Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  “Nurse Doyle, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”

  Lost in her thoughts, Emma hadn’t even seen the neurosurgeon approaching from down the hall. She jumped up from her seat, then had to steady herself for fear that she would keel over and faint from both nerves and fatigue.

  “Not to worry, Dr. Cairns. How is Mr. Nash?”

  “I have good news and bad news about our patient. I’m happy to report that he is fully conscious, and reasonably lucid. He can listen and speak, slowly, and he’s improved every minute since coming to. We were lucky the bullet didn’t penetrate too deeply, or stay lodged in his brain.”

  A burst of relief flooded Emma. She wanted to cry, but held back. “Thank you, Dr. Cairns. That is good news indeed.” She hesitated. “And the bad news?”

  He nodded sympathetically. “There are two things you need to know. First, after being unconscious this long and with the damage to the left side of his cerebral cortex and the trauma to his brain as a whole, Mr. Nash is going to have trouble with some basic functions, including his strength, muscle control, and memory.”

  “Of course,” Emma said without reacting.

  “Second,” he continued, “injuries like these are unpredictable. It’s possible he’ll progress, then regress, even losing consciousness if his body decides to shut down again while healing those areas of his brain that are most damaged.”

  She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “What’s the longer-term prognosis?” She tried to maintain a professional veneer, keeping her emotions in check.

  “As one medical professional to another, Nurse Doyle, if Mr. Nash manages to live, he will never be the same as he was before.”

  Emma swallowed, her mouth dry. This news was not completely unexpected, but it was still searing to hear. “So what are the odds he’ll live?”

  Cairns considered her question carefully. “Most men would be dead if they’d taken a bullet like that,” he began, “especially given the severity of his earlier injuries. To be honest, I expected him to remain unconscious for weeks, possibly longer. I’d have put the odds against his waking today at about a hundred to one, which shows how little we know about the brain. It appears God has a plan for this patient. Something is keeping him alive and awake—and it isn’t me.”

  “May I see him?” she asked, her voice trying not to betray her impatience.

  “Your name was the first thing out of his mouth. He wants to see you. I’d only caution that his condition remains critical. Go slowly with him, don’t expect too much, and please keep this first visit to fifteen minutes at most. If he were to tire significantly, his body is so weak that he could fall unconscious again.”

  —

  “Nurse Doyle!” Nash said from his bed as she entered. Cairns closed the door behind Emma and left the two alone. The stench of smoke filled the room, yet there was no cigarette to be seen.

  She sprang to his bedside and leaned over, gently kissing him on the cheek, beaming.

  She stepped back to look at him. In some ways, he didn’t appear any different from when she’d left him the previous night. His head was still covered with thick bandages that reached under his chin, an IV was attached to his arm, he was pale, and his long body lay stationary. But his eyes were open, he could move his arms and his hands, and it was no longer impossible for her to imagine him as he’d been just the week before, when they’d cycled to the teahouse together.

  Emma had to pick a starting point for her churning thoughts and emotions as she sat down on the bed.

  “Everett, I love you. I’m so sorry this happened. Thank you for putting yourself between that bullet and me—it should be me in that bed, not you. Could you hear me talking to you as you slept? What are we going to do now? We were supposed to leave for Germany tonight.”

  He looked confused. She felt like a fool, realizing how rapidly she’d spoken—and after being cautioned about Nash’s unstable condition.

  “I apologize. My mind is slow, more slow. Simple words don’t come . . . good to see you. I wanted to see you.” He paused, his eyes burning with clarity, his words not keeping pace. “You need to know. I can’t go to Germany with you,” he said, pursing his lips, tears in his eyes.

  “I know that. But your mission, who will fulfill your mission?” she asked, enunciating each word to make sure he understood her this time.

  “No mission for me,” he answered weakly, sluggishly raising his arms in defeat.

  Her face tightened. “Someone once taught me to always have a backup plan. Do you have a backup plan?” she said, praying he would say that he did.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed. “I’ll contact them and make sure they have all the information they need. Who is it?”

