Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

  They made their way through the frost-silvered garden. At the door to the chalet, she turned to bid him goodnight. She wanted to talk longer with Stefan, but it was very late to invite him inside.

  Still, she lingered. In the moonlight his skin was alabaster. In the magical light, the quiet midnight, she let herself ask, “Have you ever been in love?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Speak to your Irinuska. You can tell me your heart.”

  He was still as a statue. So formal, her Stefan.

  “Perhaps once.”

  She made herself smile, but her heart flared with envy. He had once loved someone. Why, why, had she asked? She could not have him, could not touch him, so he should be free to love another.

  But there it was. Once he had loved someone. The knowledge curled in on itself, settling in her heart like a small, dark stone.

  13

  THE NOLLENDORFPLATZ, BERLIN

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28. Kim stepped off the electric tramway. A heavy fog rolled through the plaza, smearing the light from the gas lamps into tufted halos. It had been no problem to find her way to the Nollendorfplatz, for she did love transit timetables, even German ones.

  It was nine on a night when Alex had left for a function, and she was hunting down a woman who might be a criminal, one who offered information in return for asylum. That was the opening gambit, and Kim wanted to play out the hand. The next step, Hannah Linz had said, was to place a calling card in a mailbox, signifying Yes, we can talk.

  The coat she wore, gray wool with a mink collar, was one she had found in a household armoire. It was made for a larger woman, the one in the painting, she suspected, but it looked fine if she let it swing open. At one level it didn’t seem right to be wearing it, but in the service of Nazi resistance, she felt it would be approved. The blue velvet beret finished her disguise, not that it would throw off the SS if they were interested in her. Her hunch was that Captain Nagel had been no more suspicious of her than he was of everyone. He had offered her a ride to shake loose any motivation she might have for befriending his wife.

  Nonetheless, she watched for a tail, possibly Gestapo agents in plain clothes. The Gestapo, the SS—all under Heinrich Himmler—each feeding the objectives of the other like the family of outlaws they were. She reminded herself that despite their growing reputation, the Gestapo was not the omnipotent secret force some believed. Underfunded, spread thin, they could not be everywhere. They targeted their brutality, relying on private citizens to provide denunciations. Surely there was no one in Berlin who could denounce her.

  Nevertheless, a look in a shop window to check out the reflections from the street, to memorize clothing, faces.

  Leaving the plaza, she headed for a side street lined with imposing apartment blocks. When she got to the address on Hannah Linz’s card she found herself in front of a cabaret. A short flight of stairs led to a shallow apron of cement. The address stenciled on the grimy window: CAFÉ UNTEN, or Café Below. Music pulsed from the club, an easy jazz mixed with laughter from within.

  Couples lounged on the steps and leaned against the wrought-iron fence along the pavement, sipping cocktails brought from inside, their coats open to a chill breeze. A few steps away from the nightclub, complete darkness; there, a couple embraced.

  While reconnoitering, she used a compact to apply her lipstick and pretended to watch for a car. After a few moments she descended the stairs, pushing through the crowd and into Café Unten. The mailboxes would be inside the door, if she even had the right place.

  The entryway gave directly onto a deep room with a bar along one side. Beyond were tables and a dance floor, with the band just out of view. She stopped at the door, taking stock of the place, noting dapper men with rolled-up sleeves, women in casual dresses waving cigarettes in holders as they talked—a busy bar flanked by a long mirror. But no mailboxes. When she turned to leave, she bumped against someone.

  “Oh, sorry!” she said.

  A barrel-chested young man with slicked-back hair smiled cheerfully. “If he’s stood you up, would you like to dance?” English with a German accent. “I noticed you waiting outside, and now here you are.”

  Entirely too much interest. “No thanks, I’m meeting someone.” She smiled and turned to the door.

