“Indeed, I did. Although ‘man’ may be too lofty a title for such a creature. Actually, Hitler came to greet me on the doorstep of the house where I was staying, and like a fool, I went to hand him my coat, mistaking him for the butler! Imagine that. It was very nearly a massive diplomatic incident, caused by yours truly!” he snickered.
The Earl of Halifax certainly was an elusive and complex figure. He viewed racism and nationalism as two natural forces that weren’t necessarily immoral in nature. When in service to His Majesty as the Viceroy of India, Wood had had all members of the Indian Congress arrested, and even threw Gandhi behind bars. While Wood was a bigot, an arch-conservative, and a staunch supporter of Chamberlain, he refused any level of compromise with the Third Reich, and even turned down the post of prime minister, contending that Churchill was a better choice to lead Britain through its darkest hour.
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private, if you’re interested,” Wood told the young man at the end of the meal. “Come to my office, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
A few days later, the ambassador greeted Robert in Washington and connected him with a friend working in the secret service.
By Christmas Eve, Robert was aboard a cargo ship set for distant lands, watching Baltimore’s twinkling lights fade into the distance.
The Lysander had been torn apart by a storm over Limousin, and now the pilot was barely able to maintain trajectory. With the propeller seriously damaged, it was a dangerous gamble to try and maintain altitude above the canopy of clouds. Yet dropping any lower would expose them to a whole host of other dangers. Agent Stanfield wasn’t faring much better than the plane. He clutched his harness so tightly his knuckles were white, and his stomach dropped every time they hit an air pocket. The leading edges of the wings were so battered, they seemed ready to tear at any moment. The pilot had no choice but to seek refuge at lower altitude, the outcome inevitable. The Lysander plummeted a thousand feet through the thick curtain of rain, the needle on the fuel gauge quivering frantically. Suddenly, the motor sputtered and died altogether just another thousand feet above the ground, leaving seconds to maneuver a crash-landing.
The pilot jerked the plane toward a flat strip of land near a patch of woods. The wheels first grazed the surface of the wet marsh, then took a nosedive straight into it. The propeller, still spinning, shattered as it hit the ground, and the plane’s tail was thrust up into the air. Robert felt himself being thrown forward, slamming hard in his seat as the plane flipped. He was the lucky one. The canopy over the cockpit was crushed flat on impact, killing the pilot instantly. Robert was miraculously unharmed, aside from a deep gash on his face and intense bruises from the harness. But he wasn’t safe yet. Upside down, Robert felt gas dripping onto him from the fuel tank below the seat.
He finally managed to fight his way out of the wreckage and crawled through the torrential downpour, barely making it to the small patch of woods before losing consciousness.
The next day, local villagers stumbled upon what was left of the Lysander. They buried the pilot, set the fuselage ablaze, and dispatched a search party to look for any survivors. They found Robert Stanfield unconscious at the foot of a tree. The young man was taken to a farm, where he could rest and receive medical care. A country doctor revived him and dressed his wounds. The following night, Robert was driven to a hunting lodge deep in the woods, a safe house that the Resistance used as a weapons cache. There, in a tunnel below the hunting lodge, of all places, was where Robert first met Sam Goldstein. He and his sixteen-year-old daughter had been hiding there for the past six months. Hanna Goldstein had red hair, fair skin, and piercing blue eyes with the hardened glint of a prizefighter’s—a young woman so stunning, she made time stand still.
17
GEORGE-HARRISON
October 2016, Eastern Townships, Quebec
I wrapped the chest of drawers in blankets and loaded it into my pickup, strapping it down so it would be safe for the trip. Magog is a picturesque little town just north of Lake Memphremagog, where everyone knows each other and life flows in rhythm with the seasons. The boon of summer tourism keeps the whole town afloat for the rest of the year. The lake tapers down to a narrow point, and the southern half extends across the border into the United States. In the heyday of Prohibition, ships carrying forbidden cargo would glide across those waters, protected by the night. Imagine that!
Pierre Tremblay was my most loyal customer, the owner of an antique store specializing in rustic furniture. If you know what you’re doing, there are plenty of ways to make furniture appear older than it is. A few strategically placed chisel marks here, some light blowtorch work there, a dash of the right acid and varnish in the right spots. You could add a hundred years in a day.