PADDY FOLLOWED ROSA out to the back of the barn where he was surprised to find an ambulance parked under the trees. A skinny man in his early twenties lounged in the driver’s seat but leapt out and snapped to attention when he saw Paddy. “Heil Hitler!” He saluted as he gave Rosa a wink.
Rosa ignored him and went behind the ambulance. A few minutes later she returned, her trousers and sweater exchanged for a German nurse’s uniform. “Get changed, Major Strauss,” she ordered Paddy. “We need to get a move on.”
“What’s all this about?” Paddy asked the driver as he changed in the rear of the fully equipped ambulance. Two stretchers were in place along either wall with room for two more to hang above them. Rosa stayed outside, giving her men last-minute instructions while the driver scrutinized a map in the front seat.
“You didn’t think we came all the way here on the off chance that some Brits would need rescuing, did you?” the driver answered. “We’re on a mission. Rescuing some downed RAF pilots from the hospital at Villa Chagrin.” His accent was American and he turned to Paddy with a grin. “They call me Dex—don’t ask me why. Real name is Linus.”
“Padraic—Paddy.” The uniform was a decent fit but Paddy stopped when he saw a spot of blood on the back of the shirt collar.
“Rosa’s got the technique down pat,” Dex said. “Dagger to the base of the skull. Silent, fast, and hardly any blood unless you remove it too soon.” He turned the whole way around, facing Paddy, gauging his reaction. “Which she had to do when the other one surprised us.” He opened his uniform jacket revealing a pink stain over the chest of his uniform shirt. “Haven’t been able to get it all the way out.”
Paddy considered that. That slight girl with blood on her hands—not just anyone’s blood, a German officer. “How many men has she killed?” It was an insane question and he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Dex shrugged. “Not sure. She’s been in this war longer than any of us. Started back in ’36 when the Germans killed her family and sent her to a prison camp.”
“Her entire family? Why?”
“She’s Roma—gypsy. Before the Germans targeted the Jews, they tried to exterminate the gypsies. They built camps, using them as slave labor. Those who fought back, like Rosa’s family, they massacred. Guess it was practice for what they’re doing now with the Jews. You know the Germans, so damn efficient.”
Paddy had heard the officers talk about rumors of death camps and forced marches as the Germans rounded up the Jews within their borders, but he—and the officers—had dismissed it as propaganda. He glanced out the rear door in the direction Rosa had gone. To see your entire family butchered simply for who they were. It was as insane as the Troubles in the north—his mother’s family was from Ulster and caught up in the fighting there.
“You’re American. Why are you doing this?” Paddy gestured to the bloodstained uniforms they both wore.
Dex leaned back, his gaze distant. “Charlie and I started in Paris. We were taking a year off after Yale, pretending to take classes at the Sorbonne, but really just kicking loose before we started working for our fathers. Mine’s on Wall Street—you’ve no earthly idea how much I dread being manacled by stocks and bonds and paperwork. Anyway, we were caught there when the Germans invaded, decided to do some good, so joined the American Volunteer Ambulance Corps. One thing led to another and we found ourselves transporting refugees, made it south to the border—more luck than anything, well, also the French are the most unorganized people on the face of the planet—and thankfully stumbled into one of Rosa’s operations before we got everyone killed.”
“So you decided to impersonate German officers and use your ambulance to rescue British prisoners?”
“Decide is a strong word. Rosa had an idea and she is extremely hard to say no to. Truth be told, Charlie and I both jumped at the chance. It was an adventure. We’d kicked around Germany, so both spoke the language. All we needed was to repaint the ambulance and grab a few uniforms, legit papers.”
Paddy finished dressing in the dead man’s uniform just as Rosa climbed into the rear of the ambulance and shut the doors. Dex started driving.
“Fits him better than the Basque,” Dex said as he drove the vehicle across the farm lane’s rutted, frozen mud. Paddy quickly realized they hadn’t chosen him simply because he spoke German. The dead man had been tall like Paddy with broader than average shoulders. All those years working the boat and nets with his da had left Paddy’s chest and shoulders built up so they fit the major’s uniform perfectly.
“The Basque?” Paddy asked, hanging onto the strap bolted to the wall as the vehicle lurched from the dirt lane onto a paved road.
“Fernando,” Rosa said. Ah, that explained the strange language. How many languages did Rosa speak? She eyed Paddy appraisingly. “He’s no Charlie.”
Dex sighed and glanced at Rosa in the mirror. “No one is.” They both were silent for a moment, mourning a fallen comrade—Paddy knew the look, the tone. So it wasn’t just one man who’d died wearing this uniform. What was he getting into?
Rosa reached behind her and handed Paddy a bundle of papers. “Memorize everything in here.”
He glanced at them: official identification, transit pass, and several letters, some handwritten, some typed on Nazi letterheads. He was now Major Heinrich Strauss. Inside one of the handwritten letters was a photo of a tall blond woman and two small girls clinging to her skirts.
Fear lit his gut on fire. Despite Dex’s cavalier attitude, this wasn’t simple playacting on a lark.
“I can’t read German,” he finally admitted. He shoved the papers back at Rosa. “Read them aloud to me and I’ll remember.” No one needed to mention that their lives depended on his memory and acting skills.
Rosa didn’t accept the papers. Instead she turned away, shoulders drooping. Dex pulled the ambulance to a stop. “No worries,” he said. “Rosa, you drive. I’ll coach our Irishman. After all, I did play the lead in Hamlet back at New Haven.”
