“Thank you, Everett,” she said. “Coming from you, that means something.”
“You’re welcome.”
She paused and took a deep breath. “So, now that you know my situation, what do you think of my chances of succeeding?”
He chose his words carefully. “Getting your son and your money back should be possible,” he began, not wanting to overcommit, which would be too easy, and unhelpful. “But putting your husband in prison may be harder, given the context of war. Even British law won’t necessarily favor a wife whose husband took their money and child on a vacation that was sadly interrupted by the outbreak of fighting—which is how your husband could frame things.”
She took another deep breath before replying. “You may be right. But I swear to you that won’t stop me from trying to see justice carried out.”
He reached over and took her hands in his. “I’m going to help you get your son, your money, and your husband,” he said firmly, surprising her and himself with the strength of his conviction. “If you’re open to my being involved, we can do this together.”
“Oh, Everett, please. You don’t have time for this! You need to stay focused on ending this war so my son can have a future. As much as I appreciate—”
“Emma, stop,” he said, putting his finger gently to her lips. “Your travel to Berlin has already been arranged.”
“What?” she said, her eyes widening.
“The two of us are scheduled to leave in a week, on the night of September 27th. Lady Baillie has taken care of the logistics. And, yes, of course I have other matters that will require my attention, but some of our early undertakings might overlap, and if you’re up to it you may even be able to help me on a couple of fronts.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she said, managing a small smile through the tears that had begun to trickle down her cheeks.
“Well, you should believe me, and know this: we can’t undo our knotted pasts, but we can tie ourselves to the future we want.”
“Who said that?” she asked.
He looked behind him and then around the cloistered room. “I’m quite sure I did,” he said, smiling. She laughed.
As his words sank in, she could no longer hold back. She grabbed some money from her pocket to pay, flung it on the table, and reached for his hand, pulling him through the door. For several minutes, he held her outside the teahouse as she shuddered with silent sobs. She cried for her son and for her parents, and for the relief that comes from letting go of a long-held secret.
With the sky darkening above them, Nash and Emma mounted their bicycles and started back toward Leeds Castle.
Her hair flying free in the wind, she let her mind cycle as furiously as her feet. Beside her was the man who could right all the wrongs in her life. So why was a voice in her head warning her to be on her guard? Why did he help Hitler? Why does he need me in Germany? What if he’s planning to save—not stop—the führer? Are Suggs and Moore truly the baddies here? No matter how much she cared for Everett Nash, he might just be the world’s greatest manipulator. Worse than her husband? Unlikely, but she couldn’t risk finding out.
Nash pushed himself to keep up with Emma’s speeding bicycle.
He was exhausted from his first outing, though he wouldn’t dare tell his nurse that.
Emma maintained her pace, knowing that she still had a long evening ahead and that she could not be late returning to the castle. She was scheduled to work the night shift.
Chapter 16
Wednesday, September 20, 1944
1:15 a.m.
Emma raced down the spiral stairs to the castle’s operating theater.
She entered the musty old wine cellar, slipped on her green operating garb, and made for the double doors, beyond which she could see Nurse Fraser, Dr. Lowe, and an ambulance driver transferring an unconscious patient from the gurney to the operating table.
As she pushed through the doors, the familiar smell of blood washed over her, and the tall uniformed driver, still wearing his hat, moved aside. He peered through his thick black-rimmed glasses at Emma and, in a Cockney accent, finished briefing Lowe about the patient whose head and face were completely wrapped in blood-soaked gauze. Fraser thanked the driver and indicated that if he wanted to wait he could do so outside the doors. The driver hesitated, then hurried from the cold room.
Fraser instructed Emma to begin unwrapping the bandages so that they could see the full extent of the man’s injuries. The victim had apparently lost control of his car and hit a tree, his face going through the windshield.
