The Complete Fugitive Archives (Project Berlin, The Moscow Meeting, The Buried Cities) (Endgame: The Fugitive Archives) Page 10

  “Well, we can’t just storm in there and try to get the hostages out,” he says. “And there’s still the problem of us not having anything to give them. What reason do they have to keep anyone alive if we have nothing they want?”

  “We know where the weapon is,” I say.

  “Neither of us would ever tell them where it is, though,” he says. “And it’s underwater now anyway.”

  “There’s still Jackson,” I remind him. “They have his wife and child.”

  I wait for him to say that Jackson would never give up the information. We both know that isn’t true, though. He would do anything to save his family. He may have once been a Player, but now he’s a husband and a father. Several times now we’ve seen him go against his Player training. With the fate of his family at stake, I have no doubt he would abandon it completely.

  I think hard, following possible paths, then doubling back when they don’t work out. I consider all the options, discarding one after the other as impractical. Finally, one remains.

  “I have an idea,” I say.

  Boone lifts an eyebrow. “Am I going to like it?”

  “No. It involves you trusting me. Can you do that?”

  He looks into my eyes, looking for answers. Instinctively, I put up walls to keep him out. Then, slowly, I lower my defenses. I need him to believe me. I look back at him, not blinking.

  “For now,” he says.

  “Good,” I say as I draw my arm back. “Because I’m about to break your nose.”

  Boone

  Ariadne’s punch sends me sailing out the door of the kitchen and back into the living room. I reach up to touch my nose and feel it crunch when I try to move it. She really has broken it. There’s no time to think about it, though, as she’s coming at me.

  “The weapon will never be yours, Cahokian,” she says as she pulls a knife out.

  I counter the swipe of her arm with an elbow, and hesitate only a moment before hitting her in the chest with the flat of my hand. This stops her long enough for Greta to scramble out of the way and hide behind Jackson.

  “Get her out of here!” I yell at Jackson. He disappears with Greta into the other room. Then Ariadne and I are squaring off again.

  This time, I’m the one to charge. She kicks out, sweeping her leg to try to trip me, but I jump and her foot slides underneath me as I fall onto her. We roll around on the floor, trading blows that always land just a little bit off. They’re real enough that anyone hearing us will believe that we’re really fighting. Which of course is the point.

  We continue our battle until Jackson returns. Then Ariadne slips her knife into my hand and whispers, “Stab me.”

  I don’t want to do it. She knows this, and she wraps her fingers around my wrist and guides my hand to a spot at her side. I look into her eyes as I push the blade in. She doesn’t even flinch. Then she lets out a roar and shoves me off her. I’m still holding on to the knife, and it comes out. She leaps up and runs for the door, her hand covering the bleeding wound on her side.

  I pretend to chase her into the hallway, where I stop and wait a moment. When I return to the living room, Jackson says, “I told you she couldn’t be trusted. Now she got away. And she knows where the weapon is hidden.”

  I sink onto the couch and nurse my broken nose. “She can’t get to it any more than we can,” I say. “And she’s wounded. She’s going to go hide somewhere and fix herself up. With a little luck, I hit something important and she’ll die.”

  “What if she goes to meet the kidnappers?” Jackson says. “Tries to make a deal?”

  “For what? They don’t have anything she wants, remember?”

  “Maybe they’re Minoans in the first place,” my brother says.

  “If they’re Minoans, they wouldn’t need to kidnap anyone. Ariadne already knew where the weapon is. She was just trying to get it for her line anyway. That’s always been what she wanted.” I sound convincing, but inside I wonder what Ariadne’s plan really is. She didn’t tell me, which means I have to trust that she’s not doing anything that will hurt me. I do, mostly, but I can’t forget that she’s a Player. Still, I think something has changed between us, and that we’re now working together. I hope that I’m right.

  “And now we’ve handed it to her,” Jackson says.

  “And it’s still 200 feet belowground, in a chamber flooded with water, behind locked doors,” I say. “No one’s getting it. Not yet, anyway.”

