Spitfire

by M. L. Huie

“It’s the Italian version of the Walther,” Allard went on. “This particular one was taken from an Italian infantryman, so there’s no chance of it being traced to us …” He hesitated until she looked up at him. “If it has to be used.”

  His glare said he thought that a distinct possibility. And why shouldn’t he look at her like that? She’d killed two people, the German guard at Fresnes and Valentine. Is that what Allard saw in her now? A dangerous woman? Cold and—what?—a killer?

  “It’s compact and easily concealed,” Allard went on. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. I got it,” Livy said.

  “Good. You look tired. Perhaps a bit of dinner might help us both.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The plan seemed simple enough. At 10:15 PM precisely, Allard went down the front steps to draw the attention of the American contingent watching his apartment. At the same time, Livy took the rear stairs to make her way out of the building. She had on her blue suit, with the Beretta in the same clutch purse she’d carried the night she broke into Nathalie’s room at the Ritz. The Beretta actually fit better than the Webley and its bulky silencer.

  The back door squeaked as she opened it and stepped into the courtyard. She closed the door quickly to minimize the creak of rusty hinges.

  The gate at the end of the courtyard looked even older. Livy unlatched it, pulled the gate back, and heard nothing. She stepped into the alley. The night felt still between the high walls of the adjacent buildings. The glow of lamplight from a few upper rooms couldn’t penetrate the darkness below. Only the glimmer of a streetlight about twenty-five yards away allowed her to see her watch. Half an hour to the Pont Alexandre. That gave her fifteen minutes to spare.

  She sensed the presence before hearing it. She felt as though fingers were gently tickling the back of her neck. Then the heavy feeling in her stomach returned.

  “Don’t try to run, because I’ll call the others in. Do you understand?” Tom Vance said.

  He stood in front of her, about ten feet from the courtyard’s rusty gate. The brim of a brown fedora hid his engaging eyes, and the soft southern voice had turned hard. He stuffed both hands in the pockets of his tan overcoat, making Livy wonder whether or not he had a gun. She stole a quick glance at the other end of the alley. Unless someone was hiding in the shadows, Vance had come on his own.

  “If it has a front door, chances are it has a back door, too,” he said, a faint sneer on his lips. “I knew you really had nowhere else to go.”

  Livy ran through her options quickly. She had the Beretta in her purse, but what possible good could it do her? She bloody well wasn’t going to shoot him. And she had no chance if she started running. The block teemed with Americans. No clear way out presented itself at the moment, and her time was limited.

  “What do you want me to say, Tom?”

  Vance expelled air, laughing. “Well, we could start with how sorry you are for leaving me in the middle of an operation after I put my neck on the line for you with my bosses. Which, by the way, makes me look like a goddamn fool. You could start with that.”

  “I think you just said it for me.”

  “Okay. We’ll do it my way, then. Come on.” He held his hand out.

  “Tom, I have to go. Now.”

  Vance smiled. “Then we’ll go together.”

  “It won’t work that way.” At the moment all she could do was stall.

  “Livy, I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in right now.”

  “What are you going to do? You can’t arrest me.”

  “No, but I have four guys out front who can pick you up and take you wherever I tell them to.” His smile wasn’t so nice now.

  Her stomach clenched. She’d had enough of the boys telling her how to run this show. “Very impressive, luv. But I need to take care of this mess. And I have a deadline,” she said. “Tom, you have to trust me that we’re on the same side here. We want the same things.”

  “Do we? Then tell me where you’re going.”

  Livy shifted the purse to her left hand. She couldn’t possibly tell Tom about Peter. Tonight would be dangerous enough for her. Vance and the U.S. Calvary would only make it worse. No, this was her job. It was personal and she had to finish it.

  “I can’t do that,” she said.

  “Then we’re going for a ride. Right now.” He stepped in, holding his right arm out for her. Livy swatted it away with the purse.

  “You got a little heft in that bag, don’t you?”

  “Tom, you need to trust me.”