As Emma peeled the bandages off her new patient—a short, balding man in his mid to late thirties—she glanced up to see the driver peering through the glass in the door. There was something about him that bothered her, but she was too focused on her task to think what it was. She looked back down at her work, gently lifting the patient’s head while unraveling the bandage. Large parts of the man’s pudgy face and pallid skin were now exposed. One of his teeth had been knocked out.
“That’s odd. I don’t see any cuts yet,” Fraser said, looking over Emma’s shoulder.
“No, just a lot of blood. There must be one or two very deep gashes under here.”
While Lowe and Fraser checked the patient’s vitals and prepared for extensive sutures, Emma kept working. As she leaned over and pulled off the last strip of red gauze, the eyes below her, now just inches from her own, popped open. She jumped. A smirk broke across the small man’s face as he stared up at her.
“This blood belongs to an unlucky kitty we gutted earlier today in Brydon Hamlet,” Fred Suggs said proudly. “Sorry to confuse your pretty little face, Nurse Doyle, but it got us past the guardhouse, and we had a little fun doing it.”
He held up a revolver he’d been clutching under the mound of blankets around him. The room’s doors swung open. Moore walked in, his own revolver drawn as well, the glasses and the driver’s cap thrown off, his hair disheveled, his eyes darting back and forth.
“This is an operating room,” Dr. Lowe said firmly. “Put your guns away and leave.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what we intend to do—leave,” Moore said, the Cockney accent dispensed with as he leveled his gun at the doctor. “And, if you don’t mind, we’ll have Nurse Doyle accompany us.”
“What the devil could you possibly want from her?” Fraser demanded of the two men. Emma shuddered, anticipating their answer.
“She had to be so clever during our first visit,” Moore said. “We’ve simply come back to retrieve the asset she hid from us.”
“And just what was that?” Fraser asked.
“Not what, who. Everett Nash—also known as Brian Hargrove. The traitor has apparently convinced you that he’s one of you. Well, he’s not.”
“Who do you think he is, then?” Emma spat.
“Mr. Nash works for Hitler,” Moore said. “Believe me, Nurse Doyle, once we leave with Nash, England will be a safer place, and so will this castle. Because, frankly, with my friend Suggs on the premises, this hospital is not up to national safety standards right now.” Moore smiled in the direction of Suggs, who remained expressionless.
“That bastard!” Emma gasped, her chest heaving and her head bowed, speaking to no one in particular. “He told me he knew Hitler, but I assumed they weren’t still working together. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.”
“People can be so naïve. Perhaps you’ll want to choose your favorite patient more carefully next time,” Moore said.
“When I asked him why he couldn’t reach out to the Allies for help, and why none of the good guys were looking for him, you know what he said?”
“What?” Moore asked, intrigued, his tall frame angled down toward her.
Emma looked up at Moore and shook her head in disdain. “He told me there was a traitor inside the Allied camp, and he had to stay hidden.�
� She paused. “What rubbish!”
“Thank the Lord the truth prevails,” said Moore. “Now, let’s go.”
“I’ll do everything you ask,” she said. “But, first, tie these people up and gag them.” Fraser and Lowe, whose jaws were already dropped, looked at her in amazement. “Let’s make sure they can’t interfere.” Fraser swore at Emma, her precise words incomprehensible.
“And make sure hers are particularly tight,” Emma added sharply, removing her operating mask. Fraser cursed again, her face twisted in fury.
“I haven’t checked our employee manual, young lady,” Dr. Lowe said, “but my guess is that any attempt to tie up your superiors would result in your being fired. So I’d suggest you come up with another plan.”
“I happen to like her plan,” Moore said. He was gratified that she’d gone from hostage to helper, but any hint that this was a ruse would see her dead.
A few minutes later, the senior nurse and the veteran doctor sat back to back, immobilized on the floor of the operating theater, their hands, feet, and mouths bound with bandages, tubing, and strips of cloth.
“Let’s go,” Emma said. “Gentlemen, we’ll find Nash in the Gloriette, behind the new castle. Stay quiet. The walls here have ears. The guards will be called if there’s the slightest disturbance and make this harder for us. Now, follow me.”
