Stealing Trinity (10 page)

"So," Sargent asked, "kill any Germans?"

"Father!"

As the guest, Alex was offered the first Scotch. He took it and ran a sample over his palate. "Three," he said indifferently.

Even Sargent fell quiet.

Lydia, not wanting to think about such things, changed the subject. "Father, let's put Alex up in the East Room." It was the biggest guest room, with stunning views of the ocean.

"All right," her father agreed. "Evans, something special for dinner tonight. A warrior's feast!"

Evans acknowledged the order.

"I've already played today, but it was an easy two sets of mixed doubles. What do say, Alex -- two o'clock?" "I don't think I brought the proper clothes, sir." Sargent waved it off. "No excuses, now. We'll dig something up for you."

"All right," Alex said. "Done."

Chapter 12.

Braun stood trancelike, staring out the third-floor window of the East Room. Outside, four men, two very young and two very old, groomed the shrubbery with hand shears. The landscaping was impeccable, a well-designed layout of gardens and walking paths, with lovely arcing lines and nice proportions. The entire arrangement flowed pleasingly away, ending abruptly two hundred yards off, where a rocky cliff gave way to the roiling Atlantic. It was a study in contrast, a masterpiece of the controlled against the uncontrolled.

In Brauns hand was yet another tumbler of Scotch, this one on the rocks. He rolled it slowly, ice tinkling gently against the glass. The thoughts in his head tumbled far more energetically. Lydia married. It had never crossed his mind. She was so malleable and timid -- her father must have arranged it. If Sargent had wanted her married, he would have found an Edward, a pathetic little man who would be as easy to control as she.

But now what? Braun wondered. With Lydia unavailable, what options did he have? A week or two here would be pleasant, but each day would bring more raised eyebrows -- the long-lost suitor returning to find the object of his affections taken. And the longer he stayed, the more agony Braun would find in leaving. The exquisite meals, the games, the servants. The leisure of it all.

He'd been so close. It was like taking a sumptuous appetizer, only to find that you would never be served the remaining courses.

Perhaps there was a God after all, he thought, some supreme being who kept him alive for mere sport, to see what tortures one man could withstand before breaking. When Braun had gone to Europe, his father had made him join the German Army. And not just any unit, but Paulus's 6th, doomed to extinction at Ivan's hands. Starvation, escape. Back to the fight in Berlin, then again, salvation. And finally a deliverance to America, the home to which he'd never imagined returning. Braun had endured the Russians and the Nazis. But now the royalty of Newport were inflicting the most wicked wound of all.

He whipped around and threw his glass crashing into the fireplace, crystal shards scattering back onto a rich marble floor. What now? His pockets were nearly empty. His old connections from school were of no use. The war had affected everyone. Marriages and love, death and loss. No one could pick up where they'd left off in the halcyon days of the Ivy League in 1940. Everyone had different tangents now, different lives. And what did he have? Memories of a hell no one here could imagine. And a few useless scraps of information. Die Wespe. Santa Fe. A place called Los Cuates in a few week's time. A vital mission for a cause that was now lost.

A knock on the door interrupted.

"Come in."

A young maid, prim and slender, stepped into the room.

"Dinner in ten minutes, sir."

Dinner, Braun mused. Conventional measurements of time meant nothing here. Instead, the sequences of the day revolved around games and meals. Newport War Time.

"Thank you," he replied.

The maid said, "Is there anything I can -- oh, dear! You've had an accident!" She scurried to the fireplace.

Braun turned away, his gaze fixed again on the ocean. "Yes. Silly of me."

"Not at all, sir."

He heard her dropping pieces of broken glass into her hand.

"Shall I send for another drink?" she offered.

Braun closed his eyes and rubbed his temples using a thumb and trigger finger. Gradually, the ill thoughts dispersed. Calm reemerged, and he cocked his head around to see the slim girl bent at the fireplace.

"Yes. Yes, another Scotch would be most enticing."

