A Bodyguard of Lies

by Donna Del Oro

  Grandpa Nate would say he was a little smitten. Smitten over the kitten.

  Jake called it lust at first sight.

  The acoustics in the dining room were bad, unmitigated by the darkwood panelled walls, the hobnail floor and the heavy drapery. The place was noisy, and the food, very English-pubby. Bangers and mash with a side of mushed peas and onions. Okay, if you’d been camping in the wild for weeks. Not okay, if you normally lived within five miles of some of America’s best restaurants. He was damned glad he wasn’t eating on his own dime.

  Guiness on draft—two pints’ worth—gave him a mild buzz and brought down the raucous noise to a dull roar in his ears. Meg drank a small glass of light beer, as did her grandmother, who ate very little. The topic at their table—their upcoming afternoon tour of Knightsbridge, Harrod’s and Hyde Park—preoccupied Hank, the Canadian, and the two sisters, Judy and Jeannie. The tours were all glimpses of popular sites, just enough to whet your appetite for more. Enough to make your head spin.

  Jake kept wondering how he was going to get the ol’ lady to speak German.

  “Tell me about your grandfather.” Meg coaxed him during a lull in the conversation. “He sounds like he’s led an interesting life.”

  Good, just the opening I need. And a first. A beautiful young woman wanting to know about Grandpa Nate. The old guy’d be tickled.

  He chose his words carefully, glancing back and forth between Meg and the old woman beside her.

  “As I said, he was German-born. He was working in the film industry in Berlin when the Nazis came to power. He’d won several awards for film editing. Well, by 1934, he and all other Jews were banned from that and other industries. Laws passed which took away the German Jews’ citizenship and other civil rights. Less competition in the job market, you see, and those were depression times. Few Germans protested. As the Reichstag’s laws became more and more oppressive and exclusive, my grandfather began planning to emigrate. When he got help from some of his former colleagues—who’d left and found jobs in Hollywood—he left Germany with his wife and young son…my father. He begged his parents, his two brothers and two sisters, their spouses and children, to join him.”

  “What happened?” Meg put down her glass of beer. She leaned closer to him, enough so that he could get a whiff of her perfume. Her hair cascaded over one shoulder in golden waves.

  “His family wouldn’t leave. They had businesses, properties, bank accounts—”

  “Fools, all of them.” Mary Snider cut in harshly, “One should never get too attached to things in this world.”

  “Grandma! Please.” Meg’s face blanched at the older woman’s callous tone of voice.

  “She’s right, Meg. Mrs. Snider, you’re so right. Ultimately, Grandpa Nate’s family lost everything…and were slaughtered like cattle four or five years later. All their things did them no good. If they’d come to America, they would’ve done well.”

  Meg grew quiet, as did the rest of the table, but her eyes teared up. She looked away while Mary Snider took a swig from her glass and sneered.

  “They all should’ve left. Stupid to stay where they weren’t wanted.”

  Meg’s head whipped around. She gawked at her grandmother, her lovely mouth dropping open. Shock and shame froze and tightened her features. Jake covered her hand with his in commiseration; as if to say, it didn’t matter. He’d heard worse from jihadist groups tracked by the FBI. Yet, he never let an argument on this topic slide by.

  “1934 to 1945. Six to eight million Jews in all of Europe. Where do you suggest they should’ve gone, Mrs. Snider?” Jake asked mildly. “Even the U.S. couldn’t absorb those numbers. There was no Israel then. Some got away. Emigrated elsewhere. The rest were targeted for Vernichtung”—annihilation—“and they didn’t even know it. Couldn’t believe their countrymen would murder them.”

  The elder woman retreated with a smug grin and a heavy shrug of both shoulders, as he envisioned most Germans had dealt with “the Jewish problem.” With a careless shrug and a willingness to close one’s eyes. It made Jake want to slap her silly with one of her uneaten bangers.

  “Well, sorry, didn’t mean to lecture on European history.” Jake dropped the topic and spent the remainder of his meal chatting about British food and beer. Meg said nothing for a long time. Finally, as lunch was concluding, she grabbed his arm as he stood to stretch.

