Unhinge the Universe

by Aleksandr Voinov

  But John just kept looking ahead, watching the road and the Jeep as he exhaled a mix of steam and smoke.

  Hagen faced ahead again, and took another drag off the cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, letting it sting the back of his throat and fill his mouth with the pungent taste that in turn filled his mind with every clandestine kiss he and John had shared. He shivered inside the coat and the rumpled uniform. Gooseflesh prickled down his back and arms. Then he exhaled the smoke through his nose, squinting as the vague burn made his eyes water.

  Strange. Just a taste of smoke could bring back all those thoughts, and reignite the physical sensations as if he and John were still tangled up on a makeshift straw bed instead of hiking on burning legs up a goddamned mountain in France. A sip of coffee likely would have had the same effect. Or the glint of light on a razor.

  And yet, the Iron Cross resting on his chest aroused . . . nothing. The drab green uniform on his escort, the uniform of his sworn enemy who he’d vowed to fight to the death by whatever means necessary . . . nothing. The guns aroused no fear, the chains aroused no anger, no need to escape. Even the distant rumble of aircraft—American? Luftwaffe? Impossible to know from here—couldn’t shake a single feeling from him.

  The cigarette gave up its last breath of smoke, and Hagen flicked it into a pile of dirty snow. The taste lingered, as did the prickling at the base of his spine and the unsettled feeling in his chest.

  As the long road curved at the top, and an immense, sprawling estate came into view, Hagen looked at John. “Do you have another?”

  John nodded and handed it to him, lighting it, as if Hagen couldn’t in his chains. Of course he could, but he also noticed it was an excuse to draw near. “I think we’ll have a decent bed up there for tonight.”

  Innocent enough, but there was a glint in the dark eyes that wasn’t a reflection from the flame as John lit his own cigarette. Hagen was glad for his coat, and that the driver had other things to focus on. He nodded, even found himself smiling. Maybe that was a secret worth keeping: that something as simple as a warm bed could be a worthy goal when all the big ones seemed unattainable or about to slip from reach.

  “With my luck, it’s probably Count Dracula up there,” he muttered.

  John scoffed and hit him between the shoulder blades. “I’d race you, Mr. Harper, but you have your hands tied.”

  Hagen shot him a look, not sure if that was a dig or a joke, or maybe John was just goading him for a response. He had been quiet, and John didn’t seem to like that. He shook his head, understanding now more than ever why a defeatist attitude was a shooting offense in the Reich. It did drag everybody down.

  They weren’t the only Americans currently lodging at the château on the hill. A pair of US Army vehicles had found their way up the mountain, and the butler—a butler, with a British accent—welcomed them in the name of Madame Delacroix, who had already retired for the evening. Hagen gazed around the vast entrance hall, with its Chinese vases and oil paintings, and a number of very small dogs scurrying about the butler’s feet without making the man break his stride. It was hard to believe a place like this still existed, this ornate little pocket of opulence tucked within the battered boundaries of an endless war.

  They were guided into what seemed like a large drawing room, where five American soldiers were polishing off the remnants of a midsized feast and a dozen or so champagne and wine bottles. Hagen stood in the background while John made his introductions, which seemed awfully casual to his eyes and ears. Not quite first names and back slaps, but slurred greetings and not a shred of military bearing.

  Then, every man in the room abruptly sobered. All eyes shifted toward Hagen. Shifted, and narrowed. Those who were chewing did so more slowly now. Those drinking watched him over the tops of cut crystal that was likely worth more than they were. John and Hagen’s driver pressed his lips together and glanced furtively at the door.

  John gestured at Hagen. “He’s on his way to Marseilles. Picking up a POW transport.”

  “Does the Madame know you’ve dragged a Nazi into her house?” one of them asked, his lip curling in disgust. Hagen was surprised the man had enough manners to refrain from spitting on the floor to underscore his dislike.

  “He’s a prisoner,” John growled. “He’s cooperating, and he’ll be treated accordingly.”

