by CW Browning
Bill closed the door behind him softly and moved forward to lay his hand on the shoulder of one of the radio operators. The man turned his head in surprise and removed the headset from his head.
“Any word yet?” Bill asked softly.
“No, sir. I did receive confirmation that the telegram was received, but no reply as of yet.”
Bill frowned but nodded, patting the man’s shoulder.
“Let me know as soon as you hear something,” he instructed. “I don't care what time it is. Come and find me.”
The operator nodded and reached for his headset again as Bill turned to leave, the frown on his face growing.
He headed for the door to the stairwell a few feet away. They should’ve heard something by now, but there was nothing he could do until he received word back from Evelyn. He had to trust that she had received the telegram in time and was taking all available precautions. If not, then they very well could be on the brink of losing potentially the best agent they had so far in this Phony War.
He was jogging down the steps to the first floor when a thought occurred to him. She wasn’t alone in Stockholm. The translator was with her, the one called Anna. The thought cheered him a bit. With two of them working together, Evelyn had a greater chance of avoiding Renner. But if the mysterious Soviet agent was also in play, then things were a lot more complicated, and a lot more dangerous, than he’d at first supposed.
The frown returned to his face. In fact, this whole situation had become more complicated than it was supposed to be. If the Soviet agent had followed her to Sweden, how on earth was she going to avoid two enemy agents and get out of Stockholm?
Her first line of communication would have to be their man at the embassy, Horace Manchester. Daniel had been very clear that he had instructed her to contact him as soon as she arrived in Stockholm. Accordingly, Carew had received confirmation from Horace that she had done so. Jasper had already authorized Horace to use all available means to get her out of Sweden and back to England as soon as possible.
There was still a chance that she could make it out without any confrontations. It was a slim chance, but there was a chance.
Bill opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell and crossed the tiled hall of the embassy in Paris. Although he was now regretting giving his approval for the unscheduled trip to Stockholm, Bill couldn’t help but wonder what information Evelyn might be bringing back. Would it be worth all this worry? Or would this whole trip turn out to be a wild goose chase? There was no way of knowing until she returned with whatever information she had managed to gather. That is, if she hadn’t been forced to destroy it in her flight.
As he stepped out onto the busy Paris street, the sun was shining and Parisians were cheerfully going about their daily lives around him. Setting his hat on his head, he turned to walk down the street towards his favorite restaurant. While Paris was still eating and drinking with abandon, he was desperately trying to assemble and organize his agents before the war actually got going. And it would. They all knew that. Hitler was not about to stop now.
And when it did get started in earnest, he was going to need every available agent, including Evelyn. She had to make it back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
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Gamla Stan, Stockholm
Comrade Grigori stood in the mouth of the alley, watching the building on the corner. He had followed the Englishwoman and watched her go inside, but had chosen not to follow. It was getting too risky now. She knew he was here but, so far, he'd been able to avoid her noticing that he was following her. He knew that wouldn’t last for long, though. As she’d shown in Oslo, she was very adept at watching her back.
He reached into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. It had been over twenty minutes since she entered the building and he’d now concluded that she was, in fact, meeting someone for lunch. He wished he could go in to get a glimpse of them and see if it was Lyakhov, but he couldn't. He must wait until she left. With a bit of luck, they would exit the building together and he would see who it was that had drawn her into this disreputable neighborhood
After lighting a cigarette, Grigori looked around his surroundings distastefully. The buildings quite possibly had been beautiful at one time, but now they were ancient. Time and decay had taken their toll, and the once proud structures had fallen into disrepair that appeared to be beyond restoration. The best thing Stockholm could do, in his opinion, was to raze the lot and rebuild. But if the government in Sweden was anything like his own in Moscow, that would not happen. As much as Stalin liked to consider himself modern in his outlook and policies, Grigori believed he was really a traditionalist at heart. Most of the buildings in Moscow had been preserved after their great revolution, and when Stalin took power, he made no attempt to alter them.
He returned his gaze to the corner across the street. He rather hoped that it wouldn’t be Lyakhov that walked out of the door. So far he'd found no evidence of treasonous behavior. It would be a shame for that to change now. He’d always liked Vladimir Lyakhov. The man was astute in his work and unbending in his convictions, two characteristics that Grigori admired, especially in their profession.
He was on his second cigarette when the door to the building finally opened and the Englishwoman emerged. Dropping the cigarette, he put it out with his shoe as his body tensed in expectation. The door remained open after she stepped outside. Someone was coming out with her.
The man that followed her out of the tavern was not Comrade Lyakhov and Grigori stared in surprise. It was a face he hadn’t been expecting to see. In fact, it was a face that, as far as he knew, was not under suspicion yet.
He pressed his lips together and watched as the Englishwoman turned to say something to the man. He answered and held out his hand. Watching the Englishwoman shake it and turn to walk away, Grigori felt a surge of anger. There could be no doubt that Comrade Risto Niva had been meeting with the British agent.
