Exchange of Prisoners
Berlin/London, October 1980
Previously on...
When I awoke. I was lying face down on a hard, narrow bench, my right side hurt like crazy, and my head was aching fit to burst. It was all I could do to stop myself throwing up in the privy hole, and I realised from the cotton wool feeling in my mouth that I'd been drugged. I pushed myself carefully upwards, leaned against the wall, and took stock of my surroundings. I was in a white-tiled cell, roughly ten feet by eight, with a small hatch in the doorway, and a tiny skylight by the ceiling, far too small to even consider crawling through, but through which I could see a dark sky. I recognised the décor far too well. I was back in Prinz Albrecht Strasse 8. The only change from my last visit, was that the cell was tightly warded.
Wolf was going to kill me when he found out...if Kasimir Ritter didn't do it first.
How long had I been unconscious? Last I remembered I was in St Petersburg, but I had no means of telling how much time had passed since then. I'd been stripped of all my possessions, including shoes, socks and watch, and the ankh Audrey had given me, which given how often I used it in magic, was probably one of the most powerful weapons someone like Ritter could use against me. Instead, I was dressed in a white cotton vest, and a pair of German prison-issue trousers. Unwilling to move just yet, I sat on the bench with my back towards the wall and looked at the door. A short while later, I heard the locks being opened, and a tall, blond figure with cold grey eyes walked in. The sense of déjà vu took my breath away.
"You just don't learn, do you, Herr Cushing?" said Kasimir Ritter, and I stared up at him and met his gaze.
No friendliness this time; no acknowledgement of my rank; no sign of equality. Just the cold hatred I remembered from my first visit to this place. His face was pale and his arm was in a black silk sling, and as he moved, I noticed that he was favouring his right side. So he hadn't walked out of Kirishi unscathed, either, which at least gave me comfort. And of course he was inevitably flanked by two Gestapo goons.
"Did I, or did I not tell you at the Reichstag reception that if you stepped out of line, I would end you?"
"You know me, Herr Ritter. Slow learner."
"Apparently so."
"You don't exactly look the best for wear yourself, if I may say so.""
"Maybe you need to learn to shoot better. Take lessons from young Ulrich - he was always one of the finest shots in Germany," he said, coldly, then gave a wicked smile, "but then, given your impending trial and execution, you sadly won't have the opportunity."
"People are going to miss me: I'm not as anonymous as I used to be."
"The job of a war correspondent is, by its nature, a dangerous one," he answered, with a shrug, "no-one would question you falling foul of a stray bullet in the middle of an armed engagement. And we are certainly in the middle of one you would be expected to be reporting on."
I glared up at him, knowing that unfortunately, he was absolutely right.
"For your information, you didn't save any of them. The backlash killed them all."
I attempted to read him, to see if he was actually telling the truth or just attempting to psych me out, and couldn't come to any firm conclusion. But remembering the force of what had hit me as I fled, I had to admit to myself that some of the innocents I'd tried to save had almost certainly died because of what I'd done.
"And the great offensive?" I asked, quietly, trying not to let disappointment show on my face.
"It could be going better," he said, feigning nonchalance, but underneath it, he was tense and angry, "Our men are meeting stiffer opposition than they had hoped."
So at least I'd got something right. He hadn't killed every Slav in Russia.
"Glad to hear it," I answered, and for my pains, one of his men stepped towards me and backhanded me across the face.
"Enjoy your little victory, Herr Cushing. But remember, you're mine now. I made sure of that."
"I knew that when I filed the story."
"You're a damned fool," he answered, "and you will be punished for it. But first, think on this. Who might possibly be left to come for you, and what price would they pay for your freedom?"
And with that parting comment, he turned on his heel and departed, leaving me with the two goons.
I'd previously thought that my earlier stay in Gestapo Headquarters was the most painful fortnight of my life. Ritter's men corrected that view in short order. The main difference was that this time, they weren't even asking questions. I quickly lost track of time, with every day blending into every other, as time disappeared in a whirl of beatings and torture. Most of the time I was in physical agony, from cracked and broken ribs; ripped and torn muscles in my arms and shoulders where I was hung from the hook in the ceiling of my cell; and the bullet wounds in my side and shoulder, which they never bothered to treat, and became hot and infected in short order. I tried to use one of the incantations I knew to reduce pain, but it was hard to concentrate long enough to make it work, and I felt the wards around my cell interfering with my efforts. I was also lame from the kicking and stamping inflicted on my feet and ankles during the course of my captivity.
I didn't see Ritter the entire time.
Then the day came finally when everything stopped. From my previous experience of Nazi hospitality, I assumed this was because my execution was imminent. My view didn't change when I was hauled out of my stinking, bloody cell and half dragged, half carried to the shower room, where I was held under a spigot of ice-cold water until the blood and filth had been washed away. They'd done that last time, too.
But instead of a short ride to Plötzensee Prison, this time, once I was clean, I was taken to a medical facility, where my injuries were dressed and my ribs strapped, and I was given antibiotics to fight the infection. I was left in the care of their doctors for several days, long enough for the majority of my injuries to begin to heal noticeably: certainly medical care had improved since my last stay in Gestapo custody, but I was still surprised at how much faster I seemed to be healing, as that was supposed to slow down as you got older, not speed up.
As I lay there recovering, for the first time I began to hope that they might actually let me leave alive. Maybe I had been right all along, despite what Ritter had said: they didn't want the death of a well-known journalist on their hands, and having taught me the error of my ways, they were willing to let me recover before releasing me, so I wouldn't be able to show the world my scars. A couple of days later, they even let me see a copy of Die Welt, and from the date on the front page, I'd been in custody for the best part of a month. I flicked through it, idly, but saw no reference to the Battle of Moscow, although there was a short article under Marina Acker's by-line about the capture of a unit of partisans who had launched a cowardly attack on a military installation near Zuevo, which had left over a hundred brave soldiers dead. That a significant number of Russian civilians had also been killed was given little prominence.
By the morning of 25th October, the majority of my more serious injuries had subsided to aches rather than pains, with the exception of the bullet wound in my side, which was still tender, and the fact that I was limping slightly from what had probably been cracked bones in my foot; and the cuts and bruises were all but gone. I was dressed in a set of unfamiliar street clothes, my hands cuffed in front of me, and taken upstairs to what looked like a conference room. As I walked carefully inside, my eyes lighted on the last person I had ever expected...or wanted...to see in Berlin.
Wolf.
He stood beside a Gestapo captain whose holster flap was open, although his pistol was undrawn. He was dressed in a light grey shirt and black, uniform-style trousers and boots. He stood with arms behind him - tied? - and his legs slightly apart, as if he was at parade ground rest. And as I saw him, Ritter's parting barb, when I'd first been captured, struck home.
"Who might possibly be left to come for you, and what price would they pay for your freedom?"
I was stood beside a chair across table from where he was standing and stared at him in shock. He looked older than when I'd last seen him, more world weary, even sad, and I could see a fading bruise on his face. But when he finally made eye contact with me, his expression was strangely calm, as if he was completely at peace with whatever decision had brought him here.
"Hello, Ian," he said, quietly, "long time no speak."
"What are you doing here?"
"What I have to do," he replied, as he stood straighter.
