A Question of Betrayal

by Anne Perry

  “It’s not Gabrielle,” he said again, quietly, and there was something like admiration in his voice that Elena had never heard before. “She does what she does for Franz. She won’t betray us.”

  “Is there anybody else we can trust?” Elena asked, trying to ignore her aching feet.

  “No,” he said. “No. Save your breath, and keep moving.”

  Finally, Aiden stopped outside a shabby wooden door in an alley. He gave a brief rhythmic knock. After a moment or two, the door opened and he exchanged a few words with someone Elena could not see. They were speaking neither Italian nor German. Elena thought it might be Serbian. Then the door opened wider and they were let in.

  She had no idea where they were, but the man who stood in the small, stale-smelling passage was pleasant enough. “Not long,” he warned in English, shaking his head.

  “Gone in the morning,” Aiden promised.

  “One room.”

  “Whatever you’ve got.” Aiden did not even glance at Elena.

  The man nodded and led the way along the corridor for only a few yards, then opened the door to a small room. A single bare bulb showed it was furnished with two mattresses on the floor and a pile of sheets and blankets. He said something in Serbian, which sounded to Elena like instructions. Aiden translated, explaining where the toilet was and a basin. A bath was out of the question.

  After the door closed and the man’s footsteps had faded down the passageway, Aiden looked at her. “Take off that dress,” he said. “It’s great, but you can’t wear it anymore. It’s too memorable. If anyone asks, ‘Did you see a woman in a gray dress?’ they will be able to say ‘yes’ without doubt. And apart from that, no one wears such a thing in daylight. And you can’t run at all in those heels.”

  “So, what will I wear?” she asked, confused. Now that she had stopped running, exhaustion overtook her.

  “Marco will find you something. It won’t be to your taste, but it’ll be comfortable and inconspicuous. Now, get a few hours of sleep. We’ll resume our search for Max in the morning.” His face looked grim in the patchy light, strained and robbed of color.

  “Where do we even start?” she asked. The momentary elation she had felt earlier had gone. She was tired and had no idea what they could do that was anything but pointless. “We need to get out of Trieste.”

  “Hang on to the list and go as soon as you can,” he retorted, his voice harsh.

  “I’d be happy to, if those had been my instructions!” she snapped back. “But they weren’t. I work with you Aiden, not for you.”

  “Anton,” he snapped. “As far as you are concerned, Aiden is dead. Don’t forget that. You’re more of a liability than I can afford.”

  She felt as if he had slapped her, but another thought came to her mind. How could it all unravel so quickly? Only an hour or two ago they had been allies sharing the danger, the excitement, and then the relief. Had he always been so sudden to bite back, and she had just forgotten? Did she selectively recall only the good times, the exhilaration, the excitement, the laughter, and the tenderness—a little like when someone dies and you weed out all the bad bits and wipe them from memory?

  She took off the gray dress and draped it over the back of the only chair. Then she removed her underwear and went to bed with only her slip on. It was as good as some nightgowns, although she was aware of being too near naked for emotional comfort. There had been times when that would have led to intimacy, even passion, but that was in another life. Had he meant any of it? Or had he been that way in order to keep her loyalty? She would never betray a man she thought loved her, and he knew that.

  * * *

  —

  She slept far better than she had thought she would. She was a little cold, but not enough to keep her awake. In the morning, Marco brought her a very plain brown dress. It was unflattering, to say the least, but it was warm enough, and with a rough shawl it was sufficient to keep her sheltered from the worst of the weather outside. He also brought a pair of brown shoes. They were a little large but that was better than too small. He offered socks, too. She was about to decline, then realized she might have to walk a long way, and they would at least make the shoes fit her better. She thanked him and took them.

  Aiden, too, left his good dinner clothes behind and took rough work clothes. They instantly changed not only his appearance, but his manner. He set aside the grace and arrogance that usually made him stand out. He was fair-haired and fair-skinned, but here, in far northern Italy, this was not so remarkable. In what had previously been Austrian-occupied Trieste, there were plenty of Germanic-looking people.

  They ate a brief breakfast of bread and salami, with a little cheese and good hot coffee. It was still early, before nine, when they set out. No shops were open, but at least it was a mild day.

  Elena walked along the pavement beside him.

  “You surprised me last night,” he said after a while.

  She had no idea where they were going, nor, for that matter, where they were now, but she was quite sure what he was about to say. She did not ask. Silence was, she decided, the better choice.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it along the ledge,” he added, the shadow of a smile around his lips.

  “But you had me walk it anyway,” she said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

  “Better to fall into the stream than into the hands of those men, I promise you.” His voice was strained, tight in his throat. “They would have killed you, but had their fun first.”

  For an instant, she did not believe him, but a glance at his face quickly convinced her. In the morning light, clear, cold, without the luminous softness that comes later in the day, he looked older and far more worn by constant danger and pain. She felt a wave of sorrow for him. He was risking his life every day, in a country not his own. He could never forget the part he was playing. If even one of the men from whom he gathered his information suspected him, it would cost him his life, and probably in the most unpleasant way they could devise. They would want every word of information they could get.

