The Wild Rose (44 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Willa, drowsing, heard a soft knocking sound. She opened her eyes and saw Max standing in her doorway, smiling, his hands behind his back.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“This is your hospital, Max. I am your prisoner. I should think you can do whatever you like,” she replied.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her, ignoring the barb. “Are you still in pain?”

“I am,” she said nodding. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pill on you, would you? The ribs are still kicking up and I haven’t seen the nurse for hours.”

“This might help,” he said, pulling a bottle of wine out from behind his back. It was a 1907 Château Lafite. In his other hand, he had two wineglasses. He filled both glasses, then handed her one. “I snuck it out of the officers’ mess. I hope you like it,” he said, sitting on the bed.

Willa’s hands shook as she took the glass. Eyeing him warily, she sniffed it, which made him laugh.

“If I wanted to kill you, there are quicker ways. Slower ones, too. Drink up. There’s nothing in your glass but wine, I swear it,” he said.

Willa took a sip of the rich Bordeaux. She hadn’t had anything like it in years. It tasted impossibly good. Like civilization and happiness. Like all the beautiful, peaceful nights she’d squandered. Like life before the war.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

“It is good, isn’t it? I’m glad I’m drinking it here. With you. Not with some ghastly old major general in the mess, who’s reminiscing fondly—and endlessly—about the Franco-Prussian War.”

Willa smiled. She swallowed another mouthful of wine, loving the feeling of it coursing through her body, warming her blood, bringing a flush to her cheeks. For a few seconds, it was as if they were back in Tibet again. They hadn’t any Lafite to drink there, but they’d had tea, which they’d often drunk together in the warmth of a campfire.

Max refilled her glass. “Have you thought about my offer?” he asked.

Willa took another drink. “Of course I have,” she said. “But what can I say about it, Max? What do you want me to do? Be a traitor to my own country? Could you do that?”

Max smiled ruefully. He shook his head. Willa half expected him to call for the firing squad, but he didn’t.

“It’s amazing how we both ended up here at the same time, isn’t it?” he said. “I’d be tempted to say it was fate, if I believed in fate.”

“But you don’t.”

“No. I believe life is what you make it,” he said, refilling his own glass. “I don’t want to be here, that’s for certain. I don’t want to be anywhere near this dreadful place, all heat and dust and soldiers.” He put the bottle on the floor and looked at her. “I want to be where I was happiest, Willa. Back at Everest. With you. I feel that that’s my true country—the Himalayas. It’s yours, too, and you know it. It’s where we both belong.”

Willa didn’t say anything. She looked into her wineglass.

“Let’s go back there. The two of us together,” he said softly.

Willa laughed joylessly. “Just catch the next train east?” she said. “You make it sound so easy.”

“I never married, you know,” he said, still looking at her. “You ruined me for any other woman.”

“Max, I—” Willa began, not liking where the conversation was going. Wanting to stop it. Now. Before he said anything else.

“No, hear me out. At least do that much for me,” he said. “I knew then, back in Tibet, that you had feelings for someone else. But Willa, where is he? All these years later, where is Seamus Finnegan? I shall tell you: not with you. He’s married to another woman and they have a little boy together.”

Willa broke his gaze. She lowered her head. Tears smarted behind her eyes.

“I don’t say these things to hurt you,” Max said. “Just to make you see the truth. You’re wasting your life longing for something that can never be.” Max reached for her hand. “You don’t belong with Seamus Finnegan. And you don’t belong here, in this desert hell. You don’t belong to this war. Neither of us does.”

Max leaned in close to her. “For God’s sake, Willa, just tell me what I need to know so I can get this all over with sooner rather than later and get you out of here. I’ve done what I had to do—scare you. I’ve acted the official. Now I’ll protect you. I’ll take care of you. Germany is going to win the war. It won’t take too much longer before it’s all over. And when it is, I’ll marry you—if you’ll let me—and take you back where you belong, to Everest.”

Willa, her head still down, said, “Do you mean that, Max? Or is it just another spy maneuver?”

“I do mean it, Willa. I swear it. I give you my word.”

Willa raised her head. Tears spilled from her eyes.

“You’re right, Max,” she said. “I’m so tired of this damned war. I’m tired of the waste and the loss. Take me there. Promise me you will. Take me back to Everest.” She leaned her forehead against his, then raised her lips to his and kissed him fiercely.

He kissed her back, passionately, then with a knowing smile, he pulled away from her.

