The lieutenant sat at the table and opened a notepad, pencil in hand.
“Your name?” Stoner asked.
He glanced at the table, where his Soldbuch lay in plain sight.
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen your identification,” Stoner said. “But I should hear it from you, as well.”
He would have shrugged but knew in advance it would hurt. “Hans-Joachim Faust.”
“Rank?”
“Major.”
“Branch of service?”
“Army.”
“Not Luftwaffe?”
He jerked awake. Set against the crackling of the fire and scratching of the pencil, the conversation had quickly reached a lulling rhythm, question-answer-question-answer, and he had fallen headfirst into it. There was no telling what he might have said in such a half-hypnotized state. He sat up straighter on the chair, deliberately making himself uncomfortable.
“No, not Luftwaffe.”
“Date of birth?”
“November fifteen of nineteen-thirteen.”
“Next of kin?”
Again he wanted to shrug but instead took a long drag. “None.”
“None?” Stoner seemed surprised. “There’s no wife, no girlfriend, no one we should inform of your safety?”
Of course; he still had Ritzi’s photograph in his wallet. He hadn’t thought of her all night, not even to compare her to Jennifer. Would he ever see either woman again? Ritzi, he realized, didn’t matter, no matter what she could do between the sheets; but the thought of not seeing Jennifer again, even just to stare at, made his stomach feel as if he’d swallowed a brick without chewing. “She threw me over a few hours before I boarded the plane.”
“Oh, dear, and such a lovely girl.” Stoner stared, the intensity in his blue eyes fading in the firelight, and when he spoke his voice had softened from its businesslike tones to match. “So you’ve no one?”
Faust paused at the shift in tone and words. “That’s right.” To change the subject — and he didn’t care if the old man realized it or not, this was too personal even for a legalized rape — he closed the lid of the silver cigarette case and admired the etched design. “Handsome case.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” As if he too welcomed the change of subject, Stoner’s voice returned to its previous efficiency. “I must admit I’m dreadfully proud of it. It was a gift from the senior common room upon the occasion of my retirement.”
He closed his eyes and thought hard, his index finger gently tracing the etched outline of stylized lilies. During his year at Oxford, he’d had his hands full with his own coursework, but even so, he’d heard some of the gossip around the university, and the collection of literature professors at Magdalen College was far too famous for even him to have missed. “You tutored poetry at Magdalen, right?”
Stoner nodded and pierced him with one side-slanted blue eye, his head tilted away. “And you read Elizabethan poetry for a year at University College.”
It was as if something inside Faust moved. For one horrible moment he stared at that shrewd blue eye, glittering in the firelight, and believed all those fantastic stories he’d heard about English cleverness.
“No, I’m not psychic.” There was an edge of humor to Stoner’s voice, but he didn’t release Faust from his stare. “It’s just the tutor at Univ is a friend of mine.”
Irritated, Faust jerked his gaze away and tossed the butt of his cigarette into the fire. He should have figured that out for himself. “Mr. Wurlitzer, you mean.” Shoot, it was just his awful luck to run into someone who knew of him as soon as he landed. He helped himself to a second cigarette — hopefully they were rationed and he was costing the old geezer — and Stoner lit it for him without comment.
“Yes, Timothy Wurlitzer. I clearly recall a conversation we had back in, oh, it must have been nineteen thirty or thirty-one, when he told me of his most dedicated and promising student, who just happened to be from Germany and only at Oxford for the single year. A soft-spoken young man, Wurlitzer said, but with some hardline views to his politics.”
For a second, Faust let the warmth of the second-hand compliment flow through him. Then he remembered a debate on the absolute power of medieval and Renaissance monarchs which included some of his own unflattering references to the Nazis, and managed a self-conscious laugh. “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to claim to be someone else.”
“Not in the slightest.”
The outer door burst open and Jennifer erupted into the room. “Dad — ” Her glance froze on Faust, sitting before the fire still fingering the cigarette case, and she stopped so short her hair swung across her chin.
