Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1)

by James White

  “How do you know about that?” demanded Jurgen.

  “It’s obvious. You haven’t got what you wanted or you would have left by now. You can’t take down Carruthers, though. It’s madness.”

  “Nick, please,” Clara spoke softly. “We’re going to get what we need from Carruthers and leave. Come with us.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Jurgen spat incredulously, cutting Clara off. “We are not taking a British agent with us! What is this madness?”

  The two Italians were now muttering darkly in their own tongue, clearly concerned at the turn of events. Nick gave a sigh.

  “Clara, ignore him. You can stay here. Your cover’s not blown. Let Jurgen go after Carruthers if he wants. I don’t care about all this. We’re not at war. We can carry on.”

  “For how long? Nick, I am so sorry. I never meant to deceive you. What we had, it’s real. This other stuff, I’m so sorry, I have my country and my duty.” She trailed off.

  “I understand,” Nick said softly. “It’s fine.”

  “My role was as a sleeper agent. The club was a good cover and a good place to pick up information, all sorts of people came through…”

  “You don’t have to tell me this. It doesn’t matter. What matters is us. I don’t care about this.” Nick gestured at the table as he interrupted. Jurgen watched them both coolly through narrowed eyes.

  “I want to tell you, Nick. I want you to know. I want to get this off my chest. I’ve so wanted to tell you; so many times I came close. I was here to arrange things, send communiqués home. Then I met you. Oh, Nick, I wanted to tell you.” She cast her eyes down and Nick could tell she was struggling not to cry.

  “That’s why I couldn’t have keys to your flat,” Nick smiled.

  “Yes.” She looked back up and gave a little laugh, dabbing at her eyes. “We could have carried on, but this operation –” she indicated Jurgen – “went bad. I was told to step in, to clean it up, ensure we got the information we were after and get out.”

  “It was not messed up,” Jurgen interrupted.

  Clara looked at him sharply. “Really? Then how come we find ourselves at this point? Trying to bargain with Carruthers to hand over information? Risking our lives on the hope of blackmail to get a list of names? We’re better off dead to him; he knows that. If you had kept Ramona on a tighter leash and run your operation properly we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “That is easy for you to say; you weren’t involved!”

  “No, if I had been we wouldn’t have ended up here.”

  The two of them were spitting words at each other now.

  “So, now you are the boss. For now,” Jurgen added sarcastically, “are you going to let your boyfriend talk you out of the final part of the operation?”

  “No. We go ahead.” She stared him down and Jurgen looked away in disgust.

  “What is it that is so damn important anyway?” Nick asked.

  Jurgen looked at Nick in surprise. “You don’t know?”

  Nick shrugged. “Enlighten me.”

  “My God, all your blundering around and you don’t even know what you are looking for,” Jurgen exclaimed.

  “I don’t think we should…” Clara started, but Jurgen waved at her impatiently.

  “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t affect British security. You see, Nick, we are only trying to make Germany safe. What we are after has no bearing on your country.”

  Nick frowned. “Then why are you here at all and what’s Carruthers got to do with it?”

  Jurgen gave a sly smile. “You may well ask. It seems Carruthers has sympathies elsewhere, apart from his homeland. Unfortunate idealist sympathies. Perhaps you share them, Nick?” Jurgen raised an eyebrow.

  “I would have to know what they were first,” Nick replied calmly, but his mind was racing. What was Carruthers mixed up in?

  “Carruthers is from quite a humble background. His parents broke themselves to afford to send him to university, then when he got into the Service he finds that everyone looks down on him not only because of his background, but because he didn’t got to Oxford or Cambridge.” Jurgen sniffed. “So, it seems he got disillusioned slightly with everyone else’s sense of enlightenment – their big houses in the country, their cars, the jobs they were going to walk into when he had to work so hard. From there it was a short move into a leftist group, and from there, unfortunately, to sympathy for the Bolshevik scourge. It seems his idealistic principles make him willing to take money from Russia in exchange for information. He also has access to information himself and this is what we require.”

  “He’s passing secrets to the Russians?” Nick asked incredulously.

  “Only when it does not compromise British security, but yes, for now at least.” Jurgen gave a sigh. “He has somehow got into his possession a list of persons in some Eastern European countries that we would be most anxious to speak to. The time will not be far off when Germany will reclaim what was taken from it at the end of the last war and–”

  “Taken?” Nick interrupted.

