by M. L. Huie
The change in tone startled her. She dropped her eyes and smiled, wondering how to play this new moment. The soft, vulnerable spot of the man Germans had called Der Rote Teufel in full view. She had to deflect.
“I told you already this is a rubbish spot for a marriage proposal.”
“You make a joke because you know the answer but will not say it.”
“All right, then Svengali, what’s my answer?”
Kostin, who seemed a bit tipsy, touched his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. “You must open your mind so I can see inside Livy Nash,” he said, laying it on thicker than Bela Lugosi. Then he opened his eyes, took her hand, and gave it a long kiss.
“A woman doing what you are doing, who has done what you have done, would choke to death in a marriage.” His lips caressed the fingers of her left hand. “No one will ever put a ring on this finger.”
Livy scoffed and took a long pull of the gin. The liquor went down like water now, but his words burned in her stomach. The honesty of the remark mixed with the gin haze in her head smarted. Inside, Livy scolded herself. This wasn’t real life. This was an act. This was burlesque for the boys. This was for Margot. Play the part and forget the rest.
She threw her head back and began a slow clap. “Your mind-reading act isn’t bad, but I think you should look for a new one. Ever play the ukulele?”
Of course they had another round. They talked about everything except secret documents and clandestine meetings. Halfway through their fourth drinks, the one and only Miss Stella Mills walked in through the door behind the bar. A few people applauded and waved. She flitted through, waving her hand a bit, like the king on V-E day, and was helped to a waiting car outside.
Once she cleared the bar, Kostin stood and took Livy’s hand, and they went back into the Gayety Theatre. The whistling men had left. The lackadaisical quartet had packed up its instruments. An usher walked through, picking up trash. A janitor lazily pushed a broom across an aisle, collecting cigarette butts and paper cups. Spilled beer made parts of the floor sticky.
Still, the grand old place had an ambience in the quiet that made it compelling. They walked up the stairs back to the balcony, and Kostin found the door with the sagging number 14.
He let Livy in. The theatre was dark except for two ghost lights on the edge of the stage. The dim light hid the peeling paint and the stained carpet. She walked to the edge of the box and stared out at the stage, illuminated by the harsh glow of two light bulbs.
It looked like a proper theatre now. A place of magic instead of a rundown burlesque theatre where women stripped down to their pasties and knickers.
She felt Kostin’s breath on her neck. His hands on her hips. She’d known this would happen. She felt prepared for it. When it happened, when his lips touched her neck and her desire stirred, Livy felt an overwhelming sense of the past. It felt as if the year after the war—the year she’d spent inside a bottle—had come to reclaim her. The shame inside her wasn’t loud enough. Another voice dominated. It said, It’s about the job. Use him. Get what you want. And get out.
He slowly undid the buttons of her coat, his lips caressing her neck as he undid her blouse. She felt his fingertips on her breasts. For a moment, she gave into the sensation. Livy remembered the Russian’s considerable skills as a lover. He moved slowly. Made her feel each moment.
She tried to turn off her brain. Four gin and tonics couldn’t do it, though. Livy stood outside of it all, observing, analyzing, thinking steps ahead.
He turned her toward him. His left hand held her around the waist, and he brought her mouth closer with his right. She felt his breath on her lips before he kissed her. The glow of the stage made his blue eyes almost purple. Livy wondered what he saw in her eyes.
But she didn’t give him time to pause or evaluate. She pulled him against her, pressing her lips to his, hands pushing his coat down, fumbling with his belt. He pushed his hips against hers, grabbing her skirt. Lifting. She was afraid she’d push him away and run back to the bar to order more and more gin. She wanted it over. All of it. Over.
She grabbed him, breathless. “Now, Yuri. Hurry.”
Chapter Nineteen
An hour later Kostin hailed a cab for Livy to take her back to the Statler. He apologized for not sharing the ride but told her the risk was too great. They kissed before she left, and he held her in his arms. As before, the Russian said he’d be in touch.
The streets of DC felt empty at this time of night. Livy looked at her watch. Almost one. The driver whistled an old Cab Calloway song. She couldn’t remember the name.
She put her head back on the canvas seat and watched the buildings pass by. On one corner she saw two women facing each other, arguing by the look of it. The older of the two punctuated whatever she said with hard jabs of her finger. The scene took Livy back to Paris and a woman she’d met during the war. Antoinette had been a member of the Resistance. She was only twenty and pretty, with curly dark hair and deep black eyes. Naturally men found her irresistible. Especially the Germans. Antoinette slept with any number of Nazis, always bringing back key information. No one ever questioned that. Still many people hated Antoinette. She would pass the lines to get into stores, and people would call her names.
Collaborateur. Putain. A whore.
The Germans she’d slept with meant nothing to the French girl, but still her own people mocked her.
Livy wondered if they would call her the same.
The thought plagued her. She smelled like sex and gin. It was all over her. The cabbie had to know. The comfort of her hotel room would settle her, she hoped. A hot bath. Then bed. That’s what she needed. She could think then.
