He exited the sedan and made his way through the maple trees to a large white house overlooking a river. A balcony ran along the entire length where rows of flowers fronted the porch. In front of converted stables, a man polished a British Austin Vitesse Phaeton.
At the front door, an elderly gentleman with a kind face met him. He led Mayfield through a spacious living room that smelled of wood polish. Past walls lined with books. At the center of the room was a stone fireplace flanked by two high back chairs. “I’ve been told that you should wait in the study, sir,” and took him through a white-framed door.
The room was a smaller space with several worn leather chairs. Across the room was a wide desk, cluttered with books and writing pads.
In another moment, Frederick Gifford guided his wheelchair through the doorway; a blanket lay neatly across his lap, his white shirt starched and open at the throat. Hazel gray eyes beneath thick brows stared at Mayfield. “Ah, Major, it’s been too long,” his voice worn and folded.
Mayfield came over and shook hands with the one man who knew as much about British Intelligence as Winston Churchill. Distinguished Foreign Service to the Queen of India, and then in the Boer War received his crippling wound and battlefield honors in the South African Republic. It was there that he began to dabble in intelligence work through diplomatic channels after returning to England.
Gifford smiled. “You still owe me for that last card game in London, you know that.”
“That’s not exactly the way I remember it.”
Gifford laughed. “I thought you’d say that.”
At that moment the door opened and a large man entered with gray hair and mustache, dressed in a British officer’s uniform.
“I’ve asked Colonel Boland to join us,” Gifford said. “He’s heading up security at our embassy during the conference.” Introductions were made.
“Have a seat, gentlemen.”
Mayfield and Boland sat in the leather chairs.
“So, major . . .” Gifford cupped a hand under his chin, “you still believe your Traveler is in our city?”
“More than ever now with recent developments.”
“Of course he is,” Gifford said. “That’s why you came to me.”
“Traveler?” Boland asked. “I don’t understand.”
“An adversary the Major has been tracking throughout most of Persia for how long now?”
“Over two years.”
Gifford frowned. “Yes, since North Africa. I remember now that bit of bad news about your son.”
Boland leaned forward. “Are you actually proposing that a deep cover spy exist here . . . in Tehran?”
“Are you surprised that there are German spies in Tehran, Colonel?” Mayfield asked.
“I am aware of that, yes. But most of them have been rounded up and the others I’ve found to be harmless buffoons accomplishing no more than drawing a paycheck from German Intelligence.”
“This spy is different, Colonel,” Gifford said stiffly.
“In what way?”
“Traveler and the major have a long relationship . . . part of which is tragic, which I’ll let the Major go into if he desires.”
“Messages were intercepted,” Mayfield said after a moment, “which led us to believe Traveler provided information assisting in setting up an ambush on a British supply patrol. My son was killed during that engagement.”
Boland looked at Mayfield. “Sorry.”
“He was a good soldier.”
“Mayfield has an obsession on catching his spy,” Gifford offered with sincerity. “He’s even provided the codename for this agent, one even the Germans use.”
Boland frowned. “Where did you come up with the name Traveler?”
“Are you familiar with English poetry?”
“Other than what was forced upon me in elementary . . . no.”
“A fellow named Walter de la Mare wrote a poem named The Listener I recited it to Kirk many times when he was a boy.” . . . the image of young Kirk rushed at him, wide-eyed lying beneath the covers as if he was hearing the poem for the first time, just before the house lights were extinguished . . . always smiling Kirk, an innocent boy who knew nothing of war or soldiers dying, or the evil in the world . . . “Is there anybody there? said the Traveler, knocking on the moonlit door; and his horse in the silence champed the grasses of the forest’s ferny floor.” Mayfield spoke lower, “so that I won’t ever forget my boy, I codenamed the German agent Traveler.”
Gifford coughed in his fist. “Yes, well,” he said, “I suggest we do everything in our power to catch him this time.”
“I can’t imagine a German operation as important as Long Jump without their best agent involved,” Mayfield said.
“I agree.”
“And there’s the matter of Major Fields’s murder.”
“So, you think this Traveler is also involved in the murder?” Boland asked. “Wait. Then what you’re saying is that it is possible Traveler is a woman? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“For the first time I believe it a possibility, yes,” Mayfield said.
“Unbelievable.”
Gifford adjusted the blanket across his lap. “Precautions?”
“Suspects are being observed with the services of the local police. All efforts are being made to prevent Traveler from contacting the commandos.”
“Even our friend Hance?”
“The archaeologist?” Boland asked. “Is he a serious German agent?”
“A double agent, actually,” Gifford said, “Resourceful and useful to both sides when monies are offered to fund his dig sites.”
Boland blanched.
“Something wrong, Colonel?” Gifford asked.
“No . . . no, nothing at all,” he said.
But Mayfield could see that something had disturbed the Colonel. Terribly. “There is one other matter we should discuss,” Mayfield said moving on. “The last reports have the remaining six German agents surrounded by our people.”
