37
Flight
If Edouard and Berta had escaped the schloss, they should be at the forest’s edge near the stable, but for now, Macurdy decided, he’d leave them there. It was more important, and more urgent, to find and kill any SS and Voitar who might have escaped. He doubted that any Voitar had; their wing had blown without warning. The SS, on the other hand, had been warned in time for at least some, perhaps most, to evacuate the building.
And it seemed to Macurdy that any who had would be in front, on the lawn or by the road, probably stunned. His cloak had persisted through the shock, and with his .45 in hand, he trotted across the turf toward the front of the building.
As he cleared the building’s northwest corner, he saw auras glowing softly in the night, eight of them, almost at the road, their owners no doubt staring at the ruin some seventy yards in front of them. As he drew nearer, he saw that none were Voitar. He wished now he’d brought one of the loaded submachine guns from the cellar. From close up, he could have taken these nine from a flank with a couple of long bursts.
As it was … There were problems with using the .45. The muzzle blasts would mark his location, and one or more of the SS would have submachine guns, depending on how many had been on duty, and how many rousted out of bed by the south wing blast, to flee without stopping for weapons. And the .45’s clip held only seven rounds.
Closing in, he became aware that not all were SS: He recognized Edouard’s aura, and Berta’s. Another, which he’d missed before, was pressed close to Berta and much smaller; Lotta’s. From their auras, all nine, psychics and SS, were more or less in shock, though none seemed wounded. Both blasts had taken them by surprise, whereas he’d been prepared, as much as he could be, for the enormity of sound and destruction. And probably, hopefully, their hearing hadn’t fully recovered, as his hadn’t. From ten yards he coup see that both Edouard and Berta had their hands together in front of them, as if manacled.
Macurdy chose his target-the SS man beside Edouardand Fairbairn in hand, moved up behind him. Quickly, smoothly, he reached around him with his left arm, clamping his forearm hard on the man’s mouth, his hand gripping the submachine gun by the end of the short barrel, while the right slammed the fighting knife upward beneath the ribs, double edges slashing about, driven by a powerful wrist. Warm blood flowed down hand, wrist, forearm. He let the man down carefully, aware without seeing that Edouard stared, perhaps comprehending. He’d heard no sound-no gas or groan, no thrashing or kicking, no clatter of weapon falling. But even so, it seemed incredible that no one had reacted, that only Edouard had noticed.
He wiped his blood-slick right hand on the dead man’s woolen tunic, then hissed in Edouard’s ear: “Bittel Finde seine Schlussel!” Softly he stepped back and moved past Berta and Lotta. Berta still seemed unaware that anything had happened, even when Edouard, heeding Macurdy’s order, knelt to find the dead guard’s key ring. Macurdy transferred the guard’s submachine gun from his left hand to his right, and fired a burst from it, sweeping it across the five remaining SS men at a distance of four to eight feet, right to left, then back before they’d had time to fall. Only one turned part way around, legs twisting and collapsing as he squeezed off a short burst of his own, into the ground, or perhaps a comrade.
Berta had screamed, but for an instant the sound didn’t register on Macurdy. Nothing registered, except that it was finished-the Voitar and the blackbacks dead. He sank to his knees, emotionally spent.
“Montag?” The voice was Edouard’s. “Yes?”
“What do we do now?”
Thank you, professor, for the good question, Macurdy thought, and hands on thighs, got slowly to his feet. Don’t get weak on me now, he told himself. You’re not finished. You won’t be till we’re all four out of Germany. “Is there anyone else alive around here?” he asked.