THE MORNING EXPRESS FROM Berlin was right on time. At Cologne, Hagen changed trains, catching the popular Rheingold Express as it went north, back down the valley of the Rhine to Emmerich and the Dutch border.
As usual at this time of year, the train was crowded. People from all walks of life used the express, which passed daily through Germany from Amsterdam to Basel and return.
Moving through the corridors was difficult; finding a compartment with any space at all, nigh on impossible.
There was so much laughter, so much excitement, but then Hagen noticed a corner space by a window. Using German, he asked if it was free. A woman and her son, a young Wehrmacht corporal on his way north to a border posting, a corpulent, cigar-smoking Bavarian—all eyes momentarily lifted to him, no laughter now.
Squeezing into the seat by the window, Hagen found himself looking into the haunted, unsettling eyes of the boy.
The train began to move. The boy turned away. Elsewhere the sounds of holiday-makers filled the corridor. Here there was only a strained and uncomfortable silence.
Hagen shut his eyes. Dear God, he felt tired. Malaria? he wondered, cursing the person or persons who had lifted his pills. Would the Gestapo be waiting for him at the border? Would they let him go? Increasingly the strain was beginning to tell. He’d have to find out what had happened with the Dutchman. He’d have to deal with it.
With a jolt, the train stopped and he flung his eyes open only to find himself staring into those of the boy.
The train began to move again. A switch perhaps. Nothing more …
Realizing what must be troubling the boy, he raised his left hand and said in German, “I lost my fingers in an explosion. Some sticks of dynamite.”
With an effort of will that was supreme, the boy held his gaze and remained silent.
Puzzled by his response, Hagen glanced at the mother. The woman was exceedingly well dressed.
He looked to the time-ravaged hausfrau who sat next her by the compartment door, endlessly knitting a bulky turtleneck sweater. The Bavarian turned a page of his newspaper. The corporal cleared his throat. The boy took to looking out the window, the mother to twisting and untwisting the diamond ring on her finger, a Jager of at least four carats, a beautiful thing that didn’t match the plain gold wedding band at all.
Sensing his scrutiny, she became even more nervous. The twisting increased. The fingers interlaced, unlaced, and then the twisting began again.
She didn’t have a chance. They’d catch her for sure.
He turned away to stare emptily out the window. Against the movement of the wheels he could hear the hausfrau’s knitting needles. He thought of the U-boats he’d seen under construction in the shipyards at Kiel. Type IIs, still some of those, the small, coastal submarines of 250 tons. But alongside these there had been the Type VIIs, a concentration of effort now in making the latest in the line of 750-ton submarines that were ideally suited to the open ocean and the shipping lanes of the North Atlantic.
The Germans had to be planning a war on such a scale as to make the 1914–18 conflict appear tame. But what had prompted them to do this? What made the hausfrau knit as if she were damned?
The train passed the shade of a water tower. Reflections momentarily revealed the compartment. The boy’s mother was staring at him. Hands in her lap. Still at last.
He thought of the East African Rift Valley, of other train trips, of his father shouting bits of history, the volcanic origins of the terrain, the shooting, the blacks … all of it as if to a friend, an equal, while his mother had sat like a thorn between them.
The woman dropped her eyes, realizing he was looking at her. Hagen turned to the boy. “We’ll soon see the windmills on the flats across the river. Did you come this way before, or is it your first trip along the Rhine?”
The mother chose her words carefully. “He can’t hear you, sir. The boy is deaf.”
Hagen said he was sorry to hear this, and asked if they’d been to a clinic in Switzerland.
“Yes. The doctors say there is nothing that can be done. My son was deaf at birth.”
Dee Dee’s eyes had held that look. “I was deafened once myself—at about your son’s age, but only for a week or so. I can’t remember much.”
“An accident?” she asked.
Glad to bring her out of herself a little, he smiled warmly. “My greatest fear was that I’d never be able to hear again. Then one morning I awoke to the sound of vultures.”
He had said it so good-naturedly, yet still she couldn’t help blanching. “You must have been very happy.”
“I was. I thought they were feeding on me, and when I found they weren’t, I realized I could hear. But tell me, which clinic were you at?”
He could laugh at himself; he must be all right. “The Friedrich Liebermann Clinic in Zurich. They are specialists in matters of the inner ear.”
She had said it well enough, and that was to her credit. But still he wondered what she was hiding.
He knows my son isn’t deaf, she told herself. He knows we are lying.
When she carried on the conversation, he listened again to her accent and tried to place it. The east, along the Polish border. East Prussia, yes. A long way from home. “And yourself?” she asked. “Where did your parents take you for treatment?”
The smile he gave put her momentarily at ease, but his words were troubling. “It happened in the Belgian Congo, so there was no treatment. Once my mother discovered that I could hear again, she took me to America.”
And the father? she wanted to ask, but was too polite. “Would she not have done so otherwise?”
Again he smiled, a little sadly this time. “My father went off to war. It was the fall of 1917. The Americans were supplying the Congo mines by then, so it wasn’t that hard to book a passage.”
She gave an understanding nod, then went right back to staring at her hands. Again the diamond solitaire was twisted. Again he was left to himself.
The corporal drifted off to sleep. The Bavarian folded his newspaper. The hausfrau with the knitting never stopped.
At the border, under the guise of searching for a murderer, everyone was ordered off the train. For an instant their eyes met, then one by one they each got up.
He wondered if he’d ever see the woman and her son again.
The lines moved slowly. They stretched the length of the platform, and in the heat of the sun many of the passengers shed their jackets.
Beside each person, couple or group was their luggage. Along both sides of the tracks and at both ends of the train, flanking soldiers in gray-green uniforms stood at the ready with their rifles. Between them and the passengers were the strolling dark black uniforms of the Orpo, the Uniformed Municipal Police.
A murderer … All up and down the lines the whispers continued. Those who had joked and played the fool were silent. Those like the Bavarian in a nearby lane were openly perturbed. Most, however, were confused or cowed. Some were desperate.
A murderer …
Hagen moved a pace ahead, dragging his cases along the paving stones. A black Mercedes touring car was parked beside the station house. The driver, a corporal in the SS, polished the chrome.
A murderer …
There wasn’t a sign of the woman and her son. Now he regretted having put as much distance between himself and them as he could. Now he wished with all his heart the two of them could escape.
They were searching everything—all the baggage, everyone’s papers, their pockets even. This became all too clear when he reached the station house.
