by M. L. Huie
After a late lunch in the hotel restaurant, she hurried back to her room because she’d forgotten to ring Price, Kemsley’s man in Washington. He picked up on the second ring as if waiting for the call.
“Miss—what was it again?—That’s right, Nash. Now listen, I need you to do a bit of fact finding for me.”
Livy pulled a Statler Hotel monogrammed notepad from the bedside table and doodled as he spoke. His nasal whine grated on her nerves.
“The thing is, Mrs. Truman is a very different sort of first lady than our last one. She basically shuns the press, but women here are interested in what she has to say, especially with next year being an election year. I mean, of course, girls are concerned with which man can keep the peace and create jobs, but they want to know more about the First Lady, too. You know that old saying: ‘Clothes make the man.’ Well, why don’t we turn it on its ear and size her up by looking at Mrs. Truman’s fashion sense? I mean she certainly wasn’t born yesterday exactly, but …”
Livy threw in the occasional “mm-hm” and drew concentric circles on the notepad until Price got to the point. He wanted a thumbnail of Bess Truman’s contribution to American fashion. He’d set up an interview tomorrow for Livy with a prominent design expert in the city.
“Make sure you get her bonafides. Can you make it at two? That’s swell.”
And so on and so on.
She wrote down the address, the time, and Get her bonafides.
Livy ordered room service and read the Post while trying to finish one of the largest turkey sandwiches she’d ever seen. She ended the night with a glass of milk and was in bed before ten. Thoughts of Yuri Kostin having a knife fight with Curly from Oklahoma, Margot in prison, and her own two weeks in a Gestapo jail fought for space in her head until she finally succumbed to sleep.
Sometime later, she woke up. Light spilled through the bedroom door from the living room. She didn’t remember leaving that light on. Before she could glance at the clock to check the time, something at the foot of her bed moved. It stood.
A man.
Chapter Thirteen
Livy bolted upright, her heart hammering.
Yuri Kostin walked along her bedside and turned on the lamp. Livy shielded her eyes from the brightness. The first thing she saw when they reopened was a pistol dangling from the Russian’s right hand. The bedside lamp lit half of Kostin’s face, leaving most of the room in a deep blue shadow.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she blurted out. The shock surged through her nerves. Under the sheet, she clenched her right hand in a fist, but before she could make a move, Kostin sat beside her and put a finger to his lips.
“Don’t wake the other guests.” His voice was soft and level.
Her hand burst up through the sheet and knocked his gun hand to the side. At the same time, she slashed the hard edge of her right hand toward his neck. The Russian caught her wrist with his left hand and shoved her back against the headboard. Her head slammed into the carved wood. By the time she recovered, the black barrel of Kostin’s weapon was pointed at her chest.
“I told you to be quiet. Did I not?”
Livy didn’t like this. Beyond the fact that a man with a gun had broken into her hotel room in the middle of the night, something about Kostin’s calm demeanor worried her. She felt vulnerable, cornered, and that made her want to fight to the end.
Kostin stood and backed away from the bed, keeping the gun on her.
“What we say here is private?” he asked.
“Yes.” If there were bugs in the room, the FBI hadn’t told her. Not that they would.
“You’re sure?”
“I imagine you checked when you broke into my room, so you know the answer already.”
Kostin grinned. He wore dark trousers, a black shirt, and a light gray houndstooth jacket. Livy figured he was the best-dressed Russian she’d ever seen. Even at—what time?—3:18 AM.
“What you gave us—we checked it. It was genuine, if a bit dated.”
“You didn’t give me a helluva lot of time.”
“No, I did not. But you see, if we work together, Livy, we have to learn to trust each other.”
“Says the man with the gun.”
The Russian laughed. “I always liked your accent. So charming.”
“I’m even more charming after I’ve had a bit of sleep.”
“Yesterday before you conveniently ran into me at the theatre, the U.S. Congress heard testimony from a traitor. He told the world that all diplomats are spies and that Comrade Stalin wants war.”
