attention as well. Mouse brought him the decanter, and made a face when he saw the bullet wound. “Get the bottom sheet off my bed,” Michael instructed. “Tear a couple of strips out of it, will you?” Mouse hurried away.
Michael first washed his hands in brandy: a task that made him wince with pain. He would smell like a drunkard, but the wounds had to be cleansed. He washed the cuts on his shoulders, then turned his attention to his grooved thigh. He poured some brandy on a washcloth and pressed the wet cloth against the wound before he had too much time to think about it.
He had need of a second washcloth, and this one he jammed between his teeth. Then he poured the rest of the golden fire over the red-edged wound.
“Yes, that’s what I want from Frankewitz,” Jerek Blok was saying into the telephone in his suite. “A description. Is Captain Halder there? He’s a good man; he knows how to get answers. Tell Captain Halder that I want the information now.” He snorted with exasperation. “Well, what do I care about Frankewitz’s condition? I said I want the information now. This moment. I’ll stay on the line.” He heard the door open and looked up as Boots entered. “Yes?” Blok urged.
“Herr Sandler’s train hasn’t passed through the rail yard yet. It’s over ten minutes late.” Boots had been downstairs on another telephone, speaking to the rail master at the Berlin yards.
“Sandler told me he was putting the baron on the train. Yet the train’s still on the rails somewhere and Baron von Fange comes up out of the river like a damned toad frog! What do you make of it, Boots?”
“I don’t know, sir. As you said, it’s impossible.”
Blok grunted and shook his head. “Breathing through a hollow reed! The man’s got nerve, I’ll say that for him! Boots, I’m getting a very bad feeling about this.” Someone came on the line. “I’m waiting to hear from Captain Halder!” he said. “This is Colonel Jerek Blok, that’s who this is! Now get off the phone!” Red splotches had surfaced on Blok’s pale cheeks. He drummed his fingers, reached for a fountain pen and a sheet of pale blue notepaper with the hotel’s name on it. Boots stood at ease, hands clasped before him, waiting for the colonel’s next command.
“Halder?” Blok said after another pause. “Do you have what I need?” He listened. “I don’t care if the man’s dying! Did you get the information? All right, tell me what you have.” He picked up the pen and held its point poised. Then he began to write: Well-dressed man. Tall. Slim. Blond-haired. Brown eyes. “What? Repeat that,” Blok said. He wrote: A true gentleman. “What’s that supposed to mean? Yes, I know you’re not a mind reader. Listen, Halder: go back to him and go over this once again. Make sure he’s not lying. Tell him… oh, tell him we can inject him with something that’ll keep him alive if we’re sure he’s being truthful. Wait just a moment.” He put his hand over the receiver and looked at Boots. “Do you have the key to Sandler’s suite?”
“Yes, sir.” Boots brought the key from his shirt pocket.
“Give it to me.” Blok took the key. He had promised Sandler he would feed Blondi her morning chunk of raw meat; he was one of the few people that Blondi seemed to abide, other than her master. At least she wouldn’t fly at him when the door was unlocked and the cage opened on its trip wire. “All right, Halder,” Blok went on. “Get back to him and go over it one more time, then call me. I’m at the Reichkronen.” He gave Halder the telephone number, then hung up. He tore the blue sheet of notepaper off its pad. Blond-haired. Brown eyes. If that was true, it certainly didn’t match the baron’s description. What had he been thinking? he asked himself. That the baron-and possibly Chesna, too-was somehow mixed up in this? Ridiculous! But the baron’s mention of “iron fist” had almost made him shit in his pants. Of course it was just a phrase. A common phrase anyone might use. But the baron… there was something not right about him. And now this situation with Sandler’s train off schedule, and the baron coming up out of the river. Of course the baron had been taken to Sandler’s train. Hadn’t he?
“I’ve got to feed that damned bird,” Blok said. The bloody meat was kept in a refrigerator in Sandler’s kitchen. “Stay here and listen for the phone,” he told Boots, and then he left his suite and strode to the door down the hall.
