The Oslo Affair (Shadows of War, #2)

by CW Browning

  He finished and handed her the map. “Do be careful, miss.”

  “I will. I’ll change my clothes so I’m not quite so obvious,” she promised him with a smile. “Can I have a newspaper as well, please?”

  He nodded and she paid him for the map and the daily paper.

  “Good luck,” he said as she turned away.

  Evelyn tucked the map inside the newspaper and carried it in one gloved hand as she went back the way she’d come. However, instead of going back into the hotel, she continued on to the next block and turned down the street, looking for clothing shops. It was a few blocks before she found what she was looking for and she went inside quickly, glancing at her watch. She didn’t have very much time, but it had to be done. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

  She supposed she should be worried about going into an apparently seedy neighborhood, but she knew something the kindly gentleman at the newsstand didn’t: it took a lot to bring her down. Many very skilled fighters had tried, and failed. It was an extremely useful thing to be trained in the martial art of Wing Chun.

  After looking around for a moment, Evelyn headed to the back of the store where the heavily discounted and damaged items were located. With just a bit of luck and acting, she would blend in with the locals, minimizing the likelihood of any problems before they even began.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ––––––––

  Comrade Grigori walked across the lobby towards the entrance of the hotel, his brows knit together in thought. The Englishwoman must have left her room already, but he hadn’t seen it. A telegram had been delivered to her door personally by one of the hotel staff and the woman staying with her had accepted it. Listening from around the corner, he heard her tell the boy that the Englishwoman wasn’t in but he could leave it with her and she’d make sure she got it. When had the woman left? He’d been watching the room all morning.

  The concierge had been of no help. He didn’t remember seeing the woman leave either. After checking the restaurant and determining that she wasn’t there, Grigori was annoyed with himself. How did he manage to lose her in a hotel? He’d followed her all the way from Oslo easily enough!

  He looked up as he approached the entrance to the hotel and his eyes widened as the object of his frustration strode by the door on the sidewalk outside.

  She had slipped past him and out of the hotel! His pace increased and he exited the hotel just in time to see her disappear around the corner at the end of the block. At least now he had her again. He turned the collar of his coat up as a gust of wind blew off the water and went after her.

  Last night he’d summoned Comrade Yakov to his room for a full report. There wasn’t much. Vladimir Lyakhov had arrived in Stockholm early the day before and checked into a hotel halfway across the city. From there, Yakov had nothing but complaints about the amount of walking the man had done. It seemed Comrade Lyakhov had been sightseeing most of the day, ending up at the Royal Palace across from this very hotel. He did go into The Strand, but only to go to the restaurant where he had dinner, alone. He then returned to his room midway across the city. Yakov hadn’t observed any contact with anyone.

  Grigori exhaled and turned the corner, spotting his quarry a block ahead. He slowed his pace, content to keep distance between them. He didn’t want her to see him. It was bad enough that she’d caught sight of him last night when he was checking into the hotel. He’d managed to avoid being seen in the restaurant while she was eating, although there was one moment when he was convinced he’d been spotted. He’d purposefully waited until they were in the lift before crossing the lobby, but the lift had been much slower than he was expecting and so now she knew he was here. There was nothing to be done it now. It made things more difficult, but not impossible.

  Between the Englishwoman and Comrade Lyakhov, he felt like he was on a wild goose chase. He was growing more and more convinced with each passing hour that there was nothing here. Lyakhov hadn’t been anywhere near her since she arrived, and she hadn’t made any attempt to contact him that they could tell. Yakov had assured him that absolutely no messages had been delivered to Lyakhov’s hotel the previous day, and Grigori himself had bribed one of the employees of the hotel to alert him to any messages the Englishwoman sent out. In an effort to make a good impression, his new friend had discovered that she had sent two messages out yesterday: one to her editor in London and one to the British embassy here in Stockholm. Neither of them could have made their way into Lyakhov’s hands. No. Comrade Grigori was confident that there had been no contact initiated between them.

