by J. R. Rain
“What did you buy?” Hannah asked, looking curiously at the book in my hand.
I shook my head. “I’ll explain on the train. Let’s get something to eat.” I took her hand and we crossed the bridge over the Seine and found a small bistro. We sat down for a late lunch outside after ordering onion soup and croque monsieurs. I was making small talk about literature and onion soup and everything in between, when suddenly I had the strange feeling we were being watched.
“What were you saying?” Hannah asked when I paused in mid-sentence about the soup.
“Until last year, we had no onions.”
She nodded, but her brow was furled. I wondered if she, too, sensed the voyeur. “Pity, isn’t it? Why did we never think of growing our own onions instead of getting them from the Channel Islands?”
“I don’t know...” I looked around. The hairs on the back of my neck now stood on end. Someone was watching us. I was sure of it.
We hastily finished lunch and soon walked to the Gare de l’Est. We were an hour early, but our train was already on the platform. I spoke with the conductor, who showed us to our compartment, located in the coach just behind the restaurant carriage. The conductor offered to take our luggage there, but I assured him I had the bags under control. Hannah eyed me suspiciously.
“I’d like to keep everything with us, just in case,” I told her.
She frowned. “Just in case of what?”
“It’s just a feeling,” I muttered, to which she frowned. She might have had the same feeling.
In the compartment, I offered to take the bottom bunk. Hannah had no objections, and the first thing I did was remove my guns from my duffel. I hid the rifle beneath the blanket, close to the wall. I removed my back-up pistol, a five-shot Semmerling LM4 that was no bigger than your average derringer. The difference was, of course, most derringers were single shot. I might not be good at math, but five shots were better than one.
“Are we preparing for war, Mr. Quatermain?”
“I’m preparing for anything, Dr. Byrd.”
She nodded, a bemused smile on her face, then allowed me a private moment to change clothes. I stripped out of my uniform, folded the garments carefully and exchanged them in my duffel for the civilian clothes I had brought. I donned dark brown moleskin trousers and a light-gray cotton shirt, and then slipped the revolver in my shoulder holster. I wore a dark green tweed waistcoat to cover up the cross-belt, where I also kept an old bayonet, the formidable blade that came with the rifle I had hidden under the blanket. Lord help anyone who crossed paths with me.
To complete the ensemble, I added an old moleskin coat and an ancient khaki slouch hat that still had the regimental badge of the Lancashire Fusiliers on it. Without knowing who was following us, I could ill afford to forego precautions. So, I pulled out the bayonet to gently cut away the threads holding the badge in place, and then bound a piece of light khaki silk around it as a hatband, so the now-vacant spot would not show.
Hannah had advised that she would meet me in the restaurant carriage, having left just moments before. Pulling the hat deep over my eyes, I left our compartment to find her. As soon as I stepped into the aisle, the prickling sensation in the back of my neck returned. I looked around, but no one was behind me. Yes, there were people upon the platform, yet nobody stood out. I thought for a moment I had imagined the sensation, but knew my instincts had never let me down in the past. Someone was following us. I was sure of it.
Hannah had taken a seat in the parlor area of the restaurant carriage. She was reading a copy of the Times and hadn’t noticed my arrival.
“Evening, Dr. Byrd,” I sat in the seat next to her.
“Well, look at you.”
I grinned. “Strange to be wearing civies, I must say. Haven’t worn civies in years.”
She smiled. “They suit you, Allan.”
“Thank you.”
“Why the need for civies, though?”
“A major in the British Army traveling on the Orient Express might stand out, don’t you think?” I smiled, but she looked at me as if she could read the thoughts that raced through my mind.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in a hushed voice. More people entered the carriage.
“I have this feeling we’re being followed,” I whispered.
She covertly looked around, but apparently, didn’t notice anyone suspicious either. “And this is your idea of a disguise?”
