The Aeschylus (37 page)

Dominik's mind flashed back on the night when he had come upon Zofia in the lab. The tentacles had grown to every corner of the room, twisting and bending around her. They had stopped at Zofia, curling up from her body as if repelled. Strangely, Dominik had known, somehow
known
, it was because of what was inside her. The primary chemical in embalming fluid was formaldehyde, and the things in the room were avoiding it like a cellar mushroom avoids sunlight. Once he had deduced this, it hadn't taken him long to isolate the chemical and test it. Before any soldiers could find what had happened, he and Ari had returned with masks and eradicated the tendrils growing through the room. They had cleaned the broken glass and disposed of the evidence, burning it all in the laboratory's incinerator.

With a terrible smile, Dominik forced himself to speak. “Well, I'd say that was thanks to you, Commander. It was my daughter who showed us the way. Now, we wanted you to see it for yourself.”

It was the signal Ettore had been waiting for, and he rushed forward with the cloth in hand.

Like a snake, Richter's hand shot out and grabbed the man by the wrist. “What?” he barked. “
What are you doing?
”

Dominik stared, dumbfounded as Ettore grappled with the commander. Then, he shook his head and rushed, throwing his arms around Richter to try and restrain him. It was like grabbing a tree trunk. Richter's body was thick, his arms as powerful as a machine.

The commander shrugged Dominik off and pushed Ettore downwards, bending his hand back towards his own face. Ettore struggled, but he was no match; the cloth clamped over his nose, and within seconds, he went limp.

Ari was still standing a few paces away, flabbergasted.

“Ari! Do something!”

When Dominik rushed again, Richter shoved him into his friend, and their heads collided with a crack. The older man's glasses fell to the floor, and Ari dropped to one knee, his hands clutching his mouth.

Richter's face darkened in triumph. “Now,” he said, reaching for Dominik, “now that we have the answer, we don't need you any more. We're going to have fun with you lot. Oh yes, we're going to—”

Something swooshed through the air. An earthquake rocked Richter's body, and then the commander slumped towards him, as limp as a corpse. Dominik stumbled sideways, struggling to see what happened.

Thomas Frece was standing behind him, a metal chair in his hands. In all of the confusion, Dominik had lost track of him.

“I told you,” he said, out of breath. “I told you I was still useful.”

Harald was swimming over the chasm.

The man with red hair was there again, standing at the brink. He was waiting for him where the rocks began, the S.S. uniform blowing in the wind. Harald was close now, far closer than he had ever been, and he reached out. He didn't have fingernails, but claws. It was like this every time, but every time it shocked him, as if this body distortion was too terrible to remember. It slowed him, and he watched helplessly as the man raised the gun.

The woman's voice called out again, only this time, he could hear the words. “They're coming!” she screamed. “What do I do?”

And suddenly...

Suddenly.

The lieutenant woke in his own bed, sweating. The dream was getting longer. It was the seventh or eighth time he'd had it, and every time, it continued further. It was approaching an end, but what end, he didn't know. Sometimes, the man was
ready to shoot him, and sometimes, Harald thought he could reach him first.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was after seventeen hundred hours. He'd gotten exactly four hours of sleep after
being awake all of the previous day, continuing the search for Kriege. Richter would be with Kaminski and the others by now, having a look at the man's miracle solution. Harald got dressed and left the barracks, mumbling to himself as he went. Even from a distance, he could hear the party in full swing at the office bunker. He told himself he should join the men, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Zofia's death weighed on his mind. Lucja wouldn't want anything to do with him now, thanks to Richter. In spite of everything, he found he still wanted to talk to her. He needed to explain himself to her, to tell her that none of this was his doing. It was the only way to make things right.

His feet began to move, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of the prisoners' bunker. Someone had left the door unlatched, giving its occupants free reign. He supposed that was all right given that Kaminski was in the lab, but it was a little unusual. As he reached for the handle, the door swung open, and Lucja herself nearly barreled into him.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “You scared me!”

