by Anne Olsen
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the boys (and other characters) more or less intact when I"m finished, honest.
Thanks to: Raletha and Bast for beta reading, suggestions, loads of support and encouragement. I can't begin to express how much I appreciate you guys. *hugs.
Send comments to anneo@paradise.net.nz
Trowa glanced around Michaelskirche [1], the old wooden kneeler creaking in protest against his weight as he slid into the pew next to the confessional box and assumed the correct position for prayer. The small church was fairly empty, not surprisingly, considering Mass had finished a few hours before. The two men outside had glanced up from their conversation, given him the once over, then continued talking, pretending to ignore his presence as he opened the heavy wooden door and entered the red brick building. Those doors could keep out an army, he decided, and probably had at some time in the past. Churches had long been the sanctuaries of those in need.
Trowa lowered his head slightly, pretending to pray as he examined his surroundings in detail, taking note of the possible escape routes he might need. He turned at the sound of voices behind him to observe a young man with a shock of messy dark brown hair nodding in response to something his companion had said. The other man, who appeared to be of Chinese descent, indicated the confessional with a shake of his head, and shrugged. At first impression the two seemed nothing out of the ordinary, but there was something about them which piqued Trowa's curiosity. Whatever they were doing in the church, it certainly wasn't to offer prayer to the God many Germans hoped would help them win the war. Most of the ordinary people of Berlin went about their business totally unaware of the true horrors their Fuhrer was inflicting on others. Although the Jews in Berlin were tolerated slightly better than those in other parts of the country, and indeed in Trowa's own native France, many of those who came to pray would never realise anything was wrong in their own safe little corner of reality. Even if they did, as Quatre had over the past few days, he doubted it would make much difference, but at least it would be a start. Someone had to do something. After all wasn't that the whole reason he had joined the resistance, because he couldn't stand on the sidelines and watch, waiting for someone else to act first?
The first man's head came up and he met Trowa's gaze, returning it with his own stare. Piercing blue eyes sized Trowa up, before his eyes shifted back to the confessional. There was an assuredness in his action, a preciseness, which suggested whoever he was, he was certainly more than just the working class man he appeared to be. Clothes might help disguise a person's true identity, but body language was the key to successfully blending in. To give him credit, the casual observer probably wouldn't have given him a second look, but Trowa was a practised infiltrator whose very survival during the past six months had depended on drawing attention away from himself.
Trowa shifted his observation onto the man's companion. His nationality aside, he projected an air of impatience, with his constant glances towards the front door of the church. There was a Chinese consul in Berlin; either he was an attache or an emigrant from his native land, and Trowa very much doubted the latter. Most non-Aryans were making a point of leaving Germany, even those with mixed blood were leaving the country. The underground passport industry was booming, with a fair portion of those involved doing prison time or being shipped off to the camps for their efforts to get those at risk to relative safety. If he were with the consul it didn't explain why he was making casual conversation with someone who was supposedly merely a working class Berliner.
Trowa checked his watch. According to his instructions he was supposed to attend confession, then await contact by a member of the team sent in to retrieve the plans. It had only been a few minutes past the appointed time; obviously someone had gone ahead of him into the confessional. Perhaps that explained the impatience of the men he'd just been observing. Including whomever they were watching in the confessional, and the two men outside the church, that made five. He hoped these men were more experienced in espionage than present appearances suggested or they were not going to be able to give him the help he required.
His thoughts wandered back to Herr Doktor Winner – Quatre. He felt sorry for the scientist, who was bearing up under the strain extremely well considering he'd had everything he'd ever known pulled out from under him. Trowa couldn't help but admire the blond. He was much braver than he probably gave himself credit for – he had seen far more experienced men crack under less pressure. Iria Winner had been correct in her assumption that it would pay to keep her brother under close surveillance. Trowa shook his head. He doubted Quatre suspected his elder sister's involvement with the local resistance cell. The other man might be brilliant but that ability was certainly balanced out in his naivete. For someone partially responsible for the weapon that could make the difference to winning the war, there was much he needed to learn about the world around him.
