Night Angels(89)

As a diplomat, he knew this too well: inappropriate involvement with a woman, any acts of malfeasance, or any appearance of impropriety reflected poorly on his career and portrayed him in a negative light. And to be involved with a fugitive wanted by the Gestapo was a grave accusation indeed. His entire body tensed. “She’s Grace’s friend.”

“May I have a word with your wife?”

“Of course.” He held the phone up and beckoned Grace over. She looked puzzled, pulling the blankets tight around her, and slowly, she inched forward to the receiver. The thought that he should warn her about the grave consequences of this conversation crossed his mind.

“Greetings, Ambassador Chen,” she said in English, shivering, holding the receiver with her small hand.

Their conversation was brief, and Grace responded with a terse Yes or No a few times and then hung up. “The ambassador wanted to know if you were having a relationship with Lola.”

One wrong word from Grace and his reputation would be tarnished. “It’s for the annual job evaluation, Grace.”

“I told him that Lola was my friend.”

Thank you, he wanted to say, but she was already wheeling back to their bedroom.

Did she know her friend was a fugitive? Did she know Miss Schnitzler was in danger? He didn’t have a chance to ask.



Two days later, while he was again trying to start the fire in the fireplace, Miss Schnitzler returned, carrying a black bag, snow dusting her hat and coat. Her green eyes looked intense, her lips pursed. If what the ambassador said was true, he would like to help her.

“It’s good to see you, Miss Schnitzler. How can I help you?” Then, realizing she couldn’t hear, he jotted his question on a notebook from the desk.

Miss Schnitzler glanced at his note and walked to the fireplace, lit a match, and threw it under the logs. A spark leaped. Smoke smoldered. Expertly, she stirred with the tongs until a steady blaze of fire burned.

“Oh, this is wonderful. You started the fire!” he said.

“May I speak to Grace?” she said in her loud voice.

Of course, she’ll be happy to see you. But she’s asleep at the moment. Would you mind waiting for a while? he wrote.

She nodded, and then, looking around in her vigilant manner, she wrote, May I borrow twenty reichsmarks from you? I’ll pay you back one day.

She did not need the money for a meal, he could tell. With the Gestapo searching for her, he hoped she was putting the money to good use. Are you buying a boat ticket to Shanghai?

Nein, she wrote. I need some clothes.

Fengshan fetched his wallet from the desk. Had his superior known that he was giving a Jewish fugitive money, this would certainly ensure a demerit. The situation is quite dangerous for you. Are you planning to go to Shanghai?

Not yet.

Then where are you going?

To the Hotel Sacher.

He frowned. All Jews had been banned from entering the hotel since the Anschluss.

Miss Schnitzler took the money and began to scribble. He’s in Vienna.

Who?

Eichmann.

He was not aware of that. A Spanish newspaper had been talking about Eichmann’s promotion in Prague and his purchase of a home for his wife, which had previously been owned by a well-known Spanish artist. It hadn’t mentioned Eichmann’s return to Vienna.

He’s now reporting to Himmler directly. He’s been given the job of eliminating the Jews in the entire protectorate.

Fengshan shivered. That was unthinkable.

She wrote, He’s staying at the Hotel Sacher with his mistress.

It was a fashionable thing, Captain Heine had said, for elite Nazi officers to keep mistresses.

She took another piece of paper. Room 1004.

How do you know this?

I must go now. She put down her pen and went to their bedroom.

“I’ve come to say goodbye, Grace.” There came her booming voice.

Grace said something, her voice sleepy, weak. Then a long silence.

Fengshan scrutinized the words in the notebook. He would like to ask how Miss Schnitzler learned so much about Eichmann and why she would go to the hotel when the Gestapo officers hunted for her. He was moving toward the bedroom when Miss Schnitzler appeared at the doorway with her bag. She raised her hand and wiped at her eyes.

Something fell out of her bag. A black object. She hastened to pick it up and stuff it back in her bag. It was smoky in the room with the fire, but he was certain what he had glimpsed: a revolver.

Before he could ask, she was at the door. “Goodbye, Herr Consul General.”

The door closed behind her.

Fengshan sprang into their bedroom. “Grace! What did Miss Schnitzler tell you? What is she planning to do?”

Grace was sitting in her wheelchair, looking out the window. “She didn’t tell me.”

“I think she intends to mortally wound Eichmann in the hotel, Grace. She knows too much about him. And she has a revolver.”

Grace leaned back in her wheelchair, the look in her eyes—devoid of interest, fear, or despair—shocking him. He remembered that she’d once had the dreamy look of a girl who had yet to grow up, as if she were lost in another world. She had outgrown it, but with the miscarriage and the surgery, she had lapsed into something more frightening, a state of carelessness, utter indifference to the people around her or even herself.

“Grace?”