The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (43 page)

Though the sun rose early this time of year, most of the light on the street came from the few streetlamps that hadn’t been destroyed during Klaus’s sprint home. The wind had receded for the time being, allowing fresh snow to fall placidly from a charcoal sky.

It might have been a serene picture, if not for the echo of Spalcke’s nasal voice as he yelled, “Who are you? Who are you?” The hauptsturmführer stood behind the third truck of their convoy, hand on his sidearm. He was addressing somebody inside the cargo bed.

Klaus suspected he knew who Spalcke had caught rummaging through the truck. He donned his coat in the corridor as he once again passed the hiss and warble of the radio operator’s room on his way back outside. Apparently Spalcke’s tirade had awakened most of the inn.

Reinhardt had made it down first. When Klaus approached, he did a double take. “What happened to you?”

Klaus checked himself in the driver’s side mirror. His skin was red and creased where he’d had the cloth pressed to it. Little black flecks of dried blood peppered his upper lip and part of his chin.

“Forget it,” said Klaus. He jerked his chin at Spalcke. “Let’s take care of this so I can sleep.”

By then, Spalcke had sent one of the LSSAH troops into the truck. The soldier emerged a moment later with the barrel of his rifle nudging the ribs of Ernst Witt. Witt climbed out of the truck and stood shivering on the street with his hands resting on his head.

“Please,” he said. “This isn’t what you think.”

“Oh? Because I think you’re a spy and a saboteur.” Spalcke unbuttoned the flap covering his Walther.

“No, no!” Witt shook his head wildly. “I’m, I’m an admirer. I want to join you!”

Reinhardt said, “By hiding away like a rat in our truck?”

Witt turned. His eyes opened wider when he saw Reinhardt, and his face lost a little more color. But then he saw Klaus, and his features softened. “Klaus! Please, tell them! You know me.”

Spalcke turned. “Is this true?”

“I met him last night. At dinner. I don’t think he’s a saboteur. He told me he works for IG Farben. I think he’s—”

“Hauptsturmführer! Hauptsturmführer!” More shouting cut short Klaus’s response. The radio operator, a twenty-year-old boy with jet-black hair and an ugly, crooked nose, came running from the inn.

Witt took advantage of the distraction and tried to run. The soldier who had flushed him from the truck reacted calmly. He leveled his rifle and shot the fleeing man in the back. Witt landed facefirst on the street.

“Are you out of your goddamned mind?” said Klaus. “You’ve just killed an SD officer.”

The radio operator continued his clamoring. “Hauptsturmführer Spalcke!”

Spalcke turned to him. “Quiet.” Then he turned to Klaus. “What did you say?”

“I tried to warn you. I think he was from the Sicherheitshauptamt. Keeping an eye on us.”

Spalcke turned pale. “Why do you say that?”

“He kept asking about our work, the recruitment. Our training. My feelings about the program.”

“Oh.” Spalcke slumped against the truck. “What do we do?”

“We?” Reinhardt laughed. “This isn’t my problem. That poor defenseless man was shot on your orders. You’re the one who’ll hang.”

Spalcke put his hands to his forehead. “Oh,
Gott,”
he moaned. “I knew this traveling circus was a bad idea. . . .”

Klaus watched the steam rising from Witt’s blood as it seeped through his coat onto the snow. His muffler was a brilliant blue. Klaus felt a pang of sympathy for the artless, tragically overenthusiastic man.

The radio operator tried again. “Please, Herr Hauptsturmführer, it’s urgent.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Reinhardt.
“What?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you. The Soviets are moving west.”

“What?” Klaus and Spalcke said it simultaneously.

“They have armored columns pushing through Poland. They’ve already engaged our remaining forces there.”

Remaining?
In the confusion of the moment, Klaus forgot about the weather. And then it sank in:
Oh.

Reinhardt sneered at Klaus as he stalked over to Witt’s body. “He wasn’t from the SD, you idiot.” He kicked the dead man in the ribs. “He was Red Orchestra.”

