“Billy, be reasonable,” Bennie said. “Von Brandt’s a government man. He spends his days with the likes of the prime minister. We couldn’t even get close to him.”
“Oh, but I am being reasonable,” Billy said, his eyes blazing with rage. “In fact, I’ve reasoned it all out very nicely. I’m going to make his father grieve the way I’m grieving. I’m going to make the man know what it feels like to lose a son.”
“You don’t mean that. We can’t just—”
“We can, Bennie,” Billy said. “And we will. There’s got to be a way. Whatever it is, I’ll find it, and when I do, Max von Brandt is a dead man.”
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Max Von Brandt poured himself a cup of strong coffee and sat down at the desk in his hotel suite. It was only half past three, but he was already exhausted. The day, full of meetings at Westminster and interviews with the London dailies, had been a grueling one.
He was due at the chancellor’s house for supper tonight—an event which would likely go quite late, and before that, he had a dozen telephone calls to make and a thick stack of reports to read through. He was just reaching for the telephone when he heard a knock on his hotel room door.
“Telegram for Mr. von Brandt,” a man’s voice called.
“One moment, please,” Max called back.
He rose, quickly crossed the room, and opened the door. Before he could even shout, the two men were on him. The first man, a broad-shouldered giant, drove his fist into Max’s face, knocking him to the floor.
The second man quickly closed the door and locked it. “Get him in the chair, Bennie,” the first man said. “Over there. Tie him.”
Max, dazed from the blow and bleeding from the gash it had left on his jaw, felt himself being lifted up and dragged backward. He tried to reach into his pocket, to get hold of the knife that was there, but before he could, he was dumped into a chair and a length of rope was wound around him, pinning his arms tightly against his body.
“Well done, lad,” the second man said. “He won’t be going anywhere soon. Will you, Mr. Stiles?”
Max, who’d been straining against his bonds, looked up just in time to see Billy’s fist come flying toward him. The blow opened up another gash—this one across his cheekbone. His head snapped back. Blood sprayed across the wall behind him in an arc.
When the pain had subsided a bit, when he could see properly, and speak, he said, “Hello, Billy. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
“Shut your mouth, you bastard. You cunt. You filthy spy.”
“Billy, I don’t—”
“Shut your mouth!” Billy screamed.
He pulled a pistol out of his coat pocket and pointed it at Max.
“You killed them,” he said. “You killed my boys William and Tommy. You put Peter in hospital for the rest of his life.”
Max realized he was in very great danger. Billy Madden had never been entirely right; now he seemed to have gone completely insane. His eyes were dark and mad and full of rage. Flecks of spit flew from his lips as he spoke. He was sweating and shaking.
“Billy, let me talk, listen to me. … I did not hurt your sons. I swear it.”
“Listen to him, will you, Bennie? Listen to his lies. You did kill them,” Madden shouted. “I saw you, von Brandt. I saw your picture in the paper. The German guv’nor himself sent you here to make nice with the prime minister. How stupid do you think I am? You’re not Peter Stiles. You’re not English. And that wasn’t swag you were sending to the North Sea. You and that murdering bastard of a kaiser were thick as thieves. You stole information here, you and your men, and you gave it to Germany. You told the kaiser where my boys would be and he dropped his shells on them. You killed them sure as I’m standing here, and now I’m going to kill you.”
Madden raised the gun again, and Max knew he had seconds, only seconds, to save his own life.
“It would be a terrible mistake to kill me, Billy,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Madden replied. He walked over to Max and pressed the pistol’s barrel against his head.
“You have another son.”
“The fuck I do,” Madden said, cocking the trigger.
“Josie Meadows,” Max said. “She was pregnant when she gave you the slip, wasn’t she? Pregnant with your child. Put the gun down, Billy, and I’ll tell you where she is.”
Chapter One Hundred Nine
“Daddy?” James said.
Seamie smiled. He loved the sound of that word on his son’s lips. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never tire of hearing it.
