The Spy Who Never Was

by Tom Savage

  She tipped the old man ten francs (“Vielen Dank, gnädige Frau!”) so he’d be sure to tell the man downstairs how nice she was. She wanted the concierge to respect her request and refrain from telling Sonya Hoffman that someone was looking for her. If Sonya was Rose, news like that could be upsetting, to say the least.

  Frau Hoffman…

  Nora patted water on her face in the bathroom, careful not to spoil her Marianne makeup, adjusted the blond wig, and went back downstairs. She’d noticed the dining room off the lobby, and it was just going on noon. She hadn’t eaten anything since the sandwich last night. She was shown to a small table by a window looking out on the square, and not a moment too soon. Within minutes, the room was filled with hotel guests, tourists, and local businesspeople. She soon learned why: The vegetable omelet and sourdough bread were delicious.

  Frau Hoffman. She thought about it while she ate. Yuri Kerensky must use the name Hoffman as one of his covers, and he would presumably have several. He and his wife lived in Lucerne, where she worked in a nice, middle-class hotel. Nora wondered what she did here. Manager? Front desk? Bookkeeper? Surely not a chambermaid—if she really was Chris Waverly, she was too competent to waste her talents making beds.

  She paid cash for the meal and returned to her room. She had three hours to kill. She thought about a walk around Old Town, or maybe the lake, but the bed looked tempting. She’d slept for two hours before being interrupted by Yuri Kerensky last night, and three hours on the train, but she still felt exhausted. She removed the wig and lay down on top of the covers, wondering if she’d be able to sleep in this strange room in this strange city before her meeting with—

  She slept for four hours, and her sleep was heavy and dreamless. When she woke at five o’clock, she quelled a thrill of panic. No harm done; Sonya was presumably here somewhere, and now Nora would finally see her. She put on the wig, straightened her rumpled suit, fixed her makeup, brushed her teeth, and went down to the lobby. The same young man was still there, checking in a tired businessman. When he saw Nora waiting politely behind the new guest, he smiled and pointed toward an archway.

  “Frau Hoffman is there,” he said.

  Nora turned to look. The archway was next to the dining room; she could hear faint piano music coming from there. The hotel bar, no doubt. She thanked the concierge and went over to the archway, thinking, Cocktail waitress…

  Not exactly. Despite the cocktail hour, the lounge was nearly empty. Two businessmen sat at the bar along one wall, checking facts and figures on their tablets while knocking back martinis. A giggling young couple sat at a window table, dressed for a night on the town, and Nora could see that they were newlyweds. The bride had a frosty, fruity concoction in a goblet with a straw; the groom had a mug of beer. Not that it mattered what they were served—they only had eyes for each other. Two young women, one white and the other Asian, in tight black minidresses with empty drink trays in their hands stood near the piano in the corner, where an elegant-looking older black woman played a soft, jazzy rendition of “Tonight” from West Side Story. The only other people in the room were the man and woman behind the long bar.

  Nora knew instantly that the woman bartender was her quarry. She was the only female here who was even close to the right age. She wore the apparent uniform, a tight black minidress, and her dark curls were up in a bun. Huge dark eyes, generous lips, generous cheekbones, generous everything. Nora guessed she was in her early forties. She was tall—as tall as the man with whom she stood chatting behind the bar—and she was quite stunningly beautiful.

  Now, that’s what Chris Waverly would look like! Nora thought. She waved away the waitress who stepped forward to show her to a table, walked over to the bar, and stood facing the vision. A plain gold band gleamed on her perfect hand.

  Sonya Hoffman turned from her conversation and smiled at Nora. “Guten Tag.”

  “Hello,” Nora said. Just to be sure, she added, “Are you Sonya Hoffman?”

  The smile vanished, and now the beautiful woman behind the bar looked wary. “Yes, I am Sonya.” She had the same pronounced Russian accent as Yuri Kerensky.

  Nora smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “I have a message for you from your husband.”

  Now the smile reappeared. “A message from—my husband?” She turned to look at the other bartender. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. She turned back to Nora. “I don’t understand. Please, is this a joke?”

