“Please sit back down,” he said politely. “I’m not trying to insult you, nor will I share the information about your life with anyone, including Lucas.”
She eyed the chair but didn’t sit. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to tell you a story.”
“Just a story?”
He began to look tired. “You can decide what you want to do with the information.”
“Will it include what you know about the Ricker family?”
“I haven’t investigated the Ricker family,” he said. “But our interests seem to intersect at Breydon Court.”
She slowly, begrudgingly, eased back into the chair. “I don’t want to talk about my mother again.”
“I only wanted you to know that I’ve handpicked you for this assignment, Miss Vaughn. Your past and present are all part of my decision.”
Bristling, she leaned toward him. “Who are you trying to find, Mr. Knight?”
“A girl named Brigitte.”
“And how did you lose this Brigitte?”
“I didn’t lose her, exactly,” he replied, his voice dipping down. “Brigitte was taken from me.”
Chapter 7
Belgium, October 1940
Hunger etched itself in the crevices of Dietmar’s belly. A deep canyon aching to be filled. Rain dripped off the maple leaves overhead, streaking down his greasy hair, seeping through the holes of his jacket, and pooling on his skin. Leaning back, he let the drops pool in his mouth as well before swallowing them.
The rain was Spaetzle, slathered with fresh butter and cheese. It was cabbage rolls. Boiled potatoes. Bratwurst. His mother’s favorite Kuchen, made with candied nuts and fruit.
He rubbed his wet hands over his sleeves, his stomach aching along with his heart. The only food they’d eaten in the past weeks had been gleaned from abandoned gardens along their journey. He’d almost forgotten the taste of his mother’s cooking.
Gray twilight clung to treetops, a gift for Brigitte so she could sleep beside him a bit longer. He wouldn’t wake her until the darkness enveloped the forest again.
They only traveled at night now, through Belgium’s woods and fields, skirting the checkpoints on foot. The English Channel was close; he could smell the salt in the breeze. Somehow they would find a way to cross the water. In a day or two. His aunt would be waiting for them on the other side, and her pantry, he felt certain, would have plenty of food.
He pulled a compass from his knapsack, rotating it until the needle hovered over the NW. Their path to freedom.
More than a month had passed since he and Brigitte had run from the woman who’d wanted them arrested, this compass guiding them. It was a gift from the farmer, he guessed, tucked into his knapsack while they ate dinner. He’d found it the day after they’d run, the compass string looped around a small burlap bag filled with bacon and dried apples.
“Mama,” Brigitte moaned, tossing her head on the muddy pillow of leaves.
In her sleep, tears mixed with the raindrops, but he didn’t wake her. The reality, he feared, would be much worse than her dream. Perhaps, in sleep, Frau Berthold was still alive, holding her daughter close. Giving her warm milk before bed, sweetened with cinnamon sugar, and tucking a thick, dry blanket over her nightclothes.
They were miles and miles now from home, but Dietmar couldn’t stop thinking about the gentleness of his own mother’s words, the strength and integrity of his father’s life. Both of his parents’ decision to choose rightness in a world bent on wrong.
Brigitte cried often for her father at night, but she never spoke about either of her parents when they traveled. So Dietmar told her stories as they trekked through the countryside in the moon and starlight, dodging villages and farmhouses.
He told her about the time he’d caught a frog in the creek and tried to hide it under his bed, about the noises it made all night and his mother’s failure to hide her laughter when she tried to reprimand him. He told her about the fleet of paper boats he’d made to sail down the river, but instead of sailing, the boats turned into aeroplanes, taking flight in the wind. He told her about his aunt living in England, about the two cousins he’d never met, about the kind people they’d meet on the other side of the English Channel.
Sometimes his stories made her laugh. One time they made her cry. But the stories kept them both pressing forward.
Dietmar shivered as the gray light disappeared behind the leaves.
The nights grew colder now, the hours of black stretching long, but they never stopped to light a fire. In the darkness, they kept moving. The trees were changing their colors in this new season, from a wardrobe of greens to autumn hues. He and Brigitte rarely saw the color in the darkness, but he could tell summer had ended by the crunch of parched leaves under their worn shoes, the aroma of woodsmoke in the air whenever they edged around an occupied home. How he wished he could slip inside one of those houses and collapse beside a roaring fire, warm his bones—for that’s what remained of him and Brigitte now. They were two shells, their souls caged in by waning skin and tired bones.
During the day hours, they rested in some sort of hiding place. A cave or abandoned barn or—like today—a grove of trees. As the weeks passed, they found more country homes empty, more gardens overgrown. Had the Gestapo whisked those residents away as well?
He didn’t mention his thoughts to Brigitte. She’d grown even quieter since autumn had settled upon them, and he feared she was slipping away in her sadness. Desperate, he tried to make her laugh again, tried to rescue her from her sorrow before she drowned in it. But no matter how hard he tried, he seemed to be failing her.
“Brigitte,” he whispered, nudging her wet shoulder. “It’s time to go.”
She moaned again. “Mama?”
