Leila shifted so she could see his face. She wanted to read his emotions when she shared her plans. “That may be, but I know that God wanted me to confess my wrongs. Now, thanks to you, I’ve been able to do so.”
Leila straightened and glanced behind his back. No one was within earshot. She had been mulling over an idea since they left the hospital and felt that now was the time to secure his help. “Thomas, you asked me once to help the British in their fight. I’m ready to do that.”
Thomas tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowed. “You would work for the Allies against your own people?”
She pursed her lips. “You and the tenants of Northshire are my people. I have no home but the estate. When I think of what could happen if I do nothing,” she shrugged, “I know that I can’t just sit by. Jenny, Greyson, the villagers—what will become of them all if the Germans win?” Her eyes met his own. “But most of all, what will happen to Malcolm if they win?”
“I don’t understand.” A frown flitted across his face.
She moved closer and laid a hand on his forearm. “The war has changed Malcolm. He doesn’t just hate me because of what I’ve done to him, but because of who I was. He hates me because I served his enemy—the Germans. In that sense he is much like you. He may not know it, but he’s become a patriot.” She squeezed his arm gently. “I need to prove my loyalty, to him and to his country.”
Leila stepped back, and she pressed her point home. “With the right tools, I can decipher any encoded message that they send through the air.”
Thomas considered this for several long moments then nodded his assent. “We’ll get them when we return.”
But then he hesitated. “Are you sure you want to do this? Forget about me and even the people of Northshire for a moment. Is this what you, Leila Steele, want?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “I’m sure.” His fatherly concern was touching. “I’ve too much at stake now. You see, I’m not just fighting to save England, Thomas. I am fighting to save my marriage.”
MALCOLM STEELE WINCED as Eleanor wheeled him out of the hut and into the glaring light of a bright September afternoon. “Why do I always get the feeling that you enjoy causing me pain?”
“Because you deserve it.” Eleanor swung the wheelchair sharply to the right and the wheel bounced against a rock.
“Watch it!” Malcolm rubbed his side and craned his neck to glare at her.
“Sorry!” She hid a smile. “There was a puddle in the way. Do you prefer to get wet and die of pneumonia? I didn’t go through so much trouble savin’ your life just to have you die on me, now did I?”
Malcolm dropped back in his seat, grumbling as the wheels squeaked along. He had seen the glint of humor in her eyes and a part of him was grateful. Eleanor might be a bully but her warm personality eased the pain of his soul just as her attentive care rehabilitated his body.
What would happen if she knew the truth? The thought made him shudder.
“Cold?” The concern in her voice intensified his guilt. He slammed his eyes shut and shook his head.
“You’ll start to warm up in a few minutes when we get you walkin’.” She paused to adjust the support that lay beneath his head. “Three more weeks and you’ll be out of here.”
His eyes flew open. “Three weeks?”
“Yes.” She squeezed his shoulder. “The surgeon feels your recovery is almost finished. You’ve just lost a lot of leg muscle from inactivity, so we’re goin’ to get you back on your feet. Literally.”
Eleanor brought the wheelchair to a halt in an open, grassy area that spread out in all directions for at least a half-mile. Malcolm shaded his eyes and peered at a group of new recruits who trained closer to the far end.
“Hard to believe I was one of them, once.” He shook his head. “I actually thought I could make a successful soldier.”
“And you’re not?” Smoothing out her skirt Eleanor sat on the grass beside him.
He glanced at her. “Look at me! I can barely take two steps on my own.”
“Perhaps the real problem isn’t that you can’t walk but that you’re tired of runnin’.” She tilted her head to one side. “We weren’t made to run from our mistakes, Malcolm.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed.
“I mean that no matter how far you go, you’ll never escape your father... or your wife.”
She brushed the backs of her knuckles against the tufted grass. “Even now, despite knowin’ my husband is dead, it still seems like he’s alive somehow... somewhere.”
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “And Abby? Well, I know she’s with Jesus and I’m goin’ to her someday.”