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” she whispered, her warm breath fanning his neck, making his cheeks flush from her close contact. “My grandmother—she hasn’t been herself lately. No excuse, I know, but I think this trip’s been very difficult on her.”

  Jake bent his head, fighting the urge to brush his fingers over Meg’s lovely face. Her full, rose-colored lips, freshened with lipstick, almost seemed to beckon him. Her dark-blue eyes seemed to focus on his mouth, too. They both froze in this tableau of mutual attraction. Just briefly.

  His beer-buzz had lowered his inhibitions, a dangerous dropping of the shield in undercover work. He’d been there before so he knew how to handle it, knew how far he could let the pretense slip. Being his natural self made him all the more believable when it came time to dissemble.

  He smiled. “Was coming here—to England and Ireland—her idea or yours?”

  “Actually, mine…but then she got excited about it. So I thought. This motor coach tour sounded like the easiest way of seeing everything. Especially Ireland, her birthplace.”

  Their hands touched as they stood together. A ripple of lust surged through him, his libido raging out of its cage. He had an impulse to grab her, gather her in his arms and crush those rosy lips of hers.

  “Meg, do you like to jog?”

  “Yes, I do five miles a day when I’m coaching the cross-country team.” Her slow, hopeful smile sent his blood racing. “What do you have in mind?”

  Seizing the excuse to help her on with her jacket, Jake let his hands rest on her shoulders. Just a light, harmless caress.

  Yeah, they belonged there. All over her.

  “When we get to the hotel tonight, somewhere in Bath, I think, let’s go out and get some exercise. Just you and me. Game?”

  “Sure, sounds fun,” she said softly, her gaze resting a moment on his chest and shoulders, then moving up to lock with his own.

  A definite connection there, Jake confirmed, much to his pleasure. Their chemistry was undeniable. Meg Larsen liked what she saw and wanted to pursue whatever he had to offer. Despite the bigoted old lady and all that stood between them, Meg was telegraphing her message: I’m available.

  Still, there was a hesitancy about her. Like she was afraid to trust him. A pang of guilt shot through him. She wouldn’t be far wrong on that score. She shouldn’t trust him. He might end up having to destroy her grandmother. Maybe her whole family.

  An instant later, Meg was helping the old woman to her feet.

  “C’mon, Grandma, back to the coach. No more walking today, I promise. You can take it easy and sleep on our way to Bath.”

  “Thank God,” grumbled a surly Mary Snider. The old lady let slip a tentative smile directed at her table companions. Her eyes, half hidden by wrinkles and sagging skin, fell upon Jake and then flared in wariness. Her smile faltered for a second, then rallied. Perhaps she’d already forgotten that her words had offended him. Short-term memory loss?

  Mary Snider’s dark blue eyes glittered back at him like cold lapis lazuli stones. A detail from the dossier sprang to mind: Mary McCoy, the pretty Irish lass from Killarney, was noted for her unusual but vibrant turquoise-blue eyes. Nothing about the color of those eyes he now scrutinized came close to turquoise.

  Jake let the women pass in front of him. Now there was one female who remained a total mystery. Who was this old woman? Somehow, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the possibility that this crochety but harmless old lady was a murderous Nazi spy. A woman like Meg couldn’t share the same genes as a murderer.

  Not possible.

  If she wasn’t, then who were “Humming
bird” and “Black Widow”? And if she wasn’t, why were his nerve endings crackling and sparking signals?

  After all this time, would they ever find out?

  In all truth, did he even care?

  Chapter Seven

  London, 1941

  March of 1941 brought to London more frost and occasional snow flurries. Mary, bundled up in her wool coat, scarf, and fur cloche, carried a leather satchel filled with a change of undies, a sweater and an evening dress with shoes to match. Underneath her coat she wore the now trendy trousers and fashionably snug sweater, a smart but casual ensemble. Nosy Mrs. Watson waylaid her as she finished her cup of tea in the dining room.

  “Good afternoon, Mary. Going away for the weekend, dearie?” The landlady practically stood in the doorway, blocking Mary’s hoped-for quick exit.

