The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “She was alive, of course” he continued, “but for a few moments that seemed like centuries, I thought she was dead… and the thought of that broke something inside me… something I hadn’t even imagined still existed until that moment.”

  “You realised you loved her…” Briony said simply, seeing the truth with a wisdom far beyond her years.

  “Yes…” he said simply, his voice a little hoarse with emotion. “I don’t know now whether it was something new, or simply something I’d always felt and never before realised…” he shrugged “…In the end, none of that mattered.”

  “Then why not marry her…?”

  “Your father asked me exactly the same thing once,” Thorne smiled sadly, noting how carefully Briony fought to not show any reaction at the mention of her beloved and recently dead step-father. “I couldn’t give him a decent answer then, and I still can’t give you one now… other than to perhaps say that there’s a war on… a war that both of us have been directly and rather violently involved in… and if anything is stopping me from asking her exactly that, it’s the fear of hurting her again. Fear of what it would do to her if I were taken prisoner or killed…” He paused for a moment, then relented with another faint shrug. “Fear too, of what it would do to me if the same happened in reverse…”

  “But… but if you already love each other…” Briony began, easily seeing the flaws in what he’d just said, “…isn’t that something you already have to face?”

  “In my mind, I’ve already lost her once…” Thorne explained weakly, a single tear leaving the corner of his eye and trickling down his cheek as Briony laid her own comforting hand now on his. “…I can’t go through that again…”

  There was a long silence as Briony stared up into his face and Thorne, fighting back more tears and unable to meet her gaze, instead stared woodenly at the centre of the kitchen table and ground his teeth together behind closed lips in reaction to the tension building within him. For a moment – a brief moment – the faint but unmistakeable presence of the voice in his head flickered through his mind, but although he had the clear sensation it was desperate to say something, for a change it instead remained completely silent.

  6.Calm before the Storm

  Viktoria-Luise-Platz

  Schönberg, Berlin

  November 1, 1942

  Sunday

  Built around the turn of the century, Viktoria-Luise-Platz was a small, hexagonal place off Motzstrasse, in the Berlin borough of Schönberg. With a picturesque, grassed area criss-crossed by walking paths, it boasted a fountain at its centre and an artistic, semi-circular stone structure of pillars and columns surrounded by beautifully-manicured trees and bushes. Carl Ritter’s leisurely stroll northward through the platz brought him close to the southern end of Welserstrasse, just a few minutes’ walk from home in what was an older and quite upmarket area of Schönberg.

  Fit, stocky and of average height, Ritter was an oberst – a colonel – in the Luftwaffe and was currently posted as 2IC of Abteilung I-AP– the Asia-Pacific Section of the Abwehr’s Counter-Intelligence Department. It had been his ‘home’ now for over eighteen months, and that time had been a steep learning curve for a man whose entire experience of the Luftwaffe prior to that point had been service as a front-line fighter pilot.

  With the offices of the Abwehr within walking distance, just a mile or so north, Ritter loved the area in which he lived and enjoyed spending time playing in the platz with the adopted boys that had come into his care just two years before… two French boys whose older sister and widowed young mother had been murdered by an officer of the Waffen-SS.

  As he reached edge of the grass, he stared off up the street and took in the steady bustle of Sunday- afternoon traffic, which was surprisingly dense for such a cold and overcast day. Rows of tall, multi-storey terrace houses and apartments ran off into the distance in that direction on either of the road, the occasional Nazi swastika flag hanging here and there from various windows in a show of support for the men of the Wehrmacht.

  Further east along Motzstrasse, between Martin-Luther-Strasse and Nollendorfplatz, the borough was home to one of the more well-known ‘gay areas’ where people of same-sex orientation and others of more alternative lifestyles lived openly. It was a situation that had developed during the first years of the 20th Century and continued now in direct contradiction to the harsh treatment meted out to homosexuals and other so-called ‘deviants’ by Nazi militia and regular troops alike.

  Ritter suspected that part of Motzstrasse was mostly left in peace by the authorities because of the number of high-ranking party members – and military officers - sometimes seen ‘just passing through’ on any given evening. He personally preferred to stay away from the area himself, particularly when he was with his family. The boys were too young to even think about having a discussion about where babies come from, let alone to have an even more awkward discussion as to why ‘that man was kissing another man’, as he’d once had to carefully sidestep while driving home through that area with his children a few months before.

  Ritter didn’t care to associate with others who in his opinion ascribed to that lifestyle, yet he was generally happy all the same for them to live their own lives in peace so long as it didn’t infringe on his own family. Experience at the front had left him well aware there were plenty of real enemies to fight without unnecessarily seeking out any more of them at home.

  He paused at the kerb for a moment, just another man in a field-grey uniform and woollen overcoat as an old and utterly forgettable Citroën sedan pulled suddenly away from a stationary position just a few yards along the street, powering away in a cloud of dirty exhaust. The passenger, an equally-forgettable man in a trench coat with a turned up collar, casually tossed an empty beer can from the open window that rolled into the kerb quite close to Ritter as the vehicle passed.

