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 citizenry 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.

Once inside, where German and French were spoken interchangeably, along with a smattering of Alsatian, Swiss-German, and Swabian-German, Gustov ordered a beer and sat between two stalwart lads who were not old enough to be drinking but did so copiously. Above them on the wall was a stag head with an antler rack of mythic dimensions, like something Beowulf might have felled. Old men played darts and older men played dominoes. The piano was dreadfully out of tune.

Gustov asked about Englishmen. Were there any around? No, they told him, all the Tommies were out in the scrap, humping their rucksacks through the mud. No one here knew of any man from Britain, but they had plenty to say of the quality of British food. The bartender, who’d lost an eye while fighting for his country’s imperial interests in the Boxer Rebellion, said to him, “Everything they eat across the Channel is boiled to death in steam, then covered in a watery white sauce made of wallpaper paste.”

Gustov could respond to that only with a laugh and several swallows of beer.

How many taverns lined this street? It was going to be an interesting night.

****

At half past three in the morning, Ellenor woke when someone entered her room.

She’d spent the evening speaking with Klaus. Though he didn’t press her for her story, she told him nearly everything, from the crash landing on the hill to the trading away of her honey bee pendant for a quilt to keep her warm. There was little reason to lie to him, as he knew that Alec was Sarah’s brother and therefore a Briton here without permission. Klaus would not reveal them to the authorities—or so she hoped.

The only other resident of the house was Klaus’s longtime attendant, Uli, who prepared a dinner of braised cabbage and hot potato salad. Ellenor’s hunger surprised her. She placed a tray outside Alec’s room and knocked on the door but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. Holding her own sorrow at bay, she listened to the radio news update with Klaus after dinner and then permitted Uli to draw her a bath. As upset as she was, she was not about to deny the glory of hot water and soap, even if it was wartime soap with no scent.

She returned to her small room to find that Uli had placed a selection of sleeping gowns on the narrow bed; she suspected these garments had once belonged to Sarah Weller, which made her simultaneously grateful and sad. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but the weight of the last few days pressed down upon her, and she plunged into her dreams…

Now, hours later, she sat straight up, a gasp trapped in her throat. A figure in her doorway was silhouetted by the candle it held.

“Get the hell out,” she hissed in English, too dazed and afraid to remember otherwise.

“I apologize,” Uli said in German. “I would not have disturbed you, madam, if it were not a matter of urgency.”

She thought of Alec. What had he done? “Is Alec all right?”

“Please, madam, follow me. Your friend is fine. I’ve already awakened him. He’s waiting for us downstairs. We must hurry.”

“Hurry?” It didn’t make sense. Yet she knew this was not a piece of the dream she’d been enjoying, the one about boats and parasols and languid river rides. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

Uli left without another word.

Ellenor dressed quickly in clothes he’d provided. In the lamplight, it was hard to see much of the outfit save that it was far more ladylike than what she’d been wearing when she arrived. The fit was somewhat large for her but not so much as to be uncomfortable. She was wearing a dead woman’s clothes.

Ignoring that for now, she joined Uli in the hallway. He led her downstairs, then into the parlor, where French doors stood open to the warm night air. Alec waited there, framed against the dark sky.

She hugged him before she could scold herself for her lack of decorum.

He held her tightly, hungrily, and then let her go. He said softly, “Thank you.”

“Are you…I mean, are you going to be…?”

“Hard to say, old girl. I hope so.”

“What’s going on? Why are we here?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

Uli brushed past them. “This way.”

Ellenor’s pulse hadn’t settled since she was torn from sleep. The down-filled mattress had absorbed her, and now—the night air on her cheeks—she realized that whatever intrigue Alec had drawn her into was not quite over yet.

They followed Uli into the garden. The large space was bordered by the house on one side and a tall hedgerow on the other three, completely enclosing the lawn. There were no lights other than Uli’s candle, which he shielded with his hand. The dark shape of a gazebo appeared.

Ellenor walked beside Alec, her new pleated skirt rustling against her boots; she wore the knee-high Wellingtons, as Uli hadn’t provided any footwear when he’d laid out her clothes.

Uli placed the candle on the gazebo railing. “I’ll be in the parlor.”

“Wait,” Ellenor said. “You’re leaving?”

“I won’t be far.”

“What’s happening?”

He kept walking, disappearing into the house.

Ellenor turned back around and was about to say something frantic to Alec when she realized they were not alone. She sensed it. Someone stood just beyond the limit of the candle’s glow, concealed in the darkness before the tall shrubs.

She found Alec’s hand and interlaced her fingers in his.

A dog barked far away. Night bugs hummed.

“Who are you?” Ellenor said, her voice firm.

Alec gave her hand a squeeze. “We know you’re there,” he said. “I’m in no mood for drama or idiotic games, so either show your face or let me go back to bed.”

Seconds passed.

A woman stepped from the shadows and drew back her hood.

“Hello, little brother,” Sarah said.