by Anne Perry
He took the car. It was marginally faster than walking. He parked it at the entrance and walked quickly through the gate and down the path between the swathes of bluebells.
Howard was already there. Toby saw him first, pulled the lead out of Lucas’s hand, went racing along the outlines of the path and then through the flowers.
Howard bent and took the lead off him, hugging him for a brief, unselfconscious moment. He rose as Lucas reached them and handed him the lead, coiled up.
Lucas took it. “Well?”
“I saw her. Morning after the book burning…”
“Was she all right?” Lucas’s voice was hoarse, but he could not help it.
“Very,” Howard said drily.
“Stop it!” Lucas snapped. “What…”
“She was buying Reibekuchen at the stall outside the embassy.”
The mundane absurdity of it was not lost on Lucas, but at the moment he did not care. He was about to snap at Howard again, even though he knew it was unfair, and Howard was hurting nearly as much as he was himself.
Then Howard continued. “We walked along the street together, quite a distance, before we were accosted by a bunch of Brownshirts, drunk on their own power. I brazened it out and told the one who stopped us that I was getting her for Goebbels.”
Lucas wanted to strike him. “For God’s sake, man, get to the point,” he said between his teeth.
“They let us go, all apologies. We walked a few yards until we were out of sight. Then she hit me, hard, my head struck the trunk of the tree behind me, and the next thing I knew I was sitting up slowly, with a hell of a headache, and Elena was nowhere in sight.”
Lucas looked at Howard’s face, pale, except for the definite flush as the blood mounted his cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Lucas. I didn’t dare draw attention to her by making any inquiries. I asked generally. I couldn’t afford for anything to get back to Cordell. He’s still head of the station in Berlin.”
“You are sure it was Elena?” Lucas asked, his voice shaking. He could not imagine her doing such a thing. “She couldn’t have known—”
“Of course, I’m sure!” Howard said a little tartly. “We talked about all sorts of things. She’s as English as cucumber sandwiches and tea on the lawn. She quoted from the things you often said she loved, and she no longer looks exactly like her picture, which is good. No one else would recognize her. I told her I knew you and Josephine, but she didn’t believe me. She doesn’t know me, Lucas. We’ve never met, and I doubt you’ve spoken about me to her. I should have thought of that before I went. I should have taken something of yours she’d recognize. And I could hardly draw Cordell into it, damn him!” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to add something, then changed his mind.
Lucas shook his head. “I suppose I don’t know her as well as I thought.”
Howard gave him a twisted smile, but there was real amusement in it. “Well, she’s not nearly as docile as you painted her, which is probably a good thing.”
“Docile?” Lucas was hurt. “Is that what you thought?”
“Perhaps I misunderstood you. She seemed to agree with you, at least on the surface, about pretty much everything.”
“Because I’m right!” Lucas said tartly, with a smile. “Usually. What can we do, Peter?”
Howard met his eyes. “Nothing…yet. I’ve told the men I can trust, but there are damn few of them! The only comfort is that the Gestapo haven’t got her yet. That I know for certain. And she has allies because she’s eluded the Gestapo for days now. Somebody’s looking after her, and it isn’t us.”
“You sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“Walk back with me?” Lucas requested. He wanted to put off a little longer what he would have to say to Josephine. There were many truths he had not told her, but on the other hand, he had never outright lied. This was not a time to begin.
Charles was another matter. And yet when it came to it, he could not lie to him either. He owed him that.
He parted from Howard without any more unnecessary words and drove home to tell Josephine. There was no avoiding it.
She waited a moment or two before she answered, then glanced at his hand, twisted in the thick fur around Toby’s neck.
“She’s got more courage than you think,” she said at last. “And more fight in her. Poor Howard! Remember how many times in the past you told her not to give up hope? Don’t you give up now.”
It was a struggle for her. He could see it in her eyes, in the unnatural firmness of her jaw.
If he replied, the shaking of his voice would give him away. He just took his hand off Toby’s neck and put it over hers.
* * *
—
Telling Charles was a very different matter. They were alone in Charles’s study at his own home. He had papers spread all over the desk, as if he intended to work all evening.
“How the hell do you know this, and not me?” Charles demanded.
“Is that what you care about?” Lucas asked incredulously. “That I heard before you did? Because I have a friend in Berlin who told me. It…” He stopped. Was Charles picking a quarrel because he couldn’t bear to face the truth—that Elena was in great danger? They might lose her, in addition to Mike. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could not mention Peter Howard. Certainly not that he had gone to Berlin and failed to bring her back. “There’s nothing you can do, Charles.”
“Of course there is!”
“It will only draw attention to her, and that is the last thing she needs. When you’ve thought about it for a moment or two, you’ll realize that.”
Charles turned away, hiding his face. “You have no idea what it’s really like.” He was almost choking over his words. “Hitler’s turning into a monster. He’s lost all sense of proportion. The new police force he’s created is out of control. God knows what they’ll do to her if they catch her. We’ve got to find her! Get her out of there. They’re brutal. Looking for Jews has become an obsession.”
