“He also attended the British Nazi Party meeting in 1934.”
“Knowing him, he took the photos. Besides, he’s not landed gentry and he told me his father votes Labor.”
Stoner tilted his chin. But this time, Faust beat him to the punch.
“I hate it when you do that.”
Confusion rippled across Stoner’s face. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have this way of tilting your head and looking me over as if you could measure me for a suit with just your eyes, and I know there’s a zinger coming in from outer space which I’m going to have to field. I hate it, Mr. Stoner.”
What appeared to be pure merriment flashed in Stoner’s blue eyes. Then it vanished beneath his usual assessing stare. The expression came and went so quickly, Faust wasn’t certain he’d seen it. Maybe it had been annoyance.
“The current zinger, Herr Major, is that Squadron Leader Barrington is stationed at RAF Patchbourne.”
Squadron leader; he’d been promoted, too. And is. Faust leaned back in the chair and let it soak through him. Munting, in his beloved City office, was safe as anyone else in London. But as a fighter pilot, Barrington had been in aerial combat since April and in constant danger —
— RAF Patchbourne. It finally registered and the sitting room again faded around him. He’d stood outside the hospital, stared across a field of ripening grain at the heat-shimmering runways. He’d been less than half a mile from Barrington then and wasn’t twelve miles from him now. His stomach contracted. In this instance, proximity accused through implication.
“You can’t possibly suspect Barrington of being a traitor. You can’t think — ”
“ — that he is your contact? That perhaps he maintained communication with members of the British Nazi Party, gathering information for your anticipated return?” Stoner leaned back in his chair, head aslant. “Certainly not. Nor would we imagine Major Munting had any intention of misusing his access to classified information. It never crossed our minds.”
Faust hitched to the edge of the chair. “If you don’t believe anything else I say — ” But he caught himself; he wouldn’t beg. Not even for Barrington and Munting. Across from him, Stoner stiffened as if affronted.
Faust pushed up from the chair, stalked to the fireplace, and leaned against the pine paneling beside the navy blue mantel. Beside his elbow, the little carriage clock ticked away, the second hand jerking forward in busy spurts. It all seemed so civilized. Nothing in the pleasant sitting room gave any indication of the life-and-death battle being waged there. But he was so upset he had no idea of the time the clock tried to tell him.
He had to move his relationship with Stoner forward, past this aggression and these accusations, allegations, statements — whatever the Inferno he wanted to call them. No matter what he thought of the old geezer, to talk his way out of trouble with the British government he needed Stoner, if not actually on his side, then at least not antagonistic. The worst of all this was, if not for the circumstances, he’d rather like the old man.
He turned from the wall. Bruckmann hadn’t even glanced up from his notepad, but Tanyon swiveled to track Faust, one hand on the Webley, not a flicker of emotion on his poker face. Stoner sat unmoving, hands in his lap.
Faust cleared his throat. “I met Barrington and Munting on my first day in Oxford. I’d just walked from the train station, down near Jericho, lugging my suitcase along the High. It had been a long trip and I was so tired, I thought I’d drop. But when I climbed the stairs to my room, I couldn’t get in because there were these two guys standing in front of the door with their backs to me, reading the nameplate and talking about this Faust character. The short one carried on about nothing sensible — I learned in time Munting often does — saying this Faust had to be a great wizard, a metaphysicist who’d move the Carfax Tower to the top of the Bodleian, or some such nonsense.”
He paused. Stoner’s tense facial muscles relaxed and his back melded into his chair. His eyes softened to that summer-sky blue and the edges of his lips were starting to curve up.
“I cleared my throat, but they ignored me and the short one just kept talking, something he does pretty well. Finally I figured out they knew I was there but were waiting to see what I’d do.” Faust touched the cigarette in his pocket, as if it was a magic charm which could bring him and his friends luck. “So I tried to move them by casting a spell on them.”
The ends of Stoner’s lips curved further. “Perhaps not the best spell you’ve ever cast?”