  He crossed an intersection and continued to trail the elegant blonde woman ahead. Unless Yakov turned up something today, or he himself observed something irrefutable, Grigori was going to call this whole thing off. It was a waste of time and resources when he could be tracking down the real traitor.

  He watched as the Englishwoman paused on the sidewalk and looked into a shop window before she continued on. This one may be slippery and may possibly even be a British agent, although he had his doubts, but she’d shown no interest at all in the Soviet comrades in Oslo. In fact, she seemed far more interested in the German scientists. That made perfect sense if she was indeed an agent, but Grigori would be impressed if that was the case. She was clearly from aristocratic breeding. She held herself in a manner that bespoke privilege, and her clothes looked as if they had been tailored just for her. He would place her more firmly in a category with rich, bored socialites than with intelligence agents.

  He was still mulling over this two blocks later when she paused once again on the sidewalk before going into a shop. Glancing at the oncoming traffic, Grigori jogged across the wide road to the other side and moved along until he was parallel with the store. It was a woman’s clothing store. He looked at his watch, then looked at the little bakery behind him. After one last glance at the store across the street, he turned and went into the bakery. It would be easier to watch from inside than out, and as he stepped into the shop the sweet, warm smell of freshly baked breads and pastry assaulted him.

  Watching out of the corner of his eye through the front window, he turned to look at the rows of baked goods on display behind the counter. The Englishwoman would be a while. She would want to try clothes on. They always did. He had plenty of time to select something to ease his hunger while he waited.

  After purchasing some pastry and half a loaf of brown bread that looked very similar to his favorite loaf in Moscow, he turned to leave the bakery. He had taken his time and spent over twenty minutes in the shop, but there was still no sign of her.

  He stepped outside with the bag in his hand and frowned, looking at his watch again. He turned to walk to the next shop and went in, still keeping an eye on the store front across the road. Looking around, he found himself in a tobacconist. Ten minutes later, he emerged with a selection of cigarettes and one cigar, but still no sign of his quarry.

  His lips tightened and he was debating the risk of going across the street and looking into the store window to see if he could see her when the door to the shop opened. He turned to walk a few steps, looking sideways under his hat. The customer exiting the shop was not the Englishwoman. She was a working girl, dressed in an ill-fitting skirt and shabby sweater with woolen stockings and very dull, sensible shoes. She carried a large handbag over her arm that looked as if it had seen better days, and clasped a newspaper in one hand. This woman was a far cry from the elegant, perfectly tailored woman he had been following for four days. After pausing outside the shop to straighten her hat, she turned to stride down the sidewalk. As she did so, Grigori noticed that the hand carrying the newspaper was covered with a soft leather glove.

  His lips pursed and his brows snapped together as he turned to walk in the same direction, glancing at the shop once more as he did so. The woman who came out of the shop was about as far removed from Maggie Richardson as was possible, and yet somet
hing made Grigori turn his gaze back to her.

  It was the gloves. The entire outfit was sensible, warm and completely unremarkable, but she was wearing leather gloves that were at complete odds with the rest of the clothing. Another gust of wind tore down the street and the woman raised her free hand to hold a plain brown hat on her head as she walked. The wind grabbed a lock of blonde hair and whipped it out from under the hat, and Grigori stared.

  It couldn’t be her. And yet...something told him that it was. The gloves, the hair, they both were compelling reasons to risk losing his quarry and follow her instead. And yet, that wasn’t what made Comrade Grigori continue down the opposite side of the road, his eyes fixed on the woman. It was the clenching in his gut. Something wasn’t right with this new development.

  And Comrade Grigori had learned long ago not to dismiss that particular feeling.

  Anna tossed the magazine she was looking at onto the table and sighed. Maggie had been gone for an hour and, in that time, she had checked her watch no less than twenty times. She couldn’t concentrate on the store of magazines the hotel had provided. All she could think about was what her new friend was doing and whether or not she would find the address with the strange name. Something peace, wasn’t it?

