Hammer of Angels

by G T Almasi

  “What if it’s manned by SZ?” I ask.

  “No,” Marie interjects. “I go through checkpoints almost every day, and they’re always manned by regular police.”

  “Even during a time like this?”

  “Especially during a time like this,” Marie answers. “The Staatszeiger will be fully occupied investigating the bombings. But the police will be on edge. We must assume they will search a large truck.”

  Brando takes off his glasses and polishes them with the tail of his shirt. He hmms to himself. He has an idea.

  “Smoke,” he says. “You’re right. The cops will search us, so we won’t even try to pass through normally. We’ll smoke ’em out and then dash through.” Brando runs the plan past his boss, who approves it on the spot. I admire my partner’s braininess until it dawns on me that we don’t have any smoke grenades.

  When I point this out, it becomes clear to me Brando has lost his mind. He puts his glasses on, turns to our hostess, and asks, “Marie, can I use some of your Ping-Pong balls?”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-DATA-DAVID-519

  Floating Railroad, Midnight Railroad

  An escaped slave in Greater Germany has three choices, all of them dangerous: sneak into the Soviet Union, cross the Atlantic, or remain in Europe and join the Circle of Zion. Trying to pass as a free citizen is not an option because all slaves are clearly marked with a facial tattoo, typically a Star of David around one of their eyes.

  Approximately half of all German citizens openly oppose slavery. Some of these people have established an underground network of like-minded activists who conspire to escort fugitive slaves out of the Reich. In Eastern Europe the collected efforts are referred to as the Midnight Railroad, while in Western Europe they are called the Floating Railroad.

  For runaway slaves and the citizens who help them, both routes are long and perilous. The penalty for helping or hiding a slave is a heavy jail sentence. Anyone convicted of coordinating a group that aids in the escape of a slave is sentenced to death by decapitation.

  31

  SAME DAY, SIX HOURS LATER, 5:47 P.M. CET

  OUTSIDE BRUSSELS, PROVINCE OF BELGIUM, GG

  We ride in Marie’s bright orange Volkswagen Beetle. The spluttering little car bravely maintains a speed of 120 kph, or about 75 mph. The Belgian countryside rolls by as the sun sets behind us. Vast brown and green fields stretch to the horizon and nuzzle against the skirts of the absurdly tall cloud formations they have in this part of the world.

  I tug my thoughts away from the passing landscape. “Marie, any word from Victor?”

  “He’s been…delayed, somewhere north,” she says vaguely, “but he should return soon.”

  Brando leans forward from the backseat. “Does he need help? I could find out if we have anyone in his area.”

  “He’ll be fine.” Marie smiles to herself as though the idea of Victor Eisenberg needing help is amusing. “He was very unhappy about being captured in London. I think it’s die Teutsch who will need help.”

  I comm to Brando, “Has ExOps heard anything about Victor?”

  “Nothing definite. Holland is rumbling to a full-scale rebellion, but that’s not the only place north of here.”

  We’re quiet for a few minutes, then Brando asks, “Marie, why are reporters permitted such freedom of movement during the curfew?”

  “The authorities find out more from us than they do from their military news sources.”

  No wonder our cover is working so well. Marie’s press pass, the fake IDs for me and my partner, and a very official-looking heap of professional audio/video equipment have allowed us to breeze through the checkpoints outside large towns like Dunkirk, Brugge, and Ghent. Brando and I pretend to nap or fiddle with the cameras while Marie does all the talking. Our spur-of-the-moment road trip has been blessedly uneventful.

  Except for that pest on the motorcycle.

  I spotted him thirty minutes ago. He could be coincidentally going to Brussels—it’s a big city, after all—but there’s something about the way he’s remaining the same distance behind us. Plus, who the hell rides their motorcycle in March? I commed to Brando about him, and my partner agreed the guy is definitely somebody.

  Marie has been chattering away about…actually, I lost track a few minutes ago. She realizes we aren’t listening and asks, “What are you two staring at?”

  “We’re being followed,” Brando answers.

  She says, “The motorcyclist in the black helmet?” Garbo can multitask with the best of them.

