5
Dawn came gray and stormy as yesterday’s dusk. At six o’clock orchestral music roused Major Shackleton and Captain Humes-Talbot, whose backbones popped and moaned as they pried themselves out of the narrow and wholly uncomfortable dead pastor’s bed. They had slept clothed, to ward off the chill that sneaked in around the stained-glass window, and they went downstairs marked with unmilitary wrinkles.
Sleet slashed at the windows, and Shackleton thought he might scream. “Good morning,” Michael Gallatin said, sitting in the black leather chair before a newly built fire, a mug of hot Twinings Earl Grey tea in his hand. He wore a dark blue flannel robe and no shoes. “There’s coffee and tea in the kitchen. Also some scrambled eggs and local sausage, if you want any breakfast.”
“If that sausage is as strong as the local whiskey, I think I’ll pass,” Shackleton said, with a frown of distaste.
“No, it’s very mild. Help yourselves.”
“Where’s Mallory?” Humes-Talbot asked, looking around.
“Oh, he had his breakfast and went out to change the oil in the car. I let him use the garage.”
“What’s that racket?” Shackleton thought the music sounded like armies of demons clashing in hell. He walked to the Victrola and saw the record spinning around.
“Stravinsky, isn’t it?” Humes-Talbot inquired.
“Yes. The Rite of Spring. It’s my favorite composition. This is the part, Major Shackleton, where the village elders stand in a circle and watch a young girl dance herself to death in a pagan ritual of sacrifice.” Michael closed his eyes for a few seconds, seeing the dark purple and crimson of the leaping, frenzied notes. He opened them again, and stared at the major. “Sacrifice seems to be a particularly popular topic these days.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Gallatin’s eyes made Shackleton nervous; they were steady and piercing, and they held a power that made the major feel as boneless as a washrag. “I’m a Benny Goodman fan.”
“Oh yes, I know his work.” Michael listened to the thunderous, pounding music for another moment; in it was the image of a world at war, fighting against its own barbarity and the barbarity clearly winning. Then he stood up, lifted the needle without scratching the 78 rpm disk and let the Victrola wind down. “I accept the mission, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll find out what you want to know.”
“You will? I mean…” Humes-Talbot stumbled over his words. “I thought you’d made up your mind already.”
“I had. I changed it.”
“Oh, I see.” He didn’t really, but he wasn’t going to question the man’s motives any further. “Well, that’s good to hear, sir. Very good. We’ll put you in a week of training, of course. Give you a few practice parachute jumps and some linguistic work, though I doubt you’ll need it. And we’ll put together all the information you’ll need as soon as we get back to London.”
“Yes, you do that.” The thought of the flight over the Channel into France made the skin crawl at the back of his neck, but that would have to be dealt with at the proper time. He drew a deep breath, glad now that his decision was final. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going for my morning run.”
“I knew you were a runner!” Shackleton said. “I am, too. How far do you go?”
“Five miles, more or less.”
“I’ve gone seven miles before. Loaded down with field gear. Listen, if you’ve got an extra warm-up suit and a sweater, I’ll go with you. I wouldn’t mind gettin’ the blood movin’ again.” Especially after trying to sleep in that torture rack, he thought.
“I don’t wear a warm-up suit,” Michael told him, and removed his robe. He was naked underneath. He folded the robe over the chairback. “It’s almost springtime. And thank you, Major, but I always run alone.” He walked past Shackleton and Humes-Talbot, who were both too shocked to move or speak, and went out the door and into the cold, sleety morning light.
Shackleton caught the door before it closed. He watched, incredulous, as the naked man began to run with long, purposeful strides down the driveway, then across the grassy field toward the woods. “Hey!” he shouted. “What about the wolves?” Michael Gallatin didn’t look back, and in another moment he vanished into the line of trees.
“He’s an odd chap, don’t you think?” Humes-Talbot asked, peering over the other man’s shoulder.
“Odd or not,” Shackleton said, “I believe Major Gallatin can get the job done.” Sleet dashed him in the face, and he shivered in spite of his uniform and shut the door against the wind.
6
“Martin? Come here and look at this!”
The man whose name had been called stood up from his desk immediately and walked into the inner office, his shoes clacking on the concrete floor. He was heavyset and broad-shouldered, and he wore an expensive brown suit, a spotless white shirt, and black necktie. His graying hair was combed back from his forehead. He had the soft, fleshy features of a child’s favorite uncle, a man who liked to tell bedtime stories.
The walls of the inner office were covered with maps, marked with red arrows and circles. Some of the arrows had been scratched out, drawn and redrawn, and many of the circles had been crossed out with angry lines. More maps lay on the office’s large desk, along with piles of papers that needed signatures. A small metal box had been opened, and in it were carefully organized vials of watercolors and horsehair brushes of various sizes. The man behind the desk had pulled his stiff-backed chair to an easel in the corner of the windowless room, and on that easel was a painting in progress: a watercolor of a white farmhouse and behind it the purple rise of jagged mountain peaks. On the floor around the artist’s feet were other paintings of houses and the countryside, all of them put aside before they were finished.
“Here. Right here. Do you see it?” The artist wore glasses, and he tapped his paintbrush against a smeared shadow at the farmhouse’s edge.
“I see… a shadow,” Martin answered.
“In the shadow. Right there!” He tapped it again, harder. “Look close!” He picked up the painting, getting water-colors on his fingers, and thrust it in Martin’s face.
Martin swallowed thickly. He saw a shadow, and only that. This seemed to be important, and should be handled carefully. “Yes,” he answered. “I think… I do see it.”
“Ah!” the other man said, smiling. “Ah! So there it is!” He spoke German with a heavy-some might think clumsy-Austrian accent. “The wolf, right there in the shadow!” He pointed the brush’s wooden end at a dark scrawl that Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of. “The wolf on the prowl. And look here!” He picked up another painting, badly done, of a winding mountain stream. “See it? Behind that rock?”
“Yes, mein Fuhrer,” Martin Bormann said, staring at a rock and a misshapen line or two.
“And here, in this one!” Hitler offered a third painting, of a field of white edelweiss. He pointed his crimson- smeared finger at two dark dots amid the sunny flowers. “The eyes of the wolf! You see, he’s creeping closer! You know what that means, don’t you?”
Martin hesitated, then slowly shook his head.
“The wolf is my lucky symbol!” Hitler said, with a hint of agitation. “Everyone knows that! And here’s the wolf, appearing in my paintings with a will of its own! Do you need a clearer portent than that?”
Here we go, Hitler’s secretary thought. Now we descend into the maelstrom of signs and symbols.
“I’m the wolf, don’t you understand?” Hitler took off his glasses, which few but the inner circle ever saw him wearing, snapped them shut, and slid them into their leather case. “This is a portent of the future. My future.” His intense blue eyes blinked. “The future of the Reich, I should say of course. This only tells me again what I already know to be true.”
Martin waited without speaking, staring at the farmhouse picture with its unintelligible scribble in the shadows.
“We’re going to smash the Slavs and drive them back into their rat holes,” Hitler went on. “Leningrad, Moscow, Stalingrad, Kursk… names on a map.” He grasped a map, leaving red fingerprints on it, and pushed it
