Amy couldn’t think of anything to say.
“And you?” he asked.
“I’m a German.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of Germans fighting for the U.S. of A.”
“Not real Germans.”
“Maybe.”
“And my father died in the first war.”
“Where?”
“Tannenberg.”
“It must be worse dying in a battle that your side’s won.”
“I doubt if he knew.”
“No, I meant for the relatives. Seems more of a waste somehow. Crazy, I know. Tannenberg was a fascinating battle…” He went on to discuss the merits of Ludendorff’s strategy, stirring the hash, completely oblivious to the fact that Amy might find the topic distressing.
She wasn’t even listening. He died rather than see the land drowned. She couldn’t understand a person feeling like that. She’d lived in big cities all her life. She looked at Joe, suddenly seeing him as a farm boy in city clothes. They shared a need for revenge if nothing else.
After supper they played checkers again, but this time she didn’t win a single game and there was no tap on her bedroom door. She lay in bed and tried to consciously relive the past, those dreadful nights in Berlin that now seemed so long ago. But the anger that had lain so long so close to the surface had either burrowed deeper or been eroded by time; she wasn’t sure which. Images of Effi kept interrupting her thoughts, images of her as a seven-year-old, happy, laughing, running through the Tiergarten with her socks around her ankles and one pigtail half-unraveled.
Forty miles up the valley, on the stroke of midnight, Kuznetsky called the number in Washington.
“Yes?” the voice asked.
“American Rose.”
“Melville says that train will do fine.”
He put back the receiver, walked along the corridor to tell the night clerk that he wanted an early call. Tomorrow — no, today — he would kill Joe Markham. Only what will be is a flower, what is crumbles into fragments.
By midmorning Joe was driving the Buick south toward Atlanta. He knew the road well, having spent two vacations visiting the old battlefields where Johnston had fought his brilliant rearguard campaign against the butcher Sherman. Kennesaw Mountain, Marietta, Peach Tree Creek — rolls of glory reflected in the road signs. Confederate flags still fluttered on flagstaffs in the gardens of suburban Atlanta.
He didn’t feel the slightest bit nervous or tense, which surprised him. This was by far the most dangerous part of the operation; it needed only one pair of unwelcome eyes to spot the surfacing U-boat and the FBI would be pouring into Georgia like Sherman’s army. But Rosa had said the spot was well-chosen, and she hadn’t been wrong yet. She was quite amazing, though about as human as a block of ice. He wondered how the man in New York had found her. Or had she found him? Not that it mattered.
Beyond Atlanta he followed Sherman’s route to the sea. He imagined the smouldering barns, the blazing fields, the women raped in the plantation mansions while the torches were laid. But he had to admit that militarily it had been a brilliant move. If Lee had shown such ruthlessness, things would have been different. Might have been, anyway.
The Buick purred onward. He loved driving, was proud of his skill behind the wheel. In his late teens he’d entered dirt-road car races as far away as Memphis and won quite a few of them. Trouble was, there were too many kids who didn’t care whether they lived or died, and though you could outlive them, they were hard to beat. He’d never been able to understand kids like that, kids who just ignored the odds.
Savannah lifted his spirits with its beautiful buildings. It was how a city should look. He stopped by the old harbour, checked his watch and odometer. Just over four hundred miles in under nine hours, and Rosa had been worried he’d be late! He had a doughnut and coffee in an empty diner and took to the road again. Another sixty miles.
At Richmond Hill he took out the map she’d marked and perched it on the dashboard. Turning off the main highway, he followed the route toward the coast, crossing the long trestle bridge that connected the mainland to Ossabaw Island. There was hardly anything on the road, and the island’s only town boasted few vehicles or people. The final stretch of road to the sea was hardly a road at all. The coastline was an unspoiled wilderness, heavily vegetated low cliffs and a rocky beach pummeled by the Atlantic waves.
He parked the Buick under the trees and took the signal lamp out of the trunk. The sun had almost set; there were four hours to wait. He clambered down the cliff and settled himself in a comfortable niche between two large rocks. Remembering the extra doughnut in his pocket, he devoured it with relish, the jelly oozing out over his fingers. Still feeling stiff after the day’s driving, he lifted himself out of the niche and went to wash his hands in a tidal pool. Leaning forward to splash his face, he caught a momentary glimpse of a shadow crossing the sky before the bullet exploded through his brain, knocking his body forward into its reflection.
Kuznetsky dragged Joe’s body out of the pool, across the rocks and up the bluff. Markham wasn’t heavy but it was still hard work. At the top he stopped to get his breath back, then pulled the body through the trees, past Markham’s car, and well into the woods. Then he returned for the car and brought it forward to the same spot. He got into the backseat and fired a single shot through the windshield above the steering wheel, hoisted Markham’s body into the front seat with the head pushed down on the wheel, resisting the temptation to close the staring eyes. After checking the car’s visibility from twenty yards away, he lightly camouflaged the chrome bumper with vegetation. He looked again and was satisfied. Anyone looking for it would find it, but it was unlikely to be found by accident.
It was quite dark now, and he had some difficulty in picking out the spot where he’d concealed his own car. He moved it out of the trees and onto the flattened area where the road reached the cliff. Judging by the empty bottles littering its perimeter, it was used as a picnic area.
He next eased the crate out of the backseat and carried it across to Markham’s car. There he jimmied it open and, using his weight, cracked one of the sides in half. It looked convincing enough — provided that Matson’s description of the uranium crates was accurate.
Clambering back down to the beach, he took up position in the niche Markham had found. It was a quarter past eight — three and a half hours still to go. He lit a Lucky Strike, leaned back against the rock, and inhaled deeply. He’d killed three men in America, two he’d never even spoken to, but his conscience remained untroubled. He supposed that most people would consider Duncarry and Lee innocent victims, but as far as he was concerned, innocence had vanished with mass newspapers and the radio. No one could claim innocence anymore. Except children and animals perhaps. Everyone else had been free to choose sides, consciously or not.
The evening star was sinking toward the ocean. He guessed it would be dawn in the Russian forest, wondered if Nadezhda was still faithful to him. The thought didn’t disturb him; if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.
He sat up suddenly, listening to the sound of an approaching car, then ran nimbly across the rocks to the base of the low cliff, watching the light from the car’s headlamps illuminating the air above the rim, and flattened himself against an outcrop.