A Room Full of Night

by TR Kenneth

  Suddenly he was bone tired, but he knew he would get little sleep in the Adlon. The fight or flight instinct was raging once again and he knew now to listen to it. He was going to have to battle through the fog of weariness and get the hell out of the Adlon without them knowing where he’d gone.

  His consolation was that he doubted the strange Mr. Portier with the private jet was going to rest very well in Zug or wherever the hell he laid his head at night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  STAG RODE THE elevator to the roof. He stood outside in the cold evening, staring at the lights of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. The field of painfully plain cement oblongs looked like an aboveground cemetery for postmodernists, a cubist Père-Lachaise. He gazed at the field of concrete, appalled at the numbers they represented, the incomprehensible mass of humans murdered.

  The Nazis called it deportation while they skirted the term extermination. For enemies of the Reich, whoever they were, treasonous officers or three-year-olds who happened to be Jews, Heydrich used the term NN next to their names. Nacht und Nabel. Enemies of the Reich who disappeared in the night and the fog. Now, by sheer dint of will, the memories of these people were put into slabs of stone, never to be forgotten again.

  Hopefully.

  He felt acutely small at the top of the Adlon above the field of gray concrete boxes. It was near impossible to believe in platitudes like “God’s will” when facing the corporatized extermination of eleven million people. He didn’t fool himself. He was no match for even the shadow of the force that had managed to kill all those represented down below. He was a loner, a cripple, a nobody. The why of the Nazi mass murder was still being analyzed. It still danced on the edge of disbelief. How would he add anything to the answer of it?

  He rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes, feeling overwhelmed and defeated. When he came to his end, there was no child or spouse to mourn him or remember. There would be no one to care that there was a stone marker for him. He would be one of the forgotten.

  So what else was there but to take the forgotten as his people? Like the victims of Heydrich’s Einsatzgruppen, he, too, had watched everything he loved in the world destroyed by the dispassionate muzzle of a gun. But instead of falling into the merciful earth at Babi Yar, he was left with the cruelty of being alive and alone. Protecting Holly hadn’t been an act of bravery as the newspapers had said. It had been the meaning and sole purpose of his existence. And he’d lost. He’d failed. While his leg had healed, he’d spend months staring at the bottom of bottles of hydrocodone. He’d counted and recounted the pills, sometimes every hour. One too many. That’s what they’d warned him about. One too many, and he’d no longer have to know what he knew, see what he’d seen, feel what he felt. He would no longer have to get up out of bed and function. The frustration and fury would melt away to sleep. He could drift off into the sweet darkness, and never have to picture puddling shades of bright red ever again.

  Cold and alone, he stared down at the monstrous number of stone oblongs. Nacht und Nebel was ultimately about the pain of stolen good byes. He did know about those. The needle had stolen his goodbye from his mom, blood-loss had stolen it from Holly. Whole villages had disappeared once the Einsatzgruppen arrived. Others were rounded up by the Gestapo and crushed into cattle cars, then sent to a “bathhouse” to the east. It was called “protective custody.” But he was never clear whether the lie was used to manipulate the Reich or the people they were rounding up. But few good Germans asked such questions back then. Those who watched and knew about Heydrich’s operations urged others to remain sane and reasonable. Close your shutters to the roundups—it wouldn’t do to disturb the children! Ignore the pleas for water from the cattle car stopped at the siding—would you want your family involved with criminals? You must be deaf to the thousands of gunshots in the woods. They were necessary to protect good folks from the faceless boogeyman who would hurt their precious Reich.

  And the smell? Well, the smell was what happened when the Reich was efficiently going about their business. You couldn’t avoid the smell, so you didn’t answer for it at all. Silence was the route when dealing with the smell. Without silence, the olfactory path would force you to wander into the realm of why. To survive, it was logical not to be among those smells. Best to turn away and “let Germany be Germany.” Silence was safe. Shut up and be grateful they were fighting for you. It was the only reasonable thing to do in such circumstances.

