The Pale House (33 page)

“This?” answered
in German, shoving Reinhardt forward. “This is someone who needs a lesson in what it means to cross us.”

“Well, he's come to the right place,” the UstaÅ¡a answered back.

“And Sutko's the one to give the lesson,” the other UstaÅ¡a quipped. They smiled and laughed, all of them, the one called Sutko giving a little bow and flourishing his baton as if it were a sword. Straightening up, the UstaÅ¡a pointed his eyes at
fist. “Is it time?”

“Did he give his number?” asked
, pointing at the prisoner.

“The number twelve.” Sutko grinned.

Reinhardt was suddenly and appallingly aware of danger, all around. He breathed long and slow, sucking down the fetid air of that room, and made himself stand easy, his eyes roving lazily over the Ustaše, the man hanging from the baton. It helped if he stuck his tongue hard between his teeth. It bunched up his chin, made him seem contemptuous of what he saw.

looked at Reinhardt, and something twitched across his face, as if he were disappointed. He walked over to the prisoner hanging upside down, reached down, and grabbed the man's hair. He lifted, pulled, the man's knees pivoting around the baton that ran behind them. The Ustaša looked blankly down at him, the man croaking and gasping on his own blood. Then he let him go, the man swinging back and then forth like a carcass in an abattoir, a new whine of agony escaping his ruined mouth.
weighed his dice in his hands, then opening and sweeping his fingers over the floor. The red dice rattled across the wood. He looked at them, then folded them back into his hand.

“Wrong number?” smirked Sutko.

“I'm afraid so,” said
, looking at Reinhardt, his eyes flat, and then he spoke to the third UstaÅ¡a. “Finish it, Marin.”

Reinhardt turned away, back to the door, only glimpsing the one called Marin bending over the hanging man with a long blade in his hand. Then the door was shut, and there was only the image, burned onto the backs of his eyes, and a sound, a gargled scream. He stood in the corridor, breathing hoarsely, staring at the man chained to the radiator, until the door opened behind him, and
stepped back out into the corridor. Their gaze cracked and ground together, and then Reinhardt turned on his heels and walked back to
office.

“You see, now?” asked
as he followed him. “This is how it is.”

Bile rose in Reinhardt's throat, choking off what he had to say, and it might all have gone even further downhill from there, but they were interrupted by a knock at the door. A pair of Ustaše stepped in at
answer.

“Sir, General
wants to see you before he leaves.”

“At once. Wait outside a moment.” When they were gone,
breathed out, very slowly, the dice shifting in his fingers again, visibly making an effort to calm himself. “I will send Bunda to you. He will see you out.”