Deal with the Devil Page 6

  Bruckmann pointed to the silver pin, a curly Germanic letter A, attached to Faust’s shoulder board. “This means he’s on the staff of Field Marshal von Rundstedt’s Army Group A. And he’s actual staff, not some general’s adjutant or aide; there’s no aiguillette here.” He folded the tunic and set it on the coffee table beside the briefcase. “So he’s not just a simple Panzerman, no matter what he might claim.”

  “What is he, then?” Jennifer asked.

  “At the least,” Stoner said, “he’s a brave tank commander who was so successful at his trade he was promoted to general staff training. It’s the highest compliment the Wehrmacht could offer him. As to what he’s doing here in England, I see several possibilities. It is conceivable he told the unguarded truth this morning when he blurted out he’d been joyriding. He certainly clammed up quickly enough when he realized he’d said more than he’d intended.

  “But it’s also possible he’s here to evaluate potential invasion routes. His knowledge of the area and the language would tend to support such a theory.”

  “That would make him a spy,” Bruckmann said.

  “And there is another, ugly possibility.” Stoner paused. The more he considered the implications, the uglier it seemed and the less he liked it. “Eduard Best.”

  Bruckmann, Tanyon, and Jennifer all stared at him. Stoner pictured three students, nonplussed by a tricky debate question — “Discuss the differences between the burlesque and the mock heroic using examples from Butler and Pope” — and smiled despite the ugliness of those possibilities.

  Tanyon cleared his throat. “Eduard Best is locked up on the third floor.”

  “Yes,” Stoner said, “but the Germans don’t know that, or so we hope. They believe he’s still lecturing economics at Wadham, gathering information and rumors from the staff and students. After all, he’s still making radio contact with them on schedule.”

  “So you think German intelligence sent Faust to work with Best?” Bruckmann blew out his cheeks. “That would definitely make him a spy.”

  “Blindfold for one, on order,” Tanyon said. “Why would he wear uniform? You’d think he’d wear civilian clothing and try to blend in.”

  “I don’t know,” Stoner said. “His person and entire situation are enigmas. But this means, until we know where we stand, we must be careful with him.” He turned to Tanyon. “Sergeant, I must ask you to take him on as a personal project.”

  Tanyon froze. “Sir — ”

  Stoner waved him to silence. “I know you are overworked — we all are — but this is a job no one else here is qualified to perform.” He leaned forward and touched the red, white, and black ribbon notched about the tunic’s second button. “The Iron Cross is specifically a decoration for valor in combat at the risk of one’s own life. Faust won this honor twice.”

  He paused, letting his words sink in. Tanyon’s Regular Army shoulders sank.

  “You and I both know,” Stoner continued, “there is a tremendous difference between a rear-echelon soldier and a warrior. Our young squad is good material but at this stage of their training, Faust can easily dominate them, even with his right arm injured. You and I, sergeant, are the only soldiers in this establishment with combat experience, and I am too old and worn to handle him myself. To you must fall this particular honor.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tanyon didn’t appear flattered. “No offense, sir, and I don’t mean to grumble, but I’m also personally handling Best, and Lemelsen, and the squad hasn’t settled in proper, and the recordkeeping is falling behind — ”

  “I believe we can turn Ruhnke and possibly Lemelsen over to Corporal Pym. He’s learned a lot, hasn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, sir, but as for experience — ” He stopped on his own this time and rubbed his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Would Faust and Best know each other?” Jennifer asked.

  “Oh, yes, I believe they might. Did I not mention that? Prior to his ‘escape’ from Nazi Germany, Best taught at the Munich University, during the same years Faust earned a degree at the Munich Technical University.”

  Tanyon and Bruckmann exchanged glances, but Jennifer watched him with her glorious hazel eyes opened wide. Stoner’s heart melted again. Some perceptive man soon was going to see past her surface plainness and sweep her away, and what would he do then?

