The Deadly Embrace (27 page)

The song went on for a long time before the orchestra effortlessly segued into “We’ll Meet Again.” Nicholas began to hum along to it as they danced. Liza looked up into his scarred face. She had never seen such sadness in a man’s eyes. The song came to an end. This time he didn’t release her.

“Perhaps I’ve had too much champagne,” she said, “but I don’t want this to end.”

“It isn’t the champagne,” he said. “At least not for me.”

The next song began, and they were dancing again, his arms still snugly around her. Liza found herself daydreaming about the future, about whether Nicholas might be the man she would spend her life with, and what that life would be like. It couldn’t be living here, she quickly decided. A storybook castle was not for her. She wondered whether he might consider living in New York.

A moment later, she realized how ridiculous the whole idea was. Nicholas Ainsley was a lord of the English realm who would soon inherit one of the greatest estates in England. She would be returning to the States as soon as the war was over, to become a doctor. She smiled, trying to imagine them living together in Brooklyn Heights. But this would be a good memory, just the same.

“Would you like to take some fresh air on the terrace?” asked Nicholas.

“Very much,” she said.

They went outside through the blackout curtains that cloaked the great hall, and walked across the flagstone terrace that faced the formal gardens. A tiny fringe of light was leaking past the curtains that led back into the library. Spaced along the edge of the terrace were large bronze urns full of yellow daffodils. She smelled the peppery scent of them.

“At least it’s not raining for the moment,” said Nicholas. “You must find our English weather abominable.”

“Perhaps tomorrow will be better,” she said.

“It’s supposed to be miserable all weekend,” he replied. “Good sleeping weather.”

He had moved very close. She knew he was about to kiss her.

An angry voice bellowed through the blackout curtains covering the open library doors. “Greece was almost as big a fuckup as Gallipoli. Winston has the Balkans on the brain. I just wish he would listen to Georgie Patton. This war would be over in two months.”

Liza recognized the voice. It belonged to General Everett Kilgore.

“That fellow sounds rather bellicose,” said Nicholas, their romantic moment spoiled.

Liza debated whether to tell him that General Kilgore’s principal contribution to the war effort consisted of fixing things for the top American brass.

From the library, an English voice responded very dryly, “I gather that Ike doesn’t listen to George anymore. Field Marshal Montgomery has his ear these days, I believe.”

“Montgomery,” snarled Kilgore. “That sanctimonious prig … I’m told he set fire to one of his classmates at boarding school. If Georgie hadn’t bailed him out in Sicily, he would still be stalled on the road to Messina. The goddamn faggot carries a baton!”

“I detest bellicose patriotism,” said Nicholas, heading for the curtains covering the French doors.

“Now, wait just a minute, General,” Liza heard the English voice come back. “You had better apologize for that remark, or we can head outside right now.”

Following Nicholas, Liza reached the doors in time to see General Kilgore lurching to his feet from an easy chair near the fire. Lord Ismay was directly opposite him, angrily waving his finger in his face. The plump blonde woman who had been sitting next to Kilgore at dinner was perched on the arm of his overstuffed chair.

As General Kilgore angrily drew his arm back to knock away Ismay’s offending finger, the point of his elbow struck the young woman hard on her chin, sending her flying over the arm of the chair.

Like a scalded cat, she came up on her feet with explosive fury, and belted Kilgore in the head with her heavy alligator purse. The sharp edge of it opened a cut over his right eye.

“You goddamn bastard. I’ve taken all I’m going to take from you,” she screamed, following up the short tirade with a colorful stream of American obscenities.

Kilgore’s face was full of murderous rage as he pivoted drunkenly to go after her. He was raising his fist to strike the young woman when two other American officers grabbed the general from behind and dragged him away. Still watching from the doorway, Nicholas and Liza glanced quickly at one another, and burst out laughing at the same time.

“The second front appears to have finally been launched,” he said through their helpless laughter.

From inside the great hall, the orchestra began to play “Auld Lang Syne.” It was apparently the signal that the dance would soon come to an end. Within a few moments, the three hundred revelers were all singing the familiar words together. As Liza came back into the hall on Nicholas’s arm, she saw tears on many of the faces.