Livy leaned back, pushed a stray hair from her face and let that sink in. She’d read the same story in the paper. But should she tell him that? No, the question now was whether Livy—or the Livy she pretended to be for Kostin—would know.
“I’m a newspaper girl, Yuri, I don’t work in Whitehall. But I read what your man told the Yanks, and we both know what he said was mostly true.”
Kostin shook his head. “You sound like a politician.”
“I just think sometimes you lot don’t have a clue as to how to sell your ‘worldwide revolution’. But then I’m sure Uncle Joe knows best.”
“You do not sound very much like a woman who’s—how did you put it?—‘done with them.’”
Livy’s head felt clearer now, less panicked. But still on edge. She realized Kostin’s late-night visit had had been very purposeful. A surprise interrogation when she was at her most vulnerable. What had Keller called it? The testing, yes. She hoped Kostin hadn’t brought that nasty automatic along in case she got low marks.
“Luv, I’ve been done with them since before the end of the war,” she said, managing all the world-weariness she could muster. “They took what they could get from me, and from a lot of other women as well, and then put us back on the bottom rung of the ladder to clean and sew and wash the dirty dishes. I’m done with taking orders from them. For nothing.”
If Kostin believed her, he didn’t show it. He held the gun steady. “Then, you won’t mind telling me how a journalist such as yourself happens to have access to classified documents.”
“Because I’m not just a journalist.” Livy had to be careful here. She had to be selective with the truth. “They use me. They use us all. MI6. Whitehall. It all goes back to them. We may be making notes for a story, but all the raw material gets sent back to the big boys, and they sift through it for whatever they want.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“What? Where did I get that? I stole it. I report to the embassy here. There’s material marked ‘Confidential’ lying on secretaries’ desks all the time. Sometimes girls get careless with the files, you see. You get them talking about their Saturday nights and they forget. So, that bit I gave your violinist yesterday I took from an office and made a copy to give to you. I didn’t have much time, so I took what looked most current. Give me a little more notice, and I’ll see what I can get.”
Kostin’s finger tightened slightly on the trigger.
Livy felt pinned down, trapped. Like she might be sick all over the bed. But she said, “That’s going to wake the whole hall, you know.”
“I want to believe you, Livy,” the Russian said, sighing. “People betray their countries for many reasons. Money. Love. So, what is it you want in return?”
“Right now I want you to put that gun away.”
“This is not a damned joke,” he snapped.
“No, ’course not,” she said, softly. The time had come when she had to deliver the perfect line. The silk of the sheets felt tight against her legs. She wanted to get up. Pace the floor. But Kostin’s gun kept her confined to the bed. She took a breath. This would be the most important line in the show so far. She’d rehearsed it in her mind over and over. She hoped the audience bought it.
“I guess, I still think about the war. All the lads who died. On both sides. And what did it get us? We’re in the same exact place again. Only now the Yanks have a bomb that can kill
millions in an instant. Your lot will probably have it soon. Then what? We all just wait to see who blinks?
“So what do I want?” She paused. Livy’d watched a few top-flight actresses milk such a moment. They filled the empty space with every emotion in the book. She put her head back against the headboard, pulled her knees up, and crossed her arms. Defensive. Vulnerable. Aching.
“The same bloody thing I wanted two years ago when we first met, Yuri. Escape. It’s all that’s left.”
Kostin shifted back, waiting for more. “You think selling out your country will give you that?”
Livy leaned forward in the bed. The sheet fell. She had one pair of soft, blue silk pajamas. Fortunately she’d worn them tonight. No skin, but she knew they hugged her in the right places.
“What am I going to do now—is that what you’re asking? What’s left for me? Think my plan is to find some bank clerk and have babies. Ha, after what I’ve been through? I’m sick of being a gofer for someone who spent their war behind a desk. If they don’t want me, then the hell with them. With all of them.” The words came out naturally because that’s exactly how she felt a lot of the time. Having to justify her work to tossers who looked down on her. Maybe Fleming was right when he said this was her part to play.