  “So. Here is the plan.” Stoner rose and crossed to the cold fireplace, hands clasped behind his back as he marshaled his thoughts. “We must assume the worst of Major Faust.”

  “Meaning espionage,” Bruckmann said.

  “Meaning mayhem, rape, and murder, if necessary. Whatever pressure can be brought to bear on him, we must bring it, true or otherwise.” Stoner turned to Tanyon. “He’s to remain within his quarters, allowed no exercise, no conversations with anyone except myself or Lieutenant Bruckmann, and no diversions or entertainment of any sort.”

  “What about Dr. Harris?” Tanyon asked.

  “Well, we mustn’t interfere with the good doctor’s treatment of his patient. Medical visits to the infirmary are allowed. I believe Dr. Harris also intends to send Faust to the Patchbourne hospital for X-rays, and I’m afraid, sergeant, you must see to that personally, as well.”

  “Do me best, sir.”

  “Of course you will. We must also look to our defenses.”

  Tanyon grunted assent. “That Faust is trouble in trousers.”

  “As you say.” Stoner returned to the sitting area and pulled the notebook from his briefcase, untangling it from his academicals. He’d written out everything Wurlitzer had told him, using the spiky jagged scrawl which allowed his hand to move almost as swiftly as his mind. No one but Jennifer would be able to read it. “Should an officer be so unfortunate as to be captured in wartime, it is his duty to attempt escape. Never mind the chances of actual success are virtually nil, nor that he must risk his life in the process. It’s his sworn duty.”

  “Nice to be warned in advance, I suppose,” Jennifer said.

  “Precisely. We know he’s going to try something. Considering our doubts as to his mission and intentions, we cannot permit it.”

  “This won’t be easy, sir,” Bruckmann said.

  “It certainly won’t.” He handed the pad to Jennifer. When she took it, he laid a hand on her arm to keep her in the discussion. “And once the interrogation process is well forward, he’s going to be under tremendous pressure. I do not authorize brutality, sergeant; however, you may find threats are necessary to control him.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  He turned to Jennifer and squeezed her arm. “My dear, I must ask you to speak with the ladies in our little garrison. I don’t want Faust to obtain a hostage and therefore all of you are to keep clear of him.”

  “Well.” She looked away and smoothed her dress on the sofa. “Of course not.” She glanced back up, startled. “Oh, blimey, Harriet — ”

  “ — when she returns, must be kept as far from him as possible. I have no doubt he can be a charming devil, with those soft dark eyes and Continental manners, should the mood strike him or the situation warrant.” He turned to Bruckmann, whose notepad and pencil were ready. “For you, Jack, I have three rather special assignments. Firstly, try to learn something regarding the wreckage of the German plane which came down near Patchbourne Saturday night.”

  “Anything specific, sir?”

  “We’re trying to ascertain if the crashed aircraft is the one which transported Faust. If it’s a bomber, then it’s possible he is after all telling the truth when he claims he was shot down. But if it’s a fighter, with only room for one man aboard, then Faust must have been a passenger on another plane, one from which he perhaps jumped willingly.”

  “Which would give his joyride story the lie.” Bruckmann scribbled without pausing, even as he spoke. “Got it.”

  “The salvage people should also be able to ascertain, from the plane’s wreckage, to what squadron it belonged and at which airfield it was based, which may help us understand so
mething of Faust’s movements prior to the initiation of his adventure. We do know Army Group A is headquartered in Paris, so that is his presumed starting point.”

  “Got it.”

  “The second job is a tad more complicated.” Stoner waited until Bruckmann glanced up from his notes. “According to Wurlitzer, Faust had two close friends during his time at University College, Peter Munting and George Barrington, the Viscount Godwin. I want you to track them down.”

  Bruckmann resumed his shorthand. “What am I looking for?”

  “Here we’re fishing, which is why it’s complicated and I’m putting the assignment into your imaginative hands. Sound them out and learn what you can.”

  “Got it, sir. Third job?”

