by M. L. Huie
Livy did not.
“Is your tea a bit warm, darling?”
Chapter Seven
Livy spent the rest of the day frantically going through French language books, leaflets, and yellowed menus she’d kept in a large suitcase under her bed. The case, covered in dust, hadn’t been touched in over a year. Thankfully, Livy found her language skills a bit less rusty now that Mrs. Sherbourne had put her through her paces the last two weeks. Still, speaking French again put her right back in the war side by side with Peter.
Dusting off her French was worrisome enough, but the dress she was supposed to wear put her in a right dither. Mrs. Sherbourne had had the diminutive dressmaker create one gown to be less showy. Still, the dress gave her fits. Simple and elegant had been Mrs. Sherbourne’s admonition to the designer. The black dress had wide shoulders and a high waist with sleeves that showed a hint of skin. The feathered hat made for the dress even had a black veil that came down to her nose.
She took a moment and looked at herself in the mirror. Not half bad. Maybe the little designer is all he was cracked up to be. Gazing at herself from top to bottom, with a spin-around to look at her bum, Livy had to admit she looked downright lush.
* * *
Livy’s heart began to race the second she got into the cab that would take her to Knightsbridge near the Albert Gate, home to the French Embassy. She felt the typical nerves one might feel after a long hiatus from fieldwork, but this was more than butterflies. Something about this assignment felt wrong. Mrs. Sherbourne had provided her with few details. “The contact will find you,” she’d been told. No code phrase. No recognition signal. The only information she had was that the contact was an emissary from the Mephisto network and that the microfilm was a token of legitimacy. Her first assignment for Fleming and she was bloody well going in blind.
The driver pulled into a queue of limousines and black taxis depositing dignitaries outside the gray five-story building. Livy tipped the driver extravagantly as she got out, nearly catching a heel on the curb as she joined the other well-dressed partygoers.
She tried to keep her breath under control as she moved toward the entrance. Alongside her strolled women in expensive gowns and men who wore tuxedos like a second skin. Up ahead a man with steel-gray hair, wearing the dress uniform and kepi of the French Army, bowed and groveled at each guest after receiving their vellum invitation, which he discreetly checked against a guest list in his right hand.
The memory of her recent excursion to Buckingham Palace caused Livy’s heart to march double-time. However, the Frog gatekeeper took one look at her invite, stole a barely discernible glance at his own list, and broke out in a broad smile.
“Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Bélanger.”
Livy responded in kind, as the pounding in her chest normalized, and strolled into the embassy like she owned the place.
A line of staff formed a kind of human walkway from the front entrance through the main hallway to a large room on the right. They all wore black tie, cutaway coats, and a tasteful tricolor French flag pinned to their lapels. Très élégante.
The hallway itself reflected the haphazard state of French government in the year since liberation. General de Gaulle’s portrait hung alongside the current head of the provisional government, Félix Gouin, even though de Gaulle had resigned to start his own political party.
Despite the challenges of building a postwar government, the French could still throw a party. The room itself gleamed under the sparkle of a chandelier with what looked like more than a hundred lights reflecting off the gold-engraved cornice. The large picture windows that faced the street were draped with plush blue curtains. A small platform, swathed in red fabric, stood at the other end of the room, which housed a quartet quietly playing “La Mer.”
Rationing might be the reality outside this room, but inside the bustling assemblage drank, laughed, and took the time to assess each new arrival.
One of these folks had a present for Suzanne Bélanger.
At that moment, a tray of champagne flutes whizzed past Livy balanced on the palm of another black-tied servant. Livy snatched the bubbly just to give her something to do with her gloved hands. The champagne smelled de-lovely, but Livy thought better of taking a first sip. She had to be sharp, charming, on guard, and, of course, French.
She took a breath and surveyed the crowd. Even in her oh-so-elegant black dress with the sparkly studs, Livy felt like a cow standing in the middle of Buckingham Palace.
