Fragments (Out of Time)

by Monique Martin

  Their food ordered; Jack set about giving them a lesson in Spying 101.

  “The first thing you’ve got to know are the players. Sometimes I think half of London is spying on the other half. See the two leaving now? The one tall one with the mustache and pinched face who looks like he’s about to sneeze, he always looks like that by the way, with the pin-stripes? That’s Jozef Karski: Polish, zero sense of humor, a heck of a lot stronger than he looks and too good with a knife. The other one, balding, with the sallow complexion and thick features is Yuri Lushinkov: Russian, expert marksman and a helluva dancer.”

  “Should you be telling us all this here? Out in the open?” Elizabeth asked.

  “None of this is exactly top secret. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Most of us know what everyone else is doing. The devil’s in the details. And speak of the devil,” he said nodding his head toward a man sitting alone on the far side of the room. “Alex Stefanos. Greek and a crueler son of a bitch, I have never met. Keep your eye on him.”

  He was scary looking. His face was oddly asymmetrical; the effect was definitely discombobulating.

  Jack checked his watch and grinned before looking up. “Right on cue.”

  Elizabeth followed his glance toward the entrance and a small, fastidious and well-dressed man. He caught sight of them and waved a gloved hand.

  “Juris Zāle. Latvian,” Jack explained. “Don’t let him fool you, he’s probably the most clever one of the bunch.”

  Elizabeth racked her brain trying to remember anything about Latvia. All she could manage was that it was one of the Baltics and was sandwiched between Russia and a couple other -ias.

  Zāle held out his arms expansively in greeting. “Wells! My American friend, how are you?” He bowed at the waist. His accent was a Greek-Russian lovechild. “I don’t mean to interrupt your luncheon, although I am quite put out that you have been keeping this one to yourself.”

  He stood staring at Elizabeth waiting for a proper introduction.

  “Oh, sorry,” Jack said. “Elizabeth, Juris. Juris, Elizabeth.”

  Zāle rolled his eyes. “Americans.” He tugged off his glove and kissed Elizabeth’s hand.

  “That makes two of us,” she said.

  “Oh, my foot is in my mouth, is it not?” he said and pretended to spit it out. “How embarrassing. I make up for it with champagne.”

  He waived to a waiter across the room and made a circular gesture toward the table. “May I?” Before Jack could answer, he pulled out a chair and sat down. It was really more of a graceful sprawl. For such a small man, he took up an awful lot of room. He took off his other white glove and straightened his cravat.

  Juris fixed Elizabeth with velvety, and absolutely outrageous, bedroom eyes. “You are enchanting. We must dine together. I have eggs in my room. I will peel them for you myself. And we will make love while the war rages outside our chambers.”

  Elizabeth half expected to see Simon lunge across the table or at the very least fire off some brilliant retort, but Simon merely sat there, leaning back in his chair, one long leg crossed over other, inscrutably calm. Jack smirked, enjoying the show.

  “Juris,” Wells said, “this is Simon Cross, Elizabeth’s husband.”

  “Hoopsie, there goes the other one!” he said with a laugh. “Good thing I only have two feet, no?” He waved his gloves in apology. Abruptly, he stood and bowed. “Mr. Cross,” he said in a serious and dignified tone before plopping back down in his chair. He leaned over to Jack, nodded toward Simon and whispered loudly, “Is he going to hit me?”

  Simon casually fingered the stem of his water glass and regarded the little man with mild amusement.

  “I don’t think so,” Jack said. “At least not yet.”

  The waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne and four glasses.

  “In that case, we drink!” Juris said.

  The waiter made a show of opening the bottle the bottle and pouring the glasses. Juris carefully slid his glass to the edge of the table and grasped it by the base. He raised it in a toast, “Prieka!”

  He took a sip, rolled his eyes and squirmed in ecstasy.

  Elizabeth tried not to giggle and sipped her wine. Champagne made her silly, sillier than usual, and always left her regretting it.

