Stealing Trinity (14 page)

Chapter 18.

A waiter produced a tray of scones as the feast wound down. Mother demurred, while Alex took two. Lydia had hoped lunch would be a distraction, but so far the time with Alex had only served to muddle her nervous thoughts further. She couldn't speak without examining every word, lest anything incriminating slip out. A cinnamon scone fell to her plate.

"You act like you're eating for two, dear," her mother remarked.

She had indeed taken a full lunch, but the words sent Lydia reeling. God, I never even considered it--what if I should become pregnant by Alex?

"They're quite good," Alex remarked.

"Take another," Mother said. "You still have to deal with those dreadful Japs. I know the Army takes care of its troops and all, but you may not see a proper scone for some time."

"Indeed," Alex agreed.

"And when will you be heading out, dear? How much leave have they given you?"

Lydia thought the question seemed casual enough, nothing pointed to suggest that Alex's welcome had thinned. Still, it got her thinking. Had her parents been talking? Of course they had. She reached for her mimosa.

"I have to be out west in ten more days. Of course, I might take some time in Minnesota."

Her mother said, "And how is your father?"

"Actually he s away, in Europe," Alex said breezily. "There's a lot of reconstruction to be done -- he's a businessman at heart, you know."

Lydia watched her mother smile at this perfect logic. Mother knew little about business. It was simply what rich men did. It came to Lydia's mind that she should try to learn more about Edward's dealings. A good wife would understand such things. A good wife.

Alex said, "I'll stay just a bit longer, assuming I haven't challenged your gracious hospitality." He smiled rakishly. Lydia knew he was always at his most engaging with her mother.

Mother giggled, having had three mimosas herself. "Oh, dear boy. It's a pleasure to have someone around who can beat Sargent at his games. You do vex him." She giggled again before adding, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go powder my nose."

When Mother was gone, Lydia turned to Alex. His gregarious mood had already descended -- he was feeling the stress just as she was. Both his hands were wrapped around a water glass on the table, and he studied it intently, as if deciding something.

"So you really will go soon?" Lydia asked.

He spoke without looking up. "Yes."

The ensuing silence was harsh, and Alex finally spoke in a low voice, "Darling what we're doing -- you know it can never last."

She nodded, then more silence before he announced the news she'd been both hoping for and dreading.

"I'm going to leave tomorrow."

"Oh, Alex! Then tonight will be--"

"No! Not tonight." He looked at her and his expression softened. "There's too much at stake. I can't allow you to ruin your life for my own selfish --" he stopped and once more studied his glass. Then his tone was lighter, almost glib. "Listen. I'm going sailing this afternoon with Edward. Come with us. There's nothing untoward as long as Edward is there. That way we can at least be together."

"Sailing? Well, its not my favorite. But if it's our only chance -- then all right."

"Good."

Lydia saw that Alex was pleased. It might be her last chance ever to spend time with him. She couldn't possibly have said no.

After lunch, Braun borrowed a car, telling Lydia he had to run errands to the bank and the cleaners. On returning to Harrold House, he separated himself for a stroll to the water's edge. A winding path worked through gardens and toward the shore. At the edge of the property an offshoot continued to one side, meandering to the northern boundary where a rocky point jutted defiantly into the ocean. From there, the shoreline curled back inward and receded into a small, natural cove where Edward's boat Mystic lay protected at a dock.

Braun eased slowly down the stone steps that led to the dock. He surveyed the boat, familiar now after two outings, and studied her layout. She was solidly built and attractive, if a bit square, and her upkeep was top-notch, thanks to a gardener who doubled very competently as a dockhand. Her teak rails were glossy and the winches polished to a high shine. He studied the lines and stanchions, the pulleys and cleats. And he wondered which components would help him kill Edward Murray.

He wasn't sure when the idea had begun circulating in his mind, but with each day it gained clarity, came more to the forefront. Strangest of all, the more Braun tried to push it away, the more insistent the urge became. The mechanics varied. A vision of Edward tumbling hard down the stairs, interrupting high tea. Edward's body crushed on the rocks at ocean's edge. The risk was enormous, of course, but if done properly, neatly, the rewards could be commensurate.

