Child of the Light (32 page)

Feeling enormous fatigue he sat down next to Achilles. He was sorry about the house, he really was. On the other hand, he had worked so hard for Miriam! Well, maybe not exactly for Miriam, but she had always been in his mind. For
her
he had worked to get himself and the canine unit into the center of things, where no one could dislodge them--where he could do some
good
. For people like the beadle, too.

He slapped the leash against his palm, remembering with a sadinner smile he remembered the Christmas Day Beadle Cohen had come around again, to present him with the leash behind the apartment building.

If only Goebbels and his goddamn greed had not interfered! Then Miriam might have appreciated his efforts or at least feigned interest. He wanted her to see how his unit worked together, dog and trainer in a wonderfully transcendent Gestalt. The team was at a point where neither verbal commands nor hand signals were necessary. By the time the trainer issued a command, the dog was underway. Almost impossible to believe, and yet, through love and discipline, he had achieved it. Even the two misfits at the estate, the affenpinscher and Hempel's wolfhound, were good dogs. Or could be with the right training.

No one could deny the achievement. Not even Goebbels or Himmler. Once the dogs were absolutely ready, he would wangle an audience with the Führer. Hitler would have to be impressed--man and animal thinking as one. Then maybe the High Command would be more amenable to the plight of Miriam...Weisser.

He snorted. Taking himself seriously again! What could he be thinking? Did he need her so much? Or just want her.

Achilles growled, up again, nervous, looking through the gate, toward the hill. He tied her leash around a bar and stepped outside, admitting to himself that he wished his friends would return. But he heard--and sensed--nothing from beyond the rise.

Maybe it was for the best that they not come back, at least for now, he decided. Killi was not young anymore and she tended to get jealous of anyone who had his attention. Miri might not understand that, even though the dog wouldn't attack without provocation.

None of the dogs would hurt a fly--except on command.

December 1935

If he could not do this, the years of believing in his psychic connection with dogs were a farce. He was a farce.
Give me this,
Erich said to himself as if in prayer.
A birthday present. For Bull and Grace. For the years of feeling their pain as they died.

Muffled in protective gear and standing at "six-o'clock" on the field of attack, he watched the twelve shepherds. They sat in a tight circle, facing outward, eyes bright with excitement as they waited for the attack command.

Peering between the wires of the facial shield, he did a final visual check of the other trainers. They stood at varying intervals from the dogs, each man covered with thick padding and a mask. Feet braced, each stood ready to absorb the lunge of seventy-five pounds of canine fury; each was one position to the left on the clock from where his animal would attack--close to the dog once the attack began, yet not the dog's prey.

Only Corporal Krayller was with his own dog.

Krayller was a huge man, yet Erich knew he was almost certainly having difficulty controlling the tiny, feisty Affenpinscher. The two of them were in the center of the circle, the hub of the wheel of dogs, where they would remain throughout the exercise. Once the attack commenced, Krayller's terrier would assume a role perfectly suited to its size and temperament; for now, however, it was forced to remain absolutely still.

For this particular maneuver, which Erich called Zodiac, the field of battle was broken into a clock, each of the twelve shepherds securing the position respective to its name. Thus, Aquarius was responsible for attacking the one o'clock position, Taurus the five o'clock, Pisces the nine. The central position, however, required persistence rather than power--a dog agile and quick-tempered enough to keep its eyes on everything and capable of issuing a warning if the enemy compromised the circular perimeter. And so the Affenpinscher.

Never before, Erich thought, had he asked--expected--so much of his dogs or of his trainers.
The attack command is to be mental and given from a considerable distance.
He was not even sure it was possible, especially since the dogs' attention would be divided between target and trainer, though the maneuver had proven successful when the dogs received visual, not mental, commands.

Since the beginning of the month he had also begun incorporating a new tactic into the strategy, one calculated to approximate a surprise attack. Regardless of how far from the hub each aggressor was, the dogs were to hit all twelve targets at the same time. They would have to function as the perfect team he believed them to be, as aware of each other's timing as they were of their masters' wishes.

Get the exercise right, he thought, and you will all get the day off tomorrow, and maybe a second day as well. Maybe the Party felt Christmas was symbolic of the Christian yoke that had held down the Fatherland's true potential for too long, but that philosophy had not yet been accepted by the masses.

The trainers looked at him. Waiting. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Concentrated. The white light filled his mind. When he could see nothing else, he thought of the eyes of the shepherd.

He nodded.

Zodiac!

The shepherds moved out, slinking among the dead flower gardens, crawling across the snow-crusted lawn. Keeping down, silent, lethal. Hardly a breath in the frosty air.

Soundlessly, simultaneously the animals seized the targets. Going first for hands that held sticks or pistols, then for the crotch. The men went down under the onslaught but the dogs continued the attack, tearing at the padding. Not so much as a growl--the only sounds those of the targets, beating muffled arms against the dogs.

In the real world of trained dogs and defense, the bite would be so painful that an unprotected target would be nearly paralyzed, Erich knew. He held one hand instinctively over his groin, as thankful for the padding as he was of the dogs' performance.

Again he took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Nodded.

Return!

Twelve shepherds backed off twelve fallen men, the dogs creeping backward, ever watchful of their assailants, like a film run in reverse.

Heart pounding with happiness, Erich picked himself up. Nodded. Concentrated--

City!

Seemingly the friendless, loneliest strays in the world, the dogs meandered back toward their targets. Some of the shepherds lay down, head between forepaws, others sat up and begged, others held out a paw--ready to shake. Some whimpered, some panted.

None growled.

Twelve tails wagged, ticking like metronomes.