  Men who’d been drunk and festive a moment ago sat straighter in their chairs. Gave the food similar looks they’d given Hagen. One threw a cloth napkin on the table, nearly overturning one of the cut crystal glasses. Then another. One by one, chairs ground back on the wooden floor, and men rose. They filed out of the room, some refusing to look at Hagen at all, others making sure he saw every bit of their distaste before they disappeared into the hall, sharp whispers punctuated by boot steps.

  None of them offered a “sir” on the way out, and John let them go without chastising them. A weak leader? Or minimizing the risk of a crystal-shattering brawl in their hostess’s dining room? Hagen couldn’t say.

  “Are you hungry?” John gathered some cold cuts of meat and slices of bread that had survived the orgy. Checked a bottle, then found an unopened one on a shelf to the side. The butler slid in and began to straighten things out, all but invisible. There was no way to tell what he thought, though he likely had an opinion on the matter.

  John pulled out a chair and sat. Hagen hesitated, glancing a few times at the doorway, beyond which he was sure he heard hushed and angry voices. But he was hungry, and John had sat down, so he followed suit. The chains made eating a challenge, and he resented that he still had to wear them, but with hostile soldiers in the house, it was probably for the better.

  They’d just barely tucked into the meal when boot steps started echoing in the hallway again. Not the heavy, uneven thunk-thunk-thunk of drunken soldiers, not a sharp march. Light, almost. Careful.

  Heading straight back to the dining room.

  John’s neck and arms prickled, and he shifted his gaze toward the doorway. One of the soldiers from a few moments ago appeared. Then a second. Third. Fourth. The first sat to John’s left, the second to his right. The other two went to the opposite side of the table, and John swallowed as he watched Hagen’s posture straighten.

  The first soldier looked John in the eye. “We had a little chat, and we’ve all agreed: he has no business here.”

  One of the others, to the right of Hagen, lifted his hand to Hagen’s Iron Cross on his jacket, and Hagen flinched to the side before the man could touch it.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” the man chided. “Let me see what you’ve earned for murdering prisoners.” His fingers slid along the collar ranks of Hagen’s uniform, the three silver pips running diagonally across the space on one side, the SS runes on the other.

  Hagen set down his cutlery and glanced at John.

  “Corporal,” John said, “the man is a prisoner of war. Is that really necessary?”

  The corporal narrowed his eyes. “Well, Captain.” He slid his hand closer to the SS runes, but John had a feeling it wasn’t the insignia he was interested in now, but the throat they sat beneath. His eyes focused on John. “We wanted to ask you the same question.”

  John set his jaw, refusing to let any fear show. “You’re the one harassing a man who is no longer an enemy combatant. So—”

  “No longer an enemy combatant?” the corporal snarled. He grabbed the lapel bearing the runes and jerked, taking Hagen with it and nearly pulling him out of his chair. “He’s—”

  “Stand down, Corporal!” John tried to rise, but a hand shot out from either side of him and clapped his shoulders, forcing him back down into the chair. He glanced at each of the men restraining him. For a pair of soldiers with their hands on an officer several paygrades above them, they didn’t look nervous. Not good.

  John faced forward again. The soldier still had a grip on Hagen’s collar, holding him at an angle that was probably as uncomfortable as it was vulnerable. Hagen’s lips contorted with a
mix of pain and fury. His hands braced against the edge of the table, the chain taut between them.

  “Let him go, Corporal,” John said. “That’s an order.”

  “And why should I take orders from someone dragging an SS man around like a pet?” But he let go anyway, and Hagen flew back against his chair. He rubbed his throat and kept his eyes down, likely to avoid contact with any of the men around him.

  “He is a prisoner, Corporal.” John fought to keep his voice hard and authoritative, not allowing any of his concern for Hagen to slip out where it could be used against both of them. “Step away.”

  The soldier didn’t move. “He’s SS, sir.” His hand inched toward his hip, and John’s eyes flicked ahead of it to the holstered pistol. “They’re goddamned murderers, every last one of them, and should be shot like the dogs they are.”

