Patricia Potter (7 page)

Michael went directly upstairs. His room, which earlier had been so welcoming, seemed coldly empty. He opened the windows, feeling the clean ocean breeze, but he had never before felt quite as unclean. He tried to justify what he was doing as nothing more than an act of war, but it didn’t work, not any more. In a matter of hours, everything had changed. He could not consider Meara, nor even Cal Connor, his enemy. He’d always hated duplicity and lies, and now he was wallowing in both, and tomorrow Hans Weimer would arrive.

He knew he could show no weakness to Weimer, nor the slightest interest in Meara, for the man would hesitate at nothing to accomplish their mission.

Michael poured himself a tumbler of the Scotch he had ordered earlier. From now on, he would keep his mind on his task, nothing more. Two weeks, and it would be over. Two weeks and he could return to sea duty. Two weeks, and he would change a number of lives.

He finished the whiskey. He placed the glass on the table, intending to pour himself another, but his abrupt, angry movement caused the glass to tip and fall, the glass shattering as it hit the floor. He swore softly to himself, then looked back out the window before pulling the curtain against the night and the moonlight and the thought of flickering flames down on the beach. He wondered whether Meara had a young man. And knew he was an even bigger fool for thinking about it.

Meara had watched him go with no little confusion. The warmth in his voice, in his presence, had left so abruptly it gave her a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.

She didn’t understand anything about her reaction to him. She had never been so forward before, never so vulnerable to a man. But when she had taken the children back today, she was filled with an expectation and excitement that made rational thought impossible.

Perhaps it was only wartime, she told herself. She had seen the new, desperate urgency in the increasing number of quick marriages as men rushed off to enlist. Both weddings and love affairs had become more frequent as casualty lists mounted. There may not be a future, a tomorrow, so take what you can today, now. That was today’s reality, today’s new motto. Could her reaction be rooted in that fierce desire not to be cheated, not to miss anything?

Two weeks, and Michael Fielding would be gone, possibly forever, and it was excruciatingly important that she explore the feelings he excited in her, for they had never happened before. What if they never happened again?

Meara watched the flames shoot up in front of her, and her gaze measured those around the fire. This was the first night back on the island for many of them, a time to renew acquaintances and friendships. And they
were
friends. Among the young on the island, there were few class distinctions. The daughter of an Irish immigrant and maid, Meara had played tennis and picnicked with the sons and daughters of the wealthiest men in America. She had lunched with them and sneaked out late at night to hunt turtles. She had laughed and danced with them, but none had attracted her like the Canadian had. None had the exciting, dangerous reserve, none the fierce restlessness in eyes the color of the deep sea.

Brad, an assistant to one of the members who usually spent the season here, grinned happily at her. He’d been the one who called out to her. “I’ve missed you this season.”

Meara smiled back. He often worked extremely long hours, yet he was always unflappable and pleasant. He had pursued her for two years, yet never obnoxiously so.

“I’ve missed the island,” she said mischievously as his face fell slightly. “And you,” she added.

“Tennis, tomorrow afternoon?”

“Mr. Connor is having a barbecue,” she said, “and I have to look after the children.”

“A walk then, tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know, Brad,” she said, wanting to avoid any commitment that might prevent her from seeing the Canadian again.

“I’ll ask tomorrow, then,” he said lightly, as the group burst into song. As they were about to break up, one of the young men, home from college, announced he was enlisting in the air force the next week, and that started discussion of the war. Three of their usual number had already enlisted in other services and would not be here.

“Dad says an FBI man is coming here,” chimed in a younger boy, envious of the adventures ahead for his older companions.

Brad frowned. “Why?”

The boy shrugged. “Dad says there’ve been a number of U-boat sightings around here. He says the Nazis have spies every place.”

“But here?” asked the future air force recruit dubiously. The island had always been a world unto its own. Peaceful. Safe. Secure.

“I think everyone’s seeing spies in their bed,” said another carelessly. “They’ve already rounded up every Japanese they could find.”

There was a silence as the group watched the remnants of the fire die. The talk of war had destroyed the peace of the evening, the dreamlike atmosphere of the island. In twos and threes they drifted down the road to the cottages or the clubhouse. Meara and Brad were the last.

“Can I walk you back?”

She shook her head. “I just want to stay out here a few more minutes.”

“Alone?”

She nodded, and he smiled in the moonlight. “I like it too, sometimes,” he acknowledged with quick understanding. “It’s really peaceful at night. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His hands buried in pockets, he trudged back through the sand, and she thought again how nice he was, and yet she felt nothing but a mild affection. No fierce beating of the heart, no quivering of her legs, no bubbling excitement at his nearness. She had, until today, always believed those feelings only myth, alive in books alone.

Meara sat down in the sand and hugged her arms around her legs, gathering them against her body as she looked out over the moon-swept sea. It was so incredibly lovely and peaceful when thousands of miles away men were dying. Or maybe even a few miles away; she was only too aware of the wolf-pack U-boat attacks on American shipping along the whole eastern coast.

She wondered how it would feel to be fired on, to kill or be killed, how it would feel to have hot metal rip through her body. The long recovery must have been just as painful as the actual injury for Michael Fielding, whose leanly muscular body spoke of an active life, and whose restless impatience with his own current limitations was evident.

Meara touched the hand that so briefly had been held in his, and she imagined she could still feel its warmth. The warmth of a stranger. She smiled into the darkness. If a mere touch of his hand did this to her, what would be the impact of his lips? Heat curled around inside as she thought of it, and she wondered at these new sensations. A virgin, she had never gone beyond exploratory kisses, which always failed to live up to expectations. Somehow she knew his would.

