The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  The safe house, which held the weapons cache, was not especially large, but it was comfortable enough. The living room on the ground floor also served as a rustic kitchen, with a countertop and a stone fireplace, while a trapdoor further down led to the cellar. The bedroom Sam and his daughter shared was down to the right, and Robert’s room was to the left. Upstairs, five Resistance fighters were snoring away in the attic-turned-barracks. At five in the morning, Robert rose from bed and shaved in front of the little mirror in the kitchen. As he packed up his gear, his partner, Titon, the Italian member of the crew, was watching.

  “Don’t take your gun,” Titon advised. “If we get stopped, they’ll search us, and we need to pass as local farmers.”

  “Good luck with that!” Maurice snickered from the kitchen. “He’s got a mighty strange accent for a local farmer. If you two get stopped, have him hand over his papers, but don’t let him say a word.”

  “Hurry up,” another member of the crew urged. “The factory opens its doors at six o’clock. You’ll need to walk in with the workers; that’s the only way to get in unnoticed.”

  Titon and Robert’s mission was to infiltrate the cartridge factory.

  “Go to the manager at the workshop, and give him this message: ‘There were doves flying overhead this morning.’ He’ll give you a haversack full of what you’ll need.”

  “Then what?” asked Titon.

  “Then, you blend in with the others and discreetly insert the rigs under the assembly lines.” The rigs were gutter pipes they had swiped from a scrapyard and modified to suit their needs. Bolted end-caps had been added to each side, and each had a hole for a fuse leading to Ablonite charges to pass through. The explosives had been scavenged by sympathetic miners from a nearby quarry.

  “At noon, the workers will head to the courtyard for a break. You two light the fuses. You’ll have two minutes before the explosion, and then you take advantage of the chaos to get out.”

  Robert and Titon served themselves soup from a large pot hanging in the hearth above coals still burning from the night before. They needed to get something in their stomachs; they wouldn’t be back at the hunting lodge until after nightfall.

  Sam Goldstein and his daughter stepped out of their room. Hanna leaned against the doorframe silently, while Sam came up to shake Robert’s hand. “Be careful,” he whispered, pulling Robert in for a tight hug. “I am hoping to never have to hold up my end of our deal.”

  Hanna watched, still walled up in her world of silence. Robert waved at her, then grabbed his gear and followed Titon outside. They made their way down the path through the woods and hopped onto a tandem bicycle that lay awaiting them, Titon in front and Robert behind. Titon asked Robert if there was something going on between him and the Jewish girl. Everyone noticed the way she looked at him.

  “Well, she’s a bit young, don’t you think?” said Robert.

  “Il cuore pien di dibolesses,” sighed Titon in his native tongue, a patois from Treviso.

  “Sorry, what does that mean?”

  “It means it’s a shame to see a child’s heart so full of sorrow. But you, you’re American. Why do you come to fight so far from home?” asked Titon.

  “I’m not exactly sure. To rebel against my father, I guess. My heart was full of romantic ideals.”

  “Ah, so you’re a fool, then? There’s nothing romantic about war.”

  “What about you? Didn’t you come from far away to fight?”

  “I was born here. My parents arrived in ’25. But to the French, I’ll always be a foreigner. They don’t like us all that much. I’ve always found them to be quite an odd people. Our parents showered us with affection, but the French never even kiss their children. When I was growing up, I thought it meant they didn’t love them, but it’s simply that they don’t know how to express their feelings.”

  “If they have so many flaws, why do you fight for them?”

  “I fight fascists wherever they are. And next time someone asks you that question, you should say the same thing; you’ll be better off.”

  Ten kilometers later, they ran straight into French militiamen at a crossroads and were stopped for questioning. Robert handed over the papers and Titon did the talking, just as planned. He explained that they were workers on their way to the factory. Titon begged the ranking officer to let them go on their way, explaining that their foreman would dock their pay if they were even a minute late.

  One of the soldiers approached Robert. “What’s the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?”

  Titon spoke for Robert: “He’s deaf and dumb.” The officer ordered the two men to dismount the bike.

