Broken Blades Page 3

  Mark gulped.

  Armin chuckled, then took a step back. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.”

  They both nodded, and Armin turned to put his equipment back on the rack. As he walked away, Mark watched him, certain he could see every bit of Armin’s effortless agility in that smooth, steady gait. The German walked across the grass beside the training yard like a man strolling through a park, but all Mark could see was the way he’d lunged and retreated and lunged again. His arms were relaxed and loose at his sides, but Mark now knew the deadly speed and accuracy hidden beneath those tailored sleeves.

  “I don’t know what to make of him.” George’s low tone was almost conspiratorial, as was the way he peered at Armin’s back.

  “What do you mean?” Mark tucked his mask under his arm.

  “I mean I don’t think he’s … quite the same as all the others.”

  Mark quirked an eyebrow. “In what way?”

  George waited until Armin had disappeared around a corner. Then he snickered and glanced at Mark. “Let’s put it this way. If he goes out on the town when he’s not here, I don’t think he’s looking for ladies.”

  Mark’s blood turned cold, but he forced a laugh. “What? You can tell that just by the way he fences?”

  Shaking his head, George clicked his tongue. Then he put an arm around Mark’s shoulders and led him in the opposite direction. He chuckled, and said under his breath, “Don’t think he’s the only one. Explains why they dress their men so sharply.”

  Mark resisted the urge to look back. Not just because he knew Armin was out of sight, but because he didn’t want George to wonder. He’d spent enough time convincing everyone in Council Bluffs not to wonder. The last thing he needed was to play that delicate game with his teammates.

  * * * *

  There was no escaping Armin. Wherever the team went, the German was likely to appear, and ever since their casual duel in the training yard, he seemed to appear more often than not.

  Mark didn’t mind. He liked Armin. Respected him, especially now that he’d seen the way he fenced. Still, his presence made Mark nervous. George already suspected things about Armin, and Mark was terrified that the longer he was around Armin, the more those suspicions would bleed onto him. He couldn’t even look at Armin without feeling an odd swirling in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t just panic over possibly drawing attention. It wasn’t shame over his defeat yesterday, nor was it nerves over facing the thirteen men who’d beaten Armin for places on the team.

  Mark wasn’t sure what it was. All he knew was that Armin did things to his mind that no one had ever done.

  And under normal circumstances, he’d have let himself get closer to Armin and figure out what it was the man was doing to him. After all, they were thousands of miles from Iowa farm country and all the gossip and speculation of his hometown. No one there would know, no one here would care.

  Except that while Armin may have piqued some strange curiosity in Mark, there were medals on the line. Mark had come here for a reason.

  He was here for his country, and that would be his focus.

  No matter how much that blue-eyed German distracted him.

  Chapter 3

  After another long day busying himself with the usual work (lost papers, one member of the team needing a dental appointment), Armin found that the Finnish habit of going to the sauna helped him relax. It certainly didn’t hurt that all the male athletes who used it (mostly the Scandinavians) were a sight to behold, wearing not a stitch as they sweated, and talked, and spent the time in companionable near-discomfort.

  Or maybe it was just Armin who felt the heat like a weight bearing down on him until the sweat poured as if he were a squeezed fruit.

  He took the occasional comment in his direction as teasing, maybe challenge, maybe approval, and smiled and nodded, exaggeratedly wiping his brow when he told them in German that it was “damn hot.” In response, one of the Swedish athletes poured more water on the coals, which almost made Armin laugh because it just increased the discomfort and was most definitely not a kindly gesture, though he wasn’t sure if they thought it was.

  He was already starting to get a bit light-headed when the door opened again and Mark Driscoll came in, his much-coveted red-haired American. He, too, wore nothing, and proceeded with care until he’d found a place on the wooden benches near the door. And not far away from Armin.