Meara noticed a couple down the beach, their silhouettes coming together in the moonlight as one head lowered to meet the other. And she envied them. Envied them with all her heart.

Hans Weimer kept his face empty of expression as he sat on the boat carrying him to the island from the port city of Brunswick. He would return again tonight. Most of the day workers on the island lived in Brunswick, and he had engaged a small room in a boardinghouse.

He ignored the others on board. His pale blue eyes wandered listlessly with a certain blankness. Supposedly he was suffering from a form of battle fatigue acquired in the Pacific. It was a good cover, since he had merely to look blank at any difficult questions.

He had easily obtained a job as a gardener for the Jekyll Island Club because of the severe shortage of manpower. He had shown his medical discharge papers, a letter from his doctor, and references reputably from a prior position as gardener before the war. Nothing further had been required.

Fools, he thought. Gullible fools. There was a certain innocence about Americans that both repelled and fascinated him.

His hand moved convulsively over his lap as he had been instructed by a doctor in Berlin. The movement was a nervous reaction, he had been told, that would strengthen his role. He doubted whether it was necessary, but neither he nor his instructors believed in leaving anything to chance.

Von Steimen should already be in place. Von Steimen, Hans thought contemptuously. He didn’t trust his partner for many reasons, and neither, he suspected, did his own superiors. Hans had sensed almost immediately he had been sent as much to watch von Steimen as to assist him. But von Steimen, it had been explained, was essential to the plan. Although Hans spoke English fluently and even with a midwest accent, he did not have von Steimen’s aristocratic bearing, the ability to fit in easily among the powerful and wealthy, nor did he have—what was it Canaris had said—charm. But Hans hadn’t minded overly much; he knew he had something much better. Power.

Hans bitterly resented what he considered von Steimen’s privileged past, a background that had no place in today’s Germany, and he had hated von Steimen for being part of it. The aristocracy had brought Germany to its knees twenty years earlier; its cowardice had produced defeat. Such a humiliation would never happen again. Hans, and people like him, had the power now. And they wouldn’t relinquish a bit of that control to thin-blooded weaklings.

Hans knew the von Steimen name well enough. A wealthy Berlin family. Even though von Steimen’s father had been a Nazi and a “hero” of the Third Reich, Hans still harbored deep dislike and suspicion for anyone of that class.

Just as vitriolically, he distrusted Eric von Steimen as he distrusted many of the military establishment. They had no loyalty to the führer, to the man who had brought glory back to Germany. The dossier on von Steimen was revealing in many ways. The naval officer had never joined the Nazi party and was known to make less than favorable remarks about the führer. Hans had been opposed to his selection for this mission, but he had been overruled by Canaris, who had known von Steimen’s father and believed in the son’s loyalty. They had gone over the files of thousands of men, Canaris had said, and none fit the peculiar requirements as well as von Steimen.

But to Hans, a member of the SS who had been borrowed for this mission because of his American background, von Steimen was one of the supercilious, disloyal military officers whom he detested. When they had been brought together in Canaris’s office, Hans had seen the brief, contemptuous look von Steimen had given his black SS uniform. In succeeding meetings, von Steimen had been both arrogant and condescending. Condescending!

A long time had passed since anyone had been condescending to him, not since he’d joined the SS and started his rise in the elite organization. His black uniform usually produced fear, not contempt, and his pale, icy eyes did nothing to alleviate that fear. But they’d had no impact on von Steimen, who sometimes looked at him with amusement, as if he were a small boy strutting in his father’s clothes. The barely hidden derision had brought back memories of his childhood, when he had been sent to an aunt and uncle in America, relatives who hadn’t wanted him and who had made his life a misery. He had returned to Germany at eighteen and joined the Brown Shirts because it was an outlet for his rage and ambition. When war broke out, Hans had joined the SS, reveling in the power he accumulated. He had a basic raw intelligence and ruthlessness that attracted attention, and he was made an officer, a position which brought him more accolades, particularly in ferreting out and punishing traitors and secret Jews. But when America joined the war, he was sent to Berlin because of his background; he spoke English like an American, a very valuable commodity in certain secret activities.

He had savored the opportunity, both because he hated Americans and because success would mean further advancement and, hopefully, the notice of the führer. He had proudly told his son, a member of Hitler Youth, that he had been hand-picked for one of the most important missions of the war, and he had taken deep satisfaction in his son’s pride.

Only the selection of von Steimen as his partner had colored his enthusiasm. It would be good to teach the Americans a lesson. He looked forward to seeing the fear on their faces, the same kind of terror he had aroused in others who dared to challenge the Third Reich.

The sound of American voices on the boat brought back the taunts he had suffered as a boy. His father had died in the First World War, and his mother had starved to death. A neighbor had written his mother’s sister in America, and he had been grudgingly taken in.

But while his aunt was German, his uncle was American and had fought in the war. Hatred for Germany ran high in America; many veterans were still suffering from the effects of poison gas, and in the intolerant, working-class neighborhood of Chicago, Hans had been called every name possible, the most mild being kraut, and he was beaten frequently by other children as well as by his uncle. He wore second-hand clothes and worked long hours in his uncle’s small store. When he was seventeen, he started stealing money from his uncle, who had never paid him the first nickel in wages, and at eighteen, he had accumulated enough to return to Germany. He left one night, robbing the cash register of everything and taking whatever else he could convert into cash. Germany was his country, not America, and now he would enjoy being part of America’s defeat. A very important part.

Hans would enjoy killing von Steimen if his…accomplice made one wrong move. Hans should have been given leadership of this mission, not von Steimen, who was technically in charge because of his military rank. But Hans took secret pleasure in knowing something the naval officer didn’t know, hadn’t been told. Canaris had warned Hans not to give the final orders to von Steimen until the night of the planned raid.