Patricia Potter (23 page)

It clouded his judgment, his efficiency. Hell, it affected everything. So did the need to protect her.

Just as he needed to protect his mother and brother.

Goddamn Canaris and his schemes.

Goddamn his own weakness.

He dressed and went downstairs to breakfast and to make arrangements to rent the motorboat again. After descending the steps, he paused at the door, looking out. It was gray and dismal, drizzling a little, but while the water would be choppy, he thought it would be navigable.

Meara would be caught inside the cottage with Peter and Tara, and again his mind splintered between what he wanted and what had to happen. He closed his eyes against the overwhelming need to see her, and opened them to reality. The dining room was full, full of the people who, if everything went according to plan, would soon be on their way to Germany tomorrow night.

If everything went according to plan!

He moved from table to table, speaking to the various members, reminding them of the party Saturday night. He had already ascertained who would not attend, and where their rooms were. They would be taken by separate squads of German marines. He hoped like hell that Cal Connor would be at his party as indicated. He didn’t like the idea of his fellow countrymen storming the Connor cottage. He was only too aware now of Meara’s stubborn determination. If he didn’t know anything else at this moment, he knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to Meara, not if he had to yield his life to prevent it. But if he was forced to intervene for some reason, he knew he had to do it in such a way that his family in Germany wouldn’t be affected.

He had reached the conclusion that if anything were to go wrong, he would have to arrange his own and Hans’s death. In the name of the Fatherland, he thought ironically. There could be no question of Michael’s loyalty or dedication, or his family would pay.

Sanders Evans was in the dining room, and Michael stopped briefly to greet him. Anything else would be suspect. But every moment was growing more and more difficult. He liked Sanders as much as he disliked Hans, and what did that say for a mission to which he was committed?

Sanders was as outwardly affable as ever, seemingly open while Michael knew that his job required that he be otherwise. Michael had wondered more than once what was behind the good-natured likability of the man. He was jealous of Sanders, the way he and Meara appeared so easy with each other, ridiculously so, he knew, but then everything going on inside him these days was intense. As someone who had tried to avoid feelings most of his life, he now didn’t know how to cope with what was happening. He felt like a machine whose internal workings had gone awry.

“I heard you went over to St. Simons,” Sanders said.

Were there no secrets on the island? Michael cursed silently to himself. He should have known, but then he should have known a lot of things.

“I’d heard about St. Simons, and the Cloister, but I should have paid more attention to the weather reports,” Michael replied wryly. “We were almost swamped several times.”

“So I heard,” Sanders replied. “Being a sailor must have helped.”

“Sometimes nothing helps,” Michael replied slowly. “It wasn’t a wise thing to do, especially with Meara along.”

Michael noticed that Sanders’s eyes, at least, agreed.

“I heard you talking about going over again. Mind a passenger? I would like to see St. Simons myself.”

The question was innocent enough, and Michael didn’t see a way of refusing. And he understood. There was nothing on Jekyll Island other than the club: no store, no other restaurant, no people other than the members and employees. If it had not been for Meara, Michael would probably be climbing the walls. “It will be rough,” he warned.

Sanders shrugged. “I’m a pretty fair sailor myself. My wife’s family had a boat. And I’m getting damned restless.”

Michael hesitated. “All right,” he said finally, trying to keep his voice matter of fact. “I have a few things I’d like to get. I’ll drop you at the wharf and meet you for lunch at the King and Prince Hotel.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll make arrangements for lunch. We’ll leave in an hour.”

“I won’t be interrupting anything?”

Michael looked up, surprised.

“Meara,” Sanders explained a bit awkwardly.

“No, she’s going to Good Friday services with the Connors.”

“Easter,” Sanders said. “It’s a little difficult to think of it this year.”

“Because of the war?”

Sanders nodded. “It’s going to be a long one. And mean.”

“All wars are mean. By definition.”

Sanders shook his head. “Germany and Japan are different kinds of enemies. The bombing of London showed that.”

What about the bombing of Berlin, Michael wanted to ask. But his eyes merely darkened. He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about his mother and brother trapped in the city.

“I’ll meet you in an hour. I’m going to take a walk before we go,” Michael said abruptly.

“In this weather?”

“Exercise,” Michael said. “Besides I like the rain. Always have.”

“There’s something lonely about rain,” Sanders said, a trace of sadness in his voice.

“Maybe that’s why I like it,” Michael said, surprised at his response. He hadn’t meant to encourage Sanders’s conversation, but something in him responded. Could it possibly be a need to explain, a need to be understood when it was all over? He dismissed the idea instantly. He had never felt the need to explain anything in his life.

Sanders’s suddenly sharp gaze caught his eyes, but it moved away quickly, leaving Michael with the impression of intimate communication. It was the last thing he wanted. The very last thing. Or was it?

Despite himself, Michael enjoyed the other man’s company on the bumpy ride over to the other island. They had pulled the canopy over the front seats, and the sound of soft rain hitting the canvas seemed to create a rare companionship. When they arrived at the St. Simons wharf, they separated. Michael waited until Sanders had disappeared into a store before he approached the wharf attendant and described his needs. The man nodded, said he had a small used motor he would sell. Michael entered a small shack and examined the motor thoroughly. He purchased it in cash, along with an empty gas container, a hose, and a canvas cover, and he asked that they be wrapped. Michael returned to the boat, storing the package in the back where it was unlikely to be seen. He then found another shop where he purchased a money belt said to be waterproof. He also bought a short length of rope.