  While some of the Scandinavians sat with legs apart, displaying everything they had, the American was a lot more modest, with legs closed and elbows on his thighs. Long, strong legs, lithe and powerful, and for a while Armin did nothing but study the fencer’s build like he’d assess a statue. If there was one thing he very nearly liked about the Nazi ideals, it was that they were very prone to place a lot of perfectly naturalist male nudes where people could see them.

  They might be crude and soulless compared to the Greek and Roman ideals they were aping, but it had reawakened Armin’s general interest in sculpture to a certain extent. It was also damnably easy to pick up some male company in a museum these days. Watch the single men who took their sweet time staring at the male Arno Brekers. Some places were prime hunting grounds since bars and nightclubs had become too dangerous.

  But compared to the Aryan ideal, Mark was more elegant. Armin couldn’t remember whether the Irish counted as first or second-grade Aryans, anyway; he found the thought more intriguing than what kind of doctrinal somersaults they would have to make if Owens did end up running fastest, as most people seemed to expect.

  Armin half turned to be able to study the naked, perspiring form in front of him—every line of his features, arms, shoulders, back, knees and feet, and back up, watching sweat beads fall and roll along his temple and cheek, gathering at his jaw line before the tension released and they dripped down. Mark reached blindly for the towel next to him and wiped his face.

  He opened his eyes, which were sightless for a long moment, the physical discomfort perhaps turning his attention inward. He wiped his face again and then seemed to become aware of Armin’s gaze, because he glanced to the side, didn’t even move his head or acknowledge him in some other fashion.

  Armin inhaled and caught a breath, suddenly feeling even more light-headed and grounded at the same time, focused, maybe, or pinned. Lusting after a man from afar was one matter, but he thought he saw something in Mark’s glance, the way he didn’t quite make contact, didn’t quite respond. Surely, if this were innocent, Mark would have addressed him, or turned away and left if the attention were unwelcome.

  But he didn’t. He sat there, almost and not quite looking at Armin, then closed his eyes again and leaned back somewhat, displaying more of his long torso, head lowered as if bowed by the heat or maybe resignation.

  One of the damnable Swedes added more water onto the coals, and the waft of hot steam drove Armin out of the sauna. He’d lasted as long as he could bear, so he picked up his towel and rose. He didn’t look at Mark as he left—he had to be more subtle than that.

  The cool August air hit him, but only when he stood under the cold shower, almost shouting with the shock/pleasure of cold water on his heated skin, did his mind clear somewhat. Pursuing Mark was pure folly. Dangerous. Up until very recently, the Gestapo had been having a field day with homosexuals in Berlin. Beating up a foreign athlete or dignitary would be too embarrassing, though, so they’d suspended the hunt for the duration of the Olympics.

  Armin hadn’t been all that worried. His game was careful—he stayed away from prostitutes who could just as easily blackmail him as service him, and he didn’t rely on the usual hangouts. Very often he returned home empty-handed, having nothing to show but the thrill of the hunt itself.

  Regardless of the Gestapo being muzzled for now, though, it was risky. And anyhow, he didn’t expect the suspension to last beyond the Olympics. Worse, the Gestapo would likely compensate for the pause with extra vigor once all the guests and journalists had left.

  Another shower st
arted. Not the one next to him, but two down.

  Armin turned. Mark’s hair was now dark and plastered to his head, making him look a little different and a lot alluring. Again, Mark seemed to sense where Armin’s attention was and turned under the spray toward him.

  Armin glanced at the entrance. “There’s a concert later today.”

  “I know.” Mark looked at him fully. “Are you going?”

  “I might have to.” Armin shrugged and shut off the water. He reached for the towel and began drying himself, though his skin now felt like it was heating up again. “Though I’d have to go to my quarters first.” He lifted an eyebrow.

  Mark didn’t say anything. He closed off the water, too.

  Armin picked up his bundle of clothes in the changing room and dressed. He dragged it out, and was finally rewarded when Mark appeared and put on his track suit.

