He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself. But he could see Stoner’s perspective. He dropped that line of attack. “My other concerns?”
Stoner watched him, unmoving, patiently impatient.
The point went to Tanyon; this argument wasn’t going far. Cripes, but he yearned to shove everything off Stoner’s tidy desk, causing an unholy crash-and-smash on the floor, and then bury his fist in that smug English face. Was Stoner, with his field rank and ascetic professorial ways, a soldier or a civilian? Whichever role predominated, beneath both resided an old and fragile man. The thought blunted the edge of Faust’s rage.
“My suspenders?” His voice sounded apologetic and he flushed. The situation could become no more humiliating. “I’m losing weight and I need them.”
“Those have been taken from you to prevent suicide attempts.” Neither fear nor satisfaction peeked through Stoner’s usual courteous mien. If he’d divined those enraged thoughts, it didn’t show.
No matter how impressive he found the old man’s control, that debate took their conversation in the wrong direction and he’d not be tempted. “But if I’m not allowed my uniform in the cell, why can’t I wear the suspenders with the uniform outside of it? I can hardly hang myself in the corridors when your watchdog is breathing down my neck.” Even such unassailable logic didn’t soften Stoner’s ice. “I’m not here for your soldiers’ entertainment.”
“Why are you here, Herr Major?” Stoner’s eyebrows lifted.
He wasn’t entering that debate, either. “You’re changing the subject.”
Stoner blinked.
It was, Faust decided, his first victory in their desktop combat. This time, his satisfaction ran too deep to be routed. If he could only fight this battle with words and logic, then that’s what he’d do, and go down arguing.
The old man seemed to sense his victory, as well, for after their long mutual stare, he broke eye contact and looked down. Faust automatically followed his direction. A signal flimsy lay beneath Stoner’s folded hands. The old warrior’s counterattack?
“Well,” Stoner said, “you do walk past my female clerks, including my granddaughter, and I also have a responsibility for the public decency. Sergeant, my orders are revised accordingly.”
“Yes, sir,” Tanyon said.
Faust stopped his relieved sigh but only just in time. “Thank you. And my other concerns?”
Stoner jerked his head up, the usual ice in his blue stare giving way to the steel of his anger. “Perhaps you view this as a game, Herr Major. However, we English are fighting for our freedom, our culture, and our lives. Your complaints by comparison are trivial.”
He’d pushed too far and his control over the discussion was past. Faust perched on the edge of his usual wing chair, the one on the left. “What can I say? If I’d been shot through the stomach and was bleeding all over your office, it would be trivial compared to that.” He pulled out his cigarettes. “But my concerns are real and you know this is true.”
“I believe it is time you broadened your scope.” Stoner picked up the signal flimsy and glanced over it. “Why is Oberst von Maacht looking for you?”
Only three cigarettes remained in the pack. He shook one out, lit it, and dragged hard. He should have realized how the argument would end, once Stoner’s inherent combativeness entered the fray. But still, he’d had his lone victory. “Maybe because I’ve vanished. Why? Are they sending out the bloodhounds? Have they requested information from you personally?”
“Come, don’t be facetious,” Stoner said. “If you left no word, as you intimated during our conversation Monday, then your orderly or batman carried out that search under the direction of Oberst von Maacht or the army group adjutant when your absence was first discovered.”
“And look what they found.” Faust breathed smoke. Again the nicotine wasn’t calming him; maybe knowing it didn’t help would make quitting easier. “I left my desk in a mess, threw my best uniform into a heap on a chair, and didn’t grab a toothbrush on my way out the door. Although I wish I had.” He tapped ash into the glass tray on the occasional table between the two wing chairs. “Of course my boss is looking for me. Knowing him, he won’t quit until he receives word of my capture. He never quits when he has a chance to be a pain.”
“One of our listening posts intercepted this radio communication from Army Group headquarters to all subordinate units, initiating an investigation.” Stoner didn’t glance down at the flimsy.
