by Anne Perry
There was music, and dancing in the pocket-handkerchief of a floor in the middle of all the separate tables. There was room for perhaps a half dozen couples, if they were careful.
Elena spoke to people, but only in Italian. The interesting conversations to overhear were in German. She danced with Aiden a couple of times, close, because there was no room to do anything else.
“You all right?” he asked quietly, his head bent to her ear.
“Fine,” she replied. “I don’t understand the Serbian or Hungarian…”
“They’re not part of this. It’s strictly Austrian…”
“And German. I’ve heard a lot of German accents. Munich, Berlin, Hamburg, some from further north.”
He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am! My German is pretty good,” she reminded him. “How could you have forgotten that? They were being secretive. They stopped speaking when I passed close to them…” She recalled the surreptitious movements, the hostile eyes, but she did not mention it to him. Possibly it was her imagination and her intense discomfort at being here at all. This was not a time for self-indulgence, let alone complaint. Her job was to get Aiden and his information out of Italy. Never forget that. And also to learn about when, or from whom, or where the Fatherland Front’s blow would come!
“The wicked flee where no man pursueth,” he said quietly. “That’s a hell of a dress you have on.”
“Hell of?” she said defensively.
“It’s exquisite, very un-English,” he explained. “It’s not even French. I don’t know what it is, but it’s gorgeous.”
“Should I thank you?” she asked, moving closer to him, but stiff-armed. “Or look for something a little more ordinary next time?” She shouldn’t let that hurt her, but nothing that was suitable for Gabrielle would ever be natural for Elena.
“Less conspicuous, perhaps,” he replied, his voice muffled by her hair.
That stung. “Do you think anyone will remember me after I’ve gone from here?” she asked.
“In that dress?” His voice rose in disbelief.
“Oh, they’ll remember the dress, but me? If I put on something different? More…ordinary.”
He held her away from him for a moment, looking at her face, her neck, which was quite bare of jewelry, and then down at her body. “No,” he said with surprise. “I see that Peter Howard has taught you a thing or two. How interesting. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have it in him. I wonder what he intends to do with you in the future. I don’t suppose he’s given you the faintest idea.”
“Actually, I didn’t learn that from Peter Howard,” she reminded him a little tartly. “I learned it when I was trying to escape from the Gestapo, in Berlin.” She could not so easily dismiss the question as to what Peter might have planned for her.
“Really? You shouldn’t have told me that. Don’t tell anybody anything they don’t need to know.”
“You need to know it,” she replied immediately. “Because you don’t trust me to have any idea what I’m doing.”
He pulled her closer again, and reluctantly she yielded. “I apologize. And you’re right about the Germans: there are certainly a lot of them here tonight.”
“Men,” she agreed. “I haven’t seen any other women here at all.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Are they soldiers on leave or something like that?”
He stiffened, missed a step, and then caught the rhythm again.
“Aiden?” she said in a fierce whisper. “What? Is that what they are?”
“Don’t say that again!” he hissed.
She did not reply. If they were German soldiers, army or ex-army, here in Trieste, why were there so many? “What are they here for?” she said in a low, urgent voice.
He pressed her even closer so that he was breathing through the softness of her hair. “I told you—a plot to make Austria a part of Germany. They are blood brothers, just under the skin. Common language, common culture, heritage, and philosophy.” Then he added, “And above all, music and art. There’s no greater music in the world than German and Austrian.”
Elena wondered if he was mocking her, but his face was perfectly serious.
“That’s not the point!” she said tartly. “You’ve been working on this for years! Tell me the whole truth, or nothing at all, and let me work it out.” That sounded desperate, but her mind was racing, trying to think of anything that made sense.
“Fatherland Front,” he whispered. He kept his voice low so even those closest to him would not hear his words. But people seemed to be watching, assessing all the time.
Her heart was beating as if it were in her throat. So Trieste was where it was all starting from. It was absurd that such a plot should be moving so fast. Germany conquering another country, fifteen years after the war to end all wars? Germany was barely climbing up onto its feet again. Yet there was a hideous sense to it. Pictures came back into her mind of the arrogant Brownshirts in Berlin, forcing Jews off the pavement into the gutter so the bullies could pass four or five abreast. All this talk of Jews and Communists being enemies of the people. It would not be hard to persuade some Austrians of that. Hitler himself was Austrian, as were quite a few of his right-hand men. That the Fatherland Front planned to seize power in Austria, this she believed. And that they would give it to Germany she also believed. But that they should be doing it now, here…
“Elena!” Aiden said sharply.
“Yes, yes, I heard you.”
“Then pull yourself together. There could be a splinter group here in Trieste, whatever the risk. Where are they going to strike, and above all, when?”
She pulled back and stared up at him. She breathed the words. “And whom?”
“Probably Dollfuss himself, in Vienna.”
“You mean…murder him?”
“No, probably take him captive and dictate what he must say, with a mixture of threats and blackmail, physical violence toward him or his family. He has a wife, you know. Very pretty woman. It will all look peaceful. He’ll announce some sort of alliance with Germany. To be led entirely by Hitler, of course.”
