Unhinge the Universe

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Heart pounding, he let go of the pistol. He laced his hands behind his head.

  The man with the bleeding temple stepped in between a pair of the soldiers, murder in his eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Hagen’s eyes narrowed. Rage pulsed inside him like something alive. That bastard stood between him and Sieg, and if not for all the soldiers, he could have wiped the ground with him. “I’m death,” he said, coldly. “Yours.”

  “Death?” The American snorted. “You must be mistaken. Because this”—he gestured at the ring of rifles—“looks a lot more like death to me.” He inclined his head. “Give me one good reason not to let them unload every fucking round into you.”

  Hagen held his gaze but didn’t answer. He spat at the American’s feet.

  Something flickered across the American’s expression. The menace in his tight lips diminished just slightly, and an unspoken thought pulled his eyebrows closer together. “What’s your name, Kraut?”

  Hagen laughed dryly. “Pick one. Maybe Tod.”

  “Todd?” The American released an impatient breath and dabbed at the blood on his temple. “You know what? I don’t have time for this tonight. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Will we?” Hagen asked. “I wasn’t planning on staying, but danke.”

  Eyes still locked on Hagen, the American made a sharp gesture. “Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere anytime soon. But don’t fucking kill this one.”

  This one?

  Panic and fury shot through Hagen, but before he could make a move, the Americans lowered their rifles, and the ring tightened like a hangman’s noose around him. Fists. Boots. Cold, hard ground.

  And just before darkness became deep, deep black, the American’s words echoed in Hagen’s mind:

  “But don’t fucking kill this one.”

  Sleep hadn’t come easy. From the grainy texture of his eyes and the relentless pounding on the side of his head, John wasn’t sure if he’d actually slept or just rested with his eyes shut. He clutched a tin mug of coffee, trying to chase away either the leaden exhaustion or the grief settling over him. If the soldier in front of him noticed the state he was in, he didn’t show it.

  “The medic says Corporal Bennett’s neck was snapped, sir,” Private Lawson said.

  John exhaled. At least it’d been quick and painless, then. Not that an attacker would have had any time to inflict a slow death. Still, breaking a man’s neck wasn’t easy, and it surely wasn’t the deed of a squeamish man. Everything so far spoke of a cold-bloodedness in line with the worst of German propaganda.

  Too damn bad that it had been Michael who’d gotten a taste of that. He shuddered, half anger, half revulsion. And he himself had barely escaped alive, which added sharpness to the sense of dread and, yes, anger. He’d have to rein that one in, or it would be him who killed this one.

  The private continued. “We took a few weapons off him. Luger. Pocketknife. There was a rifle in the guard shack as well—typical German-issue semiauto—but it was damaged.”

  John sipped his cold coffee. “Anything else?”

  “Cyanide.”

  John straightened. “What?” They called them Nazi cough drops, and they were most definitely not standard issue.

  “We found a cyanide canister in his uniform. The uniform that, err . . . Bennett was wearing.” He paused. “And from that uniform, if we can assume it belongs to him, it looks like the Kraut’s an SS Unterstu . . . Unter . . . err, lieutenant, but he didn’t carry papers or a dog tag.”

  John sat up straighter. “SS? Out here alone?”

  “Seems to be, sir. Haven’t seen any other tracks in the snow.”

  First a decorated major falling out of the sky, now an SS officer. Alone. One man against a base.

  And he might even have succeeded, the bastard.

  “We also found this on him.” Private Lawson handed John a folded shaving razor. Antler handle. A name carved into it: Siegfried.

  John unfolded the blade and absently ran a finger along its edge. Sharp. Very sharp. He folded it and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. If the Nazi didn’t play his cards right, there was a good chance this blade would get intimately acquainted with his throat. Or, in exchange for what he’d done to Michael, perhaps a few other choice locations.

