The Girl with the Silver Stiletto

by Vic Robbie

  ‘In other words, you’ve screwed up and need us to get you out of the shit?’

  She didn’t agree but nodded.

  ‘Even if we could, your problems would only be starting.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know damn well you don’t have a hope in hell of having them deported.’

  She battled to stop doubt creeping across her face.

  ‘Perón won’t let it happen,’ Bartley continued. ‘For Christ sakes, you’d have to take on the Argentine army.’

  ‘Of course, you’re right, but it’s not my intention to remove them from the country.’

  He allowed himself a sly smile. The courts were useless and mired in red tape, and he had no problem with summary executions. But what would he and SIS get out of it? If successful, it wouldn’t do his career any harm. But resources were threadbare. The war had depleted the kitty. It was a daily battle with Whitehall, who believed they could now scale down operations. In truth, they needed more funds.

  ‘Okay, I understand, but what do you want?’

  ‘Your asset.’ She caught his eye and held it. His mind raced behind a bland expression as he tried to work out which asset. And she added: ‘It could be very important for us.’

  ‘Ah.’ He relaxed. ‘Go on.’ He studied the ash on the end of his cigar. Attempting to play two games of chess at once in his head, he feared she was several moves ahead.

  ‘I’ll not use names here.’

  ‘There is no need.‘ Bartley grimaced. ‘And the asset’s role?’

  ‘You don’t need me to spell it out.’

  His nod was not one of agreement, rather that he was interested in what more she had to say. ‘Get on with it,’ he said and wondered how much they knew.

  ‘We require your asset to assist our people.’

  He sighed. What she wanted could jeopardise his operations to unearth Nazi networks working within Britain. She would have to offer something substantial before he could allow her to affect that.

  Crossing and uncrossing her legs, she leant back. ‘I want you to make your asset available to us.’

  ‘Impossible,’ he replied with incredulity. ‘Out of the question. The defence of our shores concerns me more than chasing halfway around the world after some Nazis who may or may not be who you think they are.’

  Putting both elbows on the table, she moved forward. ‘I want you to arrange contact and I expect you to give me a free rein.’

  ‘Time’s up.’ He rose from the chair, pausing to gulp down the remains of his drink. ‘This is a waste of my time.’

  ‘Sit down, Bartley.’ Her cold stare could have frozen his blood. ‘If you oppose me,’ her voice became lower but harder, ‘I’ll make sure you never work in the service again.’

  He attempted a laugh, but it came out as a strangulated gargle, and he sat down again. ‘What do you mean?’

  Anger coloured her face. ‘Obviously, you don’t believe me.’ She bent down and reached for her voluminous handbag. She pulled it onto her lap, extricated a buff file and threw it between them. Bartley looked at the file without touching it.

  ‘With your help, we can open many doors.’

  Drumming his fingers on the table, he did his best to ignore it. ‘Impossible, there are too many problems.’

  ‘We’ll not compromise your asset. Have no fears in that respect.’

  ‘I haven’t, but this is crazy.’ He felt the rug was being pulled from under him. ‘Wouldn’t work. Far too difficult.’ And he made to leave.

  ‘You must make it work.’ She pointed to the file. ‘Open it.’

  Bartley grunted, dragging it closer, and fingered it as if it were dirty. When he opened it, all the colour drained from his face, and his bottom lip sagged. ‘What the hell’s this?’ He squinted at her with ill-concealed loathing.

  ‘It makes interesting reading.’ She smiled with her mouth. ‘The photographs are of you and your friend at Cambridge. Not that I need tell you that. What people do in the privacy of their homes doesn’t interest me, but it’s illegal, and the police could be involved. If I send it to your superiors, it will finish you both socially and professionally.’

  She let that settle.

  ‘Read further on, and you’ll discover something even more interesting.’ Impatient, she gestured for him to read, but he looked away.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked with a pained expression, knowing she wouldn’t reveal her source.’

