Spitfire

by M. L. Huie

  Peter froze and slipped the Beretta into his coat pocket. He took Livy’s hand.

  “Ignore them and smile at me. We’re lovers, out for a midnight stroll. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Livy glanced over his shoulder again. The men were about fifty yards away. The moonlight behind silhouetted them, and she couldn’t see faces yet.

  “Talk to me,” Peter said, his body still against hers, so close she could feel the Beretta through his coat.

  “They’re not police,” she said, smiling. The smile came easy. “Other than that, I can’t tell anything.” She put a finger to his lips as if wiping away a lipstick smudge, and then she giggled. Her hands moved to the lapels of his coat—she straightened them, and then picked an imaginary thread, flicking it away as she laughed again. Livy played the moment. The loving woman, taking care of her man.

  The two approaching them had reached the bridge now. They walked side by side, unspeaking. Both wore long coats and fedoras. Livy recognized one of them.

  She put her arms around Peter’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. She smiled sincerely. So much so, he appeared to flinch. His back remained to the approaching men, and that must have caused him more anxiety. Livy excelled in her role as attentive, coquettish girlfriend. She knew it was a limited engagement.

  The men would be upon them in fifteen feet, so now their performances had to be in close-up. Two lovers sharing a private moment. She held his face in her hands and pulled him near to her.

  “I want you to know I loved you, Peter,” Livy said. She couldn’t help the tears pooling in her eyes. God, how she’d have liked to stay in character. But she couldn’t. The curtain was about to come down.

  Something passed between Livy and Peter in that instant. The emotion landed, but left Peter confused. Then the moment passed, and they both became aware that the two men had stopped just behind them.

  “Excuse me, please.”

  Livy recognized the voice. Slowly Peter turned, his arm at Livy’s waist, still playing his part. The two men had looked very similar from a distance, but this near, they couldn’t be more different. The man on the right was an inch or two taller than his counterpart. He had a wide face and wide chest. Livy thought he looked like a brick wall.

  She had expected the man on the left. They’d met only twice, but she’d never forget the boxer’s nose, the thick upper lip, the drooping mustache that framed his mouth and the noxious smell of his cigarettes.

  “Do you have match, please?’ Levchenko said. “My friend, he leave his lighter in restaurant. He drink too much, you know.”

  Peter broke into an easy smile, but Livy felt tension in the arm that still clung to her waist.

  “Please, we do not mean to disturb. Just a light and we will go,” Levchenko said in flat, heavily accented French. The man beside him poked a cigarette between his lips and grinned.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I—we don’t smoke. So no matches. Sorry,” Peter said.

  Levchenko turned to the wide man and spoke quickly in Russian. When he finished, the bigger man shrugged and pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

  “I see. No problem.” The Russian grinned, his mouth twisting into a parody of a smile. Then he stepped away from them, followed by the larger man. Peter’s arm didn’t relax. His eyes remained on the two men as he said, “Au revoir.”

  Levchenko stopped and pivoted. “I am sorry again. But we do not have francs for match. Maybe you could help us? Maybe?”

  Peter nodded and jammed his left hand into his pants pocket, searching for change. His right hand hung just above his coat pocket and Livy’s Beretta. As he drew out a handful of coins from his pants, his hand slipped into his overcoat for the gun.

  But as he did that, the big man’s arm shot out and pinned Peter’s arm to his side. The two men stared at each other for a second, a contest of wills and strength. Then Peter’s left hand flashed forward, chucking the coins at both men, sweeping the big man’s hand away. Peter spun and the Beretta fell from his coat. It skittered across the walkway, nearing the stairs.

  Peter ran. His long legs carried him toward the bridge in the direction from which the two Russians had come. The big man fell in right behind him, his speed surprising Livy. Before Peter could even reach the other side of the bridge, the large man fell on him, flattening him to the hard concrete.

  Levchenko stood at Livy’s elbow, watching. Livy shook. Like a fever had taken her.

  The bigger Russian pulled Peter up by his shoulders and wrenched his arms behind, causing the tall Englishman to moan. The Russian dragged Peter by his coat as they turned toward the bridge girders.

