Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  There was a sickening, crunching sound audible even from the river bank and Leonski’s screams were suddenly and quite terminally cut short and for a moment – just a moment – Thorne imagined he saw the foaming water beneath the port side wheel turn a dark shade of brownish-red before it dissipated and mingled with flowing waters of the mighty Murray River. Releasing a shudder and a sigh of sad relief, he lowered the rifle once more and turned his gaze back to Briony, only to discover that the girl was now out cold, either passed out or asleep.

  The sound of movement to his left caused him to raise the rifle once more, this time pointing it vaguely in the direction of the unidentified stranger.

  “Uh-uh…!” He warned sharply, taking a step or two toward the sound. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

  “I need to leave now…” the voice replied softly, sounding muffled as if the speaker were talking through a layer of cloth or something similar. “I need to leave before your colleagues arrive… for me to still be here when they come would be… awkward…”

  “I owe you this girl’s life… and mine,” Thorne conceded, tired and shattered and angry that there were pieces of this puzzle that were still eluding him “…but there’s no way I can let you go without knowing who you are.”

  “You know who I am…” came the soft, knowing reply, also sounding sad and noticeably worn out.

  “James Brandis…” Thorne growled, stating the obvious.

  “At your service…” Brandis replied, his wry grin clear in the tone of his voice.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for this meeting,” Thorne observed cautiously, taking another step or two forward.

  “Nowhere near as long as I, I can assure you,” Brandis countered in a dry tone, adding: “That will be quite close enough, Max… I really shouldn’t come any closer… if I were you…”

  “Knowing who you are tells me nothing,” Thorne snapped curtly, although he did halt his progress for a moment upon hearing that thinly-veiled warning. “How do you seem to know everything that’s going on? Where did you get all that gold? I want answers… I need answers…!”

  “I know you do,” Brandis answered sympathetically, ‘but they’re answers I can’t give you right now: you’re not ready for them…”

  “Why not let me be the judge of that…?”

  “I have…” Brandis chuckled, amused by a joke Thorne didn’t get.

  “I will not let you leave without knowing who you really are,” Thorne warned with determination, lifting the carbine to his shoulder once more and aiming it into the clump of thick shrubbery from behind which the voice was emanating. He took another step forward, suddenly quite frightened for some inexplicable reason but forcing the emotion away from his consciousness.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Brandis growled sharply, a hardness creeping into his voice now. “I don’t wish to hurt you, but I cannot allow you any nearer…”

  “What’re you gonna do… shoot me…?” Thorne countered, believing he had the upper hand as he kept the rifle raised.

  “If I have to…” Brandis replied coldly, and at that same moment a thick stream of liquid sprayed forth from behind the bushes to strike Thorne square in the face. The surprise of it quickly gave way to a blinding, burning pain so overpowering that the rifle fell from his hands, instantly forgotten, and he collapsed to the ground with a howl of agony.

  “You son of a bitch…!” He snarled, writhing about as he clutched desperately at a face already turning red and swelling up.

  “Simple pepper spray,” Brandis advised cheerfully, “but you’ve probably worked that out already. It’ll wear off eventually, of course, but I know that probably isn’t helping right now…”

  “Son of a bitch…!” Thorne repeated hoarsely, his voice equal parts pain and fury.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that, but I did warn you. It hurts like hell, I know. I sprayed myself in the face too, once, and believe me when I say I remember exactly how painful it was.” There was a pause before Brandis added, finally. “I’ll warn you not to try following me, but I know you won’t be able to now, so that’d be pointless. We’ll talk about all of this as friends, one day, but not yet… not yet…”

  There were footsteps right above him as Thorne continued to wipe desperately at his inflamed eyes with a piece of his own shirt, the dampness of it at least vaguely soothing. As he tried to look up, all he could see through the pain and capsicum-induced tears was a dark outline against the tree-filled sky.

  “Look after her… keep your promise…” Brandis said simply, staring down at him for a moment. “…But then, I know you will… she needs you, now… and you will need her…more than you know…” With that he was gone, his progress marked by the receding noise of him moving away through the bush somewhere off to the south, accompanied by the soft whistling of a tune Thorne recognised but hadn’t heard in some years..

  Gasping for air, Thorne with huge effort forcibly dragged himself back to the river bank on all fours and lay flat on his stomach, pushing himself out far enough to dunk his entire face under the cool, muddy waters. Although his eyes still burned, one or two more attempts at bathing them did begin to lessen the sensation to the point that he could at least see again.

  Somewhere off to the north he could now hear the approach of running feet, followed quickly by Lloyd and Langdale calling out for him.

  “Over here… I’m over here…!” He croaked as loudly as he was able, and as he heard them change course he stumbled over to where Briony still lay, now sleeping fitfully. Kneeling down beside her once more, he checked her breathing and her pulse and then stroked her hair gently once or twice, grimacing at bruises, cuts and scrapes on her face and body that she’d clearly suffered while Leonski’s hostage.

  Questions raged in his mind – questions about the man he’d just encountered that were greater in number now for the meeting than had been before. That Brandis had helped him and saved both their lives was undeniable, but for all that he didn’t trust the man: there was something strange and simply ‘wrong’ about him that Thorne couldn’t place is finger on.

