He cautiously moved to the door, opening it slowly at first, then, as he glimpsed what lay behind it, pulling the door wide open. Laughing loudly, he clapped his hands and did a little jig. Instead of the Gloriette’s historic hallway, a solid wall of glorious red, white, and black stood before him, sealing the entire doorway and blocking his view of anything beyond it.
Dozens of cigarette cartons stretched from floor to ceiling, laid like bricks, one on top of the other and one beside the other. The red target on each carton’s crisp white background proclaimed “Lucky Strike” in bold black letters, followed by something Nash could relate to, the proclamation “Irresistible!” He’d finished the last cigarette in his stash early the night before, leading him to distract himself by drinking an entire bottle of Lady Baillie’s nineteenth-century wine.
He now knew that his nerves would be soothed in the months ahead—the most critical months of his life.
He also knew that he’d taught her well.
—
Emma stood in the driveway with John Harris and Nancy Seymour, going over the instructions she’d written up for the daylong trip ahead of them. The weather could be unpredictable in mid-September, but this day was a crisp, cool, and sunny one, perfect for traveling to multiple towns across South East England.
Harris had immediately agreed to lead this little trading venture. Emma chose him because she could trust the guard to do everything asked of him, and, of course, he’d be able to defend his valuable cargo.
Safe passage was far from guaranteed on Britain’s roads, with lurking German spies and desperate English citizens, trying to survive rationing, driven to stealing. Emma would have preferred to travel with Harris herself to confirm the quality and the quantity of the supplies being exchanged, but she had obligations at the castle. Instead, Nurse Seymour would accompany Harris in one of the castle’s aging but sturdy Leyland trucks.
The pair’s first scheduled stop: a hospital in Canterbury, twenty-five miles to the east, where they’d be dropping off three sacks of oranges and fifty cartons of cigarettes. In exchange, they would be receiving two hundred needles.
Next, they were to drive west to Gillingham, near London, where they would hand over the two hundred needles and be awarded one hundred cartons of bandages by Dorothy Hascal. The elderly nurse had also accepted a personal gift of six oranges from Emma.
Finally, the guard and the nurse were to travel farther west, to the Brookwood Hospital near Woking, delivering one hundred cartons of bandages from Gillingham. In return, Brookwood had agreed to give up fifty liters of penicillin in powdered form, enough to get Leeds Castle past its current shortage. Emma had tried several other facilities that housed mainly psychiatric patients, knowing that the government’s allocations didn’t always factor in patient profiles, so she was thrilled to find that Brookwood did indeed have the extra penicillin she needed. Inspired by Nash’s matchmaker, she’d started with Brookwood as her end point and worked backward from there.
If all went well, the guard and his companion would cover more than two hundred miles—smoking all the way. In appreciation, Emma had given them a carton to share. “Wiv out any big delays, we should be back ’ere this evenin’,” Harris said, sucking on a Lucky Strike. “And not to worry, we ’ave enough cans of petrol to get us where we needs to go.”
The guard and Nurse Seymour stepped into their truck. Emma waved goodbye, quickly turning away. It was just past 9:00 a.m. Unfortunately, her first commitment was to American Tobacco. The company’s photographer and driver had arrived an hour earlier with a van full of cigarette cartons.
—
The silver-chromed Kodak 35 Rangefinder kept clicking, and Emma kept smiling, smoking, and moving her limbs as directed. She wore her standard nursing attire, and an excessive amount of blush and ruby-red lipstick, as dictated and provided by American Tobacco’s photographer.
“Excellent! Now move the cigarette closer to your mouth. Good. Try raising your elbow just a bit,” the photographer whispered loudly. “Gorgeous! Legs farther apart. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”
Emma rolled her eyes at Tom Darion’s efforts to build her confidence. She had come to like the veteran photographer, despite his pushiness. She’d initially refused to do any photographs inside the banquet hall, with patients nearby, but finally relented when he agreed to ten minutes, whispers only, and discreet shots beside her desk. She really didn’t want patients lying in their beds, in various states of consciousness, to see this. They knew what she thought of smoking.