  After he’d briefed John, Private Lawson left, and John continued through his cup of coffee. In his aching head, he ran through his plan for confronting the Nazi, but it was difficult to form one that didn’t include snapping his neck like he’d snapped Michael’s. Maybe he needed more coffee and cigarettes. Maybe less. Maybe he just needed to beat the fuck out of this bastard and be done with it.

  No. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Unlike the previous prisoner, this one would talk. John traced the handle of the antler razor in his pocket. Oh, yes, he would talk.

  The door opened, and John looked up as Captain Walters, the camp commander, stepped into the otherwise empty room. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” John replied with a slight nod.

  “I understand you had a rough night.”

  “It’s war.” John offered a tense, one-shouldered shrug. “Rough nights are what we signed up for.”

  Walters grunted in agreement. “Good thing you were out there. It’s a shame about Bennett, but it could’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t intervened.” His thick eyebrows arched, and John’s mouth went dry. There was no shortage of suspicion among the ranks. Not necessarily that he’d had anything going on with Michael, but . . . in general. No matter how secretive he was, men picked up on things when they lived in close quarters. The fact that Michael was enlisted had made their liaisons doubly dangerous.

  Walters stroked his chin. “Out of curiosity, what were you doing out there so late, anyway?”

  “Walking. To clear my head. I couldn’t sleep after all that shit with the Nazi.” John drained the last of his coffee. “I heard a commotion, and . . .” He set the coffee cup aside and pushed it away. “Anyway. I’m going down to talk to this new Nazi.”

  Walters’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Think you can get anything out of him?”

  John gritted his teeth. It was harder to get an answer out of a Nazi than to wring blood from stone. The lower ranks they’d caught didn’t know anything, and his only higher-ranking prisoner had died on him before he could make any progress. Just where did the new captive fall in, as a junior officer? Did he know something? What drove a man to walk into an American base, actually believing he could walk out again? A death wish? He had disabled his rifle first, so had he expected to be captured?

  “Well,” John said dryly, “as long as the men haven’t left this one half-dead for me, I think I can get him to talk. My trip here might turn out to be worthwhile after all.”

  Walters shrugged. “Be my guest. From the shouting and swearing I heard coming from the cellar, he’s awake.”

  “Good.” John thumbed the handle on the razor again. “One more cup of coffee, and then I’ll see what he has to say.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing what you get out of him.” Walters started to go, but stopped. “By the way, you got any of those smokes left? The ones they’re passing around this place are shit.”

  “Yes, sure.” John pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed a couple to Walters. Walters grunted a quiet thanks, and as he pocketed the cigarettes, John said, “Long as we’re here, I do have another question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How’d they find this guy?” John asked. “The one who died.”

  Walters hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. “I understand some scouts saw a paratrooper land. They followed him to an old millhouse a few clicks from their camp, and that’s when they saw the rest of the paras and that officer. Figured he might be someone useful, so they brought in some reinforcements and landed a surprise attack.”

  John sipped his coffee. “And the paratroopers?”

  “Dead.” Walters shook hi
s head. “They put up a hell of a fight from the sound of it. Caught off guard, but they didn’t go down easy. Took down two of the GIs in the process, and two of the others are going to be on light duty for a while. At least one’s headed home.”

  John whistled. “Does sound like quite the bloodbath.”

  “Exactly what it was from what I heard.”

  John pressed his lips together. And all of that so this man’s soldiers could beat the prized Nazi to death before he said a single valuable word. But there was no point in giving the other captain hell for that now. There were more important things to deal with.

  So, after another cup of gritty coffee, John went to check on the Nazi. Two guards were posted outside the door, pistols on their hips and rifles against their chests. Well, that was promising. The base didn’t have the manpower to post guards just for show.

  “I want to talk to him.” John nodded sharply toward the room where the other Nazi had been held. “Take him in there. Tie his hands and make sure he’s unarmed.” Then, “On second thought, chain his hands. Just like the last one.”

