Nest of the Monarch Page 14

  But Kim must have a moment with Sonja. Captain Nagel was a Nachkomme, as proven by his vulture insignia and patent madness. Sonja was married to a monster, a man who had become a monster, perhaps slowly, but unmistakably. Kim thought it likely that Sonja was unhappy. A spill about the Nachkommenschaft might be ripe for the taking, as it would be a secret the woman would surely be determined to keep.

  Just over there, Alex. Mixing, like the raconteur he was, with the German state secretary von Bülow, the French ambassador Francois-Poncet, and a woman who must be an actress by her flamboyant gown with a feathery fringe edging the neckline and the revealing back that plunged to her waist.

  Rachel chatted on, but Kim heard little more. Berlin had become vastly more complicated than she had expected. She had stumbled with her enthusiasm for extracting Hannah; too soon, too soon. If she had only waited, when she had more compelling clues regarding Monarch. Now her information might be received as crying wolf.

  Last night, in high annoyance, she had revised her report on the sanatorium. She had to placate the head office as well as the Berlin station, but it was a challenge to convey all the crucial information without mentioning in detail the gruesome behavior of the escaped patient. She had convinced herself that revising the report wasn’t cowardice, just a bit of judicious subterfuge. The important thing was to get the catalyst discovery out in the open. The Office couldn’t ignore that piece, even the rumor of which should set off alarms from London to Prague.

  While the head office chewed on the cleaned-up report, Kim would push just a little further. Lunch with Sonja; harmless and perhaps crucial. Her chief hope was for Hannah’s escape from Germany. Before she was recruited away by other governments.

  Through an opening in the crowd, she saw Sonja on her husband’s arm.

  Rachel saw her too. “Tell you what. I’ll drag Rikard off to meet Madame Regendanz, the one in the backless dress. He won’t like it, but he’ll go along. For about three minutes.”

  She pulled Kim through the crowd, photographers circulating, taking pictures and causing people to form threes and fours and raise champagne flutes as the flashes went off. In these situations, when stuck in any group, Kim always made sure to be moving at the moment the pictures were taken, a little waggle she executed with precision.

  As soon as her friend claimed Rikard, Kim approached her target. “Sonja. So nice to see you.” They exchanged air kisses.

  “I, too.” She looked even thinner than before, the shadows under her eyes matching the powder on her lids.

  “I’ve been so busy since we arrived in Berlin,” Kim said. “I haven’t had time to be sociable. Would you fancy lunch sometime?”

  The woman looked like it was the furthest thing from her mind, to have lunch, to be sociable. She glanced over at Rikard, who stood at German attention beside the actress in fur, the two looking like different species. As perhaps they were.

  “I don’t think . . .” Then a pause as Sonja set her mouth. “Perhaps a cocktail some evening? If you can get away.”

  I’m not locked in, Sonja. Are you? “Perfect. Call me.” She opened her handbag to find her calling card, passing one to Sonja. “Oops, Alex is looking for me. Thank you!” She skated away, hoping that Nagel had not seen her—but reluctant to look.

  Alex noted Kim making her way toward him. He gestured Gestapo Captain Lessing toward the bank of doors leading to the terrace. “Shall we step out for a moment?”

  Captain Lessing snatched a pork-stuffed prune from the hors d’oeuvre tray proffered by a server and accompanied Alex to the porch.

  A wooly fog, the same one that had swathed the city for a week, drifted through the remains of the garden. Alex snapped open his cigarette case, and as the two men smoked, they gazed into the distance where, along the Wilhelmstrasse, Christmas lights saturated the fog with a red and green aurora.

  “Berlin is going all out for the holidays,” Alex said.

  “It is good for business. The same in London, ja?”

  “Yes. And the fog. I feel right at home.”

  “That is excellent.” Lessing allowed a few moments to pass before he broached an uncomfortable subject. “On Tuesday, she was in Wittenberge in the early morning hours. At 2:30 AM she took the train to Berlin.”

  Alex hadn’t a clue what Kim would be doing in Wittenberge, but he bit his lip as though this confirmed his worst fears. “Alone?”

