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David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Five

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. The Windsors escape oncoming Nazis. Leon shadows their every move. Leon dies.
Sidney Johnson’s day was the same as every other day of his life in the last few years. He worked on Jinglepocket’s fishing boat. He liked the spray of the brisk salt water in his face. Jinglepockets commented regularly about how Sidney’s body was growing stronger and how soon Sidney would be working harder than he did.
“You may be only seventeen years old,” the old fisherman said, “but you put in a better day’s work than men twice your age.”
The compliment only made Sidney work harder, which gave him more coins to jingle in his own pockets.
He knew his mother would have a good supper waiting for him and afterwards he would go to his room to read the books his father brought back from his many travels. Sidney learned about history, mathematics, business principles, proper English, a smattering of other languages like Spanish and French. He memorized whole passages from guides on self-defense. He knew how to be aware of his surroundings, to heighten his reflexes so no one could catch him off-guard. Most crucial part of his studies was the art of killing his enemy quickly and silently.
This education led him to do the same job his father did. Leon had revealed in bits and pieces over the years to Sidney that he worked for a secret organization which often needed his expertise in stealing valuable items and killing people.
“Were they bad people?” Sidney asked.
“I don’t like to use words like good or bad,” his father replied with due deliberation.” If someone is good or bad must always be determined by the person who’s trying to fill his family’s bellies.”
Sidney did not know if he entirely believed what his father said, but he worshiped his father, and it would take great thought to reject anything he said.
Walking down the sandy lane from the pier to his house, he saw Pooka come up to the gated wall around his large home. It looked out of place in the neighborhood of fishing shacks. They had this house because his father killed people for a living. Nagging guilt kept him from feeling any sense of pride. His mother opened the gate to let Pooka enter. A churning in his gut made him break out in a trot. When he reached the gate he heard his mother scream.
“No! You lie! Leon said you were evil, and he was right!”
Sidney ran to his mother’s side and put his arm around her, murmuring loving words in her ear. He knew very well his father’s feelings about the high priestess of Obeah, a religion that mixed Christianity with Caribbean superstitions
“I have friends in Lisbon,” Pooka continued, “who sent me about a newspaper article.” She extended it to her. “Read it for yourself.”
Sidney took it. His mother’s eyes were already filled with tears. The headline was, “Windsors Sail for Freeport.” He scanned the article until he reached near the bottom of the story.
“As the crowds dispersed from the pier they found a black man lying on his face. He was dressed as a Portuguese peasant.” He read in a soft respectful voice. “Police authorities reported finding a bullet wound in his back. He was dead. Police found a key to a nearby hotel in his pocket. When they investigated the hotel room, they found a passport belonging to—“Sidney stopped, not wanting to say the name.
“Go on,” Jessamine ordered. “Read it all.”
“Leon Johnson,” Sidney continued. “An investigation revealed Johnson had been observed in surveillance of the home where the Windsors were staying. The police concluded Johnson was responsible for the attack on the house earlier in the week.”
“Your husband is dead, Jessamine. I tried to protect him through the years with the powers of Obeah, which he repeatedly rejected—with scorn.” Pooka raised her chin in pride. “Now will you believe me? Will you now follow me in the belief of Obeah?”
Jessamine stared at her. “You say friends in Lisbon sent this to you.”
“Yes.”
“You have lived on this island all your life.” Jessamine’s words were calculated. “How could you ever have friends in Lisbon?”
“Obeah.” The smugness faded from Pooka’s face. “I have friends around the world because of Obeah.”
“A little religion in the Caribbean has followers around the world?” Contempt licked each syllable Jessamine said.
“Your faith is weak.” Pooka’s eyes fluttered, out of control. “I can teach you to believe Obeah has believers around the world.”
Sidney watched his mother’s face turn crimson. He had never seen her so angry with Pooka. She had always had the highest regard for the priestess. He often overheard arguments between his parents about the high priestess. Jessamine promised Leon she would shun Pooka, but whenever he left on one of his long mysterious trips, she ran to the old woman for guidance and comfort. But no more.
“You leave my house.” Raging emotion clouded his mother’s voice. Not as a thunderstorm but as the black billowing clouds rolling in before the light and explosions. “And never come back.”
“You will come crawling back to me because you know I have the truth.” Pooka paused to look down her crooked nose at Jessamine and spit on the ground before going through the gate and turning down the road to her own hovel.
Jessamine wiped a few tears from her face, turned to Sidney to smile and put her arm around him. As they walked into the house, she whispered, “I have freshly caught grilled fish, rice and roasted vegetables, your father’s favorite meal. I had this feeling he would be coming home, and he did. He will never leave again. He lives in our hearts forever.”
Sidney thought this was a strange reaction, but much better than the screaming and rending of clothing he had often imagined would be her behavior when news came of his father’s death. Even though he doubted her sincerity, he did find it soothing.
As they sat at the table eating, Jessamine revealed her inner thoughts. “As you may remember, I never got along with your grandmother but I did love her and respect her. I want you to believe that.”
She paused. Sidney decided it was more discreet to say nothing at this point.
“I am carrying on as I know your grandmother would have. Your father would have wanted it that way.”
Sidney was relieved with his mother’s promise of stoic silence. He could feel his heart pounding. He needed blessed nothingness hanging over them like a sanctified blanket of comfort. It was not to be.
“Don’t worry about your future,” Jessamine continued. “Your father provided well for us. This house is ours. No one can ever take it away from us. It will be yours until the day you—well, are no longer here. You are faithful to old Jinglepockets. He loves you like a grandson. When he—well, is no longer here, his fishing business will be yours. Follow your father’s example. Find yourself a good woman—hopefully, a better woman than he found—and have many children. Be the example to your children like he was to you.”
Jessamine paused to look out the window at the setting sun. “You have three aunts. Just at the moment your grandmother Dorothy needed them most, they moved to Nausau to find husbands—well, they found men, instead. If they ever come to you asking for money, don’t give it to them. I know your father always said to fill the bellies of your family, but when your aunts turned away from Dorothy, they were no longer members of this family. Your father demanded it. Trust me. He told me so many times.”
Though he had never heard his father speak of his sisters, Sidney believed his mother. The command rang true with every other decree his father issued on matters of family.
“I appreciate your helping me clean the dishes every night,” Jessamine continued without emotion, “but I want you to get your rest so you can put in a hard day’s work on the fishing boat. You are the man of the family now. I will wash the dishes by myself tonight.”
Sidney stood, walked around the table and kissed his mother on the cheek. Without a word he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. But Sidney stopped and cocked his head. He did not hear the clanking of dishes in the sink. Instincts told him something was wrong. Leon had often commented about his son’s uncanny intuition and insisted he should always follow it. It would keep him alive. Sidney rushed from his room and bounded down the stairs. He glanced in the kitchen. His mother was not there. He ran outside, through the gate and around the house.
There he saw his mother walking with serene determination into the sea. Sidney began to chase after her, but Pooka came out of the shadows and wrapped her old arms around him.
“Sshh, this is what your mother wants,” she whispered.
“No!” He struggled to get away. “Mother! No!”
“Your mother lived for your father,” Pooka continued. “Would you make her suffer through life without him?”
Jessamine splashed through the waves and continued walking until she disappeared in the ocean. Sidney stopped struggling. It was too late.
“Do not worry.” Pooka released her hold on him. “I will guide you.”
Sidney lashed out, pushing her down into the sand. “Go away! My father hated you! My mother told you never to come back! I hate you! If I ever see your face again, I will kill you!”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Four

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. The Windsors escape oncoming Nazis. Leon shadows their every move.
Leon slept well that night. He had pretended to be a busboy at a restaurant where the Windsors told the American ambassador in rather blunt terms that England will not survive the attack of the Huns. Leon didn’t believe a word of it.
He waiting for the cablegram manager to arrive to unlock the door. In the last two weeks Leon went from just sweeping and dusting to arranging boxes for delivery in the store room. His boss actually told him he wanted to train Leon to take over the office one day.
I make too much money killing people to run this little business.
Leon, remembering lessons his mother taught him, smiled and thanked the man for his kind remarks.
During the lunch hour he flipped through the incoming messages which were stabbed securely together on a long, lethal nail. Leon found one that shocked even him. It was a reply to Ambassador Stohrer, not from Ribbentrop but from Adolf Hitler himself.
“I am granting you ultimate power to ensure the Duke and Duchess spend the rest of the war living in the Wolf’s Lair at Berchtesgaden. I have decided that Spain is not a safe enough haven for them. If any guards get in your way, kill them. If the Windsors do not come along willingly, hurt them, badly. By the time the world sees them again at the end of the war, the scars will have had time to fade, and they will have learned the meaning of the word fear.”
Leon, with immense discretion, placed the cablegram back on the nail. When the manager returned from lunch, Leon hugged him.
“Good news—good news my friend. My mate from the ship just left. He said they had forgotten an important—very important crate and he searched town to town until he found me. I must leave now. Thank you, thank you very much.”
And he hugged the man again, grateful the cablegram store manager was so dense he failed to realize that Madrid is a great distance from any port and a search from town to town to find an insignificant swabby would have been futile. He was almost out the door when he turned to add, “Oh, your nephew—he is a good boy, a very good boy. I’m sure if you ask nicely he will return to work for you.”
“But he is el bobo.”
“But a good boy, si?
