He Who Walks in Shadow (7 page)

We entered the hotel and came upon an explosion of sound and light. The roar of a live band poured through the open double doors of what I could see—even with a mere glance—was an ornate ballroom.

“Looks like we came to the right place,” Rachel said to me with a sly grin and playful eyes.

“Maybe for you, young lady. I think my dancing days are done.”

“My dear Henry,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, “I dare say there’s more to you than you let on.”

I wouldn’t have expected an opportunity to test that hypothesis, but one came sooner than I imagined. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, a young man in a black military uniform appeared. He clicked his heels, bowed, and said, “Dr. Armitage, Mrs. Jones, welcome to Berlin. Please, forgive my intrusion.”

“No,” Rachel said with no small amount of hesitation, “not at all.” She looked at me for direction, but I had none to offer. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“It is not important, ma’am,” the young man said, his smile never wavering. “It is my privilege to invite you to a small gathering.” We waved his hand towards the ballroom where raucous laughter did much to undercut his assertion about the size of the party.

“Well, we thank you for that,” Rachel said, “but how did you know who we are?”

The smile remained, but the corners of the soldier’s mouth seemed to tick up ever so slightly as he said, “Oh, Mrs. Jones, we in Germany are most interested in our visitors, particularly those with such a fine pedigree. Now, if you please, I know you must want to change out of these wet clothes. I’ll be waiting.”

“So much for a discreet entrance,” Rachel said as we made our way to our room.

“Yes, it would seem as though we were expected.”

“Nothing for it now, though.”

“Should we go to this party?”

Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the man in a suit standing at the end of the hallway trying—a little too hard, it would seem—to appear inconspicuous.

“I don’t think we have a choice.”

“Right. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Maybe I’ll get to see you in those dancing shoes after all,” she said with a grin as she opened the door of her room, located next to mine.

I frowned, and she laughed.

* * *

Ten minutes later I emerged in a suit identical to the one I had been wearing, sans the soaking rain. I waited on Rachel in the lobby, and when she appeared, with her dress trailing down the grand staircase as she walked, the golden-globed necklace Carter had given her more than a decade before catching the light, I was struck speechless. It is a strange thing, one that so many a father or uncle has experienced—for I considered Rachel to be my own kin as strongly as if it were true—to watch a child grow into adulthood. Where had the little girl with skinned knees and pigtails gone? I suppose she had vanished many, many years before.

“Another thing my father taught me,” she said upon seeing my expression, “was to always have at least one nice thing to wear. You never know when you’ll be invited to a party.”

“Quite,” I mumbled. “And you still wear that necklace.”

Her hand went to the globe that hung around her neck on a golden chain. Her fingers ran over the indentations of the Arabic script, as I knew they had done unnumbered times before.

“Always.”

She glanced over my shoulder, and I didn’t have to follow her eyes to know where she was looking. “I see our friend is waiting on us.”

“He hasn’t left. I suppose we shouldn’t keep him in suspense.”

“Certainly not. Lieutenant!” she called, sounding positively ecstatic to see him. “The party is waiting.”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the double doors.

We followed him into the grand ballroom. It was a stunningly beautiful chamber. Six chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their sparkling electric lights adding to the glow of a full moon that beamed down from the newly broken clouds through the glass dome that was the hall’s ceiling. The light glittered off the gilded walls, imbuing the assembled revelers with a golden glow.

Nor was it an inconsequential gathering. It seemed as though all of Berlin society was present, and all were dressed to the nines. I felt a rare moment of self-doubt, embarrassed at my ill-fitting suit. But Rachel was radiant. She belonged in this place.

As I glanced around the ballroom, I noticed a man in expensive attire, a beautiful young woman in a gossamer dress hanging from his arm. He was surrounded by party-goers, many of them in military uniforms. But what made me notice him was the fact that he was looking intently at us. He mumbled something to the young lady—who also turned and glanced in our direction, with no shortage of disdain, I thought—and then started walking towards us. Before he’d gone five feet his face erupted in a brilliant smile.