Braun was sure that Lydia herself was within his grasp. But if Edward should die under suspicious circumstances, eyes would fall hard upon him. Not only those of the police, but Sargent Cole as well. The man was a consummate opportunist who would easily spot the same. Braun s very existence was less than a house of cards --it was nothing. He had no identity papers, no accounts. Only words and stories.

But those stories were presently held as fact by the Coles of Newport, and from that foundation he worked in reverse. The police would allow Sargent Cole to vouch for the soldier who was their guest. Sargent, in turn, could be convinced by Lydia. He would be blinded, not by her cunning and guile, but rather her lack of it. If she could truly be convinced that Edward had fallen victim to a terrible accident, the die would be cast. Braun would answer a few questions, then leave to finish his tour of duty. From a distance he would watch and listen. If no questions were raised, he could return at the war's conclusion. Return to console the grieving widow -- and eventually take his place at Harrold House.

It would only work if done well. There was an art to killing well. Braun had seen all varieties -- messy bayonets, random artillery, clumsy strangling. It was in sniping, however, that he found a strange, arcane beauty. He possessed a natural flair for it -- the intricacy of stalking, the quiet patience, the geometry of the shot. It all came together in one precise, deadly instant, a moment that could be countered at any time by an opposing shot. Braun put two fingers to the ragged scar on his temple. Once he'd gotten greedy, gone for the second shot, and it had nearly cost him his life. The other sniper had missed by a fraction, the bullet skimming off Braun's sight to leave its harmless mark. Was he pressing his luck now?

He studied Mystic and wondered if it could be done perfectly. Purely. His eyes narrowed as a blueprint began to form in his mind. Next to the dock was a small boathouse. Once a place to lodge the occasional guest, it had fallen in status over the years to become nothing more than a storage shed for Mystics gear. Braun went to the door. The brass handle was green, corroded from sea spray, but the door swung open smoothly.

He turned his head, recoiling momentarily at the musty odor, then scanned across a room full of lines, tackle, and canvas. He found a large, sturdy sailbag and set it aside. A mushroom anchor, sized more for a skiff than Mystic, also drew his attention. The plan began to form. Braun visualized Mystic, the layout of her cabin and deck. Details fell naturally into place. As in any blueprint, the key was simplicity. Start with a strong foundation, ensure balance, and function would follow. The principles were universal.

Into the sailbag went the anchor and an old fishing reel that, judging by the degree of corrosion, had long been separated from its pole. He also came across a blunt, sturdy knife, of the type used to pry open shellfish, and this too went into the bag. He then shouldered the lot and went out to Mystic.

Fortunately, the padlock on her companionway door was unlocked -- Wescott, the gardener-cum-dockhand, had already begun his preparations. Braun looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then went below. Thirty seconds later he emerged empty-handed and jumped back to the dock. He paused for a final look at Mystics deck before walking briskly to the house.

Thatcher had parked and slept in his car for a short stretch -- his body rhythm was not yet adjusted to the local clock -- and was bleary-eyed when he arrived in Boston in the mid-afternoon. A short walk, however, reinvigorated his senses before arriving at the Administration Office of Harvard University.

The woman behind a large wooden counter smiled. Any man in uniform, Thatcher suspected, even an unfamiliar one, would have taken the same smile.

"Good morning, I'm Major Michael Thatcher of the British Army. I'm investigating a possible Nazi spy."

The woman's smile evaporated. "You won't find any of those around here, Major."

"Hopefully not now, but I'm interested in a young man who might have attended your school before the war."

"Before the war?"

"Yes, 1940, and perhaps a few years before that. Might I trouble you to check your records?"

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in it. What's the name?"

"Alexander Braun. B-R-A-U-N."

She turned to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and mumbled aloud so that Thatcher could follow, "Let's see --we had a Bratton and a Braswell -- Braverman. But no, no Braun."

Thatcher was dumbstruck. There had to be a mistake. Corporal Klein had been certain about the name. "Are you sure?"

