The Beekeeper's Bullet

by Lance Hawvermale

  One of the newer men, Kasper, a clarinet player from Hanover, had gotten his elevator shredded when a pair of the Frog bastards had fallen on him from behind. His crate rolled over at two thousand meters, its wheels pointed straight up, and Kasper fell from the cockpit. Gustov, arriving seconds too late, watched the poor man drop, arms and legs batting madly. Gustov’s own molten rage startled him, and he screamed the entire time he was emptying his guns into Kasper’s killers.

  Ten planes landed behind Father’s barn. The mechanics and valets rushed out, already knowing that their family had lost one of its own. They would eulogize him tonight with liquor and somber tunes played on the parlor’s grand piano.

  Now, just after the noon hour, Gustov left them to their subdued talk in the marble-lined dining hall and the meal that dear Dagmar had prepared. He had no appetite. His valet, Eldwin, waited for him outside the door.

  The young man stiffened to full attention and kept his eyes straight ahead. “Sir.”

  “The papers?”

  Eldwin handed him a bundle of communiques. Gustov leafed through them. He’d ordered Eldwin to send word of the Englander to all nearby posts. Yet for all the advances in wireless radio, the German war machine still received most of its messages in the diplomatic pouches of men on motorbikes. Thus it would take days for word of the stolen Rumpler to be disseminated to every city on the Englander’s map. Gustov had no intention of waiting that long.

  “Have the mechanics refueled my bird?”

  “They have, sir. All is shipshape.”

  “Good. Thank you.” He handed the papers back to the younger man and asked himself why he hadn’t mentioned Miss Jantz in his otherwise highly detailed report to High Command. He had no answer for that.

  “What next, sir?”

  “You confirmed that Avenue Foch is located in Metz?”

  “Yes, sir. Several of the men have spent their leave in Metz and are familiar with the town. I confirmed their statements an hour ago with our people in the city itself.”

  “Your efficiency never ceases to amaze me. You honor your family name.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sincerely.”

  Gustov, suddenly emotional, gripped the younger man’s shoulder. “Take the rest of the day off. Get something to eat. Join the others tonight to bid our brother Kasper goodbye.”

  “I will, sir. Good hunting.”

  From there, Gustov went to his room, where Eldwin had laid out a fresh set of flying garb, having taken this morning’s outfit to the washerwoman for cleaning. He stripped off his field tunic with its precise markings of rank and donned the unadorned, more liberating attire of a flyer: heavy corduroy trousers lined with fleece, a field-gray sweater, and a double-breasted long coat with a wide lambs-wool collar that could be turned upward and buttoned just below the chin. His Luger P08 fit snugly in a holster embossed with his initials. He carried his padded cap as he left the house, giving the dog, Pope Benedict, a hearty scratch on the head as they passed in the yard, each about his separate business.

  Nine of the remaining ten planes had been towed to the edges of the barley field, wheels chocked, some of them with their cowls open, in various states of inspection or repair. One stood waiting at the end of the airstrip, a single mechanic standing at ease beside the propeller.

  Gustov pulled on his gloves.

  His Fokker Dr.1 was painted in the bold hues of the Voss family heraldry. All three wing decks were orange, as was its nose. The fuselage and tail were azure blue. The Germanic cross—black outlined in white—shared space with the ancestral insignia of a falcon with closed talons. Gustov had resisted the urge to have them paint his name on his bus; a healthy degree of vanity kept a pilot in the sky, but the old gods always batted you down if you took it too far.

  His mechanic knew him well enough not to jump hard to attention. Unlike Eldwin, the mechanic understood the odds. He believed that flyers’ lives were too short to bullshit them.

  “Have you eaten lunch?” Gustov asked as he reached the plane.

  “Don’t worry about me, Captain. I’ll grab a biscuit and coffee later on.”

  Gustov looked around the sky. “Couldn’t ask for better weather.”

