Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  Frank looked at them. Dulles had an uncharacteristically bleak expression, and Frank realized just how close Rafe was to being branded an enemy.

  Their group had been held together by such a fragile trust, and after Molly’s betrayal, that trust was finally beginning to fracture.

  42

  Frank walked slowly up the hill, listening to the rush of the river and the wind sighing through the bare branches of the trees. Hunching his shoulders forward, he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, shivering as he tried to hold on to the last of his warmth. Away to the right, the lights of the old town twinkled merrily but it was getting dark now and the long chill of evening was settling across the city. Ahead, the road swept up and round into the darkness.

  Things had looked black for Rafe after the revelation of Molly’s betrayal, and he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Sure, everyone liked him, but those sorts of feelings didn’t count for much when the person might be selling you out to some foreign power. Once more, Frank wondered what they would have done if Dulles hadn’t decided to give Rafe a chance… then he shook his head and shivered again.

  Not something he wanted to think about.

  At the top of the bend, bright against the gloom, a lonely street lamp illuminated the turn-off to a small side road. Frank followed the sidewalk round to the right, trudging up a gentle slope, where the trees finally gave way to a series of large villas that loomed up above thick hedges, slivers of golden light gleaming between their closed shutters.

  Yes, everyone liked Rafe, but trusting was more important than liking now, and trust had to go both ways. Frank sighed, thinking about the news he was going to have to break to his friend. It wasn’t going to be easy, explaining about Molly, but he understood why he’d been chosen to do it; they’d been close from the start, and he’d saved Rafe’s life. If there was bad news to deliver, it was better that it came from him.

  Cresting the rise, he started slowly down the far side, wishing that things could have worked out differently.

  Rafe had a ground floor apartment in a crumbling old building, just a few blocks away from the Dufourstrasse office. Standing in the porch, Frank leaned in close, squinting to find the number six bell-push by the dim light of the streetlamp opposite. Pressing it, he waited, then checked his watch. It was almost nine – Rafe ought to be back from Brig by now. Drawing his coat tighter around him, he stamped his feet, moving this way and that to try and drive away the cold. He turned to glance back along the street, half expecting to see his friend limping along the sidewalk, but there was nobody around.

  The lack of sleep was beginning to tug at his senses, and he stifled a yawn. His own lodgings weren’t that far, but he’d promised he’d come and speak to Rafe tonight.

  He rang the bell again, then decided to let himself in and try knocking – anything was better that waiting outside in the wind.

  Walking along the ground floor hallway, he followed the corridor towards the rear of the building and turned the corner at the end. Standing in front of number six, he rubbed his cold hands to get some feeling back into them, then rapped smartly on the door.

  ‘Rafe?’ He yawned again, leaning up against the wall. ‘Rafe, if you’re in there, open up. It’s me.’

  There was no answer. Frank bowed his head and sighed, trying to think where his friend might have stopped for a meal or a drink. The place on Thunstrasse, maybe? Or somewhere in town?

  Pushing himself away from the wall, he turned around, then stiffened as Molly stepped into view, just a few yards away from him at the corner. She stared for a moment, her eyes cold, then slowly drew a gun from her purse and held it loosely at her side. He recognized it as the pistol he’d left on her bed, now fitted with a silencer, and cursed himself for not taking it with him.

  ‘Rafe’s not home,’ he said, trying to keep a lid on the sudden surge of anger he felt at seeing her. He’d given her a chance to get out, to get far away from here, far away from him, but now here she was again.

  ‘I know,’ she replied, her voice measured. ‘I’ve been waiting for him.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  For a moment he hesitated, doubts about Rafe flickering in his mind again… then he dismissed the idea. No, if these two were working together, she wouldn’t be lurking out here in the hallway.

  ‘Feeling lonely, were you?’ he said, goading her. ‘Looking for someone else to charm?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid, Frank.’ She spoke as though his words were just foolish, but he could see her jaw tighten, the muscles in her neck stiffening – he’d touched a nerve.

