Nightshade

by M. L. Huie

Ahead, the two Russians stood in front of the car. Waiting.

  “Mr. Dalby, we can’t just sit here.”

  “Right. ’Course not.”

  He doesn’t know what to do. Livy checked the car in back. It hadn’t moved. The men still sitting inside.

  She looked forward. They could only be here for one reason. To take her. Fine, then. If they were here for her, then she’d give them whatever she had left. Livy’d seen enough roadblocks for one lifetime, and she’d be damned if this one stopped her.

  She leaned forward in her seat. Her voice quiet and urgent. “Listen to me now, Mr. Dalby. I’ve been in situations like this, and there’s one way out. In just a moment, I want you to put the car in reverse and give it everything you’ve got.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The petrol. Reverse, step on the petrol, and aim at the driver’s side tire of that car behind us. Hit the edge not straight on, understand? We’re going to ram them, and it’s going to shake the whole car. Then turn the wheel, put us in drive, and get us back on that highway. How far’s the airport from here?

  “A few miles perhaps, but—”

  “Mr. Dalby, you have to trust me. I’ve been through this before. In the war. We get one chance.” Livy looked up. Sokolov and the other man in front stepped away from the car and headed toward them. “And we can’t let them get much closer. Ready now?”

  “I think so. Yes. Ready.”

  The woman beside Livy in the back had begun to cry a bit.

  “Those people are coming for me. I’m sorry you’re both involved, but we’ll get out of here. Right, Mr. Dalby, it’s time.”

  He let out a long breath and then reached for the gearshift on the steering column. With one sudden jerk, he put the car into reverse and then, as Livy suggested, jammed his foot on the gas.

  The Ford’s big engine roared as the back tires spun, kicking up dust all around. Dalby leaned over the front seat, trying to see behind through the cloud of dirt. The engine screeched as they closed the gap, with the Dodge in the rear.

  “Hold on tight,” Livy told the woman next to her. She grabbed the front seat just as the Ford slammed hard into the car behind. It felt like an earthquake. The vehicle jolted and rocked. The impact pulled Livy out of her seat like a doll and flung her against the padded front seat. Dust was everywhere. The woman beside Livy screamed. But before they could reorient themselves after the crash, Dalby spun the wheel hard. The entire car whipped around one hundred and eighty degrees, bashing into the Dodge again as the Ford righted itself, pointing in the direction of the exit they’d taken off the main highway.

  Dalby had done it all perfectly. At least until the car stalled.

  Livy glanced over her shoulder. Through the dust, she saw the Dodge, battered and spun around. Smoke poured from of its hood. Behind them, Sokolov’s car had just started and was moving after them.

  “Mr. Dalby!” Livy shouted.

  “Not to worry.”

  He turned the key, bringing the engine back to life, slammed the gearshift into drive, and stepped on the gas hard. Livy’s head whiplashed, throwing her body into the back seat. Dalby didn’t let up. The Ford bumped and skittered over the dirt road and then turned right, back to the main road. The big car bounced as its wheels caught on the asphalt. Ahead lay the Jefferson Davis Highway. Traffic looked light, but Dalby didn’t slow down. The car hit the railroad tracks with two hard thumps as the Ford bounded into the line of cars. Horns squealed all around them as Dalby forced his way into traffic.

  He smiled into the rearview at Livy. The color had drained from his face, but his eyes were bright.

  “Not bad,” Livy said.

  “Can’t have you missing your flight, can we?”

  * * *

  About twenty minutes later, the Ford pulled into the departure area of National Airport. The Dodge coupe—with a sizable dent in its front end—followed them the rest of the way. The Russians kept a healthy distance, but nevertheless did nothing to disguise their intentions. If they couldn’t have Livy Nash, they apparently wanted to make sure she left town.

  The Ford stopped in the departure zone amid other cars pulling in and out, all discharging passengers. Dalby jumped out and headed down the walkway in the direction of a uniformed DC policeman. A minute later, a man in a gray suit joined them as Dalby pleaded his case. Livy couldn’t resist turning around to catch another glimpse of the battered Dodge.

