by Kay Kenyon
Himmler saluted her. He must be pleased. They were his Nachkommenschaft too.
23
TIERGARTENSTRASSE 44, BERLIN
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12. Bibi served the lamb. She had lit candles at the table, as though the master and mistress of the house might benefit from mood lighting.
Kim took a portion of the dish. Even after six weeks in Berlin, she and Alex had seldom eaten dinner together. The press of duties, the demanding schedule at the embassy, their growing animosity.
“How are discussions with the German finance people going?” Kim asked. The dinner had been her idea. She must make a better effort to be nice. Charming might also be useful if she could muster the effort. Their marriage should at least appear convivial.
Alex helped himself to the lamb. “On and off.” He shrugged. “We have no leverage, and Herr Hitler knows it. I’m hoping that further down the hierarchy, clearer heads will prevail.”
“Will you meet with the chancellor?”
“I shouldn’t think so. But you may be sure the marching orders come straight from him.” Outside the bay window, fog clung as though pressing close to listen.
“You’ll bring me along, if you get the chance, though?”
He gave her an amused, knowing look, equal parts of I know you despise him and I’ll just bet you’d love an introduction. “Of course.”
They were starting to communicate without words, just like real marrieds. Sometimes Alex almost treated her as wife, one in need of curbing, and she predictably pushed back against direction. And there had been times when he had acted as though sharing a bed might easily be a part of the charade. In fact, she had entertained the idea several weeks ago, even if only after a half bottle of wine.
But their arrangement had seriously wobbled. Alex had complained about her to Whitehall, and now the head office was watching her closely for signs of—what?—provocation, indiscretion, or it seemed, any damned initiative whatsoever. With the sanatorium, she had taken initiative rather far. She felt exposed. Duncan, Whitehall, Alex, all watching for a stumble.
“Still sure you don’t want to join me in Bonn on Tuesday?” His interest in her coming along surprised her. Perhaps he realized that she could undermine him if she tried. Robert Vansittart in the Foreign Office was his ultimate boss as well as hers. So she wasn’t the only one who must make nice.
She shook her head. “I’ve planned to see an art exhibition with Rachel.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“I forget. French impressionists or something.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think the Nazis went in for impressionism.”
“Oh? I’m not sure what Nazis go in for.” They exchanged married smiles. A little dig, softened by a smile.
He sliced the lamb in the British fashion, loading his fork. Bibi returned to offer more creamed potatoes.
When she left, Alex said, “What does your family make of your prolonged absence? Are they in on our little play?”
Inwardly, Kim frowned. They should not be talking about her family, her real identity. “Well, no one is keeping track of me.”
He persisted. “Not your parents? Siblings?” He sat back in his chair, savoring his wine. “That niece in London?”
Kim paused, trying not to look startled. “You know how spread out my family is. None of us are close.” Her niece . . . how in the world did he know about her niece? She had made up the relation under Gestapo questioning in Wittenberge. No such relative existed in the cover dossier Alex had memorized.
“Your father is in England?”
“Yes, but . . .”
He leaned forward, refilling her glass. “Sorry. Not a subject for us, is it?”
She kept her face neutral.
“Sometimes,” he went on, “it seems as though we are married.” He made a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not accustomed to dissembling, so I get off course.”
She lifted her glass. “To our little pretense. We’re better actors than we knew.”
Not accustomed to dissembling? Oh, Alex, you are very good at it. But I believe you have just spilled to me.
There was no niece in London or anywhere else.
Later, as Alex went over his correspondence in the library downstairs, Kim entered his bedroom. Without a flashlight she had to risk turning on the light.
She made a swift assessment of the room: end tables, desk, highboy. Where would a man like Alex keep his acquired business cards? Crossing to the desk, she rifled through it, finding a rather large stack of them, some larger than customary. Just what she was hoping for: his Nazi contacts with their penchant for bigger cards.
