The bartender said, “My mother could cook. I mean, she could really cook… anything. I used to eat her cooking and think, this is good, but I was too stupid to know that I’d probably never get food that good again, not for the rest of my life.”
Anne looked up. “You should go home and see her. I’m sure she’d love to cook for you.”
His smile was brief. “She passed on… two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. You’re young to have lost your mum.”
“As they say, you only have one, and ain’t that the truth?”
Anne smiled, her thoughts drifting back, the slight buzz from the beer making her nostalgic. “Yes… and it’s always the little things you remember, isn’t it? Like my mother’s minced tarts at Christmas. And I was just thinking about her pickled eggs yesterday. We’d share them with bread and tea, and we’d dig our spoons into a lovely jar of strawberry jam.”
Anne drifted into a pleasant recollection, the beer beginning to loosen the tension and release the rigid control of her mind. It felt good to talk about her past to a stranger, a man she’d never see again. What did it matter if she sounded a little crazy? Wasn’t she entitled to be a little crazy, after all she’d been through? So Anne continued to talk and feel the pleasure of it.
“Mum and I would take a market basket and go shopping for things… Oh, so many things there were before the war, even though times were hard for many people. But that was before rationing.”
“What war was that?” the bartender asked, growing suspicious.
Anne ignored him. For the moment, she didn’t care where she was or what year it was. Her loneliness and homesickness took center stage.
“And sometimes Mum’s sister, Clementine, would accompany us. She lived in Kensington Park. She was killed in 1940. Mum cried for days. I suppose I did, as well. It seems so many years ago and yet, it seems like yesterday.”
The bartender kept his wary eyes on her. Although the pretty woman looked perfectly normal, he now suspected she was mentally unbalanced.
Anne drank distractedly, nearly draining the mug. She chatted on. “During the Blitz, a fifty-pound German bomb fell directly onto a trench shelter where Aunt Clementine and others had gathered. That was in October 1940. Rescuers managed to find only forty-eight identifiable bodies. One hundred and four souls perished. It was such a wretched day for us. Mum never really recovered from that.”
The bartender had had enough. “Will there be anything else?” he asked, suddenly indifferent, the friendliness gone from his eyes.
Anne looked at him, sorry she’d lost a momentary friend. “No… I’ll be going.”
Upstairs in her dark room, Anne lay back into the pillows, her thoughts rambling and unfocused. She fumbled for ideas, for solutions, for ways she could return to 1944. “I have to find Tommy,” she said aloud. And to the darkness, and to those ghosts who were hiding in the darkness, she said, “You can understand that, can’t you?”
CHAPTER 26
The next morning, Anne sat at the hotel restaurant counter eating a hardy breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. She was forcing herself to eat, knowing she’d need all her strength in the days to come.
Two well-dressed men, speaking in low, agitated voices, sat nearby. One was heavy, the other thin. The heavy one said he had private information from a man at an investment company. “So that broker says I should buy back into the market now. ‘Buy low,’ he says. I told him he was crazy. I told him, ‘Where’s the bottom? Right now, the market’s a falling knife and everybody knows you don’t try to catch a falling knife.’ Dammit! The Dow lost six-hundred and eighty points yesterday. The paper said it’s the twelfth worst percentage one-day decline ever. We’re not getting the truth about what the hell’s really going on. It’s all bullshit.”
The thin man said, “Where do you get any truth when everybody’s in a panic out there? Hell, the damn sky is falling, and what’s the Fed doing? Nothing. We’re in for a bad recession, and there’s no doubt about it.”
The heavy man said, “Well, I’m screwed bigtime. I’ve already lost over four-hundred thousand dollars. And that was just last week.”
The thin man pursed his lips and whistled. “Get out while you can. Sell it all and get out. We haven’t hit bottom yet. Cash is king right now.”
The men sat hunched over cups of coffee, their expressions grim. Anne could smell their anxiety and, already having enough of her own, she turned away from them and glanced at the clock on the wall, right above the tidy row of mini cereal boxes.
