Lucas did not care for the idea of peaches with ham, but he was well-mannered enough not to say so, and was pleasantly surprised to find the mixture totally excellent. He said so, to Katherine’s distinct pleasure.
With some skill, Josephine managed to keep the conversation away from politics until dessert, the best chocolate mousse Lucas could ever remember, and again he said so. Charles gave him a swift, rather critical glance, but both women knew Lucas well enough to be certain that he meant it.
Somehow or other the conversation slid to luxury, and then communism. Perhaps it was the chocolate. It did seem to be the ultimate indulgence, at least when served this way.
“I think communism is the greatest danger,” Charles said with some feeling. “In fact, there is no doubt of it.”
“Here?” Katherine said with surprise.
“Perhaps not. I think Herr Hitler and his people will stop it before it gets this far. And that is something to be thankful for. They’re pretty much barbarians.”
“Hitler’s men?” Josephine asked politely.
“No, Mother,” Charles said patiently. “The Communists! Hitler’s only doing what he has to. If you remember Germany after the war, instead of refusing to see it—really see it—you’d realize that he’s finally pulling the country together, getting people working again, and up off their knees and back to some self-respect. Everybody deserves that, German or anyone else. I said at the time that the treaty in 1918 was far too harsh, and would only create trouble for everyone later on. I have no satisfaction in being proved right. But no one would listen, at least no one with the power to change it.”
For once Lucas did not disagree, at least with the part about the harshness of the treaty. The subject of Hitler and the Communists was another matter, and better left alone.
He felt Josephine kick him fairly sharply under the table.
“Do you get any news from the embassy in Berlin?” Lucas asked, trying to keep both his voice and his face free from anything except mild interest.
“I am still in touch with Cordell,” Charles replied. “He’s a good man. Sees both sides of the picture, which can’t be said of all of them.”
“All of whom?” Lucas asked. “Diplomats in general, or in Berlin specifically?”
Charles’s smile was a little tight. “Of diplomats I know.” He was used to Lucas’s exactness and was getting caught by it fewer times of late.
Lucas smiled at him, hoping to ease the sudden tension. But this opinion of Cordell could not be ignored. It reaffirmed what Peter Howard had said.
“So, Cordell is pretty fair, looking at both sides?” he asked.
“Yes,” Charles replied. “He’s one of the few who can see where the real, long-lasting enemy is, if we don’t do something about it now. And the Communists are very good at misdirection. Look, Father, just keep out of things you know nothing about. I know you lean far more to the left than to the right, and you like Churchill, but you don’t know what’s at stake! If you listened to Cordell, you’d see what’s going on in Europe…”
Lucas drew in his breath, and let it out again. Charles had been a good ambassador, even at times an excellent one. He knew how to mediate in the most awkward situations, and often ones that mattered very much. Lucas had had occasion, professionally, to know more about him than Charles was aware.
And Charles had no idea of Lucas’s job then, or still, even if it was now unofficial.
No wonder Peter Howard was lonely. That was the pain Lucas had seen in his face. What did Pamela Howard know, or guess? Perhaps no more than that her husband’s mind was full of things he did not share with her.
Josephine had never asked. Was that because in some way she knew? He looked at her across the table. She smiled back, and he had no idea what she was thinking, only that she would
not ask him. And he was grateful for that.
CHAPTER
10
Elena sat on the train, still shaking with cold and staring out of the window into the night. She could see nothing beyond the dark glass. She could have been anywhere. She strained her eyes to make out the name of the station as the train slid in and stopped, but there were no signs in her line of sight.
Rain streaked the windows and blurred everything. It was a small place, with few lights. She thought she heard the doors open and close, but no one came into her compartment. Walter was sitting opposite her, but he seemed to be asleep. Why did anyone run trains for so few people? Probably so the passengers could pick up commuters in the morning. She envied them the sheer ordinariness of it, just for a moment. But perhaps they were tired and worried as well? France had suffered appallingly in the war. They would be no more recovered than England. Soon she would be going north again, toward Flanders and the battlefields whose names lay heavy on her heart: Verdun, Ypres, the Somme, the Marne, Passchendaele.
Did poppies grow there again, come July and August? Was that a reminder of life, and the infinite value of it? Or of death?
She watched the platform go by as the train started to move again, knowing that she must stay awake. At the next station they had to get off and find a train going north, into Germany, preferably to Berlin itself. They still had to buy tickets, and she had to reach the British Embassy by the end of the day. In fact, by the end of the afternoon, because she could give the message only to Cordell. Ian had specified it had to be Cordell. There was no time to stop at a hotel, have a hot bath, and change into something better than the crumpled dress she had on, indelibly stained with Ian’s blood.
He had died trying to prevent the assassination of this man Scharnhorst. The least she could do was stop sniveling in self-pity and get on with the job! Being tired, shaking with cold and stunned with grief, was unimportant. She could hear Mike’s voice in her head. Come on, kiddo! There’s a job to be done. You can’t let the side down. Soldiers probably had been cold, wet, and exhausted most of the time, and certainly overwhelmed with grief if they would allow themselves to be. Every day they had seen friends killed. Toward the end, the average life expectancy was about ten to fourteen days! What kind of a gutless woman was she to complain? She was alive and well, and she had a job to do.
Thank God Walter had stepped in to help her. Without him, would she have been any use at all?