by Anne Perry
* * *
—
Elena slept uneasily and then, finally letting go of the anxiety, slipped deeper into the peace of unconsciousness. When the alarm clock shrilled, she awoke with a start. She sat up and felt chill air touch her skin as the bedclothes slid off. It was still dark, and it was a moment before she remembered why she was getting up. She reached for the alarm, then found the light and turned it on. There would be no time to stop anywhere for breakfast. She must brew coffee here and at least eat a breakfast roll. She did not feel in the slightest like swallowing food. Her throat was tight and the morning still chilly. She was going to be alone with Aiden after all these years.
She went barefoot and shivering into the kitchen and put the coffee on, then washed and dressed in her tiny bathroom. She put on a little makeup for pride’s sake: she would not look as drawn as she felt. She was going to tell him the truth about the situation here and in London, as far as she knew it. But she certainly was not going to tell him anything about her own feelings. First priority was getting the details to him of her own situation, then making a plan to leave without alerting whoever had broken his cover. They would try to stop him or, at the very least, take from him the papers, the list, or whatever it was that Peter Howard wanted so badly. It was the fruit of Aiden’s work here at these crossroads of Mussolini’s Italy and Dollfuss’s Austria, which was first cousin to Germany, and all that that meant. Although, of course, cousins could hate each other, as could brothers, for heaven’s sake.
And she had to get some decent pictures. It was her cover. If she were stopped by anyone and the photographs were found to be amateur—memories of Berlin in May came back to her—she would be caught in an obvious lie.
The coffee was ready. She drank it while she ate a second roll. They had been fresh yesterday and were still good. It didn’t matter what she felt like, she must keep her strength up. It was nerves that were making her stomach clench. Hunger would only make it worse. She remembered their parting: he to escape, she believing he was a traitor who had left her behind to take the blame. She had looked like a stupid, starstruck girl in love with an older man who had betrayed not only her, but his country as well. Which was the truth?
She took her coat—it would be cold on the water—along with her large handbag and her camera, checking that she had extra rolls of film. Then she went out of the door and along the street with a firm, brisk step. She knew precisely where she was going.
Aiden was not there. She looked at the heavy, black mass of the bridge spanning the water, the light already seeping under the arches, the shining wet steps.
Did she have the right place? Yes. She had double-checked. There was a cold sunrise wind coming up the canal, but the light was beautiful. Most photographers would have worked with the color and glory of sunrise, catching the faces of the classically beautiful buildings. The architecture of Trieste had a lot to be proud of. In ways, it was perfect, and yet it was the imperfections, the irregular frontages, that made it so achingly lovely. The simple boats on the water gave it reality, coming out of the shadows and down the shining surface, a reality beyond artists’ dreams.
Not all the lines were unbroken. Here and there, wraiths of mist dimmed a palace façade or veiled a knot of moored boats into no more than an impression, as if the artist’s attention had slipped for a moment. A lone boat sculled across the shining patch of water, its oarsman unaware of his own grace.
Elena took picture after picture as the light broadened and the pastel colors became deeper. When the sun rose above the skyline, spilling color across the water, she closed her lens, snapped on its protective cover, and put her camera in the bag. She found herself smiling as she climbed the steps to the bridge and was at street level again.
Aiden was there, waiting for her. He held out his hand to balance her up the last, steep step. He had a coat on, too, and the wind tugged at his thick hair, the sun making it seem fairer than it was. In the harsh, clear light, he looked older than he had in the kinder artificial lamps of the restaurant. He was over forty now and it suited him, gave character and depth to his smooth features. Perhaps he knew pain far better than she understood, engulfed in her own self-absorption, as so many of the young can be. How childish to expect to be anyone’s whole world.
“Sorry,” she said, when she stood beside him. “The light was quite different from the way I expected it to be, much subtler. Everyone does the sunrise.”
“So, you really are a photographer.” He smiled. “I didn’t even know you were interested in it.”
She allowed herself to smile back, as if it were a small thing. “I had to change my direction.” He must know she had been dismissed in disgrace when he had left the Foreign Office as a traitor. That her father had been an ambassador, a senior one, was the reason for her escape from prosecution, and it was not something she was proud of.
“Only partially, it seems,” he replied, without any loss of composure. There was not even a flicker of shame or embarrassment in his eyes. “Did they send you out to rescue me?”
“You exaggerate,” she replied. “All I can do is pass extra money to you, if you need it. And warn you of all they know in London, which is that Max Klausner has disappeared, and that things are apparently growing worse in Vienna. But I imagine you know that.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Do you want a cup of coffee? We might as well be comfortable while you tell me whatever London wants me to know.”
“Yes, it’s cold here.” She realized how cold she really was. Concentrating on the light on the water, she had been largely motionless, unaware of the increasing chill that seemed to have locked her joints and penetrated her flesh. She gave an involuntary shiver.
“I haven’t seen Max for days,” he remarked as they turned onto the pavement and began walking toward the lit doorways of bakeries and cafés. “But sometimes he goes to Vienna. We contact each other only if there’s something to say.”
