He shuddered and managed to get his head up. There was a fleeting wildness behind those inky eyes that caused Steuben to stiffen. Then it was gone, and Kirst was shaking his head sadly at Gebhard and going on:
“Losses. Boats gone to the bottom with thousands of our men. They try to keep the reports from us but, when we return to the pens, all we hear is remember Captain So-and-So, he’s gone. And all those gunnery officers like me—gone to the bottom—”
Gebhard leaped up, black with anger. “Lies!”
Kirst’s gaze locked on him.
Ok God, no!
Kirst felt a wild shock of pain as the blackness absorbed the full impact of Gebhard’s emotion.
Gebhard reached for Kirst. Bruckner pulled him back.
“That’s enough!” Steuben motioned to Kirst. “You come with me.”
Gebhard jerked free of Bruckner and fled from the room, cursing. The door banged as he stomped outside.
Steuben led Kirst down the hall to the rear door. They stood on the stoop together, watching the men milling in groups outside. Then Steuben smiled.
“In a prisoner of war camp, morale is everything, Kirst. More important here than on the battlefield or under the sea, because we are not in control of our own destiny. Morale and discretion. In future, Kirst, when you are questioned about the war—and you will be questioned about it frequently, because you are closer to it than any of the rest of us—when they ask you what’s going on, answer carefully. Truthfully, but carefully. Some of our men are fanatically loyal National Socialists, others are not. Some believe the war is lost, some do not. Some believe we are disgraced because we are prisoners, some do not. Some like to imagine that we are winning on all fronts. Whether they are party followers or wishful thinkers, they don’t want to hear that we are losing. Their lives, their peace of mind, their very sanity, depend on believing something, even a lie. Time enough to face the truth when we are all free and home once again. But here, in this place, we try not to deal with it. We try to focus on today. What can we do? We can’t fight, but we can tell ourselves that one day we will get back into the war. Some of us prefer to dwell on thoughts of home, family, real living. But in short, Herr Leutnant, we are here to
think, not to act.
Therefore, it serves no purpose to provoke the emotions, either consciously or unconsciously.”
Steuben laid a reassuring hand on Kirst’s shoulder. “In this camp, every, man has his dream, eh?”
Kirst nodded slowly at first, then more vigorously.
“Good. We understand each other.” Steuben smiled. It faded quickly, replaced by a fatalistic frown. “Now, Kirst, since I am one who does not flinch at the truth... tell me... what’s happening inside Germany?”
Steuben missed the fleeting excitement in Kirst’s eyes. The dark force reached out across the few inches separating them and probed Steuben’s thoughts. Then, in Kirst’s voice, it quietly told Steuben what he did not want to hear. The truth about how bad it really was back home. About shortages, bombings, Allied forces in a multipronged assault across Europe, closing in on Germany from the west and the south, the Russians closing in from the east, the fear that the Russians would get in first and avenge themselves by slaughtering the German people...
Steuben went down the steps to escape Kirst’s words. Kirst stopped talking and walked beside him awhile, but Steuben hardly noticed. He was lost in reflection, worried about his family, certain now that his worst fears were justified. He cursed himself for having asked. He should have resisted the temptation. He glanced at Kirst, who seemed fascinated by the small groups of men they were passing.
What is it about him? As if he delights in bearing bad news, yet without a trace of glee in his voice or on his face. He’s like a machine—pull the lever and out comes the truth whether you want it or not. I should have listened to my own advice—
“Herr Major!”
Mueller hurried over, motioning to Steuben. Steuben introduced him to Kirst. Mueller shook hands but was completely preoccupied. “I want the committee to hear my proposal, Major. You promised.”
“I promised we would discuss it and decide whether or not to hear it. We haven’t gotten around to that. I’ll let you know, Mueller.”
“I don’t feel like waiting, Major. And there are others who feel as I do.”
“Tell them to be patient.”
“You tell them. Invite them before the committee and tell them yourself.”
“Mueller has been here almost as long as Gebhard,” Steuben explained to Kirst, “and he is anxious to get out, by any means possible.”
“Not like some I can think of,” Mueller retorted. “You like it here, Steuben, because you’re in charge—”
“We’ll take it up at the meeting, Mueller.”
Mueller glared at him then saluted, turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Steuben sighed. “The first thing you must accept, Kirst, is that you are here to stay.” He turned and walked off quickly.
Kirst looked after him, immobilized by the soaring pain inside him, wanting to scream out and writhe on the ground, but the djinn held him steady, unmoving, unblinking. He was like a seething volcano beneath a solid granite mountain that no one in a thousand years would ever expect to erupt. The idea that he was trapped here in this camp with this ripping, tearing force inside him was enough to make him wish for death. The djinn had no intention of letting Steuben’s words govern its actions. It would find a way out. Soon it would have the power.
It looked after Mueller, instantly attuned to the young Luftwaffe officer’s emotions. So much anger and frustration—the djinn could taste it on the air. And Steuben—so much strength and resolve, but beneath it lurked fear of what the Russians were going to do to his family. And the others, these Germans, all with their outward portraits of strength and unity and purpose, all just as weak, all perfect to feed upon....
Kirst had control of himself for a moment as the djinn’s hunger reached out to sample what floated on the ether. But there was barely enough time for Kirst to catch his breath before the djinn’s steel grip returned to flood his body and supplant his will. For a brief moment of awareness, Kirst figured out what it could do—tap into his memory, press the buttons of his conditioned responses, and
be him.
Back in the hut when Gebhard had asked about the war, his answers had not been his own; he wouldn’t have been so cruel or blunt. But the knowledge was all his. Kirst resolved to find Gebhard and tell him the things he had said were lies....
