Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (2 page)

“I am sorry,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “But we told your parents that we would tell you once you were a man.”

Jordan wanted to scream.  His world was spinning around him.  Uncle Rudolf ... Kathie ... his real parents ... and his comrades!  What would they say if they knew they had welcomed a Jew into their ranks?  And what would happen if the truth came out?  A
Waffen-SS
Stormtrooper might pass unnoticed, but anyone who wanted to be promoted to high rank had to have Germanic ancestry that stretched back at least four generations.  Uncle Rudolf was the Town Clerk, in a perfect position to alter the records to hide someone’s true origins, yet what would happen if the investigators discovered the truth?  Even not being able to
prove
one’s roots would bar any future promotion.  And the truth ...

He shuddered, helplessly.  It would come out eventually, he was sure.  Kathie might be fine - her family roots were solid - but
he
would be killed ... and so would his children, if they had any.  If Kathie could bear the thought of touching him after he told her ... and he couldn't keep it from her, could he?

“Go to your room and think,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “We’ll discuss possible options in the morning.”

“Damn you,” Jordan snarled.  “You could have said nothing ...”

“You needed to know,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “I did try to keep you from joining the SS.”

Jordan bit off a curse as he headed for the door and walked up the stairs to his room.  It was true.  Uncle Rudolf
had
tried to forbid him from joining the SS, but Jordan had been determined.  Everyone knew the SS was the finest fighting force in the world, always ready to protect the
Reich
against those who would tear it down.  He’d wanted to be part of it, desperately.  And he’d made it through training when so many others had not ...

He closed the door and sat down on the bed, trying to gather his thoughts.  But it was impossible.  He was a Jew.  Everyone
knew
Jews were inferior, yet he’d passed one of the hardest training courses in the world.  And everyone knew Jews were monsters, but he was no monster.  If he’d been lied to about that, what
other
lies had he been told?  And Kathie ... how could he marry her now?  How could he
live
with the possibility of discovery hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles?  There was no way he
could
live!

Quite calmly, he drew his pistol from his belt, placed it to his temple and pulled the trigger. 

Chapter One

Berlin, Germany

1 September 1985

Berlin felt ... different.

Leutnant der Polizei
Herman Wieland strode down the street, feeling oddly exposed for the first time in his long career. 
Nothing
was the same any longer.  People who had once eyed him with respect, or fear, were now meeting his gaze challengingly, while political agitators walked through the streets openly, surrounded by hordes of admiring supporters. 
Anyone
could speak now, without fear of arrest.  It seemed as if everyone in Berlin had something to say.

He sighed inwardly as he turned a corner and saw yet another speaker, a middle-aged man standing on a box, telling the crowd what needed to be done to save the revolution from itself.  Apparently, all of the former servants of the state were to be herded into the concentration camps and exterminated, even though the
Reich
couldn't
survive
without the bureaucrats and former regime officers who ran the state.  There were quite a few Herman would cheerfully have watched die - he wouldn't have crossed the road to piss on them if they were on fire - but it was hard to separate the truly dangerous ones from the bureaucrats who were necessary.  And yet, the crowd was murmuring in approval.

Nothing is the same any longer
, he told himself, glumly. 
Too many people have too many grudges to pay off
.

He forced himself to look back, evenly, as some of the crowd eyed him in a distantly hostile manner.  No one would have
dared
to look at him like that, even a year ago, but things had changed.  These days, the police had strict orders to use as little force as possible, even when dealing with riots.  Herman was all too aware that a number of police officers had been waylaid and killed, their bodies brutally mutilated by their murderers.  There were just too many possible suspects for the police to track down even one of the killers.  The police had few friends on the streets of Berlin and they knew it.

The crowd scowled at him, but made no move to attack.  Herman kept his relief off his face as he strolled past, forcing himself to walk normally.  He had a pistol, of course, but he couldn't have hoped to kill more than a handful of rioters before they tore him apart.  The old fear was gone, leaving a civilian population that was growing increasingly aware of its strength.  And they
definitely
had far too many grudges to pay off.

