Death in Focus Read online

  “Yes,” the Brownshirt agreed. “Changed. Go back to your hotel and stay there. Right?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She was overwhelmed with relief, but she waited, holding her breath while he stepped back and allowed her to pass. Why did she feel afraid? She had done nothing wrong. In fact, she had done everything she could to prevent Scharnhorst’s death.

  Would she have done so if she had actually heard him speak first? It would have been harder. He was everything she not only loathed but feared. She could easily imagine hundreds of people who would secretly rejoice at his death. No, tens of thousands. Germany had had a bitterly hard time, but she believed that most people were basically decent, wanting only to live safely and with enough to eat and a roof over their heads, work to do and hope for the future. Like anybody else.

  As she walked quickly along the street, looking forward all the time, she remembered what it had been like in Berlin when her father was with the embassy. She had had German friends, lots of them.

  Many of them must still be in Berlin. But how had they fared in the years between then and now? A decade could make all the difference imaginable. When you were hungry, in pain, afraid of every new day, it was an eternity. What jobs could men and returned soldiers find to do in a ruined economy? And the women. Some of them would marry, many would not, because they couldn’t. As in England, the men they had loved were dead, or were shells of what they had been, and needed care more than the women. How do you live with a man who is crippled with shame because he cannot keep a roof over his family’s head, or enough fuel to take the edge off the coldness? How do you answer your children when they plead for food, and you have nothing to give them?

  She was still a couple of blocks from the hotel. She kept her head down, watching where she was going.

  She almost walked past the hotel, and only stopped when she saw the doorman helping someone with luggage.

  She nodded to him and went inside, glad to be there at last. She had kept her key, and had no need to stop at the desk to ask for it. She went to the elevator and had only a moment to wait.

  Entering her room, she saw that the bed had been made and everything was tidy. She put her bag and camera down and washed her hands and face, brushed her hair, then thought she would change into the other dress she had bought. It was a little lighter, and the day was very warm.

  She went to the wardrobe and opened the door. The other dress was hanging where she had put it, but there was something else, propped up in the corner at the back, like a broom handle. She had not noticed it before. She leaned forward and took hold of it. It was metal. She closed her grip around it and found it was heavy at the lower end. She pulled, and suddenly, with a tide of horror inside her, she knew what it was: a rifle!

  She looked at it more closely. It was unusual. Not an ordinary army rifle. No bayonet, or place to fix one, but sights so the shooter could be absolutely accurate, even at a distance. A sniper’s rifle. And the smell of it meant it had been recently fired.

  She stood transfixed with horror. Ian had been right! They were going to blame British Intelligence for it. Him! They had been going to blame Ian himself! This was the hotel he had been going to stay in, the room whose number he had given her. They had intended that he should come back and be caught with the weapon practically in his hands, still smelling of the shot fired.

  Which must mean that whoever was going to find and arrest him, or perhaps shoot him right here, would be coming now for her. Why not? A woman could fire a rifle as well as a man. It was a distant kind of kill, not needing any strength, nor really much courage. After all, believing you could escape made it easy.

  She put the rifle down as if it had burned her. Her fingerprints would be on it now, even if on the barrel, not the trigger. Still, it would prove she had touched it, and therefore knew it was there.

  She must wipe them off, now! And then leave. They would be coming any minute. What could she use? What removed fingerprints from metal? There was a soft towel in the bathroom. They might know that it had been wiped, but they could have no way of knowing by whom. Except, of course, that it was she who had occupied the room.

  She ran into the bathroom and seized the hand towel. It was old and well worn. Ideal. She took it straight back to the bedroom and wiped the barrel of the rifle where she had picked it up. She rubbed it hard, then when she was satisfied, covered her hand with the towel to put the rifle back in the wardrobe, hanging the dress she had worn in front of it, then washing out the towel.

  She heard footsteps in the passageway outside the door. Could they be here already? Stupid question! Of course they could! She had walked back from the square. They could certainly walk as quickly, at least.

  She glanced at the window. She was three stories up. She crossed the room and stared out, her heart beating so wildly her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly hope to climb down the drainpipe, even if it hadn’t been yards away. She had never been quite that athletic, nor had any need whatsoever to be. She was a rebel in many ways, but that all had to do with the mind. If she tried anything rash, she would not only run a serious risk of breaking her neck, but she would confirm her guilt. What sane and innocent woman climbs out of a third-floor hotel room because someone knocks on her door?

  But could she brazen it out, with that rifle in the wardrobe?

  There was a firm, loud knock. Her first instinct was to back away. Then she realized she would learn nothing that way. She stepped forward, took the key out of the lock, careful not to make a sound, then bent down to look through the keyhole. She could see nothing.

  Sweat gathered on her skin, clammy one minute, ice the next.

  She heard footsteps. What if the person outside also thought to look through the keyhole? And saw her staring back? She straightened up and silently replaced the key. Her whole body was shaking. She must think clearly!

