by M. L. Huie
Mirov saw her first and grabbed Valentine by the arm, mirroring Livy’s position with Nathalie. The two men stopped, still in the street, about fifteen feet away from the women. The black saloon’s engine purred behind them as if ready to drive away. A match inside the car flickered, illuminating a face Livy had first seen some time ago outside the French Embassy. The boxer’s nose, the thick upper lip, the mustache that curled down the sides of his mouth. Levchenko glared at Livy through the windshield as he lit his cigarette. Then the match flickered out and the darkness cloaked him again.
“Olivia,” said Mirov, his long face drawn and tired, “this isn’t your battle anymore.”
“You’re right. It all ends tonight. I’ve got Nathalie. She’s got the list, and I’m taking that bastard back with me.”
“You had your chance, Livy,” Valentine said, smirking. Then to Nathalie, “And you. You’re being played for a fool, girl.”
“You shut it,” Livy said, turning the gun on the magician. “Give me one reason to shoot, Luc. I’ve been waiting here a long time and I’m feeling a bit jumpy.”
Mirov stepped forward. “Olivia, this will not end the way you want. You have to let me take him. You have to trust me. You have to trust that we want the same thing.”
“Trust you?” Livy scoffed. “Back away. Now. This doesn’t need to be messy.”
The Russian kept getting closer to her and was now about ten feet away. Livy knew he wanted to appease her. She’d experienced his charm in a variety of accents, but it wouldn’t work tonight.
“We both have orders, but we don’t have to be enemies, Olivia. That’s what he wants,” he said, jerking his head at Valentine. “Look at what we—our two countries—accomplished together. Just because the war is over, we don’t have to tear it all apart—”
The next moment happened so quickly Livy barely registered it. She turned back to Valentine to see he had a small automatic in his hand. At the same moment Mirov reached for her. Then a chunk of his gray hair hit her coat and fell to the ground. Livy looked down and saw a pile of gray, now red mixed with blood and brains. Instinctively she whipped the gun to Mirov. Somehow the Russian was still standing, even though a chunk of his forehead lay at Livy’s feet. He staggered forward, one wobbly step, until another bullet hit him square in the back. His arms flung out to the sides, suspending him for a moment, before his lean frame crashed face first to the pavement.
Nathalie screamed. Livy spun toward Valentine.
But he looked back toward the square, searching for something. Suddenly he swung around, pivoting toward Nathalie, the gun extended in his right hand. Livy squeezed the trigger of the Webley twice. The first bullet hit Valentine in the stomach. The second caught him full in the chest, spinning him around. He teetered for a moment, and then Valentine’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched in the face. His black fedora toppled into the square. For a moment Livy saw his bare head and the hole where the third bullet had entered, and he looked vulnerable. Peaceful. Like Luc. Then he crashed hard, facedown, into the street.
A third shot. From where?
Livy’s mind grappled with the new immediate danger. She and Nathalie had no protection. If a sniper lay out there in the darkness, they’d be next. No way to protect themselves.
Livy tensed, waiting for the bullet. She expected death.
Nothing happened.
She looked at Valentine. The magician Mephisto, the man she knew as Luc, lay completely still.
Then the black Citroën’s engine revved. The big car spun away from the curb, its wheels whining as it left the Gare du Nord. At the same time Nathalie, who by now had stopped screaming, began to run. She kicked off her unwieldy heels and dashed awkwardly into the square.
Without a second thought, Livy took off after her, but the gathered fabric of her dress restricted her gait. She trampled on satin with each step. Stopping, she ripped the bottom of the dress off, just below the knee.
Nathalie had a head start of maybe twenty-five yards. Livy shoved the Webley in her coat and ran. Her strides at first matching Nathalie’s.
In the distance, a siren began its wail.
Livy pushed forward, her breath coming in hard fast bursts. Legs churning now without the damned skirt’s restriction. Nathalie began to lose ground as they reached the unlit portion of the square farther from the station.