“Guess that’s why I’m here and why I came to you.”
Livy saw his finger on the trigger relax. So slightly.
“And so this information was a peace offering. A gift?”
“What else do I have to offer you, Yuri?”
Kostin took another step back and sat down in the chair at the foot of the bed. He kept the gun up, but Livy could see him thinking through it all. The puzzle pieces would be a jumble in his head, but perhaps a rough shape had formed. A shape that might make sense to a man like him.
Livy didn’t give him time to think about it too much. “I may not be the one with the gun, but I’ve a question for you.”
He lifted his eyebrows as if to say, Go on.
“Why did you come here tonight? You could have waited. Could’ve sent someone else for that matter.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re not the one with the gun.”
Livy pushed hair from her eyes again, giving it a little Veronica Lake flourish. Can’t lay it on too thick. She smiled and said, “And I thought we had to learn to trust each other.”
“I need to know more about this aid plan of Truman’s and how your people will be involved. What else can you get for me?” He spoke quickly. The mood changed. Had she gotten too close? Too familiar?
“I can’t go back to the embassy tomorrow. It would seem suspicious. Maybe the day after.”
“Every minute counts right now.”
“I thought you were recruiting me. Aren’t we still in the wooing stage, luv?”
He blasted out of the chair. “I need as much as you can give me, or I let you go. You understand? There is too much risk. For me.”
Livy nodded, playing the chagrined, understanding confederate. Too much at risk for him? She’d bet the house he hadn’t meant to let that slip.
“I’ll try, Yuri. Give me an extra day, and I’ll get everything I can.”
Her words seem to soothe him, and the tension appeared to dissipate in his body. Kostin kept the gun pointed at her, but the lines in his forehead relaxed, as did his grip on the trigger.
“We both thought we were done after the war,” he said. His voice sounded tired. “At some point you wonder, ‘What else is there?’ Conflict that never ends? Perpetual war.”
Livy leaned back in bed. “It’s what they want. The politicians, the generals, MI6, the Yanks.”
“Do you know what we call them now? The Americans? The main adversary. It was Hitler. Now, Truman.”
Kostin had moved along the side of the bed. The black hole of the barrel pointed at the floor. His eyes seemed to have a bit of the gleam Livy remembered when they’d first met. They gave his long face dimension and life. She’d been madly attracted to him then. She’d craved him. Now? Even though she agreed with many of the things he said about the never-ending conflict and the weariness of it all, she’d never be that woman again. That poor Livy Nash who’d come home from France so damaged she could only find refuge in a bottle of bitter vodka.
“It’s late and I should let you sleep.”
Kostin’s words hung in the air. What the hell could Livy say? She knew what he wanted to hear. Every moment felt like another test.
“How do I contact you after tonight?”
“You don’t. I find you.”
“Ah, so I should just leave the door unlocked in case you want to stroll in here with your little gun tomorrow night?”
His smile widened. “Different places, different times. No more nightcaps.”
Livy wanted him out, but even more so she wanted the gun back in his belt or on a table. More charm. Keep the moment alive. She stretched underneath the sheets followed by a yawn that sounded more like “mmm.” “So, when I least expect it?”
Kostin nodded and dipped the gun to the bed just below her chest. With the black barrel, he dragged the sheet down her body slowly. The metal pulled the bedclothes over her stomach, her hips, and down around her thighs. The right corner of his mouth turned up.
“I knew those were silk,” he said.
Every part of her wanted to kick him across the room and pull the covers up to her chin. Instead, she lay there and said, “You know how good silk feels. Against your skin.”
Kostin laughed, ran a hand through his graying hair, and shoved the gun in his waistband. “You said your information was worth a drink or two.”
“Bit late for room service, though.”
He pivoted, bent down in front of the bed, and brought up a bottle of vodka. Condensation shone on it even in the dim light.
