by CW Browning
Watching out of the corner of his eye through the front window, he turned to look at the rows of baked goods on display behind the counter. The Englishwoman would be a while. She would want to try clothes on. They always did. He had plenty of time to select something to ease his hunger while he waited.
After purchasing some pastry and half a loaf of brown bread that looked very similar to his favorite loaf in Moscow, he turned to leave the bakery. He had taken his time and spent over twenty minutes in the shop, but there was still no sign of her.
He stepped outside with the bag in his hand and frowned, looking at his watch again. He turned to walk to the next shop and went in, still keeping an eye on the store front across the road. Looking around, he found himself in a tobacconist. Ten minutes later, he emerged with a selection of cigarettes and one cigar, but still no sign of his quarry.
His lips tightened and he was debating the risk of going across the street and looking into the store window to see if he could see her when the door to the shop opened. He turned to walk a few steps, looking sideways under his hat. The customer exiting the shop was not the Englishwoman. She was a working girl, dressed in an ill-fitting skirt and shabby sweater with woolen stockings and very dull, sensible shoes. She carried a large handbag over her arm that looked as if it had seen better days, and clasped a newspaper in one hand. This woman was a far cry from the elegant, perfectly tailored woman he had been following for four days. After pausing outside the shop to straighten her hat, she turned to stride down the sidewalk. As she did so, Grigori noticed that the hand carrying the newspaper was covered with a soft leather glove.
His lips pursed and his brows snapped together as he turned to walk in the same direction, glancing at the shop once more as he did so. The woman who came out of the shop was about as far removed from Maggie Richardson as was possible, and yet something made Grigori turn his gaze back to her.
It was the gloves. The entire outfit was sensible, warm and completely unremarkable, but she was wearing leather gloves that were at complete odds with the rest of the clothing. Another gust of wind tore down the street and the woman raised her free hand to hold a plain brown hat on her head as she walked. The wind grabbed a lock of blonde hair and whipped it out from under the hat, and Grigori stared.
It couldn’t be her. And yet...something told him that it was. The gloves, the hair, they both were compelling reasons to risk losing his quarry and follow her instead. And yet, that wasn’t what made Comrade Grigori continue down the opposite side of the road, his eyes fixed on the woman. It was the clenching in his gut. Something wasn’t right with this new development.
And Comrade Grigori had learned long ago not to dismiss that particular feeling.
Anna tossed the magazine she was looking at onto the table and sighed. Maggie had been gone for an hour and, in that time, she had checked her watch no less than twenty times. She couldn’t concentrate on the store of magazines the hotel had provided. All she could think about was what her new friend was doing and whether or not she would find the address with the strange name. Something peace, wasn’t it?
Shaking her head, she got up and went over to the French doors that lead out to the balcony. Maggie had left after a breakfast in their rooms just as calm as you please, as if she were merely going to the corner shop for a pack of cigarettes. Anna, on the other hand, had been brimming with pent-up excitement all morning. How could she be so calm? It was all so terribly exciting! First a secret note passed under the door, then leaving to go to an assigned meet. It was just like in the films!
Anna stared across the water at the Royal Palace in the distance. Not ten minutes after she left, a porter had knocked on the door with a telegram for Miss Margaret Richardson, marked urgent. She glanced over at the desk where the sealed message lay. Terrible luck that it had missed Maggie by a few minutes. Turning away from the doors, Anna went over to the table and picked up her cigarette case. She was opening it to take one out when the restlessness welling inside her got the better of her.
Dropping the case back on the table, she let out an impatient noise and turned to go into her bedroom. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay cooped up in this room, as luxurious as it was, simply waiting. If she didn’t get out and stretch her legs and get her mind off it, Anna was convinced she would go absolutely mad.
Grabbing her hat, she secured it on her head with a sturdy hat pin and turned to get her coat from the tall armoire. She would go out and look around the city, take in the sights, and by the time she returned, Maggie would be back.
She walked into the sitting room and her eye fell on the telegram sitting on the desk. She hesitated, looking at it consideringly. It didn’t seem safe to leave it there, where a maid could see it. It was marked urgent, after all. She was probably being silly, but she thought of the spy novels she liked to read and an image of masked men ransacking the hotel room came to mind. Without another thought, she crossed the room and took the telegram, tucking it into her purse with her cigarettes.
Five minutes later, Anna emerged from the stairwell next to the lift, the stairs preferable to the lift due to the excess of nervous energy. She bent her head to button her coat as she began to walk across the lobby towards the door. When she lifted her head, she found herself staring straight at a tall man in a long black coat who had just come in from the street. Her step checked and she frowned. He was very familiar. She’d seen him before. But where?
Anna moved to the side and stepped behind a column, looking around it at the man. She didn’t want to be caught staring, but she wanted to remember why he was so familiar. He hadn’t noticed her and was crossing the floor, heading towards her side of the lobby. He turned his head in her direction, glancing towards the lift, and Anna gasped softly. She did know him! She’d seen him at the Hotel Bristol when she and Maggie were chatting with the two Germans. She’d noticed him because she thought he was terribly good-looking, and he’d somehow managed to be in their vicinity all evening. He’d never once looked in her direction, although she remembered she kept glancing at him all night. He’d been sitting with two other Germans, she recalled, and they had kept his attention.