They had found their intelligence leak.
He watched as the Englishwoman walked back the way she had come and Comrade Niva turned to walk in the opposite direction. With a final glance at the Englishwoman, Grigori stepped out of the alleyway and turned to his right. He strode to the end of the block, where Comrade Yakov lurked in the shadows.
“Where is Lyakhov?” he demanded shortly.
“I followed him as far as the bridge. I lost him when he came into this neighborhood.”
“I want you to follow Comrade Niva,” Grigori told him. “Leave Lyakhov for now.”
Yakov nodded and prepared to head in the opposite direction. After a few steps, he paused and turned back.
“And the girl?”
“Don't worry about her. She’ll head back to the hotel and I’ll apprehend her there. By the end of the day, we’ll know everything we need to know about the Englishwoman and Comrade Niva. Don’t lose him. I’ll take care of him when I’m finished with her.”
Yakov nodded and turned away to go after Niva. Turning, Grigori continued up the street. He could still see the Englishwoman ahead, moving through the crowds quickly as she headed out of Gamla Stan.
While he hadn’t wanted to believe that Lyakhov was, in fact, a traitor, he was still surprised at who the leak was. Niva was based in Finland, of all places. How on earth had the British got to him? As far as he knew, the British had no presence in Finland outside Helsinki. Yet clearly they had managed to get to Comrade Niva.
The frown on his face grew. And what about Oslo? Niva had never been there. He remained firmly in Finland, with occasional forays into Stockholm. After thinking for a moment, Comrade Grigori pressed his lips together thoughtfully. Niva didn’t have to be in Oslo. The Germans were in Oslo. What if the Englishwoman was there for the Germans, then she moved on to Stockholm? There was nothing to stop an agent from pursuing two contacts in the same trip. He’d done it himself many times. And if that was the case,
it was only pure luck that he was able to track down her meeting with Niva today.
But Comrade Grigori didn’t believe in luck. In a bizarre twist of convictions, he actually did believe in fate. Many of his successes could only be attributed to that very thing.
It was fate that had brought him to Oslo, he decided as he walked through the old streets of Gamla Stan. Just as it was fate that led him to Stockholm. He looked at the woman ahead of him thoughtfully.
It could be that it was fate that brought the Englishwoman into his sphere. Comrade Niva spoke only Russian, Finnish and Swedish, so she had to speak one of those three languages. The fact that she was traveling with an obvious translator indicated that the language she had in common with Niva was Russian or Finnish. Personally, his wager was on Russian, and if the Englishwoman spoke Russian well enough to be understood, that was no small feat. In fact, it made her a rarity as far as British agents went.
And that made her a perfect target to be turned as a double agent.
Herr Renner looked up as the door to his room opened. He set down his pen and sat back, watching as the shorter man closed the door and turned to cross the sitting room.
“Well?”
“No one is in the room. The other woman must have left sometime after the Englishwoman.” The man seated himself in one of the chairs and crossed his legs comfortably. “I went through the rooms. I found nothing that could be of use to us.”
Renner frowned. “Nothing at all?”
The man shook his head. “No. All that’s there is clothing and some magazines.”
“What about the telegram that was delivered?”
“There was no sign of it.”
Renner cursed. “The other woman must have taken it with her. Do we know for certain it was meant for the Englishwoman?”
“Oh yes. I spoke with the boy who hand delivered it myself. It was for Miss Margaret Richardson.”
Getting to his feet, Renner walked over to the window overlooking the harbor and stared out silently for a moment.
“Any idea who it was from?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Her editor in London, or so I was told.”
Renner nodded. That made sense. The British Secret Service would hardly send instructions from their own agency. They would use something in line with their agents cover story.
“There is one thing that might help us,” the man said slowly from the chair. “She will have to contact the British embassy if she suspects that she’s been compromised. We have a man there already. If she sends anything to Mr. Manchester, we’ll know about it.”
Renner turned from the window. “I don’t see how that helps us. If she suspects she’s been compromised, she won’t come back to the hotel. Especially if there’s nothing in her room worth saving.”
“There isn’t.”
Silence fell over the sitting room and the man in the chair leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling while Renner paced before the window.
“I don’t think it will come to any of that,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “She doesn’t know we’re here. You arrived after she left, so she hasn’t seen you. The woman with her is nobody, just a Norwegian girl from what the concierge said. She’s probably here to translate for her, so she knows nothing. There’s no reason for either of them to suspect anything.”
Herr Renner looked at him consideringly. The other man was right. He’d been careful not to be seen by Maggie Richardson. She had no idea he was here. As far as she knew, he was still in Oslo.
“Has Franz seen anything in the back?” he asked, going back to his chair at the desk and seating himself again.
“No. Everything is quiet. The only people going into the alley are the hotel staff.”
He nodded and picked up his pen, twirling it absently between his long fingers.
