Gifts of War (40 page)

I turned back to Liesl and Rebecca. Under the table, Liesl had her hand on Rebecca’s leg, stroking the inside of her thigh. They were kissing ferociously.

They sensed me watching and broke apart. Rebecca laid her head on Liesl’s breast. “Now do you see why what I did for you was so hard?”

We stayed until after three. The champagne went quickly but the whisky lasted longer and our supper
(truite au bleu with frites)
was wonderful. We got gloriously drunk, all danced with each other, and all danced together. I got to know Liesl, who was Rebecca’s flatmate (of
course)
and, I discovered, a painter of no small repute herself. One of her collages was on the walls of the club.

Rebecca and Liesl made me think of Sam and
our
living arrangements. Back home, people—those like my father who knew the truth, that Sam and I weren’t married—disapproved of how we were living. Had more people known, they would certainly have told us we were
“living in sin”—that was the phrase used so often, and still is. What, then, would they have thought of Rebecca and Liesl? Yet here in Zurich, in the Club Pantagruel, a safe, nonjudgmental habitat, they were happy, content, free. What could be wrong with that? Who made these rules, anyway? I thought of my mother. If she thought I was happy with Sam, she wouldn’t object. It really was time I took Sam home.

The only shadow on our horizon—for me, at any rate—was Wilhelm. Was he still alive?

Later in the evening, by which time we were all very affectionate with one another, leaning on each other, kissing each other, and breathing alcoholic fumes over each other, when I was enjoying the smell of Rebecca and Liesl, and when our speech was just beginning to be a little less clear than it had been, Rebecca said, “We should go shoon. I need Hal to be sober tomorrow. He’sh going to kill Romford.” She gave me a big wet kiss on the ear. “Don’t let me down, Hal. Romford hash to die.” She made a pistol shape out of her fingers.

“Boom! Boom!”

“Not here, Rebecca,
please
.”

She placed a finger on my chest. “You’d be easier to fuck than George Romford, Hal. Why wasn’t it you? Why do I prefer women, anyway? Liesl, take me home.”

Then she threw up in my lap.

The next day I could have felt better. My headache had my full attention for most of the morning.

Greg looked at me with sympathy. “I deliberately didn’t tell you about the Pantagruel because I know the damage it can do. Did Rebecca take you?”

I nodded.

“And?”

“And what?” What did he know?

“Did you get lucky?”

He didn’t know “I can’t remember the last time I had any luck. Unless you count the time that I was shot and not killed.” I changed the subject. “Have you heard from the brigadier?”

“I have.”

“The verdict?”

He pushed a telegram across the desk.

I looked, down. It said: +
VPMGOTQSMFYRTOMSYR
•
OPMSI
173+

“Meaning?”

“Confirm and terminate.”

“And the rest—the digits?”

“Office of the Prime Minister, Secret Instruction Number 173. That will protect us after the war.”

I said nothing.

“Are you sure you are up for this?” Greg murmured.

I took a deep breath. “Oh yes. I don’t like it, I feel ill just thinking about it—but, yes, I won’t let you down. I’ve come this far; I’ll see it through.”

“Good man. Well, the plan is simple. You and I spend the next however many days it takes on the fourth floor of the Bar au Lac, posing as staff members, carrying towels, sheets, and so forth. Whatever it takes until we see von Maltzen arriving at room 411. Then, when he leaves, we intercept him. The minute we clap eyes on the money, the cash, we overpower him. We can’t shoot von Maltzen first—that risks alerting Romford and he might escape. Holding von Maltzen is the tricky bit, but we’ve got to make it work. Just think of the damage they’re doing.” He looked at me from head to toe. “Now, I’m fitter and stronger than you—yes?”

“Ye-e-e-s, I suppose so.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a yes or a maybe.”

“Not good enough. Yes or no?”

“Very well. Yes.”

“Right. That’s settled. And it means that the logic of the situation dictates that I take on von Maltzen. You knock on the door to 411 and when Romford appears, you shoot him.”

I said nothing.

“I repeat: Think you can do it?”

“Yes.”

“Sure? You’re not too familiar with him?”

That might once have been true. But not since last night. Not since I had discovered quite what a sacrifice Rebecca had made.

“I’m sure.”

A hotel the size of the Bar au Lac must have hundreds of people on staff This can be the only explanation for the fact that, the next day, Greg and I prowled the fourth floor of the hotel, dressed in short white coats and black bow ties and carrying towels or sheets or bottles of disinfectant, for hours on end without anyone questioning who we were. Between the two of us, we managed to keep the door to room 411 under surveillance at all times. I maintained a good distance, how ever, in case Romford himself appeared.

Nothing happened that first day, or the next.

At about eleven on the following morning a man pushed a trolley out of the lift and turned toward room 411. He was wearing a white coat like we were, but there could be no doubt: he was bald, small, bespectacled. That fitted Rebecca’s description of von Maltzen.

He knocked on the door and was admitted.

Greg and I, suddenly on edge, stood near the lifts. Greg leaned against the wall, chatting easily to me, giving the appearance of a gossip, while I made a show of folding the towels I had been holding. Standing helped Greg’s back. We conversed in German. It seemed to work; a couple of guests passed by without giving us a second look. A maid—genuine, I supposed—also went by. She did give us a doubtful look but still went about her business.

