“Why the urgency? And why did you bring Sarah tonight? Now I’ll have to make up to that donkey-faced tart.” He kept his voice low and a pasted-on, friendly smile, but his blue eyes drilled into her like ice picks. He was barely recognizable, having aged considerably over the past four years. His light-brown hair was gray at the temples and his face bore the lines of stress and grief. They both grieved. The war’s tide had turned in favor of the Allies. Unless the V-rockets were perfected, it appeared their Fatherland was doomed.
“She insisted on coming. Catherine, too. You have to meet this Catherine Collier for yourself. Every instinct tells me she’s SIS. She’s been unusually friendly, even with Sarah.”
“You and Sarah buried the wireless?”
“Yes, in the woods on her family’s country estate. No one saw us.”
“The diary?”
Mary sipped her weak martini and held up her purse. “It hasn’t left my sight these past three weeks. Perhaps I should’ve burned it but…Thomas…I think you should read it first. There’s stuff about her family that might be useful if that spoiled aristocrat should ever get an attack of conscience and try to rat us out. Know what I mean?”
Gravely, he nodded. For a second, she thought she detected a gleam of admiration in his eyes. But what did it matter? Neither one of them would get the Iron Cross, no matter what they did. For his part, Thomas held to his cover for his very life. Ever the provincial headmaster, he wore a Norfolk-style tweed jacket with deep pockets. Into one went Lady Sarah’s small but lethal diary. He buttoned the pocket closed, then looked at her square in the eye.
“News from home is bad, Clare, truly bad. The Allied bombings have devastated Berlin, Hamburg—”
“Hannover? Did my family get my warning? It was in my last transmission.”
Thomas glanced up as the same American flyboy walked past. She, too, watched the captain light up a cigarette and double back their way. The man was scouting her. She and Thomas made small talk about Ireland until the American walked past. Mary relaxed as the American officer continued on back to the dance hall and bar area.
“Hannover.” Thomas shook his head morosely, “The city is no more. Ninety percent flattened. Evacuations—”
She clutched his sleeve, her heart in her mouth. “My family? Did they get out in time?”
“Far as I know, yes. Most everyone fled to the countryside. Your warnings helped to save many lives. You should be proud, Clare.”
For the first time in years, Mary teared up. “Oh, thank God. I was so afraid…”
“God? Clare, God’s no longer in Deutschland. My father…” Thomas swallowed and looked away. It took a moment for him to compose himself, a long moment which disturbed Mary. She didn’t think he had any human feelings left.
“I heard, yes. The news came in one of the dispatches I translated. It was shocking to see his name among those arrested and…I’m sorry, Horst. So terribly sorry.” Hitler had called Count Eberhard a traitor and had him executed by a firing squad.
Thomas cleared his throat and was all business again. “They recalled me. Evidently, I’m more use to them now on the front. They need someone to infiltrate a British regiment that’s moving across France. A major counter-offensive on the eastern line is building.”
“How will you return?”
“Sorry, can’t say.” He gave her a dry, ironic smile and for a second, it seemed as though the old Horst was back. The humor vanished in the next second. “We’ll meet again…just like that song they’re playing. Listen.” He stared in the direction of the dance floor. Mary gazed, too, at the couples swaying to the stirring strains of the male singer’s voice drifting out of the hall. “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again one sunny day…”
Her heart tripped over itself. With both hands, she seized the lapels of his jacket. She hated to beg but—
“Take me with you. I want to see my family. I need to see them. I need to see they’re safe. Please, Horst, take me with you.”
He smiled down at her and wrapped the blonde curls at her temple around one finger.