  “Quite good actually,” Simon said inspecting the bubbles.

  Jack, who didn’t look like he drank much champagne, downed the entire glass in one swig and fought back an oncoming burp.

  “Philistine,” Juris said, but then quickly added. “Do not misunderstand. I am glad the Americans are here, especially you,” he said as he patted the back of Elizabeth’s hand. “The soldiers are useful, but not such pleasant company.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, our friend Jack is giving you the skimpy.”

  “The skinny,” Jack corrected.

  “Yes, skinny, this is what I mean. The key—May I?” he asked Jack.

  “Sure.”

  “Everyone gets caught up in all of this,” Juris said motioning around the room. “They try to outsmart each other and see who can throw a knife the farthest. But this is not how the game is really played. It is not out there. It is in here.” He tapped her head and then pointed to her chest. “And here.” His finger and gaze lingered a little too long. “Oh, to play a game there.”

  Elizabeth nearly laughed out loud.

  “Now that’s a come-on,” Jack said with a grin.

  “You wound me. A come-on? Pffft. I am trying to make love to a beautiful woman,” he said quickly glancing at Simon, “but I should do it with no hands.” He held up his hands to show Simon who looked a little less amused than before.

  “I’d rather you didn’t do it at all,” Simon said.

  “I seem to have discovered a third foot.” He stood and took Elizabeth’s hand. “I am afraid I must pull myself away from your side.” He leaned in and stage whispered, “If he should die in the war, most tragically, I would…”

  Something close to a growl came from Simon as he stood up. He towered over Juris who had to bend his neck back to look up at Simon. “You are very tall.”

  Elizabeth was about to scold Simon for going needlessly Cro-Magnon when she saw the smile tugging at his lips. “Mr. Zale,” Simon said with a slight incline of his head.

  Juris looked once more anxiously at Simon, bowed to them all in turn, flashing Elizabeth his best “I still want you” look and scurried away.

  Jack laughed out loud.

  “He’s harmless,” Elizabeth said.

  Simon sat down, quite satisfied with himself. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Philistine,” Jack said with a grin.

  The rest of lunch was more of the same. Jack pointed out several more spies, including a man from Luxembourg, Paul Majerus, who was so stylish he actually pulled off wearing a cape, and an attractive French woman, Michele Renaud, who was cold and beautiful and a dead ringer for Coco Chanel.

  After lunch, Jack brought them back to his suite. First thing he did was turn on his wireless set and find some American big band music. The first time Elizabeth didn’t think anything of it. Now, she realized it was to interfere with any listening devices. The music would make it nearly impossible for any of the old equipment to pick up their conversation cleanly.

  “So,” Jack said. “What did you learn at the hospital?”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but Simon interrupted.

  “Nothing yet,” he said. “He recognized us, but he’s not quite all there yet.”

  “He didn’t say anything about the Shard?”

  Elizabeth and Simon had discussed whether they should trust Jack and, not surprisingly, had disagreed. In the end, Simon’s logic had won out. A gambler never shows his cards before he has to. But now, under Jack’s probing stare, Elizabeth wasn’t sure she could keep the truth from him.

  Simon stepped into the void. “I think we can make progress with more visits though. It’s going to take some time, I’m afraid.”


  Elizabeth felt the weight of Jack’s eyes on her and tried to concentrate on the music. If she looked him in the eyes, he’d know she was lying. She was sure of it. Luckily, Jack didn’t push the matter. If he didn’t believe Simon, he gave no sign of it.

  “Can’t expect miracles, I guess.”

  “No,” Simon said. “And in the meantime, I’d like to do a little research. I’m a little rusty on a few points.”

  “About the Shard?”

  “And the mythos it comes from. You never know what sort of detail might be important.”

  “That makes sense,” Jack said. “Where do you go to do something like that?”