“London can’t reach him by any of the usual ways,” she said, keeping step with him. The smell of fresh baked bread drifted out to mix with the faint odor of wet stone and the stale water of the canal. “And I can’t find him here.”
“Do you know where to look?” he asked with amusement.
She heard the note of disapproval in his voice and suddenly the years between telescoped in her mind. Only this time she knew he would not laugh at her and then touch her gently to temper the sting of it. How young she had been, hungry for his attention, satisfied by so little that would matter now. She looked away so he would not see the emotion in her face. She answered casually, “Oh, I thought about it, considered what he would have to do. It took me nearly two days.”
“You found him?” he said incredulously.
“I found where he worked,” she replied. “Before he disappeared. Of course I didn’t find him, he’s gone. None of his usual places have seen him for nine or ten days. I don’t know where he lives. The important thing was to find you, causing as little stir as possible.”
“So, you came into an expensive nightclub alone, in an expensive and almost indecent bright red dress, not to draw attention to yourself. Brilliant.”
“It was the dress that got the attention, Aiden,” she corrected. “If I walked down the street as I am now, in old trousers and a peacoat, camera on my shoulder, I’m not that woman. It was the dress they remember, not my face or my hair.”
He was silent for a moment or two, matching his step to hers. When he spoke at last, his tone was quite different. There was urgency in it, and even respect. “Have you any idea where Max went?”
“No, have you?”
“I’m afraid I think he’s dead. His job was here, and I don’t mean his cover job, I mean his real one. He was a good man, clever and loyal.”
For a hundred yards or so they walked in the broadening light without speaking. With a flash of memory, she was going with hi
m, along the quay beside the North Sea, the tide low, and in the early light, the marble-pale sand stretched between the shore and Holy Island, a brief pathway until the tide returned. Its very fragility had made it magic, a dangerous thread across the sea to an island not only holy in name, but in character going back over a thousand years. She could remember standing by the stone wall with grasses all over it. It had been covered with wallflowers, gold and scarlet and blood red, and a sweet, almost overpowering perfume.
“Elena.” Aiden’s voice was sharp, jolting her back to the present. This was business.
“Did you discuss a possible route out of Trieste, in an emergency?” she asked.
“Of course,” he answered briefly. “But we don’t know what has happened to Max. We can’t afford to assume he remained silent about our plans and—”
“That he wouldn’t betray you,” she interrupted. “You didn’t trust him.”
He stopped, his face bleak and angry. “Don’t be such a child, Elena. Grow up! They’ll have tortured him for everything he could tell them. This isn’t a game!”
She looked up at him, at his face, which was almost beautiful but for the anger in it. “I know that, Aiden,” she said with icy calm, although she was raging inside. But a show of temper was precisely what he would want. Contempt, a perfect control, would be far more effective. “We knew each other years ago, or thought we did. You’ve changed since then, or maybe not a lot. But I have, too. Don’t jump to judgment. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous. I’ve been caught by the Gestapo and tortured—not for long—but I’ll have the scars always. There were those who were not so lucky. I’ll get you out of here if I can, but don’t you bloody patronize me.”
He stopped exactly where he was, in the morning sun on the stones of the quayside. He let his breath out slowly. His eyes were bright. “You’re right, you have changed.”
She should not have told him. It might have been better if he had not known. Peter Howard had always said, “Don’t tell anyone anything you don’t have to,” but perhaps she did have to, or Aiden would not trust her. That could be fatal. Too late to do anything about it now. “We need to know what plans you had with Max,” she said, “because we’ll have to avoid those things and think of something else. I can’t do that if I don’t know what they are.”
For a moment his face was closed, unreadable, as if they were strangers. Then it vanished and he glanced back at her. “We’ll have to avoid the airfield and the railway station,” he said with a tight little smile. “Can you manage that?”
“I’ll have to,” she replied. “Pity about the railway. I’m rather good on trains.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and increased his pace along the stones, and she kept up with him.
CHAPTER
9
Margot slept restlessly. There was only one way for her to behave at this wedding, but it was going to be an effort to keep up the front of optimism and happiness. She was glad she had come, but not for the reason someone might suppose. No one here, save her parents, had known Cecily as long as she had and she felt a fierce protectiveness toward her friend. Roger was going to walk Cecily down the aisle and put her in the arms of a man Winifred did not like. She masked it well, and she would always do so. She had little choice.
Margot was angry with herself. She was tired and perhaps, at heart, also still grieving. She had been so sure of her own marriage: happy, secure in her decision, and certain of Paul’s love for her, as she was of her love for him. They had had one perfect week.
She must pull herself together and be happy for Cecily. If she loved this Hans, then Margot could at least like him.
She got up, washed, and dressed in the most casual clothes she had brought. She chose a summer dress in a dark brown that one would never have thought could suit her, yet it was marvelous. It was cut to skim the lines of her body, and on anyone less slender, less graceful, it would have looked severe, even dowdy. On Margot, it was both sophisticated and dramatic.
