by M. L. Huie
She glanced at her watch. Two hours until the stop at the airport in Shannon, and then on to Canada in the morning, and finally New York City that afternoon. Livy leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and tried not to think about the long journey ahead and all the intangibles of the future. It was at times like this, moments of stress, that memories of the war flooded her brain.
The war had taught her many things. Fear of flying was perhaps the most innocuous. SOE, the Special Operations Executive, which some public-school types jokingly referred to as the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, came calling in ’43. Livy, finally, had found the purpose that had eluded her. The Firm—as everyone called it—recruited French speakers like Livy, assuming they would be more suited to work behind German lines in occupied France.
Parachute training was mandatory with SOE. Women from every walk of life—secretaries and farm girls—were taught to pack a ’chute, stand in the hold of a plane, and jump. No one leapt out of a plane without fear, but Livy could never get over the height. Her phobia became so great, it interfered with other aspects of the training.
Margot Dupont got her through it.
Margot and Livy slept in bunks next to each other at the training camp in Scotland. Margot’s parents had moved to England from Lyon a few years before the war. Her English could best be described as a work in progress.
Livy was never one to make friends easily, but there was something about Margot—other than their shared mix of French and Anglo heritage—that drew them to each other. So many of the other girls kept airs even while learning to pick locks and to kill a man with one blow. Not Margot. She was refreshingly authentic. Many nights she made Livy laugh hard with her garbled pronunciations. Dirty jokes often kept them both chortling well past curfew. Margot had more slang words for male genitalia than even Livy had ever heard, le cyclope being her absolute favorite. Livy corrected Margot’s English, and she in turn helped Livy perfect her own French.
Both women knew what lay ahead of them. The trainers made no bones about the dangers they faced. When the six weeks ended, they’d be flown to France on a moonlit night and dropped into occupied territory.
The bond they’d made there during training—as they learned how to jump out of planes, clean and fire a gun, and kill someone with the edge of their hands—held long after they’d separated.
As the plane, and Livy’s stomach settled, her gaze landed on a woman two seats ahead. Thin with blonde hair. A cigarette dangling from a manicured hand. Her restless mind went back to Anka and her home in Greenwich, thick with paranoia and cigarette smoke. Was that to be her lot in life now? Had Fleming given her a glimpse into her own future. Well, she’d made her choice and she bloody well wasn’t Anka. Livy had one job, and it wouldn’t take her two years to get it done. She’d go in, find Margot, and get out.
Deciding to stop feeling sorry for herself, Livy opened her handbag and pulled out a creased paperback copy of Hamlet. Anka’s suggestion to keep grounded with some sort of talisman had registered with Livy. She loved Shakespeare, and to her way of thinking, there was no greater story or more beautiful writing to be found in the English language. She stretched her legs under the seat in front of her and opened it somewhere around the middle. Of course, it was “To be or not to be.”
“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.”
The words resonated. Too close to her own life.
What else was she embarking upon if not an “enterprise of great pith and moment”? All this chatter from her conscience—the “pale cast of thought”—did nothing but turn her into a coward. Made her question everything, fret about the future, and therefore become much less decisive. That was her strength, she knew. How many times during the war had Livy just taken the bull by the horns? She wasn’t one to sit around and let things happen to her.
The hell with the “pale cast of thought.” If only Hamlet had taken a cue from Livy, God knows the play might’ve been an hour shorter.
Deciding she’d had enough of the melancholy Dane, Livy put her head back and listened to the soothing hum of the engines. Tomorrow she’d be in the United States for the first time in her life.
Chapter Eight
After a stop in New York City and then a ride on a PRR train the next morning to Union Station, Livy finally arrived in the American capital.
By the time she collected her luggage, it was well after two PM, and her stomach rumbled. As soon as her feet hit the pavement outside Union Station, a wave of American heat and humidity engulfed her. She’d just left an abnormally warm London summer, but the American version felt hotter and certainly wetter. A part of her suddenly longed for that year’s brutal London winter.
Her feet had just reached the edge of the curb near a row of idling taxis when a door opened, and a tall man in a straw porkpie hat appeared beside her.
“Yer lookin’ for a cab, miss?”
“Yes, um, thank you.”
“Right this way. Where ya headed?”
“Statler Hotel at Sixteenth and—”
“K Street. I know where it is. Fancy, fancy.” He looked at her and grinned from ear to ear. “And don’t worry, you’ll get used to the heat. It ain’t killed nobody yet.”
Minutes later Livy sat in the back of the stuffy Diamond cab, feeling as if every item of clothing she was wearing had been glued to her body. She wiped sweat from her brow and inched closer to the window to catch the breeze as the cab sped up Massachusetts Avenue. She’d hoped for a view of the city’s famous scenery, but this route only afforded her a glimpse of shops and a few drab government buildings.
She marveled at how, here, life seemed to have moved backed to normal after the war. Cars filled the streets. Pedestrians hurried across intersections. The buildings were all intact. No physical reminders here.
“What brings you to Warsh-ington?” the cabbie said.
