The Huntress

by Kate Quinn

  A single in-drawn breath as Yelena stooped to retrieve her gold star, then she was gone. Nina stood at the edge of the airfield, watching the sun fade and a quarter moon began to rise as Bershanskaia delivered the evening’s briefing somewhere inside. I will shatter, Nina kept thinking, the thought circling like a conveyor belt of U-2s. But she didn’t shatter. She just stood numb, waiting for her heart to finish breaking, for that hateful quarter moon to finish rising, for her last flight as a Night Witch to begin.

  Chapter 35

  Ian

  July 1950

  Boston

  Tony returned from his shift at McBride’s Antiques looking like a cat who had got into the cream. “Good news.”

  “Did Kolb try to bunk?” Ian looked up from their paper-strewn table, hopeful. He’d had a week of diner coffee and was tired of it.

  “Not that good, no. Kolb is headed home as usual, Nina ghosting along in his wake. Your little Soviet popsy is a natural tail.”

  My little Soviet popsy is at least speaking to me, Ian thought. Nina’s temper seemed to be of the tinderbox variety, fast kindled and fast out—the morning after stamping out of the diner in a rage, she’d greeted him with her usual breeziness and showed no compunction about dragging him off to the couch when Tony left. Bloody hell, it was complicated having an affair with your own wife.

  Ian brushed that aside, looking at Tony. “What did you find?”

  “A tattoo gun. Tucked away very carefully in Kolb’s workshop.” Tony had been using his work shifts to discreetly search the premises for anything Kolb might have hidden. If he kept information on his former clients, and was cautious enough not to stash it at home, what better place than the McBride shop? “I’ve learned a fair amount about the antiques business in the last few weeks, and there is no reason why that workroom would need a tattoo gun.”

  “He’s probably covering up blood-type tattoos.” Someone paranoid enough to pay for a new name and background would be paranoid enough to cover a tattoo. “Something to hold over his head if we take another crack at him.”

  “When?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want him warning anyone, I just want him nervous.” Nervous people made mistakes.

  “Start on these while you’re waiting.” Tony fished some papers out of his pocket.

  “Bloody hell, I haven’t even got through your first batch—”

  “Put your foot on the gas, boss.” Lists were the main thing Tony was looking for, on his careful searches through the McBride files. If I were hiding information in that shop on the location and identities of war criminals, Ian had speculated last week, I’d list the names and addresses as buyers, customers, or dealers. False names tucked among real names. Lorelei Vogt’s new name and address could very well be in one of those drawers, hiding in plain sight.

  Tony slapped down a stack of lists copied over in his untidy scrawl. He never took the originals—if and when police became involved, Ian had no intention of seeing their evidence muddied up with accusations of theft. Tony asked permission every time he accessed the file cabinets and took nothing that wasn’t put back. Gray territory, but they were used to working in those shadows. “Besides,” Tony had pointed out, “if we need to act legally on any information we find, that’s when we go to the McBride family, lay out everything, play on their civic duty in the apprehension of a criminal, and obtain full permission to act on the information we’ve found. My persuasiveness, your gravitas—always works like a charm.”

  Flipping through the new sets of lists, Ian reached for the telephone. Names of antiques sellers and customers: they’d all have to be cross-checked and confirmed that they were what the list said they were. So far all the names had checked out as legitimate, but they’d only been at it a week. The telephone bill was going to be astronomical. Slow and steady, Ian reminded himself. Most chases took months.

  “I’m not combing any shop files further back than last year.” Tony was trying to impose some order on the worktable, layered with maps and notes like an archaeological dig. “Kolb arrived in Boston with the early waves of refugees coming after the Displaced Persons Act; I slipped that out of Miss McBride. So it’s doubtful he could have helped our huntress until early ’49 at the soonest.”

  “According to Frau Vogt, her daughter left Europe late ’45.” Ian crossed off the name of an auction house in Dutchess County. “But if die Jägerin arrived in Boston before the Displaced Persons Act—”

  “—it was probably something shady through Italy or the church routes,” Tony finished. “No sponsor or family here, she’d have scrambled to establish herself.”

