Russian Front, 1943

Lieutenant Albert Strauss had been recalled to Berlin, and there wasn't a soul in the unit who wasn't half dead with envy. But then again, there wasn't a soul in the unit who wasn't half dead, full stop. Lange was no exception.

"How did he manage it?" he asked, mostly rhetorically. "If he had the sort of powerful friends who could arrange a transfer like this, he would never have been sent here in the first place."

A young major who had had a promising future ahead of him before making the mistake of being on the staff of a now-disgraced general answered. "He was one of seven children. Patriots all. Six have died in glorious combat, dulce et decorum est. Bringing him back home will look good on the newsreels."

"I've got two brothers, and if it would get me a ticket out of Russia, I'd kill them myself," said a captain, with a harsh laugh.

Lange snorted. "I was an only child before the war even started. Perhaps I should be sent home, too." As he thought about that, his eyes hardened. "So poor little Strauss has no family left?"

"Doesn't sound like it," shrugged the major. "Of course, if the rest of them were anything like our Strauss, they're no great loss to anyone."

"Agreed," said the captain, and the conversation drifted sideways to dwell lovingly upon each and every flaw in Strauss's character. They didn't even notice that Lange had left until fifteen minutes after he'd gone, at which point they began discussing his shortcomings. So it was a pleasant day for all concerned.

Lieutenant Albert Strauss got on the troop train that afternoon, exactly as scheduled. So he missed the flurry of excitement that evening, when it was discovered that some poor sod had somehow stepped on a landmine sometime that day. They found a few bits of him—a left arm wearing a wristwatch they all recognized as Lange's, part of a torso with colonel's insignia, and such. His comrades, devastated, mourned for nearly thirty seconds before realizing that they were now collectively heir to the nearly full bottle of schnapps he'd kept in his tent. It was fairly good schnapps, and they enjoyed it immensely. Which was probably a better epitaph than he'd deserved.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1946

Stephens leaned forward. "What do you want me to say, Newkirk? That I'm sorry things happened the way they did? I am sorry. I never intended this to happen. You've been through hell, and I can't blame you for being angry about it. But be fair. I'm not entirely to blame, either. I'm not the one who asked you to do that damned broadcast. General Hogan did that."

"Just so," Newkirk said. "The Colonel asked me to do it. Maybe he was wrong to ask it. And maybe I was wrong to agree. But he asked. He gave me the choice. And when he found out what had come of it, tell me this—how long did he wait before putting his career and his neck on the line to try making it right? Tell me. Was it five minutes? Ten? I can promise you this much—it wasn't eight bleeding months! And it wasn't because it suddenly struck him that there was a little more he could wring out of me, neither."

Stephens didn't reply.

"Where've you been all this time? Eight months, Stephens. Eight months. Where were you when there was even the slightest chance of convincing me that I hadn't been sucked dry and spat out?"

"Nuremberg, for a start," said Stephens, and pulled another, thicker, file folder from his briefcase. He tossed it onto the cot; it landed with a dull thump on top of the envelope of identity papers. "And quite a number of other places, really."

"What's this?"

"It's a very small fraction of the evidence I've spent the last year helping the prosecutors assemble. It's the merest taste of the sort of evil I want you to help me eradicate. This is my purpose in life now, Newkirk. And I want it to be yours, as well."

Newkirk didn't even glance towards it. "I'm not interested. I don't care what you want. I still have the power to say no. I'm saying it."

"Do you have any reason for saying it, or is it entirely a matter of spite?"

"It's one bitter scrap of victory from the jaws of defeat. I have nothing left to lose, which, oddly enough, gives me something of an advantage. You can't force me to help you. And I can't force you to let me at least try to get on with my life. However, I can force you to be rid of me, and this time you don't get to pretend your hands are clean. I can't win this game, but I can make sure you lose it."

"And you don't think that's just a bit childish?"

"Oh, it certainly is. Your point?"

"My point is that I'm not the one you'd be punishing. Hate me if you must, but whatever you decide, do it for the right reasons. As you say; you really don't have anything more to lose, and you'll never know how sorry I am about that. But Newkirk…" Stephens waved towards the door, one sweeping gesture indicating the rest of the world. "They do."

Silence.

"We need your help, Newkirk, before we all end up right back where we started. I'm not asking you to serve a country, or a government. I'm not even really asking you to help me. I'm asking you—I am begging you—to help humanity. To save the people."

"The 'people' would come to my execution with a bag of peanuts and cheer themselves hoarse," Newkirk said. "Why should I care what happens to them?"

"Because this is what you are, Newkirk," said Stephens. "This has always been what you are."

He looked at his hands for a moment. "And what's that, then? The most patriotic traitor in history? A useful tool? Or just a sneak and a liar?"

"Neither. You're a guardian," Stephens said. "A protector. This is what you do; this is what you're meant for, because you don't know how to do anything but put yourself between the innocent and harm. That file folder contains both. Please. Just look at it. If you still want to leave after that, I give you my word of honor that you will never hear from me or any of my colleagues ever again."

Newkirk looked down at the file folder as though he expected it to do something. He flicked it open, skimmed the first couple of pages. "These are bad people," he said meditatively.

"They are," Stephens agreed. This was Newkirk's real pressure point; he was wary enough to refuse carrots and tough enough to shrug off sticks. But show him someone helpless, show him a wrong to right, and you had him. When it came to this sort of psychological trap, Newkirk was good.

Stephens was better.

Newkirk turned another page. This one had photographs. He managed not to flinch, but it took some effort. "…There's a place in hell for manipulative bastards like you," he said after a moment.

