Endgame Novella #7

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Excerpt from Endgame: The Complete Training Diaries Minoan: Marcus

  Excerpt from Endgame: The Calling Marcus Loxias Megalos

  Chiyoko Takeda

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books in the Endgame Series

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boone

  December 24, 1948

  “How you doing, Peterson?” Driscoll asks as we descend through the thick fog. “You look a little green. Do me a favor and try not to lose your lunch all over my plane, okay?”

  The C-54, buffeted by a crosswind, shakes fiercely, rattling us like peas in a can. It’s been like this the whole flight. Driscoll grins at me.

  My name isn’t Peterson, but he doesn’t know that. He also doesn’t know that I’ve been in far more nerve-racking situations than a rough approach. I may look like any other 19-year-old GI, but I’m far more than that.

  “Last time I flew over Berlin, I was dropping eggs on their heads,” Driscoll continues, shouting to be heard above the roar of the engines. “Now I’m bringing them eggs for their breakfast.” His joke about the bombing raids that destroyed huge parts of the city during the last days of the war isn’t funny. I smile anyway. I need him to think I’m just one of the guys, at least for a little longer.

  The truth is, I am a little bit nervous. I’ve been training for war since I was a kid. I’ve been through more than Driscoll and all the other soldiers on the plane ever saw in boot camp. But this is my biggest mission yet. A lot is riding on it. And yet I don’t even know exactly what it’s about.

  I know the basics. I’ve got to find a man and get him out of Berlin. I know his name and his suspected location. And I know that if he won’t come with me, or if someone else gets to him first, I have to kill him.

  A simple plan. That’s why I know there’s more to it than the council has told me. For some reason they don’t want me to know the details of why this man is so important, which means they don’t want anyone else to have that information either. If I get captured, my enemies can try as hard as they want to get me to talk, but I can’t tell them what I don’t know. Not that I would talk anyway. I’d never do anything to jeopardize the safety of my line. The council knows that, so it bothers me a little bit that they’re taking this precaution. More than a little bit, if I’m honest. This is the first time since I became the Cahokian Player that they’ve kept me in the dark about something. I don’t like the feeling.

  I push that irritation from my mind as the Tempelhof airstrip appears—seemingly out of nowhere—and meets the wheels of the plane. The rumbling intensifies, shaking my bones, and I hang on as Driscoll applies the brakes. Through the cockpit windows I see groups of children standing on top of piles of debris that line the runway. They wave at us, grinning and clapping their hands.

  “Look at that,” Driscoll says. “It’s like we’re Santa Claus.”

  In a way, we are. After all, it’s Christmas Eve. And along with the ten tons of eggs, milk, meat, flour, and other basic supplies in our hold, we’re bringing bags of wrapped gifts to hand out to the people of the city. Chocolate bars for the kids. Cigarettes for the men. Perfume for the women. The war ended in 1945, but more than three years later, Berlin is still trying to recover. And since the Soviets cut off all sea and land access to the city’s western zone earlier in the year, life has gotten even harder.

  Thankfully, the airlift organized by the American, French, and British militaries has been successful in bringing supplies to the city. It’s also provided me with a handy way inside. Posing as an American soldier has been easy enough. There are so many young men being assigned to the dozens of daily airlift flights coming out of Rhein-Main Air Base that no one notices one more. All I had to do was put on a uniform and start helping load the plane.

  When the Skymaster comes to a stop, we reverse the process begun three hours earlier, transferring everything in our cargo area onto the trucks that pull up one after the other.

  “Nobody disappear!” Driscoll shouts as we launch into action.

  “General Tunner’s orders! We get this stuff off, turn around, and land back in Frankfurt in time for eggnog and cookies!”

  The airlift is a well-oiled machine. Planes land at two-minute intervals, and the total time from unloading to takeoff is 25 minutes. Everything moves like clockwork, and everyone has a job to do. I can’t make a break for the main terminal or someone is bound to notice the missing pair of hands. But when we’re almost finished, one of the mobile coffee trucks arrives filled with pretty German girls who hand out drinks and smiles, and I take the opportunity to slip away while the others are distracted. I don’t look back, and nobody calls Peterson’s name. Even when they finally notice he’s gone, it won’t matter, as the United States Army has no record of him anyway.

  Once I’m away from the airport, I make my way into Berlin. In an attempt to maintain a balance of power, the city has been divided into four sectors, each one controlled by one of the Allied superpowers: Great Britain, France, the United States, and the Soviet Union. In reality, though, it’s become the Soviets on one side and everyone else on the other. Fortunately, Tempelhof is in the American sector, and a GI walking through the streets is a common sight. I’d prefer to be dressed like a civilian, but at least wearing a uniform means that nobody questions me. And in case they do, all my identity papers carry the name of Alan Peterson.

  It’s early evening, a little past seven, and already dark. A light snow is falling. And even though the streets are dotted with rubble—some of the buildings I pass have shattered windows and walls that have crumbled, so you can see into living rooms and kitchens still filled with furniture—it somehow manages to feel like Christmas. There are wreaths on some of the doors, and trees decorated with ornaments are visible in the parlors of some of the houses. The shops I pass don’t have much displayed in their windows, but signs reading FRÖHLICHE WEIHNACHTEN are taped to the glass.