  “You gotta be kidding me. Let’s go.” He reached for her again.

  Livy stepped back, putting her hand out. “I’m doing this alone because I have to. Can’t you see that? If you or anyone else is there, it’s blown.”

  “We’ll talk about this when we’ve got you under lock and key. Understand?” Vance grabbed her left shoulder hard.

  Livy responded instinctively; the flat edge of her right hand slashed at the base of his throat. Vance put his hand up just in time to deflect the blow, releasing her shoulder. Livy quickly bashed the side of his head with her heavy bag and watched Vance stagger into the courtyard, falling against the gate. She pivoted and ran toward the opposite end of the alley. She’d taken all of three long strides when she felt Vance’s hand on the nape of her jacket. She lunged forward, and they both fell clumsily on the uneven paving stones.

  Livy’s nose and cheek crashed hard into the ground, and Vance collapsed on top of her. The stones smelled of piss and week-old wine.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, rolling off her and struggling to his feet. Ever the southern gentleman.

  She touched her forehead. Blood streaked her hand. Livy got to her knees while Vance leaned against a big, square refuse dump, trying to catch his breath.

  “This is really how you want it to be?” Livy said, getting to her feet.

  “You’re not leaving without me.”

  Livy faced him. Time had left her with no choice. “Then I suppose you should follow me. Just you.”

  “You’re not in a position to dictate terms, Livy.”

  “All right then, we can stay in this alley for another half hour tossing each other around, or you can follow me and let me do my job.”

  Vance rubbed his right shoulder and winced. Livy knew this scuffle had taken a toll on him. She didn’t want to hurt him in any way, but his opposition had to end here. She absolutely must be at the bridge by eleven o’clock.

  “You can watch it all from a distance, Tom, but this is my show, all right? It has to be this way.”

  Vance mulled it over, snarled, and then nodded. “But I’ll decide what I do when I see what I see. I can’t trust you anymore. You’re not getting away from me again.”

  “Right, then,” Livy said. She glanced at her watch. What had been an extra fifteen minutes to spare was now only five. “I hope you can walk fast.”

  She turned and headed toward the end of the alley, about fifty feet away. Vance followed a couple of paces behind. Nervously, Livy looked at her watch again. She quickened her steps. Vance kept up.

  Allard’s gray Renault appeared out of nowhere. The engine’s roar echoed off the walls of the narrow space. Head lamps flashed in her eyes as it pulled into the alley. The sudden appearance of the car split Livy and Vance to either side of the backstreet. She pressed herself against the jagged wall as the big car squeezed between the two.

  The driver-side window rolled down, and a familiar voice barked, “Get in.”

  Livy grabbed the right rear-door handle and wrenched it open as Vance did the same on the opposite side. Thankfully, Allard had unlocked only Livy’s door. Vance yelled something as Livy flung herself into the back seat.

  Allard reversed, the big wheels trying to find purchase on the uneven walkway. The squeal of tires drowned out Vance’s shouts while he tried to hold on to the passenger-side door handle, as if trying to keep the car in the alley. But the Renault whipped back into the st
reet and hesitated briefly—then the tires screamed again and the car lurched forward. Vance threw himself at the door, fumbling for something to grab on to, but the car surged away, leaving him in a cloud of exhaust fumes and gravel.

  The Renault’s engine whined and Allard drove hard, intent on getting away from Vance and the other American agents. Livy righted herself, checking to make sure she still had her purse and the Beretta inside.

  “Took you long enough,” she said.

  “I’d say the timing was perfect,” Allard countered over his shoulder. “You might want to fasten your lap belt.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Exactly twenty minutes later, Allard dropped Livy off on the other side of the Champs-Élysées, half a mile from the Grand Palais. She reasoned that the Americans would have other cars out looking for his, and their parting company ahead of schedule made sense. Before she left the car, Allard promised to return in one hour.