Here was Rikard Nagel’s card. But of course Alex did know Sonja’s husband. And now, Hermann Göring’s. Nothing unusual there. Who else was he hobnobbing with?
She continued shuffling through the cards, then stopped at one, puzzling over the name. Vaguely familiar.
Viktor Lessing. The name of the man whom Alex had spoken with on the terrace at the Christmas party.
But this was not an individual with the automobile association.
Captain Viktor Lessing, Geheime Staatspolizei. The Gestapo.
The Gestapo was in a position to believe that she had a niece. It was a lie she’d made up on the spot at the Wittenberge train station. So the secret police were feeding information about her to Alex. How very cozy.
How very disturbing.
THE VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM, LONDON
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13. Julian had the unsettled feeling that Kim was in a great deal of trouble with the authorities. But whether the trouble was with the German government or the British, he was not sure.
He made his way across the lobby and up to the second floor of the Victoria and Albert to rendezvous with E. The chief had now read Kim’s report. Julian hoped Kim would have E’s backing.
She was hard on the trail of a possible conspiracy. One having to do with a new Talent weapon. She apparently trusted her source, the Linz woman; trusted her intel on Monarch—not to mention her startling claim to be a catalyst herself. But her Berlin handler disliked the risks she’d taken, perhaps resenting that she’d taken them without consulting him, and now he was recommending that she be recalled. A bad situation; but he was fairly confident Kim would win this one. Still, he could not lobby too hard on her behalf since, as her father, his objectivity could be suspect.
It helped that she had uncovered the potential catalyst Talent. It helped immeasurably, elevating the importance of her mission. Such an ability, if true, would topple the theory that an individual’s Talent rating was immutable. And then Hannah Linz claimed that the Germans had such an individual working for them. If so, they would certainly exploit the advantage in Europe.
He had sent out a questionnaire to their German agents to report on Treptow Sanatorium, hoping that a confirmation of its secret purpose would corroborate her findings.
Julian spied E in the gallery just ahead, and he made his way to their frequent meeting spot, the bust of Queen Victoria on a pedestal.
E gazed up at the regal sculpture, alabaster on a black marble plinth, set high enough that one must stand rather far back to get a good view. E murmured, “Why do you suppose they didn’t put the sculpture down where people could examine it properly?”
Julian said, “Perhaps she did not want to be examined properly.”
E grunted and circled around to view the bust from another angle. Julian followed. “Well, your girl has got her way. She’s to bring Vesta out. Immediately.” Vesta, Hannah Linz’s code name.
Julian was surprised. All he’d hoped for was that she be allowed to pursue Hannah Linz as a source. Now, extraction. It was a relief to see things beginning to tilt in Kim’s favor. “The FO—Vansittart—made the decision? Or did it go to the Joint Intelligence Committee?”
“Van made the call. He wants one of these Talents. If the Nazis have the White Russian, then he wants the Jew.” He shrugged. “You can’t pick your bedfellows.”
/>
Julian forced himself to ignore E’s distasteful remark. “It’s also our chance to debrief the woman on the project she claims is underway.” It was difficult to hide his delight with Vansittart’s decision. Having Hannah walk in, as the spy trade called it, was the kind of break that the Office lived for, and now they’d take advantage of it.
The chief went on. “We don’t know how much augmentation a catalyst might actually be able to exert. But if the claim is exaggerated, at least we’ll be sure. Monkton Hall needs to test this new ability. We can’t be caught flat-footed on the matter.” He contemplated the old queen’s visage as though probing for signs of doubt. Victoria, however, did not appear to put much stock in doubt.
“She’s to lose no time. Can’t tell who’s on Vesta’s tail, nor when she’ll grow impatient and offer her services to someone else.”
“I’m not sure she’s offering her services to us.”
“Of course she is. It’s what she has to trade. Or damn well better.”
“I’ll get in touch with the station directly.” Berlin station would be displeased, of course, but they’d toe the line.
Julian stayed behind to admire the sculpture as E left the gallery.
