The Wolves of Berlin

She actually put her hand over his mouth to muffle his reflexive grunt when the moment came. A hot, quivering sensation flushed her insides and she felt his body coil up like a spring and then relax. She bit her lip and counted silently: one, two, three, and then climbed off of him. She counted again until her heart rate and breathing returned to normal. Then she held a hand out: it was steady. She nodded. She had not herself had time to finish, but that was all right. The exertion had cleared her head sufficiently. She cleaned up, and Fabien did too. They slept clothed and back to back, not really touching (she had no desire to) but not entirely separating either (the floor was cold, and body heat relieved it a bit). Fabien nodded off right away, but Bethanie took a long time to sleep. Her mind would not slow down. She knew, rationally, that the strange noises she seemed to hear from outside were only a product of her mind and that even had they been real she wouldn't be able to hear them from here. But they didn't go away.

***

June 3:

1,142 days under occupation.

Normally, six people lived in this apartment, situated above an operational sawmill, but none of them were home now. The ruckus from down below was good cover for people coming in and out and sometimes the family here agreed to hide someone for a few days. Today that noise would cover up something else.

The man was tied to a chair in the kitchen. He was a pudgy, sweating mess of an Englishman. He had mustache, which Bethanie found amusing. Men with beards were assumed to be trying to disguise themselves, so a mustache was considered less obtrusive, but in his case it didn't suit him. She didn't really know who he was; only that he was apparently a traitor, and they'd been asked to deal with him. That was Tomas' job; Fabien was here too, mainly to give him something to do, and Bethanie was here to do the one thing neither of them could.

When the knots were secure, Tomas turned on the stove, grabbed a pan from the sideboard, and took a packet of sewing needles from his coat pocket. He dropped the needles into the pan and watched the acrid smoke curl up as they heated, then pulled a chair in front of the prisoner. "I've been questioned by your friends in the Gestapo," Tomas said. "I'd like to show you what I learned from them. When I'm done, you'll tell us what you learned from them. Sound fair?"

The man in the chair sweated.

"You should step outside," Tomas said, his comment encompassing both Bethanie and Fabien. Fabien looked like he was about to say something, so Bethanie pushed him out of the kitchen. They went to the tiny bedroom in back and shut the door. She sat by a window with the curtains tacked shut. Fabien lurked around the door and Bethanie soon realized he was straining to listen. In a few moments he was rewarded: There were, distinctly, muffled sobs coming from the kitchen.

"You should let him work," Bethanie said.

Fabien looked at her. "Why did Velin send you?"

"To make sure Tomas did not torture the man while questioning him."

"So why aren't you stopping him?"

"I don't want to. And there's no stopping Tomas when he decides to do something. What do you care what happens to some traitor anyway?"

"I care about orders."

"Tomas follows the orders that ought to be followed. Besides, it wouldn't be safe to step in."

"Why not?"

There was a challenge in his tone, but Bethanie was not sure whether it was meant for Tomas or for her. She considered what she knew about Tomas before answering: He was an American, but had been raised in France by his French mother until he was 10. He spoke the language perfectly, knew several French towns and cities intimately, and was comfortable with the customs and culture of the country, and so was considered an ideal infiltrating agent. The only other things she knew was that he was a homosexual, and that he had probably killed more people than anyone else she'd ever met.

Three weeks after he parachuted into the country, a young German approached Tomas in a cafe. He behaved very strangely and at first Tomas thought he was about to be arrested, but gradually he recognized the signals the German was dropping. The two became lovers. It was even more dangerous for both of them than they realized: The German never knew that Tomas was an American spy, and Tomas didn't realize that the German was with the Gestapo. Not until Dulac recognized the German, that is, and told him. That night, he and the German met at Tomas' apartment. They spent the night together, like always. Then, once the German was asleep, Tomas reached into the space between the bed frame and the wall.

Where he had hidden an icepick.

Bethanie told Fabien all of this, the same way Velin had told her. "He told me so that I would know to be careful around Tomas. Now I've told the story to you. Do you feel careful?"

