Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Maybe he’d poured out his problems with Ritzi, how the eye-popping sex couldn’t make up for her insistence he’d join the Nazi Party if he loved her. Erhard, who’d never kept a girl for more than a month, wouldn’t understand that at all.

  Maybe he’d said he couldn’t remember what they were fighting for because he’d never known what it was. But Erhard, with his disdain for deeper meanings, wouldn’t give that a moment’s thought.

  Maybe he’d said it all, all day long, over and over. If so, Erhard hadn’t liked any of it.

  His stomach twisted. The cabbage soup would be even less appealing if he sprayed it all over the floor. He glanced about, but Tanyon hadn’t thought to provide a bucket. Well, all he could do was his best. If he made a mess, he was aiming it outside of those bars and he wasn’t cleaning it up.

  He pictured the day in Le Havre so easily. Erhard could always be patient when it got him something, so he’d sit back with the understanding expression he feigned better than any actor, pass the bottle or fill the glass, and let Faust talk, and talk, and talk. Naive as usual, gullible and grateful for someone to listen, Faust would have poured it all out — and without thinking through the consequences, he must have laid his soul bare before the man he should have known would understand the least.

  So Erhard had let him talk, and nodded, and looked compassionate, and helped him get so drunk he couldn’t even remember what had happened. Then he’d taken Faust along on his bombing run, only offering the one subtle hint of what he’d intended — you need to remember what we’re fighting for — waited until the thrumming of the engines had lulled him to sleep, strapped him into a parachute, and threw him out as close to Oxford as his flight plan allowed. And Faust wouldn’t remember any of that, either, if he hadn’t awakened when the opening parachute had brushed across his face.

  He could even imagine what Erhard had yelled from the bomber’s belly hatch as he braced against the coaming, one hand cupped about his mouth and a huge grin splitting his face, one short little phrase which summed it all up. “Tell them about it.”

  It hadn’t been his idea to bail out over England. He wasn’t a traitor or deserter. No, it had been Erhard’s final joke, and he’d paid for it with his life when his copilot had watched Faust being tossed out rather than his instruments. He’d crashed their Heinkel into its wing mate. Faust knew he’d be paying for the joke a lot longer —

  — because he had Stoner to deal with.

  What was Stoner up to? When Faust first entered his office that evening, the old man had shown definite signs of excitement — the gleam in his eyes, the tilt of his chin, the touch of a smile. It had faded as the not-knowing of his granddaughter’s murder dragged him down. But there’d been a glimmering spark, screened but not hidden, and tomorrow he’d be in serious trouble.

  On the other hand, Hackney’s attitude had been reassuring. The detective had spoken of solid evidence, fingerprints, boot soles, blood tests, alibis, all concrete things a man could touch, handle, work with. There was a framework in place within Hackney’s soul upon which he would nail the results of his tests and analyses. A man like that wouldn’t be content with simply hanging someone — anyone — for the crime, but would insist upon nailing the real perpetrator. And he’d smiled at Faust at the end of their discussion. Faust just wished he knew why.

  That left only Stoner’s charges of espionage clouding his murky future. Those now seemed vaguely ridiculous, although they’d seemed substantial enough when the old man first broached them Monday morning. Then, with pain pounding in his mind and out-shouting his common sense, Stoner’s logic had seemed relentless and like an idiot he’d foundered before it. Now, in the witching hour of the guardroom cell, with shadows huddled along the walls waiting for him to fall asleep, he realized Stoner’s allegations amounted to no more than innuendos and suppositions; there hadn’t been a smidgen of real, Hackney-quality evidence in the lot. In broad daylight, he had allowed himself to be buffaloed by a pack of ghosts; in the dark of night, finally he could see reality.

  It was like fighting a chimera, like some grotesque monster of his and Stoner’s mutual imagination. Faust loved the world of the mind and its secret language of simile and allegory, interpreted so beautifully by the Elizabethan poets. Sometimes Surrey, Raleigh, and Marlowe were closer friends than those still made of flesh, bone, and blood. But it was also Stoner’s world, and Bruckmann’s, and he suspected he was outclassed. How could he fight something he couldn’t see, something they could see better?

