© 1988 by Michael R. Phillips and Judith Pella
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-2979-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Eric Walljasper
Judith Pella is represented by The Steve Laube Agency
To my father, Denver Phillips, and his good friend, Warren Dowling, both of whose wartime experiences fell upon my eager boyhood ears.
Contents
Cover 1
Title Page 3
Copyright Page 4
Dedication 5
Introduction 11
1. Man in the Shadows 13
2. The Hills of Stonewycke 18
3. South to London 23
4. The Coming of War 29
5. Mother and Daughter 34
6. Recruitment 42
7. The Assignment 48
8. Interview at Sea 54
9. Unexpected Twist 62
10. Short Furlough 65
11. Like Old Times 72
12. A Time for Reflection 83
13. A Mother’s Advice 90
14. A Season for Parting 94
15. Final Interview 100
16. Training 108
17. The Drop 116
18. Allison’s Resolution 120
19. Back to London 125
20. Rue de Varennes 133
21. The Resistors 140
22. First Meeting 144
23. First Assignment 150
24. Déjà Vu 155
25. New Compatriots 161
26. Face in the Crowd 170
27. Billy’s Assistance 177
28. The Foggy Riverfront 185
29. Eyes Across the Sea 190
30. Rescue 192
31. Arnaud Soustelle 200
32. L’Escroc 206
33. A Quiet Supper 212
34. Caught 217
35. Interrogation 225
36. Unsought Reunion 230
37. Speculations 236
38. An Elite Soirée 242
39. Luncheon at the Rectory 252
40. New Role 264
41. Doubts 271
42. Seeds of Vengeance 275
43. Friendship Renewed 281
44. The Old Gentleman 287
45. Nathaniel 293
46. House of Cards 301
47. Vouziers 310
48. The Escapee 315
49. Aborted Shortcut 322
50. Tragedy 327
51. The Landing 332
52. Duplicity 337
53. Vouziers Once More 342
54. On the Scent 345
55. “La Grande Rafle” 351
56. In for the Kill 356
57. Outbursts 361
58. Sacrifices 364
59. A Family Parting 369
60. Glances Forward and Back 376
61. A Higher Plane 382
62. The Paris Express 388
63. A Visit With Henri 394
64. Springing the Priest 401
65. Unexpected Encounter 408
66. Channing’s Realization 415
67. End of the Charade 418
68. An Insidious Plot 422
69. Logan’s Decision 427
70. Full Circle 433
71. Together at Last 437
72. L’Oiselet 444
73. Comrades 448
74. Incommunicado 453
75. The Approaching Sound of Heavy Boots 460
76. Tour de Force 467
77. Fait Almost Accompli 472
78. An Honorable End 477
79. A Bittersweet Christmas 480
80. Homecoming 485
Epilogue 490
About the Authors 494
Fiction by Michael Phillips 495
Books by Judith Pella 296
Introduction
Out of conflict and crisis frequently emerge life’s most significant periods of inner growth. Indeed, according to the Scriptures, from diversity are fortitude and spiritual stamina born.
Allison and Logan’s story in Book 1 of THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY was a happy one. Yet their coming together cannot be viewed as an end, but rather as the beginning of an ongoing journey that, if it is to build a permanent relationship of love, will encompass more than simply living “happily ever after.”
Certainly a deep joy has its part in this journey, but a truly God-divined path will be richly filled with trials as well. The long-haul character of life’s most meaningful relationships and experiences is often overlooked by our short-sighted vision which views only the now. We make decisions lightly, little considering the day-by-day lifetime of dedication necessary to carry them out. Nor do we adequately foresee the unavoidable adversities which will build inner resiliency and strength of character that enables us to persevere in those aspects of life to which we have pledged ourselves.
In no two areas of life do our decisions and surface expectations run aground from lack of awareness of the long-haul than in marriage and spiritual dedication. The commitment required to transform a loving marriage into a lifetime partnership of sustained growth and mutual fulfillment parallels the commitment required to sustain one’s Christian life following the one-time decision to follow Christ.
Neither commitment to marriage nor to God comes easy. The decision can be made in a moment. Living out the commitment to that decision, after the gloss fades, over the course of decades—that requires something altogether different than a burst of enthusiasm. That sort of lifetime commitment requires daily dedication to endure, to stick with the decision over the long-haul.
It is no surprise, then, that so often in the Bible God uses marriage as the perfect illustration or “type” of what being a Christian is really like. Entering into a marriage covenant, and giving one’s life to Christ (as His “bride”) are similar in a host of ways.