I scared you? My goodness! The door almost knocked me out!

The words were almost out of his mouth when he surprised himself by saying, “Where are you going?”

She smiled, but it didn't look like she had an answer.

“I asked you a question, girl. Where are you going?” Why was his tone so gruff? Was he trying to make her hate him?

“I was just going for a walk.” She pointed vaguely. “I'm tired of staying in there by myself.”

“It's not the night to be going for a walk, Lucja. Surely you know that.”

“I wasn't going far. And I like to walk when my father is away.”

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. She was alone in the room and wanted some fresh air. What could be more natural than that, especially given what she had been through? When he searched her face, however, he could swear he saw something guilty in it.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“It's all right, Lieutenant.”

“Harald.”

“Harald,” she said, assenting to the use of his first name for the twentieth time. She blushed in that way of hers that made her look younger. But looking at her here, without her sister next to her, she could have been Mieke's age.

“I was hoping I could talk to you.”

She paused. “Maybe we could talk later. I'm not really feeling up to it right now.”

“I'll probably be needed later. And I don't want this to wait. I... I've missed our talks. I have something I'd like to say.”

“Are you commanding me?”

“That's an odd question. No, I'm not commanding you. I just want to talk for a moment. As... as acquaintances, I suppose.” He could not quite bring himself to use the word
friend
. Surely, she was not that. Still, he wasn't commanding her, he was quite sure. “Well?”

“I don't like being in there,” she said quietly. “Zofia was in there. I still feel her.”

Debating how to respond, he thought he could only be honest. He could only tell her what he'd been waiting to tell her. “I want to tell you how sorry I am. This was never my intention. I'd never met Richter before coming here, but I'd heard of him back on the mainland. He has a reputation for being uncompromising. From the first moment, I was afraid something might happen. But make no mistake: what happened on the ice was on him and him alone.”

She scoffed. It was an oddly petulant gesture, one that put him out of sorts.

“Surely, you don't blame me.”

“No,” she said, but her eyes told a different story. Her eyes said she blamed him full and proper.
It may have been his orders, but you helped, Harald. You helped.

It hurt him to see that look, especially given how far he'd gone out of his way to help her in the past. In spite of his need, he thought about just leaving her. As much as he wanted to talk
to someone—
anyone
—he didn't think he would be able to do much good.

When neither one spoke, the girl made to move past him, to go on with her walk. But then, he blurted, “In a way, maybe it was my fault. It was my job to motivate your father, you know. He had it in him, as he's proven, but he wasn't... he wasn't fast enough for the commander. Maybe I just needed to be more strict with him. Men like your father, they need discipline, Lucja, and men like Richter don't like excuses. So maybe it is my fault.”

You're goddamned right it's your fault
, her eyes seemed to scream.
You're goddamned right!

As she brushed past him, their shoulders collided, and a water canteen fell out of her coat. It was an odd thing to be carrying on a short walk. Harald didn't remember ever giving Kaminski one to begin with. When she reached to grab it, his hand was already there. The lieutenant stood back to his full height and looked down at her curiously. The canteen felt full in his hand.

The oddly guilty look crept back onto her face. “Are you trying to escape?” he asked. He could hear the menace in his own voice.

“Of course not.” Pausing for an instant, she said, “I would never leave my father.”

Harald brought the the flask to his face and unscrewed the cap. He was thirsty, and she had no business with it. But just as he raised it to drink, Lucja's hand shot out and grabbed it, her face white with panic. The liquid splashed out and grazed his face, stinging like turpentine.

Kaminski! What in God's name is this?

She was caught. She was caught, and she knew it.

Lucja turned and ran towards the gate, kicking up dust as she went.

Harald ran after.

When Richter woke up, he couldn't move. His hands were bound behind his back, his ass planted in one of the laboratory chairs. They had roped him in a sitting position, the cord wrapping around his waist and arms. He blinked, seeing the outline of the same room and the same silhouettes standing within it. He was dazed, but not out, not any more.

