They saw Schellenberg and Leni Riefenstahl hurrying to their rooms, while two men dragged James’s body outside. Von Eisen barked orders and moved the oil lamp onto a high shelf in the hallway to cast a broader light for his men to work.
“Now all we have to do is stop them from leaving with the loot until the cavalry arrives,” Caitrin said. And to Hector, as he watched the soldiers enter the conservatory to pack up the Jewels, she made it sound like the simplest task in the world. But he knew it would not be. As she pointed out, they were greatly outnumbered in a confined battle place, the Germans were not stupid, and Caitrin was right. If they managed to escape, which was not guaranteed, and ran to the village for help, Schellenberg, his men, and the Crown Jewels would be long gone before such help ever arrived. They had no choice but to put her plan into action, even if he had doubts it would be successful. But although he did not want to admit it, her plan, ambitious though it might be, was much better than anything he could conjure up.
44
Hector crept up to the top floor and slipped silently down a corridor to a window at the back of the house. From there he could look down at several of von Eisen’s men searching the garden. He waited a few minutes, hoped that would be long enough, and opened fire. Caitrin had told him the windows were painted shut, so he fired three rapid shots through the glass and stepped back. The men below would have no idea where the shots came from, just that they were under fire. He resisted the temptation to look and waited another minute, silently counting off the seconds.
Downstairs, Caitrin watched the soldiers who were packing the Jewels run out as they heard the three shots. She broke cover, crossed the entrance hallway to the conservatory, snatched a crown, and ducked under the table, where she would be hidden by the damask covers. She waited for the next volley.
Hector leaned forward. The men were hiding, and none of them had seen him. He fired another quick volley. That would keep them in place longer.
When Caitrin left Castlebay, which seemed a lifetime ago, her brother Dafydd had stuffed things into her knapsack. The haggis she had long since eaten, the parachute cord had tripped and tied up several bad men, and all that remained were the four elastic bands. She could hear her brother’s voice: You’ll be surprised how handy elastic bands and parachute cord can be.
“We’re about to find out, my dear brother Dafydd,” she whispered, took the elastic bands out of her pocket, and linked them together. Removing the large diamond from the front of the crown was not easy, but she finally managed and crept toward the end of the table, where there was a gap in the covers. Two soldiers entered, grumbling about something, and stood with their backs to the conservatory. She watched their boots to make sure they were turned away from her.
Caitrin stretched her right thumb and index finger wide and looped the elastic band over them to make a catapult, nestled the diamond in the center, pulled back, closed one eye to aim, and fired. The diamond shot out from under the table, flew across the room, and shattered the lamp. Oil poured down the wall and across the floor. In moments the hallway was ablaze.
Up on the top floor, Hector fired another volley.
Heiko von Eisen appeared in the hallway, waving his arms and shouting, “Close the doors! Keep the fire away from the Jewels!”
They shut the conservatory doors. Hidden from sight, Caitrin came out from under the table, listening to the panic outside as they attempted to quell the fire. She picked up two of the swords, pried open a window with the tip of one, and dropped to the ground. She and Hector had created confusion; now it was time to prevent the Germans from leaving. To keep them pinned down a little longer, she needed just one final—
Hector fired the last volley.
In front of the house, cases were scattered around the tail of the lorry, dropped there when the soldiers reacted to the shots and went searching for her and Hector. She slipped around to the front of the lorry and swung a sword at a tire. Air hissed as it collapsed. She moved to the radiator. The metal was hard to puncture, and she had to stab repeatedly until it was pierced. The last thrust jammed the sword fast in the metal, and she left it there. The lorry would be useless.
Crack! A shot hummed over her head and another ricocheted off the lorry as she ducked and rolled for cover. The Citroën raced past with Schellenberg driving, a grim-faced Leni Riefenstahl next to him and her terrified cameraman cowering in the rear.
“Open the gates!” Schellenberg roared at a guard. The guard pulled them open and ran for cover as the Citroën sped through and was gone. In the distance rose the sound of emergency sirens.
“Stop, stop! Wait for me!” Von Eisen ran out the front door as the Citroën cleared the gates. Angry at being abandoned, he fired his pistol after them until it was empty.
Caitrin stepped out of the shadows behind him, the sword in her hand glinting in the moonlight as she called out, “Von Eisen.”
Von Eisen spun on his heel to face her and did not move, did not blink. He seemed dazed, unaware of what was happening. Caitrin took a step toward him, and it broke the spell. He threw his empty Luger at her and ran for the open gate, but not downhill toward the village. Instead, he ran uphill, toward the castle.
Caitrin ran after him.
45
As Caitrin ran uphill through the moonlight, the world became reduced, elemental: impenetrable black shadows, cold blue surfaces, and bright shards of silver. Her mind registered that she was running up a steep hill. It noted that the road was narrow and undulating; that it rose and plunged through woods and manicured gardens; that it veered sharply left and then right, but always continued uphill. Her mind was aware of all this, and so was her body, but it did not care. The sword was heavy in her hand, but it meant nothing; the steep gradient was punishing on lungs and muscles, but that did not matter. Caitrin Colline’s body was indifferent to pain or fatigue or time, and it would run to the ends of the earth to avenge the death of James Gordon.