24
POTSDAMER PLATZ, BERLIN
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13. Winter was a strange season in Berlin. As her cab sped toward her outing at the Hotel Esplanade, Sonja reflected how grim, how wrong, it was so near Christmas to endure icy fogs and bitter rains. She longed for the clean, bright snows of Stockholm and had begun to hate everything German, even her husband.
But tonight, meeting a friend.
Someone Rikard would not approve of, but what did he approve of anymore? If she was not to befriend the English, the French, or the Russians, nor indeed any of the diplomatic wives, it left her more than ever alone. If Rikard had been jealous . . . if he had wanted her to be with him . . . But he did not.
Nor, it now seemed, did Hermann. When they were together—but not since last week at his lodge—she felt doted upon. But she also feared him. Increasingly, over the last few days, since he had not called. Did he harbor doubts about her? Did he suspect she had been eavesdropping the last time she saw him?
The taxi slowed to a stop. A rally in the street just ahead.
Motorcars stacked up on all sides. “A patriotic march down the Wilhelmstrasse,” the driver said.
She could hear the distant cadence of many voices raised in song. Nearby, trams jammed up, ringing their bells. People hopped off them, lining up on the street to watch.
This close to the Potsdamer Platz on the Leipziger Strasse, it would be faster to walk. She paid the fare and stepped out to cross the street, safe because nothing was moving. Once on the pavement, she found it slow going with people juggling for position to see the procession. When she got to the Wilhelmstrasse, in the distance she could see the banners hoisted, the fog carrying halos from the torches.
Elaine Reed would be arriving now at the hotel bar, unless she, too, was delayed by the demonstration. The parade approached, the Sturmabteilung marchers taking over the great street, threading among the cars, their boots thudding rhythmically. It was while seeing the river of Nazi banners approach that she felt she was being watched.
Every time she stopped, attempting to see her way across the street, someone paused behind her. She could not make him out clearly in the fog, but his peaked hat marked him among the throng. He could not be following her; she was the wife of an SS officer. She moved quickly up the pavement to prove this was so. But as the blaring SA marched by, her pursuer still shadowed her.
A spike of anxiety rose in her breast. Was Göring having her followed? Did he know she had heard things that she shouldn’t outside the library? She had, but it had been an accident. The door ajar, the voices. Hermann’s affairs so mysterious . . . How she wished she could take back that moment! Göring had looked at her so strangely. He could be tender, and she knew she pleased him. But on this dark December night, with the braying marchers and their torches, she felt alone and in peril.
She spied a gap in the march and plunged into the street to cross it, wishing only for the safety of the hotel.
One of the marchers shouted at her, waving her out of the way, and she dashed for the curb, fear mounting in a wave of emotion.
Sonja was late. Kim waited outside the Hotel Esplanade. Home to the busiest intersection in Germany, the plaza was breathtaking at night, anchored by the Anhalter Bahnhof, several major hotels, and the Haus Vaterland, its fabulous dome lit by thousands of strung lights.
She had almost canceled her date with Sonja. Since the Office had given her instructions for Hannah’s extraction, it appeared her work here might be coming to an end. It would take a couple of days to put in place a plan to get Hannah out, including backup paperwork for the visa. But Hannah would soon be in safety and working with British intelligence. When Duncan had delivered the instructions, he seemed rather sour about it, but Kim was beyond worrying about what Duncan thought. The Office had finally come through for her and, despite the delay in their response, she savored her success.
At the mailbox at Café Unten near the Nollendorfplatz, she had left a message for Hannah to meet her on the Schiffbauerdamm on Tuesday. She didn’t want Hannah to call her at her home telephone, since there was Alex to worry about now. She had not quite decided what to do about Alex. He was still useful as cover for the duration of her assignment—just a few days longer.
She heard the sounds of a march or demonstration a few blocks away, probably the cause of the stalled traffic beginning to clog in the square. Trams fired off blue sparks from the overhead cables, as though impatient with the delay.