“A safe house in the southern part of the city,” Gifford said. “Our people could have apprehended them by now but we’re playing it out to make certain there aren’t any stragglers out on the streets. But the game is about to end. Twenty plainclothes British security men have orders to move in with Russian agents tonight.”
“I have a favor to ask of you, sir,” Mayfield said, “one that may seem a bit strange. Ask your men to pull back from the trap and let the Soviets make the capture of the remaining six Germans.”
“Do you know what you’re asking?”
“In every way,” Mayfield said. “My request can’t be explained, at least not now, but just suffice it to say that your favor will aid us in a much different and more important way.”
Gifford shot a glance at Boland, then back to Mayfield. “Okay, Mayfield,” he said. “I don’t know what game you’re up to, but I’ll place the order. But—someday you have to tell me what the blaze is going on.”
Mayfield stood. “You have my word on it.”
“Good. And one day perhaps you’ll pay me for that blasted card game.”
----
Late evening fog lay like cannon smoke across the river as Mayfield walked out and sat in the back seat of the sedan.
Talking about Kirk and Traveler had awakened memories . . . British recruits marching to Waterloo Station led by a brass band past the Arena Picture Palace, past Gordon’s wine shop. There was Kirk in the third row looking so handsome. But they were all handsome that day, weren’t they? Marching off to save the world. Maggie stood stiffly beside him, so proud, gripping his hand tightly as they filed by. All those young boys going off to die . . .
He would capture Traveler if it were the last thing he did on this earth.
As the sedan pulled through the gate, Mayfield thought about how disturbed Boland’s face turned with the mention of Hance. There was something there to remember.
----
The British Embassy.
Salinge
r knelt against the far wall of what had been Fields’s office. It was mainly cleared except for a chairless desk. Files, every other item removed. Salinger had begun to form a line of questions—his method in all investigations—that would assemble a trail for him to follow. His focus at the moment was the unique wiring panel cut into the wall eighteen inches above the floor; a different electrical circuit than any other he could find anywhere in the embassy.
That’s what he should have noticed in Fields’s Cairo office. The different wiring. He stood. “Are there any more outlets like these installed in the building?” Salinger asked the engineer he had requested be present.
His name was Gilbert and he had a squarish face. He rubbed his chin. “A small room at the end of the hallway.”
Salinger thanked the engineer, dismissed him, and went down the hallway until he came to a door. It was unlocked, the wood frame around the lock splintered, a light switch just inside the door.
The office was empty. Salinger walked around and noticed indentions in the floor suggesting two desks had been positioned against the wall. Then he saw the same type of electrical outlet as was in Fields’s office. There were also what appeared to be extra telephone lines. In the corner, several blank paper sheets lay scattered on the floor.
Walking to the front of the office and then into the hallway, Salinger heard voices outside. Out the window he saw a soccer game being played on the back lot. It was then he realized another unusual characteristic of the office other than having that different electrical outlet. He turned back.
It was the only office in the embassy without windows.
----
Palace Hotel.
After Salinger had showered, he came and sat at the desk. He mixed a scotch. Through the window curtains, Tehran’s city lights sparked.
Over the last hour he had drawn some distinct conclusions on where the facts were taking him, leading him to believe that the British officer’s death may be linked to the German operation, and perhaps more.
Things he should have picked up on in Cairo at Gray Pillars. First, a fellow named Card, the engineer from the United States. He had walked into Fields’s office by mistake the morning when he was there conducting interviews. Card, as it turned out, was unaware that the time Fields was dead. He seemed upset. But wasn’t it odd that an American engineer was assigned to Gray Pillars? Not as strange as when Salinger had placed a phone call to him this morning to find out he’d been reassigned to the States not long after Salinger had questioned him.
Now he had a link to the peculiar—first, both Fields’s Cairo office and the office here in Tehran have different electrical wiring. And for what purpose? The second point was that the murderer had to be a woman. There was no evidence whatsoever Fields was homosexual.
Salinger lit a cigarette and tossed a match in the ashtray on the chair arm. So, Fields knew this woman well enough to check into a hotel, have a tryst with her, all the time with his briefcase on the table. Totally reckless, proving his trust in this woman.
Salinger looked at his watch. He phoned Zurich for the second time that day. His source for reliable information. He had come to know the ‘the professor’ over the years as a man who dealt in details, particulars, valuable only to one who had a specific need for such information. He gave Salinger background on Larry Card, the engineer, his specialty. Everything he told Salinger was beginning to make sense. Then Salinger asked him about the wiring and what purpose it could serve. Yes, Salinger told him, it was the last time he would use him and he would wire additional monies to him in the morning.
-Sixteen-
“You’re going out?”
Boland had stepped into the conservatory surprising Leni as she watered a pot of geraniums. As was her habit, she came out every afternoon and spent time among the sunlight, and the musty smell of soil and her plants.
“For the afternoon. Why?”
“I would guess that you’re going out to that archaeological site . . . or with those children.”