Little wonder, therefore, that when Logan Macintyre and his new bride Allison MacNeil begin to falter in their new lives as Christians, their marriage relationship also starts to waver. They must both learn that most fundamental of lessons: that commitment requires sacrifice, that love requires the laying down of one’s own preconceptions, and that only in denying one’s self and surrendering all to the Lord will true fulfillment come.
Their story, and their struggle, is not a unique one. All husbands and wives—and all Christians—must eventually pass through the same refining process if they are to discover what true commitment is—to one another and to the Lord.
That process of growth is the soil out of which maturity is able to blossom.
1
Man in the Shadows
The shrill blast of an auto horn blared through the hushed foggy night.
A young man making his stealthy way down the empty street started involuntarily, then paused for a moment. He hugged th
e concrete wall to his right, keeping well within the shadows. As the car passed, he exhaled a sharp breath and continued on, his heart thudding a hard rhythm within his chest. He had told himself a thousand times there was nothing to be afraid of. No one could have any idea what he was up to. It wasn’t as if he were sneaking around in enemy-occupied territory. Yet such analysis was unable to quiet the pounding of his heart.
There was no way he could have been followed! He had taken every precaution, every side street, used all the old ruses. But if someone had by chance slipped up at headquarters—enemy territory or not—it might mean his neck. There were, after all, dangers he knew nothing about. He hated to admit it, but he really knew very little about this game.
He glanced at his wristwatch, but could not make out the tiny hands in the surrounding darkness. The blackout, meant to deter the German Luftwaffe, provided excellent cover for sneaking unnoticed through the streets, even though it did make his watch impossible to read. He had to find out the time. He couldn’t be late. And he had another several blocks to go before reaching the bridge.
This particular night crawler knew all about factory work. He had put in his own share of long, tedious hours. He’d pushed pencils and brooms. He’d sat behind cluttered, wearisome desks as well as cleaned them. So despite his frayed nerves on this night, the change from his past seven years of drudgery was welcome. Now he wondered how he’d tolerated the monotony for that long.
He had tried to stick to a routine. He’d tried to hold a “normal” job. But it had been no use. His fingers and feet and senses had never gotten over their itch. All that time he had thought he was finished with occupations requiring eyes in the back of his head. But now it looked as if such employment had not finished with him. How great that sense of exhilaration felt—just like the old days!
True, there was an added dimension to what he was doing these days: fear. A wrongly spoken word, a mistaken contact, even an overly curious neighbor, could land him squarely in a prison camp or in front of a firing squad. This was no game, as it had been before.
Yet the terror only served to heighten the challenge, the thrill. At least now he was doing something—something useful, he hoped.
Suddenly the roar of an automobile broke into his thoughts as it rounded a corner and sped his way. He crouched out of sight and waited. The headlamps were dimmed according to blackout regulations, but in the dull flicker of illumination it afforded, the time on his watch was clearly evident. It was three minutes to eleven.
The man jumped out of his temporary shelter the instant the car was past, and immediately quickened his pace. His rendezvous was to take place at eleven sharp. If he missed it, he could not only endanger his contact, but would almost certainly quell his superior’s willingness to confer another such assignment on him.
All at once he heard footsteps. A regular beat of leather soles against the hard pavement, seemingly in perfect rhythm with his own, echoed behind him. His heart raced again, even as his feet slowed to a stop. He paused before a closed shop window, pretending to look at the wares behind the glass. It was hardly a believable ploy since he could barely make out whether he was observing shoes, teapots, or women’s hose. But at least it would tell him if the time had come to start worrying again.
The footsteps continued, getting louder. A short pudgy man came indistinctly into view, strolled by, tipping a gray derby hat and breaking the intense quiet of the night with a jaunty, “Evenin’, mate!”
As the innocuous little man passed into the invisible silence, the edgy night-walker shook his head and reminded himself that he had to keep his cool. That had always been his major asset. He needed it now more than ever.
Even as the man’s retreating steps were swallowed up by the night, in the distance the faint sounds of a ship’s horn could be heard from upriver, its deep-rumbling tone carried through the sound-dulling fog. The familiar echo reminded him of Big Ben, now strangely silent because of the war, and brought home to him more graphically than ever the fact that he was late. The man hastened on.
In four minutes he stood at the foot of London Bridge. A more fitting place could not have been chosen for such a meeting—especially at this hour! Wreaths of gray fog clung to the towering steel. The night was calm, and the fog swirled about in slow motion, weaving in and out of the pilings below and the steel columns above the bridge, obscuring the topmost spires—an eerie reminder that strange, almost cosmic forces were hurling world events toward an unknown end.