“Not possible, Schatzi. Besides, you can’t go home, Clare, not for several years. If the Allies win, they’ll occupy the Fatherland for who-knows-how-long.” He bent over more closely until she could whiff his cologne. He whispered, “They’ll hunt us down like dogs. People like you and me, we’ll be hanged or face firing squads. Already, there’s talk that some of the SS leadership is getting out. Fleeing Europe like rats off a sinking ship, going wherever there are no extradition treaties with Britain and America. Your best bet, Miss Mary McCoy, is to find yourself a rich American and leave Britain. Leave Europe behind, it’s a wasteland.” He looked up and scanned the place. “You’ve got a hall full of lusty Americans. You’re easily the prettiest girl here. Leave, start a new life, forget this damned war ever happened.”
Horst was serious. Deadly serious.
Business concluded, he straightened up. “Now, take me over to your friends and Donkey-face. She expects me to show up and I need to meet this threat, this Catherine Collier.”
With his words weighing heavily on her mind, she carried her drink and led their way through the crowd back to her table. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she hastily wiped them away as she sniffed and cleared her throat.
Mary introduced her “cousin Thomas” from Ireland. While he took his seat next to an excited Sarah, fawning over her and kissing her in greeting, Mary smoked a cigarette and finished off her martini. Several men asked her to dance, but she turned them all down. On the surface, her expression was pleasant even though her thoughts dwelled on Horst’s words. When the war was over, the occupying Allied forces—or the vile Russians—would hang every Nazi spy they could find. That was the reality of her new situation.
She studied the olive in her martini, and dispassionately examined her choices. In the next minute, she dispatched another two hopeful men in uniform. One of them turned to Catherine instead and asked her to dance. The woman accepted and joined the multitude on the dance floor. Good riddance.
Mary was in no mood to dance.
Until the same tall American with the broad shoulders appeared before her. His hair was dark blond and he carried his captain’s cap under his arm. He was as handsome as a Greek god, straight and sure of himself, an able substitute for the once dashing German officer she’d fallen madly in love with so many lifetimes ago.
“Please don’t break my heart, ma’am, and turn me down, like all those other guys.”
His accent was strange. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“The United States of America.” He displayed a cocky grin. That nudged a smile from her.
“I mean, which state? You have an accent.”
“We call it a drawl, ma’am. I’m proud to say I hail from the great state of Texas. And you’re from?” He confidently held out his hand, which she took as she stood up. She glanced over at “cousin Thomas”, who was watching them intently, then turned back to fix her most seductive smile on the handsome American officer. Good riddance to you, too, Horst.
“The Irish Republic, by way of the British Isles. You’re the first officer from Texas that I’ve met, Mister…”
“Name’s John Snider, ma’am. Captain John Snider. And I aim to do my state and country proud. Shall we?”
He swept her into his arms and away to the middle of the dance floor.
“Well, Captain Snider, I’m certain you’ll do just fine.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
2005
Meg excused herself, claiming a trip to the ladies’ room was necessary, and left the breakfast table. Her grandmother and the Le Blancs were speaking rapid German but her throbbing headache from a sleepless night was preventing her from absorbing much of what they were saying. Something about photo shoots in Berlin and Hannover. The Le Blancs were suggesting they leave from Dublin but take a detour by way of Germany. Her grandmother had told them Meg wante
d to fly them out immediately.
The Le Blancs were now showing a different face to Meg. They were clearly upset that Meg was planning to fly home as soon as they reached Dublin. Something wasn’t right. Meg wondered if it had anything to do with the Blood and Honour brochure she’d spied in her grandmother’s book.
Moments later, she spotted Jake taking his place in the line at the hostess’ podium at the entrance to the dining room. She had to pass the line on her way to the restroom, and when she did, she called Jake over to a wall where they couldn’t be seen from her grandmother’s table.
Jake limped over to her, favoring his wounded leg. All warm smiles and hungry eyes, he looked handsome and a little more rested in his Navy sweats, over which he wore a khaki-colored windbreaker. The windbreaker looked rather loose about the shoulders but it was snug around the waist where it was partly zipped up. He’d shaved and washed his hair, which gleamed with auburn highlights. Recalling how she’d touched him during the night as she snuggled against his body, she didn’t dare let her eyes rove down to his hips and crotch.
