The Spy Who Never Was

by Tom Savage

  Nora said, “Did you have plans for dinner? Is someone waiting for you at home? If so, they’re welcome to join us. Sister, we really must talk. I know all about Julie Campbell. I think something’s going to happen there tonight, and I think I can help you to avoid any trouble. Please.”

  There was a pause; Nora could almost hear the head nurse thinking. Then: “I had no plans, to be honest, and I’m alone. It’s Bingo Night at the church, of course, but it’s also Frau Martens’s Thursday special, Wiener Schnitzel. Yes, thank you, Madame Lanier. I’ll join you there at seven o’clock.”

  “Good,” Nora said. “But enough of this ‘Madame Lanier’ business. My name is Nora Baron; please call me Nora. We’re only using real names tonight, okay? I’ll see you at seven.” Nora ended the call before the woman could say anything more.

  Hund had finished his visit with the deer family below, and now he raced up the embankment to join her. She patted his head again, and then they left the bridge and walked back up the path to the village. Hund barked a goodbye on the doorstep of the Gasthof and trotted away across the square.

  As she went inside, Nora heard a low rumble of thunder on the mountain.

  Chapter 40

  Nora changed her white blouse for a dark blue turtleneck, but otherwise she remained in the clothes she’d worn for two days now, the black denim pantsuit and her black boots. She didn’t know what tonight would bring, but she decided she’d be ready for anything in clothes that were dark, comfortable, and suitable for running. She kept the blond wig and age makeup in place because she needed to be Marianne Lanier for a while longer, despite what she’d told the nurse on the phone. At least two of the people who would probably arrive in Alpenberg tonight would recognize Nora Baron, and she didn’t want to make things easier for them.

  Amanda Morris was a definite fact, and the young man named Luc was a strong probability. After that, it was anyone’s guess how many there would be, but Nora was going with her instinct, based on common sense: as few as possible. These people were trying to sneak into a remote mountain community, and Amanda Morris was no fool. The fewer, the better.

  Amanda Morris. Nora tried to see all this from Amanda’s perspective as she made her way downstairs and out into the square, but it was impossible. She always taught her college acting students to approach any role in a play or film by asking the three fundamental questions: Who am I? What do I want? What am I willing to do to get it? With Amanda Morris, Nora could answer only the third question. Whoever the woman was, and whatever the hell she wanted, she’d made it abundantly clear that she was willing to kill for it. She’d tortured and drowned a sick old man, and she’d probably done something to Ben Dysart as well—she and her paramour, Edgar Cole.

  Edgar Cole. Another cipher, but at least Nora knew one thing about him: He was rich. Picasso/Lamborghini/infinity pool rich. The sort of man who would foot the bill for six people at one of the fanciest clubs in Paris and think nothing of it. He could afford to finance his own, personal ops with his own, personal assassin under the guise of the CIA, and he’d been getting away with it for nine years.

  His own assassin. Chris Waverly, alias Rose, alias Julie Campbell. Where did she fit into all this? Was her husband, the Russian assassin, involved as well? Nora was determined to find out.

  A lovely glow emanated from the side of the square where the restaurant was, and Nora could hear the soft murmur of voices as she approached. The pink monstrosity at the opposite end, Gasthof Wunderbar, was brightly lit, and a few people were dining at its outdoor tables, including the whistling hiker. The Wunderbar must have a full house down there, she decided, wondering if her enemies were among them. Normally she would tend to doubt it—trained agents wouldn’t chance being sighted in a town this size if they were doing clandestine work—but the imminent wet weather might have altered the usual equation. She’d keep an eye on Gasthof Wunderbar, just in case.

  It was the sexy shepherd, not the sullen daughter, who showed her to her table for two on the cobblestones in front of the restaurant’s picture window, and held out her chair for her. Gone were the overalls, but the Tyrolean hat was in place above black trousers, white shirtsleeves, and a black bow tie. She thanked him and sat in the chair under the wide umbrella facing the Wunderbar and the main entrance to the square. Her guest would have a view of Gasthof Kleiss behind her.