  Stoner glanced down at his hands. They seemed steady enough, although he sensed this was the most valuable and exciting information Wurlitzer had given him. “Two more names for you to track down are Robert Trenton Clarke and Grandon Brownell. I can give you a lead on them. They are officers of the Royal Warwickshires who served with the B.E.F. in France and escaped during the debacle at Dunkirk.”

  “Got it.” Bruckmann flipped the page over. “What have they to do with Faust?”

  Stoner ignored the question. Bruckmann, he knew, would be neither presumptuous nor indiscreet enough to ask again. “I’m certain they filed reports with their regimental intelligence officers. I want copies of those reports.”

  Bruckmann’s glance was confused. “I understand.”

  “And of course,” Stoner said, allowing a touch of irony to creep into his voice, “I need it all tomorrow.”

  The lead of the flying pencil snapped. “Sir — ”

  “Prioritize, Jack, giving preference to the third and first assignments. And after Jennifer finishes typing my notes and report, if she has time, perhaps she can assist you.”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course I shall.”

  “I’ll have an addendum to attach to the end of the report, my dear, to outline our strategy. We should receive multiple dispatches tomorrow, and we’ll send this to Brigadier Marone by return trip.”

  She glanced through his pages of spidery scrawl. “It’s getting rather busy around here, Dad.”

  “If we hadn’t lost half our qualified intelligence officers in France — ” He sighed. “I believe it will be worse before it’s better.”

  Chapter Seven

  early evening

  Margeaux Hall

  Typing Stoner’s report, including the hastily scrawled addendum, took Jennifer three quarters of an hour. Stoner insisted only typed reports be sent to London; with the scratchy handwriting he employed for staff communications, the why was only too obvious. She’d taken to typing most of his reports herself, because anyone else would have to interrupt him every few moments with another question, while she’d only had to do so twice. For a two-page report, well, it wasn’t so bad. He never complained when she barged in, always smiling at her with his winsome little-boy eyes, but he was hugely busy, planning the details of his attack upon that man Faust. Best let him alone to get on with it.

  She separated the carbons, collated the original and four copies, stapled each, two-hole punched two copies, three-hole punched the others, then ran all five through the date-time stamp on the corner of Steven Wainwright’s desk. He didn’t look up from his scrutiny of the invoices on his blotter, although Maggie Wainwright, typing quartermaster’s orders at the next desk, paused her steady rhythm until Jennifer finished. As if she’d be interested in a married man, or an unmarried one, until her work was caught up.

  The three-holed copies were for Stoner’s personal use and files, for writing his memoirs at some future date, and those copies she’d put away later. For now she tucked them beneath the blotter on her desk.

  The two-holed copies were for the official archives of the goings-on within Margeaux Hall, for the analytical tome to be written by some googly four-eyed historian at some other future date, and those copies she placed in the in-box on Jack Bruckmann’s desk for him to deal with.

  He glanced up at her, momentarily distracted, twirling the telephone cord about his fingers. But within seconds his eyes glazed as his focus returned to that nether world of inner thought which seemed to exist only for the duration of calls to government departments. He moved aside so she could nip open the drawer beneath his elbow and snag the dispatch key, and never missed a word of his conversation. “Look, Miss Diddington — very well, Dagmar — all right, but you do have a lovely voice — ”

  No secretary in any official department in this woman’s Army was going to fall for such a line, meaning it wouldn’t be long before he brought up the big bad wolf of Brigadier Marone of MI5, trying vinegar instead of honey. It was the story of their working lives. No one had ever heard of Cedric Stoner, or Margeaux Hall, and he was only a major, and a reactivated one at that, and there were so many little intelligence bureaus out there and everyone had to check with security before they could release anything. They just had to do the best they could with minimal patronage.

  The original report she took to the sunset-drenched vestibule where Norris still sat, now reading a comic book since the soldiers knew the officers were busy. The active dispatch case was kept in the top drawer of the filing cabinet behind the duty desk, and she had to stand mere inches from him as she unlocked the case and slid the report inside. But although she monitored her sensations intimately, she felt nothing unusual despite his proximity, and couldn’t stifle a sigh.