  Nora blinked. “A joke? Of course not! I’ve just come all the way from Paris to find you. I have a message from your husband.”

  Sonya Hoffman continued to stare at her. The smile disappeared again, and this time it didn’t return.

  Nora was about to say more when the male bartender stepped forward and leaned across the bar, planting his face two inches from Nora’s. He was clearly angry. She took an involuntary step back.

  “And just what is this message from her husband, madame?” he said in a low, German-accented voice. “What, exactly, did I tell you to say to my wife?”

  Chapter 26

  Nora Baron rarely blushed, but she did so now. The hot blood roared up her neck to her cheeks and forehead, leaving her skin a blotchy field of throbbing discomfort. She sank into the nearest bar chair, dizzy from the shock, staring from the man to the woman and back again. She was totally lost.

  “My name is Nora Baron,” she managed to whisper. “You are…Herr Hoffman?”

  The man made a clucking sound with his tongue and leaned forward again. “Ja, I am Herr Hoffman—Franz Hoffman—and this is meine Frau—my wife, Sonya. We have a son and two daughters, and next year is our silver anniversary. Is this enough for you? We tell you who we are, now you please tell us who you are and what is the meaning of your not-funny joke.”

  Nora’s mind raced, but she couldn’t add two and two to make four. She blinked several times, licked her lips, and tried again. “I—I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to—I’m a friend. Really. A man was injured in Paris this morning. He was stabbed, but he’ll recover. He asked me to come to Lucerne, to Sonya Hoffman at Hotel Toler. He said I must protect his wife from—from people who are looking for her, people who want to harm her. He held up his hand to show me his wedding ring. I thought he meant—”

  Sonya Hoffman interrupted her. “Please, who is this man? What is his name?”

  Nora regarded the woman. She was agitated now, fearful. It was in her lovely eyes. She and her husband were staring at Nora, waiting.

  “His name is Yuri Kerensky,” Nora said. “He’s a—”

  “Yuri!’ Sonya cried. She leaned forward against the edge of the bar, staring down at the polished teak surface. Her husband placed his arm across her shoulders and drew her close. She sagged against him, looking up at Nora once more. “He will recover, you say? He is all right?”

  “He’s unconscious,” Nora said. “He’s in a hospital in Paris. There was bleeding in one of his lungs, but the paramedics were hopeful.” She met the woman’s gaze. “If he’s not your husband, how do you know him?”

  Now there were tears in those lovely eyes. “Yuri is my brother.”

  The quiet room was suddenly alive with voices and laughter. Nora swiveled in her chair to see a group of perhaps twenty American tourists being seated. The two waitresses became busy while the travelers called out orders for drinks. Nora turned back to the Hoffmans. Franz was already at the taps, pulling beers. Sonya was reaching for glasses and bottles, but she kept her attention on Nora.

  “My husband is here all evening,” Sonya told her, “but I am only working the cocktail hour. I will go home at seven o’clock, when the other barman comes. I must talk with you about Yuri. Will you come with me to my home? We live three streets from here; it is a short walk.”

  “I’m staying in the hotel,” Nora said. “My room would be fine for—”

  Sonya shook her head. “No, that would not be convenient. Our little one is at home with the young girl who is her minder, yes? This girl mu
st go to her own home at half seven—it is a night before school—so I must be there before then.”

  Nora smiled and nodded, remembering similar arrangements with Dana’s teen babysitters. “Of course. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven. It’s five-thirty now; I’ll have dinner while I wait. What do you recommend? The dining room next door, or is there a particular restaurant or café…?”

  Though she was visibly upset about her brother, Sonya managed a weak smile. “The dining room here is the best place in Old Town. You will not find a better meal anywhere else.”

  “Sold!” Nora said. She headed for the archway. Just before she entered the dining room, she looked back into the lounge. The pianist was taking requests from the Americans, the businessmen were computing, the honeymooners were giggling, and Franz and the two waitresses were pouring and serving. Sonya Hoffman, alone among them, didn’t move. She stood off to the side behind the bar with a phone raised to her ear, speaking urgently, her perfect face a perfect picture of distress.

