Student Intake
London, October 2003
It has to be said that the Faculty of King's College London weren't entirely convinced when one of their more high-profile War Studies tutors declared that he wanted to attend the KCL Medical School. After all, since I'd joined the War Studies department on a semi-regular basis, after defending my doctorate in spring 1992, I'd become one of their more colourful, and at the same time most successful lecturers. My presence on the staff had even brought quite a few international (read paying) students to study in London, and I had been incidental in setting up half a dozen exchange programmes with military academies around the world.
Sometimes being in control of the destiny of an entire world can be very satisfying.
I could have just persuaded them to let me do it, drawing on my extra-curricular abilities to do so, but somehow, that just didn't seem like cricket. So I did it all above board, demonstrating how I was going to split my time and after a certain amount of resistance, they finally agreed. I would spend one day a week teaching with the War Studies department, while my Medical School contemporaries did their off-topic "student selected course", which likewise took a day out of their week. It was an odd combination - medicine and military history - but I quickly got into the swing of things, and the fact that I was more used to studying efficiently than my course mates, and had been through my "getting drunk in the student bar every evening" phase before there really even were student bars, meant that I had little difficulty keeping up with the younger medical students. I even had time to take the coursework for the genetics option which was offered as a more regular SSC, and found it fascinating.
I passed year one with flying colours. By year two, I was compartmentalising the two sides of my academic life easily, and the grumblings I'd heard from the more traditional members of the faculty had pretty much gone. Year three raised the possibility of whether I wanted to do a non-medical "intercalated" year and concentrate on doing a more specialised research project, and I decided to take the year out to study genetics more thoroughly, while still keeping up with my work with the War Studies department and extending lectures to an extra morning a week.
It was all a long way from the political mire of the family home, from whence I was taking a fast-time break. Being Mayor of Amber was interesting, and it certainly kept me on my toes, but the place was still so very different to what I was used to. And Faculty politics were positively mild by comparison. Professor Craig was unlikely to slit my throat if he disagreed with me.
"Any more questions?" I said, as I stepped back from the overhead projector and looked out at the faces of my new post-grad course.
It was the first lecture of the year, and a higher proportion of the class than usual were from military backgrounds, rather than straight academia. I had thirty on the military exchange programme in this intake, including my first students from the Wehrmacht - who I had accepted with a certain degree of trepidation, but apparently the colour of their money had impressed the Faculty - as well as ten young British Army officers who were taking a sponsored study term. Of the others, ten were mature students and another twenty-five were straight post-grads. Except for occasional short units, I'd really only see the military students in lectures, as their tutoring was usually dealt with a couple of the official retired ex-military types within the Faculty - Captain Sandra Grant and Major Pat Hennessy. Myself and Ben Collins, my assistant and co-lecturer, would do tutorials with the majority of the others.
I saw one of the German students towards the back debating whether to raise his hand, but he had second thoughts when he realised that he was the only one. Then I glanced around the rest and saw shaking heads.
"Then Friday 10.00am, when hopefully you'll have re-read Sun Tzu's Art of War and jotted down your initial thoughts. We'll start from there."
Cue the packing up of laptops - and the occasional actual paper notebook - and the slamming back of chairs, as they began to file out. However, as I was turning off the overhead and packing away the slides, the young German who'd almost asked a question at the end walked down the tiered steps towards me.
"Herr Doktor Hawke?"
"Can I help you..." I paused, trying to remember his name - it usually took me a couple of lectures before I got things straight, but I was kicking myself that I couldn't recall the name of one of my first three German students.
"Becker," he said, offering his hand, with the obligatory click of the heels, despite the fact that he was dressed in civvies, like the other exchange students. Trust a bloody German to identify himself by surname, "Armand Becker."
"You realise that you don't need to stand on ceremony here?" I said, as I shook his hand.
He didn't look convinced.
"This is a college, not a military academy," I expanded, with what I hoped was a reassuring expression.
"I apologise," he answered, "I only arrived in England at the weekend. I am still getting used to it."
"It must be very different for you."
"Yes," he admitted, and from his expression, I had the distinct impression that he hadn't enjoyed the experience so far. But then, multi-cultural Britain was a far cry from white, Anglo-Saxon Germany.
