Patricia Potter (27 page)

“Oh, they’re going too. Along with some rather interesting gentlemen and their families.”

“Where?”

“Germany.” The answer was triumphant.

Terror and disbelief started to build within Meara. “You’re insane.”

“No, fräulein. In a very few hours, you will be a…guest of the Third Reich.” He smiled menacingly, and Meara realized he was very serious. She struggled to clear her head. What was happening?

“Just think,” the man said. “Think of the turmoil America will be in when we spirit away its top industrial and business leaders. Of course, there will be a little discomfort, but von Steimen will see to their…needs. And yours. He’s very good at that.” The tone was conversational, mocking, taunting her to ask more.

“Von Steimen?”

“Oh, I forgot. You know him as Fielding. Michael Fielding. He played his role very well, don’t you think?”

The horror that Meara had felt minutes earlier was nothing compared to that which rolled over her now. Horror and loathing and disbelief. And sickness. A terrible, stabbing agony that twisted her insides until she doubled up with pain.

Waves and waves of pain. They assaulted her mind, her body, her every thought. Michael. Michael with the tender touch and the soft words. Michael with the eyes that reached inside her and stole her soul. Michael to whom she’d so easily given her heart. Everything in her denied her captor’s words.

She tried not to believe. Dear Mother in Heaven, no! A lie. Nothing but a lie. Meara struggled to understand, to reason, but there was no reason in her. The man was lying. But why? Why would he lie? Toward what end if he was who he said he was? But still she fought against the growing fear, the convincing evidence. “You lie!”

She heard his low malevolent chuckle. “Oh, he is very, very good. The Abwehr trained him well. Of course, as a German aristocrat, he naturally is an arrogant bastard, like all the others here.” Hans smiled coldly. “Of course, you weren’t much of a challenge. We even laughed together about you. A fine diversion, he said, as well as a Judas goat.”

If she hadn’t believed him before, doubt now started creeping into her mind, slowly, insidiously like a slithering snake. He was enjoying her pain, and she only briefly wondered why. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Michael as she had last seen him at lunch. The strong face, the dark blue eyes which had seemed to love her, his easy, friendly way with the children, with the Connors.

Lies. All lies. The smiles. The touches. The lovemaking.

Why?

To reach the Connors. Judas goat, the man had said. The cramps, the sickness she’d felt before, paled compared to the shooting agony that racked her now. Not only had he betrayed her, but he had made her betray her own country, her family, her friends, her young charges.

Don’t think of it, she told herself, fighting down billows of panic and revulsion. Don’t think of him, or you’ll lose control. Don’t think. You have to do something. You must. Her hands balled into fists and her wrists fought against the ropes that bound them.

“It will do you no good, fräulein, and your lover should be here shortly. To make the last arrangements for your journey, and that of the others.”

Focus on something, Meara told herself. Focus on anything but Michael. The children! She saw them lying still in a corner.

“What did you do to Peter and Tara?” Concentrate, she reminded herself over and over again. You have to concentrate for the children.
Michael,
she screamed silently in her mind.

“Ether. Like you. But a heavier dose. They’re alive, hostage to their father’s reasonable behavior.”

“And me? What good am I to you?”

“I haven’t really decided,” the German said. “A gift for von Steimen perhaps.”

A lie. Meara saw it in his eyes. She was a governess, worth nothing. She didn’t even know why she was alive now except that it must have something to do with Michael.

Von Steimen.

Bile stuck in her throat as she remembered his whispered endearments, yet part of her couldn’t quite believe it was all a lie. Perhaps it was some trick, a terrible joke. She looked at her captor, at the man’s pale blue eyes lit with malice, and she knew this was no joke, no mistake, no dream.

“What are you going to do with Mr. Connor?”

“Oh, he’ll be a guest of our government.”

“In a concentration camp?” Meara asked flatly.

The man shrugged.

“And the children?”

He shrugged again.

Meara opened her mouth to scream, though she knew no one could probably hear her, not through the door and across the grounds. But she had to do something.

It was partially out of her mouth when the door opened, and Meara saw Michael’s tall, lean body fill the doorway.

Sanders fought the effects of the drug. He had faked part of his reaction to it when he first realized what was happening to him.

He didn’t have to fake much. His reflexes had slowed, his eyelids had grown heavy. But he had sipped his drink very slowly, and when the drug, whatever it was, started to work, he realized immediately what Fielding had done.

His mind had immediately reacted, knowing there was probably little time. The first question was why.

Flashes of images hurtled through his brain. Director Hoover’s fears, his own first suspicions of Fielding, the systematic courting by Fielding of members of the club. God, he had been a fool.

He stuttered out a few words, then allowed his eyes to close as they had wished to do. He felt Fielding’s hands move him to his bed and, from a growing mental distance, felt his hands and ankles being tied.

But a portion of his brain still functioned. As Fielding had tied his hands, Sanders had managed to twist one fractionally, leaving, he hoped, enough room in the cloth to work it free.

He felt the gag being stuffed in his mouth, and it was all he could do not to react. Fielding’s hands had hesitated an instant, and Sanders sensed a reluctance in his adversary, but then the gag was tied firmly in place.

Sanders waited until he heard the door open and close, and the key turn in the lock. He then tried his bonds. He was so sleepy, so damned sleepy that his efforts were weak at best.

He rested for a moment, fighting the drug with all the will he had. Dear God, what was happening? He thought of the members here, of what was at stake, and he tried again. And again. And again.

Sanders tried to yell, to moan, to attract attention, but the gag was too tight, and the rooms were well built and well insulated. He could expect no help.

He wanted to sleep. How he wanted to sleep. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself that luxury.

