her, her lush tresses falling down around her face, framing her classic profile. Eva hadn’t noticed before what a beautiful woman she was without make-up.
Yvette procured at Eva’s request maps and timetables for the train to the Calais ferry and over dinner they reviewed the best options. Yvette handed Eva a sheet with a crudely drawn map of England with place names underlined and relevant ferry, bus and rail departure times jotted in. Eva had joked about using a gun and Yvette, with a twinkle in her eye, went out of the bathroom and returned with her prized stiletto. ‘Please take this. I have another one here. Remember, Eva, always aim at the heart or the balls.’
From the Gare du Nord she took the early morning train and overnight ferry to the south of England, again using early morning and late evening timetables.
She found the London address up a discreet mews off Oxford Street by early afternoon. As she entered through the door, a small bell jingled and a tall thin man in his fifties looked up from the shop counter. It was a book shop with lines of shelves stacked to the brim. She fell in love with place immediately.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘Yes, I wonder if you can help me, please. I’m looking for a book entitled ‘Samizdat’.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have that publication, but I can recommend ‘War and Peace’.’ It was the correct response.
Eva handed him her paperback; inside it was the crossword cut out from the newspaper.
‘We've been expecting you, Miss Molenaar,' and after a pause while the man studied what she had handed him, 'Oh this is excellent. This information is invaluable, priceless.'
Henry Chainbridge introducing himself formally and immediately invited Eva to spend the night in private lodgings above the shop so that she could rest before returning to Poland, throwing in the incentive of freshly laundered bedding and warm water to bathe in. He regretted that he himself would be returning home for the night and would therefore be reprehensibly deficient as a host, but he hoped that she would be comfortable nonetheless. She assured him that she was used to coping on her own. He then made a series of phone calls. He had arranged a plate of sandwiches and fresh tea for her which sat on the modest wooden dresser. Exhausted from the journey, Eva retired to bed and fell into a fitful sleep soon after Chainbridge's departure.
The next morning, Eva rose early and descended the steps to the shop. She looked around at the bees-waxed shelves and musty books which gave the room the same sense of being a sanctuary as her father's library had at home.
She found Mr. Chainbridge poring over the morning paper which was spread across the shop counter. He heard her footfall, looked up and smiled. ‘Let’s get some breakfast, Miss Molenaar.’
She was alone in this vast metropolis, yet felt she could trust him. He wore a wedding band and was as attentive to her as a kindly professor, giving off an erudite air of contentment as he closed up his shop. He led her to an early morning cafe situated amid the bustle of market stalls and taxi drivers. It buzzed with breakfast banter, the rattle of crockery, and shouts and blasts of steam from the kitchens,
Chainbridge explained the situation. ‘The Spanish Prime Minister Negrin has sanctioned gold bullion shipments to the Soviet Union as payment for weapons and advisors. A portion of it has been intercepted by Franco. He’s diverting it to either a German port or a country friendly with the Nazi regime.’
Chainbridge studied the young woman. Eva held his gaze intently. A sixth sense in him detected a secondary agenda within the girl.
‘We think the ship involved is British registered, but can’t be sure. We need to understand what is happening down there, study their operations as a precaution against future eventualities. You could be of great assistance if you would be willing to be so. Would you be interested in remaining here for a day or two and attending a private party?’
Eva thought about this abrupt change of plan, this level of additional involvement for which she had not remotely been prepared. She had confirmed to Spzilman that she had arrived safely and was awaiting further instructions. So far she’d received no response. It would be interesting to see more of this country and whatever she was required to do could hardly be that dangerous. Nevertheless, she wondered.
‘Certainly, if I can be of any help.’ Her English was almost flawless. Chainbridge smiled warmly. She could be just what he needed. They were getting closer to mapping several of the Nazi spy rings in London. There was no threat of war as such, yet there was a faction in the British security community who believed that Hitler was considerably more dangerous long term than he was currently being considered to be by their political masters. Franco was a more impressive character than Hitler but far less dangerous because Spain was a relatively small country currently ravaged by civil war. If Hitler started to throw his weight around on the world stage, Franco would almost certainly be an ally given all the weaponry Germany was providing him with, and all suggestions to date were that the German agents and their Nationalist Spanish counterparts were a bit lackadaisical and therefore an excellent source of information on Berlin's strategic and tactical thinking if they could infiltrate them.
Chainbridge hesitated and his nose quivered pinkly. He coughed embarrassedly and gave indications of being reluctant to start his next sentence. ‘This is a bit indelicate,' he stammered hesitantly, 'but vital for our cause …. ' He paused an awkwardly long time for effect while he searched Eva's face in an unexpectedly shrewd manner. This was no antiquarian biblbiophile. Chainbridge was something else but well disguised. 'I’ve had the presumption to book you provisionally into a small hotel off Grosvenor Square where a certain Lord Alfred Bevansdale likes to trawl for girls.'
Eva stared at him. 'For girls?' She raised an eyebrow.
'You might be his type, for a party he’s throwing.'
'His type?' Eva raised a second eyebrow and lit up a cigarette as she spoke, stirring her tea slowly. Even without make-up, and with her hair in a pony tail, she still attracted glances. ‘What type would that be?’
‘Show girls, chorus line, starlet types. Lord Alfred Bevansdale is a cigarette baron and a Fascist sympathiser, a close friend of Sir Oswald Mosley's, and we suspect that he has offered the Nationalists a ship to transfer the bullion mixed in with one of his own consignments. Naturally, we can do nothing about this, even should we wish to, but it is nonetheless an opportunity for us. However, if you are not comfortable with this, Miss Molenaar …….’
She exhaled slowly from the side of her mouth, her expression hardening. ‘How old is he?’
‘Early fifties, there or thereabouts,’
‘I can’t see any problem, Mr Chainbridge.’
Chainbridge visibly relaxed. 'So long as you are sure,' he added, pressing his luck to ensure that Eva was truly on board.
'I am sure.'
‘Very good. Let’s finish up here. Waiter!’ He scribbled discreetly into the air to indicate he wished to pay the bill. The waiter acknowledged his request with a nod.
Eva was daunted by her task. She had been briefed as to what Chainbridge wanted, to know where the bullion would be loaded, who the main operators would be, who was over-seeing the planning of the transfer from Berlin.
Why would Lord Bevansdale be interested in her? It was an outside chance that he would even notice her, however pretty she was. Did she really look like a show girl?
In the event, ensnaring Lord Bevansdale proved much easier than Eva had expected. The following night she had positioned herself conspicuously at the end of the hotel bar where he could clearly see her should he turn up. Unbeknown to her, from a small room where he was playing poker, Bevansdale spied her immediately in her vivid emerald dress that clung to her figure. Within minutes he was over to her, all smiles and champagne.
With a sigh of relief, Eva expertly charmed him in return. Within the hour, Lord Bevansdale had invited her to his party, which was to be a masked ball to be held at his mansion deep in the heart of the English countryside and, to ensure her attendance, he had offered to escort her there in person and offered to buy her outfit for the event and for the rest of the weekend besides.
Eva was slightly surprised that Lord Bevansdale would not be at the party from the beginning to greet his guests but he explained that the whole thing would be a dreadful bore and if she wasn't there it would hardly be worth attending at all.
Bevansdale’s mansion blazed gloriously through the windshield of his chauffer-driven Rolls Royce as they swept down the driveway which was festooned with ribbons and lights draped along the trees and edges.
‘Here we are, my dear,’ he boomed.