He stared back for another of those horrible moments. It was the same young woman he had seen guarding Woodrow’s back porch with a shotgun, that was obvious. But at the same time, it wasn’t the same woman at all. There was nothing of Anne Boleyn here, much less Campaspe, and images of coral lips and roses in her cheeks seemed suddenly sophomoric and embarrassing. This was a practical, unpoetical female in brogues and country tweeds, with her hair unbrushed and a smudge of dirt on her nose, and even Shakespeare couldn’t make more of her than that.
And she wasn’t even good-looking, much less beautiful. Too many of her facial features argued with each other. Her eyes were generously separated and glowed hazel in her clear skin, but her mouth was too wide and her nose too small, as if they belonged on different faces entirely. Her figure and legs were worth the look, but her prettiest feature was easily her glorious auburn hair, although the bob did little for her heart-shaped face except frame it. Even for a second, even all the way across the garden, even during the agony of that moment, how could he have considered her the most beautiful girl in the world?
As if she read his thoughts on his face, Jennifer visibly composed herself. She lifted her pointy chin until it aimed right at him like another form of shotgun. The effect was devastating; she didn’t have much nose for looking down, but Faust had to admit she made the most of what nose she did have. The heat in his face had nothing to do with the fire, the blanket, or the brandy, and he turned hastily back to the hearth.
But he couldn’t help overhearing her words with Stoner.
“I’ve just spoken with Sally, and Harriet didn’t return with her. Do you know if she came back earlier?”
“No,” Stoner said, “I don’t believe so. But you might check upstairs.”
Faust expected that, with her energy, Jennifer would thunder up the wooden staircase. But he didn’t hear her footsteps at all. Surprised, he glanced about the room, but she truly had left, and he imagined he caught a glimpse of her tweed skirt disappearing from view at the top of the stairs.
“My granddaughter,” Stoner said, and there was an edge to his voice.
That, too, was a clear enough message. Well, it was only to be expected — he was an enemy officer, after all. “A beautiful lady, sir.”
“She’ll do.” Stoner rested one hip atop the table and folded his hands in his lap. On the surface his expression was neutral, but some powerful emotion bubbled just beneath those still waters. “So you are Hans-Joachim Faust.”
Surely they had gotten beyond that point by now. “Yes, the last time I checked in the mirror.”
Stoner’s smile was brief. “Tell me, Herr Major, why should one of Adolf Hitler’s bright young Panzer officers participate in the bombing of such a military backwater as Patchbourne’s airfield?”
“Would you believe I treated myself to a forbidden joyride?” he said, then could have kicked himself.
Stoner’s expression softened and his mouth relaxed. But his eyes sharpened, and the contradiction fueled Faust’s turn back toward the hearth. “And why would such a joyride, as you call it, be verboten?”
For once, Faust had no trouble holding his tongue. He’d said more than enough already. From the corner of his eye, he saw the edge of the tweed skirt reappear at the top of the stairs and remain there motionless. His feet twitched on the hardwood floor. For some r
eason, he didn’t want her to hear the rest of this. He didn’t want to hear it himself, but he couldn’t stop Stoner’s mouth and the helplessness was infuriating.
“Might it be so because the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht anticipates the necessity of your skilled services at some not-too-distant point in the future, and did not want to risk losing those services for what you term a joyride?”
The smoke from the cigarette twined about him like a chain. Again his face burned, as if Jennifer — and the lieutenant busily scribbling notes, and the sergeant with one hand on his revolver, and Stoner with his lined ascetic face and carnivore’s smile — as if all of them saw him, not discomfited, but naked. The edge of the tweed skirt seemed frozen in place.
Stoner’s voice hammered at him as if from a distance, merciless and insistent. “We are discussing the incipient German invasion of England, are we not? Is it possible this was not a joyride at all, but a reconnaissance mission to evaluate potential invasion routes?”