  My brother is being more stubborn about this than I expected him to be. I need to refocus his thinking. “You should be more worried about Lottie and Bernard,” I say. I feel bad about reminding him that his family is in danger, but I need him to forget about Ariadne for a minute.

  “What are we going to do?” Greta says. She hasn’t spoken in so long that I’ve almost forgotten about her. “You have nothing to give them.”

  “We have information. We can use it to buy more time.” Before Jackson can throw out any more concerns, I say, “We need to leave.”

  “Greta should stay here,” Jackson says.

  I shake my head. “It’s not safe. Too many people know about this place now. She comes with us.”

  “What about going somewhere else?” Jackson says. “Greta, is there anywhere safe you can go? A friend’s house, maybe?”

  “Jackson, she’ll be with two Players. That’s as safe as she’s going to get right now.”

  When he looks at me with a confused expression, I realize he thinks I mean Ariadne and me. “Me and you,” I say.

  I can see that my referring to him as a Player upsets him, but he doesn’t say anything. He only nods. “Then let’s go,” he says.

  Karl Ott’s car is still parked on the street from when we drove here, and Greta has the key, so we take it. My instinct is to steal a car so we aren’t so easy to identify, but it really doesn’t matter. The kidnappers are expecting us anyway, and if we’re being watched—as I suspect we are—they’ll know the minute we left the house.

  Still, when we near the location of the meeting point, I park some distance from it. Jackson is right that we’re in an old industrial part of town. As in most cities that saw heavy shelling, this area was particularly targeted by Allied bombers, who wanted to cripple the manufacturing centers. There are almost no intact buildings here, and most are nothing but burned-out shells.

  The building we’ve been instructed to come to was not spared. Half of it is a pile of bricks. The other is scarred with war wounds: shattered windows, crumbling walls, toppled chimneys. According to the smoke-blackened sign over the front doors, it used to be a steel foundry.

  I’m tempted to leave Jackson and Greta in the car. But even with Jackson’s training, I don’t think it’s the best place for them to be. So when we approach the entrance to the factory, it’s as a trio. Despite the seriousness of the situation, as we get closer, I have this flash to the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and her friends are approaching the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West. Which one of them am I? I wonder. Is it my heart that needs fixing? Or maybe my brain? Courage I think I have plenty of. But maybe I’m wrong about that.

  As we reach the doors, three men emerge. They have guns drawn and aimed at us, which is no surprise. I’d have been surprised if they’d done anything less. What is slightly surprising is that the guns are Berettas. Model 38 submachine guns. They mean business.

  “Stop,” one of them says. He points to Greta, then Jackson. “You and you, come forward.”

  Greta doesn’t hesitate, but Jackson looks to me. I nod, and he walks toward the three men. He and Greta are handcuffed. Then the man who seems to be the leader points at me. “Now him.”

  He keeps his Beretta trained on me as the other two approach cautiously. One of them stands a little ways off, also holding me in place with his weapon, while the third orders me to put my hands behind my back. Again, I’m not surprised. It also tells me that these men are aware of what I can do and are taking no chances.

  The
man snaps a pair of cuffs around my wrists and closes them tightly. Only then does he take me by the upper arm and says gruffly, “Move.”

  “You’re a real brave one, aren’t you?” I say in a voice only he can hear.

  He tightens his grip and pulls me along. As we walk, I wiggle my fingers. I can’t move them much. Just enough to touch the cuff of my coat. When we reach the others, I’m given a pat-down by one of the men. My gun and knife are removed, along with two extra clips and a small coil of wire. The man in charge takes the wire and unrolls it.

  “You never know when you’ll need to slice some cheese,” I say.

  He puts the garrote in his pocket, then examines my face. “You seem to have been in an accident.” He reaches out and pinches my nose, moving it from side to side. Pain shoots through my head.

  “I ran into a fist,” I say through gritted teeth. “But you should see the other guy.”

