by M. L. Huie
That told him almost all he needed to know.
He slipped the photograph aside and found a typed, page-length report. The memorandum began with From Station F, Head of Station Allard. Dennis Allard, Six’s man in Paris. Thorough as usual.
Fleming scanned the text for the most salient points. His eye stopped on one word: “Tempest.” The code name popped in his mind. This had been Olivia’s agent. The one who she said seemed so nervous at their last meeting in the Louvre.
Fleming’s replaced the grisly photograph and closed the manila folder. He put the cigarette holder to his lips and drew in the smoke. His mind returned to the dark place it had inhabited prior to opening the delivery.
This man—Barnard she had called him—worked as a double and must have been found out by his other masters, the Soviets. In true Moscow form, the traitor had been executed with two bullets to the face. They liked to make it messy as a warning to other potential traitors to the state.
Fleming wondered if the results for Tempest would have been the same if he had kept Olivia as the man’s handler. Had he sacrificed a nervous double so that he could do a favor for Henry Dunbar?
And what about Olivia?
He’d half-expected the file to have just such a photograph of her inside. Fleming had shipped her off to America to do precisely the same sort of work this man Barnard had done. He knew it wasn’t a stretch that one day soon he might receive another folder with the very picture he had imagined he was about to see this morning. He’d done everything he could to warn Oliva of the risks of this job, but dammit, the fact was he wanted her to take it. Needed her to take it. Henry Dunbar didn’t often come to him with assignments as juicy as this. His correspondents dealt with informational intelligence. Rarely had he been authorized by MI6 to oversee an elaborate operation like the ones he’d supervised during the war. If this one was a success, then there might be more. But the question lingered. Had he sent Olivia to her death just so that he could stay in the game?
The thought gripped Fleming’s chest like a vise. He stubbed out his cigarette and wiped a strand of sweat from his forehead. He felt his pulse throbbing against his temple and behind his eyes.
A knock at the door. “Sir?”
“Yes, Pen.”
“Your nine thirty’s here.”
Fleming downed the last of the bourbon. Too early for drinking. He put the glass away and stashed the folder in the top drawer of his oak desk. Straightening his tie, Fleming stood up and tried to remember the name of the person he was about to see.
Chapter Fifteen
After a nearly thirty-minute drive, Livy’s cab pulled up in front of a large white building just off the Jefferson Davis Highway somewhere in Northern Virginia. It could have been one of any number of colonial-style homes in the area except for its bright orange roof and a gleaming marquee on the front lawn that announced “Ice Cream—28 Flavors.”
Livy paid the cab driver and stepped out into the late morning heat. The Howard Johnson’s looked like it was built yesterday, and befitting its status as new kid on the block, most of the spaces in the parking lot were taken.
A young woman, wearing a blue dress with a clean white apron, cheerily greeted her at the front door. She held a serving tray on her hip and said, “Just sit anywhere you like. There’s a booth in the back.”
Livy took off the ten-cent sunglasses she’d bought that morning while waiting for the cab. The night had been sleepless, even after Kostin left. She’d called the Fairfax Beauty Salon at eight and asked for the first possible appointment. Assuming she might have a tail she took a taxi to the National Mall, walked several blocks to the Highway Bridge, and picked up another cab near a hotel. She gave the driver a destination in Alexandria. Halfway there, she apologized, saying she had been confused by the address, and asked him to take her to the Howard Johnson’s.
After being greeted by the waitress, she scanned the restaurant for Keller. Of course he was late. She walked down an aisle of booths stuffed with men in suits, chatting loudly over steaming coffee, and young mothers trying to get their well-dressed toddlers to take a bite of their bacon. She looked out the window for any late-arriving cars.
There was one free booth at the very back of the restaurant. Two dirty plates and glasses had been left on the table, along with a couple of dimes. Another waitress, wearing the same blue uniform, swept in behind Livy.
“Let me get that out of your way, honey,” she said, stacking up the dishes and pocketing the change. “Just have a seat, and I’ll get you all cleaned up.”
Livy sat down and pulled a plastic menu from behind the salt and pepper stand. The waitress came back, swabbed the table with a wet cloth, and then pulled a thick pad from her clean apron. Although tempted by the puzzling egg lemonade drink on the menu, Livy settled for coffee.
She looked over the menu but couldn’t concentrate. The thought of food made her stomach churn even more. Instead, Livy counted the number of drinks she’d had last night. Four. They’d stopped after four, and then she’d told Kostin to leave, that she had work tomorrow, had to sleep. So just four.
The vodka felt as if it was still rumbling around in her stomach. She didn’t want anything to eat. Her face felt hot. The skirt and blouse she’d thrown on that morning felt too small, like someone else’s clothes. She recognized all the classic signs of shame.
She could have told him, “I don’t drink anymore, Yuri. That was a bad time.” But the vodka had sealed the pact of trust between them. Now, Livy wondered if she could trust herself.
Keller plopped himself down in the seat opposite her. Livy started. How had he slipped in without her noticing him? God, it’s already started. The moment took her back two years to the middle of the downward slide, when all she’d cared about was the next drink.