  One of the others nodded. “Yes. That’s why there’s a standing order to shoot them where—”

  Hagen stood, kicked the chair out of the way and pushed against the wall, chained hands in front of him. Immediately, three pistols came out of their holsters.

  “Stop!” John barked. “No one shoot, or I will put a bullet in every fucking one of you.”

  The men stared at him.

  “Now what order? What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “The SS slaughtered a hundred GIs in Belgium,” the soldier beside Hagen growled. “Unarmed, surrendered POWs.” The soldier sneered at Hagen and jabbed the underside of his jaw with the muzzle of his pistol.

  Hagen’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “That’s impossible. It’s a lie. We’d never do that.”

  The response was so quick and natural. John didn’t doubt that Hagen thought he was speaking the truth.

  “The order is to not take any of those dogs alive,” the corporal said.

  Hagen looked quickly around, moving only his eyes, but John noted that the soldiers had anticipated his every movement, with three pistols trained on Hagen and two men blocking the door.

  “Who gave the order?” John forced himself to sound calm.

  “The 328th Infantry Regiment.”

  “Are you a part of the 328th?”

  “No, sir.” The soldier narrowed his eyes. “But if the—”

  “Then the order wasn’t given to you,” John snapped. “So it doesn’t apply to you. Stand down, soldier.”

  “Why shouldn’t it apply to him?” The corporal prodded Hagen’s jaw again with his pistol, just hard enough to make him jerk his head away without quite provoking a retaliation. “There something special about this one?”

  Yes. Yes, there is. John swallowed. “Stand down, soldier.”

  “And why should I do that, Captain?” the other soldier growled. “There some reason I shouldn’t shoot this—”

  “Because you were given a direct order from a superior officer, and because he has valuable, sensitive information.”

  “About what?”

  “About what?” John sniffed derisively. “You think you’re entitled to anything sensitive enough to warrant keeping a fucking SS dog alive?”

  Hagen’s nostrils flared, and he set his jaw.

  John ignored him. “He’s being escorted by an officer to a POW transfer, which should tell you he’s not to be messed with. Now how about some military bearing there, Corporal?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands steepled in front of him like his own commander always did. “Or should I put you in for disciplinary action for insubordination and disobeying a lawful order?”

  “The only lawful order I’m disobeying is the one that says this son of a bitch should—”

  “Corporal.” John pushed his chair back, and the hands on his shoulders didn’t stop him this time. “You have not been directly ordered to shoot SS personnel, but you have been directly ordered to stand down from this one. Step away from my prisoner. Now.”

  The soldier met him with challenging eyes. Then his posture deflated just enough to announce his surrender, and he holstered his pistol as he stepped away from Hagen. He waved the others toward the door. They glanced at each other, but then put their weapons away and followed the ringleader out of the dining room.

  John released a breath now that there was more space around him.

  Hagen stayed against the wall, a shoulder pressed against it like it might offer some kind of barrier if bullets started flying. Still poised for action. A vein stood out from his temple. His jaw was tight, his eyebrows drawn together over eyes sharply focused on the reluctant exodus of the soldiers.

  His eyes darted toward John, and John offered the subtlest of nods, a gesture he hoped translated to, “You’re all right. It’s over.”

  Hagen didn’t seem to buy it. He shifted his glare back to the other men.

  John turned toward the doorway too, just as the second to last soldier disappeared into the hall. The last one remaining was the driver. Their escort. Still stony-faced, still unreadable.

  “We should sleep,” John said. His own voice seemed to rattle the fixtures. He looked at the driver. “We’ll leave early. I want to get him safely transferred ASAP.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir,” the driver said quietly. He glanced at Hagen, but without quite so much hostility. If anything, he looked just as rattled as the German.

  “Get some sleep,” John said quietly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The butler cleared his throat from the doorway. “Sirs, if you would, we do have accommodations available,” he said in that crisp British accent.

