by Kay Kenyon
Annakova turned to Captain von Lossberg. “Captain, please ask them to be at ease.”
“Stehen Sie bequem!” the captain ordered the group. The officers fell back into a marginally less stiff position.
Then she was moving among the Progeny, shaking gloved hands with each one. Fine so far, but any one of the unprocessed ones could conceivably slip into a stage-five event and create a scene. Someone would answer for allowing Annakova to leave the Aerie without at once calling the center. Though it was only a quarter mile down the road, they would at least have had a chance to clear the room of the most obvious candidates for Special Assignment.
“Lieutenant Lowenstahl,” Annakova was saying to an SS officer, “I am happy to see you.” She turned to her son. “Your Highness, the lieutenant is a distinguished cavalry officer.”
Nikolai perked up at this. “I am happy to know you, sir. What horse do you ride?”
The officer managed to answer, recalling his French, as his eyes moistened with even more devotion than the purified ones normally displayed for Annakova. Kaltenbrunner heard the front door slam amid a commotion of new arrivals. The situation was disorganized in the extreme.
Nevertheless, down the line she went, remembering many by name, not skipping anyone. The woman would waste their whole morning.
He glanced meaningfully at Captain von Lossberg, managing to convey his anxiety that the Russian bitch have a smooth visit. The captain gestured for another officer to approach and quietly ordered him to bring the senior officers from their desks to control the room.
Annakova had made it to one end of the row of chairs, and before turning to move down the next row, she stopped and fixed Kaltenbrunner with what she no doubt thought of as a royal glare.
“Some of these do not look well, doctor. Why is this?”
Hiding his dismay, he responded. “Very occasionally there are adverse reactions, Your Majesty. With therapy we do try to reverse—”
“Yes, yes. But so many! I judge there are five or six in this room. So thin, doctor! They cannot be well.”
The woman had no idea how fragile her creations were, how much research had yet to be done on the purification procedure. Nevertheless Himmler would be furious at this lapse in security. “We have summoned a few individuals in advance, knowing that additional therapies may be needed. A few cases only! I hope it does not disturb Your Majesty. If we had known—”
“I wish a report on the condition of these men, doctor. See that it is done by tomorrow.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
She sailed on through the crowd, the boy at her side, as though this were some kind of royal soiree and not a military post. The hour dragged on. All eyes on the tsarina, with a fierce devotion in their eyes, such as should be reserved for the Führer alone.
Just as she had completed her tour of the room and was heading—at last!—to the door, Kaltenbrunner saw movement through the window. Someone was outside. He appeared naked from the waist up.
He called von Lossberg to his side, telling him to take charge of escorting Annakova and her son.
Making his way to his office, he withdrew his gun from the drawer and slipped out his private entrance into the snowy grounds. A guard noticed that he was armed and rushed up to him.
“There is a man out of uniform out here,” the doctor said. “Apprehend him immediately. And make sure it is not in front of the building!”
The officer drew his weapon and, looking around, raced off to gather reinforcements.
It was a nightmare. Kaltenbrunner heard voices from the car park. The royal entourage leaving. The doctor began stalking around the building, slowly, pistol drawn, scanning the ragged line of alpine trees, brownish green against the snow.
A movement. From behind a scrub alpine tree, a man stepped out. Kaltenbrunner was momentarily startled to see that he was completely naked.
Stuckart’s skin was albino against the snow, the only color a bloodred smear across his mouth and chin. He held a squirrel by the tail, its throat cut.
“Too bright . . . ,” Stuckart moaned. “The awful white. It hurts.”
Kaltenbrunner approached him. “Of course it does. You should not have to endure it.”
“The snow.”
“Yes. We will make it stop. Would you like that?”
As her motorcar pulled away from the barracks, Irina thought that the visit had gone very well. Her Progeny were so happy to see her, and she them. And Kolya had comported himself superbly.