I watched him, waiting for him to continue, and in the meantime amusing myself by taking a good look at him. I guessed he was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, possibly younger. He was about my height, but still had the skinniness of youth, although he was maturing into an Aryan handsomeness that would break the hearts of the female student population in short order, only marred - or perhaps enhanced, I couldn't decide - by the imperfection of a scar over his left eyebrow. He had dark blond hair, verging on light brown, and almost textbook blue eyes that reminded me uncannily of Wolf's. My first thought was that I was surprised that he had been allowed to study for a year in England. He seemed rather impressionable.
"Can I help you, Leutnant Becker?"
"My tutor group assignment...I had been told that I would be in one of your groups, but that does not seem to be the case. I appear to be with a...Major Hennessy."
"I'm afraid you were misinformed. The armed forces students usually study with Captain Grant or Major Hennessy."
"Is it possible to transfer to one of your groups?"
"Might I ask why?"
"I requested this posting when I heard that you would be teaching it. Your reputation has preceded you. Your work on the early years of the GGR is somewhat...controversial in my homeland."
"You've studied it?"
"It is required reading, so that it can be compared against the writings of our own historians."
"In English?" I asked.
"German, although I intend to read the original while I am here."
I hadn't realised my work had even been translated into German, and my cynical side immediately wondered whether the translation bore any resemblance to what I'd actually written, or if it put words on the page that I'd never have said in a million years. I'd have to find myself a copy on Amazon to check. And set a lawyer on figuring out what royalties I was due.
"And it made you actually want to come here and study with me?"
"You managed to make the subject come alive. It was like reading the history written by someone who had been there. For example, the section on the Nuremberg Party Rally in 1935 and how that affected German policy in the lead up to 1939. It was fascinating..."
He tailed off as he saw my probably bemused expression. "Herr Doktor?"
"You surprised me," I answered, "the last place I would have expected my work to be studied is in the GGR. I have a love-hate relationship with the German Government at best."
"At Bad Tölz they like to make sure that future officers have a full and broad education."
Bad Tölz? Wehrmacht officer cadets didn't study at Bad Tölz; Waffen-SS cadets did. And a "full and broad education" seemed like a heck of a departure from racial theory and the greatness of the GGR which had been taught in Germany when I was last there.
"What did you say your name and rank were?"
"Second lieutenant Armand Becker."
"German rank and serial number?"
"Untersturmführer, Reinhard Heydrich Division, 02 81 4359."
"You're Waffen-SS?"
"Yes, Herr Doktor," he said, watching me a little puzzled at the interrogation, "is that a problem?"
"I was told that the German students were from the Wehrmacht."
"The opportunity to spend time studying at Kings College London was made available to all of the 2002 graduating cadets of all branches of service, but only three places were offered. I worked very hard to gain mine."
"Why did you want to come to England? I wouldn't have thought that was encouraged for a recent SS-Junkerschule graduate."
"I will admit that not many of my graduating cadre were interested in the opportunity. However, I had personal reasons for applying. I have family here."
I looked at him, curious now. He wouldn't normally have been allowed to enter officer training with the Waffen-SS if he couldn't prove his Germanic heritage, and family in England seemed to be at odds with that. Celtic and Anglo-Saxon descent weren't as badly discouraged as many of the other European ethnic groups, but they weren't usually felt to be wholly desirable in SS officers.
"I was given special dispensation because my father is a German, of good standing," he explained, obviously understanding my confusion, "he just happens to reside in England. I hope I might meet him while I'm here."
"And your mother?"
"She passed away last year, shortly after I graduated."
"What happened to her?"
"Leukaemia. I offered to be a donor for a bone marrow transplant, but it made things worse. She rejected the transplant, and she died."
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, giving the automatic response, but I knew as I said it that it wasn't enough, not if he had been responsible for her death while trying to help her, "what do you know about your father?"
"Very little, except his name, his rank and division, and the fact that he is high in the regard of one of my mentors. However, I was told you would be able to put me in touch with him."
"Your mentor?"
"Yes, Herr Doktor. He asked me to give you this," he answered, and reached into his pocket and passed me a hand-written envelope, addressed in a script I recognised, even after all these years. It felt stiff, as if it contained a card rather than a letter. I glanced at the boy, as he waited expectantly, then opened the envelope.
