The Oslo Affair

by CW Browning

  She waited until all the boarding passengers had passed her, then nodded cheerfully to the driver before disembarking quickly. Stepping onto the sidewalk, she turned and began to walk up the street, her heels clicking on the paving stones. All in all, it had been an extremely productive morning, and now she was decidedly hungry. Deciding to stop in a cafe for something, she turned down a side street and headed towards the only eatery that she knew of close by.

  Ten minutes later, she was removing her coat and preparing to sit at a small table in the back of the restaurant. As she laid the coat over the back of one of the chairs, something crinkled in the pocket and a frown crossed her face. Reaching into the left pocket, her fingers touched something that hadn’t been there earlier. The frown intensified and she pulled out a folded piece of crumpled paper.

  Before she could look at it, a waitress came over to greet her. Seating herself at the table, Evelyn attempted to make herself understood. After a few minutes of gesticulating with their hands, she successfully managed to order a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

  As soon as she was alone again, she looked down at the paper in her hand and opened it. Her eyebrows snapped together at the sight of Russian script scrawled across the paper.

  Market on Frognerveien. Three-thirty. Look for a blue scarf with white trim. If all is well, carry handbag on right arm. If followed, carry handbag on left.

  Evelyn’s heart thumped and she caught her breath, staring at the words. It had to be Shustov. But when did he slip the note into her pocket? She must have passed him, but when? And how did he know where she would be?

  She folded the note with shaking fingers and slid it into her purse. Somehow she hadn’t thought that he would actually make contact with her. It had all seemed so far-fetched when she came on this trip, but now she could see that it wasn’t at all. A Russian agent had slipped her a note without her knowledge and now it was up to her to meet with him. She was going to meet with Vladimir Lyakhov, the Soviet spy who had known her father so well.

  Lifting her hands, she rubbed her temples for a moment. This was it. This was why she was here. This was what she had been training for in Scotland for months. But now that she was here and it was happening, Evelyn had the strangest feeling that she was living in some kind of dream.

  “Hello!” A voice interrupted her thoughts cheerfully and she looked up with a start.

  Anna stood before her, a wide grin on her face.

  “Anna!” Evelyn exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came for lunch!” The other woman dropped into a chair across from her with a laugh. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone. I always eat alone. Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Please do!” Evelyn moved her purse off the table and set it on the chair with her coat. “I welcome the company.”

  “Wonderful!” Anna shrugged out of her coat and motioned to the waitress. “I’m glad to see you, actually. I was a little worried when I left you last night.”

  Evelyn felt her spine stiffen and she shot a look at the other woman under her eyelashes.

  “Worried? What on earth for?”

  “I didn’t think of it at the time, of course, but on my way home I realized that you’re not familiar with the city and it was late. By the time I reached home, I’d convinced myself that you had got hopelessly lost and were being accosted by strange men.”

  Anna smiled at the waitress and ordered something quickly. Once the waitress had gone, she looked at Evelyn.

  “You didn’t, did you?”

  “Get lost? No. I made it home quite without incident,” Evelyn lied.

  “That’s good to hear.” Anna tilted her head and studied her for a moment. “You don’t look like you slept well.”

  “Well thank you very much!” she exclaimed and Anna laughed.

  “That didn’t come out very well, did it?” she asked sheepishly. “I hope you’re not offended.”

  “It takes more than that to offend me, I assure you. You’re right. I didn’t sleep very well. It’s the new surroundings, I expect.”

  “Understandable.”

  The waitress returned with both their lunches, and they fell silent as she laid the dishes on the table before them. She said something in Norwegian and Anna answered automatically. With a smile, the waitress left them again.

  “What do you do at the law firm?” Evelyn asked, reaching for her sandwich.

  “Take dictation and translate incoming mail and messages from the German and English clients,” came the ready answer. “Occasionally I accompany one of the solicitors when they need a translator, but I stay mostly in the office.”

  “Do you enjoy the work?”

  Anna shrugged. “It’s a job,” she said, uncommitted. “Nothing more.”

  Evelyn’s gaze was sharp and swift across the table. The tone in the other woman’s voice held an edge that she herself knew well. It was the sound of someone who wanted to do more in life than what they were currently doing. It was the same tone she’d had last year, before her father asked a favor and Bill recruited her to pick up a package in Strasbourg.

  “Perhaps one day it will be more,” she said.

  Anna shot her a guarded look and a small smile curved her lips.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you come here for lunch every day?” Evelyn asked.

  “Most days. My office is on the next block. I like the soup here, and it is inexpensive compared to other cafes.” Anna glanced up from the soup in question. “Are you going to meet with that scientist for dinner? What was his name again?”

  “Herr Mayer. I plan to. Daniel gave me some ideas of where to start with him.”

  “I told you he would. I hope you get somewhere with Mayer. He seemed very skittish to me last night.”

  Evelyn thought of the nervous man and nodded in agreement. He had seemed very uncomfortable. Yet he had agreed to meet with her, so that was a huge step in the right direction. With any luck, she’d learn something about what the Germans were focusing their scientific energies on.

