A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (20 page)

“William Hance the archeologist?  Know him personally?  No.  But I’m aware of him if that’s what you’re asking.  What is this all about?”

“He dealt with the Germans in the past.  We believe that he may be involved again.”

“Are you certain of this?” Boland asked.

“Let’s just say we’re highly suspicious,” Mayfield said. 

“I find it all unbelievable myself,” Boland’s voice fell.  Leni knew what her husband was thinking—that his wife spent a lot of time at the site.  She had convinced him that it was all a hobby, but now she could see the doubt on his face.

“Well, if you’re correct, then that does raise one’s concern.”  Boland spread his open hands down on the desk.  “My wife has a keen interest in archeology and does go out there from time to time.  My concern is that he could be influencing her with all of his Nazi leanings.” 

“Have you seen anything suspicious from her?”

Leni shifted her glance to see her husband’s reaction.  There was only a slight raising of the eyes.  “You don’t suspect my wife?”

Such words took Leni’s breath away and she staggered slightly bumping into the shelf.  She caught herself and looked again through the hole.  There was no reaction toward the wall where she hid, only her husband stepping around the wide desk, grasping the hand of Mayfield.  “Thank you, Major, and I can appreciate your concerns.  But I met Leni in England when she came with the exiled government.  Hance, on the other hand, could certainly be another matter.”

Boland stepped out of Leni’s sight toward the door.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re getting ready for a party this afternoon.”

Slipping out of the study, she ran down to the backstairs, and the along the hallway to her bedroom.  Her face was damp with sweat as she slipped off her dress and fell into the bed.  The late afternoon sunlight slanted softly through the parted curtains on the tall window.  Her heart still raced.

Leni rolled over on her side and closed her eyes.  She would try to sleep.  A short nap before the guests arrived, but she knew the attempt would be futile.  The conversation between her husband and the British officer had changed matters.  And not for the better.

-Nineteen-

Rows of long, graceful windows cast squares of white lights on the wide lawn of the villa of Colonel Robert Boland.  Black Buicks and polished stone-gray sedans lined the white circular drive bordered with shadowy maple trees.  Drivers stood at the sides of the motorcars smoking cigarettes, sharing drinks from whiskey bottles, and listening to war broadcast from a wireless.

Leni stood at the foot of the long white marble staircase inside the gracious villa greeting her guests as the band played the swaying American melody Moonlight Serenade.  Among the assembly of laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, the ladies were at the parlor entrance, no doubt embellishing on the latest gossip in the society circle.  The men were gathered in the smoking room beneath a cloud of cigar smoke, involved in serious conversation about the advancing Allied armies and how the fortunes of war had turned against the Axis powers.

Leni never understood war, she honestly didn’t believe that anyone could; though she was constantly surrounded by men who thought they did. 

If only her secret could end it all.

She walked over to where her husband was in a deep conversation.

“Why is it that when men get together, the discussion is about that awful Rommel?”  Leni asked taking her husband’s arm.

The man standing beside Boland spoke up.  “Why, he almost beat us in North Africa when he was badly outnumbered.  The only thing that saved us was that arrogant Hitler wouldn’t send reinforcements, thank goodness.”

“Yes,” the other man said, “You have to admire such a leader, even if he is German.  And remember—he never joined the Nazi Party.”

“But you’re talking about the enemy,” Leni said.

“It’s as if we had the greatest fortune of luck against him in the desert,” Boland said. 
“Totally unexplainable.”

“Yes, it’s almost as if we were reading his mail,” one of them said.

Boland tugged at her arm.  “Give up, dear, you’ll never understand us men.”

“I suppose not,” she said.  When she looked toward the door, Allan Miles was being shown in.

“Something wrong?”  Boland asked.

“I didn’t know Allan was invited.”

“I took the liberty to have a few civilians sprinkled about.  Hope you don’t mind.”

Leni caught herself.  “Why should I mind, Robert?  And who is she?” 
A tall, beautiful woman standing in a small group near the dining room doorway.

“Goli Faqiri. 
Only the richest woman in Iran.”

“And very beautiful.”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?”  Another playful tug at her elbow.  “Do make an attempt to meet her.”

“Ah, there she is,” a voice came behind them.

Leni’s face flushed as Allan Miles stepped into their circle.  “Have you spoken to Fields’s sister?  I hope I was able in some way to soften her loss.”

Boland looked up at him. 
“Fields?  What’s this about?”

“Yes, your wife was inquiring about his business here in Tehran just after his tragic death,” Miles told him, “seems his sister had written to your wife about him.”  His face seemed perplexed when he turned to Leni.  “Did you tell him about all that?”

“I didn’t think I should bother Robert about it.”

“I wish you had,” Boland insisted.

“It was nothing, dear,” Leni said.  “Allan performed admirably, and I simply sent her a short letter.  I do believe it helped her.”

