Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “That young man is a loudmouth,” he said, tapping his folder. “But I don’t think he’s a real troublemaker. He has too much to lose.”

  Schwarzkopf eyed him, sharply. “Two of the other spies have classed him as a potential dissident.”

  Horst forced himself to keep his voice level. “Mein Herr, he talks too much,” he said. He was tempted to drop the idiot in hot water, but that would be cruel. “A dissident would be quieter, I believe.”

  “His talk is already seditious,” Schwarzkopf pointed out. He picked up the next set of folders and held them out. “And these?”

  The first two folders showed boys he didn't recognise, but the third folder belonged to Gudrun. He glanced at her photographs first, hoping that his superior would think he was admiring her body if he showed any reaction, then checked the rest of the file. Thankfully, Gudrun seemed to have been classed as someone who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, rather than a potential dissident. The bureaucrats hadn't known she’d been engaged to Konrad before he’d been sent to South Africa. Having a policeman for a father probably told in her favour, although she also had a tie to the SS. Horst made a mental note to consider that later, wondering what the tie actually was. Gudrun’s elder brother was in the Berlin Guard, not the Waffen-SS, and her other brothers were still in the Hitler Youth. It was unlikely as hell they were already marked down as potential SS recruits. Only bad fiction for impressionable young men involved children serving as full-fledged secret agents charged with hunting down spies.

  “I know her from my classes,” he said. He made a show of looking back at the pictures. “I was planning to court her.”

  “I can understand why,” Schwarzkopf said. “Pretty, definitely; her bloodline shows no trace of non-Aryan blood.”

  Horst flushed on Gudrun’s behalf, silently praying she never found out that he'd looked at her naked photographs, then frowned as the implications struck him. If she’d wanted to marry an SS officer, she needed a certificate of racial purity, a confirmation that her parents and grandparents had been of pure German blood. He wondered, suddenly, why someone had looked up Gudrun’s bloodline - it wasn't normally done outside the SS - but the file provided no answer. There had to be a connection between Gudrun and the SS he wasn't seeing.

  “I may still do so,” he said. He put the file back and took the next one. “Unless it would impact on my career...”

  “It probably wouldn't,” Schwarzkopf assured him. “She doesn't seem to be one of the ringleaders.”

  And let us hope you’re telling the truth, Horst thought, as he checked the next file. If a competent spy saw us together, you might wonder...

  “Another loudmouth,” he said, dismissing the subject. The male student was two years older than him and completely unconnected to Gudrun. “This one, however, was involved with inciting students to go to the factories.”

  Schwarzkopf frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “He wasn't the only one,” Horst said. He would have preferred not to mention it, but the idiot just had to shoot his mouth off in public, where one of the other spies would definitely have heard. Better he ended up in an interrogation chamber than Horst himself. “There were a couple of others I don’t know so well.”

  “Several students are also dead,” Schwarzkopf said. “They may have hoped to be killed.”

  “Only the Arabs charge into battle praying for death,” Horst said. The SS praised death before the dishonour of running away, but even the most fanatical unit understood the value of a tactical retreat. “I don’t think the students would have enough bravery to make a fight of it.”

  “This one did,” Schwarzkopf said. He held up another file. Inside, there was a picture of a brutally-wounded young man. “Do you recognise him?”

  “Hartwig,” Horst said. He hadn't liked the young man - he’d lured Gudrun into danger - but he hadn't deserved to die so savagely. “Hartwig Rhineland. Another loudmouth.”

  “Noted,” Schwarzkopf said. They ran through the rest of the files quickly. “Do you know any of the students personally?”

  “A few,” Horst said. Thankfully, he knew more than just Gudrun and the Valkyries. “I have classes with them.”

  “We have orders to release them tomorrow morning, save for a handful who merit further investigation,” Schwarzkopf said. “Do you want to drive any of them home?”

  Horst kept his expression blank with an effort. He needed to talk to Gudrun - and he needed to do it before she vanished into her home. Her father was a policeman, after all; he’d be embarrassed when he discovered that his daughter had been arrested, even if it didn't blight his career for the rest of his life. Horst knew what his father would have done if he’d gotten into real trouble and he doubted Gudrun’s father would take it any better. But then, Gudrun was a girl. She might just be grounded for the rest of her life instead.

  But if he showed any interest in any of the girls, his superior might wonder why... unless, of course, he gave them a good reason.

  “I can drive Gudrun home,” he said, pasting a smile on his face. “She might appreciate it.”

  “She might,” Schwarzkopf said. “We’re asking students to drive the arrestees home, rather than allow their parents to collect them in a body. Listen carefully to what she says as you drive her home. If she happens to say anything actionable, report it to us.”

  “I will,” Horst said. He’d check the car overnight, just to make sure no one had added any new bugs. Disabling the one he knew about and making it look like an accident would be easy, but disabling a new bug would raise eyebrows. “Will you inform her parents she’s going home?”

