In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  She looked up at him, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek but Haber pulled away, with a glance at his wife’s body. “Perhaps it is best that you leave.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte stepped back, brow furrowed. “I see. Well... as you wish.”

  She had begun to walk toward the house when Haber called after her. “Charlotte, I will need someone to help me look after Hermann. We will talk again... soon.”

  Charlotte’s spine stiffened but she did not respond. Holding her head high she resumed her march, leaving father and son alone.

  “Hermann.”

  The boy looked at his father who reached out to him.

  “Come here, my son.”

  Hesitating, Hermann shuffled closer and Fritz pulled him against his chest. The words he had shouted only a few hours ago clanged in his skull. If you were dead, I would be free at last.

  “I’m sorry.” A deep sob racked his body and he sunk to his knees by his wife’s dead body. “So sorry!” Too late.

  He had ignored her, ridiculed her... and betrayed her. He touched her clammy forehead and some of her blood stained his fingertips. Fritz jerked back, unable to tear his eyes from the blood on his hands. Too late. His heart crumbled under the weight of his guilt.

  She was dead. Clara was dead. His wife was dead. And now, with her corpse before him and the sight of her blood on his skin, he could not help but feel that he had been the one to pull the trigger.

  WERNER WATCHED FROM the shadows until the last guest had left the bereaved Haber and his son. The sight of the weeping boy put a fresh edge on the pain that knifed through his own heart. He had stolen the life of the boy’s mother to preserve the life of his father. But, though no tears dampened his cheeks, Werner wept in the secret places of his heart. He wept for Christophe, the son that would never know the pride that had filled his father’s heart each time he had entered the room.

  Unlike Hermann, Werner knew the truth of his loved one’s death. He knew the true killer. The only question was where to find her.

  Dismantling his weapon, Werner placed it carefully in his briefcase and slipped toward his waiting car. He would go to London where he would rent the very flat that Leila had vacated. He would live where his son had died.

  From this morbid lair he would spin a web designed to catch the craftiest of flies. Weeks, perhaps months, would pass before he snared his prey but the time away from Berlin would be well-spent if the price of Christophe’s blood was paid.

  Jaëger quickened his pace. Tonight’s fatal events had been a preparatory chase. The real hunt was about to begin.

  Chapter 24

  London, Great Britain. August 1915

  Sir Thomas Steele shifted under Robert Hughes’s censuring gaze. There were several distinct disadvantages to having the head of Foreign Intelligence as a friend, foremost of which was the fact that Thomas was never certain just how much of his private life Hughes had investigated. Does he know about the additional security that I’ve hired? That was almost certain. In times of war, hiring men for protection came at a high cost, one Hughes would doubtless know he had paid. And Leila? That was less probable but was still a possibility.

  He took in the dark, navy blue suit that covered Hughes’s rawboned form. The man was tough with a penchant for the extreme. He trusted few and then only to a point. A year earlier, Hughes and his son had crashed their vehicle on a back roadway in France. The spymaster’s leg had been pinned under the metallic wreckage. Hughes had withdrawn a pocketknife and hacked off his own leg so he could crawl over to help his dying son.

  Thomas’s eyes dropped to the wooden peg that jutted out of the man’s trousers spotting several deep gashes in the bark. The rumor was that Hughes tested new recruits by unexpectedly grabbing a knife during the interview and stabbing his wooden leg.

  If the potential recruit winced, Hughes dismissed them with a cursory, “I’m afraid you won’t do.” He was a veritable legend who had earned every decoration that hung on his chest. Friend or not, if Hughes discovered that he was harboring a German spy, Thomas knew that there would be no mercy. He would be condemned to the ignominious fate of death by hanging at the hand of a friend.