Emma was about to inhale more smoke into her already raw throat when she caught sight of him standing in the doorway, directly behind the photographer. Hair tousled, he was in his pajamas, wrinkled bathrobe, and slippers. Disheveled would be the best way to describe his appearance, and she’d never seen him look anything close to this. Nor had she ever seen his eyes so red. Oh, my God, he’s hungover. From Nash’s brazen demeanor, it even seemed possible that he might still be drunk. He’d wandered far from the safety of his room.
She continued to do as asked by Darion, ignoring Nash, and the uncomfortable experience was almost tolerable until Nash began to make silly faces at her. I get him cigarettes and he tries to make me look like an idiot! She refused to look at him, angling her head in the other direction.
While Darion snapped away, Nash stuck a cigarette in each of his nostrils. Emma was forced to turn toward him at one point and burst out laughing, cursing him as she did. A dozen patients swung their heads toward her as she tried to collect herself, cigarette in hand. They stared at her in smoky silence. She looked away, shook her fist at Nash, and crossed her eyes at him. Despite her horror at the unfolding scene, she couldn’t stop laughing at how preposterous all of this was.
Darion never stopped shooting. Through his viewfinder, he saw the perfect image for the advert: a very pretty British nurse, framed by a wisp of smoke and the morning light of a medieval window, mouth open in wonder, gorgeous teeth, enjoying herself and her Lucky Strike. Beyond her were several astonished and smiling patients, also enjoying the moment. Click. Click. Click.
“Fantastic! Top stuff, Emma!” the photographer said above the growing chatter that had swept the ward. He rose abruptly from his crouching position. “Let’s head outside now.” Before leaving the hall, she waved at her incredulous patients, taking one last exaggerated puff for their benefit. She turned and lightly punched Nash’s shoulder as she moved past him in the doorway.
“Well done, Mr. Hargrove. My first modeling gig, and you go and ruin it!”
Nash caught up with her. “Well, you certainly looked like you needed to relax. I was only trying to help. I mean really, you modeling?”
“Oh, so you think I’m too ugly to be photographed?” she said, as she tried to keep up with Darion, who had raced ahead of her.
“No, I didn’t mean that!” Nash said, hands up. “You’re beautiful, you could model anything. But here? And cigarettes?”
She stopped in the middle of the corridor leading from the Gloriette and through the new castle to the outdoors. They were on their own. She turned to face him squarely. “Two things, Mr. Nash. First, I’m doing this because American Tobacco agreed to donate its cigarettes if I would model for them. Second,” she added breathlessly, smelling the red wine he’d imbibed—mixed with the sharp scent of toothpaste—“did you just say you think I’m beautiful?”
“You are beautiful.” He stepped back and looked at her.
She could feel her cheeks burning. “It’s nice to hear, Mr. Nash, but I judge myself much more by my actions than by my appearance—and there is a lot of room for improvement on both fronts.” She turned to keep going. He caught up to her again, struggling to keep pace as he limped toward the new castle’s main door.
“About your actions,” he said. “I came across a mountain of cigarettes outside my room, a most striking gift with a unique presenta
tion. Thank you for that. I have to assume, though, that these ravishing cigarettes are not for me alone, correct?”
“Correct. You’re welcome, but there’s no need for your thanks—I couldn’t risk having the world’s greatest negotiator fall apart on me from nicotine withdrawal.”
He chuckled. “Okay, then, Nurse Doyle, how many Luckies do I get to keep?”
“We have fifty cartons left, ten thousand cigarettes, to distribute inside the castle. The potential recipients include you, the other hundred or so patients who smoke—and our hostess, Lady Baillie, who made all of this possible.”
Nash whistled, pulling a Lucky Strike from his robe and lighting it as they walked. “So, do you think you might spare five cartons for me?”
“Really? A thousand cigarettes for you, Mr. Nash?”
“I could do fewer,” he said defensively.