Situation diffused, they traded places and resumed their journey. Paddy was reminded once again how young Rosa was. It was clear that although she spoke several languages, like him, it was a verbal skill. Could she read and write at all? If she really was gypsy, like the travelers back home, then maybe not. How could a girl with no formal education have any chance going up against the well-trained Nazis?
Dex diverted his thoughts as they began to chat in German. “Tell me about yourself,” he started. “What’s your favorite hobby, Major Strauss?”
Padraic froze. Hobbies? He had no hobbies.
Dex read his anxiety. “Relax, man. The key to acting is using bits and pieces from your real life. Stick with the truth whenever possible—it makes the lies more believable and it’s easy to remember the truth, so if you’re questioned, you don’t have to worry about mixing things up.”
Paddy nodded and drew in a breath. “Fishing. There’s nothing I love more than heading out for a good day’s fishing. I’ll even skip Sunday services to go fishing.”
“Good job, Fisherman.” Dex scanned the papers. “Looks like those Sunday services would be Lutheran. Now, let me tell you about those lovely wife and daughters you left behind in Hamburg.”
<<<>>>
AFTER THE SUN abandoned them and there was no sign of Hart or the gray minivan, Drake could stand it no longer. Jimmy in tow, refusing to leave his side, left the federal building and drove over to Alicia Fairstone’s historical Shadyside residence. Anyone other than a Fairstone would have called the large colonial on its sprawling lot a mansion, but to Alicia, it was merely her “city house.”
Drake barely noticed the elaborate holiday decorations as he strode up to the front door and leaned on the bell. Alicia had declined an interview when Jimmy had called earlier, directing them to her lawyer instead, but by God, she’d talk to him.
A woman in her fifties opened the door. She wore black stockings and a matronly gray dress. Add an apron and she could have walked straight out of a BBC historical drama.
“We’re here to see Ms. Fairstone,” Jimmy said. Drake didn’t bother with words, simply walked past the woman, barely noticing her expression of outrage.
“You can’t—”
He’d been here once before, making final arrangements for Steadfast’s sale. Then Alicia had held court in a beautifully appointed salon off the main foyer. He headed that way, leaving Jimmy to deal with any repercussions.
The housekeeper and Jimmy following behind, he crossed into the salon. Alicia was alone, sitting in a chair near the fireplace, reading a book, and sipping from a martini glass. She glanced up at his abrupt arrival.
“Remy. What are you doing here?” She tried to sound surprised, but to Drake it sounded rehearsed. She stood as Jimmy entered along with the housekeeper. Alicia wore a silk pants suit—a lounging outfit the designer probably labeled it—and had her makeup, hair, and jewels ready for a photo op. Staged. That’s what the moment felt like.
She’d been expecting him. Or someone.
“You know why I’m here,” he said, his tone harsh.
“Ma’am, should I call the authorities?” the housekeeper asked.
Jimmy flashed his badge. “We are the authorities.”
Alicia jerked her chin and the housekeeper scurried away. “Would you like a drink?” she offered, resuming her seat.
“How do you know Nickolai Kasanov?” Drake demanded.
“He’s a fellow collector. The one who first told me about your work, in fact.”
“Kasanov told you about my art?”
“Yes. He emailed me photos of it, along with your bio.”
“Bio?”
“That you were a Pittsburgh police detective, pursuing art as a second career. Obviously, with the local connection, I couldn’t resist. Especially when he offered to fund half the purchase price with an anonymous donation to the foundation.”
“Wait. He sent you my real bio? You knew who I was before—” Drake broke off, the pieces falling into place.
Jimmy and Drake exchanged glances. How the hell had Kasanov manipulated all this? No. Bigger question: why?
Burning Steadfast, taking his mother and Hart—this all felt so very personal. Revenge or retribution. Drake had never encountered Kasanov. Yet the man had been planning this for months.
“I don’t understand,” Alicia said. Again, it sounded rehearsed, not genuine. “I thought you knew Nickolai. He was at the gala last night, didn’t you see him there?”
Drake turned to her. “Do you have any idea what Kasanov has done?”
“No. What?” She looked up at him in wide-eyed innocence.
“He kidnapped my mother and fiancée. He’s going to kill them, Alicia. And I have no idea why. But I’m guessing you do.”
She stood and stepped to him, one hand on his arm in an intimate gesture. “Remy, I wish I could help you, but I don’t know anything. I assure you, if I did—”
He shrugged her hand away. She was playing games with him. Was she working with Kasanov? Why? What could Drake have that an heiress and a gangster wanted?
Jimmy’s phone rang, shattering the silence. He stood and turned away, speaking only for a moment before returning to hand it to Drake. “It’s him.”
Drake left Alicia with Jimmy and stepped out into the hall. “Kasanov. What do you want?”
“I see you and Alicia are getting along. Almost as famously as Dr. Hart and myself.”
“You touch one hair on her head—”
“Please, Detective. Don’t waste what little time she and your mother have left with idle threats.”
“Let me speak to them.”
“No. I don’t think so. Not until you give me something in return.”
“What do you want?”
“Alicia Fairstone. You will deliver her to me by midnight. Dead or alive, I don’t really care—although, since you’ve done your homework and know about my wayward youth, the fun I have with women, I’m sure you’ll understand if I’d prefer her alive.”
“Why? Why should I give you an innocent woman to torture and kill? Why this elaborate set up? You could have grabbed Alicia yourself any time you wanted.”
“Why? Because there’s a price to be paid. Alicia must pay the price for her crimes. And you must pay the price for your arrogance and incompetence.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then I suggest you find out, Detective. Isn’t that your job? But know this. If I don’t have Alicia in my hands by midnight either Cassandra Hart or your mother will die.”