Graf smirked. “I’m not sure you fully understand the gravity of the situation, Fräulein Jakob. You would do well to appreciate what is at stake. We know the Führer’s car did not malfunction.”
Audrey tried a different tack, feigned shock. “But sir, it was all over the news. The engine—”
“We write the news. Someone attempted to murder the Führer. We know that the person in question was you. We have a witness attesting to that fact. And…” He unclipped a stack of crumpled-looking papers from the clipboard and laid them out on the cement floor, facing her, as though she were playing solitaire. “These were found in your desk in the Department of Property Reclamation. Schematics for detonators matching the traces of devices recovered at the scene. A map of the city of Hanover, notes encircling the Opera House.”
Shivers of fear gripped her now. Her eyes darted over the documents. Where had they come from? She wondered briefly whether they had been recovered from Claus’s house, or Aldous’s, but knew they never would have been so sloppy as to retain them. These had to be a fabrication.
“Those aren’t mine,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never seen them before in my life. There’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t even understand what these are!”
Graf studied her, expectant. She squinted in the glare of the overhead light.
She stood to meet his gaze. “Only a fool would bring something this incriminating into an office crawling with Party and military officials. Did you plant them?”
A vein in his forehead pulsed. “Who were you working with?” he demanded. “Was it Friedrich Müller?”
They could not suspect Friedrich. She needed to put an ocean of space between them. He needed to believe her. She summoned all her strength.
“No one,” she snapped. “I wasn’t working with anyone because I didn’t do anything. And besides, Müller isn’t clever enough, anyway.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are a pianist, are you not, Ada Jakob?”
Her breath suspended as Ilse’s words filled her mind. Somehow, they know everything about everyone…
If they knew she was a pianist, what else did they know? Her heart pounded. Did they have Friedrich in custody? Had he already told them everything about her, to secure his own innocence? She clenched her fists as though preparing to fight, and grasped for a neutral response.
“I hardly see how that’s relevant.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Are you a pianist?” he asked again.
Where the hell is he going with this? “Yes. Why?”
His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. “You are?”
She watched him.
“And what sorts of messages have you been sending to your conductor on your piano?” he asked quietly.
Audrey leaned her neck forward slightly, as though getting a closer look at him might help clarify this bizarre line of questioning. “I have no—”
Graf lunged at her so fast she barely saw him move. In an instant, he shoved her to the floor. She shot out her hands, cuffed in a grotesque mockery of prayer, to cushion her fall, but her knees and forearms hit the ground. A shadow fell across her as Graf stepped in front of the light.
“We know you had something to do with this, you clever little bitch,” he spat. “And evidence has a way of finding us when we need it. Good luck with the firing squad, Fräulein Jakob. Heil Hitler.”
He raised his leg, then brought it down hard. She cried out as blinding pain coursed through her fingers. The crunch of her fragile bones filled her ears.
“That’s from Gerta. Ought to stop you from playing your little piano,” he snarled.
His footsteps retreated to the door, and he left her there, sobbing, cradling her broken fingers.
Hours passed. Perhaps a day. And the pain didn’t lessen. Her fingers were swollen and throbbing. She was exhausted, she wanted to sleep, but the fierce ache in her hands and the sickening apprehension of what awaited her had prevented any chance of rest. A part of her wondered what the point of sleep would be, anyway. To be well-rested for her impending execution?
At the sound of keys in the cell door, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet. Friedrich walked in, coat slung over his arm.
“Ada Jakob,” he said, pointedly crisp for the benefit of the guard behind him.
She fought her elated relief at the sight of him and bowed her head. “Herr Müller.”
The guard closed the door, then retreated. For a moment they said nothing. Then Friedrich craned his neck to see through the small rectangular window.
“He’s gone down the hall,” he muttered, then strode toward her and pulled her into a hug. “Audrey, good God.”
She closed her eyes against the comfort and wondered if this would be her last ever embrace. She breathed in the smell of him, the starch from his shirt, the hint of rosemary from the airing cupboard, and wished he were Ilse.
“What’s happened?” she demanded as they pulled apart. “Is Ilse okay?”
“Yes, she’s safe.” He took a deep breath. “Devastated though. They asked to search your room this morning. But they were apologetic, and left quickly. They asked me whether I knew anything of your plans, and of course I played it off, offended, said you kept to yourself and all of it. I think they believe you acted alone. The… machinations of a madwoman.”
Audrey’s insides burned. “But how did that woman, Braun—?”
“She’s a friend of Gerta Roth’s. From what I’ve been able to glean, she never swallowed the gas tank story because of your warning. She finally brought it up with Gerta, who recognized her description of you.” His brown eyes raked her grey ones, her hair. “Gerta told her brother. He’s SS too. And…” His shoulders slumped. “Now she gets her revenge for her husband’s death, and her brother gets to deliver Hitler the head he’s been screaming for.”
Audrey stared at him, stunned.
“I am so sorry,” Friedrich pled. “I—” He reached for her hands, but on instinct, she recoiled. He stared at them. “Audrey!” he gasped, looking up at her in agony.