On his way back to his fleabag hotel, Leon stopped to buy the latest edition of a major Madrid newspaper. In his room, he flipped through the newspaper until he found a picture of the duke and duchess dancing at an expensive restaurant last night. The headline concerned something much more important than their samba.
“Windsors to Leave Madrid for Lisbon.”
Leon read the newspaper account with concern. The couple would begin motoring their way to the Portuguese capital Wednesday morning. Once there they would await further directions from the British government about what their duties will be during the remainder of the war. Sources indicated the Windsors would stay at a private villa instead of in one of Lisbon’s prestigious hotels. The source declined to give the exact location.
A private villa. From his own experience Leon realized a private villa was not as secure as one might think. He would have to examine the grounds as soon as he determined the location and identify the inherent risks of each corner and dark recess.
Leon pulled out his travel bag and took out his sheathed knife. He took the blade out and held it up to the glare of the afternoon sun. It glistened. He carefully ran his thumb along its edge, reassuring himself it would efficiently sink deep into any man’s neck. He returned it to its sheath, and then he reached for his black, shiny revolver, checking how many bullets he had in reserve. Not enough, he decided. Leon then realized he had forgotten his silencer. Perhaps his farewell to his son had been too emotional which cause the lapse in his normal adept preparations. He had time to buy another.
Looking in the dirty mirror hanging on the back of his door, Leon decided his attire was wrong. It was fine to pass himself off as a Spanish peasant, but he was going into another country. Portuguese peasant attire was different from what a Spaniard wore. The slight difference could endanger his mission. He needed dark camouflage wear for his surveillance of the villa. He also had to check the petrol level in his motorcycle and make sure the other fluids were sufficient, his tires were at the proper air pressure and to check the battery and spark plugs. Nothing could be left to chance. Leon looked out the window. The sun was high enough in the sky for him to make all his purchases before dark.
That evening he spent time at a low-class dive with plenty of cheap food, tequila and chicas whose dresses pulled tight across their ample bosoms and hips. And music. He had to be revived by a lively mariachi band. Toward the end of his carousing, Leon was sure he noticed a tall blonde in a far cubicle of the restaurant who had her long arms and legs entwined around a local peon. He tried to focus on her, but he had drunk too much tequila. But, he could have sworn she looked like the casino hostess in Nassau. Another swig of tequila made him forget her all together.
Leon spent the next day as he usually did before a mission shifted into serious mode. He slept most of the day, only leaving his room to drink several cups of coffee and eat dry toast. Leon ran the streets until he had broken out into a healthy sweat. Upon return to his room, he took a bath in the communal toilet at the end of the hall, went back to bed and fell sleep.
Awaking in the middle of the night, he gathered his belongings, put on his Portuguese peasant attire, went downstairs to pay his bill and mounted his motorcycle for a night ride southwest to the border. He kept his mind blank, except to follow the winding road. Long ago he learned when he entered the critical phase of a mission, he could not think of his son Sidney nor his wife Jessamine. No distractions to keep him from successful completion of his assignment. He did feel himself becoming drowsy as he drove through Merida. By the time he reached Badajoz, just a few miles from the Portuguese frontier, Leon knew he could not continue through the night. He checked into a shabby hotel in downtown Badajoz for a few hours of restless sleep. Leon decided he was becoming too old to continue much longer as a mercenary. Not so many years ago he could go for days on a minimum of sleep, but no longer. His only sense of relief was the Windsors must have stopped much sooner to check into a hotel than he did.
The sun had barely risen when he was back on the road and passed through the border inspection. By noon he rested on the veranda of a Lisbon café on the banks of Rio Tejo, sipping a cup of black coffee. Before long he spotted the couple’s limousine crossing the bridge. Paying his bill, Leon mounted his bike and followed them as they made a sharp left turn along the river which led away from the capital’s center. Leon became alarmed as they continued through the town of Cascais. Perhaps their plans had changed and they were going to meet a flying boat which would take them to England. This went against all the intelligence and news reports he had received.
However, he saw on the horizon a glistening pink stucco villa on the white sands of the Atlantic beach. It was surrounded by a limestone wall, which was not tall enough to keep anyone out, Leon noted. He gunned his motorcycle as he passed the limousine when it turned into the gated entrance. Again he noted the gate was wrought iron and not solid wood, leaving the Windsors open to gunfire by assassins in passing automobiles.
An hour later found Leon ensconced in a seedy seaside hotel with strong drinks being served on the patio overlooking the ocean. He asked an elderly man about to pass out from too much red wine about the owner of the villa down the way.
“Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo e Silva. A wealthy man. Only a wealthy man can afford such a long name.”
“But a good man, si? A wealthy doctor who takes care of his needy neighbors, no?” Leon asked.
The old man looked at him askance. “No. He is a Nazi.” He took a long drink of wine. “We are surrounded by Nazis and fascists and there is nothing we can do about it. My only hope is to die of too much wine before they take over the world.”
“I noticed many trees and bushes behind the wall.” Leon leaned in to pour the old man another drink. “He must need many workers to make the garden beautiful.”
After making a derisive spitting sound, the old man sneered. “Not a chance in hell. All of the guards and gardeners have been replaced by Germans. By the order of the good doctor. It’s like he wants someone to break in and kill the lousy Limeys.”
Leon stood. “Thank you for your help.” He bowed and was about to walk away when the old man grabbed his arm.”
“You got a funny accent. Where you from?”
“Bahamas.”
“Bahamas!” The old man’s eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing in a hell hole like this?”
“I must fill my family’s bellies.”
That night Leon, wearing his black camouflage, slithered along the front wall, looking from side to side to make sure no cars were coming his way with their headlights on high beam. The road was dark and silent. Leon didn’t know whether to feel fortunate or be alarmed. He jiggled the handle to the wrought iron gate to find it unlocked. He checked his watch. It was eleven. Now he felt alarmed. Something was planned that night. Slipping in, he made a quick inspection of the grounds. He counted the number of doors and found too many to secure it. Huge windows were only a few feet from each other, creating an illusion the villa was a house of glass. Beautiful but deadly. The indoor lights lit the garden with ghastly shadows.
His head jerked to the right when he heard footsteps. He looked up when a rock shattered an upstairs window. He quickly gathered his own supply of river stones which lined a flower bed. Rushing to the scene of the rock throwing Leon spied four men, dressed similar to himself, gathering more stones. He took careful aim and landed a rock on the head of each intruder. By the time he began his second round of throws, the trespassers ran for the unlocked gate.
In the morning, he sipped his coffee and read the front- page story about the attack. The owner of the newsstand which adjoined the cafe bitterly complained his newspapers were late being delivered, and many regular customers protested they could not wait and had to go to work without the news. He stopped his grumbling when a long line appeared, and the newsstand vendor soon sold out. He fussed the newspaper should have given him extra copies since, it knew the people would want to read about such important news.
Leon ignored him to concentrate on the story of the attack on the former king of England. The Spanish ambassador pleaded with the couple to return to Madrid where their safety could be guaranteed. The Duke of Windsor was unwavering in his vow to wait until his orders arrived from Prime Minister Winston Churchill.
After leaving the café, Leon sauntered down the street to a flower dealer close to the pier where all the ocean liners embarked to ports around the world. He selected a dozen red roses, gave the address of the doctor’s villa, and wrote a note:
“Do not be afraid. I am here to protect you. A friend who has your interests at heart.”
“Ah, she must be your lover,” the old woman cooed. “I will deliver these myself.”
As Leon handed her the money, he noticed she seemed familiar—younger than she was trying to act, a bad job of smearing dark stage makeup on her face and she stood straighter than most old women. He dismissed the observation as unimportant. He returned to his hotel room to sleep the rest of the day so he would be alert for his surveillance that night.
At eleven he appeared at the gate, which again had been left unlocked. His first duty was to locate the duchess’s bedroom window. She would not be in the bedroom where the window had been broken. It was boarded up. They would have moved her to a new location, he decided. Leon scampered among the flowering bushes and trees to the other side of the house where he found a lit window on the second floor. In it was the figure of a woman. He recognized her to be Wallis.
Looking around that portion of the garden he saw a dark figure of a man. This time the intruder had a rifle, pointed at the duchess’s bedroom window. Leon ran towards him, pulling out the revolver with the new silencer attached. Taking careful aim, shot the marksman, striking him in his chest. The man’s rifle went off as he fell. When Leon reached the body he couldn’t detect a heartbeat but he didn’t want to take any chances. He removed his knife from its sheath and stabbed the shooter’s throat several times. Leon wiped the blade on the grass, returned it to the sheath and ran for the wall, jumping over it. He didn’t want to be caught at the entrance gate.
The next morning, Leon bought his newspaper from the vendor who was beaming.
“It was late again, but they left me extra copies. Business is picking up.”
Leon ordered his coffee and toast, then read the newspaper account from the villa. Police authorities could not identify the victim. His shot had gone astray and entered the stucco wall. The Duke of Windsor announced he had received orders from the British government. He had been bestowed the prestigious position of governor to the colony of the Bahamas. He and his wife would be leaving on an American Export Lines ship the Excalibur on Friday.
Two days away. Surely the Germans would not be so foolish as to attempt another terrorist attack against the couple. But to make sure I will be in the garden each night.
Friday dawned with a feeling of relief for Leon. He had accomplished his mission. Soon he would be back in the arms of his loving wife. He could play again with his son who—he ominously realized—was the same age he was when his father died, but he was an inch taller than Leon had been.
