by Anne Perry
“Get out of here,” he replied. “And not the way we came in. Something is brewing. There’s been more movement of armed troops lately. Events have been canceled unexpectedly. We’re foreigners, and they’ll know that as soon as we start asking. I’ve got a German passport, so they will not bother me, but you’ve got a British one, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re not safe. Neither of us will be, if we get caught here with an obviously murdered body. You’d be the perfect person to blame,” he went on. “They’ll need to blame someone. I imagine Howard will not be pleased with the notoriety! Case closed…the less said, the better.” He stopped abruptly, as they both heard shouting along the street. “The police. Come now,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Other side. Come on, we’ll go down the alley, then out in the next street.” He took her hand and pulled hard.
It would have been stupid not to obey. Struggling a little, she followed in his path over a broken fence and into another deserted back garden, along a couple of houses further from the shouting, then out between two more houses and onto another street.
They slowed down and he put his arm around her, changing his step to seem casual, as if they were just two people taking a sunset walk. The air was still warm and the sky glowed with waning color, delicately shadowed with shreds of cloud drawn out, as if the wind were combing it across the sky above the setting sun.
“I’d love to photograph that,” she said quietly. “I’d love to have the balance of such an achingly lovely sky above the awakening violence.”
He tightened his arm around her a little more, as two people passed on the other side of the street. “There’s nothing up there but space, and space is unaware of us. One way or the other, we light fires to make our own warmth, and tell each other stories to create a reason we can believe in.”
“You sound very sophisticated when you say that,” she responded, keeping her voice far lighter than she felt.
“But I don’t impress you.”
“Not really. It takes courage to shrug off all belief, but it takes a lot more to hang on to it in the hard times.”
“And blindness.”
“I thought you were going to say ‘illusion,’ ” she retaliated. “That would be better, wouldn’t it? Hallucinations? We people the darkness with other beings, either good ones or bad. The bad ones are easier. They let us live as we like, and say either that it doesn’t matter, or that it’s somebody else’s fault anyway.”
“You really have changed,” he said, glancing at her with a puzzled frown. As if he half wanted to mock her, but the words eluded him.
“So have you,” she answered. “I’m not sure yet whether I like it. Not that it matters, of course. We have to get out of here either way. That’s pretty obvious.”
He stared at her, this time saying nothing.
“You play to win,” she stated. “You always did. I didn’t know that then, but I do now.”
He laughed a low, rich sound of pleasure.
A warmth blossomed suddenly inside her.
“Halt!” A voice came sharply out of the darkness and soldiers stepped forward. Light gleamed on the barrels of their guns. “Identify yourselves.”
Neither Elena nor Aiden had seen the soldiers at the side of the street, and now they were suddenly surrounded. The pressure of Aiden’s fingers on Elena’s arm tightened until it hurt.
Aiden gave both their names.
“Where are you going?” The soldier in command spoke abruptly as he held a light up to Elena’s face.
“I’m taking her home,” Aiden answered. “She shouldn’t be out alone after dark. I’ll see she doesn’t do it again; it’s not safe around here.”
“Do that.” The soldier shone the light on Aiden’s face. “Do I know you?”
Elena felt Aiden stiffen, and then hesitate, even though he was touching her nowhere but on her arm.
“I went out to see my boyfriend,” she answered the soldier. “But I won’t do it again, sir. My brother,” she indicated Aiden, “came to get me home before my father finds out.”
One of the soldiers laughed, then another joined in.
Elena said nothing but smiled as if she were shy.
Aiden jerked her arm not very gently and pulled her a step or two.
“I’d keep her at home for a little while, a week or two,” the commander said. “If your father can’t keep her in order, then you’d better. It’s not a good time to be around alone.”
“Thank you,” Aiden replied. “Good advice.” He said that to Elena, rather than the soldier.
They walked away, around the corner, and a hundred yards along the next street before they spoke again.
“Where are we going?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“Somewhere safe. I haven’t decided where yet.”
“Safe…for how long?”
He did not look at her. “Until I can work out how best to get out of here. I was hoping against hope that Max was still alive, but there’s no getting round that he’s been murdered. They’re after us, Elena, or at least after me. I’m afraid this is real, it’s a matter of survival. Have you still got the list?”
“Yes, of course I have. But it’s my job to get you out, not to get out without you.” As soon as she said the words, it sounded final, an irretrievable commitment. How much did she mean that, and why? For Aiden? Or because it was her promise to Peter Howard or, really, to Lucas?
She glanced at Aiden. He had the same expression he had had in the past, when they would have an adventure together. Daring, imaginative, with that touch of real danger that made it compelling, a beat in the blood that would remain long after the reality was lost.
“I suppose you have something in mind,” she said, staring straight back at him. “This is no time for games.”
“I do,” he said softly. “But you won’t like it.”
She swallowed hard. “Does that matter?”
