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She heard another shot, but it was nowhere near her. They had lost sight of her, for a moment. But they knew where she was. She must get into the street as soon as she could, or she would be cornered here like a rat! And the very fact that she was running would brand her guilty. An innocent woman would have waited in the bedroom to be caught and questioned, and then what? Arrested, and maybe never seen again? Or more likely shot while attempting to escape the consequences of her terrible crime.
She crossed the yard and, without even looking, went out into the alley. Which way would they search for her? In the quiet street at the back of the hotel, where they could corner her and shoot her without anyone knowing.
If she went toward the busy street at the front, they might see her, but they would not shoot her in the crowd.
For a moment her legs would not move. They would barely hold her up. She could imagine the bullet tearing into her. She could feel the weight of Ian’s body, see his face as if he had died only minutes ago instead of, what, yesterday? The day before?
She put the bag’s handle over her shoulder and walked a little stiffly, as if she had no care, no fear, to the front street where the hotel lobby opened onto the pavement.
She saw the Brownshirts milling outside almost immediately, and a small crowd gathered around, waiting for something to happen. The Brownshirts kept trying to shoo them away, but they only stepped back a yard or two. They were all curious to see what was going on, to witness the arrest of whoever had assassinated the Hyena.
Elena turned, as if it was always what she had intended to do, and walked briskly away from the hotel toward…what? She had no idea where that route led, but any crowd would be good enough to get lost in, until she could be at least half a mile away. Then she needed to figure out where she was and find her way to the British Embassy. There, at least, she would be safe.
Why on earth had Cordell failed to save Scharnhorst? Or had he not believed that MI6 would really be blamed? Well, he was wrong! Totally wrong! If whoever had shot Scharnhorst had not intended a British person to be blamed and hanged for it, why would they have left the rifle in her hotel room? And how would the Brownshirts have known so very quickly where to come for her?
Then the understanding hit her like a wave of nausea. Maybe that was why she’d had no difficulty getting out of the square and to her hotel room? It all fit together. They meant to shoot her. They meant her to be blamed. And if they had stopped her and searched her before she got to the hotel, she would very definitely not have had the gun with her.
For the moment, her chest was so tight she could barely breathe, full of not only fear, but rage as well. She must get to the embassy. As quickly as possible. She could not do anything at all if she did not survive!
CHAPTER
15
It took Elena almost three-quarters of an hour to make her way through the choked streets full of frightened people, as she tried to avoid every group of Brownshirts she saw. She dared not look for any shortcuts; she must not find herself alone in an alley where, if she was cornered, she could be attacked, and no one would even see, let alone help her.
Was that what it had come to? Was the veneer of sanity so fragile that a woman could be attacked in the street, beaten, even killed, if the men who did it were in uniform, and no one would dare stop them? Perhaps.
She found herself following groups, families, any people who seemed to belong together, and trying to look as if she were one of them.
She was no longer part of the establishment that she was used to. She was the enemy, the outsider everyone was looking for. It was only because word had not yet got around giving her description that no one had recognized her. How long would it be before they did? Before dark she would be run to the ground. The only place where she could be safe would be the embassy.
She kept walking, her eyes on the pavement, looking at no one. Why had Cordell not been able to stop the assassination? Had they somehow got rid of him, too? Surely not! He was a senior British diplomat. That would be more than an unpleasant incident between Britain and Germany; it would be a warning to every country that had an embassy in Germany: Hitler’s government was made up of savages! And in return no German embassy would be safe anywhere, at least in the civilized world. Anyway, Hitler quite liked England, Elena’s father said. Germany and England were cousins—their royal families had been, quite literally.
She was being ridiculous. Letting her imagination run away with her. It was terrible how fear could rob you of sense…and courage.
The embassy was only a hundred yards ahead of her, but she could see now that it was surrounded by Brownshirts. They looked as if they were guarding it, for its safety, against some expected attack. But whateve
r its purpose, there was no way she could force herself through the guard and go in. They would demand identification. Of course they would. They ought to. And then when they saw her face, or even her general description, they would say she was a danger to the embassy. For the protection of the British officials, as guests here in Berlin, they would prevent her from entering.
She froze for seconds, her mind in a storm of disintegrating plans and potential disasters. They knew she was British. They were waiting for her, hoping she might run here for safety, for help. She should have thought of that. She must go away now, as unobtrusively as possible, as if she, too, had been drawn here only as part of the crowd.
She turned aside, trying to look as if they had merely blocked her path. Her mother was American. She should try the American Embassy. They would surely help her, even if only to contact the British and find her some way out. All embassies were the soil of the country they represented. The Germans would certainly not push their way into the U.S. Embassy. That would create an incident they most assuredly could not afford.
No one seemed to notice her moving away. She kept her head down and carefully avoided catching anyone’s eye. She did not want to be remembered. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be so ordinary as to be virtually invisible.
It was not far to the American Embassy and she walked as quickly as possible without seeming to run.
Even before she reached the building, she could see Brownshirts on all the corners and gathering crowds in the street outside. There was really no better chance of getting in there without being stopped than there had been at the British Embassy. Could they have learned her name by now? Could they also know she had been traveling with Ian? The border police might remember her—they would have a record.
She stood on the pavement, frozen with indecision and mounting panic.
“Excuse me, are you lost?” a man’s voice asked in German.
She spun around and saw a young man a yard or so away from her. He was tall and dark. At first glance he seemed quite ordinary, but there was intelligence in his eyes, and humor.
“I…” she began, also in German. She had no idea what to say to him. He had spoken to her in German, but she detected a different accent. What could she tell him? She must look like a fool.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You aren’t lost, are you.” That was a statement. “You just didn’t expect the embassy to be surrounded, and by Brownshirts…”
