Chapter 20

Power's visit compels Genevieve to take an unnecessary risk. At Schubert's house, she finally reveals her past role with 2 Canadian Intelligence.  

Chapter 20

The unexpected intrusion of her past weighed heavily on Geneviève. The life she thought she was building seemed to have crashed around her. As day gradually gave way to evening, Geneviève suddenly felt unwell, as if a fever were about to take hold. She worked through it during the afternoon but after Power departed, it struck her hard. It was as if blood was draining from her body—she was unable to move. Listless and sick with worry, she forgot to stoke the fire. It slowly burned itself out. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and wandered aimlessly through the kitchen. At around half-past seven the phone rang off and on. She knew it was Schubert but she wouldn’t pick up. Then, about an hour later, a sharp pain burned through her gut; her legs gave way and she fell to the floor. She struggled to breath; it felt like the air had been pulled from her lungs.

The premonition that James was dead refused to diminish.

She sat for a long while in the dark and cold. The feeling that her brother was dead was so strong it couldn’t be denied. Then, she made her decision. Without regard for the freezing temperatures outside, she stepped into the night. A light wind was blowing, northerly, and its gradual intensity went unnoticed until it was too late. She no longer cared about Power and his threats. She wouldn’t be the puppet manipulated by a petty bureaucrat in Ottawa. Power was a little man, someone who knew nothing of the risks she had taken, the scales of lives taken weighed against those who lived, sometimes for no other reason but luck.

She wrapped her shawl tighter and walked, waiting to die.

Back in town, Peters fired up the squad car, none too pleased with his boss. He had been enjoying a whisky, half-way into “The Ox-Bow Incident,” (a western he had searched for the better part of a year) when Schubert called his home. Would he mind checking up on Geneviève? He was expecting her for dinner and she hadn’t arrived. Peters’ first stop was the café. The lights from the squad car swept through the windows. Deep shadows filled the darkened room. The wind began whipping snow and like a tireless boxer, buffeted the car with short rabbit-like punches. A real northeaster was starting to blow and cold, too. The cab of his cruiser had just begun to warm and he debated lying to his boss, but weighed the consequence on his conscience and stepped out into the cold. 

“Miss Sinclair!” he hollered over the wind, banging on the door. “Hello! Are you there?” 

He stood back from the door, looking for a light in the upper story window. There was none. He drove around the rear of the building. 

“Miss Sinclair!” he shouted. 

He began pounding the door and as he did so, it slowly swung open. He entered the kitchen and flicked on his torch. Something was wrong and then it hit him: there was no heat. He felt the wood stove—it was cold. The ashes weren’t even warm. He ran upstairs and checked the bedroom. She wasn’t anywhere in the building. None of this felt right. No one let a wood stove die on a winter’s night, not unless they had no intention of returning. 

Where was she? Peters had no idea where to start looking. She could be anywhere, dead on a snow bank just outside the flood of a streetlamp. The only thing that made any sense was to drive to Schubert’s place. Maybe he would find her there, maybe she was already in a taxi, maybe she was walking, but then he asked himself, Why in the hell was she walking on a night when a north wind was blowing?

Peters hit the siren and lights. If she’s walking—which makes no goddamned sense!—am I  even on the right road? Peters cursed the wind as it whipped the snow into a frenzy, barreling towards him, filling his vision. He squinted, trying to see beyond the limits of the headlights and scanned both sides of the road, looking for anything out of place. It was a trick he used hunting: looking for what wasn’t there to find what you were seeking. Peters was sweating and not on account of the patrol car’s heater: Geneviève was running out of time. He was just over half way to Schubert’s when he hit the brakes; the wheels locked up and he fought to steer as the patrol car skidded to a stop. Something caught his eye. He shifted into reverse and backed up. He flicked the high beams, but that just sent more snow careening towards him. He angled the car closer to the edge of the road, directing his lights to the shoulder. 

He thought he spotted something. An arm? No, it was a shawl. By now, the wind was howling. He jumped out and ran to the snow bank. It was Geneviève. She had collapsed and lay slumped across it. 

“Geneviève,” he shouted. He bent low, pulling at her, struggling to lift her from the snow. “Geneviève, can you hear me?” He dragged her to the car and lay her on the back seat. He felt a warm puff of air from her nostrils but her chest barely rose.

Schubert heard the squad car long before the blue and red lights spilled onto his front yard. As if the siren wasn’t enough, Peters was honking the horn. Schubert threw on a jacket and ran outside.

“Sir! It’s Geneviève. She’s damn near frozen!” 

