Robert R. McCammon

by The Wolfs Hour

  He could not let these men live.

  He took a step forward, brushing past the rifle barrel. “Halt!” the soldier shouted. Krolle, Blok, and Boots turned to look at him, hair still drifting down into the box. “Halt!” the soldier commanded, and drove the barrel into Michael’s rib cage.

  Such pain was nothing. Michael kept going, his wrists manacled behind him. He stared into the colorless eyes of Major Krolle, and he saw the man flinch and step backward. He felt the fangs aching to slide from his jaws, his facial muscles rippling to give them room.

  “Halt, damn you!” The soldier hit him on the back of the head with his rifle barrel, and Michael staggered but kept his balance. He was striding toward the three men, and Boots stepped between him and Colonel Blok. Another soldier, armed with a submachine gun, rushed at Michael and slammed him in the stomach with the gun butt. Michael doubled over and gasped in pain, and the soldier lifted his weapon to strike him across the skull.

  The prisoner struck first, bringing his naked knee up into the man’s groin with a force that lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground. An arm locked around Michael’s throat from behind, squeezing his windpipe. Another man drove a fist into his chest, making his heart stutter. “Hold him! Hold the bastard!” Krolle barked as Michael kept thrashing wildly. Krolle lifted the baton and brought it down on Michael’s shoulder. A second blow dropped him, and a third left him lying in the dust, his lungs rasping as pain throbbed through his blackening shoulder and bruised stomach. He hung on the edge of unconsciousness, fighting against the change. Black hair was about to burst from his pores; he could smell the wildness in his skin, taste its musky power in his mouth. If he changed here, lying in the dust, he would be cut open and examined by German knives. Every part of him—from organs to teeth—would be tagged and immersed in bottles full of formaldehyde to be studied by Nazi doctors. He wanted to live, to kill these men, and so he battled against the change and forced it back down.

  Perhaps a few black wolf hairs had emerged from his body—on his chest, the insides of his thighs, and his throat—but they rippled away so fast that no one noticed them, and even if one of the soldiers had seen, he would’ve thought his eyes were playing tricks. Michael lay on his belly, very close to passing out. He heard Blok say, “Baron, I think you’re in for a very rough visit with us.”

  Soldiers grasped beneath Michael’s arms, pulled him up, and began to drag him through the dust as he fell into darkness.

  6

  “Can you hear me?”

  Someone speaking, from the far end of a tunnel. Whose voice?

  “Baron? Can you hear me?”

  Darkness upon darkness. Don’t answer! he thought. If you don’t answer, whoever’s speaking will go away and let you rest!

  A light switched on. The light was very bright; Michael could see it through his eyelids. “He’s awake,” he heard the voice say to someone else in the room. “You see how his pulse has increased? Oh, he knows we’re here, all right.” It was Blok’s voice, he realized. A hand grasped his chin and shook his face. “Come on, come on. Open your eyes, Baron.”

  He wouldn’t. “Give him a drink of water,” Blok said, and immediately a bucket of cold water was flung into Michael’s face.

  He sputtered, his body involuntarily shivering with the chill, and his eyes opened. The light—a spot lamp of brutal wattage, drawn up close to his face—made him squeeze his eyelids shut again.

  “Baron?” Blok said. “If you refuse to open your eyes, we’ll cut your eyelids off.”

  There was no doubt they would. He obeyed, squinting in the glare.

  “Good! Now we can get some business done!” Blok pulled up a chair on casters beside the prisoner and sat down. Michael could make out others in the room: a tall man holding a dripping bucket, another figure—this one thick and fleshy—in a black SS uniform that bulged at the seams. Major Krolle, of course. “Before we begin,” Blok said quietly, “I’ll tell you that you are a man whom hope has abandoned. There is no escape from this room. Beyond these walls, there are more walls.” He leaned forward, into the light, and his silver teeth glittered. “You have no friends here, and no one is coming to save you. We are going to destroy you—either quickly, or slowly: that is the sole choice within your power to make. Do you understand? Nod, please.”

