He returned to his car a few minutes later, discouraged. This was a blind alley. Maybe the American would attempt to contact von Schüssler later on or tomorrow. That was theoretically possible, of course.
Then, as he opened the car door, a gust of wind came his way, bearing a plume of odor that arrested his attention.
Very faint.
His nostrils flared. Someone had been here within the last few hours. Someone wearing brand-new woolen clothing, brand-new leather, fresh from a clothing store. Not too many Berliners had new clothing. One wore what one had. He turned his head to catch another draught of the scent. Male, that he was certain of. And not a German: not that beery, barley, potato odor that most German men gave off. He detected a secondary note of soap—not a scented soap, not deodorant soap exactly, but something clean, foreign.
Ivory soap. Yes, he was sure. It was an American. Wearing brand-new woolen—boiled-wool, in fact—clothing and brand-new leather boots. The smell of Alpine, perhaps Tyrolean clothing. Being worn by an American.
He carefully shut the car door and returned to the schloss.
The servant was not happy to see him again.
“You have had no visitors,” Kleist said ponderously.
“You asked me that already, and I told you: none.”
Kleist nodded. “I see you have guard dogs on the property. Was there any disturbance earlier this evening?”
“No . . . well, yes, I suppose there was, but that doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“You had a visitor. Someone who visited the perimeter of the grounds, at least. Quite recently. And he will be back.”
SS Oberführer Walter Rapp, chief of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt’s Department VI, stared at Hermann Ehlers.
“Kleist is certain that Metcalfe was there?” he demanded of the younger man.
“So he says.”
“The servants say so?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then what does he base this on?”
“ ‘Trace evidence’ is all he would say. But he says he is absolutely certain.”
“ ‘Trace evidence,’ ” Rapp muttered, reaching for the phone. “Well, one thing there’s no shortage of is Gestapo agents,” he said. “I want a team assigned to the schloss at once.”
The Daimler was moving.
Two minutes ago, he had heard voices close by, one of them Lana’s. His heart lifted to hear it, it alleviated somewhat the panic he felt at being locked in the trunk.
Then came the sound of a car door being opened, then closed. He braced himself for what might come next: the trunk. It was almost humorous to consider which was worse: being locked in here for the foreseeable future or having the chauffeur discover him. If the latter happened, he would have no choice but to lunge at the chauffeur and subdue him, but that would mean trouble.
The vehicle accelerated with a deep-throated mechanical purr. Lana and von Schüssler were sitting a few feet away, in the passengers’ compartment. They were speaking, but he could make out nothing beyond a murmur. He thought of what he was going to tell her, what he was about to ask her, and he wondered how she would react. She was a brave woman and practical, but she could be unpredictable. What he was about to suggest to her was a scheme that was brazen to the point of seeming ridiculous.
It was dangerous as well.
But it was the only way to save both Die Wolfsfalle and Lana.
The Daimler’s engine strained at a lower gear, and the car felt as if it was climbing a hill. They were nearing the schloss; they must have reached the steep stretch of road just before the gates of the castle. Then the car slowed: probably they had arrived at the gates and were waiting for them to be opened. He heard other voices now, shouts from nearby. There seemed to be a number of men at the gates; Metcalfe wondered what was going on. But after a moment, the car resumed, more slowly. Presently it stopped, and a door was opened. He heard von Schüssler’s unpleasantly grating voice, then Lana’s lilting, sensuous voice. He heard their footsteps scrape on the gravel, then the door slam.
But the engine was not shut off. The car kept going at a slow pace, a brief distance longer, before it stopped again, and this time the motor was switched off. Had the car entered a garage?
He waited in silence, in the absolute darkness of the trunk. There was a low, tuneless whistle, then the car doors opened, and closed, again. Was the driver cleaning up? After a few more minutes, he heard the scuff of the driver’s shoes against the pavement, heard the jingling of the car’s keys being hung up, and then there was silence.
He waited.
Five, ten minutes—he couldn’t keep track of time. He wanted to make sure the chauffeur was nowhere nearby before he moved, before he attempted to figure out some way to free himself from this claustrophobic steel chamber.
Finally, enough time had gone by. He felt the entire expanse of the trunk lid, patiently, but there still was no internal release knob or lever. There were cables and wires tucked into the corners, but none of them popped open the trunk.
The sense of panic that he had felt earlier had returned in force. His heartbeat thudded in his chest; he was short of breath; his mouth was dry.
There had to be a way out of here, damn it!
He thought of Lana, who’d been sitting just feet away, so close he could almost touch her. And then an idea came to him.
So close he could almost touch her.
He felt around until he found a small compartment that contained an emergency tool kit, which was used for changing tires. He pried it open. Inside were screwdrivers, a tire pressure gauge, pliers, and lug wrenches. Using the slotted screwdriver, he lifted the carpet liner, peeling it back until most of the rear section of the trunk compartment was exposed down to its bare sheet metal. As he expected, he felt several bolts that fastened a detachable panel in place; working quickly, he was at last able to loosen the rectangle of steel, slide it away, and reach the rear-seat assembly. It was not meant to be accessed from the trunk side, but by reaching around through the coils and struts he managed to loosen the bolts enough to push the rear seat forward.
