Broken Blades Page 16

  However, most men changed in prison—even the guards. Schäfer had become mellower, and Armin himself had become maybe a bit saner and stronger—something routine had done to him, maybe, and not getting shot at. The prisoners themselves underwent changes, too. Holzknecht might yet soften and see reason, especially in the face of a war that was drawing to a close. Only a fool wouldn’t be able to see that. Maybe he could find a weakness in the man and use it, maybe there was a chink in the ideological armor he could exploit. No opponent was invincible, no bout truly hopeless.

  With Mark’s life and that of the other prisoners in the balance, the stakes were high, but Armin still held quite a few cards and he had the advantage. He knew Ahlenstieg and he’d survived this long.

  He refused to be intimidated—he’d just consider this a warning.

  Chapter 23

  Even with the daily exercise in the yard, Mark felt a huge sense of relief when he was taken out of the hole. When his only human contact had been that visit from Armin, then the occasional guard marching up and down, and the two guards who took him outside into the yard for a walk, he missed people—he missed Silent Joe and Kitten and the others.

  Although, being returned to the others made him aware of every sound and every movement, and laughter, and the sudden intensity of penned-in people proved much harder to bear than he’d have thought. When he got to the rack, there were three Red Cross parcels waiting for him.

  Kitten sat there, likely guarding them, and Silent Joe lingered in the background. He only pushed away from the wall when Mark came closer, and they briefly shook hands and Joe put his hand on his arm.

  “See what we kept for you.” Kitten jumped up and pointed at the boxes, looking much clearer and more alive than he had before. “Looks like you could use some calories.”

  He must have lost weight, considering the poor food, but the Germans all looked vaguely underfed and clearly envious when a prisoner marched past with a fresh mug of instant coffee or chewing on a bar of chocolate. It was odd to wonder whether Armin was all right, whether he got everything he needed. What his body would feel like against his own. He’d always been lean, but his features had sharpened since he’d seen him last. Youth melting away, or lack of food and rest?

  Mark busied himself opening one of the parcels, feigning more than passing interest in its contents.

  Silent Joe inched a little closer, and spoke quietly. “They collapsed the entrance to the tunnel.”

  “Of course they did.” Mark glanced up. “What’d you expect?”

  Silent Joe grunted. “Yeah, ‘cept I think they only dropped the entrance. Wouldn’t take much to dig—”

  “Shut up,” Kitten hissed, and threw a wary glance at the doorway. He inclined his head and leaned toward Silent Joe. “Not a word about anything while that bastard’s running around.”

  Mark eyed him. “What? What are you talking about?”

  His men exchanged wary glances.

  Silent Joe threw another look back at the door, and then rested his arm on the top bunk and leaned in. Barely whispering, he said, “Nazis have a new man in charge.”

  Mark’s blood turned cold, and he nearly dropped the half-opened parcel. “A new Kommandant?”

  “Sort of.” Kitten sat on the rack next to Mark and kept his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. “Some SS asshole showed up. Just a few days ago. The whole place has been under strict watch ever since he came on board.”

  “To say the least.” Silent Joe shook his head and scowled. “They’re up to six counts a day.”

  “Six?” Mark eyed him. “There been more escape attempts?”

  “None. But it’s like they think we’re all about to revolt or something.”

  Mark raised an eyebrow. “Are we?”

  “Not that we’re aware of. Been quiet as hell on the …” Another glance at the door, and then Silent Joe whispered, “No one’s said a thing ever since you and the others went to the hole.”

  Just as well. The guards would be listening for even the slightest inklings of escape plans, so the men in charge of the tunneling were likely holding back until the increased vigilance waned.

  “So tell me about this new guy,” Mark said. “What is he—?”

  A bell clanged, and Mark and Kitten were both on their feet.

  “Guess you get to see for yourself,” Kitten muttered on the way to the door. “He comes out and oversees every Appell personally.”

  What about Armin? Mark bit down on the question. He desperately wanted to know, but he was terrified that any interest at all in the Kommandant would be incriminating.

