Angel in Red

by Christopher Nicole

  Anna felt like scratching her head. ‘This does not concern you, Comrade Stalin?’

  ‘Josef,’ he reminded her. ‘Concern me? It pleases me very much.’

  ‘But . . . if Germany controls all of mainland Europe, her borders will be contiguous with yours.’

  ‘We already have a contiguous border with the Reich. In Poland. There is no difficulty on that. Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany have a twenty-five-year non-aggression pact, with which we are both totally content. You require our oil and coal and iron ore; we require your expertise. We share the future. Now I will tell you why I am pleased. A state secret, eh? I actually received a communication from the British Prime Minister, Mr Churchill, to the effect that he had positive proof that Germany is planning an attack on Russia.’

  Anna drank the last of her tea, which was by now cold.

  ‘I did not believe what he said, of course. The British have been trying to embroil us with Germany for years. Since before the war even started. But at the same time, our agents reported to us considerable German troop movements to the East. You do not mind my admitting to you that we have agents inside your country?’

  ‘I am sure that we have our agents inside Russia,’ Anna said faintly.

  ‘Of course. It is all part of the game, eh? But now it is all explained. Your troop movements to the east were to facilitate your takeover of the Balkans. As I have said, it is always good to have a conundrum resolved, especially when it is resolved in such a satisfactory manner. Do you know, I feel like a holiday. I should be able to get out of Moscow for a week or so, next month.’ Stalin poured more tea. ‘Then I generally go down to my dacha in the south, where I can relax. I would be delighted if you were to accompany me.’

  Anna turned her head sharply. Although she had known from their first meeting that he had been very taken with her, he had remained entirely avuncular in their relations. She found it difficult to imagine having sex with any man over fifty. And this man . . . She wondered what Chalyapov would make of that. Or Clive? Or Heydrich?

  ‘I am sure that you would enjoy it there,’ Stalin continued. ‘You would be able to meet my children. My son Jacob is in the army, but my daughter Svetlana is still a girl. I am a widower, you see,’ he added ingenuously.

  My God! she thought. He can’t be serious! But he very evidently was, at least at this moment. She drank tea, and spoke absently. ‘I have a birthday next month.’

  ‘What is the date?’

  ‘The twenty-first.’

  ‘And how old will you be?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Twenty-one. Ah, to be twenty-one again. But, twenty-one on the twenty-first. That is capital. You will spend your twenty-first birthday with me.’

  Time for a decision. ‘I’m sure that would be most enjoyable, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Josef,’ he reminded her.

  *

  Was he living in never-never land, or could he possibly be right? Anna wondered. But he was the master of a great country, and had been that master for more than a dozen years. He had to be used to evaluating, correctly, the acts and indeed the words of other governments. But if Germany had only ever been intent on occupying the entire Balkans, what of Heydrich’s orders to her, to find out all she could about Russian attitudes towards Germany, and her troop dispositions along the border? But, she realized, they too could be explained, if one was determined to do so: clearly Hitler had been concerned about Russian reaction to his projected move to the south-east.

  In which case the information she had given Clive, and the inference the British had drawn from it, had been entirely erroneous. And Churchill had gone for it! He would now be hopping mad. So, where did that leave her as regards MI6?

  For that matter, where did she stand in any direction? Her sole desire was to get out of Moscow. Before her week with Stalin? She just could not imagine what that might be like. But she could not refuse him now, although there could be no doubt that Heydrich had to be informed. She could not imagine his reaction either, save that if Stalin’s judgement was accurate, there was simply no reason for her to remain in Moscow.

  ‘I think your mind is elsewhere.’ Chalyapov threw her off him with some violence, so that she rolled across the bed and lay on her back.

  ‘I am sorry, Ewfim. Would you like me to leave?’

  ‘You are becoming bored with me. You are seeing another man.’

  ‘Of course I am not.’

  He got out of bed. ‘I do not like women who cheat on me. Or who lie to me. Give me his name.’

