A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  “Just a minute, Mr. Taylor. Why don’t you describe exactly how the body was?”

  “Uh, it was kind of weird. He was on his side with his knees drawn up, kind of, his head rolled back.” He shuddered.

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I can hardly remember, I was so upset. I sort of forgot that I was angry enough to kill him, and all I saw was someone I used to be friends with. I tried to move him. I don’t even know why, now. I think I was trying to feel his pulse or something. I couldn’t take in that he was dead. But the blood . . . I realized I had it on my hands and shirt sleeves. I ripped off my jacket and shirt and tried to cover his neck with the shirt. I was like a crazy man. Part of me knew he was dead, but part of me didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Did you do anything else to the body?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. I . . . I think I tried to straighten it out, turn him face down so I couldn’t see that ghastly wound any more. It seemed, I don’t know, more dignified.”

  “Then?”

  “I ran. It suddenly occurred to me that someone had slit his throat, and that person might still be around. Especially as there was still blood. I must have come on the scene not too long after.”

  “And the shirt?”

  “It was covered with his blood. I took it and crumpled it up and shoved it in my jacket. I was planning to burn it when I could.”

  “And the gun?”

  “What gun?” Taylor said, puzzled.

  “Brodie’s hunting rifle.”

  Taylor shook his head. “I didn’t see it. But it was dark. He could have propped it up somewhere. To be honest with him lying cut up like that, I didn’t think about his rifle.”

  “You were a bit out of your head. Are you sure you didn’t take it with you?” Ames asked.

  He shook his head vigorously. “I know I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I didn’t kill him! You have to believe me!” Taylor was overcome, now, and began to sob, coughing and wiping his nose.

  “Mr. Taylor, which policeman found the shirt?”

  “That short, bossy one,” he said, coughing again. “I’ve seen the other one, Ward, but I’d never seen this one.”

  “I’ll leave you a few minutes to recover. O’Brien, can you get him some water?”

  “Right.” O’Brien got up, stretching his back, and the two policemen left Taylor to his regrets.

  Outside in the hallway by the stairs up to the main floor, O’Brien said, “Well, that’s one for the books! I can’t imagine he thinks we’ll believe him.”

  “That’s the thing, O’Brien, there may be some reason to. Get him his water. I’m going to see the boss.”

  The water delivered, O’Brien went back to the phones to await developments. When the call came, he put it through to Ames. Then he remembered Ames had said he was going to see Darling, so he tried to put the call through there, with no result. “Where the heck is he?” he asked himself and then shouted up the stairs for him. “Ames! Vancouver calling!” Still no answer. “Sorry, can’t find him. Can I take a message?” O’Brien listened carefully and wrote it in the notebook.

  Ames, as it happened, had found Darling just outside the station’s front door, heading to the cafe for a cup of coffee. “Sir, something is very wrong,” Ames said simply. “Where is Oxley?”

  “Hasn’t been in,” said Darling, walking briskly. Ames caught up with him and they walked together. “I expect we’ve seen the last of him. Gone up the lake to collect his Russian spy,” He glanced at Ames. “What do you mean, wrong?”

  “For starters, I think Oxley planted the knife in Taylor’s shop. Taylor has confessed that he went up to find Brodie to kill him but found him already dead. His shirt got covered in blood because he was messing around moving the body, and he shoved the shirt in his cupboard till he could find an opportunity to burn it. But Gilly says the knife that Oxley found in the shirt probably wasn’t the murder weapon. That means Oxley must have put it there.”

  Darling frowned. “What was Oxley playing at?”

  “Planting evidence to secure a conviction? Not honest, but it’s been known to happen.”

  Darling shook his head and said, “No, he was trying to cover up. He knew who killed Brodie.”

  “But why?” asked Ames. “Who was Brodie to him? Who was the killer to him, for that matter?”