Some explanations were due from Dr. Kaltenbrunner, however. She would discuss this with Stefan when he returned from Berlin.
A sudden cracking sounded in the distance.
Kolya whipped around in his seat to look out the window. “Maman. Gunfire!”
She patted his knee. “The men shoot rabbits. Practicing their riflery, darling.”
“But it was a pistol shot, Maman.”
The car sped on toward the rock frontage of the Aerie. “Oh, Kolya, you and your guns!”
33
THE BRITISH EMBASSY, BERLIN
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 17. Alex Reed sat on a chair outside the offices of the British ambassador. He was being kept waiting and tried not to let that unnerve him. As second secretary for trade, of course, he didn’t command an immediate hearing.
Elaine had gone missing. She had told Bibi and Albert that she was joining him in Bonn, but she had not shown up. Now he must inform Eric Phipps of this turn of events and do so to position himself firmly out of the way of censure. It was a sticky situation. He could not be sure how much Phipps knew, nor how much the Berlin station knew. Certainly they could not know that he had asked the Gestapo to watch the woman who was supposed to be his wife. The secret police would be discrete in this. But they owed no particular allegiance to him.
Christ God, he did not have it in him to be an operative of this sort. All he had wanted was deniability to his German contacts if she got herself caught working against German interests, as she seemed hell-bent on doing. Asking for his Gestapo contact to keep her under observation was a measure to distance himself from her if she got in trouble. Though at the outset it seemed a safe maneuver, he hoped he had not miscalculated.
The embassy first secretary approached, fetching him and leading him into Phipps’s office.
Phipps sat at his broad, carved desk. Behind him a large rectangle defined an outline of the now-removed portrait of Edward VIII. Phipps waved Alex to a seat.
“I think I know what you’ve come to discuss, Alex,” he said. Stocky, square-faced, revealing nothing in his face so far. “Your undercover wife has gone to ground.”
“Sir? You put it like that?”
“Yes, I put it like that. The Berlin station received communication from her that she’s off on her own. Apparently got a wild hare about a secret weapon and has broken ranks over it.” He smoothed his mustache. “They wish to know if you can shed any light on this.”
“I’m as surprised as everyone else. She said she wasn’t interested in accompanying me to Bonn for my meeting with the economic group. Then on Sunday the staff telephoned me that she was on her way to join me after all. She did not inform me she was coming. And she did not arrive.”
“Nothing that might point to her motives?”
“It’s hard to say. She had been acting erratically. Late hours, that altercation with the security police in the Nollendorfplatz that you and I discussed. We had to assume it was part of her work for the intelligence service. I had no idea she wasn’t under strict rein.”
“How do you mean acting erratically?”
“She was keen on getting me to help a woman who wanted to leave Germany. A Jew who offered to trade information for expediting a visa. I told her that the embassy could not become involved in internal German affairs, but she seemed emotionally involved, wouldn’t let it lie. I hoped that she had moved past the matter. Or was pursuing it through the station. In any case, she seemed to develop hostility toward our work here. Sh
e characterized it as bureaucratic. Turning a blind eye to Nazi excesses, that sort of thing. She struck me as headstrong, with poor operational judgment.”
Phipps sighed. “I said nothing good could come of this. It’s one thing to provide occasional cover for someone doing delicate work, but to place her in your household and have you introducing her around . . .” He shook his head. “It could place us in a bad light.”
“I hope it hasn’t gone that far, sir.”
“Yes. Well.” Phipps straightened his shoulders, looking to wrap it up. “I’ll inform London and the Berlin station of our discussion. Anything else?”
“Sir, if I may speak personally?” Phipps nodded. “I wouldn’t like any irregularities with Elaine to undermine my position in the bond repayment matter.”
“Undermine?”
“Yes, sir. If there should be a taint associated with my name. It’s not helpful when dealing with the Finance Ministry here. They need to know I’m on solid ground. Have firm backing.”
