Bruckmann stared at the ripped-out page in his hand, curlicues of paper dangling from its left edge. It was the wrong sheet. Not likely it was anything important. He crumpled it, too, and tossed it aside.
He’d only been at Margeaux Hall for three months and he loved it. It was intriguing, watching the old man sort through a problem, analyzing its various components and compiling a framework for its solution, then sorting through the solution to the nitpicky details, all of which contributed to the plan’s ultimate success or failure. Bruckmann had learned a lot from him; as part of Stoner’s staff, he was contributing in a real sense to the war effort. And the Médoc had been nothing short of a revelation. Faust was right. What was map reading compared to this?
And there was the purely selfish side to the equation. Bruckmann had served briefly with a Guards regiment prior to his transfer to Margeaux Hall, and he knew as well as the next lieutenant when he was well billeted. Stoner simply refused to stand on military punctiliousness, instead fostering an atmosphere of mutual trust and cooperation with himself at its head but where anyone could speak up, in or out of turn. The work was hard but stimulating; anywhere else it would be hard but dull and possibly brutal, to judge from letters he’d received from friends in other units. Bruckmann had sampled spit-and-polish, foot slogging, endless drill, and knew he never wanted to taste it again. He knew he’d enjoyed his work; with Faust’s tutelage, he now understood why.
But should anything happen to Stoner, there was no guessing what would befall the Wildflower operation. Bruckmann didn’t kid himself; he didn’t know anywhere near enough to be considered even a short-term substitute for his commanding officer. Should Stoner “keel over,” as Faust phrased it, he’d be facing a new boss or a new billet. He could find himself again polishing brass and presenting arms and marching marching marching, without having obtained enough experience to earn himself a permanent place in the intelligence community.
And then there was Jennifer. She’d already lost both parents, her grandmother, and her little sister; if Stoner did “keel over,” she’d be alone. Although he couldn’t imagine her as the love of his life, Bruckmann enjoyed Jennifer’s company and respected her ferocious determination. But even if he detested her, no one deserved such a lonely life sentence.
Not even Faust, who was also alone.
He glanced over his shoulder. The gleaming eyes, liquid in the dark, met his gaze across the midnight of the guardroom. At first glance, Faust’s expression seemed honestly concerned. But Bruckmann knew he wasn’t imagining the satisfaction pulsing beneath the surface.
Faust’s words might be honest. But his motives weren’t. Bruckmann realized he was trusting his enemy.
“That’s a shame, mate,” Faust said.
Bruckmann’s budding compassion turned cold with reality. Faust was playing with him. And the green little lieutenant who fancied himself a valuable member of the intelligence community was letting him.
With great deliberation, Bruckmann opened the binder rings at random, slid in the last few pages, and snapped it closed. The clacking metal echoed in the shadows of the guardroom with the finality of a sealing trap. His fingers fumbled the binder back onto the shelf — his every move was being watched; he could feel it as distinctly as a physical touch — then gathered the discarded sheets and bundled them into one of the envelopes. Mrs. Alcock could use them in the morning to start the kitchen stove fire.
At the door he paused and turned. Faust hadn’t moved, huddling in his corner like a cat studying a mouse. His pretended compassion and unconcealable satisfaction had vanished beneath silent rage. Bruckmann’s reality chilled further.
He was helping to destroy Faust. And Faust knew it.
He swallowed. “Good night.”
Faust struck another match — it even sounded derisive — and lit another cigarette.
Bruckmann fled the guardroom and knew it for an escape. He paused in the corridor, listening for the laugh he was certain would chase him. But it never came. Finally he tiptoed away, confused and more upset than he could remember ever being before.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
early morning, Wednesday, 28 August 1940
Margeaux Hall
“He’s onto us, sir.”
Stoner glanced up from his notes. Bruckmann stood before the desk, one hand resting on the back of the closest wing chair. His uniform was crisp as ever, but fine red lines seeped from the corners of his eyes and his face seemed even paler than normal.
