Spitfire

by M. L. Huie

  A second later the street was empty. Livy hugged a dirty brick wall and counted to herself. When she reached twenty-five, the man in the gray coat and hat came back into view, walking quickly in the opposite direction, hands still shoved in his pockets. Got you, she thought. Subtlety has never been the Americans’ strong suit.

  At that moment, the rusty gate of the courtyard in the building across the street opened and Dennis Allard stepped out. Tall and polished even at this time of night. She watched him scan the streets and then walk back into the courtyard and fiddle with something around back. A back entrance. When she’d rung him from the café, Livy had had no idea how Allard might receive her plea for help. But now it looked as if, at the very least, he was offering her a way into his flat if she could make it past the Gray Man.

  Then the older man checked his watch and moved out onto the street, heading east toward the Place de la Concorde.

  From her vantage point in the shadows, she watched Allard walk briskly for a block and stop in front of a tobacconist. He looked through the window, seeming to pay particular attention to a display inside. As he did, the man in gray came into her view again, walking back toward Livy.

  Slowly the Englishman turned away from the tobacconist and retraced his steps. The man in gray moved briskly down the other side of the street. He’s got him now. Allard’s long strides soon caught up with the man. By the time they were within twenty yards of Livy, Allard lagged only a few paces behind the Gray Man.

  “Monsieur, monsieur!” Allard called from across the street. “S’il vous plaît.”

  The Gray Man stopped. He cupped a hand to his ear, the fedora covering the top of his face.

  “Quelle heure est-il?” Allard called, tapping the face of his watch and shrugging.

  The Gray Man shook his head.

  Allard shrugged in disbelief. “Parlez-vous francais?”

  To which the man across the street waved his hand dismissively and continued eastward.

  Livy had no time to stay and admire Allard’s tradecraft. He’d given her the cover she needed.

  Minutes later she opened the door to Dennis Allard’s warm, comfortable flat and collapsed into an armchair. She removed the bread crust from inside her shoe and put her head back. She’d just started to get comfortable when the door swung open.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from Paris.”

  Livy’s eyelids felt heavy. She wanted to get rid of the greasy newspapers against her skin and take a long bath. His voice, however, felt like a smack across the face with a velvet glove.

  Allard stood ramrod straight, looking down at her. The wind at the river wasn’t as cold as his voice. “Do you even begin to comprehend the position you are in, Miss Nash? Or perhaps the position in which I now find myself and, by proximity, the British government? Is that at all clear to you?”

  “Well, you made the choice to let me in, didn’t you?” she lashed back. Even the sound of her own voice made her head throb.

  “Who says I’m not going to send you packing?” he said, the whisper of a grin creasing his mouth. “I’m quite sure the Americans would give you a place to stay the night.”

  Livy fell silent.

  “Fortunately for you, they are still infants in this game we’ve been playing for four hundred years.”

  “I saw you on the street. Nice work that.”

  Allard huffed. “They have the block covered, apparently. I thought Vance brought you back. Why are they looking for you?”

  Livy ignored the older man, stepping to the curtains.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Allard cautioned. “I just let one of their men know he’d been blown. We have to be careful.”

  Livy gave him a look. Exhaustion made her want to lash out. Allard registered the hint of anger.

  “I call the shots here, Miss Nash. Are we clear?” She nodded. “Capital. Now, it’s a bit late, but I’m having tea. Feel free to join me.”

  Allard stepped into the small kitchen area, sandwiched between the sitting and back rooms. Livy paced, trying to shake some of the stiffness in her legs. “Did you let Fleming know?”

  The gas burner flickered on under the kettle. “Of course.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  Allard put the tea in a small pot and plucked a single white china cup from the cupboard above the stove. “He said, ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t muck this one up.’ But there is something you should know, Miss Nash.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t work for Fleming.” The kettle began to hiss, and Allard let it.

