The English coast is twenty miles away.
The water is cold and I do not like the cold. I will have to generate my own heat. My arms and legs move like a machine, and I plow through the water faster than a man can run, turning my head to take a breath every two minutes. Nothing can spot me, I know. But if perchance a pair of eyes aboard a low-flying plane or a passing ship should catch a glimpse of my white-water wake, they would assume I’m a creature of the sea.
Three miles from the French coast I begin to have second thoughts about the schedule of the invasion. The swells have grown to ridiculous size. I plow between mountains of water twenty-five feet high. They crash over me and slow my progress. However, I’m tireless, they can’t stop me.
But what will they do to the invasion force? The bulk of the men will be stuffed into landing craft like sardines in a can and driven from a British port across the Channel. I have seen the craft, the Allies have thousands. Most are small, cramped, with metal sides that reach only six feet above the surface. If Eisenhower fails to time the attack perfectly and doesn’t hit a lull in the stormy weather, a quarter of a million men will drown.
What makes the situation more precarious is how swiftly the Channel’s mood can change. Boarding at dock, the soldiers leaving Britain might be looking at calm water. Half an hour later they could be staring at tidal waves. What a roll of the dice the whole plan is. A part of me wishes the Allies would stop and regroup and invade through the Mediterranean.
Yet the more time that goes by, the more Jews are rounded up and sent east. Damn Harrah and Ralph! If only the fools would listen to me about the Nazis’ Final Solution. While they continue to pray that the two words mean nothing, their entire race is being exterminated. When I return, I swear, I’m going to drag them across the border into Spain. I don’t care what kind of fight they put up. I’ll drug them if I have to and carry them on my back.
The sun rises as I crawl onto the beach beneath the white cliffs of Dover. Not so tireless after all, I am exhausted. A soldier in a jeep rushes toward me over the hard sand, sending forth a spray of foam. He jumps from his vehicle with his rifle in hand, but seeing my face he lowers it.
“Who are you?” he asks in amazement.
I slowly climb to my feet, shivering, my flesh like ice. Still, I’m able to adopt a flawless British accent. “My name is Alys Perne. I have vital information. I must see Lieutenant Frank Darling immediately. He’s a member of Eisenhower’s personal staff.” I take a shaky step forward. “Please drive me to London.”
He helps me into his jeep. “Did you just come from France?”
“Yes,” I say.
He takes a blanket from the backseat and wraps it around me. I lay the sealed maps between my knees. He jumps behind the wheel and revs the engine. We race over the sand.
“Did your boat sink?” he asks.
“It was a plane. It crashed in the sea a mile out.”
He hoots. “Lady, you must be one hell of a swimmer!”
“You have no idea,” I say.
We reach Darling’s flat in an hour. He greets me warmly and thanks the soldier for his help. Frank—he’s not big on titles—gives me a change of clothes that belong to his girlfriend: trousers and a heavy woolen sweater. He fixes scrambled eggs, toast, and tea. The dry clothes and hot food do wonders for my condition. We eat together for half an hour before he asks his first question.
“Don’t tell me you swam here,” he says.
“All right.”
“Jesus, Alys, even you can’t risk weather like this. You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”
“It’s worse than you know in the middle of the Channel. Pray there’s a break in the weather in two days.”
“We can postpone if we have to,” Frank says, picking up our plates, clearing the table. I continue to drink his tea, although I would prefer coffee. Well, actually, I need some blood. I don’t need to feed as often as I did when I was young but after a major exertion my craving for blood—especially human blood—soars. I’d prefer not to feed on any Allies, but when I get back to France I’ll have a regular feast with a couple of Gestapo. Might even look Major Klein up and drain him dry.
The man saw me at his headquarters, where I had no right to be. He must know I helped Anton escape. One word from Klein to Straffer could be disastrous.
“We can’t postpone,” I say, before explaining how Rommel is away on holiday and no acting general has control of the panzers. Frank listens with growing amazement.
“Do you know how long he’ll be gone?” he asks.
“A few days was all I was told. You’re not going to get a better shot at the Nazis without their leader.”
“But you say the waves will sink us.”
“It’s a risk. You’ll need your best spotter pilots and lots of luck to make it across the water. And you’ve got another problem. You’ve got to hit the beaches at low tide.”
“That’s crazy. That will give our men three times the beach to cover. The German machine guns will cream them.”
“They won’t even get off their landing craft unless the tide is out.” I explain about the mines I spotted. “The only way to avoid them is for the ships to hit the shore when the mines are exposed.”
“You’re a fountain of cheery news.”
I pick up my waterproof tube and remove the charts, spreading them over Frank’s breakfast table. He studies them with glowing eyes. “Forget what I just said. You’re an angel from heaven,” he whispers.
“Or a blood-sucking succubi from hell. It all depends on your point of view.” I explain how fresh the intel on the maps is. Frank shakes his head in wonder.
“These charts could be the difference between victory and defeat.”
“Then I’ve earned my pay for the week. I have to get back. Can you get me a hotshot pilot to dump me somewhere near Paris?”
“Never heard you ask for a ride before.”
“Never swam through waves that big before. As long as I have a parachute, the pilot can drop me as high up as he wants.”