  Bells chime, and when I turn a corner, I see people walking into a church. The inside is lit by candles, and the sound of a carol being played on an organ floats from the open doorway. This makes me think of my own family back in Illinois. It’s just after noon there, and I know my mother is getting ready for the Christmas Eve gathering. She’s been cooking all day. The Tom and Jerry bowl and glasses that only come out once a year are set out on the sideboard. She’s probably already hung the stockings from the mantel over the fireplace, one for each kid, arranged in order from youngest to oldest: Marnie, Evan, Lily, Ella, Peter, me, and Jackson. In the morning, the stockings will all be filled to overflowing. Even mine, although I won’t be there to open it. And even Jackson’s, although it’s been three years since he died. The people of Berlin aren’t the only ones who’ve lost something to the war.

  I hurry by the church, clearing my mind by focusing on the address the council gave me. I memorized it, as well as the best route to reach it. Writing things down is risky. As my father told me repeatedly when I started my Player training, the brain is the only notebook nobody can steal.

  It takes me another 20 minutes to find the house. It’s in a section of the city that was hit hard by the Allied bombing, one of a row of connected brick town homes. Most of the buildings are
empty, uninhabitable because of the damage. This one looks empty too. Most of the windows are boarded up, and the front door has an official notice on it warning people not to enter due to unsafe conditions. But looks can be deceiving. Just because you can’t see somebody, it doesn’t mean nobody is there. Sometimes, you just have to look harder.

  I don’t announce myself by knocking on the front door. This isn’t a social call. Instead, I go into the bombed-out house next door, climb the stairs to the third floor, and step through a shattered window onto a narrow ledge that runs along the front of the whole row of houses. I press myself against what’s left of the wall and slowly move one foot at a time toward the house next door. If anyone notices me, maybe they’ll just think I’m Saint Nicholas coming to deliver presents.

  When I reach the closest window of the target house, I pause beside it and look inside. The bedroom behind the cracked, dirty glass is empty. When I push on the window frame, the window slides up. I slip inside, turn on the small flashlight I carry in my pocket, and look around. It’s just as cold in here as it is outside, and I can see my breath. There’s no heat. But coal is in short supply, and no one is supposed to be living here anyway, so this might not mean anything. More telling is that everything in the room is covered with a thick layer of dust. No one has been here in a long time.

  Then I notice the footprints. They start just outside the door, run along a hallway, and disappear down a flight of stairs. A faint glow emanates from the second floor. Someone is here after all. I creep to the end of the hall and pause. I can hear voices. There are two speakers, a man and what sounds like a younger woman.

  This is a problem. There’s supposed to be only one person here. A man. I haven’t seen him yet, but even if the man I hear talking is the one I’m after, who is the girl? Is she a wife? A daughter? Something else? I need to get a look at them.

  I draw my M1911 standard-issue military pistol and walk down the stairs. It’s not my weapon of choice, but it’s what Private Peterson would carry, and nobody would think twice about me having it, so it’s what I’ve got. The voices grow louder as I descend. When I reach the landing, I pause. The speakers are in a room just to my left.

  “I wish Oskar and Rutger were here with us,” the man says.

  “You know how Oskar is,” the young woman says. “He didn’t want to risk anyone following us to you.”

  “I think everyone must have forgotten about me by now,” says the man. “Still, he’s right to be cautious. I worry about you making visits here.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to leave,” the girl says. “You’ve shut yourself up in here long enough. Pass the duty on to someone else. Oskar and I—”

  “Lottie, please,” the man interrupts. “How many times have we talked about this? I cannot leave.”

  “You mean you will not,” says Lottie. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life here?”

  “I’m already a dead man. Remember?”

  The man’s words chill me. What does he mean? And who is this girl? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m better off if I don’t know who Lottie is. I know from experience that it’s easier to kill someone when you know nothing about her.

  “Let’s not discuss it further,” the man says. “It’s Christmas Eve. Play something for me. You know I always love to hear you play.”

  A moment later, I hear the sound of a piano. It’s badly out of tune, but the melody is familiar. “Silent Night.” The girl begins to sing, and the man joins in.

  I risk moving closer and looking through the doorway. Inside the room, a scraggly pine tree stands in front of a boarded-up window, its branches hung with silver tinsel and a handful of colorful glass balls. The piano is against a wall, with the young woman seated at it. The man stands beside her. Both of them are wearing long, thick coats.

  I recognize the man from the photo the council showed me. It’s Evrard Sauer. I’m in the right place. But the council said nothing about the girl. Now I have to decide what to do about her. My orders were to leave no witnesses, which gives me only one option. I know what I should do—what I’ve agreed to do for my council and my line—but the thought of actually doing it doesn’t sit right with me. The girl is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hate to make her pay for that with her life.

