Stoner grimaced. “I imagine that rounded off a most pleasant evening.”
“He was thorough.” Finally, a sign of sympathy. Faust looked aside, toward the cold fireplace with its navy blue mantelpiece, where a carriage clock chimed noon. “He ended by ordering me to remain close to headquarters until further notice. So of course I went straight to the motorpool, requisitioned a car, and drove to Le Havre.”
Stoner paused until the last chime died away. “Why?”
“I was angry, Mr. Stoner. I needed to calm down and sort myself out, and I relax best by driving, even with wartime petrol rationing. Actually, I didn’t set out for Le Havre. I just started driving, found a nice twisty road which would hold my attention, and followed it.”
“You mean, of course, the road along the Seine.”
Faust quit breathing. If he’d been hoisted so easily — “I never mentioned my starting point.”
“And careful you were not to do so.” Stoner leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, again as if it didn’t matter. “However, my wife and I lived in Paris for some years after the first war and I’ve driven the road between there and Le Havre many times. Besides, if a German cabaret singer wished to perform in France, naturally her first choice of venue would be Paris.”
Yep, he had. Faust couldn’t stop himself from swallowing. He was on dangerous ground now and Stoner held the heights. If only he could take a deep breath, maybe he could concentrate. But each breath hurt worse than the last.
“I see your point. Anyway, after a while I ran into a roadblock crew who weren’t impressed by my rank and demanded to know where I was going. I remembered Erhard was at Le Havre and told them so, then decided what the frag and went there after all. I didn’t like him much.” Why he’d said that, he couldn’t imagine. But again he found himself expanding. “Actually, we didn’t like each other. But we understood each other because we’d been acquainted so long. And nobody in Paris would be looking for me before Sunday, in any case.
“So Erhard and I ate breakfast, and talked, and worked with the mechanics for a while, and talked, and went to a café on shore for lunch, and talked some more. And I got senseless drunk. Erhard suggested I ride along on his bombing run. He said we’d be back before dawn, I’d have plenty of time to return to Paris, and no one would ever know.” He caught his breath as fire shot from his underarm into his fingertips and shoulder. “And here I am, Mr. Stoner, and everyone’s going to know.”
For the first time Stoner glanced aside. Faust traced his gaze to a silver photograph frame on his desk, just beyond the blotter. It hadn’t been there in the morning. Harriet? More than ever, he was certain she was dead.
“A frustrating week,” the old man finally said.
“With a frustrating ending.”
Stoner picked up his sheaf of papers and settled them in his lap. “We shall temporarily leave the topic of your adventures and turn to subjects which should be familiar to a general staff officer in training.”
The world lurched as if the ground had been kicked from beneath him, leaving him dangling in space without a parachute. The pleasant room faded around him. “I beg your pardon?”
Stoner merely raised his eyebrows. “Your shoulder boards and Soldbuch detail your position, you know.”
He should have figured that out for himself.
“Granted, you still wear the pink Waffenfarbe of an armored unit on your shoulder boards rather than the more appropriate white of Army Group command staff.” He tapped the papers together. “Unless both are lies, of course.”
He reddened and craned his neck to peer at his shoulder boards. The silver insignia for Army Group A gleamed. “You know, I’ve worn those things for so long I’d forgotten they were there.”
Stoner waved a hand. “Perfectly understandable. However, perhaps you’ve noticed I’ve not asked any questions concerning your career as an officer?”
He closed his eyes and thunked his head against the chair back. He felt so stupid it even outweighed the pain. “Of course not. Every detail is spelled out in my paybook.”
“So I know when you speak of your first assistant adjutant, you mean Oberst Bruno von Maacht.”
He glanced up, shaken to his boots. “I neither confirm nor deny that.”
Stoner riffled the papers in his hands. “As I intimated earlier this morning, Herr Major, these facts are already known to us. I am not attempting to obtain military secrets from you and this is not — at least, not yet — an interrogation. We are working to ascertain your status.”
“I understand, but I’m not comfortable with this.” He cocked his head; at least that didn’t hurt. “Are you telling me you know the general staff composition for the entire Army Group? How?”
“Asking questions is my bailiwick, Herr Major, not yours.”
Stoner again ran his thumb along the sheaf’s edge and an unchewed brick invaded Faust’s stomach. So much paper would detail more than the Army Group command staff; it would include the entire order of battle, the name of all the important officers within the chain of command. There were typist corporals sleeping within the headquarters building, under armed guard at all times, to prevent just such information leaving the premises.
He swallowed. “I’m starting to believe those horror stories I’ve ever heard about British military intelligence.”
“Thank you.” Stoner’s voice was grave, without a trace of sarcasm. “Perhaps I can explain my current intention best by example. When our troops evacuated France, they brought with them certain items of German weaponry, which I had the opportunity to examine and operate during my last visit to London. One of these items was a tripod-mounted machine gun which I believe was designated an MG34.” He paused. “Are you familiar with this weapon?”
“Well.” There seemed little point in denying it; the MG34 was widely used, in tanks, in aircraft, and by infantry. And as Stoner had just pointed out, military hardware was so easily captured it was hardly a state secret. Again he wished he could catch his breath and clear his mind. “Yes, I am.”