  Mary had the urge to break the old biddy’s nose. For a split second, her thoughts flashed to the stiletto taped to the inside of her boot. One day she’d love to whip it out and plunge it through the woman’s ribs up to her heart. Just as quickly, she censored her thought. Flaring open her eyes, feigning innocent surprise, Mary smiled.

  “Oh, hello, I didn’t hear you come downstairs. And yes, I’m going away for the weekend. A friend from work, Lady Sarah Spencer, has invited me as her guest.”

  Looking thunderstruck, her hand fluttering to her gaping mouth, the woman backed away and let Mary pass. “My dear, such an honor and privilege.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I shall return late Sunday evening, Mrs. Watson.” Mary paused on the threshold of the front door. “My room, by the by, is locked. Please don’t enter and bother to clean it. I shall clean up next week. Well, toute a l’heure.” With a wave of gloved fingers, Mary shut the door.

  Nosy old bitch, Mary thought darkly, getting into the black cab waiting for her at the curb. She’d wager the woman wouldn’t wait five minutes before going in and ransacking Mary’s room. At the request of SIS, no doubt, doing their usual monthly surveillance on War Department employees. And so typical of the English. An honor and privilege. What bloody wankers! They couldn’t scrape low enough for their nobility.

  “St. James Park,” she told the cabbie before settling back for the ride. One reason why she couldn’t hide the wireless radio transceiver that Horst brought all the way on the train from Wales—crazy man, taking such a dire risk! One of his couriers in Cardiff had smuggled it to him, so that he could bring it to her in London.

  “Just there,” she said, indicating a taxi stop along the eastern side of the park. She glanced at her watch. “Wait, I’m expecting my cousin.”

  Their rendezvous time was precise; a half minute later, Horst opened the rear passenger door, ducked in his head, and said to the cabbie, “Put my bag in the boot, will you. Be careful. I’ve brought a load of books for my cousin and her friends.” As the man did so, Horst leaned over and pulled her into an embrace. Her breath caught in her chest and she gave herself over to his scent, his crushing arms, his warm cheek—What, facial hair?

  “Liebling…”

  He shushed her with a hard hug, then a whispered warning to resume cover and keep to English.

  “Did you have a difficult journey, Thomas?”

  “Not at all, Mary dear. We’ll talk more later,” he added as her look of surprise absorbed his total change of appearance. No longer wearing the long, straggly blond hair and work clothes of a longshoreman, he’d donned stylish tweeds and a fedora, and sported a brown mustache and trimmed Van Dyke beard. Even the cadence of his English was different—no longer working class English with an Irish lilt, but educated Oxford.

  His light brown eyebrows ruffled with amusement. “What? You don’t fancy my new outfit? I’d rather thought you’d be suitably impressed. Haven’t you heard? I’ve been promoted.”

  Going along with his more cultivated English and new cover, Mary laughed. “To what, pray tell? An Oxford don?”

  “Close, my dear. Headmaster of St. Ignatius Academy for Boys,” Horst said with a hint of sarcasm, then shot her a warning look as the cabbie slid into his seat.

  “Where to, sir? Miss?”

  Thomas/Horst threw Mary a questioning glance. She knew he was wondering whether she’d been successful or not in finding a place for what was hidden inside his large suitcase. She placed her hand on his and smiled.

  “Take us to Spencer House in Mayfair.”

  Her cousin Thomas nodded his appreciation. As weekend guests of unmarried Lady Sarah, whose friendship Mary had assiduously courted over the past six months, they would have access to a safe storage room for the wireless radio. Indeed, for the duration of the war Mary would be required to make weekly transmissions to Abwehr headquarters in Hamburg. The rooming house was out of the question, and studio apartments were almost impossible to lease. The war had spurred a work boom and people were flocking to London for jobs, making real estate a rare commodity.

  Anyway, if caught, it would be Sarah’s neck on the line, not Mary’s. As briefed, the homely daughter and only child of the country-loving Viscount Spencer was a lonely spinster, somewhat of a social outcast in her family. The viscount and his second wife, Sarah’s stepmother, had decided to endure the war from the safe distance of their Derbyshire estate. Their London townhouse was now Sarah’s abode, and that of five servants.

  Convenient for Mary and her Irish cousin.

