Eye of the Storm (12 page)

He said nothing, glaring at her with mistrust. She took a chance, tried to keep him talking. “You’re Lowara, right? Weren’t your people there when Rosa’s kumpania was attacked in 1936?” According to Paddy, the Lowara betrayed Rosa’s family to the Germans, but she held that back. “Is that when the treasure was lost? Because Rosa barely escaped with her life—she had nothing when the Germans took her.”

“Not then. Later. During the war. She and Padraic Hart stole something so immense, so valuable that they killed my grandfather to protect their secret. It’s taken me all this time to piece together the clues that led me to you—all I had was Rosa’s name and the fact she murdered my father in Paris on Christmas Eve, 1940.”

Cassie remained silent, unsure what to say that wouldn’t provoke him. He was a muscular man, trim, in good shape, but when he spoke of Rosa, his color flushed and the veins in his neck swelled. High blood pressure, she diagnosed. Would it be too much to ask for a stroke sometime soon? Didn’t have to kill him, just incapacitate him long enough for her to escape.

No one answered her prayer and he continued. “You may think Rosa Costello was a hero, but she was nothing more than a thief and an assassin, betraying one of her own for the sake of her
gaje
lover.” He spat, the wad of mucus hitting Cassie’s chest, sliding along the bodice of Muriel’s once-beautiful dress. To mix with
gaje
, outsiders, was the worst sin a Rom woman could commit, leaving her forever
marhime
, unclean, shunned.

Cassie thought hard. She had to stall, but she did not have the answers Kasanov sought. “I think Rosa killed many men during the war,” she said softly. “I’m not sure which was your father. But I will tell you what I know.”

“Tell me all of it. The truth. Any lies or deception and Mrs. Drake suffers.”

She nodded her agreement. Playing Scheherazade with a psychopath, Muriel’s life in the balance—and her only weapons the tall tales her grandfather had spun when she was a child.

Drake had better find them. Fast.

IN A SURREAL
turn, Rosa escorted Paddy through the barn while her men stayed behind to guard his shipmates. At first he’d balked. “I’ll not be given any special treatment. I’ll stay with my mates.”

But then she turned that witchy smile of hers on him and asked, “The ones who wanted to rape me and pillage this farm?”

“They’re scared is all. They’ve just had their ship shot out from under them, ended up practically behind enemy lines.” After all, unoccupied France was more an idea than an absolute.

Her eyes flared in judgment over his fellow sailors but she said nothing. Instead, she took his arm and led him outside into the night. The storm had moved east, lightning blazing through the sky in the distance, but immediately overhead the sky was clearing, only a few ragged clouds obscuring the moon.

His clothing still sodden and heavy, exhaustion dimming his awareness, he walked with her across a yard, looking back over his shoulder to the barn where his men were now captives.

Rosa touched his arm. “They’ll be safe. You have my word.”

What choice did he have? They reached the house where Rosa knocked gently on the kitchen door. It opened almost immediately, revealing a buxom, middle-aged woman and her stoutly built husband. If not for the rapid-fire French they spewed as they each took turns clutching Rosa with hearty embraces, they would have been at home in any Connemara cottage. Paddy shuffled his feet, uncertain what to do or say, then was surprised when as soon as the couple finished greeting Rosa, they pulled him inside and embraced him just as warmly.

“
Merci
,” he stuttered. “
Merci beaucoup
.”

More French followed, and after a few minutes, he got the hang of their rhyme and accent, so very different from the schoolboy French the officers had taught him or the clipped radio reports he’d intercepted. Rosa beamed as he answered them, haltingly at first, then more relaxed, recounting the events of the night. The husband, Jean-Marie, sat Paddy down at a seat beside the kitchen fire, while his wife doled out hearty vegetable stew.

When he’d eaten his fill—feeling a bit guilty, but the lads had done it to themselves, acting the way they had—he sat back, finally warm for the first time that night. Rosa stared at him with an appraising glance, and then threw him a question. “How was the food?”

He answered automatically before realizing she’d spoken in German. So had he. The farmers exchanged glances, but Rosa smiled and nodded. She stood and embraced the man and woman, telling them good night. The couple shuffled off to bed.