“So, what’s good today?” He grabbed a menu, glanced at Livy. “What happened to you?”
“What?”
“You just look like—”
“What can I get you, sir?” The waitress reappeared.
“Um, coffee and orange juice. Toast, bacon, and two eggs over easy for me. Make it the same for the lady.”
“Easy enough,” the waitress said and hurried off.
“Ordering for me now, are you?”
“Well, you look like you could use something on your stomach,” Keller said, rubbing his eyes. “And so can I, for that matter.”
Livy replaced her menu and sat back in the booth.
“You took precautions coming here, I assume?” he said.
“Very astute, Mr. Keller.”
The waitress dropped off Keller’s coffee and juice. He splashed cream into the cup, stirred it three times, and took a long sip. “Okay, so what’s so important?”
Livy told him about Kostin verifying the information and the Russian’s impatience for more.
“That quick? Damn. Well, good, we’ve got him on the hook. How did he contact you?”
“He showed up in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
Keller put the coffee down. “You let him in?”
“No.” Livy took a sip of her own coffee. The hot liquid burned on the way down and seemed to settle on top of her vodka-soaked stomach.
“He just let himself in? For a chat?”
“Something like that. He had questions for me. Suspicions. He seems to want to believe me, though.”
Keller demanded details. He wanted to know everything. What was Kostin wearing? What was his mood? Personal details about the Russian. “And, after the questions, he left?”
The implication caught Livy off guard. Of course, Keller would assume she’d slept with Kostin. She’d done it before. Why not now?
“Yes,” she said. Livy left out the vodka. She couldn’t admit it out loud. And even if she did, she doubted Keller would care.
“I see.”
Livy wondered if the news pleased him. Did he want her to sleep with Kostin? No one had mentioned the possibility to her. Not Fleming and not Keller. Ye
t. But her past with the Russian and her undeniable use of the tactic of sexuality led in that direction. She felt her breath quicken, so she rubbed her eyes and pushed the thought away for now.
Keller finished off his coffee and turned to look for the waitress. He had a light brown stain on the shoulder of his black suit. She knew enough young mothers back home to recognize the distinct color of baby spit-up.
“You’ve got a little something right there,” Livy said.
“Huh?”
“On your coat. Here.” She pulled a paper napkin from the stainless steel dispenser by the window and wet it with the tip of her tongue. She had to stand to reach his shoulder and the stain. Keller seemed mildly irritated, and then embarrassed.
The waitress came with the pot of coffee, assured them their food would be “comin’ right up,” and then was gone.
“Girl or boy?”
Keller began his now familiar coffee ritual once more. Splash of cream and three careful stirs. “A boy.”
“Your first?”
“Yep.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“Damn right it is.”
“You don’t seem to want to talk about it.”
Keller sipped the coffee while the fingers of his left hand nervously drummed the table. “We’re not here for chitchat, Miss Nash.”
Livy’s face burned. Her life now seemed topsy-turvy. She craved something, anything normal. “Tell me about your kid.” “What’s your wife like?” But instead, she nodded, had another sip of the burning coffee, and didn’t speak.
Their food came, and they ate. Keller devoured his while Livy stuck with toast and jam. Her stomach regarded the runny egg yolks with caution. She wondered if he knew. Could he see the night of drinking written all over her face?
“You okay?” he asked, wiping the corners of his mouth.
“Bit tired. That’s all.”
Livy watched one of the suited businessmen put a coin in the big, lighted jukebox near the front counter. Perry Como began to croon “Prisoner of Love.”
Keller moved back to Kostin. More questions. “The thing is we have to be careful now about what we give him. Kostin’s a big fish, and he knows bait when he sees it. The next batch of stuff will be juicier. Once he’s all in with you, then we’ll start feeding him a little truth and a lot of bullshit.”
“He’s anxious about Truman’s aid plan.”
“The whole damn world is.” Keller bit into a greasy strip of bacon. “Do you plan to sleep with him?”
There it was. On the table now with the Howard Johnson’s breakfast. Livy glanced around at the other diners. She felt shocked by his casual frankness, so she picked up her toast and smeared it with what passed for strawberry jam.
“That something you need to know this morning, is it?”
“I need to know everything.”
Perry Como’s voice filled the silence.
Livy felt sick. She took another bite of the bland toast and chewed.
“I’ll let you know then.”
After a few more minutes of silence, the waitress dropped off the check.
Livy said, “I promised him something for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? You arrange a drop?”
“He said he’d find me.”
Keller absentmindedly picked up his empty coffee mug for a sip. “I’ll have a courier bring something to your room tonight. Make sure you’re there at eight.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Keller put his hand on hers. The sudden move threw Livy for yet another flip in a breakfast that had already been a bit like a gymnastics routine.
“You need to be careful, Livy. I’m just a little surprised by how fast Kostin is taking this. Recruitment is usually a slow process. Feels to me like there’s something else going on.”
Livy regarded this sudden tenderness with suspicion. But she didn’t move her hand. Truth be told, she appreciated the comfort of his touch. “I’ll be careful.”
“We’ll meet at the house the day after tomorrow, all right?” Keller said, his voice low and reassuring. “I’ll get someone on the Fairfax number. Night and day. Something happens, you call. Okay?
