The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries)

by Kate Moira Ryan

  “I started an agency with my friend, Daniel. I wrote you about him.”

  “Yes, I cannot quite wrap my head around that Lady Johnson’s granddaughter is seeing a Jew.”

  “Gran can, so I don’t see what the big problem is.” Lennie, like many of her generation, had always been a bit of an anti-Semite.

  “What sort of agency?”

  “I find lost people. I’ve just solved a case, but it doesn’t feel completely resolved.”

  “Do tell me. Maybe a fresh pair of ears can help. You know how much I love reading Agatha Christie.”

  Slim recounted the case, and afterward, Lennie said, “You’re stuck on the fact that Marie Claire might still be alive.”

  “I don’t know if she’s still alive, but what if she did survive Natzweiler?”

  “I think you’re missing something bigger.”

  “What?”

  “You said there was a mole.”

  “I think there was. I mean, how else could the Funkspiel go on?”

  Lennie put down her teacup and said, “You never asked me what I did during the war.”

  “I never asked because you told me that you were teaching math at St. Paul’s.”

  “Slim, I wasn’t teaching math to a bunch of pimply teenagers. I worked at Bletchley Park.”

  “Bletchley Park?” The name meant nothing to her.

  “It’s a monstrous country estate in Buckinghamshire that housed His Majesty’s code-breaking and cipher school.”

  “You were a code-breaker, Lennie?” Slim looked at Lennie, shocked.

  She nodded. “Yes, and I’m only telling you this because of what you said to me. I could be arrested for violating the Official Secrets Act. I was recruited for two reasons: the first being my math skills are superb, and the second because as a child, I spent summers with my grandparents in Darmstadt, so I speak fluent German.”

  “Did you know about the Funkspiel the Germans played on London HQ?”

  “Yes, and I think I know who the mole was.”

  Slim put down her teacup. “Why? How could you tell?”

  “The German secret police—”

  “You mean the offshoot of the Gestapo? The SD?”

  “No, the Abwehr was used for military espionage. The SD were a bunch of thugs. The Abwehr and the SD were very competitive with each other, and the lines between the two often blurred. Spies wanted to be captured by the Abwehr because they knew they wouldn’t be tortured.”

  “How did you find out there was a mole at the SOE?”

  “When we broke the code for the Enigma G machine, we found out.”

  “Was that similar to the wireless telegraph the British agents used in France?”

  “No, this was much more sophisticated. The Enigma G was a sort of typewriter that encrypted messages as one typed, and every day the code was changed. So it took us a devil of a time to break the code, but once we did, we knew the war was won.”

  “How did you find out about the mole?”

  “A wireless operator had been picked up in Holland, and the Abwehr was transmitting as the agent. Even though it was evident that the agent had been compromised, the receiver in Britain didn’t pick up on it. The SOE network in Holland was destroyed, and many agents were arrested.”

  “Just like what happened in France. Do you think it was just incompetence on the SOE’s part?”

  “Yes and no. I knew from the messages we were receiving from the Abwehr that our agents were being picked up right and left. I know we passed this information onto the SOE, which they either didn’t want to know, or they just ignored it. Either they were grossly incompetent, or there was a mole.”

  “The surviving agents think the mole was Flora Chapman. Do you know who she is?”

  “Yes, Flora Chapman ran the women agents. She might have been complicit in it, but she wasn’t the mole.”

  “Why do you think she was complicit?”

  “She wasn’t a naturalized citizen, and she was a Jew. She could have been sent back or arrested. Her situation in Britain was quite precarious, so I don’t think she’d jeopardize it.”

  “Then who do you think it was?”

  “That bumbling fool Colonel Graham wasn’t so bumbling—he was a double agent.”

  “You mean the head of the SOE? I was told he lost two sons to the war. They were in the RAF.”

  “They didn’t die. His two sons were POWs in Germany after their planes were shot down.”

  “Do you think he became a double agent to protect his children? To get them preferential treatment?”

  “No, he was already turned when England entered the war, and so were his two sons, Hamish and Mark.”

  “You know this how?”

  “On the Enigma G, I intercepted messages mentioning that the twins Hans and Manheim had arrived.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “Colonel Graham’s sons were twins.”

  “That could be a coincidence.”

  “It could be, but probably not. You said there was a mole in SOE. I’m telling you that I think I know who it was. I’m also telling you as your old friend to be careful. There’s a reason Flora Chapman is trying to track down Marie Claire.”

  “And you think it’s because Marie Claire knew who the mole was, and unlike the other agents, she had proof?”

  “Exactly. If Marie Claire is indeed alive, she had better be careful. Chapman will do everything in her power to protect herself and Colonel Graham.”

  “But why would Miss Chapman do that? The war is over.”

  “She could be hanged along with Colonel Graham for being complicit, so it’s a good thing if she thinks Marie Claire is dead. It buys you time and probably saves Marie Claire’s life, if she is indeed alive. My advice to you is to put this to rest. Now, as far as anyone knows, you and I never had this conversation. Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

  “Everyone’s talking about George Orwell’s new book, 1984. Have you read it? I found his dystopian view of the future incredibly depressing,” Slim said, recalling the review in the Telegraph.

