Elizabeth tried to pretend she was simply out for the evening on a stroll through the streets, enjoying the mild air, but the gun in her pocket bumped against her thigh with every step, spoiling the delusion.
She repeated the address Holmes had gasped to her. It was in an area she was familiar with, an apartment house just off the elegant tree-lined boulevard she walked along. The street was full of cracked, ancient stairs. She could see the beginning of it just ahead, on the right.
He must die. No less.
Holmes’ words still delivered a little shock with every repeat. They troubled her. But disobeying the command was unthinkable for it was Sherlock Holmes who gave it—the one person she trusted unquestioningly.
A car drove past her and she realized it was slowing down. In the darkness she saw the black blobs of three people in it, silhouetted by the backwash of illumination from the car’s headlamps. The car came to a sudden, jerky stop opposite the street she had been directed to and she ducked behind the wide trunk of a tree, alert and wary.
As all three occupants stepped out onto the street she recognized the car. It was Von Stein’s beast and two of the men walking over to the steps were, by their shapes, Von Stein and Heinz. The third was distinguishable by the rifle hanging from his shoulder and his peaked cap.
She pulled back behind the cover of the tree, her heart racing. What was Von Stein doing here? He’d said tomorrow. Why would he change his mind? It wasn’t impatience—the man had inhuman self-discipline. He’d have spent the night enjoying the anticipation of catching another agent to add to his trophy collection.
She tried to draw some answers from what she knew but there were too many variables. She simply had to play it out for now and think later.
She pulled out her revolver and broke it open to check the load, then reassembled it and let it hang loosely from her hand, while she watched the steps. It was messy but she would have to deal with Fairuza’s controller from here.
The distance was not a problem for her aim but it put her too close to the car. With three Germans as witnesses, she would have to run for her life. She would give anything to be standing another one hundred yards away and holding her rifle instead, but it was tucked into the saddle bags of her horse, on the other side of Anatolia and not even a king’s ransom would deliver the rifle to her now. Even William’s clumsy, inaccurate army piece was sitting in the rifle rack back at the house.
There was the sound of voices, low, intense and she prepared, bracing herself against the tree trunk and leaving her gun arm loose and ready to swing up.
Four people stepped down into the boulevard and Elizabeth quickly picked out the new one. Her heart leapt hard. He was walking freely, chatting with a low voice.
Answers came quickly, then, for this man was not a reluctant prisoner, he was not simply cooperating. He was one of them. If Holmes knew this address it was because he had been here and possibly even revealed his true name.
He must die. No less.
Of course…of course! The controller knew who Holmes was and if he was a double agent, then Holmes’ identity was in jeopardy.
The gun came up of its own accord. Elizabeth deliberately recalled the execution that morning. All her reluctance fled under the dawning realization that this man was probably—no, definitely—responsible for Fairuza’s capture.
“News from Berlin,” Von Stein had described his cable the day they had gone to pick the woman up. The controller reported directly to both London and Berlin and Berlin fed the information back to Von Stein. Today, Von Stein had spoken of another illuminating cable…
From Berlin, Von Stein had learned the identity of the British controller and come to pick him up. The controller must have revealed himself as a double agent. It would be enough to give Von Stein pause but he would still cautiously bring him to the barracks to fully establish his true identity.
She took deliberate, careful aim at the Turk’s chest, going for the safe heart shot rather than a head shot.
She fired.
The controller went down, clutching his shoulder. She had missed.
Her heart pounding, she took aim at the figure lying in the middle of the road, ignoring the rifle-carrying soldier running toward her.
Her second shot ricocheted off the old cobbles, missing him altogether. She would not get a third shot, for the soldier was nearly upon her, unslinging his rifle. He was the most dangerous of them all right now and she had to deal with him.
She shot the man through the thigh and he went down with a grunt, clutching his thigh, barely a dozen paces from her tree. His rifle clattered onto the stones.
Heinz was checking the controller—his health was of primary importance. But Von Stein was unbuckling his revolver.
Moving fast, Elizabeth picked up the rifle, to keep it out of their hands. She kept her eye on Von Stein. The street was dark enough and she was far enough away that the chance of being recognized by either of them was very low. Heinz had barely looked up and the man’s clothing would focus Von Stein’s thinking. He would see what his eyes reported—a slim man wearing a hat.
She slung the rifle strap over her shoulder and carried it pointed and with her finger on the trigger, pocketed her revolver and ran for her life.