Well, no reason to worry about that. The mission is complete. All that is left is to be paid.
Leon decided to wear his Portuguese peasant clothing to the pier so he would blend in with the other poor people who showed up to see what an authentic ex-king looked like. The Windsors did not disappoint. The duke looked dashing in a gray pin-striped suit with a suitably stylish straw hat. The duchess wore a light blue linen dress and sunglasses.
“Don’t turn around,” a familiar female voice ordered.
Leon felt a revolver pushed between his shoulder blades.
It’s her. From the casino. I thought it was her following me. She’s here to pay me off.
“The organization is not happy with your attitude. You always get the job done, but you’ve revealed you have a soft heart for the Windsors. The red roses were a mistake. Also, you’ve been sloppy and let it slip to certain undesirables about us. Pookah is a big problem. Don’t worry. Your family will receive your money from the mission. The organization is not completely cold-hearted.”
She shot him in the back. Leon fell. As his mind began to fade away, he had one last thought.
Family bellies must be filled.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Three

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. The Windsors escape oncoming Nazis. Leon shadows their every move.
Leon took a small inexpensive room down the street from the Ritz where the Windsors had checked in the night before. The mercenary had not worn his white linen suit on this mission. He would not be dining in expensive restaurants nor frequenting any glamorous casinos. The organization told him his task was to keep the Duke and Duchess of Windsor from harm. They were to have safe passage to wherever the British government wished to send them. Leon’s job was to make sure they were not harmed or detained in anyway.
The best method to meet this goal, Leon decided, was to intercept any messages being received or sent by Spanish officials to Germany. He ambled down the street, trying to figure out the best method to achieve his goal. As he searched the store fronts, he saw a familiar figure among the pedestrians. The man’s picture had been on the Madrid morning newspaper.
German ambassador to Spain Ebehart Von Stohrer made a speech praising the Spanish government for not following the lead of England and France in their indefensible oppression of freedom-loving Germany. Leon took particular notice of Stohrer’s face, trying to find a glimmer of reasoning behind his sincerely made idiotic statements.
Leon slowed to stare into the front window of a haberdashery. He always appreciated the latest styles in men’s apparel. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the German go into a cablegram office which puzzled Leon. Most embassies were equipped with their own cable equipment. Why would Stohrer avoid using the embassy apparatus and instead go to an out-of-the-way privately owned establishment? His message must be highly secret and extremely delicate in nature. Only the Duke and Duchess of Windsor would warrant such treatment.
After Stohrer left the cablegram office, Leon lingered by the office until a young man appeared with a broom to push dirt out of the office on the stoop and then out on the street. Leon walked over to him and looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching.
“Buenos dias, chico,” Leon greeted him.
The servant grunted.
Leon slid a knife out of his jacket pocket and stuck it in the lad’s side just deep enough to catch his attention.
“Vamanos,” he whispered. “Go inside, throw your broom down and tell your boss you’ve had enough of this lousy job.”
“But he’s my uncle, senor.”
“That makes it more likely he’ll forgive you walking in next week begging for your job back.”
Leon pushed harder on the knife until he felt the tip puncture the boy’s skin. Without a word the servant walked inside. Leon heard the broom hit the floor and then a lot of angry shouting. Eventually the boy stormed out and stomped down the street, his arm pressing close against his injured side. Leon walked the other direction until he reached a small café where he ordered a demitasse of strong coffee. An hour later he walked back to the cablegram office, walked in and removed his cap.
“Por favor, senor. I missed my boat this morning. I was a mere swabby—swabby, you know? With the mop and a broom. I need job. Hungry. I am very hungry.”
The office manager lifted an eyebrow and pointed at the floor. “There’s the broom. Sweep.”
When the manager left the office for lunch, Leon quickly sifted through the telegrams until he found the one sent by Stohrer. Even though Leon’s German was rudimentary but he still made out that Stohrer wanted instructions from Joachim Von Ribbentrop in Berlin on how to proceed on the Windsor project. Leon’s advance information was correct. He immediately went into the back store room where he began a grand mess of dusting and mopping so when he manager returned he would not suspect his new assistant had rifled through the private cablegrams.
The next day when the manager went to lunch Leon walked to the basket which held the messages received but not yet delivered. On top was a communication from Ribbentrop to Stohrer.
“Delay their visas as long as possible, hopefully two weeks. That would give me time to arrange a holiday to Madrid and accidentally run into the duchess. I’m sure I can convince Wallis to lure the duke into staying in Spain for the duration of the war.”
If Ribbentrop came to Madrid, Leon swore to himself Ribbentrop would be dead within twenty-four hours.
After work, Leon stood outside the Ritz in the shadows, just in case the Windsors went out for the evening. By happenstance, Leon had special skills to re-invent himself as a waiter or a busboy as the occasion arose. Also he had slightly bucked teeth which most times he successfully hid, but when the situation called for it, he could allow them to explode from his lips, changing his facial appearance drastically.
That particular night the American ambassador Alexander Weddell hosted the duke and duchess to an evening at one of the glitzier eating establishments of Madrid. With a few pesetas and the point of his very sharp knife, Leon was able to become a busboy for the night. He also commandeered the glasses with thick lenses of the frightened servant. His disguise was complete. What he overheard surprised him.
“The stories the French troops would not fight were not true,” the duke began speaking in his casual manner to the American. “They had fought magnificently, but the organization behind them was totally inadequate.”
Weddell’s mouth went agape. “Well, this comes as a surprise.”
Wallis joined in. “France had lost because it was internally diseased and a country which was not in condition to fight a war should not have declared war.”
The duke leaned into the ambassador. “This applies not merely to Europe but to the United States also.”
The rest of the dinner went quietly except for the occasional comment on the quality of the food, until the duke decided to add, “I am convinced if I had remained on the throne war would have been avoided. I am a firm supporter of a peaceful arrangement with Germany. I definitely believe continued severe bombing will make England ready for peace.”
It was at this time Ambassador Weddell announced he just remembered an important meeting back at the embassy and he must leave immediately. He told them not to worry. He had already made arrangements with the restaurant to pay the bill. The Windsors seemed unruffled and ordered rum raisin ice cream.
Leon, on the other hand, made his way back to the kitchen where he returned the jacket and glasses to the busboy and resumed his life-long habit of hiding his buck teeth. He did not understand why the Windsors would make such inflammatory statements in front of the American ambassador. He walked out the door and felt the warm Spanish breeze in his face. Perhaps they were creating an image, just as he created images for himself. Then his mind went back many years when an agent for the organization warned him about becoming emotionally involved with the subjects of his missions. It could prove dangerous. Leon had always laughed off the advice, but on this warm night in Madrid he gave it a serious second thought.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Two

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. David and Wallis volunteer to help France. Leon receives orders to go to France. The Windsors escape oncoming Nazis.
David and Wallis slept late the next morning in their suite at the most luxurious hotel in Barcelona. They felt as if they had earned it. He dressed and left Wallis munching on toast and sipping coffee as he went downstairs to send a cable to the British Foreign Office to inform officials they had arrived safely. They would move on to Madrid where they planned to pretend to be interested in Spanish pleas that they stay there. He was confident the message would be passed on to MI6.
When he returned to the suite, David found Wallis snuggled under the covers. Her half-eaten toast was back on a small plate by her coffee cup on the nightstand. She stirred a bit when he shut the door and opened her eyes only long enough to growl a command.
“Don’t you dare wake me up. I plan to sleep until I have completely forgotten that dreadful drive in the rain.”
With that she rolled over, exposing her boney derriere in her silk night gown. David smiled and poured himself another cup of coffee before settling into a comfortable padded chair. Briefly he watched Wallis to consider what kind of God’s creature was she. No one would ever call her beautiful, but everyone flocked to her when she arrived at a party. She knew all the rules of etiquette and knew when she could break them. She seemed frail and vulnerable, but was capable of abominable violence. Wallis was the opposite of every woman he had ever seduced, and yet he found himself falling in love with her, which was against all the rules of civilized espionage.
After he finished his coffee, David changed back into his pajamas to slip into the bed next to Wallis. He began to feel the toll of the last twenty-four hours. David didn’t know for sure if he could sleep, but he did feel comfortable in the bed next to her. He felt her body warmth. He heard her soft breathing. He smelled her heady expensive perfume. It was though they were married in spirit as well as in law, and they were truly in love. What a comforting sensation, he thought. Soon he was deep asleep.
Two days later they settled into their suite at the Ritz in Madrid. That night they celebrated David’s forty-sixth birthday with petite broiled steaks, fresh blanched peas drizzled with olive oil and baked potatoes. They were on their second bottle of champagne. Wallis lifted her glass.
“Here’s to your entering middle-age.” She had a wicked smile.
“Thank you for reminding me.” His tone was less than enthusiastic.
“Don’t worry about it.” The wickedness disappeared from her lips. “You’re Peter Pan. You’ll never grow up.”
“And how about you?” David looked down to cut his steak. “You’re only a few years younger than I.”
“That’s why I’m having such a good time now. I’ll be an old wreck, but I’ll be happy I went on the ride.”
The Windsors had just started their rum raisin ice cream when a courier presented a cable to the duke.
