by Anne Perry
The door was locked, but Aiden came back to wash and change into his clean shirt for dinner. One of the crew members passed by; Elena took the chance. “I’m glad you’ve come,” she said to Aiden. “I’ll go up and keep your place for you.” And she slipped through the doorway, almost touching him, but smiling at the crewman. It was all over in a moment. She put her hand lightly on the crewman’s arm and walked with him.
Dinner passed with little comment. They talked about all manner of irrelevant things. Elena listened politely, as if she were genuinely interested. She asked questions.
The meal was over just as the sun’s edge dipped below the horizon, the color deepening, staining the water as if it were spattered with blood.
Elena insisted that she be permitted to go up and look at it before the color died away. She asked Aiden to go with her to share the glory and make sure she did not slip or fall in.
He hesitated a moment. She saw the struggle in his eyes, and the second in which he took the bait. “All right,” he agreed, “why not?” He smiled and offered his arm.
Elena looked away quickly. Was she afraid she might read something in his eyes? What? Cruelty? Triumph? Even regret? Don’t be a fool, she told herself. This was no time for emotion. If ever anyone knew that, it was Aiden.
They went up the main steps to the deck. None of the crew was visible. Did they know what he meant to do? Or did they guess and prefer not to be certain?
She touched the comb in her hair, Gabrielle’s comb. She got rid of one of the hairpins so it would slide out easily. She was as ready as she would ever be. All doubt was gone. She knew it was her life or his.
They made their way to the stern, where they had a view of the blazing sunset, uncluttered by ropes or wires or any back railings over the path of fire across the water. The orange of the ball of the sun dimmed at the bottom, where it was already below the horizon. Gold was turning to bronze, scarlet, and crimson.
“I’m sorry it had to end like this,” Aiden said quietly, gripping her hard. “At first you were a bore. Sorry, but that’s the truth. No time for lies now.”
She reached up, as if to push back a stray wisp of hair, and took the comb out. “I can see that, looking back,” she admitted truthfully.
“It’s a pity you became interesting too late.” He looked away from the sunset and directly at her. “But you’ve outlived your usefulness. You’re not so much fun.”
He let go of her arm and she knew that this was the instant. She must use it; the next one might be too late.
“I’m sorry, Elena,” he repeated.
She raised the comb, exposed its blade, and slashed at his throat as hard as she could, high up, just under his ear. Her aim was perfect. The blood gushed out in a fountain, as crimson as the dying sun.
He let out a gasp of surprise and put his hand to his neck. But the cut was deep and long; there was nothing he could do to stem the flow of blood. Rage twisted his face and he grabbed for her with his other hand.
She stared back and then hacked at his hand, catching his arm and causing another deep slash.
He dropped to his knees. There was blood everywhere.
Elena felt faint, as if she was going to be sick. Part of her wanted to help him, even though, in her brain, she knew that it was too late. In minutes, he would be dead. It was irrevocable. It had been either his life or hers. He would probably have broken her neck, as one twists the neck of a rabbit. One crack and it’s done.
She looked at him. The light was gone from his eyes and he fell forward onto the blood-covered deck.
Panic washed over her like a wave. She had done it. She had struck first…and survived. But what was she going to tell the crew? She might be able to heave the body overboard, but she couldn’t get rid of the blood. The first daylight would show it clearly enough. She had not thought of this, before the immediacy of surviving.
Then with a horror that almost stopped her heart, she heard movement behind her and turned slowly, as if she could not feel her limbs. There was a crewman standing six feet away. He must have come up to the deck only moments before. She did not recognize him in the dark. What could she say? What would anyone believe? She tried to speak and nothing came.
The man took a step forward. “We’d better get rid of him,” he said in faultless English. “And then take the lifeboat. It’s ready to go, such as it is.”
She could not move; she could scarcely breathe.
“Elena!” he said sharply. “There’s no time to waste! Somebody else could come on deck any minute. Take his feet. We’ve got to get him over the side.” He moved forward and picked up Aiden by the shoulders and started to lift him. “Move!” he ordered again. “Time to think about it afterward.”