Hopefully Quatre had taken his advice and was resting in preparation for what was ahead. Safe passage out of Germany was not going to be easy; he expected Merquise would have organised a security detail to come after them shortly after Dr J's body had been discovered. Trowa's own assignment regarding the project had been on borrowed time for the past few days. Even though he'd been careful, he'd been aware that Merquise was growing suspicious, and attempting to obtain more detailed background information on 'Corporal Barton'. Sooner or later it would become obvious that he was not exactly who he appeared to be. He'd been hoping he would be able to complete his mission successfully before that happened. Quatre hadn't been part of that original mission parameter, but Trowa had known it would only be a matter of time before the scientist realised the project wasn't exactly what he believed it to be. Dr J's death had been unexpected, but had served as the catalyst needed to convince the scientist he needed to leave. Unfortunately it had also given Merquise a public reason to go after Quatre, saving him the job of constructing a propaganda story to dispel any sympathy from those who might be tempted to harbour a fugitive from the Nazis. The SS were efficient when it came to tracking its enemies, and even more efficient when it came to dealing with them. The SS's own brand of 'interrogation' was something Trowa never wanted Quatre - or anyone else he cared about - to be on the receiving end of.
Keep safe, Quatre, until I return. Trowa offered up a silent prayer, surprised at himself for doing so. During the six months he'd been watching Quatre Winner, Trowa had felt his concern over the blond's continued well being grow. Of course he had, he told himself, it made sense not to let anything untoward befall him. The scientist was important to the mission and if the Gestapo got their hands on him now, the entire mission would be in jeopardy. Trowa understood enough of Quatre's abilities to realise he was perfectly capable of reproducing the project if required. Unfortunately he did not doubt his former superiors were working under the same assumption. The Nazis were not in the habit of taking no for an answer in such matters and Trowa was under no illusions as to what they were capable of doing in order to ensure co-operation. A shiver ran through him as he thought of Quatre in the clutches of someone such as Merquise. There was no way he could allow that to happen; he would protect the blond whatever it took.
The light on the top of the confessional blinked off and an old man walked out, a dazed expression on his face. The man muttered something under his breath too low for Trowa to hear, glanced behind him making the sign of the cross rapidly, then repeated it. Then to Trowa's surprise he prostrated himself in front of the altar, calling out in a loud voice – "God, I beg your forgiveness for leading such a boring life."
Someone snorted behind him and Trowa turned in time to see the dark haired man he'd observed earlier roll his eyes. Whoever was in the confessional had an interesting sense of humour, one it seemed the other man might be familiar with. He wondered absently who was in charge of this mission. Surely it couldn't be the person masquerading as the local parish priest? His mouth twitched at the thought of Lady Une's reaction. He'd only spoken to her via the wireless but it had been enough to give him the impression of someone who wouldn't stand for any nonsense.
He tentatively opened the now empty confessional and entered, wondering what on Earth he was getting himself into. Whatever the priest had said to the previous occupant of this booth, it was certainly atypical of the penance Trowa remembered regarding the clergy of the Catholic Church.
Kneeling on the low wooden kneeler as the priest opened the small mesh window dividing the two compartments, Trowa spoke the precursory words for the sacrament, searching his mind for the correct phrasing. Confession might be good for the soul, but in his occupation some things were better left unsaid, even to a priest.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," he began. "It's been two years since my last confession and…"
A bored sounding voice interrupted him. "Just get on with it, will you?" And I hope your sins are more interesting than the last guy's. I damn well hit my head when I started to drift off…"
The priest paused to catch his breath, and Trowa spoke quickly, before he could continue his tale of woe. "I'm homesick and I'm often tempted to click my heels together and say 'there's no place like home."
There was a moment's silence followed by what sounded suspiciously like a very loud sigh of relief. "The answer to your problem is to follow the yellow brick road."
Trowa arched an eyebrow in the half darkness of the small booth. This was his contact, the team leader? "Zero Two?" he asked.
