The Dragonfly Pool (18 page)

As much as Karil detested his uniforms, with their scratchy collars and showy buttons and infuriating plumes, so did Colonel Stiefelbreich love his. Back in Berlin, where he now worked at the headquarters of the Gestapo, he had a whole cupboard of uniforms. That was one of the many things he valued in his new job—the job of stirring up trouble in those countries that did not understand how important it was to cooperate fully with Herr Hitler's dreams for a united Europe. United, of course, under the German flag.

And to impress foreigners one had to be properly dressed. The colonel was waiting for Gambetti, the Berganian foreign minister, who was coming to see him on a private visit here in his room. Meanwhile, to make certain that his bodyguards were in place, he walked silently to the door and opened it.

The two men who had been sitting in chairs in the corridor got to their feet.

“Got any jobs for us to do, Colonel?”

“Not at the moment. But stay in position—I'm expecting the foreign minister. Make sure no one follows him upstairs.”

The two men Colonel Stiefelbreich had recruited as his bodyguards could not have been more different, nor were they simply bodyguards. They were more by way of being spies and sleuths and he used them for all the work that he wanted to be kept secret.

One of them was good at his job simply because of his enormous size and strength. He was one of those people who seemed to be made of something inorganic like iron or stone—in fact his huge, stupid face might well have been carved from granite, except that granite, when it catches the light, sometimes sparkles, and the thug's face had never sparkled in its life. He was known as Earless, because he had lost his left ear in a fight. He had lost a lot of other things, too—the tip of one finger, part of a nostril, and more teeth than he could count—but it was his ear he worried about because his wife, Belinda, had been fond of it. She was a tiny blonde woman and Earless, who would throttle someone with his bare hands without thinking twice about it, was completely soppy about Belinda.

The other man was called Theophilus Fallaise, and he had been brought up in a library where his father was Keeper of the Books. One can read about all sorts of wonderful things in a library but the things that the young Theophilus had chosen to read about were not wonderful. He read about the tortures they had used in the olden days: the rack and the iron maiden and thumbscrews—and about the punishments they had used in foreign countries like China, where people were driven mad by having water dripped on to their skull.

The library was in a castle belonging to an eccentric nobleman in a country about which Theophilus never spoke, and because the boy had hardly ever gone outdoors, but only deeper and deeper into the basements in search of more and more horrible books about inflicting pain, he had grown up very unhealthy. His skin was pale and clammy, he blinked in the light and his upper lip was lifted by a wrinkled scar that parted to show a filled gold tooth.

But as a sleuth and a spy he was second to none. He could see in the dark, because of the years he had spent underground, and wriggle through the narrowest spaces—and there was nothing he didn't know about the more silent and sinister ways of getting rid of someone.

The two bodyguards did not like each other. Theophilus thought that Earless was a stupid thug—which he was—and Earless thought that Theophilus was a slimy creep—which was true also—but the two men made a good pair. One had brains and the other had brawn—and Stiefelbreich had taken a lot of trouble to get hold of them for his latest assignment in Bergania.

Baron Gambetti arrived in Stiefelbreich's room through the back entrance of the Blue Ox. He was extremely nervous; his goatee beard trembled slightly and he was sweating, but when he entered the room and saw the colonel he took heart. The bodyguards at the door, the glittering medals, the man's air of importance were reassuring. In encouraging the Gestapo to come to the aid of Bergania he was doing the right thing, Gambetti told himself. He was saving his country from the king's foolish obstinacy. The future lay with the people that Stiefelbreich represented.

“Heil, Hitler!” said the colonel, and Gambetti cleared his throat and said, “Heil, Hitler,” in a slightly squeaky voice.

“I have messages for you from our headquarters. The chief of the Gestapo is appreciative of the information you have sent to us. I take it there has been no change?”

“Not as far as I know, Colonel,” said Gambetti.

“Good. Good. In that case I think it is time for us to act for the good of your beautiful country. We have great affection for Bergania—I used to come skiing here with my family when the children were small. It will be a pleasure for us to rescue the country from the king's obstinacy and folly.”

Baron Gambetti nodded. “It seems impossible to make him see that there is no future for countries that oppose the might and strength of Germany. We must join the great German Reich or be trampled underfoot. But the king is obstinate—his prime minister, too, old von Arkel. He will never give in to Herr Hitler's demands, which are, after all, not unreasonable. As a Berganian patriot I feel it is my duty to help you,” he said.

“Quite so,” said Stiefelbreich. “In that case we had better get down to details.”

An hour later Gambetti let himself into his villa behind the botanical gardens and found his wife in her dressing room.