“Thanks for staying last night,” he said in a low husky voice, “and calling the doctor. I was so out of it.”
“You were, totally. You didn’t even wake up when he stitched you and gave you a penicillin shot. I had the night manager call a local doctor. He’d already heard about the bikers and how they attacked us. I guess word gets around fast in a town this size.”
“Thanks, Meg. I didn’t realize last night how much I needed stitching up. I appreciate most of all, the warm body all night. And your concern.” He then clasped her upper arm and stroked it with his thumb. With hooded eyes, he looked like he wanted to devour her. “Aw, Meg…”
“How does it feel? Your leg, I mean?”
He grinned. “Healing. The other, uh, appendage needs some TLC.”
Meg smiled. “Uh-huh, give yourself a chance to heal, big boy.” She socked one of his bulging biceps. Flirting with this irrepressible man was becoming a habit.
“You’re the only healing I need,” he added.
When he grinned that certain way—like a little boy sharing a naughty secret—her heart somersaulted. A rush of warmth enveloped her, rippled through her body.
“Look,” he pulled out of his jacket pocket a card, “my cell number’s on it. It’s a four-band international phone. Call me wherever you go. I want—I need to hear from you. That everything’s okay…after you and your grandmother…uh, leave.”
She frowned, remembering why she’d approached him. Meg took the card and stuffed it inside her bra. His eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts and the cleavage showing above her v-neck sweater. He noticed.
“Okay. I’ll call after we’re home. I want you to be able to claim—what do they call it, plausible deniability?”
“Something like that.” His other hand came up to caress her other arm. “Meg, I don’t want it to end here.”
“From what you’ve told me, it won’t. Not with Grandma. They’ll still come after her.”
“No, I mean with you and me. Right now, your grandmother’s fate is out of my hands. You and me, there’s still a chance.”
Her gaze clung to his, unwavering. How could she let this man disappear from her life? His every feature, look and nuance of voice, even his particular woodsy cologne, were emblazoned upon her heart and mind.
Yet, how could she love the man who was helping to destroy her beloved grandmother?
She closed off those tumultuous, warring thoughts and tugged a folded document out of her jeans pocket. There were three sheets of paper, all folded the same way.
“Here, before I forget, this is the Quit Claim Deed for the pub and a written statement relinquishing ownership of that bank account. Grandma signed both this morning. They were notarized by the hotel manager. It’s all legal. Can you make sure Young Mike gets it?”
Jake accepted it, bug-eyed, open-mouthed. “Sure, I can. Meg, how on earth did you get your grandmother to sign this?”
After meeting Mike Junior in his pub last night and speaking to his more rational, normal self, Meg understood the man’s dilemma. Caught in a legal limbo, as Jake described it, would be maddening enough. On top of the man’s other problems, it seemed cruel not to help him. When the man gave her the Quit Claim Deed and the bank account information, all filled out except for her grandmother’s signature, what could she do but accept it and promise to get it signed?
“Grandma’s not a monster, Jake,” she said defensively, “and neither am I. I gave her a short, simple version of the man’s problem. She didn’t want the pub or the money, and so signed off her half of both. Gave them free and clear to the man.”
“To the man who’s the rightful heir, Meg,” Jake reminded gently. “It’s good of you to do this. You’re a real mensch, Meg Larsen.”
“What’s that? Mensch?” she asked, ignoring the implication of his first remark. He bent over her and bussed her cheek. A harmless display of affection in public. She warmed from it. For the hundredth time, she wished circumstances were different for them. As it was, the barrier between them was insurmountable.
“It’s yiddish, means a good, righteous person. Which you are.”
Her eyes filled with moisture. Her face and neck heated at his approving words. She felt the flush creep up to the crown of her head. However, when his face hovered again, she backed off a step. There was something she had to tell him.
“Jake, the Le Blancs have been speaking to Grandma in German all morning. German, not French. They’ve been talking about photographing her in Berlin and Hannover. I’m not sure why they want to do this, but it has something to do with their business. Or some organization they belong to.”