“Oh damn,” Wallis muttered. “I was enjoying myself until that thing arrived.” She paused as David read it. “Well, don’t leave me hanging. What is it?”
“We’ll be staying in Madrid a little longer,” he replied. “My brother Harry is due to arrive in Lisbon to commemorate Portugal’s 800th independence anniversary.”
“That means we have longer to experience this Spanish cuisine. I’ve heard of this marvelous dish called paella. It’s supposed to be peasant food, but it’s chocked full of pork, chicken, shrimp and sometimes squid.” She paused to consider the sullen darkness which had fallen over him. “What’s with the long face?”
David shrugged. “Oh, it just means more interminable meetings with Spanish officials trying to talk me into staying here for the duration of the war.”
“Is that all? You’re not really upset about not seeing your stolid brother Harry, are you? He’s so boring he puts me to sleep.” Wallis laughed until she noticed David was still glum. She leaned forward. “I’m your chum. You can tell me. I know you really adore George, but I didn’t think you care a hill of beans for the rest of them. Or do you?”
“If you’re my chum, you wouldn’t have to ask that question.”
When the Windsors arrived back in their suite, they found an envelope on their bed. David opened it to find two tickets to the afternoon bull fights at the Plaza Toros Las Ventas.
“We’ve been invited to watch little men in fancy costumes kill animals, my dear,” he announced.
“By whom?”
“Who knows?”
“Obviously by someone with no sense of true entertainment,” she replied. “Back home in Maryland if we wanted to kill a cow we’d just walk out to the field and blow its head off with a shotgun.”
The next afternoon they chose their clothing carefully. Their usual Paris high fashion would stand out even in a stadium filled with 25,000 peasants. Eventually they walked out on the street and hailed a local couple about their age, height and weight to offer them stunning clothing in exchange for their common street wear. The Spaniards were apprehensive at first, of course, but David with his down-to-earth personality and inadequate use of the Spanish language charmed them into venturing in the most expensive suite at the Ritz.
Once the exchange was made, the Windsors had to rush to be at the Plaza Toros Las Ventas in time for the opening ceremonies. As they walked to their seats the municipal band Espana Cani played pasadoble tunes.
“Thank God our seats are in the shade.”
“They‘re more expensive.”
“I don’t care.” Settling in, Wallis looked at David and smiled. “You make a handsome peasant.”
He glanced her way. “So do you.” After a pause he added, “Don’t look at me that way. I’m becoming aroused.”
“Don’t do that, old boy,” a voice interjected from behind them. “Don’t look around. It’s just your kindly old general.”
They both sighed in relief. They didn’t really want to stay to see the killing of a bull.
“You will be exchanging cablegrams over the next few weeks with Churchill over what your assignment will be during the war,” Trotter began. “First you’ll be insulted that you were not brought home for a more active role. Wallis, you must demand that someone sneak into the Riviera to retrieve your green bathing suit from La Croe.”
“That ugly old thing?” She seemed shocked. “I hope nobody does it.”
“Probably not,” Trotter replied, “but it will make a good headline.” He put his hand on David’s shoulder. “You’re going to be the governor of the Bahamas.”
“Hmm, I’ll need a whole new wardrobe,” Wallis murmured. “Nothing in green.”
“And what will our mission be?” David asked.
“An Australian chap by the name of Harry Oates practically runs Nassau. He has ties to the Germans, the American Mafia and who knows who else. You become close to him, see what he knows and if he knows too much—kill him.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. David and Wallis volunteer to help France.
Leon and Sidney raced on the beach of Eleuthera not aware of the increasing war clouds gathering over Europe. Euphoria filled Leon’s lungs which gave him strength to focus on the palm tree down the shore a distance. He could tell he was getting older and more easily winded, but he wanted to stay ahead of Sidney as long as he could. His son was thirteen years old now and stronger and swifter than he was at that age. He didn’t dare to look over his shoulder or else he would see how close Sidney was. As soon as Leon passed the tree he threw his arms.
“I win!” Bending over, he gasped. He couldn’t have gone another step.
Sidney whizzed passed him and kept going several yards down the beach.
”I win! I win!”
Fortunately, Leon regained his breath. “No! The race was to the palm tree!”
“That was your race! My race was to run further than you!”
Leon smiled. “That’s not fair.”
“I don’t care. I still won.”
Walking toward his son, Leon wagged a finger. “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”
Sidney grabbed his father’s arm and twisted it up behind his back, causing Leon to fall down. Sidney put his sandy foot on his chest and looked down and smiled. “You’ve already taught me.”
“And very well,” Leon agreed.
Sidney extended his hand to help his father up. They began to walk back to their hacienda.
“When will I meet my contact?” he asked.
“Not for a long time,” Sidney replied. “You are very strong. You know how to fight. But your mind has not grown enough to make the right decisions on a mission.”
“I know the rules,” his son insisted. “You must always remember you do this to fill your family’s bellies.”
“Yes, but that means more than hunger.”
“I know. Protect their lives.”
“And your family is more than just the people who share your blood. Right now you think your only family is your mother and me. But you have more people who are family.”
“Who are they?”
“Do you remember how I read you stories from the newspapers about a couple called the Duke and Duchess of Windsor?”
“Why are they family?”
“You will learn soon.” After a pause he added, “They have saved my life. And I have saved theirs. That makes them family.”
Sidney was silent for a moment. “Is Jinglepockets family?”
“Of course he is.”
“What about Pooka?”
“No!”
“All right. She’s not family, but I would not kill her because she is a woman, right?”
Leon chuckled. “I don’t know. I might make an exception in her case.” He looked up, and they were almost home. The dead plant in the pot was askew. “Run ahead and tell your mother we are back from our walk.”
When he was alone, Leon looked up and down the road carefully to see if anyone was watching him. He lifted the plant and took out the note.
“Rialto. 8 p.m.”
That evening in Nassau Leon, dressed in his white linen suit, walked into the casino. The room was full. He looked for the blonde card dealer. He smiled. She wore a bright red jacket with no blouse under it. He walked over to her.
“Deal me in. I feel lucky tonight.”
“Not that lucky.” She pushed cards his way. “You look hungry.”
Leon looked down and saw a note attached to one of the cards.
“Ask for table fifteen and order the grilled salmon.”
As Leon waited for his dinner to be served, he felt the chair behind him bump his back.
“Your new assignment is to protect the Duke and Duchess of Windsor as they motor from Antibes, France, through Spain to Portugal.” It was the man with the southern accent. “We believe the Germans either want to kill them or kidnap them, so Hitler can put them on the English throne. Our client does not want this to happen. Be at the Miami airport tomorrow morning. A ticket will be waiting there for you to New York LaGuardia. There you will be given a ticket to a location in France where you will be told where to start shadowing the Windsors.”
The server brought the salmon plate to Leon.
“Go now,” the man with the southern accent ordered. “The salmon is for me. I haven’t eaten all day.”
Leon walked past the poker table.
“Bonne nuite, monsieur,” the blonde dealer called out.
When he arrived at his Eleuthera hacienda at midnight, Leon found Jessamine in tears. Feeling perturbed he had to stop to comfort his wife instead of preparing for his late night cruise to Miami, Leon breathed out and put his arms around her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Pooka came by tonight and told me she had a vision you were going away and would never come back,” she whispered between the sobs.
“That old witch. I told you not to listen to her.”
“But you are leaving tonight, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“So—“
“So it is nothing. I go on my trips all the time.” He kissed her. “Now help me pack.” He looked at the top of the stairs where Sidney was standing. “Come down. I want to talk to you.”
His son passed Jessamine on the stairs.
“So what do you think about all this?” Leon asked.
“I think it is my job not to think about it,” the boy replied.
“Good answer.” He looked back up the stairs before staring into his son’s face. “But you will have to have an opinion about everything eventually. Always be sure to make it your own decision. Don’t be influenced by your mother, by Pooka, by any beautiful woman who tries to sway you, not even by me. You must make your own decisions. That is the only way you can be sure to keep your family’s bellies full.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Nine

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. David and Wallis volunteer to help France.
Wallis took on her duties of renovating La Croe into a French officers’ convalescent home with the same enthusiasm she had when she decorated it as their pleasure dome on the Riviera. Every soldier unfortunate enough to have been wounded would receive the same accommodations as a former king of England. She recruited the ladies of nearby Antibes to knit stockings for the patients to wear as they strolled around the building. For the French soldiers on the front, they made sweaters, socks and gloves. Wallis turned the knitting sessions into regular tea parties, except she served champagne instead of tea. While the French army fought just across the border in Germany, certain luxuries such as champagne were still available to be shipped in from Paris. Wallis designed her own military-style suit to give the event a hint of solemnity.
During such afternoon socials when all the upper crust ladies were well on to their second glass of champagne they jumped at the opportunity to talk about the ladies who did not attend. Some of them had intimate ties with German nationals and in secret waited for the glorious inclusion of France into the Third Reich. Another group of ladies were not as enthusiastic about being inducted into the Hitler regime. They prided themselves on expediency and supported a movement led by General Petain. Petain was already making overtures to Nazi sympathizers to retain a certain autonomy through a government in Vichy, a leading wine-growing region.
“Well,” Wallis chirped as she clicked her knitting needles, “I assure you none of this champagne came from Vichy.”