He caught sight of the woman and her son down at the far end of the building. Her suitcases were open on the counter. A fat, grumbling customs inspector was pawing through her things. Taking his time, the man frequently paused to wipe the sweat from his brow or tip the hat he wore a little farther back on his head as he looked around.
“Herr Hagen …”
“Oh, sorry. I guess, like everyone else, I’m tired. Haven’t you caught him yet?”
“Would you come this way, please?”
People glanced at him, then averted their eyes. He was shown into a room. Behind the plain oak desk there was a chair; on the wall behind it, a portrait of the Führer. A cheap, green-shaded lamp stood on a corner of the desk. There was an empty chair before it and then, some distance from this, a third chair. Empty also. No other doors to the room. No windows, either. No one else but himself.
The door closed behind him. He set his cases down and stood there waiting once again.
Half an hour later he was still waiting. A murderer …
A distracted Otto Krantz opened the cigarette case and held it across the desk. Shreds of tobacco lay in one corner. Behind the clip, the cigarettes were separated by the bullet dent.
Hagen shook his head and waited for the questions to begin.
Lost in thought, Krantz closed the case but left it on the desk between them, couldn’t seem to take his eyes from it.
In October 1918 the front at Ypres had seesawed with each day. One sniper out in a no-man’s-land that still defied description had caused them so much trouble. They’d hunted each other, the two of them out there all alone in the mud and shit. The man had nearly killed him. Thanks to the cigarette case, it had been the other way around.
But until today, until Heydrich’s little visit to this far corner of the Reich, he’d hardly given the matter another thought.
Now he wasn’t sure of things. Had he been the one to kill Hagen’s father? Was that why Heydrich had hauled him out of the obscurity of East Prussia? There’d have been the divisional records, the citation for bravery, but not names attached to names. Surely not?
Match Hagen with a man who would be certain to handle him? Was that it?
The idea smelled of Heydrich. The Dillingham file on Hagen had given enough on the father to make him wish he’d never had the office broken into and the file photographed.
“Herr Krantz, what is it you want with me?”
Anger leaped only to fade. Damn Heydrich anyway! “It’s not every day I find myself at a table with five drinks and no one else to enjoy them. Did you have to choose Gilka Berliner Kümmel for all five?”
“My friends like it. It’s a good way to start off the evening.”
“Eighty-six percent proof and the taste of caraway and cumin seeds? Gott in Himmel, Herr Hagen, did you honestly think I’d drink them all?”
Amusement briefly lit up Hagen’s eyes. “You were following me.”
In spite of the worry, Krantz feigned surprise. “But … but of course. Didn’t you know I would be doing so? I thought—”
“No one told me I couldn’t go where I pleased.”
“But we received a report that certain undesirables would attempt to rob you in the park. My superiors thought it best to have someone close. Surely they have told you this?”
“There was no attempt to rob me.”
The Berliner sighed hugely and eased himself forward to rest his forearms on the desk. Adopting a serious attitude, he said, “Oh, but there was. Two men in the Tiergarten. They passed you on one of the bridle paths. One asked for the time, or was it for a light? You do remember, don’t you?”
Decoys! So that was how Krantz had managed to follow him to Rachel’s.
“I didn’t know they intended to rob me. No one told me.”
Krantz drew on his cigarette, then plucked a shred of tobacco from his lower lip. Inspecting the shred, he asked quietly, “Now please, tell me why you don’t smoke.”
“I don’t, that’s all. They say it shortens the breath.”
The cold, cod eyes sought him out. The stumpy fingers spread themselves over the desk. “The truth, Herr Hagen. Your father smoked cigarettes.”
“Yes.” What did the man want?
“Once too often,” said Krantz.
“Yes, perhaps. I really don’t know.”
“And someone shot him.”
“Yes.”
How did Krantz know?
The Berliner gathered in the cigarette case. Fingering it, he lost himself again. To think that the long arm of the SD could stretch so far. To think that Heydrich had called him in for such a minor thing.
And now here he was sitting across the desk from the son.
No matter how hard he tried, Krantz couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The war was still that close. Why the hell had Heydrich had to choose him for this?
“Ypres, October 13, 1918. Are you bitter that someone from Germany saw your father taking a quick drag and pulled the trigger?”
“He was a sharpshooter. He should have known better.”
“So there is no bitterness?”
The Gestapo seemed relieved. “Should there be?”
“Please, I am asking because I have to.”
“None, then. Several of your countrymen are my friends.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Look, Herr Krantz, while it upset me as a boy, the death of my father means little to me now.”
“He must have taught you a great deal.”
“Yes, and of all the things, one stands out more than the others. That nations, creeds and races shouldn’t separate the goodwill men must feel toward each other.”
Krantz smiled so faintly Hagen realized he’d let himself be provoked into saying the wrong thing. “I bear no ill will toward the German people, Herr Krantz. I wouldn’t do what I’m doing for them if I did.”
“Of course. Now tell me, please, why is it you went to the flat of Rachel Tannenbaum and her husband?”
The other chair had remained empty all this time. Hagen had the uncomfortable feeling that it had been deliberately placed there to unsettle him.
“Her father works for us. As a matter of courtesy I went to see her.”
“So late at night?”
He must refuse to become irritated. Giving a nonchalant shrug, he said, “You know how these things are. Quite frankly, I’d forgotten I’d promised to see her.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why go to see her? Oh, merely to say hello and ask how they were. Her father’s getting on.”
Krantz waved a reproving finger but let the matter pass. “Please list for me all the places you visited in the Reich this time.”
“Why?”
“Because I ask it.”
Again the Berliner was trying to provoke him into reacting. “Then I suggest you contact the Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, the Reich ministries of the Interior and of Industry and my friend, the Baron Dieter Karl Hunter. While you’re at it, you might tell your superiors that one of the women who were with the Baron Hunter and me in the park was savagely attacked by hoodlums who attempted to rape her.”
The Berliner passed a smoothing hand over the desk. He eased the black band of his wristwatch, then clenched a fist in anger, perhaps, or in dismay at such tactics. “This man, Herr Klees. Tell me about him.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Again the Gestapo sought him out. “Then why is it that the Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich has taken such an interest in you?”
“Me?” he managed to scoff.
“You,” said Krantz, leaning back in his chair.
“But I thought they were searching for a murderer?”