The trio mounted the stairs, moving through the foyer of the new castle and over its walkway into the Gloriette, making their way briskly to the banquet hall. Emma stopped outside the hall’s closed door. Inside, the lights were low, everyone asleep.
“He’s probably in here tonight,” she whispered. “I’ll slip in and have a look. If he’s not in the banquet hall, I know where he’ll be.”
Moore grabbed Emma, pushed her against the wall, and held his gun to her head as a final test. “Why are you helping us, blondie?”
Emma restrained herself. “Why are you going after him?”
Moore’s first thought was money, but he recovered. “For our great nation, of course.”
“Well, me, too,” she said. “Anyone who helps Hitler deserves what’s coming to him.”
Moore released her. “If you try anything—again,” Suggs warned, “I’ll kill you, the Baillie family, and every single patient in this castle.”
She nodded solemnly. “Now, please put your guns away in case someone sees you.”
Emma turned, opened the hall’s door slightly, and slipped in. She walked to her desk, picked up a clipboard, and scanned it, knowing that she was being watched closely through the partially opened door behind her. She pointed with her right hand, counting patients. With her left hand she discreetly reached down the side of her desk and pushed a small black button. This was Lady Baillie’s suggested add-on to Nash’s emergency button—the system was two-way.
She prayed that he wasn’t sleeping too soundly to hear the bell. On several occasions, she’d had to shake him vigorously to wake him for his nightly penicillin. She put the clipboard back down and walked over to the door.
“Not there?” Moore said.
“No, come with me,” she said, leading them down the dark, gloomy hallway and motioning for them to keep up. After making their way to the other side of the Gloriette, she stopped and fished for a key in her apron pocket. She opened the door. Both men rushed past her and made for the bed on the left side of the room. Emma’s heart roared in her chest. She could see Nash’s body still lying in bed, under his covers, turned against the wall.
“Time to get up, Mr. Nash,” Moore said, the two men pointing their guns at him. He doesn’t stand a chance, Emma thought. Suggs reached out in the dark room, tearing the covers away and standing back. Where there should have been a head, a pile of oranges could be seen in the dim light coming from the fireplace.
A hand reached over Emma’s shoulder and pushed her aside.
“Thank you, gentlemen, but I’m up already,” Nash said, coming out from behind the door. “And do not even try to turn this way or I will shoot—happily, I might add.”
Moore started to spin. Nash fired his revolver, which stayed nearly silent. Moore squawked, dropping to the floor, his gun clattering down with him. He held his right arm near the shoulder, moaning.
“Bastard!” Moore exclaimed.
“Now you,” Nash said in Suggs’s direction. “Don’t turn around, drop your weapon, and get on your knees like your friend here, or I’ll shoot you, too.”
The shorter man’s gun dropped to the floor. Nash handed Emma his own gun, given to him by Lady Baillie, and went to frisk both men.
“If either of you moves, Nurse Doyle will fire,” he warned.
“What are you waiting for?” Moore said to Emma, as Nash leaned over to pat down his driver’s uniform. “Shoot the traitor!” he yelled.
Nash looked back at Emma with surprise. Emma glared at Moore. She raised the gun, pointing it toward the three men. Moore was surprised to see that the nurse look completely comfortable with the gun.
“You were right earlier, Mr. Moore,” Emma said. “People can be so naïve, can’t they?” She turned fully in his direction, leveling the gun at him and Suggs.
“You liar!” Moore bellowed, as Nash pulled another gun from Moore’s jacket. “Why trust him over us?”
“While I do have questions about Mr. Nash’s background and intentions,” Emma answered, “he’ll never be as barmy as you two.”
“Sorry to do this,” Nash said, stepping back from the two men with yet another gun, courtesy of Suggs’s jacket pocket, “but, given the circumstances, I’m going to have to ask you both to take your clothes off.”
