December 1917, Essen, Germany
When Julian left for the factory that morning, the last thing he expected was to hear his Christian name. He’d been swallowed up in the persona of Hans Becker for so long that Julian Olivier had become someone from a different life. But a voice called from the woods to the side of the house as he walked toward the lane. “Julian.”
He paused, startled, then bent down and fiddled with his already fastened shoelace in case someone was watching from the house. Slowly he turned his head to study the trees and let whomever had called know he had heard. He didn’t go directly to the woods. He followed his previous course, only turning into the grove of trees when he knew anyone looking through the windows of the Sauer estate would be unable to see him.
Within a few minutes, he was back where the sound had originated, face-to-face with the Canadian pilot. “Lieutenant Flynn?”
“Captain, actually. I’ve come to take you back to France. Lohr has a source, and agent Sparrow thinks your cover is blown.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He didn’t know who she was, but McDougall had mentioned an agent Sparrow during his last visit. Julian examined Flynn’s clothing. Civilian, at least, if not German.
“McDougall left France to warn you, but I didn’t think he could sneak through Holland quickly enough to beat Lohr.”
“When do we leave?” Julian hesitated to leave without McDougall, but it might be weeks before the Scotsman made it to Essen.
“Tonight. I brought in a little two-seater plane. If the German Jastas on the front lines can see us, they’ll shoot us down, so we want to cross the trenches in the dark. I plan to go back to my plane for the day. It’s through the trees, near the field by the stream. Do you know the area?”
“Yes. I’ve gathered mushrooms there with the Kallweit boys. It’s a good location. Not many people go there this time of year. But don’t light a fire; someone would notice the smoke. Will you be warm enough?”
“I’ll manage.”
“And food?”
“Cold bully beef.”
Julian supposed the tinned meat was better than what most of Essen’s population would eat that day.
“Before we leave, can you warn your contact, the lady who set you up here?”
“Yes.” If Julian was going to leave that night, he could skip his shift at the factory and visit Frau Von Hayek instead. And as strange as it sounded, he wanted to say good-bye, in his own way, to the Kallweit family. “What time do we fly out?”
“Early morning. The sun doesn’t rise until eight, so we should leave between five and six. Then it will be dark when we cross the lines, but we’ll have a bit of light to land by.”
Julian thought of the information he’d gathered in Essen. And of the information he still hadn’t gathered. He wanted to spend the day hiding beside the plane, but McDougall’s chastisement from their last meeting continued to sear his conscience. There were still things to learn, things that might help the poilus in the trenches. “I’ve been monitoring results at the Krupp testing range. They’re on to something major—a huge gun with an unheard-of range—and new shells that are supposed to be even more deadly. I can only break in when the moon is right. I should go tonight. It will take a few hours, but I’ll be finished before we need to leave.”
“Right. Do you need help?”
No one in Germany had helped Julian with his espionage work since Frau Von Hayek found him his cover job, but he quickly saw the benefit of having a lookout. “Yes. I’ll meet you by the plane this evening. We’ll hit the range at about nine. Most of the men don’t work past then no matter how important their projects.”
* * *
Julian saw Frau Von Hayek that morning, and she assured him she would leave at once for Holland. On Captain Flynn’s suggestion, he also asked her to contact McDougall to tell him not to come to Germany. In case he had already crossed the border, Julian placed an ad in one of the local papers: Spider is going home. He hoped McDougall would remember to check it.
Willi and Franz were playing chess when Julian returned to the Sauer home and walked into the dining room.
“Grandpapa said someone is coming to see him tomorrow,” Franz said.
“Do you know who?” Julian asked.
“No.”
Julian mulled over Franz’s information. Part of him wondered if he should stay an extra day and listen to one last source. But if the expected guest was Lohr, Julian was leaving just in time. “I’ll make sure the spare room is ready. Good thing the factory let me off early.”