Livy hesitated before answering. She had a part to play, and even here, in this stuffy taxi, she was onstage.
“Oh, I’m just a writer, a journalist, you could say, although I’m here as support for someone else. I run around and get the details. Then the real writer does the story.”
“Tell you what,” the cabbie said, grinning. “For someone who’s a gofer, they sure got you stayin’ at a nice place.”
The cabbie didn’t exaggerate. The car pulled up along a sidewalk lined with perfectly trimmed green hedges. The Statler Hotel, located in the center of Washington, took up almost half a city block. The building itself looked not unlike the boxy government structures she’d passed on the way in—cold, sleek, and angular. Livy gave the cabbie thirty cents for the fare and an extra ten because she appreciated his friendly smile and walked toward the big front glass doors. The Stars and Stripes hung limp in the breezeless heat from two flagpoles on either side of the hotel entrance.
A tall, thin, redheaded woman, who looked as if sweat had never touched her body, smiled at Livy from behind a front desk that stretched almost the entire width of the lobby. Several big black phones dotted the long counter. Hundreds of mailboxes, many filled with envelopes and papers, dominated the wall behind the redhead. Livy checked in, playing the gruff, tired foreign reporter to the hilt. After she’d signed several forms, the woman behind the desk told her that a gentleman from “the office” had asked about her earlier.
“Don’t even let you get checked in before they crack the whip, do they, luv?” Livy groused and took her key.
She walked across the lobby toward a line of lifts down the hall. A bit overwhelmed by the size and breadth of The Statler, she reckoned two of London’s finest hotels could easily fit in this one. The American prairie: wide-open spaces and blazing heat. Yee-haw. Truth was, Livy always felt a bit unco
mfortable in places like this. Like an imposter. But then that’s exactly what she was now.
Her room was on the tenth floor. She plodded down the long, carpeted hallway, turned the corner, and found two men in gray suits, standing on either side of room 1080. Her room, of course.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” The taller, thinner one spoke. Height and weight were the only distinguishing features between the two. Square heads. Buzz cuts. Same suit. Like Laurel and Hardy minus the fun.
“Can I help you?” Livy said, keeping her distance.
Laurel reached into his jacket and produced FBI identification. “We’d prefer to talk inside, if it’s all the same to you.”
Livy unlocked the door and led the way in. The room looked brand new. The soft gray carpet opened into an interior that spread out like a dance hall floor. A queen-sized bed, with night tables on either side, took up one wall. An oak credenza desk, on top of which lay hotel stationery and a Statler Hotel fountain pen, stood opposite. In between—nothing but space.
Laurel closed the door and nodded to Hardy.
“He needs your suitcase, ma’am.”
Livy dropped it on the big bed, and Hardy opened it without a word and began to rummage through it.
Welcome to America, Livy thought.
After a thorough search that must’ve lasted five minutes, Hardy stuffed her clothes and things back into the case and closed it. He nodded to Laurel, who held out an envelope for Livy.
“Inside you’ll find instructions from Special Agent Keller and the location of a meeting place in the District where he’ll discuss things with you tomorrow. I need you to look this over and commit it to memory.”
She opened the envelope and found nothing but a Georgetown address written in block letters on a white sheet of paper.
“Got it.”
“I’m going to need for you to burn it while we’re still here, ma’am.”
“I know how it works, luv. Match?”
Hardy produced a pack of matches from his pocket. Livy touched the end of one to the edge of the paper and then let it crumble in an ashtray on the credenza.
“Very good. Enjoy your stay, ma’am,” Laurel said, and without another word, the two FBI men left her alone.
Livy walked to the room door, slid the dead bolt across, and kicked off her shoes. She threw open the thick curtains and looked down on the streets of the American capital. Bright sunshine. Big cars. Everyone bouncing along the concrete sidewalks. She craned her head to the right and caught a glimpse of Lafayette Square. Further on would be the White House itself.
Here she was, deep in the heart of the US of A. The welcoming committee had been less than welcoming. Now all she had to do was cozy up to a Soviet killer and save a young woman she’d not seen in almost four years. The whole thing seemed impossible.
How much was Livy risking on a prayer that Margot might still be alive? And if she were, what would her life be like? More than two years a prisoner. If she was being held in the Soviet sector of Germany, Margot stood a solid chance of never getting out. Tensions were high enough on both sides right now.
She could be lost forever.
The thought made Livy flush. Sweat creased her forehead. This place is a bloody sauna. She looked down. Her knees bumped against a steel box built into the window. A vent protruded from one end alongside two knobs. Air-conditioning. The cabbie had mentioned it.
“Only hotel in Washington that can keep you cool when it’s this hot,” he’d said.
Livy twirled the knobs, and the box began to whir. A few seconds later, cool air poured from the vent and rushed up her body, hitting her face. The air soothed every sweaty pore like a long bath after a hard day’s work. She lifted her face and arms and let the coolness take her.
Two years a prisoner.
And here I am, she thought. Soaking in the cool air in this posh room because my clothes feel a little sticky.