The siren’s insistent scream drew nearer as Livy caught up to the fleeing Nathalie. She lunged for her coat but grabbed only air. With one burst from her legs, Livy threw herself at the Frenchwoman, grabbing the collar of Nathalie’s expensive overcoat, and dragged them both to the hard street. They toppled over each other, grunting. Nathalie pushed and flailed, trying to get free, but Livy held tight to the coat collar. The tumbling stopped with Livy kneeling over her back. Nathalie thrashed like a captured animal under her, repeating “Non” over and over.
With the wail of the siren only a few streets away, Livy dug her knee deeper into Nathalie’s back. Placed a hand over her mouth to quiet her cries. As the police car’s cry began to fade, so too did Nathalie’s will to resist. Livy took a moment to catch her own breath and then used what little strength she had left to get Nathalie on her feet. She put her arm around the Frenchwoman’s shoulders. They limped into the darkness as the blinking light of a police car lit up the square behind them.
Chapter Twenty
Livy dragged Nathalie through the backstreets near the Gare du Nord, gun rammed into her side, until she found a café that was still open. There she rang Allard. He listened, without interruption, as Livy explained what had happened. Quite calmly, he told her to find a dark corner near the café, somewhere where the two of them wouldn’t be seen, and that he would pick them up shortly.
Livy and Nathalie sat side by side in the back doorway of a butcher’s just off the main road about a mile from the rail station. Waiting. Again. They had not spoken since the shooting. Livy broke the silence.
“What was that about? Running into the square back there? You could’ve been killed.”
Nathalie spun toward Livy, her battered eye swollen and red from crying. “You should have let me go.”
“You promised me that list. So, I’m keeping you safe and right by my side.”
“Let me go now, and I will give it to you. Edward is dead. There is nothing stopping us now.”
“Not the way it works, luv. Some folks in London would like a chat with you.”
Nathalie stood suddenly, her voice loud and shrill. “London? No, I can’t. I won’t.” The sudden burst of raw emotion caught Livy off guard. She scrambled to her feet, pushing the barrel of the gun into Nathalie’s side.
“You’re going to sit down and be quiet,” Livy said, hissing. Nathalie tried to pull away. Livy wrapped a hand around her throat. “Don’t make me do this, Nathalie. A car will be here soon. Both of us are leaving Paris. Tonight.”
The fire seemed to leave Nathalie instantly. She sank back to the sidewalk, crushing the hat over her face as she sobbed quietly. Livy sat next to her, listening to Nathalie cry, hoping Allard would be there soon.
Ten very long minutes later, he arrived. Despite having been awakened in the middle of the night with the sort of news no head of station wants to hear, the Englishman looked rested and polished. His suit and shirt were so pressed they crackled.
He took Nathalie first and put her in the front seat of the Renault. Livy followed and sat in the back. Livy expected Nathalie to try to get away again, so she kept her hand on the gun. But Nathalie seemed too spent to try anything. She leaned her head back against the door, fidgeting with her opulent cigarette case, and closed her eyes. Apart from the occasional siren, the time passed quietly.
Livy’s eyes darted back out to the main road, looking for the police, who would be searching for the killer of the two men at the station. The travel bag she’d left at Madame Riveaux’s sat on the seat next to her. Allard had thought of everything.
She held the Webley tight during the dri
ve. She couldn’t take the chance that Nathalie might try to make a run for it at a stop sign.
Livy slumped into the automobile’s leather. She still wore the torn satin mermaid dress, which felt dirty to her skin now. She craved a bath and clean clothes. As the sun came up, she undid the top buttons of her overcoat. She noticed a curled strand of Mirov’s gray hair that clung to the coat’s lapel. She left it there.
Allard drove not to the airport but to a small airfield about ten miles out of the city. A green guardhouse stood at the entrance, and the British soldier inside waved them through upon seeing Allard. At the end of the unpaved runway, a green Lodestar transport plane with the RAF insignia on its side sat idling.