Twelve men reached to pet an animal, feed it, shoo it away.

And were attacked, as silently as before. The dogs' pent-up fury kindled in their eyes and the froth of their mouths as they tore at the crotch--then at the throat.

Return!

Again benign, but watchful. Ever...watchful.

Center.

The dogs slowly retreated a few steps and eyed their adversaries carefully. Looking back now and again to make sure they were not being followed, they padded back to the terrier and resumed their initial position in the closely knit circle.

"Got it!" Erich cried. "Yes! Yes! Perfect!"

Trainers' caps and shouts of joy soared as the men ran to congratulate their charges, who stayed where they were. Unlike their masters, Erich thought proudly, they were obeying the fact that no orders to break ranks had been given.

Someone applauded from the part of the driveway that slanted down to the garage beneath the villa. Erich turned to see Hempel smiling approvingly.

"Bravo, Herr Rittmeister!"

Only twelve more days with the bastard! The transfer Hempel had requested was confirmed. Twelve days until Epiphany.

Erich smiled at the irony. What a grand gift for himself--and for his men, who hated the first lieutenant almost as much as Erich did--to have Hempel leave on the anniversary of the day that celebrated the coming of the Wise Men to the Christ child. SS Lieutenant Otto Hempel--soon to be Captain Hempel, commander of one of Himmler's units that rounded up dissidents and other undesirables.

As far as Erich was concerned, Herr War Hero Hempel could command the licking of the Führer's feces.

Ignoring the first lieutenant, Erich went over to Taurus. Apparently aware of how well she and the other dogs had done, she was panting with pride and wagging her tail--no deception this time. Erich knelt beside her, hugging her and stroking her broad, thickly muscled back.

Her ears perked up, the wagging ceased and she looked over Erich's shoulder. Her vigilance was not necessary to tell him that Hempel had walked around the retaining wall and was crossing the lawn. The hairs on the back of his neck warned him as much.

"Simply superb." Hempel stuck his cigarette back in his mouth and, bending, extended a hand.

Erich took no notice of the hand except to avert his head from Hempel's brandy-breath. "Drinking again, Obersturmführer?"

Compensating for Erich's lack of response, Hempel patted the head of the enormous gray-and-white wolfhound leashed at his side, as if that were what he had intended to do all along.
 
Erich disliked the dog, not because he disliked the breed--a lithe, silken-coated cross between an Arabian greyhound and a Russian collie--but because of Hempel.

"Yes, really superb," Hempel said. "All except that stinking affenpinscher."

"His name's Grog," Erich said. "They all have names. I would think you'd know that by now." He rose and began leading Taurus to the dog-runs. "Good job!" he called to the other trainers. "Street security tomorrow and Wednesday."

They grinned. "Street security" meant keeping their homes free of foreign insurgents--except, maybe, St. Nicholas. Only those unlucky enough to have pulled guard duty would be required to come to the estate during the next two days.

"Grog," Hempel said. "Fits him well, unfortunately. A clown at the center of the zodiac. I tell you, he simply has no presence." He thrust out the leash he was holding, forcing the wolfhound forward as though against its will. "Wagner is perfect for that post."

The dog, long and lean, bred for speed rather than vigilance, looked up at Erich with doleful eyes.

"Wagner is SS," Hempel said, "and the SS are destined to be at the center of everything."

Always the same argument. The terrier was not what really concerned Hempel. It was just that he--The Great Otto Hempel--had no part in the production. How many times, Erich wondered, had he almost told Hempel that he
knew?
Knew that the same sophomoric antagonism he had displayed these past two years on the estate had put him on a collision course with his superiors after Ypres?...and that the only war wound he had suffered was an emotional one, when his predilection for young recruits--for very young recruits--had surfaced and he had been drummed from the service?

So what if Hempel had helped quell the Communist insurrection in Berlin! His new commission had come not from service to the Fatherland but from service to Goebbels, as lackey.

Erich chained Taurus to her dog-run and brought her food and fresh water. He took no overt notice of Hempel, who nonetheless continued to follow him around, mumbling about the affenpinscher. Erich reminded himself that this was not the time to have it out with Hempel.

Right now, his duty was to his dogs and to his men. Darkness was descending, and he knew they wanted to get home. He had them form ranks, thanked them for a good day's work and announced, "For their efforts, each dog shall receive a bonus of one extra pound of meat! Dis-
missed!
Tell your families I said...hello."

The men laughed at his oblique Christmas reference. Slipping out of their protective gear they ran to pet their dogs a last time, and headed down to their lockers.

Then all but Ferman were gone. He had drawn Christmas Eve duty. Resolutely the little man--whom Erich had nicknamed "Fermi" after the Italian physicist because of his high forehead and dark hair--came out of the garage and trudged toward the guard house at the east gate, helmet on and Karabiner 90 slung over his shoulder.

Erich thought of Hawk, lying abandoned in the garage. On impulse, he decided to exercise Achilles. He would ride Hawk, he thought--he rarely rode the bicycle anymore, even though he had repainted and modified it to look like an adult's bike. A romp with his old friend would be fun.

The dog had the first kennel, the one nearest the house. He unhooked her from her chain and attached one of the long leashes for running that hung like equine tack over a railing at the end of the kennel. The dog licked his face and snuggled into him. He put his arms around her. He loved the feel of her, the warmth and fur and muscle, and he loved giving her what she seemed to desire most--affection and the freedom to run.

Sensing a presence behind him, he looked up. Hempel stood next to the elm, smoking, looking at the sky.

"I'm taking Achilles," Erich said. "She needs a good run."

Immediately he was annoyed at himself for explaining his actions to a subordinate officer, especially when it was Hempel.