  Darling paused, having arrived at the cafe, and he and Ames stood just outside the door. “That bloody Russian woman! They were busy keeping contact with each other with those bloody transmitters, supposedly agents waiting to capture a defector. Either Oxley killed Brodie, or he thought she’d killed him and was covering up. He didn’t know about Taylor, but finding that shirt provided a perfect opportunity to secure him as the murderer. He must have had that planted knife on him when we went to investigate.”

  “But I still don’t understand why Brodie needed to die.”

  “Because, Amesy,” Darling said, the promise of coffee now forgotten, “he must have stumbled on something while he was out hunting bears. Orlova is a seasoned agent. As tiny as she is, I bet she can kill like a pro. Which means that you are absolutely right, something is very wrong indeed. We need to get out there as fast as we can!”

  Chapter Thirty-ONE

  September 1947

  Fedorov, who could still not fully embrace his assumed name, Gusarov, would not have called himself religious, but here, in exile, being at the church, talking to the others, fed some atavistic memory from his childhood.

  “Checkmate, I think, Anton,” he said. “Tea? One of the old ladies has brought zakuska. No vodka, of course.”

  His companion shook his head at yet another defeat and shrugged. “Why not?” He moved to stand.

  “No, no. Sit. I will bring it.” Fedorov got up, both happy and unhappy to stretch his bad leg. He muttered “oof” when he stepped on it at first. This too gave him memories, ones he tried to block out, of his time in Minlag Prison. He had never told his friend how he had gotten away from there, whom he had killed to escape.

  He didn’t know what made him swivel his head to the door. It felt like some sort of fate when he thought about it after, during the brief time remaining to him. But he saw her, and he felt his innards go loose with a fear he did not think he would have to face again. He wanted to turn away, to leave, forget the zakuska and Anton and the chess, but she was looking at him, her face blank.

  “You look white as a ghost. What’s the matter with you?” Anton asked his friend when he collapsed in the chair, the tea sloshing out of the cups onto the tray.

  “I thought I saw someone I knew before, but I don’t think she recognized me. If she did, I’m done for. No. Don’t look. She is like Medusa. You will turn to stone. She is an old woman, but I would know her anywhere.”

  At that, Anton did turn. “That? She is like my babushka.”

  “If your babushka is an interrogator for the MGB, then, I suppose.”

  Later, when she passed by with a glass of water, she stumbled and apologized. A little water had spilled on the back of his neck. She was so very sorry. He did not look up, but only muttered.

  The last echoing sound he heard over the excruciating pain in his chest was his friend Anton shouting, as if from far away.

  “Gusarov! Gusarov! Someone call an ambulance!”

  “Anton,” he wanted to say, “Anton, let me die as myself.”

  Darling and Ames rushed down the stairs and made for the door of the station. Ames stopped to take the keys, and O’Brien, watching the commotion, stopped Darling on the way out the door.

  “Before you go bashing off, I found this note. The night man must have taken it.”

  Darling seized the paper, read it, and groaned.

  “Rifle found, anyway.” He pushed open the door, only to find Ames coming back from where the car was p
arked.

  “Ames, like the wind!”

  “Tyres slashed, sir. All four.”

  “My God! We have no time to lose! O’Brien, can—”

  “Don’t have to ask, sir. Here are the keys. Parked where it was yesterday. By the way, Ames, I had a call a few moments ago. Someone from a morgue in Vancouver calling to say they’d solved the case of the murder of the Russian.” Here O’Brien took up his notes. “It appears he was a dissident who’d escaped, and he was likely killed by an old woman. He called because he was wondering if it might be the old woman you had been asking about, and he suggested you be careful, as she might be lethal. He was quite droll about that part.”

  Water lapped against the wharf, the morning sun making it a shimmering emerald green against the shadows underneath. Lane stood, watching the steamer approach. There was no one boarding from the Cove, and she could see the tourists along the railings, pointing and admiring the smattering of homes just visible on the green rise. It was not a usual delivery day for the Cove, but they would drop, she hoped, the man she was expecting, and soon thereafter it would all be over. Aptekar would be safely delivered.

