by M. L. Huie
* * *
When Eric Dalby felt particularly taxed at work, he sought refuge in the full English breakfast served at O’Flaherty’s. The day after his visit to see Livy Nash was one such morning. He sat in a back corner at a table that was little more than a shelf with two chairs. The corner felt quiet and shadowy, which suited him perfectly.
Anthony, the landlord, brought out the full plate, including black pudding, and placed it in front of the MI6 man. Dalby heard the front door open. He glanced up. Another customer. A man. Dalby had just dipped his knife into the jam when he realized the newcomer was walking to his table.
Never a field man, Dalby felt a bit threatened. He held the knife steady in his hand.
The man was still ten feet away when Dalby finally recognized him. They’d never actually met, although Dalby was more than familiar with the man’s file. He looked shorter in person.
Georgi Sokolov sat down on the bench opposite Dalby. His round glasses didn’t hide the lines of anxiety around his eyes.
“You know who I am?” the Russian asked.
“I do.”
The landlord passed by, wondering if Sokolov might want the same.
“Just tea.”
When they were alone again, the Russian spoke quietly. “We have a problem, Mr. Dalby. You understand what I am referring to?”
“I believe so.” Dalby sipped his tea, trying to appear relaxed.
“We work in a profession that sometimes puts us at odds with each other. However, I have always felt that we share a mutual respect. The British are true professionals, which is why this breach in our friendship troubles me so much.”
Dalby caught the veiled threat. “What exactly troubles you?”
Sokolov bristled. “I have a problem. A problem concerning one of my people, created by one of your people. So, you see, I need a solution. This situation must be made right. If you will not help me, then I will have to resort to other means.”
Subtle as usual for a Russian, but Dalby recognized the implicit warning. He felt bad enough about the orders from London he’d been asked to carry out yesterday. He didn’t know Livy Nash, but what he knew of her he admired. She didn’t deserve how she’d been treated, and he’d be damned if he’d feed her to Sokolov.
“It’s safe to say you’d be wise to use caution as well. That’s about the most help that I can offer you.”
The landlord brought Sokolov’s tea, giving him a sideways look as he left the table. The Russian was behind enemy lines in this pub.
Sokolov took one sip and fetched a few coins from the pocket of his gray wool suit coat.
He said, “Our business is not one where we can allow a provocation such as this to go unanswered, Mr. Dalby. Enjoy your breakfast.”
The Russian stood and calmly walked out.
Chapter Thirty-Two
London
Henry Dunbar took his drink into the library of Brooks’s Gentleman’s Club to get away from the noise of the gaming room and the incessant chatter in the dining area. He had the room to himself. A blessing after the day he’d had. Dunbar dropped down into one of the studded leather sofas and placed his gin and tonic on the small round table next to it.
The room felt intimate and cozy. At his right stood the grand fireplace, presided over by a portrait of the wigged Duke of Portland, one of the twenty-seven men who’d founded the club in the eighteenth century. A dozen or so of the other founders watched over him from their frames on the wall behind. Everywhere else, books with leather bindings recessed into tall, oak shelves. He felt bolstered by their presence.
The drink was just how he liked it. Here, all he had to do was tell the steward, “The usual,” and the rest was taken care of. He put his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps two seconds.
He heard his name.
Dunbar blinked. Boyd, the steward, stood in the doorway. Tall, elegant posture despite his age, a calling card in his gloved hand.
“My apologies, sir, but you have a guest.”
Dunbar held out his hand for the card. He read the name and felt a twitch in his eyebrow. He couldn’t send him away. Not here of all places. Bad form. Tongues would wag. The “guest” knew that, of course.
“Yes, fine. Send him back, Boyd.”
The steward left. Dunbar had just enough time to finish his drink before Ian Fleming joined him. He sat in the matching sofa opposite and pulled out his cigarette case.
“Another, Boyd.” Dunbar held up his glass. “Bring the Commander whatever he wants.”
“Bourbon and branch water. Neat,” Fleming said and lit his cigarette. “First time I’ve ever been to your club, Henry. How quaint.”
“What do you want, Ian?”
“You asked for my help. You gave us half the information we needed, and then you left my correspondent stranded. At present she is in the custody of the FBI. So, I’d say you should start with an explanation.”
“Oh don’t pretend to be hurt. You know how the game is played. I told you what you needed to know about the Dupont girl. And as far as Livy is concerned, you knew the risk. I was quite clear when I came to you with this.”
Boyd appeared with a tray and two drinks. Then he faded away.
Fleming didn’t touch the drink. He placed his cigarette in an ashtray and leaned forward. He set his jaw and glared at Dunbar.
“How long has Margot Dupont been a double?”
