He passed the gate. The sentry on duty came to attention and saluted. Gilman returned the salute and went on by. From there on, he was alone, walking the perimeter, heading down the long slope to where the valley flattened. White flakes appeared ahead of him, a few scattered bits of snow. He stopped and looked up and, in light reflected off the ground from the spotlights, he saw the dark overhanging clouds and the first snowfall drifting down.
Just in time for the holidays.
Gilman smiled. A white Christmas at Blackbone. Back up the hill, he could see snow falling on the barracks. Inside the compound, the fall was illuminated by the sweeping spots.
The guard in the nearest tower was watching Gilman, his tommy gun leaning against the railing as he worked his light. Gilman gazed through the fence into the prison grounds. On the slope between the fence and the huts, he saw dark splotches scattered over the earth.
What the hell are those? Shadows?
Gilman pressed against the fence to see without the links obstructing his vision. Light swept by. They weren’t shadows. They were recognizable human forms. Bodies. Dead, torn apart, pieces of them scattered everywhere....
Gilman stood rooted against the fence. The scene was impossibly quiet. He blinked, scrunched his eyes shut and kept them closed as long as his curiosity could stand it. When he opened them again, the bodies were still there. Faces were twisted in horror. Eyes gazed sightlessly back at him, pleading against the final indignity of violent death.
Gilman began to shake. His fingers clutched the chain link fence and began to rattle it. He couldn’t help himself. He knew who they were. American soldiers killed in battle, murdered by a general’s stupidity and a commanding officer’s failure of nerve. They were his men, Second Battalion, lying in an open-air grave on Window Hill—
Gilman sprang back from the fence, stumbled, and ran up the long slope, legs pumping, arms clawing at the air.... He tore past the day room. The MPs he had encountered on the way down stared at the mad major dashing uphill. Reaching headquarters, Gilman flung an arm out to grab the corner of the building and stop himself. He ducked into the shadows at the bottom of the stairs and stood flattened against the wall. His heart slammed against his ribs. He waited for it to slow down then worked up his courage and looked out at the compound again.
They were gone. There was no trace of what he had seen. There was only the snowfall beginning to lay a soft white carpet on the ground. Gilman stared at it, his mind gripped by an even greater terror. It hadn’t been real. It was a waking nightmare.
I’m cracking up.
The nightform seeped back into Hut 7 and returned to Kirst undetected. The djinn settled into place and tested the host body. Still alive. No real damage, just pain and bruises. He kept the mind tapped out, comatose. Kirst had no need for consciousness now. The djinn could bring it back easily in the morning. Only one thing was bothersome: the head had taken such a beating that the eyes were out of focus. The djinn ignored Kirst’s other aches and pains but went to work on the eyes. Moments later, the djinn was able to see through them again.
Satisfied, he curled up in Kirst’s dormant brain and considered the night’s accomplishment. At last he had gained the key to capturing a new and more effective host. Tomorrow, Kirst’s beating would be discovered, he would be separated from the others, removed from the compound, taken outside the five walls. Then the djinn would have Gilman at his mercy.
Chapter 20
The snowfall continued the next morning as the Germans turned out for roll call, and Kirst was discovered missing. Gilman immediately dispatched MPs to search the camp, while he and Steuben went together to Hut 7. They found Kirst exactly where his hut-mates had left him the night before, sprawled on his bunk, alone. Steuben was furious, Gilman methodical. He summoned Major Borden as well as one of the German medics, Leutnant Cuno. While they examined Kirst, Gilman ordered Steuben to isolate all the men from Hut 7 for questioning. Steuben hesitated.
“Do you know something about this?” Gilman said.
Steuben nodded.
“Do you want to explain? Or should I go out and knock heads together?”
Steuben sighed. “They think—and I can’t say that I don’t agree with them—that Kirst is somehow responsible for everything that’s happened. For Eckmann, Schliebert, Gebhard, and the general disruption in morale.”