  “Livy, please,” Peter begged. Tears rolled down his face. His teeth gritted in pain. His arms were pinned behind his back at unnatural angles. “Please, Livy, for God’s sake.”

  She had to look away. Her stomach heaved. She couldn’t lose it now.

  Levchenko’s partner took Peter down to the under-girder of the bridge, a big mass of steel that supported the pont, running deep down into the Seine. The great river flowed just feet away.

  Livy had to watch now. It was her duty.

  Levchenko went to stand in front of Peter. “I have been looking for you. The one they call Marcel,” he said, pulling what looked to be a sepia-faded photograph from his coat. Livy couldn’t see the picture from behind. But she knew what it was.

  “This man—you know him?” Levchenko said to Peter.

  Peter cringed, sobbing from the pain in his arms. The big Russian grabbed his thick hair and hauled him upright so he could see the photo.

  Levchenko continued, “Do you know this man? No? He was my uncle. When I was little boy my father took me to Uncle Andrei’s dacha in the country once every month. I was happy there. Do you understand?” Levchenko held the photo closer to Peter’s anguished face.

  “I beg you,” Peter cried, his voice painful to hear. “Livy, please.”

  “Do you know him now? Andrei Ivanovich Mirov? You shoot him from behind. You did not even give him chance to die like a man.” The Russian’s voice was calm. He replaced the photo in his coat and squared himself to Peter. “I will give you more than you gave my uncle. I give you respect.”

  Levchenko nodded at the bigger Russian, who released Peter’s arms. Peter gasped. One of his arms hung limp at his side. Peter tried to straighten up, prepare himself, but Levchenko moved quickly.

  A knife flashed in the approaching Russian’s right hand. Levchenko crashed into Peter, burying the blade deep in his midsection. Livy heard a sickening gulp. Then another as Levchenko twisted the knife, ripping it upward. The attack was savage and quick. Peter didn’t scream. He gasped without sound, and a sickening gurgle rasped from his throat. Blood sprayed from Peter’s lips as Levchenko shoved the blade even deeper.

  The bigger Russian slapped a dark rag over Peter’s mouth to stop the free-flowing carmine fluid from staining the concrete.

  Finally, Levchenko stepped back. Livy saw a splash of red on the Russian’s coat.

  Levchenko pushed Peter against the railing of the bridge girder with his left hand. Peter’s body teetered there for a few seconds, as if he were a child’s toy or a gymnast warming up. Then he went limp, his shattered arms trailing out at his side. Peter’s body tipped over the girder and almost gracefully slid into the Seine.

  Livy watched the dark water accept her dead lover and sweep him downstream before pulling him under, little by little. She’d visualized this moment since her meeting with the man from the Soviet Embassy at Allard’s flat. This drama had no other possible ending.

  The man she’d loved had died long ago.

  The Russians worked with efficiency. Levchenko took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped the blade, and put it in his coat while the big man soaked up the blood Peter had spat up with the same rag he’d used to cover Peter’s mouth. He threw the bloody cloth into the river, and moved with speed to pick up the Beretta where it had fallen from Peter’s coat.

  Livy
still hadn’t moved.

  “We have to go,” Levchenko said. He registered Livy’s shock and barked an order at his companion. Livy felt the big man’s hand on her elbow, and suddenly the three of them were walking together up the stairs, away from the river.

  On the landing, the wind hit her face. The cold shook her enough that she realized two MGB agents were leading her away from a murder scene. Ripping her arm out of the big man’s grip, Livy stopped at the top of the stairs.

  “We need distance from river, yes? Sasha,” he called to the big man. Livy swatted the Russian’s mitt of a hand away.

  Levchenko turned and sauntered up to Livy. He seemed so calm after having just butchered a man. “This man,” the Russian said, nodding toward the river. “He was British. But you wanted him dead?”

  Livy tried to speak, but she had no more voice. Peter was gone. Just as she had planned it. She cleared her throat and tried again. “He—he deserved exactly what he got.”