  “I hear congratulations are in order, old boy.” The voice of David Lloyd George, Prime Minister of Great Britain, intruded on his somber thoughts. The three men sat on white, linen-covered armchairs facing each other in a sort of rough triangle. An unlit marble fireplace loomed behind the leader, above which hung an ornate mirror framed with gilded swirling leaves.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”

  David’s moustache twitched. “Oh, don’t be coy, Thomas.” He barked out a laugh and tugged at the sleeves of his brown tweed jacket. “Hughes here informs me that your son, Malcolm, has been promoted to the rank of Sergeant. Demonstrated incredible bravery in the face of the enemy, I hear.”

  Thomas sat still for several long moments, slack jawed then glanced at Hughes. Malcolm? Surely the man had been misinformed. It must be another Malcolm Steele... another son. But Hughes never released information that he had not verified.

  “It’s all rather spectacular, really,” David continued, leaning back in his chair. “The chap saved his entire battalion. I thought surely he would write and tell you.”

  “I-I thank you for informing me, Prime Minister.” Thomas found his voice at last. An act of bravery by his son was nothing short of a miracle. And to save his battalion! This revelation set off a chain of emotional explosions, each more powerful than the last. Shock preceded happiness. Joy yielded to an emotion that Thomas had never felt toward his son until this moment: pride.

  David’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Yes, well, you can thank Hughes for keeping us both informed. I dare say it doesn’t surprise me given the legacy of his old man. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that, eh?” He winked then leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Now, onto the business at hand. Have you considered my request for additional funds for the war effort, Sir Thomas?”

  Reluctantly, Thomas pulled himself away from his reverie. “I have, Prime Minister.” He turned to face the mustachioed leader. “The Bank of England stands ready to support her government in any way possible.”

  “Your confidence is not misplaced.” A reassuring smile easily slid across David’s face.

  “It must make you feel quite powerful to have the government of an empire in your debt.” Hughes’s comment was followed by a prolonged silence.

  “How so?” Thomas turned to him with a shrug. “I do my duty, just as you do yours.”

  Hughes tilted his head to one side, letting the gold-rimmed monocle he wore dangle freely at his chest. “Duty? Yes, here. But some of us stand to profit from the war while others... simply pay the butcher’s bill.”

  Hughes tapped his brass handled swordstick on the ground, emphasizing each word. “Whatever the Bank of England lends will have to be repaid... with interest. It is written that ‘the debtor is slave to the lender.’ If our government owes your bank money,” he ran his fingers through his close-cropped silver hair, “that gives you quite a lot of political clout, wouldn’t you agree Thomas?”

  Thomas’s entire body stiffened. By insinuating that he intended to use his financial backing as a means of influencing the nation’s politics, Hughes tread dangerously close to breaching Thomas’s personal code of honor. His eyes narrowed. “If you have something to say, Hughes, say it and be done with it.”

  Hughes smiled, cat-like. “If you insist.” He leaned forward, placing the tips of his fingers together as he rested his elbows on his knees. “You have recently hired forty well-trained personnel to act as guards on your Estate. Now I realize, old chap, that Northshire is a valuable piece of property, but don’t you think that’s a little excessive, even for a banker?”

  In his peripheral vision, Thomas glimpsed the Prime Minister’s head swing sharply in his direction. So, he had been right. Hughes was monitoring his actions. Wh
at else does he know?

  “What of it?” Thomas shrugged, keeping his voice level. “I am the head of the most powerful bank in England. It would serve the Germans well to have me killed.”

  “Yes, but one cannot help but wonder... why now?” He pursed his lips. “You are becoming powerful, Thomas. You have a small army in one hand and our government in the other. Yes. Quite powerful indeed.”

  Thomas held his gaze. “That is ridiculous. How can you even think—?”

  “My newly-hired cleaner has disappeared, you know.” Hughes’s eyelids were half-closed but Thomas knew the man was mentally compiling a record of each word and facial twitch he made.

  “What?”

  “The woman, Annabelle Durand. You met her in my office. She’s gone.”

  “What is your point, Hughes?” David fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment before producing a thick cigar. “One would think that you are accusing our good friend of manipulating our government and kidnapping your cleaner!”

