“I’m here to help our citizens.” He gave Paul a smarmy smile. “Especially those from my congressional district.”
Ah, a future politician. Paul didn’t mind, if he could get a telegram home. “My family is already home. They sailed on the fifteenth.”
“Good.” The man hit the carriage return. “It’s hard to find passage. Most people have to take Portuguese freighters.”
“That’s what they did—theEspiritu Santo.”
The man’s round face drew long. “The—theEspiritu Santo?”
Paul’s hands went cold. “Yes. Why?”
“It’s been all over the Portuguese papers, but if you don’t speak Portu—”
“What happened?” He clenched the counter.
“A—a U-boat sank it. Not the first time the Germans sank a neutral ship. The Portuguese are livid.”
Paul tried to breathe, couldn’t, his lungs burning. “Survivors? Any survivors?”
The man leaned away, mouth drooping. “I—lives were lost, but I can’t remember how many. I’m sorry, sir. I’m sure your family is fine. I’m certain of it.”
How could he lie like that?
Paul couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Josie ... Lucie ...
“Sir? Mr. Aubrey?”
His feet moved. The door. He had to leave. Had to find air.
“Sir! Your telegram.” Footsteps pounded after him, and the official pressed a piece of paper into Paul’s hand. He couldn’t even nod in response. He kept walking, his step mechanical.
He had to find a post office, had to send the telegram, had to find out what happened, but first he needed to breathe.
Outside. Fresh air. But it didn’t quench the flames in his lungs.
They couldn’t be gone. Couldn’t. Not after everything they’d been through. He’d lost Simone. How could he lose Josie? Lucie?
“Oh, God!” The prayer knifed through him, splitting his soul. The girls he loved—drowned? Lost at sea? “Lord, no.”
Somehow his feet found his hotel, found his room. He’d send the telegram in a bit, after he collected himself. He shut the door and headed for the bed.
“Good morning, Mr. Aubrey.”
Paul whirled around.
A man sat in a chair to the left of the door, a well-built middle-aged man in a gray suit. With a gun in his lap.
The Gestapo. They knew what he’d done, and they’d tracked him down.
Paul’s grief churned in a foamy mess in his gut, and fury snaked in. The Germans! Wasn’t it enough that they’d stolen his factory and home? Why’d they have to kill Lucie and Josie? He had nothing left—nothing but his life. And that was worthless.
He flung up his hands. “Get it over with. Shoot me.”
The man let out a surprised chuckle. “Why would I? We want you alive.”
So they could torture information out of him? Paul wouldn’t allow it. He’d bolt for the door, take the bullet.
“Let me introduce myself,” the man said in lightly accented English. “I am Helmut Eckert with the German Abwehr.”