He moved stiffly and carefully to my eye, but as he crossed his arms in front of him, it became obvious that he wasn't a prisoner...or at least, not the way I was.
"Only one person was going to get you out of this when it inevitably went to Hell in a hand basket, and here I am. My only surprise is that it took you this long."
What had Ritter done to mess with his head to make him do this? His presence in Berlin was as good as a death sentence, and we both knew it.
"I knew what I was doing when I came here," I protested, "and given our last conversation, you couldn't have been clearer that I was on my own."
"That was three years ago," he replied, then paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to say something else, before settling for "A lot can change in three years."
At that point, the door opened and Ritter strode in like he owned the place. Which given that he'd been high up in the SS hierarchy for far longer than he humanly should have been, he may well have done. I noted that the sling was gone, although he was obviously still favouring his right side.
"Good," he said, nodding to himself, "you're both here. Now, what am I going to do with you?"
"You could try showing that the Reich is merciful," I answered, my voice sounding flat and lifeless, even to my ears.
"That seems...unlikely," he answered.
He paused for a moment, taking in both of us in silence, and then a cold, calculating smile crossed his lips.
"You do not know how long I've waited for this, but it has been worth it to bring you both to this moment. Your actions, Herr Cushing, and a sense of duty that a dishonourable spy like yourself can never understand, have brought me choice prey. And I intend to use it in the spirit it is offered."
"I'm the one who blew your plans to shit, Ritter. Keep me, and let him go."
"Even if I were even remotely inclined to do that, I could not. Sentence was passed on him twelve years ago by an SS Honour Court, and upheld by Führer Heydrich himself. His life was forfeit the moment he stepped on German soil, and he understood that...did you not, Hauptsturmführer Ulrich?"
His use of Wolf's SS rank really startled me, as did my son's response.
"Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenführer," he said, smartly, standing upright and looking at Ritter calmly and without fear.
With a cold smile, the latter nodded at him, and then turned back to me.
"And so, Herr Cushing, once again, you are the agent of his demise, and he the willing victim. The Slayer and the Slain."
Until that moment, I hadn't realised he could say anything which would make me feel worse about the situation, But that simple passing of sentence, laying the blame firmly on me and framing it those specific terms, succeeded admirably. And what was worse, Wolf didn't even seem surprised. Laurence Rathbone had been wrong after all.
"Wolf, you can't do this. It's not worth you throwing your life away for mine. I accepted the consequences of my actions."
"It's not your choice to make," Wolf answered, looking at me levelly, "it's mine."
We locked eyes, each trying to stare down the other, but apparently he was as stubborn as I was. In the end we were interrupted by a chuckle from across the room.
"This is priceless," Ritter said, with a cold smile, "falling over each other to offer to die so that the other one lives. Karma really does have a sense of humour. In fact, the only downside of this whole arrangement is that I will have to say goodbye to my dear friend Herr Cushing. I feel strangely loathe to do that."
"And then you would be foresworn..." Wolf said, mildly, "how very honourable."
He glared at my old adversary, and I was amazed at the amount of hatred he managed to put in the last three words. Ritter regarded him for a few moments, a smile of approval slowly appearing on his lips, and then approached him slowly. He gently took Wolf's face in his hands, so their eyes met, and almost tenderly, he touched his forehead to my son's in an pseudo-paternal gesture which made me my skin crawl.
"Oh child of my child," he said, quietly, "you have so much potential. Why did you throw it away for this...this Jew lover? You could have been so much more."
Wolf tried to pull away, staring at him in silence, and in the end Ritter sighed, and let him go.
"Damn Dietrich von Ansbach to Hell. He should have nurtured you, not alienated you. But he did not understand, as I have come to realise, that you were all the more important to Germany, precisely because you were not his get, but the product of two great bloodlines."
What the Hell?
"Ian, son of Bleys," he said, turning to me, "you have no idea what you've squandered with your stupidity. However, you have my word that, despite that, your son will be allowed to die with honour."
"No," I protested, struggling against my captors, "Wolf, you can't do this."
"Shut the fuck up, Ian," he answered, his tone cold, "it's my decision and I'm going to see it through. But don't make this any harder for me than it already is."
And he turned away from me, back held straight and proud, and indicated for his escort to lead him out of the room.
Then Ritter turned to the goons guarding me.
"Collect Herr Cushing's belongings and take him to Tempelhof, from whence you will escort him to Heathrow. Do not let him out of your sight until he is back on British soil."
And then he looked back at me, his expression beyond icy.
"Will you play nice? Or do I have to ask them to knock you unconscious to put you on the plane?"
In response, I tried to break free, but while I managed to get away from one of them, the fact that my hands were tied behind my back and my foot still wasn't up to fighting on, meant that I couldn't dodge the other. The last thing I saw was the butt of a sidearm hitting me between the eyes.
* * * * * *
When I awoke, my head was splitting, not helped by the incessant rumble of airplane engines. I was strapped into the middle seat of a bank of three, my escorts one either side of me - out of uniform, I noticed - and from the sounds of the engines we were airborne. I felt cold to the core, and was disorientated from what was probably a concussion. As I tried to get control of myself, I heard a tannoy announcement come through the cabin.
"We will be landing at Heathrow in fifteen minutes. Please replace all carry-on items in the overhead bins, and fasten your seatbelts. We hope you've had a pleasant flight."
I sat back in my seat feeling completely helpless. Was he already dead? Probably not. If it was heading for Samhain, then I expected Ritter to kill him then. But how the Hell was I going to tell Susanne that he was gone?
We landed on schedule, and my escorts helped me down the jet way, my face burning with the embarrassment of it. We were met by a medical team, who had apparently been alerted that a passenger on the flight had been taken ill, and I was passed into their care. Then one of escorts drew a letter out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was on heavy paper, and instead of being in an envelope, it was folded and sealed with the seal of the Office of the Führer. I broke it open and read the words scribed in pen and ink on the paper, in a gothic hand.
"Ian Michael Cushing, also known as Mikael Cuijper
You are hereby informed that you have been declared persona non gratia in the Greater German Reich and all of its territories, present and future, and any permissions you have to travel within those territories have been revoked. Should you return to the Greater German Reich at any time in the future, your life will be considered forfeit.
Dated this 25th Day of October, in the year Nineteen Hundred and Eighty
On the orders of Claus Schenk, Führer of the Greater German Reich. Sieg Heil!"
"Your bags will be forwarded to your place of residence," he informed me, curtly.
"And the body?"
"Will be returned to you in due course, so you can make the arrangements."
Then he turned on his heel once more, and followed his compatriot back into the plane, leaving me in the hands of the medical team. I wanted to follow him, but the medics insisted on taking charge of me and deposited me in a wheelchair. Then they administered a sedative, and soon I was out for the count.
They kept me in hospital overnight, watching the concussion, assessing my injuries and redressing those which needed it, and confirming to their own satisfaction that it was safe for me to be out of medical supervision. I was discharged into the tender care of Carmichael the following morning. He was obviously burning with curiosity about what was going on, but I found I had nothing to say to him. In fact, I couldn't think what to say to anyone.
"Miss Susanne called," he said, finally, "she's worried about Master Wolf. He left on a business trip on the 15th, and said he'd be home in a few days, but she hasn't heard from him since. Has he made contact with you, sir?"