All the ladies tittered as they returned to their work, only to find they had to undo a row or two of their work. Evidently knitting, champagne and gossip are not conducive to quality work. Wallis smiled graciously as she intently memorized the names, titles and jobs of the suspected conspirators. After her friends left in the late afternoon she went straight to her bedroom where she made copious notes.
A couple of days later she drove into Antibes to buy other necessities for the men on the front, such as toiletries, soap and cigarettes. As she left one tobacco shop a peasant woman limped up to her holding out an apple.
“Une pomme, madame?” she asked.
Wallis turned to appraise her and smiled. “You speak French with an American accent.”
“I have been told that many times,” the peasant replied.
“You look exhausted.” She nodded to a café across the street and extended a coin to her. “Buy yourself something and I’ll join you in a few moments.”
As the peasant woman gimped away, Wallis decided that even though she did have a wooden leg she did have a certain style about her. Wallis first deposited all her shopping items in her car before she returned to the café. The woman sat in a back table next to the toilet door. Her dowdy clothing seemed to make her fade away against the wall of ancient wallpaper. Wallis sat and ordered a coffee. She noticed the woman had ordered the same.
The woman’s high cheekbones and dogged chin drew Wallis in, making her remember a fact she had spent most of her life trying to forget—she was physiologically a man though her hormonal balance leaned toward a feminine disposition. Most of the time it was blonde-haired women who drew her attention, but she found this brunette undeniably attractive.
“Do you sell many apples?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“As you may know, I am Wallis, Duchess of Windsor, and I have converted my home into a convalescent facility—“
“And you need plenty of apples for your patients, I know,” she interrupted. “I can get all the apples you want as long as you have something for me.”
Her bluntness made Wallis reel. A moment or two passed before she could reply. “I can give you a ride to La Croe where you can make arrangements for apple delivery while I go upstairs to retrieve something for you.”
“Then let’s not waste time.” The woman stood and limped to the front door.
Soon they were in Wallis’s car motoring along the coast to La Croe. The woman stared straight ahead and didn’t speak. Wallis tried to follow her example but her natural talkativeness won.
“Have you seen my husband?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is he well?”
“As far as I could tell.”
“I understand he’s flying a lot.”
“I did see him by an airplane once or twice.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said clouds are gathering over Holland.”
Wallis was frustrated by the conversation. “It’s getting pretty damn cloudy here in France too.”
“Sure as hell is.”
Wallis was getting weak-kneed. “Look, I know agents aren’t supposed to say anything, but it’s just us two girls alone in a car. Couldn’t we share something?”
“I read the newspapers. I know all about you.”
“Dammit, at least tell me how you lost your leg!” Wallis returned her attention to the road. “You’re so rude. You made me lose my temper.” She exhaled in exasperation. “I really like that.”
“I was hunting in Turkey. As I climbed over fence, the gun went off and took off my leg. I know. So sad. Now let’s get on with winning this war.”
“One last question, you and I talk alike. I don’t mean the cussing, but where are you from?”
“Box Horn Farm.”
“I knew it! Maryland!” Wallis searched her mind. “Box Horn Farm. I think I’ve heard about your family. Big estate. They had a daughter but didn’t talk about her much.”
“Shut the hell up or I’m going to have to kill you.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
The spy looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “You know I’m not delivering any damn apples.” She stayed in the car while Wallis ran into La Croe to retrieve her notes. When the agent saw her return, she got out of the car to take the correspondence.
“Can I drive you anywhere?” Wallis asked.
“No thanks. I can handle myself.” She turned to walk down the driveway.
“I bet you can,” Wallis murmured.
The English military had turned down the Windsors’ offer to treat English soldiers and the Windsors’ offer to donate money to help the British cause. Both of the Windsors assumed the rejections came Buckingham Palace itself. The French army eagerly accepted their help. Every available doctor in France volunteered to join the army to treat the wounded soldiers coming in from battlefields in Germany, Holland and Belgium. More wounded French officers’ flooded La Croe, a sign Wallis knew meant disaster was not far off. On May 10, 1940, Wallis walked out on the La Croe terrace and saw a young officer stretched out on a chaise lounge. He stared into the Mediterranean, ignoring the doctor trying to take his vital signs.
“He hasn’t spoken a word since he came here,” the doctor whispered to Wallis. “Some call it battle shock. If he cannot force himself out of it, it will remain with him the rest of his life. Quelle domage.”
Wallis sat next to him. She noticed his exposed veiny left arm. She caressed it.
“No fat on you,” she purred in perfect French. “I can tell. Look at the veins on your arm.”
The soldier looked back at Wallis and wrinkled his brow.
“Que?”
“You must have a sweetheart back home aching to have your arms around her again.”
“Que?”
“Don’t act like the school boy around me.” She leaned in to whisper, “You love her, don’t you? Every moment you think of her, long for her.”
“Que?”
“What is her name?”
“Claudette.” He smiled.
The doctor stood, patted Wallis on the shoulder. “Merci.”
Before she could say anymore, she saw David enter the room and walk directly to her.
“Ah, it is my husband. Sadly I must go.” She looked at young officer sternly. “Never a word about our conversation to anyone, especially Claudette.”
“Que?”
David took her arm and guided her upstairs. “As soon as I received Gen. Gamelin’s permission, I came directly here. We must leave immediately. The Germans have broken through and are headed in this direction.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Eight

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. Woolworth heiress tells her son she wants to buy a king.

David and Wallis kept busy the first half of 1939 going back and forth from La Croe and their chateau in Paris. They hosted or attended small dinner parties whose guest lists included German sympathizers, usually British industrialists and bankers who realized their fortunes rested in cozy relations with the Third Reich. They avoided large lavish affairs where intimate conversation was logistically impossible. One such automobile magnate and his German wife revealed during a dinner at the Windsor’s Parisian chateau that they had recently returned from Berlin.
“We were at a reception for Herr Hitler and Fraulein Braun,” the husband said.
“Eva was quite forlorn,” his wife interrupted. “It seems her personal maid ran away in the middle of the night right before Christmas and has not returned. Eva said the woman had been so kind and loyal. A long time employee. Her departure confused Eva because she was under the impression the woman would have done anything for her.”
The Windsors smiled.
On September first of 1939 Germany invaded Poland on the pretext Poland made a peremptory attack on a German fortification in a peremptory attack. The German proclamation claimed a legal right to protect its own citizens against unprovoked aggression. Gossip at the Windsors’ dinners was that the invaders were, in fact, Germans dressed in Polish military uniforms. David and Wallis feigned disinterest. During the spring all of David’s official pronouncements urged conciliation with Hitler’s government. He even sent a telegram to Hitler to reconsider his actions to which the Fuhrer replied any war would not be his fault.
Three days later during a pool party at La Croe David received a telephone call that Britain had declared war on Germany. In the coming weeks the Duke of Windsor took several calls from London encouraging him to play an important role war effort by acting as morale officer to the troops. He had always been good at that sort of thing during the First World War.
By September 12 David and Wallis board the British destroyer HMS Kelly at Cherbourg to cross the channel for talks about his role in the war with the Foreign Office. Lord Louis Mountbatten and Winston Churchill’s Randolph were already on board. Winston insisted Randolph be included in the trip to give him experience in statecraft. Mountbatten, in serious tones, explained to David rumors of his being appointed as a morale officer were just rumors. Randolph just sat there, smiling and nodding, as though such a behavior could make such a disappointing announcement more pleasant. Instead, Mountbatten said, David would be assigned as the British consulting officer to French General Maurice Gamelin at the Maginot fortress along the border with Germany. Wallis, Mountbatten continued, could do anything she wanted as long as she kept her mouth shut and her face out of the newspapers.
“And for God’s sake, no more damn lavish dinner parties,” Mountbatten insisted. He then told them the rest of their visit to England was to be one long photo opportunity with them smiling patriotically with the high and low alike.
Randolph continued to smile and nod.
When they returned to their cabin they found General Trotter lounging in an uncomfortable chair.
“Now I suppose you want to know what you really are going to do in France,” he announced in his informal, MI6, way.
David and Wallis sat and listened. David would, indeed, be attached to the French Maginot line but he would ask to use one of their smaller aircraft for leisure flying over the countryside. MI6 intelligence had received information that Germany planned to bypass the massive French fortification and invade Holland and Belgium to enter France undeterred. Instead of flying over France, David would fly reconnaissance over Belgium. When he detected German troop movement, he should send coded messages through an American intelligence officer disguised as French peasant. Wallis will turn La Croe into a convalescent home for officers. Any information she might gather from the soldiers she would pass as a French peasant.
“How will I know it is him?” Wallis asked.
“She has a gimpy leg.”
“Fascinating. She travels fast with a gimpy leg,” she murmured.
When the Windsors arrived in London, they had to rely on old friend Lady Alexandra Metcalf to pick them up and take them to her house where they stayed for the duration of the visit. Wallis kept busy playing with the Metcalf children. David had an uncomfortable meeting with his brother the King and sat politely during several conferences in the War Office where he acted appropriately surprised when told about his assignment to Vincennes. David and Wallis were back on the destroyer Express to Cherbourg. Once at the British command, Maj. Gen. Sir Richard Howard-Vyse ordered David, the only British officer allowed at Maginot, keep his eyes and ears open so he could send back information on the condition of the French installation.
“You mean be a spy?” David’s mouth dropped open.
“Yes, that is the general purpose, Your Royal Highness.” The general was droll.
