by Max Hudson
Back in Auta’s apartment, Martin wore the headphones and stood in front of the surveillance equipment. Typical static thrummed through and little else. Martin jiggled his leg as flailing energy rattled through his flesh. Each breath was too shallow, making his chest ache.
He was normally good at being patient, being careful. But now everything was different. One kiss—one man—it had changed everything. Painfully so.
Auta knocked loudly on the door behind him. “Martin? Everything all right?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Leave me alone.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.”
She paused. “Maybe you should rest for a while. You’ve been working for hours, and Emmerich might not even come back tonight. Or today, I should say.”
“Let me work, Auta. I need to focus.”
Her footsteps trudged away, toward her bedroom.
***
The moment Martin heard Emmerich enter his apartment early that morning, he threw off the headphones and called him.
“What happened?” Martin asked. “Are you all right?”
Emmerich had the gall to yawn. “I’m fine. Sleepy. Apparently, Dr. Bahr has done so many wonderful things for this country, even though I’ve never heard of him before.” He yawned again, mumbling something else.
“Dr. Bahr.” Martin didn’t recognize the name either. “First name?”
“Ferdinand. He’s got lung cancer, bad. Probably won’t last another month. But he has a big, fancy degree in nuclear physics, and he keeps spouting out so many random theories that Bosch and the others think he might say something useful one day. I’m supposed to help keep him alive from external threats.”
“Like OSS agents.”
“Among other enemies, yes.”
Martin leaned against the wall, one hand cupping his moist forehead. He took a few deep breaths, a fragile kind of calm washing over him. “I’m glad you’re all right. Bosch doesn’t suspect anything?”
“No.” Harsher static twisted through the phone line before Emmerich growled, “I still can’t believe that he just killed the kid. Denzel was annoying, but he worked hard. God, his body isn’t even in here anymore. Did you do that?”
“No. A few other SS Officers came and cleaned the apartment.”
“Fucking hell.”
“I know.”
“All because he didn’t want to be near a hospital. Goddamn it.”
Silence rose between them. Martin opened his mouth to order Emmerich to sleep, but just hearing Emmerich breathing…it relieved Martin. And after so many hours of fear, he wanted to listen to the exhales a little while longer.
“Despite everything,” Emmerich whispered, “I kept thinking about you the entire time. Bosch nearly caught me not paying attention to him.”
“You should’ve paid attention to him,” Martin rasped, heat crawling up his neck and face.
“I did. Mostly. I just couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. Was it your first with a man? Because it didn’t feel like it. It felt…”
Martin swallowed, fingers twitching. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.” He glanced out of the window and willed himself to calm down. It didn’t work.
“I understand. What we did—we almost got caught. And we would’ve been killed. It was stupid of me to do that to you.”
Martin balked. This didn’t sound like the Emmerich Hubar he had gotten to know these past months. “What?”
“When I figured out what you were, I felt less lonely for the first time in a long, long time. And I wanted to make sure that I was right—that I had someone else like me nearby. But then your lips felt so damn good, and I got…distracted.” Emmerich scoffed. “That’s probably too forward for you, isn’t it? You and I may have similar tastes, but in all other respects, you’re very different from me. Better, maybe.”
Martin shook his head. “I’m not better.”
“Safer, then.”
“I kissed a man in Nazi Germany while on a mission for the Office of Strategic Services.”
A strangled laugh erupted from Emmerich. “I must be a bad influence.”
“The worst,” he said fondly, lips quirking upward. Exhilaration, anxiety—a contradiction of sensations swirled around within him, and he could no longer decide if he liked it or not. “You’d better get some sleep.”
“Yeah. At least I don’t have to go to that fucking raid.”
“Small mercies.”
“Undeserved,” Emmerich added. And as Martin flinched at the man’s harsh tone, Emmerich whispered, “Goodbye, Martin.”
“Goodbye, Emmerich.”
Call ended, Martin pressed his knuckles against his mouth. He needed to call Charlie next and inform him, but he hesitated to do so. He would have to keep his kiss with Emmerich a secret, of course, but to assume the OSS would never learn about it—that an agency of espionage would never learn of Martin’s secrets—was unfathomable.
Martin stared at the phone like it wanted to bite him.
The door creaked open.
“Not now, Auta,” he said distantly, eyes still on the phone.
“Yes, now,” she hissed.
Frowning, he turned to her.
She had her arms crossed as stood in the doorway, her lips curled in a silent snarl and her face paler than usual. For a few seconds, she did nothing but breathe hard.
“Auta?”
“You…kissed that man?”
Martin didn’t visibly react, staying motionless as horror clawed into him. He furrowed his brow—acted confused—and tried to think of a believable lie.
She shook her head and stepped back. “I have to report this. You need help.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Are you? That includes being—”
“It includes manipulating whoever the hell I need to manipulate in order to make sure that the mission is a success.” He glared. “Emmerich needed to be put in line, so I put him in line by using the only means he would respond to.” He walked into her personal space and hovered over her, glare deepening. “Don’t question your superior. Not in dangerous territory. You’re not authorized to call anyone outside this country, but if you want to go to the States and talk to the OSS directors, then do so after the war. I don’t need your foolishness destroying everything we’re working toward.”
