Blackbone (22 page)

“I should like to see an end to it,” Steuben said wearily. “An end to whatever is going on here.” His gaze roamed among the men, and they all knew what he meant. All felt the same tense helplessness in the wake of uncontrollable events. “I don’t know who or what is responsible,” Steuben continued, “but I cannot allow our lives to become chaotic. We must have order and obedience and discipline. Our common welfare must come first. Though we have no weapons with which to enforce our rules, be assured
they will be enforced.
It is my primary goal that we all
survive
and go home in dignity. And those who wish to make it hard for others will be dealt with.”

Steuben then asked for a moment of silence in memory of Schliebert. Afterward he said simply, “Sit.”

They sat back down mid the meal resumed, but conversation dried up.

At another table, Gebhard decided it was time to make his feelings known and to see who shared them. His voice was even and restrained, and intended for his table only, but it carried. “Kirst slept through it last night,” he said, then looked around. “Did you know that?”

Eyes flicked at Kirst, who kept eating.

“Isn’t that right, Bauhopf?”

Bauhopf nodded.

“Kirst didn’t wake until the lights were on and we had Eckmann down on the floor,” Gebhard went on. “I find that amazing. I mean, there was such a commotion—Eckmann yelling and banging Schliebert’s head on the floor—we all heard it. It woke up everyone in the room. Others in the hut heard it too. And some of the men in Huts Five and Six—”

“I slept through it,” Kirst insisted.

“Yes,” agreed Gebhard, his eyes flashing. “But how is that possible?”

For a moment that Gebhard deeply relished, every unanswered question in every troubled mind in the room was focused on Kirst, as if he held the secret answer. Kirst never even looked up. He went right on picking at his food, eating mostly bread, fruit, and vegetables, ignoring the heavily spiced sausages. He never answered Gebhard. Interest faded, but now there were whispered conversations at every table, and that was enough to satisfy Gebhard. He wanted them thinking and talking about Kirst. If they thought and talked enough, they might do something, and the hell with Steuben.

Gebhard fixed Kirst with a smug, dark gaze. He knew Kirst could feel the eyes on him, but Kirst still wouldn’t look at him. Someone passed the salt and, when it got to Kirst, he refused to touch it. In fact, he sat back as far as he could and waited for the next man along to grab it.

Gebhard didn’t understand that at all. He saw Steuben glaring at him. Gebhard snorted to himself and ignored the silent reproach. The salt came around to him and he held on to it a long moment, studying it, thinking. Then he looked at Kirst, who was helping himself to more applesauce. On impulse, Gebhard leaned across the table and shook salt into Kirst’s food. A couple of the men nearby chuckled. Kirst froze in his seat. Gebhard put the salt shaker down and looked up, grinning.

The grin vanished from his lips as he felt the full shock of a malevolent stare from those eyes. In a brief instant, the memory of which was immediately blotted from his mind, Gebhard saw his own death, saw his own body lying naked and cold on a hard floor—

He recoiled in the chair. His hands shot out and gripped the edge of the table, causing the man next to him to spill his water and jump up.

The door banged open. Sergeant Vinge and two other MPs entered the mess hall. Vinge didn’t wait for silence. He shouted immediately, “Prisoner Leutnant Rolf Kirst report here at once!”

The room fell silent. Steuben frowned at the man next to Gebhard, who was quietly swearing and mopping water off his trousers. Then Steuben translated the order.

Kirst stood up uncertainly. The MPs led him out and the door banged shut after them.

Gebhard stared at the empty chair, conscious that something had happened before Kirst had left but he couldn’t recall what. He looked at his hands and discovered they were shaking. He felt curiously drained. A nagging warning worked in the back of his mind. Kirst, they had taken Kirst out. Why? Because Kirst was indeed a spy and was being removed to make his report.

He looked at Steuben, who glared at him and threw down his fork.