He reached for her, pulling her to him like he could be both mother and father, protect and care for her. When she shook him away, he felt her forehead, the back of his hand resting on her skin. It was a fire ablaze. An inferno.
When had she caught fever?
In the distance, beyond the trees, he heard a noise. Then the sound he feared most—barking dogs. His heart started to race.
Brigitte collapsed back into the wet leaves. The darkness. “I’m staying here,” she said. “Forever.”
He knelt beside her. “We have to go a little farther, Brigitte. Until we reach the channel.”
Her eyes closed. “Mama and Papa are waiting for me.”
“No,” he replied, his heart stricken at the mention of her mother. “They are waiting for us on the other side of the water.”
When she shook her head, he tugged on her arm, repeating their mantra. “We must run.”
“We’ve run and run,” she whispered. “Yet we never get anywhere.” Her body stilled, limp on the ground, an edifice of grief when they both needed wings.
The dogs weren’t far now. Their howls resonated through the forest, echoed between the trees.
Was the Gestapo tracking them?
“Please, Brigitte,” he begged. They couldn’t stop running now.
When she didn’t answer, he strung his knapsack over his shoulder and lifted her in his arms.
If she couldn’t run, he would carry her.
CHAPTER 8
_____
While Lucas met privately with Mr. Knight inside, Quenby stepped out onto the back patio of the castle, overlooking the white froth of sea. On a terrace below, deck chairs surrounded a tropical swimming pool.
Her hands shook slightly after her conversation with the man inside. A dozen questions sprouted in her mind and then tangled together like the shoots of vine running over the trellis on the patio, blocking the sunlight.
Mr. Knight had told her the story of his childhood, about fleeing from Germany in 1940 and traveling through Belgium with Brigitte. The country was about the size of Maryland—a journey that would take three hours by car today—but he said they’d spent almost two months dodging both Germans and Belgians who feared their o
ccupiers more than they wanted to help two German kids.
He hadn’t told her yet how he and Brigitte had been separated. Nor what information his investigators had discovered when they’d searched for her.
If his detectives could find out about Quenby’s mother, why couldn’t they find Brigitte?
Perhaps she’d gotten cynical during her four years as a journalist, but she’d talked to plenty of people willing to make up a story—embellish a few facts even—to see their names in print. If he didn’t seem so averse to the spotlight, she’d suspect that Mr. Knight might be making up a story, seeking attention in his last years.
Then again, Brigitte might be a means to some sort of end she wasn’t privy to. Or Mr. Knight’s memories of this journey could have altered over the years.
He said he would hand over the file he had on Brigitte and the Ricker family after she decided to search for Brigitte. Other questions she had were for the girl that he’d lost, the most pressing one being, if she was still alive, where had she been hiding for the past seventy-five years?
Maybe Brigitte didn’t know that Mr. Knight was searching for her. Or maybe—like Quenby’s mother—she didn’t want to be found.
Quenby’s fingers twitched again at her side, and she lifted her face to bask in the glorious sunshine, something that had evaded London for weeks.
Mr. Knight was correct—the yellow-and-pink strands of a sunrise were her favorite colors this time of year—but how did he know that? How did he know the name of the man she’d dated last year? And most disconcerting—how did he know her mother had abandoned her? She’d thought that story had been buried two decades ago. Never to be exhumed.
In spite of the warm air, she shivered at the memories.
Impossible to love—that’s what Brandon had said about her when he’d ended their short-lived dating relationship. And he’d been frustrated with her obsession for work. She might physically leave the office at night, but her mind was always churning, putting together the pieces of a story. Chewing was what he’d called it their last time together. Chewing the cud.
Nasty business, this chewing. It drove other people crazy, but it kept her sane. Working on someone else’s story kept her from having to reflect on her own.
Leaning against a pillar, she removed an envelope from her handbag. This visit wasn’t about her. It was about a girl lost long ago. A girl who’d never seemed to find her way home.
Mr. Knight had given her a copy of a black-and-white photograph. The image was grainy, but there was a girl with braids in the center, a bow over the wide collar of her dress, a ruffle around her hem. She was holding the hands of her parents. Smiling. Her mother’s eyes were hidden behind her glasses, but her father looked worried, his lips pinched.
Had Brigitte reunited with her father? Perhaps she had returned to live a quiet life in Germany after the war, taking care of a man who’d been broken in a concentration camp.
Quenby slipped the envelope back into her handbag. Then she descended the steps toward the lower terrace. The patio was surrounded by boulders and a man-made waterfall that cascaded over rocks, into the swimming pool. Water bubbled out of the pool near the rock wall, into a creek bed that trickled across the terrace before pouring over the edge of the cliff.
Quenby took off her sandals and sat on the tiled edge of the pool, dipping her toes into the cool water.
One thing was clear to her—to this day, Mr. Knight loved Brigitte deeply. She saw it in his gaze that kept wandering down to the princess toy in his feeble hand. Heard it in the tremble of his voice as he talked about the girl he’d struggled to keep alive.