From the kitchen came a sound like a man gargling. Fabien didn't look impressed; he didn't flinch or grow pale or react at all. But he did step away from the door.

It was almost two hours until Tomas was done. When the door opened he nodded at Bethanie. "Come now." Bethanie followed to the kitchen. The Englishman didn't look hurt, but he did look exhausted, as if he had been awake for a week just since the last time she'd seen him. His pants, shirt, and even the ropes dripped with sweat. Bethanie dribbled a rag under the sink and wet his lips so he could speak. Then she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. He flinched at first, but she went on comforting him in this way until he became used to it. In English, she said:

"Do you want to talk now?"

The Englishman hung his head, but nodded.

"You can talk to me. We'll send the others away." With a gesture she dismissed Tomas and Fabien. Alone with the traitor, she brought him a drink of water and tipped it into his open mouth slowly, so that he didn't choke, then wiped the sweat from his face and neck. "I'm going to loosen these ropes. You still won't be able to stand up or move your arms, so don't try, but it'll hurt less."

"Thank you," said the Englishman. Bethanie talked as she worked with the knots.

"Where are you from?" she said.

"Northampton."

"You've been in the country a long time."

"I was one of the first men SOE sent in."

"And you haven't been caught in all that time. It's remarkable. ...except it's not, is it? The reason the Germans never caught you is because you've been working for them. We know that already."

The traitor said nothing. Bethanie sat on the floor and looked him in the eye. She assumed the most sweet and unassuming demeanor she could, as if she were talking to an infant. "Do you have a family?" she said.

"I'm not married."

"Parents?"

"My mother is still alive. She's very old."

"My parents are dead. I was raised by my aunt, but she's dead too. They sent her to Ravensbruck after someone informed on our circuit. I was the only one who got away: I was younger then and small enough to hide in a box when the Gestapo men came. Do you have family in London?"

He didn't answer.

"I was just thinking about the bombings. What if the Germans dropped a bomb right on your mother? It's not as if they mark the homes of triple-agents on the Luftwaffe map's with a message saying, 'Don't go here.'"

"What's your point?"

"It's funny that it's just as possible that the Germans might kill your family as mine." She scooted a little closer. "Is family the reason you're working for them? Do they have someone you know in a camp somewhere? My brother is in a prison camp. We don't know if he's still alive, which almost certainly means he's dead."

"I don't know any prisoners."

"Was it money then?"

"No," said the Englishman. He picked his head up for the first time. "I did what I thought was best. SOE didn't know that I was a member of the British Union. We believed in Hitler, and we hated Stalin. I got my orders to infiltrate Special Operations, and I carried them out. That's all."

So that was it: He was just a fascist. The answer was ugly in its simplicity. At least she knew what to do about that. Fascists were all the same, whether they be German, French, or even British. The cure was quick and permanent. She told Tomas what she'd learned. He nodded. "I thought as much," he said. "But we had to know for sure."

"You're sure he's telling the truth?" said Fabien.

"I'm sure that I believe him," said Bethanie. "You'll take care of this?" Tomas nodded again. "I'll go report."

She took pains not to let the mill workers see her leave. The foreman worked for Velin, but there were probably informers in the work crew, particularly since they had all apparently escaped being sent to the German factories. Bethanie biked by a newsvendor. It happened again the previous night: Two more Germans dead, and news of Heiliger's murder had leaked as well. The official papers didn't carry it, of course, but people found out anyway. The manner of the killings left little doubt that they were committed by the same culprit but, oddly, no circuit had claimed responsibility yet. When she arrived at the laundry, Velin was beside himself.

"If the sidewalks keep filling up with dead SS men even the Vichy papers will have no choice but to talk about it."

Lucienne tossed the ink-stained rag at her feet. "I've never seen you happy about people dying before," she said. "Not even Germans."

Velin's smile flickered. "I'm not happy when anyone dies. Not even Germans."

Bethanie made an impolite noise. Velin ignored it.

"But this is a story for people to talk about. If all of Paris goes around talking about the Wolf then they won't be talking about the Germans, or the occupation, or the shortages, or whatever Vichy is telling them about the war. They won't be afraid. We need this. We need them to feel like we're winning."

