Patricia Potter (24 page)

“Bloody damn.” It was no longer amusing that he even cursed as the Canadians and English often did. And he had the worst kind of feeling that nothing would go well tomorrow night. Nothing. But still his brain functioned, practically and even chillingly efficient, as if programmed to do so.

He had thought of ways to sabotage the plan, but short of going to the authorities, which would mean betraying his country, going to prison and almost certainly being responsible for the deaths of his mother and brother, he saw no reasonable way out.

He could only hope the mission would be completed with as few complications as possible, as little violence. It would be to Germany’s advantage, he knew, to keep the prisoners, or hostages, well. But the initial attack by German marines could be bloody.

He turned his mind off. It was too painful. He could only follow the path already proscribed for him. Follow it and play it out to the end. To the bitter end.

Meara didn’t stop searching. The dining room was full of members and their families who had just gone to the Good Friday services.

The Connors had asked her to join them at the clubhouse for tea. The children were with them, both unusually quiet after the church service. They were all still in their best clothes, Tara and Peter looking extremely handsome and grown-up. Ordinarily Meara would enjoy this ritual, but she was filled with disquiet and an unusual apprehension. It was, she told herself, because Michael would be leaving shortly, and there had been no resolution to anything. A final good-bye would be preferable to this agony of hoping and waiting and expecting.

At the moment she would sell her soul, which she valued highly, if Michael Fielding appeared in the dining room and made his way over to their table.

Meara sensed a shadow behind her, and her heart started to thump more vigorously as she turned. But it was Sanders Evans, not the tall Canadian.

She forced a smile, and from the wry expression on his face she knew he had seen her sudden disappointment, and understood it.

Cal Connor half rose, and asked Sanders to join them. “Miserable weather,” he observed as Sanders sat down.

Sanders nodded. “Commander Fielding took me over to Saint Simons.”

Cal’s eyes brightened with interest. “Our Canadian guest can’t seem to stay away from boats.”

Sanders nodded. “The sailor, in him, I suppose. I was ready for dry land, and he took off again.”

“I think he’s probably restless after months of recuperating,” Cal offered with a shrug.

Meara was silent. So he had gone back to St. Simons. And now? Was he avoiding her? Or was what Mr. Connor said correct? He was restless. Restless and ready to return to war. To leave her. How could she bear losing him now, knowing for the first time how completely obsessive love could be? To her. Obviously not to Michael Fielding.

Meara took a sip of tea, willing her emotions to behave.

“What about tennis?” Evans asked suddenly as he watched her hands tighten convulsively around her teacup.

“Why not,” her employer said, as Meara looked in his direction for approval.

Meara nodded. Anything to keep her mind from Michael.

“I’ll check to see if the inside courts are available,” Sanders said as he rose. He raised an eyebrow. “An hour?”

Meara nodded, half hoping they would be. Half hoping they would not. Michael might not find her there. If he was looking for her.

But they were, and Meara excused herself to return to the cottage and change clothes. Elizabeth Connor and the children decided to go with her, leaving Sanders with Cal Connor.

“How did you like your stay with us?” Cal asked.

“Interesting.”

“Tactful if uninformative,” Cal observed.

Sanders smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not used to this kind of life.”

“Neither was I, but it’s amazing how quickly you adapt,” Cal said ruefully.

Sanders knew about Connor, that he had been poor, that he had worked his way through college and through sheer brilliance had broken through both class and economic barriers.

“I don’t think I ever could,” Sanders said honestly.

“Because you really don’t want to.”

“Perhaps.”

Cal shrugged. “It’s the end of this kind of life, anyway,” he said. “This will be the last year of the club. It’s already been announced. They say it will reopen after the war, but I doubt it. Membership, particularly since the depression, has fallen off. It was useful to me in the beginning, still is in business ways. Elizabeth and the children love the island, but its time has passed. Do you know that people used to move from one resort to another, all year round? No one has the time to do that anymore. If the war hadn’t killed this club, time would have.” Sanders nodded in understanding. He had received a thorough briefing before he came. He knew that the Jekyll Island Club had originally been formed as a private hunting club and had later evolved into a family social resort. The deaths of original members and the effect of the depression had sliced the membership of what was once called the most exclusive club in the world. Membership had originally been limited to one hundred and had once been almost unobtainable; now the club was soliciting members,

“The end of an era,” Sanders observed.

“I’m afraid so.”

Cal looked out over the dining room: the rich paneling and the elaborate mantels over the fireplaces, the elegant furnishings that even he had never quite been comfortable with. He had married Elizabeth Newton, and she had been his entry into this kind of life. He had enjoyed it at first, still did at times, and the contacts had been good for business. But now the ever increasing costs outweighed the business and social values, even the satisfaction of a poor boy grown rich and accepted.

This would have been his last season, war or not, and even this season, which usually lasted four months or so, had been condensed into two weeks. The trip had been more for Elizabeth and the children than himself. And Meara. It had been a kind of graduation present for her. He had always known she loved it more than anyone. Her dreaming island, she had once told him.

Perhaps it was exactly that for her. Cal had not missed the looks that passed between Meara and the Canadian, whom he had instantly liked. He also liked the plainspoken man across from him. He wanted the best for Meara who, like him, had overcome strong odds to get ahead. He had helped in every way he could, including the job at
Life,
although she would not have received it were she not qualified or if the editor hadn’t agreed with his recommendation. Cal had thought the career was what she wanted, although he had wondered at her lack of serious boyfriends and the common desire, as he understood it, for women to get married. He had been surprised at Meara’s sudden and apparently intense attraction for the Navy officer. He had watched with interest.