“Perhaps they are. Who knows? I’m just a policeman, Herr Hagen. They don’t always tell me everything.”
“And I’m just a salesman.”
“Of diamonds. So, let us finish up this little chat with Herr Klees.”
“He’s a nobody. He tried to talk us into a deal we didn’t want.”
“Then why are you heading for Amsterdam?”
The Gestapo would have read the cables from Bernard just as they monitored everything else. “I’ve clients to call on.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Krantz got up to open it, and Hagen took the opportunity to study the cigarette case that had at times been clenched in that fist.
The silver plate was tarnished. The kaiser’s head was badly dented.
The Berliner’s voice filled the room. “Ah, Heini, of course. How good of you not to have forgotten.
“Your coat, Herr Hagen, and the tea towel. The cake … Please tell Frau Tannenbaum’s father that I’m sorry. Another time. Another visit. The boys at the office. You know how they are.”
Krantz gave a good-natured shrug and held the door open. The corporal was the one who’d been polishing the chrome.
“You will go with Heini now, Herr Hagen. Please. Just for a moment. The Gruppenführer wishes to extend his condolences.”
“For what?”
Their eyes met. “For the delay.”
Reinhard Heydrich was the head of the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, the Secret Service of the SS, Amt I, counterintelligence abroad, and Amt II, intelligence at home. A notorious womanizer, an anti-Semite, a plotter, a schemer.
As he followed the corporal from the station house, Hagen experienced a feeling of utter desolation.
The place was now deserted. Heydrich was waiting for him on the platform in full view of the passengers on the train.
Heydrich was thirty-three, tall, arrogant, fairly thin, very blond and immaculately fitted out in a brand-new uniform. His hair was cut short. Parted on the left, it was brushed back off the high, sloping brow, emphasizing the close-set eyes, the long nose, wide, cruel lips and angular, jutting chin, which was clefted.
“Herr Hagen.” The heels clicked smartly together. “Heil Hitler.”
“Heil. It’s good of you to think of me, Herr Gruppenführer.”
The smile was there, but the look was that of a wounded cobra.
“Please accept our apologies for the delay. Our Otto will, no doubt, have told you of our little problem.”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Herr Gruppenführer, murders aren’t your normal concern, are they?”
“This one was. But … he evaded us. No doubt the woman’s family will insist we try again. They say she was beautiful. Certainly in death she was.”
Hagen wanted to scream at him, What the hell are you on about? but managed to hold himself erect. A somewhat shabby businessman, tall, rawboned and loose, his suit jacket open, looking lost. A whole trainload of people delayed and inconvenienced for this. A classic Gestapo ploy.
“I trust you had a pleasant trip this time?” asked Heydrich. One could tell nothing from the look in those eyes.
“It went very well.”
“Yes. A substantial order, I believe, from the Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach. He places great faith in you, Herr Hagen. We must get to know one another, I think. Yes … yes, that would be best. To our … how should I say it? Our mutual benefit. Yes, our common interest.”
Hagen found himself replying evenly, “I’d like that very much, Herr Gruppenführer.”
“Good! Then until your next visit, Heil Hitler.”
Someone brought his cases and put them on the train. Hagen watched Heydrich until the staff car had disappeared from view.
Krantz said, “Herr Hagen, your train is waiting.”
His stomach tightened. A wave of panic swept through him. Nodding, he heard himself say “Thanks.”
The Bavarian was reading another newspaper. The hausfrau was knitting like the damned. The corporal pulled his boots in, then got to his feet and put Hagen’s cases into the luggage racks. The woman and her son sat there looking up at him. She was ashen. Exhaustion ringed her eyes.
The train began to move and still she found the will to look at him.
Her ring was gone. The Jager had been given to the customs inspector who had gone through her bags. Even with the worry over Heydrich still very much with him, he found he could notice things like this. A customs inspector who could be bribed. The fifth counter over, against the far wall. A diamond … Rachel … Herr Klees …
Had Heydrich and Krantz been totally unaware of it?
Hagen sat down, but still the woman continued to gaze at him. Finally he reached across the compartment and took her gently by the hand. “It’s over. You needn’t go back. Just try to sleep.”
“You knew him. I saw you talking to him. You didn’t tell him about us.”
Sadly he shook his head. “How could I have done such a thing?”
She closed her other hand over his and for a time, as the train gathered speed and crossed the border into Holland, they held on to each other like that, two perfect strangers, and yet not strangers at all.
The shop was on the Prinsengracht, one of the original canals that had been dug in the seventeenth century to bring freight to all parts of old Amsterdam. Canal houses lined the waterway. Built shoulder to shoulder of red or brown brick and five stories high, their gabled crowns rose precipitously in ornate steps, bells and cornices to jutting hoist beams, red-tiled, steeply pitched roofs and an open, slotted sky.
Directly in front of the shop, across a narrow stretch of pavement and under the leafy branches of a linden, a houseboat lay moored. Barges plied the waterway. Here and there along the canal others were tied up. A scattering of tourists strolled noisily in the midmorning sun. From time to time a clerk or a typist hurried by on a bicycle. Otherwise, the canal was at peace. The trees cast their shade.
Hagen found a table at a small cafe on the opposite side of the canal. From there he had a good view of the shop. Ordering coffee and rolls, he forced himself to wait.
Heydrich was still foremost in his mind. He still couldn’t figure out what the bastard had wanted. To meet was one thing, to do so in front of a trainload of people, another. And Krantz … what had been the matter with him?
On leaving his hotel that morning he’d been followed. He had Krantz to thank for having smartened him up. He’d picked out the two of them—older men, good ones, too—then had searched for the third man and found him loitering behind. Dutch fascists. Heydrich already had them in place.
They’d played leapfrog with him, the one moving on ahead, the other two dropping behind, he letting them follow him only so far.
From now on he’d have to be extremely careful.
“Your coffee, mijnheer, it is not good?”
Startled from his thoughts, he smiled up at the waitress. “I must have dozed off. Bring me another, will you? It’s the sun.”
Concern showed in her sky-blue eyes. “You do look tired. Stay as long as you wish.”
Would that he could.
Just before noon a woman went into the Dutchman’s shop. Otherwise business was dead.
Hagen paid his bill, found the nearest bridge and went back along the canal and into the shop.
The Dutchman was just about to lock up for lunch. “Mijnheer Hagen—” he blurted. “This is an unexpected pleasure. You should have telephoned. You might not have found me in.”