  The men glanced at each other, but didn’t ask for an explanation, and John didn’t offer one.

  “Yes, sir,” the men said in unison. One of them picked up the set of chains they’d used on this Nazi’s predecessor.

  He deliberately looked away as they dragged the Nazi across the narrow hall, the prisoner cursing and struggling the entire way. His heart pounded against his ribcage as the commotion inside the interrogation room narrated the struggle of getting the man settled and bound.

  Chains weren’t standard, but John liked what the sound and sensation did to a prisoner. Not terribly painful unless the man struggled unduly, but tremendously demoralizing. With normal soldiers, all he had to do was sit down with them, give them food, a hot drink, and talk to them, almost like civilized people, and then ship them to a POW camp. Most Wehrmacht officers formally surrendered and even kept their pistols. Some refused to speak, others cooperated fully, as if under an unspoken gentlemen’s agreement, possibly relieved to be out of it, but unable to say so without impinging on their martial honor. And then there were the SS, a different breed altogether. It was difficult to tell one Nazi from another, but on the hierarchy of unwieldy prisoners, SS were the worst.

  The guards emerged. One wiped sweat from his brow. The other was out of breath. He gestured into the room.

  “All yours, sir.” He paused. “You want one of us in there with you?”

  John shook his head. “No. Stay out here.”

  Neither guard protested.

  John stepped into the room. The single bare bulb gave him his first clear view of the man who’d murdered Michael. He was sitting in the same chair the other Nazi had died in, dressed in the tattered, bloody remains of Michael’s uniform and glaring up with cold, deadly hatred. An angry cut drew John’s attention to the corner of the Nazi’s mouth, and his mind picked that moment to remember he’d kissed this man just a few hours ago. Four cups of base coffee almost came up his throat just then, but he forced it back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I told you my name last night,” the Nazi growled. Interesting that he spoke English with an American accent, which—was disorientating John more than he liked. He pushed out a breath. Then he slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew the razor.

  The Nazi stiffened as much as his bindings would allow, and his bruised, split lip curled into a snarl.

  “This yours?” John showed him the knife. “Lovely piece.” He held it in both hands and slowly unfolded it, letting the blade catch the light. “I’m thinking it might compel you to talk more than words alone, yes?”

  The Nazi’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t speak, just focused on the weapon in John’s hands. That wasn’t fear in his eyes. Blood-boiling fury, maybe, but not fear.

  “According to this,” John said, running his fingertip across the engraving, “your name is—”

  “That is not my name,” the prisoner snapped.

  Well. Anger was better than cold superiority in any case. Or an attempt to reason with him, play mind games with him. Even though this one was in much better shape than the last one, he might not be nearly as clever. Now the question was how the interrogation would play out: as a game of chess, or one of checkers? The other Nazi would have been a chess player.

  Don’t congratulate yourself on an easy victory before it proves to be one. He shrugged. “Siegfried,” he added, completing his sentence. “So that’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me differently. Sounds fair, yes?”

  The man glared at him like he’d just insulted his mother.

  John smiled. “Or, you give me your name and rank and we skip this part where you try to rip free just to evade the question. Or where I call in the guards to have you softened up a bit more. Just your name and rank. We’ll have to give the Red Cross something, Siegfried.”

  Flaring nostrils, flashing blue eyes. The name triggered something, and it was working nicely. This one didn’t have that cave of icy disdain he could hide inside. Denying a prisoner that sanctuary was important.

  “It’s not my name.”

  “Siegfried?”

  “No!” Another full-body jerk in the restraints, harsh and powerful enough to make the wood creak.

  “So who’s Siegfried?”

  The man stared at him, breathing heavily, the pain from his wrists likely only firing that anger.

  “Somebody important.” John took a step forward. “Why else would you get all worked up, Siegfried? You know you can’t escape just by force, Siegfried. You didn’t sneak in just by force. Think, Siegfried.”