  He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. The nicotine had relaxed him, soaking through his body in waves, like a sedative or the lassitude following sex. But that led to yearning thoughts of Ritzi, her throaty contralto and silken hair, her yielding clasping body beneath his —

  — the hair in his imagination was auburn, the face no longer glamorous but plain and pleasant, fresh and everyday, and much as he wanted to test her stupendous grace he had to get those thoughts under control. She had charged him across the ballroom’s hardwood floors and her pumps hadn’t made a sound. Her scent, light and floral, had tickled his senses and imagination. Jennifer; pinafore? ten or more? Where Jennifer walks, sound and hope fade —

  He shook his head and blew smoke. Pitiful. He’d better stick with reading the stuff. As Sidney said, Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell.

  Stoner could not have real evidence against him. He was not a spy and therefore evidence of his spying activities could not, in reality, exist. But Stoner did not have to play within the rules of reality. The British military intelligence service was famous the world over for its ruthless cunning. They could manufacture evidence, something as concrete as Hackney’s things, something an English judge and jury could use to convict and execute him. The fact the evidence was manufactured — and Faust would tell them so — would make no difference to his ultimate fate.

  But was Stoner ruthless enough to hang a man on manufactured evidence? Granted, it wasn’t Stoner who would make the decision; it was his superiors. But he had to believe Stoner’s beliefs and recommendations — the all-important report from the officer on the spot — would carry a lot of weight when those superiors decided what to do with him.

  Faust rumpled his hair, then took a long drag and tapped ash into his makeshift tray. Stoner remained an enigma. Sometimes, when his claws were retracted and his eyes softened to the hue of a summer sky, he was downright charming and Faust couldn’t help but like him.

  But when he played rough, it was rough indeed. Faust was struck anew by the parallels between his own situation and Stoner’s in the first war. It echoed more deeply than the clear differences between medical and physical care. Stoner had spoken of officers who didn’t know how to use their authority, and while Tanyon wasn’t an officer, he was pushy and getting pushier. Stoner had mentioned poor and rationed food, lack of privacy and leisure activities, no room for exercise — and here he was, just about naked in an open cell, losing weight fast, and ready to rip his hair out with boredom and frustration. Even the comment about an army’s best officers being reserved for the front lines found an echo; Stoner was shrewd but no longer physically capable.

  It was too much to be a coincidence. Stoner, of all people, had to know how such treatment grated, how it built pressure and resentment until Faust yearned to fight back, putting him in the old warrior’s court and at risk of saying more than he should.

  But Stoner and his staff had also taken it to the next level; they were measuring what Faust said and using it against him. He’d told Tanyon he didn’t like cabbage, and his next meal was a cabbage-based soup that still had his innards twisting. He admired Stoner’s granddaughter and found himself accused of rape and murder. And the cigarette rationing was beyond inhuman.

  There could be only one reason for squeezing him so hard. The espionage charges were spurious and he was in the middle of an interrogation, not an investigation. And if that was true, then his earlier fear, that he’d betrayed Army Group
A’s order of battle under Stoner’s gentle ministrations, was also true. He’d been a fool and was close to being a traitor. So far the only thing he’d done right was refraining from telling Stoner about Clarke; fragging right it, too, would be used against him.

  Faust stubbed out his cigarette. He had to conclude Stoner was as ruthless as he wanted or believed he needed to be.

  And Faust had no way of fighting that ruthlessness. There was nothing he could say or do to defend himself. He was at Stoner’s mercy and, if he didn’t cooperate, he could die. A chill climbed his spine beneath the blanket and rippled from his skin to his core. Did he have the nerve to face the gallows without flinching? He sighed. He didn’t even know how he’d react when he ran out of cigarettes.

