Patricia Potter (8 page)

Hans wanted to grin as he thought of von Steimen’s reaction. But he kept his face blank to the other workers, who somehow knew to stay away from the new gardener. Instead, they chatted quietly among themselves as the boat approached the dock of the Jekyll Island Club.

Upon arriving on the island and finding his new employer, Hans listened carefully to instructions, nodding and answering in monosyllables. When this mission had been planned months ago, he had been given intensive instruction in gardening, especially those plants and flowers found in the southern United States.

“Yes,” he mumbled when asked whether he could prune the thousands of Cherokee roses that graced the club property, along with the colorful jasmine and wisteria. When the supervisor left, Hans studied the clubhouse and cottages with contempt. Such waste. Such extravagance. His eyes found and gauged each of the residents: the nattily dressed men who seemed not to have a care in the world, and the pampered women whose gazes flickered over him carelessly as if he were beneath notice.

He would show them exactly how they misjudged him.

He hid a secret smile as he thought how completely their lives would change. Soon. Very, very soon.

Chapter Four

M
ICHAEL DIDN
’
T SLEEP
at all that night. It was a problem he’d seldom had before.

At sea, he never knew how much sleep he might get, so he’d learned quickly to take what he could, to snatch a nap here, a few hours there.

But nothing worked now. He was so damned torn, as if he were in the middle of a tug of war, his heart pulled one way, his mind another. He had always followed his own instincts, but now they had deserted him. There was no guide here. None at all.

He’d always felt an obligation to his mother, a need to make up for some of the suffering she’d suffered at the hands of his father, and a responsibility to protect his younger brother. He had deserted them once, although he knew it had been necessary, for he’d no longer been able to contain his own rage. He would only have made things worse if he had stayed. Yet there was a guilt that wouldn’t die, and he knew he couldn’t desert them again.

There was also an ingrained loyalty to Germany, his homeland.
My country, right or wrong.
Where had he heard that? But it was true. God, it was true. No matter how hard he tried to run from it.

Sleep continued to elude him. At dawn, he finally rose and walked to the window. The sun was coming up over Jekyll Creek, a rosy sheen backdropping the huge oak trees. Michael shaved and dressed in casual gray slacks, white shirt, and dark blue sweater. He wanted to explore the island before he met with Hans, locate a site for the radio, and determine the most feasible route for the submarine to approach. He had already arranged for a bicycle, a less conspicuous form of transportation on the island’s winding paths and wide beaches than the red bug. It would also be good exercise for his leg.

Michael saw only a servant as he went down the steps. He could hear the kitchen staff preparing breakfast, but he saw no other guests up at this hour. He found the bicycle he had engaged, and tried it gingerly. It was the first time he had used one in years. Riding was precarious with his stiff leg, but after a few tries he was able to compensate for the injury.

The morning was beautiful. Moss hung in great silver shawls from giant oak trees, and the lavender of wisteria mixed with the wild white dogwoods glistening with morning dew. As he reached the beach, large graceful gulls were swooping over the water in search of their first meal of the day, and sandpipers were making fresh tracks on pristine sand.

Michael thought of the bombing in Berlin, the litter of death throughout much of Europe, and wondered if he were in a time warp. If so, he never wanted to leave it.

Unbidden and unwanted were thoughts of Meara. She would be rising now, perhaps even looking out over the salt marshes as he had earlier. He knew he had puzzled her last night, but it was better that way. Better to hurt a little now than a great deal later. Yet he kept seeing her as she was on the boat, her hair flying and her eyes dancing and her laugh dominating the wind. It had been so natural, so carefree, as if everything in the world was good and happy and just.

Much of the island was heavily wooded. The Jekyll Island Club had initially been mostly a hunting club for gentlemen until it became more family oriented with lawn bowling, tennis, golf and swimming. The wilderness hid bountiful wildlife, and the forest was very dense in some areas, its edges reaching almost to the water at high tide. Knurled roots of great oaks lay revealed in the sand; small palm plants obscured the ground. With the heavy undergrowth, it was a perfect place for an invasion, and he wondered at the lack of security of the island. There were only a few guards, all of whom looked as if they had never encountered anything more troublesome than a momentarily lost child.

God, how he hated what he had to do. The more he saw of the island the more he wished it could remain undisturbed, away from the harshness of war. He wondered at his own thoughts, for he couldn’t remember when he had been sentimental or soft or undisciplined.

Michael followed the curve of the beach, grateful for the hard-packed sand which easily supported the bicycle. The beach, and the woods above it, was utterly undisturbed. Jekyll could have been a deserted, exotic island except where the club was located. He laid down the bicycle at the point where the beach swung around again toward the marshes, and he walked into the woods. The undergrowth was heavy and he could hear the frightened scattering of animals. He worked his way into a deep clump of trees and studied the area carefully. There were no visible paths, no sign of recent human intrusion.

He was to make radio contact with a sub at midnight the next evening, late enough that the sub could surface safely for a brief time. He would ask for a picnic basket tomorrow and bring the radio here in the basket, then return back to this spot late in the evening.

That decision reached, he made his way back out of the woods, picked up his bike and pedaled slowly back to the clubhouse. And Hans.

It was midmorning when he arrived back at the clubhouse grounds. He quickly found Hans leaning over a rose bush. Nothing, he thought, could be more incongruous as Hans and roses.

He had disliked the man when he met him, and nothing since had changed his opinion. Hans Weimer was everything Michael detested about the “new” Germany. Fanatical. Cruel. Strutting in his feared black uniform as if he were God. Michael had seen similar antipathy in Weimer’s eyes. They had trained together for two months in wary silence. Unlike others in the American program, they had never shared a beer during their rare time off.

