In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  Hermann’s eyes widened. The abrupt crash of splintering glass made him stumble backward. His flailing arms pulled the door open as he fell.

  Clara pivoted in his direction as the door slammed into the wall. Her heaving chest, wide-eyed stare, and disheveled hair frightened him. She started toward him, arms reaching out like claws. Hermann scrambled backward, desperate to escape this madwoman who looked like Clara but could not be her.

  “Hermann?” Red eyes glared at him through dark sockets. She blinked twice, then her hand flew to her mouth. “What have I done?”

  Clara turned toward an oblong mirror that hung on the hallway wall. “You poor boy, what a fright I must have given you!” Quickly she combed her fingers through her hair and used the sleeve of her linen nightgown to wipe her face and nose.

  “Hermann?” Clara extended her arms. “Come to me, son.”

  He rose hesitantly to his feet. But now his mother was back. The bizarre creature that had screamed and raged was gone, replaced by the gentle face and hands he loved and trusted.

  “Mamele, please,” he shuddered as he wrapped his arms around her, “please don’t do that again.”

  Her voice was a ragged sob. “I’m sorry.”

  “You hate him?” Hermann pulled away and looked at her with wide, unblinking eyes. “You hate Papa?”

  She stiffened. “I-I can’t answer that, Hermann.”

  He pressed himself against her, drawing a slim tendril of comfort from her nearness. “Maybe he’s like that because he never had a mother.”

  Clara held him at arm’s length. “Where do you get such adult thoughts from, child?”

  He shrugged. “When he used to like us, Papa always talked about how his mother died just after he was born. He never mentions his own papa, so, he must not have liked him very much.”

  Releasing him, Clara turned back to the mirror. “We can’t afford to hold on to the past, Hermann. Your father needs to let go of what was.”

  He slipped his hand in hers. “But what about you, Mama? Are you letting the past go?”

  Clara opened her mouth but closed it again without a word. A rush of pattering feet filled the hallway as two female servants burst through a side door that led downstairs to the kitchens.

  “Are you alright Frau Haber?” The first wiped her hands on a stained apron.

  “We heard a noise, like a crash,” said the other.

  “Yes, thank you.” Clara sucked in deep breath then released it slowly. “I, um, saw a rat.”

  The servants glanced at her and then at the glass that littered the bedroom floor. “Oh, that’s the master’s favorite, the collector’s piece from Venice!”

  Crimson spread over Clara’s cheeks as she gestured to the room. “Stop gawking and clean up the mess, ladies.”

  When the two women had entered her bedroom, Clara dropped to her knees before her son. “Say nothing of this to your father.”

  “But—”

  “Nothing!” She stared at him with intense eyes that were still red.

  “There are some parts of the past that we just can’t give up. You’ll understand that when you’re older.” She kissed his forehead. “Now go to bed.”

  He didn’t protest but quietly turned and slipped away, head hanging and shoulders slumped.

  Clara watched him go, speaking only when he had rounded the corner. “I hate what you’ve made of my life.” She clenched her fists. “I hate our marriage.”

  “But most of all, Fritz,” she spoke through gritted teeth, “I hate you.”

  Chapter 9

  London, Great Britain. March 1915

  Apale crescent moon rode in luminescent splendor above the tormented world of mortals. Its soft glow caressed the black waters of the River Thames, glittering like millions of miniscule diamonds. Heedless of its light, Leila Steele leaned over the railing of Westminster Bridge and stared into the inky depths, her emotions as dark as the churning river that slid toward the sea.

  To her right, the crenellated spires of Westminster Palace gleamed in the moonlight like the bones of a carcass picked clean of flesh. Everything is dying. For a thousand years, monarchs and nobles of Parliament had dictated the lives of millions from behind those walls. But that era was dying and a new order—one ruled by a Kaiser and not a king—would soon hold London in its grip.

  Her thoughts turned a shade darker as images of death flooded her mind. On scorched battlefields across Europe, an entire generation was perishing. Here, alone on this bridge, she was dying—slowly succumbing to the pain of love gone awry.

  Her eyes fell on the ring that Malcolm had given her the night they were married. Four weeks. Their marriage had died before the moon could complete its cycle. She pulled the ring off her finger, then slipped his own dented wedding band from her pocket.

  I never want to see you again. The memory of Malcom’s parting words was enough to make her heart bleed. She had only known him for six weeks, but that was enough time for her to know that he was the man she needed in her life. Now he was gone.

  Leila clenched her fist, feeling the bite of the metal as the rings pushed against her flesh. She could not blame him for doubting her—not when she could give no plausible reason for her actions.

  If it weren’t for my double life...

  She pushed the recriminatory thought from her mind. I am a patriot. Nationalistic pride had compelled her to rise from the ashes of her tattered life and volunteer to fight in the invisible war of espionage. She had been trained for her mission by the best in the Kriegsnachrichtenstelle of Antwerp. For two years before the outbreak of war, she had completed missions that others had deemed impossible. Even after witnessing the ruthless hand of death, she was proud to be German and knew that it was only a matter of time before the black, red and gold flag of her country streamed from the tallest spire of Westminster.

  But at what cost?