  Out in the yard, the men filed into ranks. Things had definitely changed since the new guy had shown up. The men were quiet, their postures rigid. What had been almost an informal head count previously, men standing in lax lines and barely bothering to straighten their uniforms, if they wore uniforms at all, had changed into a more precise arrangement of men. They stood at attention—actual attention—in their lines.

  “What the hell is going on?” Mark asked under his breath.

  “Just do it.” Kitten fell into line beside Silent Joe and squared his shoulders, which he’d barely been willing to do when their CO had ordered it.

  Mark didn’t ask any further. He stood at attention next to Kitten and waited.

  It didn’t take much to pick out the new guy. SS? Oh God. That wasn’t good. The man was carved out of ice, rigid in ways even Armin had never appeared to be back in the days when Mark wasn’t used to the German presence. He was something right out of the anti-Nazi propaganda posters and all the rumors he’d heard about the SS bastards being Hitler’s right hand men. The monsters responsible for the purges and the worst of the German camps.

  Behind him, Armin stood stiffly, but not like he had back in Berlin. His expression was blank, his shoulders tense, and the tightness in one side of his neck, as well as the barely noticeable discomfort in his expression, suggested his left shoulder was hurting. Still, just seeing him was a relief. A new Kommandant, especially when he was SS, could have easily meant that the old Kommandant had been rendered obsolete.

  But Armin was still here. For the moment, anyway.

  The guards circled around their ranks and counted, Schäfer —the head of security himself—under his breath in accented English, others muttered to themselves in German. They used to sometimes shift and throw off the count to cover for an escapee or someone who couldn’t be bothered to go down for the Appell, or just to mess with the guards to force them to count and re-count until they had a reliable number.

  No such thing now under the SS guy’s steely gaze.

  Normally, once the count was done, they would simply disperse, but this time they waited until the SS officer said “Wegtreten” in a tone that was positively hateful. Armin just nodded beside him, looking just that bit relieved when the soldiers filed back into their quarters, as if he now knew them out of harm’s way.

  Mark forced himself to not stare openly at Armin, not while he was being watched; he didn’t want to weaken Armin’s position even further or endanger him. He’d seen enough.

  After the Appell, there was fencing practice, and it didn’t take long for him to realize that three weeks of intensive training had made quite a bit of difference. Most guys were still lacking the necessary refinement and ease of the motions, but those who’d been really bad fencers now were better at holding their ground, and those who’d been good had most definitely improved further.

  “Hope you didn’t get too rusty down in the hole.” Shaw saluted him and took up the en garde position. Mark very much hoped the same thing, though even worse was that his head wasn’t in it. That had cost him every important bout in his life—Armin, thoughts of Armin, and the fact that he thought of Armin when he fenced.

  He barely held his own in the bout and was glad when it was over, sweaty and buzzing, but his mind returned to Armin in no time at all and to the new problem at hand. The Kommandant didn’t even attend the fencing pract
ice, so maybe he, too, tried to put some distance between them.

  Then came Saturday—though all days were really the same, especially after, as Chandler had told him, the chapel had been closed off and no more masses were being held.

  Saturday evening, one of the sentries walked up to him and nodded toward the door. “Der Kommandant will Sie sprechen.”

  The biggest challenge was not to jump to his feet and run toward the office. Calmly and with every scrap of military bearing he could muster, he followed the sentry down the familiar corridors. After a couple of weeks in the hole, it was weird to be in this place again—hard to believe he hadn’t actually been thousands of miles away and not just buried under the castle—and it felt like years since he’d been here. Still, he remembered every corner and straightaway, and the sight of the door made his heart speed up.

  The sentry knocked and said something in German.

  “Eintreten.” Armin’s voice made Mark shiver.

  The sentry opened the door, then stood aside, and after Mark had gone into the office, the door shut behind him.