  Nora sipped the water the shepherd/waiter—“I am being Hans!”—poured, looking around her. A candle in a jar lit the table, set with a white cloth, steel flatware, sturdy-looking glasses, and plain white china. She glanced in the picture window beside her, waving to the group at one of the indoor tables: Hall and Trina Kleiss were dining with their guests, Frau Leydon and the elderly Herr Shuler. Lars and his bride were nowhere in sight until a swinging door to the kitchen revealed them back there in aprons, assisting Frau Martens.

  The other inside table and the outside one on the opposite side of the entrance were taken as well, by smiling groups of Alpenbergers who were unknown to Nora but known to one another. Everyone in the restaurant smiled and waved to everyone else. The two middle-aged couples at the other outside table were nearly finished with their meal, and Nora heard one of them say the word Bingo in the midst of a torrent of German. So, they were headed to the big Thursday night event in the parish hall up the hill.

  The weather was cool but still dry, and Nora wondered how long it would be before the promised rain arrived. She asked Hans when he handed her the shortest wine list she’d ever seen: Rotwein, Weißwein, Schaumwein, Bier.

  Hans laughed and glanced up at the evening sky, shrugging. “It is the not much rain, yes? The light one. You okay here, with this.” He pointed at the Cinzano umbrella. “A little wet while you eat—but then later tonight, bang, it will be a lot.” He tipped his hat to her and went inside.

  A weather report from a native—and not just any native, but a man whose job depended on the weather. Sheep and rainstorms were a bad combination; even Nora, a city girl, knew that. You could lose half of your flock in the panic. She hoped he was wrong about the amount of precipitation expected because she didn’t relish the idea of running around the grounds of the Brandt Clinic in a deluge…

  Nora froze, staring, all thoughts of sheep and rainstorms flying from her. A woman had just entered the square from the alley between the Town Hall and the general store across the way. At first she was a silhouette in darkness, and then she strode forward into the waning sunset light. She was tall, just about Nora’s height, and she wore a black pantsuit, a dark gray turtleneck, a black trench coat hanging open, and black boots. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair was honey blond, just a tad lighter than Nora’s chestnut. To make the eerie similarity complete, a sleek black designer shoulder bag hung from one arm. But there the likeness ended: This woman was a decade younger than Nora, and she was visibly pregnant.

  Julie Campbell looked directly at Nora as she approached, a hint of a smile on her lips. She appeared to be enjoying the surprised expression on Nora’s face. She arrived at the table, draped her coat across the back of her chair, hung the shoulder bag on it, and sat down. This last bit took some doing: She raised a hand to her swelling stomach as she grasped the edge of the table with the other hand and carefully lowered herself into the chair.

  “Good evening, Nora,” she said in a low, purely American voice.

  Nora slowly shut her gaping mouth. Then she smiled. “Hello—um, I’m not sure what to call you. How do they know you here?”

  In answer to her question, Hans arrived at Julie Campbell’s side and filled her water glass. “Guten Abend, Oberschwester Wäldchen.”

  Julie grinned up at him. “Guten Abend, Hans.”

  Nora watched as the two of them had a short conversation. When he departed, Julie turned to Nora and translated.

  “He asked if my husband will be joining us tonight, but I said no, he is in France on business. Boris is an author, you see. He’s writing his first novel, a spy thriller, and he is frequently away
doing research for it.”

  Nora stared. “Boris?”

  “Yes. He was called Yuri after Doctor Zhivago, and when we came here in January and needed new names, he simply switched from the character to the author. His new last name is Wäldchen, of course, and I am Frau Julie Wäldchen. He really is writing a novel—about an international assassin—so that part isn’t a lie.”

  “I’m told he’s doing well,” Nora said. “He’s going to be fine.”

  “Yes. I spoke with him today, just after you were at the clinic. I hadn’t heard from him in three days, but Sonya told me about his injury before you told Frau Strasser, the lady in the wheelchair, so it didn’t come as a complete shock to me. I told Yuri you were here, and he said to thank you for whatever you did in Lucerne. This morning he received a phone call from Franz Hoffman, his brother-in-law, who has never spoken to him before. Franz told him that we have you to thank for his new attitude, and Sonya is on her way to be with Yuri in the hospital in Paris; she will be there later tonight. Yuri said to tell you that you must learn to wield a knife so you can do more damage. He’s even offered to teach you.”

