Death in Focus

by Anne Perry

  “God in heaven!” Cordell said in horror. “Are you all right?”

  She stiffened. “Yes…I’m not hurt…just tired.” Her voice was shaking now. “I’ve been in trains for two days and a night…I think.” She straightened up a little, clearly fighting for self-control. “He told me…Ian told me that he was given a message to give to you. There is to be a large rally here tomorrow morning, and Friedrich Scharnhorst is to be the main speaker. There will be an assassination attempt.” She met his eyes steadily now, with confidence. “I know. He is a complete pig. A pretty natural person for lots of people to want dead. The point is that we are to be blamed for it.”

  “We?” he said incredulously. “Who do you mean, we?”

  “The British. More specifically, MI6. Please, I know you have very little time, but Ian only found out the afternoon that we left Amalfi. We planned to get the fastest connecting trains from Naples to Berlin. There is still time to stop it, isn’t there? You have to. There was no way of getting to you any sooner, without drawing attention.” She was talking quickly now, struggling over her words. “He didn’t know how to send you a telegram, or any sort of message, to reach you, and only you, and say all that was necessary. But it has to be true, or why would he have been killed? He wasn’t robbed—it’s the only answer. Please…”

  Cordell put both his hands over hers. She was ice cold and beginning to shake uncontrollably. “This is very serious indeed. Even if it is a false alarm, we must be totally prepared. You are quite right. The situation is delicate. If Scharnhorst is assassinated, there will be panic, and if we are blamed, for any reason at all, it will cause an international incident that could be terrible. I will send my assistant for a cup of tea. And perhaps a few sandwiches for you. You look exhausted. Then a car to take you to a hotel. You must excuse me. I have a very great deal to do before tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Standish. Thank you very much indeed.”

  He gave his assistant brief instructions to look after her, and as she walked away from him, Cordell’s mind was in a whirl. He should not have been surprised. Scharnhorst was the perfect candidate for an assassination. But by whom? Those who abhorred him for his violence and growing power, his apparent influence with Hitler? A rival? Or even Hitler himself, because Scharnhorst was going too far, too quickly for public opinion? Hitler was careful to take the people with him. And how much did this girl know about MI6, a branch of the Secret Service not even acknowledged by Parliament?

  No time to think of that now. It would be easy enough to pass the word along and see that security would be increased. Or the rally canceled, or perhaps someone else put in Scharnhorst’s place? Cordell had all the necessary connections to do that.

  Hitler had made it no secret that he saw the English as potential future allies in the war against communism. Cordell knew that there were influential people in London who returned that regard. To see order and stability back in Germany again was a high sign of hope in Europe. It would be a bastion against the far greater threat of communism, which was growing larger, and closer, even as they watched it, bringing violence and nihilism with it.

  But how strange that it should be Charles Standish’s daughter doing all this. Coincidence? Possibly.

  He remembered vividly the last time he had seen Charles for any length of time. It had been about eight years ago, in Paris, that queen of cities. Some diplomatic party or other. They were both bored with it and had gone outside for a breath of air, a quick cigarette, and a break from the meaningless, polite chatter. It had been somewhere overlooking the river. He remembered the lights on the water, the smooth arch of the bridge, and the shadows underneath. A boat had come silently out of it, seeming to materialize in front of them, achingly beautiful in its suggestion of magic.

  They had both needed to experience that beautiful image, and understood that in each other. Cordell had lost two brothers in the war and, to all effect, his wife. She had lost her father, both her brothers, and a cousin—and, in a way, herself.

  Charles seemed to have understood. Never again did not even need to be spoken. Now Roger Cordell owed it to Charles to look after this strange daughter of his, if it was possible, consistent with his own beliefs in the tangled lunacy of this Europe they had created.

  Should he try to save Scharnhorst? The man needed to be shot. Damn Ian Newton for learning about it, and then getting himself killed! How had that happened? He must have been incredibly careless. That is, if Elena Standish was even right about what had really happened?

  He must think some more. Whatever he was going to do, it must be done this evening. He had important contacts he must not jeopardize. A lot might hang on this decision.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Lucas was working in his study, or at least that was what he had intended to do. Actually, he was sitting in his most comfortable armchair in the book-lined room, and staring out through the wide, deep windows toward the garden. This May the weather seemed to be particularly lovely. The light was sharp and clear, as if every leaf and every flower were to be etched on the memory. He had put seed out for the birds, even though he knew perfectly well that they did not need it. It just pleased him to have them come almost up to the window.

  The first yellow climbing roses were in full bloom around this side of the house. They were called Maigold. He remembered the name because it described them so clearly. Probably they should have been pruned back a bit, but he liked their profusion. Each year he said he would do it, then could not bring himself to do more than the bare necessity. Perhaps when they actually blocked the windows, he would.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door. It could only be Josephine. Why was she knocking? She usually just tapped and came in.

  He went to open it. She was just outside, in the hall, and behind her was a man several inches taller than she—Peter Howard, his face visible over her shoulder.

  Before Lucas could react, Josephine spoke. “Lucas, Mr. Howard says he is a friend of yours and needs to see you rather urgently.” She looked solemn and puzzled, anxiety in her voice and eyes.

