“I see you are correct,” Barbarossa said. “You have authority. Therefore, I will comply. And now that we have the time, I would like to hear the long explanation.”
“Yes,” Hindenburg said. “First, we will retreat to a safer location. I order you to follow me.”
“I will follow,” the Barbarossa HK said.
Together, the two AI Kaisers halted and then reversed course, backing away from the others.
As the front door opened and the lights flicked on, John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, sweeping a thin blanket off him. He lay on the sofa. The lights were harsh in his eyes, and the youngest Serbian sat in a chair with a shotgun over his knees.
That meant it must be the middle of the night. John spied Foch and two other lean men. Those two had deadly grace and hard glances.
Foch spoke to the Serbian. The man rose, stared at the Frenchmen and walked into the bedroom. The secret service agent waited, so John waited, too. In less than ten minutes, the three Serbians exited the front door, closing it behind them.
That was either ominous or good. One way or another, it meant the end of waiting here. John closed his eyes and then opened them wider. The Frenchmen would either use him or kill him. On the death path, there were no other options.
Each crisis point was like playing Russian roulette. The first time, one bullet sat in a chamber. During the second crisis, there were two bullets in the chambers, a two out of six chance of dying. At the third crisis, he faced three bullets. This was the fourth crisis, and the odds weighed against him. Soon, now, he would be out of luck.
As the front door closed, Foch sat in the comfort chair by letting himself drop and banging back against the cushions. Was there something wrong with his knees or his back? The other two flanked him, watching John.
Foch took out a small flat tin, opened it and extracted a cigarette. He put it between his lips, took out a book of matches, lit one, staring at the flame, and inhaled as he lit the cigarette. Foch shook the match and tossed it onto the coffee table. He blew smoke at John, inhaled again and blew more smoke. At last, he positioned the cigarette on the edge of the coffee table.
“I do not like mysteries,” Foch told him.
Red Cloud did not speak. Four bullets were in the chambers. He had two chances of six of leaving the safe house alive. The two killers flanking Foch would not hesitate to shoot him.
“You have told me you are an Algonquin,” Foch said. “I was not aware your people had a spy service.”
Still, Red Cloud said nothing. The moment wasn’t yet ripe.
“I am inclined toward two possibilities,” Foch said. “One, you are a Quebec agent, send here for help against the Germans. Two, you are an agent provocateur from the Germans, trying to trap me and the French agency.”
“I speak the truth,” Red Cloud said.
“Tell me the truth. Convince me you are who you say you are.”
John considered that, and he decided upon the truth. “I have stepped onto the death path in order to trade my life for Chancellor’s Kleist’s life. I have become a hormagaunt.”
“This is Indian mumbo-jumbo?” Foch asked.
“It is the way of the Algonquin warrior.”
Foch glanced at his smoldering cigarette. He shook his head once. “No, I do not accept that. That would mean through luck you unerringly picked one of the key officers in our revolt. Yes, some of us realize that France has agreed to lie down for the Germans and spread her legs for the Teutonic rapist. Needless to say, I abhor that. Now you appear and want our aid. No. I do not believe in coincidences. You must be a German probe, seeking to uncover us.”
“The truth is the truth,” John said, without inflection. “I am on the death path. There is power for the one walking down to the Underworld, but the power only lasts for a short time. You must help me now or it will be too late for either of us.”
Foch picked up the cigarette without putting it in his mouth. “You expect me to believe that you’re willing to die if only you can kill Kleist?”
“Yes.”
Foch laughed softly. He put the cigarette between his lips, inhaling. “No, no, life isn’t so simple. Nor do you look or act like a suicide bomber.”
“Sometimes life is that simple,” Red Cloud said. “Sometimes there is nothing left but death and honor. I will kill for the honor of my people. We are few and you are many. I seek freedom, but I cannot have it in this world. Therefore, I will take honor by killing my oppressors. I have thought deeply upon this, and I decided to take the strongest of you down to death with me—Kleist.”
“We are not Germans,” Foch said.
“You are white like them, and you are in league with them, sending soldiers to oppress my people.”
The two killers flanking the chair glanced at Foch. One of them nodded.
Foch leaned back, with his eyes narrowed.
“Long ago, Samuel de Champlain came to my people,” Red Cloud said. “We were much greater and more populous then.”
“You speak of colonial history,” Foch said.
“Champlain helped us then by shooting an enemy chieftain with a flintlock pistol. None of our peoples had seen such a thing before. Champlain defeated a great host by killing the Iroquois champion. Now, I will help you by killing the German champion.”
“And thereby help yourself, too,” Foch said.
“Yes, just as Samuel de Champlain helped himself long ago by gaining Algonquian aid.”
Foch plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it across the room. It hit a wall, spilling red embers and ashes.
“I must be mad,” Foch said. “But I believe you. You have the crazy ring of truth in your voice. Get your belongings. You’re leaving with me.”
“Where am I going?” Red Cloud asked.
“To a Berlin safe house,” Foch said, “as we prepare for our opportunity.”
Jake Higgins glanced at Charlie. They were dirt-encrusted with hollow eye-sockets and staring orbs. Their uniforms were in tatters and their boots nearly useless.
The two penal militiamen had been through harrowing days to get here from St. Catharines. Like cunning rats, they had moved through war-torn, burning, smoking Buffalo. GD soldiers and machines were everywhere. With infinite patience and some luck, they had made it near a GD attack position readying to hit American defenses, or what was left of those defenses. If they could reach their side, the two of them had a real chance of escaping the cauldron of destruction.
“No way,” Charlie whispered, staring at the street. “Look at that.” The scrawny potato-grower pointed at two HKs rumbling toward them.
Jake wanted to weep with frustration. He was exhausted. Neither had eaten anything for days. They couldn’t go to the left because a company of Sigrids murdered Americans there. They couldn’t go right because GD infantrymen assembled to storm an American-held building. This middle route had been the plan. Like meat-eating dinosaurs, the HKs headed straight for them.
“What are we going to do?” Charlie whispered.
They had a few bullets left for their M16s, but that was it. They did not have grenades, flares, anything else but some knives.
“Lie still,” Jake said. “Don’t move.”
He knew about the precision of Kaiser sensors. The AI tanks could spot things no human eye could see or human ear hear. The HKs were the great monster of the campaign, the unbeatable ogres.
The two Kaisers squealed as their treads rolled over rubble, crushing various pieces. The machines were beat-up monsters, and they just keep coming closer, closer—