The taxi pulled up in front of The Statler. The night doorman stood outside the big glass double doors. Livy paid the driver. The uniformed greeter stepped aside as she approached. His smile felt subtle and knowing. She had to look like utter hell. Like a woman in way too deep. That’s certainly how she felt.
As she walked to the door, she noticed a car parked on the corner of K Street adjacent to the hotel. Shadows obscured the car’s interior, but Livy had seen the big blue Packard before.
* * *
She woke up the next morning with her first full-on hangover in two years. The taste of last night’s gin combined with cigarette smoke stuck to her tongue. She resolved to spend the morning in bed, hoping the comfort of the thick sheets and the silence of the room would help her think.
Alice!
She’d scheduled a meeting with the woman from the British Embassy that morning. The full English breakfast. She scrambled around the room to find her watch. It lay under a pile of clothes she’d worn last night. Damn it all! She had thirty minutes to get to the restaurant.
Livy threw herself together in record time. She covered her unruly hair with a beret and slipped into shoes as she opened the door into the hallway.
The morning doorman gave her a reserved smile as he hailed a Diamond cab. She got in and gave the driver an address on Massachusetts. As the car pulled away from the curb, Livy spotted the familiar blue sheen of the big Packard turning onto Sixteenth Street just behind her.
* * *
Livy was only ten minutes late to the pub. Alice had taken a wooden table near the front so she could watch the door.
“Lancashire people—always late. They teach you lot how to tell time?” she said, with a laugh. Livy smiled even though her head pounded.
The pub, which was called O’Flaherty’s, was owned by a man from Leeds named Anthony, a big man with patches of hair on the sides of his head and the puffy nose of a former drinker. Livy guessed him to be in his sixties. Anthony said he’d decided to use an Irish name for the pub because “Americans think the Irish invented drinking.” She could tell he liked Alice. They flirted playfully despite the vast age difference, and then he shuffled back to the kitchen.
A few minutes later he brought them each a full English breakfast consisting of three crispy slices of bacon, two eggs done over easy, pe
rfectly cut grilled tomato slices, mushrooms, a smattering of baked beans, toast with marmalade and strawberry jam, and a heaping cup of hot tea. He left four fried slices of black pudding on a separate plate. Livy knew many people back home who loved the dark concoction, but the thought of putting a piece in her mouth made her want to retch. The pudding, although more accurately a sausage, was made from onions, oatmeal, a few different herbs, and pig’s blood. She wondered what Anthony did back in that kitchen of his.
The two women chatted about home, as well as the war, while they ate. Alice told her she’d worked at an SOE home station, receiving and translating codes from agents in the field. Livy listened and felt her heart lighten. Here, finally, was another young woman who seemed to understand her, who didn’t judge Livy for the way she talked or dressed. God knows she needed a friend now more than ever. And Alice did make her laugh with her homegrown stories and sly jokes. Just like Margot. But as much as Livy wanted to trade war stories, she confessed only to driving RAF pilots to their planes at Squires Gate Airport. Nothing more.
Livy sipped the robust tea as they talked, which helped soothe her stomach a bit. She didn’t dare eat everything on the plate. Her hangover was no match for grease-fried bacon and eggs.
Alice finished most of hers but decided to wrap the black pudding and take it back to the embassy. As she dropped it in her purse, she pulled out several folded pieces of paper.
“Almost forgot,” she said and handed them to Livy.
Inside, paper-clipped to a copy of a War Office personnel document, was a small black and white photograph of Margot Dupont.
There she was. The photo must have been taken at SOE headquarters in Baker Street, a standard identification image for use during training. Livy allowed herself a smile at Margot’s attempt to look so serious and official. Like a proper spy. She had soft eyes and dirty-blonde hair that curled slightly at her shoulders. Margot’s upturned nose and girlish features belied a toughness that Livy had envied when they first met.
“Do you mind if I hold onto the photo?” she asked. “Just for reference, really.”
Alice finished off her tea, and said, “That’s okay then, but you can’t use it for print or anything. I could get in trouble if that got out. They’re persnickety about that.”
It was nearly eleven when Alice left the pub to get back to work. They left a big tip for Anthony and said goodbye to each other out front. Alice strolled off down Massachusetts. Livy turned the other way, fancying a walk after always being carted around the city in public transport.
She’d not taken ten steps when a tall, hatless man in a black suit overtook her quickly. Reaching her side, he slowed, matching her step for step.
“Perfect day for a walk in the park,” he said. American. Big manufactured smile. “The National Zoo. One hour.”
He picked up his gait, looking like another businessman in a hurry in a city of perpetual motion. Livy watched as a car turned from a side street and pulled up to the curb alongside the hatless man. He walked around the car and hopped into the passenger seat of the blue Packard.
* * *
Livy decided to walk the rest of the way and arrived outside the great steel gates of the National Zoo in Rock Creek Park ten minutes before the set time. She scanned the area to make sure she’d not been followed by anyone else.
Running through the heart of the District of Columbia, in much the same way Central Park bisects New York City, Rock Creek Park seemed to be a popular lunchtime destination. Moms with kids in tow lined up outside the zoo gates while a mix of businessmen, tourists loaded down with cameras, and couples meeting for lunch made up the bulk of the foot traffic.