  “Thank you,” Lucas said a little awkwardly. Howard had never called at his house before. What on earth would bring him now?

  Josephine gave a brief smile and stepped aside to allow Howard to pass her. She did not offer to bring tea, as she would have done for anyone else. That alone told him she knew this was business.

  Howard came in, thanked her, then closed the door as she turned to leave.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lucas said very quietly, once he had heard Josephine’s footsteps go down the hall. “What’s happened that we couldn’t have met somewhere…?” He stopped. The look on Howard’s face sent a twinge of fear into his mind. His muscles tightened.

  “I’m sorry.” Howard’s voice dropped even lower. “Ian Newton’s been murdered. Knifed to death on a train from Milan to Paris. I don’t know any more than that yet. We may never.”

  “It could have waited…” Lucas said impulsively, although even as the words passed his lips, he knew it was the death of Newton he was denying rather than the fact that Howard had broken all protocol to come to Lucas’s home to tell him. Howard looked as if he was deeply hurt by it, although no emotion excused carelessness. In fact, the more important the event, the more it mattered to be even more careful than usual. He would have to think of some way to explain Peter’s visit to Josephine later. He hated being devious with her, but he had done it for nearly a quarter of a century. It was never that he lied, in so many words; it was the omissions, the evasions. He and Josephine were so honest in everything else.

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Howard said grimly.

  “Josephine…” Lucas began.

  “What?”

  “…has no idea,” Lucas finished.

  Howard gave a very tiny, twisted smile. “She probably doesn’t want to know,
but she is aware of who you are. She was a decoder during the war, remember? Josephine doesn’t ask because she knows you can’t discuss it, but she also knows why.”

  “Yes…yes, I suppose she must.” Looking at it as Howard was doing, it was pretty plain. Lucas considered whether he had taken her silence for granted, instead of wondering why she had never questioned him, nor appeared to resent his secrecy. It seemed their worlds were nowhere near as separate as he had allowed himself to believe. As a decoder she had kept her secrets and now she was keeping his. He was rather relieved. And proud of her! Her intelligence and her discretion. She had never given the slightest hint.

  Who else knew? Certainly not Charles. And there was no one else.

  He turned his attention back to Ian Newton. He had joined the service after Lucas had left, but Howard had spoken of him often, repeated instances of his light, wry humor and his insights. In ways, Ian had reminded Lucas of Mike. Mike would have been Newton’s age now, or perhaps a little older, but the same generation. And now Ian, too, was dead. Not on the battlefield, but on the floor of a railway carriage somewhere in France.

  Would Howard be the one who had to tell his family? That was the worst job of all, worse even than identifying the body. He would never forget hearing about Mike. None of them would. Nobody across Europe would ever forget receiving that kind of news. There was far more that united a German mother who had lost her son and an English mother who’d lost hers than ever divided them. Did those who talked about war so easily even think about that?

  “Thank you for telling me personally about Newton. I’m very sorry indeed,” Lucas said quietly.

  “There’s a lot more to it than that.” Howard sat down at last, in one of the old comfortable chairs, and Lucas did the same.

  “What? What was he doing in France? Do you know? Was he there for you?”

  Howard looked bleak. “No. That’s the part that has me most concerned. Someone apparently gave him orders, and he assumed it was me, so he started to obey them. I told you he wired to let me know he was on his way to Berlin to prevent the assassination of Friedrich Scharnhorst. I had no notion that he thought I had given him those instructions, but none of our other men instructed him either.”

  “Started to obey?” Lucas sat a little farther forward in his chair. “How far?” he asked, when Howard did not answer.

  “He’d left Amalfi and started on a journey to Berlin,” Howard answered. “He must have changed trains at Rome and Milan, I assume, because his body was found on the train from Milan to Paris, rather more than halfway.”

  “And do you want to prevent this assassination?” Lucas asked. “Scharnhorst’s a monster, deformed in mind, if not in body.”

  “On principle, I’d love to see the man got rid of, but not in public, or with MI6 blamed for it. I dare say the rest of the world would be delighted, but it would give the Germans a first-class excuse to make a martyr of him and cause an extremely unpleasant international incident. Everyone would have to pretend to be shocked, whatever they actually felt. We would look to be interfering in the internal affairs of another country, and being damned incompetent at it.” Howard’s face was pale, lines of tension visible in the sharp May sunlight. He looked older than his forty-eight years.

  “I see,” Lucas said slowly. “Yes. There are a few people who would seize the chance to ‘take offense’ and make a meal of it. I can think of a few here in England! I suppose we have no idea who’s behind it?”

  “Not precisely, though there are many cells of anti-government factions where we have useful contacts. But I didn’t contact Newton, and no one from my command did.”

  Lucas’s mind raced, trying to work out what could have happened, to think of all the possibilities. None of them was good.

  “We can’t trust Cordell with any of this,” Howard reminded him quietly.

  “Or anyone else,” Lucas added. “They’d take it to him, eventually. Is he involved in the assassination plot, do you know?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But I have no proof. I’m still working on a plan to test him. If I move too fast, it will be obvious.”