“So if I tell you the weapon I operated in London was air-cooled and fired seven point nine two Mauser ammunition, either from a drum magazine or belt-fed, and was equipped with a periscope to allow it to be fired remotely, without exposing the gunner’s head to enemy fire, would you believe I too am familiar with this weapon?”
“I guess I have to.”
“And therefore if I ask you to tell me how many rounds the magazine holds, you will also understand I am not pumping you for military secrets, but rather asking you to confirm what I already know?”
“I suppose.”
Stoner lifted his chin. It was his first positive movement, and illogically Faust’s heart lifted in response.
“How many rounds, Herr Major?”
He hesitated only a moment more. “The smaller drum holds fifty rounds, the larger one seventy-five.”
“Does this machine gun ever jam?”
“When it gets dirty, it can be temperamental.”
“As a number of other interested officers fired ahead of me and it jammed several times while I emptied one small drum of fifty rounds, I must therefore agree you are equally familiar with the MG34.” Stoner placed the papers atop the blotter. “Do you see my intention here, Herr Major?”
“Yes, I see where you’re going.” He let himself relax and the pain eased slightly. Stoner had endured this from a hospital bed? He blanched at the thought.
“Therefore, when I say Generalfeldmarschall Gerd von Rundstedt’s chief of staff is General der Infanterie Georg von Sonderstern, his chief of operations is Oberst Günther Blumentritt, his first assistant adjutant — as we have already discussed — is Oberst von Maacht — ” Stoner glanced up from his perusal of the top sheet “ — do you believe I am familiar with the composition of Army Group A’s general staff?”
It was infuriating. But it was inarguable. “Better than me, I think.”
“Then I am going to ask you to name th
e third assistant adjutant.”
He only paused for a moment. “Hauptmann Erich Heller.”
“Which confirms my information. The quartermaster?”
It lasted for an hour. After finishing with the Army Group, Stoner took him line by line through the staffs of its two component armies, the Ninth and the Sixteenth, and then each of their twelve individual corps, where Faust’s knowledge was much skimpier. Several times his information didn’t tally with Stoner’s, but only when the officer in question had been reassigned, wounded, or killed during or after the French campaign; when that happened, Stoner made a note of the discrepancy and moved on. And each time Faust became suspicious, Stoner rattled off three or four names without missing a beat. For the last quarter hour, Stoner spoke only to ask questions.
The little clock chimed one as he flipped over the last page and sat back. “Thank you, Herr Major. We are finished for today.”
“Wait a minute.” Faust pushed through the pain and sat forward. “I’ve done what you wanted. Isn’t this over?”
“How can it be?” Stoner’s eyebrows lifted again. “All we’ve done is ascertain you are either telling the truth when you claim to be a staff officer in training, or you are a particularly well-briefed espionage agent pretending to be one, which would be a decidedly clever cover, by the way.” He straightened the stack of papers and inserted them into the top drawer of his desk. “It is still possible you are both, you know.”
He sagged but recoiled when his right shoulder hit the chair back. This time, he couldn’t restrain a wordless cry.
“Herr Major, are you in pain? You should have said so; I would have sent for medical assistance.”
“Yes, Mr. Stoner, I am in pain. But it’s nothing to the aggravation I feel.” He spoke through his teeth. “I assumed this was a one-step process.”
“Hopefully I gave you no reason for such an assumption. You should expect this investigation to take a number of weeks.”
“Weeks?” He shook his head, quick sharp jerks which radiated pain down his side. “I can’t do it. I know you understand; sooner or later I’m going to say more than I intend. I can’t risk it.”
Stoner stared at him. His eyes, glancing across Faust’s cradled right arm, seemed concerned. Otherwise, not a flicker of emotion rearranged his face. “If this is your final answer, then I will submit my report and you will shortly leave this establishment.”
He blinked. “Going where?”
“Probably the Tower of London.” Stoner tilted his head.
Where Wyatt, Raleigh, and so many other poets and courtiers had been imprisoned. And died. Again his heart began to beat faster. “Well, the Tower is on my list of places to see, just not from the inside.”
“You must make the decision.”
He rubbed his eyes. It was impossible to think through the pain and there was little sense trying. “Since my options are limited, I’ll try to work with you for a while.”
“An equitable solution.” Stoner glanced aside. “And do not hesitate to request medical attention. It will not be denied you.”
“Thank you.” He followed Stoner’s gaze to the frame and focused himself enough to say the civil thing. “And I hope your granddaughter is all right.”
Even through the pain, he sensed the temperature of the room plummet. He glanced at Stoner, surprised, and watched the anger seep from its hiding places and coalesce, pulsing through the old warrior’s cultured façade. It had been buried so deeply, he’d forgotten all about it.
“My granddaughter is dead.”
Oh, cripes. He had to learn to keep his mouth shut. “Bombing civilians is just plain wrong.”
“Indeed.” Stoner’s voice was icy. “As you proved when you participated in the bombing of Patchbourne.”
That unnerving chill swept through Faust again. “Patchbourne airfield.”
“The airfield is not half a mile from the hospital.”