The florid, fleshy cheeks tightened. The pallid eyes flicked to the window, to the street beyond the clutter of pawnable refuse, the violins and horns, the guitars, banjos and cameras that hung in weary anticipation of a buyer.
Hagen closed the door and put the lock on, pausing only to hang the Out for Lunch sign. The Dutchman retreated behind the counter by the cash drawer. Hagen took one look about the shop, took in the incredible maze of cast-off tables and cabinets where silverware, china, soup tureens, old books and trays of jewelry lay asleep.
A cluster of seashells caught his eye. The stench of mold, age, sour sweat and stale cigar smoke stung his nostrils. Picking up a butcher knife, he felt the edge. He chose another and then another, as if dissatisfied with them all.
Klees broke at last. “Please, what is it, mijnheer?”
“You’ve been to the Antwerp Exchange and laid a complaint against its youngest dealer.”
The Dutchman gave a lusty snort. “I know nothing of this, my friend. What complaint? From me to those stuffy old bastards? Hah, you’ve got to be kidding. Why would I complain about you? Why would they listen to someone like me?”
He had a point. Hagen set the knife aside and made his way over to the counter. “What, exactly, did you do?”
The pale gray eyes narrowed. The Dutchman eased open a drawer, then flicked a glance to the street beyond and nervously wet his lips. “I went to see de Heer Wunsch to ask again that he help me.”
“But he threw you out. He turned you down.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Then what?”
The fingers moved to the drawer again. “I came back here. Nothing else.”
Hagen moved a little closer to the counter. Spreading out Bernard’s cable, he let the Dutchman read it.
Still the hand lingered by the drawer.
“I telephoned de Heer Wunsch last night when I got in, mijnheer. He told me that I was up against it, that you had laid a charge against me and that my seat on the Exchange was threatened. Now talk.”
The fingers moved. Hagen shot out a hand and jammed the drawer shut, catching the fingers in a vise!
The Dutchman cried out in pain. Thrown back against the shelves, he knocked some crystal loose. The glass shattered at his feet.
Easing the drawer open, Hagen released the fingers. Then he took the pistol, slipped open the breech, popped the shell and the clip and tossed everything back into the drawer. “I’m still waiting, mijnheer. I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened.”
Klees winced. Cradling the fingers of his right hand, he stared at Hagen. The pistol … the speed with which the salesman had unloaded it … “You must believe me. I know nothing of this, mijnheer. Others must have used my name. Perhaps they made a simple telephone call.”
“Who?”
The Dutchman shrugged.
“Has anyone been to see you?”
Klees shook his head. “Am I under surveillance? Please, for the … the sake of others you must tell me.”
Hagen gave him a swift look. “You tell me how you get the stones.”
The wariness crept back. Again Klees glanced to the street. Satisfied, he said, “The pieces come out of Germany and I buy them when I can. Lately I’ve been taking the stones from their mountings as you yourself have advised. The deals are honest. I swear they are. I’ve invested heavily and want only to protect myself. Believe me, you and de Heer Wunsch are my only hope. I’ve already exhausted all other possibilities. It’s really not much to ask. A vault in London, what could be simpler for you to arrange?”
“Who do you get the pieces from?”
“Doctors, lawyers—who knows, it’s all the same. They need ready cash, and this I can supply.”
“Not from this rattrap.”
Klees showed no emotion. “I have other means. Savings. A—”
“A house down on the Oudezijds Voorburgwal?”
“The Achterburgwal. You know the inner city well, mijnheer. Perhaps you have visited with one of my girls.”
Hagen picked up the cable and began to refold it. “What do you keep the houseboat for? A floating bordello?”
The Dutchman didn’t smile. “You know very well the police would not allow this. The houseboat is where I live in summer.”
“Show me what you’ve acquired in the past few days.”
“There hasn’t been anything in for nearly a week.”
“Damn you, let me see it anyway.”
“Very well. If you will excuse me a moment, I will just go into the back, to the safe.”
“I’ll follow, if you don’t mind.”
Behind the shop there was an incredible warren of junk, piled here, piled there, swords, old muskets, several bass violins, trombones whose slides were dented, trumpets no one would want, packing cases, suitcases and trunks that had been pawned on arrival at the station or left unclaimed and bought at auction …
One of the workbenches held the guts of several cameras. Out of these, Klees had been attempting to assemble a salable item.
On a brick wall, across a sea of junk and seen through cluttered, open shelves, he had hung a collection of dolls, perhaps a hundred or more, of all sizes, all shapes. Some had bits of clothing. Most lacked an arm or a leg, even a head. A clown faced outward while his body was cruelly twisted the other way and hung by a thread of stuffing. Another nail held only a Rhineland maiden’s braided rope of flaxen hair.
Gobs of mortar protruded from between the bricks, tongues of gray against the red. One naked doll was running, another was pinned to the wall with her knees spread widely and her pants pulled down about her ankles. Yet another hung upside down with perpetually open eyes. One leg had been torn away.
Sunlight fled across the collection, casting shadows from the battered bars of a grimy window. Dust filtered in the light and still the dolls stared at him.
“You’ve quite a place.”
“Yes. Now, please, allow me a little privacy while I open the safe.”
Hagen looked at him. “How do I know you don’t keep another gun in there?”
“I do, but would I risk a charge of murder when it is yourself who is in trouble? Believe me, mijnheer, I’ve been along the road you travel. I know exactly what it’s like.”
The office was tiny, cut out of the warren with see-through shelves that revealed again in fragmented glimpses the rack of broken dolls, the dim gray clutter of broken hearts and shattered hopes.
The Dutchman knelt to turn the dials of an ancient safe. Across the desk, under the light, was spread a collection of what had once been antique jewelry. A cigar box held the scrapped mountings of several earlier forays, ready to be melted down and cast into wedges of silver and gold. Another box held a handful or two of second-rate stones. Some glass, some cheap bits of paste. Hagen let them trickle through his fingers.
Klees nudged him aside. “These came in last week. Please, I don’t know what this is all about, Mijnheer Hagen. No one has been to see me. I’ve said nothing to anyone, and I don’t know anything about a complaint against you.”
Among the pieces was the woman’s ring. Hardly a day had passed since he’d last seen her on the train.
Antwerp was beautiful in the early evening. It was a relief to be home at last, even if there was still trouble ahead. Because of the hour and the annual holidays, there was less traffic than usual on a Friday night.