No one would accuse him of being a heartless commanding officer. Stoner lifted the receiver. “Norris, connect me with Mrs. Alcock in the kitchen, if you please… Mrs. Alcock, would you be so kind as to send along two cups of coffee? Lovely. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver. “Do forgive me, Jack. I should have warned you of the reverse side of the Médoc’s medal.”
Bruckmann smiled, but painfully. He circled the desk, dropped into the secretarial chair, and rubbed his eyes. “I admit I stopped by the infirmary for an aspirin. That stuff packs a wallop. And Faust is a cunning sod. As I said, he knows we’re manipulating him.”
Stoner sat back, swiveling his chair to face Bruckmann’s station. “Beneath his poetry, he’s far too analytical not to have realized something so obvious. Anything else of note?”
“He tricked me into admitting your rank,” Bruckmann ticked points off on his fingers as he spoke, “he’s not a natural soldier, he’s angry over the treatment he’s receiving, he respects you personally, and he’s not above being manipulative himself. Oh, yes, and he’s going to quit smoking.”
“Is he, now?” It was the most interesting item on his lieutenant’s list. “He doesn’t like our restrictions, does he? I believe he’ll find that task more difficult than he’s imagined.”
“He says he’s prepared for it.”
“I doubt it, Jack, very much indeed. When he reaches the end of his supply and the craving hits him, he shall suffer more than he’s ever imagined. Please ensure I warn our esteemed sergeant to be prepared for the worst.”
Someone knocked softly at the door, then Sally entered with a small tray and set cups of steaming coffee before them. “We made fresh for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Sally.” Stoner tilted his head. “You are being cautious, lass, aren’t you?”
She hugged the tray to her chest and shot him a sidelong look, her dark eyes white-rimmed like those of a frightened filly. Her black hair, usually fluffed about her face, peeped from beneath an old-fashioned white mob cap. “Ain’t spending no time with no one I don’t know.”
When she’d gone, Stoner took a sip. “What else?”
Bruckmann set down his cup, picked it back up, held it beneath his nose, stared at his blank notepad.
“Tell me, Jack.”
“Sir, I don’t mean to pry, but I must ask.” Bruckmann hauled in a deep breath. He seemed partly afraid of his own daring, and partly just afraid. “Have you a heart condition?”
Oho. Stoner sat back. Morning sunshine poured through the two French windows, splashed across his desk, glittered off the white porcelain coffee cup, warmed his face and hands. When he went, hopefully it would be from a pleasant room, rather like this one, and softly, quickly. And not until he saw Jennifer well settled, not to be left alone. “Sergeant Tanyon did say he was observant and always watching for weaknesses. Yes, Jack, I have a heart condition; I believe you’ll find most old men do. But I hope he hasn’t unnerved you with frightful stories.”
Bruckmann examined his cup, picked it up again, set it down untasted. The saucer rattled. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
“Affection and regard are never misplaced, Jack.”
His lieutenant flushed, hopefully with pleasure.
Stoner let the silence deepen as he drained his coffee. He set the cup down and chose his words with care. “All lives are finite. We must simply do the best we can with the time we have.”
Bruckmann stared at his barely-tasted cup. “Yes, sir.”
“I believe so.”
“And in what condition are our manuals?”
“Heaven alone knows.”
Stoner laughed. Bruckmann flashed a wry smile and picked up his cup, this time actually drinking.
“Are we ready to proceed?”
Down went the cup again. “I must sharpen some pencils. I’m sorry.”
“Prepare yourself and I’ll ring Sally for a clean-up. Then we shall advance once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more.” He paused. “Or close the wall up with our English mouths.”
Bruckmann snickered over his pencils. Stoner, satisfied with one sally, telephoned for the other.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
the same morning
Margeaux Hall
Breakfast was more cold cereal, this time sans molasses, with two slices of dry toast and lukewarm acidic tea that didn’t need a mug to stand straight. Faust sighed and ate it all. With these rations, no wonder his trousers didn’t fit, when he got the chance to wear them.