  He raised his left arm with the IV attached. She assumed that he needed help with it and rose to her feet. He uncurled his index finger, pointing directly at her, his eyes shining brightly.

  “You,” he said calmly, smiling. “Have been . . . for some time.”

  She stared at him and laughed. “Everett, that’s totally daft! I’m a nurse, not a negotiator.” She paused. “I assume you’re not serious.”

  He frowned. “Serious,” he said. “Who says . . . can’t be both?”

  Her mouth opened, but for a moment she was speechless. “For God’s sake, Everett, I couldn’t even force my husband to do the right thing. Nor could I protect my own son. We need to find someone else who—”

  He cut her off, raising his voice. “The coin—”

  “I remember all the lessons you taught me, including the coin,” she interrupted, not wanting to waste his energy. “But I can’t do what you’re asking.”

  He raised a trembling finger to his lips. She stopped talking out of respect. How could he ever think I’d be able to execute his mission? He’s the world’s foremost negotiator, and I’m the world’s biggest failure! It must be the injury talking. What he was asking was absurd.

  “Nurse Doyle, you need to do this,” he said, summoning his energy. “No time. Listen. Carefully. Coin will help you. Under my mattress at castle. Take it. Find my contact. Berlin. Wearing a red hat and feeding pigeons at the . . . beasts in the garden . . . on the last day of each month, 10:00 a.m. Show the coin. Don’t ask names. No names. Too dangerous. Defense first.”

  The instructions were clear enough. Emma was very familiar with Berlin’s largest park, the Tiergarten—which translated to “garden of the beasts.” She also knew from her childhood the place where most of the pigeons were fed. The last day of the month was three days away.

  “Really, Everett? You expect me to go in your place? Are things that desperate?”

  “Yes, desperate,” he acknowledged quietly. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re a . . . good backup plan. You can pass as a German. Training. Nursing. My best student.”

  “I was your only student.”

  “No,” he said, smiling again as he leaned back against the pillows, arm shaking, pulling a cigarette from behind his bed. “My best ever. Just need experience,” he added.

  “With due respect, I’m not sure that trying to topple a maniacal dictator and negotiate the end of a global war is the best time for me to be gaining experience on the job. Might you agree with me on that point, Mr. Nash?”

  He laughed as he lit his cigarette. Emma shook her head—he’d no doubt negotiated access to a hidden stash of smokes just hours after regaining consciousness.

  “You won’t be alone. Helpers there—my contact.”

  “Everett, tell me something, and please be honest.” He nodded. “You said I’ve been your backup plan for some time. Were you just using me, then? Making me believe you cared about my needs but really just focused on getting what you wanted?” She tried to check the hurt in her voice, but she was determined to uncover the truth.

  “Did you use
me, Nurse Doyle? You wanted to learn—yes?” Silence followed.

  “Yes, I wanted to learn influence, and I did,” Emma answered, looking down.

  “Using someone is when you influence them . . . to do something . . . not in their best interests. Not our case. Yes?”

  She reflected on his words. “Yes, you’re right, Everett. I benefited greatly from our arrangement. I’m sorry for asking, but I had to hear your answer. All right,” she said, “tell me about this mission.”

  “Trust the mind-sets, strategies, stories,” he said. “You’ll need them all.” His words were clearer and more forceful now, his staccato delivery becoming more fluid as his need for clarity rose.

  “For what?” she asked apprehensively.

  He took a few deep breaths. They were out of time for soft words.

  “Hitler has new diabolical weapon—Nazis call it a disintegration bomb.”

  The blood drained from Emma’s face.

  Nash searched for details in his damaged mental files. “In Einstein’s formula—E=MC2—uranium is perfect. Billions of atoms split open, releasing energy and neutrons. They slice open other atoms. A giant chain reaction. The result,” he said, “is a force that’s . . . hard to fathom.”

  “ ‘Hard to fathom’? What does that mean? Just how much damage could be caused by one of these disintegration bombs?” Emma asked.

  “American team says a single bomb could destroy a city.”

