91 
Break-In
Meanwhile, unaware of their danger, the group inside the house continued their discussion.
“And the trail in Switzerland?” Ramsay had just asked Scarlino.
“That was on the level,” replied Scarlino, taking a seat and sipping at the bitter brew in his cup. “I did my best. Had we located the girl, putting a bullet in her would simply have been a bonus for you. But you were my quarry all along, Halifax. Why do you think I let you live through all your stupid moves and the insults that came out of your mouth? If we hadn’t had more important plans, you would have been dead long before now. You’re the kind of arrogant young fool it is not my custom to put up with.”
“And your friend?” said Ramsay with scorn, nodding haughtily in the other man’s direction.
“I am Rald Wolfrik with the Prussian Intelligence Service,” now said Wolfrik. “My own identity is unimportant. What is important is that we are all on the same side here. This petty arguing is pointless. Our objective is to be rid of Churchill and Asquith and sabotage the Allied cause. And you, Mr. Halifax, because of your background and the freedom you have moving throughout England and especially in London circles, not to mention your newspaper contacts which we plan also to use to our advantage, are ideally suited for the assignment.”
“I will be no part of it,” said Ramsay irritably.
Wolfrik smiled. “As my colleague said a moment ago, you have no choice, Mr. Halifax. You will be leaving with us for London first thing tomorrow mor—”
Suddenly two doors at opposite sides of the house burst open with a loud shatter.
A dozen uniformed soldiers crashed through and tramped quickly into the lounge.
“What the—” exclaimed Barclay, leaping to his feet.
The rest of those seated inside were so taken by surprise that for a second or two no one moved a muscle. The hands of Scarlino and Wolfrik, both experienced assassins, as if in simultaneous reflex, gradually moved to the guns resting inside their coat pockets. But the rifles trained straight on them caused both to reconsider without need of verbal persuasion.
“Everybody just stay where you are and remain nice and calm,” said Colonel Forsythe, moving to the center of the room. “There is no need for anyone to get killed here. As you gentlemen can see, you are outnumbered. There are more of us outside.”
Suddenly Ramsay’s eyes widened in disbelief to see the figure entering beside the tall form he recognized as that of First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill.
“Amanda!” he exclaimed. “How in the—”
Instantly he caught himself.
Realizing there was no chance of escape, suddenly Ramsay’s brain performed a cunning about-face. The transformation was so swift that even one as experienced in chicanery as the Secret Service’s Jack Whyte did not see the 180-degree turnabout that had occurred. A wide smile now spread across Ramsay’s face.
“Why, Amanda, my dear,” he said smoothly, rising and walking toward her. “I am so relieved to see you at last.”
“Stay away from me, Ramsay!” said Amanda.
“Is that any way for a wife to talk to her husband? I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Wife!” exclaimed Churchill.
“Of course, didn’t she tell you?” said Ramsay innocently. “I assumed you knew.—You are, I believe, Mr. Churchill.” Ramsay approached and extended his hand. “I am happy to meet you at last, sir. I am Ramsay Halifax, stepson of Lord Halifax, with whom I believe you were acquainted.”
“Yes . . . yes, I knew him,” said a bewildered Churchill, shaking the offered hand. “But—”
“I have been working undercover with the British Secret Service for some time,” said Ramsay. “My colleague and I, Mr. Barclay, who has been with the Secret Service for years,” Ramsay went on, nodding in Barclay’s direction, “have been on the Continent for some time—Vienna, actually. Our orders were to infiltrate Austrian and German intelligence operations, which we have successfully done. We have just returned and were on our way to London to report our findings.”
Churchill glanced at Jack Whyte with wrinkled brow, then turned toward Amanda. “What’s this all about, Miss Rutherford?” he asked. His voice did not sound amused.
“Rutherford . . . oh no, I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” interposed Ramsay. “Her name is Halifax—Amanda Halifax. Although I cannot say as I am surprised. My wife sometimes has difficulty telling the truth. With all the espionage and counterespionage contacts with whom my work involved us, she occasionally became confused about which side was which. They were understandably perplexing circumstances, I grant you. Yet we had no alternative but to continue with our investigations, for the future of England, even though in time I realized I should probably not have brought Amanda into it so quickly. Unfortunately, in the end, my dear Amanda became so confused she actually thought we were working for the Austrians.”
Ramsay smiled with a sadly humorous expression and shook his head two or three times.
“That’s when she ran off,” he went on. “I’ve been looking high and low for her ever since. I’ve been worried sick about you, Amanda dear,” he added, once more moving to approach her.
Amanda took a step backward, fuming and speechless.
“What in thunder is going on here!” bellowed Churchill.
“It is obvious she has said some things to you,” Ramsay continued, “that are greatly exaggerated, if not outright lies. It would not surprise me to learn that she has told you many things which are simply fabrications of a very vivid imagination, including whatever she may have concocted about this house of ours where we often entertain friends. I don’t blame her, however, Mr. Churchill. She has just been very confused.”
“Ramsay, how dare you say such things!” cried Amanda, the storm finally exploding. “Everything you are saying is completely distorted. You know it! You have twisted it all to make it sound exactly backwards from the way it really is. You know as well as I do that you’re all spies.”
“Spies!” laughed Ramsay as if he were humoring a child. “Heavens, Amanda, where do you come up with these things! Just what have you been telling these gentlemen about us?”
It was now Hartwell Barclay’s turn to speak up. Very slowly he walked toward the scene. He glanced toward Secret Service Agent Whyte, who was as bewildered as Churchill.
“Hello, Jack,” he said, then turned and riveted his eyes upon Amanda’s face.
“Ramsay,” he said slowly and methodically, his voice smoother and softer than Amanda had ever heard it, “ask Mrs. Halifax to come over here with us where she belongs.”
As he intoned the words deliberately, his eyes bored into Amanda’s with the penetrating gaze that had always succeeded in gaining mastery over her.
“Amanda,” said Ramsay in a soft tone of command, “come over here with us, just as Mr. Barclay says. You are one of us, remember.”
Ramsay took another slow step toward her, extending his hand as if to gently lead her toward him. “You are my wife, Amanda. My wife . . . you are one of us.”
Amanda tried to pull her face away. For a moment she could not free herself from Barclay’s mesmerizing gaze. A reminder of the old drowsiness tried to envelop her. With great effort she forcibly shook her head, as if to knock loose the cobwebs of doubt. All at once she found her voice.
“No . . . no, I won’t!” she exclaimed. “You can’t befuddle me with all that anymore. You controlled me and twisted my thoughts for too long. It’s time I thought for myself. I don’t know what is before me, but I am not going back to that life with you.”
“Your only life is with us now, Amanda,” said Barclay, still speaking smoothly, and desperately trying to connect with her eyes. “You cannot go back.”
“Don’t forget, Amanda,” added Ramsay, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. “You are Mrs. Ramsay Halifax.”
The tone of command had now become laced with an undercurrent of threat.
“It was never a true marriage,” rejoined Amanda. “I was under a spell. I wasn’t myself. But I am now, and I am telling you for the last time—you will not control me ever again.”
She turned toward Hartwell Barclay and at last allowed her eyes to lock on to his. She gazed straight into them with an intensity equal to his own.
“Mr. Barclay,” she said, “I renounce you and your hold over my mind. And I renounce the Fountain of Light and whatever power it once had over me. You can stare at me and talk in the most quiet tones, and say all your tosh and nonsense till your face turns red, but it won’t do any more good.”
At the words, indeed did Hartwell Barclay’s face begin to turn several shades of crimson.