  “So you won’t let me do my job.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He poured the hot water into the kettle. “Sugar? Milk?” Livy shook her head. “I am most concerned that my employer—the British government—is not humiliated when one of its citizens is arrested for murder.”

  “We work for the same people, Mr. Allard.”

  “Not quite. I am an indentured servant. You, my dear, were an independent contractor.” He placed a spoon on her saucer and gave her the cup.

  Livy felt like tossing the lot into his smug face, but she had to have Allard’s help or she’d be in the hands of the Americans and probably in jail. “We have the same goal, then.”

  “Perhaps, but our methods are decidedly different.”

  Livy put the tea back on the counter. “I know you think I’m reckless. I have been. During the war, you didn’t get style points. We hid bombs in dead rats when we had to. We just got the job done. This is different, I know. But we want the same thing, and I need your help.”

  She sounded like Peter. Desperate. Justifying reckless behavior.

  Allard made himself a cup, adding two lumps of sugar and milk. “The job? We have the woman, Mademoiselle Billerant. We’ve questioned her in London almost a fortnight now, and she’s been absolutely no use whatsoever. Apparently all she does is beg to come home. Are you telling me there is someone else out there we might recruit?”

  For a second she felt tempted to tell Allard about Peter. She longed to be rid of the burden. But how she could make this man understand and see that her way was the only possible choice in these circumstances?

  “No. No other recruits. But we can keep the rest of the Mephisto list out of the hands of the Soviets.”

  “Your tea is getting cold,” Allard said, nudging the cup and saucer toward her. Livy took the tea but didn’t drink.

  “I can’t do this without you,” Livy said.

  Allard sighed. “You came back with that American, Vance. Apparently that didn’t work out, because they’re out there looking for you. Why shouldn’t I expect a similar outcome?”

  “Things happened. Once I talked to the magician, Jabot, then I knew there might be a chance for me to finish what Mr. Fleming sent me here to do. And I will finish this job, Mr. Allard. There’s nothing else for me, whether you can see your way clear to help me or not.”

  The older man took another sip of tea. Allard’s clear blue eyes fixed on hers, his expression unchanged.

  “My flat, my rules. Clear?”

  Livy nodded.

  Allard put the saucer on the counter. “What do you need, then?”

  Livy reached into her coat and handed him a folded piece of stationery she’d lifted at the jail. Earlier she’d scribbled several lines on it in pencil. His eyes scanned the paper, then widened as he looked up at Livy.

  “Are you quite serious?”

  “You have to trust me, Mr. Allard. I promise I’ll keep it brief.”

  “If you’re meeting with a Soviet agent in my flat, then you’re damned right you’ll keep it brief. May I ask the purpose of this?”

  Livy couldn’t possibly tell him the real reason. If it all went wrong, then Allard would be culpable. This had to be her decision. And she’d have to live with the consequences.

  “I’m going to propose an exchange of information.”

  * * *

  Allard insisted she take his bed. After changin
g out the linen, he said good-night and retired to the sitting room.

  Allard’s bed felt like a soft nest. The thread count of the sheets had to be astronomical. The mattress cradled her body, but her mind resisted comfort. Too much was at stake. Too much could still go wrong. Despite Allard’s strong tea, Livy fell asleep almost immediately, but she woke several times in the night, the pieces of the puzzle flitting around in her head.

  An hour later she woke to the sound of running water. Allard in the bath getting ready for the day. Livy knew it would be a long one. Maybe the longest she’d ever had.

  When she’d left Peter the night before, they’d promised to meet again—tonight—at eleven. Now Livy lay in Allard’s cushy bed, staring at the drawn curtains over the window. Sleep still buzzed in her head but gradually cleared. Peter had warned her against betraying him. Even said he’d be watching her. She felt sure she’d left that alley clean, no tails. But Peter Scobee was a man who’d arranged his own death. Left his wife a widow and his young son fatherless. The man was smart, capable, and perhaps more ruthless than even she knew.

