'You might remember this man here,' he said, pushing the photograph toward her, ‘Jurgen Locher.’
She shrugged, no.
'Arrested in Berlin in 1933, was released after six months in prison for assaulting a Herr Jan Gruber, a highly regarded German theatre director and the possible assault of an unknown Polish student at a Berlin University. Locher's father is a high-ranking member of the Nazi party and got him out with a pardon if he served in Spain with the Fascists.'
Eva sucked her breath involuntarily and looked away, blinking sudden scalding tears. Daruisz reached out and touched her hand tenderly. She snapped it away. She remembered the leer of her assailants' faces. She had played over and over in her head various scenarios about what would have happened had she remained with Jonas that night that made her shudder. She wanted revenge. She wanted Locher stone cold dead.
She took the photograph, dabbing tears from her eyes. It was him, the one with the small eyes. Instinctively she touched the part of her head where he had ripped the hair out.
‘Locher is now an Obersturmbanfuhrer serving as a special advisor to Franco in Spain. He has been entrusted with a delivery of gold bullion from Spain's gold reserves to Berlin to pay for German weapons and armaments. We must alert the British that it may affect their position in the Mediterranean.’
‘Why not a diplomat?’ she asked, beginning to regain her composure,
‘We lost a courier a few days ago. We need someone who isn’t on a Gestapo list.’ He studied her expression before leaning in and stating in earnest. ‘We can’t have another Fascist dictator strutting around Europe spreading their poison from the Atlantic to the Baltic Eva.’
‘What about another Stalin, Dariusz?’ she countered.
Dariusz gave a smile. It was as cold as a morgue. ‘If you are successful on this occasion, we may have more work for you.’
Eva thought for a moment. Her lust for revenge was setting her on a course that would alter her life entirely. Maybe she had no choice now as Europe was being set alight and everyone was being gradually sucked into the flames. Seeing Dariusz again brought back many happy memories despite the embittered ending with Theo.
She could see a fervour coming back into Dariusz's deadened eyes when he mentioned Spain. Maybe she could make a difference somehow; maybe her actions would end Locher and his ilk, maybe stop another girl mourning a dead lover before it was too late.
She didn’t trust Dariusz, but made her mind up anyway. ‘Ok, I’ll do it. But I want Locher’s address in Spain.’
‘The man you are to contact is a Henry Chainbridge. The document in question was delivered to your room in the university, folded into today’s London Times.’ As an afterthought he added, 'By the way, Eva, can you use a gun?'
The newspaper, as Dariusz had said, was under her door. She felt a faint sense of violation that Dariusz knew where she was living. Leafing through it, she came across the crossword. The solution had been filled in with numbers and symbols in pen. Beneath the solution was an address in London in the same hand-writing that had filled out the crossword. The bullion shipment would be happening within a month which gave her adequate time to prepare, Dariusz had said as he handed her the money to pay for the trip in the various denominations.
After dinner Eva rooted out maps and atlases from her bookshelves, a habit she had picked up from her father. Every one of her weekend cycling trips was carefully plotted out and she got a sense of sheer enjoyment of completing a journey that she had meticulously planned.
The following day, she went to the university library and took out more maps and travel guides, and through the university switchboard made enquiries with the German National bus service. Also through the university she sent a telegram to Madame Yvette, signing it off as ‘Hannah Du Trop’, a character Dariusz had devised for one of his 8mm shorts in Paris. It would stick in Yvette’s mind as they had performed their lines strapped to high-backed chairs. Eva assumed he’d be tracking her movements and this is a character he too would remember. There was enough money supplied by Dariusz, but as a precaution she withdrew double the amount in case of unforeseen problems.
