Greg Iles - Black Cross

Rachel hugged Jan to her breast and looked at Frau Hagan. The Polish woman shook her head. “He’s mad,” she said. “He has lost his mind.”

“Jan, Jan,” Rachel crooned in a low voice. “Everything is all right now.”

“No, it isn’t,” Frau Hagan said. “This is just beginning.”

“What do you mean? Will Sturm report him?”

“I don’t think so. I think those two will settle this privately. Schörner must have something on Sturm, something bad enough that Sturm is afraid to bring charges against him for consorting with you. That’s why he tried to get you this way. Whatever it is will probably keep him from reporting this.”

The Pole rubbed her grayish-brown hair with both hands. “It won’t keep him from killing Schörner, though. It may take a little time, but he’ll find a way. You’re the one who has to worry now. You’re the pawn between them.”

Rachel shuddered. “Let’s go back to the block. I want to find Hannah.”

They moved out of the alley, Rachel carrying Jan. “You know the worst thing Sturm said? That he had reliable information that I had the diamonds.”

“Do you?” Frau Hagan asked bluntly.

Rachel hesitated, then finally gave up her pretense. “Yes. I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Frau Hagan waved her hand. “You keep them where he said?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you hide them when you go to Schörner?”

“Don’t ask.” Rachel quickened her pace. “I can’t believe anyone would inform on me. Someone in the same position we are! Someone must have watched me in the toilet or the showers.”

“If I find out who,” Frau Hagan said matter-of-factly, “I’ll strangle them with a bootlace.”

“But how could they do it?”

The Block Leader grunted with a sound that summed up a lifetime of disillusionment. “I told you your first day here, Dutch girl. The prisoner’s worst enemy is the prisoner.”

27

“What? What?”

McConnell came awake in the dark the way he once had as an intern in Atlanta, eyes wide open but full of sleep, shaking his head to jar his brain into action.

Someone was shaking him by the arm.

“Get up, Mr. Wilkes! Wake up, sir!”

McConnell’s eyes focused. Where he expected the face of a nurse, he saw the young face of one of Colonel Vaughan’s orderlies. The orderly pulled him to his feet.

“Is that your only bag, sir?”

“What the hell’s going on?” McConnell demanded.

“Is this all your gear, sir?”

“No, damn it, I have suitcases at the castle. Just wait a minute. Jesus . . . is this it? Tonight?”

“Leave everything in the hut behind, sir. You won’t be needing it. Follow me.”

The orderly marched out. McConnell groped in the dark for his shoes, pulled them on and went after him. It was raining outside, no surprise at Achnacarry. The orderly waited on the path to the castle, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

McConnell walked rapidly but did not run, another habit he had developed as an intern. It gave him time to get his thoughts together. Where the hell was Stern? Just after supper they had both lain down in the hut. Now Stern was gone. The day had been a washout, the first time Sergeant McShane had not shown up at dawn to work them to death. He had not appeared during the remainder of the day either, and Stern — quite out of character — had shown no curiosity about the matter.

McConnell sidestepped the rear corner of the castle and moved quickly along the wall. When he rounded the front, he saw only the dim yellow bulb over the castle door, burning through the rain. A stiff hand bumped him in the chest.

“Hold here, Mr. Wilkes,” said the orderly.

“What the hell—?”

“Shut up, Doctor,” snapped a familiar voice.

McConnell’s eyes focused slowly on the figure crouched against the castle wall. There was a leather bag beside him.

Stern.

McConnell squatted down. “Is this it?”

“I heard Smith’s plane land a little while ago,” Stern said.

McConnell felt his heartbeat quicken. He realized he was clutching the swatch of Cameron tartan in his hand. As the cold rain ran down into his collar, he noticed that the hut village in the meadow across the drive looked empty. No campfires, no singing.

“Where is everybody?”

“Night Assault,” Stern replied.

“What’s that?”

“The colonel’s graduation exercise,” said the orderly. “Closest thing in the world to real combat. The Frenchies are rowing across the loch now.”

McConnell heard a low rumble in the dark. An engine. A canvas-backed army truck slowly ground its way up the drive and stopped by the main entrance of the castle. Over its tailgate climbed three men who looked as if they could barely walk. McConnell caught his breath when they stepped into the glow of the bulb over the door.

One of the men was Sergeant Ian McShane.

Stern jumped up and ran toward the truck. McConnell followed, but before they reached it the castle door opened and Brigadier Smith stepped out into the rain. No tweed coat and stalker’s cap tonight — he was wearing his army uniform. Two orderlies behind him carried McConnell’s heavy suitcases and two large duffel bags.

“Load them into the lorry,” Smith barked. He caught sight of Stern and McConnell. “Into the truck, you two. You’ll find new clothes in those bags. Put them on.”

In the shuffle at the tailgate, McConnell looked into the eyes of Sergeant McShane. What he saw stunned him: fatigue, anger, the remnants of shock. When he touched the sergeant’s arm, McShane jerked suddenly, as if in pain. McConnell saw then that his inner arms had been scraped raw and scabbed over, as if he had skidded fifty yards on cement.

“Where the hell have you been, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Where you’re going, Doctor.”

Suddenly Brigadier Smith was between them. “Into the castle, Sergeant. Whisky and fire. You’ve earned it.”

McShane, flanked by John Lewis and Alick Cochrane, said nothing. Glancing over Smith’s shoulder, McConnell saw that Lewis and Cochrane looked worse than McShane. McShane started to say something, but before he could Brigadier Smith said:

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

Cochrane and Lewis moved toward the door, but McShane stepped around the brigadier and laid a finger on Stern’s chest.

“You mind how you go, over there,” he said. “Look after the doctor here, right? You might be findin’ a warmer welcome than you’ve been led to expect.”

The Highlander looked Brigadier Smith dead in the eye, then turned and trudged into the castle.

“What’s he talking about?” Stern asked.

“They lost a man,” the brigadier said. “That’s all. You’ve lost a few yourself, haven’t you? It was Colin Munro, the weapons instructor. They hauled his body fifteen miles overland to the pickup point. Now, get on with it, eh? We’ve got to be in Sweden by three A.M. Germany by dawn.”

Stern pulled McConnell toward the truck. “Nothing we can do,” he said.

Inside his duffel bag McConnell found not only dry civilian clothes — with proper German tags inside them — but also a neatly pressed and folded military uniform of field gray winter wool. He saw the silver SS runes and the Death’s Head badge on his captain’s cap and felt a chill. Stern’s uniform was gray-green, with the feared green piping and sleeve patch of the SD. On the breast was an Iron Cross First Class and a Wound Badge. The left collar patch indicated that its wearer was a colonel — Standartenführer .

“The civvies or the uniforms?” McConnell asked.

“The uniforms,” said Stern.

McConnell was still dressing when the truck began to roll. Stern bent over the suitcase that contained McConnell’s anti-gas suits and began rummaging beneath them.