12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  He shrugged. “Eventually you’ll be punished for your crimes against the Muslim world.”

  My death was the only guaranteed outcome. He could be lying about everything else. But if he wasn’t? Offering me a chance to trade my one life for hundreds of others. Surprising, how often people ponder how they’d handle such a choice. What do you do? they ask one another. Wondering, What would I do?

  “I’ll go with you,” I said. Telling myself I wasn’t all that noble. If I could get six flight numbers, maybe I could get six more. And get away. If I didn’t, Stefan would come. Save us both. Not letting myself think about how unlikely all the happy outcomes were.

  From the direction of the river I heard the faint drone of an inboard engine, coming closer. Krüger jammed the pistol into his belt. Then he wrapped the dog’s chain around his forearm, shortening the leash so that the dog could move only a few feet out in front of him. “Go on,” he said to me.

  Stiff-legged, I took a step toward the riverbank. And then another. The dog came up beside me, on my left, panting as she tugged forward. Krüger followed, directly behind me.

  The channel was lined with cut stones, each maybe two feet square, sloping steeply downward at a seventy-five-degree angle toward the flat water. The vessel I’d heard was now floating only an arm’s length from the rocks, a powerboat like those used to patrol the river in the old days. We’d have to slide down the damp stones, splash across the last few feet to the bow, clamber on board.

  Then I saw the stumpy man at the wheel in the open cockpit, his face hidden as he held the boat steady, nose pointed toward us. Standing beside him was a tall blond woman, her braided hair twisted into a crown on top of her head. Her legs wide, her rifle carefully positioned in the portside gun mounting.

  The barrel swung a few inches. She sighted directly at my chest.

  I was blocking Krüger’s view. And Brunhild’s shot.

  “Down,” I shouted at Krüger.

  Startled, the dog leaped forward. I plunged to my right, dropping out of the line of fire. I went down with my arms flailing, grabbing at Krüger, trying to pull him with me.

  I couldn’t let the Israelis kill him. Not now, when I was so close to getting at least half of the lifesaving information.

  I caught a handful of pant leg. He jerked back, then kicked out. The toe of his boot crashed against my skull. I sprawled on top of Blondie.

  The rifle cracked three times.

  Blondie howled again. I felt liquid warmth spreading over my leg. The dog was whining through her nose. I thought at first she must have been shot. I smelled urine. I started to roll off her. She slid toward the edge of the embankment, dragged there by the leash. Her toenails scraped against the stones. I grasped her leather collar. The chain extended from it, pulled taut over the edge. Krüger had disappeared.

  The dog made a harsh, choking noise. I grabbed at the chain to relieve the pressure on her windpipe, then peered over the edge.

  Krüger was sprawled on the rock face, legs moving jerkily as he struggled for a foothold. Only the dog’s leash kept him from sliding down into the murky water. The chain was tight around his left forearm.

  “Help me,” he said, extending his right hand. His glasses had vanished and his face was twisted with effort, the flesh tight over the bones. In that moment he looked exactly like Stefan.

  I had no thought of saving anyone but Krüger. Not myself. Not the innocent victims of his terror. Only him. Brother of the man I would never stop loving.

  Flat on my belly, holding the chain in my left hand, I reached down with my right to grab his wrist.

  The rifle cracked a fourth time. The dog howled, shoved her nose into my ribs.

  Krüger’s face contorted in the rictus of death. A taunting, evil grin. Then his fingers relaxed. The metal links jingled as they uncoiled from around his forearm. The chain came free. And his body slid silently over the stones and into the black water below.

  The motor roared. The boat flashed up the river, a spray of water fanning out behind. The dog whined. Where Krüger had slipped beneath the surface, I saw only a ripple of wake from the departing boat.

  Blondie whimpered, tried to shove herself deeper beneath me. I sat up, let her climb into my lap. I stroked her head. “Okay, girl,” I said. But it wasn’t. Krüger gone. And with him, our last hope of finding those bombs.

