VOLUME 1, CHAPTER XIV.THE WEEK-END
After breakfast, Marcus made a quick excuse and slipped out to a public telephone box. He kept his Hove flat strictly offline—no wires, no ringing bells—to preserve his one sanctuary of silence.
The Sunday morning line to Edinburgh cleared quickly. Sandy Paton picked up at the North British.
"Darville here," Marcus said, his voice low. "I've been thinking about the bridge. Even with the paper insulation on the terminals, the circuit might have jumped through the mounting screws if they'd used enough voltage. Did the 'fix' hold?"
"It didn't matter," Paton replied, his voice crackling over the wire. "The machine-gun did the work before they could even try the switch. They had one bottle of the liquid stuff left on board when we opened fire. The explosion was heard thirty miles away. It nearly swamped our chase boat."
Paton's report was grimly efficient. The German liquid explosive—a volatile analog to nitro-glycerine—had to be cushioned in rubber to prevent accidental detonation from a simple jar. The team had watched the Caborns submerge the charges and attach the battery boxes. Just as Joan was reaching for the final bottle, Paton sprung the trap.
"They tried to run up the firth," Paton continued. "Fired on us first. I took a splinter in the hand, and the mechanic almost lost an ear. I gave the order to the infantryman on the Lewis gun. One burst hit the boat's hull. You saw the papers—there's nothing left of the Caborns or their 'friends.'"
Marcus felt a cold wave of relief. He had wiped a cell of Steinhauer's best agents off the map. "Search the house in Strathnairn Road," Marcus ordered. "Letters, codes, anything. And keep a tail on the 'gentleman' in Earl's Court. He's their London link. I'll deal with him later."
He switched lines to his London office, hearing the familiar "bumble-bee" drone of the scrambler. Bennett, his ex-naval secretary, answered.
"Bennett, start a full intercept on the Longridge Road correspondence," Marcus snapped. "And if there are papers for my signature, bring them down to Hove yourself at six tonight. I don't trust the post with the Bucharest files."
"I'll be there, sir," Bennett replied.
Marcus returned to the flat to find Edris looking refreshed in a gray silk jersey. "It's a perfect day," he declared, hiding the morning's violence behind a smile. "Let's take a car to Chichester for lunch."
As the limousine sped along the coast road toward Worthing, Edris noticed his sudden quiet. "You're back in your book again, aren't you, Seton?"
He took her hand, a half-conscious gesture of affection. "Forgive me. I was just... working out a plot point."
The lie tasted bitter. He wasn't thinking of fiction; he was thinking of the impossibility of the woman sitting next to him. But Edris was persistent.
"You still haven't promised Wengen," she pouted. "I didn't come to Hove just for the sea air, you know."
"Am I not my own master?" he teased.
"Then prove it. Come to Switzerland. To please me."
Marcus looked into her pleading gray eyes and felt his resolve crumble. He was the Architect of Britain's defense, a man who stared down embassies and assassins, yet he was powerless against a girl's request.
"If you really wish it," he said softly, "then I'll go."
"You won't be bored?" she cried, her fingers tightening on his hand.
"I am never bored when I am with you, Edris."
They spent the afternoon exploring Chichester Cathedral. To Marcus's surprise, Edris was a font of knowledge on ecclesiastical architecture. She pointed out the transition from Norman pillars to early French Gothic in the nave, explaining the history of the 13th-century Lady Chapel with the precision of a scholar.Getty Images
"You're like a professional guide," Marcus laughed as they examined an ancient Saxon chest.
"I just like old things, Seton. They have stories." She looked at him playfully. "But none of that matters as much as the fact that you're coming to Wengen."
They drove back to Brighton as the sun began to dip. The infatuation Marcus felt was becoming a "madness." He wanted to confess everything—the love he'd carried in silence for a year—but he feared her wit. He had seen her dismantle men with a single sarcastic remark on the ski slopes. He couldn't bear to be the target of that scorn.
Back at the flat, the doorbell rang at 6:00 PM sharp. Bennett arrived with a worn brown portfolio. Marcus retreated to his study, leaving Edris with the Sunday papers.
"The Bucharest report from Stephen," Bennett said, pulling out a thick file.
Marcus scanned it, his jaw tightening. "Stephen's found the leak. There's a move being made on the Balkans. Send Harden to Constanza immediately. He knows the Near East. The Balkans have always been the powder keg—1914 all over again, but this time it'll be ten times deadlier if we don't clip the fuse."Shutterstock Explore
He scribbled his illegible signature across a dozen high-stakes documents. "I'm going to Switzerland, Bennett. Carry on while I'm away. You'll need to fly out to see me every fortnight with the 'black bag' updates."
"Wengen again, sir?" Bennett smiled. "The train up from Lauterbrunnen is spectacular in the snow."
"Wengen," Marcus confirmed, looking toward the door where Edris waited. "It seems I have an appointment with a girl of the snows."