  “Unless she came with wads of cash, which isn’t likely.” Ian had never yet found a war criminal who had managed to flee his homeland and then set up in luxury. “So Lorelei Vogt spent some years getting by. Kolb came in late ’48 or early ’49; she found him and learned he could provide assistance . . .”

  “Only then does she write urging her mother to join her. Do you think—no,” Tony interrupted himself, leveling a finger at Ian. “Absolutely not.”

  Ian paused, reaching up to pin the latest list to the wall. “We’re running out of room.”

  “Next it’ll be taped-up photographs and colored string crisscrossing to connect different theories, and before you know it we’re stuck in one of those god-awful flicks where some general is jabbing at a map saying ‘The Yanks are here, the Limeys are here, and the Jerries are here.’ No,” Tony repeated, and Ian grinned.

  “You take over the telephoning, then.” It had been a while since Ian took out his violin, and playing helped his mind find its way through a thicket of possibilities. He pulled the instrument out, musing as Tony dialed a number and slid into practiced disarming patter. One of those names, listed innocuously under the heading of Dutchess County antiques dealers or Becket, Massachusetts, china sellers, might be a former war criminal, Ian thought. A camp guard fleeing a legacy of violence in Belsen, a paper pusher who had documented the roundup of Berlin’s socialists . . . or die Jägerin. It was tedious and it might not turn up anything, but the chase had stalled while they waited for Kolb to lead them to something new, and the rule when a chase stalled was to sift through the ordinary and find something that didn’t fit, then follow that.

  Tony went from one call to the next as Ian began to play, trying to remember the song Nina had been singing on the rooftop two nights ago. He’d sat up there with her listening, leaned back on his elbows, wondering why she refused to think of staying with the center when she clearly liked the teamwork, knowing better than to ask. She couldn’t storm off a four-story building like she’d stormed out of the diner, but she might just try.

  Abandoning that question for now, he switched to Saint-Saëns. The music and Tony’s telephone patter must have drowned out the sound of the door opening. When Ian drew out the final note and turned around, he saw a little girl in the doorway, bird boned and huge eyed.

  Even as he lowered the bow in puzzlement and Tony turned around midcall, the blond child took a step into the room, gaze fixed on the violin as though hunting for where the music had gone. “Ruth!” A woman’s voice called from outside, floating up the stairs, but the girl ignored it, looking at Ian. He looked back. The name he was hearing was Ruth, but the name imprinted in his mind was Seb.

  “What was that?” the little girl said. Seven or eight years old, blond hair falling over a crisp blouse—Ian’s dark-eyed dark-haired younger brother had looked nothing like her, so why the painful stab of familiarity?

  Then Ian remembered Sebastian standing before their father one Christmas, looking stricken as he heard he was being sent away to school a year early, aren’t you a lucky chap! That was the similarity: both his brother and this little girl were two bandbox-neat children with well-shined shoes, yet the forlorn puzzlement in their eyes was like that of the war orphans Ian later saw in Naples, in London—children gripped in the throes of shock, huddled on hospital cots or in bombed-out buildings, eyes searching for their
homes. Sebastian had looked up at their father, blurting out, Can’t I go live with Ian instead? Seb got a clip on the ear for that, and a lecture about not letting down the side like a pansy.

  I wish you could live with me, Seb, Ian had said. But he’s our father. Until you’re of age, it’s his roof.

  But it’s not home, Seb had muttered.

  The little girl in front of Ian now was staring at the violin as though she thought it was home. “What was the music?” she breathed.

  “Saint-Saëns,” Ian heard himself reply. “The Swan movement, from Carnival of the Animals. G major, six-four time. Who might you be?”

  Someone who has already been failed in her rather short life, Ian couldn’t help thinking, even though he knew nothing about this girl. He thought later that he was already predisposed in that moment, whatever Ruth McBride asked, to say yes.

