“Oh, I don’t know. We knew each for only a few days. A long time ago. 1933.”
“Not a memorable year,” the other German said ironically.
Kuznetsky breathed an inner sigh of relief. That was before her recruitment; the German couldn’t know anything specific. But… if there was one complication they hadn’t needed, it was something like this. He wondered how she’d react. Coldly, he supposed. The death of a current lover hadn’t seemed to upset her that much, and eleven years was enough to kill off any emotion, certainly anything generated by a few days’ romance. If that’s what it had been. And what else could it have been? He pulled the car off the highway and drew up outside a diner.
“Lunch,” he said calmly.
Nine
Amy spent the morning trying to read, and constantly found her mind wandering off in other directions. The tension in her body seemed to grow by the minute, and she doubted if the endless cups of coffee were helping. She felt like a real drink, but Joe had decided against bringing any.
She crushed out her cigarette, retrieved one of the tommy guns from their hiding place, and walked west along the lee side of the ridge. Under the trees it was cool, and even on the stretches of open ground the breeze made the heat bearable, even pleasant. She passed above the pool feeling no communion with the woman who had lain there two days before. Her body today felt like an alien attachment, just a means of transport for her mind.
After she’d walked a mile from the road, she unslung the gun from her shoulder, took aim at a line of hickory trees, and fired a short burst. The gun was a good one; the action was smooth, the recoil minimal, and it was not as loud as she’d expected. Her marksmanship was good too; she’d always been an excellent shot. Three of the trees had been hit, and at an even height. If there turned out to be a need for her to use the gun, there’d be no problem.
She walked back to the cabin slowly, feeling more relaxed than she had. A few more hours and they’d be here. Two German officers, two of her fellow countrymen. She hoped they’d be SS, real Nazis.
The afternoon dragged. She lit the stove, mixed a stew from an assortment of cans, and left it to simmer. Then she sat by the window, staring at the forested ridges receding into the haze. This is it, she told herself, the moment of commitment. From today there would be no turning back, no more choices. The thought comforted her. No more choices. And no more deception. The debt would be paid in full.
The light had begun to fade when she heard the approaching car. She walked out front, shielding her eyes from the glare of the setting sun. Her first concern was the driver, and she felt immediate relief on seeing Kuznetsky’s profile behind the wheel. The German in the front got out, then the one in the back, and her heart did a somersault. Eighty million Germans to choose from and they’d sent him.
Her heart thumped, her mind whirled. She had just a few seconds to change her story — he would never believe she was a simple German patriot. With an enormous effort, she propelled her legs forward out of the shadow to greet them.
“Hello, Paul,” she said quietly.
“It is you,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Eleven years,” she said automatically, suddenly conscious of the expression on Kuznetsky’s face. He knew, was hanging back, waiting for her cue. Oh God. “Let’s get inside,” she said cheerfully, turning back toward the door. “There’s some food almost ready,” she called back, disappearing into the kitchen and praying that he wouldn’t follow. He didn’t. She heard Kuznetsky showing them their rooms.
The shock was wearing off slowly, ever so slowly. After all, the number of Germans of his age with the necessary experience of America was bound to be limited — it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. And she’d been anti-American even when she knew him. That would have to do: patriotism and anti-Americanism outweighing her hatred of the Nazis. It was thin, but what reason would he have to doubt it? She was here. Eleven years was a long time; she could have changed. She had changed, if not in that direction.
What would Kuznetsky be thinking? First Richard, now this. Hearing footsteps, she turned, thinking it was him, but it was the other German. “Gerd Breitner,” he said, offering his hand. “We weren’t introduced.” They shook hands, and he ambled over to inspect the stew on the stove. “Smells good,” he said. “Anything would smell good after four weeks in a U-boat. Rather a surprise, yes?” he added.
She knew what he meant. “Yes, it is.”
He looked at her with a steady, not unfriendly gaze. “For a moment I thought Paul had seen a ghost.”
She returned his gaze. “We were close once. Things got in the way. I never thought I’d see him again, and I suppose he thought the same. But,” she continued, turning away to stir the pot, “it won’t make any difference to the operation. It was all a long time ago.”
“Eleven years,” he muttered.
The four of them ate at the trestle table. The two Germans talked incessantly to each other, Kuznetsky said nothing, and Amy concentrated on feeding a nonexistent appetite. As soon as they were finished she cleared the dishes away and disappeared into the kitchen, refusing any assistance.
She returned to find Kuznetsky placing a large map across the table. He went through the plan, first running through the intended chain of events, then the emergency procedures devised to cover conceivable failures. He showed the Germans the photographs of the train and Coon Creek Valley, produced a diagram he’d drawn of the attack itself. Tomorrow they would see the valley for themselves.
“There can be no survivors,” he said impassively. “The train will be missed at Huntsville, that’s one hour. They won’t be able to contact Scottsboro or Bridgeport, that’s another. If they start looking immediately, they could find it in one more. That’s three hours. By that time we won’t be a third of the way to the coast, and if anyone’s alive to identify us or the vehicles, we’ll never reach it.” He looked at the two Germans.
“Agreed,” Gerd said grimly.
Paul said nothing, but gave an infinitesimal nod.
“Delivery,” Kuznetsky continued. “Rosa — Amy — and I will take the crates in the camper. A woman will arouse less suspicion, and as an American I’m the best qualified to deal with any unforeseen trouble. You two will take the car. We’ll take different routes” — he indicated them on the map — “and meet at Ossabaw Island the following evening.”
“So we’re just here for the shooting,” Gerd said.
“You’re here as soldiers. Any suggestions?”
“No, it seems tight enough.”
“Are you coming back with us?” Paul asked, not looking at Amy. “We weren’t told, and neither was the U-boat captain.”
“Not unless something goes wrong. We plan to be back here next morning, continuing our vacation,” Kuznetsky said, treating them to a rare smile.
Paul turned to find Amy looking at him. He held her gaze for a second. She broke the contact, saying she’d make some more coffee. He watched her carry the bucket out to the well, thought of following and decided not to. Since seeing her, since hearing in the car that it might be her, he’d been experiencing an apparently inexhaustible variety of emotions. She was as beautiful as ever, he thought, but harder, much harder, at least on the surface. Yet she didn’t want to look him in the eye.
He wanted to tell her about the letters, but this obviously wasn’t the time. There probably never would be a good time. The past was better left as it was. They’d both changed, and though he knew it was unjustified, he couldn’t help feeling a deep resentment. He wished she’d been anyone else, leaving his memories intact, unsullied.