"I'm Sargent Cole. Is Evans assisting you?" The voice was strong, the handshake crushing.
"Yes. I'm Major Michael Thatcher. I've come looking for a man by the name of Alexander Brown."
"Alex?" The American eyed Thatcher s uniform. "Yes, I think hes around here somewhere. What s this in regard to?"
Thatcher stumbled for a good answer, but the effort was cut short by a scream. He turned to see a young woman plummet from the top of the staircase. She tumbled hard, smacking over the stone steps, and came to rest halfway down, crumpled against the balustrade.
"Lydia!" Sargent Cole screamed as he bolted for the stairs.
Thatcher followed, his crippled stride slower up the steps.
"My darling! Are you all right?" Sargent Cole said, cradling her.
Thatcher paused long enough to hear Lydia Cole moan. She was battered and bruised, but alive. He kept moving to the second-floor landing, and there he found the butler lying in a heap on the floor.
" Where is he?" Thatcher demanded.
The servant pointed down the hallway.
Thatcher moved as fast as he could. He heard a crash from a room just ahead. Thatcher tried the door, but it was locked. Taking two steps back, he lunged at the door with a lowered shoulder. His body bounced back into the hallway. He rushed straight back with even more determination. This time the wood frame gave a distinct crack. Thatcher heaved himself a third time, and the door gave way.
He tumbled into the room, sprawling face down on the floor. Rolling onto his back, Thatcher saw a flash of steel. He twisted to one side as a fireplace poker smacked the marble floor where his head had just been, chips of stone stinging his cheek. Instinctively, he grabbed the shaft and looked up. Alexander Braun was standing over him, rage written across his Teutonic features. They grappled fiercely and Braun fell to the floor, straddling Thatcher's chest. It seemed a tactical victory, getting Braun down to his own level, but then Thatcher felt the man twist and pull the iron bar until it was straight across his throat.
He heaved and rolled, got both hands on the weapon, but Braun was stronger. The killer used his weight to press down on the rod. Thatcher heaved and squirmed but he knew he was no match. The cold rod pushed harder. His breaths were no more than stifled gasps.
I need a weapon, he thought. But even if there had been something, he couldn't free either hand for an instant. Thatcher tried to lock his arms, keep the bar from pushing any further, but it was no use — it was only a matter of time before his guttural rasps would be cut off.
The veins in Braun's thick neck bulged, the muscles strained like taut rope. As Thatcher weakened he found himself staring at the man's eyes. They were pale blue. Yet unlike the rest of the killer's tense features, the eyes held an unnerving ease, a calm as he finalized his murderous task. Thatcher felt his strength slipping. The blue eyes turned gray. Everything turned gray. Then, suddenly, a breath.
His vision returned and Thatcher looked up just in time to see Braun heave the poker toward the door. An instant later a shot rang out. Braun scrambled to his feet and ran. Thatcher watched the man put a foot to the window sill in perfect stride and jump.
Thatcher struggled to his feet, holding his nearly crushed throat, gasping for air. Sargent Cole ran past him to the window. He carried a cracked shotgun, his free hand feeding a fresh shell into the smoking chamber. Thatcher reached his side just as Cole fired again from the second-floor window. He saw Braun swerve severely as a cloud of dust and gravel sprayed to his right.
"Shit!" Sargent Cole bellowed. "He's headed for the garage."
Thatcher staggered to the hallway, passing an oval buckshot hole in the plaster wall. He stumbled downstairs, past Lydia Cole, who was now being tended to by the butler. Outside, he paused at the front steps. Thatcher heard an engine being gunned from around the side of the house. He ran for his car.
Thatcher was halfway across the gravel parking area when he froze. A big black sedan flew into view, fishtailing to one side around the bend — when it straightened out, the car was headed right for him. With only an instant to decide, Thatcher dove left, pushing up and away with his good leg. He was airborne when the car hit his prosthesis, sending him spinning across the gravel. Stones tore at the exposed flesh on his hands and face. Thatcher scrambled up in a cloud of dust and kept moving toward his car. His limp was more pronounced than usual, the blow from the fender having dislodged his artificial leg. There was also pain in his good leg, but he could still move.
He got in the Army sedan and launched it up the driveway. Brauns car was no longer in sight, but a trail of dust led to the main road. There, Thatcher turned right — as far as he knew, it was the only way out of town. A mile later came the first intersection. Thatcher stopped. He looked left, right, and straight ahead. It was no use.
He slapped his bloody palm on the steering wheel. "Damn it all!"
Chapter 22
Braun drove wildly down the dirt road he'd scouted the day before. The back of the car slipped around corners and loose stones went flying through clouds of dust. On another day it might have been exhilarating.
All along Braun had known he was taking a tremendous risk by killing Edward. It was one thing to do it and not fall under suspicion by either the police or Sargent Cole. It was quite another to do it as a spy, a man with no identity.
And he thought he might have pulled it off. The police had questioned him thoroughly about Edward's "accident," but never asked for any kind of identification or military orders. As hoped, they'd simply relied on a powerful family's familiarity. Who would suspect Sargent Cole of harboring the last Nazi spy? Sargent himself had clearly been rattled by the tragedy, but so far his attention had fallen to comforting his daughter — not to accusing Braun.
All the same, Braun had stayed alert. He had been at the library window when the military sedan pulled up. He watched a lone officer in an unfamiliar uniform walk to the front portico. Alarm bells sounded in his head. He noticed that the man limped slightly, and when Evans answered the door, Braun heard the soldier introduce himself in a clipped British accent. Good morning.
I'm Major Michael Thatcher. I'm an investigator with the British Army… help me locate a man by the name of Alexander Brown.
The alarm screamed. Braun had rushed upstairs to collect his cash — and run straight into Lydia. She paused on seeing him, perched at the top of the stairs. Then Lydia had smiled. As always, so completely trusting and unaware. Silly girl. Braun had acted on instinct — a gentle shove was all it took. Then all hell had broken loose.
Now, as he drove, Braun wondered what had gone wrong. Had he been careless, perhaps slipping up on his accent? Had someone at Harrold House become suspicious? Or maybe the police had become curious about Edwards disappearance. Yet none of that fit a lone, gimpy British officer tracking to his door like a hound on a scent. For an instant Braun had considered staying, to talk to the man. But now he was sure he'd done the right thing by running. Major Michael Thatcher had to be something else. A new threat. Maybe the Allies had uncovered his mission. Maybe the bastard captain of U-801 had talked. But how had the man tracked him here?
The car burst into a clearing and Braun's objective came into sight. The questions would have to wait. He slowed as he approached the place, eyeing everything carefully, measuring it against what he had seen yesterday. Two small aircraft hangars were separated by a modest office that displayed a sign advertising Mitchells Flying Service. Behind the buildings was the long, freshly cut strip of grass that served as the runway. Braun pulled the car next to one of the hangars, cursing under his breath. All the doors were shut and the office was locked down tight. Old man Mitchell had not yet arrived for work.