“Evelyn?”
When Fay rushed in, Evelyn was still shaking, tears streaming down her face, eyes squeezed shut as she thrust her hand toward the bed.
“Who is it?” she moaned. “Who is it?”
“What?” Fay wrapped her arms around Evelyn, reaching up to stroke her hair. “Who, darling?”
“That . . . body!”
“The what?”
Evelyn opened her eyes. The pale blue dress Julia had bought for her looked rather like a body, laid out across the quilt. She had tried it on earlier that morning and forgotten to hang it back up in her wardrobe. Evelyn stood over it, fighting the urge to rip it to shreds. Instead, she threw it over the back of the chair and let out a weird, strangled laugh.
“Are you all right?” Fay asked, a warm hand on her arm. When Evelyn didn’t answer she pulled back the covers and guided her into bed. “You’re exhausted. Here.” She tucked Evelyn’s feet in, smoothing down the quilt, and then she sat on the edge of the bed, humming something tuneless under her breath. A few minutes passed like this until Fay stood up and turned out the lamp, gently closing the door behind her.
Lying there beneath the covers, Evelyn stared at the moonlight peeking in through the slim gap in the curtains. Am I really going to do this? she wondered. Throw Nina to the wolves? It didn’t feel right to even question herself, and she shuddered to imagine what White would say if he were privy to these thoughts. The problem was she had nothing to weigh this dilemma against, no way to test her own judgment. Evelyn shut her eyes, listening to the faint breeze rattling at the glass. She may have had the backing of MI5, but tonight she felt entirely on her own.
Seventeen
CHRISTINE BAKKER WAS waiting out the front of the Arbat Tea House when Evelyn arrived in South Kensington the next morning. “So, you’re White’s new girl,” she said, looking her up and down. “You’re pretty. He like them pretty. Like row of little china dolls.” Then she laughed.
Christine was herself very beautiful, with straw-colored hair and creamy Flemish skin, though in the harsh early light there were dark bruises beneath her glittering blue eyes. She was dressed in a mink coat and black stockings, and in a pair of high heels still only came up to Evelyn’s shoulder.
Evelyn peered toward the shopfront where the Closed sign hung in the window, then down the length of the empty street. “Has White briefed you?” she whispered.
“Ja.” Checking herself over in her compact mirror, Christine wiped a smudge of kohl from her cheek. “The mark gives me documents, I take to White, he does his magic decoding, and I travel on to Antwerp for delivery. It’s a piece of cake. I done it many times, sweetie.” She yawned. “But I am just famished, you know? I had no breakfast before I come. Do you think this Russian will feed us?”
Finally there was some movement behind the glass, and Evelyn saw the admiral flip over the sign and the restaurant’s green door opened.
Nina was waiting for them at her father’s table in front of the fireplace, where a tray of tea things and a plate of hvorost had been set out, but like a queen at court she neither stood as they approached nor introduced herself to Christine. This didn’t seem to bother Christine, who sat down and immediately lit up a small black cigar, stuffing one of the biscuits into her mouth.
“Oh, these are good.”
Nina began pouring the tea, but didn’t touch hers when she was done. She just sat there, as unmoving as a statue, except for the flutter of a pulse at her throat.
“Christine has agreed to post your mail from Belgium, Nina,” Evelyn said. “She’s traveling across the Channel tomorrow night.”
Christine pushed a curl out of her eye and gave a quick nod. “Yes, I do this for you. It is not difficult to send on to Berlin from Antwerp. I have people there to help me.”
Nina ran a fingertip over the scar at her eyebrow. “And what do you want for this—money?”
Christine ate another biscuit, her small face puckered in ecstasy. “I really must get recipe . . .”
“Christine,” said Evelyn.
The Belgian dismissed the admonishment with a flick of her wrist and reached for the cigar smoldering on the edge of her saucer. “No payment.”
“But why?” Nina shook her head. “You’re risking so much . . . You don’t even know me.”
Christine looked up and frowned. “What I need to know? Evelyn is my friend, I trust her, and when she need favor, I help.” She sat back, picking at her teeth. “I don’t care for politics, but I know rats when I see them. I know what filth they spread.” She tapped her nose, gave a laugh. “Best rid of rats, ja, Miss Ivanov?”