  “I doubt the library will have much, but it’s certainly worth a try. I was thinking about exploring a few antiquarian bookshops. It might be a fool’s errand, but there are a few volumes I’d very much like to see. Of course, there’s Nibelungenlied, and Aesir & Venir, The Codex Regius. And I think it would be wise to refresh my memory of the Oyenskitter Grimoire. It’s been years since I researched Wotan and Norse mythology. Oh, and perhaps even an original text of the Volsungs. That would be fascinating.”

  “Fascinating,” Jack said, clearly not as excited as Simon.

  She had to give Simon a lot of credit. He’d done a masterful job of giving them a legitimate reason to look for the book Evan had mentioned without drawing attention to it. She was going to have to get wily and fast if she was going to keep up and not give up the game.

  “He gets that way with research,” Elizabeth said. “I think it’s kind of sexy.”

  It was clear Jack couldn’t wrap his mind around that. “If you say so. I’ll leave the professoring to you. Just be careful. Hans might be dead, but I doubt it. He’s a tough son of a bitch.”

  She’d been so caught up in everything else, she’d managed to push that to the back of her mind. It was a sobering though. For a wake-up call, nothing beats having a Nazi killer after you.

  “Do you think he’ll come after us again?” she asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably?” Simon said. “Forgive me if I fail to find that reassuring.”

  “It isn’t meant to be.” Jack frowned and shook his head. “I wish you two weren’t mixed up in this, but there’s no way out now. If Hans knew you were the key to what Eldridge knows about the shard, then five’ll get you ten, everybody else does too. And, don’t kid yourself, this game is for keeps. If it gets them what they want, every one of those charming people downstairs will put a bullet in your skull without thinking twice.”

  The excitement from a few minutes ago fled in a hurry.

  “The stakes are about as high as they can get,” Jack continued. “I don’t know if I believe all this mystical stuff, but if this shard thing can give them the edge, we sure as hell better get to it first.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Do you think we’re being followed?” Elizabeth asked as they stood together in the crowded underground car.

  “No doubt,” Simon said, “but remember what Wells said. This Hans or anyone else isn’t likely to try anything in broad daylight in front of witnesses.”

  “Right.” She let go of her handhold and wrapped her arms around Simon’s neck. “It is kind of exciting.”

  “The entire business is horrifying, ill-conceived and foolhardy,” he said as he frowned deeply. “The only exciting thing will be if we manage to survive.”

  Elizabeth pouted. “The only thing?”

  He let out a deep breath and pulled her closer. His frown melted away, mostly, and was replaced with something definitely smoldery. “No, not the only thing.”

  She grinned and pushed herself up on tiptoes to kiss him.

  The next thing she knew people around her were shouldering to get out.

  “This is us,” Simon said. “Tottenham Court.”

  The surge of people exiting the station carried them up the stairs and they spilled out onto the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Charing Cross.

  Simon took his bearings. “It’s a pity the museum is closed.”

  “The British Museum?” She’d always wanted to go there. It was one of those magical places where the past met the present. It was a feeling she knew all too well.

  “I’m afraid all of the collections are housed in underground facilities to protect them from bombing.”

  Simon must have read her mind or at the very least seen the disappointment in her face. “When we return home, we’ll go. I think you’d enjoy it. But for now,” he said, nodding down Charing Cross Road, “we have a book to find.”

  They’d agreed never to ask about just The Book of Iona, but always be sure to include several other volumes in each inquiry. Simon had given her a list of other tomes they could throw into the mix to keep everyone guessing. At least that was the plan.

  They walked south down Charing Cross Road, which slowly led them back toward home. The first two stores were a complete bust, but the third seemed promising. The owner had at least heard of The Book of Iona. It was a late 15th century book of poetry with no real significance other than its age and scarcity. He suggested they try another seller just past Leicester Square. They bought two small, irrelevant books and left.