Chapter 17

The sentry removed the padlock and chains. Kirst stood before the opening gate, the imp filling him with strange sensations of freedom, release, and soaring anticipation. Hie sergeant prodded him up the hill. Kirst’s awareness faded as the gate closed behind him, and the djinn took complete control.

Laughter roared in his head but Kirst was unaware. Blackness rebounded against the walls of his skull and tore through the intricate fabric of his brain. Joy leaped into his eyes and fastened them on the prey. Men. Men outside the prison, outside the cursed five walls. Here there were hosts for the djinn, from which the nightform could seek out fresh power, power from fear, energy from a new host, which it would soon need since this one would shortly be depleted. Already there was not enough will left in the body to generate fear. This host had become little more than a shell, a walking dead man, a desiccated spirit providing only one necessity, a hiding place for the nightform. But as a source of energy, it was drained. It could no longer fight. And if it couldn’t fight, it couldn’t fear. And from fear came the power.

But here on the outside there were men who had yet to feel the power of the djinn. If it could find the right host, someone with enough hidden fear to be mined... A new host! The djinn writhed in paroxysms of delight. Of course, it wasn’t finished with the men inside the five walls, but to find a host who could move in and out freely would give it two feeding grounds, and being on the outside meant the possibility of growing even stronger and being able to leave and travel into the world again. Men! It sensed that men had multiplied in the eons in which it had been imprisoned. The djinn had listened to conversations going on around Kirst and had heard stories of large cities, huge cities, teeming with thousands and thousands of fear-racked souls. Tales of war and terror and natural catastrophes—the foundations on which the djinn could feed and build its power.

The djinn drew up inside Kirst’s head, into a tight black ball soaking in his mind, calculating its rate of growth over the last few days, realizing with surprise and delight how much it had progressed from the puny, weak little thing in the bottle. All those men inside the five walls, with fear now the one emotion that held them together, not realizing that fear was the food itself—ripe, ready to be harvested like so much wheat. Never had the djinn known such an easy time of it—and the irony that men, soldiers, warriors would band together in their fear, thinking that gave them strength and determination to fight whatever was frightening them. Hah. The djinn burbled darkly over the folly of man’s greatest instinct, his proclivity for lashing out at what frightens him. And when he can’t see what it is, or he thinks it’s something it’s not, he lashes out even harder, he fights harder, and his fear grows, giving the djinn that much more to consume.

The djinn studied their faces as it passed—MPs moving out for guard duty—unwitting future prey.

Loring waited in Gilman’s office, studying the camp map tacked to the wall, the only thing of interest in the room, unless she felt like making a detailed examination of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s portrait. Gilman had changed his mind. When she’d returned after freshening up, he had announced that she could interview Kirst, explaining that he would sit in on the session because there were things he wanted to know as well. But he had warned her that she would not be able to make this an extended stay: he wanted her to leave as soon as she was through. Loring hadn’t argued. What she had in mind wouldn’t take a lot of time anyway, but it would be bizarre. If Gilman objected, she would have to bull her way through.

Where is he?
she wondered. This is taking forever. She sat down and stared at the map again. It displayed the entire camp, pinpointing every hut, every tree and rock, all the sentry boxes.... She studied the rectangular squares with the numbers on them... Huts Four, Six, Eight, Ten, all in a row... the
Krankenhaus....
What’s that?... Oh. Hospital...

She thought of the murder. On the way in she had spotted a report on the adjutant’s desk and the names in caps, ECKMANN and SCHLIEBERT. Not Kirst. Kirst was not involved. At least that’s how it looked. But not to Loring. She was sure the djinn had had a hand in it. Again she stared at the map. Her eyes traced the fence line from the northernmost sentry box on around the camp, stopping at each of the angular corners that bent the fence into a nearly perfect pentagon....

She stared at the fence line again and realized what she was looking at. Five lines of equal length, with equal angles at the corners, forming a five-walled enclosure, almost a small city—like Ur-Tawaq.

