by Bill Walker
Without another word, he stalked off, leaving Erika to her own thoughts. Which was just as well. Right now, he didn’t give a damn what she thought.
Chapter Thirty-Two
They reached Ostend by five o’clock that evening, nearly catatonic from exhaustion. Parking in one of the big lots, they reclined the Peugeot’s bucket seats and tried to catch up on some sleep. In minutes Erika began snoring softly. For Michael, as bone tired as he felt, the chaos in his mind prevented sleep from overtaking him. Worries about his mother and what might happen at their rendezvous kept his mind chugging along at full tilt. That he would give up the letter he held to save her, there was no doubt whatsoever. And yet, a part of him, a tiny voice in his heart cried out for him to refuse. He understood that part of himself well, the hidden child forever wounded by the loss of his father. It was also the part that wanted to hit back at the men who’d sent him to his death, a blind unquenchable rage. And there was one other thing eating away at his soul: Jarmann’s parting words.
“...As far as I know...Friedrich Rainer never had a daughter....”
Erika shifted in her seat, moving closer to him, her scent filling his nostrils.
Who are you, Erika?
He’d asked himself that question a hundred times and none of the answers he’d come up with made any sense. And some of them he’d refused even to contemplate. He found himself growing angry again, yet he couldn’t deny that he loved her. And that made the emotional roller coaster ride all-the-more intense.
His eyes grew heavy. Too tired and confused to continue searching for the truth. He welcomed the temporary oblivion of dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, night had fallen and fog had rolled in, thick and white as raw cotton. The streetlights glowed like giant fireflies and the silence was nearly total, save for the punctuation of a foghorn blatting in the distance. A quick glance at the Peugeot’s clock brought him fully awake.
11:40.
Sitting up, he raised the seat back, then shook Erika. She groaned then bolted awake, her eyes wide with sudden terror. “What, what?” she said, breathless.
Michael kept his eyes focused on the ferry, barely discernible through the gloom. “It’s almost time. We should be going.”
He grabbed for the door and Erika stopped him with a hand on his arm, the warmth of her flesh like a knife in his heart.
“What’s the matter, Michael? Ever since we left Bonn, you’ve been treating me like dirt.”
He faced her and saw the pleading in her eyes.
“Nothing’s the matter. Let’s go.”
He climbed out of the car, slammed the door and marched off toward the ferry.
Cursing under her breath, Erika leapt out of the car, leaving the door wide open, and ran after him.
“I deserve better than this!” she said, halting him in his tracks. He whirled, his face twisted in anger.
“You deserve better? Piss off! You’ve lied to me from the very beginning.”
“What are you talking about?”
He moved to her, his face inches from hers. “Jarmann told me.... Rainer didn’t have a daughter. Never did! So, who the fuck are you?”
She began to sob, a flood of tears cascading down her cheeks. For all his anger, he felt a stab of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I couldn’t tell you...and I wanted to...so much.”
She threw herself into his arms and a part of him wanted to return her desperate embrace, to soothe her, to make this nightmare disappear. Instead, he stood there, stock still, his arms at his side. Sensing his reticence, she pulled back and looked up at him.
“I deserve that...I know. I promise you I’ll tell you everything. But we haven’t time, now. We have to make the ferry. Your mother. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Do you believe that?”
Strangely enough, he did.
“Yes,” he said.
Erika took his hand and they dashed to buy their tickets for the ferry when the Klaxon sounded for final boarding.
They made it aboard only moments before the massive craft pulled away from the dock. They had the lower deck to themselves and the fog, which closed in on them like a giant shroud. The foghorn howled, sounding closer. With a quick turn of his head, Michael surveyed their surroundings, then nodded toward a set of stairs.
“The aft deck is above us. I want you to head for the bridge and tell the captain what’s happening. He’ll be able to radio ahead.”
“I want to stay with you,” she said, anxiety creeping into her voice.
