by Max Hudson
“Don’t tell me you care about my wellbeing. I’m touched.”
Martin ended the call.
Chapter Seven
The next few months continued much more smoothly.
Emmerich drank less, at least, after he had been reinstated as an SS Officer. He was stationed in Steinrole as a glorified guard more than anything else—Bosch was micromanaging him—but it was a start.
Martin and Auta spent a lot of time with her mother, who had grown fond of Martin once he basically allowed her to plan their entire wedding for them.
After a while, the General stopped hanging around to see Martin and his daughter every time they visited the large house. Either Achter trusted Martin enough to leave him alone with the women in his life, or Achter’s work was important enough he had to to leave Martin unattended.
Everything was going in the right direction, however slowly.
***
That evening, after spending another day with Auta and Edda, Martin called Emmerich to check on him.
“For once, I’m glad you called to nag,” Emmerich said. “I have some important information.”
“What is it?”
“Bosch has received several reports about this one neighborhood harboring a few Jewish families. He’s ordered us to raid those streets tomorrow night.”
Martin waited, expecting—no, hoping—for more information. When he didn’t get any more, he sighed. “Are these Jewish families creating nuclear weapons by any chance?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then we can’t do anything.”
“What?! What the hell are you talking about?”
Martin rubbed his forehead, gut clenching. He breathed past the sensation—the dread, the guilt—and said, “We have to think about the entire world, here. If the Germans are armed with nuclear weapons, then everyone is in danger. We can’t risk everyone’s lives for a few families. I’m sorry.”
“We can’t risk—what the fuck is wrong with you? I finally get some useful shit from Bosch, and you’re just going to ignore it?” Emmerich snarled a few more curses, loud thuds bursting in the phone. “They’re never going to fucking tell me about their nuclear weapons! You know that.”
“You’re not high enough in the ranks yet—”
“Stop talking. Just fucking stop. You know this entire thing is some stupid, hopeless plan the Americans came up with just so that they can brag they came up with it. It’s not accomplishing anything.”
Martin frowned. “That’s not true.”
“We can save innocent lives. Why can’t we do that?”
“I told you why. We have to stay focus on the mission at hand.”
“And let people die?”
Martin stayed quiet. He had to think of the right words to calm Emmerich, but the remorse which chilled Martin’s torso—it was too sincere, too harsh. He couldn’t think straight.
“You know what?” Emmerich growled. “Fuck you, Fuck the OSS, and fuck this mission.” He hung up.
“Emmerich? Emmerich?!” Martin slammed the phone down, grabbed his gun, and ran out of the room.
Auta, reading in the living room, yelped at his abrupt arrival. “Martin! Wh—?!”
He exited the apartment and ran to the second floor. Emmerich, smug as he was, was still walking down the hallway—toward the staircase which led to the ground floor.
Martin flicked the safety on his gun before sprinting forward. As Emmerich snapped his attention behind him, Martin tackled him to the ground. The slid and tumbled a little, Emmerich spitting out curses and throwing back his elbow.
Martin shoved himself harder against Emmerich’s back, but the man barely budged.
Emmerich rolled—
They both tumbled again, kicking, punching, Martin trying to aim his gun but having Emmerich shove his arm aside—
Martin smacked the butt of his gun against Emmerich’s temple.
Emmerich fell back, practically limp as he cradled his head. “Fucking piece of shit.” He weakly kicked out at Martin, but his kept missing its target as Martin backed away. “Hope you rot in hell.”
“I probably will,” Martin panted out. Tucking the gun away in the waistband of his pants, he reached forward with both hands and grabbed Emmerich’s forearms.
Emmerich struggled and hissed, eyes shut tight.
Martin dragged the writhing German all the way to his apartment’s front door. Martin opened the door—apparently having been left unlocked by Emmerich, the smug bastard—and dragged Emmerich inside.
The apartment was a mess. Empty bottles and trash littered the dusty floor and the stained countertops.
Emmerich returned to massaging his head, so Martin released him to go and close the door. Close it and lock it. Then he stared at the wooden surface and breathed heavily, guilt screeching at his psyche—trying to claw its way into his conscience and force action. “We can’t keep doing this,” Martin choked out. “Too much is at stake.”
Emmerich groaned, curling in on himself and covering his face with his large palms.
“We’ve been doing a good job,” he continued, saying the same thing he always said to Auta whenever she doubted. “This work can require a lot of time. We must be patient, and soon, we’ll get what we need to prevent the Nazis from doing global damage.
“I know this is hard, but it’ll be worth it.” Martin turned to face Emmerich.
Emmerich didn’t look up from his hands.
Martin leaned back against the door—banging his head against it. “Damn it, Emmerich. Why do you fight me at every turn? I’m trying to be your ally.”
“No,” Emmerich said into his palms. “You’re using me.” He slid his hands up to his temples. His eyes glazed over, the anger in them cracking apart. “And don’t tell me that isn’t true because we both know it is. I grant you access to something, that’s all. I’m your fucking tool to either use or discard whenever it suits you.”
It was true enough, and Martin didn’t have the strength to convince Emmerich otherwise. He sank to the floor and rested his elbows on his knees, his eyelids drooping.
