Free Between The Hunters And The Hunted by Steven Wilson

would not forget that they were aboard a vessel of war. The only concession that he made was to have the heavy, dark blue blackout curtains over the portholes pulled back and held in place with white cotton rope. Raeder had insisted on an additional flourish—the Kriegsmarine and Nazi flags hung side by side on the bulkhead behind him. Mahlberg wondered if they stood in silent competition to one another.
    As the group settled in, Mahlberg’s eyes fell on Ingrid May and he allowed himself a sliver of a smile. He saw that she, in turn, let her eyes casually signal that she knew he noticed her. It was difficult not to notice the only woman in the group—a woman whose blond hair, almost white against her black sweater and slacks, was pulled back in a ponytail. The look was casually provocative and not lost on the older men sitting around her who struggled to hold in their stomachs and look important. She ignored them as she laid two twin-reflex cameras on the table and took a reading of the room with a light meter.
    She was known as the finest photographer in Germany, able to capture images of the Fatherland’s leaders that no one else could. It was because she slept with most of them, her competitors said, or the jealous wives of the leaders. And Mahlberg’s wife. Mahlberg was not sure of how many men she slept with—he knew of only one, and he found the experience delicious and decadent.
    â€œI can help you, Wilhelm,” she had said as they lay in bed one evening, spent from lovemaking.
    â€œCan you?” Mahlberg had replied, his hand playing over her flat stomach to her breasts.
    She turned on her side and looked at him, allowing his wandering hand free rein. “I have the ear of many well-placed party officials.”
    He remembered thinking to himself: you’ve had more than their ears . But instead he had replied, “How can you help me?”
    She gasped slightly as his hand found the moist region between her legs. “Raeder has disappointed the Fuehrer many times. It is said that he will be replaced soon.”
    â€œThat’s common knowledge,” Mahlberg had said as he began to tease her, his fingers seeking her most intimate area.
    She moved closer to him, her breath hot with passion, and said, “Is it common knowledge that Wilhelm Mahlberg might be the next grand admiral?” She had closed her eyes, savoring his touch. “You must know,” she had continued, the words escaping her in a rush, “that I was instrumental in that decision.”
    Mahlberg returned to the present, scanning the wardroom.
    â€œMay I take photographs, Kapitan?” Ingrid asked, her manner entirely professional.
    â€œOf course,” Mahlberg said. He looked over the assembled group. “Welcome to the finest ship, the largest ship in the Kriegsmarine.” Mahlberg began his presentation as he heard the shutter snap and the film advance. He found himself suddenly ill at ease as she moved about—it felt too much as if she were stalking him. “You reporters, and of course our lovely photographer, have been honored to accompany Sea Lion on her first voyage. A voyage, I assure you, that will live in the annals of the Kriegsmarine as the greatest of its kind. When we return, you will report our triumphs to the German people. From those reports will they draw inspiration to conquer the world.”
    â€œBut first, England,” a fat Nazi Party official reminded Mahlberg.
    â€œYes,” Mahlberg said, wondering how many such idiots filled the party ranks. “England first.” He felt Ingrid on his left, the camera lens centered on his face, and he grew warm. There was something oddly voyeuristic about her proximity. He nodded to a Leutnant zur See , who handed each man around the table a neatly bound leather folder embossed with the name of the ship, the date, and the recipient, in gold letters.
    â€œBefore you is statistical information about Sea Lion