Bitter Seeds

one

2 February 1939

Tarragona, Spain

Lieutenant-Commander Raybould Marsh, formerly of His Majesty's Royal Navy and currently of the Secret Intelligence Service, rode a flatbed truck through ruined olive groves while a civil war raged not many miles away. He secretly carried two fake passports, two train tickets to Lisbon, vouchers for berths on a steamer bound for Ireland, and one thousand pounds sterling. And he was bored.

He'd been riding all morning. The truck passed yet another of the derelict farmhouses dotting the Catalonian landscape. Some had burned to the ground. Others stared back at him with empty windows for eyes, half-naked where the plaster had sloughed to the ground under erratic rows of bullet holes. Wind sighed through open doorways.

Sometimes the farmers and their families had been buried in the very fields they tended, as evidenced by the mounds. And sometimes they had been left to rot, as evidenced by the birds. Marsh envied the farmers their families, but not their ends.

The land had fared no better than the farmers at the hands of armed factions. Artillery had pocked the fields and rained shrapnel upon centuries-old olive groves. In places, near the largest craters, the tang of cordite still wafted from broken earth.

At one point, the truck had to swerve around the charred hulk of a Soviet-issue T-38 tank straddling the road. It looked like an inverted soup tureen on treads but was based, Marsh noted with pride and amusement, upon the Vickers. It was a common sight. Abandoned Republican materiel littered the countryside. Most of Spain had long since fallen to the Nationalists; now they mounted their final offensive, grinding north through Catalonia to strangle the final Republican strongholds.

Officially, Britain had chosen to stay on the sidelines of the Spanish conflict. But the imminent victory of Franco's Nationalists and their Fascist allies was raising eyebrows back home. Marsh's section within the SIS, or MI6 as some people preferred to call it, was tasked with gathering information about Germany's feverish rearmament over the past few years. So when a defector had contacted the British consulate claiming to have information about something new the Nazis were field-testing in Spain, Marsh got tapped for an “Iberian holiday,” as the old man put it.

“Holiday,” Marsh repeated to himself. Stephenson had a wry sense of humor.

The truck labored out of the valley into Tarragona, briefly passing through the shadow of a Roman aqueduct that straddled the foothills. A coastal plain spread out before Marsh as they topped the final rise. Orange and pomegranate groves, untended by virtue of winter and war, dotted the seaward slopes of the hills overlooking the city. At the right time of year, the groves might have perfumed the wind with their blossoms. Today the wind smelled of petrol, dust, and the distant sea.

Below the groves sprawled the city: a jumble of bright stucco, wide plazas, and even the occasional gingko-lined avenue left behind by long-dead Romans. One could see where medieval Spanish city planning had collided with and absorbed the remnants of an older empire. On the whole, Tarragona was well-preserved, having fallen to the Nationalists three weeks earlier after token resistance.

Somewhere in that mess waited Marsh's informant.

Between the city and the horizon stretched the great blue-green expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. It sparkled under the winter sun. Most years enjoyed frequent winter rains that tamped down the dust. This season had been too sporadic, and today the winds blew inland, so the breeze coming off the sea spread an ocher haze across the bowl of the city.

Farther west, whitecaps massaged the coastline where a trawler steamed out of port. Marsh was too far away to smell the fear and desperation, to feel the press of bodies, to hear the din on the docks as families clamored for passage to Mexico and South America. Those refugees not willing to risk capture in the Pyrenees while fleeing to France, and who could afford otherwise, instead mobbed the ports. For now, Franco's Nationalists were busy formalizing their control of the country. But when that was done, the reprisals would begin.

The dirt road became cracked macadam as they descended into the city. Marsh shifted his weight when the macadam turned into uneven cobblestones. It had been a long couple of days since he'd crossed the border from Portugal.

His ride pulled to a stop in the shadow of a medieval cathedral. The driver banged his fist on the outside of his door. Marsh grabbed his rucksack and hopped down, gritting his teeth against the twinge of pain in his knee.

“Gracias,” he said. He paid the driver the promised amount, a small fortune by the standards of a poor farmer even in peacetime. The driver took the cash and rumbled away without another word, leaving Marsh to cough in a plume of exhaust.

I'd spend it quickly if I were you.

