The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

“These arrangements concerned taking a mate of Stiles’s—a man named Hutchins—out on me boat. Every fortnight. To the North Sea. To certain coordinates, to meet another boat. Stiles was moving swag to the continent. Jewelry. At least that’s what he said. Meself? I don’t think it was jewels that he was moving. We were always met there by a boat. Hutchins would give a box to the captain. He sounded as English I do, Hutchins that is. The captain of the other boat, though? And the crew. They were speaking German.”

  “Christ, John,” Sid said. “How long did this go on? When did it stop?”

  “That’s the thing—it didn’t,” John said. “Hutchins is dead. Another bloke did for him back in ’14, but I’m still meeting the boat. With a new man—Flynn. I don’t want to do this, Sid. I never wanted to do it. I’m running secrets to the Germans. I know I am. Our boys are dying over there and I’m helping Gerry kill them. I want to stop but I can’t. I’m in too deep. Madden’ll do for me. And then what happens to me kids?” His voice broke. He looked away from Sid, but before he did, Sid saw the anguish in his eyes—and recognized it. It had been his own once.

  “Madden’s a bastard, well and truly,” Sid said. “We’ll get round him, though, John. Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out. I’ll fix this somehow. But first finish your story. Tell me all of it. I still don’t understand how this ties in with the death of Maud Selwyn Jones.”

  John wiped his eyes. “Her death was a big news story, wasn’t it? It was in all the papers, HEIRESS TAKES HER OWN LIFE, the headlines said. There were pictures of her. I saw them. And when I saw them, I recognized her. I’d seen her before. And Stiles, too. I saw them together. Only he wasn’t Stiles then.”

  “Hold on, John. Slow down. I’m not following you,” Sid said.

  “We was casing a house, me and a few more of Madden’s crew. In the West End. Belonged to some toff who had lots of silver, paintings, the usual. We was going to knock it off one weekend when he was away. We went in one afternoon—me and another bloke—posing as inspectors from the gas company. Wanted to get a gander round the place—see what was where upstairs, and get the lay of the basement doors and windows. While we was in the foyer, messing about with a gas lamp, I saw them come in—the Selwyn Jones woman and Peter Stiles. Only she called him Max, and she introduced him to the lady of the house as Max von Brandt. After her death, I checked out this Max von Brandt. Found out he was from Germany. He only posed as Stiles, an Englishman, to get the use of Madden’s boat. I don’t see him anymore—Stiles, that is. And I never told Billy about him being von Brandt. But I still see his man Flynn. Every fortnight. And whatever he’s giving the Germans … well, it ain’t diamond earrings.”

  Sid sat back in his chair, gobsmacked. So many questions were whirling around in his head, he barely knew which one to ask first.

  “John,” he said at length. “I believe what you’re telling me—that Stiles or von Brandt is passing documents to Germany, but it doesn’t follow on that he killed Maud. Max von Brandt’s alibi was solid. He was completely cleared of any connection in Maud’s death. The police reports said he didn’t do it. They said she killed herself with an overdose of morphine.”

  “I know what the reports said. I read the papers,” John said. “But since when do the busies have the last word on anything? What are they now, geniuses? They say he didn’t. So what? I say he did.”

  “How?”

  John shook his head. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? I don’t know. Maybe he was quick and injected her right then and there when he took her home. Maybe he paid off the cabbie to say he’d only been in her house a minute or two, when he’d actually been in there longer. Maybe he had a key on him and snuck back later that night. Maybe he didn’t need a key. Maybe he went back all nice-like, pretending he wanted to make up, and she let him in. If anyone could’ve pulled it off, he could’ve. He’s one clever sod.”

  “But why? Why would he want to kill her? He finished with her, not the other way round.”

  John thought for a bit, then he said, “Maybe it had nothing to do with their love affair. Maybe she knew something. Maybe she’d seen something she shouldn’t have.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Sid said slowly. “Here’s another question: Where is von Brandt or Stiles or whatever he calls himself now?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since the war started.”