  Nora shook her head. “I don’t think I want to learn how to kill someone with a knife.”

  “Yes, you do,” Julie said. “If you intend to remain in this line of work, you must learn everything. The most dangerous thing you can possibly face is an enemy who knows more than you.” She smiled. “Speaking of that, may I ask how you figured me out? I needed to conceal myself until I knew exactly who you were, whom you were working for, and what you were doing here. I let my staff and patients in on the game; they enjoyed my disguise. I regret that I had to use Frau Strasser in such a callous way, but I don’t regret testing you. I thought my camouflage was excellent.”

  “It was,” Nora admitted. “But your name was another matter. Frau Leydon pointed me in the right direction—she’s fascinated by your name, Wäldchen, which is the German word for grove. This case all began for me one week ago, when I stood on a certain street corner in Greenwich Village, looking up at a CIA safe house. The man in that house told me that your code name, Chris Waverly, was inspired by that corner. It’s an unusual place, even by the unusual standards of Greenwich Village streets. It’s a three-way intersection: Christopher, Waverly…and Grove.”

  “Ah,” Julie said, and she grinned. “Too clever for my own good, aren’t I? But you are the only one to figure it out so far, even after I had Sonya lie her head off to you, telling you I was a patient here and not the head nurse she knows me to be. I knew you were smart—I could see that last night, when I observed you on the balcony outside your room. I saw you as you are, without this wig and makeup, and I immediately understood why Edgar chose you. We could almost be sisters, as Hans and Lars are brothers. And you are the clever one.”

  “Not that clever,” Nora said. “I’ve made big mistakes, right from the start. There were two young people in the safe house with Mr. Cole—a boy with flyaway hair and bad acne, and a girl with a tat of a heart on her wrist. I guess he can’t help the acne, but his hair and her visible ink are totally against CIA regulations. I should have known they weren’t Company. They were probably out-of-work actors, hired for two days’ work with excellent pay. And if I’m so damn clever, how did Yuri find out who I was?”

  Julie shrugged. “A relative of mine was at Rêve the other night when your American friend announced your identity, and he told Yuri, so they both knew who you were. But you were with Amanda, so they thought you were one of Cole’s creatures. Yuri went to your hotel room and threatened you when he learned that my relative had suddenly gone missing.”

  “I assume Yuri has told you about your uncle,” Nora said quietly. “I just heard a while ago. I helped them to capture him, that’s true, but they lied to me about his role in all this. I’m sorry.”

  Julie looked away for a moment, across the square toward Gasthof Kleiss. “Thank you. They shall pay for it.” Now she returned her attention to Nora. “Yuri tells me your husband is a highly regarded operative, and you’re making quite a name for yourself in the Company, despite a lack of training. You’re an inspired amateur.”

  Nora nodded. “You, on the other hand, had a professional education. Did your parents train you from childhood? Did they want you and your brother to follow in their footsteps?”

  “Absolutely not. I think it would have been the last thing they wanted. Ah—Hans is bringing our salads. I can recommend the white wine here; Yuri says it goes well with the Schnitzel. I shall have only water, of course.” She patted her midsection. “Let’s order, and I’ll tell you how I became Chris Waverly—and why they now want to kill her.”

  Chapter 41

  On the day she was graduated from boarding school twenty-four years ago, Julie Campbell was dreaming of romance. She’d been accepted at Syracuse University, where her brother was, and she was going to join him there in September. She was ecstatic about this—not because James was there, or even because she’d be a drama major and become a great actress, but because Glen Hooper was a drama major there as well. Glen was the older brother of her best friend at boarding school, and Julie was in love with him.

  They found her after the ceremony. She’d gone through the ritual, accepting her diploma from the headmistress, searching the crowd for her parents and brother. It wasn’t like them to be late for anything, and yet they’d missed this milestone in her life, tossing her mortarboard in the air with the other girls. She was just beginning to worry when the police arrived at the boarding school with the news.