  Out front on the below-grade cement entryway, she noticed for the first time that there were two sides of the building, a feature she had missed from the crowded street level. She walked toward the darker part of the frontage where she found another door, perhaps leading to apartments. The door opened to her push. She was in a tight hallway with a staircase leading up, and though the entryway was illuminated merely by a distant wall lamp, she made out a line of mailboxes. Running her hand along the row, she found that they had labels pasted on, impossible to read in the semidark. She patted them and found a smooth one without a label.

  She dropped her card in the slot. It was not the card her contact was hoping for—Alex’s—but it might be the one she needed. Of course, the head office had warned her off Hannah Linz. But they didn’t know about Captain Nagel’s spill, so she reasoned she must reevaluate her instructions.

  On the fog-shrouded street once more, she headed back toward the Nollendorfplatz, at this distance a mere blur, as though it were a fathom under water.

  Someone hailed her from behind. “You are leaving?”

  She turned. The man who had spoken to her in the cabaret caught up with her. “We have both been jilted, I think,” he said in English. He cocked his head. “We might commiserate.”

  “In there, how did you know I spoke English?”

  “Ah. You said ‘sorry’ when you stepped on my foot, not ‘Entschuldigung.’ ”

  The sound of accelerating cars. She looked up to find several motorcars converging on the club from different directions.

  “Herrgott noch mal, die Gestapo,” her companion said, throwing his cigarette down and watching as the doors flew open and men in leather overcoats charged out, brandishing guns and shouting for people to assemble.

  Here, at the edge of the proceedings, in the masking fog, she quickly ran through her options. Stay, reveal her identity, have the Gestapo contact the embassy to say that they regretted picking her up. It would scream amateur to Duncan and the station. And if they were looking for Hannah Linz . . . that was a connection she did not wish to establish, no matter how tenuous.

  Several of the agents had run down the steps toward the cabaret; others remained on the street. The music halted and loud voices could be heard from within. She began backing off.

  “Not a good idea,” the young man said. “There will be trouble if you leave.”

  An imposing figure emerged from one of the motorcars and scanned the crowd. An SS uniform.

  “That one might be an empath,” her companion murmured. “They bring them along sometimes, to see who is lying. It will not be us, so do not worry.”

  That rather settled it.

  The Gestapo herded people onto the pavement from the café and lined them up against the fence. In the ensuing confusion and with dozens of people milling about, Kim turned and walked away.

  No orders to stop. She crossed the street, daring a look back.

  People stood along the iron fence as the man in an SS uniform stopped at each person. If he had hyperempathy she did not want to fall under his gaze. He couldn’t read her mind, but he would certainly pick up on her acute nervousness.

  From behind came a shout, “Anhalten!” Halt.

  She ran. In an instant, she was committed. Her hope: to reach the corner where she would turn out of view . . .

  “Anhalten!” A gunshot rang out, sending shards of concrete off the building next to her.

  God, they were shooting at her. Her nerves screaming alarm, she rounded the corner. A darkened street, the fog black and dense. Only seconds to find a hiding place. Stairs led to apartment stoops, but no good; the doors might be locked. Seeing a walkway between two buildings, she charged dow
n it. More shouting from around the corner.

  She was in a fenced backyard. Oh, for her safe flat in the Alexanderplatz! Thin light from the apartment block windows revealed a few outbuildings. She raced past them, her high heels stabbing into the wet ground, catching. A gate loomed before her. She fumbled with the latch and slipped into a lane. The night was coal black, the lane barely visible, but she ran, breath straining, seeking cover with blind determination. Coming to an unfenced wooded area, she charged into it, throwing herself into the bracken.

  A nearby sound brought a spike of terror to her chest. Her hands found a wire fence. Clucking. A chicken coop. As she listened for pursuit, she rested her head against the fence, breathing in the harsh smell of slime, mud, and droppings.

  Quiet enveloped her, punctuated by low clucking. She removed her hat, shoving it into the cold, wet grass.

  In mud, in dismay, she crouched, quietly stunned that she had run from the Gestapo. At last she leaned back from the wire mesh. Wiping the sweat from her face, she found round divots imprinted on her forehead.