  Michael was busy trying to figure out how he was bound. He was lying, stark naked, on a metal table that was shaped like an X, his arms outstretched over his head and his legs apart. Tight leather straps secured his wrists and ankles. The table was tilted up and forward, so that Michael was very close to an upright position. He tested the straps; they wouldn’t give even a quarter of an inch.

  “Bauman?” Blok said. “Bring me some more water, please.” The man with the bucket—an aide to Major Krolle, Michael assumed—answered “Yes sir” and walked across the room. An iron bolt slid back, and there was a quick glimpse of gray light as a heavy door opened and closed. Blok turned his attention to the prisoner again. “What is your name and nationality?”

  Michael was silent. His heart pounded; he was sure Blok could see it. His shoulder hurt like hell, though it probably wasn’t fractured. He felt like a wrapping of bruises around a barbed-wire skeleton. Blok expected an answer, and Michael decided to give him one: “Richard Hamlet. I’m British.”

  “Oh, you’re British, are you? A Tommy who speaks perfect Russian? I don’t think so. If you’re so very British, say something in English for me.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Blok sighed deeply, and shook his head. “I think I prefer you as a baron. All right, let’s say for the sake of speculation that you’re art agent for the Red Army. Probably dropped into Germany on an assassination or sabotage mission. Your contact was Chesna van Dorne. How and where did you meet her?”

  Had they caught Chesna? Michael wondered. There was no answer to that question in the eyes of his inquisitor.

  “What was your mission?” Blok asked.

  Michael stared straight ahead, a pulse beating at his temple.

  “Why did Chesna bring you to the Reichkronen?”

  Still no response.

  “How were you planning on getting out of the country after your mission was completed?” No answer. Blok leaned a little closer. “Have you ever heard of a man named Theo von Frankewitz?”

  Michael kept his face emotionless.

  “Von Frankewitz seemed to know you,” Blok continued. “Oh, he tried to shield you at first, but we gave him some interesting drugs. Before he died, he told us the exact description of a man who visited him at his apartment. He told us he showed this man a drawing. The man he described is you, Baron. Now tell me, please: what interest would a Russian secret agent have in a decrepit sidewalk artist like Frankewitz?” He prodded Michael’s bruised shoulder with his forefinger. “Don’t think you’re being brave, Baron. You’re being very stupid. We can shoot you full of drugs to loosen your tongue, but unfortunately those don’t work very well unless you’re in… shall we say… a weakened condition. Therefore we must satisfy that requirement. It’s your choice, Baron: how shall we do this?”

  Michael didn’t answer. He knew what was ahead, and he was readying himself for it.

  “I see,” Blok said. He stood up, and moved away from the prisoner. “Major Krolle? At your pleasure, please.”

  Krolle stalked forward, lifted the rubber baton, and went to work.

  Sometime later, cold water was thrown into Michael’s face again and revived him to the devil’s kingdom. He coughed and sputtered, his nostrils clogged with blood. His right eye was swollen shut, and the entire right side of his face felt weighted with bruises. His lower lip was gashed open, leaking a thread of crimson that trickled down his chin to his chest.

  “This really is pointless, Baron.” Colonel Blok was sitting in his chair again, next to Michael. On a tray in front of him was a plate of sausages and sauerkraut and a crystal goblet of white wine. Blok had a napkin tucked in his collar and wa
s eating his dinner with a silver knife and fork. “You know I can kill you anytime I please.”

  Michael snorted blood from his nostrils. His nose might be broken. His tongue found a loose molar.

  “Major Krolle wants to kill you now and be done with it,” Blok went on. He chewed a bite of sausage and dabbed his lips with the napkin. “I think you’ll come to your senses before very much longer. Where are you from, Baron? Moscow? Leningrad? What military district?”

  “I’m…” His voice was a hoarse croak. He tried again. “I’m a British citizen.”

  “Oh, don’t start that again!” Blok cautioned. He took a sip of wine. “Baron, who directed you to Theo von Frankewitz? Was it Chesna?”

  Michael didn’t answer. His vision blurred in and out, his brains rattling from the beating.