His companion elbowed him.  “So tell me,”
Leutnant der Polizei
Hendrik Kuls said.  “What’s it like to have powerful relatives?”

Herman groaned, inwardly.  Nepotism was epidemic in the
Reich
- he didn't expect
that
to change anytime soon - but
his
case was unique.  His
daughter
was a
Reich
Councillor, under Chancellor Volker Schulze.  His
teenage
daughter.  Herman honestly wasn't sure what to make of the whole affair - Gudrun had defied him to his face, not something any self-respecting German father could tolerate - but she
had
avenged her boyfriend and forced the
Reich
to change.  He was torn between pride and a sense of bitter horror.  The youngsters might believe they’d won, yet Herman knew better.  It wouldn't be long before the SS mounted a counterattack from Germany East.

“It has its moments,” he said, finally.  Gudrun hadn't done
anything
for his career, as far as he knew.  Certainly, his superiors hadn’t moved him to a safer post in one of the police stations, rather than allowing him to patrol the increasingly dangerous streets.  “And your relatives are doing
what
for you?”

“Getting out of the city,” Kuls said.  “They’re convinced that Berlin is going to tip into anarchy at any moment.”

“They might well be right,” Herman commented.

He frowned.  Berlin was on a knife-edge these days, torn between hope and fear.  The provisional government had doubled military and police patrols through the city, but it would take a far larger army to keep the entire city under control.  Berlin was the largest city in the world; miles upon miles of sprawling government buildings, apartment blocks, factories and
Gastarbeiter
slave camps.  A riot in one place might easily do some real damage before it could be crushed, now the fear was gone.

And with a quarter of the police force gone
, he thought,
we don’t have the manpower to keep running regular patrols through a third of the city
.

“I think so,” Kuls agreed.  “What happens when we run out of food?”

“We starve,” Herman said, flatly.

He pushed the thought aside as they walked down the long road, striding past a row of apartment blocks.  They were new, designed more for young unmarried professionals rather than men with wives and families; now, their windows were decorated with political slogans and demands for change.  Herman wondered, absently, just what would happen when the young professionals realised that change wouldn't come as easily as they hoped, then shrugged.  They’d just have to learn to cope, same as everyone else.

Some of them will have military experience
, he thought. 
They’ll be able to join the defence force, if nothing else
.

He jumped as a door banged open, a middle-aged woman running out onto the street and waved desperately to them.  Herman tensed, wondering if it was a trap of some kind, then walked over to her, keeping one hand on his pistol.  Up close, the woman was at least a decade older than his wife, although time seemed to have been kind to her.  Her hair was going grey, but otherwise she seemed to be in good health.

“I need help,” she gasped.  “One of my tenants is wounded.  There’s blood under the door!”

Herman blinked.  “Blood?”

“Blood,” the landlady said.  “It’s coming out from under the door!”

Herman exchanged a glance with Kuls, then allowed the woman to lead the way into the apartment block.  Inside, it was dark and cold, the only illumination coming from a single flickering light bulb mounted on the wall.  A shiver ran down his spine as he carefully unbuttoned his holster, glancing from side to side as his eyes struggled to adapt to the dim light.  It grew brighter as they walked up two flights of stairs and stopped outside a single wooden door.  Blood was dribbling from under the door ...

“Call it in,” Herman snapped. 

“
Jawohl
,” Kuls said.

Herman tested the wooden door, then pulled a skeleton key from his belt and inserted it into the lock.  Legally, locks
had
to be designed so a policeman could open them with his key, but it wasn't uncommon to find a door that had been designed before 1945 or one put together by a crafty locksmith.  He allowed himself a moment of relief as the door opened without a fuss, then swore out loud as he pushed it open.  A body - horrifically mutilated - lay on the carpeted floor.  Behind him, he heard a thump as the landlady fainted.

“Take care of her,” he ordered.  “Did you get any reply?”

“Not as yet,” Kuls said.  “The dispatcher merely logged the call.”

