by Renee Ryan
Even as she pondered such a miracle, a nagging premonition had her shoving her hair off her face.
Something wasn’t right.
She tipped her head and listened past the silence in the room. A sound was coming from her front door.
Knocking? No. More like scratching.
She gave herself a little push and stood. Her legs wobbled underneath her. Obviously, she needed more sleep. She didn’t have the luxury.
The scratching came again, more insistent this time.
Was it her mother and Hermann, come to get her for a late supper? She’d claimed a headache earlier and had told them she wouldn’t be available for the rest of evening. Surely, they would respect her wishes and take her at her word.
Padding across the thick carpet, she tried to gather her various roles around her. Which one would she need tonight?
Unsure what to expect, her skin went cold with dread.
Katia swung open the door.
“Friedrich.” She was only dimly aware she’d gasped his name. But he didn’t look right. He was swaying. That much she could discern. But his face was curtained in shadows so she couldn’t see his eyes.
He stumbled past her, weaving across the entryway of her home. Two more bobbing steps and he reached out to steady himself against the wall on his left.
“Friedrich, what’s happened?”
He mumbled an incoherent response in a language that definitely was not German, and in an accent she’d heard only in the movies.
Why would he break cover so noticeably?
Fearing something had gone dreadfully wrong, Katia shut the door behind him and then flicked on the overhead light in the foyer.
Hissing, he covered his eyes against light. “Have mercy, woman.” He growled out his words in slurred German.
What was wrong with him?
She pulled his hand down and stared hard at his scowling face. His pupils were dilated and unfocused. “Are you drunk?”
His scowl deepened. “Of course not.”
Katia had her doubts, especially when he kept listing to his left. She took a sniff of the air around him and reared back. He didn’t smell of liquor. He smelled of…blood.
A thousand questions shot to her lips but something dark and wet on his left sleeve caught her attention. “You’re bleeding.”
She had no appropriate role for this unexpected development.
He looked down at his arm. His eyes widened, as though he was surprised to find his sleeve coated with his own blood. “Looks like the tourniquet didn’t hold.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Her concern made her words sound sharper than she’d intended.
“It’s just a scratch.” He waved his hand with a dismissive flick. The gesture threw him off balance again.
She reached out to steady him, he tripped back a step and she missed.
“You need to sit down,” she said.
“I’m fine.” He rocked back on his heels and then threw himself forward. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I see that.”
“Let me take care of this first.” He clawed at the bloody tourniquet on his arm. “Then we’ll talk before I go to my meeting with Himmler.”
“Himmler? Heinrich Himmler? You have a meeting with the head of the SS? Tonight?” Just how deep undercover was this man?
“Don’t worry, Katarina.” He placed his good hand on her shoulder. “You haven’t been compromised. Everything will be fine.”
Fine? He used that word rather loosely. Nothing would be fine as long as men like Adolf Hitler and Heinrich Himmler were in power. Nothing would be fine as long as dissenters were silenced and people like Katia’s mother were openly targeted for their Jewish heritage.
“Now. If you could direct me to your washroom.”
Still in a state of shock, she automatically pointed over his shoulder.
He turned and swiftly lost his footing.
She caught him by the right elbow. “I’ll come with you.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he looked grateful, and a little lost, as though he wasn’t used to being the one in need and didn’t know what to do with the change in their roles.
She wasn’t altogether sure herself.
Once in the bathroom, she filled a glass with water and handed it to him. “Here. You look like you could use this.”
With a trembling hand, he brought the cup to his lips and gulped the entire contents in one taking. A little less shaky now, he filled the glass again and brought it to his mouth a second time.
She stopped him before he could drink. “No. Slow down. Too much will make you sick.”
“I…” He looked at her in cautious silence then set the cup on the counter. “You’re right.”
“Take off your jacket and let me look at your wound.” She spoke calmly, but her heart beat hard against her ribs. What had happened tonight? Where had he gone?
He must have read a portion of her thoughts because she saw the flash of some deep emotion in his eyes—apology, guilt, pain? She shook her head as she turned to the sink and ran warm water over a washcloth.
“It really is just a scratch,” he mumbled. “The bullet missed its mark.”
“Thank You, Lord,” she whispered. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but she was a bit out of practice these days.
Taking a deep breath, she left the washcloth in the sink and turned to face him again. “All right, let’s have a look.”
Grimacing, he shrugged out of his jacket then pulled off the useless tourniquet. Clearly exhausted from the effort, he sank onto the only seat available in the room. “There. I’m all yours.”
Ignoring the little jolt of pleasure at his absolute surrender, Katia glanced down at his arm. From elbow to wrist his sleeve was coated with a thick layer of blood. She wanted to sob. And then throw up. But she was too afraid to give in to either impulse right now. Later, she promised herself, when she was alone, she would give in to the sickness. And then maybe the fear.
For now, she had to concentrate.
This man’s life was in her hands, the same hands she couldn’t keep from shaking. She had no practice for this, no protective barrier to put in front of the real Katia. She cared for him that much, this man who had dug past all her layers of defense. A dark uneasiness crept over her at the thought.