"Did he tell her where he was going?" I asked, flatly, as he no doubt expected me to say something.
"Zurich, she thought...apparently a few days before, he received a letter from there. She said it upset him, and he booked the trip soon afterwards."
"Does she still have the letter?"
"She looked for it, hoping it might give her some clue as to who he was meeting, but she thinks he took it with him."
"Presumably she's contacted the Swiss police?"
"Indeed, sir, but apparently he flew out of Zurich on the 17th."
"To where?"
"They wouldn't tell her. The informed her that besides confirming his departure, they couldn't help her, due to airline confidentiality."
"I'll try to talk to her when we get back home," I said, which seemed to allay his concerns somewhat, but as I spoke, I was trying to work out if there was any way I could pluck up the courage to tell her what had happened to her husband.
When we got home, I found that my bags had already been delivered from the airport, and I settled down to assess the damage. All the developed film I had left in my hotel room - mainly general shots from around St Petersburg - was missing, as were my notes from the other articles I had been working on, and I thanked the gods that I had already sent away the evidence from Kirishi. Hopefully, that was in Bill's hands by now. The Browning was also gone, but to my surprise, the Working paraphernalia from my pack was all present, including everything I'd abandoned in the stadium at Kirishi, and the ankh which Audrey had given me, which had been taken from me at my capture. They didn't seem to have been desecrated in any way, although it would seem safer to bless and reconsecrate them before I used them again. Everything else I'd had with me had been neatly packed, even the items I'd stolen the last morning in St Petersburg, the clothing laundered and folded.
It was the final straw. I leant forward on the bed, hands either side of the suitcase, and just stood there, feeling cold and empty.
* * * * * *
I spent the next couple of days in something of a daze, not wanting to do much except sleep. However, eventually Carmichael's concern became too much for me, and I fled back to London and locked myself away in Albion Mews with my books, hardly going out and trying to avoid thinking about what Ritter was doing to Wolf. I still hadn't called Susanne, and neither could I face talking to any of the Group, but my avoidance tactics weren't enough. Simon Rathbone sought me out on the night of the 30th, arriving at around 9pm without calling ahead, so that I couldn't refuse to see him.
"What, exactly, is going on?" he demanded, as I somewhat reluctantly let him in, and he sounded frustrated and annoyed, "You've been off the radar for over a month, pretty much since you filed the Kirishi story, and now you're back - via an overnight stay in hospital, no less - you've been ducking calls. In the meantime, Wolf is missing and Susanne is frantic. Talk to me."
"Wolf isn't missing," I said, indicating for him to go into the lounge and sit, then dropping into the chair opposite him, too tired to argue, "I know exactly where he is."
"That's great news," he said, looking more cheered.
"Not really. He's not coming back."
The cheer disappeared instantly from his face.
"How do you know?"
"The day I filed the story, I was picked up by the Gestapo. Somehow, he found out, and came to Berlin to find me."
"The business trip he never returned from?"
I nodded.
"He handed himself over to Kasimir Ritter to secure my release," I said, quietly, "and a little more than twenty-four hours from, now he'll be dead."
Obviously unsure what to say, Simon got to his feet and poured himself a small Scotch while he processed what I'd told him. He offered me one, but I shook my head. As he returned to his seat, regarding me thoughtfully.
"But he's not dead yet? That's what you're saying. So if you'll forgive me asking, why the Hell are you sitting here, hiding from those who care for you both and would help you, rather than doing everything you can to get him back?"
"Because he told me not to."
"Who, Ritter? When did you ever do what he asked?"
"Not Ritter...Wolf."
"Wolf told you not to come for him? Why?"
"He said he was doing what he had to, and when I tried to argue with him, he told me to shut up and let him do it."
"You actually saw him while you were in Berlin?"
"Ritter made certain of it. And what hurts most, is it was the first time I'd talked to him in over three years, and it was the last time I'm ever going to see him alive."
"Ian, I'm so sorry."
"I killed him, Simon..."
"How do you get to that?"
"If I hadn't been pig headed and filed the Kirishi story, I wouldn't have been taken by the Gestapo, and he wouldn't have felt he had to do this."
"Did you ask him to?"
"Gods no."
"Then how can you be responsible for what he's done? He's not a child. He's capable of making his own decisions."
"Not ones I would agree with, apparently. What happened to him while I was away? He seemed different. More weary. You've seen him; I haven't."
"To be honest, he's not been around as much. He's made about half the Group's meetings - more in the first year or so you were away - and checked in with me, as is the condition of his residence here, but otherwise he's been keeping to himself. He rolled that car of his about eighteen months ago, speeding down the M2, but he walked away with cuts and bruises and went out and bought something faster, so pretty much in character there. On the other hand, he's been doing well with the Home Office...made quite a reputation for himself in the field of ballistics, actually...so I'd assumed he was just busy."
"What about Susanne? Everything okay there?"
"As far as I'm aware, why?"
"I just don't understand why he would have just left her and Michel without a word, knowing he wouldn't be coming back. That's why I haven't talked to her. I don't know what the Hell to say to her. Is there anything else, anything else at all that you can think of which might have pushed him into doing this?"
"If I had to give an opinion, he missed you: you and Dad were always his main anchors here in England, besides Susanne and Michel, and now Dad is gone..."
"But that wouldn't explain him walking calmly into Berlin, effectively committing suicide."
"Ian, if you'll forgive me asking, what happened between you? You were close before you went to Berlin, but now you're saying you haven't spoken to him for three years. That's a long time."
"We had a flaming row the night before I left, and I never had a chance to properly apologise."
"What about?"
"My assignment. He was right, of course, as it turned out."
"Have you tried to contact him since you got back to England?"
"Why would I?"
"How about to say goodbye?"
"He made his views on that quite clear when I saw him."
"He's your son. You should try, or you will regret it for the rest of your life." He paused, took a drink from his glass, and then added, "Unless there's something else you're not telling me...like why you're so sure he's alive today and won't be alive tomorrow."
"Samhain," I corrected him, "Ritter will kill him on Samhain."
"I don't like the way you seem so certain of that."
"How much did your father tell you, before he died, about his deductions about Wolf and I, and how we've been linked in our past lives?"
"A fair bit. You think this is related?"
"I know this is related. Ritter said as much, and he's right. My actions put Wolf in the position he's in...he's paying the price for them."
"It's still a stretch. Could you have misinterpreted?"
"No. He couldn't have been clearer."
"What are you going to do?"
"Once you've gone? Get very drunk and stay that way for the foreseeable future."
"That does not sound like a good idea, and tells me that you shouldn't be alone right now. Come down to Lyminge with me. I was planning to head down there after seeing you this evening. No reason why you can't pack a bag and come with me: heck you probably already have one packed upstairs."
"No," I answered, "I'm staying here in London until this is over. Don't try to persuade me otherwise."
"And sadly, I know you well enough not to even try."
"You should probably be going. It'll be midnight before you get down to Kent if you don't start soon."
"I can take a dismissal when I hear one," he said, sadly, but without rancour, and got to his feet, "but remember, if you need us...the Group...for anything, we'll be there for you. We care for you both...you're family."
"I know," I answered, with a shrug, and walked him to the door.
Once he was gone, I decided to do exactly as I'd promised. I dug a full bottle of vodka out of the drinks cabinet, and set to work emptying it.