  She had to remind herself to breathe. “If that’s true, Hitler will win,” she gasped.

  “We have to stop them,” Nash said. “Or Nazis rule the world. Germany always best scientists in this area—first to split uranium atom. Americans working on this bomb, too—it won’t be ready soon enough.” He fell back against the pillow, exhausted.

  Jesus Christ! No wonder he was so determined to get well.

  She looked at him. She knew that he had already pushed his body and his mind too far. Her fifteen minutes were officially up, and he was spent. But she had so many questions—she might never have another chance to ask.

  “Everett, can you remember why you gave Hitler the blueprint for negotiating his way to power in Germany?”

  He looked at her blankly. “I don’t know what you mean.” He puffed furiously at his cigarette, rattled.

  “You told me that you helped Hitler after meeting him in your late twenties. I need to know why and how.”

  He scratched his bandages with his knuckles, appearing uncomfortable, shaking his head.

  “I know what you’re saying. Sounds right. I just can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you even remember meeting Hitler?”

  “No, never.” He looked at her, putting out his cigarette on the side table. “Did I?”

  He doesn’t remember his darkest secret.

  “What about Buckley? How certain can we be that he’s the mole who turned on you?”

  “Buckley?” He shook his head again, shutting his eyes for the first time. She felt panic rising in her chest.

  “What advice do you have for getting my son back?” She waited. He said nothing, eyelids still closed. She kept going, each anxious question triggering another.

  “How do I find Dieter and Axel? Who’s the soft flesh around my son? What’s my backup plan? How do I peel the bloody orange here? Sequence my approach? Keep Axel safe once I get him back? Defend myself against Dieter? Why the hell is your coin so important? And who the hell is this contact of yours in a red hat?”

  She was ranting now, almost shouting. She’d shown focus and patience for weeks. She needed answers. She and Nash had a deal, and he was breaking it. He wasn’t going to be helping her after all. She was on her own, helping him instead.

  But only because he put himself between that bullet and me, she thought.

  She began sobbing. Too much was in her hands.

  Just when Emma assumed he had fallen asleep, Nash opened his eyes.

  “You have a son?” he asked.

  —

  Charles Buckley peered out from under the brim of his fedora.

  Churchill’s senior adviser felt ridiculous wearing sunglasses on a cold, damp afternoon in London, but they had always been mandatory in these situations.

  A light patter of rain fell around him, and the smell of moistened earth hung in the air. It was past 3:00 p.m., and the man who was supposed to meet him just outside the Tower of London hadn’t yet arrived.

  Minutes later, out of the mist ahead of him, a small figure finally emerged. He lifted his bowler hat and introduced himself. “Suggs,” he said.

  “Where is Moore?” Buckley wanted to know. “I only deal with Moore.”

  Suggs chuckled. “Moore is dead. I’m his partner, and you’ll be dealing with me from now on.” Buckley bristled. He didn’t appreciate how he was being addressed by this thug half his height.

  “How do you know that Moore is dead?” Buckley asked.

  “I killed him myself.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Buckley said, withdrawing slightly. He could read most people like a cheap London newspaper, but not this man, not yet. “Okay, I’ll play, Mr. Suggs. What do you want from me?”

  “I want the money you owe Moore for killing Nash. I did most of the work. Moore shot him, but I want his share now that he’s gone.”

  Buckley twitched. He wanted this dangerous new contact to go away. He could have him killed, easily.

  “First off, Suggs, Everett Nash is alive. He’s at Oxford University’s medical facility. I have that on excellent authority. While he’s incapacitated and likely about to die, that’s not the same as being dead.”

  Suggs couldn’t hide his surprise. He’d lost his advantage, temporarily at least. “I should have known the arsehole would cheat death again.”

  “How about this, Suggs. I’ll pay you half of what you’re both owed, since Nash is only half dead. You can finish the job that Moore botched and get your other half, or wait for nature to take its course and collect afterward—your choice. Once Nash is confirmed as dead, I may decide to give you another assignment.”