  The German cousins with whom Sarah had played during her summer visits had, in her view, shown her more affection and acceptance than her own English family, especially since her mother had died and her father had remarried. Additionally, they’d shared with her the economic deprivations caused by the Versailles Treaty at the conclusion of the Great War. Sarah’s bleeding heart for her German cousins’ suffering had prompted her to become an avid sympathizer of the National Socialist Workers’ Party.

  However, Mary and Thomas would not be naïve in assuming the woman was a loyal convert. If tempted to squeal one day, it’d be Mary’s job to silence her…forever. That was the second reason which brought Thomas to London. To make certain Lady Sarah was completely devoted to the Third Reich and could be trusted to keep the wireless hidden and Mary’s and Thomas’s roles a secret. How her dear Irish cousin, Thomas McCoy, was going to manage that feat, Mary had no idea.

  They were let off a few minutes later. Thomas, his sturdy, reinforced suitcase in hand, stopped Mary at the wrought-iron gate. He glanced around the groomed park and clean roadway before lowering his voice.

  “Any word about Cousin Clarence and his meeting with Billy?”

  Mary shook her head. “No, everything is hush-hush. There’s speculation, of course. The rumors are flying around—somewhere in the Baltic, the Black Sea, even Iceland. You name it. They say Stalin will also be there. Three enemies we now have, not two. America’s war machine is gearing up, thanks to those Japs, but it may take a while. We don’t have much time.”

  “It’s vital you find out. The Department wants us to infiltrate the support staff, if possible. We need you to be there, with Churchill’s clerical staff. We must know what they’re planning. Can you arrange that?”

  She was doubtful but was afraid to tell him the truth. “I’ll try.” She had clearance for overseas communiqués but not for Churchill’s inner circle.

  “Do what you can. Later tonight, I’ll distract her Ladyship while you make contact. We’ll hide the transceiver in the attic first.”

  She steadied her gaze on Thomas. “How do you intend to ensure Sarah’s silence? She’s an odd duck, that one. I cannot figure her out.”

  His only reply was a sly grin.

  Twelve hours later, Mary learned just how. After a long stroll around the two-acre grounds of the viscount’s London estate in tony Mayfair, followed by a sumptuous supper served by the footman and butler, the threesome had retired to the drawing room. Sarah’s entertainment for the evening: a laughably amateurish piano recital, courtesy of poor, deluded Sarah. Her straight black hair, drawn back from her broad forehead into a severe
French twist—which hadn’t been in vogue since the twenties—Lady Sarah sat there on the piano bench, looking like a grief-stricken widow in her black wool dress.

  She was pear-shaped and the dress clung to her bulk in all the wrong places. She’d even worn a ghastly jeweled spider pin on the lapel of her dress. The poor girl had absolutely no sense of style and dressed as though she were fifty instead of twenty-five. Perhaps, Mary mused, she’d have to take Sarah shopping and advise her on how to groom herself. Her stepmother obviously hadn’t bothered. How tedious, but such a kindness would further cement the illusion—for the benefit of anyone watching them—of their growing friendship. Then the servants wouldn’t consider it odd for Mary to be a houseguest several times a month.

  After the excruciating recital, Thomas had disappeared with Lady Sarah for an intimate chat and a stroll in the garden. Mary had passed the time reading a bawdy French novel, meanwhile waiting for her husband to sneak to her room. He’d maintained his cover as Mary’s Irish cousin—a headmaster at an Irish Catholic boys’ school, for the sake of Lady Sarah’s upper class sensibilities. Because servants were constantly scurrying about during supper, the three young Nazis had taken care not to discuss politics or the war.

  It was now past midnight. Mary left the drawing room and went to her bedroom on the second floor. Sitting on her plush bed in the guest wing of the mansion, she frowned as she idly brushed her long blonde locks. It was apparent that Lady Sarah was smitten with the charming, glib Thomas, whereas Mary was certain he regarded the woman with repugnance.

  Before supper, they’d hidden the wireless in an attic alcove right above Sarah’s sitting room. Little more than a storage closet, this had once been a child’s secret playroom for the lonely little girl. Sarah had suggested the place herself. The servants, newly hired, knew nothing about the secret room.