“Actually, I was thinking five cartons would be too low in light of your contributions to my education, our orange and penicillin supplies, and, of course, pending world peace,” she said. “Therefore, in my official capacity today as Queen of the Smokes, I hereby bestow upon you ten cartons—appropriately, I believe.”
They had emerged onto the castle’s driveway. Emma looked for the photographer. Darion was already at the gatehouse setting up a tripod.
“Thank you, Nurse Doyle. Now, I must get changed out of my pajamas, and you have your modeling career to think about.”
“Nurse Doyle—hurry, please!” Tom Darion shouted. “I know you’re a budding star, but even Bette Davis has to be on time for her shoots!”
Nash smiled, encouraging his protégé to go with Darion, but she wasn’t rushing.
“Dinner tonight at seven in your room?” she asked, waving at Darion to signal that she would be there momentarily.
“It’s a date—that is, if you can free yourself from your horde of admirers.”
She assumed he was joking until she looked back at the new castle. A throng of patients were making their way out of the building.
“Will I receive my final lesson tonight?” she said, moving away.
“Yes, you will.”
“Good, I desperately need something to look forward to,” she said, motioning to the audience assembling to ogle her. “Because this is going to be painful.”
—
“Tea, Mr. Nash?”
“Yes, please, a cup of Earl Grey would hit the spot,” Nash answered, taking in the exquisite avian watercolors, the Monet, and a sensational Grecian sculpture in the corner of the living room as he sat opposite his hostess once again.
Lady Baillie picked up her hand-painted, 150-year-old Limoges porcelain pot and poured tea for both of them. “Milk?”
“Please.” He calculated in his head that the artwork in this room alone had to exceed a quarter of a million dollars—not including the rare tea set from which he was about to drink.
“I like your attire,” she said with a wink.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling. He wore another fashionable combination of her ex-husband’s clothes—a red silk shirt and casual but elegant black trousers. He figured that Lady Baillie must have dressed her husbands, because her taste in clothes was so refined. Here they were, having afternoon tea, and she was dressed in a silk pantsuit that he suspected was created specifically for her by one of France’s best designers, possibly Madeleine Vionnet, a former client of his.
Her tone turned serious. “Mr. Nash, I’ve taken care of all the logistics we discussed.”
“That’s very much appreciated, Lady Baillie.”
“A dear friend of mine, Lars Dekker, will collect you at the gatehouse at 11:00 p.m. on September 27th and drive you to the coast,” she said. “There you’ll be met by one of his most trusted allies, a man named Hans Brouer—a professional Channel runner who knows the English and Dutch coastlines better than anyone else. Mr. Brouer has well-paid contacts inside the Nazi regime who tell him where the Germans are patrolling and when. He’ll get you safely over the German border to a small town named Leer. After that, you’ll be on your own.”
“And what do these men know about me?”
“They only know that there is nothing more important to me than getting you into Germany. They have no idea who you are or what you’re up to. Of course, I still don’t know any details about your plans—which is fine,” she added with a sniff.
Nash felt that he had to say something. “Lady Baillie, it seems impossible that you can be doing so much for me without knowing more. I do wish I could tell you what I’ll be doing in Germany, but as you know, I can’t, and that’s to protect you, this castle, and my assignment.” He reflected for a moment and spoke again. “What I can tell you is this: if the war ends successfully for us, even if I’m no longer alive, you’ll have played a major role in that outcome, more so than many generals or national leaders.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nash. That’s all I needed to know.” Nash saw her body relax, the tension in her neck disappearing. Her eyes glistened. She seemed content with her role and their pact.
They sipped their tea in silence. Lady Baillie pulled out a new pack of Lucky Strikes and offered him one. “You’re aware of Emma’s superb results with the penicillin and cigarettes?” He nodded. “I was fortunate enough to receive four thousand for my own consumption—which should last me until the end of this week.” He laughed. They returned to silence. A minute later, she asked the question he’d been waiting for.
“Will you be taking her with you?”
