Belva grabbed a writing pad while concentrating on the conversation, and at the same time studying the list of key words she was to listen for. No one had told her the reason, but since she had been assigned the line to eaves drop, Belva had deduced that the line was indeed in a hotel, the man was obviously American, and he was talking to someone with a thick European accent.
The conversation lasted eight minutes.
When the line went dead, she removed her headset, leaned back in the chair studying the pad listing the words she was to listen for. She had marked one word: Typex.
Belva wrote out the date and time in red ink on the top of the message. For a long time she leaned on her elbows at the desk. Lonnie had always had an eye for her sister. That would be a sorry mess, wouldn’t it?
She picked up another telephone behind her. After several rings a voice. “Captain’s office.”
“This is controller three, sir.”
“Good evening . . .”
“It’s the monitored line I’m calling about, sir. Our subject may finally be up to something. Last conversation came in several minutes ago. I picked up a keyword during the discussion.”
“What word is that?”
She told him.
Hesitation. A long breathe. “I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.
----
The Fox.
The soldiers were seated at the table out front of the pub in anticipation of her arrival when the roadster came around the curve. “Just like clockwork right on time,” one of the soldiers whispered. Corporal Elliott had just come out of the dark, cool interior of the bar and was standing at the door.
“Look at her run,” another one said.
It was late afternoon and the sun was still hot. Several of the soldiers shielded their eyes with open hands. The roadster stirred dust off in the distance and then very quickly she was upon them.
But something was different this time. The roadster, instead of blowing past . . . slowed. “My . . . she’s stopping at The Fox,” someone said lowly . . . and then the roadster pulled onto the sand and right up to the table.
Goli got out and stood just outside the door, stretched, and stared at the soldiers. She walked up and pointed at the motorcycle. “May I ask whose machine that is?”
Elliott leaned against the doorway, beer in hand. For a moment he didn’t say anything. The soldiers at the table looked back at him. “Now’s your chance, Warren . . . don’t blow it,” one of them whispered.
He waited another moment. “It’s mine,” he said righting himself from the doorframe and walking toward her.
Goli smiled. “It’s a beautiful machine.”
“And you have a beauty yourself.”
“I’d like to make a deal. If I come by one afternoon, say about the same time, would you entertain a trade? I get to drive your machine, and you get to drive mine?”
Elliott returned the smile, absolutely shocked at his good fortune. “I think we can arrange that.”
“Excellent,” Goli said, “Within the next day or so?”
“You do that, Mrs.—”
“Faqiri. And I’m not married soldier. Widowed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Goli felt the eyes on her when she turned and got back in the roadster. She started the motor, pulled out of the sand. When she reached the road she gave the machine full throttle satisfied her elaborate plan was set in motion.
Silence enveloped the soldiers, like they had been in the presence of a royalty, until the roadster was well down the road. Then the catcalls began, and the congratulatory slaps on the back.
“You’re one lucky soldier, Corporal Warren Elliott,” the private said.
As the last signs of the dust settled across the road, Elliott had to admit he agreed with them. But then, he had always been blessed.
----
Mayfield sat his British legation desk overlooking the river. To his left, a window was filled with a featureless sky.
Before him on the desk was a single sheet of paper, delivered by courier routed from Operational Intelligence Centre. His forehead tightened. The people in Cairo had been very attentive, passing on information presenting a problem for him. Salinger had drawn closer to the flame than he, or anyone had expected.
If Salinger had learned about Typex, which he apparently had, then the timetable should be moved up.
After another ten minutes, Mayfield had sorted through his options. Really, there was only one viable option laying before them now. When could they trust Salinger? What happened in Isafahan would tell them.
Mayfield picked up the telephone.
“Yes, Wiggins, would you ring up the Prime Minister’s residence for me?”
----
“Darling, do you know Major Mayfield?” Colonel Boland came in the room from the kitchen area. “By the way . . . I don’t believe there’s going to be enough shrimp. Do you?”
Maids were busy scuffling around the house, arranging flowers, and polishing furniture. Leni left the flower arrangement she was adjusting and hugged his arm. “You always worry, dear. Your friends will be well taken care of tonight.”
“I hope so,” he said looking around worriedly.
“Did you ask me a question?”
“Yes, a Major Mayfield. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Can’t say that I have. Should I?”
“I just received a phone call from the embassy. He’s on his way over and wants to talk to me this afternoon. Just barging in like this without any consideration.”
“You aren’t in trouble, are you?” Leni asked.
Boland grunted. “Oh, of course not, probably something about security or something of that nature. He seemed a worrisome sort of fellow when I met him the other day.”
Leni stopped arranging a doily on a side table. An alarm clicked in the back of her mind. “So, you know him?”
“Actually, no,” he said. “I attended a meeting several days ago and he was there. But he did seem like a fellow who seems to worry a lot.”
She didn’t want to act suspicious. “What does he do?”