  Whatever else she did, Elena knew she must not endanger him. No careless or selfish word or thought, no slip of concentration. She must be worthy of his trust. To be less would be childish, even shameful. She changed the subject.

  “Have you thought where we should start?”

  “The last place I saw Max,” he replied, “is about half a mile further this way.” He did not add any more and they walked in silence, him ahead of her, as the alleys grew narrower and the traffic of carts and bicycles careered down the middle.

  It was a long morning. They gained information about Max’s movements only bit by bit: where he had been seen, who had spoken to him, and as much as they could learn, what they had talked about. People were reluctant to speak to them. Everybody had their own secrets. It was the middle of the afternoon before they found sufficient pieces to put together most of Max’s last days.

  They sat in a small restaurant, more to share their ideas and rest their feet than for any food. But the food was surprisingly good, and they were hungry. The pasta was cooked to perfection and contained a little fish. They were wise enough not to ask what kind it was.

  “This was the last place he was seen,” Aiden said when they had finished their meal, paid the bill, and were back outside in the street.

  “Are you sure?” Elena asked, looking at him doubtfully.

  “I spoke to the owner and he said Max was here. Max was your lover.” He smiled bleakly, but the thought clearly amused him. “And he’s left you pregnant and I am determined to find him.”

  “Why?” she asked with interest. “Are you my father?”

  He winced. “Oh, Elena, that was unkind.” But he laughed in spite of it.

  She remembered with a sudden ache how he’d always preferred her fighting back to her being passive.
<
br />   He stared at her steadily. “Did you know that that last man was lying to us?”

  “No,” she answered, “but I do know he’s following us now.”

  Aiden stiffened. She had caught him by surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He looks different, but it is the same man.”

  “How do you know that, when I didn’t see it?” He did not seem annoyed, not this time. He needed to know.

  “His jacket is different, and his hat, so we don’t know what his hair is like,” she replied. “And he has whiskers now. But his shoes are the same, even the same scuff marks. And a cut in the leather, on the left side, roughly where his little toe is. And his ears…”

  “What about his ears?”

  “Ears are so individual. Did you know that most people don’t think to disguise their ears? He has a mole, a very small one, just on the curve of his right ear. You can’t really cover that up unless you wear your hair very long, which he doesn’t.”

  “And he’s following us?” He was utterly serious now.

  “Yes, I noticed him about a half mile ago, and again just now. We can’t afford to believe it’s a coincidence.”

  He did not argue. “We’ll separate and meet up again outside the bookshop. It’s called Via Rosario. The name’s on the front in red letters.” He told her how to find it. “I’ll go a different way and see if he follows. But, Elena…”

  “What?” She felt a chill already. What if they missed each other? He could take the opportunity to get rid of her and she would have no way of finding him again. But then, he could have done that at any time. She was being ridiculous, exactly the sort of amateur he abhorred.

  “Be careful,” he said gently. He reached out and touched her cheek. It was a common enough gesture, but it brought back a rush of old memories, old partings, when they had always met again. “This is a dangerous game.” He smiled. “We need to win. And that means finding all the information we can, knowing how much the enemy knows, and getting out of here alive.” And with that he turned away and, within a moment, was lost among a group of people waiting to cross the busy street.

  Was the man close behind?

  Elena shook away her fears and walked on, following the directions Aiden had given her, but already her mind was racing. She had the list hidden as well as she could, inside her clothes, but there was nowhere that was really safe, not if they took her prisoner and stripped her. In fact, she actually had not accomplished anything at all, except to tell Aiden that Max was probably dead, and it seemed that Aiden had worked that out for himself. To know what part of Max’s information was compromised was important, but was it worth their lives? It definitely was not worth losing Aiden, and the information for which he had risked his life…and now hers, too. She could not consider her task a success until he was safe on British soil, with all that he knew.

  A van rumbled down the narrow street, rattling on the cobblestones. It was packed with soldiers. There were a dozen or more of them, all with rifles. Where were they going so quickly? It must be some emergency, or they would never have used so narrow and twisting a way to get there.

  Elena hastened her step, not looking back to see whether the man was following her. She hoped he was not, because if he was, it would mean it was she he was trailing. Did anyone other than Aiden know who she was? That thought sent another ripple of coldness through her. Had a mistake she had made given her away? Or had they always known who she was? That would mean a traitor somewhere further back—in England.

  Where was this bookshop? It ought to be here, but she could not see it.

  Then she realized she was still a block short of where Aiden had said. She bumped into a young man and apologized. He looked at her too closely and she hurried on.

  Elena reached the bookshop at last. It was exactly as Aiden had described it, but he was not there. She felt panic rise inside her and swallowed it down, as if it had been a bolus in her throat threatening to suffocate her. She must look as if she were waiting for someone, not trying to pick up anybody, like some prostitute.

  Really! She must get a grip on her imagination!

  Still, Aiden was late.

  Someone touched her and she turned sharply, ready to strike out if necessary. It was Aiden, laughter in his face.