  “What else would you call it? We will reclaim what is ours and when that happens, or even before, we need to be sure that we eliminate the enemies of the German state.”

  “He has a list of Russian spies throughout Eastern Europe,” Nick stated.

  Jurgen nodded. “Ramona discovered this and photographed the documents. Unfortunately she then got greedy and then got herself killed. So you see, we need to recover those documents or even better, get the originals from Carruthers himself. Then we can go home.”

  Nick nodded. The photographs in his breast pocket felt suddenly very heavy. “Why would he give them to you?”

  “He is not a man of principle. He has shown that already. We can expose his affair with Ramona, which would be personally ruinous, and we can expose to his employers his Swiss account with payments from the Russian intelligence services.”

  “It was his account.” Nick murmured.

  “What?” Jurgen asked.

  “I found a page of bank statement that Ramona had, and some names written on a scrap of paper. She must have copied those as well as taking the photos.”

  “Where is that list now?” Jurgen demanded.

  “I gave them to him,” Nick said.

  Everyone’s faces fell around the table.

  “But hold on. Before you were leaving with those other documents, how do you now know about this list?”

  Clara and Jurgen exchanged a glance. Nick filled in the blank. “Lucia.” She had exposed Carruthers to Jurgen and Clara, to put them on his trail. She had to figure that however it ended up, her job was done and she could get away clean. The outcome didn’t matter to her; she’d just shift the heat away from herself so she could move onto the next job.

  “You really think he’ll cooperate?” Nick asked.

  Clara shrugged. “I hope so.”

  “Ja, he will. The man is a coward. He won’t risk being unmasked as a traitor and adulterer when he can give us some information that won’t affect him one way or the other.”

  “Of course, if he kills you all then he gets to keep his reputation, the plans, and smashes a German spy ring in London,” Nick observed.

  “It’s possible, but unlikely.” Jurgen shrugged. He patted his jacket. “I have the negatives and photos of the account details here. I will swap them for the list. For him it’s a good exchange.”

  Clara looked less sure.

  “Clara,” Nick turned his full focus back on to her. “Let them go and take care of this, please? We can carry on here. No one needs know. We can maintain your cover. It’s not as if we are at war yet.”

  “Actually her cover is blown,” Jurgen stated in a matter of fact tone, lighting a cigarette. He waved around the table. “We all know, Lucia knows. Not too clever for a sleeper agent. Why don’t you tell him, Clara?”

  She nodded miserably. “It’s true, Nick. I think I’ve been rumbled anyway. I’ve noticed I’ve been followed on a few o
ccasions, new faces appearing. If they’re not onto me they suspect at least. It was coming to an end for me here anyway. Now you know. It’s too much of a risk. You know what happens to spies.”

  Nick swallowed and nodded. He studied her carefully to tell if she was lying, but she looked too dejected.

  She shook her head at him and smiled weakly. “I’m so sorry, Nick. I never meant for it to end up like this. I love you, but I have to go. Please come with me. We can make a new life in Berlin.”

  Jurgen snorted. “Well, my report is going to make interesting reading.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Clara whirled and demanded of him.

  “Well, here we are, about to go operational to retrieve vital intelligence, a dangerous situation, about to flee the country after that, and we are sat here with a British spy, your lover, who you now invite to Germany!” He gave a twisted smile and sat back. “I’m sure high command will find it most interesting.”

  Clara flushed. “Perhaps, but love is not a crime. At least I have not comprised a whole operation through incompetent bungling.”

  Now Jurgen flushed and his face screwed up angrily. “Love! Pah, this is getting us nowhere. Come, we have to go.”

  “Clara!” Nick grabbed her hand across the table. “Leave with me now, please.”

  “I can’t. Nick, please I love you, but the time, it’s just not right. This rotten war is coming again. Let’s not kid ourselves.” She smiled sadly. “Our timing is bad, our luck is even worse.”

  “Luck can change,” Nick said softly.

  “Can it? I hope so.” She squeezed his hand tightly. “There’s no way I can stay, but I don’t want to lose you.”

  Nick swallowed and made a decision. “Then leave with me now, but not to stay here. We can get a train in an hour or so to the coast and be in Berlin before the end of the weekend.”