  “Yes. He’s been following us for a while.”

  “Well, that won’t do at all,” Marie says. “We’re almost there.” She downshifts from fourth to second, and her car pitches us all forward. She floors the gas for a moment, then takes her foot off the accelerator. Her little Volkswagen bucks like a bronco. Marie furiously runs the shifter all over the tree: third, fourth, second, back to fourth. Her savage shifting would roast the transmission right out of most cars, but the Orangemobile takes it in stride. All this insane abuse fires a series of loud backfires from the tailpipes.

  I comm, “She’s pretending her car is stalling!”

  “Yah, no kidding.” My partner literally has his hands full holding the hopping electronic gear in place. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  Honking cars flow around us as the heaving Orangemobile slows to a pathetic 50 kph. Marie clicks on the hazard lights while she hyperextends her car’s gearbox. There’s no way that motorcyclist can stay back there without making it obvious he’s following us. He moves to the far left lane and roars past. I snap a series of images of him with my retinal cameras.

  Even through his full-face helmet I can tell he’s young, maybe even younger than me. He’s on a BMW R80G/S with a custom bag attached to the front fairing.

  Hmm, you could pack a nice rifle in that bag.

  “Was that him?” Marie calls over her self-inflicted wild revving rodeo.

  “Yes!” I shout.

  We pass a sign reading BRUSSELS: 10 KM and another that says ASSE, TERNAT, HERFELINGEN.

  She shifts into third and, blessedly, leaves it there. “Good. This is our exit.” Marie swerves onto the exit ramp. I grab the Jesus strap while Brando’s flock of cases and cables shoves him off his seat and buries him on the floor.

  The exit ramp leads to the N285, a smaller road that arrows through several farming villages. As we cruise by compact, weathered farmhouses, I reach into the backseat to extricate my partner from the heap of equipment.

  “Thanks,” he groans. “Hey, Garbo, where’d you learn to drive like that?”

  “My first CIA case officer,” Marie chirps. “We were followed while he was training me, and he used that technique to make it impossible for the person to remain behind us.”

  “Remind me to send the CIA a thank-you card,” Brando grumbles.

  Marie swings us onto a dirt road that leads to the hilariously unpronounceable town of Borchtlombeek. The little road morphs into a rough track that leads to a sprawling white farmhouse set on a low hill.

  Our car jounces through some spectacular potholes. I press my hands against the ceiling to hold myself down. Brando hangs on to the back of my seat and leaves the shifting gadget pile on the floor. Marie parks between the white farmhouse and a black barn. The cloud of dust created by our entrance floats past us and leaves a thin layer of grit on the car.

  A large delivery truck rests in the barn’s shadow. The truck’s side has OPEKTA emblazoned over an illustrated crowd of jam jars and sausages.

  What the heck does Betti’s company make again?

  We clamber out of the VW. I take a moment to stretch my muscles while Marie rushes into the house. A moment later she’s talking with another woman. Both of their voices gabble away in something like German, except a lot of the words are different. They speak so fast that I miss most of it, but I do catch one thing.

  I comm, “Isn’t Marie’s sister named Betti?”


  “Yeah.”

  “Then why did she call her Margot?”

  Brando comms, “I don’t know, I heard that, too. They seem to have special names for each other.”

  We walk into the farmhouse. Once we’re inside, the sisters go back to their normal names. We take their slip of the tongue and file it away.

  Marie introduces us. “Betti, these are two new friends of mine. They’re here to help. This young lady is Scarlet, and her partner is Darwin.”

  Betti smiles and shakes our hands. “Pleased to meet you. Thank you so much for escorting my sister all the way out here.”

  The Van Daan sisters bear a strong resemblance to each other, but Betti is taller, wears glasses, and has a quieter presence than her energetic younger sibling. Betti introduces us to the farm’s grizzled owner, who nods and shyly mumbles something in German.

  Betti leads us out into the evening gloom and walks to the barn. Her wards are hidden in the hayloft. Betti calls out to them, and they descend a thick wooden ladder. I’m about to ask where their belongings are when I realize what a stupid question that would be. They’re slaves. They have nothing except one another.