  She didn’t go to Syracuse that September. She never attended college at all; she was too busy taking care of her mother. Uncle Dan arrived from London to assist her. He helped her to buy a two-bedroom co-op on the Upper West Side and fit it up for Fiona with a bedroom that was virtually a hospital room with a hospital bed, in a neighborhood with several hospitals nearby in case of emergencies. Julie enrolled in nursing school, learning everything she needed to know to make her mother’s life as comfortable as possible.

  Her parents hadn’t put much money aside, so she had to go to work. She married Glen Hooper, who moved into the apartment with her and Fiona, but the marriage didn’t work out. Glen resented Julie’s ferocious, single-minded devotion to her blind, paraplegic mother, and he soon edged out the door. Julie got over the heartbreak, quit her hospital gig, and took a better-paying job as head nurse in a private clinic.

  Glen went on to become a successful New York actor; he married a pretty actress and had three children. They lived a few blocks from Julie, and she ran into them from time to time, pushing their baby prams along the sidewalks. She envied their lifestyle, but she never regretted her own choices.

  Fiona told her stories. By the time she died ten years ago, she’d steeped Julie in every major op she and John had worked. She boasted of their kills: Russian spies, Middle Eastern terrorists, African dictators. Julie—the frustrated actress—caught the bug, reveling in the glamorous world of espionage. But the story that made the biggest impression on her was the one about the car bomb. Just before she died, Fiona told her who was responsible for it, and she made a dying request. She asked her daughter to hunt down the Russian spies who’d killed and maimed her family. She even told Julie where to go for help: her parents’ handler, Edgar Cole.

  Julie buried her mother with her father and brother, then sought out the CIA official at Langley. Mr. Cole arranged to meet her at the safe house near Christopher, Waverly, and Grove. He knew how to get to the Russians, and how to take them out. He would finance Julie’s training as an assassin and give her the Russians. All he wanted in return was for Julie to do odd jobs for him from time to time. Thus Chris Waverly was born.

  Three Russians had been behind the Campbell car bomb, two men and a woman, relatives of the two moles who’d been John and Fiona’s first tandem kills years before. They’d spent years tracing the Campbells, and the bomb had been intended for the parents and both children—they hadn’t known that Julie
was already at the school and wouldn’t be traveling there with them on graduation day. When Julie was ready after her full training nine years ago, she went hunting. The three Russians became her first kills, and she relished each of them. This work would be suitable for her, she decided, as it had been for her parents before her.

  Over the next nine years, until last Christmas, Julie worked for Edgar Cole. She never questioned his sanctions; she merely fulfilled them. Mr. Cole had a particular interest in the international human trafficking scene, and Rose was instrumental in apprehending or neutralizing several groups of them, notably the Russian mafia people in Moscow three years ago.

  This incident had set Russia’s most feared assassin on her trail. Yuri Kerensky, aka The Falcon, had accepted the contract from the surviving mobsters to hunt down Chris Waverly and kill her. He sought her for months, finally catching up with her in a seaside village in Crete, of all places. Julie was hiding out there, waiting for her next assignment from Edgar Cole, and she was working as an English teacher.

  Yuri had found her on an Aegean beach in front of a little schoolhouse, teaching the village children to sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” in four-part harmony. He’d stared at the woman, fascinated. His sister was teaching Russian to similar children in Switzerland—how could he kill a beautiful American agent who had so much in common with Sonya? Instead, he’d introduced himself and asked her to dine with him.

  Over dinner in the village taverna, Yuri confessed who he was and what he was doing there. Julie had been surprised, but then she’d laughed and said, “Okay, you have a choice, Mr. Falcon. You can try to kill me—which may not work out well for you—or you can come home with me. Which is it going to be?” He made his choice, and they were together from that day on; two attractive, lonely people with the same peculiar profession.

  Then, last Christmas, Julie closed in on Bernard and Carla Clement at their home in Avignon. She found only Carla there, and she later related the scene in vivid detail to Edgar Cole and his mistress, Amanda Morris: the house, the couch, the Christmas tree, the flying terrier, the pearl-handled revolver under the throw pillows. What she didn’t tell them at the time was the secret Carla Clement had told her that day.