Stephen Baxter - Weaver

Ernst got off the bike, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for his papers.

The schutze inspected them by torchlight. 'What are you doing here, Herr Obergefreiter?'

'There is somebody here I know,' Ernst said. 'Not British – French. A mistake.'

Another volley of gunfire.

'I wouldn't go down there if I were you,' the schutze said. 'It is nearly done, the work. If your friend was ever there, well… The einsatzgruppen are not fond of being interrupted.'

Ernst took a step forward. 'But-'

The schutze put a gloved hand on his chest. 'Please.'

Another group was lined up. They stood at the edge of a pit. Ernst wondered how it had been dug out, for the ground was frozen. Perhaps it had been prepared in advance; the SS were nothing if not efficient. Ernst saw the silhouettes of the men with their pistols, standing behind their targets. When the order came to fire there was a spray of blood and brains, you could clearly see it, vivid crimson by the glow of the trucks' lamps. Some of the victims fell cleanly, others quivered and trembled before they dropped, and some screamed, not yet dead. Men stepped forward and pistols cracked, as the work of clean-up was finished.

The schutze watched this impassively. 'Would you like a cigarette, Herr Obergefreiter?'

'No.'

'Um. Then, do you have one to spare?'

Ernst dug a packet out of his greatcoat pocket.

The man took a cigarette gratefully. He lit it within cupped fingers, and the glow illuminated his face. He was very young, Ernst saw. 'It is not as easy as you might think,' the schutze said slowly, 'to kill a man.'

'It is a mistake,' Ernst said. 'She should not be there.'

The schutze nodded. 'Such things happen. I once read of a pope who, when receiving complaints about the unfairness of the Inquisition, said that he would leave it to Saint Peter to sort out saints from sinners. Do you believe in God?'

'Do you?'

'Not any more, Herr Obergefreiter.'

The men dispersed from the edge of the pit, and the trucks' engines roared.

24 December

The Sea Lion monument was already astonishing, Mary thought as she was driven up with George. Even incomplete, it was a henge of concrete and scaffolding that utterly dominated the Richborough site. All around its base the ground was churned into ruts, and rainwater stood everywhere, glimmering, scummy.

'All this must be playing merry hell with the archaeology,' she said.

George sat beside her in the car, the buttons on his uniform polished to a gleam. He twisted his head to see the arch. 'Look at that bloody thing. These Germans really are crackers.'

'The SS scholars know their history, though. Claudius would have been impressed. But I'm surprised the RAF haven't bombed this monstrosity to bits.'

George grinned. 'Oh, their way is to wait until the thing is nearly finished, then bomb it to bits.'

New buildings huddled at the feet of the arch, neat but boxy. Staff stood in rows, mostly uniformed. As Mary's car drew up, flashbulbs popped. Evidently they were expected.

And Gary was here, somewhere in this strange complex.

Mary would have been nervous anyhow, even if not for Gary. She'd never been involved in an operation like this before, and the fact that Germany and the US had gone to war with each other since Mackie had cooked up his plan had made things 'a tad more complicated', in Mackie's dry words. Still here she was, the show was on the road. But when she thought of Gary being close by, the day seemed distant, unreal, even the mass of the unfinished monument transient and illusory.

The car drew up at the base of the arch. The SS driver opened the door and Mary got out. The driver took a package from the car trunk. It was Mackie's Roman spear, preserved within a beautifully crafted wooden box. The box was heavy, but George carried it easily.

Under lumpy cloud it was dark, Christmas Eve turning out to be one of those English midwinter days that never seem to gather the strength to break into full, honest daylight; at noon this was about as bright as it was going to get. But the monument somehow looked right under such a sky, four mighty silhouetted stumps. She could smell the sea, and that reminded her that Tom Mackie was not far away, standing offshore in a motor boat, waiting to take her to safety.

A small party of SS officers approached, trailed by photographers.

'We'll get through this,' George said to Mary. 'Just a couple of hours and it will be done.'

'I'm glad you're here,' she whispered.

One SS man closed on her, hand outstretched; he was not tall, but slim and unreasonably good-looking. 'Mrs Wooler? I am Standartenfuhrer Josef Trojan. Merry Christmas! I am really so delighted to see you again. We have worked together a long time now, haven't we?' Trojan took Mary's hand and shook it; the grip of his gloved hand was firm, warm. He turned with practised ease to face the little party of photographers. There was a blizzard of popping bulbs. 'And Constable Tanner, we meet again.'

'Sergeant Tanner now, thanks very much.'

The photographers were close enough for Mary to make out their accreditation. Some of them worked for Reich information agencies, but there were reporters from neutral-country newspapers – Swiss, Spanish, Irish. She knew that part of Trojan's objective today must be to bind her up in a Reich-friendly story that might mitigate the impact of her report of the Peter's Well atrocity. Let him think that. One way or another the day wasn't going to unfold as Trojan expected. She smiled for the cameras.

Now Trojan made more introductions. 'Mrs Wooler, you have met my colleague Unterscharfuhrer Julia Fiveash. And this is my brother, Obergefreiter Ernst Trojan.'

The obergefreiter wore a Wehrmacht uniform. He bowed to Mary crisply. He was a younger, paler version of his brother, she thought, less vivid – less certain – a more interesting character, perhaps. But there was no time to speak to him.

And Julia Fiveash, when she walked up to Mary, was extraordinary, a mass of contradictions, a beautiful Englishwoman in a mannish SS uniform. 'Mrs Wooler? I'm delighted to meet you again.' She bowed to George, who nodded back, more stiffly.

Josef Trojan clapped his brother's back. 'I dragged Ernst here, away from his other vital duties for the protectorate, because this is Christmas! A time of friendship and family. A time to demonstrate loyalties that transcend the temporary barriers of wartime. And today here we are, American, German and English, all gathered to celebrate intellectual endeavour.'

Mary thought she ought to say something. 'You do understand I'm not representing my nation.'

'Of course.'

'I'm here for the scholarship. Whichever sides we find ourselves on temporarily, your work here deserves praise and encouragement,' she deadpanned. 'For it is only scholarship, education, learning, that will ultimately remove the shadow of war from mankind.'

'I could not have put it better myself,' Trojan said. 'I won't keep you waiting any longer. Come now.' He turned and led the group back towards the largest of the new buildings.

George and Julia walked together, stiff, not looking at each other. Mary knew there was something going on between them, unlikely as it seemed. And George in fact was troubled by his 'betrayal' of Julia today. Mary didn't understand it. She had always thought of war as a simplifying process, a lining-up of good against evil. But on the ground things were messy, in just about every way you could imagine. Mary couldn't figure out George and this Julia, and maybe she never would; it was best to look away.

The brick building was unprepossessing, a couple of storeys with a flat roof, like an office building. But once they passed through the big double doors Mary found herself in a grand space, with a floor of polished pink granite and oak-panelled walls. A rather over-ornate staircase led up to the upper storey, and down to a basement. The hall was dominated by an enormous Christmas tree, a towering affair covered with silver balls and tinsel and little swastika medallions. The Nazis did everything big, it seemed, even Christmas.