  Ninety minutes later, Nora came down to the lobby from her room to find Sonya waiting. She wore a trench coat and shoulder bag almost identical to Nora’s, and she appeared to have recovered from the worst of her shock. She even smiled and chatted as she led Nora outside into the chilly evening of the lakeside city. They headed deeper into the neighborhood, away from the lake, passing noisy restaurants and taverns and beautiful shop windows along the way. Sidewalk tables were crowded with customers, and a wide assortment of smiling natives and tourists paraded by them.

  “Your husband mentioned three children,” Nora said as they crossed a cobblestone street. “How old is your little one?”

  “Leda is seven. She was a late baby—her brother and sister are at university. Franz is an accountant, I teach Russian in a language school, and we work in the hotel bar at night to earn more money to pay for educations. Grigor and Nadia are at the University of Bern, and it is so expensive!”

  “Oh, yes!” Nora said. “My daughter is in college, and her father and I are practically in the poorhouse.”

  They laughed as they walked, and Nora tried again to piece the puzzle together. She’d thought about it over dinner, but hadn’t solved the mystery. Somewhere deep inside, she still harbored a faint suspicion that this gorgeous mother of three really was the fabulous Chris Waverly, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. She certainly looked the part—and she and Nora had the same taste in trench coats and shoulder bags…

  They came to an apartment house in the middle of the next block, and Nora followed her host inside. They passed through a plain marble lobby to the elevator and rode up to the fifth floor. Sonya unlocked the nearest door to the elevator in a short hallway with four doors. She stepped inside, switched on the lights, and turned, holding the door open for Nora.

  Nora passed her and went into the big living room. Pale blue walls, curtains, and carpets were the setting for a lot of pretty furniture with darker blue upholstery and cushions. An archway led to a kitchen and bedrooms; Nora assumed that Leda and her sitter were in one of them.

  A large, gleaming mahogany breakfront with glass doors dominated a side wall, and Nora could see several silver-framed photos on the shelves. She went over to inspect them as she heard the apartment door close behind her. The biggest photo in the center of the display was a recent shot of Franz and Sonya Hoffman seated on the blue couch in this room, surrounded by three beautiful children. Nora looked at the son, Grigor, a handsome younger version of his father. The young woman beside him would be Nadia, and the girl seated on the floor at her parents’ feet would be—

  Nora froze, staring. She blinked, and looked again. There was no mistaking this evidence: The girl seated on the floor was not seven years old. Leda Hoffman hadn’t been seven years old for a good ten years. She could very well be in Bern with her siblings, because…

  Nora figured it all out in an instant.

  Because she definitely wasn’t here, in this apartment. And there was no babysitter—it had all been a ruse to get Nora to come here, to this isolated place away from the hotel. As she realized this, she heard a soft but distinct click behind her. She recognized the noise; it was the sound of the safety slide on a handgun being deactivated for firing. She turned around.

  Sonya Hoffman stood facing Nora in front of her closed, locked apartment door. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She was aiming a black-handled, silver-barreled LadySmith revolver directly at Nora’s heart.

  Chapter 27

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Nora said. “Put that thing away before you shoot somebody!” She smiled to mask her terror.

  Sonya didn’t react to the joke. She continued to aim the weapon, watching Nora warily.

  “Who are you?” she said. “Why have you come here? You must answer me truthfully, please. This is my home, and this gun is mine, and you are trespassing and trying to rob me. This is what I will tell the authorities if I shoot you—and I will shoot you if you do not explain yourself.”

  Nora was quickly recovering from the shock, so she pressed on. She smiled again and shook her head. “You’re not going to shoot me, Sonya.”

  The woman glared. “Why do you say that?”

  Nora shrugged and went over to sit on the blue couch. “Three things. First, this is your home. It’s beautiful, and your children grew up here. I see pencil marks on that archway over there; I’m guessing they’re the heights of your children at various ages. You don’t want to destroy all the memories of this room with a murder—and bloodstains are hell on the carpet! Second, your husband. He was protective when I first arrived in the lounge, but he got very busy with the drinks after I mentioned Yuri. Franz doesn’t approve of him, does he? He doesn’t want to hear about any of this, and a dead body in his living room is not going to raise his opinion of your brother.” She smiled at the woman, hoping her words were sinking in.

