He knelt down next to the body, examining it thoughtfully. There was no reason to doubt the guard’s deduction, not when the pencil was clearly visible. It had been driven through the poor bastard’s eyeball and thrust straight into his brain, causing instant death. There was no sign of a struggle, suggesting that he had been caught by surprise. And yet, what manner of policeman let a complete stranger approach him without going on guard. The old fear was gone now. A civilian on the verge of being arrested might just try to fight back.
A refugee left the barracks, he thought. And he wouldn’t have left unless he had business somewhere within the city.
A thought struck him. His frown deepened. He… or she?
It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it had to be considered. Someone had caught an experienced policeman – and former soldier – by surprise. It was unlikely that a hulking refugee – a male refugee – would have managed to do that, not when policemen knew and confronted all of the nasty tricks in the book. But a woman? A woman might be physically weaker than a man – Kurt was stronger than his father now, but Gudrun wasn’t – yet she might just be able to surprise her victim. He’d told Gudrun to kick a man between the legs as hard as possible, if she felt threatened; there was no way she could trade blows with a man and survive the experience. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, but life was not fair. Besides, only idiots liked the idea of a fair fight.
He sucked in his breath as he stood. A refugee had escaped, perhaps more than one. And, perhaps, a woman… there was no way to be sure, but the theory fitted the facts. And if the murderer was a woman, she had to be working for the SS. There was no other reason to kill a guard and make an escape in the middle of chaos.
“Keep the doors locked until we can get reinforcements,” he ordered, finally. He would have to call his superiors and pass on his theory, assuming they didn’t demote him for talking nonsense during a war. “And then we can speak to the refugees and find out who’s missing.”
“There might be more than one,” the spokesman said.
Herman shrugged. “We’ll find out,” he said, as he reached for his radio. “And then we’ll find the murderer.”
Horst couldn’t help feeling that the Reich Council – and he included Karl Holliston – had been slipping towards degeneracy long before they’d started hiding the truth about the number of soldiers killed or wounded in South Africa. Building a bunker network below Berlin was a sensible precaution – the British had bombed Berlin repeatedly during the last war – but there was no need to decorate it like some perverse version of Buckingham Palace. His instructors had made him read about the Gates of Fire, back during his training, pointing out that the Spartans had survived on black broth while their Persian enemies had eaten countless fancy dishes at each meal. And each Spartan had been worth a thousand Persians…
And then the Spartans started eating like the Persians, he thought, morbidly. Their king had brought back a fashion for enemy cuisine, according to his instructors. It had been the chink that led to Sparta’s inevitable fall. And here, we are living like the British monarch.
He turned his head slightly to look at Gudrun, sleeping next to him. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, perfect little handfuls that made Horst want to reach out and hold them with his hands. In her unguarded state, she was perfect, the epitome of Germanic beauty. Her mere appearance made him want to hold her, to protect her, to safeguard her from all harm. And yet, she didn’t really understand just how hard life could become. The cruise missiles that had struck the city were merely the opening moves in a war that could last for years.
And you are being stupid, he told himself, tartly. She wasn’t born and raised in the east.
It was an odd thought, one he perversely contemplated for a long moment. Gudrun was strong, although not in the way he’d been raised to respect. A weak woman who’d been arrested and held prisoner would have broken long before the strip search, just through not knowing what would happen to her. And Gudrun had kept going, daring the world to do its worst. Maybe she wasn’t an eastern woman with one hand stirring the stew pot and the other near a loaded gun. She was still strong and determined to do the best she could, even if she wasn’t quite sure what that was now.
The phone rang. He picked it up quickly, hoping it wouldn’t disturb Gudrun. “Albrecht.”
“Herr Albrecht,” a voice said. Horst vaguely recognised it as belonging to one of the operating staff, one of the men he’d met when he was surveying the Reichstag. “Councillor Wieland is expected in the briefing room, one hour from now.”
“Understood,” Horst said.
He was tempted to order breakfast, but he had a feeling the staff had far too many other things to do with their time. Instead, he reached over and kissed Gudrun’s forehead, gently tapping her until her eyes opened. She tensed automatically, then relaxed as she recognised him. Horst didn’t blame her for feeling unsure of herself, even though she’d slept well as far as he could tell. She’d had quite a few nightmares over the last two weeks, after they’d started sleeping together. Now she’d actually overthrown the government – or at least started the ball rolling – she was all too aware of everything that could have gone wrong.
“It’s time to get up,” he said, quietly. “We have a meeting in an hour.”
Gudrun sat upright, holding her arms over her breasts. Horst couldn’t help finding it amusing – they were hardly strangers, after all the time they’d spent exploring each other’s body – but she’d been raised to be modest. It wasn’t as if girls in the east went around topless, he had to admit; they just knew there were worse things than being seen naked by a lover. There were more important things to be worried about.
“Joy,” Gudrun said. She looked at him until he turned his back. “What time is it?”
Horst glanced at the wall-mounted clock. “Nine in the morning,” he said. He was surprised they’d been allowed to sleep in so late, but circumstances were hardly normal. His old instructors would have roared with laughter at the suggestion that the trainees should be allowed to stay in bed until six in the morning, then sent whoever dared to suggest it on punishment duty. “Are you hungry?”
“Just feeling dirty,” Gudrun said. She rose and headed for the shower; Horst turned, just in time to see her bare backside heading through the door. Her voice echoed back a moment later. “Can you order coffee?”
“Of course,” Horst said. He picked up the phone and checked the number. “Do you want anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Gudrun called.
Horst placed the order, then hunted for his pants and shirt while Gudrun showered herself thoroughly. He was tempted to join her in the shower, but time was definitely not on their side. He’d make sure to have a quick wash once Gudrun was finished, rather than escort Gudrun to the briefing smelling like a pig. He doubted that would go down well with the other councillors. There was a knock at the door five minutes later, which he opened to discover a young dark-haired woman carrying a tray of coffee. He wasn’t too surprised to discover that the bunker’s kitchens had sent a plate of pastries too.
They must think we acquired a taste for them in France, he thought, as he took the tray and thanked the servant. It’s hard to get French pastries in the Reich without connections.