Spitfire

by M. L. Huie

  “My apologies, ma’am. The gentleman and I got carried away,” Vance said, pivoting toward the street, where he whistled at an idle taxi on the other side of the quai. “Besides, work calls. Nice to have met you, Mr. Mirov.” He put on his fedora and adjusted the brim as his eyes met Livy’s. “I hope you’ll think about our story, Miss Nash.”

  Livy watched Vance’s cab drive away with a trace of sadness. The American had been outclassed by the Russian’s banter, and their verbal jousting had only made Vance’s thing for Livy that much clearer. She liked that about him. Truth be told, she liked a lot of things about him.

  “I thought he’d never leave,” Mirov said, a mischievous grin spreading across his long face as he broke the silence. “You must be quite hungry, my dear,” he said, holding up a brown paper bag. “I just happened to have brought a bit of Paris with me.”

  Minutes later they sat on a bench on a raised path overlooking the Seine just north of the small Statue of Liberty replica near the Pont de Grenelle. The sun had started to set, and the city glowed in its dim light. A long tourist boat, with a handful of people on board, made its way south. Mirov had brought along a bottle of French red wine, complete with corkscrew and two small glasses, as well as a pair of chocolate pastries.

  “Is this supposed to be romantic?” Livy said, laughing as the Russian uncorked the bottle.

  “Of course not. I am far too old for you, Olivia. Besides I have someone back in Moscow.”

  “Oh, and how old is she?”

  “Ummm, twenty-five. No, no, twenty-six. Wonderful girl.”

  Livy laughed and declined the wine. She hadn’t eaten today. The churning in her stomach reminded her of those mornings after a bout with Polish vodka where her head felt like Waterloo station. She didn’t miss that feeling, or the drink.

  Mirov offered her one of the pastries. After one bite, she had to remind herself to take her time. Her appetite had other ideas.

  The Russian chewed and stared out at the water. “The Germans didn’t deserve this place. You know, the French hid the Mona Lisa from them. They kept it moving. Think what the fascists would have done to the treasures of London or Moscow.”

  Livy grunted affirmation but kept eating.

  Mirov kept his focus on the river. His eyes looked glazed as he ate. “I spent far too much time in Vichy during the war and not enough in this beautiful place. Comrade Stalin’s Order Number Two Twenty-Seven? Do you know it? No? Back then we were NKVD, and he had us tracking down Red Army deserters and giving their whereabouts to soldiers, who found them in the vineyards of Bordeaux or the ports of Toulon and—passed judgment. I suppose we all had to follow orders during the war. Who knows? One day someone may pass judgment on me.” The Russian wiped bread crumbs from his coat and turned to Livy, the moment of melancholy passed.

  “So Mr. Vance is your—friend?” Now he pronounced the name effortlessly.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Livy said, clearing the bits of chocolate from the corners of her mouth. “He just shows up from time to time. Like you.”

  “He and I, we are not the same. His clothes are better. Mine hang on me now a bit,” he said, tugging at his jacket. “I lost weight recently. One thing war is good for, I suppose. But now I need new clothes.”

  “You know, I’ll probably get in a lot of trouble with the Americans if I’m seen with you again.”

  “Yes. I expect you will. They are angry, because I have half of what they want.”

  “Half of what I want as well.”

  “But you have something we both want, Olivia.”

  “Is that why you’re trying to win me over with wine and chocolate?”

  “Well, you refused the wine, so I’m forced to rely on my Russian charm.”

  “Russian charm? Your friend who clobbered me with his pistol could do with a bit of that.”

  “I am a bit of an antique, you might say. Maybe I talk too much. Yuri Sergeevich Levchenko uses his gun. I’m afraid there are many more like him now in Moscow than men like me.”

  Livy ate the last bite of pastry. She looked out across the river and wondered which building across the way housed the MGB surveillance.

  “And what is it exactly that I’m supposed to have?” she asked.

  “Edward Valentine.”

  Livy laughed. “You’re misinformed.”

  “You know him. You have history. Am I wrong?”

  I knew Luc, she thought.

