Look Behind You (The Order of the Silver Star) (6 page)

Sure enough, in front of the bomb racks stood what looked like a lab bench with all kinds of jars and implements arranged on it. The set-up didn’t look too suspicious from a distance, although the placement was curious. But as Chris got closer, he could see that the implements included knives, a big copper bowl, and a thick black candle that didn’t look like it was made of beeswax or paraffin. He’d helped Mom make enough candles as a boy to know the difference, and he suspected that he didn’t want to know what this candle
was
made of. Then he got close enough to read the label on one of the closer jars that held something that looked like flour:

Leichenpulver
. Corpse-powder.

Cold dread and nausea settled into Chris’ gut. He found himself flashing back to a conversation he’d had with a friend at Tech, a white missionary’s kid who’d grown up on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico. How they’d gotten onto the subject, Chris couldn’t recall, but he still remembered the grim face and hushed tones with which his friend had explained the Navajo fear of skinwalkers, powerful necromancers who practiced something called the Witchery Way. Even to talk about them much was taboo because there was no telling whether a skinwalker would be spying on the conversation through supernatural means, take offense, and place a fatal curse on the speaker. Skinwalkers were so called because they could turn themselves into dogs or coyotes, though Chris never had figured out
how the magic was supposed to work. But the other main thing he remembered from that conversation was that some of the deadliest curses skinwalkers used were cast using
ant’į
, a powder made from ground-up dead bodies—in fact, some people called that form of witchcraft the Corpse-powder Way for just that reason. His friend had even sworn he’d seen a family who’d offended a skinwalker wither and die of ghost sickness, hounded to death by a demon summoned and bound to the purpose by a curse cast with
ant’į
. The Navajo medicine men hadn’t been able to do anything for them, nor could the doctors at the nearest Bureau of Indian Affairs clinic even figure out what was making them sick. And they’d refused any other help from outsiders, even though the missionaries had been sure God would have delivered those people if they had asked for His help. “I think they doomed themselves,” his friend had concluded.

Chris had never wanted to believe that such evil could exist in the world. Now, after that brush with the microfi
lmed grimoire, he knew it might. This jar of
Leichenpulver
looked pretty much like what he’d pictured
ant’į
looking like, too, and the names meant the same thing. If the rumors of death camps were true, the warlocks probably had ample supplies of dead bodies to grind up for this kind of thing. For one wild moment, he wondered whether any of the dogs the SS loved so much were actually skinwalkers… until he realized that it didn’t matter for his immediate situation. Regardless of whether the spell ingredients in front of him could actually do real damage in the proper combination, the SS clearly thought they would, and they didn’t necessarily need magical means to detect sabotage—or to punish it. He’d be lucky to get off with a firing squad if the Luftwaffe didn’t get the results the warlocks wanted from this raid. And he had no desire to end up as
ant’į
himself.

Even so, Chris knew in his heart of hearts that he had to sabotage this spell, whatever the consequences might be. He was there for a reason. Nimrod w
as in either Berlin or Berchtesgaden and would have no way to get there in time. Neither could Cuchulain get there quickly from Dunkirk without arousing suspicion. No one else knew enough to put the pieces together the way Chris had; no one else could intervene. And he didn’t dare risk lives in London on the assumption that it was all a bunch of hokum.

Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul
, he heard his college friend recite,
but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell
.

Swallowing hard, he looked around and still didn’t see any SS men near the silo. Then he glanced at the other jars and found one that contained a clear, yellowish liquid. He didn’t read the label because he really didn’t want to know what it was. Rather, sending a quick silent prayer to Christ and St. Michael, he pulled the vial of holy water out of his pocket and uncapped it, then used his handkerchief to prevent fingerprints as he unscrewed the lid on the jar. Then he dumped in the whole amount of holy water and closed the jar again. It didn’t explode or even heat up, but as he pulled the handkerchief away, he could already see diffusion currents as the water spread through the other liquid like dye in a water glass, though the color didn’t change. That was good, Chris assumed; it meant he wouldn’t have to shake the jar to make sure there wasn’t a layer of water at the top when the SS opened it. He hoped the liquid would settle by the time they got around to using the stuff so no one would notice the contamination. Finally, he tucked vial and handkerchief back into his pockets and walked off among the bomb racks before anyone human could spot him at the lab table.

He halfway wondered whether normal water would have been contaminant enough, but he decided not to worry about it. Skinwalkers or no skinwalkers, he had a performance to prepare for the SS.

By the time he finally heard footsteps coming toward him, as he had expected, he was well engrossed in examining a bomb. And he didn’t jump when a voice demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“My
job
,” he shot back crossly, stepping back from the bomb and producing his identity papers for the weasel-faced
Oberscharführer
attempting to loom over him despite being half a foot shorter.
5
“Major Eric Engelbrecht, Luftwaffe Intelligence. I had information regarding an attempt to sabotage this mission.”

The SS man examined his papers, sniffed, and handed them back. “And you did not contact the Gestapo?”

“I didn’t wish to bring accusations with no proof. And proof is precisely what I have
not
found here.”

“There was already an inspection scheduled.”

“Yes, and for all I knew, said sabotage would have brought the building down on your heads before you could find the one bomb that was out of place.”

Weasel-face’s eyes narrowed. “What gives you the right to supersede a Gestapo investigation?”

“Aside from the fact that there is none yet? This is a Luftwaffe installation—and I outrank you,
Feldwebel
,” Chris added, deliberately using Weasel-face’s
Heer
rank rather than his SS rank. There was a time and a place to be annoying, even toward the Gestapo, and this was definitely it. “I had planned to come to the Gestapo when I was finished and provide such proof as I could find, but since there is no evidence of sabotage here, you are now informed and I shall take my leave.”

