The Darkest Hour(56)

“In your room.”

I don’t like the way he says that it’s my room, like I’m never getting out of it. “What are you planning on doing to me?”

“Ah. Wonderful question.” He leaves my side for a moment to retrieve a syringe from the cabinet. He fills it with an amber liquid and carries the syringe toward my bed, cradling it as if it’s made from the finest crystal. “My plan for you is contained inside this very glass.” He holds the syringe up, allowing the amber to catch in the light. “Let me explain …”

Everything inside of me recoils because I know what he’s holding. “Don’t touch me with that!”

“Why are you afraid?”

“I know what’s in there. It’s Zerfall!”

He smiles wide enough to fill the entire room. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Don’t lie to me, Reinhard.”

He pats my hand even after I wrench my fingers away from his. “My name isn’t Reinhard. It’s Dr. Nacht.” He tips the syringe back and forth in his hands. “And this serum isn’t Zerfall. In fact, it’s not a virus at all.”

It’s such a bald-faced lie that I nearly laugh. “I saw the schematics myself.”

“What schematics? These?” He returns to the cabinet and removes a thick folder from a drawer, which he then places on my lap. He flips it open and spreads the paperwork onto the cot: numbers and graphs, maps of the laboratory, and black-and-white photographs. Just like Dorner’s.

I don’t say a word. I won’t betray Dorner’s identity, although I’m sure Reinhard—or Nacht, as he insists on being called—has figured out his mole.

“Who showed you these schematics?” he goes on.

I shake my head.

He digs through the photos to pull out one that I’ve never seen. “Is this him?”

I squint at the picture. It’s Dorner, all right, but his mussed hair has been combed back and he isn’t wearing his glasses. That isn’t the only thing that has changed about him, either—he’s wearing a uniform. A Nazi one.

Is this a trick?

“You look confused, poor thing.” The man named Nacht continues. “That isn’t your fault. Despite your intelligence, you’ve played so well into our deception.” He taps a finger on the photo that looks so much like Dorner. “He told you quite the story, I’m sure. Let me see if I can recall the details … A carefully researched virus, a plan to launch the disease against the Allies, and a cure to protect the Germans from it. He called it Operation Zerfall. Didn’t he?”

Lies. All lies. I rub my nails against my palms, tuning in to the pain I’m causing myself rather than what he’s telling me. I should trust Dorner … shouldn’t I?

The man leans back into his chair. “The documents he showed you were forgeries. Granted, we put months upon months of work into them to ensure that they looked accurate, even to a scientist’s eyes, but in the end they were all meaningless.”

“You’re lying.”

“It’s the truth.” His hand strokes mine, and his fingers are soft as pudding. I shudder. “You see, there is no virus. No terrible disease. Simply put, there is no Operation Zerfall.”

My mind springs back to the little girl crying tears. “The photos—”

“Yes, the photos.” He returns his attention to the folder and fans a few out onto my cot. He stubs his finger against one that shows a balding man. “Patient Nine. He lived quite a while, much to my surprise. And here. Patient Thirty-Two.” He pulls out a photo hidden beneath the others, and my heart jerks to a stop. The little girl. “She lasted longer than the subjects before her. It was a pity when she finally succumbed.” He gives a little shake of his head. “But what a gift she left to the Wunderwaffe project. The things we learned from her … I see that I’m getting ahead of myself, though. You see, these photographs are indeed authentic, but these subjects—my patients—didn’t die from a virus. They gave their lives for a purpose much greater.”

Now he’s talking nonsense. “Stop it, Reinhard—”

“My name is Dr. Nacht.” His hand curls around my fingers, his attempt at comforting me. “You have, however, met Elias Reinhard.” He shows me the photo of Dorner again. “It’s this man, the one you know as Alexander Dorner.”

A chill sears through me, and he keeps talking.

“Hauptsturmführer Reinhard is one of the most promising young officers in the Nazi military. He was the one who concocted the Dorner alias, and he was quite meticulous about it—studying pathology terms and perfecting Dorner’s quiet demeanor. I wouldn’t have expected any less, considering that he’s my nephew.”

My chest feels flayed open, and he isn’t finished.

“I thank you for what you’ve done,” he goes on. “Reinhard has infiltrated London because of your work. I learned last night that he has already sent his first message to his superiors in Berlin, and they hope to receive many more soon—once he has unturned the Allies’ strategies and next missions.”

It hurts to breathe. Everything Dorner told me was a carefully crafted lie. This was all a trap, and I fell right into it. Not only that, I’m the reason why the Allies have taken him in. If Dorner—or Reinhard, whichever his name is—gains the SOE’s trust, then who knows what secrets he’ll pass on to the Nazis?