Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

Wherever she was, the Reich had a fearsome assassin at its call. Perhaps, if his ploy worked and he obtained the Reichsbehorde's operational records, he could learn more about her. Although she wasn't his main interest.

Marsh followed a line of men returning from the trucks outside to a bank of elevators at the edge of the lobby. He and nine others stuffed themselves into an elevator. It was paneled with rosewood and lined with a brass rail at waist height, little remainders of the building's previous life. The men spoke little as it descended to the basement, instead taking the opportunity to catch their breaths where the air wasn't so cold. Some of the men had an unpleasant rasp in their chests, probably from working in chilly weather that had lifted only within the past day. They saluted Marsh as appropriate, and more than a few eyes widened in alarm when they glimpsed his wires.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and they poured into the basement. In times past, it had housed the laundry and other services. Now it served as an archive for SS records, a clearing house for all information Reichsfuhrer Himmler wanted to keep at hand.

That the operational records of the Reichsbehorde qualified as such was beyond question. The only issue was whether they had already been moved to a safe location, and whether Marsh would find them before his ruse fell apart.

Shelves had been installed in the former laundry, and the corridors were dense with filing cabinets nearly identical to those back at Milkweed Headquarters. Stacks of crates, empty but otherwise like the ones Marsh had seen loaded on the trucks outside, occupied every spare inch of floor space. The shelves held boxes of files, which the men systematically loaded into the numbered crates for loading onto hand trucks.

The total amount of paperwork stored in the bowels of the former hotel was staggering. It seemed Jerry couldn't do anything without first completing a form in triplicate. And then again when the task was finished.

Marsh examined a random shelf. Some boxes were indexed with keywords and numbers, while others had dates printed neatly on their spines. But there was nothing to explain their contents.

He found the officer overseeing the packing procedure in a cavernous room carved directly from the bedrock beneath the building. Lightbulbs hung from cables affixed to the ceiling overhead, tossing harsh shadows between the vaulted brick archways and casting the deepest niches into shadow. The hotel had once boasted an extensive wine cellar, but the casks and wine bottles had been replaced with row upon row of filing cabinets and metal shelving. Approximately two-thirds of the shelves were bare; many of the cabinets stood with their drawers open and empty. Doubtless the wine had long ago disappeared into the personal collections of high-ranking SS officers.

The officer was tall, much taller than Marsh, perhaps even taller than Will. His long, thin face and large round eyeglasses made him look more like a librarian than like a soldier. Which might not have been far from the truth, Marsh realized.

He carried a clipboard upon which two high metal loops impaled a sheaf of papers. He walked among the empty crates, inspecting the shelves and cabinets that hadn't been packed yet, pausing to compare each label with something in his papers. He'd nod, make a note on his clipboard, and jot a six-digit number on the box or cabinet drawer with a grease pencil. The numbers corresponded to crates, showing the packing men which files went in which containers.

The archivist saw Marsh. He scowled. “Don't stand there,” he said. “Grab a crate”—he pointed to a stack in one of the shadowy niches—”and get to work. But be certain to label your crate with the proper catalog numbers,” he added, pointing to the numbers on the file boxes. His attention turned back to his work.

Marsh cleared his throat. He stepped closer to the other man. He tried to keep his fake battery harness in plain view, but the shelves, low ceilings, and archways cast irregular shadows in all directions. “I'm here for the Reichsbehorde files. Have they been moved yet?”

The other man shrugged, still studying his clipboard. “Everything's getting moved today.”

“I don't care about everything else,” said Marsh. He stepped closer still. “My orders are to escort the Reichsbehorde records. Where are they?”

The other man looked up, frowning. His eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement. “I wasn't informed about this.”

“Of course not.” Marsh rested his hand on the battery at his waist, silently praying it would again make his point for him. “The Reichsfuhrer and the Fuhrer themselves have a deep personal interest in our work. I'm here to escort the records. It's a special task, not something entrusted to merely anybody.”

“Still—” The archivist paused when he saw Marsh's battery. “Oh, I see.” His gaze darted from the battery to the wires snaking up Marsh's neck. When it reached the collar of Marsh's uniform, his brows came together, and his mouth formed another frown. The sweat dampening Marsh's shirt felt clammy.

He studied Marsh's face. “You're from the Gotterelektrongruppe, then?”

“Yes, and I've told you why I'm here. Now, have the records been moved or not?”

“Let me check.” The archivist flipped through several pages on his clipboard until he found the one he sought. He tapped the page with one slender finger and looked up again. He took another look at Marsh's battery, then another at the polished siegrunen on his collar. Again, the furrowed brow.

Marsh didn't like the way this fellow was studying his uniform. He appeared to be looking for something, a patch or insigne that wasn't present. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” said the archivist distantly. But then his demeanor brightened, and he tapped the clipboard again. He said, “You're in luck. They're still here.” He ushered Marsh deeper into the cellar, toward shelves that hadn't yet been packed. “That way.”

Marsh motioned the other man ahead of him. “Show me.”

The archivist hesitated for the briefest moment, then cocked his head in a halfhearted nod. Marsh reached into his pocket as soon as his guide turned his back. He pulled out the garrote a second before the man reached for his pistol. With wrists crossed and arms outstretched, Marsh leapt forward to get the wire over the taller man's head. It caught briefly on the tip of the archivist's nose as he pitched forward, giving him time to drop the clipboard and get one hand up to protect his throat as Marsh frantically flipped the wire loop under his jaw and around his neck.

Marsh yanked backwards as hard as he could, straining until his shoulders groaned. His opponent made a wheezing, gurgling sound as his head was pulled back. But air still trickled into his throat because he'd gotten a few fingers under the garrote. And shorter Marsh couldn't get the leverage he needed to close off the man's trachea.

He backed into Marsh, using his greater weight to shove him bodily against a brick archway. The wire bundle taped to Marsh's scalp came loose. Pain ripped up his side. His ribs ached, but he kept pulling until it felt he'd sever the man's fingers.

Blood trickled from the wire-thin cut on the man's neck, making the garrote slippery. The wire and the blood together mingled into a hot, metallic, salty smell.

The man pitched forward again, lifting Marsh off the ground. They brushed a lightbulb. It swung wildly, casting kaleidoscopic shadows that danced around them. The archivist launched himself backwards, landing heavily atop Marsh. Air whooshed out of Marsh's lungs, leaving his chest painfully hollow. His ribs creaked almost to the point of snapping. A dark tunnel consumed his field of vision; he struggled to force air back into his lungs, but the weight of the larger man atop him made it difficult. The tension in the garrote loosened.