  A van pulled up on the far side of the Platz. A squad of commandos dressed in black fanned out from it, setting up a perimeter. Not so foolhardy they’d run toward an international criminal cradling a vicious dog.

  Didn’t know it was only me, Casey, unarmed and exhausted, sick with the grief of failure. And Blondie, the guard dog who peed herself when she heard gunfire. What a pair.

  A figure separated from the others. A very tall man, coming toward me. Hobbling along with a stick. I got to my knees. My vision blurred. Blondie licked my ear and the wave of dizziness passed. I dragged myself upright, the leash wrapped around my hand, and watched Stefan approach.

  Then he stood before me, face drawn by pain.

  Blondie strained against the leash, growling. Tough girl when she faced a wounded man. I pulled her close. “How’d you get here?” I asked Stefan.

  “Got the doctor to bring me as far as the Libyan hideout,” he said. “He’s there now with Hilly-Anne. Danièle is okay.”

  “Van Hoof?”

  “On his way to the hospital. Probably lose an arm. Claims he took out ten Libyans. Number seems low, given all the bodies.” He sighed. “Did you kill Reinhardt?”

  “I couldn’t have,” I said, realizing the truth for the first time. “I wanted him to die. But I couldn’t kill him. Your brother.” I reached out to touch his face. “The Israelis did it. Came in place of whoever he’d called to rescue him.”

  “Someone sold him out.” Stefan was silent for a moment. Then he said, “He didn’t tell you which planes?”

  “No.” The single syllable was as bleak as my future. My head throbbed. I was dizzy again. I swayed toward Stefan.

  He ignored the dog, wrapped his free arm around me. He pressed his cheek against the top of my head. And in that moment of warmth and compassion, I forgave him everything. How could he have acted differently with Reinhardt Krüger for a brother?

  Blood ties bind like no others.

  The dog moaned. I slackened my hold on the leash and rubbed her neck. Had to hurt, there beneath the cruelly tight leather strap. Blondie. The only thing I’d gotten from Krüger. His ally, the only one he’d trusted with his secrets.

  “Here they come,” Stefan said.

  Four men crossed the pavement toward us. German law enforcement, coming to take me to prison. Blondie saw them, too. She whimpered. I ran a finger under her collar. A special handmade affair. Different from the utilitarian choke chain I’d seen hanging outside Krüger’s cabin door the first time we’d met. No, this was special-made. Special purpose. Very special indeed, I realized.

  Carefully, I bent down and unbuckled it.

  Four sets of black boots surrounded us. Blondie tried to crawl under me. With the fingers of my left hand I gripped the folds of loose fur on her neck. I had the collar in my right. I stood up too fast.

  “Here’s the answer.” I shoved the leather strap toward the husky German closest to me. His edges started to blur and I hurried to say what I had to. “The flight numbers. On the back side. Burned in.”

  That was all I managed before I passed out.

  30

  Harry waved a hand toward the wall of windows. Beyond

  them, a U.S. Air Force jet sat on the tarmac. “I did my part.” He shook his head, gestured toward the dog beside me. “But you, Casey. She’s what you meant by a high-ranking official from the former East Bloc?”

  Blondie pressed tighter against my leg and moaned to signal how distressed she was by Harry’s tone of voice.

  “She can’t fly commercial,” I said. “Not caged up in a cargo bay all the way across the Atlantic. On a military flight,
she can have her own seat up front.”

  “At least she’s a German shepherd.” Harry stretched a hand toward Blondie’s hindquarters and began rubbing her haunch. She twitched, but stood still for it. He added, “You’ll have to teach her English if you’re going to keep her.”

  “I’m keeping her,” I said. “We’ve bonded. You know my weakness for good-looking refugees from a former Socialist society.”

  Harry switched from rubbing to scratching and a rich, doggy odor filled the air between us, along with a rumble of canine pleasure. “I guess she deserves to go to the U.S. in style. Since she saved so many lives today.”

  “Is it over?”

