Ludlow nodded again. “Granted. But don’t be too long about it. And don’t be too maudlin. You’re on the clock now. You’re on His Majesty’s time. See to what you need and get on with it. The sooner we have that codebook, the sooner we might be able to learn when the Nazis are going to invade. God help us when they do.”
***
The room was small and smelled of disinfectant. The odor tickled Lillian’s nose. After last seeing and smelling Frank the previous night—when the world felt vastly different—this new smell proved jarring.
The medical man in charge of the morgue had been alerted she was on her way. Graciously, he had made the sterile room as palatable as possible. The table on which Frank’s corpse lay couldn’t be moved, but the other tables and trays were covered with clothes. The lights were dimmed, even the center light over the main table. The doctor had gone the extra mile and arranged Frank’s clothing to resemble something approaching normal. As a result, he almost appeared to be sleeping.
Except his neck. The strain of the poison gripped his neck into a rictus so bad it made him look like he was straining to lift something heavy. Lillian noticed it but didn’t dwell on that part of him. She reached out and took his hand. The feeling of his cold skin bit into her. Tears filled her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks. They splashed on the white sheet covering the lower half of his body. She didn’t let go of his hand.
“Oh, Frank,” Lillian whispered. She smoothed his mussed hair along the hairline. Thoughts of the previous evening, standing in the shower, flooded back to her now. If she had opened that door, both literally as well as figuratively, maybe Frank would still be alive. They certainly wouldn’t have gone downstairs. She didn’t mistake her feelings now for outright love, but she conceded they could have developed in the direction.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. More tears, this time, they landed on his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why James wanted you to come with me, but I’ll be sure to tell him you died for it.”
Her thoughts replayed that moment back in Paris, 1934. Early June. Bright sun. Warm air that carried the scent of grass and flowers. In her mind, the images kaleidoscoped like an impressionistic painting. She wore a long dress, light blue, her hair kept in place by a scarf. She walked in the grass, barefoot and alone in the park.
And then Frank Monroe was there, with her. His shadow crossed hers before she knew who it belonged to.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Immediately, he snapped his fingers and checked himself. “Strike that from the ledger. I know your thoughts.”
That was Frank. Always just a little behind. She curled a strand of her red hair around her ear. It immediately escaped again. She gave up and sat on a nearby bench. Frank sat next to her albeit on the far side.
“Why would James do that?” Lillian said. It was more of a whisper.
The rustle of fabric told her Frank shrugged. “Because he’s an idiot.”
A smirk of laughter erupted from within her. Was that the most timely thing Frank had ever said? The smirk became actual laughter. A honest-to-goodness smile emerged. More laughter, then Frank, tentatively, joined in. Lillian turned to face him. Three feet separated them.
The sun caught his face. His gregarious smile beamed brighter than the sun. His blond hair glowed under his hat. He removed it and set it between them.
“Well, he is,” Frank continued. “I mean, really. Just look at you. You’re beautiful. Look, there, when you really laugh and smile, those little dimples appear on your cheeks. They never show unless you’re really laughing or smiling. Think he noticed that?”
Actually, Lillian thought, James had noticed. For all that the world and his upbringing had bestowed on him, James possessed a certain sense of entitlement. She understood it and, coming from a poor background like hers, she craved it. Some people who grow up in that entitled environment got dulled by the world, not seeing the little nuances that make like worth living. James wasn’t like that. He strove to push the boundaries of his family heritage. Not that he’d ever break free entirely, but he wanted to see the world for what it was, not just behind the fancy walls and windows of high society.
For Frank’s sake, Lillian shook her head. “Thanks.”
“I bet he noticed your eyes. How could anyone not? The green in them is like…” he paused, trying to complete his metaphor. Lillian prayed the future banker didn’t land on “money” as his example.
“…The fresh grass here in this park. Is there anything more lovely than Paris in spring? Yes, there is. The spring of your eyes is like Paris all year round.”
Where had that come from?
“But for all your outer beauty,” Frank went on, “it’s that brain of yours that’s your best feature. You’re brilliant, Lillian. Brilliant. I could barely keep up in some of our classes. Even James noticed that. He kind of hated it at times, your being smarter than he is, but it’s true. Old Professor Potter knew it. That’s why he was so hard on you.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You showed him, didn’t you?”
Lillian smiled with pride. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. You very much did. I think students will be talking about that when we all meet up in ten years for our reunion.”
They both laughed. Thoughts of 1944 and where she’d be in ten years entered Lillian’s mind. Interestingly, nothing truly emerged. The thought saddened her.
Frank picked up on it. “Hey, that’s not meant to be a sad thing. Lil, the world is at our fingertips. It’s ours for the taking.”
“It is if your life’s already planned out like yours is.” Her countenance dropped and she sighed. “You’ve had your life mapped out since you were growing up. James, too. Me? My life’s like a book that’s being written as I go along. Poor girl escapes her old life only to find out that the only thing left is her old life. That’s not exactly the type of story I figured I’d be living. It’s why I left San Diego. It’s why I worked longer and harder to get into school, get over here. I want to do something with my life, not just go back to California and live out meaningless days.” Her voice cracked with anger, then tears welled in her eyes.