  Armin hesitated briefly—this hadn’t turned dangerous yet, but it could go that way very quickly. “If you’d like to join me. It’s just a short walk.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Oh, that was a much more promising start. Armin closed his belt and picked up his cap, but didn’t put it on, just held it under his arm and signaled for Mark to go ahead. The sauna lay somewhat isolated, so short of walking through the village, they could go around it, and that was exactly what Armin did, avoiding crowds and groups. Most people would be in the center, near the concert and food, and he could hear them from here.

  He began walking again, Mark much lighter-footed next to him, as he wasn’t wearing boots.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “I’m here to assist you in any way I can.” Armin didn’t hurry—their pace was definitely more of a very leisurely stroll. “That is to say, yes you can.”

  “The boys think you’re tasked to spy on us for the German team.”

  Armin smiled. “Now that would be terribly unsporting, wouldn’t it?”

  Mark laughed. “You sound British.”

  “I like the idea of what the British call fair play.” Armin kept his voice down, thinking painfully of the way Oskar had told him to be more quiet. “I am led to believe that I might not be in the majority, considering the occasion.”

  “So you are spying?”

  Armin paused and turned. Mark’s friendly curiosity gave him pause and disarmed him immediately. “On my honor, I can tell you this. I bear no love for the German men’s team. Besides, no amount of spying will snatch victory from the Italians or Hungarians, not in foil or epee. On the piste, every man is on his own. Knowing who of you is strong or weak won’t do any of your opponents a damn sight of good.” Armin inhaled deeply. “Apologies.”

  “For?”

  “Language.”

  “Apologies accepted.” Mark sounded oddly formal, considering his usual manners. Armin gave him a nod, much like they’d do when saluting each other before the bout, just without swords.

  They began walking again.

  “Now that we’re almost chummy, can I ask you something else?”

  Chummy? Armin raised an eyebrow. “Yes, of course.”

  “What do you think of Hitler?”

  Armin set his jaw. He’d heard similar questions being asked—besides the Games themselves, it was the one thing every athlete seemed to care deeply about (apart from the Germans, who kept their mouths shut unless they were raging Nazis).

  “We’ve tried all other forms of government—a weak Kaiser, a weaker democracy, an unstable anarchy. It appears the National Socialist Party feels giving a dictatorship a shot will solve all problems.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Are you a member of the Party?”

  “I’m an officer of the Wehrmacht. Any political affiliation is frowned upon and against regulation.”

  But those other words he’d spoken two years ago sat like acid in his throat.

  I swear by God this sacred oath that to the Leader of the German empire and people, Adolf Hitler, supreme commander of the armed forces, I shall render unconditional obedience and that as a brave soldier I shall at all times be prepared to give my life for this oath.

  To the Führer, and not the constitution anymore. He didn’t like remembering that ceremony, or that every officer had had to swear it. He certainly didn’t intend to keep it—he was far less of an idealistic fool than many men he knew, and an oath given under duress wasn’t binding. These were no longer the Middle Ages, where a man would die unquestioningly after having been forced to give his word.

  And yet, the fact remained that there were officers who might actually believe in that oath and were going to keep it. The more people allowed themselves to be fooled, the lonelier he felt in his own country. Soon, only Oskar and himself would joke and mock all the flag-waving and saluting. And that thought was depressing enough to drive a man to drink.

  “I haven’t heard you say ‘Heil Hitler’ even once.”

  “That’s a Party salute.”

  “What about ‘Sieg Heil’?”

  Armin turned to him again, now actually irritated. He couldn’t possibly express what it had done to him, hearing those salutes shouted by one hundred thousand people in the Olympic Stadium. The closest thing to violence without a single blow exchanged. “I’m not comfortable with this conversation, Herr Driscoll.”