“Yes, James?”
“Tell me about Lawrence again. And Auda and Faisal. Tell me about the desert.”
Seamie, sitting on an old, squashy settee by the fireplace in the Binsey cottage, said, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, lad?”
“Just one more story. Please, Daddy?”
Seamie smiled. He would happily have told him twenty stories.
“Did you wash your face?”
“Yes.”
“Clean your teeth?”
“Yes.”
“Come on then, come sit by me,” Seamie said, patting the cushion next to him.
James, in his pajamas and clutching Wellie, his teddy bear, bounded onto the settee.
They’d come up to Jennie’s old cottage, which belonged to Seamie now, to spend a week together, just the two of them. They’d got to know each other at Fiona and Joe’s house over the last few weeks. James had been reticent at first, but had gradually warmed to Seamie and had even started to call him Daddy on his own. When Seamie asked him if he might like to visit the cottage in Binsey and do a little winter rambling around the Cotswolds, James had immediately said, “Would I! Let’s go!”
Seamie had taken James into an outfitters on Jermyn Street and made a big production of getting him kitted out with a pair of hiking boots, gaiters, a small walking stick, a waterproof, mittens, and a good warm hat. They’d arrived at the cottage three days ago and had been having a wonderful time cooking for themselves, walking, having pub lunches, talking, and sitting by the fire. Seamie hoped to eventually be able to go on proper treks and climbs with James, but his injuries were still not fully healed.
“If you could have seen Lawrence in the desert just one time,” Seamie began now, “you would want that one time to be right as he set off to take Damascus.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“Listen and I’ll tell you,” Seamie said. “Lawrence was about to wage the biggest campaign of his life, a campaign that would affect the fate of nations, and of all the people living in them. He was going to try to take a desert city heavily fortified by Turkish forces. If he succeeded, he would deal a lethal blow to England’s enemies, and he would accomplish nothing less than the liberation of all of Arabia …”
Seamie went on to describe for a wide-eyed, spellbound James the scene in Lawrence’s camp right before the march to Damascus. He told him about the yelling and bawling camels, the thousands of fearsome Bedouin fighters. He told him about Lawrence, riding at the head of the Arab irregulars with Faisal and Auda. He painted a picture for the boy of the sight the three men made in their robes, rifles slung over their backs—the regal Faisal; the warrior Auda, with his sharp features and piercing hawk’s eyes; and Lawrence in his white robes, at once so English, with his blue eyes and easy smile, and yet a son of Arabia, too, belonging, at that moment, entirely to the desert and its people.
Seamie told James how it had taken hours and hours for all the soldiers to leave. How the dust clouds had risen in their wake, how they looked as if a sea of men was marching to Damascus.
And then James said, “But, Daddy, what were you doing there?”
“Where? At the camp?”
“In the desert. You’re a naval commander, aren’t you? There are no oceans in the desert.”
“Right you are, James. Well observed.”
James smiled proudly.
“I had been hunting for a frie
nd in the desert. This friend had fought very hard on behalf of Major Lawrence, had been captured by the Turkish Army, but had escaped.”
“Did you find him?”
“Her, actually. Yes, I did. And I took her back to Lawrence’s camp.”
“Her?” James said, wrinkling his nose. “You had a girl for a friend?”
Seamie laughed. “I did.”
His voice was wistful now, his expression sad. He wondered what had become of Willa. He had not seen or heard from her since he’d left her with Fatima at Lawrence’s camp. His ship had been attacked only days after he’d said good-bye to her. Albie, who was back in Cambridge, and whom he’d written to, said she was in Paris. He had no current address for her, though. He’d tried to fetch her home once, but it hadn’t gone well, and they hadn’t corresponded since. He gave Seamie the last address he had for her, but she must’ve moved because his letter to her had been returned to him unopened. He wondered if she’d heard he was dead, wherever she was, and if she’d now heard the opposite. He would go to Paris soon. As soon as he and James were a little more settled. Not just yet, though. He’d just come back into the boy’s life and felt he must not leave him again so soon.
