by CW Browning
“Losing your father suddenly does that sometimes,” she retorted, unable to keep the sharpness out of her voice. To her surprise, a laugh leapt into his eyes and he flashed a grin.
“Of course. That was rude of me. I apologize.”
Evelyn exhaled and inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Do you know why you are here?” he asked after a moment, turning his attention back to the book in his hands.
Feeling as if she should appear to be busy as well, Evelyn pulled a random book from the shelf closest to her and opened it.
“I was told that you would meet with no one else,” she said in a low voice.
“Your father and I used to have wonderful conversations over whiskey,” he said, turning the page in his book. “He told me about your stay in Hong Kong. Did you like it there?”
“It was exciting for a child,” she said carefully, her eyebrows draw together. What was he driving at? “I had no complaints.”
“He told me an amusing story about a childhood friend of yours. He said the two of you were often inseparable and, one day, you ran away from your governess and went to the other side of the town to watch a play. Your friend carried the tale to your father, but instead of punishing you, he bought you ice cream.”
Evelyn’s brows smoothed. He was testing her.
“It wasn’t a play,” she said calmly. “And the ice cream was because I had given my friend a black eye when he tried to stop me from going again the next day.” Her face softened as a smile crossed her lips. “My father said I should never let another person intimidate me. I got ice cream for standing up for myself, then was grounded for three days for disobeying him and leaving the property.”
Vladimir closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. He turned to look at her, his face softening slightly.
“Your father was an unusual man,” he said. “With unusual ways of raising a daughter. Tell me, do you still practice Wing Chun?”
“Not as much as I would like, but yes.”
“It’s a formidable skill. I fear you will need it more than you think for the times ahead.”
He held out his arm, motioning for her to walk with him. After a moment’s hesitation, Evelyn slid the book onto the shelf and turned to walk with him to the opposite end of the aisle.
“This war is not something that either me or your father wanted to happen,” he said slowly. “Our countries are now enemies. I will be killed if my government discovers that I am talking to you.”
“Wasn’t that the same with my father?”
He shot her a look. “Ah. So you know. Good. That makes things easier.”
“How did you and my father meet?” she asked, glancing at him.
“We met in Zürich three years ago. I was there, well, on business for my government and he was doing the same. As fate would have it, we were both after the same thing: information about the new Führer and his National Socialist Germany. Our paths crossed. I made sure they crossed again a few months later.”
“Why?”
He paused at the end of the aisle and was silent for a long moment.
“That is a much more complicated answer and one that we don’t have time for today.” He looked at her, his gray eyes considering. “Perhaps we save that for another time, yes? For now, just know that I respected your father and, I hope, one day you will learn to trust me.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Evelyn said softly, shaking her head. “Especially given the current situation between our two countries.”
“And that is why I say one day.” Vladimir turned the corner and she followed him to the next aisle. “I have something for you. Consider it a gesture of good faith.”
She raised an eyebrow and shot him a look from under her lashes. “Oh?”
“What do you know of Finland?” he asked, pausing next to the shelves and reaching out to pull another book out.
“I know that Stalin has been trying to get them to cede a large portion of their border land over to him so that he can set up military protection there for Leningrad, and that Finland has refused.”
“Yes. Moscow has grown tired of their refusal to allow us to protect our cities.”
Evelyn looked at him sharply. “How tired?”
Gray eyes met hers. “Very tired.”
She was silent, her lips tightening. If the Soviet Union invaded Finland, that could potentially spell disaster for both Norway and Sweden, both of whose neutrality was firmly established.
“Why tell me this?”
“As I said, consider it a gesture of good faith. I’m sure you’re aware of the precarious situation in Finland. Should my country gain what they are seeking, then Finland will need military support. Whichever country gives it to them will have a side door into the Soviet Union.”
“Why would you support that?” Evelyn asked, her brows coming together in a frown. “That can only mean war for your country.”
“My country is already at war. It has been for ten years.” He shrugged and closed the book, sliding it back onto the shelf. “Not everyone shares in the belief that we are better off now than we have been in the past.”
Evelyn was silent. She supposed her father would have known and understood all the political nuances of the situation, and would have known what to say to that. She was not her father, however, and she had no idea what response was expected of her, if any. As if sensing her uncertainty, Vladimir glanced at her.
“In Turku, there is someone who knows the details and intricacies of what hangs in the balance. His name is Risto Niva. He has worked undercover in Turku for the NKVD for over five years. If anyone can help you understand, he can.”
She stared at him. “I can’t go to Finland!” she hissed.
“You don’t have to. He is in Stockholm right now. I can arrange a meeting, but only if you go soon. He will be leaving in a few days to travel to Leningrad before returning to Finland.” Vladimir turned and moved a few feet away, looking at the book spines. “He is staying at the Strand. He has only one weakness, from what I have observed.”
“And what’s that?”
He turned to smile at her. “Beautiful women, especially blondes.”