  “I suspect you mean girl,” the man says. “I see your partner is not with you.”

  “She decided to break up the act,” I say. “Thought she could do better on her own.”

  He makes a tsk tsk sound. “That’s unfortunate. And probably a lie.”

  “No, she did,” Greta says, trying desperately to be helpful. Just as I’d hoped she would at some point.

  The man glances at her, then jerks his head at the others. We’re marched through the doorway and into the factory. It’s basically a cavernous space crowded with rusted and broken machinery. There are no electric lights, but lanterns have been set up here and there, and they throw pale, jumpy shadows over everything. It’s difficult to tell exactly what’s going on around us, or how many people there are inside. I see figures moving around, and more Berettas, but I have no idea if we’re talking six men or sixty.

  We come to the back of the room and stop. Lined up against a brick wall are Lottie, Bernard, Karl Ott, and Jürgen. Their hands are bound behind them. Greta, seeing her husband and son, runs forward. A guard pulls her back.

  “Let her go,” a voice says.

  Greta goes to Jürgen and Karl. Because their hands are bound, they can’t do much more than kiss and lean against one another.

  “Papa!” Bernard shouts, and a soldier slaps his face.

  Jackson strains against his captor. “Don’t touch him!” Lottie crouches, trying to comfort her now-crying son, but is pulled away from him by another man. I feel my wrists strain against the cuffs as I’m filled with rage. I have to hold it together, though, if everybody is to get out alive.

  “Now that everyone has been reunited, perhaps we can get back to business.”

  A figure steps out of the shadows. It’s a man. I’ve never seen him before. He comes and stands in front of me. “I see you’ve brought nothing with you,” he says.

  “Do you think I’d bring a weapon of that power with me and just hand it over?” I say. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  He smiles coldly. “Who I am is not important. And you are not in a position to be asking questions.”

  He pauses, as if expecting me to say something. I don’t respond. I’m studying his face, memorizing it in case I need to recall it later.

  “Your deadline to bring us the weapon was midnight,” he says. He looks at his watch. “It’s now half past twelve.”

  He removes a gun from a holster. “I’m a man of my word,” he says as he chambers a round. “I do not, however, enjoy killing innocent people.” He looks me in the eye. “So I will let you choose who dies first.”

  Someone cries out. Whether it’s Lottie, Greta, or one of the boys, I don’t know, as I’m staring into the man’s eyes. “Kill me,” I say.

  He laughs. “If only I could! That would save a great deal of bother for everyone, wouldn’t it? And it may yet come to that if we can’t reach an understanding. Until then, I’m afraid your name is out of consideration. Choose again.”

  “No,” I say.

  “If you don’t choose one, I’ll have to kill them all,” he says.

  He turns and points the gun at Lottie. I see her pull back, but she doesn’t say anything. The man then lowers the pistol so that it’s pointing at Jürgen’s head. The little boy turns and buries his face against his mother’s side. Seeing him so afraid makes me furious. My fingertips work at the ends of my shirt cuffs, trying desperately to find the end of the wire I inserted there before leaving the house. If I can get it free, I might be able to undo the cuffs. But I need a little more time.

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t get you the weapon,” I say. “I only said I don’t have it here.”

  The man turns around. “Very well,” he says. “I’m an understanding man. I’ll give you another chance.” He breathes deeply. “But I’m afraid you still need a reminder that further failures to follow instructions will not be tolerated.”

  He points his gun at Jackson and fires. My brother lets out a surprised cry, then falls to the ground. Lottie and Bernard scream and lurch forward, but they fall back when several men point weapons at them.

  Jackson isn’t dead. But he will be soon. He’s looking up at me, blood trickling from his mouth as he tries to speak. It takes all of my will not to go to him. As it is, my fingers are searching for the hidden wire in my coat. I find it and draw the wire down into my palm as I silently plead with my brother not to die.