Faust sighed smoke. “Von Maacht is an old man, Mr. Stoner, but he’s not like you. He’s vinegary and bitter and enjoys ripping the stuffing out of young upstarts, especially those of us with a university education. He’s probably turned five shades of purple by now and this little misadventure is almost worth it, picturing that without having to see it.”
“I’ll remind you of that assessment in a few days’ time,” Stoner said, his voice dry. “However, I did not mean to imply he initiated an investigation into your whereabouts, but he initiated an investigation into you.”
For a moment it didn’t sink in. “Into me?”
“The gentleman appears to doubt your loyalty, Herr Major.”
No. That couldn’t be true. The blue sitting room faded, leaving reality unpopulated and abandoned. Only he and Stoner remained in a narrow cocoon of icy cold nothingness. “May I see that?”
Stoner pushed the signal flimsy across the desk. “By all means.”
From headquarters Army Group A to all subordinate units and CID Paris authorizing immediate apprehension Major Hans-Joachim Faust, current assignment general staff Army Group A, on suspicion of high treason. Subject reported missing Friday evening 2300 hours local time, Paris. Forward applicable information concerning subject’s suspected current location and any known movements to this headquarters. Signed Oberst Bruno von Maacht, O1, Army Group A, for Generalfeldmarschall Gerd von Rundstedt.
He crumpled the little paper in his fist and rested his forehead against it, elbow braced against the desk. But he refused to acknowledge the slow fear that climbed in a shuddering tremor up his spine. It would show in his eyes and Stoner was too good at this game. Rommel; being offensive worked for Rommel. “Well, this is something you haven’t tried before.”
“I beg your pardon?” Stoner said.
Faust set the crumpled flimsy on the spotless blotter. “That is a forgery.”
Stoner’s chin withdrew into his chest. “If it doesn’t capture the flavor of the original, I hope you’ll bear in mind the young ladies in the signal intelligence office who transcribe and decode these radio communications have not received the rigid Prussian training of Oberst von Maacht.”
“Actually I can almost hear the old sourpuss dictating this to his clerk. He’d enjoy the bejeebers out of it.” Faust sat back. “But that just makes it a good forgery.”
Stoner returned the flimsy to the geographical center of his blotter and laid his folded hands atop it. His chin tilted and Faust’s breath caught; cripes, something else was coming at him.
“You realize if you do escape and return to German-occupied territory,” Stoner said, his voice quiet, “you will learn the truth of this matter.”
Faust took a deep drag and refused to think. “That I will. Because I have every intention of doing so.”
“Brave words, Herr Major.” Stoner’s measuring stare never left his face.
“Let me put it another way. Do all captured Germans have so much legal trouble in England, or only misplaced staff officers?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this is the third allegation you’ve laid at my door, which is two too many. Either I’m a bad person, perhaps a stupid one to leave myself so legally vulnerable, or you’re just looking for methods to apply pressure, which means none of those allegations is true.”
He paused for a long drag, watching as a slow flush climbed into Stoner’s face. Nice to shove that particular shoe onto the other guy’s foot. This reaction, at least, was real and not conjured
up by his hopeful imagination.
“You fooled me, didn’t you, Mr. Stoner? You treated me kindly, told me a few war stories, established a level of trust between us. Then you took advantage of that trust, and my usual naiveté, and convinced me your powers-that-be suspected me of espionage, that I had to establish my credentials or face prosecution and maybe execution. And like a fool I fell for it.” He dragged again. “I just can’t believe Oberst von Maacht is aware of it yet. He’s a smart man but he’s far from omniscient.
“You lied to me, too. You told me rationing restricted me to one pack of cigarettes per month. At the hospital Monday, Dr. Harris told me official rationing for prisoners of war is three packs per month.” He let his words sink in. “By now, even I can’t help but wonder what else you’ve told me isn’t true.”