  The mechanic knew he didn’t need to comment on the climate. “I touched every single piece of this aircraft after you returned from patrol this morning. It won’t fail you.”

  Gustov fastened his cap to his head. A thick, padded band ran around the crown. Flaps covered his ears. He tied the laces under his chin. “I depend on many people to help me do my job correctly and efficiently every day. But I truly trust only one of them. Thank you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Captain. Give the Brit one on the chin for me.”

  Gustov nodded, mounted the wing, and put himself into his bird of prey.

  ****

  Alec took only three paces into the house before he saw his sister. Her photograph rested in a frame of fine silver filigree atop a fireplace mantel. He’d never seen that picture before; she was laughing, like someone who’d just won a prize at a holiday fair.

  Alec was aware that Ellenor was speaking to the middle-aged gentleman who’d answered the door, but they spoke in German, allowing him to fall completely into the image.

  He glanced away from his sister’s face only briefly. Ellenor and the man with the neatly parted hair were joined by another fellow who had the meek demeanor of a manservant or butler or something along those lines. Whatever role he played here, he was thin and wore a faded frock coat, like a schoolmaster from a Dickens novel. He stood a few feet away and listened as Ellenor spoke in the guttural Hun tongue, presumably explaining who she was and why Alec had come.

  Alec returned to the photograph. Nearby were other images: Sarah and her gallant husband, Stefan, dressed like royalty and posing stiff-backed for the camera; the two of them pretending to arm-wrestle; Stefan by himself beside a large factory press. Alec drifted toward the pictures, alarmed by how much he missed this woman. How had he ever let her go? If he had moved here to Germany with her, as she had wanted him to do, would he even now be a happy civilian, gamely going about the Weller family business?

  “Alec.”

  He took the framed portrait from the mantel. He knew a little about photography, as he’d been trained in the use of battlefield cameras that were mounted on planes. But the man who’d captured his sister in this moment of joy was either very talented or very lucky. She looked timeless. Radiant, even. He remembered when they were kids and she’d stolen Mum’s scissors and given Alec the worst haircut in the Western hemisphere.

  “Alec.”

  He blinked forcefully. Somewhat embarrassed, he returned the picture to its place, then turned to see Ellenor looking at him all wrong. Her cheeks were drained of color.

  The words What’s wrong? would not move from his mouth. They hung there behind his teeth, refusing to be made real.

  Ellenor stared directly at him. Tears filled her eyes but didn’t fall.

  He swallowed the words and managed something less direct. “Who is this man?”

  “He…he is Sarah’s father-in-law. Stefan’s father. His name is Klaus.”

  Alec flicked his eyes at him. Klaus, fists in the pockets of his checked vest, looked at the floor.

  Alec wanted to grab this Klaus Weller and shout in his face, but he remembered himself, stepped forward, and extended a hand. “Alec Corbin-Dawes, at your service.”

  The man shook, his hand old and hard. He said a single word in English: “Hello.”

  Ellenor opened her mouth, closed it, and when the single tear let go and ran down to her chin, Alec knew that everything was lost.

  He took both of her hands in his. “Ellenor, please. Tell me that my sister is all right.”

  Ellenor, very slowly, stepped into him and put her face against his chest.

  “Ellenor, whatever you need to say—”

  “Sarah is dead.”

  When Alec was one day away from reporting to the Royal Flying Corps for
his first morning as a servant to His Majesty’s wartime whims, he finally completed the dollhouse he’d started building for Sarah when they were only ten years old. She would not need it, now that it was finished. She was a woman and had given her dolls away. But a brother kept his promise, however belated it might be.

  Ellenor put her arms around his waist and pulled herself into him. “It happened four months ago.” Her voice fractured. “Klaus had no way of sending a letter to let you know.”

  The dollhouse had been a damn excellent bit of woodworking, if Alec said so himself. The little balsa-wood dinette chairs had been his favorite, but the pièce de résistance was the tiny chandelier made from bits of colored glass.

  “Klaus isn’t well,” Ellenor whispered. “He hasn’t been the same since it happened. He loved her.”