22 May 1941

Berlin, Germany

M
arsh was in the air before the advanced forces of the Red Army approached the Oder River, which, according to reports, was capped with four feet of ice. The warlocks moved the inclement weather as the Soviets advanced, opening a corridor straight to Berlin for Stalin’s troops. And, Marsh hoped, maintaining a bulwark to keep them the hell away from von Westarp’s farm.

His second trip to Germany proceeded via slower and more mundane avenues than the first. Marsh flew from Scotland to Sweden in an RAF Mosquito; rode two hundred bumpy miles in the cargo bed of a fisherman’s truck, hidden under tubs of ripe cod; crossed the Baltic Sea to Denmark in a fishing boat cloaked by extremely heavy fog, courtesy of Milkweed; and finally entered Germany at Flensburg in the middle of the night. The Danish Underground had smuggled hundreds of Jews out of the country via much the same route in reverse.

All told, the journey took twenty-one hours. Far too long. The Soviets were moving faster than anybody had thought possible. The supernatural winter had proved more destructive to the embedded German troops than even the warlocks had predicted. But now the plan was in motion, and the time for fine adjustments had passed.

An avalanche goes where it will.

Eidolons are not tactical weapons.

In Flensburg, wearing the captain’s uniform of an SS-Hauptsturmführer,
Marsh commandeered a car from the sleepy local Wehrmacht garrison. Officially, of course, his uniform didn’t give him that authority. But the Wehrmacht lieutenants knew better than to contradict an officer of the Waffen-SS. Particularly one with direct orders from Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler’s command staff.

Marsh knew his best bet was to avoid dealing directly with the SS command structure for as long as he could. The experts in MI6 had done their best, but his papers wouldn’t fool the most experienced officers. God knew he had a slim chance of fooling Himmler’s staff, if anybody bothered to trace Marsh’s cover story back up the chain of command.

Which was likely to become a problem. Himmler’s interest in von Westarp’s work extended from its earliest days, not long after his stint in the Thule Society twenty years ago. And Himmler, seeing the REGP as his own pet project, kept its records close at hand. Meaning the files Marsh sought to destroy were housed at 9 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse: headquarters of the SS.

Thus, in addition to the counterfeit uniform, Marsh also wore Gretel’s battery on his belt. When the time came, he’d attach the wires to the minute pieces of adhesive tape hidden on his scalp. The hopes were twofold: first, that most people in the SS still hadn’t met a member of the Götterelektrongruppe in the flesh; second, that members of the Götterelektrongruppe received special consideration.

At the Flensburg garrison, he also commandeered an extra coat, hat, and gloves. But the deeper he drove into Germany, the less effective they became. The warlocks had summoned a cold unlike anything Marsh had ever experienced. They had infused this weather with the Eidolons’ arcane hatred of man, creating a cunning and malicious entity. It slipped through every seam in his clothing. The rubber door moldings of his Mercedes lost their pliability, leaving gaps around the door through which entered the wind. His breath turned to frost where it touched the cold windshield glass.

Each passing mile found it harder to keep the heavy staff car on the road. His journey might have been altogether impossible had the warlocks not opened a corridor for him as they were also doing for the Red
Army. But it also helped that the impending invasion had sent the Reich into chaos and panic. Every available soldier was converging on Berlin to aid in the defense of the capital. Convoys of heavy transports packed down the snow, leaving the roads slick but navigable by the Mercedes. Yet in places the roads were impossible even for the transports; Wehr -macht engineering detachments labored to clear downed trees from the roads with bulldozers and, in some cases, flamethrowers.

He made better time after falling in behind a panzer unit. The tanks’ treads crushed the snow flat enough that his Mercedes could clear it.

Sunrise found Marsh entering Hamburg. He arrived not far behind two convoys awkwardly funneling themselves onto the city streets. The troop transports brimmed with soldiers trembling in their heaviest winter gear—those lucky enough to have such gear—as well as blankets and anything else they could find to ward off the chill. The convoys would pick up still more soldiers from the local garrisons before continuing to Berlin.