Looking up, Eleanor touched his arm. “My point is that, when you love someone, no matter how badly they’ve hurt you, you can’t stop lovin’ them back.”
Malcolm recoiled. “You have no idea what Leila did to me.”
“Could it be worse than what you’ve done to Christ?”
“What?” His brows bumped together in a scowl. “All He offers are rules and empty promises. I’m sorry Eleanor but your child is dead. There’s no heaven, and no baby waiting for you in the sky. It’s just a bunch of religious babble, a-a mental way of dealing with grief.”
“Malcolm.” Eleanor pushed herself to her knees. “Are you happy?”
His mind reeled under the impact of her simple question. Happy? My wife betrayed me, my father is committing treason, I almost died... happy?
“Are you?” She gripped his hands in her own. “Answer me.”
He hung his head. “No.”
“You talk about empty promises, but I’ve already seen them fulfilled. Christ promised peace in the middle of the storm.” Her voice cracked. “My child is dead. My husband is dead. But I know that God’s promise to be with me is true. Who else could’ve guided my hands during your operation?”
He stared at her. “You’re a nurse, that’s what you do.”
“No, Malcolm.” She shook her head. “I’d never operated on anyone before. The most I had done was watch others.” Eleanor squeezed his clammy hands. “So many have died in that crammed, dirty little hut, but God spared your life against all odds. There’s a reason, Malcolm. You need to learn to walk... with Him at your side.”
He clamped his hands over his ears. “No. You don’t understand. That’s not possible. H-he won’t want me.” He felt the blood drain from his face as he locked eyes with her. She was more than his nurse; she had become a friend. “You Eleanor. Even you wouldn’t want to be near me if you knew what I’ve done.”
She rose and stooped over him, placing her arm underneath his own. “There’s nothing too bad to be forgiven, Malcolm. I hope you see that someday.” He pressed his palms against the handles of the chair and slowly, painfully pushed himself upright.
Eleanor held his arm for support as he took his first tentative step forward. “Without God at your side you’ll fall but, with Him, you’ve got a chance.”
Malcolm gritted his teeth. “I don’t need your God. I don’t need Leila. I don’t need anyone but myself.” He shuffled forward, choosing to ignore the fact that he clung to her arm each step of the way. She was quiet as they made their way in a large circle then returned. Malcolm collapsed into the wheelchair.
“That was a good beginning.” A bright smile crossed Eleanor’s face as she propped his feet on the footrests. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Exhausted, Malcolm just slumped back in his wheelchair and groaned.
Chapter 31
London, Great Britain. August 1916
The telephone, a black rectangular device that sat in the center of Hughes’s desk, rang six times then fell silent. Hughes adjusted his monocle and kept his eye on his wristwatch. After precisely forty-three seconds, it rang again three times then stilled. Twenty-one seconds later, the phone’s shrill cry filled the room once more and, on the second ring, he picked it up.
He said nothing but waited in silence while scribbling a few words ont
o a small white napkin which he slid across the table to the only other occupant in the room, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, Mr. David Lloyd George.
My agent at Northshire Estate is on the telephone.
The Prime Minister squinted at the scrawling letters then grunted as he pushed the napkin back to the spymaster. Holding the telephone receiver between his ear and his shoulder, Hughes tore the note into miniscule pieces. He would burn them before leaving for the night.
A guttural voice on the telephone filled his ear. “He’s come back, sir. Arrived tonight after bein’ gone for nigh on two weeks.”
“Alone?”
“No sir.” Jones’s voice lowered to a hiss. “There was a woman with him. Blonde. A real beauty. First time I ever clapped me eyes on her. Believe me I’d remember that one!”
Hughes sat straight up in his chair. “Description. As detailed as possible.”
“A real looker, Boss.”
“Yes, I’d gathered that the first three times you said it.” Hughes rolled his eyes. “What else did you notice?”
“Oh, right. Sorry sir. She’s um, young. I’d say in her early thirties.”