  Levchenko grinned. “I did what you ask. You say that no one know the body. The blood will draw fish. They will finish job. Now, we are finished too.”

  Having spoken his piece, he turned, and the two Russians set off quickly in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Dennis Allard eased his gray Renault to a stop on a side street off the Champs-Élysées. Exactly one hour had passed since he’d dropped Livy off.

  She sat on the curb, tapping her right foot. When the car stopped, Livy got in the passenger side. She didn’t look at Allard. Twice she’d watched Peter Scobee die. This time it was for keeps. She collapsed back into the seat, suddenly feeling more drained than ever in her life. She wanted to sleep for days. Weeks. And never speak to another person again. But she wasn’t done.

  “Everything all right then?” Allard asked.

  “The list,” she said. “I know how to get it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Two days later, Livy sat on a bench in Greenwich Park about a hundred yards away from the prime meridian. The line, little more than an interruption on the cobblestone entranceway to the park, marked the basic reference point for Greenwich Mean Time. It also happened to be a block or two away from the safe house where MI6 kept the uncooperative Nathalie Billerant.

  Complaining the whole time, Allard had agreed to serve as intermediary between Livy and Henry Dunbar. After much negotiation, Allard had managed to secure Livy ten minutes alone with the Frenchwoman as she took her daily constitutional through Greenwich Park.

  Like many of the commons in London, Greenwich was lush and green, especially after the recent rains. Today a morning shower covered the grass and cobbled pathways with a sheen of moisture. Livy opened that day’s Times, keeping one eye on the newsprint and another on the strollers out for a walk in the misty morning.

  The minders from Six were easy enough to spot. Brown suits. Mustaches. Creased papers tucked conspicuously under their arms. Livy had sussed two so far. They’d keep an eye on their prize French asset during the brief meeting. Nathalie couldn’t be far behind.

  She wasn’t.

  The Frenchwoman trudged slowly alongside a matronly sitter who looked like every other middle-aged woman in Greenwich. Raincoat. Bonnet. Shopping bag. Another housewife out for a little walk to the co-op for the weekly rations.

  Nathalie had altered since Livy had last seen her. Her black eye had healed, but stooped shoulders and a slow gait replaced the glamorous, sexually confident physicality she’d displayed in Paris. Despite the transformation, Nathalie had enough sophistication in reserve to attract the attention of every man and woman who passed her.

  Nathalie didn’t see Livy until they were almost beside the bench. When she did, she turned to the matron as if to protest.

  “Ten minutes,” the older woman snapped at Livy. Then to Nathalie, “Sit.”

  The matron waited until Nathalie obeyed and took her place on the bench beside Livy before shuffling off toward the Royal Observatory.

  Livy put down her paper and remembered what Nathalie had said to her at the Gare du Nord the night Valentine and Mirov were killed. You and I—we are more similar than you would like to think. Livy knew what she’d meant now.

  But Livy hadn’t pleaded for this meeting so she could be empathetic.

  “Peter’s dead,” she said, without emotion.

  An electric spark surged through Nathalie’s body. Her back arched as she searched Livy’s face.

  “No,” she said, finally. “You’re lying.”

  “I saw him die. No magic trick this time. He won’t be coming back.”

  Nathalie’s face fell, and for a moment, Livy thought she would break down. But the stoic mask snapped back into place and the Frenchwoman turned away.

  This one’s got it bad. She felt pity for her. Treated like property by Valentine and Peter too.

  “He didn’t care one jot about you. I was with him before he died. All he wanted was to sell your damned list. He wanted the money. He didn’t even ask how you were being treated. It was always the money for him.”

  A tear escaped Nathalie’s right eye, but she wiped it away quickly. Livy knew her pain too well.

  Livy went on. “Peter. Valentine. They’re dead. The Americans have Jabot. You’ll be tried as a war criminal here. To a British court you’ll just be some tart who betrayed her own country to the Nazis.”

  Staring out into the park, Nathalie shook her head as if processing the idea of Peter’s death.

