Nightingale by Aleksandr Voinov Read Free Book Online Page B

tempted a few times, but had been too nervous to take the last few steps. Things were easier when they stayed in Montmartre, in that world of entertainers and colorful lights and music. Once he left that world behind, though, he reverted to the standards he’d been taught —those were a lot less shameless.
    “What about your driver?”
    “He will keep his mouth shut,” von Starck said without the hint of doubt.
    “Well then.” Yves sighed and realized it sounded almost like a nervous giggle. “I’d like to go home.”
    Von Starck nodded and drew away, walking at his side back to the car like they’d never spoken about anything private, like they weren’t just headed for a clandestine meeting that could ruin them both.

Chapter 7
     
    The way the officer filled up his kitchen made Yves nervous. In the grand surroundings of the Palace and Madame Julia’s, the German seemed to be put together in correct proportion, but in his kitchen von Starck’s solid, immovable quality became almost oppressive. He wasn’t a giant by any means, just well built, broad-shouldered, and with a natural quality of authority that seemed to cast his shadow further and deeper and darker.
    Yves kept his hands busy making coffee, but he cast glances at the German every now and then.
    Von Starck seemed content to just stand there, taking in his surroundings, possibly thinking of them as a battlefield about to be conquered. The natives, of course, offered no resistance.
    “I could arrange you a nicer flat,” von Starck said.
    “I’m afraid the kind of lodgings Madame Julia is renting are quite out of my budget.” Yves smiled. “Besides, those places would have a concierge.”
    “True.” Von Starck took his hat off and stepped closer, but if felt as though the distance between them widened. The sudden intimacy of the dark street hadn’t survived the smaller surroundings, like things that could be murmured into the night couldn’t be said aloud in a lit kitchen.
    Yves set the coffee mugs on the table and stretched out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, von Starck gave him his hat and coat.
    Gray, gray, and more gray. The most striking feature on the uniform was a cruciform medal in black, surrounded by silver, that rested near the hollow of von Starck’s throat.
    Yves took the coat and hat into the guest room, where he hung them from the hook behind the door. They would be safer there in case his sister showed up. What a nightmare that would be.
    When he returned to the kitchen, von Starck was sitting at the table. He’d taken his gloves off, and was resting one scarred palm against the smooth side of the mug.
    “Will you be all right?” Yves asked and sat down on the other side of the table.
    “Don’t worry about me. I have powerful friends.”
    Yves wasn’t sure if that reassured or worried him more. “It’s just . . . things I heard.”
    “They might just as well be correct, considering.” Von Starck shrugged. “But things are hard to prove. Some people are hard to prosecute.”
    “But they would?”
    “They would have to take it to my superior. And my superior would at the very least leave me the option of taking the honorable way out.”
    Good God . Yves did, fully, understand that this man would rather put a pistol to his own temple than be dishonored. Suddenly, his own worries seemed small, and what was about to happen enormous and pathetic and sad.
    “I am what you call an ancien combattant , or alter Frontkämpfer in German. There is a little respect in it, but even if someone is tempted to challenge my rank, they will respect this.” Von Starck reached up and touched the medal at his throat. “The Iron Cross.”
    “Where did you win this?”
    “Passchendaele.” Von Starck shook his head. His features betrayed a sudden tension that seemed to beg Yves not to ask further. “You were barely alive then.”
    “That’s the year I was born. 1917.”
    Von Starck smiled. “Compared to that . . . all this,