  The red and white container was unusual for several reasons, the first being that it was of the relatively new pull-tab, aluminium variety that had appear on the market in Germany just before the start of the war, just four years after the first ever steel beer can had been developed in Richmond, Virginia in 1935. The second peculiarity was that it was quite small, with a capacity of just 200-millilitres; a fact that was necessitated by the third irregularity: the type of beer.

  Cölner Hofbräu Früh was one of a number of breweries that specialised in a particular type of beer known as Kölsch, an unusual, clear-style beer produced by warm fermentation followed by cold lagering. Kölsch was well-known to go flat faster than many other beers and in Cologne was therefore generally served in smaller glasses of just 200ml capacity. When the opportunity for many German breweries arose to start marketing their products in the newly-developed pull-tab cans, makers of Kölsch continued the tradition of selling in smaller containers, choosing the integrity of their beer over the opportunity for greater profits. The type was rarely found anywhere else in Germany and was considered a cultural symbol of Cologne, an irony that wasn’t lost on a man who’d been born and bred in that very city.

  Recycling and the appropriate collection and disposal of waste were policies that were rigorously campaigned and enforced in Nazi Germany to the point that it was considered every citizen’s duty to do their utmost in the continuing fight for ‘Zero Waste’. There was therefore not a single bystander who even raised an eyebrow as Ritter bent quickly and snatched the discarded can from the gutter, raising his other arm in accusation of the fast-disappearing Citroën and hurling a tame but no-less damning reprimand at its receding form. He examined the can for a moment, turning it over once in his hands before taking three steps to one side and dropping it unceremoniously into a nearby litter bin.

  Not a single person paid much more attention than to give a passing nod of tacit approval regarding the officer’s actions, and none noticed the small, metal cylinder he’d slipped out of can’s empty mouth before tossing it into the trash. A second later and that same long, thin cylinder was hidde
n safely in one of the pockets of his tunic as he turned his attention back to the road in preparation for crossing.

  Two years earlier, Carl Ritter had been shot down over Scapa Flow – a large anchorage in the Orkney Islands that at the time had been the main base for the Royal Navy’s Home Fleet. Scapa Flow had also been the headquarters of a very secret organisation named Hindsight, and while being held prisoner there he had been introduced to a singularly eccentric Australian officer name Max Thorne.

  The man had told Ritter a fantastic story of having come from the future – something that would’ve been unbelievable had the German pilot not seen physical evidence to corroborate the tale: evidence such as guided missiles, computers and a pair of amazing, supersonic jet fighters far more advanced than anything he had ever seen.

  Max Thorne had also told Ritter some unbelievable things that were far less pleasant; tales of mass extermination in camps right across Germany and Poland, where six million innocent souls would meet their doom in the pursuit of Hitler’s plans for racial purity. The pilot had already began to feel disenchantment and disgust with the Waffen-SS and Nazi ideology following his discovery of the murder of his adopted boys’ mother and sister and in any case, the video evidence presented to him had been so compelling he could do nothing else but accept it. At Scapa Flow, Carl Ritter agreed to help the Allies and spy on his own country.

  The honk of a loud horn broke him from his reverie, and he glanced up with a start and a stab of fear in his heart as he heard someone call his name. A familiar black Mercedes 260D sedan had pulled into the kerb on the opposite side of the street, and leaning out of the driver’s window was Feldwebel Wennemann, his usual chauffer.

  “Good afternoon, Mein Herr…” he called cheerily from across the road, “…so sorry to disturb you on a Sunday afternoon…”

  Ritter forced a broad smile and jammed both hands into the pockets of his army-issue overcoat, fighting desperately to conceal the fear and sudden guilt that had reduced them to shaking. Checking once more for traffic, he jogged across to the vehicle and stopped by the open window, leading in and resting an elbow on the sill.

  “Seriously, Oliver, I must repeat my suggestion that you’d make a fine intelligence officer…” He quipped with a semblance wry smile as the man’s innocent expression indicated he’d not noticed anything out of the ordinary. “Your uncanny ability to locate and disturb your commander during his off-duty hours has again served you well.”

  “My apologies, sir,” Wennemann called out loudly in return as his CO moved quickly around the front of the car and – unusually for an officer – climbed into the front passenger side as was often his wont. “I’ve been asked to bring you home as soon as possible: there are some visitors from the OKW waiting to see you.”

  “May I ask who is waiting for me, feldwebel, or shall I start with Reichsmarschall Reuters and work my way down the list until I guess correctly?” Ritter continued the banter as he closed the door and the Mercedes pulled back into traffic in a cloud of diesel exhaust.

  “Well, Mein Herr… if you started with the Reichsmarschall, you’d need only guess about the other one anyway,” Wisch shrugged, “and I suspect that guess wouldn’t be a hard one…” Carl Ritter was left speechless and again filled with fear as the Mercedes powered off along Welserstrasse, heading north.