“He's awake!”

He turned his head and saw Ari Quintus pointing his own service pistol at him. Or rather, in his general direction; the man didn't look like he'd ever held a gun before, and the barrel was pointed more towards the floor than at its target. It would be a mistake to underestimate him though. Together, the four prisoners had gotten the drop on him, and that
wouldn't
happen again.

“I don't know what you hope to accomplish, but I'd appreciate if you could get on with it. As soon as you're done, I can go about the business of making sure you all die a horrible death.”

“Shut up!” Quintus said. “You be quiet!”

A scraping noise came from Richter's right, and he realized the architect of this little scheme had yet to present himself. Though the man's back was to him, he could tell by the way he was inspecting the equipment that he was still in charge. It looked like he had rigged half a dozen flumes out of the vats, each connecting with the ceiling.

“We don't have enough,” Kaminski said. “This one doesn't reach.”

“Then plug it,” Frece said. He was pacing through the room, clearly on edge. “For God's sake, make sure it doesn't leak.”

The vats housed formaldehyde, and without Kriege here to monitor the day-to-day operations, the quartet had been
producing as much as they could. As Kaminski went about making the repair, Richter realized with no little fascination what they were planning: they were going to pump it into the base. Kaminski had told him in plain language that the gas
could be dangerous to humans as well as the fungus, and now, he had rigged the flumes through holes in the ceiling, ready to deliver the poison. Above, Richter could hear the muffled singing and thudding of the party, and he instantly understood their target. The sheer ruthlessness of it gave him a delightful shiver.

“Did you know I was in Ypres when they first used gas against the French and Algerians? The gas was chlorine in those days. Nothing sophisticated, but it was deadly enough. We waited until we had the wind on our side, and then we bombarded the enemy encampment with chlorine shells. The French, in their eagerness, thought it was just a diversion. They ordered their men out of the trench and up to the fire line, directly in the path of the green cloud. When it hit them, the confusion and terror it wrought opened a gap in their lines as far as the eye could see. Of course, our commanders were so surprised by the effectiveness of the attack they didn't lead us forward. Our enemy was able to reform and recover. It was a pity, really. I hope you all don't make the same mistake.”

“Shut up,” Quintus said.

“I can tell you: it sure was something to see so many men die at the hands of our invention. Have you ever seen a man die of gas poisoning?”

It was Frece's turn to yell obscenities, but Richter paid him no mind. The Swede looked positively green himself.

“It's awful,” Richter continued. “Mustard gas is the worst. Men will bleed and burn, but the real horror is watching their eyes. The men will eventually asphyxiate, but what it does to the eyes is just unforgettable. Chlorine is quicker but still no way I'd want to die. I have no idea what your clever formaldehyde does, but,” he paused. “But I think I should like to see it.”

“Be quiet, or you'll be the first,” Frece said.

Richter laughed. “I think if you were going to do that, you'd have done it already.”

“Maybe we should just kill him,” the olive-skinned man said.

Richter stopped laughing. This one was as calm as he could be.

“Ettore's right, he's dangerous,” Quintus said. The Walther PPK continued to point every which way in his hands. “I told him to shut up, and he won't.”

Ettore, that's right
. It was so hard to keep them straight.

Kaminski paused to wiped his hands and walked over to stand next to the commander. His gaze wasn't the usual flighty thing Richter had seen before: it was impetuous. It was far too impetuous for his liking. “We're not killing anyone if we don't have to. Not even a sadistic madman like the commander, here. If we do that, we're no better than he is. If that's a cliché, I don't care. It's true.”

The Swede scoffed. “Yeah, right. And those above?”

“If they're smart, they'll run out of the building before they choke to death. They'll be damaged but not dead.”

Richter heard the lie in the man's voice and smiled to himself. The question was, was Kaminski only lying to his friends, or was he lying to himself?

“And if it doesn't work? Or they have masks?” Frece demanded.

Ettore walked over and put a hand on the man's shoulder. “We've been through all this. It will work.”