The strip-down revealed that Suggs also had a long, thin knife strapped to his leg. He handed it over begrudgingly. Nash pushed their clothes under the bed with his foot and emptied the bullets from three guns, leaving him and Emma with one loaded gun each. He instructed the men to sit on the room’s two chairs. They did so. Emma retrieved Moore’s shirt and wrapped it around his biceps and shoulder to slow his blood loss.
“Now,” said Nash, pushing the door behind him with his foot so that it was almost shut. “If you two answer just one question honestly, I may let you live. And if you don’t answer the right way, I’ll either shoot you or turn you over to the authorities. We also have a dungeon underneath this building, so add the third possibility of long-term internment with our rat population.” Emma glanced at Nash—only the new castle had a dungeon. “I want to know who hired you.”
“Winston Churchill,” Moore snapped. Nash fired at his other arm. Moore flew back in his chair, screaming as he fell to the floor once again.
“Wrong way to answer, Mr. Moore.” Nash turned to Suggs as Moore writhed in pain.
“Who hired you, Mr. Suggs?”
“Mr. Moore,” Suggs said. “I don’t know who is paying us. Only Moore knows that.”
Nash turned back to Moore. “One more chance, Mr. Moore. This time I go for your groin. You can trust me on that.” Emma had never seen this side of Nash; it both concerned and impressed her.
“Okay, okay, don’t shoot me again, you Yankee git. Some bloody negotiator you are! What happened to talking things through?” Moore glanced toward the door as he got back into the chair.
Nash followed Moore’s eyes. “There will be no escaping that door tonight, Mr. Moore—unless you give me a credible answer. Only the highest-ranking Allied officials would have known I was trying to get back into Germany, and I will know if you’re bluffing. So who was it?” Nash asked, raising his gun.
“I don’t know his name,” Moore said, seething. “I call him at night and he answers. Very posh London accent. We talk for a minute at most. It’s a London exchange—Kensington, I think. He tells me where to find my payments or messages, with the details of our next assignment.”
“I’ll need more than that,” Nash said, his finger tensing on the tri
gger.
“The phone number is 536-6678,” Moore said. “Go ahead, try it. You have to believe me.” His left eye was twitching, and sweat rolled down the side of his face. He couldn’t die here. His wife, Sarla, and their son, Bobby, weren’t ready to be on their own, let alone operate the family business without him.
Nash winked at Suggs, eyes twinkling. “I hope you’re listening carefully, Mr. Suggs.” He looked back at Moore, whose lips had gone white. “Now, Mr. Moore, have you ever met this client of yours in person?”
“Yes, just once,” responded Moore, pain pulsing through his arms as blood dripped onto the floor from his second wound.
“What did he look like?”
“He wore a hat and dark glasses, and kept his coat collar high. I couldn’t make out his face. Tall, skinny bloke. Older. That’s all I’ve got, I swear.”
Nash nodded. “Without knowing more, there’s only one person I can think of: Charles Buckley—an old ally of Churchill’s. I haven’t heard his name in years. Sound familiar?”
“As I’ve said, I never knew his name. He wouldn’t—”
The door to the room swung open. Moore looked up and smiled. Finally, the family business was in full play.
“Drop your weapons or I’ll shoot,” commanded a high-pitched female voice from behind Nash and Emma. They had no choice. They let go of their guns.
“What took you so long?” Moore said to his wife, a wiry brunette in her mid-twenties who wore a medic’s uniform. Suggs scrambled to claim the dropped guns and tossed one to Moore.
“Quid pro quo,” Suggs said with a grin. “Get your kit off.” Nash removed his flannel shirt. Emma began stripping down to her undergarments.
“Luv, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Sarla Moore said. “I waited to half one like you said. I saw the pair tied up downstairs, but this place is so big, and it’s lucky I heard your voice—”
She never finished her sentence. Her body lurched forward. She landed on her face, eyes wide, a spot of red on her back. The shot came from the hallway, where John Harris stood. The guard had finally caught up to the young woman he’d seen sneak out of the ambulance long after it arrived.
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