  The soft crunch of gravel beneath a boot. From the alley. She crouched lower. A shadow walked the lane, someone in a long coat. He stopped. Had he heard something? The beam of a flashlight fell in her direction, lighting up, three feet away from her, a startled chicken with a red comb and black glassy eyes. Her heart thrummed, taking over her chest, driving out breath.

  Then the cone of light shifted away, probing the empty lot. It moved on down the lane. She listened for others to come. How many had followed her? Her leg began to cramp; she endured it. Nerves flared down her shoulders, around her belly, lighting up her senses so that she jerked at every sound: a dog barking far away. The hens cooing softly.

  After some minutes, she could bear the cramp in her leg no longer and carefully stretched out her foot in front of her. At times she heard voices on a nearby street, but whether they were partiers or police, she could not tell.

  The night grew long, and at last the cold drove away her abject fear; she debated trying to leave. By dawn she would be exposed anyway. Why had the secret police come to the nightclub? They could not have known she would be there; bad luck, that was all.

  Time to leave. If they found her, she would surrender, invoke diplomatic status. It would be all right. On her hands and knees, she buried the beret behind the cage. Then, creeping to the lane, she sat on a cement block and scraped mud from her shoes with fallen leaves.

  She hailed a cab. Given the cloak of fog, she thought she looked almost respectable.

  But she could not enter Number 44 so filthy. Outside the entrance she removed her shoes, hoping that no one was awake, or if they were, that they would think she had removed her shoes to be quiet.

  Inside, no one stirred. She made her way to the kitchen waste bin, where she removed a layer of garbage and placed her shoes inside, covering them with food scraps. She stood a long time at the sink washing her muddy hands. A dark stream trailed into the basin. She savored the warm water, thinking of the gunshot. They had fired at her. The sound of exploding stone.

  Once in bed—with neither Alex nor Bibi roused—she ran the scene of Café Unten over in her mind several times before plunging into sleep.

  In the morning she called Rachel.

  “Would you mind terribly telling my husband, if he asks, that we were together last night? I know how this sounds. Please say no if you’d rather not.”

  “Oh my. This does sound interesting. Where shall I say we were?”

  “How about the Marktcafe on the Spree? Drinks. From 9:00 to 11:00 or so.” She would use Rachel as an alibi with Alex if he knew she’d been out very late. But not with the Gestapo, if they came. She wouldn’t endanger Rachel.

  “Will Alex call me?”

  “Probably not. But if he does.”

  “I hope you had a good time.”

  She felt a wild laugh welling up and suppressed it. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

  “No, don’t.” A pause. “Take care, Elaine. Berlin makes us all a little mad.”

  That afternoon, while she was reading in her bedroom, Alex came in, failing to knock. Carrying a sack.

  He closed the door behind him. “We found your shoes in the garbage.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to them, they’re quite spoiled. And who is ‘we’?”

  “Kim. What’s going on?”

  She put a finger to her lips. He had used the wrong name.

  His annoyance showed. “The shoes aren’t spoiled. They’re destroyed.” He dumped the sack at her feet and sat down on the chaise longue opposite her.

  “Rachel and I were at a bar on the river having drinks last night. I thought the ground was more solid along the bank. Damned foggy.”

  “I see.” He looked at the vase of flowers. Today, chrysanthemums. “There was an incident last night down on the Nollendorfplatz. The police are looking for an American woman in a fur-trimmed coat.”

  Damn. That young man had blabbed, describing her.

  “I didn’t know you were so close to the German police.”

  “Gestapo, actually.”

  “Same question. And if you think the woman was me, I don’t have a fur-trimmed coat. Honestly, Alex, what is the problem?”

  “It was in the paper this afternoon, a raid on a nightclub known to have connections to Jews. Shots were fired. You came home at 3:00 AM.”

  She slammed her book down. “You don’t—”

  “And I found the coat.”