  Hughes did not acknowledge the Prime Minister’s words. Thomas knew his friend well enough to realize that he was analyzing the two seemingly unrelated events from different angles, probing each element to see if there was any connection. Where another man might see only random dots on a page, Hughes was sure to spot a pattern.

  “One of my bodyguards has also disappeared. A man named Judd. Do you remember him?”

  “Should I?” Thomas kept his face expressionless but unease coiled like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. It was as though he had attacked an enemy while expecting an ally to send reinforcements only to realize that supposed ally had joined the enemy.

  “He’s dead.” Hughes drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Killed by a bullet while on duty, sometime between midnight and three o’clock in the morning.”

  “How do you know?” Thomas squared an ankle over his knee. He was on trial here, that much was obvious, so he would fight with the weapons of clear thinking and calm.

  “He was the only one on duty on the night he disappeared,” Hughes said. “I left the office at midnight and his shift was scheduled to end at three o’clock. He wasn’t there when his replacement arrived but, after close inspection, I found a slight indentation in the wall just behind the spot where Judd would have been standing.”

  Hughes tapped his temple. “The hole was at head height; the caliber of a German bullet. Someone shot him in the head, the bullet passed through his skull, and struck the wall. The killer retrieved the bullet and disposed of the body, probably dumping it in the Thames.”

  The Prime Minister thrust himself out of his chair. “Balderdash! And you suspect the assassin to be Sir Thomas? Really, man, I must insist that you show more decorum.”

  “And his little army?” Hughes’s flat gaze swiveled to the Prime Minister’s face.

  David drew sharply on his cigar before answering. “No doubt Sir Thomas has his reasons. After all he’s right. If the Germans kill him, it could trigger repercussions we don’t want to imagine.” He let the smoke rise past his nose. “I’ve allowed this conversation to continue because you recently uncovered a nest of spies among us.”

  The knot of dread in Thomas’s stomach swelled into a fist. The Prime Minister was referring to the arrest and conviction of Sir Roger Casement, a man who, like himself, was a peer of the realm but had been found guilty of collaborating with the Germans. The sensational news had stoked the fires of anti-spy mania to fever pitch. If Hughes discovered the truth...

  “No one heard a shot which means the killer used a silencer.” Hughes turned back to Thomas. “You recall the German agent, killed by the woman in Mr. Rettinger’s flat?”

  “Ah, yes.” David rocked back and forth on his heels and sucked again on his cigar. “A ghastly affair, that!”

  “The woman also must have used a silencer for no one heard the gunshot.” The hint of a cat-like smile prowled about the edges of Hughes’s mouth. Thomas knew instantly where the man’s thoughts were headed, and he did not like the direction.

  “Rettinger obliged us with a description of his former tenant who went by the name Leila Macleod. Aside from hair color, glasses and the Cockney accent, she is identical to my vanished cleaner.”

  Thomas’s blood ran cold. Calm Thomas. Play the game but be calm. He made a dismissive gesture. “Could it be coincidence?”

  Raising a long, slender finger, Hughes shook his head. “I have long since stopped believing in coincidence, Thomas. Leila Macleod disappeared precisely the same time that Annabel Durand vanished and only a few months before my guard, Judd, was killed.”

  “Again,” Thomas also stood up and moved closer to the Prime Minister, then rested his elbow on the hearth’s mantle. “What does this have to do with me?”

  Hughes looked up at him. The smile had vanished from his face. “I hope nothing, Thomas.” He rested one hand upon his wooden stump. “But it falls to us to defend the realm from all threats.” He glanced between the two men. “I will not fail my country. No matter who it hurts.”

  WERNER SQUATTED NEAR the banks of the Thames, his thoughts moving as swiftly as the dark waters beside him. The moonless skies above rendered him virtually invisible, but he had taken the extra precaution of covering his face with a black balaclava.

  Infiltrating the office of Robert Hughes had been a simple but fruitless task. He had killed the ape of a guard, discretely searched the office for clues to Leila’s whereabouts and disposed of the body before three hours had elapsed. A quick perusal of Hughes’s desk had revealed the man’s cunning. His drawers were empty apart from a set of green pens. Apparently, the head of security kept all important documents on his person or in another location.

