“Thought you might appreciate a wash-up.” Kettering’s stiff voice matched his stance. “Should you feel restless, please remember there are sentries at the windows and door.” He turned away.
Enough of the sub-zero treatment. Kettering had proven himself a decent human being, and during their previous meeting he’d been witty and chatty. There had to be a reason for the change. Faust twisted the tap, wet his hands, and reached for the soap. “Is something wrong?”
As he scrubbed the grime from his fingernails, he glanced into the mirror, although his grubby image was discouraging at best. Kettering stared at the reflection, his chin down and expression uncertain.
“I’ve spoken with Chief Inspector Hackney,” Kettering finally said. “He assures me you aren’t the murderer, based upon scientific evidence.”
He stole another glance and met Kettering’s challenge in the mirror.
“And you want to hear it from me?” He rinsed his hands and face, twisted off the tap, and turned. “Then let me be frank. As I’ve told everyone since this fiasco began, I didn’t kill anyone.”
Kettering held their stare. Faust waited, his wet hands dripping. For his self-respect, this was important. He wasn’t a criminal and he wanted this decent man to believe him.
“I admit I’m uncertain what to think.” Kettering crossed his arms. His eyes narrowed but did not release Faust from their stare. “I mean, every time you escape, and only when you escape, a woman dies.”
His weight sank into his heels, leaving his head unexpectedly light. His stomach tensed, tightened, squirmed. Every time, the man said; every time.
“Are you saying another girl has been killed?”
Kettering’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. His silence said more than any words.
Faust whirled and retched raw bile into the wash basin.
Chapter Seventy-Three
early afternoon
Oxford and Margeaux Hall
The misty morning solidified to palest Alice blue and August heat pounded Port Meadow. Before leaving the encampment, Kettering’s soldiers stripped the canvas from the back of the Bedford, leaving it open to the sun and rushing air. So in passing Faust had a reminiscent stare at the ancient grey mass of Oxford Castle, the clock and cross of the Carfax Tower, and best of all, a clear view along the High all the way to University’s beloved battlemented tower and the inviting dark arch of the entry. That was where it started, all those years ago; that was where he’d fallen in love with England and where he hadn’t learned to shut up about it. Then the truck completed the turn onto Saint Aldates, passing the massive elegance of Tom Tower, and Faust closed his eyes, letting his body sway with the acceleration.
During his year at Oxford, he’d wanted a deeper understanding of the poetry he loved, not a shifting of some magnetic pole buried within him. He hadn’t asked to be changed so fundamentally; since he had been, he was sorry he’d been such a bore about it that Erhard threw him out of the plane. Faust had to find a way out of this mess.
Before Stoner buried him.
He leaned back against the Bedford’s cab. The slanting sun warmed his head, knees, and hands, and dusty air swirled about the truck to caress his cheeks. Even in the sling, his arm throbbed. He ignored it, ignored the yearning hunger for a cigarette, too. He’d had one with Kettering after lunch, he didn’t have any more, and he had to get used to it, no matter what his nerves said on the subject. He needed a plan and it had to be good. Faust let the Oxford outskirts roll past unnoticed and concentrated.
Tanyon, Norris, and Peckham took possession of him outside the glass vestibule of Margeaux Hall and Kettering’s professional soldiers drove away. Tanyon’s blackened face, one swollen and one glittering eye, and distinct grumpiness cheered Faust more than the glimpse of his old school and warmed him like the west-leaning sun. But he wasn’t tempted by any witticism at the sergeant’s expense. He contented himself with meeting Tanyon’s stare head on, then turned and led the way into the vestibule where Glover sat at the switchboard, as resentful and unhappy as the rest.
Tanyon and his soldiers were right. This situation had gone too far and he needed to end it. Faust’s shoulders relaxed. He’d decided to walk through that door and tell Stoner to file whatever charges he chose. His cooperation was finished. Faust held the trump card. He always had; he just hadn’t recognized it for what it was.