“Not a disguise,” I said. “Think of it as being less conspicuous. Our follower will have to work harder to find me.”
She nodded... and might have rolled her eyes a little.
Before long, two burly men entered the carriage, both chatting away in English, but their accents were clearly American. They touched their hats and sat down opposite Hannah and me. They continued their private conversation in hushed tones.
Someone walked past the window on the platform and suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood again. But whoever it was had passed by the time I leaned over and looked.
Moments later, the conductors blew their whistles and the last passengers jumped onto the train. And, if I had to guess, our pursuer had been one of them. The locomotive’s whistle blew and with a shudder, the train slowly began to pull out of the Gare de l’Est.
The locomotive followed a sweeping turn to the northwest and then crossed the St. Denis Canal. We trundled through the train yard at Bobigny, crossed the St. Martin Canal, continued through another train yard. And then, as we hit the banlieues, the train gathered speed. It powered through Chelles and crossed the Marne. A steward came by to take our drink order as we reached Reims.
As the train exited Reims, other passengers came into the restaurant carriage. A slight man joined the Americans and an elderly English couple sat down at a nearby table. A Turkish man and woman sat down in comfortable chairs next to Hannah and me, and were soon joined by another Turkish man. Two Frenchmen in crisp suits came to sit in the parlor, too, and then, an old man soon came up to us.
“Is this place taken?” he asked in a German accent, indicating the last empty seat in the parlor.
Hannah shook her head. “No, please be welcome to it.”
“Thank you,” he said, sitting down opposite her and giving us both a smile. “Can I ask where you are going?”
“We are headed for Istanbul,” Hannah answered. I gave her a cautionary look and she held her tongue regarding more information.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” I said, almost regretting the ruse the moment the words crossed my lips. But, mischievously, delighting in them as well, especially after seeing the sharp look Hannah cast me.
The first thing the old man looked at was Hannah’s finger.
“You do not wear your wedding ring?”
“We had little time to make all arrangements. I promised her I would buy a ring when we arrived in Istanbul.” I hoped my story sounded credible. True, I could think on my feet on a battlefield, but I wasn’t adept in the ways of deception. “Where are you going, good sir?”
“I am going home,” the man replied.
“Where’s home?” Hannah joined in again.
“Vienna,” he said, then he looked carefully at me. “You have served?”
Hannah looked surprised, surely confounded at how the man knew that.
I smiled and nodded. “I have.” I noticed the old man’s posture. He kept his shoulders back and his head up, with his back still straight as an ironing board, despite his age. “So have you.”
He smiled and swung his hand up in a salute. “I was a Korvettenkapitän in the navy of our beloved Emperor until we lost Trieste. When our battle-scarred ships had no place to call home, I was made redundant.”
I studied him closely, knowing that was not the whole story. “And after the Anschluss?”
His smile faded to a wry grin. “I was told to report in Hamburg. The Führer made me a Fregattenkapitän.”
“That can’t have been easy.”
The man sh
rugged. “Serving the Nazis was never easy, but losing my ship was worse.”
“You lost your ship?”
“Yes, a Christmas storm near Tromsø in 1940 took her down.” He shook his head sadly. “An awful night. Half my crew drowned. We were lucky enough to get to the village there where we refueled our boats and we eventually made it to Bergen. Was cold though.” He held out his right hand. Two fingers were missing. “Bitterly cold.”
“That was a dreadful winter up there,” I agreed.
The man frowned, and I silently cursed myself for my useless remark. The man was no spy and likely, never had been. The truth was probably the best policy now.
“I served in No. 4 Commando.”
The frown became deeper and then, the Austrian nodded and a weak smile appeared on his face. “Lofoten? Well done.” He offered me his frostbitten hand. “Karl von Duba.”
“Allan Quatermain.” I took his hand and shook it firmly.
“And your lovely wife? Does she have a name?” Next, he offered his hand to Hannah.