  She resisted the impulse to get out of bed, draw back the curtains, and look at the street below. Was he out there? Wherever he was, he probably felt exactly as she did. Wondering if he could trust her. Considering that he might have to do her harm if things didn’t work out.

  God, Peter, she wondered. How did we ever come to this?

  Allard gently rapped on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Morning,” he said, opening the door. The man was completely dressed. Pressed, polished, and scrubbed. “Help yourself to breakfast. I have several things to do today. Should be back this afternoon. I’ll knock three times. Pause. Then knock twice more. Don’t open the door to anyone else. No matter what. Oh, and be ready. I may have someone with me.”

  “Someone?”

  “Per your request,” Allard said. He closed the door. Livy listened to him leave.

  She got out of bed, went to the sitting room. More curtains drawn. The street outside a mystery to her. Livy sat in the armchair, curled her legs under her, and tried to focus. She had to concentrate now and see the entire story, from first to last.

  Livy knew now Nathalie had been nothing but bait. Her resistance to meet with Livy until that night in the hotel must have been part of the power play going on between Peter and Valentine. So when Valentine had found out about Nathalie and Peter’s plans, he’d decided to give Mirov the whole network. Peter then must have decided to shoot Mirov and Valentine, but would his plan have changed when he saw Livy at the Gare du Nord?

  “You didn’t know it, but we were working together that night,” he had told her.

  Peter would know—better than anyone—how much Livy hated Edward Valentine. He’d reeled her in perfectly. She saw him now so clearly. Her Peter.

  She looked at the clock on Allard’s mantel. Hours to go before he’d be back. Everything hinged now on Allard making contact with the Russians.

  But now she needed food, even though her stomach churned and her mouth tasted like acid. Livy forced herself. She fixed toast with jam and brewed a pot of strong tea. What she had to do tonight couldn’t be done on an empty stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Just after three PM, Allard knocked on the back door of the flat. Three long knocks, a pause, and then two quick ones. Livy had been dressed since breakfast. She wore her navy suit, which she’d taken the time to steam-clean by leaving it in Allard’s bath with the hot water on and the door shut. She then pressed her blouse. He kept the flat equipped with all manner of laundry supplies. Allard would make a first-rate wife.

  She’d paced a rut in Allard’s frayed Turkish rug that morning. Going over and over the plan while she chewed her nails ragged. So many ways it all could go wrong. More than once she’d considered dipping into Allard’s well-stocked liquor cabinet.

  Now, finally, here they were. She hushed her breath and opened the door. Allard had not come alone. The man standing next to him looked like the lone Russian they’d pulled out of Central Casting.

  “May we come in, then?” Allard said, huffing. Livy stood aside as he quickly closed the door. “This is Mr. Varlamov from the Soviet Embassy.”

  The Russian looked to be about forty. Little round glasses amplified his narrow eyes but couldn’t hide his heavy Slavic features. He knew how to dress, though. Gray pinstripe suit. Solid blue tie that could have come from a Jermyn Street tailor. Nothing too flash that might upset his worker’s pedigree, but his clothing didn’t make Moscow look cheap either. He smelled like he’d had a shower of sugar water. Despite the finery, he looked every bit as uncomfortable as Livy felt.

  “I told him you would be brief,” Allard said. A command.

  “Of course. Thank you for your time, sir.”

  The Russian sized her up, his eyes narrowing before he smirked as if to say, Who is this girl?

  Livy gave Allard a sideways look. “I’ll let you know when we’ve finished.”

  A dark cloud crossed Allard’s face. Livy knew the Englishman could shut down this whole thing, then and there. Protocol, however, kept him from making a scene, and he retreated from the flat without comment. One had to know how to use the English class system in one’s favor. Mrs. Sherbourne would be proud.