  They finish singing, and the man takes something from the pocket of his coat. It’s a present wrapped in newspaper and tied with plain white string. He hands it to the girl, who carefully opens it. A happy smile spreads across her face.

  “Toffees!” she says. “Wherever did you get them?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer before taking one of the candies from the box and unwrapping it, the cellophane crackling in her fumbling fingers. She puts the toffee in her mouth and sucks on it, her eyes closed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy a piece of candy so much.

  She opens her eyes and reaches into her own pocket. She takes out a package, this one wrapped in brown butcher paper. She gives it to the man. He opens it and holds up a red knitted scarf.

  “I unraveled one of my sweaters for the yarn,” the girl says, sounding embarrassed. “Wool is still rationed.”

  “It’s beautiful,” the man assures her as he wraps it around his neck. “Thank you.”

  The girl turns back to the piano and begins to play again. This time the song is “O Tannenbaum.”

  I’ve obviously interrupted their Christmas Eve celebration. And if I do what I’ve been instructed to do, I’m about to make it a whole lot worse. I still feel like something is off, but there’s no time to contact my council for further advice, so I have to make a choice based on the available information and what I’ve been told. That means completing the mission according to plan.

  I accept the reality of my situation, even though I don’t like it, and prepare to act. Then the sound of a door being kicked open comes from the first floor. Wood splinters. Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs. The man and the young woman stop singing and look at each other. I have just enough time to dart back to the stairwell before three figures burst onto the landing. Two of them have guns drawn.

  “Evrard Sauer,” one of them, a man, says. “You are under arrest for collaborating with the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.” He’s speaking in German, but with a heavy Russian accent. And although he’s used the more formal name for them, I know he’s just accused Sauer of working with the Nazis.

  “Who are you?” the girl asks.

  “Be still, Lottie,” says Sauer. “Do as you’re told.”

  His voice is quiet, sad. As if he has feared this moment for a long time.

  I huddle on the stairs, my pistol at the ready. Besides the two men, there is a woman in the room. She stands slightly behind the men, her hands in her pockets. As I lean forward for a better look, my foot presses against the floorboards, making a faint creaking sound. I see her tense. She turns her head toward the stairwell, and for a moment I think she’s seen me. But I can’t look away. She’s younger than I thought. My age. And beautiful. She has long dark hair and dark eyes, and for a second I’m sure that I’ve seen her before. Then it hits me—she looks like Wonder Woman from the comic books my sister Lily loves so much. I find myself frozen in place.

  Then she turns away, and it’s as if a switch has been turned off and I can breathe again. I blend into the shadows, my finger on the trigger of my gun in case I need to use it. I know I will need to use it. I can’t let these people take Sauer. I think I know who they are. MGB. Russian intelligence. And apparently they want him because of his association with the Nazis. What he did for them, I don’t know. Just as I don’t know why he’s so important to my council. What I do know is that I can’t let them leave with him.

  “If you come quietly, there will be no problems,” the first man says.

  Sauer nods. He motions to Lottie, who stands up.

  It’s time. I start to raise my pistol, aiming it at one of the Soviet agents.

  Before I can fire, the woman
draws her hand from her pocket. She’s holding a Tokarev TT-33. There are two shots, and her companions collapse to the floor. She lowers the gun.

  “You have a choice,” she says to Sauer and Lottie. “Come with me and live, or join them.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ariadne

  Sauer and the girl look from the bodies lying at their feet to the gun I still have trained on them. Their fear is obvious. They know who the dead men are, or at least who they work for, but they don’t know who I am or why I’m here. They’re trying to decide if I am a greater or lesser danger.

  “I’m not going to ask again,” I say, giving them their answer.

  I point my gun at the girl. It has the desired effect.

  Sauer holds up his hands. “We’ll come.”

  He’s made the right choice. Had they resisted, I would have shot them both. If I had, they would have been my third and fourth kills. The men on the floor are my first and second.

  I’m surprised how little I feel about the killings. I’d expected something more, a sense of excitement perhaps, or pangs of remorse. Instead, there is simply an awareness of having done what was necessary. It probably helps that the two MGB agents were not good people. After six months of working undercover within their organization, I’d come to despise them. For one thing, they’d been dismissive of me because of my gender and my age. That was a mistake.

  Three weeks ago, I turned 18. But I grew up long before that. I don’t actually remember a time when I didn’t feel the weight of responsibility. As a child, when I played, I played games of war. And always, I had to win. Even if it meant defeating someone close to me. When I was chosen as the current Minoan Player out of my group of trainees, it was simply the next logical step. This is a role I’ve been studying for my entire life.

  I don’t have time to waste thinking about the dead men. I motion for Sauer and the girl to walk ahead of me. They start to leave the room, which is when a figure detaches itself from the shadows of the stairs and rushes at me. I have only a moment to curse myself for not heeding an earlier feeling and checking to make sure no one else was in the house before a man is tackling me. He hits me low and hard, and before I can get off a shot, I’m falling backward. I land on the floor, and my breath is knocked out of me. Also knocked away is my gun, which my attacker sweeps out of my reach.