  He looked at him, wordlessly pleading that the American would drop the matter. How could he possibly have explained to a foreigner how the country had changed and how his loud, boisterous and irreverent cousin had turned into a man who glanced over his shoulder before he dared say anything that held more meaning than “good day” and “thank you”? They were all keeping quiet, every single one of them. And because they did, the Nazis shouted louder than ever.

  Mark studied his features. Armin shook his head. Mark nodded and smiled, and then reached out to touch Armin’s arm. “It’s … I’m sorry.”

  Armin touched his hand to Mark’s. “So am I.” He saw something in Mark’s eyes then, as they touched, and didn’t break away immediately. After all those uncomfortable questions—because what would he do if Mark blurted any of this out, if Mark didn’t understand how dangerous it was—this moment seemed like a strange kind of reward.

  He stepped closer, took Mark’s hand off his arm, felt it suddenly cool and a little clammy in his fingers, and studied it, thumb rubbing along the callous from the sword grip. He felt Mark shudder, and part of him knew the hunt was going well. But he didn’t want to hunt. This didn’t seem to be a game. Not a way to test his mettle, weigh his perceptiveness against the ability of another man to mask a secret. This wasn’t feint and counter-feint. His attack would strike true and he knew it. And that made him hesitate.

  Hesitation like this killed when the opponent had a weapon in his hand.

  It would be easy to strike. Mark seemed defenseless, an opponent without a weapon, without armor.

  Armin took his hand and kissed it, then lowered it and held it for a moment longer, before letting it go.

  Mark stared at him, surprised, shocked, but clearly not disgusted or hurt.

  “Regarding that other question.” Armin’s voice was a little rough. “Yes, you can trust me. So can your team. But you especially.”

  “Why me?”

  Armin smiled and nodded down the path. Mark began walking again, but now they walked closer together. “Because we might be more alike than it seems.”

  The staff buildings came into view. They were Spartan, clearly previously used as barracks, but with most of the staff over in the village, they made it to Armin’s small room without encountering anybody.

  “You don’t have to share?”

  “Only because I strongly doubt they could fit in another bed.” Armin closed and locked the door behind them, suddenly feeling that weight of expectation. He turned and plucked the hat from under his arm, then tossed it on the bed. And advanced.

  Mark seemed startled, as if Armin had whipped out a sword. But after one step back, he stopped.

 
Armin grinned. “We should have agreed on a price for that match. I’m an empty-handed victor.”

  “Next time, maybe.”

  “What about this time?”

  “What do you want? An autograph?”

  Armin laughed now. “Touché.” He moved closer and lifted his hand to touch Mark’s cheek, just placed his flat fingers against it, then leaned closer when Mark didn’t push or slap him away. “What about a kiss?” He hesitated long enough to receive the slap or push, but neither came. So he advanced again and kissed him.

  Mark didn’t retreat. He pulled in a sharp breath through his nose, but even the sudden tension in his posture didn’t serve to draw him away from Armin. After a second, he parted his lips, his body still tense but his mouth relaxing against Armin’s.

  Tentatively, not wishing to overwhelm him, Armin deepened the kiss, sliding the tip of his tongue between Mark’s lips, and Mark shivered. He put a hand on Armin’s shoulder, one that could push or pull him, and Armin was relieved when his fingers tightened and brought him in closer.

  Armin had kissed many men, and it was clear Mark hadn’t, but his kiss was hardly a disappointment. Uncertain, perhaps, but willing. Yielding. Out on the piste, he was aggressive and fearless; Armin couldn’t help wondering if he’d be the same in bed once he’d found his footing.

  Armin drew back. “Would you”—he gestured toward the bed—“stay?”

  Mark swallowed. Eyes wide, he glanced back and forth between Armin and the door.

  Armin weighed the idea of withdrawing the offer. This was obviously not something to which the young American was accustomed. A kiss had been enough to shake his foundation. Surely more would be—

  “Yes.” Mark looked him in the eyes. “I’ll stay.”

  Chapter 4

  Germany – eight years later