  And then she could focus on Vladimir Lysokov.

  6th November, 1939

  Dear Evelyn,

  I received your letter last week. It gave me a good laugh, but I haven’t had another from you, despite sending you a response promptly. Have you changed your mind and decided not to write after all? As you see, I’m holding up my end of our bargain. I’ll give you one more chance. Consider yourself issued fair warning.

  How’s the training coming on your end? We’re training day and night. I rarely get more than four hours of sleep. The RAF seems to think that we’ll be having a horrific air battle soon. We did have some excitement the other day. Unfortunately, it wasn’t with the Germans. C flight was called up to intercept a squadron of German planes coming in over the Thames Estuary area. Three squadrons from other bases joined them. They sighted the enemy and dove at him, guns blazing. Had a few terrific hits and one of the enemy was shot down. They came back, triumphant and flushed with success. Then our Intel Officer Bertie got a hold of them. It was one of our planes the sods shot down. Jerry wasn’t even there! HQ had seen what looked like an enemy formation coming in, but it was really a formation of British bombers on exercise. Talk about one incredible cock-up. We’d better do better than that if Jerry really does come calling. It’s an embarrassment!

  In between flights, they’re keeping us busy with foreign language lessons. They handed out some Polish papers and tests the other day. Seem to think we need to know Polish in order to fly Spitfires. So we were told to memorize these Polish phrases and be prepared to test on them the following day. All right and above board, except that it wasn’t Polish. The papers they gave us were Swedish phrases! The Intel Officer and I are one in agreeing that this, too, is a cock-up.

  I may be receiving a few days leave for Christmas. Have you heard if you will? If so, perhaps we could meet? I haven’t forgotten the invitation to hunt on Boxing Day if we all manage to get some time off.
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  I’m sending you a little something through one of my flight mechanics in a few days. He has to go up to Scotland to pick up some parts. I hope you don’t mind. I saw it and thought you’d like it.

  By the way, what I wrote about the Polish papers is highly confidential. Top Secret. I’m trusting you not to blab to the Germans that they’re teaching us Swedish here.

  Yours,

  FO Miles Lacey

  RAF Duxford

  Evelyn entered the open-air market on Frognerveien and looked around. The market was fairly busy for late afternoon and she took a deep breath, moving past the bustling stalls of produce, meat, cheese, and baked goods. As she made her way through the maze of vendors, her eyes scanned the crowds, searching for a man wearing a blue scarf with white trim.

  Her purse was hooked on her right arm confidently. When she left the cafe after lunch, she had circled the block where her temporary housing was located, looking for her tail. Sure enough, he had returned and was settled across the street, waiting for her to make an appearance. After watching him watching the house for a moment, she went back around the block and climbed through an opening in the fence at the back of the small garden outside the kitchen. Josef had nodded to her as she passed him before returning to his task of chopping wood. Not by the flicker of an eyelid or twitch of his lips did he show any surprise at her climbing through the fence instead of entering through the front door. Perhaps he had already spotted the man loitering across the street.

  When she had followed her tail to the Russian Embassy this morning, she had thought perhaps it was Vladimir himself that was watching her every move. But when the man held his identification out and the guard snapped to instant attention, she discarded the idea. While Shustov was, by all accounts, an NKVD agent, he didn’t hold a rank worthy of that instant fear and respect. No. Lyakhov would warrant a respectful salute, perhaps, but that was it. The stranger following her had to be a member of the senior commanding staff at the very least, perhaps a Captain or a Major. She didn’t think he was a Commissioner. She couldn’t imagine one reason why a Commissioner would be interested in her. They were at the very top of the NKVD, one of the top commanding staff. She bit her lip now and frowned.

  Whoever he was, he was still very high up in the food chain, which begged the question: why was he stalking her himself?

  Admittedly, she didn’t know very much about the inner workings of the Soviet agency, but it seemed to her that the higher they climbed up the military ladder, the less footwork they did themselves. So why was someone of obvious rank wasting his time observing her? And how on earth was she going to avoid him tonight when she went to meet Hans?

  Evelyn had Bill to thank for her newfound expertise on Soviet rankings. He had been insistent that she study them thoroughly on the crossing over from England. If she didn’t know better, she would have suspected that he was worried about her meeting with a Soviet agent. Instead, she decided that he was just being overly cautious. Whatever the reason, Evelyn had become an expert on Soviet rankings, insignias, and military dress on the rough North Sea crossing. But she never once thought it would come into play so quickly.

  She stopped at a stall selling fruit and selected a couple of apples. After a few moments of trying to make herself understood, she finally came to an understanding with the vendor and passed over some coins. With a smile and nod of thanks, she slid the apples into an empty cloth shopping bag she had brought along and turned away from the booth. As she did so, someone bumped into her from behind and she gasped, stumbling forward and colliding with a solid body.