Mrs. Sherbourne was right. This wasn’t like the war. Messy hair and a dirty face made you look like you belonged there. Here, she felt sure half the guests could see right through her. This lot knew instinctively who didn’t belong. They sussed you out quick. That’s how they got to be where they were, by keeping the undesirables in their place.
The anxiety of that particular thought caused Livy to tilt the flute to her lips and take an ale-sized swallow. She was about to wipe her mouth with her cuff and call for Pierre to bring another when a figure just behind her spoke with a trace of Glasgow.
“Sometimes you wonder if all these people ever do is attend parties.”
Livy held off another gulp and turned to her left. The man who spoke stood several inches taller than Livy and was considerably older. With his steel-gray wavy hair, Livy guessed him to be just past fifty. He wore a somewhat baggy double-breasted tuxedo, which draped his lanky frame. The suit might have made him look like a well-dressed scarecrow if not for the boyish twinkle in his eyes and his puckish smile.
“Someone must, I sooo-pose,” Livy answered, laying on the French dialect a bit thick.
The man looked at bit surprised; then his smile quickly recovered. “Perhaps you are one of the guests of honor tonight?”
“Well—um—it’s embarrassing a bit. I don’t know,” she said, playing the shy, out-of-her-element French girl.
“My apologies, mademoiselle. I did not mean to make light of the occasion. My name is Grant Duncan,” he said, rolling the r in his first name. “I’m a journalist. On his night off. Not that a journalist ever stops working.”
Livy smiled and offered her hand. “Suzanne Bélanger.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” Duncan took her hand, bowing slightly. “Yes, people can’t seem to get enough of this sort of thing. Honoring the heroes of the war. The deserving heroes, I should say. Although I fear occasions such as this help them see the war as far less complicated than it actually was.”
“Vous avez raison,” Livy said, trying to sound casual. She wondered if this prolonged chat might be a signal. A Scot at the French Embassy seemed an unlikely contact, but she had to be prepared. For now, she’d keep him talking. “But you must take time to celebrate, yes?”
“Of course. We all must try to convince ourselves that the conflict is over and that peace is everlasting.”
“And it also gives us a perfect reason to drink the French government’s champagne.”
Duncan laughed and inclined his head toward her. “Well put. Tonight there are only heroes. And champagne.” They turned to each other and clinked glasses. Livy held her breath, thinking now would be the obvious moment for him to pass her the microfilm.
Instead he turned to go.
“I’ve taken far too much of your time, mademoiselle. Forgive the intrusion. Perhaps we shall talk again later.”
“I should like that,” Livy said.
Duncan gave her another slight bow and then took off into the crowd.
Contact or no, Livy liked the Scot’s candor, and having an actual conversation speaking English with a French accent took a bit of the edge off her mounting anxiety. So she moved further into the crowd, still in search of her contact—whoever the hell that might turn out to be.
So Suzanne Bélanger floated into the crowd, smiling and nodding. She chatted with a man who claimed to be a direct descendant of Napoleon and whose breath smelled like stale onions. She met two women who had fought the Nazi offensive at Vercors. One of whom Livy
felt certain she remembered.
Finally, the French ambassador, a balding man with round glasses and a tepid mustache, said a few words about honoring the “heroic partisans” without whom France would not be free today. He failed to mention the specific help they’d received from Britain and the Yanks, but why quibble? It was a night for celebration, drinking, and then, of course, dancing.
The ambassador surrendered the microphone to a jazz quartet who, much to Livy’s delight, began with a jaunty “La Marseillaise” followed by a peppy version of “Belleville” that would have made Django Reinhardt reasonably proud.
No sooner had the quartet begun to swing than someone behind her cleared his throat. Livy turned to face the sort of man who wore evening dress in a way that would make Clark Gable look like a slouch. He had dark hair, the kind of smile you like to see sitting across from you at a nice restaurant, and several rows of medals covering his well-developed chest.
“Mademoiselle Bélanger, what a surprise to see you here,” he said in a French accent that seemed all too real.