“No. I don’t know if I should even trust you. But I love you. I must be bloody daft.... Will you do what I ask?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a love. Now, give me the letter.”
She handed him the letter, and Michael kissed her, a quick peck on the forehead. A moment later she disappeared up the stairwell. Michael realized that he was taking a big risk, perhaps a fatal one. If she betrayed him, he would not only lose the letter, but his mother, and his own life, as well. But what other choice did he have?
None.
He waited five minutes then climbed the stairs to the main deck. It appeared to be as deserted as the lower deck. He wondered, for a fleeting horror-filled moment, if perhaps they’d gotten on the wrong ferry. And then a soft feminine voice called from out of the gloom.
“Michael? Have you got the letter?”
He took a step forward, then stopped, unsure from where the voice originated. “Mother? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, dear.”
Four figures loomed out of the fog. He recognized his mother, her face looking haggard and strained. She was flanked by two elderly men, one with a wounded hand and the other holding a silenced pistol. A third man brought up the rear. This one was considerably younger, and had a wary, watchful look about him. He also carried a silenced pistol.
The older man with the gun spoke up. “At last, we meet face to face.”
Michael recognized the voice as belonging to the man on the phone. “Will you tell me who you are?”
“But of course, please forgive my lack of manners.” He clicked his heels and bowed slightly from the waist. To Michael the old-world gesture would have been comic had the situation been other than it was. “I am Comrade General Werner Mueller, Director of what you call Stasi.”
“Why not tell him who you really are, Gruppenführer?” the wounded man said.
A dark cloud passed over Mueller’s face, replaced immediately by an ironic smile. “And this outspoken gentleman is none other than Comrade Pavel Hedeon, head of KGB-Britain.” Mueller nodded toward Lillian. “This elegant lady...you already know.”
“Let’s just cut to it, shall we? You want this letter, why?” Michael asked.
Mueller chuckled. “My, my, such fortitude. Perhaps I have underestimated you, Herr Thorley. I should think my motives would be obvious. This letter will destroy the Bolsheviks. It may not happen immediately, but alliances will fall, and so then the Motherland. Germany will reunite, and our cause will be resurrected.”
“Nazi swine! Tell him the truth!” Hedeon screamed.
“The truth? Yes, let us do that. But first, the letter....”
Michael clutched the letter to his chest involuntarily, prompting Mueller to place the gun to Lillian’s head.
“The letter. Or I shall kill her.... Then again, perhaps you will not mind if I end the life of a Russian agent.”
“What!”
Like so many times in the past few days, Michael felt the world he knew shifting beneath his feet. He turned to his mother and saw the despair in her eyes. His heart sank.
“I’m so sorry, Michael.... For everything.”
Michael crumpled the letter in his hands, his knuckles turning white.
“Her real name is Svetlana Dubrova. She married your father as a cover. Her mission was to remain in place until needed. She’s lived a lie for over forty years, Michael.... And, so have you.... Now, give me the letter, and I will let he
r live.”
Feliks Danya watched the unfolding tableau from the rear deck of the lounge one level above the aft deck. He could feel the situation spinning out of control, which meant it would have to be dealt with drastically. Coughing into his fist, he turned to the man next to him, a tall, stolid Georgian named Tadiz, and nodded. Tadiz acknowledged the signal with a nod of his own, then bent down to an open Haliburton case and began assembling the Dragunov sniper rifle.
Michael’s eyes blazed with anger. “What did you mean by saying that I’ve lived a lie, too?”
Mueller grinned and turned to Hedeon. “Why don’t you tell him, Pavel? You want the truth revealed so much, tell him yourself....” He grabbed the other man roughly by the hair. “Tell him!”
The look in Hedeon’s eyes could only be called murderous, as if any moment he might throw caution to the wind and wrap his bear-like hands around the German’s neck and squeeze the life out of him. He turned to Michael, his expression softening.
