by CW Hawes
“You likewise,” I replied and got out of the car. I ran to the hotel entrance, turned, and she was already gone. I entered the hotel, quickly crossed the lobby, and took the stairs to my floor. Standing at my door, looking for my key, I noticed the newspapers in front of Karl’s door were gone. I found the key, unlocked the door, and entered my room.
EIGHT
Kit
Pounding. Someone was pounding and making a racket. I came out of my sleep and realized the pounding was coming from my hotel room door. I glanced at the clock. Quarter to noon! I got out of bed and put on my housecoat. Given events of the past twenty-four hours, I slipped my Colt Pocket Positive into my pocket.
“Who is it?” I called out.
“Karl,” came the answer.
I opened the door.
“May I come in?”
“Certainly. I wish you wouldn’t be such a baby and use the connecting door. For God’s sake, we’ve been lovers. What is there to hide?”
I walked away and he entered, closing the door after himself.
“Where were you last night?” he demanded.
“I was out.” I lit a cigarette. “You got the newspapers I brought?”
“I did. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re not going to tell me where you were?”
“No. I was out.”
“Very well.” He turned to go.
“Karl?”
He stopped and turned towards me.
“Do you love me?”
“You know I do, Dru.”
“But not enough to marry me.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. I love you and want to marry you. But I feel obligated to provide for my sick wife.”
“And so you must stay married to her.”
“If I didn’t, if I divorced her, she would feel I abandoned her and her condition would worsen. Probably faster than it already is.”
“I wouldn’t want that for her.”
“Thank you, Dru.”
“Karl, this is very difficult for both of us. I don’t want to lose you and yet…”
“And yet you’ve found someone who will give you what you want.”
“I don’t know if he will or not. That’s the rub.”
“I don’t think I can share you, Dru. Selfish as that sounds.”
“I wish you would consider it.”
“Dru, I think I love you too much to share you.”
“Yet I must share you.”
“That’s the devil of it. Let me think about it. I don’t want to lose you either. I love you, Dru Drummond, with all my heart and soul.”
“Let me get dressed. We need to talk.”
“I’m afraid that is not possible. I’m interviewing Klim Voroshilov, a member of the Presidium this afternoon.”
“Oh, very good.” I got close to Karl and whispered, “The interpreter is untrustworthy. At least for me. Hopefully you’ll fare better.”
“Perhaps we can have dinner later,” he said.
“I’d like that. Good luck.”
Karl left and I was alone. I got another cigarette and lit it. I inhaled smoke and exhaled. It tasted good. I’d wanted to discuss the events of last night with Karl. Now I’d have to ponder them on my own. I looked at the clock. The time was now afternoon. I decided to bathe and get ready for the day.
At quarter to two I was sitting in the restaurant on the ground floor of Hotel Moskva and looking at the menu.
“I still think you’d look swell behind the wheel of a Graham.”
I looked up and standing across the table from me was Christopher Somers!
“Mr. Somers, what a pleasant surprise! Please, join me.”
“I was going to ask you to do the same, Lady Hurley-Drummond. I know a little place that serves great food. Real Russian grub. Or, if you’re missing home, real American.”
I smiled. He was so very American. “By all means, Mr. Somers, I’d love to have real Russian grub. Come to think of it real American grub sounds even better.”
He smiled back. “Then let’s go. My car is out front.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s a Graham.”
“It is! Specially shipped here to impress the Commissars. A Sharknose. One of the most unique cars you’ll ever see. Brand new, too.”
We walked out of the restaurant and hotel. There at the kerb was a truly odd looking vehicle. The grille and bonnet came to a sharp point and indeed looked like a nose or a snout. The headlamps were mounted in the rounded front wings and the indicators were on top of the wings. There was a sun visor over the windscreen. The color of the car was royal blue.
Somers was beaming. “Well? What do you think?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you sell many of these?”
“Actually, no. That’s why the Grahams are hoping to get a big order from the Soviets. They need cars and we have cars. Help us get rid of excess inventory without slashing prices.”
“For your sake, Mr. Somers, I hope they buy the lot.”
“Thank you, Lady Hurley-Drummond.” He opened the passenger door. “Get in and feel how nice the seats are.”
“Thank you, Mr. Somers.” I got in. He closed the door, went around the car , and got in behind the wheel. He started the engine.
“Listen to that purr. Isn’t this a nice interior?” Clearly he loved the car.
“It is, Mr. Somers.”
“Would you be interested in one, Lady Drummond? I could get you a good deal. Do wonders for the company to have you driving one.” He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.
“I do own an automobile, Mr. Somers. I’m not sure I’d know what to do with two of them.”
“Can’t blame me for trying, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“I don’t. Clearly you love this automobile. I know you are genuine. Besides you already promised me a deal on a Hollywood I believe it was.”
“And so I did, Lady Hurley-Drummond, so I did. You’d look better behind the wheel of a Hollywood. May I ask what you currently drive?”
“I own a Chrysler Atlantic.”