What on earth was he doing here?
“Herr Renner!”
A short man came up behind Anna, walking towards the tall man. He passed her without a glance and joined the tall man on the other side of the wide column.
“Is everything in place?” Herr Renner asked in German, removing his gloves.
He looked towards the lift again and Anna moved unobtrusively to her right until she was completely concealed by the column. So his name was Renner, and he was German. But why was he here?
“Yes, just as we discussed. I have someone watching the back stairs and someone watching the lift. Otto is on the corner near the newspaper vendor. He has a clear view of the entrance. Franz is in the back alley, although I really don’t think we need to worry about her going that way.”
“You know as well as I do that it’s better to have all the exits covered. Is she in her room?”
“No. There was a telegram delivered earlier and the boy had to leave it with her companion.”
“Companion?” Renner’s voice was sharp. “What companion?”
“Another woman. I haven’t seen her yet.” There was a hesitation and the rustling of paper as if the other man was looking through a notepad. “Tall with brown hair.”
“That describes half the women in the hotel. See if you can get a better description or get a look at her yourself,” Renner ordered. “Is she still in the room?”
“Yes.”
“Take care of it, then. Deliver something for the Englishwoman. Perhaps some fruit, complements of the hotel? I’m sure you can think of something.”
“Yes, Herr Renner.” There was the distinct sound of a notebook snapping shut. “And when the Englishwoman returns?”
“Inform me immediately. I’ll be in my room. Don’t approach her. Let her go to her room. We can’t afford a scene. I
’ll handle it once she’s back.”
“Understood.”
The two men parted, the short one going towards the front desk and Herr Renner moving towards the lift. As he went past the column, Anna moved around it, keeping the column between them. She didn’t know if he ever noticed her in the restaurant in Oslo, but she wasn’t about to take any chances now.
When he had gone, she walked towards the entrance of the hotel, bending her head to pull on her gloves as she walked. Her heart was pounding and it took everything she had not to look back over her shoulder to see if someone was watching. Keeping her gaze on her hands, she finished buttoning her gloves and looked up to find herself at the door. With an exhale, she pushed it open and stepped out onto the street.
A gust of wind smacked her in her face and she shivered, burying her hands in her pockets. She glanced to the right and her eyes went to the vendor where she bought the paper yesterday. He had two customers buying papers and her gaze went beyond him, looking for the mysterious Otto. She was just turning to walk in the opposite direction when she spotted a man in a dark coat sitting on a bench across the street, near the water. He had a paper open before him, but he didn’t seem very interested in the news. He was looking at the hotel.
Anna walked away, her head spinning and her breath coming short and fast. Who was Herr Renner? And what did he want with Maggie? It wasn’t a good thing, that much she was sure of. The Germans weren’t in the habit of following women over two hundred miles into another country unless that woman had something they wanted. And now they had the hotel surrounded! There was no way Maggie could get back in without being seen, and it was only luck and timing that had allowed her to get out when she did. She must have left the room while the short one was still arranging for it to be watched. Talk about a perfect window of opportunity! And she hadn’t even been aware of any of it!
Biting her lip as she turned the corner, Anna forced herself to try to think clearly. Maggie was in serious trouble, and she didn’t even know it yet. As far as Anna could see, she was the only person capable of standing between the Germans and Maggie right now. But how was she going to warn her when she didn’t even know where she’d gone?
Her step checked and her lips parted on a quick inhale. Of course! She did know where she went. She didn’t know the exact location, but she knew the street and the neighborhood. That would be enough to make it possible to head her off before she went back to the hotel and into the Nazi trap waiting for her.
Looking both ways, Anna spotted a break in the traffic and ran across the road quickly to a cafe. She would ask for directions to Gamla Stan and hope for a bit of luck.
Vladimir looked at his watch and stifled a yawn. He’d been up and out of the hotel just as dawn was lightening the sky, leading his tail over half the city. Comrade Yakov really was slipping. He used to be invisible. He was the one they called when they absolutely could not let a subject know they were being watched. They called him The Ghost.
Well, he wasn’t anymore. Now he was more like an ox.
He had spotted him on the first day in Oslo, almost as soon as he got off the train. It had been a few years, but he recognized him easily. Aside from more gray hair and a new set of jowls, Yakov looked the same as he always had. As soon as he saw him, Vladimir knew he was under investigation. He’d been waiting for it. It was inevitable. They would all be investigated until the traitor passing secrets to the British was found. It was a witch hunt, and the Soviets were very good at witch hunts.
Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he gazed out of the window at the building across the street. Den Gyldene Freden, or The Golden Peace, was a tavern that had been serving food and drink to the people of Gamla Stan, or the old city, since the 1700s. Named for the Peace of Nystad between Sweden and Russia in 1721, it had withstood the tests of time, age, and the decline of the area around it. When Niva agreed to meet with the British agent to discuss the situation along the border of Finland, Vladimir had suggested the tavern as a possible meeting place. It was deep in the narrow, winding streets of the old part of the city where they were very unlikely to run across anyone from an embassy or consulate. The neighborhood was slowly rotting, the ancient buildings having fallen into decay over the centuries as the bustling medieval center turned into overcrowded streets and the noblemen moved their residences to other sections of the city.
Vladimir lit a cigarette and watched as Risto Niva approached the tavern. He looked around the street before disappearing inside and Vladimir blew a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. Niva was in place. Now he had to wait for the girl.
Evelyn Ainsworth was not what he had been expecting. He had seen photographs, presented by a proud father, and heard stories about the young woman, but he had somehow been expecting someone rather ordinary. Oh, not in appearance. Her beauty had been evident in every photo he looked at. But rather in demeanor. It was one thing for a proud father to expound on his daughter’s intelligence and quickness of wit. It was to be expected. But the reality very rarely lived up to the accolades, at least in his experience. In Evelyn’s case, though, it appeared that perhaps her doting father had been modest in his praise. Vladimir had been particularly impressed with how quickly she grasped the importance of meeting with Niva and learning what she could about the situation on the border between Finland and Soviet Russia. There had been no hesitation. For someone new to this game, she was very quick indeed.
He glanced at his watch again and settled back in the rickety old wooden chair that he’d dragged over to the window. He sat just out of sight from the street with a view of the entire corner building were the tavern was located. Studying the people in the street and the old building on the opposite corner that looked as if it had been a large and heavily fortified bank at one time, he looked for any signs that Niva had been followed and saw none. Sucking on his cigarette, he stared down thoughtfully. It didn’t appear as if the witch hunt had expanded to the agents posted in other countries. Yet. Only the ones in Moscow were being watched.
He had to be very careful now. It wasn’t like it was when Robert was still alive. Then he’d had an iron-clad reason for talking to a British agent, one that was beyond question. It had been ordered at the highest level. But now Robert was dead and, with him, his mission. He had to be very shrewd in how he went about his dealings with the daughter. Just one slip and he would end up in the Gulag, or worse.
Vladimir frowned suddenly and leaned forward, his eyes fixed on a slight figure moving through the crowded street. There was nothing remarkable about the woman. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what it was that drew his attention to her instead of the twenty other women who looked just like her. After watching intently for a few moments as she made her way down the street, he realized what it was that had caught his eye. She was moving through the crowds with a very precise and confident stride, filled with assurance. It was the kind of assurance that could never be taught or imitated. It was the assurance inherent in knowing that one was able to defend oneself against most attacks. It was the assurance of knowing that she had complete and utter control over every movement her body made, and that that control had been tested repeatedly and not failed. It was the assurance of a woman who had been extensively trained in a fighting art.
He sat back and a small smile played on his lips. The daughter had many talents indeed. If he didn’t know of her unusual background, she would never have drawn his attention. She blended in with the people around her so well that it was doubtful that anyone would ever look twice at her.
Robert’s daughter had certainly adjusted to her new role with ease. He blew out smoke and watched as she crossed the street to the corner building across from his. She would do well in this war. And he now felt much more comfortable with her as his sole contact in the West.
For that was what she was now. He couldn’t risk dealing with anyone else, nor was he about to let a talent like hers slip through his fingers.
Chapter Twenty
&n
bsp; Evelyn opened the heavy, old wooden door and went into the building. Immediately confronting her was a flight of stone steps leading down, and a narrow hallway to the left leading to the back of the building. She hesitated, unsure which path to take, but the smell of onions and the sound of voices wafting up from the stairs decided her. Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the almost overwhelming feeling of apprehension that rolled over her, she started down the narrow steps. She was here and to back out now would be the height of cowardice. And she had never been accused of being a coward in her life.
Reaching the bottom, Evelyn stepped into a large cavern with low lighting and heavy, scarred wooden tables and benches. A bar ran along one side of the room and two serving girls moved through the tables, delivering plates of food. She was surprised at the amount of people in the underground tavern. Given the surrounding neighborhood, she hadn’t expected much of a lunch crowd.
Looking around, Evelyn realized with a sinking heart that she had no idea who she was looking for. She didn’t even have a general description. Her palms grew damp in her gloves as she stood there, her heart rate increasing in proportion with her sudden anxiety.
“Richardson?” a voice asked behind her and she turned sharply to see an older man with an apron wrapped around his waist.
“Yes?”
“Följ mig.”
She had no idea what he said, but his actions made it clear that he wanted her to follow him. Walking behind him, Evelyn scanned the tables, looking for anything that would indicate she was being watched, and saw nothing. Aside from one or two curious looks as they passed, there was no sign of undue interest in her arrival. Exhaling silently, she breathed a little easier as the man led her through the tables to one in the far corner. There, partially concealed by the curve of the wall, sat a man with dark hair and a pencil mustache.