“Oh, it was lousy. All it did was turn them around to stare at me. But I kept casting it, over and over, in different ways and with different words, until finally Barrington got the message, grabbed Munting’s arm, and hauled him aside.” He shrugged. “We’ve been friends ever since.”
He and Stoner stared at each other. The room stilled around them as the moment he created extended, second by honest second. Rather like Stoner’s admission of not-knowing the previous night, it sliced through their desktop combat, dissected out the war, and left two ordinary people talking. Stoner’s smile faded. He glanced down at the signal flimsy on his blotter, pulled it toward him — then pushed it to one side, off-center and askew.
Encouraging. “Mr. Stoner, Barrington’s father is the Earl of Mercia. He has tremendous political influence and knew Hugh Trenchard, so he’d have some pull within the RAF, as well. If Barrington wanted the assignment of defending Oxford, his favorite city on the planet, chances are he’d get it. There’s nothing suspicious in that.”
He waited, trying not to breathe.
But Stoner pulled the signal flimsy back toward him and centered it on the blotter. “It’s not Squadron Leader Barrington’s location that I find suspicious. It is yours.”
“I told you what happened.”
“And I cannot help thinking you have not told all.”
Erhard threw me out. He wanted to scream the words at Stoner, just hurl them into the middle of the argument and let the old man make of them what he would. But he had no idea what that would be, what insights Stoner could find within those simple words, and chances were, it would be something he couldn’t afford.
Stoner’s expression hardened, the steel returning to his eyes. Faust swallowed. He’d taken too long to answer. The moment had passed and could not be recalled. He returned to his chair and sagged into it, his mouth sour.
“Well.” Stoner glanced down at the signal flimsy. Without looking away, he withdrew his silver cigarette case from his breast pocket, removed one, put it between his lips, then closed the case and returned it to his pocket. It took several seconds for him to locate the lighter in another pocket, and Faust found himself watching the old hands like a hungry cat. Finally Stoner found the lighter and lit the cigarette. His right hand snaked out and tugged the ashtray closer. Just as slowly, he exhaled the first lungful.
Faust squeezed his eyes shut. But he couldn’t stop his nostrils from twitching. Low; that was so low.
“This intrigues me, Herr Major.” Stoner stared at the signal flimsy. He picked it up, angled it to the light, and exhaled smoke in a long stream. “Does Oberst von Maacht have a reason to doubt your loyalty?”
He refused to think about it. But his heart beat faster. “No.”
“No?” Stoner tapped ash. “Judicial standards in Germany are different from English ones, of course. What in National Socialist Germany is considered sufficient to trigger an investigation? Evidence of black marketeering? A denouncement from a Party member? Disagreeing with official policy?”
His entire body tightened, toes curling on the hardwood floor. “I don’t know much about legal matters.”
Stoner glanced up, a vertical line etched between his eyebrows. Behind his gravity, Faust detected the same percolating intense something he’d noticed last night. This next line, then, contained the essence of the old warrior’s counterattack.
“Or merely having English friends?”
English friends he’d missed so much, h
e’d told everyone about them. His heart beat even faster and his left hand gripped the chair arm. “I don’t know.”
Again Stoner examined the flimsy. “CID Paris. Do you know if the term refers to the Gestapo?”
Precisely what he’d sworn to not think about. Faust watched the gardener clack the mower past the French window. Stoner, the old sod, was deliberately torturing him. But he couldn’t stop himself from swallowing. “I think so.”
He didn’t turn. But he could feel Stoner’s stare like unfriendly zephyrs on his skin.
“They have a somewhat unsavory reputation, you know.”
Oh, yes. He knew. His feet twitched. But for once, he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.
“Very well.” Stoner rose. “I believe we are finished for the day. Sergeant Tanyon, please return the prisoner to his cell.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was his worst defeat yet. He’d come so close to establishing a true rapport with Stoner, and probably wound up alienating him worse than ever. Faust paused only long enough to give Stoner a half-bow, then padded for the door, his socks noiseless on the hardwood floor. But with his hand on the knob, he paused and glanced back.
