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“God in heaven!” Cordell said in horror. “Are you all right?”
She stiffened. “Yes…I’m not hurt…just tired.” Her voice was shaking now. “I’ve been in trains for two days and a night…I think.” She straightened up a little, clearly fighting for self-control. “He told me…Ian told me that he was given a message to give to you. There is to be a large rally here tomorrow morning, and Friedrich Scharnhorst is to be the main speaker. There will be an assassination attempt.” She met his eyes steadily now, with confidence. “I know. He is a complete pig. A pretty natural person for lots of people to want dead. The point is that we are to be blamed for it.”
“We?” he said incredulously. “Who do you mean, we?”
“The British. More specifically, MI6. Please, I know you have very little time, but Ian only found out the afternoon that we left Amalfi. We planned to get the fastest connecting trains from Naples to Berlin. There is still time to stop it, isn’t there? You have to. There was no way of getting to you any sooner, without drawing attention.” She was talking quickly now, struggling over her words. “He didn’t know how to send you a telegram, or any sort of message, to reach you, and only you, and say all that was necessary. But it has to be true, or why would he have been killed? He wasn’t robbed—it’s the only answer. Please…”
Cordell put both his hands over hers. She was ice cold and beginning to shake uncontrollably. “This is very serious indeed. Even if it is a false alarm, we must be totally prepared. You are quite right. The situation is delicate. If Scharnhorst is assassinated, there will be panic, and if we are blamed, for any reason at all, it will cause an international incident that could be terrible. I will send my assistant for a cup of tea. And perhaps a few sandwiches for you. You look exhausted. Then a car to take you to a hotel. You must excuse me. I have a very great deal to do before tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Standish. Thank you very much indeed.”
He gave his assistant brief instructions to look after her, and as she walked away from him, Cordell’s mind was in a whirl. He should not have been surprised. Scharnhorst was the perfect candidate for an assassination. But by whom? Those who abhorred him for his violence and growing power, his apparent influence with Hitler? A rival? Or even Hitler himself, because Scharnhorst was going too far, too quickly for public opinion? Hitler was careful to take the people with him. And how much did this girl know about MI6, a branch of the Secret Service not even acknowledged by Parliament?
No time to think of that now. It would be easy enough to pass the word along and see that security would be increased. Or the rally canceled, or perhaps someone else put in Scharnhorst’s place? Cordell had all the necessary connections to do that.
Hitler had made it no secret that he saw the English as potential future allies in the war against communism. Cordell knew that there were influential people in London who returned that regard. To see order and stability back in Germany again was a high sign of hope in Europe. It would be a bastion against the far greater threat of communism, which was growing larger, and closer, even as they watched it, bringing violence and nihilism with it.
But how strange that it should be Charles Standish’s daughter doing all this. Coincidence? Possibly.
He remembered vividly the last time he had seen Charles for any length of time. It had been about eight years ago, in Paris, that queen of cities. Some diplomatic party or other. They were both bored with it and had gone outside for a breath of air, a quick cigarette, and a break from the meaningless, polite chatter. It had been somewhere overlooking the river. He remembered the lights on the water, the smooth arch of the bridge, and the shadows underneath. A boat had come silently out of it, seeming to materialize in front of them, achingly beautiful in its suggestion of magic.
They had both needed to experience that beautiful image, and understood that in each other. Cordell had lost two brothers in the war and, to all effect, his wife. She had lost her father, both her brothers, and a cousin—and, in a way, herself.
Charles seemed to have understood. Never again did not even need to be spoken. Now Roger Cordell owed it to Charles to look after this strange daughter of his, if it was possible, consistent with his own beliefs in the tangled lunacy of this Europe they had created.
Should he try to save Scharnhorst? The man needed to be shot. Damn Ian Newton for learning about it, and then getting himself killed! How had that happened? He must have been incredibly careless. That is, if Elena Standish was even right about what had really happened?
He must think some more. Whatever he was going to do, it must be done this evening. He had important contacts he must not jeopardize. A lot might hang on this decision.
CHAPTER
12
Lucas was working in his study, or at least that was what he had intended to do. Actually, he was sitting in his most comfortable armchair in the book-lined room, and staring out through the wide, deep windows toward the garden. This May the weather seemed to be particularly lovely. The light was sharp and clear, as if every leaf and every flower were to be etched on the memory. He had put seed out for the birds, even though he knew perfectly well that they did not need it. It just pleased him to have them come almost up to the window.
The first yellow climbing roses were in full bloom around this side of the house. They were called Maigold. He remembered the name because it described them so clearly. Probably they should have been pruned back a bit, but he liked their profusion. Each year he said he would do it, then could not bring himself to do more than the bare necessity. Perhaps when they actually blocked the windows, he would.
His thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door. It could only be Josephine. Why was she knocking? She usually just tapped and came in.
He went to open it. She was just outside, in the hall, and behind her was a man several inches taller than she—Peter Howard, his face visible over her shoulder.
Before Lucas could react, Josephine spoke. “Lucas, Mr. Howard says he is a friend of yours and needs to see you rather urgently.” She looked solemn and puzzled, anxiety in her voice and eyes.
“Thank you,” Lucas said a little awkwardly. Howard had never called at his house before. What on earth would bring him now?
Josephine gave a brief smile and stepped aside to allow Howard to pass her. She did not offer to bring tea, as she would have done for anyone else. That alone told him she knew this was business.
Howard came in, thanked her, then closed the door as she turned to leave.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Lucas said very quietly, once he had heard Josephine’s footsteps go down the hall. “What’s happened that we couldn’t have met somewhere…?” He stopped. The look on Howard’s face sent a twinge of fear into his mind. His muscles tightened.
“I’m sorry.” Howard’s voice dropped even lower. “Ian Newton’s been murdered. Knifed to death on a train from Milan to Paris. I don’t know any more than that yet. We may never.”
“It could have waited…” Lucas said impulsively, although even as the words passed his lips, he knew it was the death of Newton he was denying rather than the fact that Howard had broken all protocol to come to Lucas’s home to tell him. Howard looked as if he was deeply hurt by it, although no emotion excused carelessness. In fact, the more important the event, the more it mattered to be even more careful than usual. He would have to think of some way to explain Peter’s visit to Josephine later. He hated being devious with her, but he had done it for nearly a quarter of a century. It was never that he lied, in so many words; it was the omissions, the evasions. He and Josephine were so honest in everything else.
“It really doesn’t matter,” Howard said grimly.
“Josephine…” Lucas began.
“What?”