“Oh my. I don’t think I’ve ever done that sort of thing before.” David’s voice went soft.
“Yes, we know. Well, do the best you can.”
David kissed Wallis good-bye and sent her on her way to La Croe where she began preparations to turn the estate into a convalescent center. The War Office gave David strict orders to keep Wallis from the front lines.
Once David arrived at Maginot, he met Gen. Gamelin who with great pride gave him a tour of the facility, from its sun-ray rooms and movie theater to the cannon fortifications.
“It is the last word in defense,” Gamelin boasted. “We’ll dig in, just like the first war.”
The aging general reminded David of his own father. It was not a compliment. Seven months passed with David efficiently fulfilling his duty as outlined by Gen. Howard-Vyse. He listed the number of soldiers, rifles, and cannon but had trouble coming up with an exact count of aircraft. Some of the older models used in the first war, such as the Morane fighters, were unmarked. David was concerned with Gamelin’s explanation when questioned about the aircraft capability.
“You don’t want all the planes marked,” Gamelin huffed. “Then the enemy will know exactly how many craft we have. We used the exact same policy in the first war. Don’t they teach military history in British schools?”
By the end of the general’s tirade, David had come up with an ingenious plan of his own. “You’re quite right, General Gamelin. I am most trained in statecraft, not aircraft; however, I do know how to fly a fighter in the classification of the Morane. Would it be all right if I took it up for a bit of sightseeing tomorrow?”
“Sightseeing?” Gamelin sneered. “I suppose that’s all you’re good for. At least it will keep you out of my hair for a few hours.”
Early the next morning, David prepared for his flight. A young peasant woman limped up to him holding up an apple from her basket.
“Monsieur, une pomme, s’il vous plait?”
David smiled and pulled coins from his pocket. “You speak French with an American accent.”
“I have been told that before, monsieur.”
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll buy another apple from you.”
She curtsied and limped away. David took a bite out of the apple as he climbed into the old fighter. His ascension went smoothly. He assumed the mechanics did their job well. As soon as he had cleared the airspace around Maginot, David veered left toward the lowlands of Belgium. They looked so calm. Not at all aware of the hell of warfare that was about to descend upon it. All the intelligence David had studied showed the Germans were going to avoid the Maginot line completely. On this particular clear day, he saw no evidence of troop movement.
David allowed his mind to drift a moment as he enjoyed the freedom of solo flying. It was as though he was being lifted up and over all the cares of his life. He knew it was necessary for his family to hate him for the abdication in order to maintain his cover with MI6. But all the snubs did hurt, he had to admit to himself.
Before he knew it, David looked down and recognized the landscape of Holland. He had flown too far. As he began his maneuver to return to France David noticed the sky was turning black with approach of large German aircraft, out of which came paratroopers. The invasion of Holland had begun.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Seven

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. They plan a gay Christmas on the Riviera but someone is trying to kill Wallis who kills her attacker.
Jessie Donohue lounged poolside at Cielito Lindo, her ocean front estate in Palm Beach, Florida, the week after Easter in 1937. Puffing on a cigarette, she reached for her glass of champagne on the nearby glass-topped table. She was vaguely bored and still nursed a grudge that her blue sapphire was gone forever. She had everything a woman of immense means could want, but she still needed something else to fill the hole left in her heart by the missing sapphire. Even blazing her way through the Spanish Civil War just to lose thousands playing poker and witnessing a murder didn’t stir anything in her breast. She still needed something to make the blood course through her veins like hot lava, but Jessie had patience. Eventually she would discover what she wanted and have it, no matter how long it took to get it.
Just then Jimmy crashed through the patio door and stormed over to her. Jessie glanced up and smiled. He looked adorable in his navy blue striped shirt and cream colored shirt opened three buttons more than decent society allowed. But he was twenty-four year old man and carried the look very well. Or at least his mother thought so.
“Oh Jimmy, what have you done now?”
“It wasn’t me.” He circled her chair. “It was those asses at the Bath and Tennis Club.” He paused to look at her glass. “Where is the bottle whence came that champagne?”
“Oh dear, you’re trying to sound Shakespearean.” She smirked. “You must be overwrought.”
Jimmy dragged a wrought iron chair over and sat. “I’m not so angry for myself but for Timmy.”
“Who’s Timmy?”
“Remember? My sleepover from last week. He’s a towel boy at the club.”
“You have to get more specific than that, darling.” She sipped the last of her champagne. “The champagne bucket is in the tea pavilion. When you go pour yourself a glass, be a dear and refill mine.”
“Mother! I’m in the middle of a story!” Jimmy’s tanned cheeks reddened.
“Well, you’re the one who asked about the champagne!”
“We’re in the middle of a serious socio-economic discussion here!”
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was that important. Please continue.”
“I was in the middle of brunch when a servant wandered through the dining room ringing a bell and holding up a sign, ‘Paging Mr. Niger.’ I don’t mind a bit of ribbing every now and then, but poor little Timmy! It was so unfair to him! It’s like towel boys aren’t supposed to have feelings too!”
Jessie reached out and patted his hand. “You know how broad minded than I am, but there is such a thing as discretion. You can have an affaire d’amour with anyone you want but please don’t pick the kitchen help from a restaurant we frequent.”
“He’s not kitchen help. He’s the towel boy.”
“Whatever. Now fetch me my champagne.”
Jimmy did as he was told, but his mother knew he wasn’t pleased about. To tell the truth, she hadn’t been pleased with her son since he was little and covered her face with slobbery kisses. Why do children have this annoying habit of growing up? Her older son Wooly grew up and became more interested in girls than his mother. Well, that didn’t bother her too much: Wooly was such a dullard. But Jimmy. The sun rose and set each day solely to cast light on his brilliance.
Upon his return he stuck the champagne glass into his mother’s hand. A few drops dribbled onto her bathing suit. Jimmy plopped into the wrought iron chair with his own drink and grumbled.
“Anyway, none of this would have happened if you had given me that extra two hundred thousand dollars. My Broadway show would have been a smash and I’d made history being the youngest producer in history and too busy to mess with busboys.”
“I thought you said he was a towel boy.” Jessie loved to catch Jimmy in a mistake. “Also, it wasn’t a Broadway show. It never made it past the West End in London.”
“That’s what I mean. It was a great show with Ruth Etting and Lupe Velez. All I needed was just a few more dollars to pay them.” He turned to look at his mother. “You know they’re all a bunch of hypocrites. They rave about how much they love to perform, but let one little check bounce and they refuse to sing a note!”
Jessie patted his hand. “But I missed you, my baby. Why would I pay perfectly good money to make myself even more miserably alone while you go off with those wretched theater people?”
Jimmy sipped his champagne as he looked out at the Atlantic. “Mother, do you think there’s going to be a war?”
“Frankly, I don’t. It’s just another way to stir up common people to vote for Franklin Roosevelt. What a loathsome man. Anyway, it’s not going to concern you, my pet. You will never have to serve in the military.”
“I don’t know,” he replied, measuring each word with due consideration, “I think I’d like to fly airplanes in the war.”
“I told you, there’s not going to be a war!”
“I ran into an old buddy of mine from Choate—you know, one of those dismal schools I got kicked out of—at an Elsa Maxwell party—“
“You mean Elsa’s in town and I wasn’t invited to her party!”
“Remember what you said about her dress in Cannes? She hasn’t forgiven you for that yet.”
“Petty bitch,” Jessie grumbled.
“Mother, please let me finish my story. I was talking to Jack Kennedy. You know his father was our bootlegger during Prohibition. Well, he’s come up in the world and is now the ambassador to England, and he says there is going to be a war.”
Jessie sat up to pat Jimmy’s tanned cheek. “Well, if there is a war, I’ll buy you a nice big airplane and you can fly it up and down the coast pretending you’re in the Army.”
“But I want to do something with my life.” Jimmy stood, taking his half-drunk glass of champagne back to the tea pavilion.
“You do things with your life,” she shouted after him. “You make me happy. And you make all our friends laugh.”
He came back, sat and looked into his mother’s eyes. “Don’t you ever want something so bad it hurts inside when you can’t have it?”
Putting her dead cigarette in her champagne glass, Jessie turned serious. “Yes, I want my blue sapphire back.”
“The blue sapphire was just a rock. A lot of people have fancy rocks.”
A thought flashed through her mind. Jessie often ridiculed the nouveau riche for buying the attentions of exiled European royalty, but now she realized that was what she wanted.
“I want you to get me a king. It would be such fun to own another human being, not some lowly servant, but a genuine member of a royal family.”
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Do you want him gift wrapped and slid under your door by Friday?”
“No, my dear. I have patience. You’re like your father. He didn’t have patience.” She smiled. “You are young and pretty. You have years to lure any one you wish.”
“But you’re not young.” Jimmy smirked.
Her smile faded. “You know what they say. Only the good die young. I shall live forever.” Jessie leaned in to grab the back of Jimmy’s head. “Jimmy, did you have anything to do with the theft of my jewels? You were very close to your father. You’re very much like him, in fact.”
“No, I didn’t.” He reached around to the back of his mother’s head to pull on her hair. “But never forget who killed father. And, yes, I was very fond of him.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Six

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. They plan a gay Christmas on the Riviera but someone is trying to kill Wallis.
