Christophe began to speak but Werner silenced him with an upraised finger.
“Trust no one. Not even your own agents. You would do well to remember that.”
“You feel she has been compromised?”
Werner tapped the cigar against a lead ashtray and watched the glowing embers. He knew the answer to the question, but it was time to put his apprentice to the test. And so, he responded with a question. “Is it possible that she could love the man she married—this Malcolm?”
Again, Christophe shrugged. “I only caught a glimpse of her face before I fled. She seemed panicked when her husband approached us but that is only natural.”
“It is also natural for a wife to love her husband.”
Silence fell between the two men and Werner took the opportunity to extinguish his cigar and toss it into a bin beneath his desk. “But there are cases in which a wife falls out of love with the man she married. I find it disturbing indeed that Clara Haber has stopped fighting her husband’s efforts to produce a cloud of poison.”
“Perhaps she realizes it is too late.” Christophe wiped his hands on the palm of his pants. It was evident that he realized this was some sort of an unexpected test of his abilities. “Herr Fritz leaves tomorrow to join the Fatherland’s armies and oversee the action at Ypres himself.”
“That is possible. Or perhaps it is because she has something else planned of which we are unaware.” Werner sat up, all trace of nonchalance vanished like the rings of smoke he had blown into the air. “You have followed my orders?”
“Yes.” Christophe steepled his fingers. “Herr Haber has had a bodyguard with him at all times for the past two weeks. He sleeps separately from his wife, so we have had men stationed outside his bedroom door.”
Werner rolled his shoulders. “Something is coming, Christophe.”
“We still do not know the identity of the British contact, but who could it be but Frau Haber?” Christophe leaned forward. “Do you want me to arrest her?”
Shaking his head, Werner swung his legs down from the desk. “No. Tell me why that is not a good plan.”
Disappointment clouded Christophe’s face. He thought for a moment then said, “Her arrest may arouse sympathy for her cause.”
"Das ist korrekt.” Werner nodded. “Not all support the war effort and the last thing we need now is a martyr.”
Rising, he walked to a window on the other side of the room and stared into the inky expanse of the night sky. Pinpoints of electric light dotted the vast castle grounds below him like targets for a machine gun. “It is dangerous to be human, Christophe. Our need for reprisal clouds our judgment and offsets our sense of morality.”
Rocking back and forth on his heels, Werner tucked his hands into his pockets. “Frau Haber hates her husband. She is jealous of his fame and because he is unfaithful. Both are motive enough to kill. The agent monitoring her home reports that her behavior is erratic which could indicate mental instability.”
“But she has done nothing so far.” Christophe’s pants squeaked on the leather of his seat as he twisted toward his superior.
Werner’s voice dropped. “That can only mean that she is waiting for the right moment.”
“And when would that be, sir?”
Werner turned from the window with a thin smile on his lips.
“After Ypres, Christophe. The coming battle is a trial, not just for Haber’s weapons but for Haber himself. If the experiment succeeds, she will strike in some unpredictable way. But if it fails...”
“She will use the failure to leverage the public against him.” Rising, Christophe smacked a fist into his palm, eyes alight with understanding.
Let’s see just how much he understands.
“Now, imagine you oversaw this operation. What plan of action would you propose?” Werner folded his arms across his chest and waited.
Christophe stepped back, blinking.
“Me?”
Werner didn’t bother to answer.
“Well... I would propose we do nothing for the moment.” His assistant cocked his head to one side, seeking some sign of Werner’s approval.
There was none.
After a moment he continued. “There is a gala planned at the Haber residence next month if the experiment is successful. I believe, if Frau Haber plans to assault her husband, it will be then, when the whole country is watching.”
“So, that is your proposition?” Werner gave a casual shrug. “Do nothing?”
“Y-yes sir.”
“And our agent in England. What of her?”
He could see Christophe’s mind spinning through possibilities. “Let me go back to England,” the younger man said after a moment. “I will speak with her.”