  The office wasn’t large, but it suddenly seemed even smaller than Mark’s cell in the hole. Four walls seemed to close in, pushing them closer together, and Mark had to fight the urge to put his hands out to keep the walls and Armin from gaining any ground. Much as he wanted to grab Armin and hold onto him, the presence of that new officer had changed the game. He wasn’t in this room, but the door was unlocked, and he doubted the SS guy had any qualms about striding into Armin’s office, uninvited and unannounced.

  Eyes fixed on Mark, Armin slowly came around the desk. “I found a few more swords and some jackets.” He gestured at the couch near the fireplace. “I thought your men could use them for your practice.”

  Mark followed Armin’s gesture and saw the neat pile of weapons beside a stack of jackets, folded with military precision, much like the blankets he’d found on his rack. “Should I shake them out for contraband before I distribute them?”

  Armin laughed softly and came closer. “If it makes you feel safer, do what you must.”

  Mark eyed him. A promise was one thing, but all of that was before that wraith with the SS runes had blown into this place and turned it into a true prison.

  Armin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit. “He’s not here.”

  Mark blinked. “What?”

  “Holzknecht.” Armin reached for Mark’s waist. “He’s on leave. Won’t return until Monday.”

  Just knowing the man wasn’t inside the castle was enough to loosen the muscles in Mark’s shoulders. He pulled in a breath as Armin’s hand warmed his side, and then he wrapped his arms around him and kissed him. God knew when this opportunity would come again; he wasn’t going to waste it talking about him.

  “I’ve been going mad,” Armin murmured between kisses. “That night … coming into your cell. It was …” He kissed Mark again, drawing it out for a moment. “God, Mark, you don’t know what that night did to me.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” Mark touched Armin’s face, tracing the fencing scar with the pad of his thumb. “Only reason I slept at all was I—” He caught himself and froze. “Uh …”

  Armin chuckled and kissed Mark’s neck. “Tell me.”

  “I think you know.”

  “I do.” His lips were soft beneath Mark’s jaw, raising goose bumps everywhere under his uniform. “But tell me what you thought about.”

  Mark closed his eyes and tilted his head, letting Armin explore at will. “You.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The tell me more wasn’t spoken, but it came across loud and clear.

  “Berlin.” The single word took all the concentration Mark had left. All the rest was focused on holding onto Armin’s shoulders for balance, and on savoring every nerve ending that felt Armin’s touch, whether directly or through clothing.

  “Berlin was a long time ago.”

  “Doesn’t mean … doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten it.”

  Armin laughed softly, the rush of breath warm across Mark’s throat. “I haven’t forgotten a thing.”

  “N-neither have I.” Mark shivered and gripped Armin’s shoulder tighter. “Only thing I ever regretted was that it was only one night.”

  “Indeed.” Armin lifted his head and met Mark’s eyes. “It was only one night.”

  “So what …” Mark looked around, then back at the door. Unlocked. It was still dangerous. The relief only temporary. “You can’t exactly take me into your quarters.”

  “No. I have given the matter all the thought and consideration it required. You do know we bricked up some of the doors and corridors and locked others where that wasn’t feasible?”

  “Yes.” Which parts of the labyrinthine castle were accessible and which weren’t (and thus made good starting points for tunneling) was a matter of constant debate and curiosity among the prisoners.

  “Go to the eastern tower. The door to the attic on that side is merely locked. I went there today and didn’t spot anything that suggests this area of the castle has recently drawn any attention. Maybe our luck will hold for a little while longer.”

  “We’ll meet there?”

  Armin nodded. “At midnight. I can reach it from the roof of the Kommandantur. It’s after the last Appell, after lights out. We might yet be safe to meet.”

  “Might.” But it was better than nothing. This was the best piece of news he’d heard in a while. “I’ll be there.”

  Armin smiled again and kissed him. “I’m counting on it. Don’t lose the key. You’re not supposed to have it. Don’t let anybody copy it, either. It would just attract too much attention.” Armin stepped away. “Now take the fencing kit to the others. If Chandler asks, tell him I saw you in the corridor and wouldn’t take no for an answer. If he complains, tell him Holzknecht is now dealing with prisoner complaints.”

