“When Hitler took power and began baring his teeth,” she began, “the British military secretly selected dozens of young nurses from across the country for eighteen months of intense military and espionage training. The goal was to combine medical and fighting skills without putting scarce male doctors at risk. I was one of those chosen.”
“A fascinating experiment.” One that he hadn’t known about.
“We were steeped in German history and Nazi politics. In case of war, they wanted us to be able to parachute into high-risk situations inside enemy territory to treat and retrieve injured personnel. Since I’d spent my youth playing detective and spy games, you can imagine how these types of assignments appealed to me.” Emma took a breath. “Many of the girls I trained with—paranurses, they called us—were sent across the Channel once the fighting started. The experiment was a success, a far-sighted decision—but I never ended up going anywhere.”
He noticed that her body had tensed; she’d pulled away physically, and her eyes no longer met his. She was limiting his access to facts she’d chosen to leave aside. She’d crossed and uncrossed her feet three times. Something had kept her in England, something she didn’t want to discuss.
He chose not to probe further.
“Well, even if you never went anywhere, your military training has already proved valuable to both of us, Nurse Doyle.”
She smiled. “My own skills are rusty, to be sure, but I guess it’s like riding a bicycle. We would practice the same move or technique for hours, sometimes days—long days.”
He remembered those arduous days from his own training. “These physical abilities of yours will complement your other defenses quite nicely.”
“One last point about defense, Mr. Nash.”
He brought his fingertips together, listening expectantly. “Yes.”
She looked into his eyes, summoning the courage that had so often eluded her in recent years. “If you ever try to hit me again, I’ll break your arm and extract your only kidney with the same hand that threw your other one away.”
She’d said it so gently that he was inclined to laugh, but she wasn’t smiling anymore. Or was she? Nash decided the arrival of the tea tray he’d requested from Nurse Seymour presented an excellent opportunity to change the topic.
—
“The prime minister will see you now, Mr. Buckley.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth.”
England’s most influential wartime adviser strode into Winston Churchill’s office at 10 Downing Street, his long legs propelling his spindly frame forward. Charles Buckley had already known and been advising his friend for more than five years when Winston Churchill became prime minister in 1940.
As the war effort ramped up, so did Buckley’s influence, particularly with respect to his dual expertise: German military strategy and Adolf Hitler, whom Buckley had met numerous times. Yet few in Britain, including most of the top military officials, even knew Buckley’s name, what he looked like, or the critical advisory role he played. To be most effective, Churchill and his old confidant had agreed, Buckley needed to circulate without profile as he gathered contacts and information.
“Charles, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my office on this chilly September day?” The large, jowly leader sat behind his cluttered desk, gesturing for Buckley to sit opposite him.
“Prime Minister, the news isn’t good.”
“Funny how war seems to have that effect,” Churchill said, sighing. “Out with it, then, Charles.”
Buckley’s furry gray eyebrows came together. “It’s Nash, sir. As you know, since the failed attempt to get our American friend into Germany two weeks ago I’ve done my best to determine whether he somehow survived—and could continue his mission. It now looks as though my suspicions were correct. Nash was indeed sleeping with one of our best young intelligence officers, and their affair undermined the secrecy and security of his mission. A crying shame, I’d say. In any case, it appears we’ve located him.”
“Excellent. What’s the bad news?”
“He’s dead, Prime Minister—and so is the young woman.”
“Damn it.” Churchill looked away, gazing out one of the windows of his dark, mahagony-appointed office. Buckley had prepared him for this possibility, but the reality of it was disappointing.
“I’m sorry, sir. It appears he was buried some time ago, not far from Folkestone, where the gunfight took place. I have a couple of reliable contacts working the case, and they should be able to confirm Nash’s death later tonight with one hundred percent certainty.”
Churchill grimaced. “I met him half a dozen times. Impressed the hell out of me.” The prime minister was silent for a few moments. “We have no one who can replace him on this mission, correct?”
“Correct, sir. We don’t know his sources or half of what he knew about quietly getting things done in Germany.”
“And what do we know about Hitler’s bomb?” Churchill growled.
“If Germany doesn’t have it already, it’s just a matter of days or weeks, months at most,” Buckley said, noting the predictable and helpful twitch in Churchill’s right eye, the man’s way of telegraphing gloom and uncertainty.
“Charles, for God’s sake, if they had this bomb already, wouldn’t they let us know?” His palm slammed the desk. “Wouldn’t they tell us that if we don’t comply with their every wish they’ll unleash a weapon unlike anything we’ve ever seen?”
Buckley remained calm, knowing that he’d reached a critical juncture in the conversation.
“Perhaps, sir, but I’m not convinced Hitler will tell anyone what he’s got. Who would believe him anyway? He’s lied so many times, broken so many promises, that it would be difficult for him to credibly threaten anything of such significance.”
Churchill nodded solemnly, reaching for a cigar from his humidor.