Hagen stood outside the Central Railway Station. The office wasn’t far, the meeting with Bernard and the Committee scheduled for nine o’clock. He had a good hour to wait, time enough for a stroll. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t eat. He had to get this meeting over with. So much depended on it.
Yet the heart of the city beckoned, and he wanted to feel a part of it again.
When he came to stand outside the boardinghouse where Arlette lived, he had to smile at himself, for his feet and a tramcar ride had led him where his mind had told him not to go.
She’d be off on holiday—at Ostend with her parents. When she returned to work she might, quite probably, find his office empty. In any case he couldn’t become involved.
Yet he had to see her.
The guild houses of the Grote Markt reminded him of those along the Prinsengracht. As he passed the corner of a street, two girls of seven or eight were skipping next a faded red brick wall. Unbidden, the images came to mind, the wall space filled with broken dolls, all shapes, all sizes, all races. Arlette …
The Nazis would wreck this place. They’d banish light and innocence.
Turning abruptly away, he headed for the office.
The Committee was waiting for him. They had purposely put off the meeting for an hour so as to have time to rehash the situation and come to a consensus before he arrived. It was all too clear they were far from happy.
Jacob Lietermann was the acknowledged leader of the Antwerp Diamond Exchange, a man of great integrity and immense experience. Well into his seventies, he still worked every day, still smoked his cigars when the doctor or his wife were not near and he thought he could get away with such things.
“Richard, you are punctual. That is good in a young man. Yes, very good.”
The dark eyes had lost none of their earnestness. A searcher all his life, Lietermann looked only for what was best in men and diamonds.
That look was questioning but then the moment passed.
“You know the others. Isaac Hond, Abraham Merensky and, of course, our Bernard, who has so graciously taken us into his confidence both as to the break-in at this office and to the fantastic deal the Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach has offered you.”
A twinkle momentarily appeared in those ancient eyes, flecks of curiosity.
Lietermann noticed the whisper of shock that news of the break-in had brought; he noticed the control, too, and counted these both positive signs. “To sell the Reich a year’s supply of industrial stones is no mean feat, young man.”
Hagen didn’t waver under his scrutiny. “I must apologize, Mijnheer Lietermann—gentlemen—you have me at a disadvantage. I’ve only just got in. Mijnheer Wunsch has not had a chance to brief me.”
That, too, was a good sign, the choice of words, the putting before all else responsibility to one’s employer. Lietermann took him kindly by the arm and led him to a chair.
“Richard, this is not a court of inquiry, but a gathering of friends. As you know, we have always settled things among ourselves. Have a seat, listen to Bernard while he tells you of the break-in, then of the charges against you, and lastly of his reasons for confiding in us so that all might have a say in supplying or not supplying the Reich with such a commitment.”
The Antwerp Exchange ruled itself by this informal committee of its elders. Isaac Hond was bearded, dressed in a dark black suit as always and with the worried look of the perpetually nervous, for which he had, in truth, every reason, though now there was a scowl he did nothing to hide. It was through him, through this thin, pale little man, that all the important decisions of the trade passed. He had a mind for prices, for the trends and styles that set the trade in Paris, London and New York.
Abraham Merensky handled the delicate relationships that existed not only between the Exchange and the cartel in London, but between the dealers in the Antwerp bourses and between them and their workers. It was to him that fell the settling of squabbles, the righting of wrongs and the meting out of appropriate disciplinary action. The overseeing of the apprenticeships in each of the shops also fell to him, a task that was not always easy. Like the others, he had an exhaustive knowledge of the trade. He, too, was getting on, and Hagen, as he listened carefully to Bernard, wondered what these men would really do if the crunch were to come.
They’d best all go to London first so as to keep their businesses intact. And then, what then? New York or Israel.
From behind his desk Bernard Wunsch summed things up. “So, Richard, you see we’re not without our reasons for concern. Not only have the office and your apartment been broken into and your file almost certainly photographed, but some anonymous person has telephoned Mijnheer Merensky and laid charges against you not only of illegally trading in diamonds but of assisting de Heer Klees in the transport of stolen gemstones.”
“The stones aren’t stolen—at least, not technically. Klees buys them from destitute refugees who are on the run.”
“But are you dealing with him, Mijnheer Hagen?” asked Merensky.
“Of course not. On my way home, I went to see him to clarify things. Klees emphatically denies he telephoned you.”
Isaac Hond was adamant. “The caller has said there will be proof.”
“Did he appear in person? Since when would you convict a man on such flimsiness? I told Klees we’d have nothing to do with him. Bernard was left a memo to this effect.”
Wunsch gave a nod and reached for his cigarettes. Richard was handling himself well, but there was still more to come.
Merensky cleared his throat and gripped the arms of his chair. “Then perhaps, young man, you’d be kind enough to tell us why someone should wish to discredit you in our eyes?”
“Richard, have you done anything in the Reich you shouldn’t have?” asked Wunsch.
What was the matter with them? “Of course not. I’m far too busy. Bernard, you of all people ought to know that. Look, I honestly don’t know why anyone should want to do this.”
“Perhaps,” breathed Isaac Hond, letting the word fall softly as he glanced from one to the other of them.
It was Lietermann who interceded. “Richard, is there something we should know? Have the Nazis …”
Hagen hoped his look of concern would suffice. “They know we’re thinking of moving the Antwerp stocks to London. Don’t ask me how they found out. I certainly didn’t tell them, but the Krupp asked me of it and he questioned me on alternate sources.”
“Should the Reich find itself cut off again without a ready supply of industrial diamonds,” interjected Merensky, studying the cigar he’d taken out. He let his words hang in the air, knowing they would drive the others to remember the Great War and the blockade.
Then he said bitterly, “Damn the Nazis, Jacob. What the devil are they up to?”
A big man, with pallid jowls, Merensky clenched his fist and broke the cigar.
“Abraham, please. Your blood pressure,” cautioned Lietermann. “Some coffee, Bernard?”
“Something a little stronger for me,” snorted Merensky. “A cognac, young man.” He snapped his fingers. “I know full well Bernard keeps a bottle in that cupboard.”
It was Hond who, not looking at any of them, said, “So, I have told you this already, Jacob. Me, I have said the Nazis would find out about our wish to move the diamond stocks to London. They have their spies everywhere—the break-in here, the theft—yes, we must call it that—of Mijnheer Hagen’s file is evidence enough. Now they will try to scuttle our plans. Our businesses will be ruined.”