Schubert ran to the rear door. He felt his breath catch: her lips were blue. 

“I’ll carry her legs. Take the shoulders. Let’s get her upstairs, into the bath.” 

They hauled her upstairs without concern for gentleness, only speed. 

“Get the blankets in the hall closet. Keep her bundled until I get the bath going,” Schubert yelled as Peters ran to a closet.

Schubert hit the taps and water gushed into the tub. Steam began to rise and gradually the tub filled with water. 

“Let’s get these clothes off,” Schubert said.

They undressed her, more gently now. Peters appeared uncomfortable in the presence of a naked woman. 

“Sorry Peters, but there’s no time for decorum. Your missus will forgive you.” 

They pulled off shoes, nylons, her dress and underwear. Schubert unclasped her bra.

“God in heaven,” muttered Peters. “What in the hell?”

Schubert remembered the scars. Up close, they looked wicked: tiny stars of singed flesh, white and hardened dotted her back.

“I have no idea, Bart. Maybe she’ll tell us if she lives another day.” He turned off the taps. “Let’s get her in the water.”

Her head lolled to the side, limp. She looked like a saint recently deceased, like a crucified Christ in the arms of Mary. Her skin was white as porcelain. They lowered her into the water. Schubert thought back to pictures in the old family bible, of the paralytic waiting to be healed and tonight he prayed for a miracle, like the waters of Shiloah had healed the crippled man.

“Bart, throw more wood into the stove. Gather all the blankets. I’m going to run the hot water until the tank goes dry.” 

Peters ran downstairs to the wood pile. Then, the sound of wood banging into the metal firebox carried upstairs and in a matter of minutes, Schubert could feel the hot air rising through the floor vent. He held Geneviève in the water, not knowing what else to do. Her skin was still cold to the touch, even under the water. As the water cooled, he drained the tub a small amount, refilling it with hot water. After the fourth or fifth repetition, she jerked when the hot water plunged into the bath, touching her foot. She made a small sound, pathetic he thought, like a final push of air whistling in a dead man’s throat.

“Peters! Bring up the blankets! We’re nearly out of hot water!”

Schubert toweled Geneviève dry and wrapped her tiny body in a feather duvet. Together, they carried her downstairs. Peters had a chair ready next to the fire.

“Feels like a summer’s day in here. Well done, Bart.” 

Peters nodded. “Least I can do.” He didn’t know what else to say.

Schubert gathered the remaining blankets and wrapped them around Geneviève’s legs and shoulders. 

“I’ve got a toque in a box in the hall closet. Would you bring it?” 

By the time they were finished, only Geneviève’s red hair and face were visible. 

“Thank you Bart. I owe you one. Where did you find her?”

Peters waved away the suggestion. “Just glad I did find her. Wind was howling—couldn’t see shit. She was half way here, walking, of all the damn-fool things.”

“But why? That’s madness—I don’t understand. What would drive her to do such a thing? If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to kill herself.”  

“No question she was tempting death, but a part of me says she didn’t want to die. She could’ve gone anywhere, chosen any direction, but she stayed on the main road to your place. I didn’t want to say it earlier, but maybe it’s something to do with the scars on her back.”

Schubert rummaged through a kitchen cabinet and returned with three tumblers. He poured Tulamore Dew into each. 

“Drink up Bart, it’s going to be a long night.” 

Schubert lifted a glass to Geneviève’s mouth and tipped a little between her lips. She mumbled something and swallowed. 

“That’s right, take a little warmth.” He brushed some hair away from her eyes.

It was an intimate gesture, or so Peters thought, something he’d rarely seen in Schubert. He cared for this woman, that was obvious enough. They had done everything they could but would it be enough? She had to survive. Peters didn’t consider himself religious, but tonight he prayed that the woman who brought hope to his friend’s life would be spared. 

He settled into the chair opposite Schubert and finally slept.

The wind kept its vigil the entire night, shaking the house and rattling windows. By morning, the storm showed no sign of slowing. Outside, snow had drifted across the road. The neighboring yards looked buried in static waves of white.

“Peters, she’s awake,” Schubert said, shaking his friend.

Peters smiled and then stood. “Nice to see those green eyes smiling back at me this morning, Miss Geneviève.” 

She returned his smile, weakly, but it was real. 

Schubert sat next to her, as faithful as any master’s hound, at the place he had remained the entire night. 

“Are you feeling well enough to dress or are you comfortable as is?”

“This is fine. Thank you,” she said, still bundled from head to toe.

