Kisses Like a Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  The crooked cop lost his footing on the slick paving and went down, sliding into Sazonov.

  The Russian’s pistol fired, sending echoes ricocheting off building after building.

  Meredith sprang to her feet

  Brian snatched up the map case and dropped it over his head. In the same smooth movement, he caught her by the hand and hauled her into motion, barely giving her time to get her feet under her. Morro galloped alongside, quiet as a lion on the hunt.

  A shot whizzed after them. Meredith flinched but Brian only moved faster, dodging a bit from side to side. Oh dear Lord, Sazonov must either control the police or have nothing left to lose, if he was willing to try to kill them where so many people could see.

  And if one of his bullets nicked the basket, causing it to explode…Her heart was pounding far faster than the windows being thrown open around them.

  Saffron and gold walls rose around them, filled with windows and topped by dozens of different spires. Where could they escape Sazonov?

  BAM! BAM! Plaster chips burst around them, scouring their arms and spitting dust into the air. Their enemy was coming closer.

  “Turn just past the second building—where the balcony is upheld by the two eagles.”

  Brian didn’t bother to nod. At the last possible second, he dodged sideways into a narrow passageway under a broad arch. A dozen immensely dark steps led to a sharp left hand turn and a long passageway between blank brick walls. The floor was drier here than the street outside, a tribute to its original builders’ skills.

  Unfortunately, only a single pair of feet ran past them. She’d have preferred to hear a pack, hunting Sazonov down like a beast. Instead, he’d probably come back more slowly to sniff them out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Now will you let me go?” Meredith demanded, her fingers aching from where he’d gripped them so ferociously.

  “Yes, of course.” Brian released her slowly, panting but still in control of himself.

  Morro’s ears were pricked forward as he listened to something outside. Then he relaxed and came back to her, strutting a little, to deliver the good news their enemy had gone well past them.

  “Where are we?” Brian ran his hand over the smoothly plastered walls.

  “Underneath the national library. Today is a national day of mourning so it should be closed.”

  “Librarians didn’t build this.” He pulled her into an alcove, lit by borrowed light from a garden above.

  “No, it was the Catholic university three centuries ago. Spanish Jesuits designed it.”

  “Jesuits.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “They always did have the most creative thought processes.”

  “My friend Liesel rarely came here so Sazonov shouldn’t know about these passages.” Hopefully, one of the day’s lessons would prove useful.

  “We still have a few minutes to catch the train.” He kissed her fingers.

  She frowned at him. “Are you trying to encourage me? Spur me into a mad dash across the market square?”

  “Well…” He shrugged

  “Won’t Grebing have warned—or bribed—all his fellow secret policemen to arrest both of us?” she demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t conceal the truth from me again.” She started to stomp her foot but thought better of it. These passageways could produce very strange echoes, possibly enough to be heard outside, even though they were talking softly.

  “You could make it onboard if I diverted them.”

  “And they’d grab me five minutes later.” She trailed her fingers over his jaw. “No, love. Our lives are at stake now. We do this together or not at all.”

  “If we made it to a neutral embassy…” Brian frowned.

  “Whose? Switzerland hasn’t bothered to maintain one here for decades. Everyone else wants the cannon’s plans for themselves.”

  “If Sazonov was guarding your friends’ favorite retreat—at the church—then he’ll definitely watch my only friend’s sanctuary.”

  “The British embassy.” She followed his thoughts readily and he nodded grimly.

  “The answer’s Switzerland. But the country, not the embassy, and we’ll have to walk.”

  He kissed her forehead and she allowed herself to lean against him for an instant. “My father…”

  Father? She stared at him, her breath frozen in her throat. What would that autocrat demand from her?

  The dark walls began to tighten around her. But bright light still shone high above, echoed in Brian’s smooth drawl.

  “My entire family, sweetheart, is coming over St. Nicholas Pass tomorrow afternoon with horses and supplies. Once we meet them, all will be well.”