"Cousin Ian,
You and your son have played a straight game since Berlin, despite stepping onto the Family stage. I appreciate that, much as I appreciate the fact that you did not desecrate my home away from home on your recent visit.
Allow me to commend this young man to you as a token of my goodwill. You may tell him what you wish.
Dieter."
"You have influential friends, Lt Becker."
"He has always been very good to me," he replied, "and I did my best to make him proud."
"Given which, I'm surprised he let you join the Waffen-SS, rather than the Ahnenerbe. And I'm very surprised that he let you come to England."
"He said the choice was mine...in both cases," he answered.
"Does your father have a name?" I asked, and wasn't surprised to receive the answer I, by then, was expecting.
"Hauptsturmführer Wolfgang Ulrich, SS-Ahnenerbe."
I nodded, and as I reappraised him. I hadn't been wrong when I thought his eyes reminded me of Wolf's. And then there was his name, Armand, the one middle name my son still acknowledged, having ditched that of his the man who brought him up almost immediately after he came to England.
"When were you born?" I asked, quietly, as I looked at the young man who was almost certainly my grandson, but just now looked like a lost and lonely teenager.
"August 1st, 1981, at the Berlin Lebensborn Centre."
Nine months after Wolf spent time in Germany. I guess it was one explanation as to where I'd acquired the three grandchildren mentioned in Dieter's records. But why had Wolf never mentioned the possibility before? He must have known, unless Dieter really had taken his genetic material without his knowledge, while my son was in his power. The fact that Dieter held him in high regard was a new one, though.
"Herr Doktor?" he asked, after a moment or two, "do you know my father?"
"Yes, I do," I answered, "he goes by the name Rudi Hawke now. Officially, Wolf Ulrich died before you were born."
"So I was led to believe. He is your relative, I believe?"
"That he is."
"Will you consider my request?"
"The tutor group? Or your wish to meet him?"
"Either...both..."
"Leave it with me, and I'll see what I can do," I answered, and he looked somewhat relieved.
"Thank you, Herr Doktor," he said, with a slight nod, and he collected his things and headed out of the lecture room.
I watched him go, and then dug my mobile phone out of my pocket, dialling the number I wanted from memory.
"Morning, Mihai," came the familiar voice at the other end.
"Hey Wolf. Are you busy this evening?"
"I could squeeze you into my busy schedule," he answered, almost with a straight face from what I could hear.
"Dinner? We need to talk."
"My place, 19.30? I'll cook."
"You always do a better job of that than I do," I answered, "I'll bring the wine."
"Go for white," he answered, "I have something in mind."
"See you then."
* * * * * *
Since Susanne had died of cancer, six years before, Wolf had lived alone in a two-story ground floor/garden flat, a short way from Lancaster Gate. He and Michel were still close, but she had her own place now, and her career and the young man she had been with for the last couple of years kept her busy. I knew he missed both his wife and his daughter, but he was coping much better now than he had before Berlin. He'd even started going out on the occasional date, although there wasn't anyone serious in his life at the moment, as far as I was aware. As it was a little under a mile from Albion Close, I strolled over, well wrapped against the autumn chill. I let myself in with my key - we'd agreed to act as each other's key holders once he'd come back from Edinburgh in '95 - to be met by the most incredible smells from the kitchen. One thing he'd really learned during his twenty-five year marriage was how to cook.
I hung my coat on the hook by the door, and on my way through to the back, I glanced into the rear reception room he now used as an office. He had yet more computer equipment in there than when I'd last been at his place. That was something I envied him for - the fact that he was far more tech savvy than I was. And as always, everything was neat and tidy, almost militarily so - not an odd sock out of place anywhere.
"Evening, Mihai," he said as I entered the kitchen, and placed two bottles of Alsatian Riesling on the edge of the counter, "this should only be ten minutes or so. You know where the corkscrew is."
Indeed I did, and I deployed it in short order, opening the first bottle and slipping the other into the oversized fridge. Then I grabbed a couple of glasses from the cupboard and poured, pushing one towards him.
