maketh the man
It was funny, Archer muses later. You'd think Huth, of all people, would be happy about it.
They are the same, now. Allied, aligned and just alike. Cut from the same cloth, standing side-by-side under the same flag. Like two silver mirrors set up to face each other, reflecting only darkness.
Archer wears his new allegiances on his sleeve, if not in his heart, and it should be gratifying to see the enemy flying your colours. To the victor the spoils. And Huth had returned to Berlin almost empty-handed, except for one stolen painting and an embittered ex-policeman. Archer supposes that makes him a war trophy, of sorts.
If nothing else, the girls at the dancehall assure him he cuts a fine figure in it.
All clean lines and bridled menace, a silhouette almost sharp enough to draw blood.
Yes, Huth ought to be happy. Because this is what he wanted, after all, isn't it.
What he has worked so hard for.
Isn't it?
But when Archer walked in wearing his new uniform for the first time, what flickered in Huth's eyes was darker and more complicated than triumph, and had nothing to do with happiness.