  ‘Now that I’m wise to you, it’s Rafe’s turn, is that it?’ He lifted his head in defiance and took a step forwards, spitting out the words. ‘You’re really something, Molly.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Frank.’ She was doing her best to sound dangerous but he wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Or what?’ he growled.

  Molly raised the pistol, her knuckles shining small and pale as she tried to keep the barrel steady.

  ‘I mean it,’ she whispered.

  Frank looked at her with disgust.

  ‘What the hell do you want, Molly?’ he demanded. ‘Haven’t you done enough already? Why are you still here?’

  Molly glared back at him for a moment.

  ‘I have to speak to Dulles,’ she said. ‘He… he trusts me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Frank sneered. ‘Like I trusted you? Did you sleep with him too?’

  Molly’s face went pale.

  ‘He trusts me because I refused to sleep with him,’ she snapped.

  Frank shook his head and sighed bitterly. Swift had warned him she could talk her way out of anything, but he wasn’t going to be fooled again.

  ‘Oh, give it a rest, will you? Damnit all…’ Weary of the exchange, he rubbed his eyes, then started towards her. ‘I should have just brought you in when I had–’

  Molly angled the gun slightly and there was a brief flash.

  For a second, he didn’t understand what had caused him to stumble, but then the agony exploded up through his leg like a splash of scalding water, and everything tilted and he was pitching over to fall against the wall.

  ‘Nnnggghhhfuck!’ The cry burst from him as though he’d been holding his breath, and he gaped in shaking disbelief at the dark stain spreading down his pants leg. ‘You… fucking shot me!’

  ‘Oh God!’ Molly gasped. She moved to stand over him, her face ashen, the gun still pointing at him. ‘Keep your bloody voice down, and press hard on that wound.’

  ‘Shit!’ Frank gasped. He could feel the warm wetness against his calf, sensed the panic rising in his chest as he stared up through a mist of tears. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Press down hard on the wound,’ Molly snarled. ‘DO IT!’

  Slumped against the wall, Frank lifted a trembling hand and clamped it over the sticky dent in his lower leg. A flash of burning pain seared through him and he twisted his face away, shrieking out a muffled howl into the shoulder of his overcoat.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there. The pain made it seem like a long time, but the pool of blood on the floor didn’t look all that big…

  He closed his eyes. Molly was speaking, but it was difficult to follow what she was saying; her voice was rapid, agitated.

  ‘…with Hitler out of the picture they’ve been looking for a way to surrender – Dulles knows that better than anyone – and when they do? Well, that’s when it could all change, that’s when it could all really go to hell…’

  Frank lifted his head, vaguely aware that he was sweating profusely despite the sudden chill in the hallway. He gazed up at her, mouthing the word “traitor” but she didn’t hear him, just carried on talking.

  ‘…and after the problems at Yalta, between Stalin and Truman, things are so much worse. We’re going to have a whole new war unless I can–’

  Suddenly, she broke off, listening intently.

  Straightening up, she took a step back, keepi
ng the gun trained on him as she turned her head towards the bend in the corridor.

  Dimly, Frank thought about grabbing for her, but it was all he could do to keep his palm pressed against his leg; he knew he wouldn’t be able to get up, let alone snatch the gun from her.

  He could hear it now: approaching footsteps, and something else…

  The tapping of a walking stick.

  ‘Rafe!’ he croaked, the effort of sitting up sending waves of agony through him. ‘Get back!’

  Molly’s expression became anguished.

  ‘Just wait there, Rafe,’ she called. ‘Don’t come round here.’

  But it was too late.

  Rafe limped into view round the corner, bundled up in a hat and coat, and carrying a small briefcase.

  ‘I say, what are you…?’ He stopped, eyes flickering from Molly gripping her pistol, to Frank lying in a pool of blood. ‘Oh dear God.’

  His face went slack and the walking stick slipped from his hand to fall, clattering on the floor.

  ‘Rafe,’ Molly implored him. ‘Rafe, it isn’t what you think.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Frank gasped, struggling to sit up. ‘She’s a fucking traitor.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Molly snarled, whirling around and brandishing the pistol at him. ‘Just shut up and let me speak, will you?’