  Suggs couldn’t disagree with the logic. “I can live with that.”

  “Yes, you can,” Buckley said coldly. “Do we have an agreement, then?”

  “Absolutely—Mr. Buckley.”

  “What did you call me?” Even Moore hadn’t known his name. How does this little prat know who I am? His personal risk of exposure had just skyrocketed. He would have to kill Suggs, sooner rather than later.

  “Ah, I seem to have got your name right. I did a little digging on Charles Buckley—and I’ve uncovered plenty of treachery, all at the expense of our prime minister. To be clear, if anything were to happen to me, my lawyer has a sworn affidavit from me that will be shared with the world,” he said, grinning. “This letter details all of your highly original sins, Mr. Buckley. You’d be tried and hung for treason faster than you can say ‘Winston Churchill.’ So, yes, I’d say we have an agreement. I’ll take that half payment right now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not to worry, Mr. Suggs, you’ll be paid. I don’t carry that much money with me, so I’ll be sure to settle up the next time we meet,” Buckley countered.

  “Right, I’ll just drop by your house tomorrow to pick it up—even if you’re not there. I know exactly where you and your family live in Kensington.”

  Charles Buckley forced out something that resembled a laugh, or a croak, the fog around him sucking up its throaty sound. He pulled a fat wad of bills out of his pocket and paid the little bald man half his fees. Buckley didn’t know whether he should feel unsettled by Suggs’s threats or exhilarated that he’d finally found a killer who knew what he was doing.

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday, September 27, 1944

  5:00 p.m.

  She peeked through the open door, uncertain
whether she should enter Nash’s dimly lit room. What she saw inside caught her off guard.

  Emma hadn’t known that Lady Baillie was in Oxford. She sat in a chair facing Nash, involved in a deep, barely audible conversation. He looked exhausted but animated as Lady Baillie listened to him and nodded vigorously. Cigarette smoke again filled the room.

  Lady Baillie suddenly picked up some papers and what appeared to be a small map from his side table, carefully placing them in a black leather bag by her feet. She rose to leave, put on her coat and leaned toward him, saying something that Emma couldn’t hear.

  Emma knocked on the door before entering.

  “Oh, Emma, how timely!” said Lady Baillie, turning toward her. “I was hoping to run into you.”

  With the two women standing in front of him, Nash spoke softly but clearly. “I’ve chosen to tell Olive everything,” he said to Emma. “She agrees—you must go in my place. Isn’t that right, Olive?”

  Lady Baillie smiled. She took Emma’s hand in hers. “Everett told me some time ago that he wanted you to go to Germany with him. I arranged the logistics accordingly, and they remain in place,” she said. “As unpalatable as it may be to send a young woman into such dangerous territory on her own, there is truly no other good choice. Everett and I have been through this in some detail, and if you’re willing to move ahead you can still leave for Germany tonight.”

  Her words took Emma by surprise. She’d spent the past several hours conferring with Alina at the library, hidden away in the stacks together. After talking things through, she and her cousin had arrived at the same conclusion: Emma had to leave for Germany as soon as possible. She and Alina had assumed, however, that tonight was no longer an option.

  “It’s agreed, then. I will leave for Germany this evening,” she said, hardly believing her own words as she spoke them.

  Nash nodded, raising his thumb in triumph.

  “Thank you, Emma,” said Lady Baillie. “You and I need to fly back to the castle right away to get you ready.” The logistics that lay ahead, as outlined by the heiress, included Emma’s meeting with one of the castle’s weapons experts to see what they might contribute to her trip. There was the coin to locate and hide among her belongings, and the right clothing and supplies to gather. Lady Baillie said she’d provide Emma with German currency and details for contacting her while on the Continent. Her friend Lars Dekker would collect Emma at the gatehouse at 11:00 p.m. He’d take her to the coast, where she would meet Hans Brouer. “Hans says the safest route he knows is through Holland to Leer, Germany. You can be in Leer by tomorrow night.” She patted Emma’s arm. “We’re all here to help you.”