“Sorry, Robert, my grandmother has to make a trip to the restroom.”
The blonde glanced over at Jake, smiled in greeting, then took her grandmother’s arm and followed the direction of Robert’s sweeping arm. The two women entered the glass-fronted hotel lobby and walked slowly around the corner of the lobby’s counter. Jake’s gaze clung to them.
So there they were, based on the photo he’d seen in the files. There was no mistaking the granddaughter. Mary McCoy Snider and her granddaughter, Meghan Larsen.
“Quite a looker, that one,” Robert murmured to him, following their progress as well.
An understatement. Jake nodded to the man in agreement. The granddaughter was lovely, had the face and figure of a Hollywood starlet. Despite her lack of makeup, she had a wholesome but sexy look about her. Her navy-blue pea jacket and black jeans concealed much of her curves, but the overall effect of a beautiful, symmetrical face, a tanned complexion, long blonde waves partly covered with a large, black beret, and graceful movement, was powerful. Like a slap of warm sunshine in this cold, damp country. Schmoozing that girl was going to be a perk, not a chore.
Already, he was warming to this assignment.
The grandmother, bulky in a long wool coat, looked attractive despite her purported eighty-something years of age. The elderly woman was well preserved, he decided, and must have been quite a beauty in her youth. Like her granddaughter did now, she would’ve turned men’s heads when she walked by. Carried her power over them like a regal princess.
“Would you care to board, Mr. Bernstein?” Robert interrupted his reverie.
“Call me Jake. I’ll wait until the women return.”
The tour guide tossed him a knowing smirk.
A few minutes later, Jake was helping the elderly woman up the steep first step. Mary McCoy Snider paused on the steps, holding onto the railing on the coach’s door, and looked back at Jake, her dark blue eyes sharp with intelligence.
“Thank you, young man. What’s your name?” she asked, a slight Texas drawl softening her strong, clear voice.
“Jake. Jake Bernstein from Virginia, ma’am. Originally from Southern California.” He smiled up at the elderly grandmother, who then nodded and moved up into the coach. He slid his gaze to the granddaughter, who’d paused at the coach’s door. The top of her head came to his jawline.
“Thanks for helping…Jake,” the beautiful blonde muttered, blinking up at him before climbing the steps herself. Her long honey-blonde hair brushed his shoulder when she moved past him. There was a self-conscious shyness to her manner. Which Jake found odd, for such a beautiful woman. His pulse revved up.
Watch yourself, Bernstein. You’re on duty.
Wasn’t that why they chose him? Schmooze the women in question?
Sure, but don’t forget why you’re really here, dude.
He proceeded up the stairs after Meghan Larsen, appreciating the rear view. Too bad, he thought, when the two women took seats near the front of the packed coach. He nodded a friendly greeting to the passengers as he passed them on his way to the vacant seat at the back. He noted mostly couples until there was another single man, an older guy in his fifties, at the halfway point in the coach, and two single women of about the same age—maybe early forties—seated behind him. They perked up as he walked by, and gave him wide smiles beaming with anticipation.
He knew that look.
After stowing his carryon under the empty seat next to him, Jake sat down and leaned over. He could see the blonde subject’s wavy locks falling about her shoulders from his vantage point. She was sitting on the opposite side of the coach in the aisle seat, her grandmother in the window seat. Damn, he’d have to find a way of sitting closer to them. Maybe their seats on the coach weren’t fixed…or he could feign motion sickness and ask Robert to place him further forward.
At that very moment when he was plotting a way to chat up Mary Snider and her granddaughter while they tooled around the city and countryside in their leviathan on wheels, the blonde swiveled her upper body and looked down the aisle. Their gazes locked together briefly and she smiled. Despite a night without sleep and a head heavy with jet lag, his pulse kicked up. Something lurched in his chest. His groin clenched.
Jake returned the smile. Good. She noticed me. Contact with subjects made.