“I know,” Lucas admitted. Perhaps it was unwise, but he couldn’t lie to his son. Not now.
“No, you don’t,” Charles said bitterly. “Our man over there, Roger Cordell, tells me the truth now and then. They’ve built a huge camp outside Munich, at a place called Dachau, to keep suspected dissenters: Communists, Gypsies, Jews. The young men who missed the war are spoiling for a fight, to prove themselves, and they’ve only civilians to pick on!” He swung around to face Lucas. “God in heaven, what possessed Elena to go there? Do you know that as well?”
Lucas hesitated. He chose the lie. The truth would hurt and do no good at all. “Not for certain. I haven’t spoken to her, Charles, I only know they suspect her of something she can’t be guilty of.”
“Can’t she? There’s a sort of stubbornness in her…idealism…and she’s hopelessly naïve. I…” He stopped, unable to go on.
“Taking a sniper rifle and shooting someone?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“That’s what she’s suspected of. I told you, it’s ridiculous. She couldn’t do such a thing, even if she wanted to. I’d bet anything she’s a rotten shot.”
“She’s not a shot at all! She’s never handled a gun!”
Lucas did not know what to do. He could not reach out and touch Charles, although that was his instinct. They had not bridged that gap in years. It would be unnatural now.
“Margot might!” said Charles. “She has all the courage in the world, and the temper, but not Elena.”
Lucas did not argue. Charles did not know his younger daughter at all. “I had to tell you, in case someone else did…before…before she’s safely home.”
Should he warn Charles not to reach out to Cordell? How could he explain that?
�
�Don’t get in touch with Cordell,” he said quickly, his mind racing. “They’ll be watching him. The embassy is the obvious place to look.”
“Yes, of course. I do realize that, Father. What a bloody mess!”
Lucas wanted to tell him it would be all right, but not offering platitudes was the one honesty he could afford him. “Yes, it is,” he agreed.
“Father…” Charles hesitated, but the look of urgency was so plain in his face, for once Lucas did not evade it.
“Yes?” He knew what Charles was going to say next. It had been inevitable for years.
“Just how do you know this?”
“I still know people in government.”
“I see…No, I don’t see.” He let out his breath slowly.
CHAPTER
25
The police station was cold and smelled of stale smoke and cleaning fluid. The floor was scratched, its linoleum patchily worn. Elena was taken into a small side room and left standing. When the doors shut behind her, she felt as if deep water were closing over her head. She was so frightened, it was like drowning, except that she was still alive, still breathing, overbreathing, feeling her throat tighten.
Two men entered the room. They faced her, both of them fair-skinned, light-haired. No different on the outside from dozens of men she knew at home. Inside, she imagined them as unreachable to her as those students who had capered around the fires.
Neither of them spoke, they just stared at her. She felt as if she were suffocating. Was this the day she would die?
“I did not take anything from a woman,” she said again. “Anything at all.” Her jaw was so tight, so aching with tension that it was hard to frame the words.
“We know that, miss. What’s your name?” One of the men stepped closer to her, too close. His voice was soft, almost purring, but she could feel his breath on her face. She forced herself to look at him, at his eyes. This was it, the moment she had feared. She must not give away Jacob, Eli, and Zillah. She thought of Ian, lying bleeding on the floor of the railway carriage. Then Mike, the last time she had seen him, in uniform, going back to the battle line. Had he any idea he would never come home? Perhaps she would never go home either.
And then it struck her: They already knew the answers!
“Name?” the policeman repeated.
There was no point in lying. Her passport was in her bag and they had confiscated it. “Elena Standish.”
“Is that English?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing in Berlin?”
“It’s a beautiful city.” She took a breath. Any mistake at all and she would end up doing the one thing she dreaded. It was always at the front of her mind. She had already failed Ian. His death was not her fault, but in a way, Scharnhorst’s was. Not that his death mattered, only that Britain must not be blamed for it. “I lived here when I was younger. My family lived here because of my father’s work.”
“So, you know the city.” There was triumph in his voice. He was still standing too close to her, crowding her. She refused to step back.
“Yes, some of it.”
He looked her up and down. “You must have been a child.”
“It was about ten years ago. I was seventeen when I came, twenty when I left.” So far, this was the exact truth. Always stick to the truth if you can. Easier to remember. Perhaps this was going to be all right.
“What did he do, this father of yours that came to Berlin?”
“He was a diplomat.” No need to tell them how high he was in the service.
“You mean a spy!” The man’s eyes gleamed as if he had made her give up valuable information.
“No, a diplomat. Trying to make things better between our two countries.”
He nodded, as if he agreed with her. He even smiled. Then he slapped her across the face, hard. It stung and knocked her off balance, making her fall back a couple of steps. The pain of it made her eyes water. Fury boiled up inside her. She wanted to shout at him, demand he explain himself. She wished to retaliate, but she did not dare to. The humiliation choked her. What was the best reaction? If she showed how afraid she was, he would know his tactics worked. If she didn’t, it would look like defiance. Next time, he would hit her harder. She moved her tongue around her mouth, tasting blood.
