Stealing Trinity (9 page)

Braun settled back and closed his eyes, reflecting on the last days. Yesterday he had killed a man for nothing more than the clothes on his back and the few dollars that might be in his pocket. He mused on the progress this posed. Five years ago, as a third-year man at Harvard, the mere thought of killing a person would have been intolerable. Now it seemed perfectly natural.

He remembered Stalingrad and Berlin. There, Braun had met men who killed for pleasure. He was proud, at least, to have never gone down that road. I am not a cruel man, he reasoned, I only take life when there is a purpose.

The train rocked gently, picking up speed, and Braun closed his eyes. Minutes later he drifted off, his thoughts already having moved on.

Thatcher arrived at work well before dawn. His night had been sleepless as questions swirled in his head, a result of yesterday's frustrating afternoon. He had always been wired with a peculiar internal circuitry. It stipulated that everything must fit, falling into the universal order of logic and reason. A leads to B, and, in turn, C follows up. The war had short-circuited his world in the most terrible of ways, and Thatcher found relief only in work. It was his outlet, the channel for his energies. That being the case, he would not be put off by a troublesome Yank, or even victory in Europe. The issue of Alexander Braun was his to tackle.

He'd so far drawn a blank on the Manhattan Project, and asking the Americans again would only bring the hot water he was in to a boil. He wondered what a German spy could possibly be doing in Mexico, but the thoughts never advanced beyond pure supposition. To the positive, he had at least been able to ascertain that Major Rudolph Becker's body had been found washed up on the Northern Baltic shoreline, the cause of death indeterminate, but immaterial. And there was a sketchy report that General Freiderich Rode had been killed, a passenger in an aircraft shot down over Norway. It was plausible. Two years ago the place had been a German possession teeming with Nordic spies. Now the reciprocal had emerged. Thatcher assigned Sergeant Winters, his most capable assistant, the task of finding proof. If the information could be authenticated it would be one less Nazi for Thatcher to hunt.

The fate of Colonel Hans Gruber had proven more elusive. Thatcher doubted Corporal Klein would possess knowledge of his boss's escape plan. Gruber was an intelligence man who would understand the game -- each extra person who knew his plans only increased the chance of failure. But Gruber was well known to the Allies, an easily recognizable target. Thatcher doubted he could evade for long.

Yet as the field narrowed, the last target became even more elusive. Only one other person remained from the meeting Klein had described, and that person was the most important, the key to uncovering a spy called Die Wespe. Unfortunately, without another witness, someone who knew where the man was headed, Thatcher was flailing in the wind. It had to be America. But how could Alexander Braun get there? And what use could he be now with Germany defeated?

It all weighed on Thatcher, each fact a piece on his mental game board, each unknown a pending roll of the dice. He reached across his desk and picked up a medallion. It commemorated the Arsenal Football Club's 1938 League Championship. Madeline was a supporter, and the medallion had been his first gift to her, one of those lighthearted gestures that had risen to become a landmark in their lives. Thatcher rubbed it slowly between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the sappy words he'd had inscribed on the backside -- My dearest Mads, Always.

Always -- except for the blasted war. England was singing, dancing, drowning in the pubs. And Thatcher sat mired, his investigation stuck in a ditch. The Nazi regime was a plague, a disease that had to be eradicated completely. And who was going to do the work? A bunch of drunk louts who, out of sheer relief, were ready to let bygones be bygones?

He put the medallion back on his desk. Thatcher knew what Roger Ainsley would say. Drop it. But something about this Manhattan Project, about Gruber's meeting during the last days of the Reich. There was desperation in it, a menace that wouldn't necessarily die with the formal surrender.

He wondered if Braun had already made it to America. Or perhaps he was sitting in a British internment camp right now, spinning the tale of a hard-fighting soldier who'd done his duty and was now ready to start life anew. There were millions of them. Thatcher could go through the camp rosters and search for the name Alexander Braun. It was common enough. There might be dozens. And would Braun even give his real name?

With a sigh, Thatcher pulled a stack of papers closer and began to read.

Chapter 11.

"Forty, love," Sargent Cole called.