Heiko von Eisen, a frightened animal, sprinted for his life, but no matter how hard he ran, the woman with the glittering sword was behind him. The castle loomed above. He raced up the steepest part of the road that curved around to the main doors, twin monoliths of carved oak. They were locked. He stumbled to another, smaller door. It too was locked, and he could hear the woman getting closer. Frantic, he kicked hard at a window, felt the glass crack, and threw his whole weight against it. The frame collapsed, the glass shattered, and he was inside, stumbling down a dark corridor. Behind him he heard the crunch of glass underfoot as Caitrin followed.
Von Eisen pushed open a door into a black void. Moonlit windows revealed a few edges and gave him some reference. It was a large room with a long table in the center. He put out a hand to touch a wall and felt his way into the room. A suit of armor toppled with a metallic crash as he tripped over it and fell to the floor.
Lights flared on, dazzling him, and he turned to face Caitrin standing at a panel of light switches. They were in a great hall, wood-paneled, with grand arrays of armor, and above them hung ranks of regimental banners. On a wall close to him was a circular display of swords. A plaque beneath the sword display stated they were sabers from the Second Cavalry of the King’s Lancers. Sabers. A saber would change everything. He got to his feet, tugged a saber from the wall, and faced her, this little woman with her ridiculous, jeweled ceremonial sword. Now he was armed, Untersturmführer Heiko von Eisen was no longer afraid.
He straightened, ran a finger down the saber blade, tapped his chest, and hissed, “Deutsche Experte.”
Caitrin cocked her head to one side, placed a finger on the tip of her nose, tapped it, and said, “British Woman.”
She was quite calm because she would not be fighting this man; her certainty would. Caitrin knew in every fiber of her body that Heiko von Eisen would not defeat her, no matter what. Her training and the principle of certainty would carry her through.
Heiko moved toward her, the saber ready, searching for flesh to cut. He swung, and the blade shuddered against her sword. He feinted, swung backhanded, and felt the tip gouge into her left shoulder. In response, she made the tiniest of sounds and moved away. He circled her; this would be easy. He had never killed a woman before but would gladly slaughter this one. First, though, would come pain and punishment. He attacked.
Caitrin stepped back, shifted to her left, and saw a tall door. She jerked it open, and a cold night air swept in as she stepped outside. There was a half-glimpse of a tower hard to one side, a low crenellated wall on the other, and beyond that nothing. In the great hall, von Eisen, with his dueling experience, could easily defeat her by attacking from various angles, but on this narrow, cramped battlement, with the courtyard below to their left and a dark abyss to the right, the fight would be more restricted. He came after her.
He struck—left, right, high, low—and each time she parried the blow, blade against blade. Another feint, and this time the edge of the saber cut into her upper arm. She winced. She was getting tired, and he had her. Time to kill.
Caitrin parried his next cut, wrapped her fingers around the saber blade, and held it tight. Surprised, von Eisen tried to pull it free. He felt the blade move, saw pain flood her features as the edge bit into her hand, tugging at her flesh, and knew he had won. Until she swung the saber aside, lunged forward, and drove the pommel of her sword into his face. Von Eisen staggered back in pain, eyes tear-blinded, and dropped the saber.
Caitrin held her sword with both hands, raised it level with her shoulders, rotated, and swung with all her might. The blade howled through the air, the edge eager to cleave flesh and gouge bone, until at the last moment she twisted her wrists. The flat of the blade hammered against von Eisen’s cheek, he shrieked in agony, stumbled back, caught his foot, and fell spinning over the edge into the abyss.
* * *
Emergency vehicles blocked the road, and outside the house surrendered German soldiers lay in a row, face-down, arms bound behind their backs, with a Portuguese soldier standing guard over them. Hector was talking to some military officers, but all activity ceased as Caitrin walked through the gates. Her left sleeve was blood-drenched and the sword heavy in her hand, the tip scraping a furrow through the gravel.
Hector went to her, saw the deep cut in her hand, and wrapped a handkerchief around it. He tried to make her sit down, but she refused and walked past him into the house. The fire had been extinguished, and several men were packing away the remaining Jewels. They stopped as she dropped the sword on the table and said, “Pack this away too. There’s another one stuck in that lorry’s radiator out there.”
She sank to one knee, hand reaching down, fingers splayed on the burnt carpet to steady herself, and rose unsteadily to her feet as Hector caught up with her. “That’s a lot of blood you’ve lost. You need medical attention right away, Caitrin.”
She ignored him and stared at the men. “Who are they?”
“The Policia de Vigilância e do Defesa Estado, Salazar’s security men. He doesn’t want an international incident, which means getting us and the Jewels out of here fast.”
“That’s fine by me. It will be good to go home,” she said.
