Journey to Munich (11 page)

“The man was very well covered—a mackintosh, a hat drawn over his eyes, and he had something over his face. He could see, but I would never have been able to identify him.” She bit her lip.

“What is it, Elaine? What is it you're not telling me?”

Elaine pressed her lips together. “I—I—I cannot tell you, Mai—I mean, Edwina.”

“Elaine, you've put me in a difficult position. I just had to listen to you haranguing me for the name I use, when you have no knowledge of the agreement between my husband and myself. Now you give me a fraction of a piece of information. I deserve better—much better.”

“I didn't stay here in some self-indulgent capacity, you know. I've been trying to be of service to Britain.”

“To Britain? How?”

“There's a man called Mark Scott, an American, and—”

“Mark Scott? Oh, Elaine—of all people . . .” Maisie shook her head, placing a hand on Elaine's. “Later—tell me in a little while, Elaine, when we are in a more private place. I want to know exactly what you've told him. For now, I need to think.”

M
aisie knew she had to get Elaine Otterburn out of her hair—and the country—at the earliest opportunity. Relations between Britain and Germany were on an even keel, and aircraft came and went daily between the two countries. Her fear now, though, was that she might have been followed. Being known to have helped the lover of a German SS officer, who would surely be reported missing in the next twenty-four hours, would prevent Maisie claiming Leon Donat, and might well lead to her own detention. She nodded to Elaine to get
off the bus at the next stop, exiting by the rear door. She was thankful that more passengers had come on board, rendering their departure harder to observe in the driver's mirror.

Maisie led the way along the street without any destination in mind. Walking cleared the mind. Walking allowed her to think. She walked faster, as if to marshal her thoughts with the utmost speed.

“Elaine, you have to get out of the country as soon as you can. If you sent a telegram to your father, would he send an aeroplane for you?”

“He might, but that takes time. Perhaps I had better go to the airport and see if I can board a flight for anywhere other than somewhere else in Germany today. I might even be able to hire something small. I can pretty much fly anything, you know.”

“All right. Look, you had better go straightaway. We should part ways now. Go quickly and keep your head down—don't do anything to attract attention. Do you need any money?”

Elaine shook her head. “No. I've plenty.” She held out her hand. “Thank you. I never expected help from you—you were my shot in the dark. The other girls are too silly to know what to do.”

“I never expected you would need this much assistance either, Elaine. Go now, go on. Leave this country as soon as you can.”

The women parted on the street. Maisie turned away as their hands separated, and walked to a tram stop. She looked back once, but Elaine was gone. She wished she had questioned the young woman about Mark Scott. And she wished she had delved into the killing of a man who had now, to all intents and purposes, vanished. But perhaps it was best she knew no more on either count. What she did know was that she had done far more than she should for the daughter of a man she detested. Perhaps, with Elaine Otterburn gone, she could separate
herself from this family. Their presence in her life had brought nothing but sorrow.

At the hotel, Maisie made her way to her room. She regretted ever accepting the assignment. The risks were escalating with each delay in securing Leon Donat's release—and now those risks were almost entirely upon her head. As soon as Luther Gramm was reported missing, and his dead body found, there would surely be a search for Elaine Otterburn—and when it was confirmed she had left the country, Maisie would be questioned, along with the woman's other friends and associates. Hans Berger knew of their connection, so he would pull her in—and perhaps delay Leon Donat's release. Maisie prayed for another twenty-four hours. Just one day.

“Don't be alarmed.” The voice was low, yet the accent unmistakable.

“How did you get into my room?” Maisie stood still, looking toward the silhouette of Mark Scott, sitting by the half-closed curtains.

“It's a way I have with locks.”

Maisie pulled off her gloves, unwound her scarf, and removed her coat.

“You have some explaining to do, Mr. Scott.”

