Lydia brushed by him as if not hearing the comment, and hoping he'd get a whiff of her new perfume. She went to the map, which displayed two dozen red and green dots, all in the northeastern states. "Father keeps track of his holdings, all the factories and projects."
Alex looked at the display. "These circles?"
"Yes. I can't tell you exactly what they represent, but Father likes visual things. I suppose in another ten years the whole map will be covered with his dots" She went next to him, closer than was necessary. "What were you doing?"
"Oh, just checking the route Til be taking when I head out West."
Lydia s mood sank. Another reminder — soon he'd be gone.
"But let's not talk about that." His hand fell and brazenly cupped her bottom.
Lydia heard footsteps outside the library door. She pulled away, and moments later a uniformed maid appeared at the entrance.
"Sir, your whites are ready now. Mr. Cole is waiting on the tennis court."
"Thank you," he replied.
The woman disappeared. Lydia leaned back against the sofa and heaved a sigh. "Oh, Alex—"
"I know, darling. I know." He started toward the door. "Your father doesn't like to be kept waiting."
She'd nearly forgotten why she'd come. "Alex, wait."
He paused.
"Can you come to the club for lunch?" Lydia felt the need to add, "We'll bring Mother along."
His smile was an answer. "Of course. Oh, and what about you — are you doing anything this afternoon?"
"No, why?"
He hesitated. "Well… just keep it free. I may come up with something."
Lydia watched him leave. She crossed her arms tightly. It was all so insufferable. She knew the status quo was doomed to ruin. In particular, if her father ever found out all hell would break loose. Edward had not yet become suspicious — the two of them kept separate rooms at Harrold House, and she'd been feigning headaches in the evenings to ensure her privacy — but sooner or later she'd slip up. On one hand, she hoped Alex would never leave. On the other, Lydia wished she could abandon the affair. She felt wretched about having been unfaithful to Edward. He'd done nothing to deserve it. If only Alex would do it for her, she thought. Perhaps one morning she'd wake to find a sincere, agony-swept good-bye-my-love note slipped under her door.
Lydia looked again at the map on the wall. In one corner was Newport, her home, surrounded by dots. The rest was a tremendous open expanse — and it would soon swallow the man who had turned her heart inside out. A thin sheet of glass covered the map, and her attention was drawn to where she'd seen him pointing. There was a smudge where his finger had been. Lydia read the name of the town underneath and, while she was not a worldly traveler, it made instant sense.
Of course, she thought. He's traveling by train.
Thatcher kept his word. He dismissed Scholl without relaying the confession about Braun's fate. He knew from vast experience that war crimes of the type were viciously hard to prove. Scholl could easily excuse his actions by saying that he felt his ship was exposed or threatened. The crew would back him up. In any event, the war was at an end, and prosecutors would be inundated with cases that were both far more deserving, and far easier to establish in a court of law.
The morning spent, his next step was obvious. Thatcher would drive to Long Island and search for anything about a German spy who might have come ashore three weeks ago. A look at the map told him it would be a considerable drive, stretching well into the evening, and so he stopped at the first roadside restaurant he came across. It would be his first true meal since leaving England. Thatcher needed it — he felt listless, weak, and his head throbbed from the congestion. After parking, he again studied the map and decided he would also order a sandwich to take away, thus avoiding another stop later.
He went into the diner and was immediately told by a middle-aged woman in a tired dress and splattered blue apron to, "Sit anywhere." Thatcher was halfway down the row of worn booths along the front window when he sneezed.
"Gesundheit!"
The voice came from the booth he had just passed — and it was vaguely familiar. He turned to see Jones, the irritating American he'd met in Ainsley's office. Jones pointed across the booth to an empty seat and a suspicious Thatcher eased himself down.
"Welcome to America," Jones said. A thin smirk edged across his lips as he reveled in his little ambush. The man had the subtlety of a rock crusher.
"So you've taken to following me."
"Let's say I found you, Major. And you're awfully far from the office. On vacation?"
Thatcher would not play games. "You know damned well why I'm here."
"Pursuing the case you were ordered to drop?"
He eyed the American defiantly. "Precisely."
"Really? So you think your ghost is here somewhere, sabotaging our factories, stealing information for — no, wait. Who would he be working for now?" Jones chuckled as a waitress skidded to a stop at their table.
"What'll it be, boys?"
Jones ordered coffee. Thatcher forced his attention to the menu and saw that breakfast could always be had. "Eggs, sausage, toast, and tea, please. And a ham sandwich to take away." The waitress scribbled on a pad before scurrying off.
Jones lit up a cigarette. "Fueling up for a long day?"
"How long have you been watching me?"
"How about I'll ask the questions — what were you doing at that POW camp?"
Thatcher bristled, but strove for patience. Jones had some measure of authority, and antagonizing him would not help matters. He pulled the sharpness from his voice. "I discovered that our German agent, Braun, might have been sent to America on a U-boat. In particular, one that surrendered here in the states recently. I went to Fort Devens to talk to the captain of that ship."
"And?"
"I was right. They dropped Braun off along the coast of Long Island three weeks ago."
Jones' humor faded. His high, freckled forehead gained new creases. "He actually got here?"
"He got to within three miles of your coastline." Thatcher added deftly, "From there we can only guess." The American fell quiet and Thatcher pressed his advantage. "Worried about your Manhattan Project?"
Jones cut a swift glance over his shoulder before locking eyes with Thatcher. His voice was low and harsh, "Do not mention that name again!"
"All right. Under one condition — you tell me what it is."
"Tell you what it is?' Jones stuttered incredulously. "Just like that?"
"Mr. Jones, or whatever your name is, our interests are mutual. We don't want this man anywhere near your precious secrets. But to find him I must know what he's after."
The waitress arrived with cups of tea and coffee. When she left, Jones raised his mug in a mock toast. "God save the King. Now listen, Thatcher—"
"FBI."
"What?"
"You're FBI," Thatcher repeated. "All that nonsense about the War Department."
The American rubbed his temples. Thatcher hoped he was giving the man a headache.
Jones aimed a finger at him. "I can have you sent back to England under armed guard within the hour."
"And I'll be back on the next B-24."
The two locked glares.
Thatcher continued, "In England you didn't even talk to Corporal Klein. It was me you were after. This project is something big, and the mere mention of the code name threw up a red flag. You only wanted everything swept clean and shuttered."
"Can you guess why?"
Thatcher considered it. "Because the whole thing is nearing fruition. It won't be a secret much longer."
Jones sat back and took a long draw from his cup. "You're a smart man, Major. As we say here in America, maybe too smart for your own good."