  He shook his head in resignation and pushed those thoughts from his mind for the time being. There’d be a time for reckoning with James Brandis sure enough, but that moment would have to wait. It was painfully clear that the girl laying before him now would have to be his first priority, at least until more suitable, trustworthy foster parents could be identified. Brandis was right on one count, at least: he would keep his promise.

  He slumped down onto the bank beside Briony, laying back and staring blankly up at the cloudless blue sky. Over to the east, the tiny, dark shape of a helicopter appeared above the tree line and turned to head in his direction, keeping low above the forest as it approached. The sight almost made him burst out laughing as he found another, relatively clean piece of his shirt and again wiped at his red-rimmed eyes.

  “Better late than never, I guess…” He muttered with a wry chuckle, relief in his words that, for now at least, it was all over. The tune he’d heard as Brandis had departed came back to haunt his thoughts at that moment, and he found himself unconsciously whistling along with it, unable to shake it out of his head.

  24. Winds of Change

  Germanische-SS local command HQ

  Strabane, County Tyrone

  Reich-Protektorat Nordirland

  Most cells were no different to any other. It was a fact Richard Kransky had accustomed himself to long ago, and he found the dank concrete walls of his current environment to be no exception. A tiny window at the very top of one dirty, blood-stained wall allowed in the barest minimum of natural light while a hard-framed wooden bed (with an exceptionally thin and uncomfortable mattress, even by prison standards) and a simple bucket in one corner were the only furnishings.

  It was unlikely he’d get any sleep in any case, he had to admit. His face was battered and bruised from the beating he’d received at the hands of the Wehrmacht troops who’d eventually sur
rounded him, one eye swollen and bloody, and he’d lost at least one tooth into the bargain. His ribs ached terribly and he suspected it was an outright miracle he’d sustained no broken bones from the thorough going-over they’d given him in the truck on the way up to Strabane. At least he was no longer bleeding so far a he could tell, and they’d been decent enough to get him some bread and cheese, although the darker part of his psyche couldn’t help wondering if a little more effort could’ve been made for what might easily end up being his last meal.

  The rational, analytical part of his consciousness knew they’d almost certainly keep him alive… for a while, at least. He had no doubt the SS knew enough about him to recognise that he was a high-value intelligence target and there was also no doubt in his mind that they’d make every effort to exploit the opportunity they now possessed. He had no illusions as to how long he might last under interrogation; the SS was well-known for its brutal methods, and Kransky was experienced enough to now that in the end, no man was impossible to break.

  He had no idea what time it was, but the light coming from the tiny window suggested it was well after sunrise, possibly mid-morning. He was completely and utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally, and yet sleep wouldn’t come as he lay on that hard, lumpy mattress (that was also at least half a metre too short). Opposite him, darkness obscured the peephole set into the centre of the iron door that held him within his cell. He knew they were watching him but that hardly mattered now. As he stared at the ceiling, he wondered if the others had managed to get away.

  “You should get some rest,” Franz Bauer suggested as he backed away from the peephole and turned toward Pieter Stahl, a smouldering cigarette in one hand. “You know you have a concussion…”

  “Suspected concussion,” Stahl replied far too dismissively to be sensible as he stepped forward and took a turn at looking in on Kransky. “I’m just fine, Franz,” he added with a faint smile, “although I appreciate the concern. I am tired, but then so are you… we can both have a rest later.” A thick bandage was wrapped about his head above his eye line, and he carried his cap under his arm as a result. The medic who had tended to him had recommended he be admitted to a field hospital for a few days for observation of a suspected concussion, but he’d of course refused.

  “During the battle…” Bauer began awkwardly, looking like he seriously needed to get something off his chest.

  “…You did what you needed to do to survive…” Stahl answered for him, still staring coldly at the prisoner through the tiny peephole.

  “I forgot everything you told me…”

  “So did I…” Stahl grinned ruefully, stepping back from the door and turning to his partner. “I’ve never actually seen combat, you know…”

  “But…” Bauer started in surprise “…but you were with the Totenkopf in France – you commanded a front line unit…!”

  “I was transferred in after the fall of France and transferred out again before the invasion due to… ‘injury’…” he finished after a pause, the hatred for the Luftwaffe officer that had left that scar on his cheek still as fresh and overwhelming as ever.

  “But you sounded so confident before the firefight… I just thought…”

  “I learned from veteran NCOs who were far more experienced than I,” Stahl shrugged with a grin that for him as almost humble. “What can I say…? I’m a quick learner…”

  “Now that I can definitely attest to…” Bauer agreed with a grin of his own, thinking over how quickly his young ‘protégé’ had picked up the finer points of interrogation while working with him.

  “How long until we move him back to Belfast…?” Stahl asked, changing the subject.

  “A few days perhaps,” Bauer replied after a moment, savouring the cigarette he’d just raised to his lips. “Barkmann wants to send a special convoy up to collect him – one that will be properly armed against attack.”

  “You really think those Irish fools will try to intervene?”