Allard stopped the car just beyond the guardhouse and helped Livy out of the back seat. Her legs and arms ached from her tumble in the street, and her right elbow burned, as if she’d been cut. He asked for her gun. She handed over the Webley and silencer. Allard placed it in a green travel bag and shoved it under his seat.
Allard didn’t say anything else. He could have said many things. He could say she’d been reckless and damned near gotten herself killed. He could say she might have caused an international incident in a city and country still trying to find its way two years after liberation. Instead he methodically went about the business of transferring the two women from his car to the waiting plane.
Allard helped Nathalie on board first, into the waiting arms of an RAF guard. Then he turned to Livy.
“I’ll take care of everything on this end,” he said, handing her the travel bag. “If I were you, Miss Nash, I don’t believe I’d return to France in the foreseeable future. Bon voyage.”
Livy nodded and found a seat inside the warehouselike interior of the cargo plane. She sat on one of the facing benches opposite the Frenchwoman. A few minutes later they took off. Nathalie’s head lolled against the side of the plane. She sobbed as the plane surged upward.
“He’s dead now,” Livy said. Truth be told, she had begun to pity Nathalie. “You don’t have to worry about him again.”
“Edward has been dead to me for a long time,” she shot back, turning her head away. Within minutes she fell asleep.
Now he’s dead to us both, Livy thought. She remembered how Valentine’s body lay in the street, the way it flopped like a broken toy. There’d been a time when she might have felt like dancing over the traitor’s corpse. But it had all happened so quickly. How she had wanted the chance to … what? Enjoy the moment? The reality was, she still felt empty. Killing Valentine didn’t erase her past. It only reopened the wound. What had she expected? That Valentine’s death would be the salve to ease the pain of losing Peter? God, she’d still give anything to talk to him again. To see Peter’s face light up as she told him about all of it. Valentine was dead, but so was Peter. Despite the soothing drone of the engines in flight, Livy never closed her eyes.
* * *
The next day Livy sat in one of the guest chairs next to Penelope Baker’s desk in the Kemsley News office in London. Even though she wore her brown suit, which had only recently been pressed, Livy felt haggard next to the fresh and very manicured Miss Baker.
Livy remembered the first time she’d sat in this chair, waiting to see what would come her way once she crossed to the inner office. Hard to believe it had been only days ago. Fleming’s offer had seemed like a life preserver thrown to her after she was sacked from the P&J.
On the surface, she’d accomplished what she set out to do. Nathalie had been taken into custody. Valentine was dead. But still it felt all wrong. One thought nagged at her like a bad toothache: Who killed Andrei Mirov?
The whoosh of the interior office door sounded as Fleming appeared. He nodded at Livy and went back inside.
“Good luck,” Pen whispered as Livy passed her desk.
Inside, Fleming lit a cigarette but didn’t speak. He picked up a folder from his crowded desk and thumbed through several sheets until he found what he wanted. Behind his desk, the map of the world pulsed with dozens of bulbs representing Kemsley’s foreign correspondents. The light in Paris still burned.
“The French police have taken over the investigation of the Soviet national Andrei Mirov,” Fleming said, eyes on the report. “I take it you knew him prior to his death?”
Livy nodded.
“‘Deceased appears to be in his midfifties with two gunshot wounds. One to the head and the other through the chest. Documents cleared through the Soviet Embassy in Paris. Believed to be a longtime member of Soviet state security, also known as the MGB.’” Fleming looked up. His blue eyes were dark and hooded. “I don’t suppose you saw who shot him?”
“No,” Livy said. “The shots came from the square. I never saw anyone else.”
“You told Allard there was a third man there. Another Russian?”
“The same man who took the list from me at the French Embassy. He drove the car. But I don’t think he could have shot Mirov. The angle wasn’t right.”
Fleming nodded, considering her explanation, then sat behind his desk and placed the folder on top of the smallest stack. His wide mouth was a flat line. “What happened with Valentine?”
Livy didn’t know what to say. She’d asked herself the same question many times since it happened. “Valentine had a gun. Then Mirov was shot. I didn’t have time to think about it. He turned toward Nathalie and I fired.”