Marsh set off for the cathedral. As far as the driver knew, it was his destination. And so he'd relate, if anybody should happen to ask him about his passenger. The cathedral loomed over the circular Plaza Imperial, and from there it was a short walk to the Hotel Alexandria. Marsh had memorized the layout of the city before leaving London. Walking massaged the ache from his knee.

The narrow side streets were quiet and devoid of crowds, a fact for which he was thankful. He wore the heavy boots of a farmer, a flannel shirt under his overalls, and a kerchief tied around his neck in the local style. But he also wore the skin of an Englishman, colored pale by years of rain, rather than a complexion earned through a life of outdoor labor. But most folks weren't terribly observant. With a little luck and discretion, his garb would plant the proper suggestion in people's eyes; as long as he drew no extra attention to himself, their minds would fill in the expected details.

It was livelier on the plaza. The handfuls of people he passed in the wide open space shuffled through their lives under a cloud of dread and anticipation. Strident Art Deco placards touted General Franco's cause from every available surface. (Unidad! Unidad! Unidad!) The Nationalists' propaganda machine had wasted no time.

The cathedral bells chimed sext: midday. Marsh quickened his pace. The plan was to make contact at noon.

Krasnopolsky, an ethnic Pole born in the German enclave of Danzig, had come to Spain attached to a unit of Fascist forces supporting the Nationalist cause. What ever his work entailed, he'd done it without protest for years. Until he decided, quite spontaneously, to defect. But the Nationalists' victory was merely a matter of time, meaning that his new enemies had the country locked up tight. Betraying them so late in the game was a bloody stupid move.

Thus he had contacted the British consulate in Lisbon. In return for assistance leaving the country, he'd share his knowledge of a new technology the Schutzstaffel had deployed against the Republicans. Franco, moved by a fit of despotic largesse, had given the Third Reich carte blanche to use Spain as a military proving ground. In that manner, the Luftwaffe had debuted its carpet-bombing technique in Guernica. MI6 wanted to know about anything else the Jerries had developed over the past few years.

Which was why Marsh carried virtually enough money to purchase his own steamer, if it came to that. He'd stay at Krasnopolsky's side all the way back to Great Britain.

The Hotel Alexandria was a narrow five-story building wedged between larger apartment blocks. Its balconies hung over the street in pairs jutting from the canary-yellow facade. The building had only the single entrance. Less than ideal.

The lobby was a mishmash of ugly modernist decor and Spanish imperialism. It looked like the result of a halfhearted make over. Clean, bare spots high on the yellowed plaster marked the places where paintings had hung, most likely of King Alfonso and his family. Through a doorway to the left, a handful of men and women talked quietly in what passed for the Alexandria's bar.

Marsh threaded his way toward the reception desk through a maze of angular Bauhaus furniture and potted ferns. But he abandoned his intent to ring Krasnopolsky's room when he caught sight of the lone figure sitting at the rear of the lobby, in the shadows of the staircase.

The man perched on the edge of a chaise longue, smoking, with a suitcase next to him and a slim leather valise on his lap. He stamped out his cigarette and lit a new one with shaky hands. Judging by the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray next to the chaise, he'd been waiting there, in public, since well before noon.

Marsh cringed. He'd marked Krasnopolsky instantly. The man was an idiot with no conception of tradecraft.

He purchased a newspaper from the front desk, then took a seat in a high-backed leather chair next to Krasnopolsky's nest. The other man looked at him, did a double take, and shifted his feet.

MI6 had no photographs of Krasnopolsky; they'd had to produce the doctored passport based on the man's description of himself. He'd overstated his looks. He was a tall fellow, even sitting down, and skeleton-thin with an aquiline nose and ears like sails. If he were to stand in the corner of a dark room, Marsh imagined, he might be mistaken for a coatrack.

Marsh paged through the paper, thoroughly ignoring Krasnopolsky. He waited until it looked like the defector wasn't quite so ready to flee.

“Pardon me, sir,” said Marsh in Spanish, “but do you happen to know if the trains are running to Seville?”

Krasnopolsky jumped. “Bitte?”

Marsh repeated his question, more quietly, in German.

“Oh. Who knows? They're less reliable every day. The trains, I mean.”

“Yes. But General Franco will fix that soon.”