  Chapter 36

  Jordan

  July 1950

  Boston

  Ruth beat Jordan to the door of Tony Rodomovsky’s apartment, racing up the stairs as soon as she heard the faint strains of music. By the time Jordan made it to the top, Tony was standing in the doorway looking down at the little girl bemusedly. Behind him was a man Jordan didn’t know, standing with a violin tucked under his chin. Jordan gave an apologetic smile for interrupting, turning to Tony. “I’m sorry to intrude—”

  “Not at all. The lock on that door’s so flimsy, it opens with a jiggle.” He smiled, still puzzled.

  “I was so busy bringing the shop manager up to date on my routine, I didn’t see you’d left without your paycheck,” Jordan said. “You’re lucky I had your address on file, and didn’t mind a detour on the way home.” Handing the check over, she turned to call Ruth, mind already racing ahead to the open afternoon beckoning now that the capable Mrs. Weir had returned to manage the shop—not just today but for the rest of the summer. Jordan could finally sink into those rolls of film waiting to be developed, the bakers at Mike’s Pastries, all those shots of white aprons and kneading hands . . . But then Jordan saw Ruth’s face and stopped short.

  How long has it been since you’ve smiled like that?

  The older man had lowered his violin, clearly answering some question of Ruth’s. His voice was deep, grave, crisply English. Ruth erupted into more questions, face alight. This was Ruth the happy chatterbox, Jordan thought, not the miserable, silent child she’d become since their father died. The child who woke up whimpering every other night muttering half-asleep fragments of German, refusing to be soothed. “I don’t know about leaving in the fall,” Jordan had confessed to Anneliese two nights ago, worrying. “Ruth’s going to take it so hard.” To which Anneliese in a burst of unusual frustration exclaimed, “Ruth will be fine. Make your plans and go, Jordan, it’s best for both of you.”

  Jordan couldn’t deny it was also what she wanted, more and more every day. But to leave Ruth so unhappy . . .

  Ruth didn’t look unhappy now, as she showered the stranger with questions.

  Jordan caught her hand, caught at her manners too. “I’m sorry if my sister is bothering you, Mr. —?”

  “Ian Graham—a friend of Tony’s from Vienna; he’s been good enough to put up my wife and me on a visit. I’d introduce my wife, but she’s out.” The Englishman shook hands: keen eyed, dark haired, lean as a whip, not quite forty. Jordan thought his name sounded familiar. Before she could place it, Ruth reached up—Ruth, so shy around strangers—and pointed at the bow in Mr. Graham’s other hand.

  “Please?”

  Tony smiled. “Princess Ruth wants a tune.”

  “If you like,” Mr. Graham said. “I warn you, I don’t play particularly well.” Lifting the violin to his chin, he played through the slow melody again. Ruth inched across the floor as if the music was pulling her, eyes fixed on his long fingers on the fingerboard, and Jordan’s heart squeezed. She heard Tony moving some papers on the table behind her, but ignored the rustling, raising her Leica. Click. Her sister’s small rapt face . . .

  “I heard that on the radio,” Ruth burst out as the final note sighed away. “It sounded different. Um—darker?”

  “Quite right. That Saint-Saëns piece is written for a cello.”

  “Is that a bigger violin?”

  “They’re related, shall we say. Played between the knees rather than under the chin—” The Englishman demonstrated.

  She mimicked him, babbling questions. Jordan took another snap, thrilled. Soon Ruth had Mr. Graham’s large instrument in her small hands, and he was showing her how to tuck it under her chin and support it on her shoulder as he held her body steady. “You need a half-size violin, but try this anyway. A whole tone, A to B, like so—”

  Tense with concentration, Ruth tried. “It doesn’t sound right!”

  He corrected her grip on the bow. “There. Now, first finger B, second finger C sharp on the A string . . .” He explained what those names meant, a tiny violin lesson in five minutes—Ruth barely blinked she was concentrating so hard. Jordan just stood there enjoying it.

  “Ruthie,” she said when the violin was finally handed back. “I’m finding you a teacher.”

  Ruth’s eyes lit up as she looked up at the Englishman. “Him?”

  “No, cricket. He was very kind to show you, but he’s not a teacher.”