  ‘There is no other man.’

  ‘Very good. Roll over.’

  Anna sighed, but obeyed. When he entered her from behind it was always painful. She spread her legs, closed her eyes, and waited for him to raise her thighs from the mattress. Instead she heard a swishing sound. She opened her eyes again and turned her head. Chalyapov had drawn the heavy leather belt from his pants. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I am going to beat you. I am going to make that delightful little ass of yours bleed.’

  Anna rolled over and sat up. ‘Please do not do that, Ewfim. I do not like to be beaten.’ The last person who had flogged her was Hannah Gehrig, and she had had the assistance of three men.

  ‘If you liked being beaten,’ Chalyapov pointed out, very reasonably, ‘there would be no point in doing it. Lie down!’

  ‘Ewfim,’ she said, also speaking very reasonably, ‘if you attempt to hit me, I shall break your arm.’

  ‘You?’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Very well. If you wish me to mark your tits . . .’ He swung the belt.

  Anna caught the flailing leather in both hands. The shock of pain only increased her anger, but her brain remained ice cold. As she caught the belt she rose to her knees and threw herself sideways. The combined jerk on the belt and her roll pulled Chalyapov off balance; his knees struck the bed and he fell across it. Anna leapt off the bed and got behind him. The temptation to hit him was enormous, but she felt that to kill him might be a mistake. While he was trying to push himself up she knelt on his back, grasped his right arm, which still held the belt, and pulled it behind him and across while shifting her knee to his shoulder. Chalyapov uttered a scream of pain as the arm was dislocated, then Anna released him and stepped away.

  He rolled to and fro, groaning and holding his arm. ‘Bitch!’ he moaned.

  ‘I did warn you,’ Anna pointed out, dressing herself.

  ‘I am going to have you—’

  ‘Before you get carried away,’ Anna said, ‘I should tell you that you are quite right in supposing that I am seeing another man. His name is Josef Stalin.’

  She closed the door behind herself.

  *

  It was only when she regained the Embassy that she realized she had wanted to hurt Chalyapov, as much as possible, ever since that first evening in his car, when he had, to all intents and purposes, raped her. Why had she not done it before? Because she had needed an excuse. Now that it was done, she could surely ask to be relieved. She sat at her desk and wrote to Heydrich.

  I deeply regret that this should have happened, but the fact is that his treatment of me has grown increasingly brutal, and indeed, sadistic, over the past weeks. I have accepted this in order to carry out my mission, but when he threatened to beat me until I bled, I am afraid something snapped. I do not think I have done him any permanent injury, but I would say that he is unlikely to wish to see me again. I may also say, and it is an opinion in which I hope you will concur, that he has exhausted his potential as a source of information.

  She considered for some moments before continuing. It was very necessary to remind her boss of her continuing value.

  However, Herr Chalyapov has now become entirely irrelevant. I have become very close to Marshal Stalin himself, and have tea with him every Friday afternoon, in complete privacy; I come and go in the Kremlin as if I belonged there. I have also been invited to visit with him at his dacha in the Crimea. I will admit that he has
not yet divulged any information of much value, other than that he is confident of maintaining good and friendly relations with Germany, but as we grow more intimate I am sure I will obtain results. I can in any event assure you that he is perfectly content with our moves in the Balkans and sees no reason why these should drive a rift between our two nations. I would be very happy if you would confirm your approval of my present activities, although I am sure you understand that should you feel I have served my purpose here I am ready to return to Berlin. Anna.

  She realized her heart was pounding. If Clive were right, and her German employers had designs upon Stalin’s life, she was virtually inviting them to use her. But if Stalin were right . . . and Stalin had to be right.

  She sealed the envelope and took it to Groener for inclusion in the Diplomatic Pouch. He regarded it for several moments. ‘It is some time since you heard from General Heydrich, is it not?’

  Sharks, she thought, waiting for me to fall into their pool. ‘My orders from the SD, Herr Groener, are ongoing. However, I am sure you will be pleased to know that my mission here is all but completed, and that I shall shortly be recalled to Berlin.’

