Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

  Stefan interjected. “He is a dutiful son. In due time, he would likely continue the wishes of the tsarina.” A fleeting glance at her, rewarded with her smile.

  “It is my belief,” Himmler went on, “that Christianity gives rise to agitators, those whose loyalties are to God and not the true sovereign. We must not allow the people to hope for approval except from Your Royal Majesty and the Führer. Obedience is undermined by false loyalties.”

  A shadow passed over her heart. What did Heinrich Himmler the chicken farmer know about the Motherland and its traditions?

  “Surely,” she murmured, “when the Reich destroys the Soviet oppressors, it will clearly establish my authority.”

  Hearing the translation, Himmler’s mouth twitched beneath his slash of a mustache. “Armies can take, Your Majesty, but they cannot keep. The people must be broken.”

  Stefan avoided eye contact with her when he translated. The remark could not stand, even if Himmler was the second-most powerful man in Germany. She allowed a frosty pause. “The Russian people will never be broken.”

  All talk at the table hushed.

  Himmler declined to challenge this, but his silence in itself was an affront.

  Stefan said, first in German, and then in French for Irina’s benefit, “We will deal with any who would dare oppose you. Communists will soon see the error of their ways, and they will be of no consequence.”

  Himmler flashed a look at Stefan, perhaps annoyed that he had answered for his superior. “We must teach them to fear us. The Nachkommenschaft will do for the job. Soon.” Himmler raised his champagne glass. “May I propose a toast. To our enterprise, Your Majesty.”

  She raised her glass and nodded. The Nachkommenschaft would undermine Stalin and his henchmen, not the entirety of the Russian people.

  Evgeny was not at his best tonight. He was glaring steadily at Himmler, as many at the table had begun to notice. Irina nodded to an attendant who approached Evgeny, whispering in his ear. Perhaps he promised him a special treat, because Evgeny rose and allowed himself to be led away. Irina smiled, catching his eye. We must befriend the Nazis, my dear, but only until we are home again. Then we will live in the old palace, in the old ways.

  Himmler watched as Evgeny left the room. “Perhaps he would do well with special care at a convalescent home, Your Majesty.”

  And perhaps you would do well to know your place, Herr Chicken Farmer. Evgeny did need care, she did not need to be reminded. It would mean his retirement with the best nursing, of course. She had been delaying that day. But it would come soon. Sir Stefan had suggested a renowned place in Switzerland. She would miss Evgeny Feodorovich desperately.

  Though it was bitterly cold on the veranda, Irina stole a moment alone there with Stefan. The moon had not yet risen, leaving the heavens black but dappled by a slow descent of snow, glittering past the plaza torches.

  “We could be in St. Petersburg,” she murmured. “The palace in winter.”

  “Let us pretend it is so, Irinuska.”

  “Then, if this is my palace, you must tell me anything I wish to know.”

  Playing along, he said, “Command me.”

  “You fell in love once, so you said. Who was it?”

  He turned back to watch the snow, pausing before he answered. “I had duties in England. It was there.”

  “She was English.”

  He did not wish to speak of it, she could tell. But they would play their game.

  “She felt that she was English. Born there, but looking hard to belong.”

  “Strange that she did not . . . belong.”

  He shrugged, letting that part of the story pass by. “She lived in Yorkshire.”

  “A countess?” It could be no commoner.

  “A spy.” He looked at her, smiling, to show it was no longer of any consequence. “Her name was Kim.”

  “You loved a traitor.” She wished she had not said it after he had confided in her.

  “I hoped for her to turn, of course.”

  “But she did not turn.”

  “No.”

  “You had to kill her.”

  His gaze held hers. Don’t ask me.

  Irina looked out onto the lamplit plaza, murmuring, “It is a bitter thing to know that you loved someone else.”

  His hand folded over hers on the railing. Her gloved hand.

  So now he knew her feelings for him. She felt stripped before him, no royal pride left. “Was this a truth you brought forth from me . . . with your gift of the spill ?”