  “I love her, goddammit.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He wanted to cry, but right now he was too angry, because Klaus was lying. Klaus Weller was a dirty German pig who was lying through his black Boche teeth.

  Ellenor must have felt his rage, his trembling, his sudden fever. She hugged him closer.

  Alec did not return her embrace. “How?”

  Ellenor sucked up the snot in her throat. “An explosion.”

  “A what? Some kind of factory accident?” Now the lie was becoming farfetched. What kind of shit was Klaus trying to shovel on him? “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Ellenor withdrew just enough to look up at him, her eyelashes wet with tears. “Klaus says that Sarah was…”

  “Was what?”

  “A member of the free-shooters.”

  “Who the bloody hell are the free-shooters?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what he said. Alec, please, let’s just—”

  He shoved her away. Two strides brought him toe to toe with Klaus, but the bent-up German wouldn’t look at him. “Sir, I would suggest you explain yourself straightaway, before I take this to a place from which you might not recover.”

  “He doesn’t speak English.”

  “Then translate. Now. How did my sister die?” It burned his throat to say it. He could hardly see straight, his heartbeat pounding behind his eyes. “Speak.”

  Ellenor hastily relayed the question, and she spoke over Klaus while he replied. “Sarah was meeting with friends from the Magny district in a bar after hours. Operatives from the High Command…destroyed the building with grenades.”

  Alec shook his head over and over again. Another lie. “No, no. It couldn’t have happened like that. Sarah was a bookkeeper.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ask him why. What was she doing there?”

  Klaus, now struggling against tears of his own, accepted a handkerchief from his butler. He explained as best he could, and Ellenor said on his behalf, “The people at the secret meeting were what the French call Franc-tireurs, or free-shooters. They were…guerilla combatants.”

  “Yes, that’s rich. My sister is a highly dangerous insurgent.” He laughed, and it sounded like a shriek when it left his throat. “Sarah has never held a gun in her life.”

  “Klaus believes that his son was one of their leaders. After Stefan died of smallpox, Sarah became more involved in the movement.”

  “The movement?”

  “Many of the Messines consider themselves more French than German.”

  “And they’re…what? Playing around at being amateur subversives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And they were assassinated for plotting treason in a pub?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “Then stop treating me like the enemy!” Face red, she pointed at him. “Sarah has passed away, Alec, and I am so, so sorry about that. I ache for you.” She pointed at herself. “But it’s not my fault.” She pointed at Klaus. “And it’s not his fault. If you can just take a step back—”

  Alec lunged through the front door and slammed it behind him.

  The afternoon sun was not his friend. He struck off between two random buildings, keeping to the shadows until he found a dark corner strewn with refuse, where he sank down and put his face in his hands.

  The best thing about the dollhouse, though, was not its chandelier. Even though Sarah outgrew the imaginary games she once played in that unfinished house, she always kept it in her room, even when she was as old as eighteen. That was the best thing, that she loved it beyond its usefulness just because her brother had built it.

  Alec cried.

  He had dozens of things he needed to tell her. Hundreds, really. They were twins; she kidded him about her being one minute older; they were supposed to die on the same day. What had gone wrong? The goddamn war had gone wrong.

  Ellenor appeared at the corner, looking around. When her gaze found Alec, she gathered a visible breath before approaching.

  Alec wanted her to leave him alone. But at the same time, he didn’t. He wanted her beside him. Like her, everything he had was now gone. Did Sarah even have a grave marker? Had Klaus buried her? Was there a funeral? Did anyone know her well enough to say anything over her body that had any meaning at all?

  Her body.

  He screwed his eyes shut as tightly as he could.

  Ellenor sat down and put her arm around him.

  Alec leaned into her. How Sarah would have enjoyed meeting Ellenor Jantz. Oh, they would have made quite a pair, each too stubborn to know better. Alec thought of one and let the other cradle him there in the alley, bits of old newsprint fluttering in the air.

