Momentary silence filled the room once more as she digested this plan.
“And Hughes?”
“Hughes is not in a tolerant mood, not with so many dead at Ypres. The country is baying for German blood and any mention of you now will only get you killed. I won’t say anything to either the Prime Minister or Hughes, at least not for the moment.”
His eyes narrowed. “I cannot pretend I am not hurt by what you have done Leila. You manipulated my son’s heart. You violated my trust.”
He let those words sink into her mind and then gentled his tone. “But I respect you for the decision you made. As a soldier, I know that refusing orders could not have been an easy choice to make. Still, it will be difficult to rebuild that trust.”
Leila stepped closer. “You once asked me for a truce, a temporary cessation of hostilities between us. Now, I am asking you for outright peace. I don't want to be your enemy, Thomas.” Her eyes welled up again. “I want to be what I was meant to be—your family.”
Thoughts swirled around his mind like leaves in a summer storm. At first, he had despised Leila’s duplicity, but her actions today had displayed remarkable strength of character. The bombardment of murky revelations made his head swim, but one thing remained clear. There was a possibility that, with Leila at his son’s side, Malcolm could find his way.
“I suppose I owe you my life.” He slipped his hands together behind his back and rocked back on his heels, the beginnings of a plan taking root in the fertile soil of his mind. “Therefore, I am willing to consider the possibility. But,” he held a warning finger before her face, “full transparency and a willingness to cooperate are my terms.”
Leila’s eyes narrowed. “Cooperation between a German and an Englishman?”
“My faith teaches me that all things are possible to those who believe.”
“In what do you believe, Thomas?”
“I believe in truth. I believe in new beginnings.” Thomas paused then finished his thought. “I believe... in you.”
Her green eyes glinted. “I don’t know how you could. You're right, I betrayed your trust.” She shook her head. “I regret deceiving you and, God knows, I wanted to tell Malcolm the truth.”
“Will you agree to my terms?” Thomas pressed closer, eyes intent on her face. He wasn’t ready to welcome her with open arms, not yet. But he was a business man and he recognized that the woman before him was too valuable an asset to throw to the wolves.
“I am willing to look beyond who you are and what you have done.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want to see your life thrown away, which is exactly what will happen if you try to leave England now.”
Leila pressed her lips together. After a long moment she nodded. “Then once again, Sir Thomas, we have an agreement. No more secrets. No more lies.”
Thomas’s eyes probed her face. He wasn’t sure how much he could trust her, for trust was a fragile thing that, once broken, required time to rebuild. But he was willing to give her the chance to begin again.
“I suppose I should thank you, Leila.”
“Thank me?” Her brow crinkled. “For what?”
“Well, if you had chosen to obey your orders, I would probably be a corpse.”
“You’re right. You would be.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Leila’s lips. “Consider it an act of good faith, Thomas. My first step toward a new beginning.”
Chapter 22
German Military Headquarters at Castle Pless. May 1915
Werner Jaëger settled into a plush forest-green armchair that was conveniently positioned outside the office of General Erich von Falkenhayn, head of German military. Squaring an ankle over his knee, he extracted a newspaper from the black briefcase at his side. The paper, a copy of the British Daily Express, had been forwarded to him by a contact in London. Although the paper was about two weeks old, it did not contain a single wrinkle or dog-eared page.
Werner glanced at his wristwatch. Twenty-five minutes past the hour. His meeting with the general was not scheduled to begin for another five minutes—more than enough time to plot the end of a traitor’s life.
Flipping to the desired page he focused on the gruesome image of Christophe’s bloated body. GERMAN SPY MEETS TIMELY END, the headline screamed. Werner let his eyes roll through the short article once more, though by this time he could have recited the passage from memory.
Mr. John Rettinger had a rather nasty shock yesterday morning. Just before breakfast, the landlord caught a whiff of a very unappetizing odor. Upon determining that the stench was NOT his wife’s cooking, Mr. Rettinger decided to investigate. He followed his nose to the door of a flat rented out to a certain Ms. Leila Macleod. The young lady in question had not been seen for several days by the landlord or by his wife.