"I don't doubt it," Stephens said blandly. "But that's neither here nor there."

There was a long silence. Newkirk flipped through a few more pages, examined a few more photographs. Each was worse than the last.

Then he got to the page with the pictures of children.

Hogan had called for volunteers any number of times. Almost invariably, Newkirk had been the last of the group to agree to whatever reckless, improbable scheme the Colonel had in mind that time, and had proudly cited his own cowardice as the reason for that.

It had been a lie. It had always been a lie, and he'd known it from the start. He hadn't been struggling to say 'yes' against his better judgment; more often than not, he'd been trying to convince himself to heed that better judgment and say 'no.' He'd never quite managed it then, and he wasn't managing it now. He closed the folder, took a deep breath.

"What do you want me to do?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1968

London was bedecking itself in holly and tinsel, just like it did every year, and Newkirk was trying to ignore it… just like he did every year. He'd had to walk past two Christmas tree lots just to get to the office, and dodge three separate men dressed like Father Christmas and clanging handbells, and, frankly, it was not making him feel especially jolly.

Kay had beaten him to work that morning, and she looked about the way he felt. She was sitting slumped at her desk, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, staring balefully into the depths.

"Morning, luv," he said. Not 'good' morning, which would have been a lie, but no one could deny that it was, in fact, before noon. It would have to do.

"Morning," she agreed, just as unenthusiastically.

"What's eating you?" he asked, picking up his own mug and filling it.

"Hanukkah," she said grimly.

"What's that when it's at home?"

"Being at home is the whole problem. It's a holiday, and it's a lot like the Spanish Inquisition, except with appetizers. My aunt will have invited everyone she knows, and every unmarried man that everyone she knows can think of, for the dual purposes of celebrating the holiday and seeing how long it takes me to crack."

He couldn't help himself; he laughed. "Kay, I've seen you face down the Stasi, the KGB, and me with a hangover. And I don't think I've ever seen you look as scared as you do this minute."

"Very funny. I can't face spending another holiday sitting next to whoever they've dredged up this time while my aunt gives me meaningful looks. Remember Istanbul? The whole time they were pushing those bamboo shoots under my fingernails, I was thinking, well, things could be worse; I could be making small talk with Myron Goldstein the dentist instead."

"Your sense of proportion never ceases to amaze me."

"You haven't lived through my aunt's attempts at matchmaking. You'd prefer the bamboo shoots, too."

"I'll take your word for it. So what's this holiday all about?"

"It's commemorating an ancient miracle, when an evil king tried to kill all the Jews and didn't manage it."

He frowned. "That's what you said the other holiday was about, the one at Easter time, when you brought in the coconut macaroons. And the one where you brought in those little triangular jam biscuits."

"Spend three thousand years running from one angry mob into the arms of another, and your holidays acquire a certain theme. In a few centuries there will probably be another holiday to celebrate the end of the Holocaust, with a special kind of biscuit all its own, and then they can use that new holiday as an occasion to torment their unmarried female relations."

"Sounds festive. What sort of biscuits might we be talking about?"

"Not a clue. I'll take a poll. There will be about two dozen people at the party, so that will mean about three dozen opinions. It might distract them from my marital prospects."

"You're sure this Myron chap is worse than the bamboo shoots?"

"Quite sure. If you don't believe me, come see for yourself," she said.

He blinked. They had never done the whole 'awkward introductions to the extended family' bit, and it had never occurred to him that they might. But then again, he reasoned, this was nothing they hadn't done before, on any number of deep-cover assignments. She needed backup; that was what partners did. "Sounds charming. I'd love to. When and where?"

Her head jerked up. "What? Penny, I was joking. You don't have to do this."

"No, but helping you dodge all your prospective suitors will be a great deal less trouble then helping you dispose of the bodies of the ones who won't take no for an answer." He grinned at her. "Just tell me what I need to do. I've never celebrated a Jewish holiday before."

"It's a very religious festival. Strict rules. First of all, my aunt will have made more food than you've ever seen in one place, and you will have to eat as much of it as humanly possible. Or perhaps a bit more than that. While drinking whatever my uncle pours into your glass, and there will be a lot of that, too."

"I think I can handle all of that. Is there anything else?"

"Not much. We'll light some candles, sing some songs, there's a gambling game with wooden tops that usually lasts about five minutes, and then we'll all eat a little more food just to make sure that we haven't missed anything. After that, you'll go home to sleep off the aftereffects of too many potato pancakes, and I'll be put under the bright lights and grilled about how serious it is and whether we're going to raise the children Jewish."

The first few sentences had sounded rather nice. The last bit drove the rest of it out of his head. He stared at her midriff in undisguised panic. "…Children?!"

"Hypothetically speaking," she said. "Deep breaths, Penny. It's nice of you to offer, but I told you, you don't want to do this."

"Do you not want me there?"

The tips of her ears got pink. "I didn't say that."

"All right, then. When and where?"

*.*.*.*.*.*

Accordingly, three days later, they made their way to Golders Green. She turned to him as they approached the building. "Last chance," she warned, with a wry smile. "There's still time for you to make a break for it. Save yourself while you still can."

Unusually for her, she'd left her hair free and loose; it hung halfway down her back like black silk, in a way he'd rarely seen it. She had an extensive repertoire of knots and braids and coronets, anything to keep it well out of her way while they were working, and even when falling asleep at night, she usually kept it tightly braided in an uncomplicated single fat plait. He'd asked her once if it wouldn't make more sense to keep it short. He never intended to ask her again.

"Never leave a man behind, isn't that what they say? Besides, we're already here. In for a penny, in for a pound."

*.*.*.*.*.*