  As Simon and Elizabeth left the shop, she noticed a couple window-shopping across the street. It was Renaud and Majerus, the French woman and the man from Luxembourg. Even though they weren’t Russian, she thought of them as her own personal Boris and Natasha. But really, if Majerus was trying to blend in, he should have traded his cape for a Chesterfield at the very least.

  “We’ve got company,” Elizabeth said rolling her eyes in the direction that they were standing.

  Simon nodded. “Yes, I saw them. I think the Russian’s behind us.”

  “Spies on parade!”

  “Elizabeth,” Simon chided as he choked back a laugh.

  “How about one more shop then back to the hotel. I don’t want to be wandering around after dark if we can help it.” The afternoon sun was already beginning to dip behind the brick buildings that lined the street.

  “Agreed.”

  John Smith’s Bookshoppe smelled like dust and tea and stillness. A little old man, who must have been eleven hundred years old, peered at them over tiny spectacles as the bell rang announcing their entrance. Stacks of books teetered precariously in the aisles and stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. Shelves overflowed with books. Every nook and cranny had a volume tucked into it. They carefully inched their way between the bookcases.

  Cookbooks were mixed in with medieval armor and Oscar Wilde with Alexander Pope. If there was a method to the madness, it was lost on them. After a few minutes of aimless wandering, Simon picked his way back to the front desk.

  “Excuse me,” Simon said. “I’m looking for a few particular volumes.”

  “A place for everything and everything in its place,” the little man said with a slight Irish accent and even slighter interest.

  “Yes, to be sure. It’s just that I can’t quite figure out the way the books are organized. Is there a key?”

  The man looked up at Simon and tapped his head with a bony finger. “All in here.”

  “Of course. You don’t happen to have the Codex Regius or Aesir & Venir?”

  The man squinted. “Yes and no. Back wall, center case, third shelf, red binding. Ten pounds. And to the other? No.”

  Simon was suitably appalled and impressed. “Ten quid? That’s outrageous.”

  The man just shrugged.

  “Hmph. I don’t suppose you have the Book of Iona?”

  “Did. Don’t anymore. Don’t expect to see it again.”

  “You did have it though.”

  Elizabeth heard the excitement in Simon’s voice and joined him at the counter.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to it?”

  The shopkeeper frowned up at Simon and pursed his lips. “It sprouted legs and walked out. What do you think happened to it
? It sold.”

  “Do you know who bought it?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Of course, I do. I’m old, not daft.”

  “Whom did you sell it to?” Simon asked.

  “Whom,” the man said with displeasure, “I sell my books to is my business and not yours.”

  “Couldn’t you make an exception?” Elizabeth asked. “Just this one time?”

  The little man was about to say something sour when he noticed the two ten pound notes Simon had place on the counter.

  “For the Codex,” Simon said.

  The shopkeeper nearly drooled at the sight of so much money. Twenty pounds was a month’s pay for most men in 1942. His hands shook as he took it.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Go get the book.”

  When Elizabeth returned with the book, he scribbled something onto a receipt pad and wrapped the book in crumpled brown paper. He handed them both to Simon.

  “The name?”

  The man waggled a finger at the receipt.

  Simon turned it over and scrawled in barely legible script was a name and partial address. “Thank you.”

  The man nodded, pursed his lips and waved them to the door. “Now, get out.”

  Simon held the door open for Elizabeth and they both heard the door lock behind them. The hastily turned “closed” sign swung behind the glass. Simon put the receipt into his breast pocket and tucked their bundle under his arm.

  “Bloomsbury isn’t far,” he said, “It’s just back by the museum and the university. I think the address is a business or an office, and it’s got to be near five by now. I think we’d better wait until tomorrow.”

  Elizabeth looked back at their shadows and hoped they’d wait too.

  The streets were emptying as the sun set, but they were still awash with every uniform imaginable — Canadian, Free French, and American. Sometimes the Americans seemed to outnumber the Londoners. Always trailing along behind a band of US soldiers, the “snowdrop” or MP with his white helmet kept the men in line. Mostly.