“She must’ve been a very good friend for you to hunt for her all over the desert.”
“She was a good friend. Even though she was a girl,” Seamie said conspiratorially.
“Mummy was a girl,” James said. “Did you love your friend like Mummy?”
Seamie faltered for a second, as all the old pain flooded back. He thought about the mistakes he’d made and the betrayals. He thought about the sorrow, the regret, the guilt, and the loss. How in the world could he ever explain that to anyone, never mind a small boy?
“You know what, lad?” he finally said. “That’s a story for another day. Off you go now. It’s late. Time for bed.”
“All right,” James said. He kissed Seamie’s cheek. “I love you, Daddy.”
Seamie was stunned. It was the first time James had said that. He leaned his head against his son’s and quietly said, “I love you, too, James.”
They sat close beside each other, father and son, staring at the fire. Seamie forgot all about bedtime. He forgot the painful thoughts he’d just been thinking, the painful emotions he’d just felt.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t think of the past. And of all the things he’d lost. He thought only of the present, and what he had. And how it was so much more than he deserved. And he prayed then that he would never, ever lose it.
Chapter One Hundred Ten
“It’s a lie,” Billy Madden said. “You’re making the whole thing up to save your hide.”
“It’s no lie. Untie me and I’ll tell you more,” Max said, hoping to convince Billy of the truth. Hoping to save his life.
“Maybe I’ll just beat the shite out of you instead. That’s another way of getting you to tell me more.”
“I hope you’re feeling strong. Or, rather, that your gorilla here is. I can take a beating, Billy. In my line of work, it’s an essential skill. Go too far with the fists, though, and you might kill me. That would be unfortunate. Because I’m one of only two people who knows that you have a son. Josie also knows where the boy is. But you have no idea where she is, do you? Kill me, and you’ll never find out.”
Madden stared at Max thoughtfully, then said, “Untie him, Bennie.”
As soon as the ropes had been removed, Max stood. “He leaves, first,” he said, pointing at Bennie, “and then you unload the pistol and give me the bullets.”
Madden did as Max asked.
When Bennie was on his way to the hotel’s lobby, and the bullets were safely in Max’s pocket, Max looked at Madden and said, “Listen carefully, I’m only going to say this once. And then you’re going to leave.”
Madden nodded.
“She’s in Paris. I’ve kept tabs on her. She’s an actress. She goes by the name of Josephine Lavallier. She performs at Bobino’s in Montparnasse. She hid from you back in 1914, had the child—a boy—and gave him away. Then she left England for the continent.”
“Gave him away? To who? Is he here in London? Is he at an orphanage?”
“She gave him to a woman. The woman died. The boy is still well. He lives with the woman’s husband—a man whom he knows as his father.”
“What woman? Stop playing silly buggers and tell me the husband’s name!”
“Sorry, Billy, but I’m afraid that’s not possible. That bit of information buys me a bit of time. It’s my insurance policy against another afternoon like this one. As long as I know where your son is, you can’t kill me.”
“I’ll still kill you, von Brandt. I’ll just wait until I find that bitch of a Josie and get the name of the ones she gave my boy to. Then I’ll nip right back and do for you. Nab you some night when you least expect it.”
“I don’t think so. By the time you get to Paris and find Josie and then get back to London again, I’ll be back in Berlin. I’d advise you not to come after me there. I have many friends in that city.”
Without another word, Billy Madden left, slamming the door behind him. Max locked it after him. He walked back to the sitting area, picked the rope up off the floor, and put it in his briefcase. He would dispose of it later. He got a facecloth from the bathroom, wetted it, and rubbed his blood off the wall.
Next he went into the bathroom and attended to his face. He would tell Lloyd George, Bonar Law, and the others at the dinner tonight that he’d got into a scuffle on the street with a man who’d lost his son in France and wanted to take it out on a German, any German. It wasn’t so far from the truth.