Don’t hurry, he told himself. Don’t hurry or you’ll just make the knots tighter. He tried to relax his arm, his fingers feeling for the knots, for the little bit of room he needed.

Give, damn it. He felt the tight knot with his fingers, yet he had a little wriggling room. Just a little.

What was going on? Who was Fielding?

Just a little more effort. Just a little more. Damn this sluggishness. Damn Fielding.

His eyes closed, and he willed them to open. Perhaps a moment of rest. Only a moment. He felt drowsiness shroud his senses, and again he fought the overwhelming temptation to sleep, to surrender to the fog that had now nearly encompassed him.

No! He started fighting the bonds again.

Chapter Fourteen

M
ICHAEL
’
S FACE HARDENED
as he surveyed the room in front of him, his usual enigmatic eyes turning frigid.

His glance flickered from Hans to Meara to the children and back, briefly, to Meara. The fear and repugnance on her pale face; the bloodless lips sliced through him like a knife, but he allowed nothing to show in his face as he turned to Hans.

“Michael,” she said, her voice quivering slightly with a pain and uncertainty that twisted the knife inward. “What…?”

He wanted to rush over to her, to comfort her, to protect, but he knew he couldn’t. He would be signing both their death warrants, and possibly those of the children. Instead, he kept his eyes curtained as he turned to Hans and spoke in German. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Hans smiled mirthlessly as he straightened. The girl’s scream had ended the second she had seen von Steimen. His hand remained on his pistol, and he moved several feet away.

“I have some orders you haven’t seen, von Steimen.”

Michael’s lips tightened as he realized Hans’s use of his name and English was
purposeful.
He looked at the pistol in Hans’s hand and knew the deliberately careless pose was anything but that. Hans was ready to use the pistol, and he was keeping it more or less aimed at Meara.

“What orders?” he answered roughly.

“We’re to take the children with us, as additional hostages.”

Michael looked at him unflinchingly. “All of them?”

“Five exactly, including these two. The other three also belong to our soon-to-be guests.”

“I had no such orders.” Michael kept his voice hard and cold as he fought to keep his gaze from Meara.

Hans shrugged.

“And the girl?”

“It was the only way to get the children. I also thought she would be a gift for you.” Hans’s voice was coldly amused. “I doubt if anyone cares what happens to her.”

“What if someone misses her? You could ruin everything.”

“I don’t think so,” Hans said. “By the time she’s missed, the submarine will be here.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Perhaps you weren’t completely trusted,” Hans replied softly.

Michael looked at Hans with contempt, then stepped over to where the children lay, and felt the pulse in their neck. Both were alive, their breathing regular. He looked over at Meara, at the green eyes which were now filling with even more confusion, confusion and something more virulent. Something like hate. A part of him died that moment, pieces of a heart already so brittle that, like a mirror, it shattered in sharp-edged pieces, slicing a swath of destruction through his soul.

But at least she hadn’t been hurt. Not physically. Not yet.

In those few seconds, Michael made his decision. It was one he knew now he had been considering for the past few days, but had not admitted it to himself. That was why he had bought the motor, why he had bought the rope which he had left in the motorboat, why he’d had a duplicate key made for it.

In the past week, everything in him had rebelled against his assignment. There were things he would do for his country and his family, but this was not one of them. Michael had never known he had a sense of honor before, but now he found he did, and he also knew he couldn’t betray those who had befriended him and the one person who had loved him. He couldn’t allow the kidnapping of children, of innocents.

At the same time, he knew the consequences of capture. He could perhaps escape execution if he confessed, if he provided information about German Intelligence. But if he did that, then his mother and brother would be killed.

Both of his identities, Michael Fielding and Eric von Steimen, would have to die. Michael looked at Meara. Smudges of dirt and what could be tears ravaged her lovely face, but her eyes were clear. Not challenging but full of loathing. That was important. When he “died,” hate would make her forget easier than love.

He looked down at his watch. “Seven o’clock.”

Hans didn’t move. “The radio is over there in the corner. You start the transmission.”

Michael nodded and went over to the suitcase on the floor, opening it quickly. He started twisting the dials, moving his body between the radio and Hans, and hunching down. One hand found a battery and quickly removed it, rolling it behind a piece of machinery. He tinkered with the radio a few more moments while his other hand found the knife which was strapped to his ankle underneath a sock. He slipped the weapon into a pocket of his jacket.

“It’s not working,” he said. “What in the hell did you do to it?” For Meara’s sake, he had to make her believe that he distrusted Hans’s loyalty to Germany as much as Hans obviously distrusted his own. A falling out between thieves.

Michael heard Hans’s German oath and then the hammer of Hans’s pistol being drawn back, but he knew the man couldn’t risk a shot.

“Get away from there,” Hans said, suspicion heavy in his voice. “Over next to the girl,” he further directed as he leveled the barrel of the gun toward Michael’s stomach.

Michael did as he was told, moving slowly, keeping his eyes on Hans. When he reached the wall where Meara sat, he relaxed against it casually, as Hans turned his head toward the radio and tried to work it himself. When nothing happened, Hans started to check the batteries.

Michael knew the minute Hans saw the battery was gone, he would realize what had happened. But the moment’s realization had given Michael the few seconds he needed. As he lunged for Hans, Michael’s hand slipped in his pocket and withdrew the knife, letting it slip down near Meara as if by accident. He didn’t have time to see whether or not she saw it, for the gun in Hans’s hand was turning toward him once more. Michael’s movement propelled him into Hans, his hand deflecting Hans’s fist, and he saw the gun bounce out of the SS man’s fingers before they were both on the floor.