Auta hunched in on herself, her gaze darting at everything but his face. Hesitantly, she stepped back, head bowed. Then she made her way slowly down the hall and into the kitchen.
Martin wiped his mouth, restrained fear ghosting over his psyche and making his limbs stiff. He returned to the surveillance room and shut the door.
Chapter Nine
“He’s going to get one of his lungs fucking removed,” Emmerich said several days later over their secured line. “He looks like a skeleton wearing a suit of skin, but the fucking military wants to do anything—even stupid, useless shit—to keep him breathing as long as possible. I don’t understand it. He writes gibberish on napkins.”
“It might not be gibberish,” Martin said, tapping the table beside the phone. “They could be equations. Or theories.”
“It looks like gibberish.”
“Can you grab one of the napkins some time?”
“No. There are always people coming in and looking them over before throwing them away.”
“They throw them away?”
“Right there in the same room as the dying Dr. Bahr. The man’s losing his mind. If he was a genius before, he’s not anymore. I don’t know what they’re hoping he’ll achieve, but he’s not achieving anything right now.”
Odd. Lung cancer didn’t affect brain activity like that—not usually, at least. Martin leaned back, fingers sliding off the table and landing on his knee. “Did you find out what he did before he was diagnosed?”
“Oh, yes, I was privileged to receive more details today,” Emmerich said sarcastically, huffing. “Bahr was a professor for a time, then when Hitler ca
me into power, he was hired as a nuclear physics consultant for Nazi weapon production. From what I heard, he was working on a gun that shot some kind of death ray.”
“…What?”
“Laser beams? Some kind of science fiction shit. Bosch thought it was ridiculous, too—not that he would actually say something like that out loud, but I could tell by the weird faces he made when he was telling me this shit.
“Dr. Bahr did make one of the guns explode once, and now they want him to turn his idea of the laser-gun into a laser-grenade, whatever that is. Or maybe something better.”
Martin thought this over. “I’m surprised they would be so patient with him if he’s taking up so much of their time. After what Bosch did to Denzel…”
“Dr. Bahr’s dying, anyway. Threatening him with death would be redundant.”
Morbid, but rational. Martin sighed. “Stay safe. I’ll call you again after your next shift.”
“Maybe if I keep doing a good job,” Emmerich said, cheerful tone tainted with a snide edge, “Bosch will grant me the honor of more longwinded speeches on our duties and pats on the shoulder!”
Martin smirked. “That’s the goal.”
“A horribly depressing truth.”
After the call ended, Martin called Charlie and updated him.
“Don’t take any chances,” Charlie said. “Crazy is crazy, but if he’s not crazy? He needs to die sooner rather than later.”
“Understood.”
“Do it as soon as possible. We’ll send you the supplies.” Through stricter channels than the ones used to send the wedding rings, no doubt. “Be prepared in three weeks’ time.”
“Understood.”
Charlie hung up.
***
Over time, he had gotten more details from Emmerich—the guard rotation, the makeup of the hospital, the nurses’ schedules, anything and everything. He would’ve staked out the building for himself, but based on Emmerich’s reports, there were always several SS Officers marching around the area; it was too likely that Martin would be seen as a potential threat.
“Open the window that’s right behind his bed,” Martin said to Emmerich over the phone, “to the left of it, a little.”
“Why?”
“Colder air is known to affect the ill,” he said, the dishonesty of the honest statement—it tasted sour.
“So?”
“It might worsen his health and make him less likely to come up with anything useful for the Nazis.”
“I suppose.”
“Please just do it.”
“All right, I guess.”
“Good.” He took a deep breath. Keeping Emmerich in the dark was the right thing to do—plausible deniability. And he had lied so many times already…it shouldn’t matter now. “Auta and I are going out of town to interview a chef for the wedding, so you’re going to be on your own tonight.”
“Aren’t I always?”
Martin closed his eyes tight, tension wrought in his shoulders. Guilt flared within his torso, making it hurt to breathe. But it shouldn’t matter now.
“Martin? You all right?”
“Be careful.”
“You too.” Amusement colored his voice. “Marrying that woman is probably more dangerous than what I’m doing.”
“I’m not going to marry her.”
“If this war goes on for several more years, I think you’re going to have to.”
“I’m not going to marry her,” he growled. “I’m not lying about that.”
“Okay,” Emmerich said, sounding uncertain. “I’m not trying to upset you. Not this time, anyway. I get that this is your job, and I’m not threatened by her.”
Martin smiled ruefully. “I never thought you were. But what about insulted by her?”
“All the damn time, but not because she’s pretending to be yours. That’s something she can never be.”
Could anyone be? Martin opened his eyes, longing straining his heart. He had been so good—so used to accepting loneliness. But the mere idea of it now scraped his psyche and made his chest tighten.
“Could I be?” Emmerich asked after a pause, voice quiet. “Someday, you think? When the war’s over and we’re somewhere else?”