Clad only in a form-fitting slip, Lydia studied herself at the full-length dressing mirror in her room. Her hips were bigger than five years ago, rounder. Some men liked that, she reasoned. Her breasts were bigger too, but gravity was taking its toll. She sucked in her gut, stood on her tiptoes, and turned to the profile. Not bad. More mature. But what would happen if she ever had children? She lumbered to her dressing table and sank into the chair, twisting a strand of dark hair around a finger. How had she worn it back in college? Good God -- two months ago she'd found her first gray. At twenty-five!

Lydia closed her eyes and sighed. Such thoughts. Stupid, stupid girl What did it matter? Edward was the man in her life. Her husband. Alex would stay and chat for a few days, just to be decent, then he'd be gone.

She pulled a brush through her hair as memories swept in. Alex had been so different from the other boys she'd met -- a young man at odds with himself. Calm yet exciting, cultured but primitive. And he had come back to her. He had finally come. She tugged harder with her brush, raking until it hurt. Now he'd go back to Wisconsin or Minnesota, or wherever it was he was from, find some slim Scandinavian beauty and together they'd raise a perfect little flock of blond children. Lydia would never see him again.

She dropped the brush to the floor and broke down in despair. Her chest heaved and her face crumbled as tears began streaming out. Why? she thought. Why hadrit Alex written? If only she'd known he was alive --

"Hello, darling. I'm home!"

It was Edward, calling from the adjoining room. Lydia sat up straight and tried to collect herself. She took a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, blinking to work away the creases of misery. She sensed him closing in from behind.

"See, I told you I'd be home for dinner." He bent down and pecked her head, simultaneously reaching around to present a mixed bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, darling, how kind!" She reached out and buried her face in the arrangement, using it to hide the dampness around her eyes. "What a lovely scent." Edward squeezed her shoulders.

"Glad you like them. Let's get ready for dinner. We mustn't miss cocktails."

"Of course not. I'll find a nice vase for these."

Edward disappeared.

The last time he'd brought flowers had been on Valentines Day, the obligatory dozen red roses. The same ones she'd be getting for the next fifty years. Lydia set the flowers on her table. She felt heavy, ponderous as she rose and walked to her closet. At the rack of formals she slid out Edward's favorite, a blue evening gown. He had picked it out himself as a Christmas present. It was incredibly expensive and fit like a satin potato sack. Behind it on the rack was a spicy red number she'd bought on a whim, but never worn. Frightfully deep at the front, she'd never been able to screw up the courage after bringing it home.

Lydia held the two side by side and bit her bottom lip.

The main course was an exquisitely tender roast pheasant selection. By the time it made its way to the table, Sargent Cole had already commandeered the topics of conversation through one war, two presidents, and four post-conflict industrial opportunities.

Sitting quietly, and certainly enjoying the meal more than anyone at the table, Braun remembered the act from his previous visit. Sargent lorded over these gatherings like a king holding court. As a host, he was the social equivalent of a blunderbuss -- blunt, archaic, and never distracted by matters of accuracy. He eventually got around to pressing his guest of honor.

"Tell us about the three Germans you killed, Alex. Was it in one battle?"

Braun tipped a tolerable glass of Cabernet to his lips. The number, in fact, was accurate. Thankfully no one had asked him how many Russians he'd killed -- Braun had no idea. Of course, he could never divulge the true circumstances. Nearing starvation in Stalingrad, he'd quietly killed a fellow German officer in order to steal a stashed loaf of bread. Another, a civilian in East Prussia, had fought for his bicycle against the much younger and stronger soldier who'd been caught alone in a frantic regimental pullback. And then there was the incident involving the first sniper's spotter he'd been assigned in Berlin, a pudgy teenager who'd proven hopelessly inept. He would have gotten them both killed in time, and Braun had simply taken the matter under his own sight, saving the Russians a bullet. Three Germans, three good reasons.

"It was nothing heroic, if that's what you mean. I was just doing my job." He'd heard the soldiers on the train say it time and again. Just doing my job. It was all he had to say.

"Oh, Father! Please!" Lydia intervened. "It must have been horrid. Let Alex find his peace."

Even Sargent Cole had his limits, and he went back to tearing limbs from his pheasant. Braun knew the family patriarch had avoided the First World War, no doubt by way of family ties. He saw no need to antagonize the man by mentioning it. Alex locked eyes with Lydia, who was directly across the table, and smiled appreciatively.