Early Christmas morning David, Wallis and their guests took a caravan of limousines to a country church of the Anglican denomination. The servants lined the driveway to wave them on to their Christian duty. Monsieur Valat stood at the gate and once the last car entered the road he closed it. Turning to the retinue of staff, he waved his hands, and off they all flew to the kitchen to prepare the Christmas feast for the returning supplicants.
The woman in dark clothes blended in with the authentic employees, pretending she had actual duties to perform. Her actual purpose was to find a more reliable weapon with which to kill Wallis. The poisoned wine had proven ineffective. Her first thought was a revolver. At close range it would prove impeccably efficient. It could then be thrown off the cliffs into the Mediterranean or, returned to the gun storage unit. But the woman did not know where the guns were stored.
“Mon Dieu!” the sommelier blurted out in the middle of the kitchen. “I forgot to chill the champagne! Someone! Go to the basement and bring up a case!”
The woman in dark clothes tugged at his jacket sleeve. “I will go, monsieur,” she murmured so no one would detect her German accent.
“Non, non, non. It is heavy. Find a man.”
“I am strong, monsieur.” Again she murmured.
She had no trouble finding the stairs to the basement. A stream of servants went up and down them fetching eggs, vegetables, fruit and bread. In the basement she found a hall with two doors on each side. A quick look informed her the open doors lead to the liquors, wine and other potables, another to fruits and vegetables and the third to bread and cheeses. The closed door was marked “Armory”. She had found the guns. However, when she tried to open it, she found it locked tight. She sighed with frustration. Monsieur Valat would be the only person with a key. One of many on a large key ring in his front trouser pocket. Her pickpocketing skills were minimal. Then she remembered her original purpose for being in the basement. Entering the wine vault she lifted a case of champagne with no effort at all.
After delivering the champagne the angel of death looked around the kitchen for another weapon. On a long table was a canvas bag unrolled, revealing a special pocket for each knife needed in food preparation. This would be perfect, she decided. The knives would not be counted until the end of the day. By that time she would have time to steal it, ram it up inside Wallis’s ribcage, wash it off and return it. Again her hopes were dashed when one particular cook go over to count the knives. A few minutes later the same cook came back to return a knife, and she took the time to count them all again before retrieving a larger one.
The assassin’s mind raced. How would she dispatch the duchess? The only weapon that came to her mind at the moment was the garrote. All she would need was a length of rope with a knot tied in the middle. She was strong. It would take no time nor effort to strangle the skinny little woman. She slipped back down the stairs and inspected the crates to see if any of them had been bound by rope. There were none.
As she rushed into the hall to make her way back to the kitchen she bumped into a gangly boy winding a clock.
“Excuse moi, mademoiselle.”
The woman in dark clothes noticed the dull stare in his eyes. Such children should be exposed to the elements at birth, she told herself.
When she returned to the kitchen, she heard the buzzing of voices. The limousines were coming through the gate. The ladies would want to freshen up before partaking in Christmas dinner. Monsieur Valat noted in a loud voice time was running out.
Yes, time is running out. She disguised her face with a simple smile.
Monsieur Valat assigned her to stand behind and to the left of Aunt Bessie. She noticed the backward boy was behind the Duchess of Windsor who was seated next to her aunt. The boy’s attention wandered the room and every so often his shoulders twitched.
How would he know what the duchess wanted? He was useless.
“The table is beautifully set, Wallis.” Bessie patted her niece’s hand. “As always you did a wonderful job.”
“Thank you, Bessie, but I didn’t set the table. The servants did it while we were at church.”
“At church?” Bessie looked at Wallis. “Oh yes. Church. I was meaning to ask you why we went to a Catholic church.”
“It was Anglican.”
“Anglican? I go to the Episcopal church back in Baltimore.”
“Well, it’s basically the same church,” Wallis explained. “In England they call it—“
“Oh! I just caught a mistake you made! We must change the seating immediately!”
“What is that, my dear?”
“The seating should alternate lady, gentleman, and we’re seated side by side, and we’re both ladies.”
“I seated us next to each other on purpose so I could help if you needed it.”
The dark angel sniffed. They all deserve to die. The old woman has lived beyond her usefulness. The boy just makes me nervous, looking around, unaware of anything. And the Duchess of Windsor, well, she deserves to die for special reasons.
After dinner, all the guests dispersed to the sunny terrace overlooking the Mediterranean for coffee and cigars. The grim female reaper was quite efficient clearing the table. In fact Monsieur Valat pulled her aside to compliment her work. She giggled and curtsied, but inside she was furious with herself for standing out, in any way.
The idea flitted through her mind to hug Valat for his nice words and search for the key ring hanging somewhere in his trouser pocket, but in the end she decided that would be too risky. She still needed a weapon with which to kill Wallis. She was not too worried. She took pride in selecting just the right instrument of death. She had done it many times before.
After the last pot had been put away, the servants began to whisper in excitement. Word had spread that the duchess had purchased and personally wrapped Christmas presents for each of the servants.
Monsieur Valat clapped his hands to gain their attention. “To the grand hall. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor have a special surprise for each and every one of you.”
As they gathered at the bottom of the large Christmas tree, they saw Wallis sorting through different piles of presents wrapped in silver and white. The duke straightened his tie. Evidently he wanted to look his best as he handed out the presents. The servants created a line to the left so they could receive their gifts, unwrap them and exit to the right, which led back to the kitchen.
The process took a long time because the duke, upon handing out the present, shook hands heartily and took a moment to chat with each one. Wallis hugged and kissed each servant and had something appropriately festive to say.
What a bore. The woman in the dark clothes tapped her foot.
The gifts themselves ran from elegantly utilitarian, like silver cheese graters, to extravagantly personal, like alligator-skin wallets and handbags. Finally the woman reached the front of the line. By this time, she had decided on a giggle. A giggle could disarm the most suspicious person. When Wallis went in for the hug, the woman retreated slightly, which Wallis apparently took as shyness and quickly passed on to the next servant.
Death’s messenger was unenthusiastic in her tearing away of the paper which revealed a white box. Her eyes widened when she opened it because, lying on a puffy cloud of cotton, rested a silver knife.
Out of nowhere Jean bumped into the woman who dropped the box. The boy went to his knees to pick it up. His eyes were down as he returned it to her.
“Pardonnez-mois, mademoiselle.”
***
The sun was setting, and all the guests at La Croe were settling into comfy corners where they shared stories about this, that and the other things that reminded them of happy Christmases long ago. And most agreed this was one to be remembered for the rest of their lives. The Brownlow children played with their toys, and the adults nursed their cocktails while nibbling on little sandwiches made from Christmas dinner leftovers.
Wallis found herself feeling detached and somewhat depressed. Who was it who said every Christmas everyone got so excited about the presents and the food and in a few moments, the paper was on the floor and the food was eaten and it was all over. Ah yes. It was Uncle Sollie. No wonder I wanted to kill him.
She knew she could not fool herself about that little canard. No, it was Aunt Bessie. She had grown old in such a short time. Perhaps Wallis should have put more effort into visiting Baltimore to see how her dear aunt was doing. The last few years had been breathtakingly exciting, dangerous and entertaining. Wallis shook her head again. She was trying to lie to herself once more but her strong inner core would have none of it.
Wallis saw herself in Bessie. The image of dementia eating away at her mind and soul frightened her to death. If she were on better speaking terms with the vicar of Antibes she would seek out his counsel. She wished for one true friend whose shoulder she could cry on and be certain the story wouldn’t be the gossip of Europe the next day, she would do it.
Puffing on a cigarette, she looked around the grand lounge to see David down on his haunches talking to Caroline and Henry about their new playthings. She could trust him. They had saved each other’s lives. Surely they could share their inner most secrets. Wallis didn’t think much of him when first introduced as her MI6 partner. She laughed at the idea of their marriage and pretending to the world to be in love. But now she felt he was the only person she could confide in, to help her keep sanity.
She walked over to him. David looked up at her and smiled.
“Thank you, Caroline and Henry, for sharing your presents with me for a moment.” He stood. “But I think my wife has something she wants me to do for her.”
They walked to the expansive French doors leading out to the lawn overlooking the Mediterranean cliffs.
“Do you have a moment to walk outside with me?” she asked.
“You’re not worried about the assassin, are you?” His brow wrinkled. “I think he’s given up and slipped away in the night.”
“No, it’s about something else.” She opened one of the glass doors and flicked her cigarette out onto the lawn.
“I think I know.” His voice was soft and tender. “It’s Aunt Bessie, isn’t it?”
My God, I do think I’m falling in love with him.
Before she could speak, Jean ran up and tugged on David’s dinner jacket sleeve.
“Monsieur, s’il vous plait.” He looked at Wallis. “Pardonnez-mois, madame. C’est tres importante. Tres importante.”
David frowned, then smiled at her. “This won’t take long. I’ll join you down by the cliff in a few minutes. We’ll have more privacy there.”
“Of course.” Her lips split like a viper’s mouth, which she often did when she was trying to hide her aggravation. Wallis patted Jean’s slender shoulder. “What a sweet boy.”
She turned and walked down the lawn to the edge of the cliff. In the last rays of sunset she could make out the waves on the Mediterranean. Looking down at her arm, Wallis realized she had not brought her purse and therefore did not have any cigarettes. What a bother.
“Wallis! Wallis! Look out!”