“And you too, Monsieur—?”
He didn’t reply. No names.
Instead the handsome French stranger offered her his hand. “I would be quite pleased if you’d do me the favor of a dance.”
Feeling relatively sure this man had to be the contact, Livy decided to play along. “Of course. But I must warn you, I have two left feet.”
He took her hand and feigned a grin. “Then I’ll be sure to step on both of them.”
Whoever this stranger was, he had the air of a diplomat. They spun across the floor mostly avoiding the other couples. Despite his self-deprecating comment, he fairly glided them around the room through the other couples as the hot quartet picked up the tempo.
Dancing with a handsome Gallic spy? Not a bad way to spend an evening.
“You are a gifted dancer, monsieur,” Livy said, purring the French vowels in his ear.
For a moment their bodies were so close she could almost place his rather delicious scent. He smiled and tilted his head toward hers. For a second Livy thought he might kiss her.
Instead he bared his teeth and said, “I think we can dispense with the niceties, mademoiselle.” As he spoke, he spun her away and then pulled her back into him.
Livy felt his lips graze her ear.
“I speak on behalf of a friend from Paris,” he whispered.
Livy’s heart pounded. She tried to look like a woman having a good time at a party, not a spy straining to hear her contact.
“She sends you a token of her trust and asks to meet you in two nights at the Théâtre du Grand-Guignol.”
The band ended “Belleville” with a flourish, and the assembled responded with polite applause. The stranger took Livy’s hand and plastered on a fake smile.
“It has been a pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said, kissing her glove gently. As his hand let go of hers, Livy felt the stranger press something small into the center of her palm.
She gave him a smile before abruptly turning the other way. As she did she glanced into her glove to see a black canister about the width of a half crown. She knew enough tradecraft to recognize microfilm.
Like any good leading lady at the end of a scene, Livy made for the exit. Suzanne Bélanger would pop out to the privy and bid everyone au revoir.
Livy dropped the microfilm container in her clutch and stopped long enough to gawk at a portrait of Napoleon’s great-great-great-whatever. She gave the place a cursory look for the tall and Scottish Mr. Duncan but didn’t see him. Oh well, time for a hasty retreat, a taxi home, and a hop into her warm bed.
With all the guests inside, the hallway had cleared of the line of servants, so Livy scurried to the front of the embassy without fanfare. The doorman signaled a cab for her. Just like that, two cars turned the corner and made their way toward the embassy drive. A sleek new Packard, by the look of it, with a long black nose and four doors led the way. Ye olde reliable black London taxi brought up the rear.
Livy had stepped down on the curb toward the taxi when she felt something behind her. A man stood behind her right shoulder. His breath, which reeked of some sort of foreign tobacco, arrived before he did.
Livy didn’t fancy a shared ride with Bad Breath, so she turned to allow him access to the back door. He grabbed her arm hard. She turned, instinct taking over, ready to wrench her elbow out of his grasp; then Livy felt hard metal pressing into her side.
“Please, mademoiselle, we take this car,” he said in a thick accent Livy couldn’t immediately place. “Is better this way.”
Chapter Eight
The man stepped away from Livy to open the door of the Packard. In his right hand he held a small black automatic with a rather mean-looking silencer attached. He kept his back to the doorman at the embassy to keep the gun hidden.
Livy took her first look at the man. He wore a dark suit over a shirt whose collar badly needed ironing. His brown fedora dipped below his eye line, so Livy only caught a glimpse of a repeatedly broken nose like a boxer’s and a mouth with a fat upper lip draped by a big drooping mustache.
She considered calling out to the doorman, but that might mean Bad Breath would shoot her immediately, hop in the Packard, and be gone.
Sensing her hesitation, he stepped toward her. “Mademoiselle, please, we must hurry,” he said, pointing the muzzle of the silencer at her chest.
Livy stepped down into the car and scooted across the leather seat to the other side. Bad Breath joined her, and the Packard eased away from the curb. She couldn’t see the driver’s face, just broad shoulders and a hat jammed down on a square head. The lights of the taxi just behind illuminated the big car’s interior.