He’s here.

She quivered with certainty.

He’s here because this five-walled prison is here. Because it’s fate. Because, as the Arabs say, “It is written.” Of course it is. It’s meant to happen.

She should have known from the very beginning it was meant to happen. That she was meant to come here to battle this thing. To pay for disturbing its twenty-five-hundred-year rest, for drowning a dozen Iraqi workers in the Mesopotamian desert.

Preordained from the moment the first shovel bit into desert waste. It all led to this. She could drop it now. She should drop it now. She wanted to drop it now—

The door opened and Gilman entered. He sat down behind his desk, reached for pad and pencil, and said, “Mind if I take notes?”

“Fine.”

The MPs brought in Kirst. He was younger than Loring had expected, a boy no more than twenty-three. She was not much older, but she had imagined him stronger, tougher, a seasoned submariner. Instead, he had a slack build, a strange pallor, haunted, sunken, sleepless eyes. He sat stiffly while the sergeant asked Gilman, “Want him cuffed, sir?”

“No. But wait outside.”

The sergeant and the MPs stepped out and shut the door.

“Miss Loring Holloway, Leutnant Rolf Kirst,” Gilman said.

Loring nodded politely. Kirst fixed dead eyes on her. She stared at his pasty skin and dry, chapped lips and was suddenly afraid.

He’s the djinn. The djinn is him. They’re somehow intertwined.

Again her eyes flicked to the map, and she realized the deeper significance of that five-sided fence.

This office is outside. We’re outside. Kirst... the djinn is outside.

She panicked and thought fleetingly of demanding the interview be conducted inside the camp. Then she glanced at the list of questions on the chair next to her.

What good are questions going to be? If he is the djinn, he’ll lie. I can’t interview him. I have to expose him.

The door opened again and Major Borden entered. Gilman made more introductions. Borden asked if she’d like coffee. Loring said yes. He asked Kirst, too, but Kirst only gave him a blank look. Borden poured him some anyway. It sat on the desk in front of him. Kirst fixed his eyes on the curl of steam.

“All right, Miss Holloway,” said Gilman. “Major Borden will interpret.”

Loring glanced at the small suitcase she had brought down with her. Inside it were her books, the silver decanter that Yazir had given her, and some other things she thought would be useful in testing the djinn. But first she had to set the stage.

“Let me explain what I know about your prisoner,” she said, waiting for Borden to translate. “Kirst was gunnery officer aboard the German submarine U-221, which sank the Liberty Ship
Delaware Trader
nearly two weeks ago. The submarine was almost immediately sunk by an American aircraft. Kirst was the only survivor. When he was rescued three days later by the USS
Sharpe,
he was found inside a floating crate, the only thing that remained of the
Delaware Trader’s
cargo. Whatever had been inside the crate was gone, presumably thrown out by Kirst. But we don’t know for sure because, when he was interrogated aboard the
Sharpe,
he wouldn’t talk. Now... that particular crate is very important to us. It contained a consignment for the Metropolitan Museum in New York. We would like to know what happened to the contents.”

Borden finished translating for Kirst. There was only silence. Kirst seemed to make an effort to lift his head and fix his gaze on Loring. She waited. They all waited. But not a word came out of him.

“What
was
in the crate?” Gilman asked.

“Artifacts,” Loring replied, still watching Kirst.

“What sort of artifacts? Would they be of any interest to a German? Particularly one who is trying to save himself from drowning?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“You don’t know precisely what was in the crate?”

“Yes. I do know.”

“Well?”

Kirst’s gaze had shifted. His eyes had dropped to Loring’s chest. She frowned. Her hand moved protectively to where he was looking, and she felt the reassuring warm flatness of Yazir’s pendant beneath her sweater and against her skin.

He’s looking at it. He knows it’s there.

“Miss Holloway,” Gilman said patiently, “it might help if you jog his memory.”