It was almost ten o’clock and Leon was late. On the phone over an hour ago, he’d said he’d meet her at 9:30 in the restaurant.
Anne sipped her coffee and tried not to think, which was impossible. Had his uncle snatched him away? And if he had, would Leon talk? If Alex had grabbed his nephew, would he find the passport Leon was bringing to her?
On the phone, Leon’s voice had been bursting with the stellar news. “Anne, I have it! Your passport!”
When she told him where she was, he said he’d be there at 9:30 sharp.
Anne twisted around, glancing toward the restaurant entrance. Where was he? She felt perspiration pop out on her forehead and upper lip.
Anne had called Constance with the good news, and she’d shouted out a loud, “Yes!” Then she’d said, “Alright, listen up. I have a plan, just in case that CIA jerk comes after us. Don’t come here, Anne. Stay where you are. Give me the name of the hotel and I’ll come to you. Do you have a bag packed?”
“No… I have nothing. I didn’t go back to Leon’s apartment after I saw his uncle.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll bring some necessaries and clothes you didn’t take to Leon’s. Anything else you need, we’ll buy online in England. I’ll book the flight now and be over in about three hours. Don’t leave. Now tell me where you are and your room number.”
Anne drained the last of her coffee at five minutes after ten. There was still no sign of Leon, and Anne felt the raw, mean panic of a wild animal. His uncle had surely caught him. She and Leon should have known better, and come up with another, safer plan.
She glanced over her shoulder yet again, her eyes fierce. That’s when she saw him. A teenage boy entered the restaurant, gangly and shuffling, shouldering a backpack, wearing a black ski cap and a frayed army jacket. He paused at the hostess stand while his eyes searched for, and then found, Anne. They narrowed on her in recognition.
Anne drew herself upright.
When the hostess approached, the kid pointed at Anne and then started toward her, sliding the backpack off his shoulder as he approached.
He drew up, then slouched. “Are you Anne B?”
She looked him over, his narrow hips and long, straight legs. He had an angelic face, with smooth, pink cheeks and dark, shy eyes.
“Yes…”
He reached into his backpack and drew out a manilla envelope and handed it to her. “This is for you. The guy who gave it to me told me what you looked like and where you’d be.”
Anne looked at the envelope, her heart kicking. She took it. “Where… Where was he when he gave you this?”
“On the corner of Third and 112th Street. He told me to tell you he couldn’t make it.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“What time did he give you the envelope?”
The kid shrugged. “I don’t know… Maybe a half hour ago. I rode down on my bike.”
“Was there anyone with him when he handed you the envelope?”
“No, just him, but he kept… like, you know, looking around. He was stressed.”
“Did he pay you? I don’t have any money.”
“No problem. He took care of it. I’ve got to go. I’m already late for school.”
Before Anne could thank him, he swung around and started off, hunching into his backpack.
UPSTAIRS, ANNE CHAIN-LOCKED THE DOOR, sat down on the edge of the bed, pinched the two brass pins together and open
ed the flap. With a quick intake of breath, she snaked her hand inside and drew out the passport.
She peered inside and saw something else—a note—and reached for it. It was folded once, a perfect fold with a perfect crease. She opened it and began to read. The script was clear, if small.
Ms. Billings: don’t get angry, but you’ll notice I changed your name from Anne Billings to Anne Watson. My friend said it would be best, especially because my uncle knows your name now and will search for you as Billings.
I’m writing this fast. My uncle’s on his way, so I have to be quick. Good luck. I hope you make it back home... all the way. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Uncle Alex anything… just enough. What’s he gonna do, torture me? It was cool meeting you.
Leon
Anne paced her room, lay on the bed, flopping left and then right, battling charging nerves. Finally, she swung off the bed and paced on until 11:30. When she heard a light knock, she jerked. Hardly breathing, she crept to the door.