  All right, then. She stood up, adopting the arch attitude that was the only way to deal with a man like this. “I don’t report to you, and I’m not married to you.”

  He stood up, facing off with her. “Whatever you’re up to, I don’t need to know. But you’re making a hash of it. If it’s about this Linz person, you should know that she’s a member of the Oberman Group, the one that’s been assassinating Nazi officials for the past year. You cannot drag me or the embassy into this.”

  “You’re a bit cozy with the Nazis, Alex. Just how important is this bond repayment deal you’ve got in the works? How nice do we all have to be?”

  “It’s my job to be cozy with them.” He drew a stem out of the vase, popped the bloom off the top, and stuck it in his jacket buttonhole.

  Looking at him, nattily dressed, a perfect shave, steady composure, she struggled to contain her aversion. But he had the ear of the embassy, which was under the Foreign Office, the same as SIS. He could do damage if he spoke against her. His boss already didn’t like the clandestine arrangement of them living together as man and wife.

  She softened her tone. “I suppose it is your job. But you must let me do mine—as long as I don’t harm our standing in Berlin.”

  A beat while he gazed at her. “They shot at you.”

  “But they didn’t catch me.” She tried out a small smile. “You caught me. And now I think someone in the household is reporting on me.” She let her face show some amusement. “I’m surrounded by spies.” In fact, who had dug out her shoes and given them to Alex, or had he gone rummaging on his own?

  He made a silent laugh. Picking up the sack of shoes he said, “Shall I toss these for you?”

  “Please.” He headed to the door. “And Alex?” He turned back to her. “I do understand your position. Let’s try to get on, shall we?”

  A mollified smile. “For better or worse,” he said with easy irony.

  14

  WHITE’S, A GENTLEMAN’S CLUB, LONDON

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1. The steward placed two whiskies on the side table and retreated, leaving Julian and the chief of SIS alone in the billiard room. The rain had turned to sleet, so the fire in the fireplace was cheery. If it hadn’t been for the damned letter.

  They occupied facing chairs, close to the small blaze in the fireplace. Julian finished reading the letter, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. He handed it back to E.

  “So, Kim has come to the attention of the Foreign Office.”

  “I’m afr
aid she has.”

  To Julian’s chagrin, Sir Eric Phipps had written to the permanent under secretary of the Foreign Office, Robert Vansittart, complaining about an episode involving the purported wife of the second secretary for trade assigned to Berlin. If Phipps was going to meddle, he should have spoken with E. True enough, Kim’s escapade was a bit of a blunder, but since she hadn’t been caught, it did not exactly constitute a diplomatic incident.

  E tapped his finger on the leather chair arm, keeping his counsel. The spacious room was seldom used for billiards. It had become his private drawing room when messengers arrived from Broadway. He was never joined by other club members at this spot in front of the fireplace. In the whole history of SIS, though several staff members at White’s knew E’s clandestine role, there had never been a hint of gossip about him.

  “Alex Reed’s fingerprints are on this one,” Julian said. “He was in a position to know she’d been out that night. Phipps’s mention of the situation jeopardizing the bond repayment talks rather clinches it. That’s Reed’s main assignment. They’re interfering in our operations. Damned awkward.”

  “That’s one issue,” E said, “and I’ll deal with it. But she almost blew her cover.” He sipped his whisky as pellets of sleet hit the windows fronting St. James’s Street. “In the first month of her posting.”

  And almost got herself killed, Julian mused. Which would have been an incident—and broken his heart. “I’ve asked for a report on this from the station. Right now it’s all secondhand.” It had better not be true that at a routine Gestapo roundup, Kim had bolted and refused to stop at shouted orders. He could only hope that she hadn’t panicked like that.

  E folded the letter and slipped it into the folder on the table containing the day’s correspondence. “Whatever the circumstances, going forward she must use discretion. I believe she was to be our spill Talent at diplomatic functions. Now she’s had a run-in with the secret police and wanted to yank that bombing suspect out of Berlin.”