“Hannah,” she answered. He turned her hand and placed his lips on her knuckles. “My pleasure, Madame Quatermain.”
No doubt hearing herself referred to as Madame Quatermain was the reason for Hannah’s sudden blush. She, too, quickly changed the topic.
“...von Duba?” she asked.
The old man nodded. “I am the Freiherr von Duba. Or I should be. My father was the last to carry the title officially. To the Austrian government, I am just Karl Duba. But I can never bring myself to say it. It is such a plain name.”
Hannah laughed lightly, and it was obvious she had already taken a liking to Baron von Duba.
He looked back at me, wearing a slightly accusing look. “I had a frigate at Dieppe. That was not your finest hour.”
I nodded in response, picturing the battle he touched upon. “It was terrible. Our lads did very well, but the rest of the boys were very hard pressed.”
“You were not there?” he asked, frowning.
“I was a captain at Varengeville. Gained promotion to major for my actions in the storming of the battery there.”
Again, the old man grabbed my hand. “Then I must salute you once more. You are a brave man, and a fortunate one.” The baron turned to Hannah. “Madame, you have done well in your choice of husband. Your family was wise to agree to a match with a man as fortunate and as brave as your husband.”
Hannah blushed again and Karl Duba was about to say something more when a stout, severe-looking woman walked through to the table section of the restaurant carriage. He groaned. “You will excuse me? I believe my wife has just decided to have dinner and will demand my presence.”
He growled as he got up out of the chair. I glanced out the window, noting that twilight had descended. We were somewhere in the country between Reims and Nancy. In the last light of the day, I noticed a vineyard of the region flash past. I wondered if the wine might have a smoky flavor to it.
Hannah held the copy of the Times in her hand, but eyed me in admiration instead. “You gained promotion at Dieppe?”
“I’m a good shot. I shot the king’s enemies faster than they could shoot his men.”
Surely, she knew there was more to it than that, but she didn’t press me for more details.
As we passed Nancy, I suggested we sit down to dinner and we found a table. The carriage was filling up quickly and all but the three Americans moved through to the available tables. A steward came through with the menus and took our orders. Within half an hour, we tucked into smoked salmon, honeyed ham, and fondant potatoes, along with wine and coffee.
After leaving the station of Strasbourg, where the train took more coal and water on board, we crossed the Rhine and turned north to ride from the French Saar Protectorate to the German city of Karlsruhe. At a small station, we stopped and the arrival of German Bundesgrenzschutz officers dressed in brown uniforms informed us that we had just crossed the border. After our passports had been checked, Hannah suddenly yawned and I suggested we retire.
It seemed the baron and his wife had the same idea, walking out just before us. I was surprised to learn their compartment was next to ours. The baron fumbled with the key as Hannah and I squeezed past him to enter our narrow quarters.
“Enjoy your night, Major,” he remarked as we passed, winking at me.
“Thank you, sir.”
Inside, I locked the door and sat down on the bottom berth. I checked the revolver and rifle… neither had been disturbed.
Hannah pulled out her suitcase and gave me a bashful look. I turned to face the wall while she changed. Surely, she was more interesting to look at than polished mahogany. But, alas, I wouldn’t know.
“You can turn around,” she said after a few minutes.
I did. She had put on her nightdress and thrown a robe over that. She reached up and pulled a ribbon and her hair flowed down in long waves over her shoulders, and then opened the little door to the wash-hand basin and brushed her teeth before looking resentfully at the steps to the top bed. She bent down and kissed me on the cheek.
“Well, good night, Allan.” She climbed up and drew the little privacy curtain. A moment later, her small, pale hand appeared through the curtain, clutching the robe she had just removed. She blindly searched for the peg, until I reached for the robe and helped her. Her hand patted my hand, and might have lingered, before it withdrew back through the curtain.