Lydia stood at the net and watched her father serve to her partner. He used the overhead style, a method she herself had never bothered to learn. It looked terribly difficult, and aside from that, there was something decidedly unladylike in the motion. The ball went whizzing over the net, landed four feet beyond the service box, and would have struck Edward in the privates had he not twisted his plump frame and protected himself with his racquet.

"Out," Edward mumbled. Recovering from his defensive scramble, he established a proper ready stance.

Lydia heard her mother giggle from across the net. The next serve fell into play, and the two men exchanged a short rally before Edward was outdone, his last effort a weak, fluttering lob that Mother was allowed to finish.

"That's it then!" Sargent Cole boomed, rushing to the net. "Six-one, six-love."

Glad to be done, Lydia complimented her father on his form, while Edward, still not accustomed to the thrashings, endured a brisk handshake.

"Don't worry, my boy," her father said. "In time. All in time."

The four retired to the patio where a large round table sat in wait, stocked with fresh juice, pastries, and coffee. Mother busied herself serving.

Sargent said, "Lydia, we must work on your backhand. I'll set up some lessons next week with Serge."

"Father, its no use. IVe already got a thousand-dollar backhand."

"But you were better when you were a girl."

Lydia couldn't argue that. She'd been decent a few years back, but lately had been gaining weight. She was slower now, more cumbersome, and her enthusiasm for the game had disappeared. It seemed such a trivial pastime, given what the rest of the world was enduring.

"Monday," her father decided.

"All right, Father."

"And Edward, what about you? Shall I set something up?"

Edward said, "No, sir. I'll be in the city Monday. In fact, I'll be going in this afternoon as well. I should get cleaned up now." He trundled toward the main house, his round shape straining the white tennis togs.

"All work, that boy," Sargent said. "He needs to break more of a sweat out here."

Lydia was about to select a pastry when she saw the signal from inside the house. It was Evans, the butler, standing in a window and beckoning her with a rapid hand motion. She excused herself and went discreetly into the house.

"What is it, Evans?"

"A gentleman to see you, miss."

She looked out the window, toward her parents, and wondered why it had not been a general announcement.

Evans, who had been with the family for thirty-two years, clearly understood her confusion. "Come with me, miss. I think you'll understand."

A perplexed Lydia followed to the library. When Evans opened the door, she froze at a vision that had died in her dreams a thousand nights ago.

"Oh, God!"

Her knees buckled and she felt dizzy. Through a semiconscious state she felt Evans at her side, supporting an elbow. And then another, stronger presence anchored the opposite side. They guided her to a chair and she sat, grasping the soft fabric arms so that the world might stop spinning. When Lydia finally focused, the apparition was still there, now balanced on one knee at her side. Then came the voice.

"Hello, Lydia."

That strong, undeniable voice.

"Alex?" she managed. "Dear God -- is it really you?"

His watery blue eyes seemed to embrace her. And then the cavalier, one-sided smile. He reached out and took her hand.

"Its been a very long time."

"Oh, Alex. I thought ... I thought you were dead." Tears flowed over her cheeks. "I stopped hearing from you, the letters. And I knew you were fighting--"

"Yes, yes. Its a long story. But all thats over now. Done."

She saw a ragged scar on his temple. It was prominent, but somehow almost an improvement on Alex, a touch of visceral splendor to accent his strong features. She reached out to touch it softly with her hand. What had he been through? Lydia wondered. What other scars might there be?

"Can I get you some water, miss?" Evans asked.

The question brought her back, and Lydia stood gingerly, collecting herself. "What kind of hostess am I? Evans, we have a guest. Bring coffee, would you? Alex enjoys coffee."

Evans acknowledged the order and disappeared. Alex stood back and she realized he was looking at her. His eyes wandered carelessly across her body, the half smile still intact. What was he thinking? No, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Is he disappointed? God, what stupid thoughts.

"You look well," she blurted.

"A few scratches, but mostly I came through unscathed."

"Youre not in uniform. Are you on leave?"

"Yes. I just got back from Europe. My uniforms are at the cleaners. God knows they needed it. I have three weeks before I'm scheduled to report for duty on the West Coast."