Stoner stood behind his desk, his face expressionless.
“Yes, Herr Major?”
He shrugged, vaguely disappointed. “Usually I reach this point and you call me back for one final question or comment. I thought I’d check with you before I left.”
But Stoner didn’t smile. “Good afternoon.”
Chapter Forty-One
the same morning
Margeaux Hall
When the door closed behind them, Stoner lowered himself into his chair and sighed. His heart double-thumped every few beats, a singular sensation as if something foreign and living had invaded his chest. The taste in his mouth, a curious combination of satisfaction and shame, was perfectly vile.
Serving in the previous war as a simple battalion commander, in the trenches that stretched like open wounds across France, had been difficult enough. He’d received orders from his commanding officer, he’d organized his men and material for the attack or the retreat, and he’d given the word at the designated time. He’d thought it the hardest action imaginable to order his men to their deaths; he’d killed them as surely as if he’d been behind the machine guns mowing them down. It had hardly been easier to align his rifle sights on a charging young German and he’d always aimed at the center of a man’s mass for a quick, clean kill.
But moving from infantry to intelligence entailed more challenges than moving from the field to a desk. Now he must accomplish with words what he’d previously accomplished with force of arms; he had to fight his enemy to a standstill and defeat him without ever leaving his chair. His progress to date seemed quite adequate. Faust was outflanked, outgunned, and demoralized, wary and confused, uncertain what weapon would next be brought to bear.
Stoner could not help but pity him. But on a battlefield, even one confined to a desktop, pity was out of place. He had Faust dead in his sights and any weakening would allow the target to escape. Was breaking a man’s spirit any more cruel than shattering his anatomy? Had he any legitimate reason to not aim for the center of Faust’s soul?
“It’s time to finish him off.” He swiveled his chair. “We have him trapped, you know.”
Bruckmann glanced up. “I would be. But who knows what he’ll come up with?”
Stoner rose, restless, and paced to the sideboard near the French window. Dappled sunlight drenched the cut crystal decanters and overturned glasses. It was noon, the sun nowhere near the yardarm, but he wanted a stiff drink more than he wanted his next breath. At least it would wipe the horrid taste from his mouth.
“You know, Jack, I feel somewhat unwell.”
“Your heart, sir?” Behind him, Bruckmann’s voice rose an octave.
“No, just a touch of nausea.”
“Something you ate?”
“More likely something I said.” Respectability lost. Stoner grabbed a tumbler and poured Scotch neat. “Do forgive me, Jack, but I find this is the most distasteful task I have ever performed.” He tossed the whiskey back, rolled it across his tongue, savored its rich fire. Heat swept through him as if he’d swallowed a live flame.
Bruckmann leaned back in his secretarial chair, one putteed ankle crossed over the opposite knee. His eyes were shadowed with tiredness but glittering as if a bit of the whiskey’s flame had carried over to him, as well.
“You remember your assignment?”
Bruckmann nodded, swift stiff jerks of his head. “Yes, sir.”
Stoner set the tumbler aside. He’d finish this task, finish Faust, if it finished him. “Give it about an hour. Then do your best.”
Chapter Forty-Two
early afternoon
Margeaux Hall
Bruckmann erupted into the guardroom with all the desperation he could muster, Tanyon on his heels. He unlocked the rifles and live ammunition storage, never letting himself glance at the cell even though he sensed Faust’s startled stare like a physical touch.
Beside him, the sergeant grabbed the first rifle on the rack and threw it to Pym, sitting at the radio. Pym dropped his book to catch it.
“What’s up, sergeant?” he asked.
“Parachutes sighted over Oxford.” Tanyon grabbed the next rifle and hurled it at Reynolds, standing bewildered in the doorway. “I said get the squad up here, now!”
Bruckmann stacked boxes of live cartridges onto the work table. He stole a glance at Faust and saw him shrug.