“Since the end of the war. I had her trained for what she was about to do. Planted her so she’d look like a POW. Perfect opportunity to get someone inside the Russian zone. And because, as former SOE, she was irresistible to them. She was picked up by the Russians and taken to another camp first. We had a contact there already set up that met with her. A guard at the camp who was working for us. So she fed the Reds out-of-date operational tripe. The Firm was off the book, so it was all useless, of course. But the Reds didn’t know that. And Margot was able to be our eyes and ears in their zone. She sent back everything through this guard we had there. She was a damned good source. Then, about six months ago she went off the radar. Most of us had given her up for dead until we got that wireless signal.”
“Sounds like a very brave woman.”
“Right now I’m just hoping she’s still alive,” Dunbar snapped.
“You have a plan to get her out?”
“We don’t leave our people behind.”
“Really? Seems to me that’s precisely what you’re doing with Olivia.”
“Blame yourself then, old man. I told you this was off the books. Besides that, she’s created a damn firestorm over there in Washington,” Dunbar said, raising his voice. He caught himself, took a breath, and leaned forward. “We’ll be cleaning up her mess for God knows how long.”
“She found your agent for you, dammit,” Fleming snapped back.
The two men drank and smoked. Noises from the interior of the club drifted back into the library. The clinking of glasses, the rattle of silverware, the voices of men. Fleming broke the silence.
“Henry, you gave me a false bill of sale. I’m asking you now to make it right. There’s only one way you can do that.”
“What’s done is done. The FBI might very well recommend to us Livy be tried for treason. There’s also a good chance that she could be charged with murder. Should she somehow manage to avoid all that, then the Soviets will find her and make an example of her. So, I’d say, under the circumstances, Livy’s not doing too badly where she is right now.”
Fleming crossed one of his long legs over the other and smiled. “You must admit it is a fascinating story, isn’t it? Young British woman forced to go undercover. Living the life of a double agent among the dangerous Russians until finally she surrenders her virtue to one of the Godless Soviets. All for King and Country. To rescue another young woman rotting away in a prison camp. Quite the inspiring story of sacrifice. I dare say it could also sell a lot of newspapers.”
Dunbar scoffed. “Just what the devil are you playing at?�
��
“Precisely what I said. A story like that—filled with sex and sadism—would be a national sensation. If the wire services get hold of it, it could go worldwide.” Fleming’s eyes flashed and his wide mouth grinned impishly.
“The Times would never run that. Before they even consider it, they’d call us first, and we’d have the story buried.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I do have the facts to back it up. The real question is, can you afford to take that chance?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nights continued to be miserable for Livy. The metal cot felt like the rack. She grew more irritable. She snapped at Glasses when she announced, “Lights out,” promptly at ten.
When she’d first arrived at the Bureau facility, she craved alcohol every night. She lay in bed, her hands trembling. That continued for more than a week. But with no alcohol on the menu, the yearning calmed down. Her relapse into a bottle had only lasted two weeks.
At least the FBI had done her the favor of drying her out.
The interrogation routine proceeded without fail for the duration of her stay with the U.S. Government. Livy stuck to her vow of silence, even after her own embassy failed to help her. That might have explained the urgency she felt during the final rounds of questioning. It seemed as if some higher-up had said, “Look, we need answers out of the British girl, and we need them now.”
The questions didn’t change, though. Just the way they were asked. Regardless, Livy stonewalled them. Without fail. Every day.
This morning though had an altogether different feel.
After she woke up and was escorted to the washroom by Glasses, Livy returned to the converted office and found the linen stripped from both cots. Her side table, with its lamp and stack of newspapers with unfinished crosswords, had been cleared away.
The routine continued, however, and she was marched up one flight and down the hall to the white interrogation room with the table and metal chairs.
She waited. That was, of course, part of the routine too, but this morning the delay was unusually long. An hour or more went by before Livy even heard footsteps in the hallway outside.
The interrogator opened the door. Today, he wore a navy blazer over his white shirt and black tie. He carried his usual notebook and pencils, with the addition of a manila folder.
He sat down, opened the folder, and pushed it across the table to Livy.
“Read it.”
She did. Quickly the first time, and then slowly a second.
The interrogator slid a ballpoint pen across the desk to her.
He said, “Sign it and you can go.”
* * *
The brief affidavit explained that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had, in no way, directed the British national Olivia Nash to conduct operations in the United States, and that they were not responsible for her actions. First, her own government and now America had thrown her out with the bathwater. She didn’t complain. She’d had enough.
Livy signed the paper.
After the interrogator left, without so much as a goodbye, Glasses escorted her to the washroom down the hall. Inside, Livy found the clothes she’d worn the day she arrived. The blouse and skirt had been laundered. The stain, with Yuri Kostin’s blood, completely washed out. Say what you will about the FBI, but they run a competent laundry service.
Having worn FBI-issued frocks for two weeks, Livy felt more than a little like her old self putting on her own clothes. She wondered how long that feeling would last once she got outside.
Glasses walked her upstairs to the front doors. She returned Livy’s purse, sans the Colt .32, and said, “They’re waiting outside.”
A new-looking Ford coupe was parked at the curb. Eric Dalby stood beside the car, along with a smartly dressed older woman. Dalby stepped forward. In his right hand he held Livy’s passport.
