descent was easier. She reached the base of the wedge unharmed. More difficult terrain lay ahead, however. The floor of the gorge was a never-never land, a realm of jagged rocks and rank grasses, steeped in cloying fog that swirled around her as she moved, clutching at her with wispy tentacles. She moved slowly and with utmost care. The rocks were slick and treacherous, capable of causing a bone-breaking fall at her first unwary step. She was all but blind but kept moving. After an eternity, she passed her first landmark: a dim, dark strip of shadow overhead. She was under the causeway. The base of the tower would be ahead and to the left.
She knew she was almost there when her left foot suddenly sank ankle deep in icy water. She quickly drew back to remove her shoes, her heavy stockings, and to hike her skirt above her knees. Then she steele
d herself. Teeth clenched, Magda waded ahead into the water, her breath escaping in a rush as cold spiked into her feet and lower legs, driving nails of pain into her marrow. Yet she kept her pace slow, even, determinedly suppressing the urge to splash over to the warmth and dryness of the far bank. Rushing would mean noise, and noise meant discovery. .
She had walked a good dozen feet beyond the water's far edge before she realized she was out of it. Her feet were numb. Shivering, she sat on a rock and massaged her toes until sensation returned; then she stepped into her stockings and shoes again.
A few more steps took her to the outcropping of granite that formed the base on which the keep rested. Its rough surface was easy to follow to the spot where the leading edge of the tower stretched down to the floor of the gorge. There she felt the flat surfaces and right angles of man-made block begin.
She felt around until she found the oversized block she sought, and pushed. With a sigh and a barely audible scrape, the slab swung inward. A dark rectangle awaited her like a gaping mouth. Magda didn't let herself hesitate. Pulling the flashlight from her waistband, she stepped through.
The sensation of evil struck her like a blow as she entered, breaking out beads of icy perspiration, making her want to leap headlong back through the opening and into the fog. It was far worse than when she and Papa had passed through the gate Tuesday night, and worse, too, than this morning when she had stepped across the threshold at the gate. Had she become more sensitive to it, or had the evil grown stronger?
Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep Page 22