“I hope you didn't weaken, Philippe,” she said. “If we dither now, we are lost.”

“No, I didn't weaken. But I hope he means what he says. That everything will be . . . civilized . . . an orderly takeover without any bloodshed or violence.”

“Of course he means it,” said his wife, taking the curlers out of her dyed blonde hair. “It will be perfectly simple. And you will at last have the honor and glory you deserve. I'm sure he promised you your reward.”

“Yes, he did. Only . . .”

“Only what? For heaven's sake—why can't you be a man?”

“I am being a man,” said Gambetti plaintively. “But it isn't easy to do this—the king has been good to me.”

“Bah! Milksop,” said the baroness. “Thank goodness you are married to somebody who isn't afraid of a bit of adventure. Now pass me my hairbrush, please.”

Back in the Blue Ox, Stiefelbreich was questioning his bodyguards.

“Find out if Stilton has arrived—he should be here by now.”

“He has, sir,” said Theophilus. “Checked in to room twenty-three, on the third floor. Next to the attic . . .”

Stilton, like Earless, was an Englishman. He had led a perfectly normal life for many years, working as a sanitary engineer who specialized in bathroom fittings, so that he earned good money, but after a while he decided it was his duty to travel around the simple peasant houses of Europe and persuade their owners to get rid of their old-fashioned outdoor toilets—just a hole in a wooden bench—and order a proper, indoor, flush sanitation system.

But that wasn't all he did. Stilton had a hobby—more of a
skill
, really—and it was because of this that Stiefelbreich had tracked him down. Now, hearing that Stilton had arrived safely, the Nazi smiled and rubbed his hands, knowing that everything would go exactly as planned.

There was only one more thing for Stiefelbreich to do. He picked up the phone and put a call through to the German consulate.

“I take it you have my instructions about the German children at the campsite? I have made inquiries and they are quite unsuitable. Children like that should never have been sent to represent our glorious country and the new order that Herr Hitler has established.”

He listened, frowning, to the voice on the other end. The man seemed to be arguing, almost pleading.

“I'm afraid that has nothing to do with it,” Stiefelbreich barked. “Please see that my orders are carried out without delay.”

Satisfied that the matter was settled, he ordered a large beer. The middle-aged waitress with ginger hair who brought it to him was unfriendly—but it didn't matter. This infuriating country was about to get a lesson it would not forget.

T
hey had worked all morning but now, the last day before the festival began, everyone was relaxing. Tally and Julia had finished untangling the wreaths and straightening the flowers for their costumes and were playing cards on the grass with Anneliese, the curly-haired German girl who had befriended them. Borro was demonstrating slingshots to his French friend, whirling his scarf around his head and sending missiles unerringly into the river. Kit and two Dutch boys were trying to catch a carp, lying on their stomachs by the pool and using willpower to make the fish come to the surface.

Matteo was organizing a game of football on a patch of level ground farther along the bank, and Magda was playing chess with the teacher in charge of the German group. He was a serious young man with horn-rimmed spectacles and reminded her of Heribert, the professor she had hoped to marry.

It was a glorious day, sunny and still.

A woman carrying a posy of sweet peas came out of the Blue Ox, and crossed the river and made her way toward the marble statue of the queen. She removed the withered flowers and put the fresh ones in the statue's hand. As she came back she smiled at the children. It was the middle-aged waitress who had stared at Matteo.

From the Spanish tent came the sound of a guitar, and the dancers in their bright red skirts and yellow boleros made their way to the wooden platform for a last rehearsal. Their music drew a few of the other children to the platform. Those who had been dozing lifted their heads.

“We did it,” said Tally happily. “It worked—here we all are from everywhere.”

And their new friend nodded and taught them a German word:
Bruderschaft
. “It means a band of brothers—and sisters, too,” she said.

It was at that moment that they looked up and saw three men in uniform come across the bridge—and with them was the minister of culture. His silver hair was disheveled and his face pale. Two of the men were in the light blue uniform of the Berganian police and one—who walked in front with a swagger—wore khaki with a swastika on the sleeve. It was this man who marched up to Magda and the teacher with whom she was playing chess and said sharply, “Where are the German children? Which tent?”

The teacher stood up and looked about him. “They are everywhere,” he said, startled by the sudden command.

And indeed they were. Some were playing football with Matteo. A little girl with a crown of flaxen pigtails, her arm around her new friend from Portugal, was sitting on the steps of the platform listening to the music.

“Call them at once,” barked the Nazi officer. “Get them together. Why are they not in an orderly group?”