France and Protestantism in the rest of Europe.
'That made the first German converts,' Fowler concluded, 'the first Christians to be both true believers and heretics at the same time.'
McPherson was fascinated as Fussel listened warily. Reverend Fowler took aim on McPherson and began talking of what he called 'Scotland's legitimate national feelings,' to which Fussel moaned and turned a deaf ear.
There was some smoked meat on the table with a large serving fork. Both guards sat with their weapons on the opposite side from Fowler.
'Mind if I eat something?' Fowler asked in passing.
'Help yourself,' McPherson said. Fussel dealt the cards and McPherson moved the serving knife from the plate.
Fowler picked up a salt shaker and shook it briskly over a slice of beef. He ate. He looked around. 'What's the matter?' McPherson asked.
'Overdid it with the salt,' said Fowler. He eyed McPherson's beer.
'Nothing doing!' Fussel interjected. 'He doesn't get any alcohol. Whiteside's orders.'
'Then get him some water,' McPherson said. 'You're closer than I am.'
Fussel shot his partner a hostile stare. 'Want to know something?' Fussel said. 'I'll be happy when we can turn the bloody parson here back over to the Americans. If he's dangerous, we shouldn't have him. If he's not, we shouldn't have him, either.'
'Just get him some water, huh?' McPherson said. Fowler turned politely to Fussel.
'Thank you,' he said.
Fowler watched Fussel leave the room for the kitchen, one room away. With his cuffed wrists, he reached to Fussel's five-card poker hand. Fowler peeked. He looked back to McPherson.
'Two aces, a king, and two sevens,' he whispered. 'Is that good?'
McPherson's bushy brow furrowed and he looked studiously downward at his own hand. Then everything was too fast for comprehension. the minister's shackled wrists flew toward the serving fork, grabbed it in both fists, and brought it upward into McPherson's throat.
McPherson howled, but at the same moment, Reverend Fowler was lunging across his body, pulling the pistol from the holster and withdrawing backward once he had it. Fussel dropped what he was doing in the kitchen and raced back when he heard the commotion. He was fumbling for his own gun.
'No!' Fussel shouted, taking it all in at once- his partner anguished and clutching at the bloody fork stuck in his throat, and the parson whirling toward the doorway, a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in his two hands.
Then Fowler fired. Two bullets crashed into Fussel's chest. They slammed him backward and sent his own gun flying from his hand. Fussel felt the agony of the bullets ripping into his flesh and shattering his breastbone. He gasped several times, clutching his horrible wounds, and knew he was dying.
For several seconds, McPherson tried to struggle. But the fork seemed to have impaled his whole body. His eyes were thick with his own blood. Every inch of him convulsed with pain.
The last thing he understood was that the prisoner was placing the nose of the pistol to McPherson's head. There was a loud cracking sound, an indescribable pain, and then total blackness.
With another bullet, Siegfried shot through the chain that linked his ankles to the armoire. Then he crawled to the body of Andrew Fussel, found no pulse, and emptied the Englishman's pockets.
He quickly found what he wanted: the keys to his handcuffs and leg chain. He unlocked himself, stood, flexed his wrist and leg muscles, and glanced at the bloody bodies of the two men he had killed. He exuded a long sigh, not of emotion, but of fatigue. The day in captivity had been excruciating. His whole schedule and method of operation had been sabotaged now. He would have to strike Roosevelt quickly and depart. The whole country would be looking for him within twenty-four hours.
Siegfried emptied the wallets of the men he had killed and took both of their pistols with him. He closed the door to the safe house behind him less than five minutes later. Then he taxied immediately to the bus terminal and was bound for Washington, then Alexandria, Virginia, within the hour while the two undiscovered bodies had an entire night to cool in the house off Clifton Park.
*
For the first time in recent days, Laura felt safe. Stephen was under arrest. Bill Cochrane told her that with the apprehension of the big strapping Missourian named Wheeler, his Bureau's internal troubles, as he called them, were apparently settled, too.
Then there was Bill, himself. She could feel the old warning signals. Her attraction to him had been no secret since the first time they sat and talked over tea. She felt, well, safe with him. He was a man she wanted to be with. Nothing sexual yet, she thought. Just being with him sufficed. Especially now, when she needed all the emotional support she could get. Both of their minds were overladen with the events of the last few days. Now it was time to relax and to unwind.
Bill asked her to accompany him to dinner and she accepted. They spoke again of many things and Laura again found him to be a fine conversationalist and a good listener. He spoke about his boyhood in Virginia and his memories of two societies, one colored and one white, in his hometown in Virginia. In turn, she told him of the Georgian home with the high wall in Salisbury, her mother, and how she as a girl used to play with her father's ribbons from the 1914-18 campaign on the continent.
The restaurant was informal and Italian, a quiet little family place called Mario's around the corner from the Library of Congress. After the meal, he offered her a port back at his place before returning her to the Shoreham.
Again, she accepted. She could almost feel a little tingle of the old girlish excitement: a quiet glass of port at a man's place. Maybe things would get nicely out of hand. Tonight, who cared?
It was only nine in the evening when they left the restaurant and they were in no hurry at all, enjoying each other's company. The night was chilly and even raw when the wind kicked up.
'Know what?' she asked, pulling her wool coat close to her, 'it reminds me of Dorset in the winter. Mind if we walk a little?'
'You Brits never feel the cold, do you?' he asked with a smile.
'It's invigorating,' she said, pulling her collar close. Her dark hair, pulled close to her by her collar, framed her beautiful face.
'May I?' he asked, offering her an arm.
'Why, yes. You may,' she said. She took his arm.
Washington fascinated her. Unlike London, it was a city that seemed to be only government. There were uniforms everywhere, Army, Navy, Army Air Corps, every third car that passed them as they strolled, looked official, and the illuminated monuments and Capitol Hill, washed in yellow lights after dark, told her that this was the seat of American power. This was where decisions were made. If America entered the war, the entry would become official within view of where the walked.
A light cold rain began to fall and again it made her think of England. They hurried back to where the Hudson was parked on C Street and he was struck with an idea.
'It just occurred to me,' he said. 'You've barely seen Washington. I'll give you the grand tour before that nightcap.'
'That would be wonderful,' she said. They quickened their pace and almost trotted the last block back to the car. His arm was gently on her shoulders and then he unlocked the door on her side of the car. He helped her in, came around to his side, jumped in, and, almost on cue, the rain intensified. They both laughed. The car's engine whined, ground, then sprang to life. Then they were off across the shiny, rain-swept streets of the city: the White House, the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials, the Mall at the foot of the Capitol dome, and then, for the finale, he crossed into Virginia at Arlington, turned the car in the traffic circle, and took the same bridge back into the city.
She had come a long way, she was thinking, since Edward Shawcross and his plans for a country inn. Even the recent memory of her husband's attack on her seemed to recede. It was one of those magical evenings with a man who was so new to her life that by his very presence he conveyed novelty and excitement.
She began to think about the house on Twenty-sixth Street where he lived.
'I'm ready for some port,' she finally said.
