Thirst No. 5 (21 page)

“All right,” I say. “Pack.”

Matt nods, grateful, and the gang leaves. I’m left alone with Mr. Grey. Sitting on the bed, I reach over and put my palm on his forehead. He’s hotter than this afternoon. His eyes are bloodshot and his pulse is skipping.

“We’re stopping at the hospital before we go to the airport,” I say.

He sighs. “We’ve had this argument already.”

“And we’ll have it again until you agree to listen. You’re hurt. You need help I can’t give you.”

He hears the fresh layer of concern in my voice.

“Where did you go this afternoon?” he asks.

“Boston.”

He lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Shit.”

I touch his arm—his sleeve is rolled up—feel how clammy his skin is. It’s the fever, a definite sign his brain is swelling.

“Don’t you want to go home?” I ask.

His eyes stay shut. “It’s hard to explain. A part of me does. A bigger part of me wants to stay with you. That’s what I’ve been saying all along. I
need
you, Sita. For me, you’re the magic key that can open the door. And I think you need me.”

“Where does this door lead?” I ask.

“My superiors won’t allow me to answer that question.”

“To hell with your superiors.”

He opens his weary eyes. “The door leads to hope.”

“For who?”

“All of mankind.”

“Why am I the key?”

“I just told you. You have magic.”

“You speak in riddles, my friend.”

He smiles faintly and touches my hand. “I’m happy to hear you call me that.”

“Why do you care what I call you?”

He clasps my fingers. “Don’t you know?”

I lean over and kiss his forehead. “Love is a beautiful thing. You might even feel it for me. But you’ve got to love Kathleen, Hal, and Sally a whole lot more.” I pause. “They miss you. They want you to come home.”

He closes his eyes and sinks deeper into the pillows. “Today, my place is with you. Tomorrow, we’ll see, maybe I can go back to Boston.”

I let go of his hand and stand. “They’ll never see you again if you die.”

“None of that will matter if I don’t help you through tomorrow.” He pauses. “I’ve figured out the code the author of
The Story of Veronica
used. I’ve begun to translate it. You’ll be able to read it soon.”

I’m forced to chuckle. “You’re evil. You hold out a carrot so I’ll have to keep you around. You know how much I want to read that book.”

He smiles, although he appears close to passing out.

“So I get to go to Nevada with you?” he asks.

I kiss his cheek and move toward the door. “Sleep. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll carry you to the car.”

M
ozart’s
Don Giovanni
has just reached the intermission, and General Hans Straffer and I are in the opera’s foyer, drinking wine with an excited German and French crowd, when I spot Major Karl Klein. I had no idea the major was attending—I’ve never seen him at the opera before. The sight of him makes me wish I had listened to Anton and declined General Straffer’s invitation. If Major Klein spots me, I may be in serious trouble.

Yet I accepted Straffer’s offer to enjoy Mozart’s genius for the sake of Anton and the French Resistance. The Normandy invasion is scheduled for two days hence. Any final secrets I extract from my date will be invaluable to all of France, and to the Allies. Straffer is personal friends with General Rommel, Hitler’s most brilliant military mind. Straffer can tell me the man’s latest thoughts, his schedule, even.

But at the sight of Major Klein, I have to fight the urge to bolt. I need to return home with General Straffer, screw his brains out, and get him to talk before he sleeps. Generally, the man likes to smoke a Cuban cigar and discuss the meaning of life after sex. Actually, I have grown to enjoy the ritual. Straffer is a shrewd general as well as a deep thinker. I never think of him as a Nazi. Privately, in bed, the man has confessed that the finest teachers he had in school were Jewish. Plus he despises Hitler. He can’t say his name without betraying disgust. In secret, of course; in front of his men he’s completely loyal to the Führer.

“What do you think of the young man who plays Don Giovanni?” Straffer asks in German as he refills my glass. He is dressed in a long tail tuxedo and looks wonderful despite the fact he has a broad, squat face and frown lines so deep one would swear they were genetic. Straffer’s strength is his commanding presence. Women find him hard to resist, French and German, and before he met me he was known to bed a fresh treat each week. But the fool, he’s fallen in love with me and doesn’t know it, and all he cares about is having me by his side.

There’s a Mrs. Straffer at home, however, and he has four children. Two are young men, Karl and Len, fighting the Russians on the eastern front. The general often talks about them. The wife, though, never a word.

“I love him, such a natural baritone,” I reply in German, knowing the general enjoys my near-perfect accent. I distort it
slightly in his presence so as not to appear a superwoman. “He was born to play Giovanni. The way he flirted with Donna Anna the moment they met. Such a scoundrel. Then he kills her father!”

“That girl’s a rare soprano. I wonder if she’d enjoy singing in Berlin.”

I poke the general in the chest. “Is singing all you would have her do in Berlin?” I ask.

Straffer laughs and drains his wine. “Alys! Give me some credit. She can’t be sixteen years old.”

I lean near so he can’t see my roaming eyes and fix his collar, all the while searching for Major Klein. I must keep track of him. I can’t let him sneak up on us. Yet . . . I’ve lost him in the crowd, and I chide myself. I don’t often lose people. He’s a squirrel, that bastard. I hope he has returned to his seat. The intermission is almost over.

I yawn as I lean into Straffer.

“Tired, Alys?” he asks.

“A little. It was a grueling day.”

He frowns. “Why do you work at that clinic? There are others who can do your job.”

“I enjoy the work. It helps me to help people.” I put a hand to my mouth to stifle another yawn. “Oh, forgive me, I think I drank too much wine. I’d better sit down.”

“If you’re exhausted, we don’t have to stay for the second half.”

“No! I couldn’t do that to you. You’ve been looking forward to the opera all week.”