“Isaac, please. It’s not a disaster yet,” cautioned Lietermann. “Richard, I take it the Gestapo paid some attention to you this time?”
Unsettled by the question, Hagen said warily, “Yes … yes, that’s true. Normally I’ve been given a fairly free rein. We send the Reich Ministry of the Interior my itinerary. The Germans then check it out and—”
“The German security services,” interjected Isaac Hond.
“Yes, the Gestapo, the Sicherheitsdienst—the Abwehr, for all I know,” countered Hagen. “Someone checks the itinerary and the ministry provides me with the necessary letter of approval.”
“Someone checks you out, Mijnheer Hagen,” said Merensky. “Please, we’re not fools.”
Hond replenished his coffee, pausing as he did so. “But this time the Gestapo kept an eye on you?”
Again Hagen found himself having to say, “Yes … yes, that’s correct.”
Hond jabbed at him with the sugar spoon. “So why, please, should someone want to discredit you in our eyes?”
“In all honesty I don’t know, sir.”
“Oh come now, young man. Come now,” interjected Merensky.
“Richard, you won’t have seen the newspapers yet,” said Bernard anxiously. “That Brussels rag the Nazis own has slapped a photograph of you and Heydrich on its front page. The handshake of goodwill.”
Betrayal was in Bernard’s dark brown eyes.
“They’re trying to suggest to us that not only are you not to be trusted, Richard, but that you are one of them.”
This had come from Lietermann but all of them were the accusers.
Hagen ran a weary hand over his brow, pushing aside the boyish hank of hair. “I’m just a salesman, gentlemen. I’m not one of them. How could I be? I’m one of you and I always will be.”
It was Isaac Hond the worrier who quietly said, “You’ve done amazingly well with them, Mijnheer Hagen. This latest request of the Krupp’s only serves to emphasize their continued faith. So, what are we to think when we see you saying ‘Heil Hitler’ to the head of the Sicherheitsdienst, the Secret Service of the SS!”
“That he’s a very difficult adversary for us to have to face, and that for some reason—one we may never know—he’s decided to make a point of meeting me and of letting everyone—not just yourselves, gentlemen—know of it. Incidentally, I didn’t say ‘Heil Hitler.’ I said ‘Heil,’ as I always do when forced into that particular corner. I also didn’t know my picture was being taken.”
At a curt nod from Merensky, Wunsch reluctantly opened a drawer and took out the two little books he had found in Richard’s flat. For a moment he ran his fingers uncertainly over them. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Things were at such an impasse he regretted ever having questioned Richard’s possession of the little books.
Yet he had to say it. “Richard, there is a very obvious reason why Heydrich should take such a personal interest in you. Could it be that he feels the German Military Intelligence Service are not doing their job? We are all aware of the fact that men such as yourself must have Abwehr clearance, though it’s never admitted by them. The matter of moving our diamonds to London would, I assume, also be a matter for the Abwehr, not the Sicherheitsdienst?”
“I don’t know, Bernard. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“No, it isn’t, Richard. Yours is infinitely better.”
He couldn’t waver. “I’m sorry, Bernard, but I simply don’t know what you mean.”
Wunsch felt the little books again. “Several of the poems are marked. Though it’s not common knowledge, I myself have some experience in these matters. Such things are used for secret communications. Are you gathering military-industrial intelligence for the British, the Americans or both?”
Hagen looked sadly at each of them. He wanted to confide in them but couldn’t.
“I wondered why that broken passage from ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ had been included in your cable, Bernard. Gentlemen, I can appreciate your concern, but those books were read to me as a boy by my mother. We had to travel light while prospecting. Even in base camp, where my mother and I usually stayed, things were pretty primitive. As a very young boy I came to love those little books, that’s all. That’s why I have copies of them.”
“These are not typical of something that has been knocked about in the jungle, Richard. There are no mildew stains. The termites haven’t been at them,” said Wunsch.
“Of course they’re not mildewed. My mother found those for me in a secondhand shop and sent them on as a birthday gift.”
“But there is no inscription!” exclaimed Bernard, being fussy. Damnably fussy.
“She wouldn’t have written one. Ever since she left my father we’ve not got on. Gentlemen, please try to understand that my actions have always been honorable and will continue to be. When this happened—” he held up his left hand “—it was the last straw in a marriage that had been steadily deteriorating. When I was well enough to travel, my mother refused to let me stay with my father and took me from him to the United States. I loved my father very dearly. To understand this, you have only to appreciate that he gave me adventures no other boy could ever have had and that he treated me always as an equal. If she had stayed with him, he’d be alive today.”
“Still hunting for diamonds,” said Merensky dryly.
“Yes. He knew parts of the Congo like the back of his hand. He was in on the discovery of Tshikapa, in on that of Mbuji-Mayi, though others got the credit.”
“And the profits.” This came from Lietermann of all people.
“Yes. I admit he felt badly about some things, also that the Diamond Corporation has been trying to make it up to me ever since.”
“Then you hold no ill will toward Sir Ernest?” asked Hond. Suspicion still.
Hagen met his gaze. “Why should I? Sir Ernest has always been more than kind to me.”
Hond was persistent. “And you’ve no thoughts of forming your own mining and prospecting company—of striking out on your own and being a rebel like your father?”
So that was it. They were afraid Heydrich had tried to bribe him into working for the Nazis. “None at the moment, mijnheer. I’m still learning. As for the dream, don’t all of us have one? A realist would say it’s crazy, my father, that it was essential—that the farther off, the better, so long as there was the dream to keep us going. I love prospecting. It’s always been a part of me, and always will be, but for now I’m entirely content to be working for Bernard and yourselves.”
It was Lietermann who, seizing the moment, said, “Richard, please give us your thoughts on what is happening in the Reich. Let us have the benefit of your travels.”
Hagen talked for nearly an hour, at times earnestly, at times with a sadness whose depth of sincerity could not be misunderstood. Somehow they had to realize time was of the essence, that no matter what the opposition, everything had to be done to clear the way for transferring the diamond stocks to London.
“All their industries are working at capacity. It’s awesome. It’s the greatest war machine the world has ever seen.”
For several minutes there was silence. Merensky stared at the crumbs of his broken cigar; Bernard fiddled with the knot in his tie.
Isaac Hond sought solace in the carpet.