"Do you want to perch? Or make yourself comfortable in the lounge?
"Perching is fine," I answered, grabbing one of the two stools against the worktop and planting myself on it.
"How's the new class?" he said, talking while he worked on slicing yellow peppers and mushrooms into some kind of cream sauce.
"Young," I answered, "I swear they look younger every year. Even the military attachments."
"Feeling your first century?"
"And some. I thought going back to university would make me relive my youth...instead, I find myself wondering if I was ever that irresponsible."
"You were at the Sorbonne during the Roaring Twenties. Of course you were that irresponsible," he said, with a chuckle, then tried the wine, "good choice. Should be perfect with the sauce."
"You know food...I know wine," I answered, then lapsed into silence and watched him work, which was always a pleasure. I have to admit, that was another skill I envied him for: I love good food, but what I cook myself is usually pretty plain.
About ten minutes later, he dished up, pouring the sauce over a pair of lightly broiled butterfly chicken breasts, and surrounding them with an assortment of fresh green beans, and some thinly sliced new potatoes. Then we picked up our meals and glasses, and went into the front lounge, where we sat at the small dining room table by the window. Apart from the small dining suite, which only seated four, the rest of the room was taken up by a leather suite around a glass coffee table. The only thing missing was a fireplace, but that had been removed long since.
We ate, and we chatted - he discussed his latest case, I discussed my latest students, and we put the world's political situation to rights - and between us dispatched the best part of the first bottle before we adjourned to the comfort of the leather armchairs.
"So what did you really want to talk about?" he said, once he returned from fetching the second bottle from the fridge, and putting it on the table between us.
"Aren't I allowed to just visit without an ulterior motive?"
"Of course. But for some reason, you rarely do."
"Guilty as charged," I said, with a sigh, "I received a...communication...from your grandfather today,"
I looked over at him to gauge his reaction. Since we'd visited the Wewelsburg on Matthew's Earth, and I'd seen their relationship written down in black and white, "Your grandfather" was always Kasimir Ritter - cousin Dieter, as I now knew him to be; Bleys was always "my father". And looking back at odd comments he'd dropped along the way in careless moments, I'd begun to wonder if my son hadn't actually known about his grandfather all along. Yet for some reason, he had chosen not to tell me until he had no choice. Perhaps he thought I'd be angry with him, or take it out on him, or maybe he just hadn't wanted to upset me.
Certainly, whatever had happened to him that dark, October week, he had always been cagey when discussing Ritter and what had passed between them. Beyond what he had told me that night soon after his return, he still didn't say much about what had happened to him unless I pushed, and I didn't like to do that to him. However, reading between the lines of what little he did mention, it was obvious that he had parted on far better terms with Ritter than I had ever been on with the man, and this despite the latter shooting him in the chest at their last meeting. I even suspected that they'd stayed in touch with each other, at least as far as they could, Wolf being officially dead as far as the GGR was concerned. Of course, if they had both known in October '80 that Dieter was his grandfather, it would certainly put a slightly different light on why the latter had led him live, and why Wolf had been so reticent to discuss what they'd talked about.
He looked over at me with a trace of surprise on his face.
"What did he want?"
"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. He sent me - us - something, but right now, I don't know what to make of it."
"Now you're being positively intriguing," he answered, and I reached into my pocket and handed him the envelope young Becker had given me.
"How can a person be a token of his goodwill?" he said, looking up at me from the card, decidedly puzzled.
"Dieter being obscure, as always," I replied.
"So who is he?"
"His name is Armand Becker. He's one of my students, one of the three German delegates. He says he's your son."
"And he's here? Ritter let him come to England?"
"For this term, definitely, and possibly for the rest of the year."
"Could he be telling the truth?"
"That's rather what I wanted to ask you. We know that you have children out there somewhere..."
"Yes, but I expected it to be rather harder to find them. I figured he'd scattered them across the various Shadows where he has influence."
"So did I. And yet..."
"And he just walked up to you and introduced himself."
"Pretty much."
"It seems too easy. Beware Greeks bearing gifts, and all that."
"It still happened," I answered, topping up both of our glasses, and sitting back to watch the emotions playing across his face, which was unusually readable this evening.
