Page 17 of The Number of Love
“How well do you know the game? The one he was playing?”
Margot squared her shoulders and forced herself to focus on Dot, and then on the path before them. “Fairly well. The officer who occupied our house in Brussels—Gottlieb—liked to play, and I was the only one around to play with him. I enjoyed it.” And had come to realize, through their daily games, that he wasn’t quite the monster she’d thought him at first. That a uniform didn’t make a man by nature a friend or an enemy.
But choice did. And for every ally, one could be mathematically certain that an enemy existed too. Gottlieb had turned out to be a friend, but a fellow Belgian had proven himself an enemy and had nearly gotten Willa killed when she came with Lukas to help Margot and Maman escape.
Gregory Westrom had been a friend. What of this newcomer, with his German game? What were the odds that he, too, was a friend?
Back on the street, Margot led the way to the redbrick house thatlooked very much like every other redbrick house in this section of the city. It was far nicer than the flat she and Maman shared, and Lukas and Willa had of course offered them rooms here. But they’d already been settled in the flat, and Lukas and Willa had been so newly married when they found this place. Still, she and Maman spent enough time here that Margot felt perfectly comfortable mounting the doorsteps, ringing the bell, and smiling at the housekeeper who opened the door for her. She stepped inside knowing exactly where to put her coat and how many steps it would take to find her favorite chair in the drawing room. She knew which boards squeaked and how the pipes rattled in the winter.
It wasn’t quite home, but it was close enough. And as she motioned Dot to follow her into the drawing room, she said a prayer that it would feel as comforting to her friend as it did to her.
Das Gespenst hunched over the game board and jerked his handkerchief out of his pocket with shaking fingers. He did his best to keep his cough muted, shallow. It had improved with his last brief venture to the Continent, after he’d been released from hospital. It would improve more, he hoped, with his next trip he’d been ordered to take.
But in the meantime, this dratted British damp. He detested England’s weather. Why couldn’t he have been stationed in Spain or North Africa or South America? His lungs wouldn’t be itching like this in those climates.
His gaze flicked again to the old woman with her yarn, then to the park exit through which the two young women had gone. He recognized them both. He’d seen them coming from the Old Admiralty Building on Friday, when he’d stationed himself on a bench near its doors, his back curved against the damp.
His superiors had assured him that it had been an oversight that his ship was torpedoed. They’d assured him that he was trusted, that he was an appreciated asset.
He wasn’t entirely certain he believed them. He’d utterly failedto make contact with the agent they’d sent him here to find, so they could have deemed it a failing worthy of termination. He’d have to prove himself anew. So he’d taken his new orders—to try to get his hands on British codebooks—as a challenge in which he couldnotfail.
Codebooks. They would be on every naval vessel, of course, with other officers and agents in the field. But they’d also be there, in the Old Admiralty Building, and those would be guaranteed to be up to date. That must be his target.
But how to penetrate the place? The more he studied it, the more impossible it seemed. He’d watched it for hours, looking for weaknesses, learning the routines of those who came and went. Memorizing each face.
From what he’d been able to glean, every woman who worked there had some connection to the Admiralty. They knew someone within, or someone important. Perhaps ... perhaps that could prove useful. He could find a secretary to give him access to the place—perhaps one of those two who had just left the park, or perhaps someone else. He’d do a bit of research, watch the building some more. Find the most likely mark. Someone capable of giving him the access he needed. It would be a shame to manipulate or threaten the wrong person and find it got him nowhere.
He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and let his fingers brush the handle of the blade he kept close whenever he was on solid ground. He’d not had it with him aboard theBoynton, for which he was grateful. He’d have hated to loseDer Vampir. When Father had given it to him—not to Heinrich, but tohim—he’d made him promise to take the best possible care of it. It had been in their family for generations, and the styling reminded him of his Bavarian home every time he looked at it.
He rubbed his thumb over the pommel and then covered it again with his coat.
“Sorry.” Yurei came up behind him, still coughing, though not as badly as he’d been ten minutes ago, when it had sent him inside for a drink to soothe it. He sat opposite him at the Go board.
Das Gespenst summoned a smile for his fellow specter. “Why don’t we go inside for our game? Out of this blasted damp?”
“You’ve read my mind.”
Grinning, he lifted the game from its table. With the help of a secretary from the Old Admiralty Building, he’d soon be reading more than Yurei’s mind—he’d be reading the Admiralty’s.
6
There were moments when Drake felt guilty for sitting at a bistro on a warm afternoon and ordering a meal. He knew all too well that he was eating far better here than he would be at home in London. Knew that he was eating far better, too, than the poor in Spain. He knew it, but he also knew that if hedidn’tmove about and act like the grandson of Francisco Mendoza de Haro, then he could well compromise all the work he was doing.
And today, he wasn’t dining alone. He certainly wouldn’t begrudge his superior a meal on Abuelo’s bill either.
“What do you recommend?” Thoroton studied the menu from his relaxed pose in his chair. He wore the pale linen suit of a Spaniard, but there was no disguising his British features. Even so, he got on well in the country. And should, as hard as he had worked to ingratiate himself.
Drake skimmed the menu, though he ate at this bistro at least once a week. His director had spoken in Spanish, so he followed suit. “I’m partial to the chorizo and rice.”
“That sounds good.”
They put in their order, both looking out at the pretty street of the Old Quarter while the waiter busied himself at a table nearby. In England right now, autumn had no doubt fully dislodged summer, and rain would be usurping the fair days. But here the sun beat downhot and golden, painting the cobblestones with heat that radiated back up to them at their outdoor table. Around them, chatter buzzed from the other tables, all filled.
It wouldn’t look odd for Drake to be entertaining an Englishman—he frequently did, whenever an acquaintance came into town. But more often than not, those acquaintances were other agents, serving with him under this one.
Thoroton reached into the satchel he’d brought with him and drew out a stack of envelopes with familiar script on the outside. His words switched to English. “Here’s your post, while I’m thinking of it.” As he slid the stack onto the table between them, Charles the Bold offered a lopsided grin. “I suppose it’ll be easier once Hall grants you permission to tell your sister where you really are. Then she can just write to you at your grandfather’s.”
Drake breathed a laugh and tucked the four envelopes into his jacket pocket. “I honestly can’t imagine letting Dot in on it. Unless you mind playing courier?”