“We’ll use the alley,” he decided after a moment. “Is Helmut still at the consulate with the car?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him to be prepared to come when I call for him. When Fraulein Richardson returns to the hotel, we’ll allow her to go to her room. Once she’s there, I’ll pay her a visit.”
“We can take her from the room,” the man suggested. “There’s a stairwell that goes down to the back of hotel, near the back entrance. It would be quick and easy to get her down the stairs.”
Renner shook his head.
“No. We can’t take her from inside the hotel,” he said firmly. “We can’t risk causing an incident that will be protested, as it surely would. Sweden will not take kindly to us breaching her neutrality in such a fashion. Remember, we are under orders to be discreet. Himmler doesn’t want anyone to know about the Fraulein.”
The man frowned and lifted his head, looking at Renner.
“If we can’t take her from inside the hotel, what do you suggest?”
“I’ll get her to leave the hotel with me. Once we’re downstairs, I’ll take her into the alley where Helmut will be waiting with the car.”
The man’s brow cleared and he nodded slowly.
“There’s less risk in the alley,” he agreed. “Less likelihood of being seen.”
“Precisely.” Renner laid his pen down on the desk and leaned forward. “Once she’s in the car, we have her. Then I’ll find out what Obersturmbannführer Voss wants to know.”
The man glanced at him. “What does he want to know?”
Renner waved his hand dismissively. “That’s none of your concern. Just be sure to alert me as soon as she enters the hotel again.”
“What about the other woman? I have a description now. What if she returns?”
“Let her through. The only way she interests me is if Fraulein Richardson doesn’t return. Then we’ll use the woman to draw her out.”
The man nodded and pushed himself out of the chair.
“I’ll go let the others know,” he said, turning towards the door. “We should have something for you soon.”
Renner nodded and watched as the other man left, closing the door silently behind him. He returned his attention to the letter he was composing to send to Berlin. He was confident that he would have Fraulein Richardson in hand by the evening at the latest.
And once they had what they needed, he had instructions to bring her back to Germany. Fraulein Richardson was about to be removed from the theatre of operations.
When the tall, dark-haired woman breezed through the doors of The Strand with a dull-looking companion trailing behind, the only immediate person to notice was the porter standing just inside. After a brief glance, he returned his attention to the conversation he was holding in a low voice with one of the other hotel employees, uninterested. Later, however, he would claim that he knew there was something excitable about the woman as soon he laid eyes on her. After all, all Spaniards were high-strung, weren’t they? It was because of their hot climate, he would say confidently. When challenged by another porter, he offered his uncle as a point of reference. He’d worked in Madrid for a summer and was well acquainted with the Spanish. While this was highly suspect, by that point two things were beyond dispute: the dark-haired woman was, indeed, Spanish, and, as it turned out, was also very high-strung and excitable.
At that present moment, though, the lobby of the hotel was quiet and no one was really paying any attention to the two women entering from the street. The morning and early afternoon flurry of check-ins and outs was over and a quiet calm had descended over the lobby, broken only by the occasional whir of the lift. The man sitting in a chair on the far side of the lobby with an unrestricted view of both the entrance and the lift stifled a yawn and looked up from his newspaper as the two women came through the door. After a very brief glance, he dismissed them and went back to his paper. They were not who he was waiting for.
He’d just returned to the half-hearted pretense of reading a newspaper that he couldn’t understand when a shrill voice made it
s way to his corner of the lobby. He looked up in astonishment as the dark-haired woman stopped a few feet into the lobby and swung around to face her companion. She appeared to be berating the other woman, but as she was speaking in Spanish, it was very hard to know for sure. The man lowered his paper, his attention well and truly caught as the well-dressed Spaniard laid into her companion, her voice carrying across the lobby.
The sudden outburst stunned the few people scattered around and a shocked silence fell as one and all stared at the women, trying to understand what on earth was happening. Instead of appearing embarrassed by the public tongue-lashing she was getting, the companion looked resigned. Her clothes were good, but not of the same high quality as the woman in the process of losing her temper, indicating her status of a personal secretary or paid companion. She had dark hair pulled into a tight bun and a sensible, brown hat covered the lot. The man looked at her, noting the black-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose and the woolen stockings that covered her legs under a plain woolen skirt. Not even the faintest flicker of surprise crossed her face at the outburst, showing plainly that this was a common enough occurrence.
“...... completo imbécil! ¿Cómo puedes olvidar recoger el vestido? ¡¿Qué se supone que debo usar esta noche ?!”
The woman was rattling on in Spanish, her voice increasing in volume with each word. When she paused for breath, her companion murmured something unintelligible that only seemed to enrage her further.
“Bah!” she exclaimed in disgust, turning to continue across the lobby with swift, angry strides. “Eres una idiota!”
The hotel manager appeared then, moving across the tiled floor to intercept them smoothly, and the man with the paper felt a wave of amusement wash over him. Ah. Here was the manager to try to diffuse the situation and quiet her down. The scene, as diverting as it was, would be over in a minute.
