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“Only since…” She realized she had just met this man, and trusting him with more than she had to was stupid.
“Since…what?” he asked, slowing up as they came to a crossroads again.
Perhaps not trusting him, or more to the point, letting him see that she did not, was foolish. She could not go to the British Embassy, or the American. Where else was there for her to try? She certainly could not get out of Berlin. She had no friends she could turn to, not to trust now. People changed. And could she blame them if they did it to survive? Or for their families to survive? This man was the only chance she had. Perhaps it was better to trust him. He could find out the truth in time anyway, and by then she would have lost her chance to gain his trust in return.
“I got here yesterday. I hadn’t planned to come, but circumstances…” What a ridiculous word to use! She bit it back. “I came to try to stop the assassination, because I knew the British were going to be blamed. But obviously I didn’t succeed. I think perhaps it was a futile idea from the beginning.”
They were in quieter streets now. Jacob slowed his pace a little and gave her a sideways glance, his dark eyes unreadable. “You aren’t making much sense. How did you know anything about it? Where did you come from?”
She hesitated a moment. Was she walking straight into a trap? But to trust him was her only chance.
Briefly she told him about Amalfi, and Ian’s murder on the train, and how she had promised him she would get the message to the British Embassy. She found her voice thick with unshed tears as she did so.
He slowed to a stop, for the first time completely letting go of her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said gravely, his face full of pity. “But you did everything you could. Either this man Cordell tried to stop it and failed, or I’m afraid he didn’t try, for whatever reason. It’s probably a damn good thing you didn’t get into the embassy. He could have made a gesture of goodwill and handed you over to the Germans.”
For a moment the quiet street swam around her; then she forced herself to focus. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. “Damn! I’m behaving like a fool!”
“You couldn’t help it to begin with,” he agreed, smiling very slightly. “But you can now. Forget Cordell. Perhaps he did everything he could. He couldn’t warn you, because it probably never occurred to him that you would go to the rally. Why did you?”
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“To get photographs of Scharnhorst, of course!” she replied, as if it were obvious. “If there had been someone arrested for trying to attack him, it could have been a dramatic moment. I’m a photographer,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“And I’m a journalist, but I’m no good to anyone if I’m dead,” he responded.
“I thought Cordell would have prevented the assassination!”
“Then you had more faith in him than you should have.”
“It wasn’t blind faith!” Elena protested. “I know him; I have for years.”
“Really? How long?” Jacob looked slightly surprised.
“From when my father was ambassador here.”
“I thought you said that was a long time ago.”
“Long time is…relative, I suppose.”
“Meaning that people change?” he asked more gently.
“Not that much. He used to be…fun…” Memory rushed back of Cordell years ago, perhaps a decade. It was five years after the war. Some people were still giddy with peace. “He really made us laugh,” she went on. “Teaching us about the etiquette necessary to be a good ambassador. How to take any situation whatever with aplomb.”
“Stiff upper lip?” Jacob asked lightly.
“It’s more than that, it’s…”
He stood listening, eyebrows slightly raised. Then she realized he was gently making fun of her. She answered as her memory slipped back easily. “For instance, how do you carry it off gracefully at dinner when the duchess’s false teeth slip into her soup?”
His eyes widened. “What do you do?”
“Well, if it’s broth, you can distract attention while she fishes them out again, and replaces them,” she replied, feeling her grip on herself slipping out of control. “But if it’s tomato soup, you haven’t a chance.”
“And what was Cordell’s answer to that?” Jacob asked incredulously.
“You have the butler remove the plate, serve her another, very discreetly, and take the soup away to fish more effectively. Without comment, of course. The real style is to keep the conversation going without a hiccup.”
“And did he? Did it ever happen?”
