“Berger and Elaine?”
“No, not exactly Berger and Elaine. Just Berger. The river ran one way. Make sure you get your documents tomorrow, Miss Dobbs, and then you and Leon Donat get out of Munich as fast as you can. They still don’t know exactly what they have in Donat, so once he’s on the train, those Nazis will just count their money and have a big old party.”
“Money?”
“Yes, money. And for the record, your Leslie is no small fry in the British consulate, Miss Dobbs. He is a bigger fish, though he may swim at the bottom of the pond to stay out of the light. Don’t underestimate him—I learned everything I know about intelligence gathering from watching that man work. And I don’t doubt he could give you a list of my every move into the bargain—but I hope not this one.” He paused and came to his feet. “Now then, Miss Dobbs—I should say Fr?ulein Donat, sorry about that. Better use the right name, now I’m leaving. And don’t worry—no one will see me.”
Maisie stood up. “Be careful with your overconfidence, Mr. Scott. As one of my teachers once told me, a healthy spoonful of fear will keep you from harm.”
Scott laughed. “Fear? Oh, I am scared. Every day in this place, I know fear—but not just for my own safety. I’m scared for all our futures every time I see Herr Hitler pass in his motor car, or hear the messages he broadcasts to the people on the radio. I know fear for everyone when I see his brown-shirted henchmen on the streets, or those poisoned souls of the Gestapo strutting into a bar, pulling girls like Elaine Otterburn into their web—although with her it was a case of ‘Or so they think!’ And frankly, I cannot wait to go home. At least on the other side of the Atlantic I am on safer ground. The United States of America plans to keep its distance if the old country goes to war again. We lost too many boys the last time, over here.”
“And so did we, Mr. Scott—it’s why I’m here. But let’s not split hairs.”
Scott touched the brim of his hat, turned, and stepped without a sound to the door. A splinter of light from the corridor shone through into the room, and then he was gone.
Maisie stood for a moment, thinking of his words. I am on safer ground. “Or so you think, Mr. Scott,” she replied in a soft voice, as if he were standing next to her. “Or so you think.”
For several hours she sat alone in the dark by the window, the curtains opened just a few inches. She looked out at the street below in the still of the night, thinking of the many times past when she had taken up such a post, a vigil in the peppery darkness, looking back across time and wondering about the future. In the empty apartment in Toronto, after James’ death, sitting by the window, paralyzed in her grief, willing time itself to move backward so she could run to James and say, “No, please don’t. Don’t fly today . . . remember us.” In other places she had stationed herself by windows, looking out onto the world from a lair she had drawn around herself—in Darjeeling, in Gibraltar, in Madrid, and then, finally, in the small village near Spain’s Tajo River. So many nighttime hours looking out into darkness, as if the stars could map her route to safe harbor.