Stealing Trinity by Ward Larsen

the flowers on her table. She felt heavy, ponderous as she rose and walked to her closet. At the rack of formals she slid out Edward's favorite, a blue evening gown. He had picked it out himself as a Christmas present. It was incredibly expensive and fit like a satin potato sack. Behind it on the rack was a spicy red number she'd bought on a whim, but never worn. Frightfully deep at the front, she'd never been able to screw up the courage after bringing it home.
    Lydia held the two side by side and bit her bottom lip.
    The main course was an exquisitely tender roast pheasant selection. By the time it made its way to the table, Sargent Cole had already commandeered the topics of conversation through one war, two presidents, and four post-conflict industrial opportunities.
    Sitting quietly, and certainly enjoying the meal more than anyone at the table, Braun remembered the act from his previous visit. Sargent lorded over these gatherings like a king holding court. As a host, he was the social equivalent of a blunderbuss -- blunt, archaic, and never distracted by matters of accuracy. He eventually got around to pressing his guest of honor.
    "Tell us about the three Germans you killed, Alex. Was it in one battle?"
    Braun tipped a tolerable glass of Cabernet to his lips. The number, in fact, was accurate. Thankfully no one had asked him how many Russians he'd killed -- Braun had no idea. Of course, he could never divulge the true circumstances. Nearing starvation in Stalingrad, he'd quietly killed a fellow German officer in order to steal a stashed loaf of bread. Another, a civilian in East Prussia, had fought for his bicycle against the much younger and stronger soldier who'd been caught alone in a frantic regimental pullback. And then there was the incident involving the first sniper's spotter he'd been assigned in Berlin, a pudgy teenager who'd proven hopelessly inept. He would have gotten them both killed in time, and Braun had simply taken the matter under his own sight, saving the Russians a bullet. Three Germans, three good reasons.
    "It was nothing heroic, if that's what you mean. I was just doing my job." He'd heard the soldiers on the train say it time and again. Just doing my job. It was all he had to say.
    "Oh, Father! Please!" Lydia intervened. "It must have been horrid. Let Alex find his peace."
    Even Sargent Cole had his limits, and he went back to tearing limbs from his pheasant. Braun knew the family patriarch had avoided the First World War, no doubt by way of family ties. He saw no need to antagonize the man by mentioning it. Alex locked eyes with Lydia, who was directly across the table, and smiled appreciatively.
    Edward piped in, "So tell me Alex, when the war is over will you go back to Harvard and finish up?"
    "I haven't given it much thought, really. Of course, I was studying the architecture of Europe -- so much has been lost."
    "Well," Edward reasoned, "someone will have to build it all again."
    Braun cocked his head. "Yes ... but that's rather not the point. When a building falls, the history it represents is lost as well."
    "History?" Sargent barked. "Who needs it? I say look forward. This is a tremendous opportunity to build a continent for tomorrow." Sargent held up his wine glass. "Here's to tomorrow!"
    The crowd echoed the words with feigned enthusiasm. Braun doubted any of them cared a whit about Europe or her future, aside from the odd chance that they might vacation there after things had been swept up. He found the conversation tiresome. It was time to redirect. He turned to Sargent. "A rematch tomorrow, sir?" he suggested airily. The afternoon's match had been close, Sargent dominating the first set while Braun shook off the rust. The second had been Braun's in a tight affair, and by the third he'd found his form, a resounding 6-1 win to decide things.
    Sargent jumped at the challenge. "Yes, by all means. Let's say ten o'clock. I'll be fresh in the morning."
    "Ten it is."
    With the next day's