* * * * *
“Well?” Von Stein snapped.
“He’ll live,” Heinz pronounced. “The bullet shattered the arm bone but it came out through the shoulder. Nice clean entry and exit. He’s just passed out, that’s all.”
Heinz got to his feet and looked down the street. “The fellow took the rifle. But he was on foot. We can probably catch him, even now.”
“There’s no need. I know who it was,” Von Stein said quietly. “Help me get these two into the car. We’ll drop them off at the barracks infirmary on the way.”
“On the way to where?”
“To the prison cell, first. You heard the name used by friend Zeki. The agent we’re holding is no less than Sherlock Holmes himself.”
“The name means nothing to me,” Heinz confessed.
“He is the agent who so badly embarrassed Von Bork in 1915 and it is rumored he has been the culprit behind a dozen other incidences since then. Is it any wonder Berlin want him for themselves?” He pushed at Zeki with his toe. “This one is beneath contempt in comparison, Heinz. Demonstrably so—they tried to kill him as a means to keep Holmes’ identity secret.”
Heinz picked Zeki up with a grunt and Von Stein opened the back door of the automobile.
“Who is ‘they’?” Heinz asked.
“There is one last agent out there and now I know who it is.”
* * * * *
Holmes was woken by a minute scratching at the cell door. It was still dark but the quiet sounds coming through the grill over the window told him it was late—the barracks had shut down for the night.
The scraping sound was replaced by the sound of a key being fitted into the lock but whoever had the key was having enormous trouble fitting and turning it in the dark. Finally, the tumblers rolled over and the door swung open.
Holmes was sitting up by then but no one stepped through the door immediately.
After a moment, a German officer peered around the door, barely visible in the small light coming from the high window. “Are you leaving?” he asked Holmes in badly accented English. The accent was made worse because the man was patently drunk.
Holmes remained silent.
The head withdrew. Then the officer stepped carefully into the cell. “C’mon,” he said, waving in a wide “follow me” gesture. The arm movements made his entire body sway like a pendulum.
Holmes swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. “Where are we going?”
“Home, of course!”
“Of course,” Holmes agreed. “Home. How stupid of me.”
The man straightened up a bit. “I am Major William Häfner,” he pronounced. “But you’ve never heard of me.”
“On the contrary…I’ve met your wife on several occasions. You were in charge of the firing squad this afternoon, weren’t you?”
“My wife….” Häfner hung his head, apparently thinking hard. Then he lifted it slowly. “She’s terribly smart, you know. But three days, she can’t work it out. I thought, easy! And here I am. You see?”
“Yes.”
He cocked his head. “I am making no sense, no? I’m drunk, you should know,” he confessed candidly. “I’m making sense to me but I’m probably not making sense to you.”
“You’re making more sense than you know,” Holmes told him gently. “Why are you taking me home?”
“For ‘liz’beth.”
Holmes considered this. “I’d like to go home with you, Häfner but you can’t just walk me out the barracks gates. They will have objections to that. Besides….” He tapped the long splints on his leg
Häfner cocked his head again, letting Holmes’ words sink in. Then he muttered in German, “Imbecile!” He stepped very carefully to the door, bent over and picked up a black bundle, which he thrust at Holmes. “Iz mine but I’m a major too—just like you were…in Berlin,” he said, still in German. “I thought of it. ‘Liz’beth told me and I remembered. Clever, no?”
Holmes held up the clothing Häfner had given him to the light for inspection. A major’s uniform. And boots.
“Very clever,” he assured Häfner quietly. “But I never told Elizabeth. How did she know?”
“Guessed. When you were working in Berlin. Your name—Major von Karnch—on papers that came out here. She saw them and laughed. And laughed. The name gave it away, if you thought about it, she said. I remembered.” He pointed to the uniform, making himself sway again. “So…fellow officers and all that. Parties, pretty girls, dancing.”
“I understand.”
“Because I can’t act sober right now.”
Holmes patted his shoulder. “We’ll just have to manage.”
* * * * *
They crept down the hall, Häfner supporting Holmes, who, because of his splinted and useless leg, staggered as badly as Häfner. But the too-large trousers disguised the splints and bandages and the greatcoat hid the tunic that Holmes did not fill as fully as Häfner did.
By the entrance foyer a single light burned. At the desk in the corner a clerk lay sprawled across the sheets of paper he had been working on.