"In the flesh, buddy. What took you so long? You've no idea what I've been though in here." There was a moment's pause. "How can I help you, my child?" The other man snickered. "Sorry, I've always wanted to say that."
There was a loud creak, then Trowa found himself blinking rapidly as the sun streamed through the now open confessional door. The man standing in front of him proffered his hand in greeting, giving a mock bow. "Duo Maxwell, at your service."
"Trowa Barton."
Maxwell might be dressed as a priest but there the resemblance ended. As he turned slightly, Trowa caught sight of a long chestnut braid swinging against the pseudo priest's hips. Violet eyes twinkled as he indicated the near empty church. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the rest of the guys." Maxwell's German was flawless, even down to the prominent Berlin accent. He'd been well trained, and Trowa suspected the man's attitude covered a very keen mind. Lady Une would have sent the best for this mission, with the degree of importance to the war effort attached to it.
He wasn't surprised when he was led to the pew containing the Chinese man and his companion.
"I'm surprised you didn't give that poor old man a heart attack," the Chinese man commented. "This is Zero Three?"
Maxwell nodded. "Trowa Barton, meet Chang Wufei. The other guy is Heero Lowe, our resident communications expert."
Trowa gave a short nod in greeting, and got straight down to business. "Have you been informed of the change in mission parameters?" The three men exchanged puzzled glances, and Maxwell shook his head.
"Nope," he confirmed. "So what's her Ladyship up to now? This was supposed to be a simple mission. Meet the contact, retrieve the plans, head for home, giving the Nazis a good kick where it hurts if needs be, type scenario."
Chang rolled his eyes. "It never ceases to amaze me how you manage to translate a complex mission plan into such simplified terms, Maxwell."
"It's a gift." Maxwell grinned. "And that's Sergeant Maxwell to you." The tone he used was far from serious, and Trowa doubted he meant the words as a reprimand. However long this team had been working together, he suspected they were used to the differing idiosyncrasies of each member.
Lowe spoke for the first time, his tone brusque and to the point. "What is this change and will how will affect the plans we have already put into operation?" His eyes narrowed as he waited impatiently for the information Trowa was about to impart, obviously preparing himself to make adjustments to whatever part of the 'mission parameters' had been already put into place.
"Herr Doktor Winner, one of the scientists working…" Trowa amended his statement. "One of the scientists who was until yesterday, working on the project, is accompanying us out of Germany. We are to ensure his safe passage to the States."
Maxwell whistled. "That's one hell of an addition to the original orders." He paused, a slight frown creasing his brow. "How do we know we can trust him? He's been working for the bad guys. Why suddenly change sides?"
"He can be trusted," Trowa assured him. "Qu…Doktor Winner has undertaken a great deal of personal risk to get this far." He glanced at his watch. "We can't afford to waste time discussing this, it's imperative we move before the Gestapo discover his location."
"Okay," Maxwell agreed. "You'd better fill me in on what's going down on the way." He exited the door of the church, giving the statue of the Archangel Michael a mock salute before beckoning to the two men Trowa had observed previously. "Walker, Palmer – go ahead and make sure the area is secure. We don't want any little Nazi surprises, do we?" His next words were spoken in almost a whisper, the momentarily look of regret gone so quickly that Trowa wondered if he had imagined it. "I wonder if her café still looks the same as it did before the war…"
Hilde knocked on the door to the attic room, then waited patiently. "It's me, Hilde," she called quietly, not wishing to alarm the young man on the other side.
After a few minutes, the Herr Doktor peered out cautiously, rubbing his eyes and yawning, his half-focused gaze suggesting he wasn't fully awake. She felt a pang of sympathy for him, doubting he really had any idea of the trouble he was in. "I'm making some tea, if you want a cup," she told him. "I'll be downstairs."
Doktor Winner frowned, then glanced at his watch. "Sorry," he mumbled politely. "I hadn't realised I'd slept for so long. I…um…don't want to put you to any trouble."
Hilde bit back the comment on the tip of her tongue. He was causing trouble just being here, surely he must realise that? Instead she gave him a smile. "We've closed for the day. Besides Trowa would want me to look after you properly."