  ‘Someone in your own organisation.’

  It didn’t surprise him. He shook his head slowly. They were queuing up to stick a knife in his back. You just could not trust anyone these days, especially those closest to you.

  ‘Your boyfriend is a fully paid-up member of a communist group, and he’s on a list of agitators that MI5 consider a possible danger. Now–’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He closed the file, pushing it back to her, eager to get out of there.

  She had always known Bartley would agree, but she was surprised the surrender had been easier than expected. ‘If we have your help and succeed, you won’t lose. You’ll share in the plaudits. You might receive a promotion. Might make it to the Lords. There are more queens there than at Buckingham Palace.’

  Again, he breathed heavily. What she proposed could interfere with the operation, but if they succeeded, it would go some way to solving the problem in England. ‘Just suppose we gave you what you want, there’s one thing you haven’t mentioned.’

  She questioned him with a sideways glance.

  ‘A big fly in this particular ointment.’

  ‘Explain.’

  Bartley took out a pen from an inside pocket and pulled over a napkin and printed a name.

  She picked it up. ‘Ah,’ she exclaimed and made a strange face and lost focus.

  ‘Do you know of him?’

  ‘Oh, I know that man. But I can handle it.’ Her expression hardened. ‘In war, there’s always collateral damage.’ She shrugged.

  Bartley ran a hand through his hair. ‘Don’t like–’

  There was no reason for civility anymore. The fish was hooked. She jumped to her feet. ‘I don’t care what you like. Just do it. Fail, and copies of that file will be sent to everyone, including your mother.’

  15

  The Soho Square Hotel wasn’t even in a square but tucked away at the end of Dean Street. The blurred neon of the hotel’s name blinked red from a distance. It looked gloomier than expected and added to his apprehension.

  Why am I putting myself at risk again?

  A woman surprised him by stepping out of a doorway and blocking the pavement, but he refused the invitation, thinking she should be home with her grandchildren.

  The evening had brought a typical London fog. Not one that wraps around you, so it’s impossible to see the person next to you, but the kind where wisps of cloud drift in and out making gargoyles of the most innocent faces. A glimpse of something disappeared at a second glance. Someone could be following, but there was little point in taking evasive action. It would be just as difficult for the follower, he thought as he headed straight for the hotel.

  The desk clerk appeared more interested in his newspaper as he entered. Or maybe the comings and goings of his clientele embarrassed him. With its palms and heavy, worn drapes and battered furniture and potted plants placed to hide peeling wallpaper, it looked more like a Victorian bordello.

  Outside, Natalie cursed the fog that had grown thicker. Ben was in her sights, but the farther they walked, the denser it became. Every so often, a thick bank of cloud enveloped her and obscured her vision, and when she recovered, she was following the wrong person. It took patience to get back on track. An expert in surveillance, she had never encountered these problems before. When it relented enough to allow her to resume contact, it made her smile. And when he entered the hotel she sighed with relief. This was promising, but it was impossible see into the lobby. He could be meeting anyone, and she would be recognised if they saw her. She d
ecided to give him some space. If he had gone up to a room, she could get the number from the clerk on reception. A flick of her hair and a smile from her violet eyes usually did the trick. Men found it difficult to say no to her.

  Who was Ben seeing? Was he leading her unwittingly to the target, and she’d have to decide how to deal with the boy? Solomon and his people demanded results, and she needed to strike before they changed their minds about guaranteeing her safety.

  She lit a Passing Cloud with a gold lighter and exhaled and again checked the contents of her purse just in case. Across the road, the lights of a café flickered, and she wondered if she might have a coffee. Decided, she crossed listening for traffic and watching. She pushed open the glass door and hesitated. Not knowing who he was meeting, she couldn’t sit sipping coffee. It would have to wait.