  There are four of them: two women, an adolescent boy, and a girl who’s still a toddler. Each of their left eyes is surrounded by a Star of David tattoo.

  One woman carries the girl in her arms, and the other woman tries to hold the boy’s hand, but he keeps pulling his fingers out of her grasp. These people are ashen, skinny, and bedraggled, but the steel in the women’s eyes and the firm set of their jaws convey their determination.

  We help the runaways into the back of the truck and shut the big door with a rattling bang. Betti climbs into the driver’s seat, and Marie, Brando, and I return to Marie’s car. I swear her Beetle is so bright, it glows in the dark. Our two-vehicle convoy drives to the highway and heads for Brussels.

  There’s no sign of motorcycle boy, but that only means I don’t see him.

  32

  SAME EVENING, 6:21 P.M. CET

  BRUSSELS, PROVINCE OF BELGIUM, GG

  The way Betti smuggles runaways in her company truck is a good example of hiding in plain sight. Opekta is a busy company, and its trucks make frequent deliveries in and around Brussels. The police see the jam-and-sausage trucks so often that normally they barely notice—much less search—one of them. Today, though, even the familiar Opekta truck will be stopped.

  When we’re less than a mile from Brussels, our minimotorcade pulls into a small rest area. There’s a parking lot, a low cement building with restroom signs that read DAMEN and HERREN, and a carpet of half-dead grass that stretches to a thick stand of woods.

  I step out of Marie’s Orangemobile and mosey around behind the concrete structure. Nothin’ to see here, folks. Pay no attention to the sexy vixen with the pocketful of homemade smoke bombs. Once I’m in the woods, I break into a full run. After a few minutes I arrive at the highway’s off-ramp for one of Brussels’ quieter neighborhoods. Seventy or eighty yards up the exit, a brightly lit checkpoint forces all exiting traffic to stop and be inspected.

  I crouch down in some undergrowth and watch four policemen in body armor and riot helmets thoroughly check each vehicle before they allow it through. One cop examines everyone’s paperwork while another inspects every car and truck. The last two keep watch from raised platforms on either side of the road, their MP-50 submachine guns ready.

  “Darwin, I’m in position.”

  “Roger, Scarlet. We’re leaving now.”

  I reach into my cargo pockets and fish out the three smoke grenades my partner made last night. Externally, these doodads are simply soda cans with fuses sticking out the tops. I thought Brando was kidding when he asked Marie for Ping-Pong balls, but it turns out if you mince them up and burn them, they produce a whopping amount of smoke.

  My initial contribution to their construction was rapidly ingesting the cans’ original contents. Brando took the empties and melted a candle into each one for weight. After the wax cooled, he added the shredded remains of a half dozen Ping-Pong balls and a bullet’s worth of gunpowder. Meanwhile I made fuses by smearing pieces of string with model cement. A dab of wax affixed my fuses through each can’s opening and formed a nice firm seal. Even the fussiest of anarchists would proudly foment revolution with these tidy little buggers.

  A long sedan pulls into the checkpoint as Darwin comms, “Scarlet, we’re almost in sight of the target.”

  “Roger that, Darwin.”

  I take out my lighter, ignite the fuse on one of Brando’s contraptions, wind up like Tom Seaver, and whip it at Paperwork Cop. The can hits the guard in his butt and thumps to the ground. Herr Paperwork shouts in surprise, then the billowing white Ping-Fog swallows him whole.

  My second fastball hits Vehicle Cop in the leg. Before he can kick the hissing hazard away, he starts coughing and choking from the fumes spewing out of the first grenade. Moments later, he’s engulfed in the second grenade’s swirling discharge. The two Smoka-Colas are already generating their maximum concealment—the sedan has practically vanished—so I tuck Smokey number three back in my pocket.

  The pair of platform sentries are above the thickest smoke, and we can’t take any chances. I draw Li’l Bertha and spray short bursts of .12-caliber pellets at the metal supports and railings of the two scaffolds. Both men flop to their stomachs. I charge through the smoke, spring to the nearest platform, and furiously pistol-whip the first guy until he stops moving.