  She prayed that it might be so.

  *

  Over the next few weeks Anna continued to be invited to tea; she had become such a regular visitor that she was no longer even searched before being admitted to the inner sanctum. Not that it would have mattered as she never carried a weapon. On the other hand, the invitation to accompany the dictator to the Crimea was not repeated. Either Stalin had been upset by what she had done to Chalyapov – although he remained unfailingly pleasant to her – or his invitation had not been serious in the first place, or events in the Balkans were not turning out quite as favourably for Russia as he had anticipated. On the whole she was relieved, although there was just a hint of disappointment: it would have been quite an experience, she had no doubt. More disturbing was the absence of any reply from Heydrich. So she celebrated her twenty-first birthday alone in her apartment with Birgit.

  But Stalin was certainly right about the weather. June was a delight, the more so because of the tremendous contrast provided by warmth and sunshine to the grey skies and biting winds of only a few weeks previously. Anna took up going for a daily walk in the park; it was such a pleasure to be able to wear a summer frock and a big hat and feel the gentle breeze caressing her legs, even if she now found herself awakening each day with increasing apprehension. She had no doubt that something was going to happen this summer; her sole ambition was to get back to Germany before it happened.

  ‘Countess! What a pleasant surprise.’

  The man was speaking English! But the American accent was unmistakable. Anna turned her head. ‘Mr Andrews? I did not know you were still in Moscow.’

  ‘Like you, I guess, I go – and stay – where I’m put. But I sure thought you had gone, seeing as how you haven’t been at any parties recently. And here you are, prettier than any picture I have ever seen. As always. May I walk with you?’

  ‘Certainly, after such a nice remark.’

  He fell in at her side. ‘You know that fellow Bartley has returned to England? A couple of months ago.’

  ‘I had heard. I thought Mr Bartley was a friend of yours?’

  ‘Like I said, we’re in the same line of business.’

  ‘Military intelligence.’

  ‘Well, intelligence. Spy-spotting.’

  Anna was happy to take the bait. ‘And catching?’

  ‘Sure. When it’s possible. And convenient. May I ask you a question?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer it.’

  ‘Are you really a Nazi spy?’

  ‘As I said, Mr Andrews, I don’t have to answer your question. When I lived in England, I was married to Ballantine Bordman. Sadly, it didn’t work out.’

  ‘And when it didn’t work out, you returned to Germany.’

  ‘What else would you have me do? Germany is my home. Or at least, Austria is. My family now lives in Germany.’

  ‘But you had become a British citizen.’

  ‘Bally wished me to. But I retained German nationality.’

  ‘Which I guess has put you in rather a spot regarding the British.’

  ‘That may well be so. But as I am not in England, their feelings towards me are hardly relevant.’

  ‘I heard someplace that your mother is actually English. Is she happy with this?’

  ‘My mother is Irish.’

  ‘You never did answer my question. Were you a spy? The Brits sure thought you were.’

  ‘I never said I would answer that question, Mr Andrews.’

  ‘But you’re here, at the Embassy . . .’

  ‘I have a living to earn. Thus I work for the German Government. I suppose in your eyes that makes me a Nazi. I can only say that in Germany today, it is the best thing to be. I would also hope that that does not make me your enemy.’

  ‘Not mine. At least not right now. But you’re not afraid of what may happen? One day?’

  How little you know, she thought. ‘What do I have to be scared of, Mr Andrews?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s odd, that fellow turning up in Moscow and coming to your party?’

  ‘What fellow? Oh, you mean Mr Bartley. I am sure he had some other reason for coming here. Apart from me, I mean. He surely knows that here in Russia I am outside of his jurisdiction.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Andrews said thoughtfully. ‘Say, Countess, would I be completely out of court if I asked you to have dinner with me? I mean, June in Moscow, with the trees blossoming and the birds singing . . .’ He paused, anxiously.