Mainly it was disbelief, but interspersed with hope. I knew he and Susanne had wanted children and it had never happened, much like me and Audrey. Back to the incompatibility between Family and mortal DNA again, no doubt, which I was now beginning to be able to see first-hand from my studies in genetics. Worse still, privately, I suspected that the same incompatibility had ultimately led to Susanne's death, although I wasn't sure if my son had put that bit together.
"Wolf," I said, after a short pause, "how long have you known?"
"Known what?"
"That you might be a father? That I might be a grandfather."
"Since we went exploring with Matthew," he answered, looking back at me, his expression now curiously neutral.
"Really?"
"Do you have any reason not to believe me?" he asked, mildly.
"I'd like to think that you would tell me if that wasn't true. Gods know, not talking to each other screwed us both over in the past."
"You still think of it like that," he said, with a sigh, and I saw disappointment on his face.
"It's hard for me not to."
"You never did understand."
"No...and while I know it helped you face your personal demons, and you have no idea how relieved that makes me, it's...still hard."
"Even after all this time? What, fifty years in your personal timeline?"
"Even after all this time."
"Ah Mihai," he said, with a sad shake of his head, and then switched back the original subject before we started rehashing old business, "Do you know when he was born? This...Armand Becker."
"Lammas 1981."
"Is he one of us, then? An Adept?"
"At this point, I have no idea...I had a brief conversation with him after class, and all I have to work on are what he said, and Ritter's note. All I know for sure, is that he's an Untersturmführer in the Waffen-SS, and that he expressed an interest in meeting you."
"I suppose that makes sense," he answered, obviously remembering something else which he hadn't shared with me.
"What happened, Wolf?"
"When I was at the Wewelsburg, Ritter encouraged me to... go forth and multiply, shall we say."
"And you agreed?"
"I wasn't really in a position not to. He reminded me that it was the duty of an SS officer to father strong, Aryan children for the Reich. Then he phrased it as an order, not a request, and by then I was his subordinate once more. Technically, still am."
"The less said about that, the better."
"I'm not ashamed of the circumstances which led to it, or my current, slightly unusual status in that regard. You know that."
"Unfortunately, yes I do."
Wolf's acceptance of his re-admission into the SS was one of the other things I just didn't understand about what happened between him and Ritter at the Schloss. I knew he'd kept the death's head ring and honour dagger he'd been given, although he never got out the latter while I was around, and rarely wore the former. However, once he'd left it on the bathroom shelf one time I'd visited, and I'd looked at the inscription. "Hauptsturmführer Wolfgang Ulrich, Für Ehre und Tapferkeit, 25.10.80", with Klaus Heydrich's signature as RFSS. That he'd met Heydrich the younger was another thing he'd neither discussed, nor even mentioned.
"What about Susanne? Didn't it bother you that you were being unfaithful to her?"
"More than you can imagine," he answered, quietly, "on the other hand, I also believed I only had a few days to live. And let's be honest, I'd left her and wasn't expecting to come back. There's no kind way of putting it. Maybe it was guilt...maybe it was the situation...maybe it was just the hope that something would be left of me when I was gone...but I did what he wanted. And in return, he gave me his promise that any child of mine would be given a chance to reach their full potential. For him, that would mean the SS."
I glanced over at him, worried in case he was turning maudlin, but he still seemed relaxed...curious, but wistful.
"Do you think he could be mine, Mihai?"
"The timing fits, and he certainly has your look about him. And he bears your name. He was also aware of both your past and current identities, and that he knows Ritter is undeniable."
"I have a son," he said, quietly, and sat back, studying the pale yellow wine in his glass and watching the light in it, and I thought I saw a trace of a smile on his lips. He was certainly taking it better than I had when I'd learned about him.
"Come along to one of my lectures. There would be no problem getting you in. Maybe you can take a look at him for yourself, and then decide what you want to do...whether you want me to introduce you."
"I may at that...10.00 Tuesdays and Fridays this year, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"I'll think about it."
"It's completely up to you...I just thought you ought to know."
"Thank you. I appreciate it."
"And thank you for dinner," I said, slowly getting to my feet.
"You know you're always welcome," he answered, joining me, "I'll let you know if I can make one of the lectures - should be possible. One of the advantages of being self-employed."