The clerk closed her filing cabinet. "Major, I run this department-- have for fifteen years. There was no Braun at Harvard in '39 or '40."

He grasped weakly for an explanation. "There isn't another university by the same name, is there?"

"Mister, there's only one Harvard."

Thatcher sat on a barstool an hour later turning an empty mug by its handle. He'd already drained it twice, enduring the piss-yellow liquid that passed for beer in America. Time and again he tried to make sense of it. Such a simple equation. He knew the school and the name, yet the records, which he suspected were painfully accurate, showed nothing. Had Braun lied about his name? Or his education? The Germans were sticklers for records, thank heavens, but had Alexander Braun put one over on them? And if so, why?

Frustrated, he decided to check in with the FBI. He went to a phone booth at the back of the bar and pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. Tomas Jones, it read, followed by a number. An operator picked up on the first ring, and moments later he was talking to Jones.

"Any luck on Long Island?"

"No. At least no straight evidence of someone coming ashore. The only thing out of the ordinary was a murder. Some truck driver was robbed and stuffed into his trailer-- happened the morning after you think this guy came ashore."

"It might have been him," Thatcher said.

"I would have expected something more dramatic from the last Nazi superspy. Any luck at the university?"

"No. Nothing." Thatcher wished he had a more positive reply. He rubbed the small paper with the telephone number between two fingers, eyeing it distractedly. Tomas Jones. Tomas --

"Look, Thatcher, we've hit a dead end here. This guy probably never made it to shore from the submarine."

Thatcher suddenly wasn't listening. He stared at the paper. Of course!

"I've got bigger fish to fry," Jones continued, "but if you do come across anything, call me at this number. All right, Thatcher?" The FBI man's tin voice kept coming from a handset that swung freely by its cord. " Thatcher, are you there?

Twenty feet away Thatcher threw a dollar bill onto the bar as he raced for the door.

"Brown! B-R-O-W-N."

The woman behind Harvard's administration desk had been preparing to go home. She sighed at the Englishman, her patience wearing thin. "All right."

She went back to the same filing cabinet and in a matter of seconds pulled out a manila file. "Alexander Brown?"

"Yes! That's it!"

She gave it to Thatcher who began rifling through loose pages -- transcripts, application for admission, personal data sheet. There were also tuition payment records.

"Is there not a photograph?"

"Photograph? No." She looked over the transcript. "The seniors have one taken for the yearbook, but this boy never made it past his junior year. Good grades, though. Do you really think he's a Nazi?"

Thatcher ignored the question. "Can I have this?"

"The records? Not a chance, mister. I'd lose my job." She looked around the room. "Of course, most everybody has gone home for the day. If you really think he's a Nazi -- I could stick around and let you copy some of it."

Thatcher smiled.

Chapter 19.

An hour into the trip Lydia wished she hadn't come. She was laid out miserably on a couch in the main cabin, an arm draped across her sweaty forehead and a bucket waiting on the floor. The bucket was empty, so far, but with Mystic rolling heavily it was only a matter of time. The skies outside were dark and wind whistled through the rigging. She wondered what had possessed her to come. One last afternoon together with Alex? And this is what he'd remember. Still, he'd been very understanding -- checking up on her, the occasional comforting touch. Edward, on the other hand, was lost on deck tending to the boat. Her husband was not a mean-spirited man, but there would be no compassion for her suffering, nor any thought of cutting the trip short -- he had told her not to come.

A fresh wave of nausea swirled through her innards and Lydia moaned. She heard the two men talking above, their voices loud enough to overcome the thumping of waves into Mystics hull, and the rattle of sea spray raining across her deck. With another muffled thud, Mystic gyrated yet again. Lydia rolled to the bucket just in time, her stomach heaving lunch into the pail. She remained curled in a fetal position, retching violently, again and again until there was nothing left.

Spent, she rolled into a ball, shaking, the putrid taste in her mouth, the sour smell in the air. How embarrassing. How utterly embarrassing. If only she had the strength to get up and empty the bucket. But she just couldn't do it. Yes, she thought, this is how Alex will remember me.