Stoner returned his stare. The red drained from his lined face, like a flare dying in a night sky, leaving him still and cold and inflamed. Faust inhaled hard, stubbed out the quarter-inch butt, and held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could. He’d drawn his battle lines and fortified his position; now he had to take Stoner’s return fire.
“Allow me to clarify the situation for you, Herr Major. Firstly, this,” Stoner raised the signal flimsy between two fingers, “is a statement, not an allegation. Should you choose to dismiss it and any significance it may have, that is of course your prerogative. I assure you,” he added, his voice sinking, “the British government will take this, and all the evidence both for and against you, into consideration when their legal minds determine the final disposition of your case.”
He also wasn’t imagining the slow flush climbing his own face. Were those charges real, after all? If so, he’d misread Stoner badly. The situation had seemed so clear last night, in the lurking shadows of the guardroom cell. Now, in the cold glare of daylight, his certainty blurred.
Stoner set the flimsy atop his blotter. “Secondly, the allegation of murder, I am sorry to say, was the overreaction of an old and angry man. That investigation is better left to the expertise of Chief Inspector Hackney, who currently displays a rather compelling lack of interest in you. I must ask you to accept my apology there.”
As much as he longed to remain on the offensive, only one answer was socially acceptable. “We’ll regard it as forgotten.”
“I thank you.” Despite his words, the steel in Stoner’s expression remained as chilling as ever. “Thirdly, although you seem inclined to dismiss the charges of espionage, I assure you further they are perfectly serious and will not vanish so obligingly, certainly not with an apology. Finally, official regulations as to cigarette rationing for prisoners of war shall not be applied until and unless your case has been so decided. While you are under investigation, you remain under my jurisdiction and I may set what regulations I consider most suitable for the circumstances.” Stoner folded his hands atop the flimsy. In the office’s breathless hush, the onionskin paper rustled, startlingly loud. “Am I clear?”
No sense trying to meet that stare. The white-brick fireplace shimmered in the morning sunlight through the French window and Faust’s pulse pounded in his ears. The room tightened around him, hollow and cold. “Perfectly. I apologize for calling you a liar. I didn’t understand.”
“We shall also regard that as forgotten.” Stoner leaned back in his chair. “I hope your injury is less painful this morning, despite your malapropos exercise yesterday.”
Faust risked a glance. But not a trace of satisfaction lurked in the old man’s cultured face. Maybe his gullibility overwhelmed his common sense even more than usual, but unless this was a magnificent bluff, he’d utterly misjudged Stoner last night. And he’d have to wait until he returned to the cell, with the shadows that misled him so badly, before he’d have time to think again. Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Daniel had written, Without the torment of the night’s untruth. “Thank you. It seems much better.”
“Excellent. Have you further concerns?”
Can I trust you? But there was no sense asking such a question. For that matter, he might be a fool for asking any of his hundreds of questions, but he threw one out to test the water. “Is Professor Best also under investigation for espionage?”
“The evidence against Eduard Best is too incriminating to require an investigation,” Stoner said. “He has been questioned concerning his activities and further convicted himself from his own mouth.”
A chill shivered over Faust. Stoner’s trustworthiness remained in doubt. But if that was true, then perhaps the charges against him weren’t specious, either. “Is he awaiting execution?”
Stoner tilted his chin. Faust braced himself.
“Not as long as he cooperates.”
Even being prepared didn’t soften that one. Faust stared into Stoner’s gentle blue gaze, as sans merci as anything John Keats wrote, horror twisting in the pit of his stomach.
“Are you saying you’ve turned him? You’ve turned Professor Best into a double agent?”
Stoner’s smile contained no humor. “The prospect of having one’s neck stretched tends to encourage most people to cooperate.”
That was clear enough.
Faust swallowed bile. “Is it possible for me to hear this from Best himself? I’m serious — he’s a rabid Nazi.”