“Hitler is now so cornered,” Buckley continued, “that I suspect he’ll drop the first atomic bomb whenever he’s manufactured enough, so that he can keep dropping them until the Allies all surrender. Unlike simply issuing a threat, actually dropping a bomb would have the additional benefit of wiping out one of our major cities without the possibility of retaliation.”
“So what are you telling me, then, Charles?” Churchill demanded, lighting his cigar. “That I’m supposed to sit back and wait for that lunatic to choose his first target?”
“No, sir, but you do need to convey to President Roosevelt the severity of the situation. He needs to accelerate the Manhattan Project. With Nash dead, our best odds now lie in our atomic counterthreat.”
“Elizabeth, get President Roosevelt on the line,” Churchill yelled toward the wooden panel across the room. He turned back to Buckley, sucking deeply on his cigar before releasing a long plume of smoke.
“Thank you, Charles. You can show yourself out through the rear entrance as usual. I’ll let you know if there is any update from America on progress there.”
The corners of Buckley’s eyes crinkled, a perfunctory smile painting his lips.
“Good day, Prime Minister.”
“Good day, Charles.”
—
“Nurse Doyle, I thought we might begin our second lesson with a short story if you don’t mind,” Nash said, placing his lips on a parakeet hand-painted onto the side of a Herend teacup that she recognized as being from Lady Baillie’s china collection.
Emma noted that her pajamaed patient’s manners were impeccable, and that in this new setting, away from the confines of the ward, he looked quite vibrant.
“Please go ahead,” Emma urged, a flamingo cup and saucer cradled in her lap.
“This is the story of a British mother and her two lovely girls,” he said, the fire still surging behind him, the air well warmed. “One Saturday morning, Mum hears the girls screaming. She rushes downstairs and finds them on the
floor fighting, pulling at each other’s hair, clutching an orange—the last one in the house. Did I mention how lovely these girls are?”
“I’d fight for that orange, too,” Emma said. She hadn’t seen an orange in five years. The shortages had started with German U-boats sinking supply ships, followed by England rationing whatever limited resources were still available.
“Once Mum separates these young girls and confiscates the orange, they calm down. So, what do you think she does next?”
“Cuts the orange in half?” Emma guessed.
“Is that what you would do?”
“Maybe,” Emma answered, her mind beginning to churn through the possibilities.
“Mum looks at her eldest and asks a simple question: ‘Why do you want this orange?’ The girl says she’s starving because she didn’t eat enough breakfast. Mum turns to her other daughter: ‘And why do you want it?’ The younger girl says she is baking a cake in the kitchen and needs the rind to complete her recipe. Her mother nods wisely, peels the orange, and gives the rind to her little baker and the meat to her hungry daughter.”
“That’s one smart mother.”
“Why do you think that?” Nash asked.
“Because she didn’t assume she knew what her children cared about.”
“Precisely,” Nash said. “We must always test our assumptions, Nurse Doyle, about everything—including what we ourselves value most, how people will act, facts we believe to be the truth, and what other people really want and why.”
Emma nodded vigorously as she picked up the teapot. “More?”
“Yes, please,” he said as she leaned over the table to pour. “By asking ‘Why?’ this mother was able to give both girls all of what they really wanted. Slicing the orange in two would have left two grumpy girls and wasted half the value available—which is what happens in so many negotiations. Instead, if you focus on people’s interests—their underlying goals, needs, and concerns—not their superficial wants and demands, such as ‘I want the orange,’ you’ll often get what you want. Even from giant companies or governments that oppose you at first.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just as our two girls had different interests,” Nash explained, “within a larger entity there are always going to be diverging interests. If you dig into the interests of different people surrounding the main target of your influence efforts, you can align yourself with those inside your Goliath whose interests best fit with yours. These helpers can then slip you useful information or quietly influence key decision-makers in your favor.”
Emma sent a splash of milk into her tea. “But what happens if you and I both want the same rind really badly and there’s only one rind. What then?” Much like her own situation—but she didn’t tell him this.
“Well,” he said, “you might discover that we’re both baking a cake, leading us to do that together and saving each of us time and money. But, if that’s not the case, you could explore a wider set of interests to see how a trade might be made based on the different priority we place on our interests. So I may get the rind because I value it more highly than you do, while, in return, I could meet a completely unrelated but more significant interest of yours—for example, agreeing to wash your clothes for the next week.”
“Oh, I’d like that arrangement,” Emma said. “If only I had a rind to give you!”
Nash laughed. Now was the perfect moment. “All right, that’s it for today’s lesson.”
“We’re done already?”
“Yes, and I’d like you to close your eyes.” With a short pause to study his face—and see if he was serious—she smiled and did as requested. He leaned over the side of his chair and picked up something he’d hidden there. He reached across and placed it directly in front of her. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
She shrieked.
Before her sat a plump orange. Her mouth began to water. She tried to remember what it felt like to eat one—the texture of it, how the sweet-and-sour fruit tasted on her tongue. There were many hardships that came with war, but the little ones could drive you mad. Limited paper to write on, few pens to write with, no hair products or makeup, little petrol, razors you had to sharpen weekly and keep reusing, a three-year-old toothbrush, coffee made from crushed acorns, and marmalade made from carrots—because oranges were so scarce.
