A Bodyguard of Lies

by Donna Del Oro

  A quiet tap at her door propelled Mary to her feet. She flung the brush on the bed and hurried to the door. Before opening it, she smoothed the clingy, silk nightgown over her hips. A pulse pounded in her female center. Yes, she was ready for a night of pleasure for Horst knew how to please her. It had been so long—

  Horst/Thomas peeked his head in. His hair disheveled, wearing only a lawn shirt and suspendered trousers, he appeared nervous. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was shallow.

  “What on earth, liebling? Where have you been?” Mary seized his arm and tried to drag him into her room. He resisted and stood his ground at the threshold.

  “I can’t,” he whispered in English, “I must return to her. I’m clinching the deal, can’t you see? Sorry, but it’s the only way. She doesn’t know about us. To her, we’re just cousins. She can’t know, do you understand, Mary? For our own sakes and the future of the Fatherland, I must do this. But Lord, kissing her is like kissing a… She makes love like a…a spider, all legs and grasping arms. Damned disgusting—”

  He broke off when he registered Mary’s shocked reaction. With a brusque shove, Thomas thrust her back in the room. “Do not interfere, Mary, I’m warning you. We do what we must, you know that. In exactly one hour, you must go to that attic room and transmit. At 1:35, transmit in code. You know the frequency. Give me their message, first thing in the morning. And for God’s sake, don’t look so shocked or angry. You knew what our work was all about when you signed on.”

  The door closed firmly in her face. For one long, heartrending moment, she thought of running after him and begging him to find another way. To her horror, she even rushed to her boot and dug out the stiletto. Clutched in her hand, she gazed at it. The sharp, pointed metal glinted in the light thrown off by the wall sconces. She thought of burying the blade in his back. No, he was too strong. He’d turn around, seize it from her and stab her without a second thought. A trained assassin and spy would act first, think later.

  Her mind swamped with fear and horror, she gasped as something deep inside her cracked. Her heart—was she having an attack? Then her mind shut down. To stave off her unbearable emotional pain, Mary raked the sharp point across the back of her hand. She numbly stared at the cut as though in a trance. A thin line of red appeared on her flesh but she couldn’t feel a thing.

  Then, paradoxically, the wound began to sting. Seconds later, it burned like hell.

  Mary startled herself and began to weep. Christ, what was she doing? What happened to all that Abwehr training? She was a professional, not a silly sentimentalist. Thank God, Horst had control over his heart. He was right; he did what he had to do to assure Sarah’s cooperation and loyalty. He’d whored himself, just like she might have to do some day.

  Sacrifices. First, the Irish girl and all those people on the ferry. Now Horst had sacrificed their love for their mission and for the Fatherland.

  Her chest heaved with the loss. She remembered something else. He’d called her Mary. In his mind, she’d never again be Clare, and Horst, alias Thomas McCoy, would never again be her irresistible and heroic Wehrmacht soldier. Something had irretrievably broken between them. No longer her husband, he remained Thomas McCoy, fellow spy for the Third Reich.

  Their lies were complete.

  Chapter Eight

  Bath, England, Present day

  In their double room at the modern but stylish Bath Inn, Meg pulled on a black, spaghetti-strap cami, then topped it with a zip-up sweatshirt that matched her gray sweatpants.

  “Going out, Meghan?” her grandmother asked as her gnarled fingers fumbled with the buttons on her flannel pajama top.

  Meg slipped on her sneakers. “Yes, I am, Grandma. Going jogging with Jake.” With alacrity, she went over to help, fastening the buttons and assisting her grandmother into bed, much to the elderly woman’s weak protests.

  “I’m not a child, Meggie. I just have problems with…my buttons. And climbing stairs.”

  “And dressing, combing your hair…being nice to people. Getting old’s a bitch, Gran, I realize that and I sympathize. I really do. But it doesn’t take much to extend just a little common courtesy to Jake, does it?” Meg hoped she wasn’t sounding too harsh; her heartstrings tugged at grandmother’s growing helplessness. Which, of course, made the old woman even more irascible.