Twenty minutes after he had begun, he was in the back seat of the Daimler, at last free of the trunk.
The car had been parked in some sort of carport, not a closed garage. It was a rudimentary brick structure, open at one end, allowing in the moonlight. He got out of the backseat quickly, the interior dome light flashing on, then off, but only for a second or two. Was there anyone around to see the light go on? He remembered the voices that had accosted the car as it entered the estate. Looking out through the open end of the carport, he was able to see the tall iron fence a few hundred feet away and down the hill. Just outside it were the shifting silhouettes of men. Guards? He heard the crunch of boots against gravel, the testy whine of dogs straining against their leashes. The guttural growl of other dogs—the German shepherds and Doberman pinschers he had seen earlier, roaming restlessly inside the fence—chuffing warningly at the men and their leashed dogs.
A match flared up, struck by one of the guards as he lit a cigarette, and in that brief moment of illumination Metcalfe saw that these were not guards at all.
From their uniforms he could see at once that they were Gestapo. A detachment of guards from the Gestapo was patrolling the main gates.
Why?
They had not been here earlier. Von Schüssler, a minor functionary in the Foreign Office, did not merit the sort of protection that might be given to a high-ranking official of the Reich. Why were they here? Metcalfe’s thoughts whirled. Von Schüssler had just arrived in town, accompanied by Lana. Did the Sicherheitsdienst know Metcalfe was here as well? Did they know of his connection to Lana—and suspect that he might come here to find her?
It was possible—anything was possible—but it seemed unlikely. The Gestapo was here to watch for someone either leaving the schloss or entering. Which was it?
They were outside, not on the grounds, he realized. They were not searching the estate; that
meant they were waiting for someone to arrive.
For me, he thought. Could it be?
He had to get into the schloss without being seen by the Gestapo team. The main house was perhaps a hundred feet away, the path more or less exposed. He could see lights in several rooms on the top floor. One of the rooms glowed with a pinkish light, and he knew that had to be Lana’s: she sometimes liked to drape a red silk scarf over her bedroom lamp, he remembered.
The Gestapo agents were looking for arrivals, not someone within the gates; if he moved silently through the darkness . . .
But what about the dogs? They seemed to be gathered by the gates, whimpering at the Gestapo’s dogs. Perhaps they were poorly trained, or more likely they had been trained—like their human counterparts, the Gestapo—to watch for intruders from outside, not those within the grounds.
He stepped quietly out of the carport. Spying a low yew hedge that bordered the circular drive, he dropped to the ground and crawled on his hands and knees along the lawn. When the hedge ended, he pulled himself across the grass on his belly. In short order he had reached the castle. He loped around toward the back of the building, searching for a service entrance of some sort.
He found it without trouble: a narrow wooden plank door that was unlocked. The schloss was so well guarded, surrounded as it was by walls and gates, defended by prowling dogs, that there was no need to lock the servants’ door. He pulled the door open slowly, cautiously, wary of any squeaky hinges.
He did not hear the thump of paws against the earth until too late.
There was a sudden, terrifying growl, deep and throaty. Instantly the body of a Doberman crashed into him as it sank its teeth into his woolen coat, tearing wildly at the fabric in a furious attempt to attack the meat of his upper arm. A jagged lightning bolt of pain shot up and down his arm when the dog’s fangs broke the skin.
Metcalfe kicked at the ferocious beast, torquing his body to loosen its monstrous jaws. The door was half-open; he jumped into the entrance, at the same time slamming the door, slamming it repeatedly on the dog until finally, with an angry yelp, it released its grip.
He raced into the dark hall, his adrenaline pumping. Far down the corridor, a crack of light appeared under a door. He had to get out of here before a servant, alerted by the noise of the dog attack, came out into the hall. Several doors lined the hall, though he had no idea where they led. He tried the first knob, then the second. The third turned. The door gave onto a narrow staircase. He shut the door behind him, descending the steps to a dank basement.
Despite the darkness he saw that he was surrounded by hundreds of bottles of wine, Rhinehessens and Moselles. He was in von Schüssler’s wine cellar. Backing himself into an alcove, he waited.
When no one came down within the next few minutes, he calculated that he was safe. He glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes before midnight. He would wait another hour down here. By then, it was more likely than not that Lana and von Schüssler would have gone to sleep. Only then would the servants go to bed as well. It was too risky to go looking through an unfamiliar house.
But the clock was ticking. If Kundrov had succeeded in arranging his part, no more than six hours remained.
For all that needed to be done, that was not enough time.
Chapter Thirty-six
An hour later, Metcalfe stole silently through the darkened hallways of the top floor of the schloss.
The floor plan was typical of medieval German castles, Metcalfe realized quickly. The ground floor was for the servants; on the first floor was a chapel, and a great hall with a mammoth refectory table; on the second were the living quarters. Each floor, however, was divided into several wings. It became clear that one wing, with tiger skins on the floors and hunting trophies mounted on the walls, belonged to Rudolf von Schüssler. Metcalfe walked through it quietly, past what seemed to be the master’s bedroom. At the end of the hall was his study: Metcalfe caught a glimpse of a book-lined room and heavy furniture.