She whispered. “Who is it?”
“Constance. Let me in.”
Anne turned the lock, released the chain, and swung the door open. Constance slipped inside, glancing up and down the hallway.
Once the locks were secured, Constance opened her arms and Anne stepped into her embrace, relieved to be with her friend and protector. She held back tears, but her heart was full of emotion.
Constance stroked her hair. “Go ahead, Anne, cry if you need to. You deserve a good cry. I’d cry too, if I had any tears left, but I cried them all out when Ashley died.”
“I’ve cried enough,” Anne said. “I’m ready to move on now.”
They held the embrace for a time, and then Anne drew back and handed Constance Leon’s note. After reading it, she grimaced.
“Yes, he changed my last name.”
“Damn,” Constance exclaimed. “I’ll have to change your airplane ticket. All right, I’ll do this now, and then let’s get out of here. I’ve got a limo waiting outside to take us to the airport.”
Constance pulled her cell phone and dialed, glancing over at Anne. “We can’t trust Leon, Anne. I wouldn’t put it past Alex Fogel to beat the truth out of his nephew. I had a government friend look Mr. Fogel up. He’s worked in Russia, the Mideast and the Far East. He’s fiercely competitive and highly intelligent, and he’s considered one of the best interrogators in the agency.”
Fear, sour and hot, churned in Anne’s stomach.
Constance held the phone to her ear and shot Anne a bitter stare. “I have a friend in London who will lend me a gun. I’ll shoot that CIA bastard if I have to.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 27
London 1944
“So what was London like before the war started?” First Lieutenant Kenneth Cassidy Taylor asked.
Anne Billings’ dancing eyes flitted up at him. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with an athletic build and a natural grace. “Do you want all the bits and bobs, including the underside?”
“Yes, especially the underside,” he answered with a wink. “I think the underside is the best side. On second thought, you can keep the bits and bobs.”
“You Americans are quite cheeky, I think.”
“Cheeky? What exactly does that mean? I’ve heard it used, but I was too proud to ask the British guys what it means.”
“In your case, it means… well, let me see now… I’d say, a bit amusing, with a dash of impertinence.”
“Impertinence? Such a classy word for such a Midwestern guy from Chicago.”
Anne laughed merrily, enjoying their afternoon walk in Hyde Park. It was the perfect rambling day, with sparkling sun and a soft autumn breeze that caressed the skin.
“Let’s just say, Lieutenant Taylor, that you wear cheeky very well.”
He linked his arm in hers and smiled into her eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment and leave it at that. I can see I’m treading on thin ice.”
Ken felt the power of Anne’s attractiveness, enjoying her killer smile and the tender bloom on her cheeks. “I’m so glad you could get away.”
“And I’m thrilled to bits that you got your leave.”
Ken’s eyes clouded over. “I deserve it. The last two missions were rough. There was a lot of flak and fighters, and we lost a lot of planes and good men.”
Anne felt the stomach-pit dread of his words. “How many missions do you have left to fly?”
“Ten… That is, if they don’t add five more onto it.”
“I hate this war so much,” Anne said.
Ken resettled his shoulders as Anne watched two squirrels chase about, and then dart off for a nearby tree.
“But let’s forget about the war now,” Ken said, forcing a bright smile. “We have blue skies over London, which is a minor miracle; we have a cool wind and, so far, there haven’t been any air raid sirens. Maybe the Germans are taking a day off, too.”
“I doubt that. They never rest,” Anne said, aridly. “Not one day do they rest. Sometimes I think I should take Tommy and leave London, just run away from the air raids, the barrage balloons, and those gun emplacements over there, where flower gardens used to be.”
Ken followed her eyes. “Yeah, it must be hard to see anti-aircraft guns and rocket launchers in your parks. There must be more than sixty over there.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we have them when the Nazis are bombing… it’s just that we’re always surrounded by war in London, and it’s gone on for so long. Sometimes I think it will never end.”