“You were never to know, Michael. It was supposed to remain a secret between your mother and I....”
It all came clear to Michael in an instant.
“No! It’s a lie,” he screamed, “a goddamned lie!”
He turned to Lillian, who regarded him with an expression he could only describe as triumphant.
“It is a lie, Michael,” she said, her eyes shining with affection. “I loved your father, but I also loved Pavel. Telling him that you were his son was the only way I could stay in Britain once the war had ended.... You’ve only to look in the mirror to see the truth, dear...something Pavel was always too blind to see.”
Hedeon’s face darkened with anger. “Harlot!” he shouted, moving to strike her.
Franz grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back, eliciting a shriek of agony from the older man.
Michael ignored the scuffle, his attention riveted on Mueller.
“What about the girl, Mueller? Both you and I know she’s not Rainer’s daughter.... Who the hell is she?
“You are right about that, my boy,” he said, laughing. “She is not Rainer’s daughter.... She is mine. Mallory?”
Erika walked out from the shadows behind her father, joining him. Michael stared daggers at her. To her credit, she met his hateful glare with a level gaze of her own.
Mueller gave her an affectionate pat, which she shrugged off. He ignored it. “Please go to Michael and take the letter from him, my dear.”
Danya sensed his moment approaching and tapped Tadiz, who pulled back the bolt and let it slide back, seating a round into the chamber of the automatic rifle. Kneeling, the Georgian brought the rifle up to his cheek and gazed through the scope. Michael’s head bobbed in the crosshairs, then he shifted it over to Werner Mueller.
His fingers tightened on the trigger.
And he waited....
Erika moved forward as if her feet were weighed down with lead. Michael watched her, his mind warring with itself. He wanted to hate her for lying to him, for leading him on by the nose, and most of all...for stealing his heart. Yet he realized he couldn’t hate her, and that made it all the worse.
She halted a few feet in front of him, her eyes brimming. “I’m sorry, Michael, I would have told you. I didn’t mean for it to come to this.”
She extended her hand, reaching for the envelope. Michael hesitated a moment, then looked to his mother, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
To hell with it. It’s not bloody worth it.
Michael went to place the envelope into Erika’s outstretched hand. Instead of taking it, she grasped his hand, her cool flesh a galvanic shock against his own. His breath caught in his throat when he met her gaze. Her eyes spoke the true depth of her love for him; her mouth silently formed the words. He nodded and let the envelope go, watching as Erika turned to face her father, a look of defiance on her face.
When she didn’t move, Mueller brought the barrel of his pistol up and aimed it at his daughter’s chest. “Your mother was a sentimentalist, too. It was one of the reasons I left her. Bring me the letter, Mallory. Remember where your loyalties lie.”
“Give it to him, Erika, please,” Michael said, his grip tightening on her shoulders.
“No, I won’t be his little puppet anymore.”
Mueller cocked the hammer of his pistol. It sounded like the crack of a whip.
Tadiz held his breath, his finger hovering over the trigger.
Now! Get the son of a whore, now!
Smiling, he pulled the trigger.
The shot sounded like a cannon’s roar, mixing with Erika’s scream as a high-powered bullet ripped through her upper chest, propelling her into Michael’s arms. Grappling with her leaden form, he lowered her to the deck. She gazed up at him with a pleading look that sent fear knifing into his heart.
The envelope spun off across the deck, coming to rest near the railing. One good gust of wind would consign it to a watery oblivion.
“NO!” Mueller screamed.
With a suddenness of a jungle cat, Hedeon made his move, bringing his ham-like fist smashing down onto Mueller’s arm. The German cried out and let go of the gun, which clattered to the deck. Fumbling with his own gun, Franz attempted to intervene and was rewarded by another shot ringing out of the darkness. The bullet tore off half of his head.
Hedeon used the moment to go for the pistol, beating Mueller to it by mere inches. Snatching it up, he placed the barrel against Mueller’s stomach and pulled the trigger.