  “I believe there will be a formal announcement,” Schwarzkopf said, casually. “For the moment, however, I suggest you wait. The streets are not safe at the moment.”

  Horst managed to keep himself, barely, from making a sarcastic remark. The police, instead of arresting strikers or rioters, had managed to dump an SS agent into a processing centre. If they'd known what he’d done, it would have been a great success, but as it happened it had merely been a minor hiccup. But when his superiors complained, the police would be less willing to take suspects into custody, even ones who were clearly breaking the law...

  “Yes, Mein Herr,” he said, instead.

  ***

  Volker listened to the radio broadcast in some disbelief. The government was... surrendering? The strikers were to be forgiven? The fired workers were to be allowed to return to work? The union was to be legalised - along with many of the other rights they’d demanded when they’d taken over the factories? It sounded almost too good to be true.

  And it probably is too good to be true, he thought, darkly. He’d been in the SS, after all; they might concede ground when it could not be held, but they refused to simply let it go permanently. They’ll start preparing for the next round.

  “We won,” Joachim said. He sounded as surprised as Volker himself. “Didn't we?”

  “For the moment,” Volker said. They’d have to move fast to capitalise on their success before the government recovered its balance. “But this is only the first round. I imagine they’ll do what they can to undermine us.”

  He sighed. “And they haven’t agreed to end the war, Joachim,” he added. “They’re making concessions, not surrendering. We have to be ready for their counterattack.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Berlin, Germany

  13 August 1985

  Gudrun had endured a naked and uncomfortable night.

  The cell hadn't been as unpleasant as she’d feared - it certainly smelled better than Grandpa Frank’s room - and once a policeman had removed the cuffs she’d been able to move around freely and drink water from a tiny nozzle, but it had been boring. When she'd been grounded as a young girl, she’d been able to read books even if she hadn't been allowed out of her room, let alone into the garden or onto the streets. There was simply nothing to do in the prison cell, save for trying to sleep and fretting about what woul
d happen to her. She wasn't even sure just how long she’d been in the cell. Her watch, along with everything she’d been wearing or carrying, had been taken from her during processing and the light bulb never dimmed.

  She was half-asleep, dozing fitfully, when someone knocked on the metal grating that ensured she had absolutely no privacy. The noise jerked her awake; she hastily covered her breasts and crotch with her hands as she sat upright, blinking. Her head hurt; it occurred to her, suddenly, that she hadn't eaten anything for hours, perhaps days. How long had she been a prisoner in the cell? How long could someone survive on water alone? She didn't know.

  “Eat,” the guard said, slipping a tray through the bars. “And then be ready.”

  Gudrun scowled at him. “Ready for what?”

  The guard ignored her and walked onwards, pushing a trolley to the next cell. Gudrun stood, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and picked up the tray carefully. She had no idea what went into the stew, but it didn't smell anything like the stew her mother made, while the piece of bread was hard enough to threaten her teeth. There were no knives or forks, let alone salt and pepper. It tasted, when she placed a piece of meat in her mouth, like pork on the verge of going bad. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of eating it, but she knew there was no choice. She forced it down her throat with plenty of water and pushed the tray back out of the cell. No doubt the ghastly food was yet another form of torture.

  She looked up as the guard returned, jangling his keys as he stopped in front of her cell and peered in at her. Gudrun covered herself as best as she could, knowing that nothing would stop the guard if he decided to open the grate and have some fun with her. She promised herself that she’d fight, that she'd put a knee between his legs before she let him rape her, but she knew she was too tired and hungry, despite the food, to hold out for long. It was a relief when another guard arrived, spoke briefly to the first guard and then tapped on Gudrun’s grate. When she looked up, she saw he was holding a pair of handcuffs.

  “Turn around and give me your hands,” he ordered.

  Gudrun considered refusing, but she knew it was pointless. She turned and allowed him to cuff her, then shrank backwards as he entered the cell. He caught her arm in a vice-like grip, pulled her out of the cell and through a solid metal door that looked as though it should belong in a battleship. It banged closed behind her as she was shoved down the corridor and into another room. A familiar box, marked with her name and a number she didn't recognise, was positioned neatly on the floor.

  “Get dressed,” the guard ordered, as he removed the cuffs. He sounded bored, despite her nakedness. Perhaps he saw naked prisoners every day. “Make sure everything you had on you when you were arrested has been given back to you.”

  Gudrun blinked at him. “I’m to dress?”

  “Yes,” the policeman said, shortly. “Get dressed. Someone is on their way to pick you up.”

  She fought down her surprise as she opened the box, reminding herself that it might just be a trick. But all of her clothes were inside, neatly folded; she shuddered at the thought of policemen pawing them before deciding it didn't matter. She pulled on her panties and bra, then her trousers and shirt, feeling better with every piece of clothing she donned. By the time the box was empty - she hadn't been carrying much, save for a couple of pens and a set of house keys - she felt almost human again.