  “Irinuska.” He gazed at her. “I do not know. I never know if I have taken or it is given to me. You must forgive me, whichever it is.”

  He held out his arm for her to take and rejoin the group. She rested her hand on his arm, grasping it for a moment through his jacket sleeve, reaching through the layers that separated them from each other. He had loved an Englishwoman. Her name, Kim, a name that sounded like a boy, or a pet. Kim. How difficult it was to hear the name!

  After the cold of the terrace, Stefan’s limp deepened. He should use his cane, but for the occasion he had left it behind. They entered the candlelit hall.

  Himmler turned from the small circle he had been speaking to. “Ah, Colonel von Ritter, join us, please.” He frowned, noting Irina’s bare shoulders. “On such a night Her Majesty should have a wrap!”

  Indeed, the cold from the porch had followed her inside. She had thought that jealousy was a slow fire. But now she knew it was not. It was glacial ice, creeping through the valleys of her heart.

  20

  THE TIERGARTEN, BERLIN

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 10. Kim faced off with Duncan. They stood in a short tunnel in the park under an arched overpass. Just as well that she couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows. The incredulity that must have been there. The pity.

  “The risk you took,” Duncan said. “Breathtaking, I must say.”

  She had toned it down a bit for her report, leaving out the detail of blood flying off the straps of the straitjacket as the patient spun—but there was no way to pretty it up without losing the point.

  “London already had questions about your operational judgment when you bolted from the Gestapo. Now this.” He shook his head slowly. “Why, Elaine? Why didn’t you run this by me?”

  Because London thinks I’m letting my heart lead me, she might have said. But instead: “I thought you’d need one more piece of the puzzle before you could support my investigations.”

  “Well, I have that piece now, and I’m not convinced. There are other interpretations of what you saw. Linz brought you to a madhouse. Tucked away since our Nazi brethren don’t like to admit that the super race has mental failings.”

  “They all had a similar and distorted body type.” She described the physical symptoms to him, but he did not seem impressed.

  “All right. Then it’s a German experiment with Talents gone wrong. You have no proof the patients were SS; it could have been Poles, mental defectives, whatnot.”

  Kim tried taking a calming breath. It didn’t help. “Treptow had SS guards. Why would the SS be involved?” It didn’t matter what she said. He wasn’t going to support her.

  “Not to mention you lost the camera.” His voice expressionless, making it even worse. “So now they know they’ve been penetrated.”

  “That was unfortunate. But as it happens, going through with the break-in has earned me the trust of this group. They have a mole in the operation, so now we have direct intelligence about Monarch.”

  “If—and it’s a very big if—Monarch is this major military strategy that Linz and her people describe.”

  “Right. We don’t know that yet. But we have access to an intelligence source that could confirm it, as I keep saying. Tannhäuser, the mole at the operational base.”

  He paced away, trying to shed his agitation, then walked back. “All right, Tannhäuser. But how likely is it that an outfit like Oberman could recruit someone in the SS?”

 
“There are people who are starting to doubt Hitler. We know this. And the mole, the SS officer, had been friends with the leader of the partisans.”

  From above, the shouts of children racing over the bridge, sounding far away, another world.

  She went on. “And because I was willing to do something dangerous at Treptow—”

  “Some kind of club initiation?” Said with contempt.

  “Because I was willing to go to Treptow,” she doggedly went on, “we have a potential catalyst willing to come over to our side. The Oberman Group needs to trust us. Their lives are at stake, and they already know we don’t care about one Jew’s fate.” He rolled his eyes. The Jews were an internal problem. “You can call it an initiation. But you know how important it is to gain the trust of assets. It’s crucial, or no one would ever risk sharing intelligence with us.”

  That struck home, or so she thought, by his silence.

  “So, because of Treptow, I earned an extraordinary piece of intel.”

  “About catalysis,” he said. “If true.”