Christine smoked some more of her cigar, the spicy smoke rising in a plume above the table. As the silence stretched out between them, Evelyn had the curious sensation of drifting, like being on a barge suddenly untethered from its mooring. Then there was a small quiver of movement at Nina’s lips, a flash of white teeth, and her eyes shifted back to Evelyn.
“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “Best to be rid of the lot.”
She took a pale blue envelope from her lap and pushed it across the table.
“This is all?” Christine asked.
“Yes.”
“And it’s what, exactly?” Christine made an impatient gesture as she looked inside. “I need to know, sweetie, in case anything go wrong.”
Nina glanced at Evelyn again, who returned a slight nod of reassurance.
“It’s cables between the embassies for the Rundfunkhaus radio station to broadcast. Top secret. Copies of letters from Churchill to Roosevelt and Hoover. And there’s a note for our friend in Berlin. He makes his broadcasts every Thursday night at ten o’clock—we’ll be listening carefully to make sure the package has reached him.”
“Ziezo.”
Christine ground her cigar into the saucer and tucked the envelope inside her coat. Then she stood up and walked out of the restaurant, the transaction complete with a brief handshake and a nod of farewell. Evelyn watched as Christine stalked down Queen’s Gate and disappeared around the corner, then let out a slow breath. But when she turned back she saw something feverish in Nina’s pallor, and all of a sudden the Russian reached across the table to clasp Evelyn’s hands. “She won’t let us down, will she?”
Evelyn swallowed at the rusty taste in her mouth. She tried to prize her hands free, but Nina’s grip was strong.
“Of course not,” she managed to say. “We’ve nothing to worry about.”
At last Nina sat back, smiling, and drank some of her tea. How much she’s changed since our first meeting, Evelyn thought, when I sized her up from the far corner of the dining room. Gone was the calculation, the wariness; gone was the suspicion. She supposed this was as close as Nina would ever come to trusting another person, and there was a part of Evelyn that wished she hadn’t. She’d imagined she’d feel vindication in betraying Nina, but all Evelyn felt as she walked away that morning was wretched.
* * *
Vincent had begun the decryption of the note by the time she arrived at Chemley Court. The Society had used a Cyrillic alphabet and numerals, and spread across the table were dozens of his scrunched-up attempts at the decoding. Ted Young had already taken photographs of the cables for their files. White stood beside Vincent while he worked, and Christine sat hunched on the windowsill overlooking the square. Evelyn made coffee and passed it around, but no one really drank any of it; the atmosphere was tense. Another half hour ticked by, and when it became too much White took some files from his desk and went to sit in the dining room, while Evelyn joined Christine by the window.
“So,” said Christine, her eyes on the lackluster gardens below, “you like it here in London, with these men?” She had removed her mink coat to reveal a faded floral-print dress.
“It’s better than being stuck behind a desk,” Evelyn murmured.
Christine gave her a frank look. “You know he takes all credit. White. I see it every time. His agent always stays in the dark.” She shrugged, exam
ining the cheap ring on her index finger. “No one would do what we do if they had choice, ja? The Master handles us too, remember.”
“Have you known him long?”
“Three years. He found me in Amsterdam. In club. Dancing.” Christine gave a husky laugh. “Don’t look surprise, sweetie. I had many important client in De Wallen—people no one else accesses. Politician, royalty.” She wrapped a piece of dry hair around her ear, thoughtful. “Men will tell woman many things when they want to go to bed with her.”
“And did you know Posey? The agent before me?”
“Susanna?” Christine’s bright eyes narrowed. “Yes, I knew.” She sucked on her cigar, her expression a mean one. “Chewed up, spat out.”
“What do you mean?”
Christine looked at her, then shook her head. She rolled up the sleeve of her cotton dress to the elbow and when she turned over her arm Evelyn saw a rash of what looked like needle marks in the groove of her yellowy skin.