  “You have one, and only one, way out of this. It’s the list. You told me you had it back in Paris. The full list. Well, that’s your ticket out, don’t you see? I know what you had planned with Peter. Sell it to us or the Yanks, maybe? Then the two of you would go somewhere fancy and live off the money? Well, that’s over now. But you can trade the list for leniency. Cooperate and they’ll go easy on you. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life in a prison.”

  Nathalie fidgeted with a button on her coat, appearing unmoved by Livy’s rhetoric.

  “Fine,” Livy said. “Your babysitter will be here in five minutes to take you back to your little room. You can wait for them to decide what to do with you. I don’t really care. Although, Peter did say one thing about you before he died.”

  Nathalie stopped fidgeting and raised her head.

  “He said you were useful. That was the word he used. Useful.” Livy let the word land before going on. “You don’t have to sit in that little house and take the fall for what he did. You’re a tough one, and you’re nobody’s fool.”

  Staring toward the town, Nathalie didn’t move. “So we are friends now?” she said, scoffing. “Is that it?”

  “No,” Livy said. “I’m not your friend, luv. But we both thought Peter Scobee was something he wasn’t.”

  Nathalie leaned back, refusing to look at Livy.

  Livy put one hand on the Frenchwoman’s elbow. “Nathalie, it doesn’t have to be like this. Give me that list and I’ll see to it.”

  Out of the corner of her eyes Livy saw the matron trudging back from the observatory. Nathalie turned. She wiped her cheek and smoothed her skirt. As the matron approached, she finally looked Livy in the eye.

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  Livy didn’t know how to respond, nor had she time.

  “Let’s go,” the matron said to Nathalie. She looked at Livy. “Your time’s up.”

  Livy figured that was just about right.

  Epilogue

  One week later

  Livy Nash had a long journey ahead of her. Her train didn’t leave for another half hour, but she wanted to find the platform, put her bag down, and sit quietly.

  London’s Euston station seemed like another world compared to the Gare Du Nord, but she still felt anxious. Perhaps it was the sound of the engines, the echo inside the terminal, or the particular smell of the exhaust that made her jittery. Or maybe it was the still-damaged roof of the Great Hall, bombed during the Blitz, and the grime and soot that
seemed to cover the platforms—all reminders of her war and its aftermath.

  She walked past the other commuters, not making eye contact. One bag over her shoulder. Two others at the counter. All felt as heavy as a load of bricks. Whatever a load of bricks felt like. The last week had been hard.

  Livy was back at square one. No job and no prospects. Livy couldn’t bear going back to the P&J. Fleming hadn’t been in touch. That hurt most. She saw her life now. What it should be. She’d made mistakes, sure. But this shadow war—as Mrs. Sherbourne called it—needed soldiers, and by God, she didn’t plan to sit on her arse and let someone else do the fighting.

  She’d spent much of the week sleeping. At least that came easier. Now she had a place to put Peter and that part of her life. Their “reunion” in Paris—as painful as it was—had made it clear to her that the Peter Scobees of the world only wanted to profit from the war, from the pain and the past. Livy was done paying.

  The decision to leave should have been difficult, but instead was quite simple. She’d enough money to go back home for a week. So home it was. She’d go, stand on a hill somewhere amid the nettles, and figure out what was next.

  At last, the platform loomed ahead. Mercifully, only one other passenger sat in the waiting area. The air from outside the tunnel felt crisp but not too warm. The great black engine lay still, waiting. A porter hurried past her.

  The sun broke through the default overcast London sky, illuminating the track by increments as it led away from the station. She took the bag off her shoulder and sat on the bench farthest away from the other passenger, a small square man in a sweater vest and tie who looked to be somewhere between forty and seventy-five.

  Livy stretched her legs and looked at her watch. Half an hour and she would be gone.

  After five minutes of peace, he showed up.

  He looked out of place on this particular platform bound for points north. He was dressed for summer in a khaki linen suit with a pressed white shirt and navy tie. He carried a folded copy of a newspaper, probably The Times, under his right arm.