by M. L. Huie
“I know that, Mr. Keller. But that wireless signal was verified, and the call sign is the same one used by—”
Keller put up his hands. “Wait, wait. I think we have a misunderstanding. Our stake in this thing really isn’t about that. It’s Kostin. Both of our countries have their hands full with Berlin right now, and trying to make sure the Soviets don’t launch an invasion of Europe tomorrow. Yuri Kostin is set to be the next rezident at their Berlin station. He’s one of their top people. If we can get rid of him before he takes over in Berlin, then that gives us and your people a helluva strategic advantage.”
The waiting, the bad coffee, and the time change combined to make Livy’s temples ache. She could feel something worse building behind her eyes.
“Maybe you should make it clear what it is you’re expecting from me,” she said.
“I want the bastard completely discredited. I want him shipped back to Moscow in disgrace.”
Livy put her cup down and rubbed her forehead. She’d left London thinking she only needed a lead from Kostin about where Margot could possibly be, what prison in the Soviet sector of Germany might house a British POW. Now it felt like she had to climb Mount Everest to rescue a snowbird. She took a breath and crossed her legs. The American’s expression hadn’t changed.
“You think that’s possible, do you Mr. Keller?” Livy asked, trying to keep the Lancashire sass out of her voice. “You just said he’s one of their best.”
“Damn right, he is. Kostin’s a highly decorated MGB officer. Frankly, I thought it was ridiculous to send someone like you, whose greatest achievement in the field of intelligence can best be described as enthusiastic amateurism, to take on a hot shot like Kostin. But those are the cards I’ve been dealt, apparently.”
Livy had, of course, heard it all before. SOE: Churchill’s amateurs. She couldn’t hold back.
“Some of us enthusiastic amateurs helped win the war. A number of us died trying.”
Keller sighed. “Fair point. Look, I don’t question your commitment. But this is a whole other ball game.”
All during the meeting, Livy wondered why this was feeling so familiar to her. Finally, it made sense. The way Keller looked at her reminded her of the way her Irish uncle, her father’s brother, regarded Christmas presents from the family. Always too big or the wrong color, and just not at all what he wanted.
Keller flipped through the stack of files and handed one to Livy. She opened it. Clipped to the top was a business card with a phone number for a beauty salon in Fairfax, Virginia. “You can call this number anytime. It goes straight to an operator who’ll get the message to me.”
“Does that come with a free permanent?”
Keller’s eyes twitched, but his expression remained glum. Distant.
“You’ll also find a ticket to the National Theatre tomorrow night. The Russian delegation has been invited as well as the staffs of a few other embassies. That means Kostin will be there—and so will you.”
Livy reached into her skirt pocket and produced the plain card Grimov had given her back in the airport. “Their man in London gave me this. Told me to call if I wanted to speak further.”
Keller glanced at the card, crumpled it in his hand, and threw it on the coffee table.
“I don’t know who might answer that number, but it sure as hell won’t be Yuri Kostin. We don’t have that kind of time to slowly work you into their system.”
Livy almost smiled. Finally they agreed on something,
“Typically, in situations like this, the contact makes himself available to the target first. Offers them something. Then, if the bait is taken, there’s a testing phase where the other side will basically make sure you are what you say you are. That’s a pretty damn tenuous time, as you can probably guess.” Keller spoke quickly, the words coming out by rote, as if he didn’t believe them or think they would do any good.
“During that stage—the testing—you’ll need to win over his confidence. If, by some chance, you can make Kostin trust you, then—who knows?”
Livy cleared her throat. “You don’t sound especially confident in this operation, Mr. Keller.”
The American leaned forward, smiling. He really wasn’t a bad-looking sort. Nice hair, good eyes. But right now he looked like he was about to explain nuclear physics to a child. Livy wanted to slap him.