  The policeman snapped on the cuffs again, then marched her through another series of corridors into what she guessed was a waiting room. He removed one of the cuffs, locked it to a chair and walked off, leaving her alone. Gudrun scowled after him - did they really think she was that dangerous? - and then started to wonder who was coming to pick her up. Her father? Her brother? Either one might - might - have been able to get her released. There were no other prisoners in the room... maybe she was the only person being allowed to go free. It wasn't a comforting thought. Her father would probably forbid her from returning to the university; he’d probably tell her to find a man within the next week or marry his choice, whoever it turned out to be.

  She looked up as the door opened to reveal another female prisoner. The policeman escorting her cuffed her to another chair at the far end of the room, then left the two girls alone. It was impossible to talk without shouting, so Gudrun settled for sending the newcomer a reassuring look and waiting to see what happened. She didn't seem to have any other choice, beyond demanding to be allowed to go to the toilet... and the toilet in the cell had been unspeakably vile.

  It’s a prison, stupid, she reminded herself. It’s not a holiday camp.

  It felt like hours before yet another policeman arrived, released her from the chair and marched her out of the room, into a lobby. Horst was standing there, looking nervous; Gudrun flushed with embarrassment as she realised he could see her in cuffs, then blinked in surprise as she tried to work out what he was doing there. He wasn't her father, her brother or her boyfriend... why was he coming to pick her up? Did he think their kiss gave him a claim on her? Or...

  “You are free to go,” the policeman said, removing the cuffs for the final time. Gudrun rubbed her wrists. The cuffs hadn't been as tight as they’d been yesterday, but they’d still been uncomfortable. She had a feeling she’d be sore for days. “Go.”

  “Come on,” Horst said. “I’ve got the car just outside.”

  Gudrun followed him, feeling numb. “Where are we?”

  “A police station on the outskirts of Berlin,” Horst said. He opened the door; Gudrun blinked and hastily covered her eyes as the sunlight shone down. “They wanted students rather than parents to pick up the prisoners.”

  That sounded odd, Gudrun thought; every time she or her brothers had managed to get in trouble at school, their parents had been summoned to pick them up. Perhaps it was different for the police... or, perhaps, the police hadn't wanted to make a fuss. Her father was a policeman, after all. Who knew what he would have said to the officers who’d processed his daughter?

  “It should be safe to talk in here,” Horst said, once they were in the car. He started the engine as Gudrun buckled herself into the passenger seat. “Quite a bit has happened since you were arrested.”

  Gudrun listened in growing disbelief as he outlined the end of the strike. “They just... they just surrendered?”

  “I very much doubt it,” Horst said. “They were surprised, of course, when mothers and wives came out onto the streets in a mass protest. So many people walked away from their jobs that the city literally ground to a halt. The government might have had to make concessions, just to get the city moving again, but they won’t let it rest.”

  “No,” Gudrun agreed. “They’ve been humiliated.”

  “A bit more than merely humiliated,” Horst said. He gave her a sidelong look. “How did they treat you?”

  Gudrun felt her body starting to shake. They’d stripped her naked, seen her most private places... they could have done worse, far worse, and she knew it. She’d been helpless, defenceless, she could have vanished into the prison system and never been allowed to emerge... she could still feel their hands on her, turning her into a helpless piece of meat. She was barely aware of Horst parking the car as she curled up in the seat, then flinched in surprise as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to give what comfort he could. But he couldn't understand what she’d been through. How could he?

  “Badly,” she said, finally. She wanted to keep it to herself, but she had a feeling that talking about it would help her to overcome the sense of bitter helplessness. “They stripped me, inspected me... like a doctor, only worse.”

  “But it’s over now,” Horst said.

  “It’s not over,” Gudrun said. “You said it yourself. The government isn't going to give up just because it lost this round.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Horst said. He looked nervous. “Gudrun... I have something important to tell you.”

  Gudrun looked up at him. Konrad had sounded similar, very similar, when he’d asked for her promise
of marriage. And Horst... did he want to ask her to marry him? Or...?

  “I’ve been keeping a secret from you,” Horst confessed, slowly. He slowly released her shoulders. “They sent me to spy on you.”

  It took Gudrun a moment to put it together. When she did, she slapped his face as hard as she could. Horst recoiled backwards, one hand going to his face; Gudrun flinched herself as she realised what she’d done. She'd slapped an SS officer... she’d just got out of one dingy prison cell and now she’d go straight into another, if he didn't just throw her into the camps and gas her. And yet, if he was an SS officer, why wasn't she dead? Horst knew the names and faces of every one of the Valkyries.

  “I suppose I deserved that,” Horst said, finally. “But please don’t do it again.”

  He rubbed his face as Gudrun stared at him. She'd left a nasty mark on his right cheek, just indicative of a handprint. He didn't sound particularly hurt... but then, he wouldn’t. Kurt had told her far too much about military training, including being taught how to take a blow and recover. Horst had probably been slapped worse in basic training... if he’d had basic training. How much of what he'd told them had been a lie?