He had two more stops to make: a clothing store where he purchased a lightweight jacket, a drugstore where he found several magazines. The latter two were only excuses, reasons for a shopping expedition. When he was through, it was twelve, time to meet Sanders, a chore he didn’t relish. He liked Sanders too much for his own good. For the good of either of them. In little more than thirty hours he would have to disable Sanders. Michael realized his face was probably as grim as he felt, and he saw Sanders’s puzzled expression. With considerable effort, Michael summoned up a smile.

“I envy you,” Sanders said finally as they were seated in the dining room of the King and Prince Hotel.

“Envy me?” For a moment Michael thought the man meant Meara, but the next words indicated he was wrong.

“Going back to sea. Where everything is clear. There’s the enemy and you.”

Apprehension ran through Michael. Was this another tact of Sanders? “And your war?” he said carefully. “Isn’t that clear too?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

It was one of Sanders’s classic nonstatements, and it did nothing to lessen the tightening of Michael’s stomach. But then he saw Sanders’s wry smile and realized with both discomfort and relief that Sanders was probably lonely.

He had sensed that these two weeks had not been the most pleasant for the other man. While Sanders was obviously comfortable with himself, the agent was, nonetheless, out of his element among people who had made an art of moneyed pleasure.

From the very beginning, from the first time they met, there had been a commonalty between them. Michael had not understood it then. He still didn’t. But it was there.

“You could always quit. And enlist.”

“I’ve thought about it, but…” Sanders shrugged, leaving the question unanswered.

“Where will you be going from here,” Michael asked. “Or was this really a vacation?”

Sanders looked nonplused. “It’s called that, but it’s not one I would have chosen.”

“What would you have chosen?”

Sanders’s face went blank. Three years ago, he would have said taking his wife and child to a beach. Now he didn’t want to see a beach again, had avoided the beaches on the island for that very reason. He didn’t think he could bear the ghosts.

Michael saw the flicker of pain in the other man’s eyes. He
was
lonely.

“I don’t know,” Sanders said finally, and Michael knew it was not an admission readily made.

The meal came, and the two men were silent, using the food to cover the sudden awkwardness. There was no more suspicion in Sanders Evans’s eyes. Conversely Michael wished there was.

The boat trip back to Jekyll was, thank the gods, rough enough that conversation was almost impossible. Michael dropped Sanders off at the dock, accepted his thanks with a nod that was a dismissal. He watched as Sanders left the dock, heading back to the clubhouse, before asking the attendant to fill the tank with more gasoline.

Michael restarted the boat, steering it slowly down Jekyll Creek. It was low tide now, and the mud along the banks readily visible. At high tide, the submarine could approach partially submerged, but the timing would be essential; the prisoners would have to be captured and on board within a short time frame. Any trouble at all could ruin the complete effort. Michael wasn’t at all sure that that wasn’t exactly what he wanted to happen.

He steered the motorboat slowly in the quiet but deep waters of the creek. He rounded the corner of the island into the sound, tracing the approach he had given the submarine. He would have to contact the sub again tonight, and Hans would make the final call tomorrow night. Michael would tell Hans the location of the radio tomorrow, but not before. It gave him a measure of control, and he was only too aware that he needed all the control he could get with the other man.

Michael finally found the landmark he was seeking. He had spied the small fishing boat days ago when he had explored the island in the little red bug. Some part of his mind had also filed away the certain configuration that guided him to the location from the water. The boat should be right above the bank.

He steered his own craft to the bank and killed the motor. He took off his shoes and socks, rolling his trouser legs high before climbing to the back of the boat and unwrapping the recently purchased motor. He siphoned some gas from the club boat into the gas container he had purchased and climbed out of the boat, taking the anchor rope with him and tying it to a tree. He then returned to the boat and took both the motor and gasoline into the woods. The fishing boat he had spied earlier was still there, old and rickety but, he judged, usable.

The bank was covered with palm fronds, and he made a small nest for his cache of motor and gas, and covered them with the thick green leaves, his hand lingering on top for a moment. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use them. But it was an escape route, and the sense of survival he apparently had been born with was insistent.

He shivered a little with the damp chill of the day. Or it could have been something else. He looked at his watch. Four in the afternoon. Tea would be served at the clubhouse. Perhaps Meara was there now.

But despite his discomfort, he knew he couldn’t return yet. Too much gas had been siphoned off. He would have to wait until the length of his ride justified the loss. Gas was systematically checked when anyone left or arrived, so no one would run out. He could hardly return within a half hour with nearly half a tank gone.

He leaned against a tree. His leg was beginning to ache again. His whole being seemed to ache. The closer the job came to fruition, the colder and emptier he felt. He had never known he had so many hidden chasms inside, places that Meara had filled with her laughter and her hope. He had not realized he’d had little or no hope himself, that he had been an onlooker of life but never a participant. Bitterly, Michael considered that he had been little more than a drone; even now part of him moved practically and mechanically on, while other parts, namely his heart and what honor he had, felt crushed. He had been arrogant before in feeling, no, knowing, he didn’t need anyone. It had come as a distinct shock to him that he did, and exactly how much he did.

But try as he might, he could think of few ways out. It was possible, of course, that the plan could work perfectly. If it did, no one would die, and no one left on the island would know of his involvement. Canaris had wanted to keep him “virgin,” in the event he could be of use again. The admiral did not want a file on a blond, blue-eyed German who spoke English perfectly and who would always have a limp. But Michael swore to himself he would never do it again. He would find some way to get his family out of Germany, and then he could defy Canaris. He cared little now about what happened to himself.