  What if she went up, not down? Where would she end up? On the roof? Hardly. It was not flat. An attic fire escape? There must be one. Would it be from a room? No, one fire escape would serve several rooms, therefore was available through a window everyone could reach. Her heart was pounding. She could be caught, trapped, executed. No time to say goodbye to her family, to Lucas. Was there an afterlife, as the Bible said? Would Mike be waiting for her, or Ian? Or were those fairy tales to comfort frightened children facing the unknown, when really there was only darkness, eternal solitude?

  As soon as it was quiet outside she would have to go. She could hardly bring a case with clothes. Her handbag with her papers, money, and camera would be about all she could carry down a possibly rickety and seldom-used stair. If it was some kind of retracting ladder, perhaps it had never been used? It could even be eaten by rust! How far could she jump without breaking a leg?

  She gathered her things and went to the door, listening for any steps. She must compose herself. Stand upright. Smile. Walk as if she were going about some perfectly innocent activity. What, for heaven’s sake? Going up to the attic with her handbag in her hands!

  There was no sound in the corridor. Were they there, just waiting?

  She opened the door. She could see no one. She went out quickly and closed the door behind her. She stood up very straight and, carrying the bag as if it weighed nothing, walked quickly and silently along the corridor, toward the stairs that led up to the next floor.

  She met no one. The people on the ground floor would use the elevator.

  She went quickly up to the top floor. No one was there. Perhaps they were all in the dining room, or out. Which way would the fire escape be? Toward the back? Think clearly! No one puts a metal fire escape at the front of a building. They were always rather ugly, strictly utilitarian. But she had turned with the bend in the stairs. Or were there two bends? Which way was back now?

  She walked along one corridor, and ended up at a blank wall.

  She heard footsteps.
What possible explanation could she give for being up here? She should have thought of that before she left her room. How stupid!

  She had had nightmares like this: running to escape something terrible, always getting higher, farther, completely lost, the thing chasing her always coming a little closer.

  Only this was real. She had seen the Brownshirts: They were no fairy-tale monsters. She had looked into their faces and seen real people, frightened and angry, people who had the power of death in their hands, and an endless hunger for revenge on anyone they could find an excuse to hurt. They had to fight back at something. Prove they were alive.

  She turned around and faced the other way, just as a man came out of the elevator and started toward her. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, ordinary.

  She smiled at him and murmured in German, “Good morning, sir.” He said something in return. Please heaven, he thought she occupied one of the rooms just behind her. He must occupy one of them. Thank goodness there were two more.

  She turned the corner and increased her pace. This corridor was lighter. Was there a window at the end, around the slight elbow ahead? More important, did it have a fire escape? Once she was on it, it would be obvious that she was trying to get away. What woman wearing a dress would be on the fire escape, with a case, in the early afternoon? She should have just gone down to the lobby and gone out through the front door, like any sane person.

  She must stop dithering. There was no “good” choice. There was getting caught, or escaping.

  She turned the quasi-corner and saw the window ahead. It was about two and a half feet above the floor, easy enough to climb out of. If it did not open, she was prepared to smash it.

  She walked forward quickly, took hold of the ring-shaped handles, and heaved. After an instant’s hesitation, it opened upward and seemed to wedge there. The fire escape beyond was rusted, but looked firm enough. Anyway, there was no alternative now.

  What if they were waiting for her one floor down? Or two floors? Or at the bottom? She leaned out and looked, but she could see nobody. Far below, there was a shed with a slightly sloping roof, several cans for rubbish, some bins of coal and coke, and a concrete yard perhaps fifteen feet square.

  Then she heard heavy footsteps behind her. A man shouted.

  There was no time. She climbed through the window onto the fire escape, scratching her leg, slammed the window shut, and set off downward, clinging with one hand to the rusty railing.

  She was down one floor. She dared not look at the window to see if there was anyone waiting for her. She had nowhere else to go, even if there were.

  Third floor. Down again.

  Second floor. On down.

  Next floor and the shed roof. Was that all there was? From there you were supposed to jump? Perhaps if the building was on fire, you would be happy enough to do that?

  She heard a shout of anger from above her. The next moment there was a shot and a bullet whined past her and ricocheted off the tin roof only a few feet away. She scrambled across the corner of the roof onto the top of a trash can, and then onto the ground between the rubbish and the coke bins, sliding through as rapidly as she could.

  She heard another shot, but it was nowhere near her. They had lost sight of her, for a moment. But they knew where she was. She must get into the street as soon as she could, or she would be cornered here like a rat! And the very fact that she was running would brand her guilty. An innocent woman would have waited in the bedroom to be caught and questioned, and then what? Arrested, and maybe never seen again? Or more likely shot while attempting to escape the consequences of her terrible crime.