She turned and placed her hands on her hips in a mocking pose. “Is that your guess, Robert? Well, it’s true. You should be glad I would want to do either.”
“Don’t be smart with me. I saw your car pulled up to the front of the house.”
Then she smiled and went to him. “If I didn’t know any better I’d swear you were jealous.” She stared into his eyes. “Why, Robert you are.”
He cleared his throat. “Not jealous . . . but concerned I’d say.”
“Why would you be concerned?”
“He may be a German spy, Leni.”
“Who in the world told you that? Where do all these rumors start? He’s a German, but he’s totally harmless.”
“I just don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“Well, don’t worry yourself,” she said hugging him. “William has a telescope and we’re going to look at the stars with some of the children of the site workers. Is that so bad?”
The suggestion seemed to disarm him. “I’d rather have you at home.”
“Poor Robert, I’ll be home before long. And tomorrow night is the dinner party. You’ll have all your boring friends over and you’ll be the center of attention. Don’t you worry.”
His stern face melted. “I suppose teaching those young heathens a bit of science is a noble cause, even if it means that I have to give you up for one evening.”
Leni went back to her watering. “I wish you wouldn’t call them names, Robert. They’re humans just like everyone else.”
He turned away. “When will you return tonight?”
“Let’s say nine o’clock.”
Boland fingered one of the plant leaves. “Good. I’ll expect you back by then.”
----
Later, Leni went upstairs and changed. She came down wearing khaki shorts and shirt. She pulled out of the gate thinking she had just over an hour of daylight remaining. The late afternoon wind was soft in her face as she drove out of town. On the seat beside her was a canvas knapsack, inside a knife she kept hidden away. By the knapsack was a camera.
Retracing her journey out to the mysterious site from the day before, she parked down the main road, south of the side road where she had driven and been intercepted by the guard. She let the air out of the left front tire. That would offer a good excuse for her Chevrolet being there. She had made certain that an air pump was in the bonnet, knowing it would be hard work to pump up the tire once she returned. But she couldn’t have the automobile suspiciously on the side of the road.
Leni took the knapsack and camera from the seat. Then she placed the knife in her pocket and headed across the sand. Once she reached the area where she was forced to turn around several days before, she ran low to the ground until she reached the crest of the road.
The tomb tower loomed against the weakening sky. A ditch, bordered by a row of fir trees, ran along and between the high, ancient wall and the tomb. Leni froze. Off to the right beyond the wall, a group of brown tents were located, not visible from the road. She ran to the wall. The stone was cool to her face as she hugged it where it reached the ditch. The trench would give her cover to move another hundred yards toward the tents. Once she reached the end of the ditch, she sat in the sand and removed the camera from the knapsack. Among the tops of the fir trees the antennas loomed above her. She took several photographs, then several shots of the ditch and the wall from which she had just followed. Leni gathered her legs under her and squatted at the edge of the wall. She would have to make her way across perhaps forty yards of open desert to get close enough to the tents. She leaned out from around the corner of the fence, and . . . pulled back. Two men stood outside the second tent smoking cigarettes. One man was talking, the other laughing occasionally.
She was about to make a run for it toward the larger tent when an officer . . . a British officer . . . came out and headed toward a smaller tent with an antenna protruding out of the canvas top. Under his left arm were a bundle of papers. She managed to click
several shots before the officer ducked inside.
Deciding she had enough photographs for Berlin, she retreated back down the ditch and then sprinted across the opening until she again reached the crest. The road was in sight. Her automobile was like a ghost waiting for her in the dying light.
Leni knelt in the sand. She didn’t see any movement. Trying her best not to be too dramatic, she reflected on the possibilities. It could only mean one thing. This English operation had everything to do with getting information to Churchill. It had to be that. Why else would the English build this unit . . . here . . . now, if it wasn’t because of his presence at the conference? But what sort of information? Military? Intelligence facts he deemed important enough that it following him half way around the world?
An inspiration concerning the Tehran children’s camp gave her a way to get the developed film from Hance’s camp darkroom to Berlin.
Placing the camera in the knapsack, she stood and peered across the horizon.
----
Leni was only several hundred yards from the main road, near the rise, when the men spotted her.
There was a shout as she reached the next small crest and headed down a slope and had almost reached a dry, narrow creek bed that ran south out of the oasis. Leni turned. Two of them had their rifles leveled. The tallest man, with short-cropped hair, stepped forward quickly at the creek bank. Here, the ground was loose and spongy. All three wore British army uniforms.
“Didn’t you hear us calling you?” he challenged.
Leni glanced down. “Sorry.”
“Why are you here?” the smallest man asked. He wore glasses.
The third man held a rifle also, remaining ten feet away. Leni recognized him as the young guard who had intercepted her last evening. “I’ve seen her before,” he said. “She was driving around out here two days ago.”
“I was hiking that’s all.”
The tall man moved closer. ‘You should have picked a better place, Ma’m. You’re in trouble now.”
“What’s in the knapsack?”
“My personal camera,” she said. “It’s a hobby.”
A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) Page 12