“Took you long enough,” Krasnopolsky whispered. “I've been waiting all morning.”

Marsh responded in kind. “In that case, you're a fool. You were supposed to wait in your room.”

“Do you have my papers?”

Marsh took a deep breath. “Look, friend.” He tried to clamp down on the irritation creeping into his voice. “Why don't we go back to your room and talk privately. Hmmm?”

Krasnopolsky lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. Italian issue. Marsh wondered how anyone could tolerate those acrid little monstrosities.

“I've already checked out. I'm safer in public. I need those papers.”

“What do you mean, safer in public?”

Krasnopolsky drew on the cigarette, watching the crowd. Pale discolorations mottled the skin of his fingers.

“Look, we're not a sodding travel agency,” said Marsh. “You haven't given me a reason to help you yet.”

Krasnopolsky said nothing.

“You're wasting my time.” Marsh stood. “I'm leaving.”

Krasnopolsky sighed. Plumes of gray smoke jetted from his nostrils. “Karl Heinrich von Westarp.”

Marsh sat again, enveloped in a bluish cloud. “What?”

“Not what. Who. Doctor von Westarp.”

“He's the reason you left?”

“Not him. His children. Von Westarp's children.”

“His kids?”

Krasnopolsky shook his head. He opened his mouth to elaborate just as a glass shattered in the bar. His mouth clacked shut. The skin on his knuckles turned pale as he tightened his grip on the valise.

“What was that?”

Dear God. This is hopeless. “You need to relax. Let's get something to calm you down,” said Marsh, pointing to the side doorway that led to the bar. He pulled the man to his feet and marshaled him through the lobby.

After getting Krasnopolsky settled at a corner table, Marsh went to the bar and ordered a glass of Spanish red. Then he thought better of it and ordered the entire bottle instead. The barman swept up the last of the broken glass, grumbling about having to retrieve the wine from the cellar.

Marsh waited at the bar, keeping an eye on Krasnopolsky while eavesdropping on conversations. The question on everybody's mind was how things would change once Franco was formally in power.

The barman plunked a bottle in front of Marsh. Marsh was digging cash out of his pocket when he felt the surge of heat wash across his back. Somebody screamed.

“Dios mio!”

A cry went up: “Fuego! Fuego!”

Marsh spun. The rear corner of the hotel bar, steeped in shadows just moments earlier, now shone in the light from flames racing up the walls. No! It can't be—

Marsh dodged the people fleeing the fire, fighting upstream like a salmon. But he stopped in his tracks when he saw the source of the flames.

Krasnopolsky blazed at the center of the conflagration like a human salamander. New flames burst forth from everything he touched as he flailed around the room, wailing like a banshee. Air shimmered in waves around him; it seared the inside of Marsh's nose. The metal snaps on Marsh's overalls scorched his shirt, sizzled against his chest. The room stank of charred pork.

The burning man collapsed in a heap of bone and ash. Marsh glimpsed a half-incinerated valise on the burning floor. He gritted his teeth and kicked it away. The rubber soles of his boots became tacky, squelching on the floor as he danced away from the fire. He tossed aside a fern and dumped the pot of soil on the valise to smother the flames.

Then he snatched what little remained of Krasnopolsky's valise and fled the burning hotel.

3 February 1939

Girona, Spain

Artillery concussions boomed through the river valleys and almond orchards surrounding Girona. That's the sound of one's enemies caught between the hammer and the anvil, Klaus mused. With pride he added, And we are the anvil.

The besieged stronghold was Franco's final stop on his sweep through Catalonia. Once Girona fell, finishing the ground war would become a mere formality.

“They would have sent fighters after me today, if they had any planes left. I'm sure of it.” Rudolf's hair shone like copper in the sun as he chucked Klaus on the shoulder. “Can you imagine that? I wish they did have an air force left. That would look spectacular on film!”

“T-t-t-t—,” said Kammler.

“Rudolf running away again? I've already seen that in person. Why would I watch it on film?” Klaus laughed. “The doctor would prefer you actually confront our enemies. Like the rest of us do,” he added with a gesture that encompassed himself, Heike, and even drooling Kammler.

Kammler again: “G-g-g—”

“Up yours,” said Rudolf. “All of you.”