  “You all right then?” Livy asked the smartly dressed woman next to her.

  “I’ve never been through anything like that. But I’m fine. We’ll get you on that plane.”

  The car door opened, and Dalby slid back into the driver’s seat. The car surged away from the curb.

  “We’re getting you as close to the plane as possible,” he said. “They’ve given us permission to park on the tarmac.”

  Livy nodded and thanked him, but she wondered if her life had forever changed. The Russians wouldn’t stop chasing her once she boarded that plane. They’d have someone at the airport in London. They’d have someone at her flat. They wouldn’t stop until they had revenge for Kostin’s death, which meant she was about to enter an altogether different prison on the other side of the Atlantic.

  They drove behind parked planes as they made their way across the runway to a big DC-3. Already, passengers walked single file out of the terminal to the stairs descending from the opened door of the twin-engine plane.

  The Ford stopped about fifty yards away. Dalby got out first, opening the boot and pulling out Livy’s own suitcase. The well-dressed woman came around to Livy. She handed her a folded ticket and checked to make sure she had her passport. Dalby put the suitcase in her hand.

  Livy wasn’t use to this kind of caretaking. She’d been beaten and held captive for the better part of three weeks, so she kept her mouth shut and grudgingly allowed them to baby her.

  “I’d say you should take it from here, Miss Nash.” Dalby had to almost yell. The noise of the planes drowned out all other sound. “Bit of a walk, but we’ll be right here the entire time. Someone will be waiting for you at London airport. With any luck, you may even be able to get some sleep during the flight.”

  The wind whipped through Livy’s hair. The question had nagged her since that awful day at the American dacha. She’d pushed it away, rationalized countless answers, but now she had one last opportunity to get an answer before embarking on the long journey home. So she turned and grabbed Dalby’s hand, holding it tight and looking him in the eyes. “Mr. Dalby, I need to know something. Was Margot Dupont one of ours?”

  He hesitated and then leaned next to her ear. “One of ours? Let me put it like this: if I have my way, she’ll be in line for an Order of the British Empire from the king.”

  Livy didn’t know what to say. After all she’d been through, for one moment, her heart felt almost full. She nodded and turned toward the plane.

  * * *

  Livy sat alone on the last row of the DC-3 as it began its descent into London Airport. Exhaustion had overtaken her during the flight. Shortly after takeoff, she’d allowed the steady whirring of the big propellers to help her drift off to sleep. The airline seats had proven far more comfortable than that bloody contraption the FBI had called a bed.

  Now, as the plane lowered its altitude in preparation for landing, she wondered what home would be like. Not exactly the sort of trip where one heads back to the flat, puts her feet up on the ottoman, and catches up on old newspapers. For she was no longer the girl reporter who’d been a spy during the war. She’d killed an MGB officer, the man handpicked to be Berlin rezident.

  What did that make her? A marked woman? Disavowed by her country and sent packing by its closest ally. She’d never been good at seeing her future clearly. Things happened and she reacted. Now, with her world so cloaked in shadow, Livy figured she had no choice but to take each moment as it came. Like it might be her last.

  After the plane landed, she was the last to disembark. She walk
ed across the tarmac, collected her bag from the cart, and stepped cautiously into the terminal building. A young man about her own age walked just ahead of her. He had the familiar slow gait of the weary transatlantic traveler. Suddenly his pace quickened, and he put his arm around a beaming young redhead who stood just inside the gate.

  Livy found herself distracted enough by their reunion that she almost missed seeing the man who stood beyond. He leaned, one might say jauntily, against a kiosk bearing the familiar seaman logo of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes.

  As he saw her, Ian Fleming smiled. He didn’t stop grinning until he took her bag and said, “Welcome home, Olivia. We’ve been lost without you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  They put her in a safe house in Greenwich. Fleming had insisted she couldn’t go back to her Camden Town flat, so after her arrival at the airport, she took a seat in the back of a blue Bentley that wound its way all the way across London to a small flat nestled near the local Greenwich library. Fleming got her settled in and introduced her to Mrs. Ashton, a rather stern-looking woman of about sixty, who reminded Livy of her aunt from Blackburn, the one that griped every year that Christmas dinner has been overcooked.