She spent the evening poring over the books and maps and with both Polish and German bus timetables, devising a circuitous route that would take three days to complete, ending in Paris. She assumed the Gestapo would be watching every railway station and airport; on a bus she could blend into a group or get off at the first sign of danger.With this in mind, she picked the earliest and latest departure times. The nagging thought was that she could either be bait or a diversion for another courier with the real intelligence, however deciding that she was going to do this and do it well, she resigned herself to the task. She took her knapsack down from her wardrobe, rolled her blue raincoat up and fixed it to the straps. Then she folded and packed the maps with the relevant time tables written out on their margins. From her touring days in the theatre she packed clothing for three days' travel — every item black.
After a good breakfast, she put on a heavy jumper and an old coat she was planning to jettison, eschewing her make-up bag. Madame Yvette would have ample amounts of that for her to use when she got there. Finally for the journey, she selected a novel and a flannel cloth for her face so as to be able to freshen up in the station toilets.
She set out on her bicycle for the main bus station and, as she pedalled, felt a sudden surge of excitement. It felt a bit like acting, dressing up for the part. She smoked a quick cigarette before her departure, sensing that it would be a long time before she saw this city again.
Three days later she was at the establishment of Madame Yvette, who welcomed her with a radiant smile. ‘Well…?’
Eva sat on the edge of the immense bath in her private quarters. She marvelled at how delicious a bath was after a long journey. Again she dipped below the surface, relishing its heat. Yvette had disposed of the old coat, had a new wardrobe waiting for her and fresh make-up, and had set up a spare bed in her room away from the working girls where Eva would spend the night.
‘I had one problem on the border with a policeman, though once he saw my journalist card and note books, he believed I was a travel writer.’
‘They’ll believe anything from a pretty mouth,’ exhaled Yvette, her cigarette smoke seeming to linger around her, her lush tresses falling down around her face, framing her classic profile. Eva hadn’t noticed before what a beautiful woman she was without make-up.
Yvette procured at Eva’s request maps and timetables for the train to the Calais ferry and over dinner they reviewed the best options. Yvette handed Eva a sheet with a crudely drawn map of England with place names underlined and relevant ferry, bus and rail departure times jotted in. Eva had joked about using a gun and Yvette, with a twinkle in her eye, went out of the bathroom and returned with her prized stiletto. ‘Please take this. I have another one here. Remember, Eva, always aim at the heart or the balls.’
From the Gare du Nord she took the early morning train and overnight ferry to the south of England, again using early morning and late evening timetables.
She found the London address up a discreet mews off Oxford Street by early afternoon. As she entered through the door, a small bell jingled and a tall thin man in his fifties looked up from the shop counter. It was a book shop with lines of shelves stacked to the brim. She fell in love with place immediately.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘Yes, I wonder if you can help me, please. I’m looking for a book entitled ‘Samizdat’.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have that publication, but I can recommend ‘War and Peace’.’ It was the correct response.
Eva handed him her paperback; inside it was the crossword cut out from the newspaper.
‘We've been expecting you, Miss Molenaar,' and after a pause while the man studied what she had handed him, 'Oh this is excellent. This information is invaluable, priceless.'
Henry Chainbridge introducing himself formally and immediately invited Eva to sp
end the night in private lodgings above the shop so that she could rest before returning to Poland, throwing in the incentive of freshly laundered bedding and warm water to bathe in. He regretted that he himself would be returning home for the night and would therefore be reprehensibly deficient as a host, but he hoped that she would be comfortable nonetheless. She assured him that she was used to coping on her own. He then made a series of phone calls. He had arranged a plate of sandwiches and fresh tea for her which sat on the modest wooden dresser. Exhausted from the journey, Eva retired to bed and fell into a fitful sleep soon after Chainbridge's departure.
The next morning, Eva rose early and descended the steps to the shop. She looked around at the bees-waxed shelves and musty books which gave the room the same sense of being a sanctuary as her father's library had at home.
She found Mr. Chainbridge poring over the morning paper which was spread across the shop counter. He heard her footfall, looked up and smiled. ‘Let’s get some breakfast, Miss Molenaar.’