Intelligence. Faust closed his eyes as something alive twisted in his guts. The old don hadn’t retired to the country to write a book; he’d moved here from the halls of academe to run some intelligence-related operation. Bad enough to land in the neighborhood of someone who knew of him; but to walk right into the hands of a government agent was beyond even his usual bad luck. If Erhard wasn’t already dead —
Come to think of it, the town the old man had mentioned, Patchbourne — there had been a market town not twenty miles from Oxford by that name. Erhard hadn’t just thrown him out of a plane over England; he’d deliberately aimed for Faust’s old territory, where he’d be recognized and captured most easily.
For the first time in his life, murder seemed perfectly logical.
“Herr Major, in the intervening years since your education, have you come to consider yourself a Nazi?”
Enough. He jerked the cigarette butt into the fire and glanced openly at the head of the stairs. “No.”
“Oh, very well,” Stoner said. “My dear?”
The remainder of the skirt moved into view. Jennifer paused at the foot of the stairs, staring at him, her fists clenched. This time, he couldn’t bring himself to return the compliment. Just looking at her was embarrassing, after his earlier silly thoughts, and if he never saw her again, it would be too soon.
“Is Harriet upstairs?” Stoner asked.
“No.” Jennifer’s stare never left Faust; he could feel it like a physical touch, but kept his own gaze on the dancing flames. “I’ll go ask the Alcocks if they’ve seen her.”
In contrast to the abruptness of her entrance into the house, her exit was as soft as if the floor was made of glass. He barely heard the click of the door closing behind her.
Stoner’s glance touched the crumpled field-grey tunic on the table before returning to Faust. “I’m certain, Herr Major, you could tell me some interesting facts about the Panzer armies currently training in France.”
But Jennifer’s vanishing, again, broke the spell. He cleared his throat. “Hans-Joachim Faust. Major, Wehrmacht. Serial number — ”
“We’ve already gone over this, you know. It’s time to move on.”
He stared into the fire and wondered, for no sane reason he could imagine, what Jennifer Stoner, with her uncontrolled energy and her stupendous grace, would be like in bed. He was certain she was a virgin. “I have nothing further to say.”
Chapter Five
afternoon
the Main Quad, University College, Oxford
The two men stepped from beneath the gateway arch, their black academical robes gusting about them in the breeze off the High Street. The sudden blaze of sunlight, glaring full into his face after the walk along the High’s shady side, made Stoner squench his eyes closed for a few steps. But with the long, wide, and deserted central walkway of University’s Main Quad opening before them, marigolds and greensward on either hand and no one within sight, a few steps taken blindly weren’t likely to trip him up.
Unlike walking blind within his present assignment.
The surrounding buildings, three stories of warm honey-toned oolite, encircled them, and the massive crenellated tower reared behind. Sunlight glittered from the rows of windows beneath the decorative risers and touched the ridiculous statue of James II, in Roman toga and armor, in its niche above the gate. Stoner paused, facing back the way they’d come, and let the warmth melt his cold fear. He’d taught at Magdalen, not University, so this wasn’t precisely where he belonged; but he had to admit merely walking onto the campus was like coming home, which didn’t bode well for his theory that he was as comfortable in the Army as the University.
“Now,” Timothy Wurlitzer said from behind, breaking into his reverie, “what is so secretive it couldn’t be discussed in the pub?”
Stoner paused and glanced about a final time as if admiring the splendid Jacobean architecture, ignoring Wurlitzer’s snort. Only when he was certain they were truly alone did he speak. “Do you recall a foreign exchange student you tutored back in nineteen thirty or so?”
“Hans-Joachim Faust? Of course I remember him. Charming lad.”
“He came calling this morning.”
Wurlitzer’s smile died. As if on cue, the sun vanished behind a band of brewing clouds, racing before the west wind. The men’s black robes billowed about them in a sudden gust, surely not an omen.
“Did he, now.”
“In the uniform of a major in the Panzer Corps.”
“So it’s true.” Wurlitzer sighed. “I’d heard stories. Who would have thought it, after his disparaging remarks about the Nazis? Certainly not I.”
“His tone hasn’t changed,” Stoner said. “I presume he was conscripted and preferred not to face a firing squad. So beyond a neat summary of his political viewpoints, what can you tell me of him?”