  When told a squad of eligible young soldiers near their age would be attached to Margeaux Hall, she’d been as excited as Harriet — well, perhaps not as giddy, but certainly as intrigued. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t felt such stirrings before; she had, she liked them, and wouldn’t mind experiencing them again. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to handle men who wanted to force her to feel them against her will; just ask that Faust fellow. But so far, none of the squad had aroused any such sensations within her, certainly not Norris with his comic books, darting eyes, and sharp angles. He was only a few months her junior, but she couldn’t help considering him a boy, not a man.

  She relocked the dispatch case, slid the filing cabinet drawer to, and turned in time to see Norris’ eyes dart aside. She froze, but he didn’t look again, instead too-casually turning a page and leaning over it.

  At least when Faust stared at her, it was frank, candid, and, well, professional. But this was low and made her skin crawl. She huffed, spun, and returned to the grand ballroom just as Bruckmann hung up the phone.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  He leaned back in his chair, tilting it, and stretched. “I had to promise to take her for a drink next time I’m in Brighton. But yes, she said she’d send those reports.”

  “Brighton.” Jennifer perched on the corner of his desk. “Must be nice. How often do you get down there?”

  “Never, heavens. She has a voice like a dragon and probably the face to match.”

  She laughed, and his lips curved in a shy smile. If any of these men was going to move her, it was likely to be Jack Bruckmann. With his education, his background was closest to hers, and while not handsome — not in her opinion, at least — he didn’t make her want to run for the shower. But still…nothing.

  Perhaps she was just working too hard.

  “You know, I was planning on attending Sunday services tonight,” he said.

  She nodded. “Me, too. It’s not going to happen, though, is it?”

  Bruckmann thumped the chair back down, and again Jennifer congratulated herself for placing scatter rugs beneath the desks and chairs. Otherwise the ballroom’s wonderful hardwood floor would have been hopelessly scarred months ago.

  “Look, if you’ll type up the notes on the downed plane, I’ll get started tracking down these two chaps.” Bruckmann grabbed his notepad and read aloud. “Peter Munting and George Barrington, the Viscount Godwin.”

  “Can you imagine hobnobbing with a viscount?”


  He shrugged. “Godwin’s one of the old marcher lords.” He ripped some pages from the pad. “It’s not like John of Gaunt or the Duke of Gloucester, or anyone truly powerful.”

  “Oh, you mean a Welshman? One of those lovely lads with liquid eyes and a singing voice like a meadowlark?” She shrugged in her turn as his pale blue eyes widened with glee. Whether she was attracted to Bruckmann or not, it couldn’t hurt to keep him wondering. “Can’t be bothered. Goodness, how much can one say about a crash? You’ve got five pages here.”

  “Believe me, I had no idea myself.”

  The two downed German planes, she learned as she typed, had been identified by the wreckage as Heinkel 111 P-4 twin-engine bombers. The markings (5J + LN) on what little remained of one plane’s fuselage identified it as attached to the fifth Staffel or wing of squadron KGr 4, “General Wever,” based in Le Havre and currently employed in medium-altitude bombing of RAF airfields in central England. The two planes had apparently collided in midair over Patchbourne, prior to reaching their intended target, and their bomb payloads had exploded, scattering debris from the runway to the hospital. The charred remains of nine crew members —

  They were at war. She forced her fingers to keep typing.

  — nine crew members were recovered from the debris, beyond possible identification. A tenth had been thrown clear prior to the explosion but without benefit of a parachute, and his remains were recovered near the hospital. His documents had identified him as Hauptmann Erhard Bohnes.

  Heinkels normally carried a crew of five, Bruckmann’s notes continued. However, it was possible one of the planes had carried a sixth man, as implied by the parachute sighted, either as supernumerary or as additional crew, as some Heinkels currently in medium-altitude bombing roles were beginning to carry additional machine guns and gunners for protection against RAF fighters.