Gilman glanced at the cuts and bruises on Kirst’s face, the dazed, unseeing eyes, at Borden trying to coax him back to consciousness with ampules of smelling salts. “They think he’s responsible, but they don’t know. So they beat the crap out of him to be sure. Is that it?”
Steuben nodded. He said nothing about the other suspicions—that Kirst was a spy planted by Hopkins, that his men believed the two were in league and were jointly to blame for the deaths. He wanted to see what Gilman would do first. If he would take his spy out.
“I think, for his safety, we ought to get him the hell out of here,” Gilman said. “Don’t you?”
“That might be advisable, Major.”
Steuben felt a stab of disappointment. He too glanced at Kirst. The men may have been right. They may have acted stupidly, but they may very well have been right.
Borden stood up. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with him, sir. He’s got a few contusions and some split skin, and his belly’s kind of lumpy, but he’s not coming around. Seems to be in a coma. But his vital signs are all normal. It’s like he took whatever they handed him then slept it off.”
“Can he be moved?” Gilman asked.
“I think so.” Borden conferred briefly with Cuno. Then Cuno hurried off for a stretcher. Gilman ordered two MPs to help him.
“You’re taking him out then?” asked Steuben.
“Yes. And I want everybody who belongs in Hut Seven to get his ass back inside. They’re confined to quarters until further notice. If I catch even one of them outside, I’ll throw the whole mob into solitary. In the meantime, I leave it to you, Major Steuben, to isolate the perpetrators.”
Steuben frowned.
Gilman thought he had everything under control, but he hadn’t counted on Loring Holloway. She was waiting at the gate and, when she saw him approaching with Borden and the MPs carrying a man on a stretcher, she tore past the sentry and ran down to see who it was. Discovering it was Kirst, she stumbled back to catch up with Gilman.
“Where are you taking him?”
“Out.”
“Why?”
“His friends don’t like him. They rearranged his face. Next time they might kill him.”
“Why did they do it?”
“They’re beginning to think like you—that he’s behind everything.”
She glanced back. Germans were everywhere on the hill, deriving great satisfaction from the procession.
“The only way I can improve the situation is by getting him out,” Gilman continued. “If they want to believe he’s responsible for three deaths, then at least it looks like I’m doing something.”
“Don’t take him out,” she said urgently. “If you do, I swear you have no idea how bad it’s going to get.”
Gilman stopped.
“Lady, what are you talking about?”
Loring searched desperately for a way to convince him. Her eyes fell on the fence. She wanted to tell him about Ur-Tawaq and how the five-walled city had imprisoned the djinn 2,500 years ago, but she quickly realized that telling him would accomplish nothing: she had to show him.
“Major Gilman, you’ve got to trust me,” she said. “Those men are right—Kirst
is
responsible. Only it’s not Kirst.”
Gilman stared at her then smiled. “Lady, I really do think the time has arrived for you—”
“Oh, stop playing that game! You know you haven’t got the answers! You just want them to
think
you’re doing something!”
Gilman bristled.
She pointed to Kirst. “Let me work on him. You’ve got no plan other than conducting interrogations.
Please let me work on him!”
The MPs were stopped behind them, exchanging puzzled looks. Borden frowned skeptically. “What do you mean, work on him?” Gilman said.
“Let me
show
you what’s wrong with him.”
“Why not just tell me?”
She moved to the stretcher and looked down at Kirst’s staring eyes. “I can’t—because you won’t believe it. But I’m positive I can show you. He’s inside there, but I can bring him out. I can force him to show himself. Then you’ll see what you’re dealing with.”
Gilman met Borden’s suspicious gaze, then he looked down the hill at the Germans. They were waiting for the parade to resume, for Kirst to be taken the hell out of their midst.
“I’m sorry, Miss Holloway,” said Gilman. “Whatever you want to do, it’ll have to be outside.”
“No!” She stabbed a finger at Kirst’s chest. “That’s what he wants!” She swept a hand around. “In here, he’s contained! He can wreak havoc, but he can’t get out and make it worse! Take him somewhere isolated and let me work on him, but it’s got to be inside this fence!”