  “This is what I believe,” the colonel said. “That Chesna was in the business of selling German military secrets. I don’t know how she learned about Frankewitz, but let’s speculate that she is involved in a network of traitors. She was helping you with your mission—whatever that was—and she decided to intrigue you with some information that she thought you might take back to your Russian masters. Dogs do have masters, don’t they? Well, perhaps Chesna thought you might pay for this information. Did you?”

  No response. Michael stared past the blinding spot lamp.

  “Chesna brought you to the Reichkronen to assassinate someone, didn’t she?” Blok cut a sausage open, and grease drooled out. “All those officers there… possibly you were going to blow the entire place to pieces. But tell me: why did you go into Sandler’s suite? You did kill his hawk, didn’t you?” When Michael didn’t answer, Blok smiled thinly. “No harm done. I despised that damned bird. But when I found all those feathers and that mess in Sandler’s suite, I knew it had to be your doing—especially after that little drama on the riverbank. I knew you must have had commando training, to have gotten off Sandler’s train. He’s hunted over a dozen men on that train, and some of them were ex-officers who’d fallen from grace; so you see, I knew no tulip-growing ‘baron’ could have beaten Sandler. But he gave you a run, didn’t he?” He poked his knife at the blood-crusted bullet gash on Michael’s thigh. “Now, about Frankewitz: who else knows about the drawing he showed you?”

  “You’ll have to ask Chesna,” Michael said, probing to see if she’d been captured.

  “Yes, I will. Count on it. But for right now, I’m asking you. Who else knows about that drawing?”

  They didn’t have her, Michael thought. Or maybe it was just a faint hope. The security of that drawing was paramount to Blok. Blok finished his sausage and drank his wine, waiting for the Russian secret agent to answer. Finally he stood up and pushed his chair back. “Major Krolle?” he said, and motioned the man forward.

  Krolle came out of the darkness. The rubber baton was upraised, and Michael’s bruised muscles tensed. He wasn’t ready for another beating yet; he had to stall for time. He said, “I know all about Iron Fist.”

  The baton started to fall, aimed at Michael’s face.

  Before it could smash down, a hand grasped Krolle’s wrist and checked its descent. “One moment,” Blok told him. The colonel stared fixedly at Michael. “A phrase,” he said. “Two words you got out of Frankewitz. They meant nothing to him, and they mean nothing to you.”

  It was time for a shot in the dark. “The Allies might think differently.”

  There was a silence in the room, as if mere mention of the Allies had the power to freeze flesh and blood. Blok continued to stare at Michael, his face betraying no emotion. And then Blok spoke: “Major Krolle, would you leave the room, please? Bauman, you, too.” He waited until the major and his aide had left, then began to walk back and forth across the stone floor, his hands behind him and his body crooked slightly forward. He suddenly stopped. “You’re bluffing. You don’t know a damned thing about Iron Fist.”

  “I know you’re in charge of security for the project,” Michael said, choosing his words carefully. “I presume you didn’t take me to Gestapo headquarters in Berlin because you don’t want your superiors to find out there’s been a security leak.”

  “There has been no leak. Besides, I don’t know what project you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes, you do. I’m afraid it’s no secret any longer.”

  Blok approached Michael and leaned over him. “Really? Then tell me, Baron: what is Iron Fist?” His breath smelled of sausage and sauerkraut.

  The moment of truth had arrived. Michael knew very well that one sentence might spell judgment for him. He said, “Dr. Hildebrand’s created something quite a bit more potent than delousing spray, hasn’t he?”

  A muscle clenched in Blok’s bony jaw. Other than that, the man didn’t move.

  “Yes, I did get into Sandler’s suite,” Michael went on. “But before I did, I got into yours. I found your satchel, and those photographs of Hildebrand’s test subjects. Prisoners of war, I suspect. Where are you shipping them from? Here? Other camps?”

  Blok’s eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s speculate, shall we?” Michael asked. “You’re shipping POWs from a number of camps. They go to Hildebrand’s workshop on Skarpa Island.” Blok’s face had turned a shade gray. “Oh… I think I’d like a sip of wine, please,” he said. “To wet my throat.”