  Roses perfumed the air, as reassuring as the warmth in Brian’s blue eyes. He genuinely believed this. She needed to do so, as well. Somehow.

  “Your family?” she questioned, kneading Brian’s shoulder with her free hand.

  “My mother will be there, too.”

  Surely a woman wouldn’t let Mr. Donovan be too impossible? Ochre bricks faded into saffron plaster, allowing air to seep into her lungs again. Brian nuzzled her cheek, offering her comfort and time to accept the brutal necessity.

  After a few moments, she kissed him gently on the mouth. His lips curved and they pledged themselves silently to each other.

  She forced herself to focus on practicalities, after he lifted his head. “Very well. We can’t take the passenger train to Switzerland, even though the customs post there is lightly manned. There are so few trains, we’d be caught in a moment.”

  He nodded agreement, his dear face brightening. There had to be at least some good people among his family to produce somebody like him.

  She’d have to make sure they wouldn’t be seen by anyone on that hike to the border, lest the police shoot or arrest her darling.

  Dratted police.

  But perhaps they could be seen by some people.

  “How much money do you have?” she demanded.

  “Sweetheart, when you’ve broken a chief inspector’s nose, no amount of cash will stop the police from venting their wrath on you.”

  “Not them, darling. I think I know somebody who can smuggle us onto a train out of the capital. But we’d have to pay for any supplies.”

  Brian spun around, staring at her. A moment later, he shook his head and a gleeful smile dawned on his face. “I might have known you could pull something like that. Let’s start moving, darling. Sazonov could investigate this hole in the wall at any time.”

  An hour of dodging through narrow passages, steep stairs, and dank basements gave Brian new respect for the workers’ party’s ancient roots and widespread support. They were rarely aboveground more than a half dozen paces before disappearing into another colonnade or opening a nondescript door to discover a steep stairwell.

  He’d always prided himself on having a teamster’s nose for direction. But Meredith’s route through dark, twisting tunnels, that never seemed to find the same level twice, would have baffled a gopher.

  “How do you know where we are?” he demanded once, enjoying a rare glimpse of sunlight while they waited to cross a street unnoticed.

  “I was the courier, since I carried messages for Zorndorf at odd hours across the city. He was a demanding master so I learned quickly.” She smiled briefly. “Truly, we haven’t gone that far. We’re mostly taking a very obscure route…”

  “To avoid meeting any cops,” he finished her sentence.

  “Correct.” Traffic finally satisfied her and she dodged across the cobblestoned gap, jumping a puddle on the other side. Morro accompanied her, ears swiveling alertly.

  Brian shook his head and followed his lady into the less reputable sections.

  Finally she stepped boldly onto a street and turned left into a square. She walked calmly here, clearly expecting to be recognized and greeted.

  Sweet Jesus, what a risk! How many secret police were there in Eisengau? How long would it take before one of them saw h
er?

  Brian took two quick strides and caught up with her, letting Morro escort her on the other side.

  This neighborhood wasn’t nearly as pretty as the others Brian had seen in Eisengau, although it was just as immaculately clean. Stone had been husbanded carefully here, starting with its usage in only a few buildings’ lower levels to protect against floods. Most buildings were made entirely of the cheaper bricks. No smooth stucco walls existed to be embellished with fancy curlicues or plaques, bragging of their makers. The few arches were strictly functional to protect windows and doorways against winter snows. Even the roofs’ simple tiles had been replaced again and again, leading to a patchwork quilt of chipped, uneven surfaces and different colors.

  The light was thin here, filtered by the late afternoon mists rising from the great river. It was as tenuous as the scent of dinner drifting from open windows, of stewing cabbages barely enlivened by pork and a little sausage.

  The children studying them wore clothing that was too old and had been darned too often, their bodies much too thin. Their parents’ eyes were too watchful and their hands too ready to snatch up their little ones.