  She went over and turned the TV on, so Mary could fall asleep. A long habit of hers, her grandmother couldn’t relax her mind enough unless the TV’s light was flickering and there was ambient noise in the room.

  “The way you talked to him today, about his Jewish family—you sounded anti-Semitic, Grandma. That doesn’t make sense. Ruth Weisman is your best friend in Frisco. We went to her grandson’s Bar Mitzvah, for crying out loud. So why did you say those awful things to Jake today?”

  There was no reply from her grandmother. Finally, a crooked, arthritic hand jutted out from beneath the covers.

  “Turn down the telly, Meg, just a trifle. There, jolly good…Thank you.”

  Meg did just that, musing over her grandmother’s penchant for adopting the slang of the area, in this case British slang. Her grandmother had a chameleon’s talent, at least linguistically. She was a born mimic. In a short period of time, she could speak like the natives and adopt their slang and mannerisms. Grandpa Snider often said that his Irish bride took to Texas like a June bug on bluebonnets.

  Meg flicked off all the lights in the room except the one bedside lamp, which she turned low. After she swept her long hair into a high ponytail and fastened it with a large, wide barrette, she was ready. She pocketed her room key.

  “You like this boy, Meggie? This Jake Bernstein?”

  “Yes, I do. He’s nice to talk to…” she emitted a soft, low giggle, “…and look at. He’s gorgeous, for sure, but there’s something else, Gran. I can sense his…strength of mind, strength of character.”

  Mary Snider snorted disdainfully. “Strength of character, ha! You’re talking to your grandmother, not some ol’ senile fool. What you young people call eye-candy is all you sense. Well, you can have a sample, a taste, but it doesn’t mean you have to buy the whole box.”

  Meg sputtered with surprise and spun around.

  “C’mon, Grandma, I’m not so independent that I can’t be a little lonely.”

  “Look at the last good-looking man you went with. That Derek fellow. He was unworthy of you, Meggie—a real scoundrel.”

  “Oh Gran, let’s not talk about him. You’ll make me gag. Speaking of young men, you’ve talked about all the gorgeous men who chased after you during the war. Even the married ones in the War department. And the Royal Air Force pilots—”

  “Flyboys, they were called.”

  “Besides, Gran, Jake lives in Virginia. A thousand miles from where I live. How can I date a man who lives that far away?” Meg shrugged and frowned. Her grandmother nodded wisely and said nothing. “No, Gran, some people are meant to be just friends. “ She sighed volubly. “Did you have a favorite…before you met Grandpa Snider?”

  From what Meg had learned, Captain John Snider of the U.S. Army Air Corps had won her grandmother’s heart from the moment they’d met at a USO benefit for victims of the Blitz.

  “There was one Raffie, a Scotsman, who had bright red hair, made me laugh, made me forget my loneliness. He was a talker, couldn’t keep a secret if he tried. He used to tell me what cities they were going to bomb the next night. What places were off-limits. He was full of stories, too.”

  Meg frowned. “Did you have to report him, Grandma? Y’know, that wartime warning, ‘Loose lips sink ships’? Remember that poster in those underground war rooms? It showed a pretty blonde—’Keep mum; she’s not so dumb.’ So, Gran, what happened to him? Did they censure him or put him in prison for blabbing war secrets?”

  “In the brig? No, heavens, no. I never reported him. I had top security clearance. He knew he could trust me. Heavens, they all trusted me.”

  Meg noted the pride in her grandmot
her’s voice. Finally, some good memories were coming through.

  “What happened to him?” she repeated. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

  “Germans got him one night. During a bombing run over Berlin.” Her grandmother’s countenance was impassive, her tone of voice flat. “Germans found out the Raffies were flying over that night and got their big anti-aircraft guns ready. Lots of planes never came back that night.”

  The room grew quiet, then, as Meg stared at Mary’s still form. It was remarkable how her grandmother’s mind worked. She could recall details from the distant past—especially the war years in London—and yet forget to buy one of two items on her grocery list.

  “A lot of flyboys died,” Mary added matter-of-factly, “the death rate was, I think, sixty percent. Glad your grandfather survived. He saved my life. And gave me two children and a comfortable home. What more could I ask after what I…what I saw during the war?”