  As Robert swung his leg over the bike, the officer shoved him hard, knocking him down. Caught off guard, Robert cursed loudly. Their cover was blown. Everyone froze. Then all hell broke loose.

  Even outnumbered four to two, the partisans weren’t about to go quietly. Titon lunged at the ranking officer and struck him down with a fierce right hook, while Robert wrestled another to the ground. The third soldier kicked Robert in the ribs, knocking the air out of him, then stunned him with a boot to the chin.

  Titon leaped in to push the man off Robert, landing a solid uppercut, when shots suddenly rang out. The fourth soldier had drawn his gun and fired three shots, killing Titon instantly. The soldiers dragged his corpse off into a ditch, leaving a long trail of blood on the road. They handcuffed Robert, threw him into the back of their van, and took him straight to the police station.

  Robert’s clothes were torn off and he was tied to a chair, naked. Three militiamen kept watch over him. Another prisoner, a woman who had been tortured, was hunched over on the ground, writhing in pain. Robert had never seen such brutality. The filth and the stench of blood mixed with urine were entirely new to him. One of the militiamen strode over to Robert and gave him two thunderous slaps across the face, knocking the chair straight over. The two other men set Robert upright once more so the militiaman could rear back and strike him again. This game lasted a full hour. Not a single question was asked. Robert fainted twice, both times brought back to consciousness by a bucket of ice water thrown over him.

  Next, as the men dragged Robert toward a small cell, they passed another prisoner huddled on a straw mattress, his torso and legs covered in wounds. Robert looked at the man long and hard, until the militiaman barked, “You two know each other?”

  The Resistance fighter threw Robert a surreptitious glance, silently pleading with him not to reveal their connection.

  At noon, Robert was brought back to the torture room for another round of beatings. The blows rained down on him, until a policeman strolled into the room and ordered the militiamen to stand down and leave.

  “My name is Inspector Vallier,” he said. “Allow me to express my regret for the treatment that you have been forced to endure here. We thought you were English . . . but you’re American, are you not? I don’t have a thing against Americans. On the contrary—Gary Cooper, John Wayne . . . doesn’t get any better than that! My wife fancies Fred Astaire, who is maybe a little effeminate for me, but I have to admit, the man sure knows how to move those feet!”

  Vallier did a quick little dance move, clearly trying to lighten the tension still hanging over the room.

  “Now, I am a curious man by nature—call it an occupational hazard. So, I have to wonder: What on earth is an American doing riding a tandem bicycle with a terrorist? Don’t answer, not yet. First, let me share two hypotheses with you, two explanations that spring to mind. First: you were hitchhiking, this scum picked you up, and you had no idea he was a traitor. The second explanation is that you were working with him. Of course, the two don’t carry the same consequences. Don’t speak, please, not yet. I’m still working it out in my head. Ah, there. You see, it just doesn’t fit. Why ride a tandem bike alone? But let’s say he did . . . he just happens to run into a hitchhiker? You see, it doesn’t add up, which is unfortunate. Because if my colleagues make this same connection, I h
onestly wouldn’t know what to tell them. You’d be at their mercy. It seems we still have a little while before they’re done with their lunch break. So, I’ll let you in on a little secret.

  “There are two doors out of this police station. One leads to the courtyard, where you will be shot. Our court system is far too overloaded with our own terrorists as it is. And anyway, an American working with an enemy of the state on French soil wouldn’t be entitled to a trial. Foreign agents are subject to military punishment. So, think carefully about the story you’re about to tell me. You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. It would be such a shame for it to end so soon. Which reminds me, I forgot to tell you about the second door. How silly of me! Let’s say you give us some names, the location where you and your hapless friends have been hiding out—then I would be happy to take off your handcuffs and send you on your way through the second door back onto the street. I’ll consider those papers of yours authentic. Young Robert Marchand gets to go home. Imagine how happy your parents would be to have you back. Or, maybe there’s a little lady waiting for you? A sweet little fiancée, for example?”