Another wing was the domain of von Schüssler’s children. Yet another, which obviously received less use, was for visitors.
That was where Lana had to be.
Everything Metcalfe knew or had observed about von Schüssler told him that he and Lana would be sleeping separately here, in the familial estate, with its air of baronial propriety. Lana, in fact, would likely insist upon it.
A crack of light was visible under one highly polished chestnut door. The light’s reddish hue told him that this was Lana’s room. She was inside, her scarf-draped lamp on; perhaps she was reading.
But was she in fact alone?
Outside the door was a linen-covered butler’s tray, on it a crumpled linen napkin, a crystal glass, a silver water pitcher, a single flute of champagne, empty. One of each, he noticed.
She was here, and she was alone.
He turned the brass knob, opened the door slowly.
He heard her voice. “Rudi? Is that you?”
Metcalfe did not reply until he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. The room was all sumptuously carved wood, a coffered ceiling, heavy embroidered draperies. Lana was sitting in the middle of an immense canopy bed, surrounded by pillows, looking as radiant as the first time he had seen her onstage. In her pink-silk negligee, her raven-black hair cascading around her swan neck, she was magnificent. Her face lit up; she let out a gasp, threw out her arms as he ran to her.
“Stiva, zolotoi!” she cried. “I thought I’d never see you again!”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Metcalfe replied, then kissed her on the mouth, long and ardently.
When he pulled away, he saw that she was crying. “How did you get in here? How did you get to Berlin?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why are you here?”
“I heard you were dancing tonight. You know I never miss your performances when I’m in town.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, dismissing his attempt at levity. “It’s about the . . . the documents. It’s serious—I can see it in your eyes, Stiva.” Her voice became urgent, frightened. “What is it? Is there a problem?”
Metcalfe would no longer lie to her; he had lied to her far too much. “Dai ruchenku,” he said, taking hold of one of her soft, scented hands in both of his. He sat down on the bed beside her and began to speak quietly. “It’s not safe for you to stay in Moscow. I want you to come out.”
“To defect.” Her eyes were wide, glistening.
“This is probably your last chance. They’re not likely to let you out of the country again.”
“Stiva, golubchik, I’ve told you: Russia is my rodina. My motherland. It’s who I am.”
“It’ll always be your rodina. It’ll always be part of who you are. Lanushka, it’ll always be there, a part of you. That won’t change. But at least you’ll be alive, and free!”
“Freedom,” she began bitterly.
Metcalfe cut her off. “No, Lana. Listen to me. You don’t know freedom. No one who was born and brought up in a prison can understand freedom.”
“ ‘Stone walls do not a prison make,’ ” she quoted, “ ‘Nor iron bars a cage . . . If I have freedom in my love.’ ”
“But you don’t have freedom in your love, Lana. Not even that!”
“My father—”
“That’s a lie, too, Lana.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There was no plot. That was all manufactured ‘evidence,’ planted by the Nazis to gut the Soviet military. The SS knew how paranoid Stalin is about traitors, so they forged correspondence that implicated the Red Army’s top leaders.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Nothing’s impossible, Lana; nothing’s beyond the paranoid imagination. Your father may secretly detest Stalin, like any sane man does, but he never plotted against him.”
“You know this?”
“I know it.”
She gave a sad smile. “It would be nice to think that he was safe now.”
<
br /> “No,” Metcalfe agreed. “He’s living on borrowed time.”
“Do you remember my father’s dueling pistols?”
“The ones that once belonged to Pushkin.”
“Yes. Well, he once told me that during the time when people fought duels, there were probably a hundred thousand people who owned dueling pistols. Yet how many duels were actually fought in all those years? Maybe a thousand. The point of owning a pair of dueling pistols and displaying them prominently, he said, was to warn your potential enemies not to challenge you because you were prepared to fight.”
“Your father is prepared to fight?”
“He’s prepared, yes—but to die,” she whispered.
Metcalfe nodded. “Innocence has never been a defense in the workers’ paradise,” he said fiercely. “The terror machine sets one innocent man against another, doesn’t it? It puts an informer in every apartment building; no one knows who’s ‘informing,’ who’s reporting ‘disloyalty,’ so no one trusts anyone. No one trusts their neighbor, their friend, even their lover.”
“But I trust you,” she whispered. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Metcalfe didn’t know how to answer that. He, who had lied to her, manipulated her, didn’t deserve her trust, and it sickened him. Her trust sickened him now, her goodness. Now tears came to his eyes: hot, burning tears of frustration, anger, compassion. “You shouldn’t trust me, either,” he said, his eyes closed.
“Is that what you’ve come to believe? Is that what your world has done to you? Your world of freedom—it has made you trust no one, either? Then what makes your ‘free’ world any better than my prison, with its gold bars?”
The Tristan Betrayal Page 44