by CW Browning
Vladimir lit a cigarette and watched as Risto Niva approached the tavern. He looked around the street before disappearing inside and Vladimir blew a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. Niva was in place. Now he had to wait for the girl.
Evelyn Ainsworth was not what he had been expecting. He had seen photographs, presented by a proud father, and heard stories about the young woman, but he had somehow been expecting someone rather ordinary. Oh, not in appearance. Her beauty had been evident in every photo he looked at. But rather in demeanor. It was one thing for a proud father to expound on his daughter’s intelligence and quickness of wit. It was to be expected. But the reality very rarely lived up to the accolades, at least in his experience. In Evelyn’s case, though, it appeared that perhaps her doting father had been modest in his praise. Vladimir had been particularly impressed with how quickly she grasped the importance of meeting with Niva and learning what she could about the situation on the border between Finland and Soviet Russia. There had been no hesitation. For someone new to this game, she was very quick indeed.
He glanced at his watch again and settled back in the rickety old wooden chair that he’d dragged over to the window. He sat just out of sight from the street with a view of the entire corner building were the tavern was located. Studying the people in the street and the old building on the opposite corner that looked as if it had been a large and heavily fortified bank at one time, he looked for any signs that Niva had been followed and saw none. Sucking on his cigarette, he stared down thoughtfully. It didn’t appear as if the witch hunt had expanded to the agents posted in other countries. Yet. Only the ones in Moscow were being watched.
He had to be very careful now. It wasn’t like it was when Robert was still alive. Then he’d had an iron-clad reason for talking to a British agent, one that was beyond question. It had been ordered at the highest level. But now Robert was dead and, with him, his mission. He had to be very shrewd in how he went about his dealings with the daughter. Just one slip and he would end up in the Gulag, or worse.
Vladimir frowned suddenly and leaned forward, his eyes fixed on a slight figure moving through the crowded street. There was nothing remarkable about the woman. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what it was that drew his attention to her instead of the twenty other women who looked just like her. After watching intently for a few moments as she made her way down the street, he realized what it was that had caught his eye. She was moving through the crowds with a very precise and confident stride, filled with assurance. It was the kind of assurance that could never be taught or imitated. It was the assurance inherent in knowing that one was able to defend oneself against most attacks. It was the assurance of knowing that she had complete and utter control over every movement her body made, and that that control had been tested repeatedly and not failed. It was the assurance of a woman who had been extensively trained in a fighting art.
He sat back and a small smile played on his lips. The daughter had many talents indeed. If he didn’t know of her unusual background, she would never have drawn his attention. She blended in with the people around her so well that it was doubtful that anyone would ever look twice at her.
Robert’s daughter had certainly adjusted to her new role with ease. He blew out smoke and watched as she crossed the street to the corner building across from his. She would do well in this war. And he now felt much more comfortable with her as his sole contact in the West.
For that was what she was now. He couldn’t risk dealing with anyone else, nor was he about to let a talent like hers slip through his fingers.
Chapter Twenty
––––––––
Evelyn opened the heavy, old wooden door and went into the building. Immediately confronting her was a flight of stone steps leading down, and a narrow hallway to the left leading to the back of the building. She hesitated, unsure which path to take, but the smell of onions and the sound of voices wafting up from the stairs decided her. Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the almost overwhelming feeling of apprehension that rolled over her, she started down the narrow steps. She was here and to back out now would be the height of cowardice. And she had never been accused of being a coward in her life.
Reaching the bottom, Evelyn stepped into a large cavern with low lighting and heavy, scarred wooden tables and benches. A bar ran along one side of the room and two serving girls moved through the tables, delivering plates of food. She was surprised at the amount of people in the underground tavern. Given the surrounding neighborhood, she hadn’t expected much of a lunch crowd.
Looking around, Evelyn realized with a sinking heart that she had no idea who she was looking for. She didn’t even have a general description. Her palms grew damp in her gloves as she stood there, her heart rate increasing in proportion with her sudden anxiety.
“Richardson?” a voice asked behind her and she turned sharply to see an older man with an apron wrapped around his waist.
“Yes?”
“Följ mig.”
She had no idea what he said, but his actions made it clear that he wanted her to follow him. Walking behind him, Evelyn scanned the tables, looking for anything that would indicate she was being watched, and saw nothing. Aside from one or two curious looks as they passed, there was no sign of undue interest in her arrival. Exhaling silently, she breathed a little easier as the man led her through the tables to one in the far corner. There, partially concealed by the curve of the wall, sat a man with dark hair and a pencil mustache.
