His Majesty's Hope(32)

As Maggie began a row of stockinet stitch, she was approached by two police officers. “Good morning, gnädiges Fräulein,” said the taller one, sporting a thick white mustache. He was older, too old for the army most likely, as was his shorter and leaner partner.

“Good morning, officers,” Maggie said brightly, slipping the knitting back into her handbag. She’d hoped that, as a woman, she would pass through Berlin unobtrusively. Apparently not.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Hannover Hauptbahnhof,” Maggie answered, forcing herself to smile.

“And what are you doing in Berlin?”

A few people stopped and watched her being questioned. There was too much attention on her. Maggie’s heart began to beat faster. “I’m meeting a friend.”

“A friend?”

She felt light-headed. The fluorescent overhead lights suddenly seemed blinding and the wooden bench beneath her very hard. Well, here goes nothing. “A special friend.” Maggie tried her best to look coquettish.

The two officers exchanged a look. “And what do you have in your suitcase?”

If they opened her suitcase, they would find both the crystals and the transmitting device. Some instinct, raw, primal, and strong, took over.

“Explosives!” She cocked her head to one side, batted her eyelashes, and gave them a sparkling smile.

The two officers looked at her, then at each other for a long moment. And then they began to laugh. They laughed loudly, and so heartily that even some of the onlookers began to smile and chuckle, before turning to go about their business once again. The tension dissipated—crisis averted.

“Well, just make sure the timer’s working, gnädiges Fräulein,” the taller one said, slapping his partner’s back.

“Have a good visit in Berlin,” added the other, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief. “He’s a lucky fellow, your young man is.”

As they walked away, she saw Gottlieb. She was as sure as she could be, given the description: medium height, athletic build, close-cropped blond hair—almost albino white—and green eyes, emerald like a stained-glass window. His face was long—too long to be handsome. It was the face of a knight on a medieval tombstone, and his ears stuck out. He was sporting an unmistakable sky-blue forget-me-not boutonniere and a fedora with a knife-sharp crease. His posture was impeccable.

Then he saw her and their eyes met. “My dearest Margareta!” he called, across the station’s waiting room.

Maggie made herself jump up, careful to take the suitcase with her. She ran to him and threw her arms around him, banging him in the back with the case.

“Ooops.” She laughed. “Sorry.” All right, she thought, at least he doesn’t smell bad. More like shaving soap and 4711 cologne than anything else. “Dearest Gottlieb!” she exclaimed.

“Let me take a look at you,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and moving her back so he could see her. He studied her as though he were trying to absorb her all at once. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, using the more intimate form of you, “du,” as he kissed her hand.

Maggie looked back at him just as intently. He might have stepped off a German propaganda poster, she decided, ears notwithstanding. She felt hysterical laughter beginning to rise in her throat—the culmination of sleeplessness and nerves. She tried to turn it into a winsome smile.

When it seemed as though that might fail as well, and laughing was inevitable, she threw her arms around him and clamped her mouth onto his. After a few seconds of what looked like passion, but actually felt awkward and absurd, Maggie drew away. She felt ridiculous, but at least her urge to giggle had passed.

“Yes, just as beautiful as ever, my little Schatzi,” Gottlieb said finally, catching his breath. “You must be tired and hungry after your long train journey. Come, let me show you home to freshen up, and then you can have something to eat and rest. Sound good?” he asked, picking up her suitcase in one hand and offering his arm.

Maggie wrapped her arm around his and smiled. “Of course. Whatever you say—Schatzi.”


Maggie and Gottlieb left the Lehrter Bahnhof and took the trolley to his apartment in Berlin-Kreuzberg, passing by the massive buildings of Berlin-Mitte, the civic center. Unlike London, there was little bomb damage here, she noticed, although when she did see one bombed-out building, its façade blown off and interior curiously intact, like a doll’s house, she couldn’t help but think of John. He might have done that. He, or Nigel, or one of our friends. It was an unsettling thought—that after living through the Blitz in London, people she actually knew were dropping bombs on others.