by Ken Follett
Steve was also a great fixer. A weekend pass, a bottle of hooch, a pair of tickets for the big game—he could get them when no one else could.
Eddie decided to try to get in touch with him.
He felt a little better having made some kind of decision. He hurried back into the hotel.
He went into the little office and gave the number of the naval base to the hotel’s proprietress; then he went to his room. She would come and fetch him when the call came through.
He took off his overalls. He did not want to be in the tub when she came, so he scrubbed his hands and washed his face in the bedroom, then put on a clean white shirt and his uniform pants. The routine activity calmed him a little, but he was feverishly impatient. He did not know what Steve would say but it would be a tremendous relief to share the problem.
He was tying his tie when the proprietress knocked at the door. He hurried down the stairs and picked up the phone. He was connected with the switchboard operator at the base.
He said: “Would you put me through to Steve Appleby, please?”
“Lieutenant Appleby cannot be reached by telephone at this time,” she said. Eddie’s heart sank. She added: “May I give him a message?”
Eddie was bitterly disappointed. He knew Steve would not have been able to wave a wand and rescue Carol-Ann, but at least they could have talked, and maybe some ideas would have come out of the discussion.
He said: “Miss, this is an emergency. Where the hell is he?”
“May I ask who is calling, sir?”
“This is Eddie Deakin.”
She dropped her formal tone immediately. “Oh, hi, Eddie! You were his best man, weren’t you? I’m Laura Gross. We met.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Unofficially, Steve spent last night off the base.”
Eddie groaned inwardly. Steve was doing something he shouldn’t—at just the wrong time. “When do you expect him?”
“He should have been back before daybreak, but he didn’t show up.”
Worse yet—Steve was not just absent but possibly in trouble too.
The operator said: “I could put you through to Nella. She’s in the typing pool. ”
“Okay, thanks.” He could not confide in Nella, of course, but he could find out a little more about where Steve might be. He tapped his foot restlessly while he waited for the connection. He could picture Nella: she was a warmhearted, round-faced girl with long curly hair.
At last he heard her voice. “Hello?”
“Nella, this is Eddie Deakin.”
“Hello, Eddie. Where are you?”
“I’m calling from England. Nella, where’s Steve?”
“Calling from England! My goodness! Steve is, uh, out of touch right now.” She sounded uneasy as she added: “Is something wrong?”
“Ayuh. When do you think Steve will be back?”
“Sometime this morning, maybe in an hour or so. Eddie, you sound really shook. What is it? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Maybe Steve could phone me here if he gets back in time.” He gave her the phone number of Langdown Lawn.
She repeated it. “Eddie, won’t you please tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“I can’t. Just get him to call. I’ll be here for another hour. After that, I have to go to the plane—we fly back to New York today. ”
“Whatever you say,” Nella said doubtfully. “How’s Carol-Ann ?”
“I have to go now,” he said. “Goodbye, Nella.” He hung up the phone without waiting for her reply. He knew he was being discourteous but he was too upset to care. His insides felt tied in knots.
He did not know what to do, so he climbed the stairs and went to his room. He left the door ajar so that he would hear the ring of the phone from the hall, and sat down on the edge of the single bed. He felt close to tears, for the first time since he was a child. He buried his head in his hands and whispered: “What am I going to do?”
He recalled the Lindbergh kidnapping. It had been in all the papers when he was at Annapolis, seven years ago. The child had been killed. “Oh, God, keep Carol-Ann safe,” he prayed.
He did not often pray, nowadays. Prayer had never done his parents any good. He believed in helping himself. He shook his head. This was no time to revert to religion. He had to think it out and do something.
The people who had kidnapped Carol-Ann wanted Eddie on the plane—that much was clear. Maybe that was a reason not to go. But if he stayed away he would never meet Tom Luther and find out what they wanted. He might frustrate their plans, but he would lose any slight chance of gaining control of the situation.
He stood up and opened his small suitcase. He could not think of anything but Carol-Ann, but he automatically stowed his shaving kit, his pajamas and his laundry. He brushed his hair absently and packed the brushes.
As he was sitting down again, the phone rang.
He was out of the room in two strides. He hurried down the stairs, but someone got to the phone before him. Crossing the hall, he heard the proprietress say: “October the fourth? Just let me see whether we have a vacancy.”
Crestfallen, he turned back. He told himself there was nothing Steve could do, anyway. Nobody could do anything. Someone had kidnapped Carol-Ann, and Eddie was just going to have to do whatever they wanted; then he would get her back. No one could release him from the bind he was in.
With a heavy heart he recalled that they had quarreled the last time he saw her. He would never forgive himself for that. He wished with all his soul that he had bitten his tongue instead. What the hell had they been arguing about, anyway? He swore he would not fight with her ever again, if only he could get her back safe.
Why wouldn’t that goddamn phone ring?
There was a tap on the door and Mickey came in, wearing his flight uniform and carrying his suitcase. “Ready to go?” he asked cheerfully.
Eddie felt panicky. “It can’t be time already!”
