Peter Smith stepped out of the bus onto the concrete. He worked his way through the press of morning commuters, muttering apologies as he went.
He pulled the brim of his hat down against the light rain.
Outside the ministry building, Peter stopped to look at the flow of people. The gray of the sidewalk merged with the gray of the people, the buildings, and the overcast sky.
The city hadn't been bombed yet. The buildings, drab and cheerless as they were, still crowded against each other, untouched. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time. Peter knew that it was going to be next week, if the weather permitted.
He pushed through the rotating door into the lobby.
***
The elevator opened onto Peter's floor. He walked past his office to Metzger's at the end of the dingy hall.
Metzger's pretty secretary banged away at her typewriter.
"Good morning Mr. Steinhauer." The secretary greeted him.
"Good morning Frauke. Is Mr. Metzger in yet?"
"He was in his office when I arrived at eight, sir."
So it was going to be an interesting day after all. Peter was glad he finished his presentation the night before.
"I'll just let myself in then."
"I'm sure he won't mind, sir"
Peter stepped past the secretary and opened the wood paneled door.
"Ah, Lukas, there you are. Good." Metzger called through a mouth full of breakfast. "Come in, come in!"
***
"So we really can't afford not to reallocate lead production."
Metzger knit his brows and pursed his lips. Peter's presentation wasn't going over quite as well as he'd hoped.
"If you recall the projections, we'd be better served putting lead in submarine batteries and sinking enemy shipping instead of shooting peasants on the Front."
Metzger tapped his moustache with his index finger.
"How long have you been with the ministry, Lukas?"
Peter smothered a thrill of apprehension.
"A little more than two years, Mr. Metzger."
"And you've done some damned fine work for us in that time."
"Thank you, sir."
Where was this going, Peter wondered.
"I think it's time that we brought your relationship with the ministry and the nation to the next level."
"Sir?"
"I think you're ready to perform an execution."
Peter tried to hide his relief. Just an execution. His cover was still tight.
"You'll need to go down to the detention cells. Ask for cell 5C. The sergeant on duty will know what to do."
"Thank you, Mr. Metzger. I appreciate this. It's truly an honor."
"Don't bother with the formalities, Lukas. We've all done it."
"Yes, thank you again, Mr. Metzger."
"Take as long as you need. Return to your office when you're finished."
***
On the long walk down to the detention area, Peter's relief had time to dissipate. It was such a sick game: round up some poor partisan, torture him, and then have a ministry drone put a bullet in the wretch's head. It gave bureaucrats a taste of death and a chance to demonstrate their commitment. Commandos slashing throats in daring operations behind enemy lines, paper pushers hundreds of miles from the front; no one was immune from the madness. Everyone was bound by blood and by guilt.
They would have someone observe. A petty spy would be peering through a peephole, probably taking notes for Peter's personnel file. The ministry learned a lot about a man by the way he killed another man.
Peter had killed before, but they were moments charged with adrenaline. Survival had been an explicit issue, clear cut. Either he killed or he would be killed. This was like slaughtering an animal.
Peter knew that he could not back down. If he refused, he would be demoted or worse. His mission depended on his continued high-level access. He had been briefed on the execution, planned for it, steeled himself for it. Now he walked the gray halls of the ministry towards it.
***
He reached the detention block and found a bored guard staring at a newspaper.
"I'm here for the prisoner in 5C."
"Ah, yes. They called ahead."
The guard pushed himself out of his chair with a grunt. Peter followed him into the cell block.
The walls and doors were painted a brilliant white. Peter had expected something larger, more foreboding. Instead, the cell block looked like any other corridor in the ministry, except for the white paint. A number was stenciled over the tiny peep hole in each door.
The guard called out the cell numbers as they walked "1A, 2A, 3A", as if he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. A giant key ring jingled with every step he took. Peter wanted to slap the man.
"5C." The guard stopped, hefted his key ring, and began lazily sifting through the mass of keys. Finally picking one out, he unlocked the door.
"Here you go, sir." The guard handed him a pistol. "She's waiting for you."
A woman? Damn. It shouldn't make any difference, a life is a life, but... damn.
"That's the safety. Slide it this way to shoot. There's a round in the chamber and the magazine's full in case you have a misfire," the guard nattered on, "If you pull the trigger and only hear a click, pull up on the toggle here..."
"Yes! I know how to use one."
"Fine." The guard raised his hands and started to walk away, back to his desk.
"Is the prisoner bound?"
"Of course," the guard called over his shoulder.
After a moment, Peter put his eye to the peephole in the door.
The cell was good sized, maybe three meters by four meters. The walls glowed white under an intensely bright fixture in the ceiling. A small figure sat slumped in a chair, facing away from the door, hands bound behind it.
Peter opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him.
He should just take the two steps, point the gun at the back of her head, and get it over with.
"You're here to kill me," the woman rasped.
"How..."
"The guard didn't lock the door behind you. They always lock the door." The woman's voice was hoarse, probably from screaming, but still, there was something familiar in it… and the hair, dark brown, almost reddish under the light, with a slight curl.
He walked to the back of the cell and turned to face the prisoner.
It was Magda. His wife Magda sat in front of him.
What was this? What was she doing here? Was his cover blown?
If the ministry knew, he'd already be dead. They didn't play such games. They would have put a bullet in his head on his walk home. It happened often enough.
So everything must be as it seems, Peter thought.
His handlers had assured him that Magda's expertise was more valuable on the home front than in the field. She should be a thousand miles away from this place, translating enemy dispatches, safe in the countryside, far from bombs and war and death.
Peter felt his throat tighten. He was sweating.
Where was the other peephole in the room? Could they see the moisture on his forehead?
If he did not shoot Magda now, he would be demoted and disgraced. His mission would fail and Magda would die anyway. That disgusting, fat guard would kill her.
What about the cause, the cause that he and his wife were fighting for? He had been fighting to stay alive for so long that he'd almost forgotten about it.
He could take her and run. Damn the cause. He had contacts. Neutral territory wasn't that far away. If they could make it past the guards, past the gates, out of the building... they would be shot down in the street. Maybe he would prefer that to…
She was looking at him. She had been looking at him for some time, time enough to hide her shock.
"They tortured me a little. I'm obviously not important enough to keep around, so now you have to kill me."
It had been nearly three years since he'd last seen his wife. The prison shift she wore didn't conceal the swell of her breasts. He couldn't touch her. He tried to take in every detail.
Peter couldn't breathe.
Her brown eyes were alive beneath the grime on her face.
"You needn't worry. I'm already dead. I died the instant I set foot in this godforsaken country."
She managed half a smile.
"Don't you have important work to do?" She was almost whispering. "Come on and let's get this over with."
Peter blinked away tears.
The pistol felt impossibly heavy as he raised it.
He slid the safety catch off.
Madga closed her eyes. She looked relieved.
The pistol bucked in his hand. The shot surprised him.
Peter dropped the weapon and stepped around Magda's body to the door. He tried to ignore the red flecks on the white paint.
Peter could not cry.
When the bombs fell, when the flames consumed this damned city, then he would let himself cry.
Pakeha