“Kostin is a good target. He had a hard war. Every Russian did. He was a solid intelligence officer before, but the Eastern Front turned him into an animal. Now Stalin is talking tough again, so a career officer like Kostin might be a little war weary after what he’s been through. He’s older. He’s comfortable here now. He likes the food, the bars.” Keller looked over his folder again, then up at Livy.
“You slept with him in London, right?”
She’d expected the question, but the bluntness of the delivery still surprised her. Her gaze hardened. “Correct.”
“I see. Well, Kostin can’t get enough of British culture—and women. And those weaknesses are the only reasons you’re sitting in this room, Miss Nash.”
Livy sat up, smoothed her skirt, and smiled at Keller. Her head ached, her stomach churned, and deep down she wondered if she was in way over her head. But she’d never let this Yank see that.
“So, what’s the play then?”
Chapter Ten
The play was, much to Livy’s chagrin, the musical Oklahoma. The night of the performance felt a bit less muggy and sticky. By showtime, temperatures had cooled to almost sixty degrees. She’d packed a tailored black pencil dress, which fit the bill for a swanky theatre performance three blocks from the White House but didn’t provide much relief for a sweaty Brit getting acclimated to a humid American summer. Perspiration would not attract a Russian major who looked like a movie star.
Livy arrived by cab half an hour before curtain. The driver got as close as he could but had to settle for dropping her off about a quarter mile from the front door, behind a long line of limousines. She gave the cabbie an extra dime and started shuffling toward the front. Livy hated heels. Even worse was the feeling that she was showing a bit more hip sway in this tight dress as she hurried to get inside the theatre. She hoped to spot Kostin before the lights went down.
She passed the line of cars. Men in double-breasted tuxes opened doors for women whose perfectly coiffed hair and made-up faces must have taken them the better part of the afternoon. The men, most of whom had deep foreheads, with very little hair to show for their years of service to their country, seemed more interested in glad-handing the other men than escorting their wives to the theatre.
A few threw looks Livy’s way. She ignored them. The big fish waited.
By ten minutes after eight, Livy found herself inside the lobby, being politely jostled by the elite of Washington, DC. When she was a kid, her parents’ idea of a holiday often meant seeking out the best theatres of England and Ireland in order for their only daughter to get a “cultural education.” She’d seen Gielgud at the Old Vic, and plays by Synge and O’Casey at the Abbey in Dublin. How she’d loved those, along with the raucous pleasures of the Christmas and Easter pantos in Blackpool.
So while the plain gray facade of the National Theatre didn’t have much to recommend it, other than a glittering marquee that lit up the rather dark streets of the capital, the lobby promised an evening of glamor and splendor. Two glittering chandeliers hung over the heads of the wealthy and powerful as they stepped up to the will-call booths. A smiling blonde at the coat check took a few shawls from well-dressed women who’d ignored the heat, in the name of fashion. Across the way, a lithe redhead, costumed in a frilly skirt and Annie Oakley straw hat, filled glasses of champagne faster than you could say, “Give ’em hell, Harry.” No doubt the bubbly was provided to make the night feel celebratory, but Livy thought moonshine might be more appropriate.
She handed her ticket to a red-coated usher and stepped down into the orchestra seats. Livy still hadn’t spotted Kostin, much less a Russian con
tingent. Frankly, she worried they wouldn’t show. Before coming to the theatre, she’d read an article in the morning’s Washington Post about a former Soviet official breaking ranks with the Party to tell the U.S. Congress that Soviet diplomats were really spies and that Stalin wanted anything but peace with the rest of the world. Livy knew that sort of thing could easily derail “feel-good” diplomatic events such as this.
She made her way down to row M, taking in the ornate carvings of the balcony rails and the deep red curtains that separated the guest boxes from the rest of the theatre. Livy took a program from the usher, scooted over the legs of two chattering ladies with coiffed blue hair, and settled into her seat. Follow spots danced across the plush main drape onstage as the last few empty seats filled. For two hours, the campaigning and handshaking would come to a mandatory halt.