  “I’ll cut your throat, you Slav son of a bitch!” Blok hissed.

  “I don’t think so. A sip of wine, please?”

  Blok remained motionless. Finally a cold smile crept across his mouth. “As you wish, Baron.” He took the goblet of white wine from the tray and held it to Michael’s mouth, allowing him one swallow before he drew it away. “Go on with this fanciful conjecture.”

  Michael licked his swollen lower lip, the wine stinging it. “The prisoners are subjected to Hildebrand’s tests. Over three hundred of them so far, as I recall. I assume you speak regularly with Hildebrand. You were probably using those pictures to show your superiors how the project’s coming along. Am I correct?”

  “You know, this room is very strange.” Blok looked around. “You can hear the dead talking in it.”

  “You might want to kill me, but you won’t. You and I both know how important Iron Fist is.” Another shot in the dark that hit its target; Blok stared at him again. “My friends in Moscow would be thrilled to pass that information along to the Allies.”

  What Michael was hinting at took root. Blok said, “And who else knows about this?” His voice was reedy, and there might have been a quaver in it.

  “Chesna’s not the only one.” He decided to lead Blok by the pinched nostrils. “She was with you while I was in your suite.”

  That sank in. Blok’s expression was stricken for a second as he realized that someone on the Reichkronen staff must be a traitor. “Who gave you the key?”

  “I never knew. The key was delivered to Chesna’s suite during the Brimstone Club’s meeting. I returned it by dropping it into a flower pot on the second floor.” So far, so good, he thought. It would never occur to Blok that Michael had descended the castle wall. He cocked his head to one side. His heart was beating hard, and he knew he was playing a dangerous charade but he had to buy time. “You know, I think you’re right about this room. You can hear the voice of a dead colonel.”

  “Mock me if you wish, Baron.” Blok smiled tightly, whorls of red in his cheeks. “But a few injections of truth serum and you’ll tell me everything.”

  “I think you’ll find I’m a little tougher than Frankewitz was. Besides, I can’t tell you what I don’t know. The key was delivered, and I returned it in an envelope along with the film.”

  “Film? What film?” The quaver was more pronounced.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have gone into your suite unprepared, would I? Of course I had a camera. Also furnished by Chesna’s friend. I took pictures of the photographs in your satchel. Plus those other papers, the ones that looked like pages from an accounting book.”

  Blok was silent, but M
ichael could tell what he must be thinking: that secrets under his responsibility were out, possibly headed by courier to the Soviet Union, and the Reichkronen was a nest of traitors. “You’re a liar,” Blok said. “If these things were true, you wouldn’t be volunteering them so freely.”

  “I don’t want to die. Neither do I care to be tortured. Anyway, the information’s already been passed. There isn’t anything you can do about it now.”

  “Oh, I disagree. Very strongly.” Blok reached onto his tray, and his hand gripped the fork. He stood beside Michael, his face blotched with red. “I’ll tear the Reichkronen to the ground and execute everyone from the plumbers to the manager, if that’s what is necessary. You, my dear Baron, will tell me all about how and where you met Chesna, what your escape route was going to be, and so much more. And you’re right: I won’t kill you.” He jabbed the fork’s tines into the flesh of Michael’s left arm and drew it out. “You do have a certain value, after all.” Again the fork jabbed down, piercing Michael’s shoulder. Michael flinched, sweat on his face. The fork was withdrawn. “I’m going to consume you,” Blok said, and drove the tines into Michael’s chest just below the throat, “like a piece of meat. I’ll chew you up, digest what I need, and spit out the rest.” He pulled the fork out, the tines tipped with blood. “You might know about Iron Fist—and about Dr. Hildebrand and Skarpa Island—but you don’t know how Iron Fist is going to be used. No one knows where the fortress is but myself, Dr. Hildebrand, and a few others whose loyalty is unquestioned. Therefore, your Russian friends don’t know either, and they can’t pass the information to the British and Americans, can they?” He jabbed the fork into Michael’s left cheek, then he drew it out and tasted Michael’s blood. “This,” Blok said, “is only the first course.” He snapped off the spot lamp.