  Leila bit her lip and shivered.

  That was the problem. The war had already cost her dear. Nothing could have prepared her for this inexplicable madness called love that threatened to undermine her deepest convictions.

  I never want to see you again.

  She flinched, remembering the look in his eyes. Malcolm would not come back to her; there was no sense in pretending otherwise. She had tried to juggle the roles of both wife and spy. Now her husband was gone and all that remained was her invisible role in the immense theatre of war.

  “Goodbye Malcolm.” The whisper left her lips as she drew back her arm, ring clenched in her sweaty palm. She willed herself to throw it into the Thames but the memory of her husband facing off with his father at Northshire rose unbidden in her mind’s eye, stopping her arm’s downward motion.

  Malcolm gave up everything... for me.

  “I can’t.” Gasping, she clutched the rings against her chest for a long moment. Then, kissing the warm metal, she dropped them both into her pocket.

  The sonorous voice of Big Ben rolled over the bridge. Leila sucked in the chilly air, steeling herself against the emotions that swirled within her. Wiping her eyes, she squared her shoulders and mentally pushed the lovesick wife to one side. It was nine o’clock and Leila the spy had a mission to accomplish.

  “I DON’T LIKE IT, THOMAS. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Robert Hughes, former officer of the Royal Navy and now head of the British Secret Intelligence Service, glared through his monocle at the map of Europe that lay beneath his clenched fist. “The Huns are planning something devious and we’re in the dark as to what it is.”

  Thomas Steele cleared his throat. “I understand Robert, but there’s nothing we can do. I met with the Prime Minister earlier this evening and he shares your frustration. The war has disintegrated into a stalemate that neither side can break.

  “Right, which means the Germans will probably take drastic measures and soon.” Hughes pushed himself upright, his wooden leg scraping against the floor.

  Thomas hesitated but decided to voice the question tha
t burned in his mind. Hughes was a touchy fellow and there was no telling when he would simply clam up. “At our last meeting with the Prime Minister, you mentioned one of the scientists on the German chemist’s team agreed to cooperate.”

  Hughes shook his head. “That ship was sunk before it left harbor. We got a message from him that warns of an expected gas attack but the Ministry of War refuses to act upon the word of a German.” He released a deep sigh. “I can’t blame them, really, I suppose. The whole thing does seem rather dodgy.”

  Thomas’s frown deepened. “Then all we can do is wait and pray.”

  WHITEHALL COURT. Leila approached the elongated palatial structure whose rounded spires towered above the gardens that separated it from the Thames. Grey rooftops, now hidden in the darkness, eagerly strained toward the night sky. It was as though the piercing turrets symbolized the spirit of Great Britain itself—unyielding and resolute. None of the German air force had been able to strike the heart of the city and the towers screamed a silent message of British defiance.

  She paused, slipping into in the shadows to adjust the black wig that covered her hair and to wipe condensation from the lens of her false glasses.

  The heart of British military intelligence was shrouded inside the building before her, clutching myriads of secrets within its tight-fisted grasp. The winner in this war would not be the nation who had the most powerful army; it would be the nation whose spies extracted the most useful information. The unseen war of espionage—not the visible conflict of flesh and bone—was true war. And she was prepared to play her part.

  Werner, anticipating her success, had sent a message through Charles that she needed to discover the identity of the mysterious contact in Berlin. Time is of the essence.

  Her gut twisted. Malcolm had left for Etaples, France. It was only a matter of time before he was sent to the Front where each moment could be his last. While Werner’s message gave no details, she could not escape the feeling that something big, something unprecedented, was about to be unleashed.

  Her mind flipped through possible scenarios as she stepped to the arched doorway, slipped her key into the brass lock and turned the handle. What if Malcolm is already fighting? It had been only a month since he had stormed out of her life but soldiers were often sent to the trenches in less time than that. Swallowing, Leila pushed the disconcerting possibility to one side, stepped into the building’s darkened foyer, then closed the door behind her.

  She walked to the end of the dimly-lit hallway and climbed the lush carpeted stairs to the third floor. The staircase swirled in an elegant spiral and she let her fingers glide along the cool surface of the white marble banister. What if the intelligence I provide plays some part in Malcolm being hurt or killed?

  Leila closed her eyes. The possibility was too abhorrent to contemplate.

  “State your name and business.”

  The guttural voice of a guard jolted her wayward thoughts back to the reality of the moment.

  “Come on Judd, you know who I am.” She replaced the worried furrow in her brow with a flippant smile at the foremost of three guards. No one smiled back.

  “Your name and business.” Judd gripped the stock of his revolver and lurched forward with a menacing growl.

  Leila retreated a step. The sullen bully insisted on interrogating her each night she came to work. If he knew the truth he would tear me apart where I stand.

  “You take your job way too seriously.”

  “I won’t ask again.” His beady eyes narrowed and he tightened his grip on the stock of the gun.

  “Okay, okay, relax Judd.” Leila rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “My name is Annabel Durand.” She had chosen to use her maiden name, Durand, for the simple reason that the best lies were composed mostly of truth.

