by Ann Logan
“How else could I make you feel safe with me and accompany me to Germany? People say I’m too intimidating. Whether it’s my height or what, I don’t know. I worried you’d feel the same way. Liebschen,” he said, smiling and speaking in heavily accented English, “you know my accent enticed you. Admit it.”
Mercy laughed. “I should hit you over the head with a baseball bat. Why did you do something so outrageous?”
At least she didn’t have that vulnerable look any more. He glanced at her and switched easily back to German. “Even you have to admit you were charmed by my accent.”
“It did not charm me,” Mercy retorted. “For one thing, I’m used to German accents. I tutor German students in English, you know, and my mother had a German accent.” She paused. “Why did you do it?”
“If you need to ask why, then you should take a psychology refresher. What’s the first thing you do to disarm an opponent? You take away their defensiveness and put them at ease. You weren’t intimidated by me at all, were you?” he asked. “You probably thought I was a harmless, helpless nerd, didn’t you?”
“You’re right,” she said, glaring at him. “I guess I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Tell me more about your father.” Wulf changed the subject. “What was it like being the daughter of Pedro Fuentes, ‘the Latin lover?’”
Mercy bit her lip. “He was a typical macho, Mexican male. If he were alive today, he’d probably break your neck.” She smiled. “Everyone liked him, women especially, but he only truly loved Mama and me.”
Wulf nodded, compressing his lips.
“You know, although my father never mentioned a family, that doesn’t mean there’s no one left. If there are some relatives still around, maybe they have an idea about my grandmother and her money.”
A memory tickled the back of Wulf’s mind. Hadn’t Hazel said something about Mercy having relatives in Mexico? He made a mental note to check on it.
“Anything else you remember about your father?”
“He was a flirt, of course, but he had a serious side too, particularly the way he treated my mother. He’d look at her across a room, and you’d know there was no one else for him but her. Maybe the flirting was a shield for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, the great ‘Latin lover’ and all that? Mama and I kidded him about that nickname all the time. He once told me the only person who really saw him for himself was Mama. His good looks were too hard to get past for many people. Mama, however, loved him for who he was, not for how he looked.”
Mercy grinned and blushed. “I remember going to my room about nine o’clock every night and staying there because I knew they wanted to be alone.” Her face grew serious. “I want someone like that someday.”
“And you don’t think we have that?”
“There’s too much between us, too much unsaid and too much distrust.”
“Too much lust and not enough love?” Wulf asked, his voice husky.
Mercy swallowed, her voice faltering. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“About your father again?” Wulf steered the conversation back to safe ground.
“Papa was the gardener’s son, on my grandfather’s estate.” She paused a moment then continued.
“There were little things he did and said that sometimes scared me. When he was angry, he became a different person altogether, menacing somehow.”
“Go on.”
“There was a man at the club once, a very wealthy man. One night, he acted more obnoxious and drunk than usual and made a pass at my mother. I remember Mama being very upset by it, perhaps because she knew what Papa would do. She went to the bathroom, but I followed Papa when he confronted the man outside the club. He shoved him up against a wall and put a knife to his privates. He told the man to never go near his wife again, that if he ever touched his wife or said a word to her, he’d kill him, then cut off his penis and balls and stuff them in his mouth.”
Wulf whistled. “Were you frightened by that?”
“I should’ve been, I guess, but I wasn’t. There was something very deadly and serious about my father in spite of how easygoing he was, something I never questioned or doubted.”
“What happened after that?”
Mercy laughed. “The man gave us a very wide berth as you can imagine. It occurred to me much later,” she continued, “that if my father had been alive when I was raped back in college, that man might not be alive today.”
Wulf nodded. “What about your mother? The old Nazi’s daughter fascinates me even more than your father and his reputation with the ladies.”
With Wulf’s gentle prodding, Mercy found herself talking effortlessly about her parents. “Mama was very different from Papa. Everything was mañana for him, but Mama was efficient and exact. Papa called her stubborn.”
“Not like anyone I know, huh?”
Mercy shrugged. Efficient and exact maybe, but not stubborn. “Papa drove her mad with his purchases. Once, when I couldn’t choose between one dress or another, he insisted I get both. Mama was horrified! The value of money was very important to her. She handled the finances and was always after Papa about his expenses.”
“You must’ve inherited that from her.”
She looked down at her present outfit, shapeless and about five years out of date. “As I got older, I wondered why they’d been attracted to each other, coming from such disparate cultures and being such opposites.”
“Did they ever say anything about it?”
“Not really, although Papa said he’d been in love with Mama since the first moment he’d seen her, and Mama swore she’d had a crush on Papa since she was a little girl. They must’ve known each other a long time before they got married. It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? Mama was always so sure of herself.”
Mercy swallowed, feeling a chill cut through her. “My mother looked like him, like Stratton. She had his chin and those ice-blue eyes.”
“They’re totally different people. Don’t ever forget that.”