  “The rest of us—at least those on my side—only know what kind of man he is. What he is capable of. The information from his agents brought down operation after operation during the war. We had people in Berlin in the run-up to Stalingrad. All of them—twenty-six men and women—arrested by the Gestapo and sent to camps. Dead. Because of him and his people. Then an operation we launched into the Crimea. A hundred men parachuted in at night to track Hitler’s 6th Army. But the Germans—oh, they were waiting for us. All those young, young boys were met by machine gunners on the ground. Most of them died in the air. The ones that didn’t were shot in the fields. The operation was blown by one of Valentine’s agents in Sofia, which coincidentally had just hosted the magician Mephisto.

  “The list,” Mirov went on, his anger building, “contains the names of men and women who caused good Russian boys to die in the icy fields of Stalingrad, and to be ripped apart as they fell from the sky. Now, I suppose we could find these people and force them to work for us.” Mirov’s long face suddenly looked old. “But I did not come to Paris to recruit murderers. I am asking you to help me find him, Olivia. If you know how to contact this man, I am asking for your help. Bring him to me. You see, I do not want Edward Valentine to work for us. No, my loyalty is to my countrymen. I want him to see him in the Lubyanka. On trial for his crimes.”

  Livy studied the Russian’s face. His eyes never wavered. She had to take him at his word.

  “And should I help you, what’s in it for me?”

  “I told you I do not want the list of Valentine’s spies. I want him.”

  “Your man with the mustache took half of the list from me in London. Am I supposed to believe he’ll stop there?”

  “Levchenko is hardheaded, I grant you. But I outrank him.” The Russian leaned forward conspiratorially. “And besides, he is my nephew. I can make family gatherings very difficult for him if he doesn’t do what I say.”

  Livy didn’t smile at his joke. She knew he could be playing her. She also could see how this might work out in her favor. She rather liked the idea of Mirov and his boys having a go at the bastard with hammer and tongs back in Moscow. But that wasn’t the job she’d been given.

  “Tempting offer,” she said, standing. “Have your man Levchenko return my property first, and then we might have something to talk about. You can leave a message at the brasserie for me.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Livy stood in front of the small dresser mirror in her room. She turned from side to side, looking for bulges in this very tight mermaid gown. The black satin dress tied behind her neck and then plunged dangerously low. Just below her chest the designer had sown a row of fleurs-de-lis, which served to enhance what was she’d always thought lacking above. The gown hugged her hips tight all the way to her knees and then expanded, finlike, to the ground.

  Livy doubted whether she could walk in it, much less swim. Tonight, however, all this glamour served a purpose.

  She spent a good half hour trying to wrangle her brown hair into something that didn’t resemble cousin Bessie out for a night on the town in Blackburn. Eventually she gave up and took another look at herself in the mirror. Not half bad. Throwing her coat over her arms and grabbing her larger-than-average black clutch, she made for the stairs.

  As expected, she had no trouble hailing a taxi.

  The drive gave her just enough time to think through this decision. Vance and Mirov had made their intentions clear regarding the Mephisto network. More importantly, the two men had been specific about what they intended for
Edward Valentine. Vance wanted the magician on the U.S. payroll. Mirov would have Valentine interrogated, probably tortured in an MGB prison, and executed for war crimes.

  The last thing Livy wanted was to have to take Mirov at his word. She’d be a fool to trust him. No, the key to all this was still Nathalie, and Livy was going to make damn certain she had a face-to-face with the Frenchwoman before she decided anything.

  Now, as the taxi rumbled through the Paris night heading for the first arrondissement, Livy thought of how her father used to tease her French mother with some of Lord Nelson’s more inflammatory quotes. She remembered one that had sent her mother into a flurry of Gallic hysterics: Firstly you must always implicitly obey orders without attempting to form any opinion of your own regarding their propriety.

  Good advice, your lordship, Livy thought.

  Her father had gone on to finish Nelson’s quote, which went, Secondly, you must consider every man your enemy who speaks ill of your king; and thirdly, you must hate a Frenchman as you hate the devil.

  Livy smiled at the memory of the mock fights her parents staged, which always ended in some sort of embrace and an early bedtime for their little girl.