4
Chesna’s chauffeur had brought the Mercedes from the Reichkronen’s garage to the courtyard, and as Wilhelm and Mouse loaded the suitcases into the trunk, Chesna and Michael paused in the lobby to say their goodbyes to the manager.
“I’m so sorry about that dreadful accident,” the florid-faced man said with a ceremonious wringing of his hands. “I do hope you’ll return to the Reichkronen for another visit, Baron?”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Michael was clean and freshly shaved, and he wore a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a gray-striped necktie. “Besides, the accident was my own fault. I’m afraid I… uh… was a little too relaxed to go roaming along the riverbank.”
“Well, thank God for your presence of mind! I trust the brandy was satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes. It was fine, thank you.” In Chesna’s suite the maid would find a washcloth that looked as if it had been bitten almost in two, and a strip of the bed’s bottom sheet now bandaged Michael’s thigh.
“Fraulein van Dorne, I wish you and the baron the best of luck,” the manager said with a crisp bow. Chesna thanked him, and slid a generous amount of appreciation into the man’s palm.
Chesna and Michael walked through the lobby, arm in arm. Their plans were set: not for a honeymoon excursion, but for a flight to Norway. Michael felt pressure gnawing at him. Today was April 24, and Chesna had said they would need a week at the least to get their fuel stops and security precautions arranged through her anti-Nazi network. With the Allied invasion of Europe set for the first week of June, time might become a critical factor.
They were almost to the front entrance when Michael heard the thump of heavy footsteps coming up behind them. His muscles tensed, and Chesna felt the tension ripple through his body. A hand grasped his shoulder, stopping him about ten feet short of the doorway.
Michael looked up, into the bland, square face of Boots. The huge man released Michael’s shoulder. “My apologies, Baron, Fraulein,” he said. “But Colonel Blok would like to have a word with you, please.”
Blok strolled up, smiling, his hands in his pockets. “Ah, good! Boots caught you before you could get away! I had no idea you were leaving. I only found out when I tried to call your room, Chesna.”
“We just decided about an hour ago.” There was no hint of nervousness in her voice; a true professional, Michael thought.
“Really? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Because of the incident, I mean.” His gray, lizard eyes moved to Michael and then, heavy-lidded, returned to Chesna. “But surely you didn’t plan on leaving before saying goodbye to me? I’ve always thought of myself as part of your family, Chesna.” His smile broadened. “An uncle, perhaps, who meddles more than he ought to. Yes?” He withdrew his right hand from his pocket. Held between the thumb and first finger was a golden feather. Michael recognized it, and his stomach clenched. Blok, still smiling, fanned himself with the hawk’s feather. “I’d consider it an honor to take you both to lunch. Surely you weren’t thinking of leaving before you ate, were you?” The feather twitched back and forth, like a cat’s whiskers.
Chesna stood her ground, though her heart was pounding and she smelled disaster. “My car’s packed. We really should be going.”
“I’ve never known you to pass up a leisurely lunch, Chesna. Perhaps the baron’s habits have rubbed off on you?”
Michael took the initiative. He held his hand out. “Colonel Blok, it was very good meeting you. I hope you’ll attend our wedding?”
Blok grasped Michael’s hand and shook it. “Oh, yes,” the colonel said. “Two events I never miss are weddings and funerals.”
Michael and Chesna went through the doorway and started down the granite stairs. The colonel and Boots followed. Mouse was waiting, holding the Mercedes’s door open for Chesna, and Wilhelm was putting the last suitcase into the trunk.
Blok’s trying to stall us, Michael thought. Why? The colonel had obviously found Blondi’s carcass and other signs of an intruder in Sandler’s suite. If he was going to make an arrest, why hadn’t he done so already? Michael walked Chesna around to her side of the Mercedes; Blok followed right behind them. Michael felt Chesna tremble. She also knew the game had taken a dangerous turn.
Chesna was about to slide into the car when Blok reached past Michael and took her elbow. She looked at the
