by M. L. Huie
The second his door closed, Livy scooped up the tools and dropped them back into the clutch. She held the door open with the toe of her left heel as she removed the Webley and silencer.
Livy’s first cautious steps into suite 314 assured her that its occupants had either turned in or were away. Only a sliver of moonlight from an open curtain lit the foyer and the adjoining room. Still, Livy took her time easing the heavy door shut before moving farther into the suite.
She remembered the plush rug and the detailed carving of the baseboard from earlier when Nathalie Billerant had held her at gunpoint. This time she needed to go farther than the entranceway.
As Livy edged toward the end of the foyer, she became aware of every sound in the room. Her satin dress swished lightly with each step. In the distance, even through the thick glass of the room’s picture windows, she could hear traffic on the streets three floors below. Otherwise, the room was cloaked in darkness and silence.
Livy eased around the corner and stopped. She let her eyes adjust once more to the minimal light and took in the layout of the suite. She stood on the edge of a large sitting area with a sofa and two armchairs. Thick, embroidered drapes had been pulled about halfway on either side of the large window, allowing the outside light to peek through. Behind her was a large dining area with an ornate long marble table and four tall chairs.
Straight ahead Livy saw two sliding wooden doors pulled together. Without question, the bedroom lay beyond. Closed doors might be a sign that a guest, or two, had turned in for the night.
Livy held the Webley before her and made for the bedroom. The swish of the satin seemed louder now, but she’d come too far to stop. Soon, things might be getting very loud.
The stifling smell of smoke from far too many French cigarettes invaded her nostrils as she gripped the handle of one of the slatted bedroom doors and slid it open slowly. The curtain in the bedroom hadn’t been closed, allowing a theatrical wash of moonlight that gave the silk sheets of the sprawling bed a light-blue hue. The rumpled sheets had been tossed aside. A light glowed beside the bed.
Livy found the light switch on the wall to her right. The wall sconces flickered into brightness as she latched the sliding doors from the inside.
Nathalie Billerant sat in the cushioned chair beside the bed, draped in a powder-blue silk robe, calmly smoking. The ashtray on the bedside table overflowed with a night’s worth of smokes, all tipped in red lipstick. She watched Livy without a trace of surprise. The Frenchwoman looked as elegant as ever except for the fresh welt, purple and swelling, under her right eye.
“You have a talent for showing up at the worst possible times,” Nathalie said, picking tobacco from her bottom lip.
Livy had hoped to catch Valentine in the room. Instead she faced this icy, gorgeous woman who, even with a black eye, looked like she belonged on the big screen.
Keeping the silenced Webley pointed at Nathalie, Livy turned over the room, looking for the small automatic she’d encountered on her first trip to suite 314. She found the weapon stowed under mademoiselle’s lace things in the bottom drawer of the bedroom bureau.
“Really, you should have looked there first,” Nathalie said, crushing another cigarette.
“So, what happened to you?” Livy said in English, dropping the second gun in her coat.
“What does that say?” Nathalie deflected. “On the gun.”
Livy angled the silencer slowly so she could see the inscription. MORT AUX BOCHES.
“Very cute. Did you do that yourself?” Nathalie’s words dripped with irony, but her voice remained level.
“It was a gift from a girl in the Resistance,” Livy said. “She was killed at Vercors. And what were you doing during the war?”
Nathalie held Livy’s accusing stare. She didn’t blink. Instead she reached for an ornate silver-and-enamel art deco cigarette case. It must have cost a small fortune. As Nathalie lit another of her smelly French cigarettes, Livy noticed an inscription on the edge: L’HABIT NE FAIT PAS LE MOINE.
“‘The habit doesn’t make the monk’?” Livy asked.
Nathalie let the smoke escape from her finely drawn lips and glanced at the case. “‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’ N’est-ce pas?”
The air in the room felt thick with cigarette smoke, but there was another scent underneath. It smelled a bit like wood with a touch of spice.
“What is that smell? Seems a bit heavy for you,” Livy said.
“It’s Zizanie. Cologne,” Nathalie replied, as if speaking to a child.
“Ah, and where is your boyfriend tonight?”
Nathalie put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled.
“He the one who did that to your eye?”
The Frenchwoman allowed the smoke to escape from her mouth slowly. Her eyes were hooded and opaque. The thin silk robe Nathalie wore fell just above her knees, her creamy skin blemish free. She dangled her bare legs and pedicured feet in front of her so casually. If she had any concern about being held at gunpoint, she didn’t show it. Judging by the darkening bruise under her eye, Livy figured Nathalie had had a rough night already.
“You sent for me,” Livy said. “Here I am.”
Nathalie’s upper lip curled in a mocking smile. “I arranged a meeting. That’s all.”
“And you didn’t show.”
“Because it was not safe.”
“Well, we’re all alone now. Safe as houses. Plenty of time to chat.”
“I said I would contact you. This is not the time. Now, get out of my hotel room.”
Livy shook her head, marveling. This bit of croissant had made overtures to His Majesty’s government and so far had played everyone for thickheaded prats. Her and her little teasing games. The French, Livy thought. Always so bloody superior.