A hot cup of tea would make all the difference. There was bound to be a maid or a cook in the kitchen. She would sit in a corner to drink it, then perhaps go for a walk in the garden. It was small—the house was near the center of the city—but big enough for grass, flowerbeds, and what looked like a fruit tree of some sort. The first leaves were beginning to turn from green to gold, touched with pink.
But the kitchen was not empty. Roger Cordell was sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with tea, toast, and a boiled egg. A row of gleaming copper saucepans hung on pegs on the wall above him. There did not appear to be anyone else. Had he made his breakfast himself?
“I’m sorry,” Margot said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He rose to his feet, an automatic courtesy. “You didn’t sleep?”
She sighed. “Yes, I did. I just felt like a cup of tea. Please don’t let me spoil your breakfast.” She sat down opposite him so he would continue with his meal.
“Tea? Is that all?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. I can wait for breakfast later, with Winifred and Cecily.”
He stood up and fetched a clean cup out of the cupboard, then sat down again and poured her tea. He did not ask her how she liked it. It appeared he remembered from the past. He put it beside her and resumed his seat. “What are you going to do today?” he asked casually, but with interest, even a trace of anxiety.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised with a wry smile. “I know it’s unwise to be too inquisitive, and certainly to criticize.”
“Very,” he said levelly, meeting her eyes over the rim of his cup. “Margot—”
“I will be very careful.” She looked at him more closely. “What is it? I’m not Elena, you know. I don’t have an instant reaction to injustice.”
“Yes, you do, my dear,” he said gently. “She is more like you as time goes by; she’s growing up, if you like. What happened in May was a very profound experience for her. She was badly hurt, you know, and it forced her to face a kind of reality she’d held at arm’s length until then. She’s a dreamer, she’ll probably never lose that. It’s what makes her such a good photographer. She sees things in a different light, and not necessarily a softer one.”
Margot drew in her breath to say she knew, but she wondered if she really did. Habit was strong, and she had expected Elena to tell her more about her experience here, in Berlin, in time, but her sister had mentioned it only in passing and quite skillfully had changed the subject. And then there was the extraordinary revelation that Grandfather Lucas had been head of MI6 during the war. She had asked him to explain, and after a few long, charming, interesting conversations, she felt happily closer to him. There was a warmth and a real understanding between them for the first time that she could remember, although she realized afterward that she knew very little more. But now she understood why: it was a subject that could not be discussed, for her sake as much as his. The stories he had told her were old, the issues long settled, the people concerned no longer alive. Elena had been sweet and friendly, and far more skilled than she expected in telling her nothing she did not already know.
She looked across the table at Cordell. “Yes, I’m beginning to realize that. Perhaps I’ve changed, too.”
“Not too much, I hope.” He smiled as he said it.
“If you judge Elena fairly, then you must be clear-eyed with me, too.”
“What have I got wrong?” He suddenly appeared quite nervous.
It made her think in a way she had not intended. “Not the outside, for a start,” she began. “I’m quite skilled at painting my face on and choosing carefully what I wear. But that isn’t all of me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Yes,” she said honestly, “I do think exactly that.”
“Margot, my dear, I’ve known you since you w
ere a girl at school, with ink on your fingers, rather than nail polish. I’ve watched you grow up, both inside and out. I’ve seen you deal with grief, and watched your patience with Elena as she grew up, too.”
She found herself blushing. “Really? Has it been that long?”
“Since your father and I have known each other? Yes, in fact longer.”
He was looking at her gently and she found it a little disturbing. Had he really seen her so clearly, and for so long? It was uncomfortable to be perceived so well, and yet it seemed he still liked her. There was affection in his eyes, even a degree of pleasure. Or perhaps it was because she had come to support Cecily with her friendship, and not many others had. A wave of pity overtook her for a moment. Were there friends who had abandoned her because she was marrying a German soldier? A Nazi? Cowards.
“Do you like him?” she said suddenly.
In spite of the fact that she had not mentioned any name, Cordell’s eyes lowered to gaze somewhere toward the oven spreading warmth into the room. “No.”
The thought hung in the air, unfinished.
She was more aware of the daylight creeping into the corners of the room, showing details of shelves and cupboards in sharp outline, and cold still from the night.
Cordell looked up. “But if he makes Cecily happy, then I shall learn to. Winifred worries so much less now, and I could like him for that alone.” He looked rueful. “I suppose every father thinks that no man is good enough for his daughter, especially an only child.” The color washed off his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sure…”
She smiled genuinely. “It’s all right. Whatever my father thought, it wasn’t the time or place to show it. Paul was only home for a week or so on leave. You don’t tell a soldier home from the battlefront that he isn’t good enough for your daughter; he’s good enough for anything.”
“Of course. I’m…sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She meant it. “It’s natural you should worry about Cecily. Times are difficult. And although you know Germany well, you are English all through, and so is Cecily…in her own way. Although she knows Germany better than she knows England now. The only thing that matters is: Does he love her?”