  “But you’re still taking Flynn and the documents out to the North Sea?”

  John nodded.

  “So Billy’s still getting paid,” Sid said. “Or else you wouldn’t be. He doesn’t do anything from the goodness of his heart, not our Billy. Somebody’s still sending the money.” Sid thought for a minute, then he said, “How does Flynn get the documents?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t say much. He just appears at the boatyard every fortnight. Like clockwork. I just took him out this past weekend. Due to go again not this coming Friday, but the next one.”

  Sid took a deep breath, then blew it out. “Well, John, I have to say … this is one fine fucking mess. We could go to the police, tell them all you know about von Brandt and Flynn and Madden. Maybe get you some sort of informant’s deal. But then what? Madden just denies everything. There’s no proof of any of this, right? It’s just your word against his. Old Bill does nothing, much as they’d like to, because they can’t. Madden knows you snitched and comes after you. Not what I’d call a good result.”

  “Nor I,” said Maggie.

  “We go to the government,” Sid said. “Tell them about von Brandt and Flynn. Tell them they can’t implicate you. They nab Flynn at the boatyard with the documents on him. He’s in the shit. You say you’ve never seen him before. You have no idea what he’s doing in the boatyard. You’re in the clear. That way, we put an end to the passing of any secrets to Gerry, but you still belong to Billy. Also not good.”

  Sid put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, trying to come up with a solution. After a few minutes, he raised his head and said, “John, Maggie … how would you fancy a trip to Scotland, followed by an even longer one to America?”

  “What?” John said.

  “Listen, what I’m going to tell you now you can’t tell a soul.”

  John and Maggie nodded.

  “I have a place. In America. It’s a huge ranch in California. Right on the coast. I have a family, too. They came to England right before the war started and then got stuck over here. I got myself over here because I didn’t want them here without me for all these years. When this bloody war ends—if this bloody war ever ends—we’re all going back. I left the ranch in the hands of my foreman. He’s a capable man and I think he’s taking good care of it, at least I hope he is, but I’m always looking for good help. What if you were to go to Scotland, to someplace nice and quiet in the country, and stay there for a bit, and then make the trip to California when all this nonsense is over?”

  It was John’s turn to look gobsmacked. “But how, Sid? We have no money,” he said

  “I do. I’ll pay for it. All of it.”

  “We couldn’t do that,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “Couldn’t ask that of you.”

  “Yes, you could. Because of you, my wife’s not a widow tonight. My children still have a father. I’m in debt to you the rest of my life for that. Let me start paying you back.”

  John and Maggie looked at each other. Sid could see that he almost had them.

  “Think of it … you’d be out of London, away from Madden. Safe. Your kids would grow up in the most beautiful place you can imagine. With green grass and blue skies and the whole Pacific Ocean right there. I’d get your sons ranching instead of breaking heads and thieving. Your daughter will have clean air. Sunshine. Come on, Maggs … John … what do you say?”

  Maggie nodded at John, and then John said, “Can you really do all that? Get us, all of us, all the way to California?”

  “I can.”

  “All right, then. Yes. We’ll go. But how? When? And what do we do a
bout Flynn? And Madden?”

  “I don’t know. Not just yet. But I’ll figure it out. We’ve got to stop Flynn before your next North Sea run, get you away from Madden, and make sure no one twigs any of it until it’s too late.”

  “That’s one tall order, Sid,” John said.

  “Aye, it is, but if anyone can figure out how to get you lot out of London, it’s me. I’m a master at disappearing. I’ve died in the Thames three times already. What’s going to take a bit more maneuvering is nabbing Flynn. But we’ll worry about that a little later,” he said, standing up and scooping the money John had given him off the table. “Right now, my biggest problem isn’t Germans or spies or Billy Madden. It’s how the hell I’m going to get all the way from Margate to Oxford on two shillings and six pence.”

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Willa, sitting a top her camel, leaned over to one side and vomited into the sand. She did not stop the animal while she was sick, but kept him going. The punishing sun beat down upon her, making the desert air shimmer, making her feel a thousand times worse than she already did.