  “They’ve shown no great affinity with common sense so far,” Bauer shrugged with a wry grin. “I see no reason for them to change now. I think Barkmann is hoping they’ll try something just so he can wipe a few more of them out…” He chuckled softly. “He was rather fond of that car, it seems, and they did leave it in an awful state…”

  “There’s still the matter of this errant Jew, of course,” Stahl pointed out, his tone darkening.

  “Of course…” his partner agreed evenly “…and at present he is still within our grasp, somewhere in Nordirland. We will capture him… it’s a matter of time and nothing more…”

  “Perhaps our ‘friend’ here will be able to shed some light on his whereabouts.”

  “Oh, he’s going to give us lots of useful information,” Standartenführer Franz Bauer advised with an evil smile, already looking forward to the interrogation with almost breathless anticipation.

  Forest near Bad Berka

  Thuringia, Deutschland

  October 4, 1942

  Sunday

  The Mercedes cruised effortlessly up through the Thuringian mountains, thick forests of beech and spruce towering on either side. Ground level was in complete shadow with little light penetrating the canopy high above despite it being mid-morning on a clear if cold October day. Early mists still lay here and there, floating close to the ground in the open spaces across the road and between the trees, the warmth of the sun not strong enough as yet to dissipate the last remnants of the preceding night.

  The forty-kilometre journey south from Buchenwald to Kottenhain airfield was a relatively long one, winding up and down through forests and quaint mountain villages that in some cases seemed completely untouched by the 20th Century let alone any hint of world war. There was more than sufficient heating within the large convertible, but Schiller felt a chill in his bones all the same. Neither man had spoken much since they left the camp, both lost in the dark depths of their own doubt and self-loathing albeit for markedly differing reasons.

  Goldvogel, flieg aus…Flieg auf die Stangen… Staring out at the passing forest, the words of an old nursery rhyme echoed in Reuters’ mind for a moment as he clenched his and fought to clear it from his thoughts. The voices were becoming more frequent now, and silence didn’t help. Considering the equally withdrawn, younger man seated beside him in the car, the Reichsmarschall’s conscience and pride struggled for a second or two before he finally released a soft sigh of grudging resignation.

  “Albert…” he began, running a hand across his own face in a vaguely nervous gesture. “Albert, I’m sorry… for the way I treated you in Egypt… you’ve been a loyal officer and a good friend: you didn’t deserve that…”

  Schiller, also staring our at the trees speeding past, said nothing for a long time, and the old man knew better than to press the issue. He instead waited patiently for his aide to find his voice, suspecting – mistakenly – that pride was the dominant issue.

  “None of that matters, Kurt…” Schiller replied softly after a while, and Reuters was surprised by the emptiness of his voice. “It’s all right… none of it matters…”

  “I was hoping…” The Reichsmarschall began, but halted quickly as Schiller turned his head and regarded the man with a sharp gaze.

  “What does matter, Kurt… really…?” The words were hollow and emotionless and so unlike Albert Schiller that it was clearly a cause for concern. “You know who I saw while I was waiting for you…? Who I met… Who I spoke to and shared a cigarette…?”

  “At the camp…?” Reuters breathed, fear creeping into his mind now. Incredible as might seem in hindsight, he’d never even considered the possibility that they might encounter anyone they actually knew at one of the camps.

  “A dead man…” Schiller continued emphatically. “That’s who I met… and he’s not the only one, is he? Not by a long shot…!”

  “We’ve been here almost a decade, Albert… you’ve only considered this now…?” Reuters observed with vague sarcasm, comple
tely misjudging the seriousness of his colleague’s emotional state.

  “Oh, I’ve become quite good at the art of denial, Kurt,” Schiller shot back with unexpected venom. “Spend enough time away from home… in Spain, managing my properties… or in Switzerland keeping an eye on my factories…” he gave an exaggerated shrug of mock indifference “…it’s easy to pretend it’s not happening when you’re not right there, watching the gorillas in brown shirts smashing shopfronts or murdering the weak.”

  “Albert, we went over this before… before we ‘jumped’…”

  “We never went over it…!” Came the hissed, angry reply. “Not properly, anyway… There was never the time, was there? Always time to argue about which assault rifle would be the easiest to make… about which jet engine would be fastest into production… oh yes, there was always time to talk about the technical details…” He almost spat his words vehemently now as all his deeply hidden self-hatred suddenly boiled to the surface. “But the camps…? The Holocaust…? Oh, we just glossed over that, didn’t we…! Just danced right around it because there was never… never… the time to talk about the wholesale extermination of six… million… innocent… people…!”

  “We paid our penance for that!” Reuters shot back, a little too quickly and a little too defensively even for his own liking. “For sixty years, the entire Volk was forced to bow down and apologise for what these monsters are doing…! Do you forget that the Holocaust happened even without our presence here?”

  “Oh no, I’ve not forgotten… not at all…” Schiller snarled bitterly. “Are you listening to yourself, Kurt… you sound like one of them…! Which ‘Volk’ is it you’re referring to, huh? The Herrenvolk…? ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer’…? How many will go to the gas chambers now, with our help: zehn millionen… zwanzig…?”