“You could leave London, couldn’t you, now that you left your job at Bletchley Park?”
“Yes, I could. I have an aunt in Devonshire. She’s always writing and asking Mum, Tommy and me to come. But then Dad would be alone, wouldn’t he? Mum wouldn’t leave him. But, anyway, London’s my home and I don’t want to run off like a scared bunny rabbit when things are so bad.”
They took a winding path and strolled past park benches, tall hedges and an elderly couple dressed in faded, old clothes. Ken tipped his hat to them and they smiled. The man said, “Best of luck to ya, Yank.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ken said. When they had moved away, Ken glanced back. “I see a lot of people wearing old clothes. The States should be sending more over here.”
“Better to have your bombers and soldiers. We’ll get by with rationing and old clothes.”
“You Brits are a tough bunch,” Ken said. “I admire that.”
“We have to be, don’t we? We’re not going to let the Germans invade us, thank you very much. Never.”
Bicyclers wheeled by, soldiers roamed with their girls, and two matronly women attended a vegetable garden, hoeing and turning the earth. Anne explained that the gardens were part of Britain’s ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign, created to counter dwindling food imports from overseas. They were also an important boost for morale.
Ken wanted to steer the subject away from the war. “How is Tommy?”
“He’s well, thank you. He wants to be a pilot, like his Dad was… like a lot of little boys. He says he wants to fly a Spitfire, but he calls it a Spitsflyer.”
Ken laughed. “I like that. Very descriptive.”
“My Mum wants to evacuate him to a school in Addlestone, but I don’t want to.”
“Is the school far?”
“No, just outside London, but I want him with me. I don’t want him with strangers at a time like this. He needs his Mum, don’t you think?”
“Of course he does.”
“And he’s good company for my Mum. She’s so worried about the bombs, and so am I, but I can’t part with him. Not anymore. He’s my own little boy.”
“I’d love to meet him.”
“I’ll bring him one day. Oh, but I did bring some snaps of him.”
“Snaps?”
“Photographs.”
They sat on a bench and Anne removed the black-and-white photos from her purse. She held them up for Ken to see. “Here he’s a little pouty face, and h
ere he’s all happy smiles.”
Ken studied them. “He’s a handsome boy. He looks like a little Alan Ladd.”
“You’d like him, Kenneth. He’s as bright as the sun and not as frightened of the bombs as he once was. There was a time, awhile back, when the bombing was so bad, he wouldn’t talk. That happens to a lot of kids. But now that I’m not working anymore and can be with him, he’s much better.”
Anne replaced the photos and then turned to face Ken, her eyes downcast. “Am I being selfish keeping him in London instead of moving to Devonshire, and away from the war?”
Ken took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. “You know what’s right, Anne. In your heart, you know.”
“Thanks for that. It was so awful at the start of the war. Everyone was conflicted. When children were evacuated to safer regions, parents were terrified that they’d never see them again. And many parents whose children had been evacuated in September 1939 decided to bring them home again. By January 1940, almost half of the children had returned home. Children should be with their parents, especially when there’s so much death and destruction. We have to get through this together, as a country and a family.”
Ken nodded. “As I said, I admire this country. When I look around at the bombed-out buildings and all the destruction, I’m amazed how you people can keep going. I wish folks back home could see you. It would be an inspiration to them.”
Anne presented her face into the sun, closing her eyes. “Oh, this is lovely, isn’t it? Such a perfect day it is. When I close my eyes like this, I imagine that the war is over and it’s spring, and all the guns are gone, and all the flowers are in bloom. It will happen. One day, this war will be over, and we’ll really live life again.”
Lieutenant Taylor looked at her, feeling the rise of warm pleasure, feeling all the stress he carried in his soul relax and melt away.
He caressed her hand, his eyes exploring her face. “You’re so pretty, Anne, and so smart, and so easy to be with. My folks would fall in love with you.”
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