  Meg had heard the story before. How despondent Mary McCoy had grown toward the end of 1944, when it was apparent the war was winding down and the Allies were winning. She’d seen too many good people killed, too many beautiful cities destroyed, and, Meg suspected, was heartsick at having lost a few loved ones. How she was considering suicide—she’d been given a small caliber pistol for self-protection, considering her vital role for British Intelligence. How falling in love with Captain John Snider, leaving her work in London—and receiving a visa to emigrate—all of this changed her life. Gave her hope for a new future. A new start.

  “I’m glad, too, Gran. Grandpa was the best.”

  John Snider had died five years before on the operating table while undergoing his second cardiac bypass surgery. Meg felt her grandmother hadn’t been the same since. She’d become deflated and defeated. Highly distractable and forgetful.

  “Love and time can heal many wounds,” her grandmother said. “It’s a cliché but so true. Now I have just you, Meggie.”

  A wave of compassion coursed through Meg, and she went over to sit on her grandmother’s bed, giving her a tight hug. “Not true. Jack and I both love you. Uncle John loves you, too. My cousins. Everyone’s just so busy with his or her own life. You know how it is.”

  She kissed her grandmother’s forehead and settled the blankets under the woman’s chin and around her shoulders. It seemed their roles had reversed, Meg was now the nurturing mother and Mary the dependent child.

  In all truth, Meg could understand her grandmother’s feelings of neglect and loss. Meg’s half-brother, Jack—the product of her mother’s second marriage—was now clerking for a federal appellate court judge in San Francisco and called once a week, if that often.

  Her mother, four-times divorced, was now living with husband number five in Sedona, Arizona; they were both writers and “life coaches”—a joke, as far as Meg was concerned. Their life philosophy in one sentence: Do what pleases you, no matter who you hurt. A law student at the time, Fiona had abandoned two-year-old Meg, turning custody over to Mary and John Snider so she could pursue “her studies and men”—as Grandma would later describe it. Three years later, she did the same with Jack, so it was no surprise when the Sniders disinherited her and assumed full custody of their grandchildren, despite being in their fifties.

  Meg’s biological father, Kurt Larsen, had vanished from her life long ago, after he remarried. Jack frequently saw his father, a San Francisco businessman, and she was happy for her half-brother, that he had that connection.

  Overall, their fragmented, dysfunctional family came together for a day or so at Christmas, and even then, they were like uneasy, guarded strangers, sharing little but their genetic material. It was the reason Meg and her grandmother were so close and relied so much on each other, she supposed. Gran was her only close relative besides Jack, with whom she kept in phone contact.

  “You have me, Grandma,” Meg sighed, “You’re my real mother. You’ve always been there for me, you and Grandpa. Always encouraging me, never judging me. You’ve always been my number-one cheerleader. You don’t know what that has meant to me.”

  Mary stared back into Meg’s face a long moment, a wide smile creasing her wrinkled face. There was genuine love radiating from her countenance.

  “You’re the woman I could’ve been, Meggie. You’re good and strong. No matter what happens in your life, you must promise me you’ll stay that way. You won’t turn hard and mean…like me. Life can change people. The ugliness of war can change people.”

  Meg patted the woman’s shoulders. All this talk of war bummed her out.

  “Well, the war’s long over, Grandma. I know coming back has made you remember a lot of the bad things that happened. If they bother you that much, try to put it out of your mind. Just think about the good that’s happened to these countries in the past sixty years. The prosperity of England and Germany. All of Europe has flourished, hasn’t it? Enjoy the people, too, their courage and good humor.”

  A flicker of emotions passed over her grandmother’s face, most of which Meg couldn’t decipher. Had she said the wrong thing?

  “Meggie, you know your grandfather and I have done fairly well with our investments. When I go, it’s all going to you and Jack. And John Jr., and his two sons. But the house in Texas is yours. To do with as you like.”

  Meg shivered with dread. Even hinting at her grandmother’s possible death made her ill. No, she couldn’t bear to think about it. Hastily, she gave her grandmother another hug and stood up.