Once it was just he and Rosa, she jerked her chin, indicating he should stand. She walked around him as if measuring him for a funeral suit. As she stood behind him, Paddy remembered how quick she’d been with the knife when she’d tackled Maguire. But surely she wouldn’t waste good food on a man she intended to kill.

“How did you learn French and German?” she asked, returning to her seat across the table from him. She did hold her knife in her hand, playing with it, spinning it across her fingers and around again in a flash.

“I worked in the radio shack. Whenever we overheard transmissions from the Germans or French—before you all scuttled your own navy, that is—”

“I’m not French,” she interrupted him. “But go on.”

“Anyway, I’d repeat the messages for the watch officer. They realized I could repeat anything I heard, so thought it best if I could understand them myself in case there was an intercept that required immediate action. So the officers took me on as a pet project, teaching me French and German.”

She nodded. Sat in silent thought for another few minutes. “Do you know anything about the Nazis—their rank structure, what their uniform insignias mean?”

He shrugged. “There are posters in the radio shack and the mess. Know the enemy. Mainly Jane’s, ships and U-boats, airplane silhouettes, the like.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his face mere inches from hers. “If you’re planning a rescue mission, want to save the rest of my crew, I’m game.”

A slow smile spread across her features—even in this short time he’d already discovered that when she smiled, it was with her entire body, not just her lips. He decided he liked making her smile, vowed to do it as often as possible.

“I believe you are.” She pushed her chair back. “Right then. Let’s get a move on.”

Rosa led Paddy back to the barn where her men were circled around a lantern, keeping watch over the door to the root cellar. Paddy felt a flush of shame at the way his crew had acted earlier. He tried to blame it on the events of the night combined with exhaustion and the wine, not to mention the adrenalin that came with finding yourself stranded in a foreign country, your fate suddenly in your own hands.

Still, he wondered how much faith he could place in the men he’d served with. The thought brought with it a mixture of guilt at doubting but also an awareness of the life-and-death stakes he faced. Not just him—Rosa and her people as well. One blathering idiot or hothead looking to get back at Rosa for humiliating him in front of the rest of the crew could doom them all.

God, he was bone-weary. And from Rosa’s hints, the night had just begun. The weight of responsibility settled over his shoulders. Every decision he made from here on out would impact so many lives. He wasn’t an officer, wasn’t suited for command. He just wanted to do his job, help fight the Krauts, pay them back for killing his sis, and keep himself and his crew alive. Was that too much to ask?

“Any problems?” Rosa asked.

“No,” one of the Frenchmen answered. “They’re asleep.”

“Good. Make sure you get something to eat and some rest.” She turned to the man she shared the guttural language with. Said something and he left, returning with a bundle of clothing he thrust at Paddy. He seemed skeptical, talking rapidly and gesturing with his hands as if measuring Paddy’s shoulders. Rosa translated. “Fernando thinks you’re too skinny to impersonate a German officer.”

Impersonate a German? That’d buy you the firing squad for sure. Paddy unfolded the top layer of clothing and found an officer’s uniform and wool overcoat. Not just any officer. Even he recognized the insignia of the SS.

Rosa and the man kept talking then she turned to him. “I told him you’d make a fine officer. Show him a salute.”

Fernando glowered at Paddy and he realized the man didn’t care one wit about Paddy’s fate—he was worried Paddy would botch the job and get Rosa killed. Paddy straightened and gave his best impression of an officer, snapping at Fernando in German. “Officers do not salute. We are saluted. Show some respect.”

The other man raised an eyebrow, shrugged one shoulder then turned to Rosa with the universal hand gesture of maybe, maybe not. Rosa smiled and turned to the other man. “We need to get going. Is Dex ready?”

“He’s waiting for you behind the barn. What should we do with this lot?” He nodded to the cellar door.

“Come daybreak show them the route at Banyuls. Then you return to Marseilles. We’ll meet you there tomorrow night.”

“Do you trust them?”

She shrugged. “It’s a well-marked trail, they won’t need a guide.”

Paddy intervened. “Wait. Where are you taking my men?”