  She turned and stepped off the kerb. She didn’t see or hear the car until it emerged out of the fog. It hit her a glancing blow sending her tumbling onto the sidewalk. She felt nothing. Like being lifted by a wave and deposited on a beach. She lay still, eyes closed. A small crowd gathered, and a woman shrieked: ‘She’s dead. Oh, my God, he’s killed her.’

  The metal gate of the elevator was pulled back, awaiting a passenger, but instead Ben took the stairs which creaked under every step. It would be better not to be trapped between floors if his life were in danger. Checking the numbers on the doors, he realised No.12 was at the end of a long, narrow corridor. The carpet was sticky, and the floorboards complained so much he worried that they might surrender and send him crashing through to the floor below. The walls were painted green or was it slime, and cobwebs fashioned intricate patterns from the light fitments. Whatever these people had done, they hadn’t run off with someone’s money.

  He put an ear to the door, hearing two voices. He hesitated. An extra person changed the dynamic. He listened again but couldn’t tell the sexes of the occupants. He took a deep breath before knocking. The talk stopped within, and he imagined them freezing at his knock. Whispers. He knocked again. Louder, so the frail door rattled in its frame.

  A woman’s voice. ‘Who is it?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Ben, Ben Peters.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You wanted to meet me,’ he added and rechecked the number and wondered if it might be the wrong room. There was no peephole and whoever was inside needed to open it to identify him. A bolt snapped back, and it creaked open a matter of inches. Inside, it was almost in darkness and it was difficult to see anyone before he realised someone in shadow was studying him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ The woman asked. It was the voice from the park.

  Open it, or I’ll kick it down.

  ‘Ben Peters.’

  ‘Okay.’

  It closed. A chain rattled, and it opened wide enough for Ben to squeeze through sideways.

  As though he could have an infectious disease, she stepped out of range, studying him with an anxious frown. A low wattage bedside lamp covered by a cheap shade barely lit the room, and he couldn’t make out her features, just a full head of platinum blonde hair. No one else appeared to be there.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ she said and smiled.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was husky with emotion. The furnishings were minimal. ‘Not what I’d call living in style.’

  ‘Sorry, I had to see you.’ Her voice trailed away.

  As if that didn’t matter he said nothing, but inside the disappointment of seven years was building.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘What on earth was that charade in the park all about?’ It sounded too harsh.

  ‘I had to be sure they hadn’t followed you.’

  He stepped forward a hand outstretched, but she moved away from him like a suspicious fawn.

  ‘They told me it was too dangerous to meet you.’

  ‘Where are your minders now?’ He swept an arm about him.

  ‘We’re alone,’ she said and slumped on the bed. ‘All alone. They’ve turned their backs on us.’

  ‘Come here, Alena,’ Ben murmured, but she hesitated and searched his face for truth. And then her shoulders dropped, and she got up and wrapped her arms around him.

  A strong countenance framed by dark hair brushed back from his forehead was as she remembered. Several small scars stood out white on a tanned face as a reminder of recent action. The voice was the same, quiet and reassuring. And a smile played around the corners of the mouth. With a sob of relief, she buried her head into his chest.

  ‘SIS have washed their hands of you?’

  ‘Two men came onto the island.’ She trembled. ‘I knew they’d come for us.’

  At arm’s length, her face was still striking, with high Slavic cheekbones and a dimple like a perfect scar on her right cheek. But it was its strength and dignity that struck him most. It reminded him of that first meeting seven years before in Paris when the light from a lamp made her eyes glint jade. Before there had been an air of haughtiness about her; now there was only uncertainty and suspicion. They had forced her into a corner, and she was ready to make her last stand.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked, eventually.

  She called in a soft voice. ‘Come out. It’s safe.’ A boy popped up from behind the bed.

  He was bigger now, and he guessed he must be ten years of age. Freddie’s head of brown curls appeared darker and wavier, and his pale blue eyes were sharp and questioning.

  When he didn’t speak, Alena pressed him. ‘You remember Ben?’