  Mark laughed. “He’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.”

  Armin chuckled, but gestured at the fencing equipment. “Go.”

  “Going.” Mark collected the gear and started for the door. Hand on the doorknob, he looked back, and they held each other’s gazes for a few seconds. Neither said a word, but Mark smiled, and the flicker of a smile on Armin’s lips—subtle, just as he always was—warmed him to the core. Then he headed out, and started counting down the hours until midnight.

  * * * *

  At a few minutes past twelve, Mark slipped out of the quarters he shared with seven other men. No one stirred, probably in part because Silent Joe’s snoring—louder than the B-17, the squadron had all agreed—masked any sounds he might’ve made on the way out the door.

  The castle was mostly dark, and almost completely silent. Still, he stopped every now and then to listen, just to be certain no one had followed him and no guard happened to be patrolling that area. He followed the shadowy corridor to the stairwell, which took him to the courtyard, and from a doorway, he spotted the tiny outbuilding where they were supposed to meet.

  For a moment, he listened. No boots on stone. No voices. No one blowing out a lungful of smoke.

  When he was sure no one was around, he jogged across the yard to the outbuilding.

  At the door, he looked over his shoulder. Then once more after he’d put the key in the lock. Just as he was about to turn it, the door opened.

  Mark didn’t hesitate. He hurried inside, and carefully shut it behind them, climbed the stairs to the attic, passed through another door. In the next instant, Armin was against him, pressing him up against the wall, all traces of the reserved, subdued man Mark had met nearly a decade ago were gone, replaced by a man as desperate and needy as Mark.

  Mark didn’t mind at all. He returned Armin’s kiss and held his body close, dizzy with thoughts of getting all these clothes out of the way and finally, after eight years, touching Armin all over. He was already hard—had been since well before he’d reached the outbuilding—and so was Armin, hard and needy and grinding against him.

  “I’ll have to return
you before daylight,” Armin said, pausing to kiss him again.

  “We have time. Hours.”

  “It’s not enough.” Armin pressed harder against him. “Not nearly enough.”

  “Then we should make it count, shouldn’t we?”

  Armin didn’t speak. He kissed Mark, and with a tight grip on his collar, dragged him away from the wall, deeper into the dark room. When their center of gravity shifted, Mark instinctively panicked and tried to brace, but then realized Armin must have known what he was doing, and so he let himself be pulled down. All the way down. Onto something soft but still hard. Thick blankets spread across the floor? Maybe. Didn’t matter. He was on top of Armin with an entire night and the man’s surrender. Nothing else mattered.

  “Let me undress.” He heard some kind of emotion color Armin’s voice, maybe pleading, maybe worried about his dignity, but Mark dismissed that thought. Armin had nothing to be ashamed of, and he’d never humiliate him. Did that mean he wanted help, though? He let up, felt Armin fumble in the dark. “My boots?”

  There, worded like a simple question, a request for help. Mark scooted down Armin’s body, found his boots and pulled them off, one after the other, and placed them to the side. They were lying on the same kind of woolen blankets that had made Mark’s stay in the hole more bearable, he recognized the heavy rough texture.

  Armin hissed with frustration at something, so Mark searched for his hand and found it unbuckling the belt. The uniform jacket was next, the tie, then the trousers, socks. He helped a bit, pulled at clothes that Armin loosened, then remembered he himself was still fully dressed, and stood for a moment to shed most of his own uniform.

  When he lay down again, Armin pulled him closer again for a kiss. Against Mark’s chest, he felt the cloth of a shirt. “Do you need help with that?” No way to talk around it.

  “No. I …” Armin swallowed audibly. “Can I keep it on?”

  Mark’s heart sank at the small voice. It seemed barely Armin’s, more that of a child pleading.

  “I don’t mind, Armin. I don’t.”