  Round one went to the English.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  the same evening

  Margeaux Hall

  Stoner assembled his staff — Bruckmann, Jennifer, and Tanyon — in the sitting area of his office, serving drinks and cigarettes from his own ration. After the last two days, he was certain they all needed some little relaxation. He himself felt as if Margeaux Hall’s exquisite modern roof had caved in on him while he worked; he wasn’t quite certain what had happened, or why, but it had caused a horrid mess and somebody had to clean it up.

  “Well,” he said, “we’ve no time for inhibitions or ceremony. I must draft a report for Brigadier Marone and require all the information I can summon. Jennifer, my dear, I realize you’ve had little contact with Faust, but what you’ve had has been intensive. You’ve also typed all our notes and know the circumstances as well as anyone. Your thoughts?”

  “I wish I hadn’t hit him.” She set her wineglass on the table, kicked off her pumps, and tucked her legs about herself in a graceful curl. “I don’t like him and I’m certain he killed Harriet and Grace, but it will only make this harder.” She glanced at Tanyon. “Did I hurt him?”

  “Split lip.”

  “I suppose that’s not too bad.” She grabbed her wineglass again and turned it in the lamplight. The Médoc flashed like sequined blood. “Whenever I see him, he looks as if he’s laughing at us. I just couldn’t stand it any more.”

  “Is he laughing at us?” Stoner turned to Tanyon, sitting in the farthest wing chair, as if he was uncomfortable hobnobbing with the officers. “Sergeant, you’ve spent the most time in his presence. What do you think?”

  Tanyon’s poison of choice was straight single malt. He’d drained his shot glass twice without pause, and sat looking at the bottle as if weighing the chances of a third.

  “He might be, at that.” Tanyon picked up the bottle, glanced at Stoner — who carefully kept any judgmental thoughts far from his mind — and poured anew. “He’s always looking around, watching people, looking for mistakes. He sees one, he jumps on it.”

  “We haven’t had time to confer,” Stoner said. “Did he make any overt moves whilst in the clinic?”

  “Now, that’s an odd one.” Tanyon paused then drained the whiskey in a gulp. “I could tell he was nervous when the air raid alarm went off, because he kept looking at the ceiling.”

  “Possibly he’s never been in an air raid before.” Bruckmann still nursed his first whiskey and soda, his expression uncertain as he peered into its depths.

  “Maybe not. But when the bombs started falling, he jumped to protect the women and children.”

  Jennifer gasped. “He — what?”

  Stoner set down his wineglass. “You allowed him to mix with the civilians?”

  “Didn’t have much choice, sir. The bombs hit so close the stairwell came down on top of us. He scooped up little Thompson Oldfield, covered Mrs. Oldfield and Flora when the walls started falling, and herded them into the shelter.”

  Jennifer’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Her glorious hazel eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “He did what? But if he killed — he wouldn’t — ” She turned to Stoner, her legs uncurling from the sofa and feeling for the floor, as if she needed a new foundation for her unsettled thoughts. “Dad — ”

  “My dear, no one has ever said he is not a brave man.” With all his heart, Stoner wished she hadn’t heard the sergeant’s words.

  She stared at him without comprehension, as if at a stranger who’d said something without any context or meaning. Then she jerked her head and turned to Tanyon. “Was — everyone all right? I’ve been so busy today, I haven’t rung anyone for news.”

  “Faust was hurt the worst,” Tanyon said. “He was struck when the ceiling fell and bruised across the shoulders, but the Oldfields weren’t harmed. And Dr. Harris did restitch his arm.” The sergeant’s mouth twitched. “A second time.”

  No matter how many times Dr. Harris restitched Faust’s arm, the situation contained no humor. Stoner stared at his sergeant until Tanyon glanced aside. “I still shudder at the possibilities. If he’d wanted a hostage, it would have been a sterling opportunity.”

  “Gets worse, sir,” Tanyon said bluntly. “In the night, when Norris and I changed over, I found Thompson curled up in the bunk beside Faust. He’d snuck in when Norris wasn’t looking. I chased him off, but I’m sure he came back.”