When he’d finished, Tanyon brought water and the safety razor — no mirror this time — and watched from the cell’s open doorway as Faust washed and shaved. Peckham half-sat on the work table with an air of expectancy, as if awaiting his favorite show.
Faust chose his words with care. It wouldn’t do to start the day by irritating the sergeant just when they were starting to get along, sort of. “I appreciate the opportunity to wash, but I’d like a bath and my underwear needs cleaning.”
Tanyon grunted. “Have to ask the old man.”
So much for thinking they were getting along. He might as well hit back. “Do you mean Major Stoner?” Maybe he was getting the hang of this blind, left-handed shaving routine; he hadn’t cut himself yet.
But Tanyon didn’t glance up from watching his hands. “Yes, I mean Major Stoner. You’ll find he prefers mister or professor.”
Peckham’s glance bounced between them and his grin broadened. At the radio, Glover’s eyebrows hiked up his forehead. Granted, Glover hadn’t heard Tanyon and him relating before.
“I guess he’s been a professor a lot longer than he’s been an officer.”
“Not if you count his reserve service.”
“Ow!” The blade dug into the curve of his chin. Faust touched the spot and pulled his fingers away dripping red. “You know, I realize you English are trying to upset me and keep me off balance, but it wouldn’t kill you to give me a mirror or let me shave in the lavatory.”
Tanyon didn’t even blink. Or smile. “Have to talk to the old man about it.”
“I’m losing weight.”
“We’ve all lost weight.”
“I need my suspenders.”
“That ought to be entertaining.”
Peckham and Glover sniggered.
“Would it hurt you to — ”
“You have to — ”
“I know, I know.” He washed the soap and blood from his face, and grabbed the thin towel. “Do you ever make decisions for yourself?”
The corner of Tanyon’s mouth curled. “Not about you.”
Faust buried his face in the towel, pressing it against the cut on his chin. Shoot, it wasn’t his property. “Servile little beggar, aren’t you?”
Tanyon’s lip curled further. “I beat you, didn’t I?”
It stung worse than the cut. Faust lowered the towel and met the three Englishmen’s mockery head-on. “Not yet, you haven’t.”
“Appreciate the warning.” Tanyon nodded to the tray. “Want to hand that to me?”
Faust dropped the towel on it. “No.” He turned his back and strode to the cot. He’d stashed his last few cigarettes beneath the pillow before he’d fallen asleep, several hours after Bruckmann’s retreat from the guardroom.
When he turned back around, striking a match, Tanyon’s mockery had vanished. Peckham and Glover barely breathed.
“No one here is your servant.”
Faust hauled in a hard first drag. “Really.” He turned his back again. Surprising, how much this mattered to him. But his left hand vibrated when he raised the cigarette for another drag.
He didn’t look when small sounds told him someone fetched the tray, nor when the cell door clanged shut and the bolt snapped home. The blackout curtain had been drawn back from the window beside Glover’s elbow, and early morning sunlight chased all but the deepest shadows from the guardroom and the cell. One beam sliced across the cot’s edge and cut a line up the far wall, brightening the battleship-grey paint almost to silver. The wooden floor numbed his bare feet and his still-damp hands were chilled. If he’d stayed in Paris, where he belonged, he’d be breakfasting in his swank hotel room, a volume of poetry propped before him, while Brandt set out his uniform and buffed his boots. He might have found a way to make up with Ritzi, Erhard might still be alive, his arm wouldn’t be aching like a mother, and he’d be in his last two weeks of training as a staff officer. This nightmare would never have happened.
He waited for the nicotine to soak through his system and calm him. But this time, it didn’t seem to be working.
Cloth rustled behind him.
“Get dressed,” Tanyon said. “The old man wants to see you.”