They rode at the vanguard of a small caravan, bouncing along in silence but for the occasional outburst of stuttering nonsense from Kammler. His handler, Hauptsturmfuhrer Buhler, had unbuckled the leash around Kammler's neck, so now the muscle-bound imbecile had reverted to his harmless and somewhat pitiable state. Klaus wondered what the cameramen and technicians in the other trucks talked about in their off-time.

The road back to their farmhouse wended through a vast olive plantation. Rows of trees marched all the way from the edge of the hills overlooking the town to within a dozen yards of the house. The hills themselves had turned brown in spots, owing to a dry winter. Overhead, a fingernail moon hung in a powder-blue sky. A cool, damp breeze gusted up from the river valley.

The north and east sides of the plantation had been shattered by misaimed artillery. The ongoing siege slowly chewed up more of the plantation each time another shell went off course. A shame, thought Klaus. I like olives.

They pulled up in front of a wide two-story farmhouse built in the style of a Roman villa. The family that had owned it must have been rather prosperous. When he had first arrived here, Klaus wondered if the family had also owned the almond groves that blanketed the surrounding hillsides. Not that it mattered. The Reichsbehorde had needed a base of operations from which to field-test Doctor von Westarp's work, and so the family had disappeared.

The others climbed out of the truck and filed into the house. Klaus paused a moment to scan the wide windows on the second floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sister. He worried about her when he was gone all day.

He doffed the straw hat he wore and rubbed at his scalp with the stumps of his two missing fingers as he entered the house. He reached inside his shirt, undid the clasp, and disconnected the pencil-thick bundle of wires that extended from several points on his skull to the battery harness at his waist. The braided wires dangled over his shoulder like a Chinaman's queue.

They had left their crisp Schutzstaffel uniforms back at the Reichsbehorde when they came to Spain, opting instead for the locals' more inconspicuous overalls, kerchiefs, and floppy wide-brimmed hats. If nothing else, their disguises conveniently hid the wires. But the coarse peasant apparel tended to snag the wires' cloth insulation, sometimes catching painfully when Klaus moved quickly or unwisely.

Klaus followed Rudolf past the makeshift darkroom—once a child's bedroom—where the cameramen stacked the film canisters from the day's work. One canister was larger and bulkier than the others; the technicians always dispensed with it first. Heike's ability necessitated a special camera and special film to record her activities.

The cameramen looked down as he approached. They unloaded an Agfa eight-millimeter reel with conspicuous silence and diligence. The defector had put them all on edge. Doctor Von Westarp was half-inclined to use the remaining cameramen for target practice, and they knew it.

Klaus pushed through the crowded farmhouse, toward the laboratory and debriefing room, eager to remove his battery harness. Over the previous decade, the engineers had made great strides with the batteries, and they had outdone themselves with the lithium-ion design. But after a long day in the field, it still felt like he'd hung a lead brick on his belt. The sooner he handed over his harness, the sooner he could try to quell the spasms in his back.

The technicians would gauge charge depletion in the batteries and reference that against the activity documented by the cameramen. Klaus would detail his exploits slipping through Republican fortifications and pushing land mines into the earth. Any information of military value he'd gleaned would be passed—after appropriate sanitization to obscure the nature of its source—to the Reich's allies converging on Girona. The arrangement was a quid pro quo in return for Franco's permission to operate in Spain.

The door to the debriefing room swung open as Klaus lay his hand on the knob. He confronted a pair of eyes so pale and unfeeling, they might have been chiseled from ice. Reinhardt stepped into the corridor.

Von Westarp was there, too. He wore a dark lab coat with a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders from his graying tonsure. “Excellent work,” said the doctor, reaching up to clasp Reinhardt's shoulder. “Today, I feel pride.”

Reinhardt smiled, his eyes glistening. Klaus and Rudolf saluted as Von Westarp brushed past. “Herr Doktor!”

The doctor glanced at them through his fish-eye glasses. It felt like being stuck under a microscope. He spared nothing but a sniff of disdain for them as he entered the laboratory. Klaus glimpsed one of the Twins strapped to a table as the doctor slammed the door behind him.

Klaus and Rudolf shared a look. Klaus shrugged.

Rudolf turned toward Reinhardt. “Where the hell have you been the past few days?”

“Serving the Reich. Carrying out my orders.”