Chapter Four
London, Winter 1941
Mary awoke early. Dawn was barely an hour old but it was an important day, the first Saturday of the month. As prearranged with her handler, she had a rendezvous. By eight o’clock, it would be too late; the markings would be erased by then if it rained. Shivering, she dressed quickly, for her room on the top floor of Mrs. Watson’s Rooming House for Ladies chilled her to the very bone. Silently, she cursed the owner of the house. Fires wouldn’t be lit for another six hours, as coal was rationed throughout London. As was everything else. It was winter, and England had entered the war against the Third Reich, foolishly so, Mary thought.
On her way down the stairs, hugging her wool coat to her, she ran into her landlady. The gray-haired, middle-aged woman was a widow from the last war, the one the English had optimistically called The Great War, “the war to end all wars.” They’d won that one but they wouldn’t triumph over the Third Reich.
The fools should realize that and call it quits now. Save themselves the grief and destruction that is surely to come.
“On your way to the market at this hour, dearie?” Mrs. Watson inquired mildly between coughs. The woman and everyone else in the Rooming House would develop pneumonia, Mary thought sourly, if Mrs. Watson didn’t keep her house warmed up.
“Yes, the farmer’s market at Black Friar’s. Vegetables are fresher and there are more selections early on. May I get you something…for tonight’s supper, perhaps? My treat, now, Mrs. Watson. I insist.”
The landlady appeared more than a little pleased by Mary’s offer, so after a minute of the woman’s lead-licking and list-writing with her stubby pencil, Mary was on her way with her cotton shopping bag. Wrapping her wool scarf tightly around her neck, she ventured outside into the gloom. Street lamps were turned off at the very break of dawn to conserve electricity, and there was talk that they’d be off indefinitely if the Germans began bombing runs. In her sturdy boots, Mary picked her way carefully through the slush and ice. It hadn’t snowed in over a month, but the temperatures were absolutely unforgiving, the sidewalk ice treacherous.
As she approached the neighborhood park two streets over from Henrietta Street, her head burrowed into the scarf’s warmth. Her ears hidden under a wool cloche, she paused and tugged on her cotton stockings, as if both leggings were falling. Trained in counter surveillance, Mary used the moment to scan the square. An old man with a lumbering gait, wearing a Macintosh and plaid fedora, was walking his terrier, exiting the park on the north side. She crossed the street and continued for another block, then doubled back. The old man might have been her drop, but maybe not. There was a new one every month, it seemed, or else the old man was a master of disguise. Nevertheless, she couldn’t take the slightest chance.
After six months of working in the War Office as a French and German transcriber, Mary was well aware the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS, had surveillance teams which plowed the streets, their targets mainly Nazi sympathizers and foreign residents. Occasionally, some of the women in the clerical and motor pools complained of being watched and followed. As though their loyalty was in doubt, they had huffed with outrage. That old, fat, cigar-chomping PM was no trusting dolt.
Mary knew that a team followed her once a month in various places and at random times and days, as they did with all of the girls who worked in the War Office. Her head always tingled intuitively when she was the target, so she’d learned to be cautious.
The park was empty, and the only things moving were skittering maple leaves and the rare detritus left by careless pedestrians. She entered the north side on her way to the farmer’s market four blocks further south near Picca
dilly Square. Just a frugal shopper taking a short cut through the park.
Spying a chalk mark on one leg of the nearest stone bench, she went over and sat down. Mary bent over to retie her boot, then purposely dropped the shopping bag which contained her pocketbook and Mrs. Watson’s list. While picking it up, she felt under the bench by that leg. What she retrieved was a small four-inch square envelope taped to the underside. An old Christmas greeting card was inside. The brief message hand-printed in ink on its blank interior was, of course, all in code. Her heart couldn’t help but skip a beat, then race like that of a delirious schoolgirl. A few German endearments came to mind as she imagined her lover’s austere but handsome face, his tall, erect carriage and long, muscular legs. A memory of his forceful lovemaking stirred deep within her.