  After a long time, Ellenor said, “We need to get up.”

  Alec swallowed. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to strike his own skull against the cracked wall behind him until the pain became moot.

  “I know you don’t want to eat. Or to sleep. Or to do anything but sit here. I understand that, and I wish there were something I could do. But we need to go indoors. We don’t want anyone to ask questions. We can’t stay here in this alley.”

  Alec saw the logic in that but didn’t give a shit.

  “You don’t have to talk to Klaus,” she said. “I’m sure he has a room you can use. It’s a big house. You can shut the door and stay there for days if you want. I won’t blame you. But it’s not safe for us here. You don’t speak German, and I’m dressed like a man.”

  He knew as much, but again, he wouldn’t have cared if the local police rounded the corner and harassed him for identification papers he didn’t possess. Let them throw him in jail. He could abide in a dark room for the rest of his life. What difference did it make now?

  “Alec, come on.” She took his arm.

  Fine. He didn’t care either way. He struggled to his feet, eyes wet, throat ablaze. He thought of the four fifty-pound bombs strapped to Hildegard’s belly. Perhaps he’d fly over whatever these assholes valued most and blow it straight to hell, along with whoever he could manage to catch in the flames.

  Ellenor led him back to the house. A room with a door he could lock behind him sounded like the only thing that might prevent him from screaming. He needed dark solitude.

  Klaus gave it to him. He directed his butler to show Alec upstairs and to a spare bedroom in the corner, one with a ceiling that slanted from the angled roofline above.

  The butler said something, but Alec closed the door softly in his face and then sat down in the center of the floor.

  It didn’t matter why Sarah had died, what flag she’d defended, where it happened. Perhaps that would matter tomorrow. Perhaps not. Twins were supposed to die together. She’d let him down.

  Alec Corbin-Dawes curled up on his side and wept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  His fuel tank nearly dry, Gustov grunted his relief when Metz appeared. He’d flown most of the way in a trance, letting the Fokker have its nose the way a rider did with a fine horse. The airstrip was on the near side of the city, five hundred meters from where an observation balloon served as sentry to warn the citizenr
y of an attack…which was foolish, in Gustov’s opinion, as half the population was culturally French and unlikely to be targeted by the home country of their fathers. Still, one could never be too careful.

  He flew a low-altitude circle around the city, left wings dipped slightly so that he could peer over the side in search of the stolen aircraft. He saw nothing on the first pass and didn’t have fuel to waste on a second. So he cut the engine, glided, and landed without event just as the sun was going down.

  They were not expecting him. Nor did they know his name or rank, which suited him fine, as he was in no mood to explain himself to the two mechanics who rushed to meet him as he climbed down from the wing. He asked the way to their commanding officer. He kept his meeting with the CO as brief as possible, answering the man’s questions before asking one of his own.

  Yes, it was true that a British agent was at large. No, Gustov didn’t know his name or his intentions. Yes to this and no to that, and all the while Gustov couldn’t help but feel that the Englander was moving farther away with every passing second.

  Then Gustov asked his only question: “Can you direct me to Avenue Foch?”

  Dusk settled over the city by the time he climbed from the motorbike’s sidecar and dismissed the driver. The bike chugged away, coughing fumes. Gustov had only this street name and nothing more. That narrowed his search to several hundred structures and several thousand people.

  He smiled to himself.

  His vanity had led him here, of course, and with that smile he called out his own arrogance and shook his head. He’d allotted himself precisely twenty-four hours to pursue the Englander, having left Mier in charge of the squadron in his absence. By this time tomorrow, he needed to be landing at Father’s manse, whether he had located his quarry or not.

  A sooty-faced lamplighter no more than twelve years old parked a wooden stool at the corner gaslight and brought it to life. In its light, Gustov saw a steel sign mounted to the bricks of the nearest building: CAFÉ LINDSEY. If you wanted to begin a search in a strange city—any kind of search, really—you always started at the local tavern.