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“No…”
“Then I have the advantage over you,” the Englishman said, without a shred of humor. The grace had gone from him. “You have no idea what you are stepping into. This woman is required by Doktor Goebbels. She has knowledge he needs. If you cause a delay or a difficulty in my getting her to him, you will regret it until the day you die, which will probably not be very long from now. Do I make myself clear, Herr Hartwig? I know your name. Unless, of course, you want to murder me here in the street, too?”
Hartwig let go of Elena and retreated.
The Englishman caught hold of her arm and, pulling her sharply, set off at a brisk walk along the center of the path. Not once did he turn to see if they were following.
“I’m not going with you!” Elena said, pulling away from him again, and failing to break his hold.
“I’m not taking you to Goebbels, for God’s sake!” he said, moving so close to her that he did not have to raise his voice.
“How do I know that?” She was still trying to free herself, to no avail.
They were alone on the footpath now, but other people would come any moment. Fighting like a willful child would draw people’s attention. She could not afford that. Did he know that she was the woman they were hunting for Scharnhorst’s assassination? He must. There was no other reason anyone would look for her, let alone Herr Doktor Goebbels! Even in England, his name was known.
When he did not answer immediately, she asked again. “How do I know that?”
“I want to get you out of here…home to Lucas and Josephine.”
She wanted to believe him, desperately. It sounded wonderful…too good to be true. But how could this man even know of her grandparents?
She must get away. He was far stronger than she was, and she had nothing with which to fight. He was English. She was sure of that. With a wave of nausea, she understood that Cordell had betrayed her again! It was all clear now. He had never tried to prevent the assassination, and he knew which hotel she’d been staying at. He had someone put the rifle there, so she would be blamed. This man must be an ally of Cordell’s. Another traitor! She had liked him instinctively. Both he and Cordell had drawn on all the old memories, the jokes, the images of childhood that reminded her of happy years and people she had loved…and lost. How did he know these things? Of course! Cordell had been a friend of her father’s. This was worse than her darkest fears. This was something she had not even imagined.
They were close to one of the big trees that lined the avenue.
She had nothing to lose. If he took her to Goebbels she would never escape. They would connect her to the assassination, because blaming an Englishman was the whole purpose of having killed Scharnhorst. A woman could use a rifle as easily as a man. She had simply taken Ian’s place.
They were standing next to one of the trees. The faint wind rustled in the leaves overhead. She must escape…now.
He started to speak again. She thought for only a moment and then, because she couldn’t break from his grip, she did the opposite: she lunged forward, standing as hard as she could with the heel of her shoe on his instep. He gasped and his hand loosened on her arm. She swung the arm carrying her handbag and her camera at his head, and he fell backward, striking the trunk of the tree. He slid down and did not move.
He might not be dazed for long. She turned and ran, crossing the street as soon as she could and ducking into a side street, then turned again, then again. Only once did she look behind her, and she did not see him.
Where could she go? Not to the embassy now! Not back to Zillah’s. Not even to the place where she had slept last night. To be caught was terrifying enough, and perhaps in the end it was all that counted. But to be betrayed was a pain that burned in a different way…corrosive, as if it could never heal.
The Englishman had seemed so nice. He had made her think of Lucas, even a bit of Mike. She could not let him win—could not let any of them—whatever the cost.
CHAPTER
23
Elena woke with a jolt, staring in the dark, barely making out the lines of the unfamiliar bedroom. Her eyes were wide open and yet she could still see the insane faces of the young people capering around the fires, cheering as the books burned. They were perfectly ordinary humans. She could have met them in the street any day and not even know them again.
There was one in particular, a man who had been standing near the flames, in whom some remnants of sanity seemed to be left. She had seen it in his face, had tried to catch it with the camera.
She lay still on the hard bed, huddled up into herself.
She was cold now, clasping her arms around her knees, in her second or third strange, bare lodging-house bedroom.
She could not stay here. She must get the pictures developed before someone searched her, either to confiscate the film or expose it to the light and ruin the images.
She got up, washed and dressed, then went downstairs carrying her meager luggage. She had paid the night before. It was the condition of renting in places like these. She said “Guten Morgen” politely to the owner, thanked her, and went out into the street. She would have to look for another place to stay tonight. She must find a photographer’s. A chemist would take too long to develop her film. And paying extra money for haste would draw attention to her. It was a huge risk that the photographer she found would question her, even betray her if her story was not convincing, but she had no alternative: She had to get the photographs developed.
It was a brisk day, in spite of the sun, and she was glad for the excuse to wear the nondescript scarf she had bought to hide some of her pale blond hair. She felt self-conscious when people gave her more than a momentary glance, as several people did. She might be noticeable, but not as Elena Standish.
When she got the photographs, w
hat was she going to do? Jacob already had his copies of the assassination. She had hers. But the book-burning pictures were priceless. They were a depiction of utter horror that would haunt the mind forever. She wished she could forget it herself, and knew she never would, especially not that one man whose eyes looked out at the camera as if he had seen hell.