Edward piped in, "So tell me Alex, when the war is over will you go back to Harvard and finish up?"

"I haven't given it much thought, really. Of course, I was studying the architecture of Europe -- so much has been lost."

"Well," Edward reasoned, "someone will have to build it all again."

Braun cocked his head. "Yes ... but that's rather not the point. When a building falls, the history it represents is lost as well."

"History?" Sargent barked. "Who needs it? I say look forward. This is a tremendous opportunity to build a continent for tomorrow." Sargent held up his wine glass. "Here's to tomorrow!"

The crowd echoed the words with feigned enthusiasm. Braun doubted any of them cared a whit about Europe or her future, aside from the odd chance that they might vacation there after things had been swept up. He found the conversation tiresome. It was time to redirect. He turned to Sargent. "A rematch tomorrow, sir?" he suggested airily. The afternoon's match had been close, Sargent dominating the first set while Braun shook off the rust. The second had been Braun's in a tight affair, and by the third he'd found his form, a resounding 6-1 win to decide things.

Sargent jumped at the challenge. "Yes, by all means. Let's say ten o'clock. I'll be fresh in the morning."

"Ten it is."

With the next day's recreation firmed up, dinner drifted to its natural conclusion. Edward was the first to leave, ambling off to the library to catch up on work. Lydia excused herself, and Braun watched as she stood. He allowed his gaze to settle obviously on the deep cleavage that fell between the folds of her crimson dress. He then looked up at her eyes, which told him everything he needed to know.

The knock came just after midnight, a quiet rap against the hardwood door of his room. Braun had known it would come. He opened the door to find her in a sheer nightdress, her shape silhouetted against the dim light beyond. He took her by the hand and pulled her inside. Neither spoke. Lydia pulled the nightdress over her head and walked to the window, her figure clear now as moonlight filtered in. Braun went to her and she fell back onto the window seat, pulling him down.

A cool breeze swept in, but did nothing to cleanse the aerosol of confusion in Braun's mind. His senses were overwhelmed and he closed his eyes, perhaps hoping one less input would help him find control. It did nothing. His head ached from too much Cabernet. Lydia writhed beneath him. Pulling, tugging, moaning. His body responded. Pleasure teasing an insurmountable pain. There were bright flashes, explosions that echoed in his head like thunder. It was not a dream, nor a nightmare. Only the vicious circumstance of his existence.

He felt her rhythm. He felt the heavy, ice-cold marble under his feet. Braun heard her panting against the sound of waves breaking outside. Finally, he opened his eyes and found them drawn not to her, but up toward the open window. The moonlight seemed exceptionally bright, as if Sargent Cole had been able to purchase something more. The grounds were immaculate, torches lining the paths for no particular occasion. A servant had placed chairs around a table on the lawn, carefully setting the stage for yet another day's calculated idleness. Everything would again be perfect.

His thoughts turned frantic, parallel but somehow separate from the bucking underneath. When relief came it was overwhelming, and with little regard for the woman below him. He was sure it could have been any woman.

In the period of reconstitution that followed, everything fell to silence and stillness. Eventually Lydia spoke, a sweaty murmur buried deep in his chest. Braun did not hear the words. He could do nothing but stare out the window and wonder.

Chapter 13.

While attendance at dinners was mandatory, breakfast at Harrold House was a more leisurely affair. All were expected to make an eventual appearance, but no schedule was drawn, and the members of the household crossed paths randomly. Braun entered the dining room to find Edward at the end of his coffee and financial section, while Lydia was parked behind a huge plate of eggs and meat.

"Good morning, Alex," Edward chimed in.

"Morning, Edward, Lydia." Braun watched her smile through a mouthful of food. "You look famished," he prodded.

With Edward lost behind his newspaper, Lydia smiled brazenly and winked.

Braun went to the buffet. He found a half dozen selections in such huge quantities that he knew most would go to waste, even after the servants had had their chance. He paused at a massive stand of bacon. No one here could imagine the conflict he felt as he reflected on the last time he'd seen such a pile of pork. Desperate for any warmth on a subzero Russian night, he had slept huddled against a sow. The next morning, his fellow troops had slaughtered the animal and gorged themselves. Braun moved to the eggs.