Waving her to the table, the man in the apron turned to leave, saying something in Swedish over his shoulder. The man at the table nodded and said something in return, standing as Evelyn approached.
“Miss Richardson?”
He spoke in Russian and Evelyn nodded, seating herself so that she was across from him but could still see the rest of the room.
“Yes.”
“I’m Risto Niva. You can call me Niva. Everyone does.” He took his seat and looked at her appreciatively. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
Evelyn smiled tentatively. “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had to make a stop on the way.”
“Your Russian is very good. Have you spent time there?”
“No. I’ve not had the opportunity. I studied under a woman who lived in Moscow.”
“You must be a very good student. The owner is bringing lunch. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but please don’t let that stop you.”
Niva studied her across the table, his lips pursed together thoughtfully.
“You’re not what I expected,” he finally said. “Vladimir said I would be surprised. He was right.”
“What were you expecting?”
“A man in a tweed coat with a pipe,” he answered promptly, drawing a laugh from her. “I’m very pleased that you’re not. I’d much rather have lunch with a beautiful young woman.”
Evelyn murmured thanks for the compliment as a bar maid came to the table and set down two glasses filled with a berry colored liquid and large plate of dark brown, crusty bread. He said something to her in Swedish and she nodded before turning away. Once she’d gone, Niva motioned to the glass.
“I ordered a local drink. It’s made from berries, I believe. I hope you like it. I find it refreshing.”
Evelyn lifted the glass and sniffed the liquid inside. It smelled sweet and something like flowers. Sipping it, she was pleasantly surprised at the mildly sweet berry taste.
“It’s good,” she said, setting the glass down. “What is it?”
He shrugged with a grin. “I have no idea. There is something similar in Finland, but it is much stronger. I think this is made with lingonberries, but I am not sure. I’m glad you like it.”
“I understand you live in Turku?” she asked after a moment. “That’s on the coast, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It sits on the Aura River. It’s an amazing city. I
t was once the capital of what is now Finland. The capital was moved to Helsinki in the 1800s. Now it is a major regional city in its own right.”
“How long have you been there?”
“About five years now.” Niva sipped his drink and shrugged. “It is nice there, but I fear that things are on the brink of changing.”
“Things are changing everywhere,” Evelyn said soberly. “The world is changing rapidly.”
The barmaid returned then and set a bowl of thick stew down before Niva. She placed a thick wooden cutting board with cheese on it in the center of the table, then nodded and disappeared again.
“That’s the truth,” he said as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “Did you see that someone tried to assassinate Hitler? We are living in unsettled times.”
“Is that why you agreed to meet with me?” she asked softly.
He glanced up from his stew. “Among other reasons.”
Evelyn considered him for a long moment. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“About meeting with you? No.” Niva shook his head and reached for the bread, cutting a thick piece off with his knife. “About my country and the path our leaders have chosen? Yes.”
Understanding dawned. “You’re looking for a way out.”
“You’re very quick.” He dipped his bread into his stew and took a bite. After a moment, he swallowed and met her gaze across the table. “I’ve become disillusioned with Stalin and his ministers. I don’t see anything good coming from their policies. I’m a realistic man. I have no family to speak of, and I see no reason to remain in the Soviet Union.”
He left the statement there and returned to his lunch, his meaning clear. Evelyn swallowed and reached for her drink.
“I have to contact my superiors,” she said after a moment. “I can’t promise anything. It would be better if I had something to give them in return.”
“Of course.” He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth, reaching for his glass. After taking a long drink, he reached inside his coat to pull out what looked like several papers rolled into a tight tube. He set it on the table. “These are copies of orders that have come through over the past three weeks from Moscow,” he told her in a low voice. “They tell the story on their own. Take them and give them to your handler.”
Evelyn looked at the roll on the scarred table and shot a quick look around the tavern. All the other patrons were eating and drinking and no one was paying them the least amount of attention. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and picked up the roll, putting it in her large bag. Niva nodded in approval.
“Moscow is getting tired of Kallio and his refusal to agree to their terms,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They’re making plans to force Finland into giving up the land in the Karelian Isthmus. The general feeling is that they tried to make an agreement and, since Kallio won’t go along, they’ll take it by force.”
“How?”
“Do you know how the Germans justified their invasion of Poland?” Niva asked.
“They claimed the Polish attacked them first,” she said. “Hitler said regular Polish troops attacked a transmitter in Gleiwitz, a town bordering Poland.”
“That’s what he said, yes.” He reached for the bread again. “In actual fact, the attack was staged by the SS. They killed several prisoners and drove the bodies to Gleiwitz. SD men dressed in Polish uniforms then stormed the radio station there, supposedly killing the Germans in the attack.”