“You expect her to admit that she’s betrayed her country over coffee?”
Christophe flushed. “Nein. I will tell her that you have ordered her father-in-law’s death.” He glanced at Werner. “I trust that you have no objections.”
Werner responded with a slight shake of his head. “His assassination may throw the Bank of England into turmoil which could be very useful to our cause.”
Christophe seized upon his tacit approval. “If she doesn’t follow orders, it will be confirmation of her disloyalty. Then I will remove the old man anyway.”
“And if she goes through with it?”
“If she does, then I will tell her she’s been recalled, and you can interrogate her when she arrives.”
Werner held Christophe’s gaze for a long moment, a flush of pride stealing through him. The boy thought like a jaëger, a hunter. It was always better to be sure of the prey before releasing the fatal bullet.
“Good man.” He placed a hand upon Christophe’s shoulder. “Your strategy is sound. That is exactly what we shall do.”
Chapter 17
Etaples, France. April 1915
“Simply no room to take care of a VAD... Suicidal... send her to London.”
Voices washed over her, harsh and insistent. She curled up inside herself, wanting nothing more than to retreat into the tunnel of oblivion from which she had been expelled.
“...not suicidal.” Another voice, one that tugged at the shattered fragments of her memory, grated in her ears.
She whimpered, mentally scrambling to escape reality. Go away. Stop whoever you are. She thought she screamed the words but, if she did, no one heard. Maybe it was all in her head.
Another possibility, one much more appealing—floated through her skull like a current of still air. Maybe she was dead. Relief flooded her mind. Dead. The word was like an oasis in the desert—offering hope in a world of despair. She was dead, free at last from the pain that clawed at her from within.
But could the dead feel relief? Despair clogged her mind. The oasis in the desert had proven to be nothing more than a mirage. She longed for death; it tantalized her, warm and inviting then disappeared without a trace. She heard herself whimper again, this time not with pain but with an agonizing desire to enter the darkness. God, I want to die. Please... just let me die!
God? Something awful had happened to her. Something involving... death. God hadn’t stopped it. God hadn’t helped. Someone had died. Who? It was more than one person. People she loved very much. Family. Her—
“Abby! Will!”
Her eyes flew open as she heaved herself upright, screaming the names of those she had loved and lost through lips that felt like chewed-up rubber. This time she knew she had spoken. A doctor and Veronica gaped at her as though she were Lazarus stepping out of the tomb. She stared back, first at them, then at the bandages that swathed her sides.
Then a blast of pain hit her—a searing agony that made her collapse into a convulsing, wailing heap on the metal bed’s stained sheets. The pain eliminated the last shred of doubt. As undesirable as it was, there was no denying that she, Eleanor Thompson, had returned to the land of the living.
LATER THAT EVENING, Veronica approached her friend, gingerly pressing the pads of h
er fingers against a steaming bowl of soup. Eleanor was curled into a fetal position on the bed. Her red, puffy eyes still leaked tears as she stared vacantly straight ahead, no doubt seeing the faces of her lost loved ones instead of the white walls around her.
“Hey.” Veronica clucked sympathetically, wincing as she shifted the hot bowl to her right hand and pulled a scuffed wooden chair into reach with her left foot. Her stomach growled, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten all day.
“Right now.” She teased the chair forward. “Come on, you.” Successful at last, she placed the bowl on a table near the bed—next to two others that Eleanor had left untouched. A worried frown creased her brow as she sank into the chair. It had been almost twelve hours since Eleanor had unexpectedly awoken from a coma and, in that time, Veronica had watched her slip into a depression that worried her far more than the fractured ribs her friend carried.
Pursing her lips, she leaned back in the chair. Eleanor had remained locked in stubborn silence all day and, while Veronica understood her desire to be alone, she also knew that talking was the first step of the long journey toward emotional healing. Her stomach rumbled again.
“Mind if I eat that?” Veronica jerked her head toward the still-steaming bowl of soup.