Deciding to use the lavatory, she entered the hotel lobby.
A doorman held open the glass door of the hotel for Sonja.
She rushed into the palatial lobby, her stomach twisting, a hot sweat breaking out on her skin. Throwing open her coat, she made her way past the massive reception desk, the divans, the carved tables with lavish lamps.
Inside the lounge, lights sparkled among a display of liquors. The maître d’ offered to seat her. She chose a table in the corner. Finally able to catch her breath, she realized she had panicked over nothing. She was falling apart, seeing threats everywhere.
A waiter came to take her order.
Behind him, Rikard appeared in the arched doorway. His expression was hard and dark. God, he was the one who had been following her. He turned in her direction, but she leaned in toward the waiter to block his view.
The thought stabbed at her: Rikard would kill her. Göring had sent her own husband to dispose of her, and in the heart of Berlin.
A loud party entered the bar from the lobby. Under this cover, she bolted from her chair and fled along a row of tables, away from Rikard, finding to her relief a corridor leading away from the bar. She could not think or plan. Where could she go if her own husband stalked her?
Now in the lobby, she rushed to the main doors. Not giving the attendants time to open them for her, she pushed through onto the street.
Kim saw Sonja just as she was leaving the hotel. She called her name, but Sonja didn’t seem to hear, slipping out the hotel doors. Once on the street, Kim lost sight of her.
Traffic was moving again. She spied Sonja, running across the lanes of traffic, dodging a car. A screech of tires, a soft thud. The awful realization: Sonja had been struck.
Dashing into the street, Kim wove and danced through the cars, now slowing for the accident. She ran to where Sonja lay.
A man was already beside her. “She’s breathing,” he said.
Kim knelt at Sonja’s side. She turned to the man, possibly the driver who had struck her. “Call for an ambulance!”
Turning her attention to Sonja, she murmured, “It’s Elaine, Sonja.” Blood pooled beneath her head. Sonja’s eyes fluttered open, closed again. Alarm rose in Kim’s chest; this was bad, perhaps very bad. God, the blood. The blood pooled thick. The sickening thought ca
me: Sonja was fatally injured. But it could not be, should not be. Pebbles on the street knifed into Kim’s knees as she shifted her weight. She bent low over Sonja. “I’m here with you. We will get you help.” She looked up, hoping to see an ambulance. No sign of one. People were gathering around her.
The terrible image came, of Sonja’s mad rush into the street . . . why, why had she plunged into the heavy traffic?
Sonja’s eyes flickered again. Was there still hope? But in truth, she thought that these were Sonja’s last moments. Kim stooped very close to her, repeating her name so that she would know she was not alone. Then the awful thought sprang free: she must ask her questions. Now, before she died.
She took Sonja’s hand. “I know what Rikard is. He’s unnatural. Help me to stop this.” Someone in the crowd draped a coat over Sonja.
“Nachkomme,” Sonja whispered.
Kim glimpsed someone rushing toward them through the stopped traffic. It was Rikard.
Sonja struggled to speak as a rasp issued from her lungs. “Fiends! All of them.”
“I know, I know. Where do they gather? Where is Monarch?”
“Tolz . . . ,” Sonja whispered, as bubbles of blood frothed at her mouth. “Tolzried. The . . . Aerie.”
“We’ll stop them,” Kim whispered. “We will. I promise.” I promise. It was all she could do for Sonja now.
She saw boots. Rikard loomed over them. “Leave her.”
When she ignored him, he yanked her to her feet, holding her with an effortless and adamantine grip. Panic rose in her chest as she considered what he might have heard.
Sonja bled at their feet. “Go to her,” Kim said, pleading with this most unnatural of husbands. “For God’s sake, Captain.”
“She is dead.”
They stared down at Sonja’s unmoving form. Rikard would know about such things, would have a finely honed concept of the moment of death. Kim began to tremble from the shock. Oh, Sonja. The death had been swift, brutal.