She must have stood there, unmoving, for quite a while, because he went to work on his arm all by himself.
Stone-faced, he ripped apart the sleeve at the shoulder and then peeled the soaked material away from the wound, inch by brutal inch. He made no sound, nor did he wince, but his eyes glazed over with each passing second.
Katia wanted to weep for him. He had such strength, such courage. He would be an easy man to love.
She shut her eyes a moment, shuddered and then swallowed the last of her hesitation. With her fingers still trembling, she took over. Moving his hand out of the way, she wiped at the blood on his arm with the warm, soapy cloth from the sink.
“I can do it myself,” he offered, as if he knew how hard this was for her.
A deep affection surged through her. Even in the midst of his own agony, he thought of her first. She felt exposed under such raw concern.
What was she going to do now?
“Right.” She gave her words a hard edge to hide her confusion. “Your previous efforts were very efficient.”
He smiled a little, a very little. “I made it here in one piece, didn’t I?”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
What if he hadn’t made it back to her alive? What if the bullet had hit its mark? The thought was too awful to contemplate so she cleared her mind and focused only on what she could control—taking care of his wound.
She placed the cloth under the running faucet and rinsed out the blood. So much blood, she thought. Too much.
She slid a quick look at him from under her lashes and felt her stomach flip inside itself. Even with his skin pale and his mouth tight from grit
ting past the pain, he mesmerized her. It wasn’t his masculine beauty alone that got to her. It was his inner strength. She recognized a man of integrity when she saw one.
How would she ever survive knowing such a man?
Sighing, she wrung out the cloth one last time and went back to work.
Chapter Nineteen
Jack shut his eyes the moment the warm cloth touched his skin again. He nearly whimpered from the effort of holding back a sigh of relief. Katarina’s touch was so gentle, her eyes filled with such caring that he felt the sharp stab of some foreign emotion rising up inside him.
Sliding a covert glance at her, he found himself struck all over again by her beauty. He closed his eyes to ward off another rush of unexpected emotions, but her scent filled him. She smelled very female, a combination of zesty white flowers and spice.
Perhaps it was safer to keep his eyes opened.
He wondered where the questions were. She must have at least a few. Didn’t women always ask questions? “Don’t you want to know how this happened?”
Her brows scrunched in consternation. “Oh, I have a good idea.”
With unnecessary force, she tossed the bloody rag into the sink, then quickly pressed a clean, dry cloth to the wound. “You messed up, made a mistake or,” she amended as she smiled at him with a look meant to subdue his male arrogance, “probably both.”
Jack leveled a gaze that had been known to shrink the toughest of men. “You’ll have to work on your gloating, Katarina. It needs a little more hypocrisy in it.”
“Is that so?” Her brows lifted slightly. “Then tell me this, am I wrong?”
He broke eye contact. “You’re enjoying my failure far too much. It’s unbecoming in a woman of your fine breeding, a woman who’s had her own share of mistakes during this mission.”
“Let’s review, shall we?” She pressed the cloth against his wound with a little more efficiency than before. He preferred her more tentative. It hurt less.
Her lips pulled into a frown. “You went somewhere dangerous tonight, alone, without telling me where. And while you were out, doing who knows what, you got yourself shot.” The anger was there in her voice, throbbing just below the surface.
“It’s not my first bullet wound,” he said in his own defense.
“Of course it isn’t. You’re a man, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hold this steady.” She cocked her head at the cloth on his arm.
He did as she requested, flinching when her fingers brushed against his.
Muttering in Russian about foolhardy men who carried guns, she rooted in the cabinet above his head.
He wished she wasn’t quite so angry. It was only going to get worse when he told her what happened. For now, he decided to change the subject. “You’ll need to work quickly. I have that…meeting I mentioned.”
Without looking at him, she pulled out a brown bottle, scissors, bandages and white medical tape. Hands full, she stepped back and then deposited the lot on the counter.
“Right. You want me to patch you up, just like that, and then send you into a meeting with one of the most dangerous men in Germany. Getting shot is that common for you, is it?”
Although he bristled at her words, something in her expression had him wanting to placate her rather than antagonize. “It’s just a scratch, Katarina. A scratch.”
Her lips pressed into a hard line. “Put there by a bullet meant to take your life.” A shudder passed through her. “Katarina, I—”
“Here comes the fun part.” Looking entirely too cheerful, she swabbed another washcloth with what looked—and smelled—suspiciously like iodine.
“No, you don’t.” Jack shot up then collapsed back down as a jolt of nausea swept through him. After several deep breaths, he cleared the pain out of his mind. But the effort drew a thick sheen of sweat onto his brow. “That stuff stings,” he complained once he had his breath again.
“Of course it does. That’s how you know it’s doing the job.” She smiled, sweetly, then pressed the cloth against his wound.
He bit back a howl of pain. The woman had a mean streak. Pure and simple.
