Emanations of Hate
Chapter 10
Dietrich Heidemann had had SS men at his door before. Indeed, it had been two SS men showing up at his door to question him nearly six years before that had cemented his resolve to resist the Third Reich. The very idea that the state would send thugs, during peacetime no less, to interrogate a harmless naturalist who had broken no laws and could pose little threat, was not merely offensive, but frightening in its implications. After he began his work with the Resistance, the truth became downright terrifying. It was not so much that he feared being beaten or killed - though of course he did, what sensible person wouldn't - but he feared the costs of failure. Of not being strong enough. Of a mistake that might cost someone their life.
But mostly that the Allies might lose.
Therefore it was naturally a great relief to him when he glanced out the window and saw that the SS man pounding on his door was actually one of Colonel Hogan's men, Sergeant Carter, and that standing behind him was Corporal Newkirk. Walking to the door to let them in, he was again amazed at the difference a simple change of expression could make to someone's appearance. Knowing Carter and Newkirk well, he could still be almost frightened of the hard, grim-faced men that he let into his house.
Once the door was closed he turned to Carter and genially asked, "Was there any need to strike my door so forcefully Sergeant? I just had it repainted last month."
"I am playing a part," Carter answered in a short tone. He did not bother to greet Heidemann. With brisk, Prussian precision he removed his gloves and strode into Heidemann's parlour. Newkirk followed without a word.
So I see, Heidemann thought with some amusement. Hogan had told him of the Sergeant's fondness for losing himself in a role. Smiling, he went into the parlour and offered both men a drink. Newkirk made no response, but to his surprise, the American accepted. He had seen Carter drink beer when he had met him at the Haufbrau once to pass along some information to Papa Bear, but the young man had never before accepted his offer of anything stronger.
"Surely, Sergeant Carter, there is no need to continue playing the part once you've entered my house? If you were afraid of being overheard, or of my house being 'bugged' you would not have admitted to your acting. Unless perhaps it is me that you are trying to intimidate?" he joked, but the joke fell flat.
Carter looked at him. Then half his mouth lifted in a small, tight smile. Dietrich felt a chill. There was something about the way Carter was behaving that was beginning to cause him some disquiet. He remembered Hogan mentioning that Carter tended to overact, but this didn't seem like his usual role. Hogan had said Carter's natural high-strung energy made it easy for him to fake the suppressed insanity of the general Nazi. This? This seemed too contained for the likes of the enthusiastic American. Every movement he made was somehow cold and efficient. Aloof. His voice was strong and resonant. The man before him radiated an authoritative control, right down to the subliminal level.
"Perhaps, George, that's exactly what I'm here to do," Carter said, finally responding.
Heidemann froze. With only one exception, no one had called him that in nearly twenty-four years.
"And really George, you're the last person who should comment about playing a part too long."
"I'm sorry…?" Dietrich started after a moment, trying to feign ignorance. But it was a lame effort and he was disgusted by it. He prided himself on being much quicker on his feet.
"That's really quite alright George. No apologies necessary. I wouldn't dream of expecting you to recognize me under these circumstances. But let's switch to English, shall we? I know that you know how to speak it, and I've certainly had enough of German to not want to speak it unless I absolutely have to."
Puzzled, Heidemann's gaze went from the subdued, almost cowed Newkirk to Carter, who was calmly regarding the drink that he gently turned about in his hand. Another chill went through him. There was something recognizable about this new mannerism of Carter's. Where had he seen it before? Even Carter's inflections and tone of voice - though alien to the Carter he knew - seemed somehow familiar.
"I'm afraid I'm a bit confused. I do recognize you. You're Sergeant Carter, one of Colonel Hogan's men. Standing behind you is Corporal Newkirk. Are you saying that you are someone different?"
"I believe George, that what I'm saying is that we're both someone different."
Irritated, and he hated to admit it to himself, slightly flustered, he said, "Really Sergeant Carter, simply because a man is retired does not mean that he enjoys wasting away his evening listening to enigmatic nonsense."
"Retired Captain Allen? I do wonder. I also wonder that you have no questions concerning my knowledge of your true identity. You were surprised that I knew, you couldn't hide that, but you did not ask me how. Interesting. Does this mean that you've informed the good Papa Bear as to the particulars of your past?" Carter finished his drink. "As to my 'enigmatic nonsense', I will concede I've become a tad melodramatic since…" he stopped, and then smiled, "well, let's just say since I saw you last."
Heidemann realized that Carter had been about to say something else, but had for some reason decided to play with him a bit. The strange sense of familiarity about him grew as well; a familiarity mixed with a growing sense of unease. He felt that perhaps that the reason recognition was eluding him was because it was something that couldn't possibly be. He pulled himself together.
"No, I'm afraid I have not been completely forthcoming to Hogan," he said, for the first time speaking in English, "but it would have been no difficult matter for him to have learned the details from London. Which I will presume he has done since you appear so well informed."
"Ah, so you still believe I'm the American sergeant?"
"I will confess, I'm beginning to have my doubts."