“Wow. That is one nice automobile. I have to confess there isn’t much out there nicer than an Atlantic. I’m impressed.”
“It only has two seats and occasionally I need more. Your Hollywood may do the job quite nicely of meeting that need.”
“Oh, it will do that and more. You’ll see. Now the place I have in mind is on the outskirts of Moscow. Dzerzhinsky actually.”
“Where’s that?”
“Southeast.”
“Do you know Russian, Mr. Somers?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. Enough to carry on a halfway decent casual conversation. But this place is run by an American ex-pat.”
“How very interesting.”
“The place is interesting. You’ll see.”
“What I’m beginning to think, Mr. Somers, is that you are very interesting.”
“How so, Lady Hurley-Drummond?”
“You present the face of a breezy automobile salesman, but there is something more beneath the surface. Like just now. You reveal you speak some Russian and you know an out of the way café owned by an American ex-patriot. This is all very curious to me.”
Somers was quiet and then quite seriously he said, “We need your help Lady Hurley-Drummond and to get it I’ve been authorized to reveal certain information to you. On condition you will not pass it on. We’re extending a certain amount of trust because we need your help.”
“Who’s ‘we,’ Mr. Somers?”
“IRIS.”
“I’ll bite. What or who is IRIS?”
“International Research and Intelligence Service.”
“I’ve not heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised. The late president FDR, created IRIS to keep the US informed of Germany’s intentions after Hitler’s assumption of absolute power and to keep watch on Russian internal affairs after Stalin started the Great Purge. Outside of the State Dep
artment and a few in Congress, IRIS is unknown. And we’d like to keep it that way.”
“You aren’t concerned about Il Duce?”
“Not overly much. He was our ally in the last war. And to be honest, he’s proven to be rather inept on the international stage.”
“What do you wish from me? I assume you are an IRIS agent?”
“I am. Although I was with Graham-Paige first. Aware of the Graham’s overseas ambitions, I was recruited. Now I work for the Grahams and our government.”
“And me? What do you wish me to do?”
“We want you to monitor the Czarists’ movements for us.”
“Why the Czarists?”
The government is considering providing clandestine support.”
“I believe the Germans are as well.”
“Yes. Which is why we need to be in the picture. We want to break the German-Russian Alliance.”
“I see.”
“What do you say?”
“You do realize I’m a British citizen?”
“I do.” He reached inside his coat and extracted an envelope. “For you.” He handed it to me.
The envelope itself was plain and white. Inside was a sheet of stationary with the British Prime Minister’s letterhead. I read:
Dear Lady Drummond Hurley-Drummond:
If you are reading this, you are in contact with Christopher Somers. Her Majesty’s government desires your cooperation with Mr. Somers. Whilst the decision is yours, Her Majesty is confident you will do what is best for your country.
Sincerely,
Winston Churchill
“Goodness,” was all I could say after reading the letter.
“Well, Lady Drummond, can we count on your help?”
“Let me think this over.”
“Certainly. I understand.”
Suddenly everyone wanted my assistance, or was giving me warnings, or advice. When did I become such an important cog in everyone’s machine? Or my well-being their vital concern?
We arrived at the café. I chuckled at the sign which was in English and Russian. “Café of the Millennium” it announced.
“Yes, John is quite the flamboyant character.”
“The proprietor?”
Somers nodded.
The building itself was a statement in flamboyance. A graceful example of western Streamline Moderne design, with its flowing circular curves and walls made of glass and glass block, in stark contrast to the blocky uniform cubes of Soviet architecture which surrounded the café. In these two architectural statements I saw the freedom and glowing future cherished and hoped for in the west and the rigid, unimaginative, uniform strictures of totalitarianism. I knew right then I had to help Christopher Somers and in so doing my country and my adopted country.
We walked in and a sign in English, German, French, and Russian told us to seat ourselves. Somers suggested an out of the way corner booth and I said that was fine. We sat and a waiter gave us menus and asked in Russian what we’d like to drink. Somers said coffee and I said tea, having learned at least one Russian word thus far. The waiter left and a minute later a man came to our table.
“Kit Somers. I haven’t seen you in ages. You still pedaling Grahams?”
“Hi John. I am. May I introduce you to Lady Hurley-Drummond? Lady Hurley-Drummond, this is John Collins. The illustrious proprietor of ‘Café of the Millennium.’”
“Pleased to meet you, Lady Hurley-Drummond. Are you the journalist?”
“I am, Mr. Collins.”
“An honor,” he replied.
“I love the design of your restaurant,” I said.
“A little bit of the West in the East.”
“I’m surprised the Soviet government let you build it,” I continued.
“If you speak ruble, you can get most anything you want,” John explained, “except coffee.”
“What?” Somers yelped.
“Sorry Somers. I have tea.”
“Oh, alright. I’ll have tea.”
“Good man. When in Russia, do as the Russians do. I’ll be back with your tea. Nice meeting you, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“Likewise,” I said.