  Under the mask, Werner’s nostrils flared. Leila. Four months after leaving Berlin, he had obtained nothing. It would take several more months to comb through the possible hideouts in London. But what if she isn’t in London?

  The thought had occurred to him more than once. Northshire Estate would be an obvious choice, but he rejected the idea. To gain sanctuary at Northshire, Leila would have to confess to Sir Thomas Steele, a man of scrupulous honor, that she was a German spy. Sir Thomas would be only too happy to turn a German agent over to the authorities, particularly after learning that she had married his son only to infiltrate his household.

  No. His son’s murderess was lurking somewhere in the shadows of London, waiting for him to make the next move.

  “I will find you, Leila.” His voice was the soft rustle of a serpent gliding through dry leaves on a forest floor. “Then I will kill you.”

  In one smooth motion, Jaëger rose and spun on his heel, pulling the mask off his face. Once again, he would not sleep tonight. He had to find his quarry’s trail before he lost the scent altogether.

  Chapter 25

  Northshire Estate, Great Britain. August 1915

  Leila bustled through the halls of Northshire Estate, weaving her way around servants who dusted furniture, scrubbed windows and hung decorations on the soaring white walls.

  “Lady Steele,” Jenny staggered beneath the weight of a bronze eagle clutching a sword. “Where do you want me to put this monstrosity?”

  “Jenny, let me help you with that.” Leila tossed the letters in her hand onto a small table and grabbed a corner of the statue.

  “Not... necessary, Your Grace, but that’s kind of you.” Jenny clenched her teeth as she struggled to get a fresh grip.

  “Nonsense.” Leila lifted her end. “We’ll carry the family crest together.” The two women tottered off down the long hallway toward the brightly lit solarium.

  “Lady Steele!” Belinda, the plump cook who seemed determined to shout each sentence, careened around the corner toward the pair.

  “What is it, Belinda?” Leila craned her neck around the eagle’s beak. “Almost there, Jenny. Hold on.”

  “Believe me,” the thin maid spoke through gritted teeth, “I am.”

  Belinda squeezed her bulky frame through the
narrow space between Jenny and the wall. “We can’t make the cake, Lady Steele.” She gasped, wringing her hands together. “We can’t!”

  Leila turned back to the cook. Her red face was dotted with perspiration. “Why not, Belinda?”

  “There’s no more flour in the village! I’ve just come back from there and there’s none to be had. It’s all gone to the war. How can we celebrate his Lordship’s birthday if there’s no cake?”

  Leila jerked her chin toward a nearby table. “Right here, Jenny. Set it down there.”

  With a final grunt, Jenny deposited her corner of the statue onto a circular table that had been placed in the corner of the solarium for this purpose and Leila followed suit. Dusting off her hands, she stepped back to admire their handiwork. “Thank you, Jenny. Well done.”

  “No, thank you Lady Steele.” The maid curtsied. “I couldn’t have done it without your help!”

  Leila smiled and turned back to the cook who shifted her weight back and forth on her feet. As she turned, she caught sight of Greyson in the solarium corner. He dipped his head, which she knew meant he had something he wished to discuss.

  “Calm down Belinda.” Leila laid a consoling hand on the matron’s fleshy arm. “If there’s no flour to be had then we’ll just have to do without it. Everyone is sacrificing these days and I’m sure Sir Thomas will be pleasantly surprised when he returns from London tomorrow.” She squeezed the older woman’s shoulder. “Even if there is no cake.”

  “Well,” the cook sighed as though a heavy burden had just been lifted off her shoulders. “If you’re sure...”

  “I am sure. Now, please excuse me, I must speak with Greyson.”

  Leila turned away and strode briskly toward the butler who waited in the corner for his turn to speak with her. Sunlight streamed in from a cloudless summer sky, making the glass-topped sunroom pleasantly warm. If tomorrow’s weather is a good as today’s, it’ll be perfect for Thomas’s celebration.