Chapter 17
Margaret had the dark on her side, and she was familiar with the space. The low rafters, the protruding nails that dotted the underside of the roof. Let him come.
The door creaked, and a shaft of light intruded.
She felt the secret place in the chimney breast. The pistol was wrapped in oilcloth. She’d taken it out into the woods, late at night. Firing it had been a risk, but she’d needed to know it worked, for when the time came.
‘Lady Miriam?’ It was unlike him to use her title. He was usually at pains to ignore it, keep her in her place.
He stepped into the attic, a pistol in his right hand. He held it out from his body, as if it were a torch. A tactical error, if he hoped to leave the room alive.
‘Or should I say Lady Margaret?’ he said.
Margaret waited in the dark. A few steps closer and she’d be able to lunge at him. Grab the gun. It would be fifty-fifty who’d win the resulting struggle.
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt your evening communication,’ he said. He didn’t step forward. He was waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. She’d underestimated him.
‘I’m not here to fight,’ he said. He sounded amused. ‘Although I have the sense you’d make a worthy opponent.’
He stepped back, into the doorway, his silhouette blocking most of the light.
‘I’ll be waiting downstairs,’ he said. ‘We have things to talk about.’
He left, then paused.
‘My men are outside Frau Wassenberg’s room,’ he said. ‘Waiting for my order. In case you’re thinking of disappearing.’
*
He was sitting in front of the fire, a glass of wine in his hand. Another glass sat on the polished oak table, waiting for her. A plate of bread and cheese, neatly sliced. A folded napkin.
Margaret walked behind him. She could have swept a blade across his neck, or put a gun against his head. But he didn’t turn. Margaret pictured the SS guards in the house, waiting for the order. She heard Bunny’s voice.
There will come a time when you have to sacrifice innocent people, in order to complete your mission. What will you do?
There was only one acceptable response. The mission takes priority. The ends justify the means.
Margaret sat in a leather armchair, smoothed her dress over her legs. She took the glass and sipped the wine. He raised his glass and drank.
‘So,’ he said.
The pendulum in the ancient clock on the mantelpiece marked the passing minutes, a sombre knocking sound with each swing. More of a tock than a tick.
‘I don’t like you,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure you don’t like me.’
Margaret watched him. He smiled after each statement. He was pleased with himself. He’d written this speech in advance. Polished it. Practised it. Assessed each word for the desired effect.
‘You’ve lied to us. You pretended to be someone else. You made up a story when that was surely to be discovered, and you abuse our hospitality by transmitting our most secret information back to your people.’
He smiled, pleased with his delivery. Margaret was looking forward to killing him, if only to stop the damned smirk.
‘You trade on your old friendships, as if going to kindergarten with someone means they owe you their life. Your activities here will undoubtedly sentence your friend to death, sooner or later. When I put all of this together I can only conclude that you’re a person with no sense of right and wrong. The most dangerous type.’
‘I’m not sure I have all that much patience for being lectured on ethics by a member of the SS,’ Margaret said, pouring herself more wine. She tried the cheese. It was excellent.
‘I want to help you get back to your beloved England,’ he said. ‘And when you’re there, I want you to do something for me. Something easy for you. Painless. Something with no cost to your position.’
‘Or I could kill you now and get back to England by myself,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘although I’d suggest that you underestimate me because you despise me.
You trust in your own training but you don’t give mine any weight.
I have to tell you, everything your people did to you, mine did to me with more .
. . enthusiasm.’ This time the smile was more forced. There was a pain there, she saw.
‘So let’s pretend we’re both the people we once were, before we were turned into weapons,’ he said. ‘What do you say?’
Margaret was running through scenarios. Scenario one, at the top of the list, was to kill him, slip into the chateau, kill the guards threatening Frau Wassenberg, then make her escape.
Its biggest flaw was what would happen the next day.
She’d be gone, her friend would be vulnerable.
There’d be recriminations. Revenge. Punishment.
Scenario two was to let him talk. Agree to his demands.
Accept his help getting back to England.
There’d be doubts about her when she did show up back home.
The possibility of her being a double agent would be discussed. But still, she’d be home.
‘I’m listening,’ she said.