“Did you get a look at her eyes?” Hughes reached into his pocket, pulled out his notebook and flipped to his description of Mr. Rettinger’s vanished tenant. Blonde. Pretty. Green eyes. Mid-thirties.
“No sir,” Jones’s Cockney accent grated in his ears. “And again, I’ve never seen her on the grounds before. But old man Steele disappeared the day I arrived and hasn’t resurfaced until today. One of the other agents here at Northshire, told me he heard talk of a Lady Steele down in the village. Said the locals described her as havin’ green eyes, sir. She’s some kind of relation to Sir Thomas, but nobody seems to know just how. She’s quite popular with the locals, if I might say so, sir.”
The crease in Hughes’s brow deepened. Jones description was too close to Rettinger’s to be a coincidence. A woman matching the description of a wanted German killer is Thomas’s relative. “Anything else?”
“No sir. That’s all.”
“Good man, Jones. Tell the others to be vigilant. If anything happens—anything at all—contact me sharpish. Clear?”
“Right, sir. Cheerio!”
Hughes placed the receiver back into its cradle, then twisted in his chair toward the Prime Minister.
“I assume the news is not good.” David drummed his fingers on the table.
Hughes let his monocle drop as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid not.”
“Well,” David reached into his pocket and retrieved a cigar, “bad news is always best received with a smoke.” He lit the cigar and gestured for Hughes to begin.
“Thomas left the country for two weeks in the company of a woman who appears to be Mr. Rettinger’s vanished tenant based on the description Rettinger gave us. He knew the woman as Leila Macleod, but my man Jones believes she is related to Thomas.”
David let a plume of smoke escape his mouth. “I never knew Thomas to have any family but his son.”
“Correct.” Hughes propped his elbow on his knee and leaned forward. “Either Malcolm has married the woman or Thomas is pretending that she is family in order to keep her real purpose a secret.”
“Two weeks you say? That’s enough time for a trip to the continent.” The Prime Minster tapped his cigar in an ashtray on the desk.
“Exactly my concern. Our agents here in Whitehall discovered that a telegram was sent to Northshire Estate from the continent about an hour before Thomas and this Leila Macleod—or Leila Steele according to the village tenants—disappeared.”
David was about to pop the plump cigar back into his mouth, but Hughes’s words froze his hand mid-action. “You don’t suppose...?”
Hughes nodded. “What if she is a German agent, masquerading as a loyal subject of the crown? She receives a telegram telling her to meet a contact across the Channel and answers the summons.”
“With Thomas in tow?” David’s voice held more than a hint of skepticism.
“What if Thomas knows she’s the Kaiser’s pawn and is part of the conspiracy to overthrow the empire from within?”
Hughes spoke faster now, the outline of a nefarious plot taking shape in his mind. “The telegram that was sent to Northshire could not have been to inform Sir Thomas of his son’s death. I’ve personally verified the papers. There’s been no mention of a Malcolm Steele on the lists of the dead. No, Malcolm is very much alive which begs the question, why would Thomas leave so abruptly and for so long?”
David tossed the cigar on the table. “But this is Thomas we’re talking about.” He rose abruptly and began to pace. “Our friend! A good man.”
“One could argue that Caesar was a good man before power corrupted him.”
“But Thomas isn’t Caesar.” The Prime Minister glared at him. “What does he stand to gain by collaborating with the Germans anyway?”
Hughes pushed himself upright. “Power under the Kaiser’s rule with wealth and lands to boot.” His wooden leg thumped against the floor as he moved next to the Prime Minister. “It is not too farfetched, David. We are in a precarious position since the Americans insist on remaining neutral in this fight.”
He paused. “The fact is, despite the assurances we give the masses, you and I both know that we may lose this conflict. If we do, loans issued by the Bank of England will be forfeit, a fact which could bankrupt Thomas. He’s playing both ends in hopes of coming through this war financially unscathed. If we, the Allies, win this struggle, Thomas’s already profound wealth will triple once the loans to his bank come due. On the other hand, by doing the Kaiser’s bidding, if the German Triple Entente is victorious, Thomas will have the advantage of the Kaiser’s favor and financial security in the other. He’s a shrewd businessman.”
