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did. God help me, I sent them women...” Weber took his hat off and ran his hands through his thinning grayed hair.
     
    “Where did you get the women, Weber?” Bruning’s voice sounded far away and dreamy—calm, like he already knew the answer and was asking simply to be polite.
     
    “We have taken a town. A whole fishing village. Marise. We made it look like an Einsatzgruppen action, partisans. We closed it off. We killed the men. We have the children. We have to keep them you see? To make the women do what we want.” Weber grinned again, looking up through bloodshot eyes, as if all he said made sense.
     
    “But I had to do it! Soon the invasion will come! Have you ever been to America? It is so vast it is hard to conceive, and nothing will stop them now. Nothing but Black Water. We must give these Deep Ones what they want, and then we will stop this war. We will...” Weber let his head sink down into his hands. He wept for a time like a child, cigarette burning away the minutes in his hand, forgotten, while Bruning sat and considered the situation.
     
    He should report Weber’s confession, but such a fact could be advantageous later, and Weber had many useful contacts, inside and outside the group. He would have to think carefully before deciding his next move.
     
    Weber’s body rocked back and forth as he sobbed. He cried without concern, as the feeling finally coursed through his body like a rod conducting lightning. Bruning watched him and tried to feel something other than eagerness and greed, but it would not come.
     
    The man in front of him was a human being, he thought to himself, a person.
     
    But something in Bruning’s mind snapped shut like a trap and he knew this was not true.
     
    Bruning took the cigarette from Weber and stubbed it out on the plaster of his windowbox fastidiously. Outside, on the grounds, a brutal rainstorm rocked the trees and threw the shadows of leaves around on the chilling wet wind. In that same night off the coast at Normandy, Bruning was sure, something moved in the water with a terrible purpose.
     
    “You need to give the project a chance, sir. We are so very close.” Weber’s voice was thick with mucus, and he did not raise his head. Bruning handed him a freshly-laundered handkerchief from the cupboard, which Weber took and rigorously wiped his entire face, twice dabbing his eyes in a curiously delicate gesture.
     
    “I shall give you your chance,” Bruning said, and wondered at the certainty in his own voice.
     

CHAPTER 3 :
By indirection, find direction out
     
November 18, 1942: In Transit, Offenburg, Germany to Cap de la Hague, France
     
    What Weber had neglected to disclose about Project Black Water was collected in an unmarked, neatly typed report which he handed over to Bruning the moment they boarded the “Storch” transport for France. On the flight from Stuttgart, Bruning familiarized himself with the horrors that his comrades had been up to on the French coast. It was only fitting, his lack of action against the pursuits of the Karotechia, especially those he was involved in only added to the miseries of the world. It was best to know every detail of your crimes, he believed, even if they were performed vicariously by people nothing like yourself. Bruning was shocked that he had made it this far in to the deadly maze of the Karotechia, that his name had not become one of the missing after some late-night drive. It was this fact which led to much of his inaction. Bewildered at all turns by his colleagues’ inability to judge his character, he found himself in a constant and pervasive daze of disbelief. He had fooled everyone, it seemed, except himself.
     
    And that was the most important person to fool of all.
     
    With Weber as his “confidant,” Bruning had played up their comradeship, their responsibility to the Reich. Nothing would stop them; they would save the world together... They shared wine and plans—both of which were blindly