“Valentine threatened Miss Billerant?”
“I don’t know what he intended. I didn’t give him time.”
“You just shot him?”
Livy blinked. Her mouth felt dry as she remembered the night. She pursed her lips and tried to sound calm.
“A man’s brains had just landed on my coat. Here’s another man with a gun and he’s turning in our direction. So, yes, I just shot him.”
Fleming took a long drag of the cigarette. “And Miss Billerant ran from you after Valentine was shot. If she wanted to give us the list, then why would she try to get away?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. Just pleaded to stay.”
Fleming leaned across the table. Clearly, the sequence of events confused him as much as Livy.
“Is Nathalie being cooperative?” Livy asked.
“Not in the least. She’s refusing to talk unless we send her back to Paris. Apparently the Americans are having a go with her today. We shall see what they can get out of her.”
Fleming picked up the folder again and looked it over. “We have to assume the Russians have the half of the list they took from you. Until Miss Billerant decides to keep up her end of the bargain, they still have the advantage, I’d say.”
Livy tried to disguise what she felt inside. Her stomach lurched and tears pushed at the corners of her eyes. She’d cocked it up but good. She tried denying it to herself, but she knew it now. If Fleming registered her discomfort, he gave no indication.
“You broke into the Billerant woman’s hotel room in the middle of the night. What made you force her hand?” he asked.
“She was stalling. It didn’t feel right to me. Plus I knew the other side was closing in and Valentine was playing both sides to see who’d give him the best deal.”
“How do you know?”
“He as much as told me.”
“Valentine contacted you?”
“When I was in jail.”
“Jail?” Fleming let the word hang in the air. “I see.” He smoked and didn’t speak for at least a minute. “You hated him, of course?”
“Yes sir, but that’s not why I shot him. I couldn’t let the Russian take him. I had my orders.”
“So, now we just sit and wait to see what, if anything, the Russians do with the Mephisto network.” Fleming’s wide mouth turned down. He tossed the folder on his desk in disgust. “Thank you, Miss Nash. I think that will be all.”
His words seemed to stop time. That will be all?
She had to leave, but her legs wouldn’t move just yet. She had no air. Had her heart stopped? She f
orced herself to stand, managing a nod in Fleming’s direction. His eyes never left the desk. Livy hoped she’d make it outside before the tears came. He’d taken a chance on her and she’d delivered a right royal mess and an uncooperative source. Well, she’d had a go. Now it was time to bow and get off the stage.
Somehow she made it to the door, through the outer office, and out of the brown, unremarkable building on the Gray’s Inn Road. Livy stood on the sidewalk, as people purposefully hurried past and around her, and realized she had no idea where she was headed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Three days after her meeting with Fleming, Livy walked to the Press and Journal building in central London. She had no real plans for the day. In fact, she had no real plans for any day, but in the middle of the night she’d been struck by the realization that she had unfinished business, and finishing required a bit of help.
Beyond that she’d spent the last two days sitting in bed thinking, not even changing out of the gown she’d worn to bed, a gown her mother had worn. Moths had eaten through much of the hem and the elbows, but it felt like a second skin to her. Despite the curt dismissal, Fleming had sent round a very generous stipend for her work in Paris, but that wouldn’t last forever. She’d settled up with Mr. Langham on her rent, paid the bills, and avoided Black Market Billy and his access to the booze of the world. But she’d need a new job and soon.
Sleep had been sporadic. She’d nap for an hour or two and then be woken by a nightmare. The dream was always the same: She stood on a platform at the Gare du Nord as a train approached, Valentine and Mirov in front of her. As the speeding engine reached the inside of the station, the Russian’s head would pop like a balloon. When it did, Livy screamed and shoved Valentine into the path of the oncoming locomotive. The engine raced on through the station, and once it cleared, Livy would walk to the edge of the platform to look at the body, but it was never Edward Valentine lying on the tracks. It was always Peter.
