Delia found Rotterdam to be a charming surprise. Warehouses along the waterfront were interspersed with stately homes and the spires of cathedrals. Although the war held most of Europe in its grasp, the neutral port of Rotterdam was a little haven of peace, albeit an uneasy peace.
Bertie reserved the top floor of a rooming house for the CRB delegation. The stairs creaked as Delia and Inga headed up a twisting staircase to the third floor, where four bedrooms led off a square landing. With narrow hallways, low ceilings, and wavering glass windows, the house was surely hundreds of years old. Her bedroom was charming, with a slanted roof and a window overlooking a walled garden behind the house. Ivy climbed on the old red bricks, a linden tree shaded the patio, and the first tulips of the season already provided splashes of red and yellow in the garden. Normally she would have loved the chance to savor the oasis of greenery, but the landlady had declared her garden strictly off-limits to guests.
It didn’t matter. They were here on a mission that did not include springtime evenings in an enchanted garden.
Inga helped Delia unpack and was in a typically sunny mood. “My husband learned that Baron Werner von Eschenbach is onhis way to Rotterdam to help with negotiations,” Inga said as she lifted Delia’s maroon walking suit from the trunk. “He’s German and is willing to lean on General Ryckman to reopen the port to American shipments.”
Inga went on to explain how Benedict had a long-standing friendship with the baron, who had been an Anglophile since birth. When war looked inevitable, Baron von Eschenbach traveled to London to negotiate for a delay before the formal declaration of war. He failed and ended up imprisoned for more than a year by the British. It took a good deal of diplomacy on Benedict’s part to win the baron’s release through a prisoner exchange.
Delia secretly hoped she might eventually persuade him to help with Mathilde, but CRB business came first.
The rooming house had only a cramped dining room with no windows, prompting Bertie to reserve an outdoor table at a bistro a few streets away. It was a warm spring evening, and their table overlooked a canal.
Evidence of Rotterdam’s cosmopolitan atmosphere was everywhere. German voices mingled with Dutch, French, and English. The table beside them was filled with exiled Russian aristocrats, smoking cigarillos and engaged in zealous conversation. Benedict, who spoke a little Russian, said they were speculating on whether the dowager empress would attempt to flee Russia.
“Why hasn’t she left already?” Inga asked.
“She refuses to believe her son is dead,” Benedict replied. “Time is growing short, for the Bolsheviks will eventually conquer Crimea too. Then the dowager will end up dead like her son.”
“Why must you always be so grim?” Inga said in exasperation.
Benedict slanted his wife a sardonic expression. “It is a thankless job, but someone must be the bearer of bad news.”
The typically dour comment prompted Inga to lunge across the table and plant a series of quick kisses on Benedict’s stern mouth. Delia had to move her teacup lest it fall victim to Inga’s impulsive show of affection.
It was sweet actually. Even the usually sour Benedict was trying not to laugh as Inga planted a final peck on the top of his head before returning to her chair. It gave Delia an unobstructed view of the joy on Benedict’s face as he gazed at his wife. It triggered an ache deep inside her.
Where are you, Finn? Why did you have to leave me?
Maybe it was simply the beauty of the evening that made her longing for Finn become a physical ache. She had been lonely most of her adult life, yet it was different now. To have known the warmth of his love, only to revert abruptly to her former solitude had left her feeling adrift in a colder, emptier world.
Bertie brought the meeting to order. “Let’s get down to brass tacks,” he said. “I propose we offer to hire Dutch citizens from Rotterdam to check the shipments coming in from America. It ought to reassure General Ryckman that we aren’t smuggling armaments to the Belgians.”
“Germans don’t believe in simplychecking,” Benedict said curtly. “Either a thorough inspection is carried out or they consider it worthless.”
“We can hardly demand thousands of crates be opened and searched on each incoming ship,” Bertie said. “Random checks performed by neutral parties ought to prove our integrity.”
“It won’t,” Benedict said. “Germany will be taking a risk by opening the port to us and will want something in exchange for letting CRB ships dock here. Baron von Eschenbach will join us soon, and he’ll have an insider’s view of what Germany wants.”
“He’d better get here quickly,” Bertie said. “We have tons of wheat waiting to be delivered, and with a damp spring, it is in danger of sprouting mold unless we can get it off-loaded quickly.”
According to Inga, Baron von Eschenbach was well connected with everyone at the German court and had powerful sway in the military. Delia prayed he would arrive soon, so that she might formulate a plan for Mathilde before Finn got himself into trouble.
Finn jerked awake at the metallic sound of a lock being opened. He bolted upright on the cot, bracing himself for whoever was about to enter his cell. Even after the door creaked open, all he could see was the silhouette of a man standing in the opening. After endless days of imprisonment, his eyes were so accustomed to the dark that the sliver of light nearly blinded him.
“It’s just me,” the man said in lightly accented English. “Conrad Ekhart, the translator. Do you remember me?”
How could he forget? Finn had been in solitary confinement ever since that first day when he’d stupidly thought it might be possible to reason with General Ryckman. The days had melded together with nothing to do except count his regrets and dwell on how cold he was in this dank, underground cell. The only furnishings were a cot with canvas stretched between two iron supports, but with no mattress and no blanket. He wore the same grubby clothes he arrived in, and his toilet was a metal bowl in the corner.
Conrad seemed like a decent man, but a prickly sensation of fear zinged along Finn’s nerve endings, making him clench his fists. They wouldn’t have sent a translator unless something was about to happen.
“I remember you,” Finn acknowledged, grateful to have someone to talk with. None of the guards who brought him food spoke English. They usually rattled off a few German words as they set a plate of boiled turnips on the floor, their staccato voices echoing off the stone walls of his cell. Finn tried to communicate using pantomime, along with basic French and English words. He was desperate to know what was going on in the world and if Mathilde’s trial had happened. It had been scheduled for June, but Finn no longer knew what day it was.
“We are here to get you cleaned up,” Conrad said, and for the first time Finn noticed two soldiers standing behind Conrad. Theyhad their hands on their holstered pistols. “I gather it’s been awhile since you had a shower.”
Finn estimated that it had been more than a month. After infiltrating Belgium, he’d been too busy hiding in hedgerows and avoiding crowds to risk approaching a hotel for a bath and a bed. Once imprisoned, he was given only a few tin cups of water a day, and they were too precious to waste on bathing.
“I won’t resist a shower,” he said, still cautious. Something was about to take place, and they were cleaning him up for it.
