Flowers From Berlin

TWENTY-NINE

The turnout for both church services that Sunday morning was larger than usual. The news of a murder within friendly Liberty Circle had spread through town. By Saturday evening everyone knew. By Sunday morning townspeople wanted to see each other and know that the world would safely go on. So they went to church.

St. Paul's had pews of deep burgundy, two side aisles, light oak panels on the floor and the walls, and a pulpit to the center left. An ethereal, benevolent fair-haired Christ appeared on the stained glass behind the altar. Bill Cochrane was only an occasional churchgoer, but even he was moved by the old church -- 1797, said the historical marker outside -- the congregation that filled it, the service, and the pastor.

Stephen Fowler was a man of great seriousness that Sunday morning. The congregation joined the choir in Holy, Holy, Holy! -the processional hymn-and after an opening prayer and psalm, those assembled sang A Mighty Fortress. "At least one Lutheran hymn a week," Reverend Fowler liked to tell parishioners with a wink.

Then came the sermon. Stephen Fowler met head-on the subject that troubled his parish most. He avoided words "murder" and "homicide," but he talked of the "tragedy" in their midst. He spoke eloquently of death as part of life, touched upon guilt and original sin, and then moved to both forgiveness and trust: trust in God, trust in Christ; trust in the teachings of Christ. Follow me.

"Some follow and some stray," Reverend Fowler concluded. "It is up to each of us to decide which we are. But I promise you this." He held his congregation in rapt attention. "Those who follow are not those who need have fear now. Fear," he said, "is for those who have strayed. Let us pray…"

The recessional hymn, appropriately, was Faith of Our Fathers, which keyed something within Cochrane and summoned up memories of a Methodist childhood in Virginia. After the service he felt good, as if the service itself had routed the specter of war and murder.

But, of course, it hadn't. Afterward, outside on a sunny cool November morning, he found himself glancing upward at the spire again. Then he saw Reverend Fowler and Laura exchanging greetings with the faithful in the vestibule, so he joined them.

"It was good of you to come," Fowler said to Cochrane, shaking his hand. "I like to see new faces each Sunday."

"It was a lovely service," Cochrane said. "Thanks for skipping Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

Reverend Fowler chuckled. "I'll tell you," he said, lowering his voice, "we get requests for that mawkish bombastic piece. Once a year will do us fine on that."

"Anything new?" Laura asked Cochrane, changing the subject.

"On investigation? No,” Cochrane answered. “I suspect I'll be turning it over to the state police this evening."

"Then you're not staying?" she asked.

Cochrane shook his head. "I'm on my way back to Washington," he said. "Federal employees can only get away for so long before it starts to look like a vacation."

"I'm on my way to New York, myself," Fowler said. "Later today. Sorry we're not going in the same direction. We could have had a fine talk."

"Maybe some other time."

"Maybe." Bill Cochrane turned to Laura and looked into the loveliest pair of brown eyes he could ever have imagined. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Fowler," he said.

"I wish I could have helped more," Laura answered.

For some reason, he was short of words. "I'm sure you did your best," he said lamely. Then he left, feeling their eyes on his back as he walked away.

*

From a slatted window in the church spire, just above the antique clock, and just a few feet from Siegfried's cramped transmission chamber, a man could see the railroad station. Reverend Fowler found it convenient to be in the spire that afternoon when the train to Philadelphia and Washington departed. He focused a pair of binoculars on the depot, scanned the voyagers assembled, and eventually found the snooping F.B.I. agent.

Fowler kept the glasses carefully on Bill Cochrane. There was nothing about the man that he liked. His presence there. His sharp, penetrating mind. His observance of detail. The way he looked at Laura. The way she looked back at him.

The train pulled into the station and Fowler kept the glasses on the troublemaker. Fowler thought of his wife. His wife was his possession, after all. She might have to be taught a lesson sometime soon. After all, he mused further, with Charlotte gone, Laura would have to fulfill other functions. A man needed a wife and a whore sometimes, Fowler mused wistfully. Laura would have to be both.

The train pulled to a halt at Liberty Circle. The first three cars would transfer at Trenton to an engine and train of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Fowler watched Bill Cochrane carefully and was relieved when the F.B.I. agent boarded the second car. Fowler scanned all the exits until the train pulled out of the station.

Cochrane had not disembarked. He was gone. Fowler placed his binoculars back in their case, content with Cochrane's departure. He was further satisfied that he could travel to New York, himself, later that evening.

Fowler paid no attention at all to three other travelers who disembarked at Liberty Circle. One was a tall dark-haired Englishman in a coat and a bowler. The other two men were younger and more heavyset. They were bareheaded and followed their senior partner. But Siegfried, thinking ahead to his own departure that day, had no way of recognizing Peter Whiteside. Nor did he have any way of guessing his business in Liberty Circle. Nor, in his wildest fantasies, would he have imagined that Whiteside would have brought some M.I. 6 muscle along with him, just for good measure.