“I really should get going. I have an appointment this afternoon. For my real job.” Livy got up, more to calm her nerves than anything. If they served vodka at Howard Johnson’s, she’d have ordered a double. Keller grabbed the check. He paid at the counter and asked the waitress to call Livy a cab.
He smoked a cigarette outside the restaurant as they waited. Keller brought up sports. He’d grown up a Cleveland Indians fan. She talked Blackpool Football Club. It felt like he was trying to find some common ground. But it felt pushed. Like an automobile salesman who wants to be your mate. He was playing her in almost the same way she was playing Kostin. Still, the ordinariness of it all felt like an oasis in the midst of her turbulent assignment.
The cab came. Keller held the door for Livy and paid the fare. She didn’t protest. She played the game, thanked him, and even smiled when she left.
Chapter Sixteen
“The fact is that even though she might not seem it, given her age, the First Lady has actually set trends in fashion.”
The woman who sat across the polished wooden table in the bar of the Mayflower Hotel certainly looked the part of “fashion expert” with a slight touch of sadist. Livy knew next to nothing about trends in women’s clothing; she liked what she liked. But Mrs. Allison Prentiss’s outfit hit all the right notes. Her ensemble said season with its color, business with the cut of her skirt and light jacket, and of course style. Livy thought she looked like a department store mannequin come to life.
“Mrs. Truman embraced the new look for women after the war when she started wearing sleeveless gowns at White House functions. So, although I’d never refer to her as a style icon, she certainly hasn’t shirked her duty as role model for the women of America.”
Livy looked up from her notebook. “She’s a role model because of sleeveless gowns?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Prentiss said. She peered across the table at Livy’s notebook. Her type was always worried about being misquoted. “That’s something we take quite seriously in America. Your readers in The Times might find that enlightening.”
“They just might.”
“There is a photographer coming as well, isn’t there?” Mrs. Prentiss had a gin and tonic in front of her, which she hadn’t touched.
“That will be up to Mr. Price, actually.”
“I see.” Disappointment dripped from her reply.
Livy’s fifteen minutes with Allison Prentiss had felt about three times as long. The glass of water, loaded down with ice, sweated on the napkin in front of her. She took a quick sip, trying to ignore the smell of alcohol, the bar sounds, the oeuvre of drinking.
They sat at a corner table about twenty feet away from the bar. The counter and tables had been built from dark wood. The long mirror, which ran the length of the entire bar, filled the space with a kind of silver glow. Even at four in the afternoon, the room had the feeling of midnight.
“And what about her apparent disdain for the press? If she’s a role model, as you say, shouldn’t she speak to the people through folks like me?” Livy asked.
The mannequin began to pontificate again. Livy leaned back in her chair, pencil scribbling in her reporter’s notebook. She turned her head and checked the end of the bar. A balding man in a rumpled gray suit still sat there. Looking back, she nodded and murmured in appreciation of Mrs. Prentiss’s expertise. Her mind, however, wrestled with the problem of the Gray Man.
About fifteen minutes after leaving Keller at the Howard Johnson’s, Livy had noticed a blue Packard following the cab as it wound its way back into the district. She’d had the cab drop her off several blocks away from the Mayflower. On her circuitous route to the hotel, she stopped at a newsstand and waited. She watched through the reflection in the window of an office building as the blue Packard slowly cruised past.
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She waited until the car turned the corner at the next block, and walked in the opposite direction. It took her another ten minutes to reach the front doors of the hotel. Still early for her meeting with Mrs. Prentiss, Livy found a seat in the spacious lobby that had a view of the street. Minutes later the blue Packard drove by, but it didn’t stop.
She felt certain no one had followed her on the way to meet Keller, which led her to believe that the blue Packard was FBI. However, the Russians had even more reason to keep tabs on her. Kostin’s insistence on moving quickly with Livy meant the Soviets would have much to lose if she proved to be a double. They’d want to know her every move.
Once Mrs. Prentiss arrived and they’d adjourned to the fancy bar, Livy had noticed the Gray Man come in and take a seat a good distance away, but close enough that he could keep an eye on her through the bar’s prominent mirror. A single man at a bar in a major city didn’t strike her as unusual, but something about the man’s clothes—the slump of his shoulders, and the functionality of his shoes—didn’t quite fit in with the other pin-striped, double-breasted men who drank beside him. They exuded power. He looked like someone at the end of a surveillance shift. Something about him seemed familiar, although she couldn’t quite pinpoint what.
So as Mrs. Prentiss droned on now about how much she admired Thomas Dewey’s wife, Bess Truman’s likely First Lady opponent in next year’s presidential election, Livy considered the Gray Man and how she might react to him. It didn’t matter if he was Russian or American. A tail needed to be dismissed as quickly as possible. She couldn’t tolerate him babysitting her in such an obvious way.
“I’m sorry, Miss Nash, but is everything all right?”
Livy turned back. Mrs. Prentiss looked peeved.
“Yes, of course,” Livy countered. Pencil back to notepad. “You were saying about Mrs. Dewey?”