Gilman was wondering if she was crazier than Kirst when he caught sight of Steuben and Bruckner hurrying toward them. Before they caught up, Gilman moved to the stretcher and studied Kirst then made his decision. He told the MPs, “Take him down to the
Krankenhaus.
Clear everybody else out. Miss Holloway, get whatever you need and meet us in ten minutes. Borden, I want you along.”
“Yes, sir.”
Loring turned and ran back through the gate, as Gilman explained to Steuben what they were going to do. When Gilman invited him along, Steuben accepted grimly.
The MPs marched Kirst back down the slope, passing nearly two hundred dismayed German prisoners. As Steuben started to follow, Bruckner grabbed his sleeve and warned him, “Be careful. They’re up to something.”
Steuben shook him off and tramped angrily after Gilman.
Confined to Hut 7 by Gilman’s order, Mueller lay on his bunk and stared out the window. A door creaked; he heard footsteps clumping down the hall. As Dortmunder and Hoffman entered, Mueller motioned them to the window and pointed to the back fence. Now the dirt-covered blanket concealing the open mine shaft was further camouflaged with fresh snow, but when Mueller described the hole, they got excited. They saw what they had been waiting for: freedom.
“Until last night,” admitted Mueller, “I wanted to get out of here just for the sake of being free. Now—” He didn’t have to voice the rest: they all felt the same fear—that more was going to happen, and the longer they stayed the greater the chance they would become victims.
“We are the only ones who have the means of escape,” said Hoffman, stroking his chin. “If we share it, we risk discovery.”
“We have to keep it quiet,” Dortmunder agreed. “Too bad about Eckmann, though. It would have been fun having him and his letters along.”
“Maybe you’d rather take Kirst in his place,” Mueller said.
Nobody laughed.
Mueller turned over and stared at the ceiling. “We’ll move tonight.”
Loring spread everything out on a tray beside the cot on which they had placed Kirst. In a row she arranged the silver flask, the carton of salt, the magnet, the steel rod, the flashlight, the bag of herbs, the lump of tar, and the copy of the Koran.
While Steuben and Borden studied the display, Cuno finished patching up Kirst. The German infirmary was otherwise deserted. They were alone in the long ward with its row of neatly made-up cots. Toward the rear were a storage closet, an isolation cubicle, and living quarters for Cuno and the other medic, Heilbruner.
Gilman stood at the window watching the snowfall. If the storm hit tonight, the CID investigators wouldn’t get through, and Gilman knew his own options were limited. He couldn’t stomp around the camp playing Sherlock Holmes—he wasn’t trained for it. Damn the Army anyway—why hadn’t they built an airstrip? He frowned. Loring’s hand was at her chest, fingering something beneath her sweater. Gilman studied her figure: with that tight woolen pullover and those stylish baggy trousers, she looked even more attractive than in that Rita Hayworth get-up—at least to Gilman, who noted that no one else was interested.
Cuno finished and backed away. Loring pulled up a chair next to Kirst. Borden sat on the next cot over. Steuben moved to the foot of the bed. Gilman stayed at the window. Kirst lay very still, his eyes milky and staring, lips parted, his breathing shallow.
Loring reached for the Koran, opened it to marked pages, and started to read—flatly, as if it were an ordinary ritual. “In the name of Allah,” she began, and continued, intoning passage after passage, invoking the power of Allah to rid them of this troublesome spirit....
Gilman was speculating on why she was subjecting them to this mumbojumbo when she stopped abruptly and studied Kirst. They waited in silence, but nothing happened. Quietly she put the book aside and reached for the flashlight.
Steuben grunted something.
Loring flicked on the light and waved it to show that it was an ordinary instrument. Gilman immediately recalled Kirst’s reaction to having his picture taken: flying across the room when the flash went off. He glanced over and could see that Borden remembered it too.