She was alone in this vast metropolis, yet felt she could trust him. He wore a wedding band and was as attentive to her as a kindly professor, giving off an erudite air of contentment as he closed up his shop. He led her to an early morning cafe situated amid the bustle of market stalls and taxi drivers. It buzzed with breakfast banter, the rattle of crockery, and shouts and blasts of steam from the kitchens,
Chainbridge explained the situation. ‘The Spanish Prime Minister Negrin has sanctioned gold bullion shipments to the Soviet Union as payment for weapons and advisors. A portion of it has been intercepted by Franco. He’s diverting it to either a German port or a country friendly with the Nazi regime.’
Chainbridge studied the young woman. Eva held his gaze intently. A sixth sense in him detected a secondary agenda within the girl.
‘We think the ship involved is British registered, but can’t be sure. We need to understand what is happening down there, study their operations as a precaution against future eventualities. You could be of great assistance if you would be willing to be so. Would you be interested in remaining here for a day or two and attending a private party?’
Eva thought about this abrupt change of plan, this level of additional involvement for which she had not remotely been prepared. She had confirmed to Spzilman that she had arrived safely and was awaiting further instructions. So far she’d received no response. It would be interesting to see more of this country and whatever she was required to do could hardly be that dangerous. Nevertheless, she wondered.
‘Certainly, if I can be of any help.’ Her English was almost flawless. Chainbridge smiled warmly. She could be just what he needed. They were getting closer to mapping several of the Nazi spy rings in London. There was no threat of war as such, yet there was a faction in the British security community who believed that Hitler was considerably more dangerous long term than he was currently being considered to be by their political masters. Franco was a more impressive character than Hitler but far less dangerous because Spain was a relatively small country currently ravaged by civil war. If Hitler started to throw his weight around on the world stage, Franco would almost certainly be an ally given all the weaponry Germany was providing him with, and all suggestions to date were that the German agents and their Nationalist Spanish counterparts were a bit lackadaisical and therefore an excellent source of information on Berlin's strategic and tactical thinking if they could infiltrate them.
Chainbridge hesitated and his nose quivered pinkly. He coughed embarrassedly and gave indications of being reluctant to start his next sentence. ‘This is a bit indelicate,' he stammered hesitantly, 'but vital for our cause …. ' He paused an awkwardly long time for effect while he searched Eva's face in an unexpectedly shrewd manner. This was no antiquarian biblbiophile. Chainbridge was something else but well disguised. 'I’ve had the presumption to book you provisionally into a small hotel off Grosvenor Square where a certain Lord Alfred Bevansdale likes to trawl for girls.'
Eva stared at him. 'For girls?' She raised an eyebrow.
'You might be his type, for a party he’s throwing.'
'His type?' Eva raised a second eyebrow and lit up a cigarette as she spoke, stirring her tea slowly. Even without make-up, and with her hair in a pony tail, she still attracted glances. ‘What type would that be?’
‘Show girls, chorus line, starlet types. Lord Alfred Bevansdale is a cigarette baron and a Fascist sympathiser, a close friend of Sir Oswald Mosley's, and we suspect that he has offered the Nationalists a ship to transfer the bullion mixed in with one of his own consignments. Naturally, we can do nothing about this, even should we wish to, but it is nonetheless an opportunity for us. However, if you are not comfortable with this, Miss Molenaar …….’
She exhaled slowly from the side of her mouth, her expression hardening. ‘How old is he?’
‘Early fifties, there or thereabouts,’
‘I can’t see any problem, Mr Chainbridge.’
Chainbridge visibly relaxed. 'So long as you are sure,' he added, pressing his luck to ensure that Eva was truly on board.
'I am sure.'
‘Very good. Let’s finish up here. Waiter!’ He scribbled discreetly into the air to indicate he wished to pay the bill. The waiter acknowledged his request with a nod.
Eva was daunted by her task. She had been briefed as to what Chainbridge wanted, to know where the bullion would be loaded, who the main operators would be, who was over-seeing the planning of the transfer from Berlin.