They stayed that way in silence for several moments. Martin kept some of his attention on Emmerich in case the man tried to charge through the door Martin was blocking, but shy of that, he relaxed—letting his fatigue weigh him down more and more.
“How do you…?” Emmerich stretched out, face aimed at the ceiling and hands lower to his gut. He cleared his throat. “How do you handle this kind of life? The lies, deciding who gets to live—all of it.”
“Habit,” Martin said. “The more you do something, the easier it gets.”
“Crude.”
Martin shrugged. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
“I think it does. My brother—” His breath caught, and he squirmed on the floor. “It’s not easier. I still see that fucking photo. I still see my father’s face when he showed me that photo. I still see Mama when she first entered that courtroom during my trial.” He shut his eyes tight, lips quivering.
Heart constricting, Martin frowned at the floor. He bit his tongue to keep quiet. Meaningless apologies—pity—they were worthless in situations like this.
“I admit,” Emmerich rasped, opening his eyes and looking at Martin, “when you first came to me in Stockholm, I thought you were there to kill me.”
“You thought I was a Nazi.”
“No. But when you said you were an American agent, I thought…” A breathy laugh blew past his lips. “Let’s just say your people aren’t kind to men like me. I don’t think any country is.” His voice broke. “And everyone who matters to me suffered because of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin blurted, cringing immediately afterward. So much for avoiding meaningless apologies. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through. I’ve spent my entire life trying to make sure nothing like that ever happened to my family, and the…the loneliness of it…” What was he doing? Saying too much, being too open—exhaustio
n must be getting to him. “Maybe you should go to bed, Emmerich. Try and sleep.”
“Yeah, for that fucking raid tomorrow? No. I want to be too tired and too hungover for that since I’ll just be there to help innocent people be shipped off to their executions.”
Martin sagged.
Emmerich pushed himself up into a sitting position, one hand resting over his hurt temple. “What did you mean earlier?”
“About what?”
He lowered his hand. His temple hadn’t colored yet—hopefully, it wouldn’t. “About…” He waved his hand out, brow furrowing. “You know, what you said about your family. Keeping them safe. What did you mean?”
Martin stiffened, organs going cold. “My job,” he said right away. “It gets dangerous, so I have to make sure it never gets back to them.”
“No, no, you said you spent your entire life protecting your family. So unless you’ve been an agent since infancy, you meant…” Emmerich leaned a little closer, eyes squinting as they scanned Martin repeatedly. “You meant you’re like me, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“It would explain a lot. You’ve been kinder than most, despite knowing about my trial.”
“Stop,” he growled. “You’re going too far.”
“Don’t I always?” Though the words were playful, the tone was wrought with self-loathing. He smiled brokenly at Martin. “You know how to keep people safe. Me? I can’t stop myself from wondering—from needing. How do you? Sincerely, I want to know.”
“I’m not like you,” Martin lied, but—damn it all—his voice had cracked and his eyelids had fluttered. Rookie mistakes. He was making many of them that night. “Please just…just be quiet for a while.”
“Maybe it’s something in my blood,” Emmerich said, glancing over himself. “I can’t seem to stop myself from being myself. The fact that you can has probably saved your life more than once. I envy you because of that.”
“Emmerich—”
“I mean it.” He held Martin’s gaze, his own gleaming with raw sorrow and want. “You’re a much stronger man than I could ever be.”
Martin couldn’t look away. It felt as if lead had tainted his veins, weighing them down and keeping him in place. His tongue lolled around in his mouth as he struggled to make this right—because something was wrong with Emmerich’s explanation and compliments. Something was sickening here, though Martin’s mind refused to directly acknowledge what exactly was.
So focused on his own thoughts—and on Emmerich’s dark eyes—he had been shocked when he realized that Emmerich was only inches from his face. The German breathed shakily against him, and Martin shivered with pleasure.
Against all good sense, he closed his eyes and allowed his secret hunger to take hold—to seize his flesh and fill it with a subdued but growing heat.
And then Emmerich’s lips pressed against his own.
Martin inhaled sharply, body going rigid. The light pressure didn’t satisfy his intense anticipation. So simple, so gentle. Having waited for so long, Martin had thought the holy grail of sins would make him feel something beyond joy and lust.
Maybe he wasn’t a homosexual. Maybe he had been wrong for all these years.
He managed to entertain the thought for a few seconds before Emmerich deepened the kiss, parting his lips and somehow getting Martin to part his own.
A sharp kind of warmth tightened his stomach and rumbled up his chest, heart swelling. Martin nearly gasped. He moved a little faster against Emmerich—sloppier—grabbing Emmerich’s shirt to keep him in place.
Someone knocked on the door a hair’s breadth away from his back.
Martin’s gut dropped as he reeled back, just stopping short of hitting his head against the door.
Emmerich blanched.
“Hubar?” a young man said, knocking on the door again. “Hubar, I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.” He knocked harder and faster. “Hubar!”
Martin shot up to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom as quietly as possible into the bathroom.
The man jiggled the doorknob, the door was locked. “Hubar, I know you’re in there. Your car’s right outside. And I really need to talk to you.”