Stoner could send his final report to his cold-hearted boss, who would doubtless do, not what was honorable and right, but what was politically expedient — he’d charge Faust with espionage and hold him up as a propaganda tool to bolster the courage of the frightened civilians being bombed across Britain. And he, Faust, would face those outrageous charges with all the dignity he could muster. Meanwhile, no matter what Oberst von Maacht personally thought of Faust, as soon as word of his predicament reached Germany, the Nazis would raise a brou-haha. They’d deny the allegations, scream for justice and, most importantly, threaten captured English officers with retribution. Therefore, no matter what verdict ended the trial, Faust’s life would be safe. He’d have time to plan a serious escape attempt and make it work, returning to Germany and resuming the staff officer’s duties he enjoyed. And he might even get to see the Tower of London from the inside as a bonus.
The plan was beautiful and he was proud of it. He should have realized sooner that British officers held captive in Germany were hostages to his fate and the English could harm him only at their risk. Faust entered the ballroom with his head held high.
The sitting area was deserted, but Jennifer, Bruckmann, and the Wainwrights sat at their desks. Three of them worked harder than ever. But Jennifer sat hunched over, her chair turned sideways and her wonderful auburn hair falling like a camouflage screen about her face. A partially-typed sheet of paper, rolled into the platen of her typewriter, sat neglected.
Her defeated posture tugged at Faust. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that everything would be all right. Honestly, he wanted to push her hair back, tuck her head against his shoulder, and comfort her with his warmth and touch. But before he could speak, Bruckmann pushed between them, forcing his presence upon Faust’s attention. It destroyed the moment. The lieutenant wore a savage little smile, his eyes bloodshot and his rage palpable. He knocked on Stoner’s door, waited for a word from within, and entered, pulling the door closed and leaving Faust and Tanyon in the ballroom corridor.
Faust leaned against the paneled oak wall, supporting his ripped arm in its sling. Without looking, he could feel the steam emanating from Tanyon. At least something had gone right.
But even with his ear next to the wall, he couldn’t discern words among the distant murmur of voices within Stoner’s office. Tired of trying, he glanced up and ran straight into Jennifer’s unblinking stare. She had uncurled herself and sat up. Although her eyelids were red-rimmed, her wan cheeks were dry. Her generous mouth, folded and pinched as if she held some powerful emotion in check, matched an ugly awareness in her expression and made her seem uncomfortably older. Faust quit breathing; she was so beautiful, he didn’t need oxygen. Not even nicotine.
For a crazy moment he wondered if she’d attack him again; for another, if he wanted her to. That experience, with her body so close to his he could smell her scent, seemed to have left him with a different sensation than the one she’d intended. But there was neither energy nor aggression in her mien. She seemed empty, like an expensive and elegant Lalique vase sitting on a dusty shelf on a back cupboard. Even though he returned her stare without shame, she neither blinked nor turned away, and his blood warmed at the implied intimacy.
Perhaps, after their respective governments came to their senses and the war ended, perhaps he could find her again. Perhaps then —
He cleared his throat. “Miss Stoner.” Speaking first constituted surrender. But surrendering to such a doughty fighter held no dishonor.
Beside him and out of reach, Tanyon watched through slitted eyes, one a fabulous shade of purple. Although his hand
rested on the holstered Webley, he didn’t interrupt.
She straightened her shoulders. But her stare wavered not. “Major Faust.”
It sounded much nicer than the last name she’d called him. Faust realized he was breathing again. “I’m sorry about your sister and the other girls. But please believe me. I didn’t kill them.”
She nodded. “I know.”
Well, well; something or someone had changed her mind about him, possibly a dowdy overweight chief inspector. Good to know her forceful mind could yield to the logic of Hackney’s evidence. Most importantly, she didn’t hate him; her glorious hazel eyes were gentle. At the thought, his pulse picked up speed. She was more beautiful than Anne Boleyn, than Campaspe, than Sidney’s Stella. My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella’s kiss —
— but he shouldn’t have thought of that. “I’m sorry, just the same.”