Lucienne didn't look convinced, but she patted his arm with her one hand before going back to work. An olive branch. Velin smiled after her. Bethanie felt a little twinge. They were close, weren't they? Dulac saw her watching and nudged her with an elbow. "Velin is a handsome man."

"How should I know?"

"You have eyes."

"My eyes are for watching enemies."

"You're watching Velin now."

Bethanie was annoyed, but when Velin passed she gave him a courtesy glance: She supposed he wasn't unhandsome. Men and women followed his orders. And she knew he was brave. Velin was a pacifist, but he carried a gun anyway. He'd been arrested three times and the last time he'd been tortured. After that he got the gun, swearing the Germans would never take him in alive again. Bethanie admired Velin. But she also admired the printing press, and her Beretta. They were all good in a fight. But that was all.

Fabien was a handsome man too. And he was also a good weapon. And unlike Velin, he wouldn't get softhearted about her. Maybe, if times were different, other things would be different too. But Bethanie had work to do.

She reported to Velin about the traitor. She omitted the parts he was better off not knowing. Then she went to her tiny cubby of an apartment. She didn't come here often and would have preferred to have no residence at all if she could have managed. Outside, Paris was blue twilight and grey shadows, studded with winking yellow lights. Antoine's man was coming into the city. Liaison after dark was particularly dangerous, but not as dangerous as leaving an Allied agent alone in the middle of the city, so she didn't have much choice but to go. She dressed for a night out: a light sweater, a short, pleated skirt, striped stockings and flat shoes, like the cafe girls all wore, very zazou, perfect for a teenager sneaking out after curfew.

She went out on foot so that the noise of her bicycle wouldn't advertise her coming, though it meant it would take over an hour to get there and escort the agent to his safe house. It was an insane risk, but someone had to do it. If she were arrested or killed, well, it had been bound to happen. And if the werewolf found her...she hugged her sweater tight around her, so she could pretend that her chill was from the night air, even though it was, in fact, a warm evening at the start of a warm summer.

She thought about the death notices the Germans posted, the familiar red flyers with black borders and the names of the condemned in black, along with the litany of charges:

"Shot for sabotage."

"Shot for spying."

"Shot for participation in anti-German demonstrations." "Three Communists guillotined."

"Reward of a million francs to whoever denounces the perpetrators of the following attack..."

The gun, the noose, the guillotine. She thought, let it be one of these that kills me. Not the wolf.

The night brought her a nasty shock: at the meeting place she found not one man but three, one American, one Englishman, and one Frenchman. They explained to her that they were a "Jed Team" initiating "Operation Sussex." The words meant nothing to her. They wanted to be taken to her superior officer but she explained (as politely as possible under the circumstances) that if all four of them went wandering around much longer they'd be reporting to no one but the police. It was luck that the safe house was near and luck that it had room for more and luck that the two extra men were not assumed to be spies and murdered on the spot. But Bethanie had trouble imagining luck would last her for the next big risk: getting to safety herself.

It was another dark night. She kept to the alleys. Bethanie was just barely remembered when these streets and cafes and cabarets would have been full of people at this time, but those memories were another world now, leaving dark windows, empty sidewalks, and suspicion behind. The sound of an engine at the mouth of the first alley warned her to stay back. Lights washed the walls a dingy yellow. Another six inches and she'd have been seen. This is never going to work, she told herself. But there was nothing else to do.

Something stirred in the alley behind her. She turned around too fast but found nothing there except darkness and some debris in the wind. Then, another sound, like the first, but closer. She backed away. She could see nothing...but that didn't mean nothing was there. She forced herself to stay calm. Panic was for dead men. She considered her options: Whatever it was, it was behind her, so the only thing to do was keep running. Keep running and don't think about what it might be until it showed itself. But she turned and walked straight into the pair of uniforms. She gasped and backed up, then looked down as if embarrassed. "Pardon me," she said. "I was--"

"It's past curfew. Show us your papers." She couldn't see either of their faces under their caps. They were blank shadows in the night.