“Sure is!”
“Shit—”
“What’s the matter? You like it so much here? You want to stay and fight the Germans?”
Eddie had to give Steve a few more minutes. “You honk on ahead,” he said to Mickey. “I’ll catch up with you. ”
Mickey looked a little hurt that Eddie did not want to go with him. He shrugged, said, “See you later,” and went out.
Where the hell was Steve Appleby?
He sat and stared at the wallpaper for the next fifteen minutes.
At last he picked up his case and went slowly down the stairs, staring at the phone as if it were a rattlesnake poised to strike. He stopped in the hall, waiting for it to ring.
Captain Baker came down and looked at Eddie in surprise. “You’re running late,” he said. “You’d better come in the taxi with me.” The captain had the privilege of a taxi to the hangar.
“I’m waiting for a telephone call,” Eddie said.
The ghost of a frown shadowed the captain’s brow. “Well, you can’t wait any longer. Let’s go!”
Eddie did not move for a moment. Then he realized this was stupid. Steve was not going to call, and Eddie had to be on the plane if he was going to do anything. He forced himself to pick up his case and walk out through the door.
The taxi was waiting and they got in.
Eddie realized he had been almost insubordinate. He did not want to offend Baker, who was a good captain and had always treated Eddie decently. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I was expecting a call from the States.”
The captain smiled forgivingly. “Hell, you’ll be there tomorrow!” he said cheerfully.
“Right, Eddie said grimly.
He was on his own.
PART II
SOUTHAMPTON TO FOYNES
CHAPTER SIX
As the train rolled south through the pine woods of Surrey toward Southampton, Margaret Oxenford’s sister, Elizabeth, made a shocking announcement.
The Oxenford family were in a special carriage reserved for Pan American Clipper
passengers. Margaret was standing at the end of the carriage, alone, staring out of the window. Her mood swung wildly between black despair and rising excitement. She was angry and miserable to be abandoning her country in its hour of need, but she could not help feeling thrilled at the prospect of flying to America.
Her sister, Elizabeth, detached herself from the family group and came up to her, looking solemn. After a moment’s hesitation, she said: “I love you, Margaret.”
Margaret was touched. Over the last few years, since they had been old enough to understand the battle of ideas raging throughout the world, they had taken violently opposite points of view, and because of that, they had become estranged. But she had missed being close to her sister, and the estrangement made her sad. It would be wonderful if they could be real pals again. “I love you too,” she said, and she hugged Elizabeth hard.
After a moment Elizabeth said: “I’m not coming to America.”
Margaret gasped with astonishment. “How can you not?”
“I shall simply tell Mother and Father that I’m not going. I’m twenty-one—they can’t force me.”
Margaret was not sure her sister was right about that, but she let it pass for the moment: she had too many other questions. “Where will you go?”
“To Germany.”
“But, Elizabeth,” Margaret said, horrified, “you’ll get killed!”
Elizabeth looked defiant. “It’s not only socialists who are willing to die for a cause, you know.”
“But for Nazism!”
“It’s not just for Fascism,” Elizabeth said, and there was an odd light in her eye. “It’s for all the thoroughbred white people who are in danger of being swamped by niggers and half-breeds. It’s for the human race.”
Margaret was revolted. It was bad enough to be losing her sister—but to lose her to such a wicked cause! However, Margaret did not want to go over the bitter old political argument now: she was more concerned about her sister’s safety. She said: “What will you live on?”
“I’ve got my own money.”
Margaret remembered that they both inherited money from their grandfather at the age of twenty-one. It was not much, but it might be enough to live on.
She thought of something else. “But your luggage is checked through to New York.”
“Those cases are full of old tablecloths. I packed another set of bags and sent them ahead on Monday.”
Margaret was astonished. Elizabeth had arranged everything perfectly and carried out her scheme in total secrecy. Bitterly, Margaret reflected how impetuous and ill thought-out her own escape attempt had been by comparison. While I was brooding and refusing to eat, she thought, Elizabeth was booking passage and sending her luggage on ahead. Of course, Elizabeth was the right side of twenty-one and Margaret the wrong; but that had not counted as much as careful planning and cool execution. Margaret felt ashamed that her sister, who was so stupid and wrong about politics, had behaved so much more intelligently.
Suddenly she realized how she would miss Elizabeth. Although they were no longer great friends, Elizabeth was always around. Mostly they quarreled, and mocked one another’s ideas, but Margaret would miss that, too. And they still supported one another in distress. Elizabeth always suffered bad period pains, and Margaret would tuck her up in bed and bring her a cup of hot chocolate and Picture Post magazine. Elizabeth had been deeply sorry when Ian died, even though she disapproved of him, and she had been a comfort to Margaret. Tearfully, Margaret said: “I shall miss you dreadfully.”
“Don’t make a fuss,” Elizabeth said anxiously. “I don’t want them to know yet.”
Margaret composed herself. “When will you tell them?”
“At the last minute. Can you act normally until then?”
“All right.” She forced a bright smile. “I shall be as horrible as ever to you.”