“Not taking. Sending. Over the mountains into Spain. From there, they can give themselves up and the Spanish will turn them over to your consulate. It’s the safest way to protect them from the Germans without risking my people.”

“If the Spanish are so eager to help, why can’t all our soldiers escape that way?” Paddy had overheard the ship’s officers talking about the dangers RAF pilots faced when shot down over France, even unoccupied France.

“Your men aren’t combatants,” she reminded him. “Merchant sailors, they don’t carry military identification. The Spanish will most likely treat them the same as they do the civilian refugees we shepherd across the border. Worst thing they could do is put them in prison, but even then, once your consulate found out, they’d make diplomatic arrangements.”

Paddy wasn’t convinced. “You’ve done this before. With merchant sailors like us?”

“No. But it’s the safest thing for everyone.” She seemed to somehow grow in height as she met his gaze. “If you disagree, you are all welcome to wait here. We’ll keep you fed as best we can, for as long as we can.”

“Prisoners. You want to keep us prisoners?”

“Until my people are safely away and there’s no one your men can betray.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stood silent, waiting for his decision.

Shite. Thirty lives waiting for him to see into the future and decide their fate. “Spain,” he finally said. She was right—that route created less risk for the civilians here, Rosa’s people, as well as his crew. “Send them into Spain.”

She nodded, turned on her heel, and crossed the barn to exit out a rear door designed for large equipment and wagons. Paddy stared after her, then looked to her man who was clearly amused at his confusion. “She didn’t say anything—”

“Didn’t have to. But you’d best hurry if you want to save your officers. Rosa’s not one to wait for any man.”

DRAKE HAD NOTHING
to do.

Activity swirled around him as Prescott called in the rest of his troops. Texas was waking up Interpol contacts halfway around the world, getting more details on Kasanov’s past crimes and known associates. The smart-mouthed kid, Taylor, turned out to be some kind of cyber-wiz and was coordinating the local search while simultaneously scanning CC camera footage along Kasanov’s escape route. Jimmy was arranging interviews with Alicia Fairstone as well as the people who’d been seated at Kasanov’s table at the gala last night.

Drake couldn’t stop staring at the photos of the murdered women who’d been found in Kasanov’s wake. Nickolai Kasanov, born 1940 or 1941—same time Hart’s grandparents had been in France, working against the Nazis. Meant nothing. After all, how many millions of boys were born during those two years?

Still. Rosa. He’d never met her—she’d died four years ago, long before he met Hart. But he’d seen photos of her and Padraic. Hart looked so much like her grandmother it was uncanny.

He jerked upright. All those dead women. They
all
looked like Rosa.

No. He blinked, looked again at the grainy photos, scoured from ancient police and autopsy records. No, they didn’t really look like Rosa, did they? Same dark hair, same high cheekbones, but that was commonplace in the locales where Kasanov had hunted.

God, he was losing it. He slumped against a corner of the room, watching Prescott fire orders into two phones he juggled. Was it only two nights ago that he’d been happy? Two nights ago he’d had the promise of
Steadfast
’s debut, the promise of money to build upon the dream come true that was the Liberty Center, the promise of Hart, marrying her, having her for the rest of his life.

The bang of a phone being slammed down shot through the room. Drake jerked upright, hand falling to his gun.

“Son of a bitch,” Taylor said.

A spike of terror impaled itself in Drake’s heart. Dead. They were both dead.

He turned to the window, hiding his face, blinking back emotion, pretending to be absorbed in the twilight-cloaked skyline visible across the river.

God, what was he going to do? He wanted to howl, scream, to pummel and destroy—to inflict the pain he felt on someone else.

Instead, he turned, spine held ramrod straight, shoulders hunched against the expected blow. “What?”

Taylor finished his notation in the log and looked around, surprised every eye in the room was on him. “I found where they made the first car switch.” His fingers tapped and a map appeared on the screen, tracing Kasanov’s route. A red arrow blinked.

“Three Rivers Medical Center,” Jimmy said. “The arrogant sonofa—”

Drake closed his eyes for a split second, trying to reorient his soul. There was still a chance, they may still be alive, a whisper of hope blew through his mind.