“Huh. You don’t look nothin’ like one of Mrs. Von Stahl’s gentleman callers.”
Hess glanced at the black man and grunted, not sure what he was talking about. Hess had never seen an American negro before and he fought the urge to stare. The other man was past sixty and Hess had the overall impression of someone weathered by time and sun. Dorsey’s face and hands looked as brown and creased as old leather, his hair the texture of steel wool shot through with gray. Standing next to the black man, the Polish girl Petra appeared as pale and soft as bread dough.
“That’s some pistol you got there,” Dorsey said, edging toward the table, where Petra had set out a hot bowl of stew for him. He sat down across from Hess. “Never seen one like it before.”
“Mr. Dorsey, eat your stew,” Petra said.
The old man didn’t need to be told twice. He dug into his bowl with obvious relish and Hess did the same. He couldn’t help but wonder why he was eating in the kitchen with the servants instead of in the dining room he had glimpsed crossing through the house. It didn’t take any great stretch of the imagination to realize that Eva Von Stahl placed him in the same category as her servants. In the pecking order of things, she considered herself an officer while he was an enlisted man. And as a general rule, officers viewed enlisted men as expendable. He would have to keep that in mind.
Hess was just finishing his meal when he heard a knock that echoed through the house. He reached for the Luger again.
“I will see who it is,” Petra said.
Before she could get her apron off, they heard a man’s booming voice ringing in the hallway, followed by a woman’s laughter.
Dorsey and Petra exchanged a glance. “Mrs. Von Stahl done let him in herself,” Dorsey said. He chuckled. “Another gentleman caller.”
“Sounds like that Colonel Fleischmann,” Petra said, retying her apron.
“She must have a lot of boyfriends. What does Herr Von Stahl think of that?” Hess asked in his broken English.
“He was killed in the war,” Petra said with a tone of finality that discouraged Hess from asking details. “When you are finished eating I will make the bath ready for you.”
Hess pushed away from the table, then slipped the Luger back into his pocket. “All right,” he said.
Dorsey smacked his lips and put down his own spoon. “Mighty good as usual, Petra girl,” he said. “I got to put some gas in that car and then take it to be washed. Mrs. Von Stahl does like it shiny. But I swear, if I polish that ol’ car much more it’s goin’ to take the paint off.”
He went out, leaving Hess and Petra alone in the kitchen. Hess made no effort to continue the conversation. Once enough time had elapsed that he thought the old black man would be gone, he got up and went out the back door, returning in a few minutes with the suitcase.
Petra looked up from the stove, surprised that Hess had reappeared with luggage. Up until then, Petra had not been sure what to make of this German stranger who had arrived at their door. His eyes seemed to flash everywhere and take in everything, not in the way that came naturally for a newcomer, but in a more predatory fashion. This lean young man had the look of the wolf about him. Petra took a step back but Hess moved even closer, his eyes never leaving her face. She felt a whisper of fear then, the sort of tangible chill one gets from a draft when there’s a door left open somewhere.
Petra made an effort to reach for the suitcase. “Come, I will show you —”
“Don’t touch it!” he snapped.
“I only thought I would help,” she stammered. “You must be tired after your trip.”
“Can you be trusted, Petra?” Hess asked in an icy voice as his eyes seemed to bore right through her. He nodded at the suitcase on the floor. “I am wondering, would you look in there if I leave the suitcase in the kitchen while I have a bath?”
“No, of course not.”
Hess reached out as if to touch her face, but Petra flinched away from his fingertips.
“You Polish are too proud for a conquered people,” he said matter of factly.
“You Germans tricked us.” Petra sounded bitter. “We fought hard.”
Hess smiled. “I like my bath hot.”
Hess followed her through the house. Upstairs, he thought he could hear a man’s voice, but the sound was so faint that it might as well have been the drone of a wasp trapped for the season inside the house. The bathroom was large and so clean that the white tiles gleamed. All of the fixtures were old but the bathtub was an enormous claw foot affair. Petra set out towels and soap, then fiddled with the tap until a rush of hot water began to fill the tub. She left without giving him another glance as the air began to fill with steam.
Hess locked the door behind her, and then stripped down. He was looking forward to the bath; the last time he’d had one was in Germany. A dunking in the cold Atlantic as the U-boat went down didn’t count, in his book. The full-length mirror on the back of the door was so old that the silver backing was flaking away, making his reflection appear mottled. He thought his body looked pale and gaunt, but it was nothing a little sunshine and good food couldn’t restore.
A jagged scar on his torso remained where the Russian bullet had struck him and then a butcher of a surgeon had tried to repair the damage. It was said that for every man there was a bullet with his name on it. He sometimes thought that his bullet had already found him — but had failed to kill him. Hess tried not to be superstitious, but it was hard for a soldier not to believe in such things. In any case, he no longer feared being killed by a bullet.
He touched the ridge of scar tissue and all the cold of Russia seemed to rush right back into him. Hess shivered.
Then he settled into the hot water and began to plan what he would do next now that he was here in Washington.
Chapter 8
“You want anything?”
Eva watched as Colonel Carl Fleischmann slipped out of bed to pour himself a drink. It was so cold in her bedroom that he was instantly covered in goose bumps. She appraised his nude body as he crossed the room, floorboards popping under his heavy step. Fleischmann was a big man, over six feet tall. Naked, his skin pale and white, he could hardly be mistaken for an outdoorsman. But Eva noticed that his arms and shoulders were well-toned for a forty-something man who sat at a desk all day, mainly because he was a fanatic about doing fifty push-ups twice daily. He often did them in front of her — to show off as much as anything. For the colonel, exercise and vanity went hand in hand. Sometimes he had Eva lay on his back while he did push-ups. He could not do as many then, but he was still shockingly strong.
A rather unpleasant roll of flab gave him a rounded belly and then gathered steam at his love handles. Eva was surprised at the potbelly because from what she had seen, his diet consisted of alcohol and cigarettes. But like many things about the colonel, his excess flesh was deceptive. She knew he did twice as many sit-ups each day as he did push-ups, and beneath the flab his abdominal muscles were rock hard.
Properly dressed, Fleischmann did possess dark good looks, she reluctantly admitted to herself, almost like a Jewish Clark Gable. Dark hair and stormy eyes. The trouble was that he was well aware that he was handsome and it made him cruel toward women. Her eyes slipped lower, taking in his ivory buttocks and hairy legs. He was circumcised and his vaguely purple member, shrunken into its nest of pubic hair, resembled a hunk of cold, carved meat.
Eva had been about to say no to the drink, but then changed her mind. “Vodka,” she said. A drink always helped when she had to be with him.
Fleischmann brought the drinks and slid back under the covers. He handed her a glass, and then reached out to tweak one of her nipples. She winced at his cold touch.