"Just call."
He nodded, then walked me to the front door, where I grabbed my coat from the hook.
"Talk to you soon," he said with a smile, and then saw me out into the cold.
* * * * * *
It was the third Friday when he finally turned up for a lecture. During the intervening sessions, I had arranged with Pat to swap all three of the Germans into one of my groups, in return for three of the post-grads, as it seemed less obvious than just transferring Becker. I figured that if the Faculty asked, I could say that I was curious how our first Wehrmacht students would get on outside of the far stricter bounds of the GGR, which was fair enough given that I was nominal director of the programme. And all three were bright students, always turning in their assignments on time and doing the preparation I'd requested, although perhaps I was biased when I came to the conclusion that Becker seemed to be the quickest. More surprising, was that he was the one less prone to taking the Party stance, which seemed odd in the context of the organisation in which he served.
By the end of week two, I at least had the names of all my students down pat, and was beginning to get to know them a little: which ones would talk, which ones would listen, which ones were interested, and which ones were just there for the credit. My aim was usually that by the end of the term, I would have managed to engage all of them. Becker was one of the more animated ones, and he knew his stuff, too. By the time Wolf showed up the following week, it was beginning to feel like a good class.
I'd given my son's name to security, and saw him slip into the theatre to take a seat at the back just before I was due to start. He nodded to me, and then began scanning the room. I glanced in Becker's direction and then returned my attention to the class. We were tackling the joys of Clausewitz that morning, and after my usual twenty-minute introduction, I opened up the floor to everyone else, spending the next forty minutes answering questions and refereeing where necessary. Becker and his compatriots let themselves get fully involved in the discussion, albeit their point of view was slightly different from the others. Even Wolf got dragged in eventually, having initially sat quietly at the back and watched with interested amusement.
"What do you think?" I asked him, as he wandered down the steps to the podium at the end, while the actual students scattered to their next classes.
"Bright kid."
"Very. Do you want me to arrange a meeting?"
"Yes, I do."
"I'll see what I can do."
* * * * * *
The following Tuesday afternoon, Becker hung back after his tutorial, obviously wanting to talk to me.
"Can I help you, Armand?"
"Was that him?" he said, quietly.
"Who?"
"My father. On Friday. Back right, near the door."
I was impressed. Since his Pattern walk had darkened his colouring, and made him seem older, Wolf didn't bear a particular resemblance to any pictures the young man in front of me might have seen of him, although his eyes were still very recognisable.
"Yes."
"He does not look how I imagined. He seems...older."
"Life can do that, and he's not had the easiest of times of it," I answered, "but he's agreed to meet with you, if you still want to."
"I would like that."
"Do you want me there? It's completely up to you."
"Perhaps you can do the introductions, and we can take it from there."
"Then I suggest we meet in Leicester Square Gardens, by the fountain, Thursday at seven. There are plenty of places to eat, and if you two want to talk alone, I can just drift away."
"I will be there."
I let Wolf know the time, and we made our way there together on Thursday evening. Leicester Square is always busy in the evenings, but I figured that it was a good place for anonymity. My inner spy kicking in, I suppose. Becker was already waiting for us, dressed in jeans and a warm jacket, stamping his feet against the cold. He clocked us the moment we walked in the west gate, but hesitated before approaching us. I tried to give him a reassuring smile as we got closer, and then made the introductions.
"Armand Becker...this is Rudi Hawke."
They looked at each other for a moment or two, weighing each other up, and then Wolf offered his hand. Becker took it and they shook, hesitantly at first, and then more warmly.
"I think this is between you," I said, quietly, looking from one of them to the other, remembering how I had felt the first time I had talked to Wolf after discovering who he was. With a slight nod of agreement from my son, I turned on my heel and walked away.
I grabbed a bite to eat at Poon's, and then headed back to the cottage. No doubt, if Wolf wanted to talk later, he would call.
It was midnight, and I was upstairs in my office, finishing up the notes for the following morning's lecture when I heard the door. I headed down to see Wolf putting his coat on the stand.
"How did it go?" I said, quietly.
"Now I understand," he answered, walking through into the lounge and pouring himself a Scotch. I followed suit and then sat down opposite him.
