These men-these monsters-could not be allowed to live. He would be damned by God if he knew these things and did not tear the throats out of the men who stood before him, smiling and talking about wigs and production schedules. The cargo bays of all three trucks were loaded with pine-wood boxes; loaded with hair, shaved off skulls like fleece off slaughtered lambs.
He could not let these men live.
He took a step forward, brushing past the rifle barrel. “Halt!” the soldier shouted. Krolle, Blok, and Boots turned to look at him, hair still drifting down into the box. “Halt!” the soldier commanded, and drove the barrel into Michael’s rib cage.
Such pain was nothing. Michael kept going, his wrists manacled behind him. He stared into the colorless eyes of Major Krolle, and he saw the man flinch and step backward. He felt the fangs aching to slide from his jaws, his facial muscles rippling to give them room.
“Halt, damn you!” The soldier hit him on the back of the head with his rifle barrel, and Michael staggered but kept his balance. He was striding toward the three men, and Boots stepped between him and Colonel Blok. Another soldier, armed with a submachine gun, rushed at Michael and slammed him in the stomach with the gun butt. Michael doubled over and gasped in pain, and the soldier lifted his weapon to strike him across the skull.
The prisoner struck first, bringing his naked knee up into the man’s groin with a force that lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground. An arm locked around Michael’s throat from behind, squeezing his windpipe. Another man drove a fist into his chest, making his heart stutter. “Hold him! Hold the bastard!” Krolle barked as Michael kept thrashing wildly. Krolle lifted the baton and brought it down on Michael’s shoulder. A second blow dropped him, and a third left him lying in the dust, his lungs rasping as pain throbbed through his blackening shoulder and bruised stomach. He hung on the edge of unconsciousness, fighting against the change. Black hair was about to burst from his pores; he could smell the wildness in his skin, taste its musky power in his mouth. If he changed here, lying in the dust, he would be cut open and examined by German knives. Every part of him-from organs to teeth-would be tagged and immersed in bottles full of formaldehyde to be studied by Nazi doctors. He wanted to live, to kill these men, and so he battled against the change and forced it back down.
Perhaps a few black wolf hairs had emerged from his body-on his chest, the insides of his thighs, and his throat-but they rippled away so fast that no one noticed them, and even if one of the soldiers had seen, he would’ve thought his eyes were playing tricks. Michael lay on his belly, very close to passing out. He heard Blok say, “Baron, I think you’re in for a very rough visit with us.”
Soldiers grasped beneath Michael’s arms, pulled him up, and began to drag him through the dust as he fell into darkness.
6
“Can you hear me?”
Someone speaking, from the far end of a tunnel. Whose voice?
“Baron? Can you hear me?”
Darkness upon darkness. Don’t answer! he thought. If you don’t answer, whoever’s speaking will go away and let you rest!
A light switched on. The light was very bright; Michael could see it through his eyelids. “He’s awake,” he heard the voice say to someone else in the room. “You see how his pulse has increased? Oh, he knows we’re here, all right.” It was Blok’s voice, he realized. A hand grasped his chin and shook his face. “Come on, come on. Open your eyes, Baron.”
He wouldn’t. “Give him a drink of water,” Blok said, and immediately a bucket of cold water was flung into Michael’s face.
He sputtered, his body involuntarily shivering with the chill, and his eyes opened. The light-a spot lamp of brutal wattage, drawn up close to his face-made him squeeze his eyelids shut again.
“Baron?” Blok said. “If you refuse to open your eyes, we’ll cut your eyelids off.”
There was no doubt they would. He obeyed, squinting in the glare.
“Good! Now we can get some business done!” Blok pulled up a chair on casters beside the prisoner and sat down. Michael could make out others in the room: a tall man holding a dripping bucket, another figure-this one thick and fleshy-in a black SS uniform that bulged at the seams. Major Krolle, of course. “Before we begin,” Blok said quietly, “I’ll tell you that you are a man whom hope has abandoned. There is no escape from this room. Beyond these walls, there are more walls.” He leaned forward, into the light, and his silver teeth glittered. “You have no friends here, and no one is coming to save you. We are going to destroy you-either quickly, or slowly: that is the sole choice within your power to make. Do you understand? Nod, please.”
Michael was busy trying to figure out how he was bound. He was lying, stark naked, on a metal table that was shaped like an X, his arms outstretched over his head and his legs apart. Tight leather straps secured his wrists and ankles. The table was tilted up and forward, so that Michael was very close to an upright position. He tested the straps; they wouldn’t give even a quarter of an inch.
“Bauman?” Blok said. “Bring me some more water, please.” The man with the bucket-an aide to Major Krolle, Michael assumed-answered “Yes sir” and walked across the room. An iron bolt slid back, and there was a quick glimpse of gray light as a heavy door opened and closed. Blok turned his attention to the prisoner again. “What is your name and nationality?”
Michael was silent. His heart pounded; he was sure Blok could see it. His shoulder hurt like hell, though it probably wasn’t fractured. He felt like a wrapping of bruises around a barbed-wire skeleton. Blok expected an answer, and Michael decided to give him one: “Richard Hamlet. I’m British.”
“Oh, you’re British, are you? A Tommy who speaks perfect Russian? I don’t think so. If you’re so very British, say something in English for me.”
He didn’t respond.
Blok sighed deeply, and shook his head. “I think I prefer you as a baron. All right, let’s say for the sake of speculation that you’re art agent for the Red Army. Probably dropped into Germany on an assassination or sabotage mission. Your contact was Chesna van Dorne. How and where did you meet her?”
Had they caught Chesna? Michael wondered. There was no answer to that question in the eyes of his inquisitor.
“What was your mission?” Blok asked.
Michael stared straight ahead, a pulse beating at his temple.
“Why did Chesna bring you to the Reichkronen?”
Still no response.
“How were you planning on getting out of the country after your mission was completed?” No answer. Blok leaned a little closer. “Have you ever heard of a man named Theo von Frankewitz?”
Michael kept his face emotionless.
“Von Frankewitz seemed to know you,” Blok continued. “Oh, he tried to shield you at first, but we gave him some interesting drugs. Before he died, he told us the exact description of a man who visited him at his apartment. He told us he showed this man a drawing. The man he described is you, Baron. Now tell me, please: what interest would a Russian secret agent have in a decrepit sidewalk artist like Frankewitz?” He prodded Michael’s bruised shoulder with his forefinger. “Don’t think you’re being brave, Baron. You’re being very stupid. We can shoot you full of drugs to loosen your tongue, but unfortunately those don’t work very well unless you’re in… shall we say… a weakened condition. Therefore we must satisfy that requirement. It’s your choice, Baron: how shall we do this?”
Michael didn’t answer. He knew what was ahead, and he was readying himself for it.
“I see,” Blok said. He stood up, and moved away from the prisoner. “Major Krolle? At your pleasure, please.”
Krolle stalked forward, lifted the rubber baton, and went to work.
Sometime later, cold water was thrown into Michael’s face again and revived him to the devil’s kingdom. He coughed and sputtered, his nostrils clogged with blood. His right eye was swollen shut, and the entire right side of his face felt weighted with bruises. His lower lip was gashed open, leaking a thread of crimson that trickled down his chin to his chest.