Wurlitzer absently tugged his briar pipe and tobacco pouch from the sleeve of his robe. “You realize I knew him close to ten years ago? He wasn’t twenty at the time.”
Of course he knew that. But Wurlitzer continued before Stoner could produce a suitably caustic remark.
“He’s a difficult man to classify. At the time, I would have compared him to a monk.”
“A monk?” Stoner recalled Faust’s gaze lingering on Jennifer’s body and his protective rage surged anew. “He’s outgrown that, at least.”
“I don’t mean to imply a lack of interest.” Wurlitzer struck a match and held its spurting edge to his pipe, pausing until smoke spiraled from the bowl. “For that matter, I’m not certain true monks can be honestly accused thereof. But Faust was raised in a Catholic orphanage and he learned all his mannerisms from the Benedictines. At the time I found him a remarkably clever young man, but just as remarkably unworldly.”
Stoner humphed. “A summary of his religious affiliation joins his political views. Progress is made.”
Wurlitzer treated him to a dry look. “He attended services on campus rather than seek out a Catholic community within the area. Does that assist?”
The sideways stare was a Wurlitzer classic. Stoner had retired and moved from Oxford over a year ago, but in that time Wurlitzer hadn’t changed a whit that mattered. Perhaps his hair was a shade greyer and he’d lost a few pounds on wartime rationing. But his blue eyes still lit from within like a lighthouse of intellect, and Stoner didn’t doubt undergraduates still quailed at their twinkling challenge.
“By birth and background, Faust belonged to the lowest of the working class and supported himself while in school by cooking in a Gasthaus.” Wurlitzer struck another match and sucked flame into his pipe, gaze darting about the quad. “However, I could easily picture him as a secretary or a gentleman’s gentleman, one of that superior sort who handles his principal’s affairs with verve.” His gaze stopped on Stoner, and his old twinkle flamed, brighter than the match. “Rather like Bunter or Jeeves.”
Stoner smiled. “And what have you been reading lately?” But he wouldn’t force such an embarrassing admission
from an old friend. “How did such a man as you describe gain admittance to the hidebound Prussian officer corps?”
Wurlitzer shoved the tobacco pouch into his sleeve. “By earning admission to the technical university of Munich.”
Stoner paused. All those years ago, when Wurlitzer had told him the promising young German was only in Oxford for the year, he’d assumed Faust had been a non-degree student rather than a special transfer student. Obviously he’d been wrong. “Rather a grand achievement for an orphan with neither prospects nor sponsorship.”
The brawling clouds parted. The sun came out, drenching them in light and warmth. In silent mutual agreement they strolled further down the path between the riotous marigolds, their shadows stretching left across the greenery like oversized bats.
“My point is, Cedric, Faust never truly outgrew his humble beginnings, at least not while I knew him.” Wurlitzer stopped and again glanced about. “He always seemed a bit surprised at finding himself in the exalted company of our undergraduates, such as they are. He had a thorough grounding in Elizabethan poetry before he arrived, mainly self-taught, but he always seemed worried he was missing something, some arcane or culturally-based point which everyone else understood, and he hesitated to speak up in debates. He had no prospects beyond those he made for himself, so the predatory females at St. Hilda’s and Somerville wouldn’t even glance at him — ” Wurlitzer’s teeth flashed about the stem of his pipe “ — although he certainly watched them. He didn’t try to fit in. But he tried hard not to give offense.”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“Let me tell you about the sweater incident. Here, let’s pause a bit; this brier wants tending.”
They stopped on the cobblestones between the flowerbeds. While Wurlitzer busied himself with the brier, Stoner pulled his own pouch and traveling clay from his sleeve and began packing it, more for something to do with his hands than from any nicotine yearning. Ahead, the panes in the tall oriel window glittered in the hot August sunshine and the black-and-white face of the clock above flashed sun sparks, while the lower quarters of the arched windows and the doors into the Hall and Chapel remained in shadow. Memories of his years at Magdalen tugged at him, and he knew his smile was wistful. It was impossible to live and teach for thirty years in one location without feeling wretchedly strong ties.
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