  The apartment of Carl and Maria Ritter was a modest and tastefully-furnished two-storey structure that was one of several in a large block on the corner of Welser- and Fuggerstrasse, less than half a mile from where Wennemann had picked him up. One of the upper-storey residences, the front door stood at end of a short landing at the very top of the stairs, internal stairs leading to the second level bedrooms placed to the left upon entry; Ritter’s small, personal study to the right; and a long, open hallway straight down the centre leading to the living areas and kitchen toward the rear. As the pair entered, Ritter in the lead, two high-ranking officers were already waiting patiently in his study, engaged in polite conversation with his wife, Maria, as all three held steaming cups of hot coffee.

  “You know where the kitchen is, Oliver: fell free to get yourself something to eat…” Ritter suggested softly as the pair stopped for a moment just outside the study entrance and all eyes turned unnervingly turned in his direction.

  “No need, sir: already eaten…” Wennemann replied, not getting what his CO was really trying to say.

  “Then go… and get… some more…!” His CO ordered softly, slow emphasis and a tinge of exasperation this time making it crystal clear that he wanted privacy while speaking with his unexpected guests.

  “Of course, Mein Herr,” his driver replied with sheepish grin, this time getting the point and leaving again with a salute and not another word.

  Ritter paused for a moment, took a deep breath to steady a slight case of nerves, and stepped into his own study with a reasonable façade of courage and determination to greet Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters and Generaloberst Albert Schiller. The moment he was beside them, he instantly snapped to rigid attention and presented the highest-ranking officer with a text-book salute, one that was returned by Reuters in a far more casual and perfunctory manner.

  “At ease, Carl…” Reuters said casually, waving away the man’s formality as he sipped at his coffee. “I must thank you for coming so quickly… we’ve been kept so wonderfully entertained by your beautiful wife, however, that I can’t say I’m entirely pleased you’ve returned so soon…”

  “You’re far too kind, Herr Reichsmarschall,” Maria Ritter demurred softly with a self-conscious turn of her head.

  “Nonsense…!” Reuters replied with a gallant smile, dismissing her protest. “I remember seeing you at the Staatliches Operettentheater in ‘Thirty-Three… no, ‘Thirty-Four! Oliver Cromwell – that play by Jelusich, I believe. You played Lady Cromwell… there wasn’t a man in the crowd who wasn’t mesmerised!”

  Almost as tall as her husband, Maria Ritter was a slim, elegant woman with piercing blue eyes and long golden hair that might have made her perfect as an advertisement for the perfection of the Aryan ideal, had it not been for the personal opinion of Nazi genetics that she sensibly kept to herself. She’d been an actress of some repute in her younger years and even in the plain, everyday woollen dress she currently wore, it was clear that she was a woman of exceptional beauty.

  There was something in the Reichsmarschall’s tone of voice however, and in the way that he looked at Maria, that left Ritter feeling ill at ease and – as a result – instantly jealous and over-protective of his wife. HE couldn’t exactly say what that strangeness was – it admittedly didn’t appear to be salacious or sexual by nature – yet it was somehow unusual all the same, and Ritter found he didn’t care for it at all.

  “Although I wholeheartedly agree with you, Mein Herr,” He interrupted cautiously, his emotions a combination of nervous annoyance, “Surely you didn’t come to visit today solely to flatter my wife?”

  “Of course, of course…” Reuters conceded with another dismissive wave, almost too quickly as Schiller gave a soft chuckle behind him. “Down to business, of course…”

  “Maria, darling,” Ritter began, taking his wife as took her cue to leave, “please bring a bottle of our best wine and three glasses.”

  “On the contrary, Frau Ritter, with my thanks, please do not go to the trouble,” Reuters cut in quickly. “We shan’t be staying long, and I wouldn’t impose on you any further.”

  Maria glanced questioningly at her husband and received a faint nod of agreement in return. Without a word and with just a single nod of her own in acknowledgement – one that carried an untold weight of unvoiced concern – she turned and disappeared down the hallway toward the rear of the apartment.

  “It’s been a long time, Herr Reichsmarschall,” Ritter continued with accentuated formality as he turned back to his visitors, shrugging off his overcoat and hanging it carefully on a rack just inside the door that already held two military greatcoats.

&n
bsp; “It has indeed, my friend…” Reuters agreed with far more geniality, gesturing to one of two upholstered, high-backed chairs on the same side of the large office desk. “May I…?” He added, immediately taking a seat without waiting for the affirmative reply he knew would come. Schiller took the seat beside his CO, drawing it back a few feet to make it clear who would be doing the talking and assuming a relaxed standing position to watch the proceedings.

  “To what do I owe this honour, sir?” Ritter inquired cautiously, not at all reassured by the man’s apparent camaraderie: familiarity was a privilege of rank that wasn’t always welcome in reciprocation.

  “Much as I would love this to be nothing more than a social call, Carl,” Reuters continued, “I’m afraid there are business matters I need to discuss with you this afternoon.”

  Do they know? Are they here to arrest me? Ritter’s heart once again leapt in fear before logic took over and quite rightly pointed out that any intention to take him into custody would have warranted a visit of a very different kind to that of the Commander-in-Chief of the entire OKW.

  “I’ll assist the Reichsmarschall in any way I can, of course…”