Livy switched off the air conditioner and threw herself on the bed. Tomorrow couldn’t come quickly enough.
Chapter Nine
She slept fitfully, woke up early, and was dressed and ready before seven. To Livy it felt much more like noon.
Precisely at eight she placed a call to the chief Washington correspondent for Kemsley News. He was a man called Wilson Price, with a whiny sort of New England accent.
“Mr. Fleming sent me over to be your stringer.”
“Oh yes, got a thing about that in the post the other day. Well, I don’t really need anyone—”
“I’ll do some background for you. Bit here and there on Mrs. Truman. That’s what they sent me for. Woman’s touch.”
“Well, sure, um, I suppose that could be—”
“Let me know what you need. You have the number? Right, then.” Click.
The whiny Mr. Price sounded taken aback by the brashness of his subordinate. And a woman at that.
* * *
Her meeting with Special Agent Keller had been scheduled for eleven. The address she’d committed to memory led her to a small brownstone off the beaten path in Washington’s fashionable Georgetown neighborhood. After another taxi ride, this time with a much less entertaining cabbie, Livy found herself outside a nondescript little walk-up that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Camden Town. For the first time since she’d arrived in America, after all the air-conditioning and the wide-open spaces, the comfort of the brick-and-mortar building made her feel a bit less alien.
Livy walked around the block again to make certain that Grimov hadn’t had her tailed since her arrival in America. As she passed the walk-up’s drab facade, she remembered something Anka had told her. This would be backstage for her during the assignment. Her sanctuary.
Satisfied she hadn’t been followed, Livy got a closer look at the safe house. A grimy brick stoop led to a brown door flanked by two square windows. The white paint around the entranceway was chipped. Inside it looked dark and gloomy. Honestly, as havens went, it was lacking.
The door of the safe house suddenly opened. A man in his thirties, with short sandy hair and wearing a rumpled gray suit, stood on the other side.
“Can I help you?” His voice sounded tired, with a hint of a Southern accent.
“The Kemsley News Service sent me,” she said. He gave no sign of recognition. “Get it fast, but get it right,” Livy added.
The man held the door open and let her in.
* * *
The man with sandy hair turned out to be nothing more than the warm-up act. He knew the code phrase and little else. The house itself looked as if it might have been the home of a recently deceased widow, judging by the amount of knickknacks cluttering various shelves and sideboards. Worn blankets had been left on armchairs in the front room. Livy even noticed a few spill stains on the Turkish rug. Perhaps the FBI bought the place at auction and kept the decor as it was in case anyone peeked in off the street.
The man, who didn’t give his name, made her a weak cup of coffee and stood around making awkward small talk. After recounting, in detail, the experience of her flight, as well as describing the opulence of the Statler Hotel, Livy’s patience ended.
“Is there something we’re waiting for, exactly?”
He almost blushed. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Keller got held up at the office. He just said he’d be a little late.”
“Held up?”
“I should’ve—gosh—yeah, he’ll be here very soon—just any—um—did you want another cup of coffee there?”
* * *
An hour and a half later, and two more cups of what passed for coffee, the back door opened and another man swept into the front room, where Livy waited with her minder. He was about the same age as the fair-haired man, but that’s where the similarities ended.
He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a slight paunch that pushed at his belt buckle. His blue eyes and strong jawline gave him the sort of face that could only be American. He reminded Livy of someone who might play the sheriff in one of those cowboy B movies.<
br />
“You can go now, Hunter,” the newcomer grunted, barely looking up from the files he cradled in his arms.
The minder stood, nodded at Livy, and headed out the back. The other man didn’t speak. He thumbed through the papers in the file on top of his stack, eyes roaming sentences. He didn’t look up, even when he said, “You’re Miss Nash?”
“I am.”
Thumbing through more pages, he glanced at his watch, an old, no-frills timepiece with a scratched face and frayed leather strap. A far cry from Fleming’s immaculate Rolex. Livy wondered if the newcomer’s watch was set five minutes fast. He seemed like the type. He’d had a long day already, judging by the heavy circles under his eyes. Tie undone. Shirt collar twisted. Coffee stain on his lapel. Cuff unbuttoned on his left sleeve. Wedding ring. Baby at home, maybe? Up all night with the squalling?
Finally, he looked up and took her in for the first time. He studied her. He sniffed, dropped the files on a side table, and plopped down into the armchair across from her.
He picked up the minder’s used mug. “Coffee any good?”
“Not a bit,” Livy said.
“That’s a problem.” He crossed his long legs and held Livy’s gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then: “I’m Keller. Did he—Hunter—tell you? No. ’Course not. Anyway, Sam Keller. I’m running this one, and about a hundred other operations. So …”
Keller looked back at the stack of files. Livy shifted on the sofa.
“… that’s the file from your Ministry of Defence. I have to be honest with you, Miss Nash, your reason for being here is strictly off the radar. About as unofficial as it gets. We don’t—well, my bosses at the Bureau—think this is pretty much a wild-goose chase.”