  England expects that every man will do his duty, Livy thought. She popped the clip on the clutch to check that the Webley could be removed quickly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The doorman gave her a knowing smile, tipping his hat as she sashayed through the front door of the Ritz. Livy assumed no one would give a second thought to a well-dressed, well-lubricated young woman arriving in a taxi after midnight. After all, this was Paris.

  She also assumed that anyone who’d been working earlier in the day when she’d left a roly-poly magician lying in a heap on the floor of the lift would not be around for the late shift. If they were, she didn’t think they’d recognize her now. She’d transformed from frumpy reporter with unmanageable hair to vixen in a mermaid dress with hair somewhere in the vicinity of manageable.

  Unfortunately, she had about thirty yards of marble-floored lobby to clear before she reached the gilt-edged lifts. Livy resisted the impulse to hoof it as she got closer. Rich socialites in body-hugging satin dresses who’d had too much champagne were in no hurry. Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked the lobby gauntlet.

  “Mademoiselle, excusez-moi.”

  Livy looked around for the voice before her gaze landed on the clerk at the desk, a large man with a hawk nose and a very thin mustache, who smiled as he stopped her progress.

  He will expect less of a drunken guest, Livy reasoned. So she played it to the hilt. She pointed to her chest as if to say, Moi? and then wobbled ever so slightly.

  Undeterred, the clerk came around the desk toward her. He wore a dark, unassuming single-breasted suit with a fluffy pocket square. His black oxfords made no sound as he glided over.

  “Mademoiselle, please forgive this intrusion, as the hour is very late, but if I could just confirm your room number, then I will be happy to wish you a very good-night.”

  Livy had two choices. She could play the indignant guest, complain that she didn’t have time for this and would be sure to bring this intrusion up with the manager in the morning. In an instant she decided the confrontational approach might cause too much suspicion, and that her gown and the tipsiness could do the work for her.

  “Ah, of course, I am not thinking clearly at the moment,” Livy said, suddenly worried about her “hillbilly French.” She hoped the drink might also account for a bit of slurring. “Forgive me, let me think,” she said, tossing her hair around like Rita Hayworth while flashing her best smile. “Ah yes, suite three ten. Is that all you need from me tonight?” she said in a tone that was a little more than playful.

  “Merci, mademoiselle. Please let me check the register.” The clerk scurried back across the floor to the desk. Livy peered at her nails, trying to look a little more impatient.

  The clerk came back, but this time with the bulky register under his left arm. “Mademoiselle, you did say suite three ten, yes?”

  “Oui, three ten. Au revoir, monsieur.”

  “I do beg your pardon again, mademoiselle, but Monsieur Dufort is our guest in suite three ten.”

  Livy had expected this. She gave the clerk a shy, knowing smile. “And Monsieur Dufort is expecting me. I am a little late, because I was enjoying the night with a friend of mine. It was her birthday, and she has excellent taste in champagne—”

  “Madame Dufort and their children are also our guests in the suite.” The clerk glared at her.

  Livy blanched; her hand went to her mouth. Tears pooled in her eyes. “Mon Dieu … the bastard. He told me he would be alone this time. He promised me. I have not seen him since the war, and this was to be our—reunion.”

  “Please, mademoiselle.”

  Livy wiped her eyes, stamped her heel, and whirled on the clerk. “You are trying to protect him? Is that what you are doing?”

  “Of course not, mademoiselle, but you must understand, I cannot allow our guests to be disturbed—”

  “Disturbed? Monsieur Dufort is expecting me. He would not have asked me to come to your hotel and meet him if his wife and family were also here. Do you understand my meaning, monsieur? So if you would like to throw me out of your hotel, fine. But what will you say to Monsieur Dufort tomorrow morning when he asks why his guest was not admitted? Hmm? Believe me, when I speak to him, I will tell him the truth.”

  By now the clerk’s face had reddened all the way up past his considerable widow’s peaks. “Mademoiselle, I am merely trying to protect our guests. Of course I am not trying to—interfere with your evening. I will just call Monsieur Dufort and let him know you have arrived.”

  The clerk turned on his heels and made for the desk. Livy considered letting him make the call. Dufort, or whoever, would probably say a guest was not expected, and that would be that. The clerk might interpret that as a gentleman being discreet, but Livy had no interest in taking that risk.