  By the time I turn to deal with the last remaining sentry, he’s already got the drop on me. His trigger finger tightens, then he suddenly reels, stunned, as the front of his helmet is loudly inflicted with a bright, clanging dent. The piercing sound of a rifle shot immediately follows.

  I quickly look around. Nobody’s in sight. Whoever placed that nonlethal strike did it from so far away that I can’t even see him. I climb onto the railing and launch myself across the street. The instant my feet touch the other platform, I coldcock the faltering policeman into next week.

  “Darwin!” I comm. “All clear. Make your run!”

  “Roger that, Scarlet. Here we come.”

  Marie’s bright orange car careens off the highway exit, closely tailgated by Betti in her truck. Brando rides next to Marie in her Orangemobile and holds his infrared scope to his eye. His mouth moves while he directs Marie through the smoked-out intersection. She hunches over the steering wheel as she avoids the stopped car and the guards crawling around in my Ping-Pong pea soup.

  Both vehicles whoosh through the checkpoint and into the city. Now the sisters will drive to Betti’s office, where Brando and Marie will spend a night or two to let things cool down.

  The rest of our plan calls for me to acquire transportation and get back to Calais. I’ll lay low at Marie’s house until she and my partner return. But first, it’s time to locate that sniper. While help is always appreciated, I don’t dig some mystery guest crashing my Job Number.

  Who is it? If it were someone from ExOps, we’d have been informed. If it were an opponent, I’d be dead. I bend down and examine the silvery dent on the unconscious guard’s helmet. The indentation’s shape indicates the shot came from the highway, but between here and there is nothing but open terrain. There’s nowhere to hide except…

  Except for a dense patch of tall brush in the triangular island between the highway’s on- and off-ramps. It has excellent cover and a built-in highway-shaped escape route. That’s the place.

  I holster Li’l Bertha and jump off the platform. Mr. Sharpshooter can obviously see me, so I don’t bother hiding my intentions. I point myself at the stand of bushes and blast off. My flickering legs whisk me to my objective in nothing flat.

  A young man materializes in front of the leafy concealment with his hands out. I ram him at full speed, and we fly into the bushes. I ride him like a surfboard until we skid to a stop. On the ground is a scoped rifle, resting on its case. Next to that is a small BMW motorcycle with a black helmet hooked on the se
at.

  I seize the front of the dude’s jacket and snarl, “Who the fuck are you, buddy?” Wow, his face is awfully familiar.

  Instead of speaking, my human carpet waves his hands around. After a moment I realize he’s using sign language.

  Switch off your commphone, he signs.

  “What?” I say. “Why?”

  He has to spell out his next message one letter at a time: F-r-e-d-e-r-i-c-k-s.

  I cautiously take my hands off his coat and sign, What about him?

  He sent me to kill you.

  Now I recognize this kid’s face. I’ve seen it in my scrapbooks, in my parents’ wedding album, and on the Memorial Wall at ExOps. Every night, when I shut my eyes, I see this face.

  It’s my father’s face.

  33

  SAME EVENING, 6:49 P.M. CET

  BRUSSELS, PROVINCE OF BELGIUM, GG

  “Falcon,” the young man gasps around my right hand, which is clamped on his throat. “I’m called Falcon.”

  Even his voice sounds like my dad. That’s all I have to go on right now because I suddenly can’t see anything.

  An image of Trick coalesces from the blackness. “You’re hysterical,” he says.

  Somehow I find a snappy comeback. “If you think this is funny, wait’ll you see the dancing panda bears.”

  “No, I mean you’re emotionally hysterical. That’s why you’ve lost your sight.”

  “Will it come back?”

  “Take a deep breath…that’s it…try to relax until—”

  Click! I can see again. Trick vanishes. I blink away the ghosts and resume strangling this teenage version of my dad.

  I deactivate my commphone, just in case, so nobody but the two of us can hear me demand, “Why do you look like my father? What the hell are you?”

  He begins turning blue. I relax my grip slightly. Li’l Bertha hovers an inch from his face, so any false moves will result in a splattery cloud of deconstructive dentistry.