Sudden energy propelled her to the edge of the chair. He blinked; it happened so fast, it was like waking from a poetic dream.
“I know you have your duty.” She spoke in a hurried rush, as if afraid of interruption or losing her nerve. “But can’t you hold off escaping for a few days, just until Chief Inspector Hackney catches that animal?” She seemed to misinterpret his hesitation. “He only seems to kill when you’ve escaped, you know.”
Faust glanced at Tanyon. The sergeant listened all too closely, watchful and hooded through his purple bruises. If Faust said the wrong thing to comfort her, it could be taken as collaboration and still get him in trouble with the Nazis. So far he’d dodged that particular accusation and he’d best keep it that way.
“It’s going to be okay.” But her eyes widened, as if she didn’t believe him. “I promise. It will be okay.”
Before she could respond, the door opened and Bruckmann emerged. “Come on, then.”
“Excuse me, please.” It was all he had time for, and even those few polite words thinned Bruckmann’s already tense lips. Well, to the Inferno with him and his white-haired sensitivities. Faust pushed off the wall and walked to Stoner’s office.
He walked fast, head up, feeling a swagger in his step. In a way, he was sorry to bring Stoner’s little game to a close. Now that he had a plan and a clear perspective, the game would be played on a more level footing and he’d score a few more points. But in another way, it was a relief. The mounting animosity would end; after the war, when he returned to locate Jennifer, he could find a way to make peace with her grandfather, as well. He could form a rational, mutually respectful relationship with the cleverest and most perceptive man he’d ever met, a man capable of advising him in his developing career as a staff officer. Stranger things had happened.
Faust rounded the corner, took two steps into the sitting room, and slammed to a halt as if he’d smacked into an invisible brick wall.
And Clarke stared back.
Chapter Seventy-Four
early afternoon
Margeaux Hall
It was over. It was all over.
And Stoner had won.
Faust’s pulse throbbed like a drum in his inner ears. Surely Stoner, ever the proper gentleman, stood behind his desk, surely Bruckmann and Tanyon were behind him somewhere and the sitting room opened before him, its usual airy expanse. But he could only see Clarke, rising from Faust’s preferred wingback chair before the desk and turning to face him, calm and courteous as if his presence there didn’t mean the end of Faust’s beautiful plan, of all his hopes, and possibly his life.
Finally the entire, sordid position was clear. Stoner didn’t need to submit a report to his lousy boss, no charges would be filed, and the English wouldn’t threaten Faust again. They didn’t need to. All they had to do was put him in a prisoner of war camp filled with hardened Nazis and tell them of his collaboration, that he’d saved this British officer’s life at the expense of several German ones. The Nazis would do the rest. English hands would be clean and British Army officers in Germany would be safe.
If he didn’t cooperate with Stoner.
Clarke’s round face was anxious, tight as if drawn back by the ears, and his dark eyes were watchful. He barely resembled the arrogant young snob from their University days, and didn’t carry much more resemblance to the grimy and determined officer from the Aa Canal. His crisp tailored khaki lent him a professional elegance despite the tense squaring of his shoulders, an irritating reminder of the differences in status and money that had separated them from their first meeting. Since his birth, Clarke’s education, career, and position in the world had never been in doubt. Unlike his own, which remained in doubt to this day.
Heat built in his face. He’d never let himself respond to the snobbish arrogance he’d faced during his year at Oxford. At the time, he’d been too awed by the culture such behavior represented, and still under the forgiving spell of Brother Harmonious’ teachings. Now, years too late, angry resentment swelled within him. But he contained it and concentrated on one final hope.
Prisoner and serving officer: their situations were reversed and their circle complete. And therefore he still had a last, desperate chance — if Clarke was willing to return his favor.
Faust had no idea how long he stood there, staring at Clarke with wild ideas dithering through his mind. In the room’s breathless silence, Clarke’s expression grew tighter and his nostrils flared. Clearly he knew the score in the game and this time, it wasn’t cricket. Faust stared back across the width of the sitting room, fighting the anger and resentment. He had to prepare for combat and could afford no distractions. Surely Clarke expected such a move on Faust’s part. Surely Stoner did, too. And Faust had no idea how to play this one.