  Strong hands steadied her and Evelyn lifted her face to stare into a pair of dark gray eyes set deeply into a square face with harsh cheekbones. Dark hair was cropped neatly and precisely and a dark mustache perched above thin lips, almost unreal in its perfection. Not a hair was out of place and the hard, unemotional face staring back at her seemed completely undisturbed by her plowing into him.

  In that instant, Evelyn knew she was staring at Vladimir Lyakhov.

  Dropping her eyes from his face, the navy blue scarf with white piping tied around his neck confirmed her suspicion.

  Before she could speak, the hands dropped away from her arms and he nodded politely.

  “My apologies. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “It’s my fault. I lost my balance,” she replied. “I’m very sorry.”

  “You are English?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was the weather in London when you were there?”

  Evelyn swallowed, trying to ignore her pounding heart.

  “I carried an umbrella because it looked like rain, but left it on the train.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment and turned to continue past her. As he did so, she felt something slide into her coat pocket. Resisting the urge to turn and watch him, she forced her legs to move her forward, in the opposite direction. Gripping the bag with her apples in one hand, she moved through the market, not looking back.

  Her heart was pounding and her palms were damp, she realized with a start a moment later. It was really happening. A Soviet agent had really just slipped something into her pocket, and there was no turning back now.

  She waited until she was on the other side of the market to reach her hand into her pocket and extract the paper. Opening it, she read the message quickly. It was a single line, an address. There were no other instructions or times. Just the address.

  Evelyn pressed her lips together and crumpled the note in her hand, shoving it back into her pocket. Passing a trash receptacle, she thought of the man this morning and the message she had pulled out of the trash can. Her lips twitched. Certainly she wasn’t about to make the same mistake. She’d wait until she was back in her room and then she would dispose of the messages from Shustov properly. There would be no trace by the time she was finished.

  Turning out of the opposite end of the market, Evelyn glanced at her watch and started down the street. She’d find a shop where she could ask for directions to the address on the paper.

  And then she’d continue this strange and unnerving scavenger hunt. She tried not to consider that it was a Soviet agent waiting at the end of it, and instead focused on the fact that her father had trusted Lyakhov enough to meet him in Warsaw as the German Army advanced into Poland. If Vladimir had gained her father’s trust, the least she could do was meet with him and collect what it was that he was trying so desperately to get to London.

  And in that, at least, she could finish the last task her father had been unable to complete.

  Chapter Twelve

  Evelyn stared up at the imposing facade of the public library and shook her head. Another library. She started up the steps, glancing behind her and scanning the street. There was no sign either of Vladimir or of her mysterious stalker. However, she knew from experience that that didn’t mean anything.

  Entering the library, she crossed the tiled floor to pass the circulation desk, nodding with a smile to the librarian seated behind the counter. The woman nodded back and Evelyn continued past the desk, looking around the first floor. There were a few patrons, but none of them were Vladimir.

  She pursed her lips and hesitated before glancing over her shoulder again. Her eyes fell on the card catalog and she turned suddenly to go towards it. On a hunch, she moved along the neatly labeled drawers until she came to one that was only partially closed. Something like a surge of excitement went through her and she opened it to find a card sticking up, preventing it from closing all the way. She pulled out the card and scanned the title and call number on it, committing it to memory before inserting the card back into place correctly and pushing the drawer closed.

  Then, after a swift look around, she turned and strode across the floor to a wide staircase leading to the upper levels. This library was larger than the one in Strasbourg had been, with at least four levels. At the foot of the steps, Evelyn glanced up, her hand on the railing. She was
just in time to see a shadow disappear to the left at the top of the stairs.

  Catching her breath, her heart thumped against her ribs and her stomach dropped. Was it Vladimir or someone else? She inhaled, forcing herself to calm down. She was simply a journalist from London, visiting the library. There was absolutely no reason for her to be afraid. She wasn’t picking up a package, or dropping one off. There was nothing about her visit that could be construed as remotely suspect.

  As long as you ignored who was most likely waiting to meet her.

  Evelyn reached the top of the steps and checked the sign on the nearest bookcase. She turned left, moving along the aisle, searching for the row that contained the book from the card. If Shustov was here, in the library, he had picked a perfect spot to meet her and not be seen. Every row that she passed was empty, and the hushed silence was almost deafening.

  Her gaze caught the label on the next bookcase and she turned down the row, scanning the spines of books, looking for the one in question. She was halfway down the aisle when a deep voice spoke behind her, making her jump.

  “You came faster than I expected,” a man said in Russian.

  Evelyn swung around to find Vladimir pulling a book out of the shelf a few feet away.

  “I didn’t see any point in wasting time,” she replied.

  “Your Russian is very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m not surprised. Your father said you had an ear for it.” He didn’t look in her direction but flipped open the book instead. “You speak Norwegian as well?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. That explains the interpreter.”

  Evelyn raised her eyebrows in surprise. “How do you know about that?”

  He finally turned his head towards her, his lips curving faintly.

  “It’s my job to know.” He studied her for a long moment. “You look different from your photograph. Older.”