“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”
“It's all right, Lieutenant.”
“Harald.”
“Harald,” she said, assenting to the use of his first name for the twentieth time. She blushed in that way of hers that made her look younger. But looking at her here, without her sister next to her, she could have been Mieke's age.
“I was hoping I could talk to you.”
She paused. “Maybe we could talk later. I'm not really feeling up to it right now.”
“I'll probably be needed later. And I don't want this to wait. I… I've missed our talks. I have something I'd like to say.”
“Are you commanding me?”
“That's an odd question. No, I'm not commanding you. I just want to talk for a moment. As… as acquaintances, I suppose.” He could not quite bring himself to use the word friend. Surely, she was not that. Still, he wasn't commanding her, he was quite sure. “Well?”
“I don't like being in there,” she said quietly. “Zofia was in there. I still feel her.”
Debating how to respond, he thought he could only be honest. He could only tell her what he'd been waiting to tell her. “I want to tell you how sorry I am. This was never my intention. I'd never met Richter before coming here, but I'd heard of him back on the mainland. He has a reputation for being uncompromising. From the first moment, I was afraid something might happen. But make no mistake: what happened on the ice was on him and him alone.”
She scoffed. It was an oddly petulant gesture, one that put him out of sorts.
“Surely, you don't blame me.”
“No,” she said, but her eyes told a different story. Her eyes said she blamed him full and proper. It may have been his orders, but you helped, Harald. You helped.
It hurt him to see that look, especially given how far he'd gone out of his way to help her in the past. In spite of his need, he thought about just leaving her. As much as he wanted to talk to someone—anyone—he didn't think he would be able to do much good.
When neither one spoke, the girl made to move past him, to go on with her walk. But then, he blurted, “In a way, maybe it was my fault. It was my job to motivate your father, you know. He had it in him, as he's proven, but he wasn't… he wasn't fast enough for the commander. Maybe I just needed to be more strict with him. Men like your father, they need discipline, Lucja, and men like Richter don't like excuses. So maybe it is my fault.”
You're goddamned right it's your fault, her eyes seemed to scream. You're goddamned right!
As she brushed past him, their shoulders collided, and a water canteen fell out of her coat. It was an odd thing to be carrying on a short walk. Harald didn't remember ever giving Kaminski one to begin with. When she reached to grab it, his hand was already there. The lieutenant stood back to his full height and looked down at her curiously. The canteen felt full in his hand.
The oddly guilty look crept back onto her face. “Are you trying to escape?” he asked. He could hear the menace in his own voice.
“Of course not.” Pausing for an instant, she said, “I would never leave my father.”
Harald brought the the flask to his face and unscrewed the cap. He was thirsty, and she had no business with it. But just as he raised it to drink, Lucja's hand shot out and grabbed it, her face white with panic. The liquid splashed out and grazed his face, stinging like turpentine.
Kaminski! What in God's name is this?
She was caught. She was caught, and she knew it.
Lucja turned and ran towards the gate, kicking up dust as she went.
Harald ran after.
3
When Richter woke up, he couldn't move. His hands were bound behind his back, his ass planted in one of the laboratory chairs. They had roped him in a sitting position, the cord wrapping around his waist and arms. He blinked, seeing the outline of the same room and the same silhouettes standing within it. He was dazed, but not out, not any more.
“He's awake!”
He turned his head and saw Ari Quintus pointing his own service pistol at him. Or rather, in his general direction; the man didn't look like he'd ever held a gun before, and the barrel was pointed more towards the floor than at its target. It would be a mistake to underestimate him though. Together, the four prisoners had gotten the drop on him, and that wouldn't happen again.
“I don't know what you hope to accomplish, but I'd appreciate if you could get on with it. As soon as you're done, I can go about the business of making sure you all die a horrible death.”
“Shut up!” Quintus said. “You be quiet!”
A scraping noise came from Richter's right, and he realized the architect of this little scheme had yet to present himself. Though the man's back was to him, he could tell by the way he was inspecting the equipment that he was still in charge. It looked like he had rigged half a dozen flumes out of the vats, each connecting with the ceiling.
“We don't have enough,” Kaminski said. “This one doesn't reach.”
“Then plug it,” Frece said. He was pacing through the room, clearly on edge. “For God's sake, make sure it doesn't leak.”
The vats housed formaldehyde, and without Kriege here to monitor the day-to-day operations, the quartet had been producing as much as they could. As Kaminski went about making the repair, Richter realized with no little fascination what they were planning: they were going to pump it into the base. Kaminski had told him in plain language that the gas could be dangerous to humans as well as the fungus, and now, he had rigged the flumes through holes in the ceiling, ready to deliver the poison. Above, Richter could hear the muffled singing and thudding of the party, and he instantly understood their target. The sheer ruthlessness of it gave him a delightful shiver.
“Did you know I was in Ypres when they first used gas against the French and Algerians? The gas was chlorine in those days. Nothing sophisticated, but it was deadly enough. We waited until we had the wind on our side, and then we bombarded the enemy encampment with chlorine shells. The French, in their eagerness, thought it was just a diversion. They ordered their men out of the trench and up to the fire line, directly in the path of the green cloud. When it hit them, the confusion and terror it wrought opened a gap in their lines as far as the eye could see. Of course, our commanders were so surprised by the effectiveness of the attack they didn't lead us forward. Our enemy was able to reform and recover. It was a pity, really. I hope you all don't make the same mistake.”
“Shut up,” Quintus said.
“I can tell you: it sure was something to see so many men die at the hands of our invention. Have you ever seen a man die of gas poisoning?”
It was Frece's turn to yell obscenities, but Richter paid him no mind. The Swede looked positively green himself.
“It's awful,” Richter continued. “Mustard gas is the worst. Men will bleed and burn, but the real horror is watching their eyes. The men will eventually asphyxiate, but what it does to the eyes is just unforgettable. Chlorine is quicker but still no way I'd want to die. I have no idea what your clever formaldehyde does, but,” he paused. “But I think I should like to see it.”
“Be quiet, or you'll be the first,” Frece said.
Richter laughed. “I think if you were going to do that, you'd have done it already.”
“Maybe we should just kill him,” the olive-skinned man said.
Richter stopped laughing. This one was as calm as he could be.
“Ettore's right, he's dangerous,” Quintus said. The Walther PPK continued to point every which way in his hands. “I told him to shut up, and he won't.”