The Eastern Front(126)

Still, despite the discomfort of the moment, Jozef was in excellent spirits. The solution had come to him before he'd even left Schwerin's city limits.

Dresden, of course. What better place for a Polish spy to hide in the USE at the moment? It would the last place they'd ever think to look.

It would be pleasant, too. He'd been to Dresden on three occasions and liked the city.

More than anything, Jozef Wojtowicz dreaded tedium. At least the time he spent in Dresden would be interesting.


Linz, Austria

Janos Drugeth lounged on the river bank, gazing at the Danube. He always found the sight of moving water soothing, for some reason.

He needed soothing, at the moment. He'd decided to take a break from his exhaustive and seemingly endless round of discussions with the officers in command of the Austrian forces stationed in Linz. He'd forgotten how set in their ways garrisons could be. You'd think that sort of rigid and routinized thinking wouldn't infect soldiers who would be the first to feel the blows if Wallenstein invaded. But it did.

It was probably the pastries, Janos thought. They were certainly delicious. An officer who ate such pastries every morning and evening of every day of the year—which most of them did, judging by their waistlines—was probably bound to lapse into a sugary view of the world.

Surely the Bohemians would share that outlook, and not invade. They had excellent pastries in Prague as well.

Janos had brought a tablet and a pen with him. Sitting up straight, he brought them out and began composing a letter to Noelle. He was doing so simply because he felt like it. He wouldn't be able to post the letter for a while since he had no idea where she was at the moment. Possibly Magdeburg, possibly Prague, possibly Grantville.

That she might be in Dresden never crossed his mind at all. Noelle was a sensible woman. Why would she choose to be in a city that was clearly on the edge of chaos and ruin?





Chapter 41


Zielona Góra

"It happened weeks ago!" Thorsten Engler was a very even-tempered man, but he was feeling decidedly peevish at the moment. You could even say, angry.

"Weeks," he repeated.

The radio operator who'd handed him the message was looking simultaneously apprehensive and indignant, the way a man will when he can see he's about to get blamed for something that was no fault of his own.

Jason Linn put a hand on Engler's shoulder. Not to restrain him, simply to remind him that there was an external world that had an objective reality outside of the swirling furies of his mind.

"Captain, there's no sense in yelling at Corporal Schwab. He's just the one the message passed through."

Schwab gave Linn a quick, thankful glance. For his part, Thorsten took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then let it out slowly. He'd first discovered that technique for controlling his temper at the age of six.

"Indeed," he said stiffly. Just as stiffly, he gave the corporal a nod. "Thank you for bringing me this message, Schwab. You may go."

After Schwab left, Thorsten lifted the message sheet above his head, as if to slam it down somewhere. But, again, he took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it out slowly. Then, quite gently, he set the message down on a table in the officers' mess. The table was one of several that had been brought into the large main room of a house very close to the city's center. It was called the "officers' mess," but it was open to what you might call established sergeants like Jason.

Shaking his head, Thorsten pulled out a chair and sat down.

"I can't believe they didn't tell me right away. That was weeks ago."

Jeff Higgins came into the mess. "What was weeks ago?"

"Caroline was there—in Stockholm. When the queen was assassinated and Kristina almost was."

Higgins frowned. "I thought you knew that already."

"Of course I knew. But I didn't know what had happened to her. She was often at Kristina's side. Was she hurt? Killed? There was no news! And with those people in Stockholm, I could hardly assume that no news was good news." The term those people could have been milked for venom.

Jeff pursed his lips. "Um . . . Yeah, I see what you mean. They're still pretty traditional up there. That's a polite way of saying ‘medieval.' If you're not royalty, nobility or at the very least some sort of official, nobody will think to mention that ‘oh, yeah, and Joe the Butcher got killed too.' I take it she is okay? Caroline?"

"Yes, she's fine. As it happens—thank God—she wasn't at the site of the crime when it happened. She was still in her room, packing."

Like many down-timers who associated with Americans a lot, Thorsten was more relaxed about blasphemy than most. Eric Krenz had practically turned it into a art form.