Frank scooted nearer to her. He put his hat behind him. Now, only a foot separated them. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Hey,” he said. With his other hand, he reached out and touched her chin. With gentleness, he raised her face to meet his eyes. They were calm eyes, gentle eyes, eyes that saw into her.
Lillian’s anger subsided. Frank Monroe, she thought. You are one classy guy.
Who was one minute away from ruining it all.
“You don’t have to go back to California. Like I said, the world’s at our fingertips. This is 1934. Whatever it is you want to do, you can.”
At that moment, Lillian wanted to go back in time and tell James she’d stay with him. It didn’t matter that they’d live in Germany. That way, she could avoid the broken heart he had dealt her.
No. That’s not true. She didn’t want to live in Germany, not with what the new Nazi government was doing. Power consolidated into one political party controlled by one person was unhealthful to modern civilization. Might as well just go back in time to Roman times and their emperor. It all adds up to the same thing.
There was nowhere to go. At least not now. She said as much to Frank.
“Of course there’s a place for you in this world.”
“Where?”
He paused and lowered his voice. “With me.”
Lillian Saxton sat there, on that bench in the middle of Paris, and tried to make sense of what she had just heard. Surely it wasn’t what she thought it was, right? He didn’t just propose to me, did he? Please tell me he isn’t so dense as to think this was the optimal time to broach that subject.
A voice inside her told her the answer to all her questions was yes.
The broken heart of Lillian Saxton shattered. She was furious and confused that her other best friend could be so stupid as to propose marriage to her at this time
, in this place.
Anger rapidly overwhelmed her heart at that moment. She stood and grabbed her shoes. She whirled at him. Tears welled in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. At any moment, she was going to lose it. A million things she wanted to say flooded her mind, most of them not nice. In a supreme effort of will, nothing left her mouth. Instead, she stormed away. She packed her bags within the hour and was on a train to the coast in two. That image of Frank’s confused face was the last one she had for six years.
Until last week when he popped back into her life.
And now, standing in a morgue, looking down at Frank’s dead face, she had another. More tears blurred her vision.
In the years since she had met and studied with Kenji Tanaka, she had come to know what it takes to master her emotions in nearly any circumstance. It had served her well in her missions.
This was not one of those times. Lillian cried. She didn’t care if anyone heard her. This was a human moment. She cried for the kind person Frank was, his trying to help her those years ago in his own befuddled way. She cried for the potential future she’d never have now. Most of all, she cried for her friend. He had gotten himself mixed up in espionage and murder, things for which his life as a banker had never prepared him.
But Lillian was prepared. She knew the risks. She also knew justice. And retribution. She had killed the man directly responsible for Frank’s death. But Bauer took orders from someone else. She would find that person and make him pay.
Frank’s voice sounded in her head. “Are you to be judge, jury, and executioner?”
She knew what he’d say were he alive.
But he was dead.
She wondered if the spirit of Frank Monroe had anything to add.
Lillian answered him in a suddenly calm, serious, and determined voice. “In this case, yes I am.”
CHAPTER 18
Rolf Klein rode his motorcycle at top speed and felt the warm air in his face. The rushing wind exhilarated him, gave him a nice antidote to the bloody business up in Glasgow. Traitors. He just couldn’t stomach them. When he had been told by his commanding officer, General Hans Siegfried, to investigate the apparent tip-off to the local police of the presence of a secret pro-German group, Klein didn’t relish the assignment. He preferred his time in Liverpool where he knew the streets and alleys intimately rather than a strange city. But he had orders and follow them he did.
It was a rather easy job, all things considered. Traitors, by and large, were a cowardly lot. It was why they betrayed their countries and causes in the first place. The man named Jones was a recruit, a local, who wanted Hitler to rule Europe. But he was lured by the promise of easy money. The way Klein left Jones’s body was meant to send a message not only to the local police but also to the other members of the ring: talk and this was what happened to you. Klein made sure the gruesomeness created an absolutely clear message.
Driving through the streets of Liverpool, Klein was ready to rest for the night. His friend, Otto Fuchs, was the radio man here in the city. Together, they lived in an apartment with Peter Becker, another pro-German man here in the UK. Klein had picked up a little souvenir: a pint of beer. They were going to share it that night.
His route to the apartment took him along the road where the antique shop was located. To his great shock, he saw lights and people milling around in the streets. Blue lights of police cars flashed on the building facades.
“Sheisse,” Klein muttered. He slowed his motorcycle. In a quick decision, he turned onto a side street. Why would there be police in front of the shop? The only reason he could discern was that they were found out.
Klein had no way of knowing if that was the case. Liverpool was a big city and there were dozens of reasons why the police could be on that stretch of road. Klein, for his part, could think of only one.
He parked his motorcycle on a parallel street. Adjusting his bag over his shoulder, he strolled through a small alley. The halo of lights grew brighter the closer he got. Klein considered it a stroke of good luck when he saw a bystander leaning against a building at the edge of the alley. Klein came to a halt next to the man.
“What’s going on?” He altered his speaking pattern slightly off what he had been using.