“And if we find any sabotage, Herr….”

“
Major
Engelbrecht. You won’t. But I believe the Paris Gestapo already has a file on me, should you feel the need to pry. Good day.” And he stormed out before Weasel-face could correct him for not saying
Heil Hitler
.

He had to pull over halfway back to Paris because he was shaking so badly he could hardly control the car. And he prayed fervently until he felt he could get through the next few days without jumping at shadows.

But the day of the raid came and went, and Chris didn’t get the visit from the Gestapo he’d been fearing. He didn’t get any mysterious ailments, either, or anything more than damage reports from London. He was beginning to wonder whether his mind had been playing tricks on him about the spell and the grimoire when, as he was walking back to his quarters at the end of his shift, someone bumped into him and picked his pocket. Before he could take a swing at the thief, said thief turned back—and it was Cuchulain.

“Terribly sorry, sir,” Cuchulain said. “Here, I believe you dropped this.” And he held Chris’ wallet out to him.

Chris straightened his jacket and took the wallet with a nod of thanks, being too startled to do more than that. Back in his quarters, though, he opened the wallet to find a five-Mark note tucked inside, with a small note on flash paper tucked inside that.

Well done on the holy water
, the handwritten note said.
Word from Killarney is, the curse on those bombs would have wiped London off the map. – C

The only thing that stopped Chris from completely falling apart at that moment was the realization that the five-Mark note was a forgery, printed on the wrong kind of paper. Swallowing hard, he ran his fingers over it and discovered that the lacework hid pinpricks with a message in Braille:

London agrees, waiting on DC, looks likely.

Chris silently drew a deep, ragged breath and let it out again. After that, he used his lighter to set fire to both messages; the flash paper went up in seconds, but the fake money he set to burn in his ashtray. Then he looked around and noticed that the corner of one of his pajama shirts had gotten caught sticking out of a closed drawer. It hadn’t been like that when he’d left that morning. A quick inspection revealed a microphone in the back corner of that drawer.

He took another couple of silent deep breaths to calm himself. He could choose not to voice his prayers of thanks or save them for the covering noise of the shower. But then he smirked—the Gestapo wouldn’t be getting what they wanted from this bug in any case, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t get anything at all.

He went to look out the window and started whistling the William Tell Overture.

#####

5
Oberscharführer
was the SS equivalent of
Feldwebel
or sergeant.

#####

*****

The news that reached Chris for the first two months of 1941 was all from North Africa, where the “Arizona State game” had begun in earnest. The British and Australians were having such success that Hitler dispatched Rommel to organize a counter-offensive. Otherwise, everyone’s attention seemed to be on Operation Barbarossa, including the SS. Chris knew the warlocks had to be up to something, but he hadn’t noticed any birds dying or anything like that, something that would suggest heavy-duty black magic at work. Not that he was an expert when it came to omens—he’d never been as interested in fairy tales as Matt had been when they were kids.

It surprised Chris, therefore, when a grim-faced Nimrod turned up at Luftwaffe headquarters in Paris on the afternoon of March 10 asking for him. “Onkel Johann?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Oma,” Nimrod replied. “She’s very ill—the doctors say she hasn’t long to live. I wouldn’t put five Marks on her even living the night. I’ve arranged leave for both of us.”

Chris nodded. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“No, no, you’re welcome to share my kit. But we need to leave right away.”

Chris nodded again, gave apologies where needed, and followed Nimrod to his car. They then drove in silence to a deserted airstrip, where a British courier plane was waiting for them.

Not until they were in the air did Nimrod look over at him with a slight smile. “Cuchulain tells me his contacts consider you most resourceful.”

Chris sagged back in his seat with a groan. “I dunno how the hell they even
knew
.”

“What, that you’d done something or that it was you?”

“Both.”

“Well, there may be time enough for that after the war. Though I rather think it was Cuchulain who deduced your hand in it. The three of us are the only ones this side of the Channel who know that our side knows what the warlocks are up to.”

Chris sighed. “So what’s all this about? Where are we headed?”

“London. The State Department finally had its last litter of kittens, and Frank Hamer’s coming over in the morning. We’re to help brief him on the mission.”

“
Gott sei dank
.
6
We need help. The Rangers are no wizards, but….”

“They’re good men. That’s what we need.”

Chris nodded and let himself relax. “Bet Hoover never thought we’d be up against warlocks when he started this racket in ’32. Though why the hell he was more worried about the Japanese than the Mafia, I’ll never know.”

Nimrod chuckled. “It was Stimson’s idea, or so I’m told. Not being allowed to respond to Manchuria with more than a strongly-worded letter rankled, but President Hoover is a good Quaker and a gentleman, even if the Imperial General Staff aren’t.
Director
Hoover, on the other hand, saw a chance to get one over on the Army and Navy and soothe his paranoia all at once.”

“The Imperial General Staff probably aren’t testing cursed bombs on the Chinese, though.”

“No, Manchuria isn’t what we most need to worry about there,” Nimrod murmured absently, not looking at Chris.

Chris almost asked what he meant but thought better of it.

The next morning, rested and in his OSS uniform, Chris joined Nimrod for breakfast and then drove with him out to RAF Gatwick to meet Hamer. And seeing the tall lawman step off the plane, white Stetson firmly in place over his dark hair… well, it just made Chris smile. The sight was a sorely-needed piece of home, not least because Hamer was from San Saba, one county north of Castell, and his family had been friends with the Schneiders for decades.