“Not as much as you will, if Berger discovers that his boy Luther is dead and Elaine has gone. Pity about that—Luther was very useful to us. Amazing what even the younger officers know, without really knowing they know it—forgive the tongue-twister. Give them a pretty girl and more drinks than they can handle, and it's only a matter of time before they're gabbing away merrily.”

“You've put her life in danger, Mr. Scott—and mine, and that of the very man you say your government wants you to ensure is released into the hands of the British government.
Safely
into the hands of the British government, I might add.”

“I didn't actually murder anyone, Fräulein D.”

“Mr. Scott, I—”

“I will tell you enough.”

“Well, you'd better start, then.”

“As I explained, we don't have a formal intelligence service in the States, so it's down to me and some other fellows at the Justice Department. When I came here, I looked around at how your chaps work—let's face it, you British have been in the intelligence business for a very long time. Even your Good Queen Bess had her Walsingham. Anyway, I thought it might be an idea to nab me an informer or two—and you British girls do seem to find your way into the most interesting places. The younger ones love a party, and—despite all indications to the contrary—so do the Germans around here, so they're keeping a few for themselves. In the meantime, Hitler's henchmen have closed down more places where people can have some fun than were ever open in the city I'm from.”

“Which is?”

“Best you don't know, eh, Fräulein D?” Scott completed his retort with a grin. “Elaine Otterburn, it appears, decided to trust an American more than she did the Brits, who seem to think she is a bit of a fly-by-night. Indulged and spoiled, yes, but it didn't take me long to realize that this woman did not just have a desire to do something useful for the old country—she had a need. Call it an atonement . . . of sorts.” He seemed to leave the word
atonement
lingering in the air.

“She brought you information. Yes, I know that, Mr. Scott,” said Maisie, refusing to take the bait.

“Each little piece she brought back to me—she was like a cat dropping a mouse on the doorstep—fitted in with something another of my contacts reported. And as you know, it's like a puzzle, looking at all the pieces and seeing where they go together.”

“And where do they fit, Mr. Scott?”

“Ultimately, Fraulie D, they indicate that your government is being lulled by a cobra into thinking that all will be well.”

“You're not telling me anything I don't know—though it's clearly something
you
didn't know, or you would not have put Elaine Otterburn's life at risk.”

“Oh, Elaine would have been just fine and dandy, had she not led on the artist with the hangdog look.”

“Which artist?”

“A man who has more heart for the beauty of life than the ugliness, although, like many of the men of Himmler's SS, he has a tendency to veer toward the extreme. I think you know that too. One of those people who cannot just join a club—he has to run it.”

“Berger?”

“Yes, Berger. Formerly an artist—and a better one than his boss, that's for sure!”

“Berger and Elaine?”

“No, not exactly Berger and Elaine. Just Berger. The river ran one way. Make sure you get your documents tomorrow, Miss Dobbs, and then you and Leon Donat get out of Munich as fast as you can. They still don't know exactly what they have in Donat, so once he's on the train, those Nazis will just count their money and have a big old party.”

“Money?”

“Yes, money. And for the record, your Leslie is no small fry in the British consulate, Miss Dobbs. He is a bigger fish, though he may swim at the bottom of the pond to stay out of the light. Don't underestimate him—I learned everything I know about intelligence gathering from watching that man work. And I don't doubt he could give you a list of my every move into the bargain—but I hope not this one.” He paused and came to his feet. “Now then, Miss Dobbs—I should say Fräulein
Donat, sorry about that. Better use the right name, now I'm leaving. And don't worry—no one will see me.”

Maisie stood up. “Be careful with your overconfidence, Mr. Scott. As one of my teachers once told me, a healthy spoonful of fear will keep you from harm.”

Scott laughed. “Fear? Oh, I am scared. Every day in this place, I know fear—but not just for my own safety. I'm scared for all our futures every time I see Herr Hitler pass in his motor car, or hear the messages he broadcasts to the people on the radio. I know fear for everyone when I see his brown-shirted henchmen on the streets, or those poisoned souls of the Gestapo strutting into a bar, pulling girls like Elaine Otterburn into their web—although with her it was a case of ‘Or so they think!' And frankly, I cannot wait to go home. At least on the other side of the Atlantic I am on safer ground. The United States of America plans to keep its distance if the old country goes to war again. We lost too many boys the last time, over here.”