“I tell myself this is last assignment for White. It’s too long living like this. Susanna learn the hard way, ja? Years and years of her life to that case—for what? White isn’t too much a bad man, but he is loyal to his England above all else.” She sniffed, shifting off the window ledge and stretching out her legs. “I won’t come back to London again. I go to Bruges and live in apartment near the market square. You should do same.”
“Leave?”
Evelyn had never thought about what it might mean to leave all this behind, but before she could explore the idea further, Vincent shouted, “I’ve got it! I’ve bloody got it!”
Evelyn leaped up from the windowsill as White rushed in from the dining room, all of them converging on Vincent’s desk.
“It’s Carlyle,” Vincent cried. “It spells Carlyle. That’s our code word.”
White slapped him on the back. “Well done, my boy. We’ve got the bastards now.” He looked up. “Right, these cables can go on to Antwerp. I’ve already briefed the Home Office and here is the plan: the arrest warrants will be issued the moment the code word is broadcast on Thursday night. On Friday, Special Branch teams will bring in Randall and Tom Weston, and raid the Onslow Square house for the membership list. Meanwhile another team will make its way to the Russian restaurant on Queen’s Gate. I’ll telephone you that morning with your instructions, Evelyn. The intention is to round up as many of the Lion Society ladies as possible, including yourself and Mrs. Armstrong, to protect your cover. It’s best if the agents can arrest you there at the restaurant so Nina Ivanov doesn’t suspect anything.”
While he went to telephone Whitehall again, Christine carefully placed Nina’s letter and the cables inside a leather satchel, and then gave Evelyn a long hug. She smelled of smoke, stale wine, and another, flowery smell—a scent by Jean Patou, perhaps—and when at last she pulled back to hold Evelyn at arm’s length she bestowed on her an enchanting smile. “You take care, sweetie,” she said. “And think about what I said.” Then she was gone.
Eighteen
THE DINING ROOM in the Arbat Tea House was empty on Friday afternoon. That’s one blessing, Evelyn thought, as she took a seat at the window and ordered a coffee from the waitress. Her coat and dress were damp from a sudden rain shower that had burst from the sky as she hurried along Harrington Gardens. But it was warm inside the restaurant and for a time, hands cupped around her mug, her gaze fixed on the slick street outside, Evelyn could almost forget what was about to unfold.
After Vincent’s decryption, she had been moved from her flat to an MI5 safe house in Bethnal Green as a precaution until the circulation of the arrest warrants. It had been a grim few days: she hadn’t been allowed to leave the dilapidated terrace or even talk to anyone else in the building. She spent most of the time lying on the lumpy bed, staring at the mold on the ceiling and trying not to remember how Nina had looked at her after Christine had departed with the envelope, the entreaty in those dark eyes.
She had tried not to think about Julia, either, or what it meant that she hadn’t heard from her. These thoughts unraveled fast, sending Evelyn into an anxious spiral. She grew convinced that Julia had said something to Hugh and Elizabeth, precipitating the inevitable and inglorious end to her tenure as Sally’s friend . . . Then, that morning, she had received the telephone call from White. The broadcast in Berlin had contained the code word “Carlyle,” and the arrest warrants had been issued. Special Branch had organized the raid for three o’clock today: Captain Randall would be confronted on his way into Westminster while agents raided his house for the cables and the membership list, and Tom Weston, his diplomatic immunity finally waivered, would be arrested at the American embassy.
And shortly, thought Evelyn, taking a shaky sip of coffee, Nina Ivanov and I will be picked up here at the restaurant.
The admiral sat by the fire, reading his newspaper. A half-empty bottle of vodka was at his side. After a while he called to Evelyn, “I get my daughter?”
“Is she working?” Evelyn pointed to the ceiling. “I’m happy to wait . . .”
“No, she with friend.” The admiral smiled and stood up. “But I get her. She want talk to you, I’m sure.”
He limped across to the door near the gramophone, which opened onto the stairwell leading up to Nina’s flat. Evelyn checked the time: two minutes to three. She heard the floorboards above her groan, voices too faint to distinguish, then a moment later Nina appeared in the doorway, smiling. Her hair was tied back in a high bun, a few loose strands brushing against her cheeks. A pair of glasses hung around her neck on a silver chain and there was a line of blue ink on her chin.