  “I want him,” Ruth said.

  “Ruth, that isn’t polite. You don’t know Mr. Graham—”

  “I could give her a lesson or two, if you liked.” The offer seemed to come out of the Englishman before he could consider it. He looked as surprised as Jordan.

  “I couldn’t possibly presume. You don’t know me, or my sister.”

  “I don’t mind showing her a few scales and basics. I’m no professional, mind.” The Englishman looked down at Ruth, gazing covetously at his instrument, and grinned. His grin was something special, a quick flash of sunshine lightening that austere English face. “One does like to encourage the young toward culture.”

  Taking a favor from a complete stranger wasn’t the kind of thing either Anneliese or Jordan’s father would approve of. Jordan didn’t care. Ruth never responded to new people like this—look at her tugging on the Englishman’s cuff, spilling questions. For whatever reason, she liked this man. “Thank you so much, Mr. Graham.” Beaming. “Of course I’ll compensate you for your time.”

  “Never mind that. Can you get her a half-size violin?”

  “Yes.” Jordan thought of the instrument at the shop, the nineteenth-century copy of a Mayr. “It shouldn’t leave the shop, but it’s insured to be played.” Anneliese would kill her for suggesting it, but Anneliese didn’t have to know.

  “The Mayr,” Ruth breathed, thrilled. Mr. Graham raised an eyebrow, remarking, “You know Mozart played a Mayr?” By the time Jordan finished arranging a lesson and bid good-bye to the Englishman, Ruth was nearly levitating.

  “I’ll walk you out, Miss McBride.” Tony followed, shutting the apartment door. On the other side, the violin started up again. Ruth’s head turned, tracking the music, but all Jordan had to say was “Tuesday evening, that’ll be you,” and Ruth danced down the first flight of steps.

  Jordan caught her hand. “Don’t tell your mother, Ruthie.” Anneliese meant well, but in this case she was wrong. “Our secret, all right?” Ruth was already nodding, smile flashing.

  “I like to see her smile,” Tony said. “You too, Miss McBride.”

  “Jordan.” Impulsively. “I owe you a favor now, for introducing me to your friend. How did you meet?”

  “Nothing too interesting . . .” They chatted about offices in Vienna and mountains of dull paperwork, as Ruth hopped from step to step, humming the Saint-Saëns melody in perfect tune.

  “Why stay in Europe after you were out of the army?” Jordan wanted to know.

  “Because I wasn’t ready to hear my mother nag me about settling down with a nice girl. And because it’s what I do—drift. I lack purpose, or at least that’s what disapproving aunts and high school
football coaches have always told me. I drifted out of the army without much purpose, I drifted around Vienna working for Ian, then I drifted home.”

  “Where you drifted into the antiques business?”

  “Exactly. Who knows how long I’ll drift along after you?”

  Jordan grinned. “I’m moving too fast for anyone who just drifts.”

  “I can put on a pretty good burst of speed if I’m chasing something I want.”

  Her grin turned into a laugh as they came out into crowded Scollay Square. Jordan headed toward Tremont where she knew there’d be taxis, Tony sauntering along beside her, Ruth skipping between them. “You don’t have to escort us all the way, Tony.”

  “But I’m being gallant,” he protested. “I’m flirting with you, or didn’t you notice?”

  “Oh, I noticed.” Now that she was without a fiancé for the first time in five years, Jordan was free to notice—and flirt back if she wanted. An enjoyable feeling. “You also flirt with every woman who walks through the shop door.”

  “I flirt with them because I want to sell them Ming urns. I flirt with you because I want to take you out to dinner tonight.”

  Regretfully, Jordan shook her head. “I have plans.”

  “Not with your Clark Kent boyfriend, I know that.”

  “He does not look like Clark Kent.”

  “Square jaw, Daddy’s watch, backbone of the nation. I went to war with about a thousand of him.”

  “Don’t be rude; Garrett was perfectly nice to you the one time you met.”

  “Nice boys are dull,” Tony said. “Come out with me.”

  She slanted an eyebrow. “I am your employer, you know.”