Franz’s grin was so large that Julian guessed it would have been his job to prepare the room if Julian hadn’t volunteered. “Grandpapa seems to know everyone.”
“That’s not always a good thing,” Willi said.
Franz looked up quickly. “Sure it is.”
Willi sat back in his chair, his eyes still on the board. “Have you heard of Dr. Faber?”
Julian and Franz shook their heads.
“Grandpapa knows him. More than anyone in Germany, he’s responsible for gas warfare. He’s a brilliant scientist, and I suppose I should admire him, but instead I feel distaste for him.”
Julian felt the same thing but swallowed it back.
“His wife was a chemist too. A brilliant woman. She committed suicide shortly after we used chlorine gas at Ypres.” Willi moved one of his pieces and waited for Franz to decide on his next move. “Grandpapa said it was necessary. With the British blockade, we have to use all available sources to fight our enemies. But Mrs. Faber must have disagreed.”
Franz looked back and forth between the two men, obviously worried by the turn and tone of conversation.
Willi fingered one of the pawns he’d captured from Franz. “I was in the hospital with men who’d been gassed.”
“So was I,” Julian said before he had time to think it through. The British hadn’t used gas until after Julian was released from the hospital. He quickly amended his statement. “The wind changed during the attack, and it was our own gas that got them.”
“I sometimes think of Mrs. Faber. Did she know her husband was capable of evil? Or was it a surprise? Some men have their weaknesses on display for all to see. No woman will marry me and only then notice I’m missing an arm. Others might disagree, but I think an open weakness is better than a hidden evil.”
Franz turned to Julian. “Mama’s friend came to visit today. She brought her daughter.”
Julian pulled out a chair and sat. “How old was this daughter?”
“About my age.” Willi moved one of his pieces forward.
“Was she pretty?”
“Beautiful.”
Julian had never heard the word uttered with such frustration. “But?”
“But her eyes were full of pity. I suppose that’s marginally better than disgust.” Willi flicked one of the chess pieces across the table. It clattered to the floor, and Franz went to retrieve it.
“There are other women,” Julian said.
“Will they be any different?”
Julian wondered what he could do here on his last day to encourage Willi. He was a bright young man, a hard worker, and he had the self-discipline to do nearly anything as long as he could kick his depression. “Unfortunately I’m not very experienced with women.”
“Nor am I,” Willi said.
“Find someone who sees your good qualities and loves those. If she also pities your lost arm, so be it, as long as she admires what is left to admire. And, Willi, there is much left in you to admire.”
Willi seemed to be fighting emotion, so Julian excused himself to go prepare the guest room. It was strange. He was eager to return to France, yet something inside him was sad to leave Germany. He wasn’t sure Franz and Dorothea could give Willi the support he needed—not from lack of effort, but they hadn’t seen war, so they didn’t understand. Julian wished that before he left he could be sure Willi was on the road to full emotional recovery.
* * *
The Krupp guards were easy to get around when it came time to visit the testing range. Julian had watched them before. They were alert but predictable. Captain Flynn waited nearby in the trees. He promised to throw a rock at a window if the guards did anything unusual.
Julian crept inside by climbing the tree, then sneaked into each room and took notes on the latest developments. The Paris Gun was progressing and would soon menace France. The new high-explosive shells had proved slightly more effective than the previous type, but they used twice as many nitrates, so Julian doubted they would be adopted.
He was nearing the end of his tedious circuit when he heard a crash toward the back of the building. Flynn? Julian froze, his ears straining to hear more. He was almost finished, but he didn’t want to push the miraculous luck that had sustained him since 1915. He tiptoed back to the storeroom, planning to crawl through the vent and end his night’s work. There might not be anything useful in the last office anyway—it was Julian’s habit to start each search in the offices of the most senior men and work his way down from there.
Inside the dark storeroom, Julian’s hands gripped the rope hanging through the vent. Then the light switched on, and he blinked at the sudden brightness. Lohr stood in the doorway, his pistol aimed at Julian.