  Her eyes flicked across his. He could see the emotion brimming over in them as she squeezed at his hands again, that small bite of those luscious lips that he’d come to love betraying her indecision.

  “You would do that for me? Give it all up to come to Berlin?”

  Nick nodded. Clara and Nick gazed at each other, lost in silence, oblivious to one of the Italians impatiently tapping at his watch. Nick stood and moved to the side of the table, not letting go of Clara’s hand.

  “Clara, I don’t know what the future holds, but I want my future to hold you, no matter what. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Nick, I…” She stood and looked between Nick and Jurgen, confused. Jurgen’s face gave nothing away.

  “Look, if Jurgen is successful then your job is done, but you have not put yourself in any danger or compromised yourself. If he is not, then, well…” Nick shrugged.

  Clara stood, uncertain of what to do. Nick had one last ace, but he didn’t want to play it. The photos. He was tempted to hand them over, but he just felt he couldn’t do it, not unless he really had to. Not yet. He gazed at her face. She looked at him, her mouth formed a half smile and her countenance changed.

  “Go and meet Carruthers in Fitzroy Square as you arranged. Get the documents from him. I will go to the station and buy our tickets. Meet me at the train. You two can go back to your embassy once Jurgen has the documents.”

  “This is your plan? You show your true colours at last!” sneered the German man.

  “You had better think carefully about whether you want to make it back at all, Herr Platt. Come without those plans and it certainly won’t be worth your while.”

  “We’ll settle this in Berlin,” Jurgen said in an icy tone, standing and pushing past her. “You too, Herr Valentine.”

  “I look forward to it,” Nick replied. “You killed my best friend.”

  “And you mine.”

  “Berlin then.” He slipped an arm around Clara’s shoulder and steered her away from the man and out into the dense night fog. “Come on, let’s go to your place and get your things.”

  “Clara, are you sure about this?” Jurgen asked.

  “No, but I am sure that I love Nick. Get the list and meet us at the station.” She let the door swing shut behind her, leaving Jurgen staring at the empty space she’d just occupied.

  Outside they paused and held each other tight. Their mouths locked in a long, warm kiss then she snuggled into Nick’s side as they paced through the fog. He was scared – happy, but scared. Terror was gnawing at him, fear that something still might go wrong. The photos bounced against his chest as they walked and he wondered what he should do with them. They’d been stolen from a British Intelligence officer after all, but then the Germans were claiming that Carruthers shouldn’t have had them in the first place and was in fact helping the Russians anyway. Did they even know the truth?

  “What’s the matter, darling? You look miles away.” Clara asked.

  “Sorry, just nervous. Leaving here, it’s a big thing.”

  “You’re not having second thoughts?” She stopped and pulled him around to face her.

  “No, darling. Being with you is the most important thing.” He kissed her gently on her forehead then she tilted her head up and they kissed as they fell into a passionate embrace. They pulled apart, both smiling then walked hand-in-hand slowly through the dark-clouded streets to Clara’s flat. She fumbled in her bag for the keys as they stood in the fog outside the mansion block’s front door. They tripped up the stairs together. At her front door, they kissed again as she slid the key into the lock. Clara laughed and pulled away from Nick. Turning the key, she pushed open the front door. The shot rang out with a deafening boom around the confined hallway and Clara crumpled back into Nick’s arms with what sounded like a sigh, even before he registered the orange stab of flame that had shot from the darkness of her flat.

  “Clara!” he screamed.

  Another shot and the wood splintered in the doorframe inches from his face. Nick dived behind the wall taking Clara with him, simultaneously fishing for his Mauser. Clara was gasping for breath, he could hear the air burbling in her throat, then she was choking, gurgling.

  “No!”

  A head popped around the door and Nick fired. The man fell back and the corridor was silent. Gun smoke drifted in small blue clouds, screams and shouts issued from the other flats. Clara’s mouth moved, but no words came, only a terrible bubbling of blood.

  “Clara?” Nick looked down at her, cradling her loose body. She’d been hit in the chest. The blood was already soaking through her overcoat. She was shaking, her tear-filled eyes rolling in fear. Nick began to frantically grab at her clothes to get to the wound.