The scene was straight out of a cheap spy novel. But this was no story; there was a war on, and this kind of thing happened from the necessity born of the times. Though he had a penchant for adventure, he would have liked the place better in the sunlight, buzzing with traffic and life. It was crazy to send him alone to such a deserted place. It was too obvious, too great an invitation for foul play.
He peered into the fog, then began walking straight ahead. He had gone perhaps a hundred and fifty feet when he realized the bridge wasn’t deserted at all. At first he thought it might be his contact, but as he drew closer he saw that he was approaching a young couple. A soldier and a young lady were standing arm in arm, gazing out upon the Thames.
What brought them out so late? he wondered absently, momentarily allowing his thoughts to drift away from his own concerns. No doubt the fellow had been called up and this was their last night together before he was shipped off to some distant part of the war. The scene was a melancholy one; there were probably tears in the girl’s eyes.
Or perhaps the soldier was home on leave and the words being softly spoken were of blissful happiness at the reunion. The war made all of life a drama, and every man and woman occupied a private little corner of the stage on which to play out his or her personal destiny.
This man’s destiny at the moment, however, was farther along the bridge. He had no time to philosophize over two young lovers, nor stew about his own unfitness to be a soldier.
Instinctively he glanced once more at his watch, forgetting it would do him little good. It had to be time for his meeting. Past time. He knew he was late. Where was his contact? This was the place—center of the span. Eleven p.m.
The man slowed his pace, walked a little farther. Behind him the romancing couple ambled away, and he was left alone. Finally he stopped altogether. He turned his eyes toward the river, of which he could catch but an occasional glimmer as the black slow-moving current glided silently through the fog and darkness. An occasional dull foghorn in the distance broke the heavy silence.
“Good evening, mein Herr,” said a voice suddenly out of the empty night behind him. The accent was decidedly German. Though the tone was quiet and the words evenly spoken, he could not help nearly jumping out of his skin. He had heard no approaching steps, and thought he was completely alone. “The river is grand under the night sky, is it not?” the foreign voice went on.
What would old Skits think to see me so jumpy? he thought to himself, but to the stranger he replied, “It is grand any time of the day,” making every effort to infuse his voice with a calm his heart did not feel. He could not betray that he had been startled.
The code phrases of introduction were particularly ridiculous just now, but at least they gave the two men assurance that they had each found the right person.
“I am Gunther,” said the contact, a tall, lean, middle-aged man dressed in a heavy wool overcoat and slanted felt hat that shadowed an austere, pock-marked face. Had the young man been able to make out the features under the felt brim more clearly, his fear would o
nly have been the greater. It was not a friendly face. “Who are you?”
“Macintyre—” The instant the word passed his lips, Logan Macintyre realized his foolish blunder.
“—Trinity, that is,” he added hastily. They had been given code names—his was Trinity and his contact was Gunther. How could he have done something so stupid? He must be slipping, losing his touch, forgetting that whatever the cloak of solemnity over this business, it was, deep down, nothing more than a complicated con game. His error had not gone unnoticed.
“I see they send me a novice,” said Gunther, shaking his head.
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
“Hopefully that will not matter,” replied Gunther.
Logan wrinkled his brow. He didn’t like to think that he had come all the way across town, risking who could tell what hazards, only to be told that his part in this assignment was relatively unimportant.
Yet who was he trying to kid? That fact had been clear enough from the beginning. They had said, “We need a stand-in . . . a body. You won’t have to know anything, do anything. We just need somebody they don’t know.”
Logan had desperately wanted to believe it would be more than that. He had probably even imagined all the need for secrecy and stealth in getting here. He glanced at Gunther. It was dark, but he could see it in his eyes nonetheless: it had not even mattered that he had used his real name instead of the code.
“Where are we going?” asked Logan, glad to change the subject.
“We will walk as we talk,” replied his companion, “ . . . to avoid eavesdroppers.”
There wasn’t a soul in sight, and Logan could not imagine a possible hiding place a hundred and fifty feet above the icy Thames. But he did not argue the point.
“Now, about your assignment . . .” continued Gunther, who was already a pace ahead.
Logan took a deep breath and turned to follow Gunther as he strode away. No matter what he did tonight, or how trivial his task, he was determined to prove his worth.
2
The Hills of Stonewycke
The morning was especially crisp and vivid. Fresh snow had fallen during the night, covering the hills and valleys of Stonewycke and the Strathy Valley with a clean, sparkling layer of white.