Another minute passed. John Collins returned with our tea and left. The menu was in Russian, English, German, and French.
“I can say everything here is good,” Somers said.
“How often have you been here?”
“Four times now.”
“Trying to sell Grahams to the Soviets?”
“Only twice. The other times I was here incognito.”
I whispered, “So you really are a spy.”
He whispered back, “Part-time only.”
“I’ve decided to help you.”
“You realize this is dangerous. Not as dangerous as if you were spying directly against the Soviet government. Although, you could be seen as working with a group dedicated to overthrowing the government and so it all may amount to the same thing.”
“I realize this.”
“Welcome aboard, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“Since we’re now comrades,” Somers chuckled at my use of the word comrades, “call me ‘Dru.’”
“With pleasure. And, please, call me ‘Kit.’”
“Okay. Now what, Kit?”
“Your job is very simple. You observe what the Czarists are doing and report back to me.”
“How do I get in touch with you?”
“You don’t. I get in touch with you.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“It is. Just keep your eyes and ears open and when I contact you, tell me what you saw and heard. And one more thing: don’t get caught.”
The waiter came and took our orders. Kit got cabbage rolls, borscht, and a salad. I ordered a hamburger and fries.
“You must be missing home,” Kit said.
“I am. I’m going to love this burger.”
He laughed. “As good as any back home and probably better because you aren’t home.”
The remainder of the afternoon we ate and talked. I told Kit what life was like being a journalist and he told me what life was like being a marketing director for an automobile company. He’s four months older than I am, never married, born in Ohio, and has a degree from Case School of Applied Science. He reads Richard Aldington, H.D., Hugh Walpole, George Berkeley, Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Popular Mechanics, and Popular Science.
When our main meal was eaten, he asked if I wanted dessert.
“No, thank you, I am full and I should be getting back.”
“Very well.” He signaled the waiter, but before he could respond John Collins came over.
“My treat,” Collins said.
“Thank you, very much, John. Here…,” he handed Collins money. “Tip for our waiter.”
“Sergei thanks you. I hope to see you again, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“Likewise,” I replied.
Kit and I left the restaurant and he drove me back to the hotel.
“I’ll be in touch, Dru,” he said holding the door for me while I got out.
“Take care, Kit. Be safe.”
“I will. You, too. And thanks.”
I walked to the hotel door and turned. His car was still at the kerb. He waved and I waved back. Then he drove off.
NINE
This Is It
After my afternoon with Kit Somers, I set up my typewriter and began typing a story for Hall. Halfway through, the telephone rang. I looked at the clock. Seven. The thought dawned on me Karl was quite late. Perhaps this was he calling about dinner. I picked up the handset.
The voice on the other end said, “Lobby in fifteen minutes.” Then there was a buzzing in my ear. The caller had hung up. I did not recognize the voice. Should I comply or should I ignore the directive and continue working on my story? Perhaps this was Mikhail’s doing. Or Kit Somers’. Or maybe Beria’s.
“I’ll go,” I said to the walls and the hidden microphones.
I put on my coat, hat, glov
es. From the secret compartment in my suitcase I took out my Colt Pocket Positive, loaded it, and put it into my right coat pocket along with six extra cartridges. If I ran into trouble, I had my helper.
I left my room, locked the door, walked to the lift, and pressed the button to summon the car. In a minute the door opened, I stepped in, and told the operator, “lobby.” The door closed, we descended, and on the ground floor the door opened and I walked into the lobby.
When the manager saw me searching, he discreetly pointed to the entrance. There, standing by a potted banana tree, was a wizened old man holding a small sign with “Drummond Hurley- Drummond” printed in blocky inked letters. I turned back to the manager who gave a slight shrug. I nodded and walked over to the old man.
“I am Lady Drummond Hurley-Drummond,” I announced.
The old man said something in Russian and then beckoned me to come closer. I leaned forward and in my ear he whispered one word. Boris.
I replied with one of the other Russian words I knew, “Da.”
The old man smiled and made for the entrance. I followed. Once outside, I noticed a Soviet semi-rigid airship hovering in the sky. Was this a trap I wondered? Had they broken Mikhail’s cell and were now going to interrogate me? My hand went to the revolver in my pocket.
A lot of good that will do against machine guns, I chided myself.
I followed the old man for a block. When I hesitated at the second block, he motioned for me to follow. Reluctantly, I did so. My hand with a firm grip on my revolver. Halfway down were four cars parked along the kerb. A door opened and the old man motioned for me to enter.
“This is it,” I said to the deepening dusky sky and got into the vehicle.
In the backseat was Dunyasha. The driver was Nestor. He put the car in gear and we were off.
Dunyasha kissed me and said, “We meet again and so soon.”
“I for one am pleased. I wish you’d pick some other way to get my attention. I was scared to death.”
Dunyasha smiled and then the smile disappeared. “You should be, Dru. Never not be scared. Even now we are being followed. Nestor will lose them. And the Count will take care of the one who followed you from the hotel.”