There was no reply.
“Right, well, I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Veronica reached for the bowl. “You probably have a lot of questions but, since you’re determined to shut your friends out of your life, you obviously don’t want to talk. So, I’ll do the talking for both of us, alright?”
Silence.
“I knew you’d agree.” Veronica inhaled the aroma of beef and vegetables. She put the spoon to her mouth and slurped its contents down noisily, hoping to spark Eleanor’s appetite.
“Umm. Amazing how even army food can taste so good when you’re hungry, isn’t it?” She wolfed down another mouthful. “You were in-and-out for almost three weeks, you know dearie. Collapsed on the railway just as the train was pulling into the station and banged your head against the tracks.”
Veronica paused, waiting for the obvious question.
None was forthcoming. With a slight shake of her head, she continued.
“How did I survive, you ask? Well, if I believed in God I’d call it a miracle. Because I don’t believe in Him, I’ll say you’re just as lucky as they come.”
She swallowed. “The train had already slowed down a good bit since it was pulling into the station. The white of your apron stood out against the dark tracks and the conductor realized while still a good way out that something was in his way. He jerked the emergency brake and the train stopped before it could roll over you.”
Placing the tip of the spoon against her lips, she said, “Not before the grille on the front of the train had cracked a few of your ribs though.”
Veronica rose and placed the empty bowl on the table. When she spoke again, her tone was as flat as the ground on which she stood. “Two inches further and there wouldn’t have been enough of you left to bury. You’d be dead.”
Eleanor covered her face with her hands and murmured something unintelligible.
“What?” Veronica jerked the chair closer and sat down. It was the first time Eleanor had spoken since regaining consciousness.
“I ... wish that I... was dead.” Eleanor croaked the words rather than spoke them but there was no mistaking her meaning.
Veronica felt the blood drain from her face. So, it was true. Eleanor hadn’t fainted, she—
The nurse swallowed the lump in her throat. Irreligious as she was, the thought of suicide made her blood run cold.
“Eleanor, I have to ask you something.” Veronica folded her hands together, steeling herself for her patient’s response. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”
For a few long moments Eleanor’s only answer was a steady stream of glittering tears that trickled from the corners of her eyes.
“Did you?” She gently reached out and squeezed Eleanor’s cold hands between her own.
“No.” Her voice was small, like that of a scared child in need of a mother’s reassurance. “No, I-I fainted after I heard the news.”
Veronica arched an eyebrow. “News. What news?”
Eleanor’s face screwed up into a splotchy ball and Veronica knew instinctively that Will was dead.
“Oh love, I’m so sorry.” Shifting closer to the bed, she pulled her friend into her arms. Eleanor clung to her, body wracked with sobs. The motion should have caused her pain, but it seemed to Veronica that the ache in her friend’s heart eclipsed everything else.
“First Abby... then Will.” Eleanor’s voice cracked. “I was so sure God would bring him back, I—.”
Her words melted into a choking cry and Veronica pressed her head against her chest. “Let your tears go, love. It’s alright.”
Her heart ached for this woman who had clung to her faith only to realize that some things were impossible, even for those who believed. The right thing would be to console Eleanor, to feed her the usual tripe that God worked everything according to His will.
But she was no liar. She faced reality and it was time Eleanor did so as well. Only when her friend accepted the truth could she begin to heal.
“Eleanor listen to me.” Her tone was sharp but it was for her own good. She released her hold on Eleanor and pushed her upright. “If you want to keep your sanity you need to admit that whatever God there may or may not be doesn’t care about our problems.”
Gripping Eleanor’s forearm she stared into the wet dark pools that were ringed with black smudges. “We’re in this alone. We shape our destiny, not some invisible deity in the sky.”
She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the final blow. It was like amputation. Severing an arm or a leg from its owner hurt the patient but it was often the only way to save his life. In like manner, Eleanor needed to cut off her irrational faith if she wanted to emotionally survive.
