“Thank you.”
Evelyn watched him disappear through the door, closing it behind him. A small, wood-burning stove sat in the corner and she got up to go over to it, shivering. Reaching her hands towards the warmth, she exhaled and tried to make her shoulders relax. The ship was still here. She hadn’t missed it.
No matter how many times she repeated it to herself, her body refused to relax. Letting out a deep sigh, she turned to pull the chair over to the stove and sat down again tiredly.
She would relax once she reached London.
Chapter Thirty-Four
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Mikhail moved silently through the back entrance to the narrow alleyway. The buildings on either side blocked the noise from the street, giving an eerie feeling of being isolated from the rest of the town. That suited him perfectly, and he felt right at home in the shadows as he paused behind a wooden staircase rising to an upper level entrance. At the other end, Eisenjager still leaned against the wall, his back to Mikhail. There were no other obstructions between him and his target after the staircase, but the alley narrowed significantly about halfway down. He would have to be silent and move quickly once he passed the stairs. While he had no doubt that his training was as good as the German’s, he had no desire to draw attention to the alley with the noise of a struggle.
After watching the man at the end of the alley for a long moment, Mikhail moved out from behind the stairs. Something had drawn Eisenjager’s attention in the street, and he had shifted so that his back was to the rest of the alley. As Mikhail moved forward, Eisenjager pulled something out of his coat pocket, bending his head to check it briefly before turning his attention back to the street.
Mikhail eyed the pistol in Eisenjager’s hand as he crept forward, staying in the shadows of the building to his left. It was a Browning HP-35, a high powered pistol that, in the hands of an experienced shooter, was capable of picking off a target up to fifty meters away. There could be no doubt as to Eisenjager’s objective. He had absolutely no intention of detaining the British spy.
So much for Lyakhov’s belief that the Germans wanted the woman for themselves.
His shoulders stiffened when Mikhail was less than three feet away, and Mikhail braced himself for the possibility that he would turn and see him, but the German agent was too focused on his prey. He raised his firing arm, steadying his wrist with his other hand, his eyes locked on his target in the street. Following his gaze, Mikhail watched as a blonde woman dressed in heavy pants, boots, and a long winter coat at odds with the rest of her attire stopped on the pavement, turning to watch a group of British soldiers march up the street. She had a rifle slung over her shoulder and carried a suitcase and smaller, square case. In that split second, he knew Eisenjager would never get a more perfect shot.
Mikhail closed the gap between them swiftly, slicing his left hand in a downward arc to slam into the bundle of nerves below his ear. As his left hand made contact, his right wrist hit the arm holding the pistol, forcing it down before the German could take advantage of the perfect, stationary target. Eisenjager let out a gasp before his eyes closed and he fell sideways into Mikhail’s waiting arms.
Easing the tall, unconscious man to the ground, Mikhail slid the pistol from his fingers and tucked it into his own pocket. Straightening up, he looked out of the alley. The woman had turned to continue down the street, her eyes fixed on the flurry of activity by the entrance to the quayside. Moving out of the shadows and to the corner of the alley, he watched her go, pressing his lips together thoughtfully.
It had to be her. The description, while it matched half of the women in Norway, was exact. Coupled with Eisenjager’s obvious attempt to assassinate her, it had to be the British agent, but she was nothing like what he would have expected of one of Lyakhov’s targets. She was young, very young, and despite the strange, mismatched clothing, she was very beautiful. Who was she? And why was Comrade Lyakhov so determined that she get out of Norway and away from the SS with all speed?
He shifted his gaze to the entrance of the wharf and the makeshift checkpoint. She was headed straight for it. Was she going to try to get out of Norway by getting on a ship? Or did she already have an extraction set up?
Leaning against the corner of the alley, Mikhail partially hid the inanimate form on the ground behind him from view, and reached into his coat to pull out his cigarettes. There would be nothing unusual in the sight of a working man taking a break to smoke in the mouth of an alley. He lit a cigarette, never taking his eyes from the woman reaching the end of the street and crossing to the checkpoint. He would wait to see what happened. If she remained in Namsos, he would do as Lyakhov had ordered. How he would convince her that he could get her safely to Sweden was another matter entirely, but he would find a way. He always did.
When she was led past the barriers a few minutes later and shown into a small hut on the quayside, Mikhail dropped his cigarette butt and put it out with his boot. Turning his head, he looked down at Eisenjager dispassionately. The man was still out cold, but he would come around shortly. When he did, he would find his target out of reach and no sign of his assailant.
Bending down, Mikhail picked up the extinguished cigarette butt and palmed it before moving out of