Rudolf stared.

“I don't believe you,” said Klaus.

“Ask your sister.”

The whine of a drill erupted from the makeshift laboratory. Simultaneously, a long, low moan emanated from a different room across the corridor. The moans became screams as the stink of hot bone wafted from the lab.

The trio moved farther down the corridor in order to better hear each other.

Rudolf shook his head. “Your mouth is full of shit. What orders?”

Reinhardt shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes still glistened with pride. “I was sent to plug a leak. The defector is no longer a problem.”

“You? They sent you?” Rudolf tossed his hands in the air. “This is insanity. You have as much finesse as an incendiary bomb.”

Reinhardt's mission meant he was the first of von Westarp's projects to be deemed complete, fully mature. Klaus had expected to garner that honor for himself. While he considered the consequences of Reinhardt's de facto promotion, Heike sidled up the corridor, eyes on the floor and silent like a visible ghost.

Reinhardt spread his arms. “Darling!”

Klaus heard the intake of breath when Heike looked up. She blinked eyes of Prussian blue, then dropped her head again, hiding her face behind long corn silk tresses.

“No welcome-back kiss?”

She tried to pass. Reinhardt blocked her. “I think you missed me. Worried about me.” His fingers brushed the curve of her ear as he tucked back a lock of her hair. Heike shuddered.

“Do you get cold at night?” he whispered in her ear. “I can fix that.”

She looked up. Reinhardt leaned closer. She spat. His head snapped back.

Klaus snorted with laughter. Heike slipped around Reinhardt and hurried toward the debriefing room.

“You'd do well to show me a little kindness now and then, Liebling!” he shouted, flicking away the spittle under his eye.

Rudolf shook his head again. “I cannot believe they chose you.”

Since Heike had claimed the debriefing room, and since von Westarp and the technicians were preoccupied in the laboratory, Klaus would have to wait to turn in his battery. He went upstairs to find his sister.

Gretel hadn't moved since that morning, when she'd dragged a table under the picture window along the colonnaded verandah. The window afforded a view of olive groves, the Ter and Onyar rivers off in the distance, and plumes of smoke rising from the valley below. Although if she had chosen the window for the scenery, it didn't show. Her attention to the book propped on her lap was absolute. Just as it had been when Klaus departed that morning.

She sat with bare feet propped on the edge of another chair, wiggling her toes, the hem of a patchwork peasant dress draped across her bony ankles. A long braid of raven-black hair hung past each shoulder. Wires snaked down from her skull, twirled around her braids, and disappeared in the folds of her dress where the fabric occluded the bulge of a harness. The window silhouetted the profile of her face, the high cheekbones and hatchet nose. Within arm's reach on the table stood a stack of books, teapot, cup, and saucer.

“I'm back,” he said. “Did you have a good day?”

Gretel turned a page. She didn't say anything.

“How are you feeling?”

Her teacup clinked on its saucer as a massive artillery barrage, much closer than the last, shook the building. The saucer danced across the table. Gretel, still absorbed in the works of the modernist poets, reached out with one arm and absently caught it just before it tipped over the edge.

When she moved, the frayed insulation on her wires snagged the collar of her dress.

“Are you in pain? If the batteries are uncomfortable, you could talk to ... The doctor is here... .”

She ignored him. Gretel had become increasingly distant in the years since her ability had manifested itself with visions of the future. He left her to her poetry.

Rudolf watched the exchange from the doorway, cloaked in a quivering rage. The news of Reinhardt's promotion had gone down poorly. He shoulder-checked Klaus as he stomped to Gretel's seat.

“Is this how you spend your time? Reading?”

Turning a page, she yawned.

“Is this all you do while we're out there”—he jabbed a finger at the window—”facing bullets and bombs?”

From his vantage in the doorway, Klaus saw one corner of Gretel's mouth twitch up in the hint of a smile. He frowned.

Rudolf continued, “Years of work to harness your willpower, and to what end? So that you can study poetry? I can't imagine why the doctor keeps you alive. Even the imbecile Kammler is more useful than you. And your brother, at least he overcame that mongrel blood in your veins.”

“Hey!” Klaus made to intercept Rudolf's tirade, but Reinhardt caught his arm. He liked a good fight.