  “Yes, and if it’s true, it’s a Talent that could give Nazi military capabilities—and ours—a major boost.” Or was the service so blinkered in trying to manage the Nazi government that they would consider this Talent just another in the list? Another Talent for Owen Cherwell’s Bloom Book, to join trauma view, conceptor, mesmerizing, disguise, hypercognition, object reading, and others; that index of meta-abilities that was always out of date.

  “If the Linz woman has this ability,” Duncan finally said, “that could be very big. I do see why you’re so charged up about it.” He nodded to himself. “The thing is, though, they could be cooking the whole thing up to get her out of Germany. Suppose she and Franz are lovers, and with the Gestapo closing in, he wants to protect her.”

  Her face flushed hot. “Why do we have agents in the field if you can just sit in your office and cook up your own intel?”

  “Elaine. I’m trying to help you. In this business, it’s not just what you’re able to pull off; it’s how you do it. Building confidence from the higher-ups. Showing you’re on the team.”

  And was she on the team? Maybe over tea, listening, waiting. But what about the real team of agents, those who could pursue leads?

  Duncan watched her with a worried expression. “If you push wild ideas, if you risk incidents because of it, your career is over.”

  The words seemed to echo in the tunnel. Over, over. Career over. Exactly what had kept her sleepless last night.

  He pulled out the report he’d just read. “Modify this. The madman drinking blood, chasing you . . . They won’t stand for it.”

  She let her anger show. “I guess it proves you can’t control me.”

  “And can we?” When she didn’t answer, he went on, handing back her report. “Fix this. Say it was a hospital, visiting hours, some such. You can describe the patients’ physical changes and the woman’s claims, but deliver a reasoned analysis. Show them you aren’t jumping to conclusions. No vampires, for God’s sake.”

  She took the paper and stuffed it into her shirt, anger filling her throat so full she couldn’t speak. Vampires. Only the legends of them. She had known it would be a disagreeable notion, but it was a real part of the story.

  He buttoned up his coat. “And no more contact with her unless directed.”

  “Duncan.” She was going to regret saying this, but it seemed so right other than that. “How long have you been on the Berlin station?”

  His expression made clear he wasn’t going to answer.

  “So long that you’re beginning to hope for Paris? Istanbul? Afraid a copy of my report will go in your file?” Silence. A dark pause. “So long that the Third Reich is starting to look normal to you?”

  She turned and stalked out of the tunnel into the dour but marginally brighter landscape of the Tiergarten. Striding down the paths of the Tiergarten, she tried to discharge her anger.

  Duncan disliked her methods, and in his view they undermined her conclusions. Damn it, her intel should at least arouse concern about a number of alarming scenarios. The Germans might have a frightening asset: Irina Annakova. She wanted her country back, she would be the tsarina. In return, she would raise up Nazi Talents, whether they were German or fascist supporters, or criminals hoping to rise to power. Talents, formerly minor, would become major: 4s would become 8s, 7s would—could they?—become 10s. She imagined a Talent for disguise, for compulsion, for precognition . . . raised so high. The Nachkommenschaft, with their great meta-powers. Add to that, formidable physical strength and a penchant for madness. With all this, Nazi control of Europe became ever more possible. It would begin with infiltration. Then control.

  In a final advantage, the fiends had a taste for blood. Thus inducing what Hitler called spiritual terror to keep the people bound.

  And all Duncan could see was a conspiracy to deceive.

  Her anger simmered as Hannah’s words came back to her: People who can mesmerize leaders; attract and compel newspaper editors, religious leaders. Receive spills from military general staff. Where persuasion fails, they slay and torture.

  So, amend her report? Make it nicer, more palatable?

  She had to plan her next move, and quickly, before the Gestapo captured Hannah and silenced the only information source for Monarch.

  The setting sun was sinking fast, giving up on the day before it got worse.

  Not far from the empty fountain, sitting on a bench, was her husband.

  She approached him warily. This wasn’t good, Alex following her into the park.

  He put down his paper and gave her a cocky smile. She sat beside him, gazing for a moment past the sentinel bare-limbed trees, the acres of yellowing grass. “Never follow me into the Tiergarten.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Did you hear me? Never.”