  Brian had seen places like this in Pennsylvania and Colorado, company towns where the employer himself wasn’t trusted. But there were no police anywhere in sight, no skin crawling over his scalp in warning.

  Then Morro woofed in greeting. The residents grinned and waved at him, their faces lighting up as if they’d spotted a long-lost relation. The little kids danced out to play with him, their mothers called out affectionately to him, and the men stopped to offer compliments.

  “Why is Morro so special here?” Brian whispered after the fourth such conversation.

  “He’s from a local breed—peasant stock, not blue blood. They’re highly valued as watchdogs and ratters.”

  “But not by aristocrats or social climbers.” Like Meredith’s mother and stepfather.

  She stiffened but didn’t look at him. “No, not by folks like that. He came from a lady who took me under her wing shortly after I arrived.”

  “And he proves our bona fides as friends of the people.”

  “Hopefully.” She paused to smile at Morro being hugged by two very small little girls. “I haven’t visited my friends at home before. I do know that police never come to this neighborhood. They didn’t dare do that even during the great 1848 demonstrations.”

  “When all Europe was ablaze with revolution,” Brian filled in. “And the aftermath was bloody.”

  She nodded and moved forward again.

  Two men waited outside a broad archway, watching them approach. One wore a respectable suit and hat, while the other had a mismatched jacket and trousers, plus patched boots. A boy stood next to them, possibly twelve years old, wearing an oversized straw boater. His bare feet and shins were badly nicked and bruised.

  “Herr Mayer,” Meredith bobbed a respectful curtsy to the suit-wearer. “Herr Brecht.” She repeated the courtesy. “How are you, Anton?”

  “Very well indeed, Fräulein Duncan, thank you.” Brown eyes, which had been scrutinizing Brian suspiciously, blazed into radiance when they dwelt on her. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Brecht dropped his hand onto Anton’s shoulder, underlining their strong likeness.

  What had she done for the family?

  “May I introduce you to Brian Donovan, from America?”

  Mayer gripped hard, obviously trying to grind Brian’s bones together. It wasn’t the first time somebody had misjudged him by his face. But he’d learned this game on the West’s roughest trails.

  Brian squeezed back, giving as good as he got.

  Mayer grunted and broke the handshake first. Brecht’s hand was far rougher but Brian gritted his teeth and refused to back down. He was still relieved when Brecht released him.

  Meredith’s eyes were very wide but she was smart enough not to say anything.

  “You’re not a student,” Mayer stated.

  “No, sir. I left at sixteen, after I finished high school, to work for my father.” He wasn’t about to shake his hand to restore the circulation, no matter how much it hurt.

  “Miner?” Brecht asked.

  “Sometimes. I spent a winter in the Klondike and I’ve worked the high Rockies. But mostly I’m a teamster.” Better stick to the public stuff, not the risky freight which the company only discussed with the client.

  “Driving four-horse teams for drays and trucks? Your hands are stronger than that.”

  “Those are popular for city work, Herr Mayer. Donovan & Sons carries a good deal of freight across the West’s wide-open country. So I can also drive a sixteen-horse hitch.” Why were they asking enough questions for a job interview?

  “Impressive,” muttered Brecht. “Not many men can stand up to my grip.”

  Meredith choked.

  “Please enter, Fräulein Duncan, fellow worker.” Meyer stepped back, allowing them to pass. “Warn us if they’re followed, Anton.”

  “Of course, uncle.” The boy ran off, after one more beaming smile at Meredith.

  The tiny apartment was painfully clean and filled with an odd assortment of old, sturdy furniture. Vivid posters covered the walls, advertising art gallery openings.

  A silent woman produced coffee for all of them and promptly disappeared, while Mayer shut the windows. He leaned his hip against the sideboard, upsetting a stack of papers.

  Brian promptly grabbed for them and came up holding—a certificate from Grand Duke Rudolph? He promptly schooled his face into urbanity.