What on earth could David be yelling about? She turned just in time to see the woman in the dark clothes rushing at her, with the silver knife uplifted, ready to thrust down into her chest. Her training in China surged from the back of her mind and adrenaline activated her body. Wallis punched the woman in the throat and did a round kick to the back of her knee. The woman collapsed at Wallis’s feet, dropping the knife on the lawn. Mounting the woman’s body, Wallis picked up the knife and held the tip of it at her throat.
“Who the hell are you?” she growled.
David ran up. “The boy tipped me off. He’d had his eyes on her from the day she arrived.” He put his hand on her back. “Are you all right?”
Wallis concentrated on the woman. “Who sent you here?”
“No one.”
“Tell me the truth or I’ll slit your throat right now!”
“I sent myself,” she blurted out.
“Sent yourself? What the hell does that mean?”
“I watched you at my master’s house,” she sputtered. “I saw how he looked at you. I hear how he talks about you still.”
“You master?” Each bit of information only made Wallis angrier. “Who the hell is your master?”
“The Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler.”
“You mean Hitler’s behind all this?” David interjected.
“What does he know?” Wallis’s voice lowered ominously.
“Nothing. I swear. My mistress Eva Braun knows nothing. But I know. I know you are evil. You want to replace Eva in the Fuhrer’s heart and become the most powerful woman in the world!”
“You think I’m trying to seduce Adolf Hitler?”
“Ja. I heard about how you were going to make love to him in the choo choo room but Herr Ribbentrop broke in.”
“I wasn’t trying to seduce him! I was trying to kill him!” Wallis’s mouth flew open. She knew she had said too much.
“Then my lady Eva Braun is safe?” The woman in dark clothes sounded relieved.
“Sure. Eva Braun is safe. But you’re not.” Wallis slit her throat, stood and handed the knife to David.
The Duke of Windsor rolled the body off the cliff and threw the silver knife far into the black waves of the Mediterranean.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Five

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. They plan a gay Christmas on the Riviera.
The woman in dark clothes stood in the woods just beyond the tracks and watched the Blue Train disappear in the night. She hoped Wallis would soon be drinking the poisoned champagne and thereafter die. But she had to be sure. First, she had to be at the Antibes station in the morning as they made the sad announcement the Duchess of Windsor was dead. First she had to walk by the tracks to the next station, hoping to catch the last train to the coast. The cold night air didn’t bother her. She was used to winter weather and walking long distances in the frigid air if necessary. Unpleasantness could disappear if she only made her mind blank, one of the few talents the Maker had endowed her with.
As the woman saw a train pull away. She could tell it was not the legendary Blue Train. She prayed it was not the last train of the night. Hurrying to the ticket window, she asked for a ticket to the next train to Antibes.
“Antibes? Mais non, mademoiselle,” the ticket agent replied with graciousness. He told her the next train to Antibes would not leave until noon the next day.
“Scheitze,” she muttered in her native tongue.
The clerk looked surprised and then smiled. He raised an open palm up to his shoulder. “Heil, Hitler.”
“Heil, Hitler.” She returned the Nazi salute.
He allowed her inside his office, offered her a seat and listened patiently to her story. She had to be in Antibes station in time to greet the Blue Train, though she failed to explain why. He nodded knowingly and offered to drive her there with no questions. By nine o’clock Christmas Eve morning she was milling with the crowd at the depot awaiting the arrival of the Blue Train.
Most of the conversation among the excited women centered on seeing the Duchess of Windsor and wondering what expensive traveling suit she would be wearing. The men mostly talked about how fortunate the community was to have such a wealthy couple own the La Croe estate. For their Christmas celebration, the Windsors had to hire several local servants to accommodate the long list of British celebrities arriving for the holiday, and all of them equally wealthy. What a boon to the local economy.
The woman in dark clothes smiled to herself, sure she easily blended in with the mass of fellow, faceless domestics scurrying about to serve their masters. She looked up when she heard the train whistle. When the Blue Train came to a stop at the boarding platform, she strained her neck to see who would exit first.
Already on the platform was a contingent from the local government, the mayor, councilmen and other dignitaries, who fairly hopped around with anticipation. The first to exit was Edward, Duke of Wales. He did not look happy, a good sign for the woman in dark clothes. The poison must have worked. The Duchess must be dead. Her hopes were quickly dashed as the Duchess stepped out on the platform wearing a fashionable gray suit with fur collar. She carried two docile, obedient cairn terriers.
Sighing, the woman turned and began her walk to La Croe on the Mediterranean coast.
***
After gracefully dismissing the official greeting contingency, David, Wallis and the two terriers disappeared in their limousine and began the ride to their seaside estate. Wallis leaned back.
“On the first day of Christmas, an assassin gave to me a poisoned bottle of very good champagne.” Her singing was nasal and tinny which detracted from the grim cleverness of her lyric.
David lit a cigarette. “You know he will try again.”
“The bastard. Trying to kill me on my very favorite holiday.”
“Monsieur Valat telegrammed me in Versailles he had to take on several additional servants. Due to time restraints he was unable to check out all their resumes and character references. He truly groveled in print, which one would expect from an excellent concierge.”
“Well, I’m not going to let the bastard ruin my good time. I spent too much time buying presents for all the servants and wrapping them to not enjoy playing Mere Noel. I even bought extras for last-minute hirelings. I picked out the tree and ornaments which were shipped to La Croe yesterday.”
The line of servants waiting to greet the duke and duchess stretched halfway down the driveway at La Croe, every one of them, dressed in black, waved and wore hearty smiles. Once they disembarked their limousine, Wallis began to shake hands with as many servants as possible. David sought out the concierge Monsieur Valat to inform him of the situation concerning the duchess’s safety. Valat confirmed several servants had been added even as late as this morning
David looked away in thought, when he noticed the concierge’s son milling around in the crowd. He had a soft spot for the boy who reminded David of his youngest brother John who had epilepsy and died at age fourteen. David carried a deep guilt within himself. When he was a young man, he had no patience with John, at times calling him an animal. As David matured and saw more of the world he began to see his deceased brother as a hero and a person of great character and courage. Additionally, David felt John had this other-worldliness about him as he wandered around in his own world yet keenly aware of details about the people around him. Valat’s son was actually eighteen or so but deemed unemployable. When the concierge informed David his son’s name was Jean the duke’s heart was stolen. He created a job of official clock winder at a more than generous salary.
Waving Jean over, David asked the young man to watch the newly hired servants for any unusual behaviors that might indicate ulterior motives to harm anyone, particularly harm the duchess. Jean’s large brown eyes widened.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“But don’t tell anyone about it, except your father and me. It will be our special secret, won’t it, Jean?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
By late afternoon, their guests began to arrive. Most of them were British who remained friends with the Windsors during the abdication crisis, although David didn’t understand why anyone would truly like him unless there was something in it for themselves, a bad trait which lingered on from childhood. There were Lord and Lady Brownlow and their children, Caroline and Edward, Sir Charles and Lady Mendl and John McMullin. And, of course not to forget, the guest Wallis most anticipated, her Aunt Bessie. She had not seen her substitute mother and traveling companion for two years. Bessie’s limousine arrived last.
Aunt Bessie had trouble getting out of the car. Normally Wallis would wait until the attendants had helped the guest, but without thought she went to the old woman’s side putting her arm around Bessie’s waist. She finally got her aunt to her feet and guided her to the front door.
“It’s rather warm for Easter, isn’t it?” Bessie asked.
“It’s Christmas, dear,” Wallis whispered.
“Christmas? You must be kidding me! There’s no snow on the ground.”
“We’re in the south of France, darling. They do things differently here.”
Christmas Eve had always been Wallis’ favorite part of the holiday, which puzzled David. When he was growing up, the servants put up the Christmas tree and decorated it. Then the family, decked out in regal finery, posed in front of the tree, unsmiling, as the royal photographer took a dozen pictures all looking the same. He could not think of anything more boring.
Wallis, on the other hand, spent days in Paris picking the absolutely perfect tree for the parlor at La Croe. She coordinated the creation of the ornaments, all of them white and silver, with interior designer John McMullin, who made sure each decoration was placed in the exact right place. And at great expense both the tree and the decorations were shipped by train to their Mediterranean villa to allow the guests the pleasure of decorating it themselves Christmas Eve night.
David noticed Wallis spent most of her time supervising Aunt Bessie.
“I thought you said this was Christmas?” her aunt asked.
“It is, darling,” Wallis purred.
“But Christmas trees are supposed to red and green balls,” Bessie protested.
“I thought it would be fun to have something different.”
“Why does everything have to be different?” her aunt replied.
Wallis wrapped her arms around Bessie. “Why, Aunt Bessie, you’re the one who taught me how much fun it was to be different.”
David sat back in one of the more comfortable parlor chairs and puffed on a cigarette.
Wallis must be breaking up on the inside. Though she would never let anyone know. I envy her. I’ve watched many family members grow old and senile and never felt any sorrow for them.
He felt uncomfortable. Putting out his cigarette, David stood, went to the Brownlow children Caroline and Edward and offered to lift them so they could place a silver bauble at the top of the tree. They giggled.
More than grief for Bessie, I know Wallis sees in her aunt what will happen to her one day, and the thought terrified her.
After he returned Caroline and Edward to their parents, David walked to Wallis and patted her shoulder.
But why in hell should I care about the feelings of a fellow MI6 agent? How many times had I lectured the old agent about becoming too personal? And now I was doing the same with Wallis.