Schubert brushed some hair away from her face; then caressed her cheek. Her skin had warmed. In the kitchen, Peters began making breakfast and soon the aroma of coffee, bacon and eggs filled the house. 

He returned to the living room, three plates in hand. 

“Sorry Miss, not quite Parisienne fare. Different fats but just as good for you. Eat up—you need the strength.”

The men tucked into their breakfast while Geneviève picked through the eggs, slowly making her way through the plate of food. Both Schubert and Peters had questions for her, but would wait until she chose to speak.

Finally, after a short while, Geneviève opened up.

“I suppose I’m in your debt,” she said, her voice a little strengthened by the food.

“Nonsense,” Peters said, too quickly. 

Schubert, on the other hand, remained quiet. 

“You probably want to know what drove me to walk into a storm.”

Schubert nodded. “Yes, and it was a fool’s errand but for what reason, I couldn’t say. I want to say it’s none of my business. I’m just thankful Bart got to you in time.”

“Are you always so gracious?” She paused. “You’ve seen my scars.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I’ve seen them. Last week, when a draught nudged the bathroom door open…”

“I had a feeling you were there. Yet, you said nothing.”

“It’s none of my business—at least it wasn’t then. Your scars are personal and your reasons for saying nothing require no explanation. But last night, whatever that was about, it was a call for help, so please, let us. What will killing yourself accomplish? I don’t see what it could. You’re young, beautiful, you have so much life to look forward to.”

She would’ve scoffed, had she the strength. 

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” She set her plate down.

Schubert said: “As if you’re the only person in Whitehorse with secrets. The past is irrelevant.”

“I’d like to believe that but if I tell you why I walked into the blizzard, they can send me to prison.”

Schubert was genuinely surprised. 

“Who the hell are they? I’m the bloody law in town and I can assure you no one will send you to prison.”

“You won’t believe me. You’ll think I’m mad.”

Geneviève spied the bottle of Tulamore on the sideboard. 

“I know it’s early in the day, but to hell with it. Pour me a glass of whisky. Pour yourselves one, too.” 

Geneviève drank the malt in one shot, summoning the needed courage. 

“Until last year, my brother and I were stationed in the European theater. We were members of 2 Canadian Intelligence, seconded by the French Resistance to train their operatives and run missions to disrupt the occupying army.”

“Never heard of them,” Schubert interrupted, not missing a beat. Her reasons for skirting his questions about her past now became clearer.

She sensed no doubt in him, so she continued. 

“And you won’t hear about them until long after the war is over. 2 Canadian Company is a top secret organization and partners with MI5 and OSS for counter-intelligence. Part of what I told you was true—I was studying in Paris before the war. James had recently completed his doctorate and was offered a position at the Louvre. Both of us are fluent in French and I had no trouble picking up the dialect of a local Parisienne. 2 Canadian Intelligence approached us in early 1940, before the Nazis took control.

“My final assignment was to gain the trust of an SS Captain named Erich von Schilling. He was von Braun’s partner in V2 rocket research and development. The night of the operation I was betrayed, given up by the man who trained me, Guillaume Thomas. Von Schilling took me to a location and began the torture.”

“Does that explain the scars on your back?”

“Yes, Karl. Von Schilling’s appetite for sadism almost surprised me. I would be dead if it weren’t for my brother. He managed to tail von Shilling to a Vichy safe house. James and another agent killed the guards. But we got von Schilling into England and over to the States. He’s working for the Americans, now.”

“The politics of war,” Peters scoffed. “A Nazi working for the Allies. Big money, no doubt.”

“He escaped the noose and now he plots the destruction of his own people. It makes no sense to me either,” Geneviève said. “But that’s not all. I was part of a small group of trusted Resistance fighters who assassinated Guillaume during communion at the Sacré-Cœur.”

Schubert nodded. “Was this the reason for your panic attack at church?”

“Yes. When your choir sang the sanctus, I became overwhelmed by the memory of the assassination. I killed him. I poisoned him.”

Peters sat down, trying to take this all in.  

Schubert said: “The man at your café yesterday, well-dressed, looked out of place, what’s his part in this? Is he here to arrest you?”

“No. He’s a bureaucrat. 2 Intelligence Company oversight falls under the Ministry of Defense. He’s here to bring James and me back into the fold, you might say. Threatened to have charges of treason brought forward if I refused to be reactivated.”

“Why is Power in Whitehorse and what does he hope to accomplish?”