She nodded. Now that she’d started talking about her parents, the memories flowed so easily she couldn’t stop. “I remember Mama’s eyes the most. They could freeze you where you stood. I never could lie to her when she gave me that look. It was like taking a lie detector test.”
Wulf laughed, reaching over and covering her hand with his. “I wish I had as many good memories as you about my parents.”
“Thank you,” she said. Although his touch warmed her heart, what little was left of her mind asked if this was the same man who’d lied to her over and over again? She pulled her hand away.
When they arrived in Dresden, Mercy was surprised at the contrast with Berlin. “Why is everything so ugly?”
“Don’t you remember the bombing of Dresden? It’s been totally reconstructed since then.”
She made a face as she stared out the window at the city. All she could see were outmoded, dreary buildings and boring streets with a depressing 1950s look.
“The buildings were rebuilt by the communists, like most of East Germany,” Wulf explained.
“They must’ve banned all architects except those who made square, ugly, concrete boxes,” she observed. “They didn’t bother to maintain them, either, did they?”
Wulf nodded. “Ugly in the beginning, still ugly today.”
They stopped at a small cafe on the outskirts of Dresden, and Wulf left to make a call. Mercy ordered a cup of hot tea, a glass of water, and a large glass full of ice.
She suppressed a smile when an expression of horror covered the waiter’s face as she calmly made herself iced tea.
“I come from a warm climate,” she tried to explain. “Even if it’s cold, I still want to drink my iced tea.”
“American?” he asked with a haughty sniff.
“No. Texan.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Texas.” His lips pursed as though he smelled something bad. Mercy laughed.
“
Want to go to Mexico?” Wulf asked, back at the table now.
“Mexico! I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Why not? Your father was Mexican.”
“He refused to speak Spanish once he came to the United States. I only had two years of it in high school.”
“Don’t worry, I speak Spanish fluently.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow at him. “But, Wulf!” A horrible thought occurred to her. She looked around to be sure no one heard. “Aren’t we fugitives?” she whispered. “How will we get out of Germany?”
“You know, it’s a funny thing,” he said, leaning closer and looking warily around the restaurant at the other people before he spoke. “When you’re rich and powerful, you can do all sorts of things other people can’t, including getting false passports with new names and bribing officials to accept them.”
Mercy’s open-mouthed look of astonishment almost made Wulf lose his composure. God, she was naive!
“What about the police in Mexico?”
“They like bribes better than anyone, Mercy,” he said, his patience starting to dwindle. “Anton’s already bribed everyone necessary. I even have the name of a possible contact in Mexico City.”
“Are you sure we aren’t breaking any laws?”
He shook his head. “Of course, we’re breaking laws. A lot of them.” He could see she still didn’t understand, and he heaved a sigh. “Do you want to stay here and be charged with a crime you didn’t commit? Or do you want to find the money and get rid of it, once and for all?”
Wulf stifled a laugh. How could anyone still be so naive in this day and age? “Well?”
“Of course, I want to leave Germany. What do you think I am? Stupid?”
“Then what’s your hesitation?”
Mercy stared at him. She wasn’t worried about leaving Germany. She worried about staying with him. First Germany, now Mexico. They were about to become international fugitives! Why had her parents never gone back to Mexico? Mercy wondered. An uneasy premonition told her she didn’t want to know. But the problem of the money needed to be resolved and this was the only way they could do it.
“Okay. But before we leave, tell me about this master spy who’s arranging our travel,” she said. “Anton sounds too, too…”
“Can we talk about this on the way?” he said, glancing at his watch.
“Fine, let’s go,” she said, grabbing her purse. Why was he always so short with her? She just wanted to know what she was letting herself in for this time. “Just keep talking. And tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth this time, okay?”
Wulf sighed. What had happened to his sweet, demure, little professor? Overnight she’d become as sassy as hell. He suppressed a smile. Did she even know how much she was changing? It felt like watching a butterfly come out of its chrysalis.
“Anton Steiger is the owner of Steiger Oil and my boss,” he began after they were in the car. “We’re very much alike in temperament, sometimes even knowing what the other is thinking.”
“How did you go to work for him?”
“I was scrambling with a bunch of other college graduates for jobs with the major oil companies. The university set up interviews. All of us wanted the prestigious companies—Exxon, Shell, Dutch Petroleum and the like. I thought I had a good chance with Shell since I knew the interviewer.”
“Did you get the job?”
“No. I never interviewed. Anton and I struck up a conversation in the lobby of the hotel where the interviews were being held. When I saw the calluses on his hands from the rigs, I could tell he was familiar with the real guts of the oil business.
“He said to forget the large oil companies, that I’d never be anything but a salaried employee, a paper pusher. If I wanted to make big money, he said, I should join one of the independent companies who allowed their executives to invest in their explorations. That way when they made big money, I made money.”
“Is that when he hired you?”
“No, that’s when he told me to go back to school and get my master’s in petroleum engineering, that I didn’t know enough to do anything yet.” To this day, Wulf didn’t know what had impressed Anton enough to pay attention to him.
“So, what exactly do you do for Anton?”
