Page 61 of The Number of Love
Eventually she would have come. But he wouldn’t complain thateventuallywasnow.
Gliding over the meters without a sound, he remained, as always, on alert. But no one else watched or walked or waited here. It was just him and the board and the slip of fluttering white.
He plucked the paper out even as he took in her move. Then he glanced down at the sheet, and his lips twitched. She hadkiai—fighting spirit. It would serve her well in Go, if she had the skill to match it. And their first game had indicated that she did.
But that wasn’t what he’d really needed to know. What he’d needed to know was if she had kiai in life. And her note proved she did far more adeptly than one move possibly could on the game board.
She would prove an interesting enemy.
After another glance around, he tucked the paper into his pocket, swept the black and white stones into their pouches, and packed up the game. He pursed his lips.
Enemywasn’t the right word for Margot De Wilde.Adversary. That was it. Oropponent, perhaps.Enemyimplied hatred, and he had no such feelings for the Belgian girl. No, hatred was too powerful a force to spread out to just anyone on the wrong side of this war. He would reserve his for those who truly deserved it.
Though night and distance shrouded it from his sight, Das Gespenst turned to face the Admiralty’s Old Building. He had an enemy. But it wasn’t Margot De Wilde. She would be a fine conduit, though, to the one who was. She kept odd hours, the same as some of the men. None of the other secretaries did. She must be trusted indeed, if her hours had to match her boss’s. Valuable to them.
Perfect for him.
Tucking the board under his arm and clearing a tickle from his throat, he put a foot on the path that would take him out of thepark. A whistle came from his lips once he gained the street—just an average Englishman, making his way home. That’s all he was.
No one looked twice at him as he moved to his building. He drew the key from his pocket, paused for a moment to collect the post from the little box that saidJohn Williams, and flipped through it as he jogged up the stairs. Just an average Englishman going home for the night.
19
Drake squeezed his eyes closed for a minute, leaning back his head and stretching a bit. He’d been reading for hours, and both eyes and side demanded a break from it. But he still had a mountain of files to read through.
How the devil did Hall compile so much data? They read every single letter that left England by post. Every telegram that was sent wirelessly was intercepted—which was pretty much every telegram that had to leave its own country, given that cutting the underwater wires had been the first move when war was declared back in 1914. Agents all over the world were reporting once a week.
An answer to every question seemed to be at Hall’s fingertips. The problem, of course, was finding said answer among so much chaff. The sheer volume of information ... well, Drake had no idea how many people were currently employed as he was, doing nothing but reading over it all. But even if it were hundreds, they weren’t likely to get through it in any kind of reasonable time.
He rubbed at his neck and then pushed himself to his feet. Time for a turn around the flat. Get the blood flowing again and convince his muscles to strengthen. It took him a long moment to straighten and stand, but it was faster than he could do it last week. He was improving. If he didn’t have any setbacks, he might even be able to join his sister at church on Sunday.
His steps were slow and measured, but his mind sped quicklyenough to make up for his physical shuffle. He’d flagged a few items to send back to the admiral—the bits relevant to the questions for which he’d been tasked with finding answers. He’d made a list of any other details that seemed as though they could be important to someone else, though they weren’t relevant to his tasks. He’d put a considerable dent in the considerable pile of papers.
He passed by the window and looked out as he walked by. Frowned. The same man had been standing on the corner there, leaning into the doorway of a shop, since his last turn about the flat an hour ago. Or was back, perhaps. But still. It was odd. Drake paused a moment and looked down.
The chap wore a hat that obscured his face from this angle and a grey overcoat that looked like countless other grey overcoats out on the street. Perhaps it wasn’t the same man, just another in a similar jacket, in a similar position.
But no. The fellow was rather tall, taller than the other chaps who strode by. It made him stand out. And it wasn’t just asimilarposition. It was thesameposition. Drake had been well trained in noting such little anomalies that set one man apart from the rest. This fellow had chosen the doorway of a shop that was closed, and he had a newspaper raised in front of him to the exact level it had been an hour ago. And his head was at an angle Drake knew well—the one he himself had employed on the train, whenhewas the one hiding behind newsprint.
His pulse kicked up, even as his logic tamped it down. It could be anyone. There for any reason. Maybe it was just some bloke waiting for somebody. Innocent. Or even not-so-innocent, but of no relevance tohim. He could be a detective, hired by a wife to track a straying husband. A police officer undercover, looking for a suspect. A man ducking out of work and not wanting to be spotted.
It could be Jaeger.
Drake’s nostrils flared, and he stepped closer to the window. He couldn’t tell from up here if that thought had any evidence to support it or not. He’d never gotten a good measure on Jaeger’s height to know if it matched this tall chap’s, and he couldn’t see this man’s face.
Look up, he willed the figure.Let me see you.
He waited for one minute. Two. The man shifted a few times, but his face remained concealed under the brim of his hat and behind the paper. Though at one point he turned it to the side, revealing his hair.
Dark—darker than Jaeger’s. And longer.
He breathed more easily. There were ways to change hair color, yes. But it wouldn’t have had time to grow that much.
Drake shook himself and turned from the window. He was just stir-crazy. He’d been laid up and kept inside for over two weeks, and his brain was simply fabricating some adventure for him. That was all. It made him jump at shadows—not out of fear but out of boredom. He meandered the room for another few minutes, deliberatelynotlooking out the window.
The phone jangled. He was only a few steps from it, so he could actually reach it before it stopped. He picked it up after the second ring and didn’t even sound too breathless when he said, “Hello, Elton residence.”
Silence stretched. His shoulders went tense. Then, “Is thisDrakeElton?”