They have been fighting Germany for almost five years, she realized. For two of those years, England had fought Germany alone, losing sons, husbands, brothers. Whole families had been wiped out in the blitz. As soon as the old dirge ended, the orchestra struck up “God Save the King,” bringing the more sober guests to attention

“God save the King,” they shouted lustily as it came to an end.

There was a long silence after the orchestra finished playing. From the corner of her eye, Liza saw a group of young men surging madly out of the hall toward the terrace.

“Form a battle line!” one of them screamed, as if the Germans had suddenly invaded the castle grounds.

A moment later, Liza realized that the man was Charlie. As she watched, two of his friends raised him onto the shoulders of another giant, and he gleefully pitched forward toward another mounted adversary. As they came together, Charlie and the other man began grappling with one another while roaring like young lions.

“The sporting events you talked about?” said Liza, chuckling as someone else shouted, “Let the games begin!”

Nicholas nodded.

“The first of many that will go on most of the night, I’m afraid,” he said as Charlie tumbled off his mount’s shoulders and disappeared into the melee.

As she turned away, Liza thought she recognized someone else standing at the far edge of the terrace. He was smoking a cigarette, and watching the proceedings with obvious disgust.

“Isn’t that your friend Mr. Sullivan?” she asked Nicholas, pointing in his direction.

“Yes, it is,” he said immediately. “I wonder where old Des has come from.”

When Sullivan looked up and saw Liza staring at him, he dropped his cigarette and disappeared into the darkness.

“We could always adjourn to one of the drawing rooms, you know,” said Nicholas. “It would be a lot quieter.”

“I’m actually quite tired,” she said, truthfully. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Nicholas.”

“Not quite the ending I had planned,” he said with a rueful grin.

“It has been wonderful … truly,” she said.

“How about a tour of the establishment tomorrow?” he asked.

“I would really like that,” she said, leaning up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

CHAPTER 25

G
eneral Ernest Manigault stormed out of the penthouse suite, his brow furrowed with frustration. Angrily punching the elevator button, he waited impatiently for the brass-railed car to descend five floors to the lobby.

Stalking out of the elevator, he saw Sam Taggart calmly reading a morning newspaper next to one of the potted palms. Manigault’s bodyguard was asleep on the chair next to him. The general glanced up at the clock over the front desk. It was four-thirty in the morning.

“Bad night?” asked Taggart, standing up to greet him.

“The worst,” he snarled. “I lost eight hundred bucks…. Toohey Spaatz took us all over the hurdles. He must have won four grand.”

“Rough,” said Taggart, shaking the bodyguard awake.

“Anything hot on the threat board?” asked Manigault as they went through the lobby of the Savoy and out into the predawn darkness. His Humber Imperial was parked in the entrance circle, and the doorman rushed ahead to open the back door for him. He climbed inside, making room for Sam on the rear seat.

“Nothing new,” said Taggart. “We’re all set for Montgomery’s planning conference this morning at Saint Paul’s. I’ve made sure the security is as tight as can be. Several of the three-stars have complained about not being able to bring their cars closer to the school.”

“Hell, don’t they know the goddamn King of England is going to be there, along with Churchill? This is where everybody gets their marching orders.”

“Field Marshal Montgomery has officially requested that everyone be in their chairs at 0900, double-sharp-his words,” said Taggart.

The furrow in Manigault’s brow grew deeper.

“Can you believe that Chief Big Wind is actually convening the invasion planning conference at his old prep school? It would be like my inviting President Roosevelt to Beverly Hills High School to launch the invasion of Japan.”

“I gather he has his quirks,” said Taggart.

“Quirks? That’s putting it mildly,” said Manigault. “Bobby … raise that screen, will you?”

The driver pushed a button on the dashboard, raising the thick glass screen that separated the front seat from the back compartment.

“You were with Ike this week, so you know the score. Two weeks and counting.”

“Yes, sir,” said Taggart.

Taggart had arranged security for one of the supreme commander’s inspection tours to combat units that were landing on Omaha Beach, including V Corps at Taunton, the Fourth Division at Tiverton, and the Twenty-ninth at Tavistock.