  ‘Why, Mr Andrews,’ she said. ‘I think that is a perfectly charming idea.’

  *

  ‘This has been one of the pleasantest evenings I can remember,’ Anna said, with considerable truth. Her moments with Clive had always been the highs of her emotional life, but they had always been stolen. They had never shared a quiet evening at a restaurant together, never been to a dance together, never strolled in a park together, except as conspirators. Now she sat on a terrace overlooking the river, dining on carp, drinking white wine and discussing sweet nothings.

  She had no doubt that he was dying to ask more questions, but so far he had restrained himself, preferring to talk about the United States, about his home in Virginia, the more so as she had confessed that she had never been to America, and knew very little about it. ‘You’d love it,’ he promised. ‘And America would love you.’

  ‘Even if I work for the Nazis?’ she asked in an unguarded moment.

  ‘You have convinced me that it is just a job of work, a means of earning a living. Not that you truly believe the ideology. Heck, I work for a Democratic administration, even if I’ve always voted Republican.’

  She made a moue. ‘I still cannot believe that I would be very welcome in your country.’

  ‘You would be. One thing about us, we adore beautiful things. And you would be just about the most beautiful thing any of them would ever have seen. I do apologize. I did not mean that you are a thing.’

  ‘But I am a spy, am I not? The British say so.’

  ‘Well, you know, the Brits aren’t always right in their judgements. I find it very difficult to accept that you are anything other than what you seem: a very beautiful and very charming young lady.’

  Anna stared at him with her mouth open, and he flushed.

  ‘Again I apologize. Heck, no. I don’t. I . . . well, I’d sure like to get to know you better.’

  ‘If you did that, you might not like me at all.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances on that. May I be extremely rude, and ask a personal question?’

  ‘That depends on how personal the question is.’

  ‘Someone at our Embassy has the idea that you are still in your early twenties. Can that possibly be true?’

  Anna sipped cognac. ‘My twenty-first birthday was a fortnight ago.’

  ‘You’re putting me on.’


  ‘Do I look that much older?’

  ‘Heck, no. I mean . . .’ He was flushing. ‘Didn’t you marry that fellow Bordman three years ago?’

  ‘I was eighteen when I married Bally, yes.’

  ‘Wow! Well, I guess that puts the kybosh on the crazy idea that you could have been a spy.’

  ‘You say the sweetest things,’ Anna commented.

  ‘Listen! I would like you to know that if things ever turn out bad, you can count on me. I mean . . .’ One of his flushes. ‘If you ever feel you have to get out of Germany, you can call on my help, and I’ll see you find a home in the States.’

  Anna smiled. ‘In Virginia?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Anna squeezed his hand.

  *

  ‘Do you have something to tell me?’ Heinz Meissenbach asked. However much they had briefly been thrown together by the death of Marlene Gehrig, he had, like most Germans, an instinctive dislike and distrust of the Gestapo.

  Groener closed the office door, pulled a chair in front of the desk, and sat down. ‘I would like an update on your current relationship with Anna Fehrbach.’

  Meissenbach raised his eyebrows. ‘We greet each other when we meet.’

  ‘But she works for you. You must see her every day.’

  ‘I see her as little as possible, Herr Groener. She no longer works for me. What she does with her days I do not know; I assume she is following some agenda dictated by the SD. What she does with her nights . . . Well, I think we all know that.’

  ‘And there is still nothing you can do about her.’

  ‘You know that as well as I. If you have a solution, tell me of it.’

  ‘I think she is a menace. I think we need to do something about her before she gets us – gets the Reich – into serious trouble. If she has not already done so.’

  ‘And I have just reminded you that there is nothing we can do. Or have you found some proof to link her to the death of the girl Gehrig?’

  ‘I do not suppose we shall ever know the truth of that. Unless . . .’ He gave a sigh of hopeless anticipation. ‘Unless I were to be given the right to interrogate her. However, as I have told you, I am always prepared to watch, and wait, and listen, and gather straws . . .’