Jacob Lietermann was again their spokesman. “Richard, you must be exhausted. Indeed, if you will forgive my saying so, you don’t look well. But if you could spare us another hour? Sir Ernest has cabled a request that you pay him a visit in London. We must decide on this and other matters. Please, you do understand? Perhaps you could visit briefly with de Heer Levinski and his wife. They’ll want the news of their daughter I’m sure you bear. Then, on your return, we will not keep you waiting any longer.”
Lev and his wife took the news of Rachel and her husband for what it was, an honest appraisal. Hagen said that he was sorry he couldn’t have been more helpful. “But I may have a lead on one or two things. I’ve asked them to apply to Brazil, and I’ve told them I’ll lend them sufficient money.”
Lev was grateful but still he had to say, “If they can get out in time.”
Hagen knew he had to give them further hope. “There’s another avenue. Let me explore it a little more on my next trip. If it looks like we can get them out that way, I’ll let you know the moment they’re here. The problem then will be in keeping them in this country.”
“And the Committee?” asked Lev.
He shrugged. “I’m on trial. The whole thing’s a mess.”
“Don’t worry. Those guys know what’s what, Richard. That Lietermann—” Lev touched his temple “—he’s smart. They might suspect you of espionage, but this will only make them think you have the ear of important people in London. Even I, a poor diamond cutter, have figured this out, haven’t I, Anna?”
His wife gave him an uncertain smile. Lev patted her hand and beamed. “Because of this, you’re all the more valuable to them.”
Hagen couldn’t bring himself to tell them that Krantz had followed him to Rachel’s house. “How’s Arlette?”
Lev told him that she had left their employ and why she had done so. “It’s not often a girl feels that way toward a man. If I were you …” He looked away. “Bernard, he feels the same as I do. We both think … well, of course, it’s none of our business.”
When Hagen returned to the office, Lietermann told him that the Committee had unanimously decided to publicly dismiss the charges against him as false and to give him all the support he needed.
“Now you must go to London for us as soon as you can, Richard. Try to convince Sir Ernest, of the urgency of our request. Tell him about the guns and airplanes. Tell him about the Gestapo and the apparent interest of Reinhard Heydrich.”
Tell him.
“And what will I tell the Krupp about his request for a year’s supply?”
“That you cannot possibly get so many together at one time without disrupting the market, but that you will see what you can do.”
Sunlight sparkled on the waves off Ostend. As the sailboat came about, Arlette drew in the cool salt air and said, “It’s so good, Willi. Just to feel free like this. Why didn’t you tell me the Vega was such a boat?”
De Menten laughed. “You’re surprised? You really like her?”
“Oh, I do. She’s perfect. Such a job. But are you really sure the varnish is dry?”
“Of course it is. I’m sorry you had to wait so long.”
Stretching his lanky legs across the well of the boat, de Menten hunkered down out of the wind and folded his hands behind his head. He was glad now that he had kept her waiting.
Arlette felt the 5.5-meter yacht beneath her hand. She lifted her eyes momentarily to the masthead. The bow went up. Spray glistened in the sun.
She knew Willi was studying her. He was the son of a butcher and she had known him nearly all her life. He was thin, wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses, had red hair, freckles, was overly serious at times, overly rambunctious and fun-loving at other times. An awkward boy in the guise of a young man of twenty-six. Sometimes she thought he would never grow up. At other times he seemed ancient. He had a temper, too.
The sun had burned the pale skin over the bridge of his nose and under his sea-green eyes. It had bleached the long lashes, and she wondered how many times he had had the boat out and not said a thing of it to her?
Willi had bought the Vega from an estate auction and had worked on her all winter in his spare time. The brass fittings shone. The sails were new; he had sewn them himself.
Yes, he was very capable with his hands. She’d have to give him that. He wasn’t handsome. He was gangling, and what started off badly with the short red thatch, the protruding ears, narrow face and long neck only continued down to the big feet that were death on the dance floor.
She was pleased he had fixed the boat so beautifully and had kept it as such a surprise. She was flattered, secretly warmed inside, and men—most men—were not handsome anyway.
But she didn’t love him, not in the way she …
“That’s a new bathing suit, isn’t it?”
She drew in her tummy, hauling on the mainsheet a bit. “Yes. Do you like it?” She wished he’d leave well enough alone, was nervous now.
Goose pimples had risen on the tan she had acquired since coming home for the holidays.
“You know I like it. Especially the front and the back!”
Arlette let go of the tiller and dropped her eyes to her front, threw her hands up to the straps, then watched in dismay as the boom swung toward them.
Petrified, she couldn’t seem to move. Her breasts must have shown. She hadn’t tied the straps tight enough! She knew she hadn’t!
De Menten leaped for the tiller and the mainsheet. The boom swung back. The sail flapped mercilessly, then snapped taut as it refilled.
Coloring quickly, Arlette found him very close to her. Their knees were touching. One bare leg rubbed against her own. “I’m sorry. I should have done better but it … it wasn’t nice of you to tease me like that. You’re always teasing, Willi.”
She was so embarrassed, so afraid of his scrutiny. He kissed her then. The kiss was awkward and not very satisfactory. They might get better, but she had the uncomfortable feeling they never would.
“Don’t you like me, Arlette?”
She dropped her eyes, was crying now. “Of course I do.”
“It’s him, isn’t it? That guy at the place where you used to work?”
“It is not! I just want to have some fun. I want to sail.”
He let her take the tiller again. He said he was sorry, but she could tell that he didn’t mean it.
“What’ll you do now that you’ve left Dillingham’s?”
“Look for another job. In Liege, I think,” she said with punishing severity. “My cousin says there might be something for me at the Browning factory.”
“From diamonds to guns, that’s quite a change.” Liege … it was so far away. “Arlette …”
She tightened up on the sail, gave the jib a passing glance, then examined all the rigging. “Yes, what is it?”
She was afraid.
“What would you say to staying here? My father …he might be willing to let me take over more of the business. We’re doing well with the hotels this season. We’ve got two men working for us now. One of them could take over the deliveries.”
“I thought you didn’t like working for him? I thought you were sick of driving that van?”
“I am. But there’s something else, something really big. Arthur Lund, down at the garage, says he could use me. I’m good with cars, good at fixing engines. In a year or so I’ll have my mechanic’s papers. Maybe then we could …”
There were crowds of people on the beach in front of the hotels and guest houses that lined the promenade. Some huddled in the lee of their bathing tents, others sat in deck chairs behind striped bits of awning.