“This has been sort of a useless trip for you, hasn’t it?” Cal observed.

Sanders shrugged. “It often is.”

“Not very pleasurable?”

“No,” Sanders said frankly.

“An honest man.”

“Who has to go get ready for tennis.” Sanders grinned. “The redeeming factor.”

“And Meara?”

Sanders paused a moment. “Another redeeming factor, if she didn’t have her eyes fastened someplace else.”

“You’ve noticed?”

“I would have to be blind not to.”

“Hummm. I like Fielding, but I wonder what will happen after Easter, and he returns to England.”

“Love is never convenient,” Sanders observed, rising as he said the words.

“No, I don’t guess it is. But I worry about her. She’s like another daughter to Elizabeth and me.”

“She’s lucky.”

“We’ve been lucky. She’s wonderful with the children. We’ll miss her.”

Sanders nodded. “I have a couple of calls to make before tennis.”

“Anytime you need anything…”

“Thank you,” Sanders said with a nod of acknowledgment. He left the table and found a private room with a telephone in it. He called Washington and reached his superior. “Any more news on Fielding?”

“No. Everything seems to check out so far. Want us to continue checking?”

Sanders hesitated. He’d had his suspicions about Fielding until today. But there had been a deeply troubled look in the Canadian’s eyes lately, not usually a typical reaction of miscreants. “No. Most of the members are leaving Monday. Fielding’s leaving Sunday. I think he’s who he says he is. There’s no reason to think otherwise.”

“What about that famous instinct?”

“Wrong this time, I think.”

“All right. I’ll pull the dogs off. Have a nice Easter.”

“I’ll try.”

“And, Sanders, thanks.”

“You owe me one,” Sanders retorted to his superior. Sanders slowly put down the telephone. He hoped to hell he was right. He went up to his room to change clothes.

Michael arrived back at the dock and went directly to his room in the clubhouse. His clothes were wet but not more than they should be after a ride in a motorboat. He quickly pulled on a pair of clean trousers and a sweater and went in search of Hans.

He passed by the window of the indoor tennis courts, and a fleeting glance showed Meara and Sanders Evans playing tennis. Jealousy ripped through him like a whip. She was so light, so fast, so graceful as she moved. He heard her laugh, and his heart skipped.

One hand clawed at his side. It was better this way. He knew it was better.

He thought of the moments and hours they’d had together. So brief and yet they had filled his life for the first time. He loved her. He would always love her. But he could give her nothing but pain and misery. He hesitated, but then moved on. He didn’t want Hans to see him staring like a love-starved fool.

Michael squared his shoulders and started walking again.

Chapter Twelve

H
ANS LOOKED AT
the woods, anger welling up in him and turning to an ice-cold hatred.

He had followed Eric von Steimen, running at a distance, following the tracks of the bicycle in the sand. It had not been easy, for the moon was hidden behind clouds, and only by extreme concentration could he follow the almost indecipherable tracks. At least the drizzle had stopped.

There was something about the ease with which von Steimen associated with the hated Americans that disturbed him. More than disturbed him. He knew, of course, that von Steimen was supposed to do exactly that. Yet, von Steimen seemed to go beyond what was necessary.

Hans had seen him with the woman, and then later with the man that he couldn’t quite figure. He wasn’t like the others. There was something a bit awkward and uncomfortable about him, as if he were out of place. Hans knew that feeling. He knew it and he hated it.

All his life he had been out of place. But no more. Now he held an honored position, as did his son, in the new order. Kurt would never know the wounds, the taunts, the derision, that he had known. After the successful conclusion of this mission, the Weimer family would be respected and hailed throughout Germany.

Hans had kept vigil on von Steimen since last night. He had seen him leave in the boat today with the tall American, return, and leave again, alone. It all appeared very suspicious to him, especially later when he watched von Steimen pause outside the tennis court and saw the unguarded expression of pure longing on his face as he had looked inside.

Hans had decided, then and there, that von Steimen was unreliable.

Hans volunteered again to stay Friday night. Extra hands were needed to prepare the festivities for Easter, to cut the needed flowers and to prepare for the Easter egg hunt for the children. He had smiled agreeably and pleasantly, and the fools had jumped at the offer.

He knew that von Steimen was to make contact with the sub tonight. He planned to follow and make sure that von Steimen was fulfilling all his job, not just the pleasant part of being waited on hand and foot and enjoying the decadence of this place. He planned on listening to every word. And he wanted to know the location of the radio.

But now he had lost his quarry. The man had simply disappeared into the woods, and there was no trail to follow, not even with his sharp eyes.

Hans knew it would be useless to go any farther. He would only get lost. No. He would wait here, in the shadows, near von Steimen’s bicycle until the man reappeared. Then he would try to retrace the footsteps.

He didn’t know how long he waited. He wore only a cheap watch, a watch a gardener would wear, and he couldn’t see the hands in the darkness. But he guessed it was an hour or more before von Steimen emerged from the woods.

Instead of going to the bicycle, von Steimen walked to the edge of the water and stood there, almost blending into the sea with his dark clothes.

The arrogance was there in his stance. Arrogance and independence and something else. Hans couldn’t figure it, and he didn’t like things he didn’t understand.

Hans remained silent, moving farther into the dunes and the grass that shielded him, and looked again. Von Steimen’s profile was to him, but the darkness covered the man’s expression. Hans recognized indecision, and his distrust grew. Nothing, and no one, was going to rob him of his triumph. Nothing. Particularly this supercilious aristocrat.