It certainly wasn’t going to be his interrogator losing his temper and hurling accusations. Stoner couldn’t forgive himself the selfish indulgence, no matter how much the frustrated protector within him appreciated it.
“Jack, what did you think of his reactions?”
Bruckmann flipped through his notes. “I think he’s lying to save his precious skin.”
“We’ve now accused him of two hanging offenses. He shrugged off the first but exploded over the second.” He leaned back and swung his chair further about. “Unimpressed on the one hand, overly so on the other. What does that say of him?”
“No one could possibly make up a story like the one he told.” Bruckmann closed his notebook. “So I tend to believe that. But Harriet — ” He swallowed. “He could be the killer.”
“He could.” Although Faust’s astonished and horrified reaction, jaw slack in his triangular cat’s face and dark eyes wide, had shaken even Stoner’s prejudiced fury. “It could also mean he’s grown accustomed to the accusation of espionage and this overreaction is due to the pressure he’s feeling.”
Bruckmann shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. But it’s almost time for Herr Best’s coffee break.”
“So I see.” Another task to plague him. Stoner rubbed his eyes. “Do you feel capable of handling it? The message is in the safe, already coded. I’ll write up our next report.”
“Of course, sir.”
After Bruckmann left, Stoner picked up the framed photograph. The two little girls grinned out at him from their floral bower, frozen in happy immortality. If only it was true.
“Goodbye, dear.”
Chapter Fifteen
the same afternoon
Margeaux Hall
When Bruckmann arrived in the guardroom, Eduard Best was already seated before the transmitter-receiver, headphones over his ears and a slender book open in his hands. Corporal Pym, wearing a second pair of headphones aslant over one ear, adjusted the frequency, and Sergeant Tanyon stood behind them both, immovable as the Rock of Gib.
“Ready, Herr Best?”
Best closed his book and set it aside. “As always, I am at your disposal.” His voice was dry.
Bruckmann spared a moment to glance at the book’s spine. Goethe, of course. Best only read German writers, in translation because that was all the library at Margeaux Hall offered. The selection was also limited, so Best, with one of the finest minds in the field of economics, was reduced to reading the same books over and over again. But pity was no good. Bruckmann had a job to perform and he couldn’t let such emotions color his behavior.
“Let’s do it, then.” His focused thoughts finally registered Tanyon’s presence. He froze. “Who’s guarding — ” He bit his tongue. If he said the name, he’d alert Best to Faust’s presence in the Hall. “ — the other prisoner?”
“I put him back in his quarters for now.” Tanyon seemed on the verge of throwing up his hands. “Dr. Harris wants the other one at Patchbourne hospital for x-rays this afternoon, but I can’t be in two places at once.”
Of course; as the officer in charge, he should have realized this would happen. “Issue me a Webley and I’ll take over here. As soon as we’re finished, I’ll return Herr Best to his quarters. You take a couple of soldiers and the other prisoner, and head for Patchbourne.”
Tanyon hesitated, staring at him. Bruckmann’s ears warmed. The sergeant could display a bit more confidence in him before Pym and Best. Of course, since Tanyon had his orders directly from Stoner, reassurances from Bruckmann would not count for much.
“I’ll have Corporal Pym with me.” Tanyon still didn’t budge. “My responsibility, sergeant.”
Tanyon finally shrugged. “Suppose you’re right, lieutenant. No other way we’re going to get everything done around here.”
As the door closed behind the sergeant, Pym glanced up from the transmitter-receiver. “We’re ready, sir, but the window’s closing.”
Bruckmann placed the coded message on the table before Best, glancing at the clock. They only had minutes before Best’s supposed coffee break was over; his radio contacts with Germany were arranged around his previous schedule at Wadham University and never varied. Bruckmann stepped back and rebuckled his Sam Browne, the holstered revolver bumping his hip. “Hurry, then.”