  “And without a suitcase. Her hair, quite wet. She claimed that she had been on holiday and cut short her stay due to an illness of her niece in England.”

  “Wittenberge.” Alex chewed it over. “No one seeing her off?”

  “Nein. She was alone on the platform.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Very good of you to let me know.” Wittenberge at 2:30 AM. No doubt lying that her niece had taken ill, since she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

  “These things are always difficult,” Captain Lessing said. “If you wish us to detain her next time?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think that would help.” A wry smile. “You’d scare her.”

  “Perhaps useful?”

  “No, I’ll deal with her. I’d just like to know who he is.” The pretense that he thought she had a lover. He did need to preserve her cover so that he couldn’t be faulted for anything. But he also needed to get enough information on her mistakes to have her recalled. She was a loose cannon and could easily ruin his reputation with the German authorities.

  “Of course,” Lessing said. “It is your right to know. We will watch, and if there is anything new . . .”

  “Thank you.” Alex glanced toward the party, the blaring lights of the drawing room, the muffled laughter. He thought he spotted Kim in her lavender dress, or whatever color it was, across the room. “I am indebted to you, Captain—and appreciate your discretion. Please give my regards to Major Müller. The Gestapo is being most helpful.”

  A click of heels, a curt bow. Not all Gestapo were brutes.

  But neither were they the brightest lights of Hitler’s crew.

  Lessing rejoined the soiree, leaving Alex to wonder what Kim had been doing in Wittenberge, and where she might have been before that, since she’d been gone all day and most of the night. Just one more gaffe and the FO was sure to recall her. It was time to dissolve the marriage. The agreement had been that she would be on his arm for the diplomatic circuit. Instead, she was involved with Jews, rabble-rousers, dive bars, and God knew what else. If she got in trouble, it must be clear to the German government that he had no part of her schemes.

  It was hardly surprising that she had refused to join him in Bonn, but really, the charade couldn’t go on. It was an unsuitable arrangement all the way around. And Wittenberge in the wee hours. If she was on to something unpleasant, the sooner she was gone the better, and they could all get back to the live-and-let-live world of the Foreign Service.

  Through the French doors he saw Kim approaching. She joined him at the balustrade. “Are you tired of the party already?”

  “Just taking a breather,” he said.

  She came closer and put her arm around him. Acting the part. “Who were you talking too?”

  “Out here? Viktor Lessing. With the German Automotive Association.” He threw his cigarette into the garden. “Let’s go in. Maybe we can leave early.”

  Kim smiled. “Let’s have a night cap at home, then.”

  She was being nice. The thought occurred that, before she was summoned home, he might yet get her into bed. Once would be enough, he was rather sure.

  22

  THE AERIE

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12. Positioning his miniature soldiers in battle formation, Kolya sprawled on the floor at Irina’s feet, leaning on his elbows. By his side the schnauzer puppy, Lev, that one of the German officers had given him.

  Polina, sewing in a chair by the window, said in Russian, “You remember your manners with our important guest, Your Highness.”

  Kolya, without lifting his eyes from the ranks of soldiers,
said, “I stand next to mother, and when I am told his name, which I already know is Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, he will greet me and bow. Then I must incline my head this much”—he dipped his head at the carpet—“and say, ‘I am pleased to meet you, Reichsführer,’ but I must not crease my waist, because he is a commoner.”

  Polina frowned. “Ssst. We do not use such words. In private you may say he is not royal.”

  “Oh, leave off, Polina.” Irina was enjoying watching Kolya play, the chateau great room cozy in the quiet morning, with the crackling fire staving off the winter gloom.

  “Should I show him my silver box?” Kolya jumped to his feet and fetched it from the table. Opening it for his mother, he recited, “A book of stories by my favorite author, Edgar Allan Poe, the topaz I got for my birthday, Uncle Arcady’s ring, and the bear claw from Siberia.” He put the box in her lap and lifted out the gun. “My revolver that I shot a bull’s-eye with.”

