Patricia Potter (25 page)

Von Steimen, after what seemed hours, finally turned and limped toward the bicycle. Hans dug deeper into the side of the dune. He would take no chances with the bastard. He knew a way to ensure the man’s loyalty. Loyalty which he had always questioned.

Hans had watched von Steimen’s gaze follow the girl, had seen him play with the Connor brats. Hans had leverage. He knew he had leverage. And he knew he would enjoy using it.

He would show von Steimen who was the leader here.

Ignoring the chill of the day, Michael swam his usual hundred laps across the pool. He was used to cooler temperatures and had often swum in even colder waters.

He needed to dissipate the tension building within, to block out his thoughts, to concentrate only on the next lap.

Michael had taken only coffee and toast for breakfast, and even that had made his stomach turn with unfamiliar anxiety. He wished the day would go away, that he didn’t have to think about tonight, or German Intelligence, or Hans, or the submarine hovering off the coast.

He stretched out his arm, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles as his injured leg followed suit. In the two weeks here with his strict regimen of bicycling, walking, and swimming, the leg had improved immensely. The doctors in Berlin said he would always have a slight limp, but he could feel the strengthening of muscles, the compensation being made by some muscles for the injury sustained by others. The splintered bone was also strengthening. He could feel it.

It should have made him feel better. But nothing, he knew, would ever make him feel better again.

He reached out again, pushing himself, seeking the edge of exhaustion, of blankness, for a few moments.

When he finished the hundred laps, he swam to the edge of the pool. He was alone; the gray overcast day was not inviting. He was grateful for that, at least.

With one graceful movement, he was out of the pool. He wiped himself quickly with a towel and slipped his arms into a shirt, shaking his head to rid it of excess water.

He looked out toward Jekyll Creek and the dock. A yacht, three launches, and the motorboat were tied up there. There was no movement around them. Michael picked up his watch from the table where he had left it. Ten in the morning. Ten more hours before the submarine was committed, nine before he and Hans made the final transmission.

Hans. Michael looked around and finally found the stopped figure leaning over a garden of jonquils, the delicate yellow flowers that colored the grounds in early spring. He saw Hans return his look. The blank expression was on the gardener’s face, and only a second’s recognition passed between them.

As if he had all the time in the world, Michael strolled over to where the gardener worked.

“Everything set?” Hans’s words were almost indistinguishable.

“Yes,” Michael concurred.

“How many at the party?”

“Ten of the sixteen.”

“The others?”

Michael extracted a package of cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt, and held it out to Hans. With a subservient but grateful lowering of his head, Hans’s hand reached for the package, his fingers taking the only cigarette left in it. But he didn’t light it, merely stuck it carefully in his uniform pocket. He knew it held a map and directions to each room and cottage where their targets should be.

“The final transmission is scheduled for seven,” Hans reminded Michael unnecessarily.

Michael nodded. Dinner was at eight. His party was planned for ten. The submarine should arrive at the wharf around ten-thirty, and the attack was scheduled to commence at eleven.

“For the Führer,” Hans said with an empty smile on his lips.

Michael felt the other man’s animosity radiating from him. He was being baited. He knew it. “For Germany,” he corrected tonelessly.

“Meet me at the power plant at six-thirty,” Hans said. “All the other employees will be through by then.”

“I’ll have to get the radio.”

Hans’s face showed a flash of triumph. “No need. I have one with me.”

Michael stared at him. He hadn’t even been aware that Hans had one. He should have known. The Abwehr was very, very thorough. Another misjudgment on his part. But he didn’t allow his thoughts to show. “In your quarters? Isn’t that a bit reckless?”

Hans shrugged. “I know what I’m doing, Oberleutnant,” he said curtly. “I naturally needed a suitcase since I was so…accommodating in helping out.”

“It was still a risk.”

“Not nearly as great a one as going to the other side of the island for your radio.”

Michael’s face stiffened. He had been followed. He should have known, damn it. But he had been preoccupied.

“Six-thirty,” Hans repeated in a whisper. This time it sounded like an order. “I’ll take care of the telephone lines just before then.”

Michael’s eyes met Hans’s briefly, and challenge sparked between them. Challenge and dislike. And distrust. The emotions were so strong, they seemed to disturb the very air around them.

“Six-thirty,” Hans said again.

“I may be a few moments late. I don’t want to be missed,” Michael contended, his eyes unfathomable. He turned and walked away without giving Hans a chance to argue.

He went to his room and changed clothes, taking a rare cigarette for himself. Meara would probably be in the dining room for lunch. He sat on the bed, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on clasped hands. Nothing in his life would be as difficult as seeing her today, knowing as he did what would happen later.

He had, until now, been partially able to compartmentalize his mind, to separate her from what he must do. But no longer. Part of him realized how much she would hate him when she discovered what had happened.

Now she would. There was no way to avoid it because he had decided to neutralize Sanders in such a way the agent would not die. He had weighed various alternatives and found only one feasible one, and that meant revealing his true identity. The option of disappearing, as if he were one of the kidnapped, was no longer viable for him. But after tonight, he would have enough to pay for, without adding Sanders’s murder to the list.

Sanders Evans would be there to comfort Meara when his role was known. There was both solace and agony in the thought.

Michael rose and went to the suitcase. He unlocked it and, using a pocketknife, cut a small opening in the lining, retrieving several small vials. He selected one and placed it in his pocket, returning the others to the hiding place.

