Careful, Simon, please be careful…
Ten long minutes passed.
Hoot-hoot... Then, three more calls: hazel grouse, wood pigeon, rock dove — Frenec, Pappas, and Villejohn in place and ready for action.
Anton closed his eyes, imagining what was happening below: As one, Root and the others rising from the underbrush … each man slipping like a ghost toward the German soldier … knife or garrote coming up and finding its mark … the dead man crumpling …
Ten seconds passed. Twenty. No shots came.
Come on, Simon…
Hoot-hoot. The all-clear signal.
Anton leapt up, sprinted up the trail, and skidded to a halt at the crest of the slope. In the ravine below, Simon Root stood over a soldier’s body. He gave Anton a wave and smile, then signaled him to come down.
Just as Anton had described, Root found the bunker disguised as part of the hillside, complete with overhanging sod and foliage sprouting from holes in the concrete facade. They put some effort into this one, Root thought, and again wondered what could be so important. Time to find out.
He put his ear to the steel door. After a few seconds he heard the scuff of a boot and a murmured German voice. Just one, sounds like. That meant the door itself was probably locked from the inside. We’ll have to wrangle an invitation.
Root signaled to Frenec, who nodded then began stripping off his clothes, as Villejohn and Pappas began doing the same to one of the German bodies. A minute later Frenec was wearing a greatcoat and wool pants. He placed a coal scuttle helmet on his head and pulled it low over his eyes. In his right fist, tucked out of sight against his pant leg, was his trench knife.
“Let’s pray there’s no password, eh?” Frenec whispered to Root.
“If so, improvise. Try ‘I love the Kaiser.’”
Frenec grinned. “And you know I do.”
Root and the rest of the team spread themselves along the hillside, knives and wires at the ready. Frenec stepped to the door and pounded on the steel. “Offnen Sie! Ich muss scheise!”
Root smiled to himself. Nothing said “open up” like urgent bowels.
There was a metal clank-clank as the door’s latches were thrown. The door swung open. Frenec stood bent at the waist, adjusting his boot strap.
“Gekommen auf,” the guard said. Come on.
“Ja, ja …,” Frenec muttered. Helmet still shielding his face, he lifted his head slightly, checking for other guards inside. “Warten Sie eine minute—”
Frenec’s hand shot up, grabbed the guard’s coat, and jerked hard. The guard stumbled forward. Frenec’s knife shot upward. There was an explosive grunt and the man crumpled forward. Frenec hefted him over his shoulder, then waddled off into the trees. He reappeared moments later, wiping the knife on his pant leg. He grinned. “One less ugly in the world.”
Root pointed to Villejohn. “Your team’s on point, Reni. Room by room, knives and wires.”
The bunker’s interior was dim, the passageways lit only by sputtering oil lamps. Shadows danced off the walls and Root could smell mildew in the chill air. Lining each side of the main passage were two doors; at the far end lay a T-turn. Somewhere in the distance Root could hear voices singing in German:
Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall, wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenpralclass="underline" Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein, wer will des Stromes Hüter sein?
“What is it?” Frenec whispered.
“ ‘Die Wacht am Rhein.’ The Watch on the Rhine.”
“Happy bastards, aren’t they? I’ll give them another mouth to smile out of.”
“You’re an angry fellow, Frenec, anyone ever tell you that?”
“Only you.”
Ahead, Villejohn and Pappas each had his team waiting beside a door. Frenec took the third and Root, with Anton taking up the rear, the fourth. Once everyone was ready, Root gave the signal. As one, each team slipped through its door.
Root found himself face-to-face with a German soldier. Dressed in woolen long underwear and a gray T-shirt, the man froze, a steaming mug lifted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide. Root stabbed the tip of his knife into the hollow of his throat, bundled him in a bear hug, and dragged him to the floor. Root’s other men rushed past him and dispatched the other three soldiers where they lay in their bunks.
“Stash them,” Root ordered, rising to his feet. “Tidy up. Anton, you okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Root stepped back into the passageway. Frenec, Pappas, and Villejohn were already there. Each gave a thumbs-up. Root nodded and pointed at Frenec: Next passage.
Fifteen minutes later they were done, having cleared the remaining rooms. The bunker was shaped like a T, with the main entrance at the base. At each end of the T’s crossbar they found a pair of wide ladders leading downward. Strains of “Lili Marlene” continued to echo up the shafts.
In all, there’d been thirty soldiers, all fit, well fed, and well equipped — if a little green. Root knew they would’ve had a harder time with seasoned troops. Of course, that didn’t change the facts: The Huns had stuck a lot of men in a bunker that was not only strategically obsolete, but hundreds of miles away from the nearest German units.
He and his squad leaders gathered in the main passage and crouched in a circle. Frenec puffed on a red hussar. The backs of his hands were slick with blood. Pappas coughed once, then stifled a sneeze. “Bloody weather’s giving me the grippe,” he grumbled.
“Doc, heal thyself,” Villejohn said with a smile. Pappas was the team’s corpsman.
Root asked, “Documents?”
Each man shook his head. “Just bunkrooms, a crapper, and a kitchen,” Frenec said. “Most of the idiots were asleep — probably just got off watch.”
Makes sense, Root thought. Germans had a habit of changing watches at dusk and dawn. “Uniforms?”
Pappas shook his head. “They’re all stripped — no unit insignias, patches, ribbons — nothing.”
“ID disks?”
“Gone.”
A genuine mystery, Root thought again. What was so damned important about this place? Though he didn’t have that answer, he had an idea where he might find it.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Down we go. If there’re any secrets to be had, that’s where we’ll find them. Frenec and I’ll go first and have a look.”
Root and Frenec stood up, handed their rifles to the other two, then walked to the head of the ladder. A gust of air blew up the shaft; Root shivered. He drew his Webley pistol — he’d given up his Colt after it jammed three times at Messines — checked the cylinder, reholstered it. He looked at Villejohn and Pappas and the rest of the men arrayed behind them. He gave them a smile, clapped Anton on the shoulder, then said, “Mystery awaits, boys.”
Root placed his foot on the rung and started downward, unaware he was stepping into a nightmare that would consume the remainder of his life.
Istvan was wondering if he’d made a mistake. So certain of his decision just hours before, now, in the quiet shadows of his berth, the words of his friend echoed in his mind. The rhythmic clacking of the train’s steel wheels lulled him into drowsiness. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting shadows against the wall as the train started its climb into the foothills of the Steiermark Alps.