The man, arms folded across his chest, didn’t look Klein’s way. “Found a nest of Nazis in there.”
“Really?” Klein said with mock horror. “What happened?”
“Coppers showed up. Had a couple go in first, scope out the place. Then we all heard gunshots.”
Despite himself, Klein’s heart skipped a beat. Gunshots? If the police were here, that meant bad news. “Anyone killed?”
The man nodded. “One of’em. Seen him around here. Never had a clue he was a Jerry. They hauled Buckley away to the station.”
“Bloody hell,” Klein swore. He hated the next question, but he had to ask. “Which one got killed?”
“That Otto fella. Becker was gibbering out in German when they arrested him.” The man unfolded his arms and turned to Klein. In the light that only shined on half his face, Klein could tell the man recognized him. Klein also recognized the man. It was Bill Jacobson. He worked at the butcher’s just down the road. They had chatted more than once while Bill was carving meat Klein took home to his friends.
Bill continued. “Hey, you’re that other one who works in the shop. That means you’re a…”
His words died in his throat when Klein slid the knife he carried at the small of his back into Bill’s side. Klein, an expert at ways to kill without sound, had brought the blade upward just below Bill’s right rib cage. The six-inch blade pierced the skin, carved through muscle, nicked a kidney, and punctured Bill’s right lung. Blood and bodily fluid were already pouring into the lung, preventing Bill from uttering another word in his life.
Klein’s strength prevailed here as well. He grabbed Bill by the collar and hauled him back into the darkness of the alley. Bill’s legs only took him about a dozen steps before they gave way. He slumped to his knees. Klein bent down with him. The knife was still in Bill’s side.
“Sorry, mate.” Klein allowed his true German-inflected accent to come out. “But I can’t have you talking anymore.” He twisted the knife and then yanked it out. The thin wound now widened. Blood gushed out of Bill. Klein, not wanting to attract any undue attention, eased Bill to the ground. He was almost nurse-like. He took Bill’s shirt and wiped blood from his blade. Keeping a watch at the end of the alley, Klein was satisfied enough with the cleaning job to put the knife back into its sheath.
Klein looked down at Bill. “We had some good talks, mate. Sorry about your widow. I liked her, too. She’ll get on without you. Won’t be easy, but then, what the hell in this life is supposed to be easy?” He patted Bill’s face.
A few trash bins sat nearby. Gingerly, Klein lifted each one and covered Bill’s body from view. Good enough.
Quickly, Klein hurried back to his motorcycle. No way to avoid the sound when he started the engine, but he resisted the urge to gun the engine by merely puttering away.
He drove through the streets, passing many businesses that were dark. Made sense. Everyone was home now. Time for him to get to the apartment, get his stuff, and get away. He also needed to send word back to Berlin about Liverpool. Klein couldn’t be sure when the raid had happened, but his commanding officers in Berlin would know something was amiss when the nightly report didn’t appear.
On high alert, Klein actually passed his building twice before stopping. If Becker had been arrested, he might have already talked. Then again, Klein didn’t think Becker would willingly divulge any information. Still, Becker was a local recruit and Klein couldn’t trust him one hundred percent.
He parked his motorcycle a block away and approached his apartment building from the rear. Only Lucy the landlady used the back door for deliveries and trash. She wanted all her tenants to come in via the front door. Not tonight. The back door was unlocked and Klein slipped inside.
He l
et his eyes adjust to the dimness. The back door faced the lobby and front door. There was a low-wattage bulb in the foyer but no other light until one reached each landing. It was part of the campaign to make Liverpool as dark as possible in case the Luftwaffe decided to start bombing.
On tiptoe, Klein climbed the cement stairs, thankful they were not made of wood. No one was in the second-floor hallway nor the third, where his flat was. It was the rearmost room on the floor. If worse came to worst, Klein could slip out the window, land on the second floor’s awning, and escape.
He opened his door, walked inside, and closed it again. On a hunch, he locked it. Becker might not spill any secrets but the coppers could easily take his keys and search the place. Come to think of it, Klein wondered why they weren’t already here. Maybe Becker was making them work for it. He smiled in the darkness. Perhaps Becker wasn’t as bad as he thought.
Klein stepped through the common room which consisted only of a couch, throw rug, coffee table, and card table that doubled as a kitchen table. The remains of the last gin rummy game from two nights ago were still there.
Stepping into his room, Klein grabbed his one leather bag and began throwing his clothes into it. He wasn’t loud, but the rustle of fabric against leather was loud enough that he didn’t realize the front door had opened until he heard it close.
***
Henry sat and watched as Ludlow and the American woman left the briefing room. His muscles ached from the fight earlier that evening. He flexed his jaw muscles, trying to come to terms with his new situation.
His undercover identity of Peter Becker had been well-established. It had taken him over a year to work up his bona fides with the pro-Nazi movement here in Britain. That work had led to some heated arguments—arguments he mostly hated, truth be told—but he kept his cover and got in deeper. He earned the trust of Klein, Fuchs, and others who, slowly but surely, let Henry into their little circle.
Ulterior Objectives: A Lillian Saxton Thriller Page 9