Evelyn exhaled and gave him a look close to a glare. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. I’m Russian. We don’t joke about matters of security. We can’t afford to.”
“I thought I was here to pick up the same information you gave my father.”
“The information your government managed to lose?” Vladimir made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “I must be mad for risking it again, but yes. It’s here, in the book you looked at in the card catalog downstairs. Don’t lose it again. I won’t be trying a third time.”
“I didn’t lose it the first time,” Evelyn muttered. “Why did you take the chance on smuggling it out again?”
“I believe it holds significant value for your government and the safety of your agents, both in Europe and abroad. Guard it well, for there are many who would kill to get their hands on it, and some who already have.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve been together too long. I must go. If you will meet Niva, light the candle in your window at midnight tonight and I will make the necessary arrangements. If not, then I wish you a safe journey back to England.”
He turned to leave and Evelyn watched him go, chewing her bottom lip. His back was straight as he strode to end of the aisle and turned the corner without once looking back.
And there goes Vladimir Lyakhov, Soviet agent, she thought.
Shaking her head, she turned to retrace their steps until she was back in front of the bookshelf housing the book from card downstairs. It was a slim volume and she plucked it from its place between two fat tomes. As she opened it, an envelope slid into her hand. After replacing the book, she opened the envelope to find several strips of microfilm. She tucked the envelope into her purse and turned to leave. At least this was something she was familiar with. She was n
o stranger to retrieving microfilm, or to concealing it.
As Evelyn stepped out from between the tall bookshelves, she glanced at her watch. The meeting had taken longer than she thought and now she would have to hurry to make her appointment with Hans at the Hotel Bristol.
Her heels clicked rapidly across the tiled floor as she hurried to the stairs. There was no sign of Shustov. In fact, there was no sign of anyone. A shiver went through her and she hurried down the steps to the first floor, thankful to see several patrons moving through the lobby.
As she reached the ground floor and started towards the door, one thought popped into her mind and she pressed her lips together grimly.
Why did Vladimir really want her to go to Stockholm?
When Evelyn arrived at the Hotel Bristol exactly at seven, there was no sign of Herr Mayer waiting out front. She frowned and went in, looking around the crowded restaurant. As she was scanning the tables, the host approached her.
“Miss Richardson?” he asked.
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes?”
“This was left for you.”
He handed her a folded note with a smile and retreated to his domain near the door. Evelyn looked down at the paper in her hand and opened it. As she had suspected, it was from Hans, written in a very precise hand.
Dear Miss Richardson,
I apologize but I will be unable to meet you for dinner. Upon further consideration I have decided that it would be unwise for me to meet with a member of a foreign press without the prior approval of the Ministry of Propaganda. I hope you understand. I wish you the best of luck with your article.
Sincerely,
Hans Ferdinand Mayer
Evelyn folded the note again. That was that, then. So much for her gently plying the physicist for information about Nazi controlled Germany. She wasn’t surprised. He had seemed very uncomfortable with the idea last night when she proposed it. Now she understood why. He was afraid he would be punished for talking to a member of the press that wasn’t controlled by the Goebbels ministry of propaganda. She really couldn’t blame him. Not if the whispers coming out of Germany were true.
Turning to leave the restaurant, she gasped as she walked into a tall, solid figure.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, glancing up into an angular face. “I’m sorry!”
She spoke in German automatically, reverting to a language that she had learned was more easily understood in Oslo than English.
“It’s quite all right, Fraulein,” the man said easily, his brown eyes sweeping over her as his hands steadied her. “Are you hurt?”
“Not at all. Perhaps just my pride,” Evelyn said with a laugh. “I wasn’t paying attention. My apologies.”
“None are needed, Fraulein...?”
“Richardson.”
“I am Herr Renner,” he said, dropping his hands from her arms. “How nice to meet a fellow German! Are you staying at the hotel?”
“I...no, I’m not.” Evelyn glanced at her watch and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m late for an appointment.”
Herr Renner bowed his head politely.
“What a pity, but I understand. Have a nice evening, Fraulein.”
Evelyn nodded and moved past him to leave the restaurant. As she went through the door, she looked back over her shoulder to find him watching her. She forced a bright smile and continued on her way, emerging onto the street a moment later.
Turning to walk away from the hotel, Evelyn exhaled. She was seeing nefarious intentions everywhere now. Herr Renner was probably simply another scientist staying at the hotel for the conference. There was no reason for her to think he had any interest in her other than that of a passing curiosity. After all, she had bumped into him, not the other way around.
Yet, something was sending a warning all through her.
She shook her head, her heels tapping quickly along the pavement as she headed back towards the boarding house. She must be imagining things, and no wonder! She was being followed by a mysterious Russian agent, and she had met with a member of the Soviet NKVD just that afternoon. It was hardly surprising that she was suspicious of a man who spoke German and wore a long black coat over a dark gray suit. She was seeing shadows everywhere.
Even so, she was conscious of profound sense of gratitude for every step that put distance between Herr Renner and herself.
