Typical! Cuza thought.I bet he never objected to his fellow boyars' depredations among the Wallachian peasants during his day. And he obviously never objected to Vlad's impalements. It was all right for the Wallachian nobility to decimate the populace, but don't let a foreigner dare!
Molasar had retreated to the shadows outside the bulb's cone of light. "Tell me about these death camps."
"I'd rather not. It's too—"
"Tell me!"
Cuza sighed. "I'll tell you what I know. The first one was set up in Buchenwald, or perhaps Dachau, around eight years ago. There are others: Flossenburg, Ravensbruck, Natzweiler, Auschwitz, and many others I've probably never heard of. Soon there will be one in Romania—Wallachia, as you would have it—and maybe more within a year or two. The camps serve one purpose: the collection of certain types of people, millions of them, for torture, debasement, forced labor, and eventual extermination."
"Millions?"
Cuza could not read Molasar's tone completely, but there was no doubt that he was having trouble believing what he had been told. Molasar was a shadow among the shadows, his movements agitated, almost frantic.
"Millions," Cuza said firmly.
"I will kill this German major!"
"That won't help. There are thousands like him, and they will come one after another. You may kill a few and you may kill many, but eventually they will learn to kill you."
"Who sends them?"
"Their leader is a man named Hitler who—"
"A king? A prince?"
"No..." Cuza fumbled for the word. "I guess voevod would be the closest word you have for it."
"Ah! A warlord! Then I shall kill him and he shall send no more!"
Molasar had spoken so matter-of-factly that the full meaning of his words was slow to penetrate the shroud of gloom over Cuza's mind. When it did:
"What did you say?"
"Lord Hitler—when I've regained my full strength I'll drink his life!"
Cuza felt as if he had spent the whole day struggling upward from the floor of the deepest part of the ocean with no hope of reaching air. With Molasar's words he broke surface and gulped life. Yet it would be easy to sink again.
"But you can't! He's well protected! And he's in Berlin!"
Molasar came forward into the light again. His teeth were bared, this time in a rough approximation of a smile.
"Lord Hitler's protection will be no more effective than all the measures taken by his lackeys here in my keep. No matter how many locked doors and armed men protect him, I shall take him if I wish. And no matter how far away he is, I shall reach him when I have the strength."
Cuza could barely contain his excitement. Here at last was hope—a greater hope than he had ever dreamed possible. "When will that be? When can you go to Berlin?"
"I shall be ready tomorrow night. I shall be strong enough then, especially after I kill all the invaders."
"Then I'm glad they didn't heed me when I told them the best thing they could do was to evacuate the keep."
"You what?" It was a shout.
Cuza could not take his eyes off Molasar's hands—they clutched at him, ready to tear into him, restrained only by their owner's will.
"I'm sorry!" he said, pressing himself back in his chair. "I thought that's what you wanted!"
"I want their lives!" The hands retreated. "When I want anything else I will tell you what it is, and you will do exactly as I say!"
"Of course! Of course!" Cuza could never fully and truly agree to that, but he was in no position to put on a show of resistance. He reminded himself that he must never forget what sort of a being he was dealing with. Molasar would not tolerate being thwarted in any way; he had no thought other than having his own way. Nothing else was acceptable or even conceivable to him.
"Good. For I have need of mortal aid. It has always been so. Limited as I am to the dark hours, I need someone who can move about in the day to prepare the way for me, to make certain arrangements that can only be made in the day. It was so when I built this keep and arranged for its upkeep, and it is so now. In the past I have made use of human outcasts, men with appetites different from mine but no more acceptable to their fellows. I bought their services by providing them the means to sate those appetites. But you—your price, I feel, will be in accord with my own desires. We share a common cause for now."
Cuza looked down at his twisted hands. "I fear you could have a better agent than I."
"The task I will require of you tomorrow night is a simple one: An object precious to me must be removed from the keep and hidden in a secure place in the hills. With that safe I shall feel free to pursue and destroy those who wish to kill our countrymen."
Cuza experienced a strange floating sensation, a new emotional buoyancy as he imagined Hitler and Himmler cowering before Molasar, and then their torn and lifeless—better yet, headless—bodies strung up for viewing at the entrance to an empty death camp. It would mean an end to the war and the salvation of his people; not merely Romanian Jewry, but his entire race! It promised a tomorrow for Magda. It meant an end to Antonescu and the Iron Guard. It might even mean reinstatement at the university.
But then reality brought him back down from those heights, back down to his wheelchair. How could he carry anything from the keep? How could he hide it in the hills when his strength could barely wheel him through the door?
"You will need a whole man," he said to Molasar in a voice that threatened to break. "A cripple like me is useless to you."
He sensed rather than saw Molasar move around the table to his side. He felt light pressure on his right shoulder—Molasar's hand. He looked up to see Molasar looking down at him. Smiling.
"You have much to learn about the scope of my powers."
TWENTY-FIVE
The Inn
Saturday, 3 May
7020 hours
Joy.
That's what it was. Magda had never imagined how wonderful it could be to awaken in the morning and find herself wrapped in the arms of someone she loved. Such a peaceful feeling, a safe feeling. It made the prospect of the coming day so much brighter to know that there would be Glenn to share it with.
Glenn lay on his side, she on hers, the two of them face to face. He was still asleep, and although Magda did not want to wake him, she found she could not keep her hands off him. Gently, she ran her palm over his shoulder, fingered the scars on his chest, smoothed the red tumble of his hair. She moved her bare leg against his. It was so sensuously warm under covers, skin to skin, pore to pore. Desire began to add its own kind of heat to her skin. She wished he would wake up.
Magda watched his face as she waited for him to stir. So much to learn about this man. Where exactly was he from? What had his childhood been like? What was he doing here? Why did he have that sword blade with him? Why was he so wonderful? She was like a schoolgirl. She was thrilled with herself. She could not remember being happier.
She wanted Papa to know him. The two of them would get along marvelously. But she wondered how Papa would react to their relationship. Glenn was not Jewish ... she didn't know what he was, but he was certainly not Jewish. Not that it made any difference to her, but such matters had always been important to Papa.
Papa...
A sudden wave of guilt doused her burgeoning desire. While she had been snuggling in Glenn's arms, safe and secure between bouts of thrashing ecstasy, Papa had sat cold and alone in a stone room, surrounded by human devils while he awaited an audience with a creature from Hell. She should be ashamed!