  She didn’t want to even acknowledge what she was feeling—the nausea, the cramps in her gut and in her legs. They were all signs of cholera. If she acknowledged them, she would dwell on them and worry about them. And she could not afford to do that.

  Willa had stopped at an abandoned well yesterday. It was old and disused, and had been left for a reason. The water—what there was—had a dark look to it and a musty smell. She knew better than to drink it, but she’d had no choice. She had already emptied the one skin of water the camel trader had given her. Attayeh had become stubborn and unbiddable, a sure sign that he needed water, too. They’d both drunk their fill, rested for a few hours, then moved on. Twenty-four hours later, Attayeh seemed no worse for the well water, but she was.

  She had consulted Max’s map a few hours ago. According to it, she would soon come to a small village. She still had Max’s money on her, and the remaining two pistols she’d stolen. She hoped to be able to barter something for water and medicine there—if the people there were friendly, if the village wasn’t a dwelling place for raiders, or an outpost for Turkish soldiers. If she could rest there for half a day or so, patch herself up a bit, and make sure Attayeh got plenty of water, then she could make Lawrence’s camp in a day if it was where Max thought it was, or two days if it was where the camel trader said it was. But those were a lot of ifs, and she knew it.

  She leaned over Attayeh’s side again, retching violently, her eyes tearing with the force of the spasms. When it was over, she spat into the sand, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  Turkish soldiers, Bedouin raiders, the killing sun, cholera, the threat of dehydration if she didn’t stop throwing up …

  Willa wondered, ruefully, which one would get her first.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  “Seamie, you can’t do it. It’s madness. You’ll never make it. Damascus is at least five days from here. That’s five days to get there, and what? Another eight or nine days to get from Damascus back to Haifa? And that’s not including the time it takes to track down news of Willa in the city, while somehow managing to not be recognized. You told me you need to be back in Haifa in eight days. What you’re proposing simply cannot be done,” Lawrence said.

  “Are you certain it’s five days to Damascus?” Seamie said. “Has it ever been done faster?”

  “Perhaps,” Lawrence said, “but you still have to turn around and head south again once you’ve reached Damascus. Unless, that is, you fancy a court-martial. Even if you got there, and found Willa, what do you plan to do? Do you think the Turkish Army will just allow you to waltz off with her?”

  Seamie had no answer for him.

  “We start our march on the city in a matter of weeks. If she’s in Damascus, I will find her. Let me do it. Let me find her. You must go back to Haifa. It’s the only possible course,” Lawrence said.

  Seamie nodded, defeated. There was nothing else he could do.

  He had ridden into Lawrence’s camp a day ago, with Khalaf, Aziz, and their men—Lawrence’s new camp. Spooked by rumors of Turkish patrols, Lawrence had broken his last camp earlier than he’d intended and moved farther east, to a new position. When Seamie and his comrades had found the new camp—thanks to word from a passing cloth merchant—they’d nearly been shot for their troubles. A sentry had spied them and ridden out with fifty men, all of whom had rifles. They were surrounded and led back to camp. Lawrence recognized both Seamie and Khalaf immediately and embraced them warmly. Their animals were seen to, and they were all invited into Lawrence’s tent to eat and drink. There, they met Auda, and then explained why they had come. Lawrence had been elated to hear that Willa had survived the plane crash, but furious at Aziz for selling her to the Turks.

  “You should have brought her to me!” he thundered at him.

  Aziz had merely shrugged. “You should have paid me better for the last hostage,” he said.

  Seamie had to admit now that his attempt to find Willa had failed. He would return to Haifa tomorrow with no idea where she was, or if she was even still alive. He knew that what Lawrence had said made sense, but it was so hard to turn back to Haifa. He couldn’t believe he had ridden all this way, and against all odds found Lawrence’s camp, only to have to give up now. And yet if he did not, if he pushed on and got back to Haifa late, he would be accused of desertion.

  “I will go to Damascus with Lawrence,” Khalaf told him now. “I will find Willa Alden. If she is not there, I will search elsewhere. I will not give up until I have her, and when I do, I will send word to you.”