When there was no response to his knocks, Mr. Rettinger retrieved a spare key. Upon entering the room, he was bowled over by the smell of a decomposing corpse. The man had been shot through the chest twice.
Authorities claim that the man had been killed at least four days prior to his discovery. While the victim remains unidentified, police do believe that he was a German spy or sympathizer based on a cryptic note found in his pocket. The Ministry of War has confiscated the document and refuses to comment on this matter. Citizens are advised to remain vigilant and report anything suspicious to the local authorities.
Werner squinted as he studied the image, noting the two neat bullet holes that were faintly visible beneath Christophe’s breastbone. Then he replaced the paper, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers together.
His suspicion had been confirmed in the most brutal of ways. Leila had betrayed her people, doubtless letting emotions cloud her better judgment. She would anticipate him sending men after her, knowing that he would never allow a rogue agent to share secrets with the enemy. But she would not expect Werner to come himself.
Under normal circumstances he would have sent someone else to finish her off. But this was not a normal circumstance. This was a matter of personal honor and revenge. When Leila had squeezed the trigger, she had ensured her own demise.
A spasm of pain flashed across Werner’s face as the image of the bloated body in the photograph filled his mind. “I’m sorry, my son. You were not ready for such a challenge. The fault is mine.” Christophe had been at his side for years and Werner had felt it time to grant his son freedom to stretch his wings.
Perhaps it was paternal pride that had clouded his judgment, leading him to pit his son against the best agent he had ever seen. Regardless of the reason, one cold fact remained: his misjudgment of Christophe’s abilities had proven fatal. Now, there was only one way to atone.
“General Jaëger?”
His eyes flickered open.
Erich von Falkenhayn stood before him, arm raised in salute. Werner rose, returning the gesture.
“Accept my condolences on the loss of your son.”
“He is only lost to me if I fail to avenge him.”
His superior gave a crisp nod. As a military man of the old order, Falkenhayn would understand the sentiment that drove Werner. “Shall we enter my office?”
Werner followed him inside but remained standing as he took in his surroundings at a glance. The walls were coated in a sea-green paper, patterned with damask filigrees. Four sets of windows that reached up to the soaring ceiling lined the right side of Falkenhayn’s office but most of the light was blocked by closed, heavy cream drapes that fell to the ground. At the center of the room sat a solid desk topped with a marble surface the color of a stormy sea.
Closing the door, Falkenhayn turned to him. “What do you intend to do?”
Jaëger spoke in soft, clipped tones. “I have a small matter to handle this evening. I will be in Great Britain within two days.”
“The “small matter” you mention involves Herr Haber?”
Werner jerked his chin downward. “My son believed that Frau Haber will take advantage of this evening’s fe
stivities to slander her husband’s name or worse. I share his opinion.”
Falkenhayn strode around his desk then slipped into an ornate leather-padded chair. He was a thin man, with close-cropped graying hair, that seemed too small for the black, decorated uniform he wore. His dark eyes held Werner’s gaze only for a moment before darting away. “Please,” he gestured, “explain.”
“The test of her husband’s chemical weapons at Ypres was a brilliant success, ja?”
“Of course.”
“If I were a vengeful wife, there could be no better opportunity to humiliate or assassinate my husband than on the day of his greatest triumph.”
Falkenhayn arched a bushy eyebrow. “Forgive me General Jaëger but you are not, as you say, a ‘vengeful wife.’”
Werner allowed his lips to form a thin smile. “The secret to ferreting out an enemy is to become the enemy. At least in the mind.” His smile faded. “That is how I will destroy my son’s killer.”
A pause filled the spacious room.
“Are you certain of this?”
Werner shrugged. “Are you sure that you will live to take another breath?”