  Inspector Vallier glanced up at the clock on the wall and pressed a finger to his ear. “Ticktock, ticktock, you hear that?” he whispered to Robert. “My colleagues won’t be long now. You walked into a trap, you know. It wasn’t mere chance. Patrols are posted at every crossroads in the vicinity. We know you’re hiding out somewhere in those woods. The militia has been hunting relentlessly for weeks now. They will find it, they’re very close. With or without your help, it’s only a matter of time, a few days at best, before they smoke your friends out. Dying here today would be such a waste, just to delay the inevitable . . . how very silly, how very sad. Think of it this way. You decide to talk, you might actually spare your friends’ lives. If we’re able to find their hideout, we can bring them in quietly. No violence, just arrests. If we manage to surround them, they’ll have no choice but to surrender. But if the militia find them during patrol, everyone starts shooting. Same outcome, more bloodshed. If you’re clever, you can save your own skin and your friends’ lives in the process. Call out when you’ve made up your mind about what you wish to tell me. You have less than fifteen minutes to decide.”

  27

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Baltimore

  The moment George-Harrison walked into the dining area for breakfast, I began talking his ear off about the Stanfields. I had been up until the wee hours of the morning digging, only to come up short, with no leads on the elusive family. I wasn’t even able to find the address of their famous Baltimore estate. Thinking back to how Mum tracked down my father in Croydon all those years ago, I went to the front desk and asked for a phone book. The clerk gaped at me as if I had requested some otherworldly, mysterious object.

  George-Harrison had barely taken his first sip of coffee when I asked him if he could take me down to city hall.

  “Just run away and elope? No way, honey,” he joked. “You’re going to have to get down on one knee and propose first.”

  I grinned at his stale joke, promising he’d get a real laugh if he tried a little harder next time. As we parked near city hall, we divided up the tasks so we could move quicker. I would head for the vital records department to find out if Hanna or Robert were still alive, and he’d cover property records to see if he could find any leads on their estate.

  “Except if they’re already dead, we’ll find them in the cemetery, inevitably,” George-Harrison offered.

  “Good lord. If you keep up this comedy show, it’s going to be a very long day . . .”

  City hall was a perfect example of Second Empire Renaissance architecture, with baroque decoration adorning the structure, a mansard roof, and an imposing dome. I had visited other official state buildings on trips to the US in the past, yet I quickly found myself lost and going around in circles. George-Harrison was equally confounded by the sprawling labyrinth. We decided to split up, each of us knocking on door after door without any luck. After looping past each other three more times in the vast rotunda—a circular space with various corridors extending outwards and leading to the upper levels—we decided to join forces and head up to the second floor, where our luck changed. A woman approached and kindly offered to point us in the right direction. She must have watched us retrace our steps and wander about dejectedly, and realized we could do with a hand. She definitely seemed to know her way around the place.

  “Head due south,” she instructed, gesturing down over the balustrade. “Take a right at the end, then a left, and you’re there.”

  “And where is ‘there’ exactly?” asked George-Harrison.

  “Vital records. But you’d better hurry up. They close at noon.”

  “Great, thank you. But how do we even reach that staircase?”

  “For that, head due north,” she said, turning around. “Straight down that first stairwell, then make a U-turn and continue straight through the rotunda down the middle corridor. That should put you on the right track.”

  “Thanks. What about property records?” I asked.

  “Wait, can I ask a question?” George-Harrison cut in. “Have you ever heard of an old Baltimore family by the name of Stanfield?”

  The friendly woman arched an eyebrow and beckoned us to follow her. She led us down the stairs to the ground floor and to the middle of the rotunda—right back where we started. There, six statues stood within alcoves carved into the curved wall. Our new friend led us to one of the alcoves and gestured toward an alabaster statue of a proud-looking man wearing a frock coat and tall hat, his hand resting on the pommel of a cane.

