“You know me well, Vlad.”
“I should. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Ah, we’ve seen some things, haven’t we?” Grigori said with smile. “And we’ll see some more before this war is over.”
“One can only hope.”
“I have been observing her, yes. I haven’t learned very much, though. She doesn’t go about very much. Only to dinner, really. She seems to enjoy finer foods and wine, but she never indulges beyond what is reasonable. No vices that I’ve been able to ascertain. She keeps herself to herself, for the most part, which confuses me. She doesn’t display any of the usual traits of an agent that we’re used to seeing. It makes it very difficult.”
“Have you found how she communicates with her contacts?” Vladimir asked after a moment.
Grigori shook his head.
“No. If she uses a facilitator, as you suggested, that could be why.”
“I assumed it was Niva who insisted on that arrangement,” Vladimir said slowly, “but I suppose it could be her way of doing things. I wouldn’t have thought the English were that intelligent.”
“They were intelligent enough to find and turn Niva,” Grigori muttered, getting up to refill his glass. He motioned to Vladimir’s, who shook his head. “I wish I knew how they did that.”
“Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps he approached them.”
Grigori refilled his glass and turned from the sideboard, sipping it thoughtfully.
“Perhaps.”
“How did you find out about the Englishwoman, anyway?” Vladimir asked, tilting his head curiously. “I didn’t know about her until I saw her check into this hotel.”
“The Nazis were kind enough to share the information,” Grigori said, going back to his chair. “For once, they appear to be right.”
“The Abwehr?” Vladimir’s eyebrows soared into his forehead. “They’re useless!”
“Yes, they are,” Grigori agreed with a nod. “It was the SD, I believe. One of Himmler’s black boots. They learned of her last year.”
“Interesting. I wonder what they know of her.”
Grigori scoffed. “Not much, I don’t think. They’re here, in Stockholm, and they managed to scare her right off.”
“What? Here?”
He nodded glumly. “Yes. They were in the hotel, spread out and watching her room and all the exits. The fools. Did they think she wouldn’t notice?”
“They’re too arrogant to think anything,” Vladimir muttered. “I assume she’s gone?”
“Yes, and so is her companion. I followed the other woman to the train station. That’s where I’ve just come from. She’s on her way back to Oslo, but there was no sign of the Englishwoman.”
“And the Germans?”
“Missed the train. At least they’re empty-handed as well.”
Vladimir was quiet for a moment, then he looked over to his old friend and smiled slowly.
“Ah, but you’re not empty-handed, comrade,” he said. “You have handwritten proof of Niva’s deceit, and you return to Moscow successful. You’ll undoubtedly get a promotion out of this.”
Grigori grunted and looked across the table at Vladimir.
“And you? I won’t forget my old comrade. Would you like a promotion?”
“I’m quite willing to be guided by the ministry. You know I’ve never sought to advance.”
“And yet you have. Consistently.” Grigori raised his glass to him. “To the future!”
Vladimir raised his glass.
“To the future!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
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London, England
November 23, 1939
Evelyn got out of the taxi and looked up at the familiar facade of the house on Brook Street. She didn’t think there would ever be a time when it looked more welcoming than it did right this minute. It stood tall and elegant over the street, like an old retainer waiting to be of service once again. She found comfort in the knowledge that the house had withstood several wars over the course of the years, and remained stoically solid through them all. With a deep sigh of contentment, she turned to take her bags from the driver as he pulled them out of the boot of the car.
“ ’Ere ye are, miss,” he said cheerfully, his cockney accent rolling over her. “Do you need me to carry them up?”
“No, that’s quite all right, thank you,” she said with a smile, passing him the fare. “I can manage.”
She turned to go up the steps to the glossy black door, setting the bags down while she fished in her purse for the key. The taxi pulled away, the driver giving a friendly wave, and she smiled. It was nice to be back in England and to hear the welcoming accent of home. Even if it was from the East End, she thought with a grin.
Pulling out the key, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, picking up her bags again. The Ainsworth House had been in her family longer than anyone cared to remember. It was their residence when they were in London for the season, and her father had used it during the rest of the year when he was working and couldn’t make the long trip back to Lancashire. Since his death, it had seen much less use, and would probably see even less as the war dragged on. The servants were at Ainsworth Manor with her mother and there were dust covers over the furniture, but she didn’t care. Evelyn closed the door and exhaled in relief.
She was home.
She dropped her bags in the long, wide hallway and looked around, an overwhelming sense of calm coming over her. She moved across the hallway to the first door on her left and opened it, stepping into the front drawing room. The chairs and sofas were covered with dust covers, as were the tables and the piano in the corner. Evelyn looked around slowly. She knew Robbie came to stay here when he was in London, but the drawing room looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the house was closed at the end of the summer. She walked over to the front window and opened the thick blackout curtains, staring out at Brook Street. She watched the traffic for a moment, enjoying the familiar sound of the busy London street.
Her journey through Denmark, while uneventful, had been fraught with an anxious desire to reach home. As she went from