At the mention of Trowa's name the man visibly brightened; obviously the two had bonded, at least in the blond's eyes. That was interesting and unusual in itself. Trowa Barton, she thought, you're slipping. It's not like you to evoke this kind of response in someone. Usually the undercover operative kept his distance from others; he couldn't afford not to with the stakes involved. If anyone ever suspected he wasn't who he pretended to be…Mind you, that was no different a scenario than she and the others helping the Allies faced everyday. Hilde had no doubt what would happen if the Gestapo ever discovered she'd been harbouring Jews and other so called enemies of the Fatherland since the legislation had against them had been instigated.
"I'll be down in a moment," the scientist promised. "Thank you."
Hilde made her way down the narrow stairs, and busied herself making the promised refreshments, placing two cups and saucers on the bench, and pouring the weak liquid which had passed for tea ever since supplies had become so scarce. The outside light was fading, causing shadows to fall across the wooden dish racks lining the wall to the side of the sink. She ran her hand slowly against the peeling paintwork, remembering the fun she'd had working out the colour scheme when they'd found the old building and realised its potential.
Duo had been so sure the location would be ideal for setting up business as a café - it had been their dream, or so she'd thought at the time. Unfortunately time had showed both of them their relationship wasn't there for the long haul, and he'd decided it was for the best if he returned to the States. Hilde had clung to the memories haunting the café for months before she'd been able to accept that Duo was right. Since War had broken out between their respective countries, she often wondered what he was doing and whether he was safe. She smiled; Duo Maxwell had never been the kind of man to sit back and let others do the fighting. He'd be involved in the war effort somehow, of that she was certain.
Hilde turned briefly at the sound of light footsteps on the stairs – now wasn't the time to be losing herself in the past. The blond offered to help her carry the small wooden tray over to the sturdy but small table in the middle of the room, and she accepted gratefully, noticing with some amusement that he'd managed to keep his manners intact despite his current predicament.
"Thank you," she said, settling herself into the brightly coloured chair and indicating he should take the other available seat. Duo had insisted they paint the place with those colours, she remembered, although she had been equally as insistent that the two dark pink chairs remain out of the public eye. We don't want to scare away the customers, she'd told him.
'Aw, Hilde,' he'd complained, a twinkle in his eyes. 'Don't be such a spoilsport.'
"What?" Hilde asked, aware of a gentle hand on her arm. The scientist was frowning, and she realised she hadn't even heard his last comment. "Sorry," she explained. "I was miles away. Would you repeat what you just said?"
"I was saying that I really appreciate what you are doing for me…for us." Doktor Winner wrapped his fingers around the heavy crockery cup as though taking some kind of solace in the hot tea he was sipping.
Hilde nodded; he did seem genuinely grateful, which surprised her somewhat considering the reputation his family had in Berlin. The reputation his father had, she corrected. Iria Winner was completely different to her father; she'd worked tirelessly to help the small resistance cell since its inception. Even when most of them had been wiped out, or gone into hiding earlier in the year, she hadn't faltered in her resolve to offer assistance to anyone in need, whether German or Jew. "I'm a Doctor," she'd said. "It's my job to help people." Maybe Iria's younger brother was more like her than their father. Hilde certainly hoped that was the case – and she had to admit Trowa's perception of a person was usually very accurate.
"Herr Doktor Winner, " she began but he interrupted, a half smile creasing his lips.
"Call me Quatre, please."
"Quatre," she continued, then paused. Maybe it was better if they stuck to safe topics of conversation. The less she knew about whatever was 'going down' to quote her old friend, the safer it would be, both for her and her 'guest'.
"You're wondering what we should talk about because you don't want to give away any information you shouldn't". Doktor Winner…Quatre…was more astute then she'd given him credit for. The half smile now had a degree of sadness in it. "It's all right," he reassured her. "I understand. Neither of us is really aware of how much we can trust each other, and that's probably the best approach, under the circumstances."