The recollection faded. Their relationship was all business now. How long had it been this time? Three months. He’d deemed it too risky to come more often. They were both in deep cover and ordered by the Abwehr—the intelligence wing of the German military—to stay that way for the duration of the war. Horst’s cover, that of an Irish longshoreman, was more complicated than hers; he handled multiple undercover operatives in Great Britain, five that she suspected. Their identities were unknown to her, of course. In case one was caught and tortured, he or she wouldn’t be able to give up the others before the ultimate execution by hanging. They all knew the danger but they were all patriots of the Fatherland. Their childhood education by various English governesses had finally paid off. They could all, she surmised, speak like native English, Irish and Scotsmen, one of the main reasons they’d been recruited. And now this extensive spy network was under Horst’s direction. There were others like Horst, naturally, but Clare couldn’t have been more proud of him.
Nor could her father, an important official in the National Socialist Workers Party and a decorated World War I veteran of the Luftwaffe. Clare’s lieber Vater had promoted service in the Abwehr, for she’d been a talented drama and foreign language student at the Universitat. It was there she’d fallen madly in love with the quiet, intense engineering student, Horst Eberhard. He’d joined the Abwehr first, then brought her along. Now, five years later, although man and wife, they barely saw each other.
Such was the sacrifice one made during wartime. She longed for their reunion once the Third Reich had conquered all of Europe and Great Britain had surrendered.
Once a month, he came to visit his sweet cousin Mary in London. Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she read the card. If she were found later with this card, at first glance the message would be innocuous: “Hope all is well with you, dear cousin. Cousin Clarence is meeting with Billy but I do not know when or where. Do find out and write to me. I should enjoy seeing them. Arrange a party with our friend if you can and please find a place for me to stay. I shall bring my suitcase and other belongings with me. Will visit you next month at the usual place. With love, Thomas McCoy.”
So Churchill was meeting with the Americans…and somehow Mary was to ferret out the date, time and place of this meeting. Something important was afoot, no doubt. Also, Horst was coming to London with a radio transmitter, and she was to find a hiding place for it. If they were caught with it—Katastrophe! Mary’s heart pounded and her head swam. She sat back, struggling to compose herself. This was her first big challenge. She gulped some air and shuddered as she expelled it, watching her breath steam and cloud up. In some way, that simple little distraction calmed her. After all, what could they do to her besides hang her? Everyone had to sacrifice for the glory of the Fatherland.
She straightened herself and looked at the card again. Much as she wanted to keep it as a sentimental memento, she couldn’t. She put a cigarette to her mouth and lit a match to it. Taking a deep drag, Mary then burned the card and envelope, the ashes of which she cupped in her gloved hand and then deposited in the rubbish bin on her way out of the park.
How was she to gather this vital information? No sooner had the question entered her mind than the remedy presented itself. The young brunette in Scheduling, the horsey-faced one with the big teeth, a homely girl whose friendship Mary had nurtured. Some English nobleman’s daughter…Sarah. A lady, no less. Sarah’s German cousins in Wiesbaden had dutifully informed the Abwehr that their English cousin had strong National Socialist sympathies. Someone to exploit, perhaps?
Mary had to tread cautiously. Regardless of her devotion to the Fuhrer’s Thousand-Year Reich, she had little desire to have her neck snapped by a British rope.
She tightened her scarf around her neck and left the park, continuing to trudge south toward Piccadilly Square.
Chapter Five
London, Present day
Meg’s skull tingled. Someone was staring at her, she could tell, but she ignored the sensation. Something else held her attention for the moment. Inside Westminster Abbey, she’d been looking up at the clerestory windows, where long shafts of light filtered in, falling among the huge columns like ethereal angels. If subatomic-sized spirits were floating in the dust particles of that light, then those beams were heaven sent. Maybe even the spirit of Grandpa Snider was floating up there, watching over them, approving this visit to the old country.
A fanciful notion, she realized, but the idea pleased her.