None of this made any sense. “Your granddaughter was at the hospital?”
Stoner shoved his ashtray aside. It clunked against the lamp’s base and whirled near the edge of the desk. “My granddaughter was not at the hospital and she was not injured in the bombing raid. She was assaulted and murdered by a man with no more humanity than a beast.”
“Oh, God.” It was a prayer and it was all he could say. The rampant rage in Margeaux Hall finally made sense.
Stoner leaned both hands on his desk, cold and white. “I see you do not understand me. Her body was found in the forest less than a mile from here.”
His pulse and the pain pounded harder, too loud to think through. Vaguely uncertain, and uncertain why, Faust cocked his head.
Stoner huffed, as if at a stupid student. “Practically where you were captured.”
Understanding finally exploded. “Are you accusing me?”
“I am asking you.” Stoner’s voice dropped to a whisper.
He forgot the pounding pain, his swimming head, and lurched to his feet. The lovely blue sitting room twisted around him and he grabbed the edge of the desk. “No. I did not kill your granddaughter.”
Stoner sat still, silent, accusing — no matter what he claimed — contemptuous. His stare never wavered. It tore through what little control Faust commanded and left him defenseless.
Bruckmann rose and stood over Stoner, one hand on the back of the old man’s chair. His eyes narrowed in an echo of Stoner’s contempt.
“I didn’t kill anyone.” Words tumbled from him in a torrent. He couldn’t stop them any more than he could dam the chattering little Patch with his hands. “Just because I was in the area — other men must have been, they were hunting me — one of them must have — I’d never — ”
Stoner finally spoke. “Sergeant Tanyon, return the prisoner to his quarters.” He pulled more papers from his desk and bent over them.
As if it didn’t matter.
But it did, more than anything else they’d said it mattered for the old man to believe him now. “I didn’t do it. Please, you can’t think — ”
But Stoner wasn’t listening, although this had to matter to him, as well. Faust froze and the words froze within him. His pulse filled his head, pounding like an icy drum. The old man didn’t believe him and that was clear. Had he been believed at all? Maybe they hadn’t developed as much of a relationship as he’d thought.
And maybe he couldn’t believe the old man any more than he’d been believed himself.
His soul froze at the thought.
“Lieutenant,” Tanyon said, “ring up to the guardroom and send down two soldiers with rifles.”
Bruckmann reached over Stoner’s shoulder for the telephone receiver.
He’d been a fool. “Loaded?”
Bruckmann actually paused.
“No,” Tanyon said. “They’ll do without ammunition.”
Stoner did not look up. He flipped to the second page.
The fury coalesced. Yes, he’d been a fool. “You sods.”
He stalked to the door. The room still spun. But his own anger, as cold and white as Stoner’s, sustained him.
He reached for the doorknob.
“Herr Major.”
He paused. He wanted to ignore the cunning old sod and get out of there. But something stopped him. Rather than turn, he glanced over his shoulder as well as he could. Tanyon, behind him with a hand on his holstered Webley, stepped aside, and there was Stoner, watching him gently, again as if nothing had happened. His blood chilled another impossible degree.
Stoner set the papers on his blotter. “Does the name Eduard Best mean anything to you?”
It was so unexpected it cut through his rage. “Best? There was a professor at the University of Munich by that name.”
“Yes, he taught economics there prior to 1936. Only now he’s on the third floor of this building, two doors down from yourself.”
Faust laughed. It sounded and tasted bitter. “Was he supposed to be my contact? I could have warned you about him. He organized N
azi Party rallies on both campuses as early as 1929.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Stoner, I never ran with that crowd.”
“Would you know him if you saw him?”
“Perhaps. Professors have a lot of standing in the community.”
“Would he recognize you?”
“I can’t imagine why. I attended the technical university and never took classes from him.”
“I see.” Stoner returned to his papers.
The dismissal was clear as a slap in the face. Faust turned again for the door, angrier and more confused than ever.
Chapter Fourteen
afternoon
Margeaux Hall
Stoner didn’t lift his eyes from the document in his hand — and he neither knew nor cared what it was — until the door closed. Bruckmann finished speaking to the radioman on duty and dropped the receiver into its cradle, blowing out his breath in a whoosh.
“For a moment I thought he was going to attack you.”
Stoner swiveled his chair about. “For a moment, he was.” He didn’t smile. “And while I appreciate your devotion, there was no reason for you to leave your post.”
The pale young eyes widened. “But, sir — ”
“Protecting me is Sergeant Tanyon’s job. Yours is to take down what’s said in this room.”
It required a prolonged stare before Bruckmann looked away. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. The look on his face — well, he got to me, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”
Stoner finally glanced at the paper he held. It was the report on the downed Heinkel bombers; he’d concentrated so intently on Faust’s responses, he’d read without seeing it. When he’d tidied his desk, he’d tucked all his notes into the top drawer. Somewhere he’d heard a clean desk was more impressive than a littered one and his years at Magdalene had confirmed it, turning the fact from a useless bit of trivia to a potential weapon in the war against Faust. Something so simple, so minor, might finally sway that confused man’s mind and tip the tide of the interrogation in their favor.
Deal with the Devil Page 12