* * * * * *
I awoke at around nine-thirty the following morning, still in my chair, the fire long since burned out in the grate. No doubt I deserved the god-awful hangover, but I wasn't intending to stay sober that long anyway. I got to my feet and dragged myself up to my suite on the second floor, taking every stair very, very carefully. I went into the bathroom, stripped down and stood under the water until my skin began pruning, then went back to my bedroom to dress. It was Friday, so at some point Mrs Adair would be in to clean the place - Tuesdays and Fridays were her usual days - so once I was clean and vaguely tidy, I grabbed a coat and headed out, to get out of her way. I wandered aimlessly, finally ending up in the rose garden near Hyde Park Corner, where I sat in silence and watched the birds playing in the fountain.
Simon was right, of course. I would never forgive myself if I didn't try to say goodbye. I certainly had no doubt that I could reach Wolf if I wanted to, even though I didn't have a particular arcane focus to reach him - we had Worked together a lot since that first accidental contact twelve years before - although whether Ritter would spot what I was doing and prevent it was another matter. But right now, Ritter had what he wanted. Might he be merciful and let me make contact with my son? It was a risk, but I knew I had to try.
I headed back to Albion Mews around four, as it was beginning to get dusk. Mrs Adair should be long gone by then, which would give me time to get set up for what I wanted. My guess was that Ritter would wait until just after midnight to execute Wolf, which gave me a little under seven hours, allowing for time zones. That should be more than enough time to do what I had to do. I let myself inside and debated whether I should have something to eat. Apart from a cup of coffee in the café in Hyde Park, I hadn't had anything to eat all day - largely because I'd felt so rough after the night before that I hadn't fancied anything. On the other hand, it was much easier Working on an empty stomach.
Decision made, I walked up the stairs to my small study/library on the first-floor landing, drew the curtains, and pushed the desk against the bookshelf. Once that was done, I rolled back the carpet to reveal the small, silver Working circle I had set into the wooden floor some years before, shortly after I had bought the place. Then I headed up to my suite again, got candles and herbs out of the cupboard in my bedroom and took a long bath by candlelight to cleanse myself for what I wanted to do. Part of me knew that down in Kent, the Group were likely to be making similar preparations for their own Work, and that gave me comfort.
Once I felt clean and relaxed, I went back into my bedroom, and dressed in a simple white shirt and light, loose cotton trousers. I collected incense and a small burner, and a handful of herb-scented candles from the cupboard and headed back downstairs. I laid everything in its correct places, lit both incense and candles, and was about to cast the circle to protect myself, when I caught sight of a flash of colour on the floor. I reached over and picked it up, and realised it was the card Wolf had sent me from Russia, twelve years before. I usually kept it in a drawer in my desk, but obviously it had fallen out of the back when I moved the desk.
I stared at it in silence for a few moments, and then tucked it in my pocket as I cast the protection circle. Once I was done, I sat down in the centre, inhaling the incense and the scent of herbs, then reached for the card again and held it in my hand as I tried to reach out for him.
I seemed to be casting out for him for a very long time, before I felt any form of connection, but eventually I thought I felt a trace of him. It seemed to be behind layers of protection - the warding around his location, presumably - but as I gently probed them, to see if there was any way I could reach through, I felt it give slightly. The next thing I knew, I was in contact with...someone. Whoever it was seemed confused, or perhaps drugged, and I pressed a little harder to see if I could figure out who it was. It didn't take much, until I realised that I was looking out of someone else's eyes. In front of me, I could see a richly appointed room, with tapestries on the wall, and as the body I was in raised its hand, I could see the sleeve of a black uniform. And then the images were gone, and I was talking rather than seeing, as if whoever I was linked with had realised what was going on, and pushed back until we were separate people once more.
"Hello, Mihai," he said, quietly, in German, "I wondered if you'd come."
"Wolf."
"Yes, I suppose that is who I am right now," he answered, "earlier I would have sworn I was riding in a forest. And before that, I think I was in a very big church. And then I was stabbing someone before drowning them in a wine barrel. It's all rather confusing. But I'm sure it will all make sense soon."
As he spoke, I could see images in his mind of what he'd been seeing, the ones he'd mentioned and far too many more, and I realised that I was in every one of them, looking straight back at him.
"You shouldn't be here, you know," he said, "he'll be angry."
"I don't care."
"But you should care...he's helping me."
"Wolf, he's screwed with your head somehow. Try to fight him."
"No. I know what I'm doing. If I wanted to fight, I wouldn't be here. But it would be so much better if you understood that."
"I don't...I can't."
"Then I feel truly sorry for you."
And he really meant it. It was almost too much for me, and I felt the link falter.
"I have to go now," he said, becoming less distinct, "he'll be coming soon, and we have an appointment. Goodbye, Mihai."
"I love you, Wolf," I answered, and realised from the fact that I heard my voice catch in my throat, that I had spoken aloud. Perhaps I should have told him earlier, but now, at the end, I didn't want to leave it unsaid.
"And I you, Ian," he said, quietly, "you've been a good friend to me, and I couldn't have asked for a better father."
The link faded further, all but disappearing, but I tried to keep hold of it link a drowning man would reach for a rope. It didn't resolve enough for me to speak to him again - perhaps whatever drug was in his system was stopping that - but I realised that if I concentrated as if my life depended on it, I could maintain a tenuous link with him. So I sat there in silence, surrounded by the scent of incense and the candles, and listened for him. After a while, I realised that I wasn't alone, and that the Group were there to support me. Silent. Comforting.
Sometime later, the nature of my link to him changed again. It became stronger, and the Group faded from my subconscious. I could hear chanting and realised that the words were in ancient German. Then I felt pains in my arms, and I began to go numb. I felt warm and comfortable, and content with what I'd chosen to do, and realised that I was linked directly to my son once more. He opened his eyes and I saw him looking at Kasimir Ritter, dressed in a dark claret robe, blood on his hands. As I watched, Ritter bent down and said something in Wolf's ear that I didn't catch, before standing up and stepping back a couple of paces. Then he raised his right hand, so the barrel of the small-calibre pistol it held was pointed directly at Wolf's chest. At that point, I knew I should go, but I couldn't bring myself to leave him alone to face his end. Then Ritter spoke one last time.
"Rest in peace, child of my child."
And pulled the trigger.
As the bullet hit, the link broke, and I slammed back into my body. I felt disoriented, but I managed to stop myself blacking out, and made a conscious effort to centre myself, before taking stock of my surroundings. I was sitting in the dark, the candles burned down so that only a couple still had a weak flame, the incense in the burner was grey rather than red, and I realised that tears were rolling down my cheeks. I got slowly to my feet and closed things down, then went into the bathroom to splash water on my face, before trying to decide whether sleep or getting resoundingly drunk was the better option at that point. I opted for the latter, and went downstairs to try to forget.
* * * * * *
I stayed drunk all day Saturday, and was seriously considering continuing the trend after waking up around noon on Sunday morning, when Simon arrived back up from Kent, and made a conscious effort to sober me up. He sat with me for the rest of the day, feeding me coffee and bacon sandwiches, walking me around and talking to me, until I realised that using alcohol to forget did both Wolf and me an injustice. When he left Sunday evening, I just headed upstairs, took a couple of sleeping pills, and had a more healthy night's sleep.
