“She didn’t have it with her when she was arrested. But I had it when they detained me. I took it.”
“You what?” Clayton asked. He was clearly astonished.
“I was taken to Gestapo headquarters in Munich,” Danforth added. “I thought they were going to do exactly what you’d expect, and so I took the cyanide.” He looked at Clayton pointedly. “But it didn’t work.”
“Bannion’s worked, but not Anna’s?” Clayton asked.
“Yes,” Danforth said. “Did you supply the tablets?”
“No,” Clayton said.
“Who did?”
“Bannion got them from Rache,” Clayton answered. He suddenly looked like a man who’d just grasped the thread of a fabric he wanted to unravel. “Why would Rache have given Bannion one cyanide tablet that worked and one that didn’t?” He considered his own question briefly, then said, “Obviously he wanted one of them to live, and it didn’t matter which one.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, they weren’t marked
Abruptly, Danforth found himself again at the window, peering down at the little plaza in Munich, watching Bannion and Anna the night before their arrest, how Bannion had opened his hand, the way Anna had frozen as she looked at the tablets, hesitated, then made her selection, all of which he now described to Clayton.
For a time, Clayton remained silent, but Danforth could see that his mind was working through its own dark logic.
“What are you thinking?” he asked after a moment.
“That one of the tablets might have been marked in some way,” Clayton answered. “Dimpled. A slightly different shape or shade.” He thought a few seconds longer, then waved his hand, as if dismissing his own preposterous idea. “It’s nothing, Tom. Really. Just spy-novel stuff that starts going through my head.”
Danforth leaned forward. “Tell me,” he demanded.
Clayton started to speak but stopped suddenly, as if addled by the direction his mind was taking. “Okay, just now, thinking over what you told me, the way Anna had hesitated ... isn’t that the word you used?”
“Yes.”
“And thinking about marked pills and all that, I just happened to remember something LaRoche once said,” he went on. “I didn’t think anything about it at the time. But with this business of her pill not working, it came back to me.” He looked like a sea captain pondering how his ship had sunk. “LaRoche said he’d once talked to Anna about Azerbaijan. About how he’d often taken the bus from Baku to Tbilisi.”
It was a route Danforth had once taken with his father, though he had little memory of it now save that it had been very bumpy, the old bus wheezing painfully as it made its way through an endless series of mountain passes.
“On the way, the bus always stopped at a little town called Tovuz,” Clayton said. “LaRoche talked about how charming it was. Lovely vineyards, that sort of thing. Anna listened in that quiet way of hers, then said, ‘Yes, it must have been lovely at that time in Traubenfeld.’”
“Traubenfeld?” Danforth asked.
“That’s what LaRoche noticed,” Clayton said. “That Anna called Tovuz Traubenfeld, which was its German name. He thought only a German, or someone raised by Germans, would have known that Tovuz had begun as a German settlement.”
“What does that have to do with Anna’s cyanide not working?” Danforth asked.
“Probably nothing at all,” Clayton answered. “It’s just that Traubenfeld has remained very German, and several people from there have risen to quite high positions in a pro-Hitler group called the Gray Wolf Society. It’s based in Ankara but we suspect its funds come directly from Berlin.” He shrugged. “Anyway, because the Germans in Traubenfeld have always been just an enclave inside Turkey, they need to know what the Turks are up to, and so they’ve gotten very good at planting moles.” He paused, then added, “They start training them when they’re children, and one of the things they concentrate on . . . is languages.”
“What are you saying, Robert?” Danforth asked. “Are you saying that Anna was in league with Rache?”
Clayton lifted his hand to silence him. “I’m not saying anything for sure, Tom. But in this kind of thing, there are shadows, and any time you encounter something unexpected, your mind begins to eat at you, and you begin to wonder if—”
“If Anna was a traitor?” Danforth interrupted.
“Hold on, Tom,” Clayton said cautiously. “Look, all I know is that Rache supplied one tablet that worked and one that didn’t, and that somehow Anna got the one that was designed not to kill her.” His gaze took on the paranoid glitter Danforth would later see in a thousand thousand eyes. “And now, Bannion is dead. Just like Christophe. And with them, the Project died. Only Anna, or so it seems, has survived.”
And so the question had never been whether she would live or die, Danforth thought suddenly, for that had been decided long ago.
It was at that instant, Danforth later came to realize, that his whole life abruptly shifted in a way that threw everything he’d known, or thought he’d known, about Anna into shadow. He thought of his last night with her, how she’d come to his room, all that had happened, and he felt the sweetness of that encounter, the genuineness, drain away. Had she sabotaged the original project because that had been her purpose all along? Had she hatched the plot against Hitler as a diversion, then betrayed them all? Had she faked everything? Again he thought of that last night. Even love?
Clayton shrugged. “But none of this matters now. Because if Anna was something other than we thought, then she’s run her game, and so she’ll vanish.”