  But Stag was an unreasonable man. Staring at that field of concrete, he knew his only salvation was in grappling with the why. The very struggle to answer it was eternal in his soul. The why must be brought to light with facts. The why must be reckoned with in the mirror. The very struggle was the only thing necessary to the world. Because therein lay hope.

  Night and fog was now reason enough for him to chase this demon that killed Harry. Strange as it was, Harry’s death was bringing purpose back to him, little by little. He didn’t fool himself thinking he was going to be able to destroy Tarnhelm. If bullets and diplomacy were the only things that could make a country behave, then tort lawyers and other countries were the only things to make a corporation behave. He was neither a tort lawyer nor a country. But he sure as hell could try making one or two near-fatal wounds. It only would involve research and planning, and he was excellent at both.

  The sting of the cold air atop the Adlon was good in his lungs. And the gun—no matter how shitty it might be—felt comforting tucked into the back waistband of his pants. He didn’t know how much time he had until they came for him full-throttle. They were still assessing him. He would have to push himself as far as he physically could, to get as much done as he could.

  First, he needed to get some rest. Then get some reading done.

  His hand reached for the solid rectangle of the book.

  Ordering coffee in the lobby of the Hostel-Berlin, Stag tucked himself into a plastic chair by the front door and settled in to read. After an hour’s journey, switching subway cars, and finally a long walk in the dark of the Tiergarten, he’d settled on a bunk in the hostel because they were unlikely to ask for his ID with cash at the ready.

  In public, he felt a little more safe. It was an illusion; they were smart enough to take him out no matter where he was. His plan to stall for time was to keep them guessing and chasing until he knew what he had and what he needed to do. The best way was to throw them off balance. The only way to do it was to play a hellacious game of whack-a-mole.

  Taking the book out from his jacket, he made a point to keep the cover from public view. He lay it open on his lap, took a gulp of coffee, and began to translate from the code.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THIS MORNING, I opened my eyes to find you still asleep next to me. I lay next to you, still as a mouse, and for a brief moment, I had the luxury of honesty. Of my truest emotions. Because you did not see me, I could stare at you with everything buried deep in my soul and not think how placid I must keep my expression, how delight-filled I must keep my eyes.

  I stared at your eyelids with their sparse brush of lashes, your fine slim nose with the impressive commanding profile. Your cheeks were flush with the color that must’ve glowed like radium in your youth.

  I studied your mouth. A strange mouth for a man such as you. The lips were mobile and sensitive. Tender. In my mind, it was really the only feature that made you handsome. I confess with terrible pleasure that I sometimes enjoyed your kisses. And when you rise up above me for your little death, I found sometimes I loved how I made you groan. The power over you at those moments could make me drunk with it. If I had you at my command for those few seconds, might I be able to have you at my command forever? You would be mine. All mine. And it is I who would control those infernal papers you sign by the pile. I would control who knew what. I would have the final say over who lived and who died.

  So I lay this morning staring at you, bitter about all I had to do, all still left undone. I no longer think of myself as just
another U-boat trying to find shelter in a sea of mines. I am different now entirely. I am with you. I am protected. No one could hurt me. No one would dare.

  Except you.

  And today this most unusual U-boat stared at you and knew that I cannot hurt you back. For how does one cut off the head of the Hydra without it growing ten more? It would be easy in this moment of vulnerability to seize upon you. But I do not. Instead, when you wake, I must hand the power to hurt me back to you once more. I’ll know with every painful second that the breath I take today will only be because you allowed me to have it.

  I write this diary as a testament. A testament to you and all that you made this little U-boat do in this tragi-comedy of no hope, only war. Every day I am alone, even with you at my side, so this little diary will be the friend that I will never have in you. In it, I shall confess all my unholy experiences, and I shall do it fully and truthfully. The way I can never do with you. I’ll write it down for the small humanity left in me that longs for someone to find this diary and know that I existed at all. What I did in the name and falsity of love. I share with you all the intimacies of the bedroom. I have surrendered to that mouth in my most sacred of places, and its release brought tears to my eyes. But I want you to know that in this world you have created of gray and black, of all night, all the time, I still found my secret little joy. I still defy you with my imaginary colors. There is still release.