Rudolf's feet left the floor. Hovering next to her table, he said, “Look! He made us great.” He spread his arms and pirouetted above the floor. “He made us gods!” He landed. “But then there's you. A disgusting waste.”

Gretel noted the place in her book, set it on the table, then downed the rest of her tea. She scooted her chair back and stretched. Her back popped.

“What,” Reinhardt muttered, “is your sister doing?”

Klaus shook his head. But then Gretel dropped to all fours, and his unease became full-blown dread. Klaus fumbled for his wire. He plugged it into the battery on his waist and clicked the latch.

Gretel crawled under the table.

The scent of singed pine curled up from the floorboards beneath Reinhardt's boots as he invoked his Willenskrafte, his willpower.

Rudolf laughed. “That's right! Crawl away, mongrel, crawl away to your dog house.”

Gretel curled up, knees to chest, and clamped her hands over her ears.

The taste of copper flooded Klaus's mouth as he accepted the surge of electricity into his brain. The Gotterelektron energized his Willenskrafte, turning him insubstantial at the same moment Reinhardt armored himself in a searing blue nimbus.

Rudolf saw them and frowned. “What—?”

WHUMP!

The explosion sent shrapnel winging harmlessly through Klaus's ghost-body. Debris from the errant mortar shell vaporized in Reinhardt's corona. He defended himself with a burst of heat that ignited the wooden floorboards.

The smoke drifted through the hole where the window and part of the roof had been. Klaus's ears rang.

He rematerialized. Then he realized it wasn't ringing he heard, but screaming from throughout the farmhouse. A figure lay on the floor, streaked in blood and clothed in burnt tatters, hands clasping its face.

“Gretel!”

She clambered out of her makeshift bomb shelter and dusted herself off. Klaus exhaled with relief.

The room fell silent but for the crackle of flames, and screams that trailed off into sobs. Rudolf shuddered.

Gretel kneeled next to him and took his hands. Shrapnel had reduced his face to so much meat. His breath came in explosive gasps.

She leaned close. Like a lover, she caressed his ruined face, kissed his cheek, whispered in his ear. A single word passed her blood-smeared lips:

“Incoming.”

She stood. The hem of her dress draped across Rudolf's face as she stepped over him. Then she sauntered out of the burning room, trailing the flying man's blood.

Rudolf stopped shuddering. He died on the spot. Just as Gretel had known he would.

4 February 1939

Barcelona, Spain

The cashier wrinkled his nose. After a day and a half on the road, the smell of incinerated hotel still infused Marsh's clothes. It even wafted out of his hair. He expected to find soot streaked on his face when he finally used a real washroom. And he couldn't work up enough saliva to clear the smoked-pork taste from his mouth.

Marsh let the cashier glimpse the bundle of cash under his hand. The distaste on the other man's face turned into greed. He licked his lips. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. Marsh slid his hand across the counter. With that, he traded every pound and peseta for a berth on the last British steamer out of Barcelona.

Marsh shook his head. Nearly a grand for something that shouldn't cost one pony. Thank you, Franco. It would have been easier to use the tickets intended for Krasnopolsky, but someone had been watching him; given the fool's conduct, Marsh couldn't risk adhering to the original travel plan.

And now Krasnopolsky was dead, reduced to so much ash in the span of a few heartbeats, along with most of the information he carried. During his journey from Tarragona, Marsh had emptied the unburned scraps from the valise into an envelope along with the cash and Krasnopolsky's passport. There wasn't much left: the lower-left corners from a half dozen pages of a memo or report, written in German; half a photograph; and a jumble of acetate strips. The strips were all that remained of an eight-millimeter filmstrip. The film had been coiled on a reel, but when the valise ignited, a portion of the film had melted and disintegrated, rendering the rest a jumbled mess of confetti.

Marsh had pored over it all a dozen times. The legible pages contained no mention of a Doctor von Westarp or children. The visible portion of the photograph showed an unremarkable farmhouse. And the scraps of film were unintelligible to his naked eyes.

Marsh took the proffered voucher and retreated back through the crowd mobbing the ticket window. A breeze mingled fear, seaweed, rotting fish, and diesel fuel into a stomach-churning melange. Every port in Catalonia must have been staggering under the influx of refugees as the Nationalists made their final push into the Pyrenees.