So the blue Packard belonged to the FBI, and the Gray Man had been Russian. Kostin had confirmed as much. Livy doubted she’d see the bullet-headed man in gray again after he was unceremoniously escorted from the Mayflower. She took no chances, though, walking a minute, then stopping to see who might be behind her or lurking on the periphery. A few steps later, she’d stop again to see if any of the same faces remained in her vicinity.
Satisfied she hadn’t been followed, Livy headed back to the entrance. This time, she saw Sam Keller sitting on a wooden bench directly opposite the zoo archway. He wore a brown suit with a pressed white shirt and no tie. He looked almost relaxed. Livy approached, and he stood up, arms out, and hugged her tight.
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.” His voice shifted to a whisper as they embraced. “Old friends. And we’re just going for a walk.”
A great smile broke out across his broad face as his voice resumed its normal volume. “It has been so long. I didn’t even know you were in town. Listen, how long you got? Time for a walk? Come on. You gotta see this place. Everything’s still in bloom.”
The pretense was a ruse, but Keller had undersold the lush greenery of the park. They made their way along paths framed by thick, old trees whose green leaves provided a bit of shade in the Washington heat. Other couples passed them and smiled. A few people rode bicycles up ahead. Somewhere in the near distance, Livy heard the sound of running water. It felt as if she’d been plucked out of her world and placed somewhere safe.
But that was an illusion. This idyllic locale merely served as backdrop for another meeting with another man. Another report. More orders. Her fingers traced the outline of Margot’s picture in the pocket of her skirt.
“You look rested today,” she said. Keller looked like he’d had a week off.
“Thanks. Seven hours does wonders.” He looked down at her. “I can’t say the same for you.”
“Such a flatterer, Mr. Keller,” Livy snapped back. “The Russians are following me too, you know. You sure they’re not behind us? Maybe sitting up in one of these trees?”
“I’ve got a couple of boys with binoculars on us and the surrounding area. We’ve got it covered.”
“I feel so protected.”
Keller shot her a look. “You were out late last night.”
“Missed curfew, did I?”
“Just tone it down a notch, okay? We’re on the same side.”
Gravel crunched under their shoes as they reached a rock bridge that passed over the creek Livy had heard earlier.
“You met him last night?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I gave him the new material.”
“And?”
“He took it.”
Keller waited.
“He took it, and we got drunk and had sex. Is that better?”
The words hung in the air between them. She wanted to go on and say, I’m drinking again. I feel awful and wrong inside. I don’t know if I can stop or if I’ve gone too far. I’ll be damned if I leave my friend in a prison one more day than is necessary, but I’m terrified I’ll lose myself and never find my way home.”
Keller reached to straighten a tie that wasn’t there. “I’m assuming it was … mutual?”
Livy had no idea what to say. Her eyes latched onto a ray of sunshine forcing its way between two branches like a spotlight. She felt the impulse to flee into the woods. To be gone from all this. Finally, she glanced up at Keller.
“No, he didn’t force me.”
“Okay.”
They reached the end of the bridge, and Livy stopped.
“It’s best if we keep going,” he said.
“He’s in trouble, I think.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“He said he was tired of it all. He kept saying things like ‘No one trusts anyone now.’”
“Did he say more? Talk about his personal life maybe?”
Livy shook her head.
Keller looked as if he didn’t know what to say. He put a hand on her elbow. She jerked it away and leaned against the bridge. Her eyes down on the creek.
The FBI man moved beside her. “I think we’ve reached a point now where the operation needs to be altered.”
“What?”
“A change in ta
ctic. The work you’ve done so far makes it possible.”
Livy rubbed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“We have an opportunity to compromise Kostin now. You’ve given us that.”
Livy had no idea what the man meant, but something about this sudden change, based on the two pieces of news she’d given Keller, did not exactly fill her battered heart with sunshine and daisies.
“I thought that’s what we were working on.”
“It is. Well, it was, but if we change tactics, things could move faster for both of us. It wouldn’t be that difficult. We could even make it work at The Statler. I sent some people in the other day to see if cameras were possible in your current room. We can’t completely control the environment, of course, but it’s doable.”
The realization of what Keller meant hit like a solid right to Livy’s jaw. She felt dizzy and held on to the bridge as the full implication became clearer.
“A honey trap, you mean?”
Keller nodded. No change in his expression. “It moves things along quicker. Once we have the film of the two of you, then if Kostin gets Berlin, we have him. Think of that. The MGB Berlin rezident is in our back pocket.”
“And what about the reason I was sent here?”
The FBI man shrugged. “Once we have Kostin, then whatever he knows we’ll know.”
She slammed her hand down on the rail and stepped toward Keller. He shuffled back. “Once you have him, I’ll be pushed aside,” she said. “I know how these things work.”
“Just keep your voice down, Miss Nash. Nothing’s been decided yet.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You’re tired and not thinking clearly.”
“I’m thinking clearly enough to know I won’t let you use a dirty film of me to get what you want. That’s not why I am here. That’s not the operation.”
“No? How is this any different from what’s already going on between the two of you? Except we get evidence that one of their top people is sleeping with a British agent.”