Evelyn stared at him. This was something she hadn’t been told when the frenzy of facts and misinformation flooded into England in those chaotic days immediately following Hitler’s invasion of Poland. Although everyone knew that the supposed attack was an excuse to invade Poland, she had assumed the attack had still occurred as stated.
“The SS staged it?” she asked, stunned.
“Yes. Not just there, but also in several other locations,” he said with a nod. “They were all staged by the SS and SD.”
Evelyn sat back in her chair, her mind spinning. Through her astonishment, one thought came to the surface. She raised her eyes to his.
“Stalin is going to use the same tactic to invade Finland, isn’t he?”
He met her gaze and said nothing. He didn’t need to. They both knew the truth.
“Do you know a location?”
“No. It will be somewhere near to Leningrad, but the exact location is being closely guarded.”
“When?”
“Soon. Planning is underway, as those transmissions I gave you will show. If I had to offer an educated guess, I’d say within the next few weeks.”
Evelyn exhaled. A few weeks? There was no way England could intervene in time. Chamberlain would never approve getting involved with an altercation against the Soviets without any provocation.
“Tell me, how is it that you are here?” Niva asked suddenly, sitting back in his chair and looking at her thoughtfully.
She raised an eyebrow and looked at him in surprise. “You know why I’m here.”
“That’s not what I mean. Why are you doing this?”
She was silent for a long moment. He was asking her why she was working for British secret intelligence, and she wasn’t about to try to explain something she didn’t quite understand herself, especially to a man who was so willing to defect from his own country.
“I don’t think it matters why I’m here, does it?” she finally asked briskly.
He smiled faintly. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “Tell me, what’s it like in London now? Since the war began, I mean? Has it changed much?”
Evelyn thought for a moment, her brows coming together.
“Aside from the blackout? No, not really. It seems to be business as usual.”
“No protests? No signs of disapproval with the war?”
“None,” she said firmly.
“Interesting,” he said thoughtfully, and she raised her eyebrow in reaction.
“Why do you say that?”
“We’ve been under the impression that the general feeling among the people in England is that they don’t support the war.”
Evelyn frowned. “What gave you that impression?”
The smile that crossed his face unnerved her. “The reports from our people in London.”
She stared at him, feeling her skin grow cold.
“People?” she repeated, feeling very dumb.
He nodded calmly, his eyes on her face.
“Yes. You didn’t think Moscow was operating blind as regards England, did you?” he asked softly. “Well, I can see that you did. You’re surprised.”
He leaned forward and pushed the bowl of stew out of his way.
“Let me give you one more piece of information that you might take to your superiors,” he said, his voice low and his eyes serious. “Don’t trust anyone in London. You have a rat in your ship, and it is very well hidden. I would hate to see a lovely thing like you fall into the hands of the SS, or the NKVD. They would destroy you, and what a waste that would be.”
Evelyn swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Am I in danger?”
He sat back again.
“Everyone is in danger,” he told her. “The question isn’t whether or not you are at risk. It is who you are at risk from, and whether or not you are prepared for what may come.”
Oslo, Norway
Daniel Carew looked up from his desk when a short knock was immediately followed by the door swinging open. He raised his brows in surprise at the sight of a clerk who seemed to be very out of breath.
“Excuse me, sir,” he gasped, coming quickly into the office. “This arrived a few minutes ago. I was told to bring it straight to you.”
He held in his hands a rather thick package wrapped in brown paper and Daniel frowned, standing. He came around from behind the desk and took the package from the clerk.
“Who delivered it?”
>
“I don’t know, sir. Someone banged on the door and when I opened it, they shoved it at me and ran away again.” The clerk shrugged. “It was a man, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”
Daniel turned the package over and found his name scrawled across the front.
“All right. Thank you. You may go.”
He turned to go back to his desk as the clerk left the office, closing the door softly behind him. Daniel set the parcel on his desk and slowly sank down into his chair.
So it had happened. The message from the unknown sender had been fulfilled.
He sat back in his chair and stared at the package. When he received the message almost a week ago now, he’d thought it might be some kind of prank. It had been mailed through the post with no indication as to author. Typed on plain paper, the text had been short and to the point. If he arranged for a slight change in the BBC's German broadcast, he would receive a report on German military and scientific advancements. Although skeptical, the requested change was so minor that Daniel had contacted MI6 in London and they had arranged for it to be done. Changing the introduction of the broadcast to “Hullo, hier ist London” for one broadcast seemed a simple enough task in return for the possibility of gaining valuable information.