She stared at him, unable to respond. At last she moved, bending to pick up Aiden’s feet, using all the strength and balance she had, and together they lifted him over the rail and let him fall into the water. Within seconds, the white wake of the ship smothered him. When he reappeared twenty feet away, he was staining the water with blood.
The man’s hand on her shoulder was gentle, but only for a moment. “Come on,” he ordered. “It will take both of us to get the lifeboat launched. It’s heavy, and if we get it wrong, we’re finished.”
“Peter?” she said incredulously, feeling as if her mouth were half paralyzed. “What are you—”
“Long story, tell you later. Now move.” As he said it, he led the way back across the deck, toward where the single lifeboat was hanging on its davits. He started to work the winch that would swing the boat out over the side and let it down into the water.
She worked with him, with very little idea of what she was doing, only what seemed to make sense.
“It has to be simple,” he told her. “And quick. No, no, that one!” He pointed to a lever. “Now…down!”
It took them precious minutes before the boat touched the water. In a few more, they were in the boat and reaching for the oars. They sat side by side on the central bench, taking only two or three strokes to get into a steady rhythm.
There was still no sound from the ship.
“Elena,” he said loudly, above the creaking of the oarlocks, “we’ve got a little while before help comes. With luck. I gave the crew a quick shot of brandy from my own flask. It was laced with laudanum, just to make sure they don’t follow us.”
“How…how did you get here?” She gasped for breath between strokes.
“RAF flight,” Peter answered.
“But…how did you know?”
“Don’t talk,” he replied, “just row.” After a moment, he said, “I knew it was all going south. I have other contacts, a few people who owe me favors. It all fell into place, once I realized that Aiden was a loose card…on nobody’s side.”
“How did you know that? And when?” she asked, ignoring his order to keep quiet. She had to know.
“A little before you knew it, I think,” he replied. “I did a favor for a French agent…”
“What?” She was confused, her mind numb with fear and horror. Aiden’s death, the sea full of blood…
“Gabrielle Fournier,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“Gabrielle?” Elena was trying to make sense of this. “You…you knew he was going to kill me tonight? And you…” Further words escaped her.
“I thought it was likely. But I couldn’t catch up with you. The first port, where the ship unloaded, I took a crewman’s place. He’s sleeping it off in the street behind the café. I trusted you would look after yourself. I cut it fine, I know.”
“Is that an apology?” she asked in a shaking voice.
“No. I expect you to do your job well. But I do apologize for sending you to rescue a traitor. I believed him to be loyal, and for that I’m incompetent…and profoundly sorry.”
“It took me until yesterday,”
she replied. “And I knew him better than you did.” She missed her stroke and, catching a crab, the oar bumped over the water, soaking him with spray.
Peter laughed, his voice a little out of control with relief.
“I didn’t do that on purpose,” she protested vehemently, her arms feeling heavier than lead. “Are we going to row all the way back to England?”
“No, of course not. Stop a moment.” He fished in his pocket and took out what looked like a truncheon.
“What’s that?” she demanded sharply. Suddenly she was afraid again. They were utterly alone in the darkness. Nothing but the sky and the water, and enemies far too close by.
“It’s a flashlight, what do you think?”
She could not see his face. The last shreds of light on the horizon were fast sinking into darkness, and there was no sound but the water slapping against the sides of the boat. Then she heard the sound of something high above them.
Peter lifted the flashlight and signaled.
She read the Morse code easily. It had been part of her brief training.
“GOT HER PICK UP PH”
He put the light away and took up the oar. “Row,” he said. “The more distance between us and the steamer, the better.”
“What good does a plane do us?” she asked. “We’re in the middle of the sea!”
“Seaplane,” he said patiently. “Just thank God it’s a clear night.”
They shipped the oars and waited.
The small seaplane landed a hundred yards away, then moved across the water until it was quite close. Elena and Peter picked up the oars again. She was surprised by how stiff she felt, her arms heavy and weak, even after rowing for such a short time, and she was cold to the bone. She struggled as she rowed against the current. When they were alongside the plane, she grasped the co-pilot’s outstretched hand and stepped precariously into the cockpit, with Peter coming immediately after.