Why would Lord Bevansdale be interested in her? It was an outside chance that he would even notice her, however pretty she was. Did she really look like a show girl?
In the event, ensnaring Lord Bevansdale proved much easier than Eva had expected. The following night she had positioned herself conspicuously at the end of the hotel bar where he could clearly see her should he turn up. Unbeknown to her, from a small room where he was playing poker, Bevansdale spied her immediately in her vivid emerald dress that clung to her figure. Within minutes he was over to her, all smiles and champagne.
With a sigh of relief, Eva expertly charmed him in return. Within the hour, Lord Bevansdale had invited her to his party, which was to be a masked ball to be held at his mansion deep in the heart of the English countryside and, to ensure her attendance, he had offered to escort her there in person and offered to buy her outfit for the event and for the rest of the weekend besides.
Eva was slightly surprised that Lord Bevansdale would not be at the party from the beginning to greet his guests but he explained that the whole thing would be a dreadful bore and if she wasn't there it would hardly be worth attending at all.
Bevansdale’s mansion blazed gloriously through the windshield of his chauffer-driven Rolls Royce as they swept down the driveway which was festooned with ribbons and lights draped along the trees and edges.
‘Here we are, my dear,’ he boomed.
He was short, portly, florid from gout and mashed into a dinner suit. Eva was dressed in fur, a new low-cut black dress and a diamond encrusted cat mask. Bevansdale’s hand had a tremor every time it brushed her. He was also sweating.
Liveried footmen bowed as they alighted from the car and entered the doorway. The chauffeur would see their luggage to their respective rooms. A vast stairway ascended toward a hallway bedecked in a massive crystal chandelier. In rooms off the main reception, the guests mingled in all varieties of expensive dress, the men middle-aged, their companions mostly young women. In the main dining room a string quartet was performing Vivaldi, resplendent in period costume up to their powdered wigs and, like the rest of the guests, all masked. Excusing herself, Eva enquired where the toilets were. A passing footman burdened with a tray laden with champagne nodded roughly in the direction of upstairs. Eva decided to get her bearings and took her time looking through the upper floors. In some of the bedrooms couples in various stages of undress were lolling on huge beds; others were engaged in more vigorous activities. She glanced past the heaving flesh ar
ound her, not quite sure what she was looking for but convinced she would know when she found it.
Entering the dining room she found Bevansdale in a corner with a group of men masked in black velvet almost like a uniform. One had a German accent and they all looked intimidating. They exuded power. Eva sidled up to Bevansdale, pressing against his arm. He flushed and almost gagged on his cigar. The others all turned to her, admiring her figure and the warm mouth smiling beneath her mask.
She whispered in his ear. ‘You haven’t shown me the bedrooms yet, Alfie?’ She blew softly into his ear as he leered back. ‘Forgive me for being so remiss. Allow me to escort you.’
She made a point of looking back at the group and smiling seductively beneath her mask before turning her back and guiding Bevansdale upstairs. As they left the room, she could feel the group's eyes following her. Bevansdale guided her to a narrow staircase which led past the upper floors to his private quarters. His private study was dark panelled and spartanly furnished. He led her to an oaken door at the far side of the room. With a wink he produced a key from the watch chain on his waist coat and opened the door. It was a small bedroom near the top floor, smelling faintly of mothballs and dust. A four-poster bed hewn in dark mahogany stood in the middle of the room,
‘Oh Alfie, this is perfect,’ Eva breathed. ‘I can't think of anything nicer.'
Before returning to the shop to meet Mr. Chainbridge, Eva took the cat mask to a jeweller’s. The diamonds encrusting the mask were indeed real, as Lord Beavansdale had promised. Poor Alfie. She exchanged half of them for cash; the other half she kept on her for emergencies, hidden in a locket around her neck.
‘The ship is the Adelaide, a merchant ship outward bound from Southampton and arriving in Marseilles in three weeks' time. The bullion is arriving from Cadiz. It will be loaded in Marseilles and delivered in Hamburg. I have written down the details.'
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