  Irina raised her eyebrows. “Not loaded, Kolya!”

  “No, it isn’t. And it has a pearl handle and engraving on the barrel.” He looked up at her happily. “Small and deadly.”

  “I’m sure it is. But who is this Mr. Poe?”

  By her tone of voice, he paused, unsure if she would be angry.

  She pursed her lips. “Not English, I hope.”

  “No, Maman, American!”

  Polina rolled her eyes. “And it should be Chekhov.”

  Noises at the front door. “Take the puppy away,” Irina told Polina. “Our guests are here.”

  At that, a servant announced their visitor. Kolya took the box from Irina’s lap and laid it on the end table, conscious that his mother should not be holding something when guests arrived. He stood at her side.

  Himmler entered, followed by Stefan. The SS chief bowed to her, not deep enough. He pretended not to know royal protocols, yet at the same time he considered himself smooth. A charmer.

  Sir Stefan made the introduction to Kolya in French. “Your Highness, may I present SS-Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.” Turning to Himmler, he said, “His Imperial Highness, the tsarevich Nikolai Ivanovich.”

  Another bow from Himmler. “Your Highness,” he said in German.

  Kolya stood at relaxed attention, as he had been taught. He inclined his head, just so much. “A pleasure to meet you, Reichsführer,” in German, the one phrase Irina had allowed him to memorize.

  There was the issue of the toy soldiers now strewn on the carpet before Irina. It was out of the question for Kolya to pick them up, but the tsarina was fenced in by them.

  Stefan saw the difficulty and stooped down. “Your Highness.” He picked up a cavalryman on horseback and smiled at Kolya. “I had such a set of soldiers when I was a child. It is good to see the tradition continues.” He looked up for permission, and Kolya, catching on, ducked his head in permission. Stefan picked up enough of the metal figures to make a path for Irina.

  As Irina stepped forward, Himmler said, “Your Majesty, thank you for inviting me to your home. For the demonstration we could have used the Festival Hall. We do not wish to disturb your family.” Stefan translated.

  How guttural and unattractive the German language was. Yes, Himmler wanted a demonstration, and she would give him one, but on her terms. “It is no trouble. Did you bring my Nachkomme?”

  Himmler turned to the corridor leading to the front door, and from the shadows a man in uniform stepped forward, bowing deeply. It was Lieutenant Juergen Becht, one of her favorites.

  Irina extended her hand, something she never did except when wearing gloves. “Lieutenant, welcome. It is good of you to come early, since Reichsführer Himmler will not be able to join us for the Christmas celebration.” The lieutenant spoke excellent English, and she used it with him. Stefan murmured translations for Himmler, who boorishly had no foreign languages.

  “It is my pleasure and honor, Your Majesty.” A stiff, very correct bow. She had not seen Juergen Becht for two months. In that time he had taken on the predestined look, drawn, pale, and iron-strong. The dueling scar on his right cheek was now a deep valley carved in a face pale as bone. She thrilled to his power, which she could sense in his presence, behind his eyes. He had come to her as a high 7 and now 9 was within reach, she hoped.

  Juergen Becht was a particular favorite of Stefan’s, and hers, since he was the one who had helped to identify the so-called Red Girl criminal.

  “I am happy to see you looking so well, Lieutenant.”

  He bowed, clicking his heels.

  Even though Himmler had never seen a purification, she was sorry it was to be Juergen Becht who would assist. It was worrisome to catalyze a month early. Some of the effects seemed to worsen if purifications were too frequent. But she would indulge the SS chief, since Hitler had asked it of her.

  Stefan caught her eye and slid a glance at Kolya.

  “Colonel von Ritter”—she called him by his formal name since his superior officer was present—“perhaps the tsarevich would enjoy a visit to the pond. They said it is beginning to freeze over.”

  Stefan took his cue and left, Kolya in tow.

  The maid brought in a tea service, and the two men joined Irina near the fireplace, where she deliberately took the divan, the two SS officers in chairs.

  “Yesterday,” Irina said, “King Edward gave up the British throne.” She asked Juergen Becht to translate, which he did. It would be interesting to see how Himmler would handle this delicate subject.