He glanced over his shoulder, sighing smoke. The three Englishmen hadn’t moved. His bedraggled and scorched uniform lay in a rumpled heap atop the table, minus his boots, of course. But it gave him no satisfaction. “Are my suspenders in there?”
“You have to — ”
“Fine.” He threw the still-smoldering butt aside and stalked to the table, easing his arm from the sling. “I’ll do that.”
Tanyon seemed to swell, like a bullfrog. “Pick it up.” His voice actually rose.
Now that was more like it. “Bugger off.” Setting the sling aside, Faust pulled on his torn mouse-grey shirt.
When he surfaced, Tanyon still glared. “I thought we had this worked out.”
“In your fondest fantasies.” As he’d expected, his trousers weren’t going to fit securely. He muttered one of his rudest English-language expressions, one he hadn’t heard Tanyon use before. Glover made a small sound, not quite a cough, and turned to the radio.
Pink rose from Tanyon’s collar and invaded his face. “I hope you aren’t expecting any satisfaction from the old man.”
“From Major Stoner?” He squirmed into his tunic. “I don’t expect much of anything in this uncivilized place.”
“Good.” The sergeant planted his hands on his web belt. “I’m starting to resent your attitude, mister.”
“Good.” Faust fastened the top button of his tunic and settled it on his shoulders. “And it’s major, sergeant. Don’t forget it again.”
Tanyon’s eyes narrowed. Faust smiled. It seemed like the first time that morning.
“You ready?”
“Do you have a comb?”
“Not for you.”
Peckham sniggered. Glover swiveled around, his eyebrows almost in his hairline.
“Of course not.” He combed his hair with his fingers and took his time, then eased his arm back into the sling. “Yes, sergeant, I’m ready.”
Chapter Forty
the same morning
Margeaux Hall
Faust had studied Rommel’s book enough to understand the advantages of a purely offensive campaign. He paused before Stoner’s desk long enough to bring his heels together, soundless in his dirty socks, but doubtless the old man got the point without the audible emphasis. “Major Stoner.”
“Herr Major Faust.” Stoner didn’t blink, his lined face courteous but without a smile. “Please be seated.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I have something to say.”
“Indeed.” Stoner eased into his chair, leaned back, and folded his hands on the desktop, as if in prayer. “Fire away.”
Until that moment, Faust’s anger had carried him along nicely. But Stoner’s unexpected anticipation, almost eager in its understated scruti
ny, made him pause. Suddenly he felt like a whining schoolboy, sniveling to the headmaster about another student, and the image of himself pointing a finger at Tanyon — “He did it!” — flashed through his mind. It blunted the edge off his temper, but still, he had to try. “I resent the way I am treated in this establishment under your care.”
“Indeed,” Stoner said again. “Anything specific?”
“You want a list of my petty grievances?” His anger flared. “Fine. I resent being forced to shave without a mirror when there are perfectly adequate facilities in the lavatory. I resent the public humiliation of being kept in my skivvies in an open cell. I resent being forced to wear my trousers without suspenders for no good reason. And I absolutely resent the continual implied threat of physical abuse from your watchdog over there.” He jerked his head at Tanyon, standing as usual to his right and behind him, out of reach.
“The threat of physical compulsion is necessary,” Stoner said, with no more emotion than if discussing the weather, “because you have not shown yourself trustworthy.”
That was outrageous. “I what?” But he didn’t wait for Stoner. “Soldiers should be able to take care of themselves. And I have never threatened a civilian, even when pushed literally to the wall.”
Stoner froze, his eyes narrowing and chilling. So that shot hit home. Good — but Faust couldn’t suppress a slight tingle, as if he’d gone too far and verbally stepped over some cautionary line. He tried to focus on his first satisfaction but it faded, leaving only the tingle and his pounding anger behind.
“For which I am grateful,” Stoner finally said. “And on principle, I agree with your assessment of soldiers. However, I must work with the troops assigned to me and these lads are under my care. I would be a poor commanding officer were I to allow you to run rampant over them.”
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