I received the notification that the body had arrived at RAF Northolt on Monday morning. I rang the number on the letter, and arranged to collect it that afternoon. Then I contacted the funeral director who'd dealt with mother's arrangements after she'd died and started the appropriate processes. When I got to Northolt, Simon was waiting for me, in uniform, no less. Despite his being my SIS handler, I usually manage to forget that he also holds a commission as a captain in the Intelligence Corps, my old regiment. I was more than a little relieved to see him, as it meant that I wouldn't have to do this alone.
We headed for the medical facilities, and followed the orderly who had been assigned to escort us to the morgue being in the basement. On arrival, he took us into a side room, rather than the main autopsy room, for which I was immensely grateful. The coffin was a plain affair...just a wooden box really, the lid nailed to the rest of it, except for a number of runic symbols burned into the lid...but as I touched it, I sensed the working of a spell, which had the feel of something Ritter had woven. The fact that my enemy might have violated Wolf's body after death, with some kind of ritual, made me uncontrollably angry.
"Ian?"
"Ritter's done something to him," I answered, and yelled for the poor unfortunate orderly, demanding that he open the coffin.
"Are you sure?" he asked, surprised, and glanced first at me, then Simon.
"Ian, this isn't a good idea," the latter said, "even if you're right, you don't know what the Hell it is."
"I don't care," I answered, and stared at the orderly, "open it."
The poor man looked like he was going to protest, but then thought better of it. He went for a something to lever off the lid, plus someone to help him, and a few efficient pulls later, it came free. As they lifted away the lid, I willed myself to look at the body, and was startled to see that he was in the dress uniform of his previous organisation, complete with full rank insignia for a captain in the Ahnenerbe, none of which he'd been entitled to wear for twelve years, and never in the case of Ahnenerbe unit designation. The orderly backed away hurriedly, leaving Simon and I looking at each other in stunned silence.
"Ian? Is there something else you haven't told me?" he said, as startled as I was.
"Really no," I answered, shocked rigid by what I had seen, and forced myself to look back down at the still form of my son.
He was lying with his eyes closed, the bruising I'd seen in Berlin now faded to nothing, and his expression peaceful. His arms were crossed on his chest, as if his body had been prepared by someone who cared for him, and I couldn't fail to notice the death's head ring on the third finger of his right hand, or the full honour dagger at his belt. He'd certainly not worn either in Bucharest, or later in Russia, so where had they come from? And even more upsetting than the way he'd been dressed, I could feel some kind of spell infusing him. Then I noticed a scrap of paper in his left hand and reached for it. I gently took it from between his fingers, noting that it also had some kind of magical trace on it, and cautiously opened it, all the while prepared for a nasty surprise.
It was written in German, in a neat gothic hand, and comprised seven words and a monogram which I recognised as Ritter's.
"Major Cushing. Say 'please', and act quickly."
Stupidly, I repeated the words aloud, trying to understand what kind of sick joke this was, then looked at the body. As I did, I saw a stain beginning to soak through the jacket, just above his heart, along with others where his arms rested on his body.
"What the Hell...?" I said, staring dumbly at it, not really understanding what I was seeing.
Simon was quicker than me at identifying what it was.
"Medic!" he shouted at the top of his voice, and began cutting off Wolf's uniform jacket with a knife he pulled from his boot. That was when I finally realised what was happening. He was bleeding.
Dead men don't bleed.
"Ian, help me goddamn it," he ordered, and I began ripping the tough black fabric as we heard feet running down the corridor. Then we were being pushed away as a medical team sprang smoothly into action, and I moved to one side as they fought to stabilise him. A few minutes later, he was being lifted onto a gurney, and pushed up the corridor at high speed. Simon and I trailed in their wake, but as they reached one of the operating theatres, we were barred from entry. I tried to get inside anyway, but one of the nurses firmly led us away from the door towards a small family waiting area.
I spent the next two hours pacing, unwilling to sit, unable to stand still. I didn't even drink the coffee that one of the orderlies brought for me. Simon, on the other hand, managed to sit down, apparently relaxed, and flicked idly through the stack of magazines which had been so kindly provided for those who wait. I started whenever anyone walked past the door, hoping that someone would bring news, and was very quickly a nervous wreck. But eventually, I was rewarded by the arrival of one of the doctors. His nametag identified him as Captain R Croft, MD.
"Major Cushing? Captain Rathbone."
"How is he?" I asked.
"He'd been shot - a small calibre bullet to the chest, which thankfully missed his heart or the major blood vessels, although it punctured a lung and chipped a couple of ribs. And there were extensive knife wounds on both forearms. He's lost a lot of blood, though, and I'll be honest with you, sir, it was touch and go for a while. However, his underlying health seems good, so I think he should pull through."
"Thank the gods," I said, feeling some of the tension draining out of my body.
"You understand, don't you Major, that there is going to have to be an enquiry?"
"Why?"
"To discover how he could have sustained those injuries in our morgue. You and Captain Rathbone are requested to stay on base until the MPs have talked to you. Is that going to be a problem?"
I could think of far too many ways why I was going to be a problem, but it seemed wiser to be circumspect, and just shook my head. Off to one side, Simon got to his feet and indicated his agreement.
"Can I see him?"
"Not until you've spoken with the MPs, I'm afraid. Until we are certain of the extent of your involvement, I can't allow you near him."
"You think I did this to him?"
"I don't know what happened, sir."
"Ian, go with him," Simon said, quietly, "let me deal with it. I also think one of us should call Susanne. Do you want to do it or shall I?"
"Gods know how we'll explain why he's here to her...but go ahead. Assuming they'll let her on base."
"It can be arranged."
"Thanks, Simon," I said, and followed Captain Croft to a more comfortable lounge area where I was given a full pot of coffee and left to wait. I fell asleep almost as soon as I was alone, my nerves considerably improved by the fact that I knew Wolf was going to live.
I was awakened by Simon a couple of hours later, and while my neck felt sore and stiff from where I'd slept wrong, overall, I felt somewhat better.
"There isn't going to be an enquiry," he said, as he waited for me to get to my feet, "do you want to see him?"
"Yes."
"Come on...just be aware that Susanne's with him, and she's not happy."
He led me through the doors and down a corridor to a small room off one of the wards. I saw Susanne first, sitting huddled in a chair beside one of the beds. As I approached, she looked up at me. Not happy was an understatement.
"What the Hell were you thinking?" she demanded, getting to her feet, "how could you drag him into this?"
"I didn't, Susanne," I answered, "I swear."
"You are the ONLY person he would go back to Germany for."
"I didn't ask him to," I replied, "The first I knew he was there, was when we were hauled into the same room. And then things moved too quickly to do anything."
"You've been back in England for almost a week you son of a bitch," she shouted, "you should have told me."
And to my surprise, she flung a newspaper down at my feet. I reached to pick it up, and as I did the first thing I noticed, was that it was in German. The second was the page header: Das Schwarze Korps. The SS house rag.
"Where did you get this?"
"It arrived this morning," she said, crossing to stand in front of me, "hand delivered, along with a condolence card. I tried to reach you, but I couldn't...Then Simon called and said that Wolf had had an accident. I thought it was the cruellest joke anyone could ever play."