He straightened, looking puzzled. “Berlin and Hannover? When?”
“I don’t know. Maybe when we get to Dublin. I think they’re very upset. Grandma spilled the beans and told them we were leaving as soon as we arrive in Dublin. I think it has something to do with this political organization they’re pushing on Grandma. I don’t know anything more but I thought you should know what they’re talking about.”
His expression turned stern, scaring her. He bent close to her and lowered his voice. There was strident urgency in his tone.
“Meg, you can’t be a party to this. Here’s a warning. Take it seriously, Meg. As soon as we arrive tonight in Dublin, you take her to the airport. Fly home. If there isn’t a flight out tonight to the U.S., then fly somewhere in-between. Madrid, Lisbon, Reyjavik, Iceland, for God’s sake, if you have to. Get her home as fast as you can. Get her away from MI5. And the Le Blancs.”
The hair on her back bristled with fear. Jake paused, clearly troubled. She knew he was about to reveal something he wasn’t supposed to.
“MI5’s coming tomorrow morning to arrest her. As soon as they get their warrants from the Irish ministry. Do you know what that means? They’ll take her into custody. You, too. Take you both back to London. They’ll use you to get your grandmother to confess.”
Meg gasped, jerking back her head. The image of her sick grandmother—and herself—in a jail cell. No, it was too horrible to consider. She shut it off.
Jake’s eyes crinkled, his expression a study of grim sincerity. She had no reason to doubt the veracity of his warning. As if to cover her extreme reaction of alarm, Jake lowered his head again and kissed her on the mouth. As if he were a Lothario pestering a girl he’d set his sights on. Several tourists in line, two Italian couples, made gestures and noises of encouragement.
“Che benissimo!”
“Encorra!”
More distressed than embarassed, Meg wrenched back out of Jake’s hands. Turned and walked briskly away.
Oh, God!
She didn’t look back. Once inside the bathroom stall, she buried her face in her hands. Her stomach roiled with fear, her chest smarted with shooting stabs of anxiety. Tears of despair blinded her, but she couldn’t weep. No time to fall apart, she scolded herself. Her grandmother was tough. Sh
e’d be tough, too.
But they’re arresting us! MI5. The British government. Even the FBI.
They’re all against us!
It’s all Jake’s fault!
To gain control, she breathed deeply, in and out of her mouth, and counted to ten until her inner core had calmed enough for her to think. Her thoughts flew out in spurts. Okay. Dublin. Tonight. Sneak out of the hotel. Without MI5 seeing us. Without the Le Blancs seeing us. How? I’ll find a way. Yes. I can do it. I’ll think of a way.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Ring of Kerry. A cold, foggy day. It fit her mood.
On the motor coach, people huddled in their jackets and coats despite the heater having been turned on. It wasn’t working well and the coach was like a fridge. Meg wore a black beret over her long hair. It kept her head warm and the wool scarf around her neck helped, too. As long as she was warm, she could keep the panic, lying just below the surface of her mind, from returning and obliterating her reason.
Jake was sitting toward the front while she sat with her grandmother in the back. Every once in a while, he’d turn his head toward the aisle. As though he wanted to look back. As though he were signaling her that he was worried and thinking of her.
Silly of her, Meg realized. FBI Special Agent Jacob Bernstein was concluding his case and about to move on. She’d probably never hear from him again.
Nor did she want to—the bastard!
He was chatting with Hank, the big Canadian who was sitting across the aisle. From all appearances, Jake’s mood matched hers. Despite Hank’s jokes, he barely smiled.
Meg looked away. The gloom outside their coach would be the last memory she’d have of Ireland. How foolish she’d been! She’d thought this tour was going to fill her grandmother with fond, childhood memories of her Irish homeland! Instead, it’d become a trap.
In spite of everything, she knew deep down that Jake cared what happened to her and her grandmother. Why else would he have risked his very job to warn her to leave tonight?
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 27