The man looked up impatiently at the knock on his door. He wasn’t in a good mood. The Englishwoman hadn’t appeared all day and he had no idea where she was or where she had gone. By the time he realized that she must have slipped out while he was at the embassy that morning, it was too late to hunt her down. Giving up, he returned to his room after a brief supper in the hotel dining room. Now he was pouring over what little information he had on her, which wasn’t much, looking for clues as to where she might go tomorrow. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors.
“Come!”
The door opened and small, slight man slid in.
“Comrade Grigori,” he wheezed, closing the door silently.
The man threw down his pen and sat back in his chair, eyeing the newcomer. “Comrade Yakov.”
“My apologies for disturbing you this late.” Yakov moved further into the room. “You wanted to know if I observed any movement on the agent.”
“I did.”
“He is booked onto a train leaving Oslo at two in the morning.”
“Where is he going?”
“Stockholm.”
Comrade Grigori stared at the little man for a moment, then nodded once.
“Very well. Get yourself on the same train and follow him. Report back with any updates.”
“Yes, comrade.” Yakov nodded and turned to leave the room. At the door, he paused. “Do you still want to know if he meets with anyone?”
“Yes.”
Yakov nodded once more and disappeared silently out the door. Grigori watched him go and lowered his gaze to the papers on the desk before him. He stared at them for a moment, lost in thought, then got up and went over to where his coat was draped over the back of a chair. Reaching into the pocket, he extracted a packet of cigarettes and pulled one out.
So Lyakhov was going to Sweden on an overnight train. Now why would he leave so suddenly? If his work here was done, why not catch a train that left at a more reasonable time? Why the rush to get to Stockholm?
He lit his cigarette and turned to pace across the room to the window. It was true that the easiest route to the Soviet Union was through Stockholm. The agent could simply have finished his assignment and be eager to get back to Moscow. And who would blame him? Oslo had little in the way of amusement, and Lyakhov had been here for three weeks already. It could simply be that he was tired of Norway and longing for home.
Grigori stared out the window thoughtfully, sucking on his cigarette. On the other hand, if he had met with someone secretly, he could be going to Sweden for an entirely different purpose. And if that was the case, Comrade Yakov would be absolutely useless. He was a snake, that one, and could extract the most interesting pieces of information from nothing, but as far as anything else went, he would be of no use at all.
If Lyakhov was indeed the traitor, Yakov would be no match for him.
And Moscow was convinced there was a traitor. Select pieces of classified intelligence had been steadily making their way into Europe, and into the hands of the English for a few years now. At first, they thought there were multiple traitors at work because the information was varied by so many different levels and departments. There was no way one person would have access to all of it. But, as the months went by and they began investigating each and every section, it ceased to look like the work of multiple people and began to appear to be the result of just one. How they were gaining access to the information was a mystery yet to be solved, but one thing had been exposed: their connection to the English agent who died in Bern in September.
Shaking his head, Grigori blew out a line of smoke. They had got there too la
te. The man was dead and there was no sign of Soviet intelligence on him, nor any hint as to the identity of the traitor. The trail had gone cold. Unwilling to give up, Beria had ordered that all intelligence agents be investigated. In addition, any and all communication with British agents, even accidental, carried with it the penalty of death.
Stubbing his cigarette out on the window sill, Grigori sighed and turned away from the window. And so here he was in Oslo, watching a known British agent while Yakov watched Lyakhov. And between them, they had nothing. As far as he could see, there was no connection.
But Beria would want more than his assumption. He would want evidence of innocence. And so Grigori would go back to watching the Englishwoman. When she left Norway, he would return home and make his report. As it stood right now, his report would be that there was no connection observed. Lyakhov’s fate was his own from then on, provided Yakov didn’t observe anything out of the ordinary in Stockholm.
But first, the Englishwoman.
Chapter Thirteen
“Stockholm!” Daniel Carew stared at Evelyn. “What on earth for?”
“I’ve heard the weather’s lovely this time of year,” she said dryly, seating herself in a chair across from his desk as she began to pull her gloves off.
Daniel let out a snort and sat down, his eyes fixed on her face. He was dressed in evening clothes, having come to the embassy directly from a dinner party after receiving her message. When he arrived, he had looked distinctly annoyed at having to come back to the office at such a late hour. Now he looked bemused.
“All right. Start from the beginning. Am I to gather that you’ve met with Shustov?”
“Yes. He gave me a rather interesting tip about the situation between Finland and the Soviet Union.” Evelyn finished removing her gloves and folded her hands over them in her lap. “His exact words were, ‘Moscow has grown tired of their refusal to allow us to protect our cities.’”
Daniel’s brows snapped together. “How tired?”
“That’s precisely what I said,” she said with a laugh. “His response was that there was someone in Stockholm who could give me more detail. He lives in Turku, but is in Sweden for a few days. He will arrange a meeting for me, but only if I go immediately. I’m to let him know tonight. I thought I’d better check with London before I do anything.”