He grips my hands and stares at me with great tenderness. “It’s you I’ve been looking forward to. Come, we both know how the story ends. We miss nothing by leaving now. And we’ll have more time to ourselves.”

“Thank you, Hans,” I say as I kiss his cheek. I play it smooth, we head for the door. Good. I didn’t like the odds of accidentally running into Major Klein.

However, I feel I’m being watched as we exit the foyer. As an ancient predator, I’m sensitive to being hunted. Yet it is still remarkable how clearly I feel this pair of eyes focused on the back of my head. I can’t put a name to the gaze. I only know that the mind behind it is black.

General Straffer’s house used to belong to a famous jeweler—a shrewd but witty Jew named Arthur Gold, ha!—who had the good sense to flee to New York with a suitcase of diamonds before the Germans swept around the Maginot Line and conquered France. Straffer keeps only one maid, who doubles as a cook. His private life is relatively austere.

Except when it comes to sex.

We make love for an hour before he lights our cigars and pours two brandies. He likes that I can hold my liquor. He likes everything about me.

General Straffer is a great admirer of General Patton. To prod Straffer to talk about the Allies—and consequently how
the Germans plan to deal with the Allies—I usually only have to bring up Patton. Straffer goes on from there. Tonight is no different.

“It’s silly that Eisenhower is trying to convince the press that Patton is not going to lead the invasion of the continent,” Straffer says as we lounge on his balcony in warm robes. He enjoys the fresh air but the sky is cloudy. A storm approaches—a storm that might delay the invasion.

“He struck his own men,” I say. “The Allies take that seriously. Patton may have swept through Sicily but I’ve seen the American press. I read a copy of the
New York Times
that is only a week old. They are calling for Patton to be court-martialed.”

Straffer snorts and waves his cigar. “He hit the cowards because they wouldn’t fight. If they had been my men I would have had them shot. No, Eisenhower has ordered Patton to hobnob around London to deceive us. To make it look like Patton is not preparing his army to invade. But the two are old friends. Eisenhower would not court-martial his most brilliant general just because Patton lost his temper. The idea is so ridiculous I don’t know why they expect us to fall for it.”

Straffer is wrong, not about the impending invasion but about Patton’s role in it. Patton is not slated to lead any army. The American press has indeed been roasting Patton for striking two men who were cringing behind lines with the seriously wounded. I know because I spoke to Patton personally. He was fuming over the incident. He swore he had just been trying to
help the men find their guts to fight. He could not believe that he had been demoted. It’s no wonder the Germans think it is all a scam.

“The press does not speak for the ordinary American,” I say, acting like I agree with Straffer. “The public expects more great things from Patton.”

Straffer nods sadly. “His victories will mean our defeat.” He stops to drink his brandy. “If only the Führer would listen to Rommel’s demand for the mines.”

“But the last time we talked, you said fifty million mines were being placed behind the beaches.”

Hitler does not believe for a second that the Allies will try to storm the beaches of Normandy. He is convinced the attack will come via a strong natural harbor. Pas de Calais—the spot Anton fed to the Gestapo under torture—is the closest harbor to England. On the surface it appears the logical place to strike but Eisenhower rejected it for that very reason.

Reading Eisenhower’s mind, General Rommel rejected it as well. He is obsessed with fortifying the beaches of Normandy. But it sounds like he is getting a lot less help than I thought. This is important news.

Straffer groans at my remark. “Fifty million? Rommel hasn’t been able to convince Hitler to place a fraction of that number. If the Americans and British take the beaches, there will be nothing to stop them from setting up a beachhead.”

I chuckle. “My favorite general exaggerates. Rommel has
an eye on Calais and Normandy. And he has control of the panzers. There’s no way the Americans will be able to rush tanks over the beaches in the first wave of the attacks. Rommel will chew them up.”

Straffer eyes me critically. “You make it sound like you might welcome such an outcome. Don’t you want to be rescued from us bloodthirsty Nazis?”

I smile and blow smoke in his face. “I’ve never lied to you about where my loyalty lies. I hope Patton kicks Rommel’s ass. I’m merely stating a fact. Hitler’s in Berlin, or else in his hideout in the Alps. Rommel is here and he’s in control. There’s no way the Americans can bring in their tanks until they establish a beachhead. Rommel’s not going to give them that chance.” I take a swallow of brandy. “I’m not worried. The Americans will just have to find another way to invade. Greece, perhaps.”

Straffer is a long time answering. He stares out at the night. We are sheltered on the porch but a light drizzle has begun to fall. The general shivers but it does not appear to be from the cold.

“Control of the panzers has been taken from Rommel,” he says.

I chuckle. “You’re teasing. That’s worse than the Americans saying they’re going to court-martial their best general.”

“It is true. Hitler no longer trusts Rommel. He’s losing his mind—he trusts no one. If an attack comes, Rommel won’t be able to make a move without Hitler’s consent.”

“If an attack comes, Rommel will be given all the support he needs.”

Straffer stares at me. “You know, I have been given an order to destroy this city if the Allies ever try to enter it. Level the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre—every important structure.”

I gasp. I am honestly shocked. “You’ve never told me that.”

“It’s true. The explosives can be placed in hours. Less.”

“Would you do it?”

“I have been ordered to do it.” He stops and turns back to the skyline. “But no, it would be madness. To me, Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. I’d never allow my name to go down in history as the one who ruined it.”

I study Straffer. His mood is pensive, unusual after such good sex. “You’re upset. You’re trying to tell me something else. You’re saying . . . you know the Allies are going to win.”

“Of course they are going to win! The die was cast the day Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and dragged America into the war. What a fool’s errand that was. We could never match America’s industrial capacity. We make a hundred airplanes a day. They make two thousand. We’ve never stood a chance.”

“We’ve had this argument before. Something else is upsetting you.”