He headed for his pier, scanning the crowd as he went. There wasn't much time before his ship departed, but Marsh wanted to find something first. He watched a portly well-dressed man pushing a hand truck piled high with luggage. The man stopped on the boardwalk to pull a pair of eyeglasses from his pocket.

Aha, thought Marsh. Those should do the trick.

The man frowned at his ticket, then looked around in search of a placard. Marsh orchestrated his collision with the hand truck to make it appear as though he'd been too intent on his own ticket to notice it. Luggage clattered to the boardwalk.

“Hijo de puta!”

“Lo siento! Lo siento, senor.”

Marsh swiped the eyeglasses while helping the man gather his things. “Lo siento muchisimo.” The man departed with a crack about burying Marsh's heart in a hole so deep, the Virgin Mary couldn't find it.

A piercing shriek echoed throughout the port. The steam whistle on Marsh's ship, making its penultimate boarding call. People scurried up the gangplank in ones, twos, and threes. Marsh needed to get going, but his curiosity couldn't be contained any longer.

A stack of cargo crates formed a passable shelter from the wind and crowds. Marsh hid behind the crates, crouched on a coil of rope. He pulled an acetate fragment from the envelope inside his shirt. What the fire hadn't destroyed outright it had made very brittle, so he took great care when handling the crisp film. Using the eyeglasses as a makeshift magnifier, he strained to identify the images.

Twenty frames of a brick wall. The second fragment showed an empty field. The third showed two men in Schutzstaffel uniforms kneeling over an empty container and smiling. The fourth fragment showed a machine gun nest and the long view down a firing range.

The fifth showed an antiaircraft gun hovering above the same range. Marsh shook his head. Too many hours on the road and not enough sleep. But when he looked again, it truly did look like the eighty-eight was floating in midair. No evidence of an explosion, either, though it was hard to tell from a few frames of heat-damaged film.

What on God's green Earth were you mixed up with, Krasnopolsky?

The fragments crackled against each other when he dropped them back in the envelope. Once the envelope was secured inside his shirt once more, he stood as though he'd merely ducked behind the crates to tie his shoes.

A gypsy woman stared at him from across the boardwalk with wide plum-dark eyes. She'd been beaten. The skin around one of her eyes looked like the rind of an aubergine; the corner of her mouth quirked up where her split lip had scabbed over.

Marsh frowned. He sized up her companion, a man with the same olive skin as the woman. Brother? Husband? A tall fellow, but not problematically so. Enjoy beating up women, do you? Marsh cracked his knuckles as he started for the pair.

Another breeze rolled off the harbor. It tugged up the kerchief tied over her hair and fluttered the braids hanging past her shoulders.

And jostled the wires connected to her head.

Marsh stopped. He looked again.

Wires. In her head.

The wind died, and the kerchief covered her hair again.

She winked at him.

Her companion said something. She turned away. Marsh made to follow them before they disappeared in the throng.

The whistle on his steamer blew two short, impatient bursts. Final call. He looked over his shoulder. The last few stragglers dashed up the gangplank under the watchful scowl of the porter.

When he turned back, the woman was gone.

“Gretel, please.” Klaus tugged at his sister's hand. “We have to go.”

Exasperation crept into his voice, though he tried to suppress it. In addition to Rudolf, two technicians had died when the errant mortar shell hit the house. A doctor had also died in the fire during the confused scramble to evacuate. One of the Twins nearly perished, too, before Reinhardt strode through the fire and released her from the restraints on the operating table. Standartenfuhrer Pabst made the decision then and there to terminate training operations in Spain. There was no point in risking further Reichsbehorde assets to another “accident.” They had their field results; it was time to go home.

“Sorry, brother.” Gretel turned and smiled. The swollen skin around her eye stretched tight. “I'll be good.”

Pabst had belted her with a savage backhand across the jaw when he learned of Rudolf's death. It was her duty, her purpose, to warn them of such dangers, he'd screamed. And, like the incantations of a mad al-chemist, her laughter had transmuted his rage to violence, his open hand to a fist.

Reinhardt wasn't punished for burning down the house.

“What were you staring at?”

“Daydreams. Posies and gravestones.”

Klaus sighed. “Our pier is this way,” he said, pulling her through the crowd.