He could delay no longer. He had to find Evans and confirm a drink later this afternoon. Michael put on a tie, knotting it easily, added an English-style tweed jacket, and left the room.

He stopped briefly and spoke to the clubhouse manager about his party that night. He had already ordered champagne and port and the best cigars available, and he was assured that he would find everything to his liking.

The dining room was still full at one o’clock. He immediately spied Cal Connor’s table. The children were there, and so was Meara. It was Peter who frantically waved to Michael as he started in another direction.

He could not ignore the boy, not with Cal and Elizabeth Connor looking at him. He changed direction and went over to the table. He did not want to look at Meara, but he couldn’t escape it.

Meara graced him with that lovely smile of hers, and he felt his heart constrict. It was so spontaneous, so filled with love, that he couldn’t help but respond, but he knew it to be only a shadow of his usual smile.

“Will you join us?” Cal said.

Michael looked down at the table. The Connors were finishing their lunch, and he started to demur.

“Please,” Cal said, and Michael had no logical reason to refuse, although he heartily wished he had. To be with her was sheer torture. Nor did he feel comfortable with Cal’s easy friendliness. Because of him, Cal Connor’s life would be turned inside out in a matter of hours. God only knew how he and the others would be treated. He didn’t want to think about it. That wasn’t his responsibility.

Or was it?

“What time will you be leaving tomorrow?” Connor asked, his eyes darting from Meara to Michael.

“The noon launch,” he said.

“You won’t be attending Easter services then? Peter and Tara were hoping you could go with us.”

Michael’s throat tightened even more as he looked down at the two children. There would be no services tomorrow, no father to take them. Their faces were so damned trusting.

“I thank Peter and Mistress Tara,” he replied gravely, “but I have a train to catch in Brunswick.”

Peter’s face fell, and once more Michael felt guilt shuddering through him like an erupting volcano.

Elizabeth smiled at him. “If you ever come to New York, please come and visit us.”

Michael’s fist clenched under the white linen tablecloth. How much more could he take?

“Thank you,” he said slowly. “You’ve both been very kind, you and your family.” He included Meara in his look, and saw her lips tremble.

“Nothing is too good for a neighbor and an ally,” Cal said in booming good humor.

Michael’s fist tightened even more.

Peter grinned. “I’ll remember everything you showed me about shooting. I sure hope the war isn’t over by the time I’m old enough to fight.”

“I hope it will be over long before then,” Michael said softly.

“I want to kill some Germans,” Peter objected plaintively.

“Don’t ever wish for that,” Michael said, and he knew his voice was hollow. “Don’t ever wish for death.” He hoped the despair didn’t show. “Anyone’s,” he added quietly.

He saw Elizabeth’s approving smile. Kind. Gentle. Then the smile turned toward Cal, and Michael saw the love in it. He knew that feeling now, knew how powerful it was. How weakening.

As if on signal, Cal started to rise. “Let’s go, Elizabeth, children.” He had quite deliberately ignored Meara in his summons, and looked benevolently at Meara and Michael as he stood, silently ordering them to stay as they were, and ignoring Peter’s protest.

“I’ll take you riding,” he promised his son, and protests were immediately halted. In seconds, the four of them were gone, leaving Meara and Michael alone. It had all been very neatly done.

The waiter came and took Michael’s order, and he asked if Meara would like some dessert. She shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “They didn’t give you any choice.”

“Choice?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. I didn’t mean for them to corral you.”

“Perhaps I wanted to be…corraled.”

“Did you?”

Michael was silent. The challenge was there again. The brave challenge. She didn’t beg, but neither was she ready to surrender.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

“I won’t ask for any promises.”

“You deserve them.”

“What would you do? Run?”

He couldn’t help but smile at her expression. Impish, like an Irish leprechaun, yet there was also a wistful expression, a silent longing. One that matched his own.

“How did you get so wise?”

“Why are you afraid?”

“Because you should have tomorrow, and I can’t give you that.”

“No one knows what will happen tomorrow. Can’t you just accept today?”

His hand reached out for hers. He was mindful of the other people in the dining room, but at the moment they didn’t matter. “It shouldn’t be enough for you, Meara. Not ever enough. I’m a sailor, a wanderer. Even if I survive the war, I’ll always be that.”

Her eyes looked through him, to the shadow behind his eyes, to, he thought, his soul.

“There’s something else,” she ventured carefully.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“No.”

God, he loved her. Tenacious. Bright. Intuitive. How lucky he would be in other circumstances. How damnably lucky.

His food came, and he released her hand. He stared at the meal with indifference, but it gave him a reason to look away from her.

“Michael.”

He glanced up. Her eyes were compelling, so green and deep that he could get lost in them.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” He could barely get the words out.

“For these days, this week.”

He laid his knife down. Christ, he couldn’t take any more. He felt the tense muscles in his jaw work, and he could find nothing to say. Nothing.

Her thick dark lashes lowered over her eyes at his silence, and he knew she thought she had chased him away, had asked for more than he could give, even in this small way.

And she had. But he couldn’t bear the look in her eyes. His hand once more touched hers. Silently he tried to convey words he couldn’t say, and he saw that she understood. Tears glistened at the edges of her eyes and he knew she realized he was saying good-bye.

“I won’t see you again?” Her voice was unsteady.

“I don’t think so.”

She hesitated. “You can always reach me at
Life
magazine.”

He nodded.

“I love you,” she whispered, unable to keep the words back although he knew she had tried.