Not tonight.
“I have the gun this time, luv, and this isn’t exactly a social call.”
“Vous ne comprenez rien.”
Livy stepped closer, pushing the gun forward. “No, you’re wrong, I understand plenty. What I understand is I’m done playing games.”
Nathalie crushed out her cigarette and stood up. For a second Livy wondered whether she might try to take the gun from her. Instead Nathalie held her ground.
“You know the kind of man Edward is. You know what he is capable of. So do you really think I would be afraid of you?”
As much as she despised Nathalie as a wartime collaborateur, Livy had to admit this woman had steel in her spine.
“He did that to your face, didn’t he? Valentine was here earlier and hit you. Tell me why.”
Nathalie turned the bruised side of her face away.
Livy sensed an opening. She pressed her advantage. “Tell me where he is. Take me to him. Once I have him, then we can negotiate. Just you and me. I can pay for the list. It’s money you want, isn’t it?”
“Edward is gone,” Nathalie said, reaching for her cigarettes again. “But I can’t talk to you now. We have to wait.”
“For what, exactly? Je ne comprends pas.” She grabbed Nathalie’s arm—hard. “I’m through waiting.”
“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
“I’ll do worse. I place one call to the prefect of police and make a formal accusation of collaboration. And I have proof, too. A sworn statement of a man by the name of Claude who you seduced into working for the Germans. Think Valentine was rough? You know how the French justice system feels about people like you. They still hang collaborators, you know.”
The words struck Nathalie for an instant. She took a deep breath and shrugged out of Livy’s grip. She opened her case and lit another cigarette. As she inhaled the first smoke deep into her lungs, her sneering demeanor returned.
“You want Edward? Okay, ça marche. I can take you to Edward tonight,” she said, practically spitting the words.
“I want him and I want the list. The full list.”
Natalie laughed. “You will have to wait for that, petite anglaise.”
The time for playing about is over, Livy thought. She had come to do a job, and so far she’d done nothing. She walked around to the other side of the bed and lifted the phone receiver. She waited a moment, and the familiar voice of the front-desk clerk answered.
“Good evening, monsieur,” Livy said. “Please connect me with the local police. Yes. It is an urgent matter.”
Livy glanced across the bed. Nathalie’s right foot bobbed nervously, but she seemed every bit as defiant as before.
The line rang. Ten times and counting. Bugger this, Livy thought.
“Yes, I need to speak to the officer in charge this evening, please,” she said, despite the continued ringing. “This concerns a matter of national importance and cannot wait—”
Nathalie suddenly turned, jabbing out the cigarette. “Stop!”
Livy put a hand over the receiver.
Nathalie said, “Listen to me. I don’t care about the list. The network. It means nothing to me. I just want it over. That’s why I reached out to you. Edward was here this afternoon. He found out I had contacted you.”
Livy replaced the receiver, still ringing on the other end. “But he asked for me, didn’t he?”
Nathalie held up her hands, pleading. “No. Not Edward. I did. I sent for you. It was me. When he found out, he became so angry. He kept me here all day with him. He made phone calls and then he went out. He’s made a deal.”
“A deal?”
“With the Russians. They’re leaving Paris tonight.”
Chapter Nineteen
Whenever Marion Nash rode a train—any train—she would regale her daughter Livy with stories of the intrigue surrounding Paris’s legendary Gare du Nord. One story in particular—about an American heiress in the twenties who decided to shoot herself and her British lover inside one of the terminals—fired the imagination of her little girl more than all the others.
So, in this grand building where journeys began and ended, Livy Nash hoped she would be in time to keep Edward Valentine from being taken to Moscow. Just as she thought she had gained the upper hand at the Ritz, Livy again found herself chasing the game.
She had allowed Nathalie to get dressed, and then the two of them set off for the station. Livy felt like a gangster in an American film as she kept the Webley in the pocket of her buttoned overcoat, pointed in Nathalie’s direction.
The taxi made the normally ten-minute drive from hotel to station in just over seven minutes. Livy felt a bit queasy as the cab braked in the Place de Roubaix, about a hundred feet from the station’s massive facade.
Nathalie leapt out of the car first with Livy right behind. The driver angrily protested, so Livy turned and tossed him the fare plus a hundred extra francs. The cabby tipped his cap and drove away.
Livy felt relieved to see that, far from considering escape, Nathalie stood on the sidewalk, scanning the front of the station and surrounding area for Valentine.
“We’ll have to check the departures,” Nathalie said, still keeping her gaze ahead. “He told me they were taking the last train to Dieppe tonight. Then aboard a freighter for the Black Sea in the morning.”
I’ll never find this bastard in another city, Livy thought. It had to be tonight.
Livy grabbed Nathalie’s arm, and the two women hurried toward the station. The five-hundred-foot facade of the Gare Du Nord towered over them, its row of double pilasters separating the three bays inside the station. By day, Livy knew the station would be a madhouse, filled with commuters trying to make trains as they ran through a veritable gauntlet of black marketeers and prostitutes. But at this time of night, the station was calm.