“Dr. Henry Armitage,” he cried, throwing his arms wide, “and you, madam, must be Mrs. Rachel Jones.” He bent and kissed Rachel’s hand before turning to me and grasping mine. “We’ve been expecting you.”

The lieutenant, who had not left our side, saluted the man before turning to us. “May I introduce to you Dr. Erich Zann, of the University of Berlin.”

“Charmed,” Rachel said, “though I must say I’m surprised to find a welcoming party for Dr. Armitage and me. We didn’t exactly come announced.”

“Well, the party was to happen regardless. But surely you must know, Frau Jones, that we in Germany are always honored by the presence of such a fine academic as Dr. Armitage. And your father,” he said, pausing almost imperceptibly—but not quite—at the mention of Carter, “is known and respected around the world. I was most distressed to hear of his passing. I saw him, only weeks before he died.”

“Yes,” Rachel said, “I’m quite aware. Though we continue to hold out hope that he is merely missing. Perhaps detained somewhere.”

Zann’s smile, which had never really faded, seemed to grow even wider. “Perhaps,” he said simply.

“And I must commend you, Doctor. It must be difficult to monitor the thousands of people who venture in and out of Germany every day, just so you can greet every scholar that comes across your borders.”

“Well, Dr. Armitage is not just any academic. His reputation precedes him.”

“As does yours, Dr. Zann,” I said. ”I read your work on Hindu mythology. Most intriguing, though I found your hypothesis linking the religion of ancient India to early German folklore somewhat… tenuous.”

Zann laughed, perhaps too enthusiastically. “Ah yes, that old thing. I may have been too exotic in some of my conclusions. But I find that youth often suffers from over-exuberance. You can leave us now, lieutenant.” The young man clicked his heels and bowed again before withdrawing.

“And,” I continued, “I understand that you’ve recently been offered the position of Reich Minister of Cultural History. Quite an honor. They must think rather highly of you in the Reich Chancellery.

“Yes, well,” Zann said, his smile fading, “we reward loyalty in Germany. Even more, we reward results.”

“Quite.”

If Zann had dropped his guard, it didn’t last for long. He grinned at me again, slapping me on the shoulder, “Come, let us have a drink.”

I glanced around for Rachel, but she was no longer at my side. I would only learn later where she’d gone.

Diary of Rachel Jones

I went with Henry to the ballroom of the Esplanade, though everything within me rebelled at the idea. I was fairly certain the young lieutenant was directed to arrest us if we resisted. I had traveled to Germany once before—as a girl with my father, sometime before the war—and had found Berlin to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I loved it then, but a pall had fallen over the country. I know little of these Nazis but their tactics are of force and intimidation. And if a man like Zann—whom I now believe knows something about the disappearance of my father—has found favor with them, then they will always be my enemies.

Zann was there, of course, as I suspected. His shark-tooth smile and fancy suit could not cover the evil in his heart. If I had doubted before, seeing him was enough. This man was corrupt, and he meant to do us harm. Still, he approached us exuding the thick aroma of false charm, and I was forced to endure this charade as Henry tried to poke holes in his story. That is, until I noticed another young man hovering about us.

If it had only been his face, or his hair, or even the way his suit hung awkwardly on his too-thin frame, perhaps I would have let it pass. Maybe, if it had only been a passing resemblance, I would have said nothing. But he had William’s eyes. The same spark. The same kindness. And when he smiled… It wasn’t that he looked just like William. God no. Nothing so clichéd, nothing so ridiculous. It was so much more than that.

I turned so quickly that I think it took him by surprise. “Do you always make a habit of eavesdropping on others’ conversations, or is this a special occasion?” I watched with some pleasure as that grin faded.

“Oh…no… Sorry ma’am. I didn’t mean any harm.” I winced a bit when he called me “ma’am,” and I had to remind myself that I was far too old for this young man, a college student who knew little of the world. “It’s just I heard you mention Dr. Carter Weston.”

“No, no offense,” I said. I glanced at Henry, who was still engaged with the German. Then I took the boy by the shoulder and led him away. “What do you know of Dr. Weston?”