Martin snaked his way around the bathroom door and then closed it enough—leaving it slightly ajar.
Emmerich waited a few seconds more before he opened the door. “Denzel,” he gritted out. “What is so damn impo—”
Denzel shoved Emmerich aside to pace around in the apartment. “I made a mistake. I don’t know what to do.” His footsteps were quick, his voice a little high. “I should be honored and proud, but I’ve been sick for days and I don’t know who else to go to about this.”
“About what? Calm the fuck down and explain yourself.”
Martin leaned as close as he could to the bathroom door, ear brushing against the surface and making it budge less than an inch. Otherwise, he was dead-still.
Denzel stopped in his tracks and took a deep, shaky breath. “I got a new assignment. A big assignment. But I can’t do it.”
Emmerich huffed. “Look, it’s normal to get nervous before a raid. It’ll be fine. No one’s going to be firing back at us.” His resentment was too thick—too obvious—how had he not been caught?
“It’s not the raid. It’s something else. Something I was assigned weeks ago, and now, when I have to follow through with it—” Denzel’s voice hitched, and he returned to his pacing. “God, what am I going to do?”
“Whatever are you even talking about? What assignment?”
“I—I can’t tell you. I’m not supposed to tell anyone other than my superiors.”
“Our superiors. We’re the same rank, for God’s sake.”
“I know, but that’s what I was told, and I followed orders. I always follow orders. But now…”
“Denzel, I swear to God, either say what it is you need to say or get the hell out of my apartment.”
“Fine!” Denzel stopped again, and it sounded like he was gagging as he said, “I’m supposed to be guarding some dying doctor for the next few months. But I hate hospitals. So much dying and diseases—” He most definitely gagged then. “I might vomit on duty. I won’t be able to focus.”
“Why would they have you guard some doctor?”
“It’s not just me, and it’s not just some doctor. He’s some special kind of scientist, and he’s on the verge of a discovery which may help the entire world. He needs to be protected, but I can’t be the one to do it! But I also can’t refuse an assignment. They’ll think I’m betraying them or something.”
Emmerich was quiet as Denzel’s heavy breathing grew wheezy. Then Emmerich asked, “I still don’t understand. They’re guarding someone who’s dying because he might come up with something new? Like what?”
“Something which could win the war!”
Martin’s eyebrows shot up. Lucky break.
Emmerich was quiet again.
“Well?!” Denzel snapped. “You’ve been a part of this army longer than I have. How can I get out of this?”
“Maybe we can find a way to convince Bosch to give the assignment to me. I’m older than you, and I’m not afraid of hospitals.”
“I’m not afraid of them. It’s a rational discomfort of frail bodies tainted with diseases.”
As Emmerich responded—sarcastically and mockingly, of course—the front door creaked opened. Emmerich clearly didn’t hear it, for he kept talking about changing Bosch’s mind.
Martin held his breath and took out his gun. With a great deal of slow caution, he leaned to the side and peeked around the door.
He spotted Denzel in the kitchenette, Emmerich facing him and away from the front door.
Martin, flicking the safety off, leaned a little more—
A gunshot fired.
Denzel’s head jolted back, blood bursting from his forehead, before he collapsed.
The suddenness of it had Martin freezing in place, his mind scrambling to make the right call here: act or hang b
ack? Act or hang back? The thought of Emmerich’s blood splattering over the kitchen counters and floor made Martin’s insides clench.
Despite the unprofessionalism of this panicked indecision, Martin would later recognize that it probably saved Emmerich’s life, as well as his cover.
“B-Bosch,” Emmerich stuttered out. “I—why?”
Bosch holstered his weapon and snorted with disgust. “That man was a liability.”
“But he was only twenty! If he had been given more training, more experience—you never gave him a fucking chance!”
Bosch slowly strode over to the body, sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Bosch blinked, indifferent. “Sadly, we’re living in a time when we can’t afford to be patient with incompetence. I told Markhail to assign someone else—” He waved out his hands. “It doesn’t matter now. I fixed a mistake. And now…” He looked at Emmerich, visibly trembling. Bosch pursed his lips deep in with thought as he scanned the younger man. “You made some valid points to Denzel. If your past wasn’t so compromising, you would’ve gotten the assignment anyway.”
Emmerich’s jaw clenched, eyes boring into Bosch. “There is nothing compromising about my past,” he snarled, quiet—dangerous. “False witnesses were out to get me, and they nearly succeeded. But they didn’t, and they never will.”
Bosch smiled. “That is reassuring to hear. It means I can have you replace Denzel. I don’t have to kill for the sake of this nation’s most valuable secrets.”
Martin ground his teeth together, his free hand clenching into a tight, quivering fist.
“I understand,” Emmerich said.
“Come now. I must take you to a more secure location to discuss the assignment in further detail.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both men exited the apartment, the sharp slam of the door reverberating through the walls.
Martin sighed noisily, the brief reprieve corrupted by a gnawing fear. He leaned against the sink and closed his eyes.
A lucky break. Beyond measure. And Martin could only pray Emmerich’s luck would never run out.
Chapter Eight
