at me. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Or what?” I ask. “You’ll shoot me? You should have done that when you had the chance. You won’t get a second one.”
Before he can answer, I lift my torso and grasp him around the chest, pulling him down toward me. My right leg traps his left foot while I hook my right arm over his shoulder. Then I push up on my left foot while swinging my left arm over. The next moment, our positions are reversed and I’m the one on top.
“I guess you were too busy riding horses to get in many street fights,” I say.
He surprises—and annoys—me by laughing. Then he says, “You’d better hurry up and decide what you’re going to do next, because those people you want so badly are getting away.”
That’s when I realize that Sauer and the girl have disappeared. I can hear their footsteps in the hallway, so I know I still have time to catch them. But only if I go now. I look down at the man—a boy, really, or at least not much older than me. I don’t know what he’s doing here. Is he working with Sauer? Do the Americans (I assume he’s American because of his uniform and accent) want the man too? Or is he somehow connected to the girl?
“What’s the matter?” the soldier says. “You trying to decide whether to kiss me or kill me?”
I pick up his gun, which is on the floor beside us. “I’ve decided,” I say, pointing the pistol at him.
He doesn’t flinch. “Come on,” he says. “You wouldn’t shoot a guy on Christmas Eve, would you?” Then his eyes flick to the bodies already on the floor. “Actually, I guess you would.”
I probably should kill him, just to be safe. Unlike the MGB agents, however, I don’t think he’s a real threat, just an inconvenience. A GI who happens to be in the wrong place. Besides, there are those blue eyes that make me think of a place I love. For this small gift, I will spare him. “Merry Christmas,” I say, and bring the gun down on his temple. His body slumps beneath me as he passes out.
I scramble to my feet and run after Sauer and the girl, who are trying their best to get away from me. They’ve already reached the first floor. But they don’t run out the now-open front door. Instead, they run for the kitchen at the rear of the house. I assume that they’re going to try to escape through a back entrance. They won’t.
What they don’t know is that I don’t want to have to kill them. They’re worth much more to me alive. To me and my entire line. If Sauer really has the information that we believe he does, it could change everything about how Endgame is played—that is, when it finally begins. And whoever controls that information might just be unstoppable.
The MGB agents were not lying when they said that Sauer used to work for the Nazis. Whether he agreed with their politics or not is another story, but that doesn’t concern me. I’m only interested in what he knows. The Minoans don’t believe other lines are aware of Sauer and what he might have discovered while working for the Nazis. But they could be. After all, we aren’t the only ones with agents planted in strategic places. And the American solider I just ran into suggests that some world powers might be interested as well. I obviously know the Soviets want him. Multiple parties looking for him makes sense.
Of course, none of this matters if I can’t get Sauer to cooperate. I was hoping that my killing the MGB agents who came for him would be proof enough that I’m one of the good guys. Then again, maybe I’m not. At least not in Sauer’s eyes. It’s funny how your perspective changes depending on which end of a gun you’re on.
I reach the kitchen in time to see Sauer step through a door to a pantry. The girl is ahead of him. “Run, Lottie,” he shouts as he pulls the door closed. “Go now!”
He’s holding the door shut from the other side. Or trying to. I step back and aim a kick at the handle. The wood splinters as Sauer cries out. I kick it again, and it flies open. Inside the pantry, Sauer stands staring at me as, behind him, the girl disappears through another door that was hidden by shelves filled with jarred foods. A secret passage.
Sauer turns, grabs a jar of pickled beets, and hurls it at me. I dodge, and it hits the wall behind me, shattering and staining the wallpaper with red juice. He grabs another jar, and another. He’s panicking. This gives me an advantage over him.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and calm, as if I’m speaking to a frightened animal. I set the American’s gun on a nearby tabletop and hold my hands up to show him that I’m now unarmed, at least as far as he knows. In reality, I remain as deadly as ever. “I want to help you,” I continue. “I can get you out of Berlin. You and the girl. To safety.”
He pauses, a jar in his hand. “Who are you?” he asks.
“A friend,” I tell him.
“Some friend,” says a voice from the hallway.
I turn and see GI Joe standing there. He’s holding my own gun, and it’s pointed at me.
“I figured since you coldcocked me with mine, you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed yours,” he says. Then, addressing Sauer, he says, “She’s going to turn you over to the Soviets. They have a bounty on your head, and she plans to collect it.”
I see Sauer’s face contort in fear. Then, with a glance at the American, he throws the jar of sauerkraut in his hand at my head. I duck. Sauer turns and darts into the opening behind him. He pulls the shelves shut with a bang. I start to run after him, but a bullet whizzing past my head stops me. It just misses, and inside the pantry, several jars of pickles meet their deaths.
“I missed on purpose,” the soldier says. “Next time I won’t. Now turn around.”
I do as he says. But even as I do, my mind is working out my options, formulating a plan. “He’s getting away,” I say.
“That’s kind of the idea,” he tells me. “Well, the idea is for him to get away from you. I can find him again.”
He sounds sure of this, and I wonder why. Was he assigned to protect Sauer and the girl? But then why did they run away when we were fighting? If they were so sure of him, wouldn’t they stay? Maybe, I think, he wasn’t protecting them; maybe he was waiting to claim them for himself. Still, I can’t help but be impressed by his confidence. Also by the fact that he came to much sooner than most people would have after I’ve hit them.
“Why don’t we start by you telling me exactly who you are?” he says. “I made up that stuff about the Soviets, although it’s obviously true that they want him, right?”
There’s no point in lying about this because he’s going to be dead in a minute, so I nod.
“But you’re not Russian, are you?”
“No,” I tell him. “I’m not.”
“And I don’t think you’re German,” he says. “So what are you? French?”
I snort. I wonder what he would say if I told him I was Minoan. Would he even know what that means? Instead, I say, “I’m Greek.”
“Greek?” he repeats. “How about that. Well, I guess Greece has no love for the Nazis either.”
This is true. Hitler’s army did untold damage to my country and