Carter smiled again, but it wasn't Carter's smile that Heidemann saw. "It's good to see age hasn't completely closed your mind George." Then Carter's eyes were shadowed and his voice turned regretful. "That was always the problem before, wasn't it? A closed mind. You just couldn't quite bring yourself to believe me." At that moment Heidemann cursed. He had nearly had it, but then the recognition had flitted out of his grasp. Carter went on, "I never truly understood that. You, who went through the horrors of the first war, could never quite believe in the depths of depravity possible within one single man."
"This is growing tedious Sergeant Carter. Who exactly are you supposed to be?"
"Well now, I suppose we'll have to see just exactly how far this new open-mindedness runs."
Heidemann regarded him levelly, and tried to give the appearance of a man who was growing increasingly bored.
"I'll give you a hint. You'll have to make quite a leap of logic on this one, but perhaps your association with the SPR will make it easier for you."
"The SPR? What in the world is…wait, the Society for Psychical Research? That SPR?"
"Any thoughts? No? Well, no matter." Carter put down his glass and Dietrich sensed that the game had ended. "I'll admit it's been enjoyable to have seen a familiar face, but unlike you Captain Allen, I find that there are limits on my time. So I'm simply going to tell you what I want."
"Please do."
"Schuler."
Dietrich straightened up sharply. He didn't understand why, but alarm bells had started ringing loudly in his head. "Schuler? Major Schuler? What could you…" he trailed off. He had almost missed it, the nearly imperceptible clenching of teeth upon hearing of Schuler's new rank. In less than a second the expression was gone, the face of the man before him so calm that he had to wonder if he had seen it all. He continued to stare at…who? Suddenly the answer exploded in his brain like a torrent of light. He leaped to his feet and recoiled backwards before the words even formed in his mind.
"My God! MY GOD! Townsend? Are you saying that you are GERALD TOWNSEND?"
"I'm very impressed George."
"No…No. No! I don't believe it. This is absolutely ridiculous!"
"Now, now Captain. I would have to think that in your time with the SPR the idea of spectral possession was at least raised."
Heidemann grew very angry. "No, this is not true," he insisted. "It's utter nonsense, and what's worse, it's pointless and cruel. You can be sure that Colonel Hogan is going to hear about this, Sergeant Carter."
"And will you be telling him in English or in German?" Once again meditating on the glass that he twisted gently in his hand, he didn't even bother to look at Heidemann as he said this. It was of no concern to him what the German impostor and the American Colonel might talk about. He raised his eyes and continued. "A bit different when it's right in front of you isn't George? Pity. Why fight it though? We both know you do believe."
And - God help him - he did. The disdainful man sitting in his chair was as different from the exuberant Carter as could be imagined. What's more, an icy hand seemed to wrench at his insides as he realized that "Carter" had been speaking to him with a British accent for heaven knew long, and he hadn't even noticed.
"However, I find that I no longer have the inclination to argue the point," Carter/Townsend went on, "so I'll put it to you this way: I know both your secret and Hogan's. I want Schuler. If you won't give me the information I want, I'll be forced to deal with someone who will. Perhaps, for instance, that irritating little Gestapo major who's so obsessed with Hogan and his organization." Actually, he could simply take the information from Heidemann's head, but it would be easier if it was volunteered. He would if it became necessary, but Heidemann had a strong mind and it would weaken him to do so.
"Hochstetter? You would really go to Hochstetter?
"I'm sure that for the right price, I'd have Schuler's head on a silver platter by tomorrow morning. But I'd rather not go that way. I look at things from a vastly different perspective now it's true - patriotism does mean so little when you've passed on - but I'd still rather we won than the Germans. And I'd hate to make the young man a traitor after he's been so helpful," he said, gesturing at his outward appearance. Then he leaned forward and locked eyes with Heidemann. His voice was cold and ominous.
"However, make no mistake. I want Schuler badly. Now."
Heidemann sat down. He was still uncertain, but no longer wished to show it. He forced his voice to be just as detached as Townsend's. "That would seem reasonable. After all, you don't appear to be well." Strange that he hadn't noticed it before, but his opponent's complexion was an awful waxy colour.
But Townsend only leaned back and laughed. "George, George, George! Of course I'm not well. I'm dead! It's the young fellow here who's failing." He waved a hand towards Newkirk, who had remained silent and motionless since he had entered Heidemann's home. "I don't suppose that one is having a particularly pleasant time of it either."
Despite the resolution he had made a minute ago to no longer show himself at a disadvantage, Dietrich Heidemann could not disguise the horror he felt at this revelation. "Good God! Are they still in there? What are you doing to them? Are you hurting Carter? Do you plan to kill him?"
"Certainly not. Provided, at least, that he can hold out until I finish what I have to. If he can, then of course I'll let him go. If he can't…well yes, that would be regrettable wouldn't it?"
"This doesn't sound like you Gerald. You were always a controlled man, but you were never this cold. This unfeeling. How can you so callously talk about letting this poor, innocent man die? And what about Corporal Newkirk? What are you doing to him?"