  “Nick, I…” she breathed, her eyes struggling to focus. She raised a hand and clutched at his jacket wildly before it dropped and she fell terribly still.

  “Clara?” he said gently. He shook her body, suddenly so light, resting in his arms, across his knees. “Clara?” his voice cracking this time. She was gone. He tipped his head back, screwed his eyes tight shut, his jaw tight. No. This couldn’t be happening. He opened his eyes and looked back at the crumpled body in his arms. She was gone and he was dead inside.

  He looked at those suddenly dulled, ice-blue eyes one last time before sweeping a hand across to close them. He laid a kiss on her forehead then, struggling upright with her dead weight, he carried her into the flat, stepping over the body in the doorway and laying her on her sofa.

  Aware of the building commotion from the block’s other residents outside, Nick quickly found a coat and laid it over Clara’s body. He lingered for a brief moment, giving her body one last look, then stepped through the doorway, burning with grief and rage.

  Ignoring the fearful glances of the huddled crowd on the staircase, he looked down at the dead man. One of Carruthers’ men. Nick recognised him. So Clara’s cover had been blown. It looked like Carruthers was closing the net. Nick wanted to be there when he did.

  As the wail of sirens grew, Nick shrugged his way past the cowering inhabitants of the block. One man tried to stop him but Nick ju
st pushed him roughly away and stalked out into the thick fog of the night. He was heading for Fitzroy Square. He would have time to grieve later. Much later.

  CHAPTER 23

  Nick could tell he was on the cusp of too late when he got to the square. A car was screeching away in a blur of pale headlight lost in the fog and the smell of cordite mingled with the damp blanket that drenched the square. Somewhere in the murk muffled footsteps clattered away at running pace and someone moaned softly. He found one of the Italians first, face-down in the gravel surrounding the square, a dark pool of blood already seeping beneath him. Nick checked for a pulse, but he knew even before he did so that it was a waste of time. He looked around, trying to pierce the fog with his gaze, but it was hopeless. The mist drifted in uncertain banks across the open space so that even the surrounding houses bordering the square were lost. Ramona’s old love nest was only feet away. He shook his head and looked at his watch. The sun would be coming up soon, but for now the murk hung in perfect blackness almost untroubled by any streetlights. Visibility could be measured in just inches rather than feet.

  Nick carried on carefully across the square, his pistol drawn. He was making for the sound of the low moaning, realising that once again the damp cold was seeping through his suit, perforating the wool and settling on his skin like a chill embrace. He nearly tripped over the next body. Nick didn’t recognise the man, but his clothes looked to be of an English cut. He lay on his back, glassy eyes staring vacantly towards the obscured stars, a small ugly hole in the centre of his forehead. Just across from him lay the other, shorter Italian – a man who earlier had been drinking and dancing with ladies. His night had meant to end up with some fun, the warm embrace of another body and the pain and regret of a rotten hangover to follow. Instead he lay in a crimson puddle in the dark, a trickle of blood slipping from his wide-open mouth, a dark red stain upon his shirt. Like the others, quite dead.

  Nick strode grimly on, placing his shoes carefully to make the minimum of noise; he was still making for the moaning sound. It had almost stopped but Nick was cautious in his approach. It could be a trap. He moved forward and it sounded close. Nick stopped and listened. Frozen, feeling the cold air seep around him, he shivered involuntarily, straining every muscle for any sound, yet desperately scouring the dark blanket that surrounded him. Nothing. Nothing apart from that occasional low groan. Gingerly he stepped forward, slowly, one step at a time. He came to the railings, cold and dripping, enclosing the small central garden in the square. The noise was just to his left. He cautiously worked his way around until he could see a dim shape in the dense mist, slumped, sitting against the railings. Nick stopped and watched. The figure didn’t move save for the occasional roll of the head. Tensing Nick leapt forward suddenly so that he was on top of the fallen man, not giving him time to react. The head lolled slowly round towards Nick with a grimace. Jurgen looked up at him with dazed eyes, wincing in pain. Nick looked down at the man: though he held a pistol in his right hand, he made no attempt to lift it. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, testament to the damage of the bullet that had ripped through the shoulder leaving an ugly, blackened and raw red strip in his suit. He held his right hand across his belly, his shirt stained red. He’d been hit twice.