Taggart had returned with unbridled respect for Eisenhower, who was smoking three packs of Camels a day and drinking endless cups of coffee to keep going under the pressure. While riding in the back of the staff car, the general sagged in his seat like a worn-out old man, nervously dragging on a cigarette as his eyes darted through the battle orders for each unit he was about to visit. But as soon as they arrived at a military installation, he would bound out of the car like an eager halfback. After completing a full inspection, he would always save a measure of energy for meeting the ordinary soldiers.

“Good luck and Godspeed to you,” he would say after looking each one of them in the eye, seemingly brimming with confidence. As soon as he was back in the car, he would crumple into the rear seat, his hands visibly shaking as he picked up the next set of battle orders.

Manigault’s Humber pulled up at the small mansion facing Hyde Park that he had requisitioned for his personal quarters. The general motioned the driver to pull over and park.

“Leigh-Mallory claims we’re going to lose three-fourths of the airborne force in the first twenty-four hours,” Manigault said to Taggart. “This thing could be an unmitigated disaster if it doesn’t break right for us on the invasion beaches. And we learned last night, through a new ULTRA intercept, that the Jap ambassador to Germany, a guy named Oshima, just reported back to Tojo that Germany is about to launch unmanned long-range rockets at London. We still don’t know what’s in those payloads. It could be just blasting explosive, but at this point Hitler might be desperate enough to use poison gas.”

“Someone must have already passed the word about that,” said Taggart. “The Whitehall people are streaming out of London again.”

“This place is a sieve, Sam. You once said it would be a miracle if the Germans didn’t learn what we’re doing, and I’m beginning to think you’re right,” said Manigault, opening the back door. “Look, I’m going to have a shower and grab a clean uniform. Take the car, and I’ll see you at the conference hall in a few hours.”

Fifteen minutes later, Taggart arrived at Saint Paul’s. Montgomery’s boyhood school looked like it had been designed by the same people who had built Buckingham Palace, with cavernous rooms, thirty-foot ceilings, and high mullioned windows. Everywhere Taggart looked there seemed to be a bronze plaque in memory of some famous alumnus, such as Samuel Pepys or Thomas Becket.

As he walked down a dark corridor to the student assembly hall, Taggart watched a three-star American general kneeling down to take a drink of water from a porcelain fountain that had obviously been designed for a ten-year-old. It’s going to be a long day, Taggart concluded.

Field Marshal Montgomery had personally made all the logistical arrangements. On the floor of the stage in the assembly hall was a massive scale model of the Normandy landing beaches, as well as all the known German strong points, their long-range artillery positions, and their secondary defensive strongholds beyond the assault beaches. A gigantic relief map of the Normandy coast rose up from another platform behind the stage. Facing the maps and models were all the lower-level British, American, and Canadian generals. They sat in a semicircle of tiered platforms that had been constructed by British Army engineers.

At 0845, a procession of the senior commanders entered the lecture hall, led by Field Marshal Montgomery and Lieutenant General Omar Bradley. They took their seats in the first tier of chairs surrounding the mock-ups. Ten minutes later, they all stood as King George VI entered the hall, accompanied by Prime Minister Churchill. Sam Taggart was standing behind Manigault when General George Patton slipped through one of the rear doors and sidled up to them.

“I just shook hands with the King of England, Ernie,” Patton whispered in his thin, high-pitched voice.

Manigault nodded, and whispered back, “What did he say?”

“The poor little fellow was trying so hard not to stammer that he couldn’t get any words out,” whispered Patton. “I’d say he’s one grade above moron. Hey … do you know what they call the graduates of this institution?”

Manigault shook his head.

“Paulines,” said Patton with a grimace. Taggart could not conceal his grin.

At precisely 0900, Field Marshal Montgomery rose from his chair, took several steps forward, and clapped his bony hands together. The buzz of conversation immediately stopped.

“Welcome to Saint Paul’s School, gentlemen,” he announced. “Before we start, you should know that I do not tollowate smoking at my confowences.”