Soothing darkness enveloped that thought and obliterated it. In a moment, he found himself tramping back into Hut 7 to his new quarters. Gebhard was gone. So were Bruckner and his dog. Eckmann was alone in the room, on his bunk writing.
Eckmann paused to stare at the little photo of his bride tacked over his bunk. The picture was creased and smudged, but as always Frieda smiled back at him, her face radiant with happiness and the promise of love.
Eckmann recalled when it was taken. A week before the wedding in Hamburg, outside her father’s home near the city center. Frieda had been especially happy that week, showered with gifts and attention, saying good-bye to old admirers, sneaking off with Eckmann several times a day to sate his lust and demonstrate her vast capacity for affection. It had seemed endless and she had seemed the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world, and Eckmann had clung to that belief tenaciously throughout his seventeen months as a prisoner.
Frieda had always been an independent spirit, free and rebellious, as strong-willed and big and blond as the German ideal could ask for. And as Eckmann sat and thought of her loveliness, her charm, her sexual abandon, and her loyalty, he smiled and swayed slightly on the bed, feeling a tingling between his legs.
His eyes snapped open and he saw Kirst standing at the foot of his bunk, looking at Frieda’s picture. “My wife,” Eckmann said protectively.
“Very pretty,” Kirst said.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
Eckmann didn’t like him staring at Frieda. He leaned over to intercept the look. “Girl?” he asked.
“None that I... that I remember.”
Eckmann laughed, shaking his head. “The frauleins suffer so much at our hands. Left behind and forgotten as we march off to defend the Fatherland. They sacrifice as much as we do, you know? We give our lives, but we ask them to give their youth and fidelity.” He stared at the photo wistfully. “We were only married two days before I was ordered back. Two days, you see? I told my Frieda to be patient, that I would return on my next leave, and then we would make a baby.”
He shook his head again and looked back at Kirst. “In France, my staff car overturned. General Saghorst and another officer were killed. I was captured. They, questioned me for twenty days, then shipped me overseas and brought me here.”
Eckmann paused and sighed. “I have letters from Frieda, wonderful letters. She is so full of love. It’s important that someone at home still cares, isn’t it?”
Kirst nodded slowly.
Sergeant Loats switched on the overhead bulb in his tiny darkroom and stirred the prints in the bath. Using wooden tongs, he picked up the first one and let the water drip off, then stared at it and swore again. He was right. In normal light, it looked even worse. It appeared to be a picture of Kirst, but it was indistinct, almost blurred, with no feature detail at all. The sonofabitch must have moved the instant the shutter snapped.
Loats chucked the print into the ashcan and reached for the second one. It was even worse. Kirst’s face could be seen, but the whole image was partially obscured by an indistinct mottling, as if the plate had been double-exposed—once to shoot Kirst, and prior to that to photograph some kind of animal.
“I’ve checked around, sir, and I don’t think anybody could have tampered with my plates.”
Gilman studied the two prints and held the negatives up to the light. He frowned curiously at the images. “Anybody borrow your equipment lately, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“It looks like somebody went off to do a portrait of a wolf then left his film in your holders.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what it looks like.”
“Well, there’s only one solution. Bring him back for another sitting.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
Chapter 10
The train was waiting on track five. Loring stood on the platform in a crush of humanity, her eyes darting back and forth. The p.a. announced boarding again. Loring glanced at her watch. Five minutes to departure—where was Yazir? Finally, as she turned and climbed the steps, there was an anxious call behind her:
“Miss Holloway... !”
She looked back. Yazir was hurrying through the crowd clutching a large package. A conductor helped him board Loring’s car. He paused to lean against a partition and catch his breath. He waved the package at Loring.
“Present for you,” he gasped.
He came up and followed her down the aisle to her seat. She had managed to get a lower berth in the middle of the car. Her baggage was already stored, and the passenger who would be occupying the upper hadn’t arrived yet.
Yazir gave her the package and insisted she open it. “It’s not a cake,” he said. “If I am unable to deter you from going, then at least I can provide some modest protection.”
Loring fingered the wrapping. “I was up all last night,” she said. She looked at him sadly. “I haven’t a hope in hell, you know. If there is no djinn, I’ll be the biggest fool who ever lived. If there is—how can
I
fight it?”
Yazir nodded at the parcel. “Open it.”
Loring untied the string. There were two tissue-wrapped objects inside the box. She tore the paper off the first, revealing a silver decanter the size of a wine bottle. Plugged into the two-inch neck at the top was a stopper, also made of silver.
“The mullahs have assured me that all the appropriate incantations have been read over it... for what that’s worth. But look at it this way—if such a device was useful to a would-be sorcerer twenty-five hundred years ago, it might help you today. All you have to do is coax the djinn into it and seal it.”
Loring stared at it. “All I have to do, eh?”
“Yes... well... perhaps you will discover something that attracts it. As I suggested before, a natural substance which you can place inside to lure it...”
“It’s very nice. Very thoughtful of the mullahs.” Yazir looked embarrassed. She touched his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m being a real brat.”
Yazir sat down. “My dear, you are going up against a supernatural creature of unknown power and danger. Against such incredible beings, sometimes the best weapons are the most trivial.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Open the other one.”
The second packet was much smaller and flatter. She tore off the tissue and held it up. Hanging from the end of a thin chain was a three-inch talisman in the shape of a pentagon, enclosing a five-pointed star. It too was made of silver.
“The only thing of my own that I could find in such a hurry,” said Yazir. “It’s been in my family for generations. I had the chain attached so you could wear it. Please—put it on.”