They hurried through the center front doors, making their way toward the giant blackboard with its three words, DÉPART, DEPARTURE, and ABFHART, in huge letters across the top. Over their heads the curved iron-and-glass ceiling of the station glowed with moonlight and the dim interior lighting. The only sounds came from the hiss of train brakes and the steps of a few passengers sleepily making their way toward idling engines.
Livy sighed when she found the departure at the bottom of the great board. The night train to Dieppe was scheduled to leave in just over an hour.
“We have time, then,” Nathalie said, seeming relieved as well.
“They won’t be waiting on the platform. They’ll come in at the last minute, just before it pulls out,” Livy said.
“So, what’s your plan?”
“My plan is I’m the one with the gun. Keep moving.” Livy grabbed Nathalie’s arm, steering her back to the front doors.
They’d have to bring Valentine in through the main entrance, she reasoned. The front of the Gare du Nord spanned almost the width of the Place de Roubaix, more than five hundred feet. Livy would have to rely on Nathalie to help her spot an approaching car or group of people in a hurry.
The lights of the station only illuminated the walkway outside, so every flash of light or set of headlights could mean that Valentine and Mirov might be at hand.
Would it be the tall Russian? It had to be. To Mirov, Valentine was a prize prisoner, and the MGB wanted him back in Moscow. What about the Mephisto list, though? It still gnawed at Livy how she’d let the other Russian, the one with the busted nose and the bad breath, take half of the list from her that night at the French Embassy.
Livy knew she’d have to improvise once they arrived. Whether by train or car, she was determined to leave the Gare du Nord with Valentine. She felt the coming confrontation in her body, the desire to climb the walls of this place, but outwardly Livy appeared calm. She’d felt the same way before a battle during the war, and just before she and Peter had been stopped by the Gestapo. Anxiety knotted her insides, and yet her mind again went to Peter. In this moment where an impulsive decision could change or end someone’s life, she felt him beside her.
“Don’t worry.” That would be his advice. The words alone wouldn’t calm her; it was his smile, the brightness in his eyes, the sense he carried that nothing could ever get in their way.
Livy’s grip on the Webley tightened. Any moment she’d be face-to-face again with Peter’s killer. What would he have done in her situation? Carry out the orders. Complete the mission.
England expects nothing less.
* * *
Minutes seemed endless. The hot tension Livy felt when she arrived at the station had settled somewhat. So after more than twenty minutes of waiting, Nathalie wandered over to a small bench just inside the main doors and sat. Livy moved back so she could keep an eye on both the front doors and her companion.
“Clear something up for me, luv,” Livy said, her voice hushed. “You sent for me, but Valentine didn’t know?”
Nathalie didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “He told me about you. How he knew you from the war. I saw … a way out.” The defiance was gone from her voice. She sounded tired.
“You must wake up in the morning and wonder whose side you’re on that day.”
“I gave Edward everything. For four years. You see how he treats me.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Nathalie looked up. The hat she wore pulled down over her bruised cheek covered nearly the entire top half of her face. “What?”
“Work with the Germans.”
The Frenchwoman sighed. “Why does anyone ever do anything? For money, I suppose. For love.”
“A bastard like Valentine?”
Nathalie tilted her head up to look at Livy. Her eye was nearly swollen shut. “You and I—we are more similar than you would like to think.”
Before Livy could respond, lights from outside the front doors crossed her face. She inched forward. The pair of head lamps that eased into the square slowly became four. Nathalie stood and moved beside Livy as the two cars slowed and then parked about twenty-five feet from the doors.
“This has to be them,” the Frenchwoman whispered.
“You don’t move unless I tell you to,” Livy said. “I’ll shoot if you run.”
Nathalie nodded. Her rig
ht eye twitched slightly. Livy wondered if somehow she’d become Nathalie’s protector now.
Both cars looked to be large black Citroën saloons. The rear doors of the first car opened, and two men in long coats and hats stepped out. Both carried traveling bags. One of the men waved to the driver, who pulled away as the two made for the front doors. Livy tensed and eased the Webley out of her coat as the men pushed through the doors about ten feet to her left. They were of average height, with mustaches and thick noses. Brothers, by the look of it. Maybe Italians.
Nathalie shook her head and let out a deep sigh. Livy watched the mustache boys until they disappeared inside the men’s room; then she whipped her head back to the front in time to see the second car turn off its lights.
It was too dark to make out how many people were inside. One back door opened, and a tall figure unfolded from the car and walked to the back. The man wore a long coat, collar up, and a homburg. He looked both ways before opening the boot. He disappeared from view for several seconds.
Livy couldn’t take much more of this.
Then the man in the homburg closed the boot. He wore a messenger bag around his shoulders. With more speed now, he dashed to the other side of the car and helped someone out. Another tall man.
Nathalie caught her eyes and nodded, but Livy already knew. Mirov and Valentine had arrived.
Livy knew she couldn’t let them get into the station. Too many variables came into play once they crossed the station’s threshold. The decision calmed her.
She grabbed Nathalie’s elbow and hissed in her ear, “Stay next to me. No matter what happens.” The Frenchwoman nodded. Livy opened the doors and moved out into the square to meet the two men, gun drawn.