  “If I’m not here, you might try the American Embassy,” he said. The joke gave Livy a moment of calm. “Oh, and Miss Nash?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be quite careful, won’t you?”

  Livy managed a nod and closed the door. The Renault, head lamps off, turned away from the world’s most famous street and disappeared into the night.

  Now I am alone. Hamlet’s line seemed apropos as she began the long walk toward the Seine and the bridge. She glanced at her watch—10:47. She would be just on time.

  Livy knew she ought to feel uncontrolled anxiety. The next hour loomed with too many variables. So much could go wrong. Much of the outcome revolved around her own reactions. Which Livy Nash would show up at the bridge?

  Livy didn’t pray. Yes, she believed in God. Well, she believed in something somewhere that had a say over the world, but that didn’t mean she believed you could necessarily have a direct chat with it whenever you felt like. Still, as the lights of the bridge came into view, she closed her eyes and asked—whoever, whatever—for composure, reason, and strength. The last most of all.

  Now the bridge lay just ahead. Despite the postwar layer of dust that seemed to cover much of Paris, the Pont Alexandre III bridge retained its grandeur. Its beauty was striking, especially at night. The gold inlay along the bridge gleamed bright, and the serene faces of the gilt-bronze statues of the Fames on the Right Bank settled Livy’s nerves.

  As she approached the stairs on the left side, she looked down to the walkway along the river. Darkness shrouded the area where she and Peter had met the night before. About fifty yards away, a figure with the unmistakable shape of a kepi on his head walked away. The police must keep regular patrols. Livy worried the officer might return later.

  Another glance at her watch—10:58. She took a quick breath. The cold wind that whipped along the river gusted around her as she edged closer to the foot of the bridge. Livy couldn’t see anything from the stairs. Taking a step closer, she checked again to make sure the police officer wasn’t turning around, but his figure only grew smaller in the distance.

  Where was he? For a solid minute Livy feared Peter had made good on his threat and left Paris. She stood there for another four minutes. Alone and vulnerable. A target herself, like Mirov at the rail station.

  Now it was 11:07. She shuffled closer to the bridge girder. Then she saw him. Peter Scobee stood at the edge of the darkness under the pont. His thick blond hair still gave her a chill.

  “Livy, we can’t stay here. The police —” he said.

  “I saw him. We won’t be here long. Don’t worry.”

  Peter nodded. He seemed anxious, less sure of himself than he had the night before.

  “So—do you have an answer?” he asked.

  “I do,” Livy said. “I gave them your terms. They agreed. To all of it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “They want the list. It’s that simple.”

  Peter visibly relaxed for an instant. He put his head back and sighed.

  “But they need assurance first.”

  “What sort of—”

  A peel of laughter in the distance interrupted them.

  “Over here.” Livy led him back into the darkness under the bridge. “Just to be safe.”

  “We shouldn’t stay here long. I have somewhere we can go. Where we can talk.”

  “The Ritz? Are you still there?”

  The question seemed to land between Peter’s eyes. He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs before replying. “You knew?”

  “I smelled your cologne when I broke in the night you killed Mirov. Zizanie,” she said, naming the scent in an imitation of Nathalie’s purr. “You were in the room that day as well, weren’t you? I imagine that’s why Nathalie held a gun on me. Couldn’t have me finding you there now, could she?”

  “Where is she now? Nathalie?”

  “We have her back in London.”

  “And she hasn’t said anything?”

  Livy shook her head.

  “She’s loyal to me,” Peter decided. “She’ll keep her mouth shut.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Livy, I know you’re bound to have questions,” Peter said. She could almost see the gears in his head turning as he looked for the right words. “I have questions, too. You know the chance I’m taking by even being here. The only reason I’m taking this risk is for you. What other reason could I have?”

  They stood there, in the wind, in the shadows, light flickering across their faces. These were the worst possible circumstances to try to determine someone’s sincerity, but Livy believed him. She knew Peter wanted the partnership again. He needed it. The damned thing was that a part of Livy wanted it, too.