  “A review like that doesn’t exactly make me run out to Waterstones. I just remembered Mum sent along some snaps of the house they bought in Croyden Park; it’s a suburb of Sydney. Would you like to see where you’ll be visiting me?”

  When Slim got back to Brown’s, there was a message waiting for her from Princess Oblenskya’s son, Pavel, with an invitation to dine at the Ritz that evening. If her grandmother was right and he had done something secretive during the war, maybe he’d be useful to her. Although she was exhausted from her restless night and busy day, she left a message that she would join him at eight. Wearily, she climbed in between the crisp, white ironed sheets and took a nap. She awoke an hour later, feeling more unsettled than rested. Could Lennie be right? Was Miss Chapman using Slim to find Marie Claire so she could silence her? She knew that she must find out whether Marie Claire’s mother was alive to determine if she was being set up. She thought of the handkerchief and wondered who had written the message. And what about what Lennie had said about the wireless operator who had been picked up in Holland? It wasn’t just France who’d been betrayed by the SOE—but why would London allow that?

  Chapter Nine

  London, 1949

  Prince Pavel Oblensky was only forty-five, but the dark rings of half-moons under his eyes and his receding slicked-back jet-black hair speckled with gray made him seem even older. With his trim figure and imperious looks, he cut an elegant swath. Slim imagined him gliding one of the murdered tsar’s daughters around the ballroom of the Winter Palace.

  He kissed Slim three times, the Russian way. Surprised by his familiarity, Slim looked at him quizzically, and he smiled. “I feel like I know you. Mama has been talking about you for years.”

  He spoke English with a slight hint of a cockney accent, acquired from his childhood nanny. It was said that both he and sister, Princess Alix, who had married into the Swedish royal family, were s
ometimes mistaken for East Enders because they dropped their h’s with such abandon.

  The prince snapped his fingers, and a bottle of champagne was brought over. As it was being poured into flutes, he asked, “How is your grandmother, Lady Johnson?”

  “Quite well,” Slim answered.

  “And your mother?”

  Slim flinched.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . I forgot,” the prince said with a look of chagrin.

  “No, it’s just that . . . Well, she’s never really been . . . my mother.”

  He raised his glass, and she picked up hers as well. “За нашу дружбу!”

  They clinked glasses, and Slim smiled. “What does that mean?”

  “I proposed a toast to our friendship. So how can I help you, Miss Moran?”

  “Please call me Slim, Prince Oblensky.”

  “Then you must call me Pasha. Enough of these formalities. We are not at the Imperial court. Those days are long gone.”

  “My grandmother said you worked for British intelligence during the war,” Slim said. “I need help.”

  “If I can help you, I will. There is that bothersome Official Secrets Act, which I cannot violate.”

  “I am working a missing person’s case.”

  “Are you a private detective?” Slim could see that Pasha was impressed.

  “I started an agency to find people who were lost during the war. It’s what I did when I worked for the Red Cross in Paris. I thought I’d solved my case, but now I am not so sure that I did.”

  “Start from the beginning. I’m all yours.”

  Slim outlined the case. Occasionally, he stopped her to ask a question, but for the most part, he let her continue uninterrupted. When she got to what she had discovered in Natzweiler, he sighed and took a cigarette from a gold case, lit it, blew a plume of smoke into the air, and then finally said, “So, Slim, what do you need from me?”

  “I need to find out if your mother knows a Russian family named Vyrubova.”

  “Personally?”

  “Yes.

  “Now, who is she exactly?”

  “She’s the mother of the agent whom I’m trying to find. I need to know if she’s still alive. She’d be in her sixties.”

  “Your agent is from a family of White Russians?”

  “Yes.”

  “My mother knows all of the White Russian families in London, big and small.”

  “It’s important.”

  “As soon as I find out, I will tell you. How else may I help you?”

  “I need to find out what happened to two brothers who were in the RAF. They were supposedly shot down and captured by the Germans.”

  “I think I can find that out. As the head of the Luftwaffe, Hermann Göring made sure the captured Allied pilots were treated decently. Of course, there were exceptions. What were their names, and why do you need to know?”

  Slim told him and then relayed what Lennie had said about Colonel Graham’s sons.

  “That’s quite a farfetched story and quite frankly, if it is true, an incredibly deleterious one. I will find out what I can. Now, is there anything else I can do for you before we order dinner?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overload you with all these requests.” Slim smiled, realizing that she had forgone the conversational niceties that an Imperial prince would be used to when dining.

  “Oh, please, if you were Russian, we’d still be talking about how we are. You see, if you ask an American how they are, they say fine, but if you ask a Russian, well, let’s just say there’s a reason why War and Peace is such a long book.”

  Slim woke up naked in a suite at the Ritz with a long thin arm wrapped around her. She felt the rough stubble of Pasha’s cheek as he pulled her close.