  A U-boat doesn’t have the luxury of honesty. Not when its very essence is to hide. But this morning, I wanted you to know, my lover, my tall blond Aryan beast, the one I surrender to at your every whim and notion, that today I revealed my inner most hidden feelings to you while you slept. I laid bare my self to you. I stared at you with everything in my heart and mind. I stared at you with sheer and utter naked honesty. From the deepest and truest part of my broken and now tarnished soul. For one brief moment I was no longer a U-boat, and you were no longer the Young Evil God of Death. No, at that moment, I was a lioness.

  And, I looked at you with all the dispassion of a starving lioness that stares at a pile of bleached bones.

  Stag looked up and gazed at the dingy, institutional lobby of the hostel. It was more and more evident that this remarkable woman was Heydrich’s mistress, even referring to him as the Young Evil God of Death, just one of his lovely nicknames. But what was a U-boat? U-boat in this sense was a term for something other than a submarine, but for what?

  He grabbed one of his unused GoFones and dialed Jake.

  “Jake? It’s Stag.”

  “Jesus, Stag, where are you? Where the hell are you calling from? Harry was found dead of a heart attack in your goddamned apartment, and no one knows where you are.”

  “I had to go out of town for a while—”

  “The authorities have a lot questions—and frankly, so do I!”

  “I know that, Jake. I know. And I know about Harry. I’ve run into some problems.”

  “You left your apartment open with Harry dead inside it. I’m glad to hear from you. I was worried something had happened to you.”

  Stag grappled with the need to tell Jake what was going on. He knew he could trust the older man, but he was uneasy about getting him involved if he didn’t have to. “I … I know.”

  Jake’s voice was thick. Clearly Stag had woken him up. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”

  “Listen, Jake, I’m not going to be there. It can’t be helped. And I don’t want to tell you where I am.”

  The silence at the other end of the line was heavy. “That bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  By Jake’s blind acceptance, Stag was able to continue. “I need help.”

  “You’ve got it. Anything.”

  Stag was relieved to hear it. “I’ve got a question. This is kind of random but I’m working on a piece right now and—have you ever heard the term U-boat?”

  “You mean like a submarine?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think they’re referring to a sub. They’re referring to themselves as a U-boat.”

  “Ahhh …” Jake seemed to understand. “Referring to people, you say? What kind of piece are you doing? Glad you’re working, by the way, but this isn’t how I pictured you getting back to it.”

  Stag tasted the bitter words. “Trust me when I tell you it isn’t the way I saw it either. But it can’t be helped. Now, do you know another term for U-boat?”

  “Yes. ‘U-boat’ refers to a Jew who went to ground in Berlin. It began around the time of the pogrom—you know, Kristallnacht.”

  “Were there a lot of them?”

  “More than we know. Certainly, after November 1938, they left Germany if they could, or went underground if they knew what was good for them.”

  “I see.”

  “I can’t imagine you missing Harry’s funeral. You guys were like brothers.”

  “As far as I’ll ever be concerned, we were brothers.” The words cut at Stag.

  “I’ve got to tell you … ah … Interpol questioned me about knowing you. Yes, that’s right. Interpol.”

  Stag’s chest tightened. His situation was as dicey as he thought it was.

  “I’ve got to go, Jake. I’m sorry about Interpol.” The words brought new bitterness. “Could you put a wreath on Harry’s coffin for me?”

  “Let me know what else I can do. I mean it. With Ruthie gone, you know I have nothing but time.”

  Stag tapped the end call button. He leaned his head back in the chair and thought about the diary. He wasn’t quite shocked by the revelation as much as he was impressed by it. Isolda Varrick was a Jew in hiding. And somehow, perhaps through her painting, she’d managed to find herself the object of Heydrich’s desire.

  Weariness was overtaking him, and he knew he would have to get some rest or collapse. At some point they were going to come for him, but they hadn’t shown up yet.

