It was possible this very factory had produced the bullet that Elton had loaded into his pistol that day in Spain before he boarded the train. Not guaranteed, of course. But possible.

It didn’t matter if it was this exact factory anyway. What mattered was that when the zeppelins or Gothas flew overhead in a few short hours and dropped their loads, a blow would be struck to the enemy. He doubted he could trust whatever codebook Elton and De Wilde would get for him, but he’d have succeeded in at least one part of his directive—locating targets for the Luftstreitkräfte. He’d no doubt have something to hand over to the High Command in terms of codes, whether it be useful or not.

And he would succeed in his own mission as well. Elton would pay.

Das Gespenst shifted the limp figure beside him. If she remained unconscious as long as she had earlier, he had an hour to sneak her inside. Bind her again. Gag her this time, since there was a night guardsman patrolling the grounds. He, too, would likely die this night. Collateral damage, like Williams. Though, unlike Yūrei, the guard no doubt wouldn’t be begging for the sweet relief of death. But that was none of his concern.

He patted Dorothea’s motionless hand. She’d slept through the short ride in the little boat he’d procured to get her from one pier to the other. She’d slept as he’d eased her into the cab he’d already hired to be waiting for them. Perhaps she’d sleep until the bombs fell. That would be a kindness. Yes, he would see that she did. He’d slip a little more laudanum between her lips. Because she reminded him of Ilse, and because Heinrich wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer unduly when it was her brother who must pay.

He would come, once he and Margot De Wilde found his note. He would come with a codebook in hand, because he loved his sister. As Das Gespenst had loved his brother. He had come, hadn’t he, the moment Heinrich had called? He’d left the spot where he’d been sent to rendezvous with him and the sugar, to escort it on its final journey to England, and he’d rushed to the little town outside Madrid that Heinrich had stumbled to from the train, clinging to Elton’s discarded hat as if doing so would grant him vengeance. He’d hurried him back to the safe house they’d set up. He’d done all he could—all he could to save him.

But no tourniquet was enough to stop that much blood. Nothing could. His hands still felt red from it.