  Stoner glanced at Jennifer as her jaw slackened, then a small smile touched her lips and eyes. He grimaced and treated himself to a long swig of the Médoc, settling it on his tongue and inhaling over it to taste the apple and blackcurrant aromas. He’d wanted her to think of Faust as a German and therefore the enemy, a living embodiment of the Wehrmacht which destroyed France, Poland, Norway, and the Low Countries, and now stood poised on England’s coastline. With this new, gentler image in her mind, she would surely see Stoner’s treatment of Faust for the manipulative callousness it was.

  It was distasteful for Stoner to shrug off thirty-five years of building his students to tear down this one young man. However, he could trust himself to in turn shrug off the experience and revert to his more usual modes of behavior. For Jennifer to see — worse, to understand — the process, was putting her still-forming character in danger of hardening a part of her soul. And that was more than merely distasteful. It was unacceptable.

  “They say children know who they can trust.” Bruckmann glanced again into the depths of his whiskey and soda, set it aside, picked it back up again. “Is it possible we’re overreacting here?”

  “No, sir,” Tanyon said. “We know he’s nice to women and children while someone’s looking. We don’t know what he’s like without an audience.”

  At least the sergeant, with his years of experience, was cynical enough to foresee the worst.

  Stoner cleared his throat. “We can afford no more risks. Was Norris of any assistance at all?”

  “No, sir. I may have to prefer charges. He ran when the bombing started.”

  Stoner again tasted his wine, swirling the softened tannin about his mouth. It was a second-growth 1899, not the best from Woodrow’s cellar but certainly nothing to slight. It was too good, honestly, to waste on a staff meeting — and what a staff — but then, what was a man to do? If the wine fit…and bringing charges against Norris would involve additional work for his already overtaxed staff.

  “He’s young,” he said. “Like a good Bordeaux, we’ll give him more time to mature. Deal with him yourself, sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tanyon sounded relieved. “Thank you. I think he’s got the makings of a good enough soldier. But he can’t handle Faust right now.”

  “Perhaps we’re all outclassed by him.” Stoner sighed and sipped again. “But we won’t admit to that, shall we? Jack, your thoughts.”

  Bruckmann set down his drink, shifted, picked it back up. His eyes remained focused on the trellis rug.

  “Come, be honest.”

  He set the drink down yet again. “I’m starting to admire him.”

  Jennifer’s jaw dropped. “Are you daft?”

  So she wasn’t thinking as kindly of Faust as all that. Stoner examined Bruckmann’s set face. “That’s honest. I
find certain of his traits to be admirable, myself. What about him has caught your attention?”

  “You’ve gone batty.”

  Bruckmann glanced at her but set his jaw more firmly. “He’s good at all the things I’d like to learn — map reading, lay of the land, personal combat, tactics. He’s cultured but not the sort of man people muck about with. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything and if he is, he’s not afraid to admit it.”

  “All admirable traits,” Stoner said, “most of which come via experience and education, and most of which you’re likely to acquire in time. What about him has caught your attention as opposed to, say, Major Kettering?”

  “Dad — ”

  “A moment, my dear.”

  Bruckmann picked up his whiskey, finally sipped it, shuddered, and set it back down. “I don’t think I’m acquiring a taste for this, in any case. You know, I saw them together today. Major Kettering had a hundred men at his back but kept his eye on Faust. Faust was alone but didn’t seem to notice.”

  “Now we come to the essence of it.” Stoner reached about his wing chair, fetched a wineglass from the sideboard, and poured more of the Médoc, setting it before Bruckmann. “Try this on for size. Are you speaking of Faust’s self-confidence, Jack? It’s not so impregnable it can’t be shaken.”

  “I don’t think so, sir.” Bruckmann sipped the Médoc and popped his eyebrows while he savored it. “Wow. This sort of sucks all the spit from your mouth, doesn’t it? Perhaps not only confidence.”

  “Perhaps not misplaced confidence?” Stoner suggested.

  “Perhaps.” Bruckmann took a second, longer sip. “There’s something behind his confidence.”

  “Perhaps he’s tested his limits and is comfortable with what he’s found.”

  The third drink drained the wineglass. “Perhaps he’s learned how to make the most of what’s inside those limits.”