Best stared out the window, apparently indifferent, while his fate was decided for him. Bruckmann again stilled a stab of pity; the man was a spy and deserved whatever happened. An ardent Nazi as long ago as 1929, Faust claimed, but Best had “escaped” from Germany in 1936 along with a thousand other scholars, he claimed to avoid Nazi persecution for his Red politics. Only trouble with his story was, he’d brought a transmitter concealed in his suitcase, which beat any confession.
Now he was allowed walks in Margeaux Hall’s inner keep in good weather and some limited use of the library, most of which he scorned. That was all. No wonder he spent so much time staring out windows, even if all he could see here was the driveway and front gate.
Best flexed his fingers and began tapping out his initial contact sequence in Morse code. Pym sat behind him, transcribing each letter as it was sent, as well as the answers received from the anonymous German on the other end. Later, Bruckmann would compare the two and make certain Best was sending the message properly, without any deletions or additions of his own. Not that he was likely to get brave or rebellious; his life literally depended upon his cooperation.
The Wildflower operation would be so much simpler if they could just do without these Nazis altogether. But they couldn’t. An experienced Morse receiver could tell when a different person sent messages, when the sender’s “fist” changed, they called it. Only Best could send Best’s messages, if they wanted the Germans to swallow them. MI5 had to keep him, although some days it seemed hanging him would be a kindness.
Today the dits and dahs seemed to go on forever. Bruckmann leaned against the closed door, his eyelids drifting down to the tapping rhythm. The message concerned the bombing raid at Patchbourne, he knew that much. But although he’d typed some of Stoner’s notes, he couldn’t remember if they were telling the Germans the damage was bad or not. Well, the new Twenty Committee made such calls, of course, and it didn’t concern him beyond the work involved.
As Faust should have realized before asking his boss stupid questions. Bruckmann smiled. It would be almost worth the resulting fracas for such a pompous, blustering murderer to catch on. The toffs at MI5 and MI6 could only have identified the most highly visible members of Army Group A’s staff. Those were the names Stoner had given Faust to convince him of his encompassing knowledge. But the identities of the more junior German officers were just as important, sometimes more so, because they would be the active commanders in the field. And those were the names Faust had given to Stoner. It had been a magnificent bit of deception.
Finally the tapping ceased. Bruckmann opened his eyes as Best removed the headphones and set them on the table beside his book.
“I have finished, Lieutenant Bruckmann.”
“Good.” Bruckmann took the transcription Pym handed him, folded it together with the original message Best had sent, and slid both into his breast pocket. Faust’s devil alone knew when he’d have time to look at them. “Let’s get you back to your quarters.”
Best turned again to the window. Over his shoulder, Bruckmann spied the old lorry, parked atop the drive. Tanyon and his guard detail would be leaving soon, driving Faust to the Patchbourne hospital for x-rays.
“There is no time for a walk, perhaps?”
The man would choose now to be difficult. “Perhaps when Sergeant Tanyon returns.”
Best still didn’t move. “I seldom any more have the pleasure of Major Stoner’s company.”
“He’s busy.”
“I object to spending too much time in my room.”
“We’re all busy.” It was the bitter truth. And with the headache of Faust added to the Wildflower operation, it would only get worse.
“And I was not taken to an air raid shelter Saturday night.” Best’s voice trembled. “I was frightened.”
“No one asked you to come here and spy on us.”
Best finally turned from the window. “I consider myself a soldier in this war, as you do.”
“The Geneva Convention disagrees with you.” Best would argue all day if he allowed it. Bruckmann dropped one hand to the holstered Webley, as Tanyon sometimes did when escorting Faust. “Let’s go.”
Best rose. “I am not a brave man, Lieutenant Bruckmann.”
“Then you aren’t much of a soldier, are you?” Now he knew how to cut this routine short. He’d have to remember the trick with the Webley. “Lead the way, Corporal Pym.”
Chapter Sixteen
the same afternoon
Margeaux Hall and in transit to Patchbourne
Faust’s white anger buoyed him up the stairs and back to the little third-floor bedroom. After the now-expected slam of the bolt behind him and the clumping footsteps diminishing down the corridor, the fury even held up long enough for him to slam his booted toe into the bedstead, which sent a shaft of agony straight to his right side and probably wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. But it was worth it when the footsteps in the hallway skittered and stopped for a breathless moment.