“How did you ever get your hands on this?” She jumped up to hug him, being careful not to hurt his bandaged areas.
“A few trades here and there, and a favor called in with an old sea pirate who works the Mediterranean. He had managed to get me a new toothbrush with firm bristles, along with a bag of oranges. You’re welcome to as many as you like. You can start with this one,” he said as she sat down again.
“Oh no, you should have it and the others. You’re the one who needs citrus fruits to speed your recovery,” she said sternly.
“Honestly, I’m not really fond of oranges, Nurse Doyle. So please, go ahead. I insist.”
“Truly?” She eyed the orange.
“Yes,” Nash said. “Sometimes in war we need to indulge in simple pleasures. Oranges won’t always be so scarce, so special. I want you to savor this delicious moment in time. You deserve it.” He placed the fruit in her welcoming hands.
—
Night had fallen several hours before, and the two shadows had used the cover of darkness to hide their gruesome undertaking.
“Did the boss really say he wanted a photograph? Or is he like me and just enjoys collecting images of dead people?” said Suggs with a twisted smile, his small frame heaping another pile of dirt onto his shovel.
As a stamp collector and an assassin, Suggs had at one point decided to leave a single stamp in the middle of each of his victims’ foreheads, after which he’d take a photo, adding it to his collection in place of the stamp itself. He’d waited with anticipation for the newspapers to start calling him “the postman” or “the fatal philatelist,” but they seemed too distracted by the war to take note. After a while, he lost interest and stopped leaving his precious stamps as calling cards.
Moore looked at Suggs, both men standing almost six feet below where a new nameplate marked the final resting place of Brian J. Hargrove. “The boss wants a photo he can share with others—if he needs to. Confirming Nash’s death is very important to him and the Allies.”
Minutes later, Suggs’s shovel hit the fabric covering the body. The men unraveled the white sheet. Moore withdrew in horror. Suggs moved closer.
Where there had once been a face, a sprawling mass of maggots feasted on the final pieces of flesh attached to the skull, making any positive identification impossible. The rest of the body also seemed to be in an advanced state of decomposition.
“This happened faster than usual,” Suggs observed. “Must be the summer weather.”
“Bloody hell,” said Moore, plugging his nose, a familiar tug pulling at his throat.
Moore hadn’t wanted to make his living this way. He’d wanted to be a historian, but his father convinced his only son to put off Oxford and his chance to play rugby there so that he could join the family business “just for a few months.” Well, months had turned into years, his father died of a heart attack while chasing down a target, and suddenly he found himself running a business he’d never embraced. He didn’t mind killing people for money, but only if he felt God would approve, as in this traitor Nash’s case. Moore knew that he’d proved to be a decent killer, but he wasn’t an expert like Suggs, who never suffered from a weak stomach.
He’d initially enjoyed being his own boss, but over time he’d come to understand that he always had a boss: whoever hired him. His boss right now was an anonymous, very senior person in London—who wanted proof of death. Moore vowed to himself that his own two-year-old son, Bobby, would never have to put people into their graves for a boss, or dig them up.
&n
bsp; “Suggs, the boss said if a photo wasn’t possible we’re to bring along the bastard’s teeth. Seems to think he can confirm Nash’s identity that way.”
“Of course he can,” Suggs said, shaking his head at Moore’s ignorance.
Moore pulled himself out of the grave, reached into his burlap bag, pushed aside the camera he’d planned to use, and withdrew a red metal box, which he threw to Suggs along with a fine handsaw.
“Put the teeth in this box, Suggs. And then make sure everything looks exactly as we found it,” he said, turning to leave.
“And just where are you going?”
Suggs was used to Moore leaving when there was dirty work to be done. What made him want to crush the man’s skull with his shovel was that whenever he asked Moore for even the smallest raise to reflect all his hard work—conducted with or without Moore’s being around—he’d repeatedly been denied. Moore explained that money was tight in wartime. But Suggs knew exactly how much Moore spent on his wife and child.
“I’m getting something from the car,” Moore muttered, distancing himself from the scene as quickly as possible.
After Moore made it out of view and heard the faint sound of Suggs’s handsaw already at work, he turned into the nearest bush and threw up.
—
A soft halo of light shone on Emma from her bedside lamp.
She sat on the bed, legs folded under her, absentmindedly practicing the coin game on her own.
Eventually, she reached down under the bed, took the photo from her Bible, kissed it, and wished him good night, wherever he might be.
She turned out the light.
So much had happened. So much had gone well, yet something was gnawing at her: never before had she risked her life as she had that morning. At first, she assumed that she did it because Nash was her patient, and that it was her duty to do so as a nurse. But it went deeper than that. Could she be falling for him? Did he desire her in the same way? Or was he just using her?
Emma knew that there was another explanation. As she’d darted through the maze, she was running to keep Nash alive, not because she cared about him or about her duty but because he was her best chance of getting what she so desperately wanted back: her son.
Weapons of Peace Page 8