  Orlova was standing behind her at the top of the wharf, still and watchful. Lane had left early, nosing her car as noiselessly as possible down the road, past the church, over the main road, and onto the wharf. Orlova must have walked down when she’d seen the car gone, Lane thought.

  Hearing a car coming down the road, Lane turned and saw it pull up next to Orlova. It was Oxley. He didn’t get out. The boat crunched against the dock, the wood emitting a loud squeal of protest as the boat slid to a stop. A gangplank was lowered, and Lane saw him waiting, watching her. Stanimir Aptekar.

  How different he was from the expensively dressed, suave operative whom she had met in Berlin. He was wearing workmen’s clothes with heavy boots, and he had several days’ growth of beard. He didn’t even have a bag with him. She approached to meet him, and with utter clarity, she understood why Oxley did not pick him up in town. She shook his hand. He bowed and kissed hers.

  “I find you at last,” he said.

  “You do. But I am not alone, as you see. We are not safe. Is there something you need to say to me alone, or shall we join them? It is Madam Orlova and a Canadian agent called Oxley.”

  Aptekar stood still, frowning.

  “Orlova? Here?”

  He looked behind him as the gangplank was being slid back into the boat, as if his hope of escape was cut off. He took her arm and leaned in, whispering. “We will walk slowly, and I will tell you, no matter what happens, there is a motel outside of Nelson; below it, a path to the lake. There is a green shed for oars and things. Under it, at the back. Don’t forget.”

  Lane felt her chest compress. She continued to lean in, smiling as if he were still talking, but she swivelled her eyes toward where Orlova stood, her hands clasped behind her.

  “Something is wrong,” she said. A statement.

  “I can’t believe it is her. After so many years.” His voice caught. He stopped and looked at Lane, his voice almost inaudible. “Yes,” he said. “Something is wrong.” He walked forward, firmly, his hands out. “Tatiana Andreivna Orlova! You are as beautiful as ever.”

  Orlova looked at him with a deep sadness.

  “Stani. I am sorry.” She seemed to choke on the last word, as she lifted the rifle she had hidden behind her back.

  Lane had been moving toward the car where Oxley was sitting, and then she saw Orlova raise the rifle. She felt her blood drain. She was going to shoot Aptekar! It took a moment for her to understand that the rifle was trained on her.

  “I am sorry, Miss Winslow. You have been a wonderful hostess. This is a poor way to repay you.” She cocked the gun.

  Lane felt everything go into slow motion. She could see Oxley out of her peripheral vision. He looked up, panic written on his face, and then looked down at something on the seat. She heard the car door open and felt her head swivel from him to the rifle Orlova had pointed at her. Her eyes took an eternity to see Orlova’s finger begin to press the trigger. She almost wanted to smile at her own stupidity in not taking the rifle out of the house. The countess had found it and now she was going to die. When the shot came, she felt deafened and thought only of Darling standing alone by the church.

  But it was not she, but Madam Orlova who lay on the ground, the rifle unfired and dropped beside her. Aptekar sprang forward and knelt down beside her, lifting her head, trying to rouse her, but Oxley had aimed with deadly accuracy and she was dead.

  Lane pulled her eyes away from the dead woman, still not fully comprehending what had happened. For one moment she thought Oxley had saved her life. Oxley stood, leaning on the door, holding a revolver. He inclined his head, and then shook it.

  “Kind of touching, really, don’t you think?”

  “Why do you need that revolver? He’s not armed,” Lane said. She tried to move closer to the car as if she was approaching him to talk. Oxley laughed mirthlessly. “Who knows, eh? She was. She did a fine job on that hunter.”

  Lane wanted to react, to understand what he was saying, but he was raising the revolver, pointing it at Aptekar.