  “Now,” the man who shot my brother says. “Let’s discuss what happens next.” His voice is as calm as if he’s suggested we have tea.

  But we don’t get to discuss what happens next because right then there’s an explosion off to the left. A chunk of the factory wall blows away, and pieces of machinery fly through the air. Screams, both from the captors and the captured, fill the air. I throw myself to the ground as the sound of gunfire adds to the confusion.

  I crawl over to Jackson and lie beside him as I finally manage to work the wire into the handcuffs. “Hold on,” I tell my brother. “Hold on. You’re going to be okay.”

  The lock springs, and I get one hand free of the cuffs. I quickly remove the other side, then look around to see what’s happening.

  Lottie and the others have disappeared into the smoke, and I have no idea where they are. I see several dead men lying on the ground but can hear many more shouting throughout the building.

  Then someone is next to me.

  “Here,” Ariadne says, handing me a gun even as she keeps shooting. “I saved a couple for you.”

  Ariadne

  It’s obvious very quickly that the men we are fighting are not trained soldiers. There is no rhyme or reason to the way they attack, no leader or organization. They simply run around, firing at where they think we are, while Boone and I pick them off one at a time. Within minutes, the factory is silent. I make a search, ensuring that every body on the floor is a dead one, while Boone returns to his brother.

  When I come back to them, Boone is sitting on the floor with Jackson’s head cradled in his lap. Lottie is standing nearby, holding Bernard in her arms. The boy is crying, and his mother is whispering in his ear. There is no sign of Karl Ott and his family.

  “Where are the others?” I ask Lottie.

  She shakes her head. “They ran,” she says.

  I watch Boone with his brother, keeping a respectful distance. Jackson was shot in the stomach. He’s lost a great deal of blood, and he’s going to die. I know this. Boone knows this. I don’t think Lottie knows, or if she does, she’s too shocked to accept it. She stands there rocking back and forth with Bernard in her arms.

  Boone is singing to his brother and stroking his face.

  “Count the stars across the sky,

  Count the raindrops on the roof,

  Count my kisses on your head,

  Close your eyes and dream, dream, dream.”

  He sings the song over and over. Jackson’s eyes are closed, and his hand is wrapped in Boone’s. His chest rises and falls, and the breaths become more shallow and further apart.

  As I watch Boone with his brother, holding him, s
inging him into death, something inside of me breaks open, something I’d thought I’d forever sealed up long ago. It’s so dramatic, so powerful, that I physically feel it, as if I’ve fallen from a great height and hit the ground hard. It’s difficult even to breathe. I hate that it’s happened, but it has, and I’m afraid it’s going to change everything.

  Jackson’s breaths continue for a little longer as Boone sings. Then they don’t come at all. Lottie cries softly, trying to be brave for her son.

  I go over to Boone and crouch down. “It’s not safe here,” I say, touching his shoulder and hoping he doesn’t notice how my fingers are trembling. “We need to get Lottie and Bernard away.”

  Boone nods. I know he understands the danger as well as I do. He scoops his brother up in his arms and stands. “Let’s go.”

  I don’t argue with him about bringing his brother’s body. I don’t know what he plans to do with him, but I know he won’t leave him behind. I walk with Lottie and the little boy, who keeps asking his mother, “Will Papa wake up?”

  I have no idea what we are going to do next. We have nowhere to go. Both the Minoan and Cahokian safe houses are compromised. The MGB will be looking for me. We don’t even know who our most recent enemy is. And the weapon, or whatever remains of it, is still lost in the underground chamber. We have to go somewhere, though, especially because of the boy. If Boone and I were on our own, we would be fine. But we’re not.

  You could be, I tell myself.

  It’s true. I don’t have to stay with Boone. I could leave, maybe try to get to the weapon on my own. It would be the smart thing to do. The right thing to do, according to the logic of Endgame. I am still the Minoan Player.

  Boone walks us back to where he left Ott’s car. It’s not there.

  “Where do you think they went?” I ask him.