As Loring stepped off the train, the stark winter chill bit through her clothing. The morning sky was dark and threatening, yet there was no smell of rain in the air. A sign identified WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS, POP. 984, as the seat of Meagher County. The town looked as if it hadn’t yet emerged from the nineteenth century. The old buildings were dwarfed by spectacular mountain scenery. Loring guessed the visibility at fifteen miles.
She saw a jeep parked beside the platform with an MP behind the wheel finishing a smoke and watching her, trying to appear only casually interested. The porter appeared on the steps behind her and handed down her luggage. Loring tipped him. He nodded politely and drew back aboard the train, which almost immediately sounded its horn and started up again. Loring lookfcd around—she was the only passenger getting off.
She pushed her bags together and glanced at the jeep again. The MP was staring at her curiously. She crooked a finger at him. He jumped out of the jeep and hurried over, his expression shifting between a helpful smile and confusion.
“Are you here to pick up someone from the State Department?” Loring asked him.
“Uh... yes, ma’am. Fellow named Holloway.”
She showed him her papers. “Surprise, surprise,” she said.
The ride back to the camp was fifty miles over partly paved backroad that Army engineers had graded when the camp was installed. No one had worked on it since, so it was sunken, potholed, and overgrown with weeds. The jeep bounced so badly Loring thought her teeth would fall out. The MP, Paris, drove like he’d been born in these hills. He pointed out the sights—a creek here, a patch of woods there, a slope with near-dead bushes which he claimed bore incredible flowers in the spring.
“We sure had some excitement last night,” said Faris. “One of our POWs went off his cork and killed somebody.”
Loring forgot her rattling teeth for a moment as fear cut through her and made her think fleetingly of jumping out of the jeep and running back to the station.
“What do you mean, killed somebody?” she said. “Killed a guard?”
“No, ma’am. Another prisoner.”
Loring caught herself leaping to conclusions, sure that one of the two had to be Kirst, hoping it was the dead one.
“First murder we’ve had since the camp opened,” Faris was saying. “I sure don’t know what it is. Maybe the Germans are getting wire-happy. Nobody likes it much in the winter. The nights are a pisser.” He made a face.
They hit a bump and the jeep almost flipped. Faris made some quick maneuvers, spinning the wheel and thrashing the gears in sequence, and they were all right again. But Loring wished she had forgone breakfast.
They came around the loop and over the hills. The prison camp sprawled before them in a long valley beneath Blackbone Mountain. Loring studied the huts clustered inside the fence, the Germans on the slope doing calisthenics in their underwear.
Fans grinned. “Sorry, ma’am. Things are kind of free and easy here. Haven’t got no women, and the krauts ain’t got no shame.”
Faris drove up to headquarters, shut off the engine, then jumped out and ran around to help Loring down. A squad of MPs double-timed past, led by a squad leader singing in a deep southern drawl:
“Sergeant Baker’s outta luck—honey, honey;
Sergeant Baker’s outta luck—babe, babe.
Sergeant Baker’s outta luck;
He found a girl he couldn’t fuck!
Honey, oh, baby mine.”
On the last phrase, the squad leader’s eyes discovered Loring. His mouth fell open as he steamed past. “Awright!” he yelled. “Eyes front! Column right, march!” He took them around a hut and, when they were gone, Loring heard ringing laughter. She smiled at Faris.
“Surprise, surprise,” she said again and followed him into headquarters.
Faris restrained a grin as Gilman stared at Loring. “This is Miss Loring Holloway of the State Department, sir. Picked her up at White Sulphur Springs as ordered, sir. Hope the Major is happy, sir.”
“Dismissed, Faris.”
“Yes, sir!” Faris saluted and left.
Gilman shut the door. “Sit down, Miss Holloway.”
“Thank you.” She dropped into a chair in front of his desk. Gilman sat across from her.
“Nobody said to expect a woman.”
“Sorry, Major. Do I apologize for not telling you—or for being one?”
“Neither. Pleasure to have you. May I see your papers?”
“Certainly.” Loring passed him a manila envelope.
Gilman shook the papers out on his desk, pulled off the clip, and scanned everything quickly. “Seems to be in order,” he said, “although your position with State isn’t exactly spelled out. Care to elaborate?”
“Is that really necessary? I’m here on a security matter.” On the train she had decided that would be the best catchall cover: no one in the military ever questioned security. She couldn’t just plunge right in and try to convince this major with the penetrating stare that she was hunting a demon. If he believed her—and looking at him she thought that highly unlikely—he would be alarmed. And being a soldier committed to the chain of command, he would alarm everyone else, setting up a climate of fear that would hamper her efforts and, worst of all, give the djinn a panic to feed on. She had already decided to keep as much of this to herself as possible, to work alone until she could hit on a plan for destroying the creature.
But Gilman was not so easily taken in. The sacred word “security” failed to set off the expected Pavlovian reaction. He leaned on his elbows and fixed Loring with that strong even stare.
“Let me tell you about security at Blackbone,” he said. “We’re holding just shy of two hundred thirty German officers, all of them potential security risks. We’re off the beaten path for good reason—to keep these people isolated. We’re so far out in the sticks that even nosy congressmen tend to stay away. So, if somebody wanders in wanting a little chat with our prisoners, our curiosity gets aroused. Now... these papers indicate I should extend you my unquestioning cooperation, but they are signed by some State Department official who happens to be unknown to me, not by my commanding officer. Are you getting my drift?”
Loring nodded. “Ground rules—I come clean with you and maybe I get to do what I have to do.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.” Gilman extended a pack of cigarettes. Loring refused. He smiled. “You’re going to have a strange effect on this camp, Miss Holloway. These men—on both sides of the wire—haven’t seen a female in a long time.”
“I got that impression.”
“They may not handle it very well.”