Two short steps later, when he stopped at the window, his breath was no more than ragged gasping and the pounding in his right arm was ferocious. He wanted to collapse into the chair, still where he’d left it facing the window, but he’d learned what an unconsidered movement cost him and instead eased onto it sideways, his left arm resting against the laddered back. For one self-indulgent moment he curled over, letting the agony wash through him, then he forced himself erect.
There was more than a touch of fear beneath the dregs of his cold rage. Those espionage charges were all too plausible, especially if Stoner spoke the truth about Eduard Best. It was incriminating enough to have been captured near Oxford, the city he knew so well and loved. But to have been captured in the vicinity of a confirmed spy he’d possibly known in Germany, well, that could kick an even bigger hole in his boat.
Of course he’d seen Best about campus in Munich. He’d attended Best’s fragging ranting mandatory lectures on his supposed duty to the Fatherland, which in Best’s viewpoint meant joining the Nazi Party and beating up Jews and Communists. Needless to say, he’d ignored the message.
But the allegation about Stoner’s granddaughter was infuriating and frankly terrifying. Rage boiled again through the pain at the thought. He’d never hurt a woman, but in all fairness he couldn’t expect Stoner to know that. It was the sort of thing civilians believed of marauding soldiers, especially enemy ones. It was a charge that could stick. If word reached the village, he’d be lucky to escape lynching; if he did receive a trial, it would be a farce. He could easily hang for this and Stoner would get his revenge — albeit against the wrong man — even if he didn’t get his information.
He leaned his shoulder against the chair back. Was that the connection? Was Stoner putting Faust’s life in danger as a lever? Would he offer to protect his prisoner from the lynch mob if he cooperated?
He rubbed his face. It was a vile thing to think of anyone. But once thought, it wouldn’t go away. Beneath the rage and pain, his fear grew.
The worst of it was, he didn’t know if he could even believe Stoner. He’d gone into the interview his usual trusting self, without stopping to consider the old man’s possible motivations, and answered all the questions put to him. If Stoner was lying about those espionage charges, then the entire interview had been one big hoist and Stoner had made an utter fool of him. And the more he considered the possibility, the more likely it seemed and the angrier he became.
Behind him, keys rattled and the lock snapped. He turned. Tanyon stood framed in the doorjamb. Although the worst of the sergeant’s anger had faded, he still seemed tense, his chin lowered and dark eyes narrowed.
“What now?”
“We’re taking you to the hospital in Patchbourne for x-rays,” Tanyon said. “And I expect you to be on your best behavior for the trip.”
“Or what?”
“A bad attitude won’t get you anywhere.” Tanyon shifted in place. “We don’t have to do this, you know. We could let you take your chances with infection or Dr. Harris.”
“You have a point.” He did want medical treatment so he could get the hey out of there. “All right, sergeant.”
So for the third time in the day he descended the eastern stairwell and crossed the ballroom, past the sitting area and now empty typists’ desks, this time past Stoner’s office, and through the final door at the end of the corridor.
In the vestibule, only the interior wall was solid, an interwoven pattern of brick in different shades of brown. The outer walls and the soaring ceiling were iron girders and bare curved glass, naked even of blackout curtains. Against the solid brick wall rose a black wrought-iron stairwell, the banister and balustrade curling grape leaves and arbors. The second level, above the brick wall, opened into a sitting area on the landing, then the stairwell rose alone to the third floor.
Outside the glass a smooth green lawn stretched to the mortared-stone wall. A lorry was parked on the awful macadam lane, which rolled downhill to a wrought-iron double gate, topped with iron spikes.
Summer afternoon sunshine blasted through the glass door’s tracery of grapes and vines. The light spilled over the desk where one young soldier with lank brown hair sat behind a switchboard, a newspaper folded open beside it. His angular face, lit from the side, seemed made for smiling. But at the moment he wasn’t, guileless green eyes stretched wide as he stared at Faust.
