understand the last two, but not the lack of French.
He had walked into the secret service agent’s house. The old woman had called her son. Instead of him appearing, these three had entered with guns drawn. John could have snapped the old woman’s neck—the French agent had betrayed him. But Red Cloud did not war against old women.
He went with these three to this house, and for the past days, they had guarded him, given him food and made him understand that if he attempted to leave, they would kill him.
John did not despair out of fear. What bothered him was his weakening resolve. Days of nothing had sapped his morale. He knew that everyone had his or her breaking point. The path of death wasn’t a good place to sit. One had to move on the path, heading for destruction. The resolve gave one power. Unfortunately, the power leaked away as his certainty wavered.
Maybe he should have returned to Quebec when he had the chance. Maybe it would have been better to end his days in his homeland. Let the Old World and New World Europeans fight among themselves and destroy each other. What did he care?
John closed his eyes. He recalled the meeting with the GD ambassador last winter. The man had insulted him, and through the insult, the man had insulted the Algonquin people.
From outside, a key inserted into the front door lock and turned.
The Serbians stood. One drew a pistol. One picked up a pump shotgun and the other clacked the bolt of a submachine gun. All three of them aimed their weapons at the door.
The door opened, and the odor of smoke preceded a small man in a plain overcoat. He had dark, tousled hair, a cigarette between his lips and dark eyes like Red Cloud.
The Frenchman glanced at the Serbians. He rapidly spoke their language. The three put away their weapons, sat and went back to playing dominoes on the table.
The man in the overcoat approached Red Cloud, who sat up on the sofa.
The cigarette dangling from the man’s mouth smoldered. He stopped before Red Cloud and studied him. “You are not Basque,” the man said in French, speaking crisply.
John shook his head.
“The Basque died in Halifax,” the Frenchman said. “Someone cut his throat.”
“I did,” John said.
“To gain his ID, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“You killed two CID men several days ago?”
“I left them in the BMW.”
“You’ve left quite a trail of death,” the Frenchman said. “And you frightened my agent’s mother. Neither he nor I appreciate that.”
“I understand.”
Ashes fell from the Frenchman’s cigarette, landing on the carpet and beginning to smolder. He stepped on the spot and turned his foot. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it onto the coffee table. While unbuttoning his coat, the small man sat in the sofa chair. He never took his eyes off Red Cloud.
“You are an Indian,” the man said.
“Algonquin.”
“Call me Mr. Foch,” the man said.
“John Red Cloud.”
Foch did not hold out his hand. Since this was his land, John followed the man’s example and did not hold out his either.
“Why did you come here, John Red Cloud? Why did you pester my agent’s mother?”
John glanced at the three Serbians.
“They understand nothing of what we say,” Foch told him. “But if I snap my fingers, they will kill you without hesitation. Perhaps I should tell you, I am inclined toward snapping my fingers. Everything I know about you so far smells of desperation and stupidity. I like dealing with neither.”
“I am on a quest,” John said. “I have come to Europe to kill Chancellor Kleist.”
Foch laughed softly. “That is ridiculous.”
“It is the truth. I am on a quest.”
While shaking his head, Foch asked, “Why would you come to a French secret service agent’s house then? It does not make sense.”
“The French hate the Germans, is that not so?” John asked.
“Ridiculous,” Foch said. He stood up, beginning to button his coat with one hand.
John stood too.
The three Serbians also stood, and they readied their weapons.
Once more, Foch studied Red Cloud. “I am to believe you truly killed the Basque for his ID?”
“The German Dominion offered my people their freedom,” John said. “Because of that, I helped the GD sway the Quebecers.”
“Sway how?” Foch asked.
“By killing rebel Quebecers who wished for Chinese aid,” John said.
“Ah. I see. This is more ridiculous by the moment. Go on.”
“When the time came for the Dominion to grant us our freedom,” John said, “the GD ambassador told me to go away. He insulted us and reneged on his promises.”
“Hmm, I recall something about our ambassador dying several months ago in Quebec.”
“I killed him,” John said. “That was my declaration of war against the GD.”
“That part makes sense at least. The ambassador was the Dominion representative. He insulted you—your people—and you killed him, insulting the GD. Still, I fail to see why you would come to us. We are part of the Dominion.”
“Do you want Kleist to succeed in his endeavors, cementing German dominance over Europe, over the world?”
Foch stared at Red Cloud until he said, “The Expeditionary Force is winning. If Kleist dies, nothing changes. Another like him will rise up.”
“You do not know that.”
“But I do,” Foch said. “No. We cannot help you. Neither can we let you go.”
Red Cloud grew tense, and there was a tightness under his heart, a sudden prick of pain. Perhaps it would be better to attack now and end the waiting.
Foch might have seen him tense, or seen something about Red Cloud to trouble him. “However…” the Frenchman said.
Red Cloud let his shoulder ease, and the pain under his heart receded.
“If something dramatic should happen to change the North American situation…” Foch said. “I will have to ponder your information. It is very odd, very strange.”
Red Cloud couldn’t think of anything wise or even pithy to say. He sat down. Once more, it was time to wait. He was willing to die, but he wanted to make his death worth something.
The small Frenchman nodded to the three Serbians and headed for the door. He exited the safe house and turned the key, locking it again.
The Serbians glanced at John.
He lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes and practiced patience one slow breath at a time.
Jake crawled through the bomb-blasted, moonlike terrain. Behind him were coils of concertina wire and the deep trench system of the first American line of defense. Far above, a crow circled lazily. To his left, Charlie crawled through muddy ground, passing straight through a puddle. The veteran ground-pounder must figure it was safer to crawl through the muck then to go around. The longer one moved through no-man’s land the worse it was.
There were patches of dying, brown grass and long weeds here, but that was about it as far as vegetation