I sighed and brushed my teeth, too. I had planned to purchase pajamas in London or Paris, but there had been little time to do so. A proper gentleman would not disrobe in the presence of a lady. Then again, hadn’t I already slept side by side with that very same lady? I had. And so, I stripped down and slept in my underclothes, which consisted of striped boxers and a white T-shirt. Gentlemanly enough, I say. And cool, too. The night, after all, was sweltering.
Yes, I’d had sweethearts, fancied many women at various times in my life. But Hannah was something else… she was special. I admired her mind and spirit. Her resolve. Her fearlessness, too. This was, after all, no mission for the faint of heart. She was confident with a commanding presence when necessary. She was also clever and determined… and a tiny bit chaotic. Her mind seemed to be a creative whirlpool, while mine was more pragmatic.
A good fit? Maybe. Then again, knowing she was directly above me was more exciting than I cared to admit... and might have swayed my thoughts.
Now, I felt the cold steel of the rifle pressing against my elbow as I tucked an arm under my head. A true gun aficionado, I found my hand soon caressing the wooden stock of the weapon that had been with me through so much. I had used that rifle at Varengeville to shoot the officers of the three machine gun crews who had faced our army. I’d never hesitated… I’d simply raised the rifle, taken my aim and shot. The distance had been over 300 yards. It was dark and bullets from enemy machine guns had struck all around me, but I had braved them, knelt, taken aim, and squeezed the trigger. Then I had pulled the bolt, loaded a new cartridge and taken my next shot. It had been easy. And yet, I realized very few would or could have done what I had done that night. My men had known it, too. That was why Lovat had recommended me for promotion to Major.
I released a low sigh, silently cursing Baron Duba for bringing back the memory of that night. It had profited me much in terms of rank and the good things that followed, but I hated thinking about it. I had been at Lofoten, at Saint-Nazaire and at Hardelot, but it was during the action at the battery of Varengeville that I had first killed a man.
I pulled myself out of those dark thoughts, sat up and reached for the light switch. “Good night, Hannah.”
“Good night, Allan… sleep well.”
I settled in for a good night’s rest, when rustling in the room caught my attention. Instinctively, I reached under my pillow and grasped the cold steel of my pistol as a pair of hands rested lightly upon my chest. Small hands. I relaxed my grip when a pair of warm lips touched mine and a very naked body crawled under t
he blankets with me.
“What...” I began, but the lips shushed me, followed by another long kiss.
“I thought that if we’re pretending to be a married couple, we should behave like a married couple,” Hannah whispered huskily. “Don’t you agree?”
She crawled on top to straddle me. It was both shocking and lovely. Her lips caressed mine, then searched for my neck while her hands brushed through my hair. I returned her kisses while stroking her bare skin. Her warmth enveloped me; her passion seemed to flow through me. I was enraptured… sucked into her, felt her full embrace capturing first, my body, and then, my soul. For once in my life, it was impulse that ruled over my calculating mind.
Then again, it was hard to argue her logic.
Chapter Seven
It was morning.
“So, what happened at Dieppe?” Hannah asked, stroking her fingers along the lines of my face. “It upset you to talk about it with the baron. I could see that.”
I considered how much to tell her, if anything, but decided that Hannah was the perceptive type who would see through anything but the truth. I took in some air. “I killed there.”
“It was war...”
“First men I ever killed.”
She got it, and let it go. There was no working through what I had seen... and what I had done. She knew that, as did most. Finally, after a long silence, she rolled over and her lips met mine. The kiss was soft at first, a gentle reminder that I was still alive and that someone—even a new someone—was glad I was still around.
“Why did you come to my bed last night?” I asked when she finally pulled away. My lips were, admittedly, chapped. We had done a lot of kissing in the past few hours.
Hannah grinned. Her hand meandered down my body, discovering, lightly brushing a half-dozen scars from both battle and a life lived fast and hard.
“Because I thought it was the right thing to do,” she finally answered. Her fingers had dipped down into an old bullet wound in my hip.