“What happened to him?” Holmes asked.
“Hit him,” Häfner declared.
“Did you kill him?”
“He’ll just have a headache. Like me.”
They moved out of the building and into the small, deserted parade ground. The central column they passed was clean and starkly white in the light from the new moon. But there were chips and gouges in its surface that spoke of its secondary purpose.
Holmes rested his hand against it as he passed.
Half way across the square, he said, “Do you have a flask, Häfner?”
“Got two, right now. Inside breast pocket.”
Holmes delved into the borrowed greatcoat. “Ah! Excellent.” He passed one to Häfner and with his hand and teeth, unstoppered the other, pocketed the cap and drank deeply.
“It’s terrible brandy,” Häfner said, swallowing a big mouthful, himself.
“It’s the best brandy I’ve ever tasted,” Holmes assured him. “Know any drinking songs, William?”
“Dozens!” Häfner said proudly.
* * * * *
Hans was freezing.
He’d swapped late night guard duties with Dieter, who was taking an exotic Turkish woman to a dance. It had been Hans’ turn last week and Dieter had covered for him without complaint, so he would do the same now. But late night duties always stretched so endlessly, with so little to do. It was warmer in the sentry box than moving around so he could not relieve tedium that way, either.
The officers on duty at the gatehouse, half a dozen paces away, had not spoken to him all night. They kept themselves tucked up in the gatehouse, sitting over a stove and Hans knew Zimmerman had a bottle of schnapps hidden away that he would only share with the other officers.
That didn’t help improve Hans’ mood, either.
The faint sound of singing reached him.
Hans strained to hear more. Yes. Singing. Two voices. Coming closer, too. He listened for a little longer, a smile forming as he recognized the song. It was not an approved marching song. In fact, it was a bawdy ditty with a lively tune that had Hans’ toe tapping as he listened.
He didn’t know who was singing it but he liked their enthusiasm and spirit.
The volume and direction made it clear they were heading his way. Smiling, Hans stepped out of the box and waited to catch his first glimpse of the rowdy pair. They couldn’t be officers, he decided. Not with that sort of sense of humor.
When the two did loom up out of the dark, staggering into the circle of light falling from the lamps on the walls of the gatehouse, Hans was a little shocked to see they were majors. They were holding each other up, silvery hip flasks flashing in their hands.
They paused to finish the song off properly, before staggering on to the gatehouse. One of the officers inside the gatehouse stepped out, his arms hugging his chest against the cold of the outside. He snapped off a salute when he saw they were superior officers but there was a scowl of disapproval there.
“Major Häfner and Major Von Karnch,” the older one announced, with the careful pronunciation of a man who has had his fair share to drink.
The other one was digging in his pockets for papers, with no success.
Earhart, the gate officer, drew himself even more upright.
Hans suddenly knew he was about to make things unpleasant for the two majors. Even though they were superior officers, as the keeper of the gate, Earhart could insist on papers and formalities and force them to stand in the cold for many long, bumbling minutes while he inspected them—and Hans knew as well as Earhart that all that was necessary were names, which Von Karnch had already given.
He remembered that Earhart refused to share the schnapps too.
Deliberately, Hans slung his rifle and leaned on the counterweight to lift the boom gate. Then he snapped off a salute to the majors.
The younger one blinked, then shuffled to try to stand to attention but failed. His acknowledgement was wavering. He tapped the other on the shoulder and pointed.
Still supporting each other, they made their slow, happy way out onto the street and up the road toward Galata and the Golden Horn. Fifty paces away, they began singing again, a rousing chorus of a beer hall song.
Hans returned to his cold sentry box. He was still smiling.
* * * * *
Elizabeth hurried into the house again, dumping the borrowed rifle in a dark corner by the front door and rushed upstairs to change out of the trousers.
William was not in her room and the brandy decanter was gone, so she quickly changed out of the male costume, donning a vivid pink silk organza gown that lay waiting on the bed. She turned, intending to find William and ensure he was safely abed and halted, smothering a shriek with her hand.
Von Stein stood in the doorway, a revolver dangling from his hand. He was leaning heavily against the frame.
“Good evening, Madeline.”
“Alex! You scared me!” She frowned and added stiffly. “Why are you here, in my bedroom?”
He straightened. “I seem to have misplaced a prisoner, my dear Madeline.” He lifted the revolver and pointed it at her. “Is it Madeline? What should I call you?”