  Livy mostly slept and ate for the first two days. The bed in her upstairs room was comfortable enough, and, despite her dour demeanor, Mrs. Ashton proved to be more than an adequate cook. After dinner they took an evening stroll in nearby Greenwich Park. The walks, which made Livy feel quite a bit like Mrs. Ashton’s dog, always gave her the impulse to run. However, she knew if she were to flee that even if Mrs. Ashton didn’t catch her, the tall slender Special Branch man who always shadowed them on the walks would certainly track her down.

  The whole routine became unbearable by the fifth day. Livy couldn’t sleep at all the night before, so when she woke up, she marched down to breakfast and informed Mrs. Ashton that she wouldn’t stay in the house another day without news about her friend Margot Dupont. “I’ll not be kept here in this cottage jail cell one more day unless someone tells me what the hell is going on.”

  Mrs. Ashton grinned, cleaned the dishes, and then disappeared for the rest of the day.

  The next morning at breakfast, Livy came down and found her reticent companion had set a third place at the small table in the kitchen.

  “You have a guest, dear,” she said. “In the front room. Take all the time you need.”

  Livy’s heart leapt, and she turned quickly toward the front of the house. She couldn’t help but be disappointed to find a man about her age sitting in one of the armchairs. He bolted up when she entered, and smiled. Not a bad-looking sort at all. Tall, with wavy blond hair and green eyes. He wore a blue RAF uniform, and Livy recognized a squadron leader’s stripes on his sleeve.

  “Miss Nash, it is such a pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. Livy shook it. He had a broad smile and a gleam in his eye. “I haven’t even introduced myself. Frank Woodward. I’m just so thrilled to actually see you and shake your hand.”

  Livy nodded, waiting for some explanation of the purpose of the very friendly Squadron Leader Woodward’s visit.

  “Sorry, I’m so clumsy. Haven’t been myself since I heard the news, you know. Oh wait. Let me go back a bit. You see, I’m Margot’s fiancé.”

  At first Livy thought she’d missed something. This didn’t make sense. How could Margot be engaged?

  “Look, sir, I’m not quite sure how to—” Livy began.

  “Frank, please.”

  “Right, Frank, then. Where is Margot? Is she home? I’m a bit lost here.”

  “Of course you are. What am I thinking? Please sit down and let me explain.” Woodward took the chair opposite. “Where to start, um, well Margot and I met in France during the war. We worked in different SOE circuits, but well … we became rather close near the end of it all. When France was liberated, we were able to spend quite a good deal of time together. She took me to Lyon, showed me where her mother had grown up. Then, of course, she had to report back. That’s the last time I saw her, actually. Round about January 1945.”

  This wasn’t what Livy had hoped for exactly, but she felt closer to her friend than she had in years. She didn’t budge while Woodward continued.

  “Of course she couldn’t tell me what she was going away to do. I understood the nature of her work and all that. I told her I’d wait for her, and when she came home that I’d be here. Then time went by, and I never heard anything. I asked, of course. But every time, I was stonewalled. Finally, about a year ago, I went round to talk to a Miss Atkins who worked at the Old Firm up on Baker Street. She told me they’d listed Margot as “missing, presumed dead.” So for the last year—well, things were pretty bad, as you might imagine. Kept telling myself I had to move on and all, but I’d made Margot a promise, and if there was even a chance that she …” His voice trailed off. He looked away, gritted his teeth, and cleared his throat.

  “Then, about a week ago, they told me they knew where she was and that you’d found her. Of course, they didn’t tell me the whole lot. Don’t have clearance for that, I’m sure. But I convinced them to let me come and see you … and thank you. So … thank you.” Woodward’s face lit up, and Livy saw tears at the edge of his eyes. “I know you and Margot were friends. They told me you took risks to find her. Great risks, they said. So, I’m just very grateful, Miss Nash. Just knowing that she’s alive, you see, makes all the difference in the world.”