His story fascinated her. The journey through an occupied Belgium seemed impossible, and yet he’d finished it, despite all that opposed him. It would make a compelling feature, but no matter how much she researched—or what she uncovered—there would be no article. Mr. Knight wanted to find Brigitte, but he’d made it quite clear that this story was not for the syndicate.
Any information she found on the Rickers in the process of her search, she could retain for her article, but how could she take on this job and maintain her position with World News? Even if he did pay for her work, she wasn’t certain she wanted to partner with a man she knew so little about. A man who apparently knew an enormous amount about her.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Jack, his gaze focused over her head, beyond the stone wall. “If you keep your eyes on the water, you’re bound to see one of the orca pods swim by.”
“Killer whales?”
“It’s a strange name to call them when they’re not even whales,” he said. “Orcas are actually part of the dolphin family.”
She sighed. “Not everything is as it seems.”
Jack sat on the edge of a cushioned deck chair, his knees folded up into an awkward sort of platform. “Don’t be afraid of Mr. Knight. He is a good man.”
“He’s asking me to do the impossible.”
“I’ve worked for him more than forty years, and one thing I know for certain, he’s an excellent judge of character.” Jack stretched out his legs, then scooted the chair closer to her. “He wouldn’t ask you to do something he thinks an impossibility.”
She lifted her feet, letting the water stream off her toes, back into the pool. Had Jack heard the story of the boy who’d tried to rescue Brigitte? Daniel didn’t seem like the kind of person who liked to share his past either.
Her neck craned back, she looked up at the spires towering overhead. “Who built this place?”
“Mr. Knight hired a crew to build it in 1970, but it took them almost ten years to complete.”
“Why did he build a castle?”
Instead of answering her question, Jack pointed at the highest tower in the center. “That’s the keep.”
She examined the gray walls. “It looks like a tower to me.”
“The keep is much more important than a tower,” he said, smiling. “In the Middle Ages, if an enemy stormed a castle, the residents would either escape underneath it or they’d take refuge up there. Knights could win a battle from the keep.”
She studied it again. “And your employer needs one of these because—?”
He smiled again, dimples creasing in his ruddy cheeks. “A fine question to ask him.”
She sighed. “Could you tell me what time it is, or is that a secret as well?”
“Two o’clock, Pacific time.”
She calculated the hours in her head. “Ten o’clock in London. How long do you think they’ll meet?”
“It’s different every time,” he said, tossing her a white towel. “You have family in England?”
She shook her head as she dried her feet. “Not anymore. I always wanted to visit London, though, so I accepted an internship at a newspaper there during college.” She threw the towel into a hamper. “Spent most of my summer grinding coffee beans and running errands, but after graduation, my former boss offered me an editorial job.”
“I went to London once, on my honeymoon.” He looked back toward the sea. “My wife pretended we were royalty for a week.”
“Royalty seems much more glamorous on a TV screen.”
“It was the best week of my life,” he said, his voice cracking. “We visited Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace and got to see the great Hannah Dayne perform in Gone with the Wind.
“My Alice lost her battle with cancer two years later. Mr. Knight pulled me off my job and asked me how I was doing. When I told him I wasn’t doing that great, he asked me what I thought about moving to the San Juan Islands. It was exactly what I needed.”
“I’m sorry,” Quenby said, silently reprimanding herself for her gibe about the royal life. She needed to think before she spoke again.
“It’s been more than forty years, and I still miss her. She would have loved this island.”
“What is Mr. Knight’s business?”
The smile slowly returned to Jack’s face. “Farming.”
She tilted he
r head. “He must own one big farm.”
“It’s not your typical type of farming.”
Before she could ask another question, Lucas stepped onto the terrace with them, holding out her mobile. “He’s decided to trust you.”
She snatched it from his hand, afraid he might retract the offer. “Does that mean you trust me as well?”
“You’ll have to earn my trust, Miss Vaughn.”
Quenby glanced at Jack, at his shoulders trembling, the hand unsuccessfully covering the corners of his lips. The man was laughing at them. “I’m sorry, Lucas,” she said, “but you’re going to have to earn mine first.”
CHAPTER 9
_____
Early Tuesday morning, Quenby rode the District line west to the village of Kew. Then she walked three blocks through a neighborhood of terrace homes with wrought-iron gates and flowers blooming on their patches of lawn.
Instead of residing among the monuments in central London, the National Archives were housed here, hidden between gardens and houses as if the country’s heritage was embedded in the hearts of its people. A thousand years of history documented and stored in one building, the immense structure reflecting back on itself in a shallow pool below the entrance.
Inside, she stored her leather briefcase and most of her belongings in a locker on the bottom floor. Her iPad and mobile were dumped into a clear plastic bag that, like a school uniform, equalized all stations of researchers who used these archives—those searching for their family’s genealogy, history for a textbook, or information for a news story. Inside these walls everyone was treated alike.
After security searched her plastic bag, she retrieved the stack of files she’d requested, taking them to her reserved seat in the reading room, an octagonal table overlooking a park. The top file on her stack was a faded-green folder, stamped Secret in red and held together with orange yarn and plastic tabs. The type across the top read: German Espionage in the UK.
Catching the Wind Page 5
