"Sailing? Well, its not my favorite. But if it's our only chance — then all right."
"Good."
Lydia saw that Alex was pleased. It might be her last chance ever to spend time with him. She couldn't possibly have said no.
After lunch, Braun borrowed a car, telling Lydia he had to run errands to the bank and the cleaners. On returning to Harrold House, he separated himself for a stroll to the water's edge. A winding path worked through gardens and toward the shore. At the edge of the property an offshoot continued to one side, meandering to the northern boundary where a rocky point jutted defiantly into the ocean. From there, the shoreline curled back inward and receded into a small, natural cove where Edward's boat Mystic lay protected at a dock.
Braun eased slowly down the stone steps that led to the dock. He surveyed the boat, familiar now after two outings, and studied her layout. She was solidly built and attractive, if a bit square, and her upkeep was top-notch, thanks to a gardener who doubled very competently as a dockhand. Her teak rails were glossy and the winches polished to a high shine. He studied the lines and stanchions, the pulleys and cleats. And he wondered which components would help him kill Edward Murray.
He wasn't sure when the idea had begun circulating in his mind, but with each day it gained clarity, came more to the forefront. Strangest of all, the more Braun tried to push it away, the more insistent the urge became. The mechanics varied. A vision of Edward tumbling hard down the stairs, interrupting high tea. Edward's body crushed on the rocks at ocean's edge. The risk was enormous, of course, but if done properly, neatly, the rewards could be commensurate.
Braun was sure that Lydia herself was within his grasp. But if Edward should die under suspicious circumstances, eyes would fall hard upon him. Not only those of the police, but Sargent Cole as well. The man was a consummate opportunist who would easily spot the same. Braun s very existence was less than a house of cards — it was nothing. He had no identity papers, no accounts. Only words and stories.
But those stories were presently held as fact by the Coles of Newport, and from that foundation he worked in reverse. The police would allow Sargent Cole to vouch for the soldier who was their guest. Sargent, in turn, could be convinced by Lydia. He would be blinded, not by her cunning and guile, but rather her lack of it. If she could truly be convinced that Edward had fallen victim to a terrible accident, the die would be cast. Braun would answer a few questions, then leave to finish his tour of duty. From a distance he would watch and listen. If no questions were raised, he could return at the war's conclusion. Return to console the grieving widow — and eventually take his place at Harrold House.
It would only work if done well. There was an art to killing well. Braun had seen all varieties — messy bayonets, random artillery, clumsy strangling. It was in sniping, however, that he found a strange, arcane beauty. He possessed a natural flair for it — the intricacy of stalking, the quiet patience, the geometry of the shot. It all came together in one precise, deadly instant, a moment that could be countered at any time by an opposing shot. Braun put two fingers to the ragged scar on his temple. Once he'd gotten greedy, gone for the second shot, and it had nearly cost him his life. The other sniper had missed by a fraction, the bullet skimming off Braun's sight to leave its harmless mark. Was he pressing his luck now?
He studied Mystic and wondered if it could be done perfectly. Purely. His eyes narrowed as a blueprint began to form in his mind. Next to the dock was a small boathouse. Once a place to lodge the occasional guest, it had fallen in status over the years to become nothing more than a storage shed for Mystics gear. Braun went to the door. The brass handle was green, corroded from sea spray, but the door swung open smoothly.
He turned his head, recoiling momentarily at the musty odor, then scanned across a room full of lines, tackle, and canvas. He found a large, sturdy sailbag and set it aside. A mushroom anchor, sized more for a skiff than Mystic, also drew his attention. The plan began to form. Braun visualized Mystic, the layout of her cabin and deck. Details fell naturally into place. As in any blueprint, the key was simplicity. Start with a strong foundation, ensure balance, and function would follow. The principles were universal.
Into the sailbag went the anchor and an old fishing reel that, judging by the degree of corrosion, had long been separated from its pole. He also came across a blunt, sturdy knife, of the type used to pry open shellfish, and this too went into the bag. He then shouldered the lot and went out to Mystic.
Fortunately, the padlock on her companionway door was unlocked — Wescott, the gardener-cum-dockhand, had already begun his preparations. Braun looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then went below. Thirty seconds later he emerged empty-handed and jumped back to the dock. He paused for a final look at Mystics deck before walking briskly to the house.
Thatcher had parked and slept in his car for a short stretch — his body rhythm was not yet adjusted to the local clock — and was bleary-eyed when he arrived in Boston in the mid-afternoon. A short walk, however, reinvigorated his senses before arriving at the Administration Office of Harvard University.
The woman behind a large wooden counter smiled. Any man in uniform, Thatcher suspected, even an unfamiliar one, would have taken the same smile.
"Good morning, I'm Major Michael Thatcher of the British Army. I'm investigating a possible Nazi spy."
The woman's smile evaporated. "You won't find any of those around here, Major."
"Hopefully not now, but I'm interested in a young man who might have attended your school before the war."
"Before the war?"
"Yes, 1940, and perhaps a few years before that. Might I trouble you to check your records?"
"Well, I suppose there's no harm in it. What's the name?"
"Alexander Braun. B-R-A-U-N."
She turned to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and mumbled aloud so that Thatcher could follow, "Let's see — we had a Bratton and a Braswell — Braverman. But no, no Braun."
Thatcher was dumbstruck. There had to be a mistake. Corporal Klein had been certain about the name. "Are you sure?"
The clerk closed her filing cabinet. "Major, I run this department— have for fifteen years. There was no Braun at Harvard in '39 or '40."
He grasped weakly for an explanation. "There isn't another university by the same name, is there?"
"Mister, there's only one Harvard."
Thatcher sat on a barstool an hour later turning an empty mug by its handle. He'd already drained it twice, enduring the piss-yellow liquid that passed for beer in America. Time and again he tried to make sense of it. Such a simple equation. He knew the school and the name, yet the records, which he suspected were painfully accurate, showed nothing. Had Braun lied about his name? Or his education? The Germans were sticklers for records, thank heavens, but had Alexander Braun put one over on them? And if so, why?
Frustrated, he decided to check in with the FBI. He went to a phone booth at the back of the bar and pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. Tomas Jones, it read, followed by a number. An operator picked up on the first ring, and moments later he was talking to Jones.
"Any luck on Long Island?"
"No. At least no straight evidence of someone coming ashore. The only thing out of the ordinary was a murder. Some truck driver was robbed and stuffed into his trailer— happened the morning after you think this guy came ashore."
"It might have been him," Thatcher said.
"I would have expected something more dramatic from the last Nazi superspy. Any luck at the university?"
"No. Nothing." Thatcher wished he had a more positive reply. He rubbed the small paper with the telephone number between two fingers, eyeing it distractedly. Tomas Jones. Tomas—