“Damnation!” she whispered.
“Pretty close,” he agreed. “Now come with me and meet my friend Baldur Wass. He has the final piece of information from which we can pretty accurately work out where they’ll strike. Then all we need to do is find out who killed poor Max, if he is dead, and what he told them before he died, so we can leave without running straight into their trap.” He held her a little more tightly and put his lips to her hair. “Or I could give you a copy of the list for Howard, and you could leave straightaway; make sure the list gets to London.”
“My job is to get you out.” She did not even have to think of her answer. “We don’t leave people behind, if we can help it. It’s bad for recruitment,” she added wryly.
“Very funny,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I’ve got the list with me. Can you hide it anywhere in that impossible dress? And not down your bosom. That’s the first place they’ll look. In fact, they’ll probably be looking at it anyway, if they’re halfway normal men.”
She stared up at him sharply.
He was laughing.
She felt a sudden sting of tears in her eyes and looked away, but she allowed him to pull her back a little closer. Any more, and she would risk falling over his feet.
* * *
—
They found Baldur Wass with a couple of other men, apparently friends or at least acquaintances of Aiden’s, in a nearby room. They had long ago lost sight of Gabrielle. Perhaps they would go home by her apartment so Elena could return her dress. One day, she would have to see if she could find one like it in London. Did MI6 provide a suitable wardrobe for necessary occasions? Probably, but not like this!
Elena was introduced to the men by nam
e, and she tried to remember them. She had agreed with Aiden that she would speak only in Italian, and she had kept her own name, Elena, simply taking on an Italian surname.
Baldur Wass was tall, almost Aiden’s height. Wass was as fair as his one friend Marek was dark. To judge by their accents, they were from southern Germany.
They all spoke companionably for ten or fifteen minutes, then suddenly Marek said something in what Elena took to be Hungarian, and the air in the room seemed to freeze.
There was a brief knock on the door and it was pushed open. A thin man strode in. He was beautifully dressed in dinner clothes and had a large, curled mustache.
“Hello, Ferdie,” Wass said tersely, in German. “You’re late. What have you got to say?”
“You’re still going ahead with your plans?” Ferdie asked, his eyebrows raised, his expression sarcastic.
“Why?” Marek asked immediately.
“Careless! Careless!” Ferdie said mockingly. “One mistake is enough. One could kill all of us.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Wass looked from one to the other of them.
“Ten men arrested! That’s what I’m telling you about. Ten!” Ferdie whipped around and stared hard at Aiden. “You! I trusted you, you bastard.” He swung back to the other two men, entirely ignoring Elena, as if she had been no more than an ornament on the table. “Ask our friend here,” he said, indicating Aiden. “He went to the old Front deliberately and told them about us! Now we’ve lost that moment of surprise! You tried to fool me,” he said directly to Aiden, “and that is betrayal.”
Aiden’s face was white, but he stood his ground. “Liar! I told no one. If anyone is trying to sabotage us, it’s you! Why? Who are you working for? Are you loyal to the Front…or…my God, Ferdie, who is paying you? Are you siding with the splinter group?” He looked at the others. “All of you?”
Elena looked at Ferdie and knew that his confused expression was forced, insincere.
Baldur Wass produced a small black handgun from his pocket. He pointed it not at Ferdie, but at Aiden. “Clumsy,” he said with a slow smile. “Been wondering about you. Were we moving too fast for your people, our little…what do they call us…splinter group? Why? Because we want to get the job done now, and not wait for the old order, the plodding old Fatherland Front, to make its move?”
They were still ignoring Elena. She saw a couple of long-stemmed wineglasses on the table. She moved very slowly toward them, and toward Aiden.
“Keep away from me,” Aiden said softly. “You’ll only get in the way.”
She kept moving, as if to be closer to him.
“Very touching,” Ferdie said with a raw edge to his voice. “Not like you to let a clinging woman stop you, Anton.”
Ferdie was watching Aiden. So were the other two men, waiting for him to move or try to talk himself out of it. Wass, with the gun in his hand, was the closest to Elena.
She picked up the glass slowly, as if looking for water in it. Or better, wine. Then, in one move, she struck it against the table and it smashed into jagged, dagger-like edges. Without more than glancing at it, she lunged at Baldur Wass, aiming for the wrist of the hand holding the gun. She caught flesh. Immediately, there was streaming blood.
Wass gave a high-pitched shriek and dropped the weapon.
Aiden dived for it, catching it as it hit the floor and exploded with an ear-splitting shot.
Elena glanced at the far wall and saw how the bullet had buried itself in the plaster.
The door to the passage burst open and Gabrielle stood there with a short-muzzled gun pointed at Ferdie. Wass was ashen, blood gushing out of his slashed wrist. Marek was trying to stem the flow.
“Come on!” Gabrielle said to Elena, then to Aiden, gesturing toward the door. “We’ve got to get out of here—now!”
“Where?” Aiden demanded. “There’s no way, except through the club.”