“Tell them we have a body,” Herman said.  He frowned as he peered at the corpse, careful not to touch the remains.  “And one that doesn’t look to be long dead.”

He felt his frown deepen as he silently listed the wounds.  The murderer - or murderers - had been
savage
.  They’d cut their victim’s throat, stabbed him several times in the chest and castrated him, probably after force-feeding him some kind of anticoagulant.  The blood should have started to clot by now, but it was still liquid.  He’d been bled like a pig.  Herman shuddered - he hadn't seen anything like this outside a brief tour in Germany East - and then glanced around, looking for clues.  But there was nothing to be found.

“His penis is missing,” he said, out loud.  “They must have taken it.”

Kuls looked pale as he peered through the door.  “An
Untermensch,
perhaps?”

“It’s possible,” Herman agreed.  An
Untermensch
would have nothing to lose, if he attacked a German.  Why
not
mutilate the body?  It wasn't as if he could be killed twice.  Hell,
Untermenschen
were routinely executed for the crime of
looking
at good Germans.  “But where would an
Untermensch
get the drugs?”

He sighed as he heard the landlady starting to stir.  “See what you can get out of her,” he said, as he rose.  “Did you get anything from dispatch?”

“Still nothing,” Kuls said.  “They may have no one they can spare.”

Herman nodded, shortly.  “Get the landlady to her apartment, then see what you can pour into her,” he ordered.  “I’ll search this place.”

He closed the door, then turned and took one final look at the body.  It was impossible to be sure, but it looked as though the attack had been deeply personal.  The murdered man might well have
known
his killer; the murderer could not have inflicted so much damage without some degree of feeling being involved.  Indeed, judging by the body’s position and the way the blood had splattered, it was quite possible he’d been trying to run when the fatal blow had been struck.  But there was no way to know.

Nothing appeared to be missing, he decided, as he peered into the kitchen.  It looked surprisingly bare, compared to the kitchen at home, but an unmarried man would probably have eaten at work, rather than cook for himself.  A bottle of milk and two cartons of juice sat in the fridge; otherwise, the fridge was empty.  Herman checked the drawers and found almost nothing, save for a small selection of imported - hence rare and expensive - British teas and coffees.  No doubt the murder victim hadn't liked drinking the cheap coffee served all over the
Reich
. 

I can hardly blame him for that
, Herman thought. 
I don’t like drinking it either
.

He smiled to himself as he walked into the bedroom, then frowned.  The bed was easily large enough for two people - it was larger than the bed he shared with his wife, at home - but there was no trace of a feminine presence.  He opened the drawers, feeling his frown deepen as he noted the complete lack of female clothes and products.  A homosexual?  The man had been in his late forties, if Herman was any judge.  It was staggeringly rare for a man of that age to be unmarried, although it
was
possible that he’d been married and then lost his wife to an accident.  But homosexuality carried a death sentence in the
Reich
.  Even the mere
suspicion
of homosexuality could be enough to destroy someone’s life.

Herman shook his head slowly as he checked the bathroom.  There was nothing, apart from a simple shampoo and a toilet that didn't look to have been cleaned regularly.  No, there was no woman in the apartment: no wife, girlfriend or mistress.  Indeed, if there hadn’t been so many male clothes in the drawers, he would have wondered if the apartment wasn't being used as a covert rendezvous.  The upper-class prostitutes - too expensive for the average soldier - often used them for their clients, once their pimps paid out bribes to all and sundry.  But it was clear that
someone
had lived in the apartment ...

He turned his attention to the photographs hanging from the walls and scowled, darkly, as he recognised the murder victim.  He was wearing an SS uniform - a
Standartenfuehrer
- in one picture, shaking hands with a man Herman vaguely recognised from a party propaganda broadcast.  It took him a moment to recognise the Deputy
Führer
, a non-entity who had only been given the job because it provided a convenient place to dump him.  But he’d clearly been younger then, maybe not even a politician.  There was no date on any of the photographs.

He looked up as he heard the door opening.  Kuls stepped into the apartment.