He was short, portly, florid from gout and mashed into a dinner suit. Eva was dressed in fur, a new low-cut black dress and a diamond encrusted cat mask. Bevansdale’s hand had a tremor every time it brushed her. He was also sweating.
Liveried footmen bowed as they alighted from the car and entered the doorway. The chauffeur would see their luggage to their respective rooms. A vast stairway ascended toward a hallway bedecked in a massive crystal chandelier. In rooms off the main reception, the guests mingled in all varieties of expensive dress, the men middle- aged, their companions mostly young women. In the main dining room a string quartet was performing Vivaldi, resplendent in period costume up to their powdered wigs and, like the rest of the guests, all masked. Excusing herself, Eva enquired where the toilets were. A passing footman burdened with a tray laden with champagne nodded roughly in the direction of upstairs. Eva decided to get her bearings and took her time looking through the upper floors. In some of the bedrooms couples in various stages of undress were lolling on huge beds; others were engaged in more vigorous activities. She glanced past the heaving flesh around her, not quite sure what she was looking for but convinced she would know when she found it.
Entering the dining room she found Bevansdale in a corner with a group of men masked in black velvet almost like a uniform. One had a German accent and they all looked intimidating. They exuded power. Eva sidled up to Bevansdale, pressing against his arm. He flushed and almost gagged on his cigar. The others all turned to her, admiring her figure and the warm mouth smiling beneath her mask.
She whispered in his ear. ‘You haven’t shown me the bedrooms yet, Alfie?’ She blew softly into his ear as he leered back. ‘Forgive me for being so remiss. Allow me to escort you.’
She made a point of looking back at the group and smiling seductively beneath her mask before turning her back and guiding Bevansdale upstairs. As they left the room, she could feel the group's eyes following her. Bevansdale guided her to a narrow staircase which led past the upper floors to his private quarters. His private study was dark panelled and spartanly furnished. He led her to an oaken door at the far side of the room. With a wink he produced a key from the watch chain on his waist coat and opened the door. It was a small bedroom near the top floor, smelling faintly of mothballs and dust. A four-poster bed hewn in dark mahogany stood in the middle of the room,
‘Oh Alfie, this is perfect,’ Eva breathed. ‘I can't think of anything nicer.'
Before returning to the shop to meet Mr. Chainbridge, Eva took the cat mask to a jeweller’s. The diamonds encrusting the mask were indeed real, as Lord Beavansdale had promised. Poor Alfie. She exchanged half of them for cash; the other half she kept on her for emergencies, hidden in a locket around her neck.
‘The ship is the Adelaide, a merchant ship outward bound from Southampton and arriving in Marseilles in three weeks' time. The bullion is arriving from Cadiz. It will be loaded in Marseilles and delivered in Hamburg. I have written down the details.'
Chainbridge whistled quietly. The shop was closed for lunch and with him was a tall distinguished gentleman, smartly attired who was introduced to her as Mr. Jackson.
‘May I ask how you got the information?’ he enquired.
Eva smiled at him coyly. ‘A lady must have her secrets. However, I can guarantee that nobody realises that I have learnt anything.'
Chainbridge took the piece of paper she passed to him, scanned it quickly and whistled again. ‘Excellent, Eva, thank you. Now, I have another task for you, should you agree to accept it.'
'What would you have me do now?' she asked somewhat sharply.
'We would like you to go to Spain?'
'Spain?' Now Eva was interested.
'Of course, if you do not feel up for it ….'
'I'm listening. I assume you want me to learn more about the German and Nationalist network down there.'
'Not just a pretty face,' Mr. Chanbridge commented appreciatively. 'Exactly. You are not a known operative. You are not even British. Nobody there will realise that your government is in any way involved in this.'
'So what do I do?'
'A colleague of ours, Mr. De Witte, will be here shortly. He will accompany you to Southampton and brief you. From Southampton you will return to Paris and make contact with a a Soviet advisor named ‘Spassky’ who will escort you to Spain and brief you further from their perspective along the way. The objective is to learn as much about their operations as possible, who are their liaisons in Berlin and how they communicate with them. And I wish you the very best of luck. You are a very plucky girl. I wish you were one of ours.’
Twenty minutes later Eva was collected in a taxi by De Witte who, to her surprise, was blind and, even more to her surprise, proved to be excellent company. The ferry from Sothampton took her to Calais and from there she travelled on to Paris where Yvette supplied her with a gun and Eva arranged to meet 'Spassky' who turned out to be a female Russian agent based in Barcelona. They were to travel together. At the Gare D’Austerlitz they both took the Perpignan train, and from there crossed the Pyrenees into Spain posing as journalists.
Chapter 4
London, 1938
Henry Chainbridge sat back deep into the leather chair. The rain was lashing the windows of his small chambers above his shop, Chainbridge Books, ‘
Eva was one of three agents he had sent to Munich and the only one to return alive. A silver pot of coffee and fine china were placed on a low table by an Indian woman dressed in a brightly coloured sari. As quietly as she appeared, she slipped back into the shadows with a discreet bow.
Eva’s information ahead of their arrival had raised eyebrows in Whitehall: Poland was to be divided between Germany and Russia. The Soviets had commenced a new rail link using gulag labour beneath the city of Moscow itself. They were also involved in deep mining near the city of Tyumen, in Siberia, again for unspecified reasons. Despite the rapprochement between the Soviet Union and Germany, Stalin did not trust Hilter an inch.
Chainbridge let his cigarette burn down to the filter before stubbing it out. In the event of an attack, Lenin’s tomb would be a priority evacuation, probably to Tyumen. He re-read the last sentence, slowly blowing out smoke.
‘Are they serious..?’ His voice was warm, whiskey and tobacco mellowed, and hinted a university education. There were still traces of his native Belfast accent when he spoke at length.
Eva noted that behind him, on his long bookshelves in pristine lines, stood leather-bound ancient Greek and Cyrillic embossed books like her grandfather’s. A print of Johan Sebastian Bach hung on the far wall in a broad gilded mount frame. Beneath it, objets d’art from India stood alongside notebooks, paintbrushes and pencils. A phonograph sat against the far wall, with Shellac discs glistening in their sleeves. Fragile music manuscripts lay under glass and discreetly illuminated on tables beside an upright piano. From time-to-time Eva had sat at the piano recalling preludes learnt as a child, helping her unwind from assignments. This room always made her feel safe, reminding her of her grandfather’s study. It had that same smoky, tumble-down feel.
‘Apparently they value a corpse over a civilian population,’ said Eva, crossing her long legs.
It’s a pity Peter can't see the beauty beside him, thought Chainbridge. In the lamplight, her auburn hair glowed like a halo, her cheekbones shadowing down to a warm generous mouth. She reminded Chainbridge of a Da Vinci study.
Peter sat still, head inclined, in an immaculate slate-grey suit, fine-tuned to the nuances in the room. A deep scar ran across his face, temple to temple, which in the shadows gave the appearance of folding in on itself. It almost added to his good looks.
‘I suppose Lenin’s a beacon to half the world’s proletariat, a psychological blow to the Soviets if anything should happen to him,’ said Chainbridge, skimming the salient points.