“Father!” Erika tried to stand up.
Mueller groaned and collapsed, bright arterial blood pumping from his wound. Hedeon drew himself to his full height, a look of triumph spreading across his face. Behind him, Michael saw two men standing in the shadows, one of them clutching a rifle in his hands.
“It looks as if the tables have turned, my boy,” Hedeon said. He then turned to Lillian, who stood rooted to the deck, a look of horror on her face. “I have long suspected you, my love,” he continued. “And you are right—I refused to see the truth of it...of everything. It is an unfortunate failing we Russians have always had to live with. But you, Ninotchka, have committed the unpardonable sin.... You have betrayed Russia.”
A look of sadness crept across the Russian’s craggy face when he turned the gun on Lillian. For one breathless moment, it looked as if he might pull the trigger. Instead, he tossed the pistol straight up into the air, caught it by the barrel then offered it to her, grip first. He nodded toward Michael and Erika.
“Take it. Kill them both. Prove that you still love the Motherland.”
By way of emphasis, the man with the Dragunov turned its ugly barrel toward her.
Lillian stared back at him; her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t make me do this, Pavel,” Lillian cried. “If you ever loved me, don’t make me do this!”
Hedeon remained silent, the lines of his face set in stone.
With an excruciating effort of will, Lillian took the hateful pistol in her trembling hand, letting the barrel point toward the deck.
“Prove you love your country above all, Ninotchka,” Hedeon repeated. “KILL THEM!”
Lillian flinched, and Michael watched while she slowly raised the pistol. At that moment, all he could see was the haunted look in her eyes and that dark black hole at the end of the barrel. But what frightened him more than anything was that her hand had stopped trembling; it was rock steady.
And then, before anyone could react, Lillian whirled and fired toward the man with the rifle, and then the taller one next to him. Both men crumpled to the deck unmoving. She turned the gun on Hedeon, who was stunned into immobility.
“Goodbye, Pavel.”
The gun in her hand roared again and Hedeon dropped like a stone, a bullet through his forehead. She moved quickly to the railing, picked up the envelope and went to her son. Bending down, she placed a hand on Erika’s neck, then nodded. “It’s not too bad, but she needs care. I’ll get the captain.”
She stood and moved toward the bri
dge.
“Mother?”
Lillian stopped and turned, a quizzical look on her face.
“Thank you.”
The puzzled look turned into a sad smile. “I’ve a great deal to make up for, dear. More than I can ever hope to in one lifetime, anyway....”
Michael glanced out in the direction of the British coastline. “We’ll be landing in a couple of hours. We’d better radio the authorities.”
“After all this commotion, I should think we can count on quite a welcoming committee.”
“No doubt. But I was thinking of the BBC.”
Lillian frowned. “What on earth for?”
The ghost of a smile played across Michael’s lips. “Insurance,” he replied.
Brady watched from his perch above the lounge as the elderly woman disappeared into the belly of the ship, heading for the bridge. He had to admire the old girl—she was one tough bird. Still, what she had done had changed everything. Now that the Russians were dead, MacKinnon’s plans lay in ruins and exposure for the British was imminent.
It was time to play his own hand with MacKinnon.
While the events had unfolded before him on the deck below, a plan had blossomed in his mind, one that would satisfy the Home Secretary and get him off the hook for good. Smiling, he could already feel the old sod beckoning.
I’ll not be gone much longer, he thought.
Snapping out of his daydream, he returned his attention to Michael, who sat comforting the wounded German woman. It would be so easy. Walk up and pull his Walther and....
He shook his head and left the gun stuck in his shoulder holster. He’d always followed orders without question; maybe it was time to start following his conscience. Maybe then the ghost of the boy’s father would stop haunting him. The crooked grin returned.
“It’s time we made our peace, Mikey,” he said. “High time.”
Moving to the starboard side of the ferry, Brady walked toward the bow and an uncertain future.