  “I’m a foreman at the grand duke’s foundry.” Mayer took the gold-stamped parchment from him.

  “He’s the man responsible for overseeing all the special castings from the engineering college,” added Meredith.

  “Like Zorndorf’s designs,” interpreted Brian.

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “He’s the best foreman at the foundry.”

  Mayer gave her a horrified look and hastily gulped his coffee, hiding his face. Brian sympathized with the need to avoid acknowledging a woman’s praise.

  “Herr Brecht is his brother-in-law. They married sisters,” she added.

  “You saved my son’s life.” Brecht leaned forward, his big shoulders and arms enveloping the room’s center. “Whatever we have is yours.”

  “That’s not…” She tried again, her gray eyes enormous. “That’s not necessary. Anybody would have done the same.”

  “Shouted a warning? Which could have broken everyone’s concentration and destroyed a very important casting? While the secret police were there?” He slowly shook his shaggy head. “I think not. If we have it, it is yours.”

  He sat back, folding his arms.

  She gaped at him, utterly silenced for once.

  “What do you need, Herr Donovan?” Mayer asked briskly. “You are a worker; you can express these things in practicalities.”

  “Travel to Switzerland without meeting the police or anyone else.” Brian dragged his gaze away from his flummoxed darling. The sight would undoubtedly become a treasured memory, if only for its rarity.

  “Every spy in the country hunts you, according to beer hall gossip,” Brecht remarked conversationally. “They are like locusts, trying to eat everything we create.”

  “It will add sport to the game, to finally tweak their tails.” The two men saluted each other with their coffee cups.

  “So you’ll do it?” Brian asked eagerly.

  “Yes, of course.” Brecht frowned at him. “We would have done far more than that.”

  “We couldn’t put you in further danger.”

  The men ignored her by unspoken agreement.

  “There’s a train leaving late tonight for Italy, traveling through Switzerland and carrying some of our older cannons.” Mayer clicked his tongue. “Our police won’t stop them. But Swiss customs inspectors will—and the two posts are very close together at the border. You will need to disappear at a watering stop before then.”

&n
bsp; “It will be our pleasure.” Brian bowed.

  “There’s a separate boxcar for the more fragile gear, which have been painted with their insignia. You should not be disturbed in there but there won’t be any comforts for Fräulein Duncan.” Brecht rubbed his chin, visibly disturbed.

  “I won’t break.” Meredith sniffed and sat up very straight.

  No, but she’d be trekking into the Alps, over a very steep, difficult pass, immediately after strong rains, making a boxcar the least of his worries. He didn’t want to contemplate coaxing her through a granite fissure, while a torrent rushed past their feet. He’d rather face Sazonov than do that.

  At least they still had the plans for that damn big cannon so they could keep the Russians out of Alaska.

  Meredith grumbled, rolled over, and stuck her elbow into living human rather than featherbed.

  “Oof!” Brian grunted but he didn’t push her away.

  She shot upright, appalled. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were here. I mean, that doesn’t sound quite right.”

  Blue eyes regarded her quizzically in the faint light from the running lantern outside the door. “I’m glad you were able to sleep that well.”

  “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  He shrugged and pulled her back down onto his chest, tucking the threadbare blanket around them. They’d only allowed Mayer and Brecht to provide the minimum of supplies, despite heated protests.

  Wheels clickety-clacked rhythmically underneath them. The forest of boxes around them rattled continuously, despite being fastened to the floor. Far worse was the constant clatter coming from the boxcars next door where the Italian cannon traveled. They rattled, creaked, and groaned, every metal part banging endlessly and randomly against another. The boxcars themselves complained about their heavy load, the frames groaning and the wheels shuddering as much as clacking. She and Brian almost had to shout at each other, in order to be heard.

  Morro had spent his first half hour aboard pacing the boxcar’s perimeter and sniffing every sealed object. Finally he’d curled up and gone to sleep, apparently satisfied the mechanical demons had temporarily taken over guard duty.