Greg Iles - Black Cross

So he did. Yet even deep within her, in the sweat and the groans and the moments of oblivion, he could not escape the feeling that they were making love in the shadow of a great darkness, pressing toward each other with the desperation of the condemned.

Jonas Stern lay facedown in the snow on the east side of Totenhausen, just ten meters from the electric fence. His leather bag lay beside him. The darkness and the trees gave him cover from the watchtowers, but the dog kennels stood just on the other side of the fence. He held his breath while an SS man led a muzzled shepherd along the inside of the wire.

He had already buried the two gas cylinders in the snow, in shallow trenches dug at an upward angle perpendicular to the fence, leaving only the cylinder heads exposed. He’d molded the plastic explosive around the seams where the cylinder heads joined the tanks. All that remained was to prime and arm the plastic with time pencil fuses. If he did it right, at the instant of detonation the steel heads would be blown away from the tanks, allowing the pressurized nerve gas to spurt through the fence and saturate the area of the dog kennels and the SS barracks.

The cylinders weren’t the problem. The problem was the patrols. Crossing the hills from the cottage to the camp, Stern had felt as if an entire SS division had descended on the area. It had taken him over two hours to get from the cottage to the camp fence, and he had twice nearly stumbled into patrols. The two missing SS men had generated even more of a response than he’d expected. Lying in the snow beside the buried cylinders, he tried to decide what to do next.

In his experience, military patrols, no matter what army they served, reached their lowest effectiveness in the hour before dawn. Sometimes it was better to wait them out. He had done it before, and it looked like the best course of action tonight. He would not let Schörner catch him because of impatience. The case he’d stolen from Achnacarry held a selection of time pencil fuses, giving him great flexibility in delay times. Even if he waited here until dawn, he could still set the cylinders to blow at eight tomorrow night. Thinking of Colonel Vaughan discovering the missing ordnance at Achnacarry made him want to laugh. But he didn’t.

He heard the crunch of boot heels and the panting of another dog.

Klaus Brandt sat alone in his office in the hospital, the dim bulb of his desk lamp providing the only light.

“Absolutely, Reichsführer,” he said into the black telephone. “And the sooner the better. The Raubhammer gas suits were my only worry, and they have arrived. I shall test them tomorrow.”

“I have a surprise for you, Brandt,” Himmler replied. “You must have wondered why I have always demanded schematic plans of all your equipment, as well as detailed updates on your new processes.”

Brandt rolled his eyes. “I must confess some curiosity, Reichsführer.”

“You will be gratified to learn that for the past year, I have had teams of Russian laborers carving a massive factory out of the rock beneath the Harz Mountains. If the Raubhammer test goes as planned — as I have no doubt it will — you will begin directing mass production of Soman Four at that factory in five days’ time.”

Brandt drummed his fingers on his desk. If Himmler had offered anything less he would have been insulted. “Reichsführer, I do not know what to say.”

“Say nothing. The only thanks I require will be the maximum possible output of Soman from that day until the day the Allies invade France. We’ll show Speer what the SS can accomplish!”

“You have my word, Reichsführer. But what of my work here? My laboratory equipment and staff, my hospital?”

Himmler made a clucking sound over the phone. “Forget that little workshop, Brandt. At the Harz factory you will have everything you need, but with twenty times the capacity. You will of course bring your technicians with you. I have already arranged to have Totenhausen converted into a poultry processing plant.”

“I see.” Brandt was taken aback by this. “And my test subjects?”

“You mean your prisoners? If your work is done, liquidate them. We must have absolute secrecy.”

Brandt lifted a pen and doodled on the notepad on his desk. “Perhaps I should wait until the Raubhammer demonstration is completed, just to be sure.”

There was a chilly silence from Berlin. “You have doubts about the demonstration, Herr Doktor?”

Brandt cleared his throat, cursing himself mentally for his overcautiousness. “None whatever, Reichsführer. I shall begin dismantling the laboratory tomorrow.”

“And your prisoners?”

“Nothing will remain.”

Fifty meters away from Klaus Brandt, Major Wolfgang Schörner poured a glass of brandy and sat on his sofa. Ariel Weitz had only just delivered Rachel to his quarters, as tonight’s work had kept him much longer than usual. It had been a messy business, but now he could relax. Rachel nodded once to him, then moved toward the sofa, her fingers automatically lifting her shift over her head.

Schörner rose quickly and pulled the garment back into place. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I have something to tell you. Something you will very much want to hear.” He led her gently to the wing chair.

She sat with her hands folded on her lap and waited.

“Have you ever heard of Eindeutschung ?” Schörner asked.

Rachel shook her head.

“ Eindeutschung is a program for the reclamation of Nordic-Germanic racial elements from the occupied eastern territories. In this program, children between two and six years of age who exhibit Nordic traits — as yours do, especially the boy — are taken into one of the Lebensborn homes. Today, I am happy to say, I was able to obtain a promise that space could be made available for your children at the home in Steinhöring.”

Rachel’s pulse quickened. “What is a Lebensborn home, Sturmbannführer?”

“Ah, I forget. You have been isolated. Lebensborn is the Fount of Life Society. It was established by Reichsführer Himmler to assist unwed mothers of pure racial stock in delivering and raising their children. The facilities are models of cleanliness.”

“And these homes . . . they accept children of parents who are not of ‘pure’ racial stock?”

“They do, yes. It’s a matter of biological selection. But I have already vouched for your children. The senior man at Steinhöring is a friend of my father.”

“I see.” Rachel thought for a moment. “What happens to these children after they reach the age of six?”

“Oh, they are adopted long before then. The demand far exceeds the supply.”

“The demand ? Who demands them?”

“Why, good German families of course. Frequently families of childless SS officers.”

Rachel closed her eyes.

Schörner could not contain his excitement. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. It’s the perfect solution!”

“They would be raised as Nazis?”

Schörner looked put out. “As Germans, Rachel. Is that so terrible?”

“I would never see them again.”

A strange smile played over Schörner’s lips. “Children are not the only ones taken into the Eindeutschung program, Liebling .”

Rachel cringed at the intimate word. Her relationship with Schörner had been nothing like she’d expected. Rather than simply using her for sexual relief, he seemed intent on creating some grotesque parody of domesticity.

“What are you saying?” she asked, trying not to trust the glimmer of excitement she felt. “I could go with my children?”

Schörner’s smile disappeared. “That would not be possible. However, all is not lost. I shall be reassigned very soon. My parents are still alive in Cologne. I believe it might be possible for me to take you there and have you employed by them as a servant, as part of Eindeutschung .”