  So by the time the clerk reached the desk, Livy had dropped her head to her chest and begun to sob. Her keening caught the attention of the doorman, who stepped away from his post to see what was happening. The sound of the crying alone ensured that the clerk couldn’t make his phone call.

  “Mademoiselle, please—” the clerk said, scurrying around the desk again.

  “What did you say to her?” the doorman said.

  “It doesn’t concern you,” the clerk snipped. Livy opened her clutch, ostensibly looking for something to wipe her eyes. The small gun and silencer remained neatly tucked inside.

  The doorman produced a white hanky from inside his voluminous coat as Livy continued to moan and sniff.

  “I will go. Please tell Monsieur Dufort I tried to keep our appointment,” Livy said to the clerk, throwing her shoulders back as she wiped the last tears from her eyes.

  By now, the clerk stood at her side and practically bowed before her. “Mademoiselle, I am sure that won’t be necessary. Forgive my concern. I did not mean to cause you so much distress. Please, enjoy your evening.”

  Livy cleared her throat before speaking. “You, monsieur, are a credit to this hotel,” she said to the clerk. Then she smiled at the doorman and offered the hanky. He demurred. She smiled, blinking her wet eyes at him. Livy could see she owned the doorman.

  “Au revoir, then,” she said, and walked slowly and a bit more steadily toward the lifts. She felt their eyes on her, so she took her time. As the doors opened, she gave the two men a little wave.

  After the theatrics she’d had to employ in the lobby, Livy felt grateful to find the third floor empty. She required a minute, perhaps two, of quiet in the hallway. Then the real work would begin.

  She kept up the stumbling-party-girl act from the lift and down the hall to suite 314. Giving a quick look to both ends of the corridor, she knelt down and took a long look at the door. The gold knob rested just above a standard pin-and-tumbler lock. Livy assumed it would be of a certain quality�
�perhaps tougher to spring than one in an average flat. Still, burglary had been on the curriculum at the SOE camp, and she’d picked more than a few locks in her day, though never while wearing a tight satin dress in a hallway in one of the best hotels in the world—but there had to be a first time for everything.

  Livy popped the snap on her clutch and reached under the gun to find her metal pick and small tension wrench. With another quick look down the hall, she inserted the wrench into the lock and pushed the tumblers to see which way it opened. Clockwise it is. Keeping the tension wrench inside, she inserted the pick and guided it along the lock’s pins. She was able to push each of them up except one. Yes, this is a good lock, Livy thought. The Ritz would want to keep its guests safe and secure.

  She could feel her body getting warmer, and her hand started to sweat. The pick felt slippery in her hand as she slowly pushed the last pin up, waiting to hear the telltale click that it was set and the lock could now be opened. The pick slipped in her fingers and the pin reset. Livy wiped her hand on her dress and set about trying to reach the stingy pin again. Finally, she made contact using the edge of the pick and gently pressed the pin upward.

  With a click, the final pin set. Livy inserted the tension wrench and turned the cylinder. She gripped the doorknob with her free hand and felt the second click as the lock opened and the knob turned.

  As she stood, holding her breath, Livy heard the distinctive ping of the lift opening and the shuffling of feet headed in her direction.

  Livy put her hand carefully over the unlatched door and waited for the approaching guest to turn the corner and see her. She reminded herself to breathe and pantomimed futzing with the door.

  A middle-aged man in a brown suit stepped into the corridor.

  Suites 309 and 310 were the last in the hall. Livy prayed this man wasn’t Monsieur Dufort. Surely the clerk would have warned him that a confrontation waited outside his door.

  But the man only gave Livy a curt nod and yawned quite loudly as he walked past. Relief washed over her as the man in brown stopped outside suite 312. The moment of release must have caused Livy’s grip on the door to slacken, and when it did, the tension wrench and pick fell out of the lock and landed on the soft carpet. The rug muffled most of the sound, but the metal clanged together as the tools collided. The man in brown turned, raising his considerable eyebrows. Livy shifted her left foot, hiding the tools with her shoes. At the same time she yawned, covering her mouth quickly in embarrassment. Realizing he’d caught a lady in an indelicate moment, the man quickly disappeared inside his suite.