“Not really. Come on.” He pulled her forward, off the street and into an alley. Just as the sound of marching feet echoed twenty or thirty yards away, he slammed her up against the wall of one of the buildings and pulled her skirt up, then lunged toward her, holding her by the hair. He forced his face close to hers and began to move rhythmically against her.
The marching men went past, calling out crude remarks. One of them asked for the next turn. Aiden ignored them all, as if he had heard nothing. Their footsteps faded away and he stopped and let her skirt fall back in place.
Elena gasped and tried to control her shock.
“If you didn’t like that, you’ll hate this,” he said. “We need to take the alley down to the water. There’s a small canal that goes through this part of the city toward where we need to be. We can make our way to it along the back streets. It’s narrow and steep, but it’s not the end of the world. We can go along—it’s not so very deep—and if we fall, the water will be cold and filthy. God knows what’s floating in it, but probably nothing alive to do us any harm.” He waited, almost as if he expected her to refuse.
Was he doing it to test her? Don’t be stupid, she told herself. He needs to escape as much as you do. To her own ears, she sounded as if she meant it.
Without hesitation, he led the way through the alley to the edge of what was little more than a large ditch. There was a narrow ledge above it, then steep sloping sides without anything to hold on to or climb back up if she fell in. He turned around once as she hesitated. She must be easily visible in the glimmer from the end of sunset. She could see him clearly, too, like a figure of bronze. He made as if to take a step toward her, to come for her or perhaps even to turn back.
She stepped forward, slithering a foot or two on the wet stone, then finding her footing and walking along the narrow ledge, six inches at a time, after him.
He turned, no longer
watching her, and went on ahead.
It was a nightmare walk. The slimy stones beneath her feet, the crumbling wall on the right, and the dark filthy water to the left. But she made it all the way to where the ditch emptied into a narrow black-surfaced canal. Now what?
She was standing beside him, and she could see in the fading dusk the curve of his lips. The image was almost clear in the soft graying light. He held out his hand.
She placed one foot on the stones, then the other. He dropped down into the water. It came almost to his chest and he was five inches taller than she.
For an instant she froze, then she forced herself to slide off, a little clumsily, and the cold water came up to her neck. She found it difficult not to shiver. It was harder still to take the steps forward and down even further, until the water lapped her chin. If she lost her footing, she would go under. She could already feel the gentle pull of the moving water, sucking her into one of the real canals and then the bay, and then out to sea.
For a moment, she panicked. What if he left her here, alone, in the black night with no idea of where she was going? She was an idiot! How could she have trusted him? Did Peter Howard have any idea what he was doing? Or, worse, had he sent her here to test Aiden, to prove finally whether he was for England or Germany? She was the sacrifice to find out!
She felt his fingers close over hers and she grasped them with all her strength. Then she thought that if he were going to drown her, this was the last thing he would have done. But she had no defense anyway: he was only a yard away and far stronger than she.
“Come on,” he said sharply. “Elena! Move!”
She did not answer, but pushed her way closer to him in the black water, and her feet felt a muddy bottom hard enough to stand on. His grip was strong, pulling her forward until she was level with him. Then he put his arm around her for a moment. It was almost as if the past were back again. This could have been the clean cold water of the North Sea, off the coast of Northumberland, not a black canal running somewhere through the heart of Trieste. An adventure, not an escape.
A sudden thought rushed into her head. The list! Would the water destroy it? She felt it against her skin, the paper folded many times. Perhaps that alone would protect its vital information.
His fingers tightened around hers, and she gave an answering grip.
CHAPTER
17
Peter walked slowly up the slight incline of the path at the edge of the field. Not because it was steep, but because he was early for his meeting with Lucas. This was deliberate, because he wanted time alone, here in the early evening light.
The air was cool and smelled sweet. The sun was low on the horizon, making long shadows from the stocks of straw still uncollected after the harvesting. It was too early for the winter wheat to be sown. Then there would be new-turned lands waiting for it, good earth. It was one of the few things that did not change.
As he walked, the wind was gentle on his face, his eyes narrowed against the light tinged with red-gold as the sun sank toward the low cloud bank in the west. A flock of starlings rose from a nearby copse, black dots against the sky, all wheeling at once, as if a single mind were directing a thousand birds.
He found himself smiling for no reason. He was not particularly happy. Lucas had sent for him with urgency. In fact, he had said it must be today. Was he going to ask about Elena? Peter had not heard from her. As far as he knew, she was still in Trieste and had located Aiden Strother. But there had been nothing from her for almost a week. He should not worry. In May, in Berlin, she had proven herself brave and resourceful. She would not communicate unnecessarily, and above all, not dangerously. She had had a lot of training since then, but was she really cut out for this work? Had he taken her on simply because she was Lucas’s granddaughter? Or because she knew Aiden Strother? Were those enough reasons?