Two other young soldiers stood with their backs to the blaze of light, holding Lee Enfield rifles between him and the exit, eyeing him with what he could only consider trepidation. He took a good look at them in return. Maybe their weapons were loaded. Maybe Tanyon intended them as clubs; his earlier message had been clear enough and Stoner hadn’t countermanded it. It didn’t matter yet, but later, should he manage an escape, he wouldn’t want to learn the truth across the length of a farmer’s field.
Another salvo encircled his ribcage with pain. This time, he welcomed it; it twisted his face and camouflaged the rising excitement he couldn’t contain. All he’d said was, All right, sergeant, which could be translated as anything. If Tanyon misunderstood him, it was his own fault.
Just as it was his own fault if he’d believed lies.
He didn’t glance at the sergeant until he was certain his expression wouldn’t incriminate him. “This must be murder to black out.”
“Just get in the truck.”
The two kids led the way out the glass door. Faust followed with Tanyon, and his Webley revolver, in the rear. The rush of warm sunlight on his face was intoxicating and although he couldn’t see the roses, in their formal beds on the other side of the wing, he could smell them.
The lorry probably dated from the last war, the canvas over the rear patched in several places. The long wireless antenna attached to the front bumper seemed incongruous, a modern touch on such an old machine. Beyond the lorry, a single soldier stood guard at the gate, Lee Enfield slung over his shoulder.
Faust paused beside the lorry and continued his look around. The main chunk of Margeaux Hall, off to the right with its own gate and gatehouse, seemed to be Stuart baroque despite its French name, with multiple bays and Inigo Jones tracery in the framing stonework. Stoner’s wing was more modern, constructed of brick with wide, generous windows, especially the floor-to-ceiling ones on the ballroom level. There were three floors, which put his quarters on the top one, right under the eaves of the sloped slate roof.
There was a face behind one of the windows on the second floor, about where the guardroom with its rifles and radio would be. He stopped short and stared.
If Stoner had not warned him Eduard Best was on the premises, it was possible he’d never have recognize
d the man, so great was the change. The face was the same — thin, sharp, intellectual, actually not dissimilar to Stoner’s — but the arrogant demeanor he remembered had collapsed into something pinched and starved, as if the face’s owner sat and brooded alone in despair.
Good. His wings were clipped, his venom drawn. He would browbeat no more students, and good riddance.
Deliberately Faust broke their mutual stare and turned his back. Tanyon stood watching him, one edge of his mouth curled.
“I take it I go in the rear?”
“You take it right. Peckham, you’re in back with me. Norris, you drive.”
“Can’t, sergeant,” the slightly taller and leaner of the two young soldiers said in a broad Northern accent. “Never learned.”
Tanyon guffawed. “You a big city boy and you never learned to drive a little truck like this one?”
Norris turned his head as if to spit but stopped himself in time. “Don’t need to drive in the city. We’ve got trams and buses for getting around. It’s only out here in the sticks where yokels have to fend for themselves.”
“Yeah,” Tanyon said, “right. All right, Peckham, you drive.”
Using his left hand and the built-in step, Faust hoisted himself into the lorry’s hot dark interior almost without pain. So he could climb, at least within certain limits. Perhaps the wall wasn’t the insurmountable obstacle — literally — it seemed.
He took a seat on the front bench, nearest the cab. Tanyon and Norris sat between him and the exit. The engine started and they rolled away.
The lorry slowed at the gate. The soldier on duty shouted something which Faust didn’t catch, and Peckham laughed in answer. Then the wall slid past the opening in the canvas and the soldier on duty swung the spike-topped gate closed behind them.
Faust swayed with Tanyon and Norris as the lorry turned right. Their speed increased. Through the opened canvas, he watched the apple orchard as the ancient trees rolled past. He caught a glimpse of Woodrow on their left, its rows of staked tomatoes extending to the rampart at the forest’s edge, then it, too, was gone.
Deal with the Devil Page 13