“One of those MI5 men who believe everyone is a blasted spy. I for one can’t figure out where they get them. But they all come from the same barrel as far as I’m concerned.” Boland appeared puzzled. “Oddest thing though.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but he asked our Intelligence people to back off and allow the Soviets to capture some German agents rambling around the city.”
“That does seem strange,” Leni said.
A knock on the door stopped them.
As one of the maids walked to the door, Boland said, “I suppose that’s him. Better get this over with. What time do the guests begin arriving?”
“The invitation stated six o’clock.”
Boland looked at his pocket watch. “Then I should get rid of him rather quickly.”
“I’m going upstairs,” Leni said. “I want to lie down for a while before the party.”
Boland kissed her on the cheek.
Leni went halfway up the stairs, hesitated, and then came back down quickly out of sight and toward to the end of the hallway, when she heard her husband’s booming voice: “Major Mayfield, good to see you again.”
She glanced back to see if anyone had seen her. Then, once inside her art study, made her way through the silhouettes of canvasses and tables, and to a small storage closet. She stepped into the narrow room, lined with shelves of paints, brushes, and canvasses.
When the room was converted into a study last year, a bit of fortune had given her this secret place where she could hide and overhear conversations held in her husband’s office. Several pieces of information had been passed onto Berlin.
Leni dared not turn on the light as she reached for a blanket hanging on the back wall. She found the small hole she had carved months ago with a paring knife. She peered through and saw the men sitting at her hu
sband’s desk. Her husband faced her, his features drawn and serious. Leni saw the back of Mayfield’s head, reddish, chaffed skin on the back of his neck. She strained to hear their conversation.
“William Hance the archeologist? Know him personally? No. But I’m aware of him if that’s what you’re asking. What is this all about?”
“He dealt with the Germans in the past. We believe that he may be involved again.”
“Are you certain of this?” Boland asked.
“Let’s just say we’re highly suspicious,” Mayfield said.
“I find it all unbelievable myself,” Boland’s voice fell. Leni knew what her husband was thinking—that his wife spent a lot of time at the site. She had convinced him that it was all a hobby, but now she could see the doubt on his face.
“Well, if you’re correct, then that does raise one’s concern.” Boland spread his open hands down on the desk. “My wife has a keen interest in archeology and does go out there from time to time. My concern is that he could be influencing her with all of his Nazi leanings.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious from her?”
Leni shifted her glance to see her husband’s reaction. There was only a slight raising of the eyes. “You don’t suspect my wife?”
Such words took Leni’s breath away and she staggered slightly bumping into the shelf. She caught herself and looked again through the hole. There was no reaction toward the wall where she hid, only her husband stepping around the wide desk, grasping the hand of Mayfield. “Thank you, Major, and I can appreciate your concerns. But I met Leni in England when she came with the exiled government. Hance, on the other hand, could certainly be another matter.”
Boland stepped out of Leni’s sight toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re getting ready for a party this afternoon.”
Slipping out of the study, she ran down to the backstairs, and the along the hallway to her bedroom. Her face was damp with sweat as she slipped off her dress and fell into the bed. The late afternoon sunlight slanted softly through the parted curtains on the tall window. Her heart still raced.
Leni rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. She would try to sleep. A short nap before the guests arrived, but she knew the attempt would be futile. The conversation between her husband and the British officer had changed matters. And not for the better.
-Nineteen-
Rows of long, graceful windows cast squares of white lights on the wide lawn of the villa of Colonel Robert Boland. Black Buicks and polished stone-gray sedans lined the white circular drive bordered with shadowy maple trees. Drivers stood at the sides of the motorcars smoking cigarettes, sharing drinks from whiskey bottles, and listening to war broadcast from a wireless.
Leni stood at the foot of the long white marble staircase inside the gracious villa greeting her guests as the band played the swaying American melody Moonlight Serenade. Among the assembly of laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, the ladies were at the parlor entrance, no doubt embellishing on the latest gossip in the society circle. The men were gathered in the smoking room beneath a cloud of cigar smoke, involved in serious conversation about the advancing Allied armies and how the fortunes of war had turned against the Axis powers.
Leni never understood war, she honestly didn’t believe that anyone could; though she was constantly surrounded by men who thought they did.
If only her secret could end it all.
She walked over to where her husband was in a deep conversation.
“Why is it that when men get together, the discussion is about that awful Rommel?” Leni asked taking her husband’s arm.
The man standing beside Boland spoke up. “Why, he almost beat us in North Africa when he was badly outnumbered. The only thing that saved us was that arrogant Hitler wouldn’t send reinforcements, thank goodness.”
“Yes,” the other man said, “You have to admire such a leader, even if he is German. And remember—he never joined the Nazi Party.”
“But you’re talking about the enemy,” Leni said.
“It’s as if we had the greatest fortune of luck against him in the desert,” Boland said. “Totally unexplainable.”