“Secrecy and plausible deniability. I experienced the same in the last war,” Peters added. “Something’s going down here or they think there’s the possibility.”

She nodded. “It appears you’ve kicked the hornet’s nest, Karl. Your telexes to RCMP and the Ministry Of Defense are treading close to some powerful secrets. MOD has all but confirmed there are Nazi agents in Whitehorse.”

Schubert and Peters exchanged glances.

“Looks like we were on track,” Peters said, “to cracking this state secret ourselves.”

Schubert said: “But we still don’t know what target would be deemed worth the risk to insert enemy agents.”

“And somehow, by some miraculous means, I’m meant to flush out these agents and kill then, simply because of my résumé.” 

She settled back into her blankets, tired from her revelations. 

“But, there is something else, something I haven’t told you. James is dead.”

“Who brought word of this?” Schubert asked. “A trapper in for supplies?”

Geneviève shook her head. “Yesterday, as I was cleaning the kitchen and readying myself for dinner with you, I thought I was coming down with a fever. After a while, I struggled to breathe: it felt as if my lungs were collapsing. Then it happened—a white-hot pain. I couldn’t move. It was then I knew he was dead.

“I don’t expect you to believe me—if you’re not a twin, you won’t understand. All I ask is that we go to his cabin.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? When you spoke of your brother’s injuries, when he was wounded and what happened to you, that was real?”

“Yes, but I rarely tell people these things. They can’t understand.” She looked pitiful—she needed to be believed. 

Schubert had heard all he needed to learn. 

“Peters—are your dogs ready?” he asked.

“I can have the team hooked up in an hour. But it’s already mid-morning and the storm is still blowing out there. We’re going to have to plan for staying the night. I need to pack provisions. We can’t make it there and back before dark. We should consider leaving early tomorrow.”

“No!” Geneviève spat. “I’m certain he’s dead. Delay will only put his killer further from us.”

Peters said: “It’s risky leaving today, I won’t deny it. We can try using lanterns. If we take the river, the path is more direct—less chance of losing the trail. We’ll have to be damn careful about boulders and water pockets. At least the dogs won’t get lost.”

Schubert nodded. “Get your dogs ready. Send Simpson to fetch us. We’ll be waiting.”

As morning turned into afternoon, the storm lessened until it finally blew itself out. They spent the hours (waiting until Peters returned) reading. Schubert tried to engage in casual conversation, but with Geneviève’s earlier revelations, it felt inappropriate. He was flipping through another two-week old Globe and Mail, and finally lost interest.

“It’s old news, anyway…not like there’s anything remotely current to read,” he said, tossing the paper onto the floor.

“Anything current would tell us what we already know: the world is mad and we’re at war. People are dying, some are falling in love; babies are born.” And lovers desert us for another, she thought.

“Tell me about Louise. I see her all over this house—I’m wearing her clothes.”

Schubert handed over a photo of him and Louise. 

“We were in London when that was taken. Head over heals in love, oblivious to the world around us. Louise was, is…complex. She could be carefree one day and brooding the next. She turned heads where ever she went—I imagine that was what originally attracted me. She conveyed a singular focus to whatever intrigued her. I think my singing did just that. It didn’t matter what I sang. She would listen, it seemed, with her entire body. It was like the music, my voice, cut deep into her soul. It was remarkable, really.

“And like your experience with James, the war changed everything. It’s a useless cliché but accurate. My military assignment demanded long hours. I was forbidden to speak about my work. Unlike Paris, Londoners feared the next waves of bombs. The constant stress wore you down and yet at the same time made life feel pedantic. One almost became inured to sound of sirens.”

“Perhaps it was a way of coping. No one can live with perpetual stress.”

“You’re right. It changes all of us. I expect Louise was no different.”

“And during your illness?”

“Yes, and those months were no easier for Louise. I think the constant flux between knowing or not knowing if I would be alive one day to the next tipped her over the edge.”

“The edge of what?”

“I think she realized her love was inadequate to deal with what life had thrown at us. I don’t fault her. I’m actually glad she had the honesty to admit that.”

Peters called ahead. Simpson would pick them up in ten minutes. Schubert found a trunk with Louise’s winter clothes. Her three-quarter length mink coat became floor-length for Geneviève and was far too broad at the shoulders. Sweaters, boots and trousers were in ample supply.

“Thanks for the clothing,” she said, entering the kitchen. 

Schubert felt his breath catch. He could still smell Louise’s musk on the coat. 

A patrol car pulled up in front of the house. Simpson pushed open the car door.

They walked outside, each alone with their thoughts.