  She pulled her coat tighter. The wind hadn’t changed, but she felt it penetrating her clothes, her skin. “You have questions for me?”

  Peter nodded, his eyes darting around the walkway over to the stairs before landing back on hers. She could tell he didn’t want to say it. “Why are you even here? You should hate me. All the pain you described. I don’t understand.”

  “I told you before.”

  “I need to know,” he said, his tone suddenly aggressive. The big scar on his forehead seemed to throb as he became more animated. “This isn’t like what we did before. We work for ourselves now, and the only people we can trust are each other. I need to know I can trust you as well. Trust you with my life.”

  The blood pulsed in her veins. She’d kept him alive in her heart for two years. Drinking to survive with the pain. Suddenly, the past and what was to come became too much to hold inside. She slapped Peter hard with her right hand. The smack echoed under the bridge like a gunshot. Peter’s head wrenched to the right from the blow, but Livy wasn’t finished. She grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back, pushing the much taller man to the ground.

  “You bastard. Can you fucking trust me?” Livy said. Her fury now unconfined, she didn’t really care about being heard. She didn’t really care about the plan, her own plan. “Who do you think you are? You’ve betrayed everything and everyone who believed in you. How long do you think it’s going to take your son to get over your death? Which, by the way, was just a magic trick. Even Nathalie, poor little Nathalie—did you take her from Valentine? Was it ugly? Or did she just sleep with whoever was boss?”

  Peter didn’t move. He didn’t try to get up. He listened, his face expressionless.

  “Can you trust me? I grieved your death in a bottle for over a year. I came back to France for Valentine. For revenge. For you. So do I have to answer your stupid question, or can you answer it yourself?”

  The rage now satiated, Livy felt her pulse regulate. The calm when she needed it most. Play the part now, she thought. The end is in sight.

  She held her hand out to help him, and he took it, standing up. Again he towered over her. His impassive expression hadn’t changed.

  He said calmly, “Are you carrying a gun in your purse?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “All right. Let me
see it then.”

  Livy hesitated. She didn’t know what to say. But she couldn’t look dodgy. That would blow it all. She had to keep him here. The words came out quickly. “I still don’t trust you, Peter.”

  A slight smile creased his lips. “Well, that is at a premium in our line of work. Always has been. So, I propose an experiment. You want to see if you can trust me? Give me your purse.”

  Livy felt the ground shift beneath her feet. The dynamic between them had changed from last night’s old friends/lovers reunion to one of mutual distrust. She’d thought she could orchestrate this, but control seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

  “You want me to put myself under your protection, is that it?”

  “I want you to give me the purse, Livy.”

  His brown eyes held her face like a spotlight. He hadn’t superseded Valentine by being careless. Livy realized he’d get the gun one way or another, and hoped time was on her side.

  “Fine. You’re the boss,” she said, and popped the snap on the purse. Peter reached in and pulled out the Beretta. He held it by the grip, studying it.

  “Ah yes, Italian. Who gave you this? One of your boys at Six? Who do they have in Paris now? Probably some of the geezers from the old Firm, I’ll bet. Dunbar? Is he around?” Peter held the gun at his side, his finger on the trigger. He had the power now, and Livy could see he didn’t like being slapped and pushed about by the help. He stepped in closer to her, but Livy didn’t move, allowing their bodies to nearly touch. The gun hung limp in his right hand.

  “You do know Nathalie meant nothing to me. She was—useful, that’s all,” Peter said, his voice low and soft. He leaned in closer, almost as if to kiss her, but stopped. “Tell me what really happened when you gave them my offer.” As he spoke, his lips moved to within an inch of hers. He traced the curve of her hip with the Beretta’s barrel, moving up her body. “Or did you lie about that as well?”

  Livy placed a hand on his chest, and he stopped. A flash of anger crossed his eyes.

  “What?” he snapped, sounding like a hungry animal interrupted midmeal.

  “Two men. Walking this way. The other side of the bridge.”