She paused for breath, eyes flashing in anger.
"What...the...Hell...is...going...on...?" she asked, punctuating every word with a thump from her arms on my chest.
"I swear I don't know," I answered, as Simon gently separated us, and helped her back to her chair, where she collapsed into a burst of sobbing.
I looked at her, then glanced at the paper. It was opened at the fourth page, and a headline and paragraph had been circled in the top right-hand corner. I read it through twice. It was the notice that Wolfgang Dietrich Armand Ulrich, murderer, and traitor to the Greater German Reich, had returned to Germany to atone for his crimes. In light of the fact that he had surrendered voluntarily, and expressed remorse, he had been reinstated to his previous rank at the behest of the general commanding the Ahnenerbe Forschungs und Lehrgemeinschaft, and had been allowed to die with honour at Schloss Wewelsburg on 1st November 1980.
"Ian, are you alright?" Simon asked, obviously spotting the incredulous expression on my face.
"Can you do me a favour?" I replied, "can you take Susanne for a coffee or something. I have to talk to Wolf."
"I can try," he answered, "although she doesn't look exactly communicative," and he gently took her by the arm and led her out, protesting vehemently.
Once they were gone, I sat down on the chair and reached for my son's wrist. It was heavily bandaged, but at least the dressings were clean: no sign of blood. Then I felt for the pulse in his neck and was rewarded by a slow but steady beat. Moreover, I could no longer feel the traces of the ritual Ritter had done to him.
"What happened to you over there?" I asked, quietly. I wasn't expecting an answer, but to my surprise he turned his head towards me, smiled weakly and opened his eyes. They seemed as clear and keen as ever, and still strangely at peace.
"Why was Susanne so angry with you, Mihai?" he said, quietly.
"Someone sent her a copy of your death notice. And...well, I hadn't told her that you were in Berlin, let alone that Ritter had you, so it was something of a shock for her."
"Why not? I trusted you to look after her."
"Because I didn't have the slightest idea what to say to her."
"I suppose you wouldn't," he said, his expression pensive. I looked at him, and waited for him to continue. "I felt you with me on Samhain night. Thank you."
"You didn't need to be alone," I said, quietly, "but then...I felt you die, Wolf. What happened?"
"I have no more idea than you do...the last thing I remember is being shot. I'm so confused. I don't even know how I got here."
"We'll figure it out, I promise."
I took hold of his shoulder and squeezed it, trying to be reassuring.
"If I have anything to do with it, he's never going anywhere near you again," came a voice from the doorway, and I looked up to see Susanne. Behind her, I could see Simon, his expression apologetic. I took a deep breath, got to my feet and walked towards her.
"You're dangerous, Ian," she said, coldly.
"I swear on the gods, Susanne. I have no more idea of what's going on than you do. I'm just happy that he's alive. Maybe you're right, and this whole thing is a sick joke. But I promise you that it isn't one of my making."
"Get out," she said, quietly.
I nodded, walked past her to where my friend was waiting, and we headed off base.
* * * * * *
It was a week before the hospital were willing to release him, and another week after that until he managed to get away from his understandably protective wife to join me for a drink at Albion Mews. I spent much of the intervening time being debriefed by Simon's people, giving them detailed information on everything I'd seen and heard during my three years in the GGR and Russia, although I left the arcane elements for Simon's ears only. The remainder I spent reading, beginning to exercise as my last few niggling injuries faded, and trying to get myself back on an even keel, after the rapid switch from mourning to confused relief.
As I let Wolf in, one evening in mid-November, I was painfully aware that the last time he'd visited me, he'd left in justified anger. But I tried to put that behind me and welcomed him home, and embraced him as he came inside, as if needing to convince myself that he was real. He returned the hug firmly, without reservation. Then I took his coat - soaked on the shoulders by the cold November rain - and hung it on the stand by the door. I gestured towards the lounge and told him to make himself comfortable in front of the fire, while I poured us a couple of stiff brandies, and clipped the ends off a pair of hand-rolled cigars.
As I handed one of them to him, and lit it, I took a good look at him. He appeared infinitely better than when I'd seen him last, although he was still paler than usual, and moving somewhat cautiously. He also seemed less world weary than he had in Berlin, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
I sat down opposite him, lighting my own cigar and taking a puff from it, before resting it in the ashtray. The rich aroma filled the room in short order.
"How are you doing?" I asked, finally.
"Still alive, as you can see," he answered, with a wry smile, "apparently, fate was kind and my time hadn't come."
"Thank the gods."
"In fact, all things considered, I think I'm doing pretty well. More tired than I'd like, and horribly unfit, but I suppose both are to be expected. And I have some interesting new scars."
He bent his arms upwards from the elbows, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and shaking the sleeves down, and I could see the clean red marks of wounds from a sharp knife, from wrist to elbow up both forearms, following the veins.
"Apparently the medics at Northolt pumped something like five pints of blood into me while I was on the operating table," he said, as he rolled his sleeves down again and fastened the buttons, "I'd lost a fair amount before I ever got to England, and what they kindly gave me just kept coming straight back out again. And somewhere around there, I get very confused. How did I get back here?"
"How much to you remember?"
"Until the day of the 31st, pretty much everything. That last night is much more vague."
"I still don't understand why you did any of it."
"I had my reasons, but if you'll forgive me, I'm not yet ready to share them," he answered, as he downed his first brandy and set it beside him, "I'm sorry about the glass, by the way. I hope it wasn't one of your wedding set."
"I keep a few for everyday use," I answered as I refilled his glass and gave mine a top-up, "it doesn't matter. Let it pass."
He gave a slight nod, then sipped from the refill.
"So let's skip over your reasons, and get back to the facts. How did you know I was in Berlin?"
"The moment I saw your by-line on the Kirishi story I knew you'd done something quite spectacularly ill-advised, however good your reasons for it. I got confirmation about a fortnight later, routed through an RSHA shell address in Zurich. Ritter himself informed me that you were in Gestapo custody, on charges of espionage, murder and attempted murder, but that he would accept my life in place of yours, if I presented myself to him in Berlin before Samhain. I did as he asked."
"What happened when you arrived?"
"I made the mistake of arriving on a Friday evening. I was stopped at Tempelhof and arrested on the spot by the Gestapo. They...weren't kind. I used to be one of them, and I'd turned on them in the worst possible way. They took pleasure in reminding me of that. It wasn't until the Monday that I was transferred into Ritter's custody. I'm not sure where I was held at that point. It was certainly more comfortable than a cell, and the décor was positively civilised, but the doors were still locked.
After I saw you in the conference room - and dammit, it was hard leaving you with him, Mihai, but I didn't know how else to shut you up...I could feel my courage failing me the more you protested what I was doing - I was driven to Schloss Wewelsburg. The first thing Ritter on arrival did was restore me to my rank and privileges within the regiment. After that, I was his guest. No bars, no guards, completely on my own recognisance and left to amuse myself. I suppose he knew that by then, I wasn't going to try to escape."
"Did you see much of him?"
"We talked a couple of times. He seemed very different from the man who cursed me to my face in Bucharest. Those comments of his in Berlin...it got weirder from there. I hadn't realised just how obsessed about bloodlines that man is. I mean, sure, that's what the Ahnenerbe do, but he takes it to extremes. And whenever he spoke of me, and you, and mama, he pretty much out and said that we're all related, but he wouldn't explain the specifics."