  She crossed the yard and, without even looking, went out into the alley. Which way would they search for her? In the quiet street at the back of the hotel, where they could corner her and shoot her without anyone knowing.

  If she went toward the busy street at the front, they might see her, but they would not shoot her in the crowd.

  For a moment her legs would not move. They would barely hold her up. She could imagine the bullet tearing into her. She could feel the weight of Ian’s body, see his face as if he had died only minutes ago instead of, what, yesterday? The day before?

  She put the bag’s handle over her shoulder and walked a little stiffly, as if she had no care, no fear, to the front street where the hotel lobby opened onto the pavement.

  She saw the Brownshirts milling outside almost immediately, and a small crowd gathered around, waiting for something to happen. The Brownshirts kept trying to shoo them away, but they only stepped back a yard or two. They were all curious to see what was going on, to witness the arrest of whoever had assassinated the Hyena.

  Elena turned, as if it was always what she had intended to do, and walked briskly away from the hotel toward…what? She had no idea where that route led, but any crowd would be good enough to get lost in, until she could be at least half a mile away. Then she needed to figure out where she was and find her way to the British Embassy. There, at least, she would be safe.

  Why on earth had Cordell failed to save Scharnhorst? Or had he not believed that MI6 would really be blamed? Well, he was wrong! Totally wrong! If whoever had shot Scharnhorst had not intended a British person to be blamed and hanged for it, why would they have left the rifle in her hotel room? And how would the Brownshirts have known so very quickly where to come for her?

  Then the understanding hit her like a wave of nausea. Maybe that was why she’d had no difficulty getting out of the square and to her hotel room? It all fit together. They meant to shoot her. They meant her to be blamed. And if they had stopped her and searched her before she got to the hotel, she would very definitely not have had the gun with her.

  For the moment, her chest was so tight she could barely breathe, full of not only fear, but rage as well. She must get to the embassy. As quickly as possible. She could not do anything at all if she did not survive!

  CHAPTER

  15

  It took Elena almost three-quarters of an hour to make her way through the choked streets full of frightened people, as she tried to avoid every group of Brownshirts she saw. She dared not look for any shortcuts; she must not find herself alone in an alley where, if she was cornered, she could be attacked, and no one would even see, let alone help her.

  Was that what it had come to? Was the veneer of sanity so fragile that a woman could be attacked in the street, beaten, even killed, if the men who did it were in uniform, and no one would dare stop them? Perhaps.

  She found herself following groups, families, any people who seemed to belong together, and trying to look as if she were one of them.

  She was no longer part of the establishment that she was used to. She was the enemy, the outsider everyone was looking for. It was only because word had not yet got around giving her description that no one had recognized her. How long would it be before they did? Before dark she would be run to the ground. The only place where she could be safe would be the embassy.

  She kept walking, her eyes on the pavement, looking at no one. Why had Cordell not been able to stop the assassination? Had they somehow got rid of him, too? Surely not! He was a senior British diplomat. That would be more than an unpleasant incident between Britain and Germany; it would be a warning to every country that had an embassy in Germany: Hitler’s government was made up of savages! And in return no German embassy would be safe anywhere, at least in the civilized world. Anyway, Hitler quite liked England, Elena’s father said. Germany and England were cousins—their royal families had been, quite literally.

  She was being ridiculous. Letting her imagination run away with her. It was terrible how fear could rob you of sense…and courage.

  The embassy was only a hundred yards ahead of her, but she could see now that it was surrounded by Brownshirts. They looked as if they were guarding it, for its safety, against some expected attack. But whateve
r its purpose, there was no way she could force herself through the guard and go in. They would demand identification. Of course they would. They ought to. And then when they saw her face, or even her general description, they would say she was a danger to the embassy. For the protection of the British officials, as guests here in Berlin, they would prevent her from entering.

  She froze for seconds, her mind in a storm of disintegrating plans and potential disasters. They knew she was British. They were waiting for her, hoping she might run here for safety, for help. She should have thought of that. She must go away now, as unobtrusively as possible, as if she, too, had been drawn here only as part of the crowd.

  She turned aside, trying to look as if they had merely blocked her path. Her mother was American. She should try the American Embassy. They would surely help her, even if only to contact the British and find her some way out. All embassies were the soil of the country they represented. The Germans would certainly not push their way into the U.S. Embassy. That would create an incident they most assuredly could not afford.

  No one seemed to notice her moving away. She kept her head down and carefully avoided catching anyone’s eye. She did not want to be remembered. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be so ordinary as to be virtually invisible.

  It was not far to the American Embassy and she walked as quickly as possible without seeming to run.

  Even before she reached the building, she could see Brownshirts on all the corners and gathering crowds in the street outside. There was really no better chance of getting in there without being stopped than there had been at the British Embassy. Could they have learned her name by now? Could they also know she had been traveling with Ian? The border police might remember her—they would have a record.