breaking the man’s neck, Barrett might’ve laughed at his pathetic attempts at intimidation. Schmidt’s neck inched farther and farther out as if to prod a response. Barrett merely waited.
Schmidt’s shoulders dropped back with disappointment. “We’ll go to your office to discuss the situation further.”
Heart dropping to his stomach, Barrett jumped to block him from the back door. His fighters needed time to escape should Schmidt and his hounds decide to take a detour through the cellars. “Afraid we can’t. There’s a lady up there, and I’d rather not subject her to business matters.”
“Ah, the lady in question.” Schmidt’s eyes darted to the lipstick-smeared glass sitting on the bar in front of a seething Henri. Like a watchdog, he refused to move from his precious bottles. “This pertains to her as well.”
Fangs of dread stabbed into his chest. He’d been so careful, and now to drag her down through his own arrogance. Poor lass. He’d doomed her before they’d ever met.
The sudden quietness clanged like a bell at midday. The SS men had stopped dragging chairs across the floor to watch each excruciating second tick by. The fangs sank deeper, cutting off his breath. Those guards had no qualms hauling in innocent citizens. A loud-mouthed bar owner didn’t stand a chance. For the sake of the fighters in the room below and to keep the attention from Sam, it was best to play along.
“This way, Captain.”
Upstairs, Kat perched on the edge of his desk with long legs crossed, reapplying lipstick with the help of a gold compact. “Darling, there you are! I was beginning to worry.” The compact snapped shut. “You brought a guest.”
The chills that had raced down his spine coming up the stairs turned to drenching sweat. “Captain Schmidt, may I present Miss Whitford.”
Kat nodded but didn’t offer her hand. She swung it out to Barrett instead. “Major.”
Though her words and smile didn’t falter, her hand shook like a leaf in a storm. Barrett wrapped his fingers around it as she hopped off the desk.
Ignoring the seat Barrett offered, Schmidt walked behind the desk and plopped down in the leather-backed chair. He motioned for Barrett and Kat to sit in the leftover seats. “Unannounced as the disturbance is downstairs, I assure you it’s necessary before we could go any further.”
The window shade fluttered as a trickle of wind pushed hot air around the room. Kat sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, curling her fingernails into her knees. Barrett angled his chair closer, brushing his knee against hers. Her hands slowly folded into her lap.
“Maybe I could ask your boys to stick around and help clean up. They’ll never know tedious until they’ve refolded two hundred napkins.”
“Unfortunately, they have more important things to attend to than napkin folding, Herr Anderson.” Schmidt’s mustache wiggled as he leaned back in the chair and folded his little hands over his soft belly. “But the thorough search is necessary if we are to proceed.”
“Search all day if you like, but as with the previous visits, your boys won’t find anything out of the ordinary.” His man would have it blown up long before discovery.
“That is what I hope, but I must make certain. Orders are orders, you understand.”
Barrett understood slow and deliberate torture. He’d seen enough arrests to know the Gestapo preferred making a grand entrance with their intent stated right away to show their power and provoke fear. If Schmidt was there to arrest him, why the cat-and-mouse game? Even more frustrating, why couldn’t they send someone with a half a brain? If he was going down, he’d at least like an opponent worthy of a fight.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” Schmidt called before Barrett could open his mouth.
One of the napkin-flinging boys popped his head in with a few quick words in German. Schmidt nodded and the door closed once more. The shade fluttered again, teasing escape. Sweat trickled down the back of Barrett’s neck.
“Well. It seems everything is in order.” Schmidt leaned forward, resting his hand on the carved wooden box of postcards and maps. Barrett clamped his fingers together to stop from snatching it away. “Congratulations, Herr Anderson. You are to host a party for the screening of Buch’s latest masterpiece, Menschen im Sturm. The star Olga Chekhova is to attend, and if we are very lucky, Goebbels himself.”
Barrett’s tongue fell flat. He wasn’t being arrested. He was safe. They were all safe. For now. Relief slammed over him like a barrel knocked sideways.