  “You are truly magnificent,” he whispered in her ear. “So should we order room service, or . . . ?”

  “Or what?” Slim asked, knowing full well what or meant.

  “Or this.”

  Slim felt a shiver as Pasha lifted her hair and kissed her neck.

  An hour later, Pasha handed her a cup of coffee from a silver tray and stroked her cheek.

  “I’d like to see you again. Are you free?”

  Slim thoughts turned to Daniel. How after sex, he’d roll over and fall asleep or get up and leave. There was no tenderness to him. Pasha was different. He was gentle.

  “Yes, I am free,” she said.

  “You should know I’m married.”

  “Oh.” Slim was taken aback.

  “To an American from Palm Beach. We have an understanding because we have a son together. I prefer to stay married because of him. Although admittedly, I have seen him only once since the war ended. I sent them both to the States when it all started.”

  “What did you do during the war?”

  “I could tell you, but then I have to kill you,” he said, winking.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Let’s just say I did counterintelligence for MI5, His Majesty’s Secret Service.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m still doing counterintelligence. I’m valuable to them because I speak Russian, I speak French, I speak German and Polish, and of course, I speak English.”

  “And you’re a prince.”

  “And I’m a prince. People tell princes things they would not tell mere mortals.” He rolled his eyes, but Slim knew this was probably true.

  “How did you get out of Russia?”

  “I escaped by way of the Crimea. My mother was a lady-in-waiting to the dowager empress.”

  “Tsar Nicholas’s Mother?” Slim asked, impressed.

  Pasha nodded. “Yes, we were allowed to leave with her and escape on the last steamer to England.”

  “With only the clothes on your backs?”

  “No, we had the house in Mayfair and a trunk of jewels. So I don’t have to drive a taxicab like so many others.”

  “So why did you marry the Palm Beach socialite if you didn’t need the money?”

  “Because I loved her, but she wanted to marry a prince, and I wanted to marry someone who loved me. What can I say? I come from the land where Anna Karenina was written. I believe in love, even if it is doomed.”

  “Do you miss Russia?”

  “I used to dream there was a magic portal in my house in London that I could enter and be transported back to our street, Bolshaya Morskaya Ulitsa in Saint Petersburg. But you know what I miss the most?” He ran his fingers across her shoulders and then kissed the left one.

  “What? What do you miss the most?”

  “I miss the loss of my language. Of course, I can speak to the other Russians who are here, but I cannot be in a place where Russian is the only language spoken. My world has been lost. I tried to replace it with love, but that failed. Now, I have my work.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you do except in the vaguest of terms.”

  “Nor will I. Tell me something, Slim Moran.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Why do you do what you do? Did you open your agency because you needed the money?”

  “No, my father left me very well situated.”

  “Then why? You could live a life of leisure.” He twirled her auburn hair around his fingers.

  “Why do you do what you do?” Slim countered.

  “Because I like being useful. Before the revolution, I was a cad with a commission in the Hussars. Most of the men in my unit were either mowed down, or they deserted during the First World War. It made no difference to me. All I cared about was gambling, women, and champagne. I lived for excess. Then the Revolution happened, and my world was gone and so was most of my family.”

  “And yet you still dream of going back.”

  “Yes.” He kissed her again. “But here I am useful.”

  “I hope you’ll also be useful to me.”

  “Besides in bed?” He laughed. “Yes, but first I will make your toes curl.”

  And he di
d.

  When Slim got back to Brown’s later that afternoon, there were two messages waiting for her: one was from Daniel, and the second was from Françoise. She called down to the front desk and arranged a call to the latter. Daniel would have to wait until she’d taken a bath and washed Pasha off her. She was just climbing into the tub when the call came through from Françoise. Although it had been only a couple of days, she missed the bar and her Parisian life. The moment she heard Françoise’s voice on the crackling line, she knew that something was very wrong.

  “What is it, Françoise?” Slim asked after she heard a sigh on the other end.

  “Amelie . . .” Françoise said, breaking down.

  “Oh, God, when?” Slim knew just by the way Françoise had said her name that Amelie was dead.

  “Yesterday. I went to her apartment because she was supposed to meet me for a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens, but . . .” Françoise’s voice trailed off.

  “Did you find her?”

  “Yes, I found her in the bathroom.”

  “How did she do it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She shot herself with the Sten gun that she used to threaten us.”

  “You don’t think there was any foul play?”

  “No, she left a note.”

  “I begged her not to do anything until I spoke to Miss Chapman. What did the note say?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Tell me, Françoise, please.”

  “I don’t know. It’s filled with dots and dashes.”

  “She wrote it in Morse code?”

  “Yes, I found out from her neighbor that she’s been in and out of mental hospitals since the war ended. I shouldn’t have let Amelie go to Natzweiler with you.”

  “Françoise, she was so insistent that I doubt you nor I could have stopped her.” Slim paused and then said, “Are you OK?”

  “This war, it just keeps going on and on. Did Daniel reach you?”

  “I got a message from him, but I wasn’t able to return the call yet. Is he around?”