  “Gran, don’t even talk about stuff like that. It freaks me out. Eighty is the new seventy, they say. So you’ve got lots of time left.” Meg smiled brightly. “Now, there’s a very nice guy I’d like to spend some time with and get to know. So off I go.” She kissed Mary’s crepey, tissue-soft cheek. “Is there anything I can get you before I leave?”

  “Bring a glass of water, Meghan, and my bottle of Tylenol. On second thought, the bottle of sleeping pills. Just in case the pain keeps me awake. I need a good night’s sleep.”

  “Okay, but only one pill. You know what the doctor said.”

  Minutes later, after running down the hallway and catching the downward elevator—lift, in Brit-speak, Meg reminded herself—she met up with Jake in the lobby. His beaming smile made her almost dizzy with pleasure.

  It was seven, still light enough to squeeze in a couple of miles.

  “Granny all tucked in?” he teased.

  Meg grinned. “Listen, Jake, Grandma’s the one person in this world who loves me unconditionally. She raised me from the age of two. So mind your manners…and please, don’t mind her. No matter what she says, she doesn’t mean it. Not really.”

  She cast him a sideways glance to see if his face registered annoyance at her gentle scolding. It didn’t.

  “Okay, just for you, I’ll cut Granny some slack.” He opened the hotel door for her, followed her out.

  She smiled as she breezed past him and breathed in the dusk air, redolent with moisture and the scent of flowers. The city of Bath awaited them.

  ****

  Jake showered, and dried his hair with a hand towel, his body with a large bath towel. Then he sat down on his bed, wearing only a black T-shirt and black briefs. An amalgam of pleasurable feelings permeated his entire being as he recalled his conversation with Meg during their four-mile jog around the city. They’d stopped at a Roman ruin in the downtown area and marvelled at the ingenuity of Roman plumbing. Even in cold England, Roman engineers had found a way to keep the caldarium hot and the tepidarium warm.

  It was at the Roman ruin, as they were circling the upper floor and gazing down into the lower, excavated pool area, that the fine dark hair on the back of Jake’s neck stood up. With Meg at his side, gazing down into the huge, open-air bath, he played it cool. They walked around, murmuring to each other. Every few seconds or so, Jake canvassed the area, spotting a middle-aged couple in rubber galoshes. They certainly weren’t tourists, and once in a while, the man would hold the woman back as if he were reminding her not
to close in on their mark. Another man in a fedora appeared to be the spotter.

  By the time he and Meg stopped in the adjacent gift shop to check out the Roman coins, Jake was certain about the tail. They were an incompetent surveillance team; the couple had screwed up, appeared too tentative. Jake, of course, said nothing to Meg while he watched her buy a couple of coins for her brother and uncle. She said she wanted to remember the charm of old Bath, so she also bought a coin-medallion to wear on her gold chain.

  Jake liked the fact that Meg was a sentimental girl and wasn’t embarrassed to show her broad streak of kindness and good humor. The sophisticated, career-oriented D.C. women he’d dated were all trying so hard to be like men—cold and unfeeling. He didn’t know why, but it seemed to be a trend. And it put him off.

  It was easy to forget his assignment when he was with Meg. It was almost like he was two different men. One, an unattached banker attracted to a pretty woman who, without even seeming to try, was finding a way into his heart. The other, ruthlessly objective, was gathering information…albeit slowly so far…that might cause this pretty woman a great deal of pain.

  Not a pleasant quandary he found himself in.

  And someone was on his tail.

  Now back in his hotel room, alone, he huffed out a breath and made a call to Major Temple.

  A couple of clicks told him the call was being transferred and encrypted. He knew it was also being recorded in a secure room at MI5’s headquarters in Thames House. Temple’s clipped British speech announced him.

  “Major Temple, History section.”

  “Agent Bernstein here.” He didn’t feel like being very friendly tonight but he forced himself to keep his voice light. “So how’s the weather in London? Foggy and wet? It’s beautiful and clear here in Bath. Great town. Fun pubs, too.”

  He and Meg had stopped at one on the last leg of their jog and enjoyed two drafts in a quiet little corner.