  The driver glanced at John.

  “I will have to keep my eyes on the prisoner,” John stated. “And, if possible, not across the hall from those other idiots.”

  “That should not be a problem. We have sufficient space.” The butler indicated that they follow him.

  Hagen followed John and the butler up a staircase, along a corridor, down a staircase, across an inner courtyard, through a door, and up some additional stairs. The butler opened the door to a large master bedroom, which had a connecting door to a much smaller room: apparently a study, with a desk and an empty metal bedframe, though it also had an oven.

  John examined the bedframe, rattled it with his whole weight, but it barely budged. “Some blankets, and this should suffice for him.”

  “Very well, sir. Would you like to take a bath while the maids prepare the rooms?”

  The manners were droll, but Hagen couldn’t help admiring the unflappable style. Whoever Madame Delacroix was, she had excellent taste in servants.

  “A bath and a shave would be perfect.”

  The butler gave a small nod and led them further down the corridor to a large bathroom. It was a cleanly tiled place with just a hint of a feminine touch. The soap wasn’t the coarse stuff you washed your uniform with, but actually smelled of oranges. Undoubtedly brought in from Paris. Already the maids were bustling in with a pile of thick white towels while another started the hot water.

  “Where are the others staying?” John glanced out of the window.

  “At the other end of the main house.” The butler gestured at the driver. “Sir, if you’d like to follow me.”

  Hagen barely dared to breathe a sigh of relief when the man was led out and away. Alone. Apart from the maids, who proved efficient, even as one of them kept giving him and John curious glances. Mostly him, he assumed. He was the Nazi, after all, and she’d seen plenty of Americans during the start of the evening.

  Once the bath was full of steaming water, the maids scurried out of the room, except for one.

  Her eyes darted toward Hagen, and her eyebrows pulled together. To John, she said in broken English, “Monsieur, does . . . do you . . .” Her lips twisted with frustration, like the American syllables didn’t taste right. She gestured at Hagen. “Another room for . . .”

  “No.” John waved a hand. “He can stay.” In French, he added, “So I can keep an eye on him.”

  She swallowed as she gave Hagen one more wary look, then inclined her head in a vag
ue bow before quickly backing out of the room. The heavy door closed, and Hagen closed his eyes and released his breath.

  “Thought they’d never leave,” John muttered.

  “And the others?” Hagen eyed the door warily. “They’ll—”

  “They’ll leave you alone if they know what’s good for them.” Still, John took one of two wooden chairs and propped it up against the door, tilting it and hooking the back beneath the doorknob. Whether that was just to ease Hagen’s nerves, or a safeguard against a very real threat, Hagen had no idea, but he hoped for the former.

  The rustle of coarse fabric behind him made Hagen shiver even before he turned around. John already had his back was to him. Already, his shirt was off, and Hagen’s breath caught. He’d felt the man orgasm twice, but he’d never seen his flesh. Never seen the way his broad shoulders and back tapered to a perfect narrow waist, or seen the defined muscles of his arms.

  John turned around, and Hagen straightened, almost snapping to attention. Amusement curled John’s lip. Even more as he unbuckled his belt. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Hagen cleared his throat. “I . . .” He looked down at his hands, remembering the cold metal around and between his wrists. As good a distraction as any, he supposed. “Do you want to . . . should I be . . .”

  “Should I chain you to the bathtub?” John’s buckle rattled, and the belt hissed free from its loops. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Do you?”

  Hagen’s eyes darted toward John’s coat, which he’d draped across the other chair, well within reach of the bathtub. Under that, he saw the edge of John’s belt and the holster where he kept his pistol. Hagen knew—hell, they both knew—that the pistol was no threat tonight. It was no threat because Hagen was no threat. The only danger lurked at the other end of the house, and Hagen had a feeling that as long as he stayed near John, he’d be safe.

  John stepped closer, so close the heat radiated from his bare torso. “Take off your boots.”