She reached out a hand towards the milk jug, and accidentally brushed her fingers against the hot teapot. "Shit," she exclaimed in English without thinking, sucking the sore finger in her mouth before running it under the cold tap.
"Are you all right?" Quatre's concern was voiced in English as well, and Hilde glanced at him in surprise. "I can speak both English and German fluently," he explained. "One of my nannies was English and Iria insisted I learn the language…"his voice hitched slightly before continuing. "My mother was English…"
He lapsed back in German, his eyes glassing over, as he appeared to lose himself in seemingly painful memories. Hilde wasn't sure how, or whether to respond so she allowed the silence to hang between them for a good few minutes before she finally broke the ice. "I grew up in the States," she explained. "My father is…was…German, my mother, American."
"Was?" His voice was gentle, full of concern and sympathy, and she felt herself wondering, with some guilt, whether she'd been a bit harsh when he'd arrived earlier with Trowa.
"My parents died a few years ago," she explained. "We were living in America when Mother died, and Father decided it would be for the best if we moved back to Germany."
Quatre's tone grew wistful. "I've always wanted to travel," he told her. "To see the world, to experience some of its history for myself. But Father was always too busy, and then my studies began to take up most of my free time." He gave a small laugh. "Maybe in a round about way I'll get to do that now. Although I was hoping to go the tourist route, not running for my life with the Gestapo on my heels."
Quatre rolled his eyes, and buried his head in his hands for a moment. "Oh God, I'm losing it. I know I'm in serious trouble but for some reason I keep having these strange thoughts about how things have happened for the best." His gaze met hers as he dropped his hands, and Hilde noticed for the first time the depth in those turquoise eyes, and the reflected fear. On the level where it mattered, Quatre was more than aware of the seriousness of his situation.
"You're not losing it," she reassured him. "Your world has turned upside down in a few short days. Just give yourself time."
He nodded slowly, and took another sip of his tea, lapsing into silence as he stared out the window at the approaching darkness. Hilde glanced at the clock over the door, and was surprised how late it was. Trowa should be back soon; meantime she'd attempt to lift Quatre out of his melancholy.
"We lived in America for about ten years," she told him, and was pleased to see his interest piqued. Stories were always a good way to distract people from their own worries. "During that time Father decided it would be a good idea to foster children from the local orphanage, to try and give them some stability in their lives."
Quatre smiled. "Your father must have been a good man. I hope the orphans appreciated what he was attempting to do for them."
Hilde grinned. "Most of them did, yes. I was an only child and I enjoyed having others to play with, even if we did get into quite a bit of mischief. I remember the time Duo decided it would be fun to suck lemons in front of the local brass band. We sat in the front row, and as the trumpet player began his solo we carefully and loudly made a show of eating them in time with the tune he was playing." She laughed at the memory. "The poor man had trouble reaching the high notes, can't understand why really."
Quatre let out a small chuckle, as he realised the implications of what they'd done. "I can imagine. It must have been quite embarrassing for him, suddenly finding his spittle deserting him in his hour of need." He shook his head in mock sadness. "This Duo sounds like quite a character, I almost wish I could meet him."
You've got a good sense of humour yourself, Quatre Winner, Hilde observed, glad her ploy had worked. "Maybe one day he'll…"
The knock on the door interrupted her, its loudness echoing ominously through the empty café.
She exchanged a worried glance with Quatre, the humour they'd shared forgotten suddenly in their shared concern. Quatre rose to his feet, eyes darting around the room, his voice shaking slightly as he voiced the question she hadn't dared put into words. "Do you think it could be…?"
Hilde shook her head, willing herself to be positive. "Until we know for sure it's the Gestapo, we're not going to assume the worse." She glanced towards the door, ignoring the knot forming in the pit of her stomach, hoping it wasn't who they both knew it was.
"You need to hide, Quatre. If they find you, it's all been for nothing." She paused, noticing how he was biting down on his bottom lip, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the table. "Are the plans safe?"
He nodded. "I hid them under the loose floorboard in the attic, but I should get them, in case." So the Gestapo can get their hands on both you and the plans? Not a smart move.