  ‘Of course, maman,’ Freddie said and broke into a smile. ‘How’s the Bentley, Ben?’

  ‘Still got it.’ He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Good to see you. You’ve grown big enough to look after your mother.’

  She interrupted. ‘At least now we’re free. We fled the island and came to London. We went to SIS.’ The words tumbled out as if worried they might fail her. ‘Saw this man, Bartley. Gave us the impression SIS had never heard of us and insisted they were a company selling fire extinguishers. Even when I mentioned Pickering nothing registered. Strange because there must be intelligence files. Or else we’re no longer of use to them. They have cut us loose and left us to the wolves.’ She shivered.

  He studied her, not believing the Intelligence service could discard them after expending so much effort as they had been major assets in the propaganda war against Germany.

  ‘The war’s over, but the Nazis still want Freddie.’

  He glanced at the boy to see if his mother’s words were affecting him.

  Grabbing his hand, she squeezed it. ‘I hoped you’d help us.’ Her hair reflected the light and kinked over her right eye, touching her curled eyelashes and making them flicker. ‘Perhaps it’s wrong of me to ask. There’s no reason you should.’

  With a broad smile, he pulled her closer, embracing her in a reassuring hug. ‘Was that your only reason for contacting me?’

  Embarrassed, she glanced at her feet.

  To hide his disappointment, he turned away. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Not sure. Someone must be able to sort out this mess.’

  Their options were few. If Pickering had still worked for the service, it would have been easier. He might have been able to find out what was happening. ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’

  ‘Just Bartley. I gave him our address. Tried to be careful. That’s why I didn’t go to your apartment.’

  SIS may no longer be interested, but he was sure the Nazis would soon discover their location.

  ‘The men who chased me on Shetland won’t give up,’ she said. ‘They know I’ve come to London and there will be more of them. If they get their hands on Freddie, it will be a fate worse than death.’

  With a worried look crowding his face, the boy came over and put his arms around his mother who kissed the top of his head.

  ‘I could smuggle you to France,’ Ben ventured.

  As if she had considered that, she offered a resigned smile. ‘We wouldn’t be
any safer over there.’

  Pickering lay flat on the bed, puffing on a pipe. Not his class of billet. The kind of place where guests took off their clothes but never stayed long enough to hang them up. He glanced at the thin stuff of the drapes that let in the light of the gas lamps from below and sniffed. Intelligence work was all about making sacrifices, he supposed, and this was one instance when you had to suffer. There were consolations. His pipe and a hip flask of a twelve-year-old Macallan. And as he poured another measure into a tumbler, there was a muffled rap on the door of the adjacent room. He swung his legs around and leant forward to listen. Could be anyone, perhaps a maid with clean towels or room service although he doubted either in this establishment. Knocking back the whisky, he tip-toed to the wall. Placing the tumbler against it, he listened. A jumble of voices. He went to the bed and slipped on the earphones. The bug they had installed earlier in the day should be operational.

  ‘It’s been a while…’ He heard the woman say, and he reached for his notebook and then thought better of it. After all, he had total recall. He would just listen. When you took notes, you often missed the nuances of speech.

  16

  ‘You won’t be safe here.’ Ben stood by the window and pulled back the drapes. Down on Dean Street, the swirling fog was growing thicker by the minute.

  The Nazi agents could be anywhere.

  His apartment might be secure for a couple of days and provide a bolthole until they worked out a plan of action, but not for much longer. British Intelligence could be watching his apartment because of Pickering, but they would give little help as Alena and Freddie were no longer under their protection.

  Alena picked up a holdall she had bought earlier and threw it on the bed. ‘This is all we’ve got. I’ll just get some things.’ And she went into the bathroom.

  ‘Why are bad men chasing us?’ Freddie asked.

  He wondered how much Alena had told Freddie about why they fled Paris in 1940. Perhaps she thought him too young to understand why the Nazis and British wanted them so much.