  “The FBI’s coordinating most of the police work. I know they picked up a guy at Heathrow trying to board a United flight to Frankfurt. Had a few unusual items sewn into his clothing. Think he planned to leave half his Semtex on that plane, then catch a TWA flight back to London and repeat the process. Both airliners were scheduled to go on to the U.S. He had timers set so that the bombs would explode over the Atlantic.”

  As Harry was finishing the sentence, Mike Buchanan joined us. He needed a shave. He and Harry had been airborne for an hour when they got the word about Krüger. They could have gone back to Andrews Air Force Base, but Buchanan chose instead to continue on to Templehof Airport. Holger Sorensen met them when they landed at six o’clock in the morning. By eight, when I showed up with my father and Blondie, no one from police headquarters was interested any longer in my surrender. And Harry was able to talk Buchanan into giving me and my entourage a ride home. Now, we were in a restricted access lounge at Templehof, waiting to board.

  I said to Buchanan, “Krüger told me his first bomb would go off at midnight.”

  “So far, nothing’s exploded. We’re grounding all equipment scheduled for use on the listed flights. Checking out every square inch before we let them back into service. That should do it, knock on wood.”

  “ ‘Knock on wood’?” I repeated. “Efrem Zimbalist Junior never used that expression.”

  Buchanan said, “I’m counterintelligence, remember? I don’t do terrorists.”

  “You aren’t so hot on your traitors either.” I lowered myself to Blondie’s level. “Bite him,” I ordered her.

  She licked my face instead. I definitely had to work on her English.

  “You’ve blown my efficiency report. Never figured you for the heroic type.” Buchanan glowered. “But I don’t advise giving your girlfriend the details.”

  “My girlfriend?”

  “That Lurid woman, whatever she calls herself? Been trying to get in to talk to you for the last hour. Seems to think you’re hot to give her an exclusive interview.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Let her sit there till she decomposes. Don’t tell her a thing.”

  “Standard operating procedure. Time you learned that, Collins.” His features slid into the customary smirk. “And you better do something about that hair. I hear the task force leadership doesn’t care for the butch look.”

  My hand started toward my scalp. I stopped the self-conscious gesture. “You’ve got to get over this obsession with appearances,” I told him. I stood then, checking around for Stefan. He and my father had gone outside to examine the Luftbruckendenkmal, the monument to the British and American airmen who had lost their lives in 1948 during the Berlin airlift.

  Holger caught my eye from a corner of the lounge. He waved, beckoning me over. I handed Blondie’s leash to Harry and went to join the Father-Major.

  “I must tell you the good news about Hans,” he said.

  “They saved his arm?”

  He shook his head, his expression momentarily somber. “That wasn’t possible.” Then he smiled. “His daughter made a sound.”

  “After all these years in a coma?”

  “They’ve been trying to contact him since midnight. The message got routed to me an hour ago.”

  “Since midnight? Midnight was when she did this?”

  “A few minutes before eleven o’clock, actually”. His smile grew huge with satisfaction.

  I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. “She starts talking right when her father is doing his Angel of Death number?”

  “Something of a coincidence.” He took a breath and I knew what was coming.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  He ignored me. “In mysterious ways.” Then his expression grew serious again. “I owe you an apology,” he began.

  “No,” I said.

  “I should have realized sooner that the Gorm information was no longer reliable.”

  “But you’re not like that. Always expecting deception. Your faith in the rest of us is your greatest strength.” I swallowed. “Erika knew that.” We stood there together in a silent moment of requiem. For a half second I thought I smelled the lemony scent of her shampoo.

  I rubbed my hand over my too-short hair. At least it was mostly blond again. “She say anything intelligible? Van Hoof’s daughter?”

  “She said, ‘Saka-saka.’ ”

  “Guess we can’t expect miracles.”

  “Ah, you weren’t aware that the girl was born in the Congo.” He grinned. “Hans and Bert are quite excited. Seems one of her first phrases when she was learning to talk was saka-saka. Means ‘manioc leaves,’ or something like that. Vegetable you steam like spinach, Bert says. Supposed to be served with those overspiced African stews.”