He hesitated, as though suddenly he had a decision to make. “Yes, that is my intention,” he said. “But I will only know for certain in the final days leading up to my departure.”
“Well, not to worry. I’ll leave that to you. As you might imagine, she’ll be a great loss to us. I’ve told Mr. Dekker and Mr. Brouer to prepare for the possibility that there will be two of you departing for Germany on the twenty-seventh.”
“Excellent.”
“May I ask you two brief and final questions, Mr. Nash?”
“Of course.”
“Does she know about the research being conducted each weekend by my government in the dungeon here at the Gloriette?”
“No. And, to be clear, I will only share highly classified information with her on a need-to-know basis.” He paused. “And your last question?”
Lady Baillie leaned back on her floral couch and blew a waft of smoke into the air.
“Does Emma Doyle know that you’ve fallen in love with her?”
Chapter 12
Saturday, September 16, 1944
7:30 p.m.
Moore leaned over the military ship’s railing, the cold wind beating against his wet jacket, Suggs just a few steps away, both men immersed in the rain and in their own thoughts.
They had examined each moment of their morning at Leeds Castle, returning to the only possible explanation: the blond nurse had duped them. They assumed that Nurse Doyle had altered the hospital’s records to protect Nash. They still couldn’t figure out precisely what had happened with the maze, whose teeth they’d shuttled across the Atlantic, or why she’d risked so much for a broken negotiator. But, one way or another, Nash likely owed his life to the lies spewed by his fleet-footed Florence Nightingale. Moore hated to be outsmarted by anyone, but it was intolerable that some doll in a white dress might get the better of him.
“I have a plan,” Moore announced, the salty air filling his nostrils.
“Let’s hear it,” Suggs said, shuffling closer. Shivering, he pulled his soaking wool hat down farther on his head.
“I’ve thought through our excuses, but nothing holds true. So instead of going to see the boss right away, you and I will pay a visit to Leeds Castle,” Moore said, staring out at the choppy black water. “We’ll finish off this job before the boss even finds out we botched it. The next day we’ll return to L
ondon and be paid handsomely.”
“So how do we get to Nash when he’s still hidden away inside a guarded castle in the middle of a moat?” Suggs asked.
Moore turned sideways to look at Suggs, raising his voice above the wind. “We have a few things working for us. First, they’ll be assuming we believe Nash is dead. They’ll have relaxed their defenses and, at a minimum, not moved him anywhere else. Second, we’ll use the cover of night to our advantage—unlike our last visit for the inspection. And, finally, we won’t go after Nash.”
“What?” Suggs said, gazing up at his partner.
Moore spat, watching his saliva fly into the wind and drop into the water far below. “If I were fishing from this ship, I wouldn’t dive into the water. No, I’d put a juicy-looking lure on my line—and wait for a bite.”
“As much as I like metaphors, just tell me what the hell you’re thinking.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking,” Moore said with a grin.
—
“Have you ever handled a gosling?” Nash asked, washing down his final bite of lamb with another rare French red wine from Lady Baillie’s cellar.
“A baby goose? No, I haven’t, Mr. Nash. Why?” Emma responded, appreciating the wine and the warmth it spread through her. Calling him Everett was challenging after using his last name for so long. Likewise he was, quite unexpectedly, finding himself similarly challenged. They sat in their usual seats in his room, both dressed casually, again warmed by the fire.
Their rendezvous for Emma’s final lesson had been delayed two full days. John Harris and Nancy Seymour had finally arrived back at the castle with the penicillin, much to the medical team’s delight. But one delay after another, including two flat tires, a wicked storm, and Brookwood Hospital’s initially not being able to locate its own stash of antibiotics, had all conspired to push back their schedule and postpone the completion of Emma’s assignment.
“Well, Nurse Doyle, I was once introduced to a gosling by my scientist friend, Konrad Lorenz—who studies animals and still lives in Germany. I can report that because of his work we now know that the mind of a gosling and that of a human share one significant similarity.”
Weapons of Peace Page 11