The high concentrations of military personnel made Marsh nervous. His hands trembled on the steering wheel. Exhaustion, cold, and nerves took their toll on him.

But, after thinking about it, Marsh decided to view the convoys as an opportunity. Protective camouflage. None of these men could peer through the fogged-up windows of his automobile and discern the spy within. No. His best course of action was to attach himself to one of the convoys as brazenly as possible. Which he did, sliding the Mercedes in a safe distance behind the final truck.

It took longer to traverse the city, following the convoy, but it vaulted him above suspicion.

Marsh was feeling a glimmer of optimism—
This
might work. I could make it to Berlin.—
when two uniformed figures on the side of the road flagged him down. One kept to the shoulder, bundled in a heavy coat. The other stepped in front of Marsh’s car, waving his arms. He couldn’t discern any details of the two men without lowering the window, but he knew immediately from their coats and hats that they were SS.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Stuck inching along behind the convoy, he had no choice but to
stop. He pulled the parking brake with one hand as he loosened the holster of his Walther pistol with the other. Sweat trickled beneath his undershirt, defying the chill as it ran under his arms and down his ribs.

Marsh rolled down the window. The man in the road approached the driver-side door and saluted. “Heil Hitler.”

It took a moment for Marsh’s brain, running on a cocktail of fear and adrenaline, to process the rank insignia on his coat: SS-Obersturmführer. A lieutenant. Marsh outranked him. He returned the salute, relaxing.

The lieutenant said,
“Guten Morgen, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
A cloud of his breath hovered between them in the still air. Black blemishes marred the man’s face and nose. Frostbite.

“Be quick. I’m in a hurry,” said Marsh.

“Apologies, sir. But the standartenführer”—the frostbitten lieutenant indicated his companion—“requires your vehicle.”

Standartenführer. Colonel.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Marsh fought to keep his voice steady. “I’ve been ordered to return to Berlin at once.”

“Berlin? Excellent! So has the standartenführer.”

“But—I must—”

The lieutenant called to his senior officer.
Their
senior officer. “Sir, the hauptsturmführer has been ordered to Berlin as well.” He jogged around to the car’s passenger side and opened the rear door.

Marsh was trapped. It was too late to don the wires and attempt to talk his way out of this. There was nothing he could do except wait for the officer to climb inside, and then drive the man to Berlin.

Or, actually, no.
He
didn’t have to drive.

Marsh stepped out of the car and saluted the approaching officer. “Heil Hitler!” He played the moment for everything he was worth.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Standartenführer.”

The colonel returned his salute with a halfhearted wave. “Devil take these backstabbing Communists,” he muttered. “Straight to hell. Every one of them.” His breath smelled of a stomach made sour by too much strong coffee and not enough food.

“Trust it to them to find their spine just now,” said Marsh. The col o -nel ignored him.

Marsh turned to the lieutenant once the colonel had settled inside. “Take us to Berlin, Obersturmführer.”

“Jawohl.”

By the time the lieutenant had settled into the driver’s seat and Marsh had settled into the front passenger seat, the convoy was on the move again. Loud snoring emanated from the backseat soon after the lieutenant had the car in gear.

They followed the convoy through the outskirts of the city. The streets were clear of all but military traffic and those vehicles, like his own, on Reich business. It was impossible to tell how much of this was by virtue of people opting to stay home, and how much by virtue of the fact that many of the civilians had frozen to death.

The flow of traffic slowed to little better than a brisk walk in several places; burst water mains transformed entire intersections, even major traffic circles, into skating rinks. They passed a house gutted by fire. A fire probably set by the residents themselves in a bid to stay alive. A truck from the local fire brigade blocked part of the road. The hoses had ruptured. The resulting geyser had coated the road and the truck itself in the instants before the water froze. One side of the truck was coated in inches of ice. So were the bodies of the fire brigade men, frozen in midscream.