“I’m glad to see you again, Miss Nash,” he said. “This way, if you don’t mind.”
* * *
“We dropped by The Statler and picked up your things,” Dalby said over his shoulder as he maneuvered the Ford through DC traffic. “We had to throw our weight around a bit to get them to unlock your room. The hotel has quite a number of important guests, and the staff there can be very protective, believe you me.”
Livy sat in the back seat, next to the well-dressed woman. They hadn’t spoken to each other. She felt a bit shell-shocked, like she’d been hibernating in a cave and hadn’t seen the sun in years.
The day was bright and a bit cooler. The car drove through clean suburban neighborhoods. American flags dotted the landscape even a few weeks after the celebration of Independence Day. Men in shorts pushed lawnmowers across their lawns. She saw two little boys throwing a baseball in a park. The world had indeed kept spinning during her extended stay with the Russians and then the Americans.
It comforted Livy to hear Dalby’s posh accent after feeling like an alien around her captors. Was that what they’d been? She looked down and found her left hand trembling slightly. Her breath was audible. She still felt the pain of Gennady and Kostin’s blows in her jaw when she chewed. Even after two weeks, her throat felt rough, and her neck and shoulders stiffened every time she moved.
The views outside Dalby’s car couldn’t be more peaceful, and yet Livy didn’t feel safe yet. She thought back to how she’d felt before Anka, before coming to America, before Kostin and the FBI. Had she changed after all she’d been through? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even smiled. A quick glance in the rearview mirror told her all she needed to know. The lines around her mouth had hardened. She held her trembling hand and thought about Margot and tried to imagine finally seeing her. Then she’d smile.
Traffic picked up as they headed into Alexandria on the Jefferson Davis Highway. Livy wondered if they were close to the Howard Johnson’s where she’d met Keller the morning after Kostin broke into her hotel room.
Her body craved a drink, but she’d settle for an ice cream.
“Where are we going?” Livy said.
“National Airport,” Dalby replied. “That was part of the deal we made with the Americans. We’re sending you home.”
“What changed?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Last time we met, Mr. Dalby, you told me I was a journalist and nothing more.”
Dalby looked in the rearview at her. His eyes were kind. “Someone’s looking out after you, Miss Nash.” His eyes suddenly shifted. “A black Dodge has been with us for about the last ten minutes. Does it look familiar at all to you?”
Livy turned in her seat to get a look. The Dodge was the second car behind them, but keeping pace steadily. She could make out two big men in the front seat. Square shoulders and hats down over their faces. Would it be the Soviets or the Americans? They both had reason to make sure she was leaving, but her money was on the Russians.
The Ford had been on the same stretch of road for several miles. A railroad track ran alongside, with a service road running parallel to the right of the highway. Just beyond Livy could see a train yard with several dirty buildings surrounded by freight cars that looked in need of repair.
Dalby kept flicking his eyes from the rearview to the car’s big side mirrors. The smartly dressed woman beside Livy held both hands in her lap. When Livy looked at her, she forced a nervous smile.
Definitely the Russians, Livy thought.
Dalby made a sudden right down a hill headed toward the rail yards. The Ford shook as the big car ran over the track at more speed than Dalby might’ve intended.
“Bit of a detour,” he said. “Let’s see if they follow.”
Livy turned in her seat. The black Dodge was about three car lengths back, just taking the turn now.
“I assume it’s me they want,” Livy said. It wasn’t a question.
Dalby didn’t reply. Instead, he took the first left onto the service road, giving the car a bit more gas.
“Let’s just get you to the airport, shall we?” he said.
Livy detected more than a note of tension in the man’s voice.
Dalby pushed the Ford harder. Dust kicked up around the car, partially blocking Livy’s view on either side. She turned. The Dodge was right behind them now.
The woman beside her gripped the door handle. Livy took a deep breath and wished she were behind the wheel. She’d been taken for one too many rides of late.
The Ford braked. Livy looked up and saw another car about a hundred feet ahead. It too had just turned off the highway and was headed in the direction of Dalby’s car. As the Ford slowed, Livy saw the new arrival turn and stop.
They were setting up a roadblock.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Mr. Dalby, what’s happening?” The woman beside Livy sounded on the verge of panic.
Dalby slowed the car to a halt. The vehicle in front parked across the dirt road thirty feet away. Livy turned to see the black Dodge behind doing the same.
No one spoke for almost a minute. Finally, Dalby turned in his seat. “Miss Nash, I’d like you to stay put, please. Lock the doors and let me handle this.”
Up ahead, the doors of the car in front opened. A big man in a linen suit and fedora stepped out of the passenger side. Livy recognized the man who came from the back seat. She remembered the glasses and the cold smile of Georgi Sokolov.
“You know that man?” Livy asked Dalby.
“I do, yes.”
“He’s not here to talk.”
“No, I shouldn’t think so.”
Livy waited. Did Dalby have a plan? He’d steered them off the road to confirm the tail and had ended up putting them into the worst possible situation.