“I could not keep it at the right temperature in here, but it’s cold enough.” Kostin put the bottle on the table and turned to fetch two room glasses from the credenza.
Livy smiled, but inside her stomach quaked. She hadn’t had vodka in over a year. Kostin may have put away his gun, but he’d brought out another weapon in this skirmish. A weapon Livy knew too well. The bottle called to her like a lover from the past. She knew the first drink would go down hard. The second would awaken the craving. The third?
Kostin poured and held one glass out for her. Livy swung her legs off the bed, wanting to feel her feet on the ground and not the unsteady softness of the mattress. Her toes burrowed into the thick carpet. She wanted to sink into it.
“Let us drink to trusting each other,” the Russian said.
Livy’s mind flashed back to Anka—now a paranoid drunk—and wondered if her journey into the shadows had begun in a similar fashion.
“Livy?”
She took the glass. “To trust,” she said—and drank.
Chapter Fourteen
London
At precisely nine fifteen AM the next morning, Ian Fleming walked through the frosted door and into the outer office of the Kemsley News Service. He wore his usual single-breasted dark suit with a white Sea Island cotton shirt and blue bow tie. The morning was warm, so he didn’t have an overcoat. Fleming nodded at Pen and then took in the visitor who sat in the outer room.
Fleming pegged him as a courier immediately. He wasn’t dressed in a typical messenger uniform, but wore a dark suit and tie and had the no-nonsense air of a sergeant major in the Royal Army. He sat ramrod straight in the armchair, holding a thick black envelope across his lap, with both hands.
The breath caught in Fleming’s chest. At the moment, he had several correspondents spread across the world, doing intelligence work, but none of them were involved in anything as volatile and dangerous as the mission he’d assigned Olivia Nash. Without betraying his concern, Fleming cleared his throat and gestured for the courier to follow him into his office. He allowed the courier to go first, then turned to his secretary.
“Make sure we’re not disturbed, Pen.”
; Fleming disappeared inside, closing the secure door behind him. By the time he made his way around his desk and to his chair, the courier had prepared the delivery for exchange. A standard MI6 document, which served as an acknowledgment of the receipt of the courier’s package, lay on Fleming’s desk.
A bit more quickly than he intended, Fleming withdrew his Mont Blanc pen from inside his coat and signed his name across the bottom. He’d been through this particular ritual on many occasions, but today his pulse throbbed against the band of his Rolex as he scrawled his name. He wanted the courier gone and the package to be his.
Exactly one minute later, Fleming found himself alone in his office. The padded envelope had been taken away by the courier, and a plain manila folder lay on his desk. A paper ribbon with the inscription “Top Secret” sealed the delivery like a present.
Fleming looked down at the folder with a sense of dread. Which one of them could it be? Harrison in Prague? Sewell in Buenos Aires? His mind kept coming back to Livy. He felt the familiar ache in his chest. His doctor would not approve. “Cut back on the cigarettes and the alcohol,” he would say. “Perhaps your work is too stressful. Have you considered a holiday?”
Fleming listened to the familiar droning voice in his head and then promptly poured himself two fingers of Old Grand-Dad bourbon, and lit one of his specially blended cigarettes from Morland’s. He drew the smoke into his lungs and savored the first tang of the whiskey, sighed, and picked up the folder.
He used a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife from the war as a letter opener. He slit the paper ribbon across the folder, placed it on his desk, and opened the cover.
He saw the photograph first. It was a man lying on his side. His face was a mess. Blood surrounded the upper half of his body.
Fleming breathed a sigh of relief.
He took another sip of the drink and looked more closely at the image. The man in the photograph was obviously dead. He wore a black suit that seemed almost two sizes too big for him. His hair was thick and dark. The body appeared to be lying in an alley. Fleming saw cobblestones underneath and a scattering of cigarettes butts at the man’s feet. The blood in the photograph seemed to originate from the man’s face and the back of his head. Fleming had seen enough such pictures to presume the victim had been shot at least twice in the face.