As they came abreast of the pier, one of the tour boats sounded its whistle while the other one came in to dock. Soon it would be time for the afternoon ferry from England.
“Willi, I need some time. Please. Just a little. I must find myself another job, yes? I can’t expect my parents to keep me.”
“Your father says you’re needed in the shop.”
“He always says that. He’s said it since I was a little girl.”
“Your mother wants us to get married. She’s been talking with my mother.”
“Yes, I know. But there’s lots of time. Let’s just enjoy ourselves. Let’s not spoil things.”
“I didn’t think I was.”
“Oh, now you’re hurt! All I want is a little time. I need to find myself, Willi. I need to be on my own for a while.”
When hunger got the better of them, they made peace with each other and headed up the coast to where the beach was not so crowded and the ragged dunes were piled.
Marram grass seesawed in the wind.
Hagen watched their approach. Beyond the sailboat, almost due west of him, he could just make out the chalk-white cliffs of Dover.
The distance was nothing. The Germans could be across it in no time.
Arlette clambered lithely forward to lower the jib. Willi de Menten furled in the mainsail. When they reached the shallows, Arlette lowered the anchor into the water.
The bow swung into the wind. She slid over the side and hung on, looking up at de Menten and laughing now.
Hagen could see that they’d done this sort of thing lots of times. He had no right to interfere. He ought not to have come.
She stood in the shallows with hands on her hips. “Richard … Richard, is that you?”
He turned and left them quickly, hoping that she hadn’t seen him clearly. The Church of St. Martin raised its spire above the town of Ypres in the distance, while all around them the almost featureless plain of Flanders spread.
Willi hugged the wheel of the battered Citroen van his father didn’t know he had borrowed. “Well, what now? What the hell do we do, Arlette? This is crazy. He could be visiting any of the cemeteries. There are thirteen of them. Thirteen! We’ll be half the night and all day tomorrow searching for him. And why? What the hell’s he to you? A cemetery on a day like this! An idiot! He must be an idiot!”
The argument had gone on like this all the way back to the harbor, to town, the street outside the butcher shop, and on … “Hush. Turn here. My father said he’d be going to the one at Vlamertinge.”
They swung into the military cemetery, which was just outside the tiny village, not far to the west of Ypres. De Menten took the van in a mad loop and then another and another, raising dust.
The only other vehicle in the parking lot was an ancient taxi they both recognized. Its driver was a displaced dockworker from Rotterdam, a renegade in shabby coveralls, no shirt and scruffy boots.
Henk Vanderheide believed in bathing inside. He scratched under his fleshy chin, sucked on the fag that clung to his protruding lower lip and looked up wistfully as they pulled in beside him and lurched dangerously to a stop.
Arlette leaned out of the cab, a breath of fresh air on the heat of their exhaust and an engine that had probably rebelled. “Henki, have you seen de Heer Hagen? Where is he, please?”
With a start, he realized she was wearing a bathing suit! Grinning hugely, he jerked a thumb over one shoulder to indicate the nearest path. “He’s in among the stones, communing with the departed. You in a hurry or something?”
“Yes.”
He drew on his fag, coughed, wheezed desperately and finally said, “Well, you shouldn’t be. Not in a place like this. It’s far too quiet. Willi, my boy, have you got any beer?”
As she got out of the cab, Vanderheide saw that her feet were bare, her legs …
“Willi, wait for me, please.”
Henki let his eyes rove up her backside. The calves of her long legs were shapely, the backs of her knees soft, tender pads, her thighs, Lord Jesus her thighs, were slender, her ass … Oh God, oh Jesus, what an ass … tight like a young green pear.
Willi yelled at her, “I never want to see you again, Arlette! Go to him then. See if I care!” He hit the wheel, bruising a hand.
She yanked open the door and crawled back up onto the seat. “Willi, listen to me. De Heer Hagen is in trouble. I must go and see what he wants.”
Dragging her beach coat after her, she remembered her sandals, which were on the floor. Giving a muttered “Mother, please,” she slipped these on, tossed Vanderheide a reproving glance and headed for the path.
The two men watched her, Willi with tears in his sensitive eyes, Vanderheide with outright lust, for she walked in that way women who are good in bed walk, slackly, with ease and confidence, as though they know they’re going to get it and want only to hurry.
She reached a grove of lindens, went under these and out across the lawn. Regimented headstones flanked her now, row on row, some with holly, others with roses. Here and there Lombardy poplars threw their shade so that some of the stones were darker than the others.
“Richard, what is it? Why did you leave us like that?”
He was standing alone in the shade before one of the headstones. His back was to her, and for a moment he didn’t turn.
“You shouldn’t have come. I told your father I’d drop in to say goodbye.”
He looked so worried.
“Arlette, go back. Please.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t know. Everything, I guess. Maybe nothing.” He gave a shrug and smiled then, smiled so gently she found herself loving him all the more.
“Did you come hoping I’d return to work at Dillingham’s?” she asked eagerly. “Lev said you would.”
He grinned sheepishly and pushed the hair back off his brow. “As a matter of fact, I did, but then, on the beach there I thought … well, I thought I had no right to interfere in your life. Besides …”
Her eyebrows arched in puzzled alarm. Was there someone else, someone like Cecile Verheyden?
A sadness swept over him. He thought of Klees, of the wall of broken dolls. He thought of the German war machine, of the Stuka and its siren. He couldn’t drag her into things. It wouldn’t be right, wouldn’t be fair to her. “Arlette, I don’t want to see you hurt.”
She tried to understand, tried to comprehend. When he turned from her, she read the inscription: Corporal William R. Hagen, died 13 October 1918. “So many of them died here, Richard. Over 250,000 in one battle alone.”
“It was a bloodbath,” he said grimly.
Taking out his wallet, he removed a mud-stained, single slip of folded paper. “Just before he was killed, my dad wrote me this. He was out in no-man’s-land and he was worried. The man he was trying to kill had no name but was good—the best my father had come up against. They’d been after each other for days.”
Hagen refolded the thing, found a match and set it alight. “Please don’t be horrified. I can’t keep it any longer. It would only be dangerous for me if I did.”
He was so sad. He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Why?” she asked as the last of the letter fell.
Hagen wanted so much to send her away and yet couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Because, although I still can’t believe it possible, I think I must have met the man who shot him.”