  “Frederick Stanfield, born 1842, died 1924. If he’s the one you’re looking for, maybe you can just read the plaque and save a trip to the records office!” she laughed. “Stanfield was one of the founding fathers of Baltimore, believe it or not. As an architect, he even contributed to the beautiful building in which we now stand. The first plans were submitted just prior to the onset of the Civil War. Construction began in 1867 and took a full eight years to complete. And all this for the meager sum of eight million dollars, which at that time was a massive fortune. It’s at least a hundred times more, in today’s terms. If I had even a quarter of that, we could fix the entire budget for the year.”

  “Sorry,” I cut in. “But just out of curiosity: Who exactly are you?”

  “Stephanie Rawlings-Blake,” she replied. My jaw dropped as I realized I was face-to-face with the mayor of Baltimore herself. “Pleased to meet you. And no, I’m not moonlighting as a tour guide, and to tell you the truth, I’m not much of a history buff at all, I just happen to pass by these statues all day long.”

  After we thanked the mayor from the bottom of our hearts, I asked one last question. “Can you tell me if there are any surviving Stanfields left in Baltimore these days?”

  “I have to admit, I have no idea,” she replied. “But I might know someone who could help you.” She took out her phone and read out a phone number, which I quickly jotted down. “You can find Professor Morrison at Johns Hopkins. He’s a sort of ‘living memory’ around here, the absolute leading authority on Baltimore history. But he’s a very busy man, so be sure to call ahead and tell him I sent you. He should be able to help; he already does so many favors for me, one more won’t make a difference! He writes all my boring speeches for inaugurations and events like that . . . but don’t tell him I said that. Now, sorry to say, I have to leave you. I have a city councilman waiting in my office.” With that, the mayor left as discreetly as she had appeared.

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have to bother thanking me,” George-Harrison grumbled.

  “For what?”

  “For having the brilliant idea of asking the mayor about the Stanfields, which may have saved us from wasting an entire day, again.”

  “Because you knew who she was all along, huh? Well, isn’t that rich! For your information, if I hadn’t had the bright idea of going to the libra
ry in the first place, we wouldn’t have uncovered the Stanfield connection at all.”

  “First of all, you’re a total hypocrite. Second, would it really kill you to admit I deserve a thank-you here? And third, why do we keep coming back to these precious Stanfields of yours?”

  “If you had actually listened this morning, you’d already know. Hanna and Robert Stanfield were major players when it came to rare and desirable works of art, and were heavily involved in local real estate. They also gave generously to the city. But . . . no one today seems to know a thing about them. The only significant proof we’ve found of their existence came from that article in the Independent and a blurb in the Sun about a party they held, plus a press release about Robert Stanfield withdrawing his bid for governor. So . . . Mr. Stanfield gives up a run for governor because of a tragedy in his family, but there’s no explanation of what this tragedy is. If there’s one rule in politics, it’s that silence is the most expensive thing money can buy. Maybe that gives you an idea of just who the Stanfields were.”

  “Fine, the Stanfields were big and powerful. How does that make a difference to us?”

  “Well, your mother specifically mentioned a tragic mistake in her letter. Think about it, connect the dots. You don’t think there’s something there? Of course, if you’ve got a better lead, I’m all ears.”

  George-Harrison jingled his car keys. “Okay, Johns Hopkins it is. You can call Professor Morris along the way.”

  “It’s Morrison! And would it really kill you to admit that I’m a damn fine reporter?”

  The professor agreed to see us in his office later that afternoon. Name-dropping the mayor helped get our foot in the door, but we still encountered a bit of trouble. After the secretary nearly hung up on me, George-Harrison had to snatch the phone straight out of my hands and work his charm to secure the meeting.

  We were directed to a lecture hall, where Morrison was just finishing a seminar, and watched from the back as he gathered up his notes and the small group of his students rose from their seats and shuffled out. The professor cleared his throat and stepped down from the lectern, grimacing with each step. He wore a humdrum three-piece suit and had a rim of white hair encircling his scalp, a heavy gray beard hanging from his face. Despite his age, there was still a certain class to the old man. Seeing us approach, the professor let out an exasperated sigh and, with a flippant wave of his eyeglasses, motioned for us to follow him.