"Understand what?"
"How you felt...when you learned about me."
"What happened?"
"We talked. I like him, and I think he likes me. But it's strange to look at him and know that my blood flows in his veins."
"You, at least, had the head's up on the possibility. I was blindsided when Laurence told me about you."
"True. But never, in a million years, did I actually expected to actually meet any of them. And yet Dieter has given me the chance. At least with him."
"You have no doubt he's yours."
"None at all. Not now I've met him."
"Will you still look for the others?"
"I don't know. At the moment I'm still processing."
"You've already done the fatherhood thing. This shouldn't be that much of a shock."
"I suppose not...but somehow, this is different. I love Michel dearly, but I've always known she was Michael's."
"Still, at least you knew what to expect. Me, I was pretty much a confirmed bachelor when you came into my life. Talk about culture shock."
"But I stayed. With him, I know that this time next year, if not before, he'll be back in the GGR, posted off into God knows what bloody war my countrymen are involved in this week, with no guarantee that he'll survive. I never did that to you."
"No...you just walked into Berlin with every intention of not coming back," I answered, before I could catch myself. The moment the words were out of my mouth, I regretted it, but his reaction was surprisingly calm.
"And you know, for the first time, I think I'm beginning to understand how you felt when you saw me, that morning in Prinz Albrecht Strasse."
He paused, sitting back in his chair and sipping from his glass in silence for a couple of minutes, before he spoke again.
"Ian, I am so very sorry I did that to you."
"It was a long time ago," I answered, quietly.
"No...not really. Not to you. That was clear enough the evening you told me about Armand. I just didn't understand. Now I think I'm beginning to."
I nodded, accepting the apology for what it was, and deciding that it was best to leave it at that.
"If Dieter really is his mentor and protector, I think he'll keep an eye on him," I commented, instead.
"But if he wants to fight? I don't think my grandfather would stop him going. I'm not sure he even could stop him. He's one of us - we're not known for listening to good advice."
"That we aren't."
We sat in silence for a while, quietly working our way through the glasses, and I watched a variety of emotions crossing his face.
"Will you see him again?" I said, finally.
"I'd like to. I have his number now, and he has mine."
"You could teach him."
"I thought that was your job."
"I mean on a more esoteric level," I answered, "I can't believe, with Dieter as a major influence in his life, that he isn't aware of the occult, even if he is currently serving with the Waffen-SS. If you're going to meet him again, try to get a feel for his attitudes in that direction; maybe even see if he has the potential to be one of us. He's younger than you were when I brought you into the esoteric fold, and he seems surprisingly adaptable. If he is, teach him how to defend himself. Maybe how to stay in touch with you. That way, you'll always know where he is, and always know he has a fighting chance."
"And if something does happen to him?"
"Then you're enough like me that you will go and help him. And since you're a Pattern initiate, you don't even have to rely on someone to fly you to the middle of Russia."
He looked pensive for a while, then asked.
"What was it like for you? When I told you not to come for me?"
"It was the worst few days of my life, and I didn't take it well. It was only Simon's guiding hand which forced me to face myself, and be with you that last evening at the Schloss. Never do that to him, Wolf. Please."
"I won't," he answered, firmly, then added, "should I tell him you're my father?"
"That's up to you. Why don't you find your own feet with him, and take it from there."
"Why do you think Dieter let him come?"
"I don't know, although, I suspect it's more to do with his attitude towards you than anything he feels towards me. He wouldn't do me a favour, but you're his grandson, and despite everything, in his own way, he seems to care for you. However, if you want my advice, don't overanalyse it, but take it as the gift it is. And if it turns out later that there's a price, then know that I will be here to help you pay it."
"Thank you, Mihai."
"Always."
He laid his empty glass on the table and got to his feet.
"I should be going - you've got a lecture in the morning, and you probably ought to be coherent for it - being the lecturer and all."
"Thanks for telling me how it went," I answered, also standing, "and remember what I've said."
"I will."
On which note, he grabbed his coat and let himself out into the night, leaving me hoping that whatever Dieter's motivations in bringing the pair of them together, there was at least a smidgeon of generosity under the politics after everything my son had been through.
.