“And how about you, Major? Can you handle it?”
“Why are you here?”
“I have to interrogate Leutnant Rolf Kirst.”
“About what?”
“Why don’t you sit in on the interview?”
Gilman watched her a moment then shrugged. “Well, there’s no rush. Kirst isn’t going anywhere and I’ve had quarters prepared for you. Like to freshen up?”
They stared at each other. Loring worried that Gilman wanted the time to check her credentials; she worried even more that they wouldn’t stand up under scrutiny.
“The driver told me what happened here last night,” she said, changing the subject. “You must be terribly busy. I really think delay would waste time for both of us, don’t you?”
“I’ve got everything under control.”
Loring wanted to slap him. He was so right: he had her boxed in. But there was one more question she felt compelled to ask. “Was Kirst involved in the incident last night?”
She hoped that would shake him. But he looked at her steadily a moment then said, “Did you expect him to be?”
Loring stood up. Gilman rose with her. “What are you?” he asked. “A diplomat? Foreign national? Red Cross?”
She shook her head. “After I’ve spoken with Kirst, I’ll explain everything to you.” That seemed a fair enough bargain to her. She could tell it didn’t satisfy him, but at least she was admitting there was more to be revealed.
Finally, Gilman smiled graciously and said, “Come on, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
She followed him out of the building and down to a stairway entrance at the back. There were more MPs outside now and Loring felt at least a dozen pairs of eyes dart over various parts of her body. She quickened her step and trod on Gilman’s heels in her haste to stay with him.
Upstairs, he let her into a small room with a cot, a desk with no drawers, a lamp, and a metal clothes rack. “If we’d had some advance warning, we’d have built you a bathroom, Miss Holloway,” Gilman said. “As it is, you have an interesting choice. The latrine is outside; I’m sure the men would appreciate the company. But I recommend my bathroom down the hall, marked Commandant’s Closet. It has a lovely shower.”
“Thank you, Major. I shall always remember your generosity.”
“I’ll have the bellboy bring up your luggage. Please return to my office when you’re ready.” He went out and shut the door.
Loring had a fleeting worry that Gilman might inspect the contents of her luggage. One look at the reading matter she was toting and he would definitely send her packing. She sat on the cot, feeling more alone than on the train. Now she was here, and ultimately she would have to put her trust in Gilman, but he seemed as narrow-minded and unbending as an anteater.
“I think she ought to keep out of sight, sir. Not only will she provoke our men, but she’s bound to get the Germans excited.” Hopkins had caught Gilman coming down the steps and was following him back to his office.
“I appreciate your concern, Hopkins, but if our men get out of line, they’ll answer for it.”
“What about the Germans?”
“I don’t imagine they’ll lose their minds over the presence of a woman, do you? What exactly do you envision—having to beat them back from the fence with whips?”
“I’m just thinking of morale, sir—”
Gilman turned on him. “Did you follow through last night?”
“Yes, sir. I contacted CID. They’ll send someone out within a week—”
“A week!”
“They suggest in the meantime we hold Eckmann under observation.”
“Shit... I don’t plan to wait a week to get to the bottom of this.” Gilman frowned and looked up at the second floor of headquarters. He fought an uncomfortable feeling that Loring Holloway might actually have something to do with this.
“What about Schliebert’s body, sir?” Hopkins asked.
“Where is it?”
“Wrapped in sheets over in the supply shed.”
“That’s cold enough. It’ll keep.”
“Not for a week, sir.”
“Have Loats photograph the body, then move it to the dispensary. Borden can perform an autopsy. And get someone to build a pine box.”
“Yes, sir.” Hopkins nodded upstairs. “Have you found out yet what the lady wants with Kirst?”
“She wants to question him.”
“Are you going to let her?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
Gilman went inside. Hopkins stood on the steps, sucking in cold air, frowning suspiciously. State would never send a woman to do a job like this. They would send a smooth, faceless cop type, somebody like himself, somebody who knew how to get answers. Somebody forbidding. Miss Holloway looked anything but forbidding.
“He was crazy, that Eckmann. And it got worse the last few weeks. I watched him.” Hoffman held forth in the POW mess hall, spearing sausages from a platter and wolfing them down. With his mouth full, he continued, “He would sit on the toilet and read those letters with his hand buried in his pants.”
‘‘Exercising his muscle,” Dortmunder added.
Not everyone laughed. Schliebert had friends, even if Eckmann had few. They threw Hoffman some filthy looks.
“Ach, Schliebert,” Hoffman said, his voice dripping with pity, “the only one innocent in all of this.”
“Wonder why he picked Schliebert,” Dortmunder mused.
Voices erupted. Arguments about Eckmann, about Schliebert, threats against Hoffman and Dortmunder.
Steuben shot to his feet.
“Achtung!”
he yelled.
Chairs skidded back. Feet scuffled. The men rose, instantly responding to his command. The room fell silent. They stood like statues. Steuben glared at those who had been squabbling.
“We are all here together,” he said. “All Germans. Not separated into Luftwaffe, Army, Navy, SS, crazy and sane, masturbators and ascetics! We are men, and we all have weaknesses! Eckmann was hounded by certain men in this room because, in order to fight his loneliness, he retreated into fantasies about his wife! And
we
made him the butt of jokes!” His gaze flicked from table to table. “I am sorry for Schliebert, but I am also sorry for Eckmann. And the men who made those jokes I personally find
dishonorable.”
There was silence and a few downcast looks. Hoffman stared ahead stiffly, burning with resentment, knowing he was being singled out, his mind searching for a scapegoat outside himself and deciding that this camp was to blame, this prison, this suffocating, demoralizing existence that he hated with all his being. Out—he wanted out! He glanced at Dortmunder, whose eyes were fixed on the sausage platter.