“Well, ma’am…”

“Please,” I said, interrupting. I grabbed a pair of champagne glasses from a passing waiter and handed him one. “If we are to be friends then we mustn’t be so formal. My name is Rachel. Rachel Jones.”

His face lit up again as he took a sip of champagne. “And I am Sebastian Leblanc, but my friends call me Guillaume.”

I smiled. “And what should I call you?”

“Why, Guillaume, of course.”

“Then Guillaume it is. That’s not a German name.”

“No, no,” he said, a thinly veiled look of disgust passing over his face. “I am from Paris. I came here to study ancient religion with Dr. Zann. He is one of the foremost experts in the area, you know? Almost as famous as Dr. Weston.”

“Yes, you mentioned Dr. Weston,” I said, looking over my shoulder. One of the party-goers seemed entirely too interested in what we were doing for it to be natural. In Germany, one is never alone, it seems. “May I ask why?”

“Oh, no particular reason. I just thought I heard you mention him when you were speaking with Dr. Zann, and as he has always been a personal hero of mine, I couldn’t help but listen in.”

“I see.” I don’t know why I thought he might help us. Was there any reason to believe that things would turn around now, when they had seemed so dark for so long? But then he said something that sent my heart into my throat.

“And also, I would have sworn that I saw Dr. Weston only yesterday.”

Journal of Henry Armitage

I followed Zann to the bar, though not knowing where Rachel had gone troubled me deeply. Curse me for not thinking things through. We’d walked like lambs into a den of lions, and Zann was chief amongst them, the blood-soaked leader of the pride. But there was nothing for it. He had begun the game, and it was mine to play.

He said something in German to the man behind the bar, holding up two fingers as he spoke. The man gave him two glasses of white wine, one of which he passed to me.

“An excellent dry wine from Alsace. One of the best that Germany has to offer.” I took a sip, and indeed, it was a fine vintage.

“Most excellent,” I said. “Though I was under the impression that Alsace now belonged to France.”

A tremor of rage flashed across Zann’s face, and I wondered again if I had gone too far. He was a man of roiling emotions, just below the calm surface he portrayed to the world. I little doubted that he was given to bouts of unbridled passion, nor did I doubt he was the kind who had no compunction about killing someone who stood in his way. But control was there as well, and after only a moment, Zann had reasserted it.

“On the maps, perhaps. But I can assure you that Alsace is still very much part of the fatherland, as it was and as it always will be. Surely you would agree that culture and its influence know no borders? The German nation is strong, and we are one people, no matter what the politicians may say.”

“As long as Germany remembers, this time, that borders do have meaning, then I can see nothing amiss with that view. Cheers.”

Zann watched with cold eyes as I drank half of the wine left in my glass.

“Is that why you came here, Dr. Armitage, to debate German politics and German foreign policy? I must say, it’s not my area of expertise, nor are they subjects which I enjoy discussing.”

“No, politics has never interested me.” I downed the rest of the glass, gesturing to the man behind the bar for more. His incredulous glance towards Zann was met with an irritated flick of the hand, and my glass was refilled.

“Then what then? A tour of our wineries, perhaps?”

“No,” I said, downing the glass in one drink and calling for yet another, “I never cared all that much for wine, either.”

Dr. Zann sighed. Deeply, and I relished the moment.

“Actually, Dr. Zann, I came here to discuss Dr. Weston with you.”

Zann arched an eyebrow. “Carter Weston? I’m not sure I understand.”

“Surely you know that you were one of the last people who saw him alive?”

“Well,” Zann said, leaning on the bar, “I did go to see him. At the end of last year, if I recall correctly. I was sent there on business for the University. He had a book in his possession, one of rather ancient lineage. The University was interested in borrowing it. All and all, nothing extraordinary.”

“But he didn’t give it to you.”

“No, actually, he did not. I was surprised. I had heard that he was a reasonable man. So I left empty-handed.”

He was lying, and I knew it.

“I think you know more than you let on. I think you got exactly what you were looking for, and I think you know exactly where Carter Weston is.”

The corners of Zann’s mouth started to creep up, and his tremulous lips could not be kept from breaking into a smile.