“Follow me!” she ordered.
“They’ll corner us,” Aiden replied. “Better to fight.”
“You can stay and fight if you want to,” Gabrielle said in a low, clear voice. “I’m taking Elena with me. It’s narrow, but she can make it.”
“She’s scared of heights,” Aiden said. It was true.
“She’s still got my dress!” Gabrielle replied, raising her eyebrows and smiling. “Do as you damn well want.” She turned to Elena. “Come on!”
Ferdie made a move toward her.
Gabrielle raised her gun. “I’m a very good shot,” she said levelly. “I can shoot you where it will not kill you, but you might wish it did. Want to try? I’ve nothing to lose if I do, but a lot to lose if I don’t get away. Come to think of it…” She lifted the muzzle to take a perfect shot at his crotch.
Aiden looked at Marek. “Shut Ferdie up before he talks us all into a gunfight.” As if Marek had agreed, Aiden walked over to Elena. “Go with Gabrielle. I’m coming right behind, when I’ve made sure these idiots don’t come after us. Wass will be useless, but Ferdie just might try.” He put his right arm around her, and she felt him push a folded piece of paper into her dress, at the side so it was under her arm. The list? No time to look now.
Elena was shocked when Gabrielle shot Ferdie, the bullet grazing his shoulder, enough to hold him from climbing up to the roof. Then she swung round and went straight out the door without looking to see if anyone was following her into the passageway. There was nothing she could do if they had.
Elena went after her. She should have been shaking with fear at the thought of scrambling along the roof’s edge, but she was not. Aiden was right: she was afraid of heights, but her real fear was falling off the roof in sheer paralysis and letting them all down.
She followed Gabrielle out of a trapdoor at the end of the corridor and onto the roof. She could only just see her in the dark, no more than a dense shadow ahead.
“Go straight after her, follow her,” Aiden said from behind. “Stay in the middle, then if you freeze, I can at least prod you forward.”
“I’m not going to freeze!” she lied. She could already feel herself losing control. Her stomach felt sick. She was dizzy, and she had not even reached the ledge. She tucked Gabrielle’s dress up around her waist and tied the flowing skirts into a bunch, then caught up with Gabrielle.
“Don’t let the bastards beat you,” Gabrielle whispered. “My father always used to say that!” Then she stepped out onto a ledge less than a foot wide and walked along it, as if she did it every day.
“Please, God!” Elena whispered into the near darkness, then followed after her.
CHAPTER
15
Margot arrived back in London tired but unable to relax. She could not let go of the thoughts that had been whirling in her mind during her journey home from Berlin. It was the emotions that overcame her most powerfully, though they were not all troubling. In fact, the story that the German soldier, Major Buresch, had told her about the British officer was overwhelming, but it was, in a way, also liberating. She realized that over the years of grief she had allowed Paul to become of almost mythic perfection in her mind. She remembered the good things—the intimacy, the courage, and the laughter—but they had become so large that he had grown to dwarf everyone else she might have cared for. No one could measure up to him. In fact, no one could make her feel anything, other than that to love again would be a betrayal.
The more she thought of it, the more she brought back the reality of Paul: the humanity, and the fallibility that makes people real. He would have shown the same kindness, even fellowship, to a fallen enemy. He had admitted to dulling the edges of fear and pain with whisky. He had shrunk from superhuman to very human indeed, and she loved him the more for that.
She also grieved because he had felt it necessary to be a hero for her, instead of sharing with her what he really felt: the deep, wounding
pain of horror and fear. It was the culture of the time not to tell those at home the truth about the realities of war. But that was fifteen years ago, and it was a different world. Naïvety was dead and cynicism was acknowledged. Perhaps too much, but who could blame anyone? It had been called the war to end all wars, and here they were, possibly on the eve of another. Their leaders made the same mistakes over and over again. The victims learned, but those in power either did nothing or forgot because something else had become more important. Like German expansion into Austria on the heels of assassination, and then the Fatherland Front taking over the government? It was all too believable. Or had she misunderstood the bits she had overheard and pieced together? Was she running from phantoms? Defeat does strange things to people. And she had certainly seen the utter devastation of defeat in Germany when her father had been ambassador. She had seen it every day, in Germany’s hunger and despair. Men begging for work, women starving themselves to feed their children. Had they a choice in any part of this?
But the humiliations of defeat bred something far worse than poverty, hunger, or loss of both the past and the future for the enemy. It bred humiliation, which sometimes turned into rage. Too many had nothing left to lose. Anyone who offered a renewal of hope had a ready audience of millions. Should anyone be surprised that Hitler was gaining so many followers?
The word about Austria was only a whisper, but did people like her father know how deep it was, that it was turning into action? She wished she could do something more useful. Parties, theater, even time spent with friends seemed devoid of purpose now. She must at least tell her father what she had observed. Tonight would be good.
* * *
—
It was still daylight when she was in the taxi and heading home, not too late to have the driver take her to her parents’ house. She found herself smiling as she redirected him. She would tip him well for his trouble.