  “Looking for business?” he asked.

  She was furious with herself. “No,” she replied. “But if you’ve got the money, I’d consider it.”

  “Touché,” he answered, the smile still on his lips. “The man with a mole on his ear followed me, but I lost him. That’s why I was a bit late.” He put his hand on her arm and, holding her firmly, guided her away from the bookshop and back in the direction from which they had come.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “Did you find anything?”

  “I started adding things up in my mind,” he replied. “I think I know where Max might have gone, because I have an idea of who he was looking for.”

  “Will he be there now?” she asked, with a sudden upsurge of hope. Then, as instantly, it died. Why had he not mentioned it before? She pushed it out of her mind. She could not afford to doubt him, or ask questions.

  “Not unless he’s dead,” he answered, without turning to look at her.

  She could think of no reply to give, so she stayed silent. She wondered how well Aiden had known Max, and whether they had been friends or merely contacts. Either way, Max was the only person Aiden could trust, which meant he was more than just another acquaintance, someone he had known. She tried to remember other friends he had had in the past, people he had liked, shared jokes or memories with. No one came to mind. Had he deliberately not shared them with her? Had he been protecting her?

  It was nearly half an hour before they reached the shed beside the house Aiden was looking for. He stood outside on the narrow pathway, his face somber in the late afternoon light. The sun was just above the rooftops and the shadows were dense. West-facing windows were sheeted in gold with the light on them. It was what Elena would have called a slum. Surely, this was not where Max lived? Maybe it was where he had run to and been cornered.

  “Let’s get it over with,” she said, then saw an expression on Aiden’s face that she could not read but made her wish she had not spoken so hastily.

  “You can stay out here if you want.” His voice also was unreadable, except that he was not gentle, nor was he afraid. Perhaps Max was not the first contact Aiden had lost.

  “I’ll come.” She made the statement and moved forward as she spoke.

  He met her eyes briefly. “Right,” he said more gently. He led the way through the shed and down a narrow walkway between the buildings, then into a larger yard. There was timber stored there, and huge rainwater tanks, several bits of wood and coal, and an additional lean-to shed. Aiden stood still, looking around. The dustbins were too small to hold anything the size of a human body. He took the lid off the coal bunker. “Empty,” he said briefly. He looked behind it, against the wall, and finally in the shed. Elena went with him. It was obvious that Max was not there, but somebody had been. There was a straw-stuffed mattress on the floor, torn and spilling pieces of itself. Food wrappers had been half eaten, probably by foraging rats. There was a lingering foul odor. The light was pearlescent, almost luminous, fading the walls’ colors and hiding their ugliness.

  “He’s not here,” Aiden said slowly. “But it looks as if someone has been living rough, and probably hiding.” He seemed to struggle for the word he wanted and did not find it in any of the languages he spoke. He turned slowly and his eye caught the water butt, as if he had not seen it before.

  Elena said what she most feared. “We didn’t look in the water barrel.”

  Aiden stared at her. He understood.

  “Help me up,” she said. “I’ll take a quick look. If we don’t, we’ll always wonder.” She met his eyes, dark blue in
the waning brilliance of the air.

  Aiden shrugged and moved beside her, next to to the barrel that was sitting on a wooden platform, raising it so that water could be drawn into a bucket from the tap at the bottom. Without speaking, he lifted her until she was head and shoulders above its rim. Carefully, she raised the lid, but she pushed it too far to one side. It fell, clattering to the ground.

  She saw it immediately: a man’s head with the strings of hair floating on the surface. The rest of him was a dim and distorted shape impossible to distinguish beneath the dark surface of the water. His limbs had to have been bent or even broken to force him into the barrel. Judging by the shape of the body and the smell of the bloating flesh, he must have been there for a week or more.

  She swallowed and felt her eyes blur and her stomach lurch.

  “What is it?” Aiden demanded, gripping her harder.

  “He’s here,” she gasped.

  He let her down gently, then turned her to face him. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure it’s Max, but somebody is there, and I’m guessing he’s been there a week at least, from the way his flesh is—”

  “All right,” he said. “There’s nothing for me to identify him by even if I climb up, but it all fits. I think we can assume the worst, and we should get out of here as fast as we can.” He bit his lip. “Sorry, but we need to avoid all connections he had, and not go by any of the ways he might have arranged for me in the past. We’re really on the run now.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” she asked.

  “No!” The cry was torn from his lips. Then he spoke again, more softly. “No, I’m afraid that might be exactly what the Fatherland Front wants us to do. It would be an ideal way to get rid of us. Clever, really.” He looked at her with a wry, twisted smile.

  The Fatherland Front again. Was he for them or against them? Or neither—just using them for information?

  “But the police can’t—” Then she stopped. She had no idea if this was true or not. But both she and Aiden were foreigners with no help they could turn to. They could disappear into the police system and no one would know. They could not appeal to the British ambassador in Rome. That would ruin her cover for any future use. And in Aiden’s case, he had not even used his real name. They were alone. “There’s nothing we can do, is there,” she said aloud. It wasn’t a question.