‘No.’ A fine sheen of sweat shone on Eduard’s brow, and I realised that he had never actually believed that his bluff would work. It became more difficult to breathe, and I clawed at the top button of my tunic. Eduard’s hand stilled mine, his soft voice slowing my pounding heart. ‘You did well, Angel. Stop the car and give your goon a moment to catch up.’
I forced my heart back into rhythm. It was bad enough that Eduard had seen my weakness. I couldn’t allow Bertie to witness it as well.
Bertie dragged the guard’s body into the hut and emerged moments later, wearing his uniform and holding his machine gun. He sprinted to catch up to the car.
‘A fucking sergeant? What d’you think I am?’ he muttered, jumping into the back seat.
‘The same size. The colour suits you,’ Eduard said.
‘Sod off, Fritz.’ Bertie’s voice had lost his usual banter. ‘You wasn’t followed?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been watching for that.’
‘Good. An even dozen of ’em in there, princess. Three questioning your toff.’
‘He’s still alive?’
‘He was, an hour ago. Maybe not so comfortable, but still breathin’.’
‘Where are the other nine?’
‘Around the warehouse. Place is stacked with barrels.’
I blinked, bit my lip. ‘Wolfram?’
‘Disguised as lead. See if we can get it on to the speedboat before we leave. You have my charges, Fritz?’
‘In the bag.’ Eduard passed one of the canvas satchels to Bertie. ‘Careful with them. How are they armed?’
‘Mostly sidearms. Lugers. A few have K98ks. Nothing like this.’
He stroked the lean metal of the MP 40. There was little doubt that he’d keep it after all this. A souvenir or a tool for other times, although he’d have the Devil’s own time getting that back to Shoreditch.
‘Slow the car, princess,’ he said as the first outbuilding came into sight. ‘I get off here.’
‘Don’t forget to wait for my signal.’
Bertie nodded, slid from the seat and into the trees.
I closed my eyes and prayed to a god that had long since stopped listening.
Chapter Forty-two
Two armed guards came out of the warehouse. They wore plain clothes but their bearing was military. The first one blocked our path, left arm raised, warning us to stop. When we didn’t, he pointed his Schmeisser at me, reinforcing the message. The other stood back, weapon ready.
Worry exploded into panic and I struggled to maintain control, stamping down on the insidious fear as well as the brake. Gravel crunched under the wheels as the Mercedes halted.
Under the soldiers’ watchful eyes, I opened the door for Eduard. His uniform was the entry key and the soldiers responded. Tall and aloof, he stalked towards the warehouse. I followed, hands clasped behind my back to hide their trembling. And the Luger tucked into my skirt.
‘Bet he’s shagging the driver,’ one of the soldiers muttered. ‘Fucking Abwehr.’
Any reply was silenced by Eduard’s icy stare.
The soldier at the door was a broad man of about thirty with the big hands of a farmer, and the demeanour of one who takes rather than gives orders. He allowed us to pass and closed the door behind us.
‘You can wait for the major in the office,’ he said, dismissing me. ‘There’s coffee.’
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I scanned the warehouse. Barrels were stacked along one wall, almost to the ceiling. A catwalk ran along the back wall, perhaps ten feet deep, that ended in an enclosed room with another man standing just outside, smoking a cigarette. His rifle was propped against the wall.
In the far corner of the ground floor, under a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, Matthew Harrington slumped in a chair with his hands tied behind him. His eyes might have been vague, but his croak was recognisable: ‘If she was blonde, she’d be a dead ringer for Veronica Lake.’
Arsehole.
The men nearest to him shrugged, and one cuffed the back of his head. So far I’d counted seven.
‘The office?’ I asked.
‘Ja. Stairs are over there.’
The guard flicked the end of the cigarette over the railing as I approached. His eyes burned with barely concealed lust as I climbed the stairs. I played it for all it was worth, slowing my pace, and adding an exaggerated wiggle. Behind him, another man sat at a desk, riffling through papers.
Eight and nine.
The soldier wolf-whistled as I sashayed past. I tilted my head and gave him a reasonable facsimile of the sultry look Veronica Lake was famous for. His eyes were glued on the expanse of my legs, although the man at the desk barely looked up. I ran my hand up my leg, raising the hem of my skirt, inch by inch.
The soldier closed the door about the time my hand reached the tip of the sgian dubh. My hand closed around the dagger and when the soldier pulled me close for a kiss, I drew his head down and plunged the knife through his tunic, under his breastbone and yanked it upwards. A rush of blood cascaded over my hands but I was already moving towards the desk.
The other man fumbled for his sidearm, and in an instant I recognised him: he was the man from Laura’s apartment. The lover she’d given the folder to.
I dropped to one knee, as I’d seen Alex Sinclair do so long ago in that field in France, and flicked the little knife.
‘Crazy whore!’ His words were cut off with a gasp. He stared at the blade sticking out of his chest, his pistol clattering to the floor. I closed the distance, pulled the knife out and sliced his throat.
‘Fucking Nazi.’
I returned the compliment, kicking his corpse for good measure. Grabbed the papers and stuffed them under my tunic for safekeeping. Laura had been dead for months. These wouldn’t be the same papers, but they might be of interest to someone at the embassy.
A quick glance at the wall clock confirmed that it had been less than five minutes since we entered the building. If Bertie’s numbers were right there were only