  Perhaps they were. Sonya slowly lowered the gun to her side; it hung down loosely in her hand. “And what is the third thing?”

  Nora’s smile faded as she remembered a muddy forest road in rural England. “You know how to use that gun—I suppose Yuri taught you—but you’ve never shot anyone, have you? Well, I have, Sonya, and you really don’t want to find out how it feels. You can’t imagine what it does to your soul. Trust me.”

  They regarded each other for a long moment. Then Sonya Hoffman nodded, slipped the safety back on the revolver, and dropped it into her shoulder bag. She removed the bag and her coat, waving an arm to indicate that Nora should do the same. The coats went into the closet by the front door.

  “Let us go into the kitchen,” Sonya said. “I will make coffee.” She took her shoulder bag with her.

  Nora followed her through the archway from the pale blue living room into the pale yellow kitchen and sat at the table there. While Sonya activated a pod coffeemaker, Nora thought about Sonya’s brother. This family wasn’t good for her health: Brother and sister had each threatened her life in the space of sixteen hours. But Yuri was seriously injured, his wife was in danger, and Nora didn’t know how much time they had.

  “What happened to Yuri?” Sonya asked as she placed the cups on the table and sat across from Nora. “Who stabbed him?”

  Nora looked her in the eye. “I did.”

  Sonya lowered her cup to its saucer, staring. Nora explained. She began at the beginning, the safe house in New York, and told this woman her story. She’d already told it to her new team earlier today; a couple more times, and she’d be able to perform it onstage for a paying audience. Nora noted Sonya’s surprise when she mentioned her CIA cover identity, Julie Campbell, a registered nurse from New York City. She ended the saga with the scene in her hotel room this morning, and Yuri’s cryptic words. Then she leaned forward.

  “Sonya, I need to know what Yuri meant. I need to know who this woman is, and where she is. He sent me to you because he said you know. Let me help him. Let me help her.”

  Sonya thought about it. Then she nodded and reache
d in her bag for her phone. “Excuse me; I must place a call.”

  Nora watched her, remembering the lounge earlier when she’d seen Sonya talking into the phone. She sat back in her chair, sipping coffee, waiting. Sonya called someone and spoke rapidly in Alemannic German. Then she called someone else and spoke rapidly again. This person did a lot of talking, apparently—Sonya mostly listened. At one point she interrupted the call to check something on her screen. She ended the call and looked over at Nora.

  “My brother’s wife is in a village in the mountains south of here, Alpenberg. Well, she is not in the village, but she is close to it. You must go to Alpenberg; there are no more trains today, but there will be trains tomorrow. There is a little hotel in the village, Gasthof Kleiss; you may stay there. I have been given their phone number; I can ring them and see if they have a—”

  “Wait,” Nora said. “Is there some way for me to go there tonight—a chauffeur service or a car rental agency? Where can I hire a car?”

  Sonya thought about this. Then her face lit up. “The hotel desk!” She called Hotel Toler and handed the phone to Nora. Yes, they would have a car and driver waiting for Madame Lanier by the time she returned to the hotel. She thanked the man and asked him to check her out of her room. Then Nora called the Gasthof and booked a room for Madame Marianne Lanier. Frau Kleiss herself took the call and introduced herself, first in French and then in perfect English; a room would be waiting for Madame Lanier tonight. Nora—who didn’t explain why Madame Lanier of Paris preferred to speak English—thanked the proprietor and said she’d be there as soon as possible.

  “Okay,” Nora said when the calls were done, “tell me about your sister-in-law. Does she live in this mountain village?”

  Sonya shook her head. “No, she is from America. She and Yuri have been together for three years, I think, and they were married this past Christmas. Yuri has never lived in any one place, but he says she is changing him, making him think of houses, you understand? She has been in Alpenberg for the last few months, I think, since soon after the wedding.”