"He used the same form of address to you twice: 'child of my child'. I'd assumed it was some kind of formal ritual phrase, but what if he meant it literally?"
Wolf paused for a moment, as if considering the question, covering his hesitation by taking a long pull from his cigar, before resting it back on his own ashtray and answering.
"I can't see how. You're certainly not his son - you're too old, unless he's a very well preserved near centurion - although I have no idea who the Bleys guy he mentioned was. Your father was called Adam, right?"
I nodded.
"And I knew your mother well enough, which leaves mama's side. But again, she was only a couple of years younger than you. The first I ever heard of Ritter was in Bucharest, and if he were related to her, I would have expected to come across him before. So who knows, maybe it was just a form of greeting within his tradition."
It was a very careful answer, and I wondered if there was more to it than he was saying, but if there was, his poker face was way better than mine. Still, what reason would he have to be evasive?
"No doubt it won't come as a surprise to you to learn that he hates you with a passion," he commented, "of course, shooting him probably didn't help you mend any fences there."
"I wasn't trying to mend fences. I was trying to kill him. I just didn't get time to line up a decent shot."
"You probably got closer than you realise. And you took out his right-hand man pretty effectively."
"He seemed to be leading, so I thought it was Ritter: it was only after he pulled down his hood that I realised my mistake."
I paused for a moment, took a sip from my brandy, and then continued.
"What happened that last night?"
"I was given an early supper. After that...it gets more vague: there was wine with the meal, which tasted bitter, and I think had some kind of hallucinogen in it - mistletoe, if I had to guess. I was taken to a chapel, where I was sat in a hard wooden chair. There was chanting. Then he slit my wrists open with an honour dagger, and after that I was mainly aware of a gentle warmth, as I drifted away. Blood loss, presumably. And then Ritter said something to me about making it look convincing, and he shot me in the chest, and everything stopped. The next thing I knew, you and Simon were trying to stop me bleeding to death."
"So he wasn't joking in Prinz Albrecht Strasse, when he talked about sacrifice."
"You already know he wasn't. You were with me at Samhain. What happened was going to run its course. I understood that when I accepted his invitation. What I didn't expect, was that I would ever again be sitting here, alive if not completely well, sharing brandy and cigars with you in front of the fire."
"You almost sound disappointed."
"Not disappointed, but it's certainly unexpected."
"So is he somehow screwing with both of us? That the axe is going to fall later? That would be in character from our previous dealings with him."
"I don't believe so. As I said, this time his attitude to me was very different. I know you want me to tell you that he was a real bastard to me, but he wasn't. He treated me with respect and, if not exactly as an equal, as a favoured subordinate. I'd even go so far as to believe that he cared about me."
"Funny way of showing it," I snorted.
"And yet here I am. So something else is going on. I'm reminded of one of the more famous Sherlock Holmes quotes. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
"And what do you think that is?"
"That he found a way to at least give me a chance of surviving, while making it appear that I was dead in the eyes of the GGR. The question is how he managed it. The slit wrists were very real - you've seen the scars, and my gut says they aren't going to be healing up any time soon. But then there's the gunshot...there's no way he should have missed my heart, even with a small calibre weapon. I wasn't exactly struggling. Yet the shot was a good inch too high."
"You think he deliberately missed."
"As I said, I half remember him saying he needed to make it look convincing - and to someone who wasn't medically trained, it will have looked like he shot me in the heart."
"And then you said everything stopped...perhaps some kind of ritual? Although I wouldn't have the first idea what."
"Okay. So for a moment, let's take that as possible. He took me to the brink and made sure I didn't go over it. But then, if time stopped for me...then how did it restart?"
"The note."
"Note?"
"When I opened your coffin, there was a note in your hand from Ritter. It said 'Say 'please' and act quickly'. I read it aloud and you started bleeding."
"Why did you open the coffin? It doesn't seem the sort of thing you'd normally do. It smacks of desecration."
"Because I could feel some kind of working around it, and I thought he'd cursed you after death. It was the last straw."
"So he pretty much offered a red rag to a bull and made sure you broke the seal. Whereupon you saw me - I imagine the uniform was a shock."
"You have no idea. Was it real?"
"Very real," he answered, much to my chagrain, "as I said, he restored me to my ranks and privileges in the regiment. And then you saw the note. You did as it said - quite literally - and whatever was holding me was released. It certainly sounds like some kind of trigger."
"It's the only explanation I can think of...but I'm damned if I know a) how you were frozen, and b) how reading the words unlocked it."
"He's wily. And he's been an Adept a lot longer than you, let alone me. And who knows what knowledge might be in the historical archives of the Thule Gesellschaft."
"He must have been bloody confident that he could stop things before it was too late: neither slit wrists nor a gunshot to the chest, even a small calibre one, are particularly conducive to only pretending to kill you. Far too much could go wrong."
He paused before answering, getting the bottle and topping up our empty glasses again, before placing it on the side table and retaking his place.
"If you can think of a better explanation," he said, finally, "I'm happy to hear it."
The trouble was, I didn't have one. He was right. It was the only sequence of events that made sense. And yet, nothing in my previous dealings with Ritter had given me the idea that he might have had been inclined to mercy towards anybody, especially my son.
"And then he published the notice of my execution in Das Schwarze Korps, so the world would know I was dead.
"Why go to all this trouble?"
"Would you rather it really had been my body in the coffin?" he asked, quietly.
"No...gods no."
"My actions...the chain of events which led to my defection...were an embarrassment to the SS, and had repercussions. For Alfred, for example: his career has come to a flying stop since I left. But this way the slate is wiped clean. By accepting my...sacrifice... honour was restored, my own, my family's and the regiment's. All debts are paid."
"Except you are now a serving SS officer again."
"A dead one," he said, with a shrug.
"Only officially. Both you and Ritter know it isn't true. What about your oath of loyalty to the Führer? Is he likely to hold you to that in the future?"
"It's possible...but we shall see."
"I don't like it."
"At this point, it is the least of my concerns. What will be, will be. For now, I'm enjoying the fact that I can share a cigar with my father, and can hug my daughter and make love to my wife. For the first time in years, I feel alive."
"You didn't before?"
"I'm not sure that even you realise how difficult it's been for me, Mihai. My heart is still German, and yet Germany was forbidden to me, literally on pain of death. And here...I've tried so hard, but despite the ministrations of HM Government, in so many quarters people won't look past the fact that I'm an exile and a war criminal. And all the while, in my heart I knew I had never really been punished for what I did at Eglizi. You're too good a lawyer."
As he fell silent, I considered him with a heart heavy. I knew he had a self-destructive streak, but I thought his love of Susanne and Michel, and perhaps even his feelings towards me, had tempered it. But apparently it had always been there, lurking under the surface, and it galled me that I hadn't realised how much pain he was in. Perhaps, because I hadn't really known him before he came to England, I didn't really know him at all.
"Why didn't you tell me how unhappy you were?"
"After what you, and Matthew, and Laurence and the Group have done for me? How could I, without sounding like an ungrateful son of a bitch."
"So you came to Berlin for redemption?"
He paused to address his cigar again, before continuing.