  “And my job tonight is the same as it’s been every night for the past three weeks. I’m here to clean up the coffee stains and the breadcrumbs and the greasy napkins left by all those sloppy men who couldn’t bother to put their rubbish in the bin themselves.”

  Tossing her head, she placed her hands on her hips and continued her tirade. “Then I’m goin’ up to Hughes’s office to sweep, dust—”

  Judd’s meaty palm flew past her startled face, making the words die on her tongue. His hand smashed against a large, black ant that teetered on the edge of the marble banister. A ghost of a smile touched his thick lips as he examined his stained hand.

  “Not tonight.” His guttural voice was detached, as though she was as inconsequential as the insect he had just killed.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Hughes don’t like ants,” Judd grunted as he wiped his hand on his pants.

  “Apparently, neither do you.” Leila didn’t bother hiding her disgust.

  “Just doin’ me job.”

  “Which is exactly what I want to do so, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  Leila shoved her way past the husky guard and made for the end of the hall where her cart and cleaning supplies were stored.

  “Remember,” Judd’s voice wafted down the hall. “Don’t clean the boss’s office. He’s in a late-night meetin’.”

  She froze. Everyone knew that Hughes was a workaholic, but to be in his office this late was unusual even for him.

  “Really?” Leila spun back to the guard. “Who’s he meeting?”

  Even from this distance she could see that Judd’s lips had curled into a snarl. She clamped her mouth shut. Easy Leila.

  “Forget it.” She threw a casual laugh over her shoulder and turned away. “None of my business anyway.”

  She hurried forward, her sense of anticipation growing with every step. Hughes’s guest could only be a diplomat or politician. She needed to find out whatever was going on in that room.

  Time is of the essence. Werner’s words resounded in her mind like the clanging of Big Ben at midnight. Leila flitted through the offices, the outline of a plan taking shape in her head as she worked. She bustled through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to grab a glass. Finally, she glanced down the long hall. Judd and his cronies were no longer visible. She pushed her cart slowly toward Hughes’s office, praying the squeaky metallic wheels into silence.

  A large commons space separated Hughes’s workplace from the other offices, thus preventing his own employees from hearing what they should not. Leila shoved her cart into the corner nearest to her then strode quickly across the open area. He enjoyed the convenience of having a bathroom—which was off-limits to staff— next to his office and it was to this small, poorly-ventilated space that Leila made her way.

  She gently eased the door open, slipped inside and closed it behind her. Tugging at the small lamp cord near the door, she waited until the bulb’s dim yellowish light filled the room. Leila placed the glass against the wall and put her ear to the glass. The voices on the other side of the wall were muffled but clearly audible. She closed her eyes and listened.

  “Then all we can do is wait, plan, and pray.”

  Leila frowned. That voice. She knew that voice.

  “Pray? And what good will that do, Thomas?”

  Thomas? She sucked in a sharp breath. Hughes’s guest was none other than Malcom’s father!

  “Prayer will end this conflict.” Thomas’s baritone voice punched through the wall. “The real war is not us against them; it is a struggle between faith and doubt. The world has come to rely on the power of science instead of the power of God and what have we to show for our pride? Over a million dead! Is that something to boast about Robert?”

  The rasping sound of a chair scraping across the floor made her flinch.

  “It’s not doubt that’s killing our boys.” She imagined Hughes leaning over his desk, face contorted as he shouted. “Your son won’t face doubt at Ypres next month. Malcolm will face bullets. Real bullets from a real enemy.”

  A low groan escaped Leila’s lips. Her sweaty fingers lost their grip on the glass and it slipped from her gras
ping hands and shattered into jagged pieces on the floor below.

  She staggered to her feet, her heart thudding like a firing machine gun. There was no way that Hughes would not have heard the noise of the broken glass. And if Thomas recognized her—

  The groan of an opening door galvanized her into action. She jerked off her apron and scooped up as many of the pieces as she could, then dropped the shards of glass into the toilet.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall.

  She had six seconds at most.

  Her tongue flicked over her dry lips. Six seconds. It would be enough. She would make it enough. Moving faster than thought, Leila again deposited as many of the broken pieces into the toilet as she could while shaking off the remaining splinters.

  Three seconds.

  After closing the lid, she pulled the lever and heard the water gurgle underneath. She took three deep breaths to slow her heart and made sure the black wig was still in place.

  One second.

  A hand rapped on the door.

  “Just a minute.” She sucked in her breath through her nose, then released it through her lips. Retying her apron around her waist, Leila stepped lightly to the door.

  “Oh, good evenin’ sir.” She pulled the door wide open, positioning her body so that the light from the lamp near the door cast a shadow on the remaining slivers of glass.

  Hughes stared at her for a moment before speaking. “What are you doing in my water closet?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I know you don’t like me usin’ your personal space.” Leila hiked her shoulder blades together in an apologetic shrug. “But I was in the kitchen and this urge just came over me. I think it was somethin’ I ate. It was either make for the water closet or—”

  “Thank you, Annabel, we get the point.” Hughes cut off her flow of words with an upraised hand. He peered over her shoulder “I thought I heard... glass breaking.”

  “That was just me and the john.” She jerked her head toward the toilet. “I had to knock it a few times to get it to work.”