“I assure you that leopard has not changed his spots.” Irony edged Stoner’s voice. “From your privileged position within the guardroom cell this afternoon, you shall witness his supervised Morse transmission to the Fatherland he serves so faithfully. While he’s there, you may ask him any questions you like.”
Stoner seemed serious and it was impossible not to believe him. With an effort, Faust looked away. Beyond the open French window, the old gardener pushed a clacking mower past the flower beds. To give himself time to think, he picked up his pack of Players. Only two left. Maybe he should save these for when life with Stoner got desperate … no, he had to be tough. He lit one and inhaled deeply.
“I see.” It sounded stupid but what else could he say?
“Any further questions?”
He had to admit he’d received a credible if unpalatable answer to his first one. But he still didn’t know whether he could believe what he’d been told. His thoughts wobbled, throwing him off-balance, as if he’d stepped onto what he’d thought was trustworthy ground and tripped a land mine, as if overnight Stoner had metamorphosed from a professor to a soldier. He certainly displayed a lot more aggression than charm during this discussion, possibly due to having been called a liar. “No, sir.”
Stoner glanced down at his hands, his face expressionless. “Then perhaps this is an appropriate moment to broach a second unpleasant but necessary topic. I must inform you that your friends within these islands are not withstanding investigation particularly well.”
The comment was so unexpected it cut through his defensive anger. Munting’s wicked grin and Barrington’s gentle smile flashed across Faust’s memory, as real as if they sat in the next room. “My friends? Why are you investigating my friends?”
“Surely you understood this process would cover your entire background?”
He dragged hard. “I didn’t think about it. So what is there about two ordinary Englishmen that’s not standing up to scrutiny?”
Stoner leaned back in his chair, pulling his hands into his lap. The signal flimsy, released from their weight, rustled again. “Prior to the opening of hostilities, certain of our landed gentry believed their way of life to be threatened by social democracy. Some few of them further believed National Socialist principles comprised an excellent solution to their problem.”
But this topic he could forecast and his temper rose to block it. “If you’re talking about George Barrington, you’re crazy. He’s Welsh and he’s gentry, but he’s almost fanatically British.”
“He was photographed at a meeting of the British Nazi Party in 1934.”
“When he studied advanced classes in sociology.” No way he’d let them slander Barrington. “He a
lso attended meetings of other political parties — the Communists, Labor, the Tories. He wrote and told me how disgusting it was, but he earned a first at All Souls.”
Stoner paused. “Are you aware of his current location?”
If only. “No. I know he’s in the RAF and I know he flies Spitfires. But I always sent mail to his father’s Regent’s Park town home.”
Another pause. Stoner seemed to consider his words, lips pursed. “And Peter Munting?”
“Is in the Army, headquartered in London. Barrington and I used to laugh at him, saying if he ever got an office in the City, we’d never get him out of it, and that looks to be prophetic. I sent mail to his Bayswater flat.”
“Do you know his post or assignment?”
“No, I don’t. Mr. Stoner, we weren’t stupid; we knew there was a chance of another war. We took security seriously and didn’t share such information.” It was true. But it was also true he’d say anything to protect them. If Stoner figured that out — beards and bedsteads, surely he’d already figured it out and was just as wary of believing him as he was of believing Stoner. The layers here could drive him to drink. Faust ground the heel of his hand into one eye, then the other. He’d smoked most of the fag and didn’t remember a single puff. Frag the English.
“Major Munting,” Stoner said, his voice quiet, “is in military intelligence.”
“Smart as he is, one would hope so.” Is, Stoner had said: Munting, at least, was alive and well. And he’d been promoted. Faust’s heart eased even as his soul quaked. “If you two ever start working together, this war will be over before Christmas.”
Stoner smiled, again without humor. “Thank you.” He crossed his legs and even his lack of humor faded. “Did Major Munting also enroll in upper-divisional sociology courses?”
He ground out the butt then slid his crumpled pack of Players, with its lone remaining occupant, into his breast pocket. “He’s never liked people that much.”
Deal with the Devil Page 29