  Shaking her head, she got up and went over to the French doors that lead out to the balcony. Maggie had left after a breakfast in their rooms just as calm as you please, as if she were merely going to the corner shop for a pack of cigarettes. Anna, on the other hand, had been brimming with pent-up excitement all morning. How could she be so calm? It was all so terribly exciting! First a secret note passed under the door, then leaving to go to an assigned meet. It was just like in the films!

  Anna stared across the water at the Royal Palace in the distance. Not ten minutes after she left, a porter had knocked on the door with a telegram for Miss Margaret Richardson, marked urgent. She glanced over at the desk where the sealed message lay. Terrible luck that it had missed Maggie by a few minutes. Turning away from the doors, Anna went over to the table and picked up her cigarette case. She was opening it to take one out when the restlessness welling inside her got the better of her.

  Dropping the case back on the table, she let out an impatient noise and turned to go into her bedroom. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay cooped up in this room, as luxurious as it was, simply waiting. If she didn’t get out and stretch her legs and get her mind off it, Anna was convinced she would go absolutely mad.

  Grabbing her hat, she secured it on her head with a sturdy hat pin and turned to get her coat from the tall armoire. She would go out and look around the city, take in the sights, and by the time she returned, Maggie would be back.

  She walked into the sitting room and her eye fell on the telegram sitting on the desk. She hesitated, looking at it consideringly. It didn’t seem safe to leave it there, where a maid could see it. It was marked urgent, after all. She was probably being silly, but she thought of the spy novels she liked to read and an image of masked men ransacking the hotel room came to mind. Without another thought, she crossed the room and took the telegram, tucking it into her purse with her cigarettes.

  Five minutes later, Anna emerged from the stairwell next to the lift, the stairs preferable to the lift due to the excess of nervous energy. She bent her head to button her coat as she began to walk across the lobby towards the door. When she lifted her head, she found herself staring straight at a tall man in a long black coat who had just come in from the street. Her step checked and she frowned. He was very familiar. She’d seen him before. But where?

  Anna moved to the side and stepped behind a column, looking around it at the man. She didn’t want to be caught staring, but she wanted to remember why he was so familiar. He hadn’t noticed her and was crossing the floor, heading towards her side of the lobby. He turned his head in her direction, glancing towards the lift, and Anna gasped softly. She did know him! She’d seen him at the Hotel Bristol when she and Maggie were chatting with the two Germans. She’d noticed him because she thought he was terribly good-looking, and he’d somehow managed to be in their vicinity all evening. He’d never once looked in her direction, although she remembered she kept glancing at him all night. He’d been sitting with two other Germans, she recalled, and they had kept his attention.

  What on earth was he doing here?

  “Herr Renner!”

  A short man came up behind Anna, walking towards the tall man. He passed her without a glance and joined the tall man on the other side of the wide column.

  “Is everything in place?” Herr Renner asked in German, removing his gloves.

  He looked towards the lift again and Anna moved unobtrusively to her right until she was completely concealed by the column. So his name was Renner, and he was German. But why was he here?

  “Yes, just as we discussed. I have someone watching the back stairs and someone watching the lift. Otto is on the corner near the newspaper vendor. He has a clear view of the entrance. Franz is in the back alley, although I really don’t think we need to worry about her going that way.”

  “You know as well as I do that it’s better to have all the exits covered. Is she in her room?”

  “No. There was a telegram delivered earlier and the boy had to leave it with her companion.”

  “Companion?” Renner’s voice was sharp. “What companion?”

  “Another woman. I haven’t seen her yet.” There was a hesitation and the rustling of paper as if the other man was looking through a notepad. “Tall with brown hair.”

  “That describes half the women in the hotel. See if you can get a better description or get a look at her yourself,” Renner ordered. “Is she still in the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take care of it, then. Deliver something for the Englishwoman. Perhaps some fruit, complements of the hotel? I’m sure you can think of something.”

