He felt his heart sink as the leader took their papers into a small building. He’d check the seals and watermarks, of course, but would he call Germanica? The papers were genuine — he’d used the SS’s own equipment to produce them — yet there would be no records of their existence in Germanica. How could there be? And now, with Berlin no longer in the business of issuing SS papers…
The stormtroopers still didn’t look concerned. Horst kept his expression blank, silently cursing the SS’s mania for bureaucratic excess. Paperwork wasn’t just duplicated and stored at two separate locations; it was copied and distributed around the Reich. One simply could not escape paperwork. Their papers, if they had been genuine, would have at least a dozen copies scattered around Germany East. And it was unlikely they’d just allow them to walk through if there was even a hint of suspicion.
He tensed, covertly studying the nearest stormtroopers. He was good — he knew — he was good — but even Otto Skorzeny would have had problems taking out twelve stormtroopers without being battered into a bloody pulp. And there were other stormtroopers who would come running when they heard the fight. No, they’d walked right into a trap. They’d just have to hope that the jaws weren’t about to spring shut.
The leader strode back, his hands dancing in a pattern Horst knew all too well. He tensed as the stormtroopers lifted their weapons, silently praying desperately that Kurt wouldn’t do anything stupid. Their papers hadn’t passed… and they were in deep shit… but they might just be able to talk their way out of it. And if they couldn’t…
“There’s some confusion over your papers,” the leader said. “Germanica is requesting additional details.”
“We have strict orders to report to the Führer personally,” Horst said. He forced his tone to become as unbending as possible, as if he was the one holding the guns. “We do not have time to delay.”
“We need to take your fingerprints,” the leader said. He didn’t seem inclined to budge. But then, he’d probably run into hundreds of local big-shots who’d tried to bluster their way through the checkpoints. “Once they’re checked against the records, you will be permitted to proceed.”
Horst cursed under his breath as the leader indicated that they should walk towards the nearest building. He had no idea what Kurt’s fingerprints would do, but his would set off red flags. It struck him, suddenly, that they’d outsmarted themselves. If they’d been real Reich Inspectors, it would have been their duty to report any failings to their superiors. The checkpoint guards had to give them the full treatment, even though they were badly outranked. They were definitely in deep shit.
Or perhaps they were already suspicious, he thought, as the stormtroopers fanned out behind them. If someone filed a report…
He glanced at Kurt, desperately trying to think of a plan. But there was nothing. They were outnumbered and outgunned; they’d be shot down before they could get their pistols out of their holsters. Could they try to bribe their way out of trouble? He doubted it — even if the guards had been as venal as a French soldier in North Africa, there were just too many of them to bribe. And besides, they didn’t have anything they could use to bribe the guards…
Kurt looked… concerned. Horst cursed mentally, again. Kurt was a good man, but he didn’t have any real experience in practiced deception — certainly nothing more than the average German citizen. He might break at any moment, getting them both killed…
The stormtroopers grabbed them as soon as they passed through the door. Horst kicked out automatically, but it was too late. His hands were yanked firmly behind his back and held in place while the guards removed his pistol, his dagger and anything else that could be used as a weapon. Beside him, Kurt was getting the same treatment. Horst gritted his teeth as he felt cold metal cuffs being snapped around his wrists and ankles, rendering him helpless. They were trapped.
We should have avoided the autobahns, he thought, numbly. But that would have led to questions we couldn’t answer.
“On your feet,” the leader snarled. “Now!”
Horst tried, but standing upright while cuffed and shackled was impossible. The guards hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the stone fall, their hands poking and prodding at his clothes to ensure that he wasn’t hiding anything. Kurt tried to kick the guards as they lifted him up, which earned him a punch in the belly that left him choking as they pushed him up, next to Horst.
The leader glared at Horst, then at Kurt. “Who are you?”
“Inspectors Johann Peltzer and Fritz Hanstein,” Horst said. Could they still bluff their way through? It didn’t seem likely, but he had to try. “This…”
“We checked the numbers on your papers against the records in Germanica,” the leader snapped, angrily. “They don’t exist. So why do you exist?”
“We report directly to the Führer,” Horst bluffed. “Our records are sealed.”
“There would be a number,” the leader said, dryly. “Even if it was attached to a classified file, there would be a number.”
He nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward and slammed a haymaker into Horst’s jaw. Horst moved backwards automatically, but it was too late. The blow cracked his head against the stone wall. Beside him, Kurt took another punch to the chest, leaving him retching helplessly. Absolute despair threatened to overcome him as the guards picked up their batons, clearly preparing to hand out a savage beating. They’d failed. There was no hope of reaching Germanica now, certainly not as prisoners. And if they’d found his real records, they’d be very careful not to give him even the slightest chance to escape.
“You have no records,” the leader mused. “And yet, your paperwork is nearly perfect.”
His voice hardened. “You’re from the rebels.”
Horst said nothing. His training had taught him not to tell his captors anything, even when it was clear that his captors already knew. Weakening once — even slightly — could open a crack in his armour, a crack that could eventually be used to break his resistance completely. But he knew, deep inside, that he had lost. They’d be taken to Germanica and executed, no matter what they said or did. Holliston would certainly want to make sure that Horst, a man who had betrayed the SS, would be brutally punished. The only consolation was that it probably wouldn’t be public.
The guards closed in, bringing their batons down time and time again. Horst fought to keep from screaming, silently grateful that his training had taught him how to take punches and handle pain. Indeed, the beating wasn’t anything like as bad as some of the hammerings he’d taken during unarmed combat training. The guards were trained in inflicting pain, but they shied away from anything that might cause permanent damage. And yet…
“You’ll be shipped to Germanica,” the leader said. His voice sounded as though it was coming from a very far distance. “They’ll decide your fate there.”