“Very good, sir.”
He took the slip of paper from the concierge and turned away again, moving towards the lift, waving away the services of a porter. A short time later, he unlocked the door to his room and went inside. The hotel was one of the best in the city, and the room was large and comfortable. After a cursory look around, he set down his suitcase and crossed over to the window.
The sun was setting, casting the mountains in the distance in varying shades of pink and orange. He stared at the breathtaking sight for a moment, then turned to drop the slip of paper on a desk positioned near the window. He had to compose a message to Berlin, but it could wait a few minutes.
Crossing back to his suitcase, he lifted it onto the bed and undid the leather clasps. The journey from London had been long and he was tired, but he had to meet the Swiss attaché for dinner in an hour. That meant changing into dinner clothes. He glanced at his watch and opened the case.
This was his first official trip to Zurich. He’d been twice before, but both times were for skiing and relaxation. This was his first time being sent by London on official business. His lips twisted faintly. If nothing else, war was good for advancement, at least in Whitehall. Zurich had always been Robert Ainsworth’s domain, but his death had left a void that few expected would ever be filled. He was hoping to change that way of thinking.
Fifteen minutes later saw the man dressed impeccably in a black formal suit. He adjusted his cuffs and looked at himself critically in the full length mirror. It would do. Percy Pemberton, as he was known to the hotel, was a traveling salesman from London and, as such, would have to wine and dine his clients. If the suit made him look more like the upper-class English politician that he was he doubted that anyone in the hotel would notice. Perhaps in the restaurant someone would recognize the cut of the suit as that of an English tailor, but in the restaurant he would be known by his real name; no one would question him.
He turned and went back to the desk, seating himself and picking up a pencil. This Zurich trip had turned out to be rather perfect timing, really. Not only would he have the opportunity to meet with his German handler in person, but he could also assure them of his eventual success in making good on his promise to retrieve what Robert Ainsworth had stolen. Unfortunately, he had been unable to do so as of yet. They were getting impatient in Berlin, and who could blame them? He’d said he could deliver, and then he hadn’t. The only thing saving him right now was the obvious fact that while he had been unable to locate the missing package, so had everyone else. The secrets were still safe, for the time being.
But that wouldn’t last for long.
The man thought for a moment, staring sightlessly across the room. How to word the telegram? He wanted to make sure that the information reached Berlin immediately, before he met with his handler the following day. He wanted no surprises here in Switzerland. More than one agent had died here recently, and he had no wish to join them.
Lowering his eyes to the paper, he wrote quickly, filling out the spaces.
ARRIVED IN ZURICH. EVERYTHING ON SCHEDULE. PRODUCT STILL IN PRODUCTION. RÄTSEL MODEL ADVANCING QUICKLY. KNOWN AS JIAN BY THE WORKERS. NEXT PLANNED STOP IS OSLO.
When he had finished, he sat back and set the pencil down. There. That would buy him time with Berlin. His current standing would be assured as long he continued to provide information that would aid with Operation Nightshade. And, lucky for him, he had access to information that would prove useful.
It wasn’t as easy as it had been five months ago. They had shut down access to that entire section of the security service in November, followed closely by several others. It was difficult now, but not impossible. The spy the Germans called Rätsel was still active and, as such, information could be found.
One just had to know where to look.
Dorchester Hotel, London
March 31, 1940
Evelyn looked across the table at Miles and smiled. He was dressed in his uniform, which was impressive in its own right, but his careless elegance seemed more apparent than ever this evening. From the time they’d arrived at the exclusive restaurant and he’d given his name to the maître d', he’d done nothing but play the gentleman to her and everyone around them. It was a strange shift from the laughing, carefree man she was getting to know, but it was a shift that seemed to be just as much a part of him as the reckless pilot. This was Miles Lacey of the Yorkshire Laceys.
“That dress is far from RAF issue,” he said with a grin. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you!”
“I came to London on Friday for a meeting with the solicitors,” she said easily, reaching for her glass of wine. “I could hardly wear my uniform all weekend. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable, you know.”
“Do you think so? They seem fine to me.”
“Of course they do. You’re used to wearing a tie!” she retorted. “Although, more often than not, you’re not wearing it when I see you. Why do you wear a silk neckerchief?”
“It’s a sight more comfortable, for one thing,” he said. “I’ve also learned, as did most of the other pilots who went before me, that turning your head constantly in the cockpit tends to rub your neck raw. One of the chaps who trained us flew in Spain. He gave us the tip about the silk scarves or neckerchiefs.”
“I would never have thought of that on my own,” Evelyn admitted,