“Convince me you mean it, Willa,” he said. “Tell me where Lawrence is. We know the British want Damascus. How far north has he come?”

“Nablus,” Willa said.

“He’s that far west?” Max said. “Why?”

“He’s moving amongst the tribes. Trying to recruit from them.”

“How many man has he got with him?”

“Not many. Only about a thousand or so and he’s having difficulty bringing more on board. The Bedouin don’t trust Faisal, and they fear the Turks.”

Max nodded thoughtfully. “We can fend a thousand off easily. What about Dara?” he asked. “We have reports that say he wants to take that before he takes Damascus.”

Willa shook her head. “Lawrence doesn’t care about Dara. He’s going to bypass it altogether.”

Max looked skeptical. “I have difficulty believing that,” he said. “Dara’s a valuable town on the Hejaz line. The biggest town between Amman and Damascus. In fact, I very much doubt everything you’re telling me.”

“I’m sure you do,” Willa said, “which is exactly why Lawrence is doing it. If you think about it, though, it makes perfect sense. Lawrence has to save his men for the attack on Damascus. He can’t afford to lose any fighting over Dara.”

“What about Allenby?” Max asked.

“General Allenby has all he can manage with Suez. His orders are to hold that at all costs. He has little faith in Lawrence’s ability to gather the troops he needs to take Damascus, and even less in Faisal’s.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “How do you know Allenby’s plans if you’ve been in the desert with Lawrence?” he said.

“Because I’ve been working with Lawrence, but for Allenby,” Willa replied. “I was at the Cairo office before I went into the desert—but you probably know that already. In fact, my presence in the desert was all Allenby’s idea. He wanted me to be his eyes and ears in Lawrence’s camp. I’ve been keeping him apprised of Lawrence’s every move.”

“How? You’ve been in the desert. In the middle of nowhere.”

Willa smiled. “The airplane. I did more than one recon mission, you know. I did many. And every time I went up, I radioed Allenby in Cairo. We used code of course, but I got many messages through to him.”

Max nodded, and Willa saw that the suspicion that had been on his face was gone. “Thank you,” he said. “For all the information. For trusting me. And for making me believe in a future again. We will leave this place, Willa,” he said. “I promise you that. We’ll be together again.”

He kissed her once more, pulling her close, taking her in his arms. As he did, Willa gasped. “My ribs,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I got carried away and forgot about your injuries. Forgive me. I want you so much, I didn’t think. I’ll call for the nurse now to give you your pill.”

He gathered up the empty bottle and the glasses, kissed her good-bye, and disappeared down the hallway.

Willa watched him go, touched her fingers to her lips, and smiled.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Sid pulled his collar up against the filthy weather, marveling at how the rain was always wetter and the sky grayer in East London. It was early September, and a Sunday. A few people, poorly dressed, heads down against the driving wind, hurried past him on the sidewalk.

Sid knew where they were going—to pubs, where they could warm their insides with gin and their outsides by a fire. Or, if they had no money, back to their small, damp, dreary rooms. Where there was no heat, no heart, no hope. He remembered those rooms so well.

Sid hurried himself, wanting to finish his business and leave this place as quickly as he could. He turned a corner, walked halfway down a narrow, winding street, and arrived at Teddy’s offices. He greatly hoped that Teddy had been able to dig up some information for him in the month since they’d last met. He didn’t relish the thought of making a third trip to Limehouse.

Inside the foyer, he shook the rain off himself and gave Teddy’s girl his name.

“Mr. Ko is expecting you,” she said, escorting him to Teddy’s office. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Malone?”

“I would, darlin’, thank you,” Sid said.

He greeted Teddy, who was seated at his desk yelling into a telephone in Chinese, and sat down across from him. Teddy yelled for a few more minutes, then slammed the phone down.

“Sorry, Sid,” he said. “Business headaches. How are you?”

“Fine, Teddy. Yourself?”

“Fine. Fine. Just found out that one of my ships is late. No one’s heard from it, or seen it, and I’m thinking the fucking thing’s gone down with half a ton of my opium on board.”

Sid gave what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. It was just like Teddy to be worried about his opium, not the ship or its sailors. Teddy kept nattering on, talking about business deals, and Sid had the strange feeling, yet again, that Teddy was stalling for time. Why? Had he not been able to dig up anything on Maud and the morphine?

“Teddy,” Sid finally said, interrupting him. “How about our own little business deal? Were you able to find anything out?”