With a deep frown, Falkenhayn fidgeted in his seat. “Well, I, um, suppose precautions are always in order. We dismantled Haber’s bodyguard after the battle in Flanders. He leaves tomorrow for Galicia on the Eastern Front. Do you believe he needs protection there?”
“No. If I am correct, the traitor in our midst will be stopped tonight.”
“You will be able to handle this situation discretely?” General Erich drummed his fingers on the desk.
“I am a Jaëger.” There was no need to say more.
The general tilted his head from side to side, then leaned back in his chair, hands pleated over his flat stomach. “So be it.”
His obvious uneasiness made him weak. Werner despised weakness. He had just turned away when Erich spoke again.
“General Jaëger, during your absence I will bring your office under my direct supervision.”
Werner did not bother to turn around. “So be it.”
CLARA HABER JABBED the last pin into the top of her bun and then examined her reflection. The black crepe dress that covered her body from neck to ankles accentuated the stark pallor of her bony cheeks.
She was dressed for a funeral instead of the celebration that would begin in a few hours but nothing in her closet could be better suited to the occasion. This was a season of mourning and, if all went as planned, there would be reason for tears soon enough.
A soft tap at her door made her turn in a half-circle.
“Enter.”
Hermann shuffled into the room his eyes widening as he took in her somber attire. “Mamele, has someone died?”
Clara lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. “Yes, son. A good many people have died. At your father’s hands.”
“What do you mean?” Hermann shook his head and backed away.
Clara stepped forward, laying a palm on each of her son’s shoulders. “Thousands of men have died so your father can become famous.”
“Papa?” He stared up at her, the light fading from his eyes. “A murderer?”
A smile slid across Clara’s face. “Yes. But he’ll never kill anyone again, Hermann.” She giggled and pulled him close. “Your mother is going to fix it all. Tonight. You’ll see.”
“Will you yell at him again?” His voice was muffled, lost in the folds of her dress. “In front of everyone?”
She shook her head, still smiling. “No, son. Not this time.”
He expelled his breath and pulled away. “Good. Then maybe he won’t hit you.”
“Believe me, Hermann.” Clara turned him around and pushed him toward the door. “After tonight, your father will never hit me again.”
Hermann turned around and crinkled a brow. “He’s downstairs now, with some woman, if you want to talk to him.”
Clara froze. “What?”
“There’s a pretty lady downstairs with Papa now.” His head drooped. “I saw him kiss her a few times and—”
“Go to your room Hermann.”
Shoulders slumped, he nodded mutely and stalked out of the room.
Clara screwed her fists into balls as she stormed down the stairs. The heartless, unfaithful, contaminated swine. Bringing her into my very house!
She rounded the corner just in time to see Fritz pull a tall, curvaceous woman into his arms. Fritz’s back was toward his wife, but the woman’s eyes slid to Clara’s face as she clambered down the last step. She coldly ignored Clara, choosing instead to purse her lips for a juicy kiss.
Clara exploded. “Fritz!”
He jerked backward, his lips leaving the woman’s mouth with a slight smack.
“Oh. Clara.” His indolent tone matched the disapproving furrow of his brow as his eyes rolled over her dark dress. “Has someone died or have you forgotten that, in an hour, guests will be arriving to celebrate my triumph?”
Clara flushed, automatically contrasting her own drab appearance with her rival’s vibrant red gown and scarlet lips. “It appears that you already have your fill of admirers.”
“Don’t try to be cynical dear.” Fritz returned to his curvaceous beauty. “You really don’t have the intelligence to do it properly.”
The back of Clara’s neck grew hot. “You dare bring this... this thing into our home and talk to me about intelligence?”
With a smug leer the reptile slithered between Clara and her husband.
“Hello Clara.” She waggled her fingers in front of her oval face. “This thing has a name. I’m Charlotte Nathan and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult the man I love in my presence.”