  “Then I think the best we can do is damage limitation,” Lucas replied grimly. “We haven’t time to prevent the plot. I assume we’ve no idea who’s going to do it, or how, or you would have mentioned it.”

  “Sniper, probably,” Howard said, his face tight. “But at a rally it could be anyone from anywhere. If we interfere, we could be playing into their hands, making it easier for them.”

  “There will be security.” Lucas was following another thread. “Whoever it is could well be part of that…”

  “But that would be suicide.” Howard looked at him. “Someone who’s so desperate he’s prepared to sacrifice himself?”

  “Possibly. Who’s planning it, that’s the key. And who gave Newton the information, and why?” Lucas asked.

  “And is it even true?” Howard raised his eyebrows. “Is there a plot at all, or is it a plan to make us react, and provoke a reaction we can’t contain? There are all sorts of possibilities, none of them good.”

  Lucas’s mind raced over all the facts they knew. What had they missed? Was the planned assassination real, and if so, was it the act of someone inexperienced, with an agenda of their own, even an agent provocateur? More than one disaster had been triggered by an error of judgment, a reaction ill thought through. “What exactly did Newton say when he contacted you?” he pressed.

  Howard was sitting perfectly still, as if his muscles were locked. “He wired me from Rome,” he replied. “It was definitely him, no possibility of error there. He responded obliquely, in code. He explained little because he assumed the message to him had come from me.”

  “And there was no mistaking the meaning? Definitely an assassination attempt on Scharnhorst, to be blamed on us?”

  “Yes. He could have been going directly to Cordell, to have him act to stop it. Ironic when he’s the man we can’t entirely trust.” Howard’s face was touched by a bitter amusement. His dry sense of humor was at its best in the worst difficulties. It was a peculiarly English trait of character, one that Lucas both liked and admired. But it was also a sign that Howard could see the bitterness of the situation. It was his defense against helplessness.

  “Given that we can’t prevent it,” Lucas said quietly, “what can we do to limit the damage—without Cordell’s assistance?”

  “It had better be without his knowledge as well,” Howard pointed out. “I’m not yet ready to give him the slightest idea we don’t trust him. In fact, I won’t ever be ready. If he’s innocent, I don’t want him to know we suspected him. And if he’s guilty, I’m going to use the bastard in every way I can. He’ll be the perfect source of misinformation, if we do it well enough!” He gave a brief grunt of laughter. “I’d never make a comedian—my timing is ghastly!”

  “Have you considered that Cordell could be involved, if there is a plan to assassinate Scharnhorst?” Lucas asked. “If MI6 is blamed, that could well be his intention!” He hated saying it, but it weighed on him like a collar of lead.

  “I suppose,” Howard agreed, although from the look in his eyes that thought had only just come to him. “It follows. I don’t know who to trust in Berlin. If they blame MI6, he’ll have to respond and may make the situation a lot worse.” He gave a tiny downward smile, no more than a curve of his lips. “The interesting question is, is it MI6 under his direction who’ll be responding? Or could he possibly be acting in a German plot to start a quarrel as a way of breaking some diplomatic agreement?”

  “Or both,” Lucas added.

  Howard frowned, looked down for a moment, then up again, “I took it to Bradley. At least part of it. I…” He looked worried and slightly embarrassed, which Lucas knew was an unusual experience for him.

  Lucas asked the question he had to. “Don’t you trust him?” Un
til he knew that, there was nowhere else to proceed.

  “Trust Bradley to be honest?” Howard smiled. “As honest as we ever are when we’re afraid. And who, with any sense, isn’t afraid of something?”

  “What is he afraid of?” Lucas asked. He knew Howard would understand the complexity of the question and not merely slide over the surface. They had never done that with each other.

  “I suppose he’s afraid of betraying the past, the war to end all wars. All the numberless dead. Or just plain being wrong. Of telling people he cares about something they can’t bear to hear. Of waking up one morning and finding he missed something desperately important…”

  “We’re all afraid of that,” Lucas said, suddenly crushed with memories he had forced out of his mind. It had been a way of life…once. “The only way you can excuse it is to leave the whole damn job to someone else.”

  Lucas had thought Peter was going to say something, but he didn’t. He just sat looking at Lucas.

  “I’m not coming back,” Lucas answered the silence. “I’m only going to say what you’re saying. You’ll have to deal with Cordell yourself. And if someone kills Scharnhorst, hope that the Germans get the right person for it…poor devil.”

  “Perhaps I should go there myself?”

  “No!” Lucas sat forward in his chair. “No, that would be exactly what they want, to lure out one of our best men, high up in the order of command and a person very much worth capturing. Don’t be a fool, Peter! Command requires more responsibility than that! You can’t go haring off just because you want to feel as if you’re doing something. You’ve got plenty of good men in the field. Trust them. That’s what they’re there for.”

  Lucas was right, and Howard knew it, however much he did not want to. Lucas knew what a hard discipline it was to sit in London and tell other men what to do. But Howard had too much knowledge now to risk his own life without absolute necessity. Calm was needed, courage and intelligence, not bravery on the line. It felt like leading from the back, from safety, which they both deplored.