Livy twisted and turned, as if looking for a date running late. How hard could it be to find a good-looking Russian in a crowd composed mostly of old white men and their overdressed wives? Livy figured an important man like Kostin wouldn’t be stuck up in the last row of the balcony. He’d want to be seen.
The crowd began to quiet as the house lights dimmed. She checked her watch. 8:20. Would the Russians be fashionably late? A gnawing dread crept into Livy’s practiced cool. She could try to find him at the interval, but a foreign dignitary just might use that time to retreat, especially if he’d just been called out as a spy on the front page of the newspaper.
She pushed the hair out of her face and tried to take a deep breath in the damned tight dress. First day out of the gate, and she worried the job was already a cock-up. Livy could imagine the look on Keller’s face when she told him she not only didn’t make contact with Kostin but didn’t so much as lay eyes on him.
The aisle lights glowed bright as the house went dark. The orchestra began with a burst of sweeping energy, moving from one peppy song to another. After about five minutes, the main drape began to open, revealing a colorful, almost cartoonish American farm with a woman happily churning butter. From upstage a tall cowboy with a bright smile wandered onstage, singing the show’s first big hit, “O What a Beautiful Morning.” The audience broke into polite applause.
Livy’s heart hammered. She craned her neck, scanning the audience as the score vibrated through the theatre, and spotted him in profile as Kostin turned and looked down the aisle.
Two rows ahead and three seats over. He was right there.
Livy recognized the distinctive shape of his V-shaped face as well as the gray-black hair swept back above his ears. Kostin stared at a big man in an ill-fitting gray suit, awkwardly shuffling down the row until he finally found his seat. The Russian sniffed and returned his attention to the stage.
An older woman with her son sat to Kostin’s left, and a young man, twenty perhaps, on the right. Kostin seemed to be alone. Odd that. Why would he be alone?
She liked the idea of being able to watch the Russian without his knowledge. The line of his neck, the cut of his suit, the way he shifted in his seat. Livy was surprised how familiar even such small things seemed to her after two years.
Eventually Livy turned her focus to the play. She’d never taken to musicals. Too artificial. But soon the colors of the set and the charm of the leading actors grabbed her as they had the rest of the audience. Maybe there was something about the event itself. Watching a very American play perpetuating America’s own mythology in the American capital.
With a contingent of Russians.
Livy’s gaze returned to Kostin. From behind, he seemed engrossed in the show. His stillness held her attention. The fearsome Soviet agent with a big heart. Captivated by the romance of cowboys. She’d keep an eye on him in case he had to wipe a tear away.
Oh, this business has made me cynical.
After nearly three hours, the country charm had worn off, and Livy’s nerves jangled as she watched Kostin. At the interval, he kept his seat and read the program, leaving Livy no opportunity to approach him.
Onstage, the cast harmonized the final number, and then came the bows. The applause was enthusiastic from the American side and a bit tepid from the foreign dignitaries. But eventually, as they always do, the audience rose to its feet.
Kostin stood as well, applauding deliberately, but as the clapping began to fade, he quickly pushed his way toward the end of his aisle.
This was her chance. She excused herself, slipping past the elderly women on her left. Kostin had reached the aisle, seeming in more than a bit of a hurry. Livy told herself to stay calm. A single woman couldn’t exactly flee a theatre without attracting attention. The Russian would have to linger in the lobby for Livy to have any hope of making contact.
The crowd, still under the spell of Rodgers and Hammerstein, was slow to leave. Kostin, up ahead, moving quicker, was almost at the exit.
Livy found herself in a tangle of black jackets and sequined dresses. Clumps of politicos with plastered smiles, turning to shake hands, blocked her path. Then, ten feet from the house left exit, an opening. A clear view of everyone near the door marching obediently. But no Kostin. Brushing past a big man in a too-large gray suit without a word, Livy found herself in the lobby scanning the backs of heads. The square shoulders and black-silver hair she’d spent much of the play watching was gone.