Martin’s throat constricted. “I’ll call you back when Auta and I return.”
“Mart—”
“Be very, very careful, Emmerich. Always.” Martin hung up before he said something else—something emotional and desperate.
***
He and Auta did drive several cities over to speak with the latest chef Edda had recommended for the reception. A nice man—few words, straight-forward answers and comments. He never once glanced at the worn briefcase Martin carried around with him at all times.
After Auta fell asleep in their hotel room, Martin opened the briefcase. It contained a scratched-up cap-less pen—secretly a miniscule weapon which could and would launch a pellet of an untraceable poison into his target’s neck—a fake beard, a change of clothes, and several wads of cash for bus fare.
***
The journey back to Steinrole was uneventful—dull, even—but adrenaline jittered through him the entire time, keeping his heart beating fast and his awareness sharp. It took a great deal of effort to appear tired; bearded face aimed at the dirty floor of each bus he took.
The last bus dropped him off at a stop several blocks away from Bahr’s hospital. Martin kept his hands in his pockets as he walked—slow, worn, like he’d had a long day and night at an unforgiving job. The pen was placed in the upper pocket on the inside his jacket, the left pocket.
His peripheral vision filled with more and more SS Officers the closer to the hospital he got. He had to keep moving—had to be slow and unnoticeable yet somehow quick.
He turned down the first alleyway he came across, a few buildings away from the hospital. He weaved around alleyways—some cramped, some spacious—and ducked behind dumpsters whenever SS Officers marched by with their flashlights.
His breath shuddered, eyes open wide with readiness. He blinked hard and forced his breathing to slow, though it made his heart burn all the more.
Eventually, he entered an alleyway right behind the hospital—close to the large parking lot while still being provided some cover by the adjacent buildings. Martin gave up all pretenses—crouched forward and rushed over to the hospital.
SS Officers moved away from the alley—staring outward and talking about some film reel. One of them flicked his flashlight behind him, the light flickering over Martin’s shoes, but the man himself hadn’t been paying much attention to anything but his conversation.
Martin had still tensed, ice and fire throbbing in his veins.
On the other side of the alley, other SS Officers approached—quiet, no conversation, no distraction.
Martin’s eyes skimmed the hospital. He had listened to Emmerich describe his specific location over and over again—second floor, northeast, second room to the left. But the windows were all the same, closed white blinds and gray frames.
The open window—there. Second floor, northeast.
Martin could only pray that the night’s darkness would conceal him well enough from the naked eye. He took his hands out of his pockets and, very aware of the pen’s feather-light pressure against his left peck, he climbed up the wall. The pads of his fingers curled into the window frames as hard as they could, the tips of his shoes doing much the same but less effectively. He scurried up to the right window, and then he glanced back.
Two SS Officers had entered the alley, their postures rigid but their stride casual. Their flashlights swung back and forth over the ground. They didn’t glance up.
Don’t look up, Martin thought fervently.
Sluggishly, he scooted to the side and ducked a little to get a better look inside. The blinds were still down, but through a few of the slits, he could see Bahr in bed, only a couple feet left of the opened window.
Emmerich’s descriptions of him hadn’t been exaggerated. Bahr l
iterally drooled on his shoulder, his eyes foggy. His skin was like the color of lint, except where a few liver spots—ugly, reddish-brown things—dotted his head.
This seemed pointless.
Martin glanced back down at the SS Officers, right beneath him now before they exited the alley like the others had. Martin released a slow, silent sigh of relief.
Using only one hand to grip the window frame, he used the other to snake its way into his jacket’s inner left pocket. His hands moistened, fingers on the window trembling as the fingers in his pocket wrapped around the pen. Quick but gentle, he gripped his weapon and took it out. Then he placed on the pen in between the slit of the blinds, near the middle—an unsteady surface he had to use to aim his weapon.
Martin held his breath and leaned a little closer to the window. Leveling his eyes with the pen—an inch or two away from his temple—he closed one eye and focused on the biggest liver spot on Bahr’s head.
The perfect target.
Someone sighed in the room—hushed. Maybe it had been Emmerich, exhausted from this tedious task.
Martin licked his lips and pushed the pen a little more into the room to get a better shot. He wasn’t certain that Emmerich and the other guard weren’t staring straight at the bed in that moment—his one eye locked with Bahr’s liver spot—but it was a chance he must take.
Besides, the late hour, the boring duty—the men in there may not be paying as close attention as they should.
Martin struggled to get his quivering arms to still. His fingers on the window seared with aches, growing larger and larger and making his digits stiffen. He took another deep breath.
“Have you seen that nurse before?” Emmerich asked—presumably speaking with the other guard. “I don’t recognize her.”
“I have,” the other guard said.
Martin clenched his teeth and moved his thumb over the butt of the pen—the trigger of this miniscule gun. These things didn’t always work, and in that second, Martin feared the damn device would prove to be defective.
“Are you sure?” Emmerich asked. “Which one is she?”
“Abigail. She’s cleared.”
“I thought Abigail was the short one with dark hair.”
“Natasha.”