“I believe you have something I want.” Bad Breath pushed back his hat, and Livy caught a glimpse of more of his face in the light from the cab. He had strong blue eyes under heavy lids. Despite the Stalin-like mustache, he was young. No more than twenty-five, she guessed. He reeked of some of the most pungent cigarette tobacco Livy had ever had the misfortune to smell.
He held his left hand toward her, the gun unwavering, pointing at her heart.
Livy felt his anxiety and intent. She was at this man’s mercy, and most men with guns didn’t have a lot of that.
“Please, give me what you received tonight,” he said, “and I will let you go.”
“I did not re-ceeve eeny-thing,” Livy said, keeping up the French.
Bad Breath didn’t hesitate. He whipped the gun across Livy’s face, striking the side of her face hard with the barrel of the automatic.
Livy grabbed her cheek and felt blood on her fingers from a cut, probably around her temple. Now she was awake. Jolted out of the complacency of the elegant evening—the clothes, the champagne, the dancing—Livy felt no panic. Instead she became more aware of the leathery smell of the car’s interior and the way the light from the rear car cast shadows across Bad Breath’s face. Every sense seemed keener. She felt fully awake in a way she hadn’t since the war.
Still, her face hurt plenty.
Bad Breath went on. “We are professionals, mademoiselle. Please, do not insult me. Give me what you received tonight.”
Livy weighed her options. If this was the cinema, God knew Errol Flynn would throttle three men with one blow and then escape with the microfilm into the night as gunfire erupted all around him. But in real life, any sudden move from her and she might end up dead.
Bad Breath apparently didn’t like the delay, so he wrenched Livy’s hand from her face and replaced it with the muzzle of his gun.
“I will not ask again,” he said.
Livy believed him. That dead look in his eyes scared her.
Nothing she could use as a weapon. Her clutch purse would have the stopping power of a feather. She could try punching him with her free hand, but that might get her a bullet in the brain, and then he could just take the microfilm and shove her out in the street somewhere.
She knew his type. The Nazis had them a
dime a dozen. She didn’t have long.
And then, in that split second, Livy noted how calm she felt. Had she missed this? Missed the adrenaline surge she now felt, the racing of her heart, the life-and-death of it, all in a single moment?
“Mademoiselle, now,” he said. The silencer pressed into her forehead, and she knew, in that moment where everything slowed down for her, that she had no choice.
“Fine, luv,” she said, dropping the accent. “You’re the man with the gun.” He released her arm and lowered the weapon slightly. Livy unsnapped the clutch and, after a moment of searching, held the small canister in her glove.
Bad Breath took it greedily and muttered something to the driver in a language Livy didn’t understand. Not once did he take his eyes or the gun off her. A real professional, this one, she thought.
The big Packard slowed to a stop, and he dropped the canister in his coat pocket.
“We are not far from the embassy. I’m sure you will find a ride soon. Au revoir,” he said with a hint of irony, keeping the muzzle of the silencer trained on Livy.
She turned, popped the latch on the door, and stepped out into the street. Before she had the chance to look back, the Packard’s door had already closed, and the car peeled off into the night.
Livy stepped out of the road onto the curb. She put a hand to her face. It stung. The side of her jaw was probably bruised, and when she pulled her fingers away, she saw blood from the cut. She’d taken the worse of this one, no doubt. And she’d lost the microfilm.
Truth was, she’d failed her first real assignment. Earlier, she’d wondered if Mrs. Sherbourne had staged the entire evening. A little theater to see how the new girl handled the posh side of the secret world, complete with music, dancing, a handsome French contact, and top-secret microfilm. The plot may be riddled with cliché, but nevertheless a crowd pleaser.
That didn’t hold water now. The man in the car, the man who had the microfilm now, couldn’t have been an actor. Livy knew he’d been seconds from putting a bullet into her head and taking what he needed.