Ten minutes passed, twelve, fifteen. Von Maltzen was still in there. Seventeen minutes.

“Must be a big stash of money,” Greg whispered with a grim smile.

I was halfway through smiling back when I heard the door to 411 open.

The trolley appeared, then von Maltzen.

Then Romford!

They were talking, obviously feeling secure.

When they saw us, they stopped. Romford stared at me. Then, without a word, he turned and bolted down the corridor.

This wasn’t in the script. I dropped the towels—in fact, I threw them at von Maltzen to stop him from reaching for his gun, assuming he had one.

I edged around the trolley and ran after Romford. Not easy: my leg still ached from time to time. At the end of the long corridor he turned left into a smaller one. I knew, from my previous reconnaissance, pretending to be part of the staff, that the emergency exit lay that way.

I reached the turn and peered round the corner. Romford was just disappearing down the back stairs, shiny stone steps that led to the emergency exit.

I followed.

As I reached the back staircase I could hear his footsteps below me. I went after him. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him and I assumed he could hear me. We descended one flight, two flights; he would soon be on the ground floor. Was I gaining on him or losing him?

Suddenly I heard him gasp, then a rattling/clattering noise, followed by a groan. I slowed and looked down, over the stair railing. He had fallen. His body was in a heap two landings below.

As quickly as I could, I skipped down the rest of the way. As I passed the intervening landing I again peered over the railing. Romford was bent in two, clutching his ankle. He must have broken it; he was clearly in a lot of pain.

I had my gun out and took the last few steps carefully—this is where he had slipped. I approached him nervously. Gregory had provided my gun and shown me what to do, but I had never fired the thing.

Romford looked up. “Mont-fucking-gomery. I knew we’d meet again someday. I had hoped you’d been killed.”

“Major Romford,” I said quietly. “Trading with the enemy.”

“Who says?” He winced.

“We’ve been watching you. We know everything.”

“Oh you do, do you? You’re still a smarmy fucker, I see, who knows all the answers.”

I took two steps forward.

“I suppose you’re a general by now. All those connections of yours—”

“What’s it to you?”

“I was fired from Stratford.” He was sweating with pain. “You, of course, got promoted out of it. But I was sodding sacked, all because of some cheap little tart of a secretary who said I’d…” He stopped. “It doesn’t matter.” He smiled, more of a smirk, really. “But the Germans were clever. They put a spy into Stratford, to see who they could hook. When I was fired… they hooked me.”

At first I was puzzled, but then a light went on in my head. “Rollo West!”

I could tell from Romford’s expression that I had hit the nail on the head.

“I should have guessed. He tried to stop Bryan Amery and me from helping our fellow students—he was, in effect, trying to sabotage the translators’ course. And he knew the German for lots of fancy cricket terms, which he had researched, but was thrown by LBW So he turned you, did he?”

Romford glared at me and thrust his chin out. “I’ve done pretty
well, made money, avoided the trenches, enjoyed the women of Zurich.”

“Yes, we know.”

He glowered at me in bewilderment.

I smiled. “Rebecca… one of ours.”

His features registered disbelief.
“Jee-sus
!”

How different Romford was from Wilhelm, the last enemy I had come this close to. Wilhelm had been civilized, elegant, generous. All things Romford was not.

“Why do you think she stayed in bed with you all day?”

“You fucking—”

“How did you get into this, anyway?”

He reverted to smirking. “They’re clever, the Krauts. I remember you always said that. They always knew raw materials would be a problem someday. This outfit was set up early. It’s worked a treat— until now. What rank are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m an
Oberstleutnant
.”

“A
lieutenant colonel? Is that what they’ve told you?”

“I’ll stay here when the war is over. I’ve made good money.”

“Colonel, Major, whatever you are, for you the war
is
over.”

He stared at me. Then adjusted his gaze, to look over my shoulder.

I hadn’t heard any movement, but then I hadn’t been concentrating. Was he bluffing, or was von Maltzen really behind me?

Did doubt show on my face?

I couldn’t hear anyone else. No sound of breathing, no footsteps.

I saw the glint of gun metal as Romford pulled a hand from his pocket.

So I shot him.

I shot him through the head. I shot him for Rebecca. I shot him because he was a traitor. That’s what I said later. But I really shot
him because I was suddenly frightened—terrified—and thought he was going to shoot me. Or that someone behind me would get me first.

But no bullet ripped me apart, no fire seared my insides. There was no pain explosion as my shoulder blade, or pelvis, or skull was cracked into a thousand smithereens. Romford
had
been bluffing and we were alone in the stairwell. For the time being.

He lay, his head against the wall, blood now mingling with the mustache I had hated so much. His leg was turned at an unnatural angle, and his finger was in the trigger guard of his gun. George Romford was as ugly in death as he had been in life.

You can’t hide the sound of a gunshot, so I didn’t hang around. I clambered back up the stairs to the fourth floor, gingerly peered around the side corridor into the main one. I was sweating because— well, although we
believed
there was cash in the tureen on the room service trolley, I hadn’t actually seen it. And I had killed Romford.