“And so did we, Mr. Scott—it's why I'm here. But let's not split hairs.”

Scott touched the brim of his hat, turned, and stepped without a sound to the door. A splinter of light from the corridor shone through into the room, and then he was gone.

Maisie stood for a moment, thinking of his words.
I am on safer ground
. “Or so you think, Mr. Scott,” she replied in a soft voice, as if he were standing next to her. “Or so you think.”

For several hours she sat alone in the dark by the window, the curtains opened just a few inches. She looked out at the street below in the still of the night, thinking of the many times past when she had taken up such a post, a vigil in the peppery darkness, looking back across time and wondering about the future. In the empty apartment in Toronto, after James' death, sitting by the window, paralyzed
in her grief, willing time itself to move backward so she could run to James and say, “No, please don't. Don't fly today . . . remember us.” In other places she had stationed herself by windows, looking out onto the world from a lair she had drawn around herself—in Darjeeling, in Gibraltar, in Madrid, and then, finally, in the small village near Spain's Tajo River. So many nighttime hours looking out into darkness, as if the stars could map her route to safe harbor.

In time she meditated, envisaging herself collecting the papers with ease. She imagined a trouble-free journey to the prison, and a Kommandant who gave her documents only a cursory glance before nodding to an assistant, who would call for Leon Donat to be brought to the guardroom. She would run to Donat, clasp him as if he were her father, and say, “I have come to take you home, Papa. I have missed you so much.” Hands would be outstretched and shaken with the Germans in a passing moment of goodwill. They would depart for the station in Munich, for an agonizing wait before boarding the train that would depart for Paris at five minutes to four. They would take their seats in a first-class compartment—there would be no sleeping accommodation available on this train; not until the much later Orient Express came through Munich from Budapest with its wagons-lits would private quarters be available—and count down the hours until they reached the border. Her tension would not ease until they reached Paris—at eight minutes past eleven the following morning—and she saw Brian Huntley and Robert MacFarlane waiting for them on the platform. Then she would go home. And never, she vowed, would she give Brian Huntley and Robbie MacFarlane the time of day again. She was done with them.

Information from Mark Scott—if it could be trusted—suggested that a vital piece of intelligence had been played down during Maisie's briefings in London and the Cotswolds. No one had emphasized the
complicity of wealthy industrialists in Germany, men who had seen an opportunity to get Leon Donat out of the way because they believed his businesses would collapse without him at the helm. Had a word here or there led to the police raid at a certain time when Donat could be captured? But why was she not told? For surely both Brian Huntley and Robert MacFarlane knew. Perhaps it was because, in truth, there was nothing she could do about such men and their activities against another businessman. What they had done could not be undone. But what of John Otterburn?

Scott might have been trying to cause trouble with his insinuations, but the suggestion that John Otterburn might have played a part—along with his business contacts in Munich—in the arrest of Leon Donat seemed like a plausible scenario. Maisie would bet that none of them expected that Donat would end up in Dachau.

She considered the circumstances of Otterburn's request to help bring his daughter home. She was still uneasy about the apparent break in the wall of secrecy that should have surrounded her assignment, but knowing how deep the tentacles of Otterburn's power ran, it was more than possible that a contact in Whitehall privy to Huntley's plans had informed the industrialist of the development. Maisie vowed never, ever to entertain an approach from John Otterburn again, even if he was holding an olive branch. She had sworn such a thing before, yet been drawn back in. No. This was enough. No matter how important he had become, how untouchable he might be—and, indeed, no matter how much her experiences in Spain had changed her mind, made her believe him right in predicting a devastating air war in Europe—she wanted to be as far from the Otterburns as possible.