"Of course. We're not done yet, are we? Those pesky--" Lydia froze when she saw Edward stroll in the doorway.

"Darling, have you seen my red tie?" Edward asked before noticing the guest. He paused to study the man for a moment. "Sorry, I don't think we've met."

Lydia said, "Oh, forgive me. Edward, this is Alex, an old friend. Alex, this is Edward Murray ... my husband."

She saw it for an instant. A crack in Alex's easy smile. He shook Edward's hand and exchanged niceties.

"Alex was at Harvard, before the war."

"Harvard, was it? Bad luck. I was Princeton myself. Law. What did you study, Alex?"

"Architecture, although I wasn't able to finish."

"Oh yes, of course, the war. You know, I tried to enlist myself but there was some rubbish about an eardrum. What I do now is the next best thing. All those tanks and guns don't get built without contracts. My firm does almost half their work with the defense industries. Boring, of course, but it has to be done."

"Soldiering is mostly boring, to tell you the truth. But at least the food is first class."

Edward looked baffled before recognizing the joke. He laughed. "Yes, I'm sure." He turned to Lydia, "Now, dear, I really have to be on my way."

"On the hook in your closet," she said.

"What?"

"The red tie."

"Oh, right." He closed in and gave Lydia a peck on the cheek, then added, "Good to meet you, Alex."

"And you, Edward."

Edward disappeared and the room fell silent. Having seen him off, Lydia's back was to Alex. She couldn't bring herself to turn. What must he think, she wondered, fighting the war for so long, only to come home to this? But if only he'd written. If only she'd known he was alive. Lydia folded her arms tightly, still not able to face him.

"Alex, I --"

His hands took her by the shoulders and guided her around until she faced him. What Lydia saw in his eyes was not anger or disappointment. It was strength. Understanding. She stayed locked to his gaze until her fathers voice interrupted, bellowing her name from out on the lawn.

Alex smiled again. "I should go say hello to Sargent."

"He always liked you, Alex."

"Except when I beat him at his games."

"Can you stay? At least for a few days?"

He paused. "I don't see why not. Actually, I'd rather been planning on it."

She sighed and closed her eyes, his hands still on her shoulders.

"He seems like a nice fellow," Alex said.

"Who?"

"Edward."

"Oh ... yes, he's very nice."

He gave her a look of assurance. Lydia knew they were stirring the same thoughts, yet he seemed so calm. Perhaps the war had something to do with it. He must have seen unimaginable terrors. A tragedy like this must barely register. Yet the guilt rested like an anchor on Lydia's very soul. While he'd been out fighting, she'd been -"It's all right," he said, as if reading her anguished thoughts. "This war has turned a lot of lives upside down. At least we made it through."

With that, he drew her closer. She felt his breath on her neck as he whispered into her ear. "It's all right, Lydia. It's all right." Alex put his lips gently to the side of her forehead, lingering much longer than he should have. Lydia knew she should pull away. She didn't. Not until she heard footsteps on the marble outside the library. She pulled back just as her father appeared. Lydia tried to compose herself as he paused at the door jamb.

"Father, do you remember Alex?"

Sargent Cole studied them a moment before breaking into a smile.

"Well, I'll be damned! How could I not? He beat the pants off me on the tennis court for a week straight."

Lydia s father strode over and shook Alexs hand.

"He's just back from the war," she said.

Alex clarified, "It's a temporary reprieve. I'm off to the Pacific in a few weeks."

"Good! Good! Give 'em hell, eh?"

"Father, I've asked Alex to stay for a few days. Is that all right?"

He eyed her before answering. "Sure. Let's show him a good time. But I will insist on a rematch, Alex. Have you been practicing?"

Alex replied breezily, "The last time I played was here."

"Christ, that was years ago. You have been busy. But it might give me a chance."

"Perhaps -- although one likes to believe in the constancy of things."

Lydia remembered that Alex was the only person she'd ever known who could goad her father and get away with it. Evans materialized with a tray of Scotch and tumblers -- her father's presence had superseded the request for coffee -- and he poured without asking.