  Livy nodded, fighting back her own emotion. She’d felt so alone during it all. The whole ordeal. She wished she could tell Woodward what had happened to her. Tell him she’d thought of Margot every minute and that those thoughts had gotten her through. But she couldn’t say any of that, so she reached out and took his hands and held them. They sat there, in silence, until Mrs. Ashton called them in to breakfast a few minutes later.

  * * *

  Woodward didn’t stay to eat, and Livy barely touched her food. She pushed it around the plate and took only a few sips of her tea. After Woodward’s departure, she felt back to square one.

  “Not hungry, my dear?” Mrs. Ashton said. Her plate had been clean for minutes.

  Livy felt every muscle clinch. The thumping headache that had been her constant companion in FBI custody had returned. She knew her stay at the safe house was for her own protection, but she couldn’t take like this another day.

  “I still want to know what’s going on.” She threw down her napkin and bolted out of her chair. “I’m tired of being kept in the dark, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be held hostage by my own people. So you do whatever it takes. Tell them the fiancé didn’t appease me. I want answers or I’ll walk out that door first thing tomorrow. Understand?”

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  That afternoon—around teatime—both Henry Dunbar and Ian Fleming arrived. They looked like Livy felt. Frustrated and restless. Fleming ushered them into the front room, where Livy had met Woodward. He closed the door and sat beside her on the loveseat. Dunbar across from them.

  Livy got to the point. “I want to know about Margot. All of it.”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “What was she doing over there all this time? Working for us?”

  Dunbar rubbed his thick mustache and leaned forward. “Her role in the Soviet zone was much like yours in America. She was picked up as a prisoner after the war and offered the Russians information. We prepped her for it, of course. What she gave them was all old Firm material. Codes, communication, the lot. They grew to trust her, and she was able to be our eyes and ears in their zone. Even in the camp where they kept her, she saw things. Troop movements. The other prisoners in the camp. Who came and went. But we lost our go-between six months ago. We knew they moved Margot, but had no idea where. You found her for us, Livy.”

  “Not asking for your praise, Colonel. I just want to know what’s going on. All of it.”

  “Well, the rest is a bit hazy on our end. Once we heard from you, we knew where t
o look for her. We paid someone from the town near Sachsenhausen to have a look around for us—a baker who made deliveries to the camp. He tried to get eyes on her. It took him two trips, but he finally spotted Margot. Apparently, she’d become sort of the mistress of the commandant. I’d imagine she was forced into that situation. To maintain cover and keep herself safe. Thing is, a rescue operation is out. We go in there, and all hell is liable to break loose.”

  Livy put her head down. Tears pushed at her eyes. “What are you saying? We just leave her there?”

  Dunbar leaned back in his chair and glanced at Fleming. Something seemed to pass between them. Livy turned to her boss. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he removed a gold case from his jacket, withdrew one of his specially blended cigarettes, and pushed it into his holder.

  Dunbar went on. “We’ve no intention of leaving Margot there. I’ve talked to their people, the ones here in London. Dalby has done the same in the States. The Reds want an exchange of prisoners.”

  Just like that Livy’s spirit surged. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. Then she knew. It all made sense now. Fleming wouldn’t even look at her. Henry Dunbar’s very presence in the same room with her spoke volumes. She knew what he was going to say next.

  “They want you Livy.”

  The silence hung in the air for what felt like minutes. How much more do they want? Livy wondered. How much had she already sacrificed? But now they wanted more. They always do.

  Fleming broke the silence as he lit his cigarette and took a deep draw before speaking.

  “And just as I told you earlier, Henry, they can go to hell. Olivia has done enough. It’s up to you now to bring that poor girl home, but Olivia is staying put.”

  “Colonel?” Livy sat up, her back ramrod straight, her voice clear and strong. “What will happen to Margot if we don’t do this?”

  Dunbar shook his head. Livy saw the toll this was taking on him. She hadn’t seen the man in over a year, but he looked like he’d aged a decade.