  “Yes, Herr Renner.” There was the distinct sound of a notebook snapping shut. “And when the Englishwoman returns?”

  “Inform me immediately. I’ll be in my room. Don’t approach her. Let her go to her room. We can’t afford a scene. I’ll handle it once she’s back.”

  “Understood.”

  The two men parted, the short one going towards the front desk and Herr Renner moving towards the lift. As he went past the column, Anna moved around it, keeping the column between them. She didn’t know if he ever noticed her in the restaurant in Oslo, but she wasn’t about to take any chances now.

  When he had gone, she walked towards the entrance of the hotel, bending her head to pull on her gloves as she walked. Her heart was pounding and it took everything she had not to look back over her shoulder to see if someone was watching. Keeping her gaze on her hands, she finished buttoning her gloves and looked up to find herself at the door. With an exhale, she pushed it open and stepped out onto the street.

  A gust of wind smacked her in her face and she shivered, burying her hands in her pockets. She glanced to the right and her eyes went to the vendor where she bought the paper yesterday. He had two customers buying papers and her gaze went beyond him, looking for the mysterious Otto. She was just turning to walk in the opposite direction when she spotted a man in a dark coat sitting on a bench across the street, near the water. He had a paper open before him, but he didn’t seem very interested in the news. He was looking at the hotel.

  Anna walked away, her head spinning and her breath coming short and fast. Who was Herr Renner? And what did he want with Maggie? It wasn’t a good thing, that much she was sure of. The Germans weren’t in the habit of following women over two hundred miles into another country unless that woman had something they wanted. And now they had the hotel surrounded! There was no way Maggie could get back in without being seen, and it was only luck and timing that had allowed her to get out when she did. She must have left the room while the short one was still arranging for it to be watched. Talk about a perfect wind
ow of opportunity! And she hadn’t even been aware of any of it!

  Biting her lip as she turned the corner, Anna forced herself to try to think clearly. Maggie was in serious trouble, and she didn’t even know it yet. As far as Anna could see, she was the only person capable of standing between the Germans and Maggie right now. But how was she going to warn her when she didn’t even know where she’d gone?

  Her step checked and her lips parted on a quick inhale. Of course! She did know where she went. She didn’t know the exact location, but she knew the street and the neighborhood. That would be enough to make it possible to head her off before she went back to the hotel and into the Nazi trap waiting for her.

  Looking both ways, Anna spotted a break in the traffic and ran across the road quickly to a cafe. She would ask for directions to Gamla Stan and hope for a bit of luck.

  Vladimir looked at his watch and stifled a yawn. He’d been up and out of the hotel just as dawn was lightening the sky, leading his tail over half the city. Comrade Yakov really was slipping. He used to be invisible. He was the one they called when they absolutely could not let a subject know they were being watched. They called him The Ghost.

  Well, he wasn’t anymore. Now he was more like an ox.

  He had spotted him on the first day in Oslo, almost as soon as he got off the train. It had been a few years, but he recognized him easily. Aside from more gray hair and a new set of jowls, Yakov looked the same as he always had. As soon as he saw him, Vladimir knew he was under investigation. He’d been waiting for it. It was inevitable. They would all be investigated until the traitor passing secrets to the British was found. It was a witch hunt, and the Soviets were very good at witch hunts.

  Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he gazed out of the window at the building across the street. Den Gyldene Freden, or The Golden Peace, was a tavern that had been serving food and drink to the people of Gamla Stan, or the old city, since the 1700s. Named for the Peace of Nystad between Sweden and Russia in 1721, it had withstood the tests of time, age, and the decline of the area around it. When Niva agreed to meet with the British agent to discuss the situation along the border of Finland, Vladimir had suggested the tavern as a possible meeting place. It was deep in the narrow, winding streets of the old part of the city where they were very unlikely to run across anyone from an embassy or consulate. The neighborhood was slowly rotting, the ancient buildings having fallen into decay over the centuries as the bustling medieval center turned into overcrowded streets and the noblemen moved their residences to other sections of the city.