“I thought you had it.”
“In most regards, yes. But if my supposed wife becomes entangled in unsavory events?”
Phipps scowled. Unsavory events. He would want to steer well clear of those. “We can only hope, whatever she’s up to, that she doesn’t get caught.”
“Yes. It would help if there was a gesture of confidence from the Foreign Office.” When Phipps did not respond, he plunged on. “If the secretary for trade is too ill to resume his duties, it might be time to look for someone who can step up to the post. I hope that my seniority would recommend me to that position.”
A long stare that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. “I see.” Phipps reached for a folder on his desk, but instead of opening it he folded his hands upon it. “As it happens, I was thinking exactly along those lines. You’d be a good fit, Alex. I’ll put in a word for you with London.”
The room, always gloomy from the deep well of the Hotel Adlon shading its windows, seemed to brighten. “Thank you, sir.”
Phipps nodded. “Carry on, then. Try not to worry about this supposed wife of yours. You’ve been a good sport about it all, more than I would have been in your place. It won’t go unnoticed.”
Alex left, his mood greatly improved. He had been a good sport. And, looking ahead, he felt he would make an excellent first secretary for trade.
SIS HEADQUARTERS, LONDON
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 17. “He’s expecting you,” Olivia said.
Julian nodded at her where she stood behind her desk. In a nice brown plaid suit, hair gleaming, no strand out of place. The overhead lights made her look pale. He wondered how married life was suiting her. There was talk that her husband hated the cocktail circuit and was seldom seen at the usual watering holes.
She had only been married three months, so he supposed it was too early to hope she was miserable. He winced at the thought. He could not hope such a thing for the woman he loved. All right, not miserable, just not very happy. Perhaps reasonably happy. Good Christ.
She fixed him with a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry about Kim. Terribly sorry.”
He started to say thank you, but the words didn’t break free. He nodded to her, glad that she could say something personal to him after these weeks of strict formality.
“We don’t have all the facts yet,” he said. It sounded defensive. Damn, when she had been so kind.
“No. I just meant that it’s a worry.”
“Thank you,” he managed to say without the slightest warmth. He wished he could have a do-over, but once you acted like an ass, there it was.
He pushed through the door where E was at the sideboard, pouring a drink. God, was it bad enough for whisky at two o’clock?
E handed him a glass, and they took their seats.
“Will you be off to Wrenfell for Christmas?” E asked. Whitehall was starting to shut down. Ostensibly His Majesty’s Government was always on the job, but in reality, civil servants began trickling away from posts the weekend before the holiday.
“I expect so.” He had picked up a few presents. A silver picture frame for Mrs. Babbage—even after all these years, he never called her Agnes—and sturdy leather gloves for Walter Babbage. For Kim, a fine tartan plaid neck scarf. She might have had use of it in Berlin where it was colder than usual. “A few days. I’ll make the rounds of the Uxley yuletide festivities.” Said with only a trace of irony, even though there were no parties in the offering, except general merriment at the Barley and Mow.
E gave a smile of appreciation. “Those Yorkshire parties one hears about.”
“You’re down to Litchfield?”
The smile lapsed. “Yes. Lydia has invited a houseful. You’re invited, she wanted me to say. I warn you, she has a dreadful niece that she’s hoping to pawn off on you.”
“Thanks for the warning. Please thank Lydia and make my excuses, if you would.”
They sipped their drinks while the real topic came fully into view.
E kicked it off. “Still no contact with Sparrow, Julian. Her handler says she may try to run her own show. Bit of a cock-up.” He sighed. “Well. You read the report.”
Julian kept his gaze steady. “Yes. She may yet be able to bring Vesta around. The threat to cut us off could be a part of Vesta’s negotiating tactic.”
“Are you picking up any mention of Monarch from our listening posts?” E asked. Julian had sent out queries.
“No. If it’s an operation, it’s not leaking out.”
