AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Poor man” was all she said. “I’ll wait until you tell me.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I have to go to Trieste tonight. I’m sorry. Someone else is in trouble.” He stopped. There was really nothing more he could add. He was increasingly afraid of what he might find, and as always, he could not explain it.
“Be careful,” she answered.
She meant more than that. How much did she know, or guess? How could he have been so blind as to think his own wife couldn’t see what he was about? How could he have underestimated her so badly? If only he could tell her more.
CHAPTER
18
Elena woke very late. She looked at the small alarm clock on the table beside her bed and saw that it was after ten. The first thing she was aware of was that her body ached. She remembered the previous night, the bitter, perishing chill of black water. Now there was daylight coming through the wooden slats of the blinds and she recognized where she was. It was her apartment in Trieste, but it was far from the comfort of her home in London.
Then she remembered yesterday, finding Max’s body, or what was left of it. For a moment, she was ice cold and nausea gripped her, then it passed, or at least she gained control over it. She recalled escaping with Aiden through the streets and eventually into the dark water of the canal. She could not remember ever having felt so cold. But they were alive and, for the moment, no one knew where they were…or who they were.
Aiden had seen her to the door but he, too, was soaking wet and the night had lost the balmy summer warmth of only a few days before. She had kissed him good night quickly and gone inside, locking the door behind her. She had stripped off her soaking clothes and stepped into the shower, as hot as she could bear it, and had run it until it was no longer any more than warm. Then she toweled herself down, rubbing hard to get her circulation going.
She had thought she would lie awake remembering the horror, the fear, even the feeling of Aiden supporting her physically for a moment, kissing her briefly but fiercely, like having the past back again—the exhilaration and the understanding—only wiser this time, more as equals than before. But surprisingly, she had slept. Even the dreams had been few. Few…and blurred.
Now she forced herself to get up, wash, dress, and begin the morning, although it was already half over. Would there be police looking for her? That brought back memories of Berlin, which was ridiculous. She had discovered the body of a man who had been dead since before she landed in Trieste, and whom she had never known. It was a dreadful sight, but she had had no part in his death. They could do nothing for him; she could never have helped. But would the police know that, or believe it if they recognized her from the brief encounter in the street last night? What sane, innocent woman goes looking for dead bodies in water vats in the slums?
Aiden had said they were in immediate danger. Perhaps he even more than she! Max had been Aiden’s one contact with Peter Howard and, as far as she knew, with England. It was her job to get him out with his information. Was that more than the list of names of those who were collaborating financially with the Fatherland Front? It sounded innocuous enough, until you realized that its purpose was to extend Nazi power and possession over most of Northern Italy.
In a rush of panic, she retrieved the folded paper. Had the canal’s water washed away the critical information? She unfolded it carefully and was relieved to find the writing legible. The paper was still quite damp, so she spread it across the bed, hoping the warmth of the sun would dry it.
She had no bread in the house, no fresh tea or coffee. There was jam, but no butter. She hated the way jam seeped into any kind of bread without butter to keep them separate, making the bread soggy. She needed several supplies, at least two days’ more, in case it was that long until she could organize some form of transport. And it might be difficult to persuade Aiden that it was too dangerous to stay.
She thought of his face in the streetlight last night, his excitement. He was more alive than anyone she had ever known. He made others seem pallid, even bloodless. This rescue, the fight against the Fatherland Front, the whole visit to Trieste in its limpid light, all of it was like a new birth into another more vivid world—it all brought the past back again, but this time she was so much more aware of it, in control, almost as if she had at last found her real self.
But this was no time for considering the status of her life. She must make plans to save them both. And she must say goodbye to Gabrielle, even if Gabrielle did not know that it was indeed goodbye. And at least pay for the dress. She had taken it and lost it; there must be reparation.
She would have breakfast at one of the local cafés and then think of making plans.
It was half past one when she stopped by Gabrielle’s apartment, much further inland than her own. Elena was pleased to find her at home. She had brought some fresh fruit as a gift. The room was small, but so cleverly designed that it did not seem so, and it was full of light at this time of the day. It took Elena a moment to realize that the light was thanks to a clever use of mirrors. She smiled at the skill of it. “It’s beautiful.”
“Illusion,” Gabrielle said, smiling a little ruefully. “It’s amazing what you can achieve if you know how. It’s my old home in France, re-created with tricks of memory and imagination.”
Elena looked at the porcelain and the glass and realized it was all French, as were the clock and the calendar on the wall, with pictures of the French countryside. She recognized the architecture, the deep fields and huge white Charolais cows. “Normandy?” she asked.
“Yes, do you know it?” Gabrielle’s face lit with pleasure.
“A little,” Elena answered, smiling at the memory. “My father was British ambassador in Paris for a short while.” She unpacked the fruit and placed it carefully in one of the empty dishes. “I’ll go back one day, but for now I will have to return to England. And I have lost your gray dress. I can’t replace it, but I must make some recompense.”
“You don’t need to,” Gabrielle said quickly. “It didn’t really suit me anyway.” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand.
Suddenly, there was shouting in the street outside, high-pitched. Then a shot rang out, followed by more shouting.
Franz appeared at the door, eyes wide and frightened. His face was twisted, his fair hair tousled. “Mama, what’s happening?” He looked at Elena, then went round the table to Gabrielle and she kneeled to take him in her arms.
“It’s all right, little one,” she said to him in French. “They’re angry with each other, not with us. Stay in here, don’t go to the window, and you’ll be all right.” She looked at Elena over the child’s head. “They arrested several people last night. I don’t know what it was about, but I can guess.”
Elena said nothing but felt a sense of relief sweep through her. “If
you were to guess,” she asked, “would it be the Front, striking already? I thought they weren’t going to act for weeks!”
“I don’t think it is, but everyone is very tense,” Gabrielle replied. She hugged Franz quickly, then let him go. “Would you like some of the grapes that Elena has brought?” she asked him.
He looked at Elena and then at the grapes on the table.