David scowled. “But Thomas is a hero of England.” He threw his hands up in the air. “A patriot!”
“We said the same of Sir Roger Casement whom we executed for treason just a few days ago.” Hughes words hung in the air like a condemned man from a rope. “If Thomas has been turned by the Kaiser, then we have more than one reason to fear.”
The Prime Minister considered this, then strode back to the desk and picked up his cigar. “I don’t want him arrested. The information is still too inconclusive.”
Hughes nodded. “To do anything now would be to alert the hare that we are on the hunt.” He thumped back to his desk. “Let him think all is well. The fact that my men are still at Northshire means Thomas does not know he is being watched.”
David ground his cigar under his heel and tossed the stub into a nearby waste bin. “Dear God,” he sunk into an armchair, “times like these try the very soul of man.”
Hughes was silent.
“I’m still not convinced but we’ll watch.” The Prime Minister tapped the desk with a firm finger. “Our task is to make Britain a fit country for heroes to live in. If he’s guilty, he’ll be shot. We must not fail the Empire—no matter the cost.”
GENERAL WERNER JAËGER, bereaved father and head of German Foreign Intelligence, slunk into the pub on the corner of Tooley Street in London. As was his practice before entering a room, his eyes darted around and, satisfied that no one he knew was inside, he made his way into its dank interior, making his way around the rectangular wooden tables toward the bartender.
“Beer.” Werner never said a word more than was necessary. His command of the pathetic English language was flawless, but one could never be too careful. A misused word, a hint of an accent—these were the small axles on which the fates of the best agents turned for the worse.
He nodded his thanks, tossed his payment on the counter, gripped the cold mug of amber liquid in his hand and trekked across the room to a table in the far corner. The pub was largely empty, and Werner was appreciative of the quiet. He needed quiet now more than ever for his head clanged with a ceaseless barrage of cranial activity.
He closed his eyes, letting the sharp taste settl
e in his mouth. It was the taste of failure. Sixteen months after he had left Berlin, Leila’s trail had gone as cold as the mug in his hand. With a harsh grunt he gulped down the liquid. His failure had not only stung his pride but his reputation. Berlin had sent an encoded message via shortwave radio six months ago demanding his return. Werner had ignored the message.
The knowledge that his son remained unavenged was devastating, consuming his mind and eradicating his sense of priorities. Nothing mattered now. Nothing but stopping that pretty face from smiling again. Nothing but stopping that sultry mouth from spilling dangerous secrets.
If she hasn’t already.
But no, that was unlikely. If London knew the truth behind Berlin’s Operation Herkules, a diplomatic crisis of epic proportions would have erupted. The Americans would have already joined the war effort and other neutral nations, Switzerland for example, would have also taken the Allies part. It was safe to assume that, whatever her reasons, Leila had not divulged the details of the plot.
At least, not yet.
Werner placed the glass mug on the table. How was it possible that one of his own agents could evade the most thorough investigation he had ever launched? He had personally combed through every inch of London that Leila could possibly access. His mind flitted through a list of dependable German agents inside Britain. None had any new information. The girl had vanished like the mist that clogged the mornings of this miserable little island!
He scowled into his glass. Berlin needed him. Department 3B needed him. But he could not go back. Not without proof that she was dead. Not only would the personal failure be too great, but it was clear that his position as head of security would be terminated. Who would follow a man that could be thwarted by his own underlings? No doubt his prolonged absence had already damaged his reputation.
Leila. His mind scrambled to unravel the puzzle that had eluded him for months. If not London, then where?
Werner’s shifting eyes fell on a tan, dog-eared book that leaned against the frame of a window adjacent to him. He squinted at the title on the spine. Sherlock Holmes in the Sign of the Four. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Sherlock Holmes?” He had always admired the detective’s raw cunning. In some ways it was much like his own.
In the Shadow of Your Wings Page 32
