She gazed across the field to where Reinhardt raged.
“Poor junk man,” she said.
Klaus led her around the far side of the farm, toward where Keitel and von Westarp would be waiting. The route took them past the gunnery range that had become Heike's personal training ground. The guns here fired nonlethal wax bullets designed specially at the REGP, back in the days when it had been the IMV, the Human Advancement Institute. They wouldn't kill, but the pain was enough to make one wish they did. Klaus remembered his sessions on this range vividly, and he had the scars on his chest to ensure he'd never forget the lessons learned here.
Most of the others—Klaus, Reinhardt, even Kammler—had graduated beyond this facility years ago. Heike had yet to master it.
But she was getting close. She'd been training like a demon all summer. Ever since Klaus and Gretel had returned triumphantly from England. Reinhardt had been given an assignment even before that, back in Spain. And now one of the Twins had gone to Latvia. Soon even Kammler would be in the field, and Heike would be the last of von Westarp's children to be deemed complete. Nobody wanted to be the sole focus of his disappointment.
Heike stood at the bottom of the obstacle course. The wind teased her hair. Then she disappeared, uniform and all. Reinhardt had been quite upset when she achieved this breakthrough. He'd spent hours watching her train, relishing the moments when her concentration lapsed and he could glimpse, ever so briefly, her naked body.
The gunners opened up, releasing a hail of projectiles across the field every time a bell, chain, or flag indicated the passage of the invisible woman. Most of the bullets splattered harmlessly against the brick wall, but once or twice Klaus heard the “Hoompf” as a round clipped Heike. But she maintained her concentration and didn't reappear.
“She's improving.” She'd be a formidable assassin. Nearly as good as Klaus when she came into her own.
“Don't you think?” he asked, turning back to Gretel.
The corner of Gretel's mouth quirked up, and the shadows returned to that place behind her eyes. Quietly, she said, “Heike has her uses.”
Klaus sighed. There had been a time when that half smile filled him with dread. Now it just made him angry.
Gott.
“Don't do this, Gretel.”
She looked up. She blinked. She turned for the house.
Klaus grabbed her wrist and spun her toward him. Her arm was so thin and his grip so tight that his thumb and forefinger overlapped by more than a knuckle. Her skin was warm to the touch, though she'd spent the entire day outside. She stumbled, bumping into his chest. Her hair smelled of the purple bellflowers dangling from her braids.
“What ever you're thinking, don't. Things are going well now. Don't ruin this.”
“Are they? Are they truly?” She looked him in the eye. “Do you enjoy building coffins, brother?”
He tried to hold her gaze, but flinched away. “I'm tired of getting swept along in your wake.” He let go of her arm. “Do something for
Gretel cocked her head, looking him up and down. Then she linked her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder as he escorted her back inside.
“Twenty-one thousand. Four hundred. Seventeen,” she whispered.
nine
Will spent the afternoon at the Hart and Hearth, waiting to plant the W bomb in his briefcase. He stared at the empty pint in his hand, listening to how it rang as he slid it back and forth along planks of polished beech. The glass clinked when he tapped it against the brass rail and asked the barman for another.
He wondered if the Nazis would commandeer the breweries when they arrived. He wondered if German beer differed greatly from British beer. Perhaps they'd build
Then again, if things went well to night, the invasion would be postponed at least until spring. If not ... well, he'd have blood on his hands, no matter the outcome.
The barman refilled his glass. Will nodded his thanks. Drinking made it possible to endure the wait.
There had been a time when Will resisted such simple comforts. It seemed silly now. As much as he hated the man, he understood his grandfather differently these days.
His new drink had a thick head of foam. Will imagined it was sea foam, and that if he listened, he could hear the crash of advancing surf. It wouldn't stop until he drowned.
The Hart and Hearth that Will remembered so fondly had become a thing of the past. Gone were the roar of conversation, the clink of glasses, the shimmering firelight on the ceiling. The fireplace was dark. The drive to conserve fuel, even firewood, had trumped tradition.
People still came, people still drank, but the atmosphere had changed. They greeted each other a little too enthusiastically. They laughed a little too loudly. And they drank—when there was drink to be had—a little too seriously. It was the cumulative effect of months of living with a siege mentality.
These were the men and women who huddled in the shelters at night, got up the next morning, climbed over the rubble, and returned to work. Day after day after day. They came to the pubs for companionship, for the illusion of normalcy. But in truth, every person there was drinking alone, seeking the fortitude to make it through the night. Like Will.
He did his best not to notice them, or to be noticed. Rubbing elbows felt a bit ghoulish to night.
As the afternoon wore on toward evening, Will saw many people glancing at pocket watches or the brass- and-mahogany grandmother clock in the corner. The barman clicked on the wireless a few minutes before six. It gave the valves time to warm up properly.
He rang the bell over the bar with two quick
The pub fell silent. Listening to the BBC six o'clock news was a national daily ritual. The patrons abandoned conversations and dart games to crowd the bar. A tradesman inadvertently kicked Will's attache case. Will held his breath as the case toppled over with a leaden
Frank Phillips read news of the war. Luftwaffe raids had leveled the foundries in Shropshire, Lincolnshire, and Dorset. In Africa, General O'Connor's offensive against the Italians had begun to falter. He might have had a fighting chance with reinforcements, but of course there would be none. Fighting continued in Greece and Italian East Africa. Admiral Decoux, the Governor General of French Indochina, had granted the Japanese basing and transit rights throughout his territory. The tonnage of lend-lease shipments from the United States continued to decline, owing to ferocious wolf packs and a flagging commitment overseas. President Roo se velt's impassioned arguments for increasing aid to Great Britain were increasingly unpopular with the American people and its isolationist Congress.
Hitler's naval blockade was in some ways worse than the Blitz. Common knowledge said they'd stopped dyeing horse meat green. It was no longer unsuitable for human consumption. The Ministry of Food denied this vocally.
Interest in the state of the outside world had been more keen in the spring, before Dunkirk, when Britain still
