HS03 - A Visible Darkness by Michael Gregorio Read Free Book Online Page A

sudden halt.
    My travelling companions flew into a fit.
    They leapt down onto the sands before the coach had fully stopped.
    I did not follow, but remained where I was. I was going on to Nordcopp after all, and I dared to hope that the rest of the journey would be more peaceful without them.
    ‘
Les forets!’
one man shouted. ‘
Avez soin des forets!
’
    ‘
Descendez mes instruments trés vite!
’ another voice demanded.
    I heard the studded boots of someone up on the roof, the repeated calls for their valuable cargo to be unloaded, and carefully, too. I stared out through the open window, wondering whether I ought to get down and offer them a hand, but then dark shadows ran into the circle of light that was cast by the coach-lamp. They would have no need of me. Indeed, the local helpers seemed to be more efficient and orderly. A voice stood out above the others, issuingorders in a sharp, commanding tone, while a succession of boxes, packages, bags and more unwieldy objects were handed down from the roof to the hands now reaching up to receive them.
    I took complete possession of the empty vehicle, and closed my eyes.
    ‘Paralysed with fright, are you?’
    The accent was French, though the language was German.
    I opened the eyes. A head was poking in through the door, a dark silhouette against the sulphurous light of a lantern.
    ‘Or are you deaf?’
    Wisps of sea-fog hung about his face and hair like drifting pipe-smoke.
    I sat up quickly. ‘Colonel les Halles is expecting me in Nordcopp,’ I began. ‘The sooner I get there . . .’
    ‘You are there,’ he snapped in bulldog fashion. ‘And I am he. Now, get out quick, monsieur, or that carriage will take you straight to Königsberg.’
    I made haste to jump down from the coach, embarrassed to be told by a Frenchman what a native Prussian might be expected to know. So, this was the ogre that my fellow-passengers had been speaking of, the one with whom General Malaport had told me that I would be required to work.
    He was shorter than myself, more square, robust, rugged. His head was a cube, his close-cropped hair as white as salt. And yet, he was not old. Certainly, he had not passed forty. There was a piercing, challenging, brutal quality to his rude stare, as if he were summing me up for future use.
    ‘Procurator Hanno Stiffeniis,’ I announced. That ‘get out quick’ still stung, and I thought it best to meet his rampant arrogance with disdain.
    ‘I know who you are, monsieur,’ he replied brusquely. ‘I do not know what you may yet be. But we have work to do. The stink of the Baltic Sea will not cover the stench of the
fräulein
for very much longer.’
    He turned away, shouting to the man on the roof of the coach. ‘That drive shaft! Break it, and I’ll break your neck!’
    As I retrieved my leather satchel from the ground, he turned to meet the other new arrivals, informing them that their instruments would be stored in a hut close by, warning them that nothing should be touched without his say-so.
    He exercised authority like a bludgeon.
    ‘Coach clear, Monsieur le Colonel!’ a soldier saluted.
    Les Halles grunted, and waved the man away.
    ‘It’s too late to do anything tonight,’ he said, his voice gruff and low, as if he were accusing us of coming late on purpose, just to frustrate his plans. ‘You’ll start first thing in the morning. We rise at five.’
    He raised his lantern to my face, let out another dismissive grunt, then turned away, stumping off into the fog. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted.
    We trudged after him in silence, each man carrying his bag or valise. It was heavy going; the sand was very fine, damp with fog, and it clung to our boots like lead. A dark structure loomed up suddenly. A wooden hut. There appeared to be others dimly glimpsed in the shifting half-light.
    Colonel les Halles kicked his boot against the frail door.
    ‘
Entrez, monsieurs!
’
    He might have been urging assault troops forward on a suicidal