The Ultimate Secret Read Free Page B

to Ilyanov. “Captain...?”
    The captain sighed, picking an imaginary thread off the cuff of his jacket. “Yes, Ivan. Daria. I knew. Moscow has received reports. About this camp... about camps like it. It’s why we were sent here, instead of regular troops. The Romanovs trust us more. And there are fewer people to talk.”
    “Fewer people to...?” Ivan gaped. “But surely we have to–”
    “To return to the Russian lines and wire our Britannian allies,” Ilyanov interrupted, raising his voice slightly. “To confirm that Auschwitz-Birkenau is a munitions factory as reported, and that we have neutralised it, but cannot spare the men to hold it. To ask them to send an airship to bomb it to the ground; ensure that not one stone is left standing on another.”
    “But we–”
    “Think of it as a burial, Lieutenant. It’s the only dignity these poor souls are likely to receive.”
    “But Captain–”
    “Lieutenant Konstantinov,” Ilyanov said, firmly. “Whatever may yet befall between Germany and Britannia, Poland has already lost this war. The Jews have already lost this war. The resounding defeat of the army that did this is the only punishment we can mete out, and the only satisfaction we can offer.
    “Listen: Russia is now occupying half of Poland, and will, by the time this war ends, have it all. At present, all of Europe is satisfied with this; it is, if you will, Russia’s reward for entering the conflict. If this” – the captain flung his arm out, taking in the camp, the empty dorms and the smoke pouring from the furnace – “became public, there would be more pressure to create a Polish state, to give Poland to the Poles. You would cost the Romanovs their one great coup in this war, and these men and women would be no less dead.”
    Ivan scowled stubbornly. “But if the British found out–”
    The captain threw up his arms in exasperation. “Britannia stands to lose as much as Russia does. The Palestine situation has been on the verge of exploding in their faces for years. What effect do you think this would have?”
    The sound of an engine sputtering to life echoed across the camp from the vehicle shed. Katya had apparently succeeded in finding something.
    “I still don’t like it.”
    Ilyanov rested his hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “If it helps, Ivan, nor do I. I know that the Romanovs are appalled at what has happened here, and I take comfort from that; but I don’t agree with their decision to keep it quiet.
    “But these are our orders, and we will follow them. If they’re right, we may actually be saving lives.”
    The jeep roared as Katya drove through the camp and pulled up in front of them.
     
     
    R OME, T HE S OCIALIST R EPUBLIC OF I TALY, 1998
     
    A LIGHT RAIN had banished the mist by the time Giacomo reached the Campo de’ Fiori, and his habit was getting cold and wet and heavy. It did nothing to dissuade the masked revellers, though, who sang and danced, slipping on the cobbles and laughing.
    He didn’t recognise most of the songs. They sounded revolutionary.
    There was old Giordano Bruno, high and severe on his plinth, peeking out from under his hood. The much newer statue of the American, Doc Thunder, stood in stark contrast opposite him, dressed in his signature lightning-bolt t-shirt, smiling sadly out on the world. Perhaps deliberately, the two appeared to be looking at each other, two giants of rationalism exchanging a glance across the centuries.
    A group of eight young men and women joined hands in a ring around Thunder’s plinth, and were dancing around it, chanting and giggling.
    Giacomo remembered Thunder’s visit to Rome and the Vatican, eight years before. The grainy photo, in all the papers, of Thunder standing with President Perroni, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Thunder kneeling in front of il Papa , asking for his blessing and kissing his ring.
    He’d heard rumours about Doc Thunder, more recently; about his lovers, both male and female. He