Focus. That’s what he needed. Focus. His mind was stronger than his body. It was all a matter of concentration, a matter of single-mindedness.
She applied a second coat of iodine.
“Have you no compassion?” he hissed.
“Of course. When it’s warranted.”
“You’re doing this to punish me. You’re angry. You’re scared. And this is your way of getting back at me.”
“I’m doing this to clean your wound. Your bullet wound. But, yes.” She sighed. “I am angry. Scared, too. Mostly scared.”
Before he could respond she pressed her lips to his forehead. “You’re going to be fine, Friedrich Reiter. Just fine.”
He wanted to relax inside all that tenderness, just for a moment, but he didn’t know how. He’d been on his own too long.
He was only just beginning to realize how alone he’d been.
“Yes, Katarina.” He touched her hand. “I will be fine. I always am.”
Her hands started shaking again. “You could have died tonight.”
“But I didn’t. I won’t—I can’t—allow fear of death to keep me from doing what needs to get done.”
Very carefully, very slowly, she set the bottle and rag on the counter. “People who don’t fear death are nothing but reckless. They take foolish risks.”
“Do I strike you as either reckless or foolish?”
Her answer was immediate. “No. But—”
“Worry is useless, Katarina. It’s also a clear sign that our faith isn’t strong enough. One thing I’ve learned these last two years, no, these last two days, is that it’s important to listen to God’s voice and guidance, not our own fear and personal agendas.”
Like his own personal agenda for revenge. Vengeance was not his. It was God’s alone. Jack could no longer in good conscience act without discerning his own motives first. He must be more obedient. He must—
Katarina’s sigh broke through his thoughts. “Faith is hard to come by in times such as these.”
Who was he to argue? “You’re right. Fear, anger and bitterness are always easier. We live in a fallen world. Maybe the question isn’t ‘why do bad things happen,’ rather ‘who’s in control when bad things happen.’ God will always be bigger than any circumstance.”
Her brows squeezed together, but she didn’t respond right away. “It’s hard not to ask why.”
He had no argument to that. “I know.”
She let out a shuddering breath. No longer meeting his gaze, she concentrated on wrapping the bandage around his arm and then securing the end with medical tape. “There.” She stepped back and eyed her work. “That should do for now.”
He rose, took her hand in his.
She tried to turn away. He pulled her closer.
“Thank you, Katarina. Thank you for taking care of my arm.” He lifted her chin with his fingertip. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
She took a shaky breath, but then visibly relaxed. Reaching up, she touched his cheek. “The next time you decide to strike out on your own, don’t. Whether you like it or not, you need me.”
A strange calm settled over him. “You’re right. I do need you.” He wasn’t talking solely about the mission.
She, apparently, thought he was. “Where did you go tonight?”
Knowing he owed her the truth, he sat back down. “I went to a shipyard in Kiel. To investigate a U-boat, what I believe is the lead submarine in the magnetic mines mission. I was interrupted before I could finish the job, hence the need for a bandage.”
“But.” She angled her head at him. “How did you know the U-boat was there and that it was the right one?”
He worked to keep from clenching his jaw. “Himmler told me.”
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t speak.
“I work…as one o
f his handpicked agents.”
Her hand flew to her throat. “Oh.”
He understood her shock. “Rest assured, my loyalties lie with the British. But I also have certain responsibilities to Himmler and his SS.”
He expected her to pale at his admission, to show disgust and disbelief, perhaps even terror. But she surprised him. “What a terrible, lonely way to live.” Her voice filled with tenderness. “You never know who to trust, do you?”
“I trust you. And I trust God.” He spoke the truth from his heart.
Lord, forgive me for relying only on myself. Help me to rely on You more.
With a look of understanding in her eyes, she reached down and touched his face. “Oh, Friedrich.”
He stood. Just as he pulled her close she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his chest.
“You are… I don’t know how… I wish…” Her words trailed off on a shuddering sigh.
He thought he understood her inability to put her feelings into words. She’d given him the one weapon that could destroy her—information about her heritage—while he’d given her nothing. Not really. Both the British and the Germans knew he worked with the opposing government. He was a traitor one day, a hero the next. It all depended on what day it was and who was sitting on the other side of the desk.
For once, he wanted to share his truth with someone who would look past the spy.
“My name is Jonathon Phillip Anderson,” he said in German, but then switched to English to make his point. “I go by Jack, not Jonathon. I’m an American naval engineer on loan to the British from the Office of Naval Intelligence, ONI. I was born in Lincoln, Nebraska, but grew up in Washington, D.C.”
With that last bit of information, he’d given her an equally powerful weapon to use against him.
She lifted her head. The awe and respect he saw in her nearly slaughtered him. He wasn’t worthy of this courageous woman’s loyalty. But he wanted to be.
“That’s it, then.” She nodded in acknowledgment. “No turning back for either of us. We’re in this together, bound by our individual secrets.”
“Yes.” He thought of the verse from Ecclesiastes. “‘Two are better than one,’” he quoted.