“I save his corporate ass about once a week.”
“That’s not what I meant. What do you do?”
“Just what I said. You have to understand, Anton is an abrasive person. I’m much better at negotiating than he is, and he knows it.” Actually, he was more manipulative than Anton.
“Anton is of the old school of business negotiation—come in like military troops, hit hard, and take no prisoners. Those tactics worked well in the early days of his company, before he became so wealthy. Since he expanded internationally however, some people won’t deal with him.”
“And you trust Anton to arrange our transportation, bribes, passports, and all?” Mercy asked.
“I trust Anton with my life. All this so-called cloak and dagger stuff, as you keep calling it, isn’t easy. Nor is it inexpensive.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay with you until the end of this stupid scavenger hunt. But don’t expect anything else out of me, because the concept of we is over.” She looked at her hand. “I’d give you back this ring, but it’s on the small side. You’ll get it back as soon as I can get it off.”
“It’s safer on your hand than in my pocket,” Wulf insisted. The damn ring was symbolic now; he did not want her to take it off. He wanted her answer to his marriage proposal to be a positive, well-thought-out yes. An internal battle raged within him to somehow convince her, yet he couldn't swear she wouldn't be taken advantage of or lied to again.
Hell, he couldn’t even remember all the lies and half-truths he’d spouted over the past week or so. And the charade was far from over.
Chapter 10
* * *
“Mein Gott in Himmel!” the old man said, turning an ashen shade of gray as Mercy and Wulf walked into a jewelry store in downtown Mexico City. His gaze fastened on Mercy as she walked toward him.
“My name is Mercedes Fuentes,” Mercy said, holding out her hand and speaking in German. “I’ve been told you might have information about my grandmother, Mercedes Stratton.”
“Mercedes Fuentes?” The man nodded slowly. “Of course. You couldn’t be Merci. She is dead.”
His shaking fingers reached out and touched her face gently. “My God, you look so much like her it is like seeing a ghost. But,” he frowned, looking harder, “I can see the difference now—the eyes, for one. Merci’s eyes were as green as the purest emerald. Yours are lighter, more like jade. And your skin color is much darker too.” The old man flushed. “But please forgive my manners. I am Saul Steinberg. Will you join me for my morning coffee break?”
He gestured to one of his assistants and then led them through the back door of the display room to a small kitchenette.
“Anton Steiger sent us here to talk with you,” Wulf began as soon as they seated themselves at the small kitchen table. “He said you might know something about Mercedes Stratton.”
“Her name was Merci, not Mercedes,” Saul said, “and she was known as Suarte, not Stratton.”
“We appreciate any information you might be able to give us,” Mercy said.
“She came to Mexico with Erich Stratton right before the war ended. He met her in France when he was there as part of the occupation.”
Mercy looked surprised. “I had always assumed she was German, but that’s why you call her Merci, isn’t it?”
“Yes, she was French, from a small village outside Paris. Erich reformed for her, at least as much as he was able to—love will do that, you know—but just like a leopard cannot change his spots, Erich could not change who or what he was.”
“Back in Germany, Erich soon became one of Hitler’s inner circle because of his accounting skills. He was wily as a fox. It is easy to see
how he made a fortune for the Reich. Naturally, he brought his share when he came here.”
“Did you know Erich well?” Mercy asked.
“I never knew him at all. I only knew him through Merci. According to her, she did not know until after the war that there were parts of his soul as dark as midnight. He was empty in here,” Saul said, thumping his chest in emphasis.
“Up until the end of the war,” he continued, “she thought he was just a soldier. He never let her go to functions with the other party elite, so it was easy for him to keep her ignorant. She never spoke German very well, either.” He laughed. “She had a charming accent, but such bad pronunciation and grammar. Erich was known as Ernesto Suarte. They lived on a large estate outside of Mexico City.”
“Did you know Merci from before the war?”
“No, I met her when she came to me to sell some of her jewelry. So distressed, she was, by Erich’s part in the war, she broke down and cried when she came to my store. She wanted to use the money to take their child, Lisa, away where Erich would never find them.”
“She was going to leave my grandfather?”
“Of course. She was heartbroken after finding out about Erich’s crimes. When she showed me her pieces of jewelry, I knew they would not bring enough to take her and Lisa to another country. I told her as much.”
“What did she do?” Mercy asked.
“She gave me her locket, a prized possession. I recognized my grandfather’s work. His mark was not registered.” Saul looked at them as if they should be impressed.
Mercy’s eyes met Wulf’s. He shrugged.
“What does your grandfather’s mark have to do with the locket?” Mercy asked, turning back to Saul.
“Don’t you see? My grandfather…” Saul began, “ah, but, of course, you would not know. Even Merci did not know the significance at the time.” He took a deep breath. “My grandfather was not a jeweler by trade. He worked with gold only for the pleasure and then only for those in his synagogue in Paris who had baby girls. He would make lockets for the little girls’ naming ceremonies, charging the parents only for the gold. My grandfather made Merci’s locket.”