  “Calm down. I’m sitting on a bench. If you’re meeting your sources, I don’t know a thing.”

  She scowled at his condescension.

  “I wanted to invite you on an excursion,” he said.

  “I’m busy.”

  “To Bonn. I’ll give a talk at the Institute for Economic Studies and thought we could take a couple days, see the sights.” He drew out a cigarette, lit it, and offered it to her. Accepting, she inhaled as deep as she could. He went on. “Ours should look more like a marriage. You go haring off on outings, trips, whatnot. People will notice.”

  “Requirements of the job.” She knew she sounded a scold, but he had caught her at the worst possible time. She blew an angry cloud of smoke, feeling like she didn’t really need the cigarette to do it.

  “Right-o, I know that, darling. But we must keep up appearances, get along a bit, as newlyweds do. And you haven’t seen much more of Germany than the capital and Bad Schandau.” He threw up his hands playfully, fending her off. “Or maybe you have, I don’t keep tabs. But you’d like Bonn. On Sunday, if you’re interested. Think about it, anyway.” He snugged his wool scarf closer around his neck. “Shall we go in?”

  She produced a smile that she hoped wasn’t positively serpentine. “Right.”

  He took her hand as they made their way home. “Your fingers are freezing. A whisky will help.”

  She needed a lot more help than that. As they crossed the Tiergartenstrasse, an idea occurred to her: there was one person who might corroborate the claims about the Nachkommenschaft. Someone married to one.

  Sonja.

  21

  THE BELGIAN EMBASSY, BERLIN

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11. “I told you the violet gown would suit.” In the drawing room, Rachel Flynn smiled knowingly as several members of the diplomatic corps stole glances at Kim.

  As the Soviet consul general passed, Kim nodded in greeting, since they had met previously on the circuit. These receptions felt less like parties than chess games. A game with a dozen players, some without portfolio. For now, she was the piece in violet, and she was hunting a pawn married to a Nachkomme.
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  An enormous Christmas tree in the receiving hall tried mightily to impose a yuletide spirit, aided by vast quantities of champagne. Protocol dictated that minor countries should not claim Christmas party dates after December 12, so the Belgians had pounced on December 11. Next weekend the French and the Italians. Unfortunately, the Belgians had chosen the very date that King Edward VIII happened to have abdicated his throne, dampening the enthusiasm of the British legation. Sir Eric Phipps and several other consular officials deemed it unbecoming to attend, but Alex was the exception, as European trade must soldier on despite the fall of kings.

  Nazi officials threaded through the crowd, some in white tie and tails and others in the uniforms of Hitler’s sworn forces, the SA, Gestapo, and SS.

  “Your mystery man isn’t German, is he?” Rachel claimed she didn’t want to know, but couldn’t help herself. “A Nazi official?”

  “French,” Kim murmured.

  Rachel’s eyes instinctively raked the crowd for the French legation.

  “If we see Sonja Nagel, can you get her husband away? I have a small favor to ask her when he’s not around.”

  Rachel narrowed her eyes while blowing smoke, making her look rather fierce. “Does Alex suspect you’re seeing someone? Or doesn’t care?”

  “It’s a flexible marriage.”

  “I’m shocked,” Rachel said with an insouciance that lent the opposite meaning. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. But why don’t you just strike up a conversation with her?”

  “Captain Nagel doesn’t seem to like me. He can’t throw me in jail, can he?”

  Rachel raised her chin and smiled as the minister from Uruguay passed by. “I doubt it. Unless you’re caught with snaps of the Baltic fleet.” When Kim failed to laugh, Rachel added, “Oh dear. I really do not want to know.”

  Nor shall you. Unless Rachel had the spill. That was the problem in Berlin; one distrusted everyone, and with excellent reason. Even if you weren’t an agent of a government, you might be a Gestapo informant, on or off the payroll, sometimes just to ingratiate yourself with an official, sometimes under blackmail. Rachel, however, was a kidder, she felt sure. Nothing more than that.