  He closed the book and put it back in his jacket. He went to the elevator and punched the floor number of his bunk. He hoped like hell he could sleep. Because, without a doubt, when they got a bead on him again—they were going to run him to ground like a Jew in 1938 Berlin.

  That is, if he lived long enough.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HENRY SADLER LOOKED nervously around the table. There were six of them. All present. The entire board of Tarnhelm awaiting Portier’s pleasure in his private conference room. All had flown to Zürich in their jets on a moment’s notice, when Portier had called the meeting.

  No distance was too great, no meeting too inconvenient when the puppet master said dance, Sadler thought with a sour taste in his mouth. After all, Portier was as close to being God as any human on earth. He hid behind the Tarnhelm cloak, reaping information as God reaped bodies in war. One click of the mouse and Portier was ahead of the information curve. He got there first, and everyone else jockeyed behind him in order to come in second.

  “We mustn’t overthink this, gentlemen,” Portier said, standing before them in a bespoke winter white suit of the finest vicuña. In spite of his slick apparel, he looked worried and tired, Sadler thought. Like he’d been up all night, fighting off devils.

  Or maybe just trying to masturbate that limp dick of his.

  Sadler swallowed his glee every time he thought of it: Prostate cancer. Total removal. No more working dick. No, Dorothy, you can never go home again. Sadler had been resentful of Portier’s power for three decades now, and it was with a good amount of schadenfreude when he’d heard the lovely slut from Slovenia who he liked to be seen with on his arm was going to have to get her rocks off with the pool boy.

  “How did this Maguire know of the Blood Eagle?” Sadler, like most executives, could fall into harness quickly. He asked the question with complete authority, with no hint at his real thoughts. Everyone at the table referred to him as the Ugly American for his support of the last bid for the White House, but he didn’t care. He was in no mood to tap-dance around the subject. He’d had to be called off an Antarctic cruis
e in order to be there. He was exhausted and nauseous, which is how he usually felt at these meetings with Portier. “I, for one, knew nothing about the Blood Eagle before this meeting,” he interjected. “So how the hell did he?”

  “We will get to the bottom of it.” Portier looked at his wristwatch as if he were already counting down the seconds. The platinum of his Tourbillon Mars gleamed on his wrist like the legend it was. Made from part of a Martian meteorite, the watch was rumored to cost in the millions. It was a signature piece of Portier’s, along with his ubiquitous green American alligator briefcase from Hermès.

  And now his flaccid member. Sadler’s eyes narrowed to hide the pleasure.

  “How much is the Blood Eagle worth?” Georges Zellner, the Canadian, interjected. “Sure, red diamonds are rare, but with Tarnhelm operating more than a trillion dollars worldwide, I don’t see why we give a sh—”

  “It’s not about the fucking diamond.” Tall blond Erik Rikhardsson gave him a quelling glance. The cold Norseman looked around imperiously. “How is it we control the largest information security service in the world and we don’t know what this guy wants?”

  “Enough.” Portier glanced again at the watch. “We don’t know if the Blood Eagle still exists because it disappeared with Heydrich before he left for Paris in ’42. He went to Prague after that, and we all know how that ended,” he said, referring to Heydrich’s assassination by Czech patriots. “If we do not know what happened to the Blood Eagle, neither, I wager, does Maguire.”

  Portier looked at each face at the table. They were in the infamous boardroom deep in the sub-basement. It was Tarnehlm’s SCIF room. Sensitive information only. So secure, the boardroom came with its own bomb shelter. Across from him was Doug Roberts, in from their branch in Australia. Jan Vanderloos was the last one to arrive, from South Africa. Each and every man watched Portier expectantly.

  “There are perhaps thirty red diamonds in the entire world, and the Blood Eagle was the most famous of them,” Portier announced. “Should it reappear … Well, there will be questions. It’s known that Heydrich acquired it in ’42. We’ve been meticulous in our disinformation to stay clear of links to Heydrich and the SD. They would be catastrophic to our business model.”