Before Teddy could answer, the door to his office opened and closed. Sid turned around. He figured it was Teddy’s girl with the tea. He was glad of it. The rain had wet him through. He felt like he could drink an entire pot of strong, hot tea.

But it wasn’t Teddy’s girl. It was a ghost from his past, come back to haunt him. Only the ghost was alive and well and flanked by two of the hardest-looking men Sid had ever seen.

“Well, as I live and breathe. If it ain’t Sid Malone,” said Billy Madden. “What a surprise. I thought you was dead, Sid. I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d pay Teddy here a call—he’s always happy to see me, ain’t you, Ted?—and here you are.”

But Billy didn’t seem surprised at all, and Sid doubted very much that his visit was a coincidence. Teddy had told Billy that Sid had been to see him, and Billy, for some reason, didn’t like it. Including Teddy, there were four of them, and one of him. Sid cursed himself. How could he have not seen this coming? He would have to tread very carefully.

“Why’d you leave us so abruptly, Sid? Without even a going away party?” Billy asked, taking the chair next to him. His thugs remained by the door.

“It was getting a bit hot for me here, Billy. Had to make a quick exit,” Sid said, keeping his voice even.

“And so you did. But now you’re back.”

“Indeed I am.”

Billy nodded. He smiled. And then he sat forward and said, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Some information from Teddy.”

“Information, is it?” Billy spat. “I’ll give you some information, Sid: You made a big fucking mistake coming back here. Who are you working with? Fat Patsy Giovanna? The Kenney brothers? Who?”

So that was it—Billy thought he wanted his manor back.

Sid held up his hands. “Easy, Billy,” he said. “I’m not working with or for anyone. I’m just looking into a death, a suicide that happened a few years back. For a friend of mine. That’s all.”

“You expect me to believe that shite? Would you have believed that, Sid? Would you?”

Sid stole a quick glance at Teddy’s desk as Madden ranted, desperate to see if there was anything there he could use. A paperweight. A letter opener. Just in case. Billy Madden had always been a bit barmy, but he must’ve really gone off his nut in the last few years. His eyes were wild. He was nearly frothing as he spoke.

“Billy, I swear to you, I’m not here after my old manor. You can have it. With my blessings,” he said.

“Is that so? Then tell me what you’re really doing here. Why do you care about some old tart who offed herself years ago?”

Sid could have told Billy the truth. The truth might have saved him. But he didn’t. There was no way in the world he was going to tell Billy Madden that he had a wife now, and that Maud was his wife’s sister, and that all he wanted to do was find out if she’d truly killed herself, so his wife could have some peace. No matter what happened to him, he was not going to tell Billy Madden a damn thing about India or their children.

“That old tart mattered, Billy. To a friend of mine. That’s why I care.”

Billy shook his head. “Do for him,” he said.

Sid was expecting it. In a flash, he grabbed a stone lion from Teddy’s desk and threw it at Teddy. It hit the side of his head hard, taking him out of the fray. Sid turned, then, and faced Billy’s men. He wasn’t afraid of Billy; Billy was a coward, but Billy’s lads were a different matter. If he wanted to get out of here alive, he had to get through them first. Sid got a few good punches in. He split a lip and cracked a nose, but Billy’s lads were younger, stronger, and bigger. Their blows bloodied Sid and weakened him. And then a well-aimed punch to the back of his head dropped him.

“Get him up and get him out of here,” Billy said, looking at Sid with contempt as he lay on the floor, barely conscious, groaning, his face covered in gore.

“What are you going to do with him?” Teddy asked. He was holding a handkerchief to the gash in his left temple. The white cloth was rapidly turning crimson. The front of his suit was stained with blood.

Billy was calmer now. His eyes were clear and focused; they’d lost their mad look. He took a cigar from the box on Teddy’s desk and lit it, tossing the match on the floor.

“I’m taking him to the boatyard. I’ll lock him in the basement till John gets back. He’s off on his North Sea run, but he’ll be back in a few days. Soon as he is, I’ll have him take Malone out. Way out. Past Gravesend.”

“Dead or alive?” Teddy asked.

“Who cares?” Madden said. “John’ll weight him and dump him over the side, and if he’s not dead when he goes in the water, he soon will be.”

“Good riddance,” Teddy said. “Bastard cracked my skull.”

“Good riddance is right,” Billy growled. “He fooled everyone once, back in 1900, but he won’t do it again. It’s over for him. This time Sid Malone really is going to rot in the Thames.”