  The Russian was a different matter. He stood close to the door as if the floor of the flat were mined. Allard had probably driven all over Paris to make sure he didn’t have a tail before bringing the Russian in through the back door. Livy knew the clock was ticking.

  “Mr. Varlamov, would you—”

  “You have information about murder of Andrei Mirov?” His thick accent butchered the vowels, but his voice carried weight.

  “I do. I’m willing to make an exchange with you.”

  Varlamov sighed, looked at his watch.

  “A trade for information about his killer.”

  Varlamov took off his round spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “We do not—trade.”

  “I think you will for this.”

  “Excuse me, please. But Andrei Mirov was victim of murder. The French police investigate.”

  “And they will not find this person, Mr. Varlamov, I can promise you.”

  The Russian chuckled, as if humoring the farfetched story of a child. “We shall see. Is that all?” Varlamov turned to go, his hand on the doorknob. Livy knew she’d cocked it up. If the Russian left, it all ended right there. She’d be back at the P&J inside a month. Copyediting Mrs. O’Toole’s rubbish. She had to speak her mind. No other option.

  “I was there the night they shot him.” Livy let it land. The Russian hesitated.

  She went on, feeling oddly vulnerable with this brick wall of a man. “I liked him, Mirov. He didn’t deserve to die that way.”

  Varlamov took his hand off the knob, waited.

  “I wasn’t alone that night. Your man Levchenko was there, too. You might say we’re acquainted as well. Look closely at my right cheek and you’ll see what’s left of a bruise he gave me.”

  The Russian’s eyes betrayed nothing, but Livy could feel the gears turning as he tried to make sense of it all.

  “Exactly, who—are—you?”

  “I’m your only chance. Your people think they’ll get an answer about the killer, but they won’t. No one knows. Just me.”

  Varlamov looked somewhere between scandalized and angry. “Go on,” he said softly.

  Livy’s nerves jangled, but she knew she’d hooked him. “Levchenko is in Paris right now. If you go back to the embassy and tell him what I’m about to tell you, then you’re going to make your fellow comrade very happy.”

  The Russian’s lips twitched as if he wanted to speak but didn’t know how. “This man you speak of—”

  “Levchenko.”

  “I, of course, do not know him. Many citizens work in our embassy. But if you have something important to say to this man—”

  “Levchenko.”

  “Yes. Then I would help
you.”

  “Good.” Livy allowed herself a smile. “If, by chance, anyone at your office does know Mr. Levchenko, this is my offer.”

  * * *

  Allard came back about an hour later after escorting Varlamov safely away from the flat. He locked the door and turned to Livy, his jaw set.

  “Do you have any idea how difficult that was? How many favors I had to call in just to get one of those damned Reds to come to my flat?” Allard’s genteel pretense had been thrown out the window to make way for some out-and-out bluster. Livy knew he wanted her gone.

  “I have a very good idea, actually.”

  “At the end of all this, we shall have a full accounting of the operation, I assure you,” her unhappy host said, huffing. Allard looked like a man who had nowhere else to put his frustration. Livy understood. He had years of experience, and in the last eighteen hours he’d found himself harboring a fugitive from the Americans and the French police. On top of that, he was taking orders from a woman more than twenty years his junior. Livy admired the older man. He was doing his best.

  “I look forward to that,” Livy told him, meaning it. What happened after tonight didn’t matter to her. Finishing the job was all she had. She glanced at the English bracket clock sitting on the mantel. It had just turned five PM.

  Six more hours.

  “Right, then. I have the other item you asked about,” he said, turning to the bedroom.

  Livy followed and found Allard holding a cloth bag.

  “It’s lighter than the one you gave me that night, but it should have enough stopping power if you need it.” He pulled a small black automatic pistol from the bag and handed it to Livy. “It’s a Beretta .32 automatic. Eight rounds. Manual safety and another on the hammer.”

  The gun felt light, easy to use, though not exactly comfortable in her hand. But the Webley hadn’t either.