“You should wait until dark.”
“I have business that can’t wait.”
Frank stands and folds up the charts. He seems preoccupied.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. Except you’ve just hit us with three major strategic changes. Rommel’s gone so we’re not allowed to postpone. We have to land at low tide so we can keep from getting blown up. And these charts—they’ll probably alter the direction of every planned thrust off the beaches.” He pauses. “The high command is not going to accept all this coming from me.”
“Eisenhower trusts you.”
“Not enough to rewrite a two-year-old invasion plan.”
“What are you saying?”
“They’ll need to hear it straight from your lips.”
“They? They don’t even know me.” I pause. “That is still true, isn’t it?”
Frank meets my eyes. “I told you I’d take your secret to my grave and I will.”
“Thank you.”
He sits back down beside me. “But there is someone who might have already guessed your secret, with no help from me. And if you can convince him your intel is a hundred percent, it will change everything.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Patton.”
“How can Patton know what I am?”
“I honestly don’t know. But he’s questioned me about you. He’s asked very strange questions. You need to talk to him. No one has as much influence over Eisenhower as Patton.”
“But if he’s suspicious of me?” I say, letting the question hang.
“He’s not suspicious. He just wants to know.”
“What?”
“The truth.”
“I can’t tell him I’m a vampire. I won’t.”
Frank shakes his head. “That’s not the kind of truth he’s looking for.”
Frank drives me to a flat, two blocks down from the famous 10 Downing
Street, where Winston Churchill, the British prime minister, lives. Patton’s apartment is well guarded but relatively small, far from glamorous.
I have been to the flat once before. It’s where I was first introduced to Eisenhower and Patton. At that meeting, Eisenhower only stayed for a short time, but Patton kept me late into the night, telling me stories about his battles in Africa and Sicily. I found him absolutely delightful—one of the few living legends who actually lived up to his colorful reputation. At first I assumed he was flirting with me, but as the hour grew late and he began to question me about my history, I realized something was troubling him. Yet it was like Frank said at his flat—Patton was not suspicious that I was a spy.
He just sensed something unusual about me.
Frank and I catch him at breakfast and he asks us to join him. Frank is quick to excuse himself, although he leaves the charts behind after a brief explanation. Perhaps he feel they back up my story.
Patton quickly unfolds the charts. It takes him less than a minute to realize the gold mine they represent. He pounds the table and sends his bacon and sausage flying.
“Goddamn, these are perfect!” he cries. Last time he hesitated to swear in front of me, but once I assured him how crude I was, he lost all inhibition. As he squeezes my hand, his blunt but handsome face breaks into a ferocious grin. Even though he has yet to leave his flat, he’s already dressed in uniform, three gold stars decorating his collar. He adds, “Those Nazi bastards aren’t going to know what hit them!”
I smile. “Lieutenant Darling failed to mention how recent they are. I stole them from the Germans only a few hours ago.”
Patton sits back and studies me with his penetrating gaze. Before the striking incident with the two GIs, the press portrayed him as the greatest strategic genius since Napoleon. Well, I knew Napoleon personally, and many other famous generals, and I know planning a major battle is not Patton’s greatest strength. He’s clever, sure, knows when to think outside the box, but it’s the force of his personality that makes him great. His men trust him. He knows how to lead them into battle. He joins them in battle. He is the only general I know who is not afraid to fight at the front line.
Plus a weird aura surrounds the man. The stories are true. He has had German shells land at his feet and fail to explode. Bombs dropped on his office from a mile up have vaporized the building and failed to give him a scratch. The guy simply can’t be killed, and his men believe in that magic, and when they march forward to fight, they feel a little of it will rub off on them. He is without question the most fearless human being I have ever met.
“How did you accomplish this miracle?” he asks, taking out a cigar and offering me one as well. I take it and he lights it with a wooden match struck off the back of his boot. I find it interesting how Straffer and Patton enjoy Cubans so much. I know the two would be friends if they ever met. The truth is, Patton admires the Germans.
“Slept with the Nazi who was put in charge of them,” I say simply.
Patton loves it, slaps the table again. “Does he know they’re missing?”
“I don’t think so, sir. He’s dead.”
He nods his approval. “So you’re a regular black widow, I’m not surprised. Tell me, Alys, what are the other gems Lieutenant Darling said you brought for us?”
I explain how Rommel has left France to visit with his family, and the problem surrounding the mined beaches. Since Patton won’t be leading the invasion force—according to Frank’s latest intel—I’m not surprised Patton is glad Rommel will be missing. It’s a dream of Patton’s to face Rommel in battle himself.
But the mine issue troubles him. “Ike and I have discussed this issue with Churchill,” Patton says, referring to Eisenhower by his nickname. “We had hoped the Nazis were too preoccupied with Calais to waste resources on Normandy.”
“Calais remains their focus. But I stood on Omaha Beach yesterday. The pillboxes and heavy gun placements cannot be underestimated. The more air cover the men have, the better.”
Patton snorts. “Air cover is the first thing to fail in bad weather. Our men will have to depend on their legs and their rifles. That’s why your news about the mines is bad. Just the thought of hitting the beaches at low tide could destroy morale.”