He came to the end of the rise. The hedge beside him was full of orange hips where the wild roses had been, and darker red clusters of berries from the hawthorns, which had been covered with white blossoms, like snowdrifts in the spring. The perfume was almost too heavy. He paused and mourned its loss, but he acknowledged its glory was in its transience. It would come again another year. Would that everything else could come so easily, or so surely, but each loss grew a little heavier, a little harder to deal with.
Lucas had called this meeting, but what could Peter say to him that would ease his mind, when he himself was anxious about what was happening in Trieste? He had other sources, naturally, but the word from Vienna, Berlin, Rome was all imprecise. It was Aiden who had worked his way to the core of the Fatherland Front conspiracy, after years of patient labor gaining the trust of the Nazis. But was there a split in the Front? A seed of something else hidden in the heart of it?
The shadows from the stocks were growing longer. A gust of wind blew straw dust in the air, giving it a sweet, clean smell. He was at a high point, only a slight swell in the land and yet, as he turned slowly, he could see for miles the gentle fields rolling away into the haze of the distance, and here and there a copse of trees, some of them hundreds of years old. He felt an aching love for it, the sight, the sweet-smelling wind in his face. He knew this was fragile; it could be broken like anything else.
The moment was shattered by the hard thump of Toby throwing himself at Peter’s legs in total certainty of the welcome he always received.
Peter bent down and put his arms around the dog in a quick hug. He felt him wriggling, as if his whole body were made of muscle. He knotted his fingers in the thick fur, then let him go and stood up.
Lucas was still twenty yards away, but rapidly approaching. Even at a distance, Peter could see the weariness and a certain grief in his face. The lines from his nose to his mouth were deeper; he was smiling very slightly, but there was no sense of pleasure coming from him.
“What is it?” Peter asked, as soon as Lucas was close enough to hear him.
“Let’s walk,” Lucas replied, turning and beginning to go back in the direction he had come, toward the woods again.
Peter fell in step with him, and Toby—now certain of where they were going—bounded ahead of them.
“You know Stoney Canning?” Lucas asked.
Peter did not hesitate. “Of course.”
“He’s dead,” Lucas said, eyes down at the rough ground. They were walking across giant roots protruding through the ground, the shape of claws grasping the earth. “The police say it was a stroke or a heart attack. I’m sure now that it was murder.”
Peter felt the shock ripple through him, followed instantly by grief. He knew Stoney only slightly, but he liked him very much.
“The police called me because Stoney has no one else, and he left his affairs in my hands,” Lucas explained. “Josephine and I went to his house immediately. He was found at the bottom of the stairs.” His voice was level, as devoid of emotion as he could make it. “At first glance, it looks as if he had an attack and fell down, probably dead before he reached the bottom. But I think if the pathologist looks hard enough, investigating the bruise on his head, he’ll find it didn’t come postmortem but was actually the cause of death…and it happened in the potting shed, nowhere near the stairs. There were blood traces there; he had no other cuts.” Lucas stopped, glancing at Peter and then walking on, his step slower, as though waiting for Peter’s reaction.
“Did you say that to the police?” Peter asked. He felt the weight of something far bigger, far darker, beneath the surface.
When Lucas did not respond, Peter felt anger rise. “So, they told you to go home and they’d take care of it,” he summarized, making a guess. “What do you think really happened and why? I mean, why did it happen?”
Lucas smiled briefly, a moment of light in his face, and then it was gone again. “Stoney came to see me a week ago. He told me he had sheets of figures representing money he believed—was sure�
�someone has been moving through MI6 accounts. It comes and goes. All appears fine…until you look more closely. You need a head for figures like Stoney’s to understand it, and—”
“And you have one,” Peter interrupted, knowing that Lucas did not need to be modest about it.
“I might understand the figures, yes,” Lucas agreed. “But not the coding of it, nor the reason why the movement of the sums is hidden. And I mean hundreds of thousands of pounds, at least.”
Peter felt a chill, as if the sun had gone behind the horizon, although actually it was still crimson in the west and staining all the clouds around it, as if dripping fire on the small patches of water, the ponds and streams, in the field. “Laundering money through MI6? For God’s sake, why?” he asked, although a fear was settling at the corners of his mind.
Lucas looked at him for a moment and then far away across the fields. He could see Toby and called him several of times, until he saw him running toward them and was satisfied.
“Funding for one of Hitler’s schemes,” he replied. “A very big one. I don’t know which, but my guess would be the Fatherland Front, to squeeze Dollfuss until either he breaks or they kill him.” Lucas paused for several moments.
Was he marshaling the reasons in his head? The evidence? Or was he wondering how much to tell Peter…or not to tell him?
“Margot went to Berlin for Cecily Cordell’s wedding, you know,” Lucas said at last.
There was silence for a few more moments. Toby arrived, running straight into Lucas, whose legs were, as usual, braced for it. He bent and patted the dog. “She overheard several conversations,” he told Peter. “She told me about it after her father had dismissed it as nonsense, young men boasting and of no importance. At least, that’s what he told her.” He straightened up and met Peter’s eyes frankly. He relayed what Margot had said.