  Behind her, Rafe had reached inside his coat and was slowly pulling out a gun.

  ‘Oh God,’ he gasped. ‘Molly, what the hell have you done?’

  Molly held up her free hand to silence him.

  ‘Just… just wait a minute, please Rafe… I promise you it’s not…’

  Breathing hard, Frank raised his voice over hers.

  ‘She shot me.’

  ‘BE QUIET, FRANK!’ There was panic in her eyes as she glared down at him.

  Standing behind her, Rafe had raised his gun. He swallowed, a sick expression on his face.

  ‘Molly,’ he stammered. ‘Put the gun down.’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ She rolled her eyes, stifling a cry of frustration. ‘I’m not the one who–’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Frank rasped.

  ‘SHUT UP!’

  Rafe was trembling.

  ‘Put the gun down,’ he told her. ‘Please!’

  ‘She betrayed us,’ Frank grunted.

  ‘Put it down!’ Rafe insisted.

  ‘She sold us out.’

  ‘MOLLY, PLEASE!’

  ‘NO!’ Molly shrieked. She spun around to face Rafe, her pistol hand swinging round wildly. ‘Both of you just SHUT UP and–’

  The sound was deafening, a shattering crack that seemed to shake the walls and echo away down the corridor. Frank flinched, slipping sideways onto one elbow, unable to protect his ears.

  Standing over him, Molly staggered. In the awful silence, her arms dropped to her sides and the pistol slipped from her fingers. For a moment, she was still. Then her knees buckled and she crumpled, falling backwards. There was a dull crack as her head struck the floor.

  At the corner of the corridor, Rafe still hadn’t moved, standing there like a horrified statue, the gun still clenched tightly in his hand.

  ‘Oh God…’ His voice trembled and he started to cry. ‘Oh dear God, no…’

  Frank blinked through his shock, gulping down a desperate lungful of air.

  ‘Rafe,’ he whispered, then slumped against the wall, trying to keep his hand pressed against his leg. Through the ringing in his ears, he thought he could hear a voice, calling out from somewhere else in the building.

  Rafe stumbled over to him, backing up against the wall as he stepped around Molly, then looking down at Frank with fear in his eyes.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ he gasped. ‘Can you stand?’

  Frank shut his eyes.

  ‘Can’t get up,’ he said, weakly.

  ‘You need a doctor,’ Rafe said, glancing around anxiously. He seemed to come to a decision, and bent down quickly, grasping Frank by the lapels of his coat. ‘Come on, old chum, I’ve got you.’

  Frank drew a ragged breath as Rafe hoisted him up, pulling him round so that his arm was hooked over the other man’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s it, lean on me.’

  Dimly, he wondered why he couldn’t feel his leg so much now, just an occasional flash of pain in the throbbing numbness as he scuffed his shoe, leaving a trail of smeared blood.

  ‘Stay with me, Frank.’

  From somewhere further along the corridor, a voice shouted something.

  Rafe was weeping openly now, tears running down his face as he struggled along without his stick, every step an effort.

  As they came to the corner of the corridor, Frank struggled to lift his head and look back.

  She lay in a heap, legs splayed awkwardly, an ugly stain of darkening scarlet in the middle of her chest. Her expression was strange and empty, dead eyes staring blankly at the wall…

  Negotiating the turn, Rafe jarred against his wounded leg, then glanced up wretchedly.

  ‘Damn,’ he puffed. ‘Sorry.’

  Frank’s eyelids drooped, and he slowly shook his head.

  He felt nothing.

  43

  Frank shifted awkwardly in his narrow bed, unable to move, unable to get comfortable. Shafts of late afternoon sun touched the far wall with patches of pale gold, making the nurses squint as they paced back and forth on their rounds. He sighed and let his head sink back against the heaped pillows, trying to ignore the wheezing snore of Herr Baumann, an elderly patient who’d arrived last week and seemed to sleep all the time.