They took the seats behind the pilot and his navigator. Even before they settled in, the plane picked up speed across the water. Elena was clutching her handbag as if it were a life raft.
The plane lifted off, the sea dropping away below them, and then did a quick swing to head west over Italy and toward home.
“Just in case they have a machine gun on deck,” the pilot explained, changing course again, although this time into a direct route.
“Good man,” Peter said above the engine noise. “I think they’re armed, and certainly any kind of bullet shot through the engine or the fuel tank wouldn’t do us any good.”
Elena refused even to imagine it.
Peter put his hand on her arm, his touch amazingly gentle. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said with a very slight smile. Any more would have looked as fake as it would feel. “Aiden gave me a list of names. He said it was a copy of his, in case he didn’t make it out of Trieste. I’m not sure it really was a copy.”
“Let me see,” Peter said.
She went into her handbag. The outside was wet and completely ruined, but the inside was waterproofed. She took out her passport with the list folded inside. She gave it to Peter.
He read it, holding it up to the dim cockpit light, then met her eyes. His own eyes revealed shock; they were almost hollow in the unnatural illumination. “Elena, these are people holding real power in England, good people, who are fighting the Nazis. If we had blamed them, we could have ruined some of our best.” His face was ashen in the cockpit lights. “He meant you to give me this. Sweet God, that was close. If this had been given to Bradley, he would’ve used it to shatter any chance we have of stopping this horror. It’s quite different from the list Lucas gave to Gilmour. Sweet God,” he repeated, “that was close.”
“Lucas? Gilmour?” She was confused. “Home secretary, Sir John Gilmour? What does—”
Peter cut her off. “Jerome Bradley is a traitor. How long he has been one, I don’t know. Perhaps always. But Lucas had him arrested, discreetly. We don’t want a scandal, or to give him the chance to talk to people.” Before Elena could speak, he rushed ahead. “Many people who survived in the war don’t want another. For them, it’s peace at any price. That means even helping Hitler. Sometimes, it takes a hell of a lot of courage to see the truth and accept it.”
Elena could not find the words. Bradley? Hitler?
“Lucas will tell you about it when we get you home.” He smiled faintly, a rather lopsided smile, intense in the red light from the instruments. “One day, he might even forgive me for sending you to rescue Aiden. I only did so because I believed he was one of ours.” He fell silent for a moment. “I think that’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”
“Me, too.” She tried to smile and knew it was only half a success. “But I fixed it.”
“You did,” he agreed softly, and this time the smile was whole and bright and gentle. And filled with respect. “You really did.”
To Diana Howie
BY ANNE PERRY
FEATURING ELENA STANDISH
Death in Focus
A Question of Betrayal
FEATURING WILLIAM MONK
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Slaves of Obsession
Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin
Execution Dock
Acceptable Loss
A Sunless Sea
Blind Justice
Blood on the Water
Corridors of the Night
Revenge in a Cold River
An Echo of Murder
Dark Tide Rising
FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
Rutland Place
Death in the Devil’s Acre
Cardington Crescent
Silence in Hanover Close
Bethlehem Road
Highgate Rise
Belgrave Square
Farriers’ Lane
The Hyde Park Headsman
Traitors Gate
Pentecost Alley
Ashworth Hall
Brunswick Gardens
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Southampton Row
Seven Dials
Long Spoon Lane
Buckingham Palace Gardens
Treason at Lisson Grove
Dorchester Terrace
Midnight at Marble Arch
Death on Blackheath
The Angel Court Affair
Treachery at Lancaster Gate
Murder on the Serpentine
FEATURING DANIEL PITT
Twenty-One Days
Triple Jeopardy
One Fatal Flaw
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANNE PERRY is the New York Times bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the William Monk novels and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels. She is also the author of a series featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt’s son, Daniel, including Triple Jeopardy and One Fatal Flaw; the new Elena Standish series, beginning with Death in Focus; five World War I novels; eighteen holiday novels, most recently A Christmas Resolution; and a historical novel, The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Ottoman Empire. Anne Perry lives in Los Ang
eles.
anneperry.co.uk
To inquire about booking Anne Perry for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at [email protected].
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