“I thought I might find you here.” Lohr walked toward him. There was only one door into the room and no windows. Julian stepped slowly around the counter in the room’s center, keeping it between him and the man from Lorraine. “Stay where you are, or I’ll shoot. I want to see your hands.”
Julian lifted and held them in front of his shoulders. “I didn’t know you were in Essen.”
“I just arrived. I came earlier than scheduled because as soon as I heard someone was feeding the British results of the artillery testing here in Essen, I suspected you. Then Frau von Hayek’s name was mentioned, and that made it certain.” Lohr strolled even closer, his tone conversational. “But how were you getting your information? At first I assumed Herr Sauer was bringing results home and you’d gleaned your reports from him. But artillery isn’t his specialty. Then I thought perhaps you were friendly with the men who work here. That was a good possibility, but then, so was the chance that you were simply breaking in, especially when Sauer remembered his daughter had seen you come in early one morning like a thief sneaking back to his roost.”
Julian stared at Lohr’s pistol and wished he had borrowed Flynn’s revolver. Or maybe he should have stayed in the woods and ignored the Paris Gun and McDougall’s insinuation that leaving was cowardly.
The counter in front of him was covered with pieces of partially disassembled artillery shells. Some of the items were small enough to throw, but Lohr caught Julian looking at them and motioned him back. Julian stepped toward a box of shells, but they were all too big to use as bludgeons. Even if he could arm and detonate one, which was doubtful considering Lohr’s steady gaze and deadly weapon, the explosion would kill him along with Lohr.
“Two years.” Lohr raised an eyebrow. “That’s an impressive run. I have few agents who last more than two months.”
Julian took a slow step toward the counter. It might not stop a bullet, but it would at least block Lohr’s view if he ducked behind it.
“I said don’t move.”
“Are we to stand here all night?”
Lohr’s mouth turned up in a grin. Was it Julian’s imagination, or was there a sadistic quality to Lohr’s smile? “No. Move your hands to your head and turn around.”
Julian obeyed.
“Were I kind, I would shoot you now. But I imagine the engineers who work here would be most disconcerted to find your blood on their floor in the morning.”
Lohr’s footsteps echoed around the room as he came up behind Julian and pushed the handgun into his back. “Outside.”
As Julian walked forward, his mind reviewed his training in hand-to-hand combat. When they neared the door, he arched his back and smashed his head into Lohr’s nose.
Lohr grunted, and Julian turned in one quick motion, gripping the pistol and turning it to the side before Lohr could squeeze the trigger. Lohr recovered and tried to jerk the handgun away, but Julian held it and smashed his foot into Lohr’s insole. The result was a slackened grip but not a full release. With one more twist, the pistol clambered to the floor and slid toward a pile of high-explosive shells stacked along the north wall. Julian dove for it, but Lohr wrapped a muscular arm around his neck and yanked.
Gasping for breath, Julian gripped Lohr’s arm to ease the pressure. They remained locked in their deadly embrace, the seconds stretching out the same way an artillery barrage in the trenches did. But Lohr was the stronger man. With a sudden burst, Julian felt himself lifted from his feet and smashed onto the countertop. He slid halfway along its length, knocking munition pieces to the floor. Several of the sharper edges bit into his skin.
A hissing sounded. One of the shells that had fallen between Julian and Lohr released a thick greenish gas. Without stopping to retrieve his weapon, Lohr ran for the door.
Gasses formed all around Julian from the other disrupted shells. Still stunned from Lohr’s powerful slam, he held his breath and stumbled toward the door. Already a headache was building, and his eyes stung. As he took in gulps of foul air from the hallway, his throat first itched, then burned. His movements were becoming less coordinated. He took long, agonizing steps, stumbling like a drunk into one of the offices.
If he could just make it to the window.
Surely the fresh air would help.
Why was the lock so difficult for his trembling hands?
If he could just make it outside . . .