Michael had been forced into this mission, and he guessed that Hans was very aware of this fact, while Hans was obviously an enthusiastic and committed volunteer. Michael had killed, but it had been as one soldier in battle with another. He suspected Weimer killed for the pleasure of it.

But he had to admit, as he watched, that Hans looked nothing like the arrogant SS man Michael knew him to be. The man slumped slightly even when he straightened up from his chore, and his eyes were mild and blank. There was something of a glazed expression on his face, and his hands moved nervously. He was, Michael thought, a superb actor.

“Those are lovely roses,” he stopped to say.

Hans shrugged, his eyes carefully wandering over Michael’s expensive clothes.

“You’ll have to tell me your secrets, someday.”

Again, Hans shrugged.

“No trouble?” Michael said, his voice lowering.

“
Nein
,” Hans said, his voice only a harsh whisper. “And you?”

“None. I’ve been invited to a party this afternoon. Most of the members who are here for this season should be there.”

“How many?” Hans asked tensely.

“As far as I can tell, fourteen who are on the list.”

Hans grunted in disappointment. The list given them by German intelligence had included a hopeful twenty-five names.

“There’s a war on,” Michael said sardonically, and his reward was a baleful look.

“The radio?” Hans queried.

“In my room. I found a location for it this morning.”

“I want to be with you when you transmit.”

“Impossible,” Michael said shortly.

“I’ll work late and miss the boat.”

“A new man? You want to provoke suspicions?”

“It’s natural enough. Making a good impression.”

“No,” Michael said. “I won’t take a chance of being seen with you at night. This meeting is dangerous enough.”

Hans glared at him but quieted, and Michael read his every thought. The man could not argue now with Michael’s decision. But Hans obviously didn’t like it one bit. He lowered his head and stooped over again, his hand tightening on the sharp shears.

Michael smiled to himself. One minor victory. As if he had all the time in the world, he lazily remounted his bike and completed the ride to the clubhouse, his eyes ranging over the grounds. But he didn’t see a slender woman with two active children. It was just as well.

He rested for several hours. The damnable leg. The bicycle had placed unfamiliar demands on it, and the damned thing hurt like hell. But he couldn’t stop the restlessness of his mind. He had picked up several magazines, including a
Life,
downstairs, but he couldn’t concentrate, not even on the war news.

Fourteen. Fourteen of the wealthiest and most influential industrialists, financiers, and businessmen in America were gathering here.

There were many more people on the island. Guests and members who were not on the list, their employees, and employees of the club itself. Michael’s job was to arrange to have those targeted assembled in one location on the night of the raid. It meant he had to befriend as many of those people as possible and hold a small party on that night.

Cal Connor would be of immense help. Michael had believed acceptance, particularly in view of his fictitious though partially true background story, would be much more difficult than it was proving to be. But each guest had to undergo review before being admitted to the club premises, and apparently his credentials had more than passed approval; otherwise he would never be here tonight. Once accepted by the club leadership, a “stranger,” as he was called on the guest register, was apparently accepted by everyone else as well.

Michael was quickly discovering that the Jekyll Island Club had a relaxed social air. Because of the decline in membership since the Great Depression, the club had been actively soliciting associate members. Possible future members were welcomed cordially, if not effusively.

Michael knew he had been chosen, in large part, because he could easily associate with this group in a manner Hans never could. His wound was another factor. Canaris had believed the injury would attract sympathy from Americans who had watched war from afar and who had only recently been plunged into the thick of things. Patriotism was running strong in the country.

Canaris, Michael admitted grudgingly, had been right in all his suppositions, but the realization did not improve his dark mood or the foreboding of disaster that permeated the air around him.

Reluctantly, he dressed for the Connors’ party, choosing a pair of blue trousers, white shirt, and tie. He joined a stream of others who looked at him curiously as they walked to the DuBignon Cottage.

The grounds of the cottage were full of people and wonderful smells. Against the background of polite voices, a small orchestra played a combination of light classics and popular songs.

Cal Connor greeted him with an enthusiasm that surprised Michael, and he was quickly introduced to members as a wounded ally. He was readily accepted and peppered with questions about the war in Africa, and British losses to German U-boats.

Most of those present, Michael suspected, probably knew more about U-boat victories than he did. The U-boats were Germany’s one great weapon at the moment now that Goering’s air force had been decimated in the Battle of Britain. The toll on Allied shipping had been incalculable, although the total losses were kept from the American public. The subs were able to go anywhere with impunity, a fact which made possible Canaris’s plan for Jekyll Island.

“And the Pacific?” Michael asked in return. “Is there any more news in the Pacific?”

One man shook his head regretfully. American and Filipino troops were currently stranded on the Bataan Peninsula, and the United States, along with Britain, Holland, and Australia, had just recently lost fourteen ships in the disastrous Battle of the Java Sea. Nothing had improved since then.

“MacArthur will get them out of Bataan, though,” one man commented. “The Japanese will pay for Pearl Harbor, and soon.”

The talk turned to Africa and the seesawing battle between Rommel and British troops. “When will the Americans send troops?” asked Michael.

Cal, who had joined them, shrugged. “The Pacific is the greatest concern now, that and getting ships through to England.”

As if to remind them of the U-boat menace, a woman standing across the lawn with several other women, spoke loud enough for everyone to hear as she pointed upward. A blimp was laboriously plowing through the clear azure sky.