“Yes, it’s almost as if we were reading his mail,” one of them said.
Boland tugged at her arm. “Give up, dear, you’ll never understand us men.”
“I suppose not,” she said. When she looked toward the door, Allan Miles was being shown in.
“Something wrong?” Boland asked.
“I didn’t know Allan was invited.”
“I took the liberty to have a few civilians sprinkled about. Hope you don’t mind.”
Leni caught herself. “Why should I mind, Robert? And who is she?” A tall, beautiful woman standing in a small group near the dining room doorway.
“Goli Faqiri. Only the richest woman in Iran.”
“And very beautiful.”
“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Another playful tug at her elbow. “Do make an attempt to meet her.”
“Ah, there she is,” a voice came behind them.
Leni’s face flushed as Allan Miles stepped into their circle. “Have you spoken to Fields’s sister? I hope I was able in some way to soften her loss.”
Boland looked up at him. “Fields? What’s this about?”
“Yes, your wife was inquiring about his business here in Tehran just after his tragic death,” Miles told him, “seems his sister had written to your wife about him.” His face seemed perplexed when he turned to Leni. “Did you tell him about all that?”
“I didn’t think I should bother Robert about it.”
“I wish you had,” Boland insisted.
“It was nothing, dear,” Leni said. “Allan performed admirably, and I simply sent her a short letter. I do believe it helped her.”
“But I wish you had.”
Leni looked over her husband’s shoulder, searching for an opportunity to end the conversation, and waved. “Mrs. Morgan. Mrs. Morgan. I must talk to you.” She pulled away. “I must leave you, two. Sorry.”
As she walked away, Leni looked back and saw that her husband was staring at her. It was the same look on his face as when Major Mayfield had visited him earlier in the day.
----
The room was crowded with newly arriving guests, the air stimulating with music and laughter. The orchestra played song after song. Sometime during one of her conversations, a man asked Leni to dance. He danced stiffly and asked her apology for his awkwardness. Leni laughed and forgave him as they swirled around the floor.
When the music stopped, she planned her next move, excused herself finding her husband in the parlor. “You’ll have to excuse me, darling. I suddenly have a terrible headache. You know how red wine does me sometimes.”
“Must you leave?”
She smiled and gave him a kiss. “Be brave and try and carry on without me.”
“Can we talk about Allan Miles later?”
“Is in the morning okay, dear?”
----
Leni went upstairs to the music room.
She turned on the radio, dialed into the BBC, and then sat on the couch. She closed her eyes. Radio Tehran with Persian National Society Orchestra conducted by Rouhollah Khaleghi played the haunting music of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. She had found it to be the one of the few enjoyable things in this horrid country.
Oh, how could she have been so careless?
In her excitement over the last three days she had become sloppy and not covered her tracks. Then this Mayfield had begun to meddle. Now, Robert had grown suspicious, and she would have to come up with an excuse. Maybe that Allan flirted with her. That could do it.
Her thoughts then turned to the information she possessed. What was it that she overheard in the conversation earlier? ‘It’s almost as if we were reading Rommel’s mail.’
It all made sense now—what a wonderful fortune that a simple conversation overheard told her what she possibly possessed. It was almost unbelievable, but
it had to be true. To play it safe she knew that she should wait until morning to drive out to the site and make sure her theory was correct. But if she was right—she had to come up with an escape route. Once she went missing, Robert would signal an alarm that would make escape from the city difficult
But Leni had thought of that.
The supply plane. The one that flew in provisions for Hance’s camp . . . how often did it come in to the site? Every six days, wasn’t it? She calculated the days and realized that time had suddenly become a precious commodity. That meant she had to get out to the site tonight.
----
Leni turned down the radio, waited in the dark room for a long moment, then let herself out the French doors and made her way through the shadowy garden. She unlocked the garage, and shortly drove out with lights out into the adjacent boulevard running between the embassy garden and the cemetery.
As Leni headed away from the house only one person noticed.
Goli stood at the edge of the veranda, the red glow of a cigarette at her lips.
----
Leni sat on a box in the supply building, Fields’s documents spread out in her lap, illuminated by the light from a torch in her hand.
It had been there all the time.
The markings on the text wasn’t editing at all. How foolish could she have been? Of course not, because Fields had no journalistic training. It was an intelligence officer decoding a message for his use. No wonder he had become so angry that night when he surprised her and walked in on her reading the papers.
‘It’s as if we were reading Rommel’s mail.’
Now she knew she was right because each fact, placed together, added up. The communications center set up outside Tehran days before Churchill arrived. The antennas. The security. Fields’s movements in the weeks preceding the all-important conference. It could only mean one thing . . . and the thought of its possibility tightened her brain. As farfetched as it sounded, the Allies had broken the German Intelligence code. Everything else meant Churchill was briefed daily on the decoding. An important matter when negotiating with the Russians.
Leni’s mind went into gear.
A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) Page 15