"I was tired, Mihai. Tired of knowing that I had utterly dishonoured myself and my kin. Tired of having that death sentence hanging over my head. Tired of running. And things got worse after we parted in anger. You were over there, and I was here, believing that you hated me for what I'd said, and the 700 miles from here to Berlin might as well have been from here to the moon. I couldn't cope with it anymore. By coming for you - as you did for me, twelve years ago - I knew I could repay my debt to you, and find my own release."
"Why on earth did you think I hated you?"
"Because you never forgave me for what I did. All you sent was that short letter, a few weeks later."
"Mainly because I couldn't think of a way to call you without getting myself shot," I answered, hearing frustration in my tone and trying to make a conscious effort to keep it down, "you were right. I knew that the minute you stormed out of the door. You had done nothing to be forgiven for - I was the one who owed you an apology. I just never had a chance to tell you."
I watched him as he absorbed that, hoping that it wouldn't knock him backwards from his more positive mood, but in the end he just shrugged and met my gaze.
"I've answered a lot of questions tonight, Mihai. Now it's your turn. What happened in Kirishi?"
"The whole thing was a bloody great death ritual, aimed - as far as I can figure it out - at using the townsfolk as a focus to reach out and kill everyone of Slavic blood in Russia."
"Jesus."
Whether or not he had been evasive earlier, that honestly shocked him. I saw a sick expression cross his features, before he got control of himself again.
"I figured it out in dribs and drabs," I continued, "but by the time I'd realised what was going on, it was too late to save them. All I could do was disrupt the ritual."
"Which seems to have worked."
"After a fashion, at least. And better to think of it like that, than considering that I was responsible for the Kirishi Massacre, not him. Did he share with you how many people died?"
"About fifteen hundred Russians, and about a quarter of Einsatzgruppe-4. You would probably could call the latter a public service. Of course, he couched it to me in terms that your rashness in disrupting the ritual had led to the unnecessary waste of life."
"He was going to kill them all, anyway. It sounds as if I saved about three-quarters of them, which some would say was a good result."
"The greater good, eh?"
"You sound dismissive."
"Not intentionally. But it puts one or two things into perspective for me."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"I've been thinking about that...In the eyes of the Greater German Reich, Wolfgang Dietrich Armand Ulrich is officially, unequivocally, most definitely, dead. That means that for the first time since I came to England, I'm truly free to leave it all behind and become someone else. I want you to help me do that."
"How?"
"The SIS make cover identities all the time," he commented, "I want them to make a new one for me. Set me up somewhere completely different, where no-one knows me."
"Why?"
"So I can stay dead in case anyone decides to look into what Ritter did...to play my part in the charade."
"What about Susanne? What about the Group?"
"There's no reason why it couldn't be arranged for Susanne and Michel to be with me. And I'd definitely keep in touch with you. Just from a distance. I was thinking maybe Scotland, where there would be less chance of bumping into someone who knows me in the street."
"People here in England know you're alive..."
"No-one outside of RAF Northolt, except for yourself and Simon. Which in turn means no-one outside of the control of the SIS, should they choose to help me."
"Do you have any idea what you're asking."
"Yes, I do."
"I'm not sure this is going to be as easy as you think..."
"Then perhaps there's something else I can say to persuade you. You've been muttering for a while that Ian Cushing is getting too old for you to realistically keep his identity going, given that you aren't aging anything like as fast as you should be. You have that in common with Ritter, which is why I tend to believe what he said about us all being related. Moreover, for the last three years, while you've been in Europe, Ian Cushing has pretty much never been seen in public in England, so no-one would be particularly surprised if he finally passed away."
"True."
"More to the point, for a long time you've wanted me to let you legally acknowledge the blood relationship between us. As Wolf Ulrich, traitor and war criminal, I couldn't do that. But now, with Simon's help, that can change, and we both win on the deal. Okay, father and son may be a stretch, but brothers is certainly possible. It seems like a perfect opportunity."
"What would you do in Scotland?"
"I don't know...maybe become a policeman. If I don't have the baggage of the trial and conviction, or anything else from my old life, that should be more than possible. It would be safer than sticking with forensics, which would have more chance of giving me away, as it's a pretty small community."
It was obvious that he'd thought it through very thoroughly, and logically, I had to admit it was possible - albeit I wondered if he'd overestimated the ability, and potential willingness, of the SIS to help him. But then, Simon's ties to both of us through the Group boded well in that regard. And I'll admit, the idea of being able to acknowledge him as my blood kin outside of just our immediate circle was appealing. After all, with both my parents gone, and my estrangement from my Aunt Melissa and her family, it wasn't as if there was really anyone else. I was very fond of my nephew, Jonathan, but he was from Audrey's side of the family, not mine. More importantly, for the first time in ages, Wolf seemed animated, keen about the future, and I realised how much I'd missed that.
"Mihai, you've gone very quiet."
"I was thinking."
"Will you help me?"
"I'll talk to some people...on one condition."
He looked at me, his expression guarded.
"Swear to me that you'll never do something like this again. Either to Susanne and Michel, or to me."
"I swear it Ian," he said, quietly and earnestly, moving his hand over his heart as he did so, "on my love for you as my father, and my respect for you as my friend and my brother in the Group, never again."
I nodded, and was reaching for my brandy when he added.
"And in return, will you swear never to keep something like your Berlin assignment from me again. No secrets. Not like that."
"That's fair," I answered, "I do so swear."
"Thank you."
I nodded again and took a sip of my brandy and then we sat in silence for a short while, finishing the cigars, the only noise coming from the crackling of the fire.
"You know, as mid-life crises go, this one was a doozy," I said, finally, managing a weak smile, and was rewarded with a broader one from him.
"I guess it was. Maybe I should have stuck with fast cars."
"What are you going to do while I sort this out?" I asked, finally.
"I've not been back to the office. I haven't really spent time with anyone but Susanne and Michel, and now you, since I was released from Northolt. I'm quite capable of staying out of the way until this is settled. Maybe I'll head north and start scouting out somewhere to live. If I drive, I won't have to show ID - that's one of the things I do love about England - so no-one will be any the wiser."
He paused a moment, before adding:
"I really believe this is a second chance for me."
"I thought we'd given you that before."
"It was only ever going to go so far, while I was still looking over my shoulder, and knew I had unfinished business in Germany."
I think I understood what he meant, but never having been in his position, it was difficult for me to know for sure.
"Do you think Susanne will ever forgive me for not telling her what I knew?"
"In time, I think. It was shock, more than anything else...but we'll see. On which note, I should probably be going. She wasn't exactly pleased when I said I was coming over here, so I'd better get back."
He downed his drink and got to his feet, so I followed suit.
"I'm sorry, Mihai," he said, quietly, "for putting you through this. But it was the only way."
"We may have to agree to disagree on that one," I answered, "I would never have asked you to do what you did."
"In this life, perhaps," he answered, with a shrug, "but we both know that hasn't been true in our previous ones. Love can be a very dangerous thing."
And with that he headed back out into the hall, and grabbed his coat from the stand. Then he turned and caught me up in a bear hug, before stepping back, chuckling at my usual reserve.
"I'll be in touch," I said quietly.
"I know you will," he answered, and went out into the cold November night, leaving me watching his retreating back and truly hoping that he was finally going to be alright.