“They have no choice,” I say firmly.
He notes my tone, returns to studying me. “And you wouldn’t say it unless it was true?”
“Yes, sir.”
He shrugs. “Everything you’ve told us so far has checked out. There isn’t a man in the command center who isn’t mystified with the intel you’ve provided.” Patton pauses and leans close. “But some wonder if you’ve been so right so far so you can be so wrong when it really counts.”
“They think I’m a plant.”
“They worry. It’s their job to worry.”
I lean toward Patton. “But you trust me. You trust me as much as you trust your wife, Beatrice. And I know no one’s more important to you in the whole world. Why?”
Patton sits back and smiles. “You’re shrewd, have I ever told you that?”
“Several times. Last time I was here.”
“Well, it’s true. You know too much, I shouldn’t trust you. The fact you were able to steal these charts—it would take a miracle. How am I going to convince Ike they’re genuine?”
“Ike grew up in your shadow. Now he’s your boss. But he knows you’d never lie to him.” I pause. “You haven’t answered my question, sir.”
“Which one is that, Alys?”
“The way you look at me. It’s odd.”
“You’re a very beautiful woman.”
“Don’t play with me, General. You want something from me, besides intelligence. What is it?”
He picks up a small red bound book from beside his plate. He flips through the pages. “The last time we met you told me you had studied the Bhagavad Gita. But I don’t recall how the topic came up.”
“Your belief in reincarnation is known by your men, sir.”
“That’s right, that’s right. Most were raised strict Christians. They think you die and go to either heaven or hell. But Krishna had a different take on the matter. And I’m pretty sure he was right.”
“Because you remember past lives,” I say. “You recall fighting with Hannibal against the Roman legions.”
Patton frowns. “I told you that.”
“You were very drunk at the time, sir.”
“No, Alys, not so drunk. I remember your reaction when I brought up the Gita. Your eyes lit up. The scripture means as much to you as it does to me. Don’t deny it.”
God, he is perceptive. I remain silent.
“What is your favorite quote?” he asks.
“Pardon?”
“From the Gita. What line means the most to you?”
I straighten. “ ‘All who are born die, oh Arjuna. All who die are reborn. The wise do not grieve over the inevitable.’ ”
Patton nods. “That line is with me every time I go into battle. I feel it strengthens my kavach.” He pauses. “Do you know the word?”
The question is a test. He is searching for something.
“It’s Sanskrit for ‘armor.’ It specifically refers to protection against danger. In battle, a person with powerful kavach is supposed to be difficult to kill.”
Like him. Patton has kavach. Curious that he asks about it.
“How old are you, Alys?” he asks.
“Why do you ask?”
“You look so young. Yet you’re able to seduce German generals, and travel back and forth between Paris and London with complete ease. Not to mention that you’re a Sanskrit scholar.”
“I wouldn’t call me a scholar.”
“Damn it!” he yells, slamming the book shut. “Who are you?”
“I don’t understand your question, sir.”
“Why not? You know everything else.”
“Honestly, General, I’m not sure—”
“I’ve seen you before,” Patton bl
urts out. “In a past life, I saw you.”
Finally, I see what haunts him. The revelation startles me. It knocks the wind out of me. I take a moment to settle my pounding heart.
“Who were you?” And now I am the one who is asking.
He gazes at me. “I’ve only told Bee this, no one else. Of course no one else would believe me.” He stops and lowers his voice. “But you will. You were there.”
“When did we meet? Where?”
“You were at Charleston, with the Yankees, before Lee fled with his army. That was the beginning of the end of the war.”
“You’re talking about the Civil War.” I pause. “You were General Grant.”
He’s thoughtful. “My men nicknamed me the Butcher. In this life they call me Old Blood and Guts. Interesting how the names don’t change that much.” He stops. “You called yourself Lara then. You tried to pass yourself off as a socialite from New York City but I never believed it. You told me to be generous to Lee when he surrendered. I took your advice.”
“I was hoping to spare the South decades of Yankee revenge.”
“It was a nice sentiment. Too bad it didn’t work.” He stares at me. “You haven’t aged a day since then.”
“It’s easy to see you as General Grant. You fight the same. Above all else you believe in concentrating your forces. You sacrifice however many men it takes to end a battle as fast as possible.” I stop. “But how can you be sure?”
“Am I right about our meeting?”
“How can you be sure?” I repeat.
He hesitates. “I’m not delusional. I put it to the test. I had my wife, Bee, buy his autobiography. I had never read it myself. I asked her to study it, and ask me questions about what Grant said or did when I least expected. I didn’t want my mind getting in the way of what my heart knew. I wanted my answers to be spontaneous. I got one question right, then another. She asked me stuff off and on for two weeks before it happened.”
“What?”
“The entire life came back to me. Like I had just lived it.” He stops and takes my hand. “Alys, I only spent ten minutes with you in that life. But I remember the red dress you wore, the gold necklace, how you kept your hair long and loose like it is now. The thing you told me before you left was, ‘General, Lee is tired of fighting. He wants the war to end. If you give an honorable way out for him and his men, he’ll take it.’ ”