“Oh, Margaret!” Elizabeth was on the point of tears. She swallowed and said: “Go and talk to them while I calm down.”
Margaret squeezed her sister’s hand, then returned to her seat.
Mother was leafing through Vogue magazine and reading occasional paragraphs to Father, oblivious of his complete lack of interest. “ ‘Lace is being worn,’ ” she quoted, adding: “I haven’t noticed, have you?” The fact that she got no reply did not discourage her in the least. “ ‘White is glamour color number one.’ Well, I don’t like it. White makes me look kind of bilious.”
Father was wearing an unbearably smug expression. He was pleased with himself, Margaret knew, for reasserting his parental authority and crushing her rebellion. But he did not know that his elder daughter had planted a time bomb.
Would Elizabeth have the pluck to go through with this? It was one thing to tell Margaret and quite another to tell Father. Elizabeth might lose her nerve at the last minute. Margaret herself had planned a confrontation with him, but had ducked it in the end.
Even if Elizabeth went ahead and told Father, it was not certain that she would escape. She might be twenty-one and have her own money, but he was fearfully strong-willed and quite ruthless about getting his own way. If he could think of some means of stopping Elizabeth he would, Margaret felt sure. He might not mind her joining the Fascist side, in principle, but he would be furious that she was refusing to go along with his plans for the family.
Margaret had been in many such fights with Father. He had been furious when she learned to drive without his permission; and when he found out she had gone to hear a speech by Marie Stopes, the controversial pioneer of contraception, he had been apoplectic. But on those occasions she had succeeded only by going behind his back. She had never won in a direct conflict. He had refused to let her go on a camping holiday, at the age of sixteen, with her cousin Catherine and several of Catherine’s friends, even though the whole thing was supervised by a vicar and his wife: Father had objected because there would be boys as well as girls. Their biggest battle had been over going to school. She had begged and pleaded, screamed and sobbed and sulked, and he had been stonily implacable. “School is wasted on girls,” he had said. “They only grow up and get married.”
But he could not go on bullying and bossing his children forever, could he?
Margaret felt restless. She stood up and walked along the carriage, just for something to do. Most of the other Clipper passengers seemed to share her dual mood, half excited and half depressed. When they all joined the train at Waterloo Station, there had been a good deal of lively conversation and laughter. They had checked their baggage at Waterloo: there had been a fuss about Mother’s steamer trunk, which exceeded the weight limit many times over, but she had blithely ignored everything the Pan American staff said, and eventually the trunk had been accepted. A young man in uniform had taken their tickets and ushered them into their special carriage. Then, as they left London behind, the passengers had become quiet, as if privately saying goodbye to a country they might never see again.
There was a world-famous American film star among the passengers, which partly accounted for the undertone of excitement. Her name was Lulu Bell. Percy was sitting with her now, talking to her as if he had known her all his life. Margaret herself had wanted to speak to her, but she did not have the cheek just to go up and engage her in conversation. Percy was bolder.
In the flesh Lulu Bell looked older than on the screen; Margaret guessed she was in her late thirties, although she still played debutantes and newlyweds. All the same she was pretty. Small and lively, she made Margaret think of a little bird, a sparrow or a wren.
Margaret smiled at her, and Lulu said: “Your kid brother has been keeping me entertained.”
“I hope he’s being polite,” Margaret replied.
“Oh, sure. He’s telling me all about your great-grandmother, Rachel Fishbein.” Lulu’s voice became solemn, as if she were speaking of tragic heroism. “She must have been a wonderful woman.”
Margaret was embarrassed. It was wicked of Percy to tell lies to total strangers. What on earth ha
d he said to this poor woman? Feeling flustered, she smiled vaguely—a trick she had learned from Mother—and passed on.
Percy had always been mischievous, but lately he seemed to be getting bolder. He was growing taller, his voice was getting deeper, and his practical jokes were verging on dangerous. He was still afraid of Father, and would only go against parental authority if Margaret backed him up; but she had an idea that the day was coming when Percy would rebel openly. How would Father deal with that? Could he bully a boy as easily as he had bullied his girls? Margaret was not sure it would be quite the same.
At the far end of the carriage was a mysterious figure who seemed vaguely familiar to Margaret. A tall, intense-looking man with burning eyes, he stood out in this well-dressed, well-fed crowd because he was as thin as death and wore a shabby suit of thick, coarse cloth. His hair was cut painfully short, like a prisoner’s. He seemed worried and tense.
She looked at him now and he caught her eye, and suddenly she remembered him. They had never met, but she had seen his photograph in the newspapers. He was Carl Hartmann, the German socialist and scientist. Deciding to be bold like her brother, Margaret sat down opposite him and introduced herself. A longtime opponent of Hitler, Hartmann had become a hero to young people such as Margaret for his bravery. Then he had disappeared about a year ago, and everyone had feared the worst. Margaret assumed he had escaped from Germany. He looked like a man who had been through hell.
“The whole world has been wondering what happened to you,” Margaret said to him.