He forced himself to walk, step after step, into the sitting room. A glance at Stoner showed him standing, of course, behind his desk, unexpectedly wearing a crisp khaki uniform, too, rather than his usual dove grey suit. Complacency underscored the old man’s courteous mien, a glittering satisfied intensity not quite camouflaged by his social graces, the opposite of the British Army soldiers Faust had run into earlier. If Faust had ignored those social graces and refused to speak with Stoner from their first meeting, sticking with the name-rank-serial number routine advised during the intelligence lectures he’d mostly slept through, he’d have given Stoner no ammunition to fire against him and perhaps the game wouldn’t have advanced to this stage. Had he inadvertently said something that led Stoner to Clarke?
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” His voice sounded rough and he cleared his throat.
Stoner’s eyebrows arched. “Perhaps not.”
One last unwilling step, and Faust stood before the desk. Without thinking, he’d aimed at his usual wingback chair, on the left side, and Clarke made room for him. Bruckmann circled about the desk and settled into his secretarial station behind Stoner. Faust didn’t need to look to know Tanyon also took up his customary position.
Jennifer had tried to warn him, with her widened glorious eyes and self-protective posture, that he faced imminent defeat. Or perhaps her concern, like her dinner, had been for Stoner. But certainly she was out of his reach forever because he’d not likely survive the war, and both thoughts were painful wrenches.
What stupid thing had he done that led him to this cliff? He’d been doing so well in his life until he ran into Clarke at the Aa Canal. No, that was unfair. He hadn’t collaborated for Clarke; he’d planned the rescue operation and would have carried it out just the same even if Clarke and Brownell hadn’t been there. Those seeds had been sown within him longer ago.
“Clarke, I see you made it.” His voice didn’t sound much better. He cleared his throat again. But the lump there refused to budge.
Beneath his polished exterior, Clarke’s lowered chin and heightened color signaled his agitation. But he didn’t look away. “Thanks to you, yes. We did.”
He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted to remain angry. But he found he needed to be certain. “Brownell, too? The others?”
Clarke nodded. “All but four.�
��
It corresponded to what he’d learned during the First Panzer Division’s investigation. But it was strangely satisfying to hear it from Clarke, as well.
“I’d hoped for the opportunity someday to thank you in person and now I find my gratitude is more than I can express.” Although that sort of meaningless platitude was commonly heard, Clarke’s words carried heartfelt intent, and Faust thawed at the edges. “It was such a decent thing to do, much more than we deserved or had any right to expect.”
The merest breath emphasized that last phrase. If it contained a hidden message, it wasn’t the one Faust wanted to hear. But before he could speak, Clarke continued.
“Did you know I have a wife — ”
Oh, frag.
“ — and a son?”
Faust’s last hope died and the lump in his throat expanded, as if fighting for release. Clarke needed no other excuse. He would not, could not help Faust; he should not endanger his family. His responsibilities as husband and father outweighed any other. A note of panic joined Faust’s emotional chorus.
Clarke swallowed. Clearly he understood the ramifications. Knowing that didn’t help, either.
“Gentlemen.” Stoner gestured to the two wingback chairs, courteous as ever and seemingly unconcerned by the life-and-death power he wielded.
As usual, as if it didn’t matter.
Faust’s pulse drummed in his ears. He wanted to scream, sling everything off that irritatingly tidy desk, curl up in a ball in the corner, and swear until he turned purple as Tanyon’s eye — but they expected him to sit and exchange small talk. All that remained to him was his dignity and those now-useless social graces.
He sat. It seemed like his final defeat. “Anyone I know?”
Clarke eased into his chair. His gaze never left Faust’s face, as if imprinting the details of this meeting into his memory. “Do you remember the Somerville sisters?”
Deal with the Devil Page 40