They’re always here among us. All the ones we’ve loved and lost. They’re never far away.
The tingling sensation persisted. She was accustomed to being stared at, especially by men, so she usually ignored whoever was staring. Not this time. She sensed a presence very near.
Whipping around suddenly, she practically bumped into him. The new guy who’d joined the coach tour. Jake Bernstein. From Virginia.
“Sorry.” He backed up a step. “I was standing too close. I’m trying to hear our guide—didn’t mean to crowd you.”
Meg gazed at his face. He could be a magazine model with his fine-boned face with high cheekbones, strong jaw, dimpled chin and chiseled mouth. Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous! But that was his problem. He was too handsome, too tall and muscular, too self-confident. He was a babe magnet. Wary, she looked away. Heat flushed her cheeks and her heart banged against her ribs.
Fool, she berated herself. What happened to the last good-looking man you fell for? Derek. A Ben Affleck lookalike. They’d become engaged after three months of dating, moved in together, and two months later, she’d discovered the truth about him. He was a closet player. Trolling for women while engaged to Meg. As if someone she knew in the Dallas area wouldn’t come across his deception and report back to her? When she’d confronted him about it, he’d shrugged and confessed. Too many women, too little time, he’d said without an ounce of remorse.
It was a hard lesson she’d learned. Men that good-looking felt nature bestowed them with such gifts for a reason. They felt that to lavish those gifts on just one woman was a waste. They were owed.
Too many women, too little time.
“No problem, Jake,” she muttered, turning her back on him.
“You know my name. What’s yours?” He leaned over her left shoulder.
She put a forefinger up against her lips to shush him. Their guide, Robert Morse, was explaining something about the Poets’ Corner but she hadn’t been paying much attention. Now it was too late to learn what he’d said.
When the group moved on, following Robert slowly along the right side of the nave, Meg hung back. It wouldn’t hurt to be friendly to the new guy, after all. After what she’d experienced with Derek, she was inured to exceptionally handsome men, so it wouldn’t be difficult to keep him at arm’s length. She watched her grandmother shuffle alongside a middle-aged woman. A French Canadian, Meg thought. The two women were speaking softly in French. Good. Gran was making friends, too.
“Meg Larsen. And you’re from Virginia, right?” She lifted her gaze to meet his. Deep-set under dark brown brows, his eyes were the color of dark malachite. A dark green, tinged with gray. His face was clean-shaven but showed a day’s dark stubble. His wavy hair,
a dark brown, sported a medium cut and was combed straight back from the widow’s peak on his forehead. He looked weary. She gauged him to be in his early to mid-thirties.
“Good memory,” he remarked quietly. “I flew all night to make this tour. Kinda last minute, but I got a call from the travel agency. There was a cancellation, so here I am.”
They began walking, following in the wake of their tour group. Meg liked his voice, a strong, deep baritone, but didn’t like the way her body was responding to his attentions. Still, they were the youngest people in this tour group. It was natural they’d gravitate toward each other. The abbey’s acoustics made her lower her voice, for fear the sound would carry to the other visitors.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” She indicated the expanse and quiet beauty of the abbey. Its Gothic heights were meant for music. Almost on cue, somewhere from the mid-chancel area, an organ began to play. “Oh my, that’s lovely.”
They stopped to listen.
“Beethoven’s Requiem,” Jake said. His face lifted to the same clerestory windows and shafts of light beams that had entranced her just a minute ago.
“Really? How do you know?”
“I like classical music—what little I know. This was played at my grandfather’s funeral. He loved Beethoven. He was born and raised in Germany.” Jake shot her a pointed look before indicating they should catch up to the group.
“Forgive me, but are you a model?”
The hunk shot her an embarrassed look. “No, investment banker. Although I admit, I modeled during college. Helped pay the bills. Don’t hold it against me. People think it’s such nothing work. Which I suppose it is.” He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “What about you? What do you do? And the old lady you’re with. She’s your grandmother, isn’t she? I thought I heard you say—”
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 4