“Probably your own troops in training.” In the after-lunch warmth of the cell, Faust had set aside the blanket. He stood in undergarments and sling, leaning his left elbow against one crosspiece.
“And we’re supposed to be able to tell the difference?” Bruckmann counted the boxes on the table and reached for more.
“There are two easy ways to tell whether those are British or German parachutes.”
Tanyon froze, rifle in hand. Bruckmann stared at the boxes in his arms, at the young soldiers clustering open-mouthed in the doorway, then at Faust. He hadn’t moved.
“How?”
Faust yawned.
Tanyon slammed the rifle onto the work table and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Faust’s dark eyes, tired and red-rimmed, fastened onto the pack with the voracity of a starving man. But he said nothing.
After a moment, Tanyon shook one cigarette half from the pack and held it through the bars. Faust reached for the entire pack, but Tanyon withdrew it an inch. The two men stared at each other. Then Faust shrugged, took the single cigarette, and waited. Tanyon put the pack away, produced a lighter, and held the flame steady. Faust lit the cigarette and withdrew two steps.
“British parachutes can be controlled,” he said, smoke trailing from his mouth. “German ones can’t. If the men in the chutes can avoid the trees and buildings, then they’re British troops in training. If they land in the trees — ” He shrugged again.
This wasn’t the reaction he and Stoner had anticipated. “You said two ways.”
Faust blew smoke. “Do you hear any shooting?”
Bruckmann smoldered. “Issue the ammunition, sergeant.” He stalked from the guardroom, rifle and cartridges in hand. He paused in the doorway amid his soldiers. “Set up a perimeter and pay special attention to the Dark. Anything moves in those trees, shoot it.”
Four steps down the corridor, he turned and tiptoed back, easing past Whiteside and Ellington to hide behind Peckham in the doorway. He arrived in time to hear Faust’s voice again.
“Are there deer in that forest? I wouldn’t mind a spot of venison. It would make a nice change from all this cabbage we’ve had lately.”
Bruckmann’s shoulders sagged. It would be immensely satisfying to use his rifle, and the ammunition, on a certain human target. But he’d have to answer to Stoner. Better to avoid temptation. He shoved them into Whiteside’s empty hands.
“Put those
away after Tanyon issues the all-clear,” he said in a whisper, then crept downstairs to report.
Chapter Forty-Three
early afternoon
Margeaux Hall
“No,” Stoner said, “oh, no, no, no, it is not a total failure by any means.” He paced between his cot and the French window on the far side of the room where he could work up a good stride. “The bit about the parachutes is simply military trivia and of no value whatsoever. But his reaction — ” At the window he stopped. Bruckmann stood near the desk, braced almost to attention. “He showed no excitement? No anticipation, nerves, fear, eagerness?”
“He yawned,” Bruckmann said bluntly.
He waved a hand and resumed pacing. “That sounds like play acting.” The what-not table with its assortment of Dresden china figurines, the watercolor of children fishing, the light pine paneling, all spun past his shoulder in a colorful kaleidoscope, almost enough to dizzy him. At the cot he turned again. “The cigarette was most important to him?”
Bruckmann hadn’t moved. But his chin sank until it almost touched his chest and a vertical line creased his forehead. “Yes, sir.”
“A mistake, Jack, a serious tactical error. He should have displayed surprise, at the least, if he truly knows as little of the invasion as he claims.” He tapped one fist atop the other and strode down the room back to the French window. Astonishing, how the news rejuvenated him. Perhaps the Scotch should take some of the credit; at least the awful taste was gone.
“What then?” Bruckmann asked.
Stoner jerked to a stop as if he’d hit a brick wall rather than a startling new idea. Ice rippled up his spine and shivered at the base of his skull. He measured his words and chose them with care. “It is possible he saw through our little ruse, although I’m certain it was carried out with verve and enthusiasm. It’s also possible — ” He broke off, wet his lips, tried again. “Jack, do you believe Faust is serious about escaping?”
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