  The man grimaced, bared all teeth in impotent rage. “Hagen. Hagen, damn you. Don’t call me that.”

  “Hagen your name?”

  The man nodded, breathing deeply. A subtle thrill raced down John’s arms. It might still be a code name, but he didn’t think so. Never mind the symbolism of the names—both characters from the German national myth, the Nibelungenlied. Hagen being the king’s executioner who killed the hero Siegfried by guile and treason for challenging his king. Of course, the whole thing ended in everybody’s corpses strewn across the battlefield. Like all stories the Germans loved.

  “Hagen. Good.” He sat down on the chair opposite, straddling the back of it. “Who’s Siegfried? A friend?” Maybe a special friend? Though he shook his head and discarded that thought. The Nazis didn’t exactly have a lenient approach to sexual deviants. It was too early in the interrogation to send this guy into another fit of rage. Maybe if he needed it, but not right now.

  Hagen blew out an angry breath, his arms straining against the chains behind his back, every muscle still taut, like he was readying himself for another attack on the chair. “So now you know something about me, and I know something about you.”

  John’s throat tightened around his breath. Hagen’s lips twisted into a smirk.

  John glanced at the door, wondering perhaps a moment too late just how thin that door really was. How much the other men could hear.

  “This makes us even, yes?” Hagen taunted. “You know my name, and I”—he nodded toward the door—“know things perhaps you don’t want the other men to know.”

  John laughed dryly in spite of his pounding heart. “And you think they’d believe a fucking Nazi over one of their officers?”

  Hagen shrugged. “Perhaps if I offered it along with some other information.” He narrowed his eyes, and the smirk grew more menacing. “A gift to accompany another.”

  John resisted the urge to shift in the chair. He was willing to do whatever it took to get information, but . . . but every man had his limits. Absently, he folded and unfolded the razor, drawing Hagen’s attention. Hagen’s expression shifted from amusement and arrogance to barely contained rage, his shoulders twitching as if he thought he could free his hands and . . . what? Choke John? Grab the weapon and stab him? Take it back and clutch it like a child’s treasured toy?

>   Resting his elbow on the chair back, John held up the razor. He reached toward Hagen, bringing the blade dangerously close to the Nazi’s face, and Hagen’s blue eyes followed it.

  “Who is Siegfried, Hagen?”

  Hagen’s eyes flicked toward him. “You answer a question for me, I tell you who Siegfried is.”

  John drew back a little, eyeing his prisoner. He didn’t like offering any kind of advantage to his captives, but . . . “Ask your question.”

  Hagen drew the tip of his tongue across his lips, pausing to worry at the wound in the corner of his mouth. “Last night, you told the men not to kill me like the last one.” His Adam’s apple bobbed once. “Who was the last one, and what happened to him?”

  “That’s two questions, Hagen.” John snapped the razor shut. “One or the other.”

  Hagen’s cheek rippled. “What happened to him?”

  Nothing on earth obliged him to tell the man the truth. It might help to intimidate him; let him know that prisoners who didn’t play by the rules died. Maybe that would get through his thick Nazi skull. John considered how he should answer, measured his words, but halfway between carefully arranging a sentence, one word from Hagen ripped him out of his concentration.

  “Please. What happened to him?”

  Door seemingly wide open. “Please” was like blood in the water for an interrogator. After all that rage, it was a shocking turn of events, but he also knew that the thing the prisoner wanted was the key to those doors. If he told him, he might lose access. Yet the man looked at him with something not unlike distress. It was a tipping point, clearly. If he hedged too much, those doors might get slammed shut.

  “He came in already badly injured,” John eventually said. “There was nothing anybody could do for him. Not while he was bleeding internally.” He gestured low at his belly. “Liver, most likely. That bleeds heavily. Nothing anybody could have done. So he died.” As little as he liked the thought that even enemies feared death and asked for a priest, it was a fact of war. It might all be easier in the fury of battle, but fact was, they were both killing people.