  “Best get on. I don’t have all day,” Oxley said crisply, aiming the weapon, then he turned it toward her. “When this is over, you’re coming with me. I don’t see why, personally, but I do what I’m told.” Then he trained the gun back on Aptekar, steadying his hand on the top of the car door.

  Lane threw herself at the door, shoulder down, as hard as she could. Oxley fell back heavily against the car, his head cracking on the edge of the roof, the gun flying out of his hand. Lane leaped toward it, picked it up, and aimed it at Oxley, backing toward where Aptekar knelt over Orlova.

  “She’s dead. She was meant to kill me, but she is the one dead.” Aptekar seemed uncomprehending.

  “We have to do something about this man,” Lane said. She did not want to look away from Oxley, who was dazed and rubbing his head. This standoff with her holding a gun to Oxley could last indefinitely. Aptekar would have to pull himself together, she thought. Then Oxley looked behind him, and Lane heard it too. A car roaring down the narrow road, coming to a noisy and dusty halt. Darling and Ames leaping out, O’Brien climbing out of the back seat.

  “The cavalry,” said Lane. “Late as usual.”

  Darling had wanted more than anything to hold Lane, to stop the shivering that had begun almost as soon as she had relinquished the revolver she was holding, to reassure himself that she was alive, as it could so easily have been a different outcome. But there was work to be done. Instead he had taken off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders, saying very quietly, “Darling.”

  “It’s all right. I’m fine,” she had whispered back. “I’ll be over there.” She could feel herself beginning to really shake and she didn’t want him to feel he had to stay with her.

  She sat on the edge of the wharf next to Aptekar. Behind them the business of police work unfolded. O’Brien had been sent to the Armstrongs’ to call for a van for Orlova’s body. Oxley had been handcuffed and placed, scowling, into the back of the car he’d driven. Ames was writing in his little book. Darling was leaning against the front of the car, waiting.

  “I knew when I saw her,” Aptekar said. “They must have known all along that I was coming here.”

  “She told me she had come over to the British, that she was working with Oxley to bring you in.”

  Aptekar shook his head. “Tatiana would never have defected. It was not in her. I met her about twenty years ago at a Soviet conference for the intelligence people after years of not seeing her. She was as devoted a communist as Lenin himself. She would not have changed. It is why she was prepared to kill you, and probably me. It was her job. She would not think of our past. She was quite cold-blooded. I always try to remember the woman she was, but
perhaps she had too much tragedy. There has been a lot to go around.”

  “I know this much: she loved you. She said she never stopped.”

  “And yet, she was part of this attempt to find me, to eliminate me.” He shrugged. “Well, such is my business.”

  “I think she surprised Oxley. He looked dismayed when he saw that she intended to kill me. His orders were to kill both of you, and apparently to bring me along. I’m not convinced he wouldn’t have shot me in the end, because I could see he didn’t really see why I had to be taken along. I don’t even understand it. Did the Russians think I had something to tell them?”

  “I don’t think we will ever know. Maybe the gods didn’t want to ruin your wedding.” Aptekar smiled and put his arm around her. “You are cold.”

  “No. I expect I’m just a bit shaken by how close it all was. I don’t think Oxley had thought about what Orlova’s orders might have been,” Lane said. “I wondered why he didn’t just pick you up in town once he knew where you were, but if your mission is to eliminate several people, it is better accomplished far from anyone.”

  “As soon as you said his name, I knew it might all go bad. He is on the list of names I left hidden. Canadians who are working for the other side. What I can’t quite understand is how they knew I would come to you.”

  Lane thought back to Hunt’s visit. “The British consul in Vancouver, a man called Hunt, came to see me, to warn me you were on the run and might come here. He got that from Dunn, the director in London. I assumed that if Oxley and Orlova were acting for the British, that’s how they knew. But they weren’t, were they? They were acting for the Soviets, and whoever sent Oxley out here was working for them as well.” Lane took a deep breath and thought about her map, with a line of communication from Dunn to a question mark.