“But do you think Monarch could be a critical operation? A Russian princess turning German Talents into stronger weapons? And turned against Europe’s defenses?” E glowered. “It’s a far reach.”
“Not if catalyst is a new Talent. That’s exactly how it would be used.”
E settled into a scowl, his habit when faced with things that he didn’t want to be true. “Still. Sparrow has fallen for it. Obviously.”
Kim could still turn up, Hannah Linz in tow, and no police incident or diplomatic stew at all. But Berlin station had said she’d spoken of trying to take out the Russian woman. How his daughter could possibly help with any scheme like that, he did not know, but it looked like she wanted a role. Thought she had one.
E had picked up his paperweight, turning it in his hand as though it were a crystal ball that could give him a glimpse into Kim’s psyche. What she’d do next. He put it back on the desk, giving his best guess. “Looks like she’s pulling out all the stops now to bring Vesta over to our side. I just hope she doesn’t go too far.”
Julian murmured, “The question is, what is too far?”
The two men gazed at each other, each one imagining a worse scenario. A rogue agent, a failed scheme, a Nazi propaganda coup, inflaming a notoriously erratic German chancellor. Those were the top issues, by no means exhaustive.
E said, “Too far? Letting a German partisan determine operational conduct.” Before Julian could rebut, he plowed on. “Cutting off contact with her handler—”
“If she has cut off contact.”
“Yes, if she continues this silence. Then there’s the matter of assassinating a member of the Russian aristocracy in exile. On the word of a Jewish resistance fighter.” The afterthought: “And getting caught.” A pointed look at Julian. “That is going too far.”
Julian countered. “Balancing against that, a potential threat to Europe foiled.”
“You still give her the benefit of the doubt, then.”
Feeling like the words would haunt him: “I do.”
“So if Berlin station can find her, you advise they use reason with her, but let her proceed?”
“We can’t judge the situation from six hundred miles away. But I would not encourage Berlin to treat her as hostile. She has proven her loyalty.” He sipped his whisky. “And I do think it’s been unfair of us to assume that her judgment is impaired by emotionality.”
E had the grace to drop his gaze. They had been assuming that, and it did them no credit after Kim’s emotional
control had been tested by two recent threats to the realm. Finally he said, quietly, “That episode in Wales. You think she killed the Dutch assassin to prevent his death repeating that of her brother’s?”
Good God, even E had thought of it.
“No, I think she killed him the same way any of us would have put down a horse with a broken leg. Simple mercy.”
“Well. There’s nothing we can do right now, not unless Berlin station finds her or she makes contact again.”
Julian nodded. It was true. Neither Berlin nor London had the next move. “Meanwhile, we’ve got someone on Alex Reed?”
“Both he and Kim are on the report list, so he’ll be watched. But it’s damn hard to credit Alex Reed as working on the wrong side.”
E didn’t say it was hard to think the same of Kim. She wasn’t Eton. She didn’t know her role the way men of his class did. For starters, agents did not make political judgments. Of necessity, they played a role as a part of larger policies. But Berlin station had mishandled her, of that much Julian was sure. In the end, it wouldn’t help her, the fact that the station had stumbled a bit. If things went south, she would be pegged as a rogue and quietly retired.
Unless she came in. Soon.
On his way out, Olivia stood up from the seat behind her desk. “I’ll walk you out.”
They threaded their way through the desks. In the hallway, they made it to the door to the outside landing before Olivia broke their silence. “I just wondered if you’d like someone to talk to.”
He paused. A sympathetic conversation about Kim with Olivia was the last thing he wanted.
“I appreciate it,” he said. “But . . .” It felt like hell to push her off. But friendship was not in the cards. Wounds and salt came to mind.
She produced a wobbly smile. “Yes, I understand. But if you change your mind.”
“It looks like I’ll be around here a good bit for the next few days. I’ll give you the high sign if I’m about to cave in.” Christ, sarcasm?