  He was not diplomatic. “To our sorrow, Your Majesty. He understood our nation.” Becht translated.

  “But he would make a divorced woman Queen of England.”

  “The Führer would have welcomed it. They drove him to abdication, hounded him out. A disgrace.”

  “Perhaps, when events demand it, a country must find the most worthy monarch.”

  Becht paused before translating, understanding the insult that hovered amid them.

  Himmler pushed on. “The Duke of York succeeds him, but he has not the keen intelligence, the discernment of King Edward.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “The Führer is greatly disappointed.”

  Since Irina had dismissed the maid, Juergen Becht poured tea. She noted that his hand shook. Perhaps he was agitated that Himmler had not realized—or did not care—that Irina Dimitrievna Annakova approved of the change of English kings, a transition of monarchs. Since the Imperial Romanovs had been slaughtered and someone must be raised to her homeland’s throne.

  A sound like pellets from a shotgun hit the window. Himmler jerked a look at the soaring glass of the great room, but it was only bullets of ice driven by the wind.

  “Lieutenant Becht,” Irina said, removing her gloves, “sit with me.”

  He looked up at her, his face softening, his voice low. “Your Majesty.”

  She glanced at the space on the divan next to her.

  Himmler put down his china cup and became attentive, his eyes unblinking in their effort to miss nothing. The demonstration he had asked for.

  When Juergen Becht took a seat beside her, she turned to gaze at him, taking his hand. His fingers, all steely and long, instruments of obedience. “Juergen Becht,” she said. “Do not fear me.”

  “No, Your Majesty, I shall not.”

  “I remember,” she murmured to him, “that you are a man of the church. This pleases me.” She glanced at Himmler. “It is not forbidden.” The Third Reich allowed the church, within reason.

  Becht’s reserve began to fall away. She felt his hand relax into hers. Then the intertwining of their fingers, his own hot against her cooler skin. They sat thus as the wind cracked against the chalet and the fire snapped. “Turn to me, Juergen.”

  He did so, with a face that was haunted and soft, though no one could call it lovely. She murmured to him, “My command is that you use your gift to mesmerize the room and that you accompany Reichsführer Himmler . . .” Here she whispered into his ear. Then she pulled back, saying, “You understand?”

  He glanc
ed at Himmler, who nodded he was to comply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  She leaned into him. Cupping his head in one hand, she brought him close to her, his cheek against hers. Then she placed the flat of her hand against the side of his scarred face. He burned as though fevered. Now that her power was aroused by this embrace, they matched heat. She held him.

  Wind and ice. The fire in the hearth. She heard Himmler’s breath loud, the thud of soldier’s boots on patrol, Juergen’s heart beating strong, the blood coursing in her veins. She listened to these things. The creaking of the timbers as the bones of the earth shifted miles below, her thoughts falling away like silt in still water.

  When next she looked up, they were gone. The mesmerizing. It was always like this: the dreamlike peace, the acute hearing, the stupefaction.

  Vaguely, she could recall them walking away, Becht saying something to Himmler, but she had not listened, had not cared.

  The mesmerizing had dissipated now. Becht had left, crossing the plaza as instructed and descending in the lift, down through the stone foundation of the Aerie to the base.

  She stood up, reaching for the fur cape that lay over a chair. She draped it around her shoulders as she went to the veranda door.

  Outside the wind carried gusts of icy rain, while below, far below, gray fog roiled in the valley. Leaning on the railing and looking down at profound drop to the front of her fortress, she saw Himmler and Becht.

  Himmler was surrounded by his officers, who had noted his emergence from the shaft. Becht had released him, and now Himmler saw that he had traveled rather far under a profound mesmerizing from which even such a personage as he was not immune. The hail had turned to rain.

  Irina raised a hand in greeting. One of the officers noted her appearance, above, and soon Himmler was gazing up at her. His face and uniform, drenched. She might have arranged a different proof of mesmerizing power, one that allowed Himmler more dignity, but this one pleased her more.