"At the moment Corporal Newkirk is relatively fine. Quite tired, I should imagine, and not under his own control, but otherwise fine. You might say he's more of an insurance against Sergeant Carter not being able to hold out until the end. Should the Sergeant collapse, it wouldn't do to be caught short, so to speak."
"Caught short? Gerald, how can I believe this is you? These are good men. Good men who are fighting our enemies! How can you speak of them in this manner?"
"As I said before George, I look at things from a different perspective now. Death changes things. Besides, they're still fighting our enemies, simply under my direction rather than Hogan's. Fighting men like Schuler is what they're here for after all. They should know the possible consequences. Really, I don't see the problem here. All I'm asking for is some information. In return I keep a few secrets, and when I succeed I let these two deserving men go on about their lives. Why are you balking at this?"
"I'm balking because you are manipulating two friends of mine as if they were nothing more than tools to be used and tossed aside! I'm balking because you've threatened others who are not only friends, but who are risking their lives to bring down our enemies. I'm balking because you want to make me, and them, party to an assassination all to achieve your own revenge!"
"My revenge!" Townsend bellowed as he leaped to his feet. "For the love of GOD! How can you still not see? How is it possible that you still do not believe? This is not about petty revenge. Even this farm boy could see the truth!" In the space of a second he had gone from smug to enraged; such an extreme mood swing convinced Heidemann that it was entirely possible that death had driven his former friend insane. But then dying would be a fairly traumatic event, wouldn't it?
"Gerald, I do believe you. I believe now what you told me about all those years ago. I do. But let's not lie to ourselves, shall we? I believe revenge is a very large part of your motivation."
Dietrich Heidemann was a tall man, and well muscled for one his age, and therefore his amazement when the slight man in front of him grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet as if he weighed no more than a child was indescribable. But that was nothing compared to the cold terror he felt when he realized that he was paralysed in Townsend's grasp.
Townsend did not have to yell and yet the fury resounded in his voice. "My motivations are irrelevant! When I destroy this abomination, how many lives will I have saved? I thought you were strong back then. A man to be admired. I thought that you demanded proof because you had the strength of will to keep believing in the good of people, that you would not be swayed by emotion. I thought that you were grossly wrong about Schuler of course, but I admired you as a man concerned with justice. But you're nothing more than a coward hiding behind convention, behind rules and formalities, afraid of doing what needs to be done. How much evil has Schuler done since then? How much barbaric cruelty and suffering has he been allowed to inflict since then? How many deaths could have been prevented if you had only believed me?
In a flash, Townsend moved his hand to clutch Heidemann by the neck and pounded the older man violently against the wall. "THINK OF THAT!" he screamed, "THINK OF HOW MANY DEATHS CAN BE LAID AT YOUR FEET OF CLAY!" Still holding him off the floor by the neck, Townsend pulled him forward and then thrust him mightily against the wall again. "AND THEN YOU CAN PRESUME TO QUESTION MY MOTIVATIONS!"
In the end, Dietrich told him. Emotionally, the years since Gerald Townsend had disappeared had been very hard. Harder than he thought was fair for someone at his time of life. And, like the fleeting dreams of a man's "golden years", there were illusions he simply no longer had the strength to muster. He believed Townsend's stories, and though they made him sick at heart, he wished with his very soul that he had been strong enough to believe them then. If he had, maybe Townsend would still be alive. Maybe Andrew Carter and Peter Newkirk wouldn't be in the danger that they were in.
And maybe years worth of Schuler's "experiments" wouldn't have happened.
Townsend's words had cut through him, but he had not been surprised at them. When Townsend had said them out loud, he had recognized them as accusations he had unconsciously made to himself, and had then buried, unlooked at, deep inside. He nearly laughed as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. All the mistakes, all the acts of weakness that he had daily feared committing since joining the Resistance - they had already happened. Had taken place years ago, and had created in their wake an inevitable and increasingly terrible chain of events. He pondered what his Irish uncle had told him a lifetime ago: Every day brings pain and then the last one kills.
As he drank, he began to weep.
The English corporal drove them quickly through the ever-darkening night. Racing towards his prey, Gerald Townsend experienced less satisfaction than he thought he would at the near culmination of a mission that had enslaved him even after death. Irritated, he discovered that he felt a sense of regret in regards to his behaviour towards George Allen. Petty games had once been beneath him, certainly blackmail had. And would he really have invaded George's mind to find the information he needed? George, his only ally in those final dark days? It hardly seemed an honourable or just course of action. Wasn't justice what this was all about?
He chided himself for falling victim to useless distractions. Of course justice was what it was about. And if he got revenge at the same time, what of it? All of his arguments to George were valid. Schuler needed to be stopped. And George had finally seen that. He had not had to invade his friend's mind because George had been reasonable. In the end, George had understood the truth of what he was doing.
He had never truly felt any doubts as to the correctness of his intentions, but with this thought, he felt a new surge of righteousness in believing that his formerly sceptical friend had come around to see the morality of his actions. He was fortified by the new sense of purpose that came over him. As the English corporal drove them up to the gates of the fine house Amon Schuler now owned, two guards stepped out.
"Shoot them," he ordered, as serenely as any zealot on a divine mission.