After he’d cleaned himself up, Max poured himself a whiskey to steady his nerves. He’d very nearly had a bullet put through his head. As he downed the contents of the glass, he thought it would be a good idea to kill Billy Madden. Right away. Tonight. But he knew that was impossible. Madden always had at least one of his men around him, if not more. Max was too visible now to move around London freely, and even if he could put together some sort of disguise, how would he get the time to go after Madden? His evenings were full of parties and dinners. He was supposed to be acting the part of the civilized diplomat now, not making shadowy visits to East London, as he used to do.
He would have to let it go. There was no other choice. He felt a momentary ripple of unease over having told Madden about Josie, and about possibly endangering both Josie and her son. In his current state, Madden was probably insane enough to actually go to Paris.
What would Madden do if he found Josie there? Max wondered. He’d probably question her about the child. Probably rough her up a bit. She might tell him where the boy was and she might not, but even if she did, was Billy Madden crazy enough to try to take a child from the likes of Seamus Finnegan? The man was a war hero. He’d survived the best efforts of the German Navy. He’d kill anyone who tried to take his son, and even if Billy did get hold of the boy, once the story made the newspapers, the entire country would be looking for him.
No, Max decided, Billy Madden was currently unhinged because of grief over his sons. Once he calmed down a bit, he would see the lunacy of the whole thing and let it go. Of course he would.
Max finished his drink and tried to put the whole incident out of his mind. He had things other than some East End madman to worry about. He’d managed to accomplish none of the things he ought to have done. No telephone calls had been made, no reports had been read. And he now would need to bathe and dress if he had any hope of getting to his dinner on time.
And after his dinner, he had one more meeting to attend. A very private meeting. Back here, in his rooms. Quite late.
Max von Brandt had been put in charge of the trade and finance delegation for a reason, and it wasn’t because he was all gemütlich with the German president, no matter what the papers might say. It was because he had other business in London, for which the delegation was merely a convenient cover. He had something far more important to achiev
e than selling motorcycles.
He had a chain to mend.
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
“Bonjour, Willa!” the baker’s wife called out, as Willa entered her shop.
“Bonjour, Adelaide. Ça va?” Willa called back.
“Oui, ça va! Et toi?”
“Je suis bien, merci, mais j’ai faim. Un croissant, s’il vous plaît, à aussi une baguette.”
As the baker’s wife assembled Willa’s order, she told Willa that she was too thin and would never get a man because what man wanted to embrace a woman who looked like a garden rake? She said she was going to give Willa two croissants, not one, and that she must promise to eat them both.
Willa forced a smile and said she would. She paid for her purchases and slowly walked back to her flat. There was no reason to hurry. No one was waiting for her there. When she got to her rooms, she put her croissants and the milk she’d bought on her table, then heated a pot of water for coffee. She hung up her coat and then, still cold, shrugged into the woolly cardigan that Oscar had left hanging on a hook by the door. It was soft and warm, and of a good quality. I should really give it back to him, she thought. I will. If I ever see him again.
Oscar had decided that a nice house with a set of china and a vacuum cleaner in it was not the answer to Willa’s problems—and neither was he. They had parted company a few days after her overdose and he’d returned to Rome. Willa didn’t blame him. She wasn’t angry with him. She didn’t want to live with herself. Why should he?
The water boiled. Willa ground some coffee beans, put them in her press, and poured the water over them. She poured some creamy milk into a bowl, added some coffee, then carried the bowl to the table. Morning sunshine was streaming in the windows. She turned her chair so its heat warmed her back. Then put her head in her hands and wept.
It was like this every day now. Sadness had overwhelmed her; it had nearly immobilized her. She could barely eat or sleep and didn’t work at all anymore. She wished that Josie and Oscar hadn’t found her. She wished she had died the night she’d overdosed. She would have been with Seamie, then, instead of always being without him.
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