“Stop hoping for miracles because, believe me,” she bit her lip as her own dark memories resurfaced, “there are none.”
Veronica motioned toward the untouched bowls of soup. “Eat. Keep yourself alive. Not for a God who doesn’t care... but for yourself.” She wrapped her arms around her chest, despising the emptiness that consumed her. “Forget your faith. Just forget it and get on with your life. It’s the only way to survive this war.”
Eleanor blinked. Dark ringlets tumbled in chaotic madness over her forehead, spilling over her face. “No. You’re wrong.” Her whisper was not defiant but resolute, as though amid her pain she had somehow found consolation.
“I asked why God took first my baby then my husband. Each second without them is... torture. I want to die. But I’m still here for His... purpose.”
Veronica leaned forward and clutched Eleanor’s knee. “Be reasonable, El. It’s the only way to deal with the pain.”
Eleanor shook her head, breathing hard. “Would you take from me the one thing I have left... my faith?”
Veronica leaned back in her chair, eyebrows squished together. She knew Eleanor needed to rest. The short conversation had clearly sapped whatever strength the woman had left, but she couldn’t let this go without making one more attempt to hammer sense into her. “What has your faith ever done for you? Huh? What proof do you have that God even cares about you? You’re alone, broken, and in a hospital bed.”
Eleanor wilted visibly beneath the verbal attack and Veronica felt a wave of self-loathing wash over her. Perhaps it was cruel to pull her from her one remaining hope. “I-I’m sorry Eleanor. I don’t mean to hurt—”
“I know.” Eleanor’s shoulders quivered. She clamped her eyes shut.
Veronica rose, unable to push the issue any further. One more question burned in her mind.
“Do you plan to stay here?”
Instead of answering, Eleanor simply nodded.
Veronica smiled as she switched off the lamp. “It’ll be a few weeks before you’re on your feet, but I think I can convin
ce the good doctor to keep you on staff until then.”
She turned to leave but paused at the door. “I’m glad you’ve come back to us, El. I can’t tell you how glad. Goodnight.”
Chapter 18
Ypres-Salient, Flanders. April 22, 1915
Malcolm shivered as the chill that emanated from the sodden walls around him seeped into his bones. The trench was more of an open grave than a strategic defense against an enemy assault. Gloom, so powerful that not even the bright sunshine above could dispel it, congealed within his soul. There must be more to war than this! Where were the glorious charges? The chance to earn the renown that surrounded Thomas? He could summarize his life in one word: misery.
Sucking in a shallow breath, Malcolm gagged as the stench of decaying flesh assaulted his nostrils. He glanced down to see maggots crawling out of the eyeholes and ears of dead bodies that littered the ground. He could only hope they were all German.
Malcolm started as the crackle of small arms fire ripped through the afternoon air.
“Don’t worry lad, you’ll get used to it—if you live long enough.” A gruff voice reached him from a small group of soldiers who were huddled together playing cards. The man slapped a card down on the table then threw a twisted grin in Malcom’s direction. “Snipers. They’re the real killers. Never get used to that lot, eh? By the time you see ‘em you’re dead!”
“W-what about the smell?” Malcolm straightened, edging toward them through mud that sucked at his boots. The tip of his head reached just above the trench’s parapet. “Does that horrible odor ever go away?”
“Get down, you fool!” The shout reached him seconds before a puff of wind brushed his cheek. A bullet split the air near his head and smacked into the sandbags that lined the rear of the trench. Instantly, Malcolm dropped to his belly, splashing into a murky mixture of water and human excrement.
He lurched to his knees and clutched his bayonetted rifle to his chest with dripping hands, panting and staring with wild eyes in the direction of the enemy. He knew better than to expect sympathy from his comrades. Most of the Northumberland Fusiliers had seen their share of action and knew there were certain surefire ways to get killed. Standing fully erect in a shallow hole in the ground was top of the list.
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