  Saka-saka. Pili-pili. My mouth remembered the latter’s fiery power. I glanced around. “Bert couldn’t make it?”

  Holger shook his head. “Didn’t want to leave Hans alone. But if you ever get back to Belgium, he says you should stop in for a beer. Or six.”

  Bert. No better than I was at saying good-bye. I’d miss him. And his cooking. I remembered my friendless arrival in Antwerp and the comforting warmth of his waterzooi. I felt a pang that wasn’t hunger.

  Harry broke in. “We’re boarding in another five minutes.”

  I looked over the room but I didn’t spot my father. “I better round up my dad.”

  “And Stefan,” Harry said. “He is coming with you?”

  “With me,” Holger said. Someone behind me asked him a question in German and he stepped away to answer it.

  “Stefan’ll go to Denmark first,” I told Harry. “He’ll visit me after he has knee surgery.”

  “Surgery?” Harry echoed. “His injury’s that serious, he’ll have to look for another line of work. I take it he’ll be moving in with you?”

  A month ago, I’d have jubilantly said you bet! I’d forgiven Stefan for not telling me about his half brother, but I realized now that he had other secrets. Love-blind, I’d let myself forget that all spies are sullied by the dirty work that they do. Stefan had been reinventing himself for twenty years, counterfeiting his identity, working his sleight of hand. His reticence was incurable. Could I live with a man who hid so much of himself from me?

  “I don’t know how it’ll work out,” I answered Harry. “He and I have to talk.”

  Harry snickered. “I can just see the pair of you, really talking about your relationship.” He stressed the two words as if they were in quotes.

  “We talk,” I protested.

  “All the time, I bet,” he said derisively. “Probably can’t shut him up long enough to get your two cents in.”

  “Bite him, too,” I said to Blondie. I spotted my father then with Stefan at his side. The two of them crossed the lounge to us.

  Harry shook Stefan’s hand, then my father’s. “Mr. Collins,” he said. “Casey was telling me you flew SB-D’s in World War Two.”

  “Show-off,” I muttered. I’d told him my father’d flown for the Navy in the Pacific theater. Harry, my pal in intelligence, had identified the type of aircraft all on his own.

  “You interested in flying?” my father asked him.

  Harry winked at me, then put his free hand on my father’s elbow. “Come over and look at the bird that’ll be taking us home.”
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br />   “Like to fly, do you?” my father said as they moved toward the windows, Blondie in the lead.

  Harry grunted.

  “Me and another old codger have our own plane. Not too new, mind you, but it flies. You come on out to Oregon, I’ll take you up.”

  I heard Harry say, “That’d be great.”

  I turned to Stefan. “Did he offer to take you up, too?” When he nodded, I sighed. “I’ll have to get his license revoked. He’s going to hate me.”

  “We’ll work it out,” Stefan said.

  I tilted my head to look at him. Unshaven. Unwashed. Unmatched. The room suddenly seemed full of people I loved. Plus a dog. And at least one ghost.

  “You think you’ll be able to join me soon?”

  He smiled. “In a month or so, if all goes as Holger predicts.” He pulled me close.

  My chest pressed against his. I smelled French tobacco and the musky odor of his sweat. He had secrets, yes. But he loved me. I knew that in my bones. We would talk, I vowed. We’d work it out.

  His cheek was rough against mine as he put his mouth near my ear. “This hairstyle is extremely attractive,” he murmured. “Bardzo ladna.” Very pretty, in Polish.

  I pulled away so I could study his expression. The hazel eyes glowed with sincerity. And something else.

  “You like it this short?” I asked.

  “Oczywiscie!” Absolutely. “It gives me many intriguing ideas.” His breath tickled my ear, sending a zing of pleasure south.

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Pózniej,” he whispered. The Slavic pronunciation slurred the word, elongating it into a promise that was erotic and unconditional.

  “Later,” I agreed. And heard the answering promise in my own voice.

  The following excerpt is an early look at

  NIGHT ON FIRE

  by Diana Deverell