“Evelyn, you’re here! Are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat?”
“No, no.” Evelyn stood up, overwhelmed by Nina’s warm greeting. “I’m fine, really.”
Nina joined her at the table, pouring more coffee from the jug and encouraging Evelyn to drink it.
“Captain Randall is very happy, dear, very happy indeed,” she said quietly. “We’re expecting more cables next week, so if you can arrange it we would like to use Christine again . . .”
There was movement outside, and through the window Evelyn caught a glimpse of a figure hurrying across the street away from the restaurant. It was a woman, her head down and covered with a dark hat and lace veil, a voluptuous fox fur draped over her shoulders. Something about her posture, the confidence of it perhaps, made Evelyn set down her mug and stare. The woman stopped on the curb to adjust her veil, and in that brief moment before the lace dropped back she saw that it was Julia.
Evelyn was aware of the steady rise and fall of her chest. She took another sip of coffee and checked her wristwatch again. Special Branch were due to arrive at any moment. If Julia were to see her being arrested, how would she ever explain that away? Everything would come out, the whole nasty mess, and she would have failed. She clenched her jaw. She couldn’t fail, she wouldn’t—not when she was so close. She watched Julia pause at the intersection to push back her veil and light a cigarette, the match taking an interminable time to flare, but when it did she turned the corner and was gone.
Evelyn sat back, drawing in a ragged breath. She sensed Nina across the table following the line of her gaze, her face caught in a frown, until two black cars pulled up on Queen’s Gate and three men in dark suits and hats climbed out. They hurried along the footpath beside the window and thrust open the restaurant’s front door, coming toward them.
“Nina Ivanov?”
It was the tall one in the middle, holding his warrant card aloft. The admiral slapped down his newspaper and cut him off by the bar.
“Chto eto?” he barked.
“Papa.” Nina moved forward, her hands outstretched. “I am Nina Ivanov. How can I help you, gentlemen?”
Evelyn eased back in her chair. She was staring at Nina’s shoes, the way the tip of her high heels rose as she pressed on the balls of her feet, like a sparrow ready to take flight. Perhaps the men saw this too, as suddenly they lurched at her.
Nina struggled, hair spilling from her bun as they began dragging her toward the door. The admiral was shouting now, and Mrs. Ivanov appeared by the gramophone in the corner. She too began to wail.
“Evelyn,” Nina shrieked. “Evelyn!”
She was lashing out at tables, at chairs, knocking over her father’s bottle of vodka, which smashed against the hearth.
“Get your hands off me! You filth! You sons of whores!”
The admiral flung himself at the men, but he was pushed aside and lost his footing, tumbling heavily to the floor.
Spotting Evelyn across the dining room at last, the tall agent with the warrant card strode toward her, his knowing wink almost lost in the pandemonium.
“Evelyn Varley?” He yanked her arms around her back and she felt the cool snap of handcuffs on her wrists. “You’re under arrest for violating the Official Secrets Act.”
* * *
The sun shone bright against the glittering wet pavement. The agent hauled Evelyn along the street, Nina just ahead, still crying and raging against her captors. The road was empty except for a scruffy-looking boy near the corner, his bicycle tipped over, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle unfolding before him. The agents opened the back door of the first car, shoving Nina inside. She immediately threw herself at the window.
“Please, Evelyn, don’t tell them anything!” She pummeled at the glass, her face filled with such dreadful fear and confusion that Evelyn couldn’t bear to look.
In the background, the Ivanovs continued shouting from the green doorway, pleading with the agents.
Evelyn found herself being shoved into the second black car. She huddled on the back seat, knees drawn up to her chin as the engine rumbled to life, the tires screeching as they made an abrupt U-turn then sped down Onslow Gardens. They drove through Chelsea, turning onto King’s Road. In the front passenger seat, the Special Branch agent removed his hat and wiped his brow. He peered into the rearview mirror, searching out Evelyn’s reflection and laughing when he found it.
An Unlikely Spy Page 23