  How he wished he could do that, just close his eyes and slip away into nothing…

  But his leg was still imprisoned in a casket of plaster and steel clamps, elevated at an angle that made a full night’s sleep impossible.

  He twisted his neck around, craning to see out of the window behind him, enjoying the distraction of drifting clouds against the sky. The pain wasn’t so bad today – just a steady dull ache that worried at the edges of his awareness – but it was a constant, unwelcome reminder.

  ‘Herr Rye?’

  He looked round. It was the pretty nurse with the black hair and deep brown eyes.

  ‘Sie haben einen Besucher,’ she said with an encouraging smile. You have a visitor.

  Frank sat up in surprise, flinching as the weight pulled on his leg; he wasn’t expecting Rafe until Saturday.

  The nurse turned towards the door, beckoning, but it was Dulles who stepped into view. He was wearing a light grey overcoat and carrying a small briefcase of brown leather. Approaching the foot of the bed, he inclined his head politely at the nurse.

  ‘Danke, Fräulein.’

  She grinned at him and moved away to attend another patient.

  Dulles watched her go, then turned to peer at Frank through his spectacles.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rye,’ he said, leaning over to study the plaster cast and its supports. ‘Dear me, I thought they might have let you out of this contraption by now.’

  ‘Shattered femur,’ Frank said, with a shrug. ‘Some things take a long time to mend.’

  Dulles looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘True enough,’ he agreed. Moving awkwardly around to the side of the bed, he pulled up a small chair and sat down, keeping his coat on despite the warmth. Frank watched him, thinking how he looked ready to leave despite having only just arrived.

  ‘Very capable-looking nurse there,’ Dulles remarked, glancing back towards the door. ‘And the room seems pleasant enough. How’s the food?’

  ‘Not quite up to the standard of the Bellevue Hotel,’ Frank confided in a low voice.

  Dulles chuckled.

  ‘No, I imagine the menu here is rather different.’

  ‘But it’s not too bad,’ Frank continued. ‘And I get breakfast in bed every day.’

  ‘Well, that’s one silver lining, I suppose.’

  A particularly loud snore made Dulles glance across the room, and he shook h
is head with a smile.

  ‘So how are things at the office?’ Frank asked. ‘Rafe comes to see me each week but he doesn’t say all that much, and I don’t like to push him.’

  ‘There's quite a lot happening at the moment.’ Shifting in his seat, Dulles reached into his pocket and drew out his pipe. ‘You'll have seen the newspapers?’

  ‘I try and find time in my busy schedule.’ Frank looked pointedly at his plastered leg, then back to Dulles. ‘So, I guess our coup finally happened. But for Germany to side with us against the Russians…’ He whistled softly.

  Dulles shrugged.

  ‘Germany was a spent force. Once Hitler was out of the picture, there was no reason for them to prolong the war any longer and they needed to negotiate a surrender with us before the Russians wiped them off the map. And there was no reason for us to prolong things, either…’ He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘…wasting more American lives just to humiliate a nation that’s already on its knees.’

  Frank considered this, then frowned.

  ‘But… the conflict with Russia: haven’t we prolonged the war?’

  Dulles fixed him with a steely gaze.

  ‘If something is inevitable, you may as well meet it on your own terms,’ he said quietly. ‘And I don’t think the advancing Russians were likely to stop at their own border, do you?’

  ‘No, I guess not,’ Frank conceded. ‘Still, it’s strange to think of the German army being on our side.’

  What was it Molly said? “We’re going to have a whole new war...”

  Behind his spectacles, Dulles’ sharp blue eyes twinkled.

  ‘Come now, you know better than that,’ he said. ‘There are no sides, just common interests.’

  Frank leaned back against his pillows, wincing.

  ‘Now you sound like Swift,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe he sounds like me,’ Dulles replied, flashing a faint smile.

  He opened his tobacco pouch and started filling his pipe.

  ‘I guess it does suit our interests,’ Frank mused. ‘But what about the British? Rafe says it’s a complete betrayal of everything we’ve been fighting for.’