She leaned into Haber’s arms. “You may not be willing to be a wife to him but, well, Fritz knows that there are other fish in the pond.” Charlotte’s sneer vanished, replaced by an innocent smile. “I’m just glad he caught me.” She looked up at him, batting her eyelashes like a snot-nosed, besotted schoolgirl.
Clara wanted to thrust her fingernails into this woman’s grinning skull and rip her eyeballs out of their sockets. By some miracle she restrained herself. Soon. It will all be over soon. I’ll be free... soon.
Fritz spoke up, his nasal whine setting her teeth on edge. “You see, Clara? The world knows the truth. I am Germany’s rising star. Your fits of petty jealousy will not stifle my glory.”
“Oh yes.” Clara bit off each syllable, her voice rising with each word. “You, Fritz the genius, can devise ways of pulling bread from the atmosphere. You can figure out how to murder thousands using the air they breathe.” She lifted her chin. “But you’re too stupid to know how to keep your family together!”
Her words stung, she could see it on his face. Had they been alone she would have reason to fear the back of his palm as well as his verbal abuse. But he would never show his true colors in front of his newest conquest. He was too besotted by her adulation to dare reveal his dark side. Soon Clara. The final revenge will be soon.
Clara spat in Charlotte’s face. “I call God’s curse on you both. May whatever time you have together be blighted by misery and woe!”
Her voice cracked, and she spun on her heel, unwilling to let them witness one tear. She could hear Charlotte’s disgusted moans behind her.
“If you had just been willing to be a wife to me, none of this would have happened!” Fritz’s furious voice followed her up the stairs. “What do you want from me, Clara?”
She froze and glared over her shoulder. “I wish you were dead, Fritz. Do you hear me? I want you dead. As my heart is dead!”
He clenched his fists. “And I want you out of my life! If only you were dead, I would be free. Free to pursue knowledge.” His arm curved around Charlotte’s waist. “Free to pursue my passions without your petty interference!”
A sob caught in Clara’s throat as she rushed into her bedroom. Slamming the door behind her, she jerked open the drawer and retrieved the revolver.
“Calm down, Clara.
This is not the time for crying.” She wiped tears from her eyes to clear her vision, forcing herself to breathe. Quickly she loaded the bullets into the gun. Then, setting it to one side, Clara sat at her desk, retrieved a piece of paper, and began to write, voicing the words that came from her soul.
“What I do tonight,” she scribbled hurriedly, “I do for myself and for the good of all humanity.” Tears ran down her nose and dripped onto the paper, making the ink run. “My death will destroy my husband’s kingdom of glass. It will haunt him forever and he will never again produce another cloud of poison. Remember me for good, oh my God.”
Chapter 23
The Haber residence. Berlin, Germany. April 1915
The sun slipped into a pool of blood as Werner Jaëger exited the car outside the Haber mansion. Judging by his appearance, it would be impossible to guess that he had just lost his only son.
He had left his uniform at home and opted to wear a finely-cut black suit instead. His white shirt hung open at the collar and his trim, silver-streaked hair had been freshly combed. No tears dampened his cheeks; his gaze was clear, and his voice was steady. Grief was locked in a secret compartment of his heart that only he knew existed.
“Wait for me around the bend,” Jaëger instructed the driver just before letting the heavy door of the Vauxhall close with a quiet thud. The driver nodded and rolled off, leaving the spy in front of a sprawling white stucco mansion whose black shutters glowered at him like ravens about to devour a corpse.
Werner gripped his briefcase and glided up the long, narrow walkway that opened into a circular courtyard at the main entrance of the home. A serpentine line of guests wound around Fritz Haber and a stunning beauty that Jaëger concluded could only be Charlotte Nathan. The drab green of Haber’s military uniform made the brilliance of her scarlet gown all the more noticeable.
His eyes darted around the couple. Haber’s wife, Clara, was nowhere to be seen. The front of the home was open, providing no cover for an assassin but unease stole into his heart all the same. In times such as these, he always preferred knowing the location of his quarry. Where is she?
In the Shadow of Your Wings Page 22