For the second time in one night, just at the moment of despair, she spotted him. Yuri Kostin stood chatting with the Annie Oakley redhead who dished out free champagne.
Now, the approach. The big entrance of Livy Nash of the Kemsley News Service, soon to be traitor to His Majesty’s Government. The rest had all been rehearsal.
Chapter Eleven
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Livy whisked the last flute of champagne off the redhead’s tray and surveyed the meager contents. She shot the bubbly girl a look and—giving it the full Lancashire twang—said, “Couldn’t trade this for a bit of gin, could I, luv?”
Kostin, who had been turned to face the exiting crowd, pivoted at the sound of her voice.
She took a second glass of champagne and remembered some theatrical advice her father used to repeat whenever he drank whiskey.
“Livy, if you’re going to make an entrance, then for God’s sake, make a bloody entrance.”
Kostin made eye contact. He was better looking than she remembered. Eyes slightly hooded and sleepy, which hid his intensity and intellect. His suit was immaculate, the lines accentuated his shoulders and tapered waist. But his age showed a bit tonight. He looked tired.
Livy giggled. “The Yanks lay it on a bit thick, don’t they?”
“I suppose,” he said. Her accent had grabbed his attention, but he seemed distracted. Change tactics then.
“The way I see it, Jud wasn’t so bad. And he was a much better dancer than the cowboy.”
Livy thought she saw a hint of recognition in his blue-gray eyes. Drink had been a constant companion of their fling, but still, how could he not remember her? There had been intensity to their affair. It had burned for a month and then died. But what a month it had been.
“If you can call that … dancing.” His accent was subtle enough that he didn’t stick out.
Kostin turned, put down his champagne flute, and slid his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looked everywhere except at her. Nodding to someone across the room. Glancing at his watch. Then another tall, gray-haired man in a brown serviceable suit brushed past him, murmuring something only Kostin could hear. The Russian turned quickly and, with the doors mere feet away, he was gone into the night. Lost among a sea of limousines and taxis, without even a final glance at Livy.
* * *
Blending into the mass of the well-dressed exiting the National Theatre, Livy tried to fend off the sense of failure by replaying her brief chat with Kostin. She went over every gesture, every wrinkle of his brow. Had he recognized her? It had been two years since they’d first met. Of course she’d changed since then, but what could have prevented him from remembering her? The
Yuri Kostin she’d known would have been thrilled to see her.
The luxury all around her had forced Livy to consider Margot. Where was she tonight? What sort of hell had she been through just to stay alive? The world had celebrated the end of the war while Margot likely moved from one prison to another.
Livy felt the urgency of her job. You’ll have to do better than tonight, she said to herself.
She stopped on the sidewalk, away from the crowd, and looked for a taxi. Four cars down, a Diamond cab waited, its yellow light blinking behind the row of limousines. Livy put up her hand.
Ten steps ahead of her, the passenger door of one of the limousines opened. She stepped around the car, pushing toward the taxi. A voice stopped her.
“You look like someone who needs a ride.”
She looked into the open door. Kostin reclined in the leather back seat, a broad smile across his V-shaped face.
“I did not recognize you at first. My mind was … bothered. You must forgive me, Livy.” It came out “Lee-vye” when he said it. The pronunciation stirred in her several sensations. Some sweet, others more than a little bitter.
“I can take you wherever you like.”
Livy pushed the thoughts of Margot away. She tried a smile like Rita Hayworth’s in Gilda. Charmed and slightly carnal.
“You always were a gentleman, comrade,” she said and eased into the big black car.
Livy kept her distance from the Russian, which wasn’t difficult since the rear seat of the Cadillac felt as spacious as her hotel room. Wood paneling on the doors and even a carpeted footrest in the floorboard. Yuri was a communist with style.
“Where am I taking you?” he asked.
“My hotel. Of course,” Livy said, grinning. “The Statler.”
Kostin smiled. “Not far from our embassy. Convenient.” He spoke to the driver in Russian. The big car eased into the line leaving the theatre.