Hilde shook her head again, glancing askance at the door as the banging became more insistent. "You haven't time. If this is the Gestapo, and they get even an inkling you're here, you need to be prepared to take action." She spoke slowly emphasising each word carefully. "You. Need. To. Run. Do you understand me?"
Quatre hesitated, his hand brushing back a stray lock of hair nervously, before he followed her glance. His already pale complexion seemed to turn almost grey as he swallowed hard. "I can't, Hilde. If they suspect you've been helping me…" He paused, then spoke again, his tone firm. "I won't let you suffer for what I've done, for helping me. It isn't right. I've done enough of that in the past, and it stops now."
"This is Colonel Merquise. I order you to open this door in the name of the Fuhrer, now!"
Oh God. Hilde was sure her colouring had changed to match the man's beside her as the loud voice resounded through the fragile wood of the only thing standing between them and what she had deluded herself would never happen. Hilde grabbed Quatre's arm, and pushed him towards the back exit, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Duo told me once, there's a time to run and a time to fight. How long you survive in this world depends on having the commonsense to know which one to choose at any particular time. Do you understand me, Quatre?" She lowered her voice. "I'm going to try and convince them they have the wrong place, but if it doesn't work…"
Hilde didn't allow herself to glance back and note Quatre's reaction, instead she ran to the door, and opened it, plastering a look of annoyance on her face. "Can't a lady go to the bathroom in peace, even in war time?" she asked, the annoyed glare that comment provoked from the tall, slender blond man in the uniform of the SS, giving her a degree of satisfaction.
Merquise didn't bother to answer her question, but pushed her rudely out of the way, motioning to his men to enter the room. "Search the place," he ordered. "I don't want anything left unturned."
Hilde backed up against the small shop counter, reaching behind her to grasp for the handgun kept there in the hope it would never have to be used. Quatre, get out. Get out now, she willed at him.
"Winner's here," yelled someone. "I've got him." There was an another yell, followed by what sounded like the kitchen table overturning, then several gunshots. "Damn it!"
"I want him alive, or at least fit enough to be able to convince that co operating would be in his best interest," Merquise called out, the tone of his voice reflecting his annoyance. "Same goes for that traitor, Barton." He paused, then continued under his breath, so she could hardly hear him. "Of course Winner is the priority. If the Corporal just happens to suffer a slight accident while he's being brought in, I can't be held responsible." His head came up, as he examined Hilde with renewed intensity. "You don't approve of my methods, Fraulein Schbeiker?" Merquise smiled, his lips thinning, before he reached out to pin her hands behind her back, her fingers dropping the gun to the floor with a clatter.
"Tsk, tsk. You weren't actually planning on using that, I hope." Merquise raised his voice. "Herr Doktor Winner, I suggest you show yourself if you want the young lady's good health to continue." He raised the gun she'd dropped to her head, and began to count slowly. Hilde closed her eyes. She wouldn't say anything, she wouldn't beg for her life. Merquise could die in hell before she'd give him the satisfaction.
I'm sorry, Duo, she thought, wishing she'd been able to see him one last time.
Duo stopped, his head jerking up as a single gunshot pierced the quiet Berlin night. Where the hell had that come from?
Walker and Palmer skidded to a standstill, nearly colliding with them as they doubled back from where they'd gone on ahead. "Sergeant," panted Walker, trying to speak and catch his breath simultaneously. "Café…Gestapo…"
Beside him Barton froze. Absently Duo heard him a whisper a name, but he was too concerned with the icy fingers of his own fear wrapping around his heart as the implication of those words sank in…
Oh shit. The American pilot barely registered the worried glances his team exchanged.
"Duo…" began Heero, his usual harsh timbre replaced by an uncharacteristic gentleness, but Duo wasn't listening.
"No," he whispered. "Not Hilde…Please, not her, not now."
[1] St Michael's church was built between 1851-51 and was the second Catholic Church in the city. Today the centre part of it is still in ruins due to extensive damage during the Second World War.