  Seamie nodded. He had to accept Lawrence’s offer, and Khalaf’s. He could do nothing else. As he thanked the two men, they all heard shouts from outside the tent. A minute later, a young man, a Howeitat, was inside the tent, excitedly telling Lawrence, and everyone else, that an airplane was approaching from the west.

  “One?” Lawrence asked tersely.

  “Just one,” the young man said.

  “Ours or theirs?”

  “Ours, Sidi.”

  Lawrence rose. Outside the tent, he motioned for the young man’s field glasses and raised them to his eyes. Seamie was following the plane with his own field glasses. It was circling low now. As they all watched, the pilot brought it down on the flattest, hardest part of the camp’s terrain, near the camel pen. Bellowing, spitting camels welcomed both the pilot and his single passenger as they climbed out of their seats.

  “Is that …,” Lawrence began, his glasses still trained on the two men.

  “Albie Alden,” Seamie said quietly, his heart filling with dread. Seamie knew that Albie believed that Willa was dead. Is that why he was here? To tell them to call off the search? To let them know he’d found her body?

  It’s probably nothing to do with Willa. It’s something to do with the march on Damascus, Seamie told himself, willing it to be so.

  Albie and the pilot, who’d immediately been surrounded by gun-toting men, were quickly marched to Lawrence’s tent. Lawrence greeted the two men as they approached him, but Albie, dusty from the plane ride and breathless from the march, cut him off.

  “She made it out of Damascus alive,” he said. “And she’s trying to get to your camp, Tom. You’ve got to find her. Immediately. She’s got maps on her showing the size and location of Turkish troops stationed between here and Damascus. They’ve set a trap for you. You’ve got to go after her. Now. The Turks are hot on her trail. They’ve put a price on her head. Anyone who finds her is under orders to recover the maps and bring her back to Damascus.”

  “How do you know this?” Lawrence asked.

  “A camel trader in Damascus swears he sold her a camel and supplies the night she escaped from the city. She was on the run, dressed as a man. She told him she was in the service of the great sheik Lawrence, and he told her where your camp was. After she’d got out of the city, he told the story to his brother, a spice merchant who works the backc
ountry between Damascus and Haifa. The merchant, who visits a whorehouse in Haifa, told the madam who runs it, and the madam told me. For a fee, of course. But I trust her information. My colleagues tell me she’s never been wrong.”

  “How long ago did she leave Damascus?” Seamie asked

  “I’m not sure. Four days, maybe,” Albie said.

  “Then she should be close by now,” Tom said. “She’s an excellent navigator. She wouldn’t have got herself lost.”

  “That’s the problem,” Albie said. “The trader who sold her the camel told her where to find your camp, Tom, but since then, you’ve moved camp.”

  “Bloody hell. She’s trying to ride to the old camp,” Seamie said. “And there’s nothing there.” He turned to the pilot. “Can you fly out to the old campsite?” he asked.

  “It’s about a seventy miles west of here,” Lawrence added. “Have you got enough petrol?”

  “Petrol’s not the problem,” the pilot said. “I know that area. It’s all dunes. I can’t land. If I got down, I’d never get back up again.”

  “Fly a recon, then,” Seamie said. “I’ll go with you. If we can spot her, we can turn around, get back here, and get a party of armed riders out to her straightaway.”

  “Let’s go,” the pilot said, starting back toward his plane. Seamie was hot on his heels, but Albie called to him, stopping him.

  “What is it?” Seamie said.

  “There’s more to the story. According to the camel trader, Willa killed a high-ranking German officer—one Max von Brandt.”

  “What? The same Max we knew in London? The bloke who came to my wedding?”

  “Yes. I think he’s the spymaster, Seamie. The one I’ve been hunting. I think he worked for the German government while he was in London, that he established a link with an informant in the Admiralty while he was there, and that that link is still active. Still feeding information to the Germans on the whereabouts of our ships.”

  Seamie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Do you have proof of this?”