"Of course." Bethanie handed over her card. The German took it without looking at it. "I was just getting back from--"

"You'll have to come with us."

Bethanie widened her eyes and let her voice tremble. "I was only--"

A gloved hand wrapped around her forearm. Bethanie lost her balance, landing at the German's feet. Do I run, she thought? If I do they may shoot me in the back. But if she let them take her in...the memory of Tomas heating needles on the kitchen range firmed her resolve. If the German tried to help her up, she'd knock him down and run. She was strong enough for that, and he wouldn't be expecting it. If he didn't try to help she'd run anyway, though they'd more than likely catch her as she tried to muscle past. She tensed...

It was all over in a second. The German didn't see it coming, only felt, for an instant, hot breath on this neck, and then the leaping beast's jaws closed on his throat and, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. He didn't even get to scream. His partner barely had time to register that anything had happened before the huge black shape returned, and then he was gone too. Bethanie saw the second German carried off of his feet, glimpsed the outline of a giant, shaggy creature of some kind, and heard the first impression of a scream before a wet sound cut it off, and then nothing was there at all. She blinked, staring at the empty pavement. There were three drops of blood, but only three.

She backed into the wall. Breathe, she told herself. She sucked in air and held it as a precaution against panic. Though she could see only a little blood in the alley the smell of more--much more--tingled in her nostrils. A spike of adrenaline shot through her, forcing her stubborn legs to move. Which way did it go? Which direction would it come from next? She heard the same noise she'd heard before and knew it for what it was: the footstep of a huge, padded paw. It was out there, and it wanted her to know it was out there. She imagined its enormous nostrils filling with the scent of her fear sweat. Fear made the flesh more savory.

She ran. She no longer knew where she was or what direction she was going in. She had only one destination: away. Was it following her? She didn't look. But when she realized the alley she was in was a dead end her feet skidded. She was about to turn around, certain that slavering jaws were waiting for her, but the sound of a door opening drew her attention. Dingy yellow light silhouetted a man in a cheap suit, who tossed some trash into the alley and followed it up by flicking away a cigarette. Before he could close the door Bethanie screamed, "Wait!" and so surprised was he that he froze long enough for her to throw herself through the door.

She fell onto a thick carpet in a dimly lit room. She heard music and laughter from somewhere, but this anteroom was empty. The man in the suit stared, dumbfounded, as she stood up, ran to the door, shut it and bolted it, then slumped over. Without thinking, she grabbed the handkerchief from the doorman's pocket and wiped her forehead and neck. She expected to hear something big and heavy trying to break the door down, but nothing happened. Maybe it didn't follow me, she thought. Maybe it didn't want to run out into the open. Maybe I'm safe. She tucked the doorman's handkerchief back into his breast pocket and became fully conscious of his presence for the first time. He was still staring, of course, and Bethanie almost laughed, but stopped herself because she suspected that if she started laughing now she might not ever be able to stop. Taking a moment to straighten her clothes, she said:

"Excuse me. I don't blame you if you think I'm some kind of madwoman, but I can explain everything. The truth is--"

The excuse only got halfway out. She couldn't believe it; it was too impossible. But there, right in front of her, was Kerman, the Militia man from the previous day. He had apparently traded in that uniform for a doorman's, and either he had shaved or his mustache had been a fake, but it was unquestionably the same man. He looked as surprised as she did. "What in the hell are you doing here?" he said.

Before Bethanie could answer there was a peculiar knock. Kerman swore and pushed her behind the red curtain. She tried to object but he said, "They'll kill you if they find you here, so do what I say and don't ask questions." And then he left her blinking in the dim little room. She was in some sort of boudoir, surrounded by eveningwear so garish that it might more properly be called costumery. Then she heard the heavy outside door open and Kerman say in German, "Thank you for coming. Just one moment."

He stuck his head in and made a series of furious gestures. The message was clear: play along. Bethanie, in turn, indicated that she would just hide in here, but he shook his head and assumed an expression that seemed so genuinely panicked that she immediately discarded the plan. "Is there a problem?" said a voice in the entryway, and Kerman stuck his head back out.