Was there any point in trying to reason with him? Was he beyond reach, too, like the book-burners?
“Is your father here with you?” the other policeman asked.
“No.” Keep it short. Give the bastards nothing else to contradict.
“You’re alone?”
“I’m twenty-eight!”
Another slap. This time she was less startled and it seemed to hurt a little less. What had angered him about that? It was only her age. Perhaps he did not need a reason? Was this what madness was like, the pain, the violence out of nowhere? It stung until she felt dizzy with it, and she wanted to strike him back. It was only the conviction that she would lose, and be hurt even more, that stopped her.
“Are you alone?” he said again, the words slow and careful, pushed between his teeth.
To acknowledge being alone meant that there was no one to help her. It made her even more vulnerable. But this was where they would catch her out. She must not betray Jacob, or the Hubermanns.
“Yes.” Don’t add anything. Don’t give him reason to hit her again.
“Who gave you the gun? Did you bring it with you?” There was a sneer with the last question. “Nobody noticed a pretty young woman carrying her handbag, and a rifle?” Now he was deeply sarcastic. “We are not stupid!”
She wanted to say that the very idea proved that they were, but she knew he would hit her again, perhaps a lot harder. “It would be impossible to walk around with a rifle,” she agreed. “At least I imagine it would. I’ve never tried.”
“Liar!” He hit her again, knocking her off balance, sending her sprawling onto the floor. She sat up quickly, and without thinking put her hand to her cheek. Holding it eased the pain a little, or perhaps she just imagined it did. Now there was more blood in her mouth and running down her chin. He saw her as weak, someone too afraid to stand up for herself. She could see it in his eyes. She stood awkwardly, holding on to the chair, and then sitting in it, a little dizzy, forcing herself to look at him.
“I don’t have a rifle! Or any other gun,” she said, stumbling a little over her words because her mouth hurt. “And if I had tried carrying around such a thing, as you said, you would have seen it.”
“We found it in your room!” he said triumphantly.
“In the hotel? Anyone could have put it there. I didn’t.”
“Then how did you know it was there?” He was smiling now.
“Because you just told me.” She met his eyes and stared straight at him.
He raised his hand to strike her again, but his companion caught it.
“She’s no use to us if she can’t speak,” he warned. “She’s not alone in this. Use your brain.”
The first man shook him off angrily, but he conceded the point.
“If you are not guilty, why did you run away?” the second man asked, his voice softer, his temper well in his control. He sounded as if he was merely interested, no more.
But it was a lethal question. There was no completely innocent answer.
“Because I was in the square and I knew someone had shot Herr Scharnhorst. I saw it happen. I saw the panic. I knew you would be looking for anyone who could be connected with it. I was not. I had no idea such a thing could happen. Or who would do it.” That, at least, was close to the truth. But she could hear the tight, high fear in her own voice. They must hear it, too.
“You didn’t think to hand the gun over to the authorities?” the second man continued, still smiling as if it were a casual conversation.
“No, I tol
d you, I know nothing about a gun, but I was frightened at what I had seen in the square. It was a terrible thing.”
“I believe you. Where did you go, Fräulein…Standish? You say you know the city—do you have friends here in Berlin?”
Now she must invent, carefully. One slip and they would trap her. She had no doubt that they would hurt her, perhaps badly, if they thought it would help them. When she had arrived, she had just been a British tourist, inconspicuous, noticing and photographing the assault on minorities, particularly Jews. She had seen their faces and humiliation, old men stepping off the pavement into the gutter to let Brownshirt youth strut by. No one retaliated, no one tried to stop them.
She had been part of the “no one” who passed by, because Jacob had made her see that intervention only made things worse. They had no power. She burned with rage at the offenders, and pity for the victims. Now she was one of the victims, alone, so frightened her stomach churned and she found it difficult to draw in her breath. Her face throbbed where they had struck her, and she swallowed blood.
She could not hide her fear from them. The only good thing left was to make sure she did not bring anyone else down with her.
“Did you go to friends here in Berlin?” the man repeated.
“No. I just ran.”
“Why? Were you afraid they would not believe that you were innocent?”
He was clever. If she said yes, she condemned herself and them. If she said no, then why hadn’t she gone to them for help?
“I just ran,” she said again. “Then I got lost. I got…turned around. I couldn’t go the way I meant to. I found one house, or I thought I did, but there was no one there that I knew.”
“Were they Jews?” He asked the question without any emotion in his voice at all, nothing to indicate what his reaction would be, whether she said yes or no.
She thought of one friend she had known, in case he asked her. Better to have someone in mind. “No, they were Catholics.”
“And you thought they would help you? Or did you not plan to tell them that you were being hunted for murdering Herr Scharnhorst?”