“But I wish you had.”

Leni looked over her husband’s shoulder, searching for an opportunity to end the conversation, and waved.  “Mrs. Morgan.  Mrs. Morgan.  I must talk to you.”  She pulled away.  “I must leave you, two.  Sorry.”

As she walked away, Leni looked back and saw that her husband was staring at her.  It was the same look on his face as when Major Mayfield had visited him earlier in the day.

----

The room was crowded with newly arriving guests, the air stimulating with music and laughter.  The orchestra played song after song.  Sometime during one of her conversations, a man asked Leni to dance.  He danced stiffly and asked her apology for his awkwardness.  Leni laughed and forgave him as they swirled around the floor. 

When the music stopped, she planned her next move, excused herself finding her husband in the parlor.  “You’ll have to excuse me, darling.  I suddenly have a terrible headache.  You know how red wine does me sometimes.”

“Must you leave?”

She smiled and gave him a kiss.  “Be brave and try and carry on without me.”

“Can we talk about Allan Miles later?”

“Is in the morning okay, dear?”

----

Leni went upstairs to the music room. 

She turned on the radio, dialed into the BBC, and then sat on the couch.  She closed her eyes.  Radio Tehran with Persian National Society Orchestra conducted by Rouhollah Khaleghi played the haunting music of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.  She had found it to be the one of the few enjoyable things in this horrid country. 

Oh, how could she have been so careless? 

In her excitement over the last three days she had become sloppy and not covered her tracks.  Then this Mayfield had begun to meddle.  Now, Robert had grown suspicious, and she would have to come up with an excuse.  Maybe that Allan flirted with her.  That could do it.

Her thoughts then turned to the information she possessed.  What was it that she overheard in the conversation earlier?  ‘It’s almost as if we were reading Rommel’s mail.’

It all made sense now—what a wonderful fortune that a simple conversation overheard told her what she possibly possessed.  It was almost unbelievable, but it had to be true. To play it safe she knew that she should wait until morning to drive out to the site and make sure her theory was correct.  But if she was right—she had to come up with an escape route.  Once she went missing, Robert would signal an alarm that would make escape from the city difficult

But Leni had thought of that.

The supply plane.
  The one that flew in provisions for Hance’s camp . . . how often did it come in to the site?  Every six days, wasn’t it?  She calculated the days and realized that time had suddenly become a precious commodity.  That meant she had to get out to the site tonight.

----

Leni turned down the radio, waited in the dark room for a long moment, then let herself out the French doors and made her way through the shadowy garden.  She unlocked the garage, and shortly drove out with lights out into the adjacent boulevard running between the embassy garden and the cemetery.

As Leni headed away from the house only one person noticed.

Goli stood at the edge of the veranda, the red glow of a cigarette at her lips.

----

Leni sat on a box in the supply building, Fields’s documents spread out in her lap, illuminated by the light from a torch in her hand.

It had been there all the time. 

The markings on the text wasn’t editing at all.  How foolish could she have been?  Of course not, because Fields had no journalistic training.  It was an intelligence officer decoding a message for his use.  No wonder he had become so angry that night when he surprised her and walked in on her reading the papers.

‘It’s as if we were reading Rommel’s mail.’

Now she knew she was right because each fact, placed together, added up.  The communications center set up outside Tehran days before Churchill arrived.  The antennas.  The security.  Fields’s movements in the weeks preceding the all-important conference.  It could only mean one thing . . . and the thought of its possibility tightened her brain.  As farfetched as it sounded, the Allies had broken the German Intelligence code.  Everything else meant Churchill was briefed daily on the decoding.  An important matter when negotiating with the Russians.

Leni’s mind went into gear.

She had to be extremely careful with what she possessed.  Her first impulse was to send an immediate message to Berlin.  To warn them.  Then her thoughts turned . . . if she sent what she had uncovered by radio message . . . then the allies would know she had uncovered their great secret.  No, there was another way, turning disaster into advantage.  If all of this were true, then Richter would know how to use it.  German intelligence could send false information through the codes, the allies would decode it thinking it correct materials . . . and the whole matter could be twisted on them.  Massive amounts of misinformation—military movements, ship schedules, all incorrect and it could place the allied command into chaos.  No—she would go back to the villa—come up with a story to Robert about having to leave—then meet the supply plane tomorrow, seize it over the Caspian Sea, and fly into German territory.

She wrapped her arms around her as the realization struck her—she was finally going home to Georgi.  And at the same time uncover information that could possibly turn the tide of war in favor of her fatherland.  Richter would be so proud.

She jumped as the supply door opened with a fit.  Hance stood there, staring into the interior of the dark building, a revolver ready in his hand.

When he saw Leni, his face turned to one of confusion.  “What the—”

“William!”  She was instantly on her feet.  She knew she couldn’t dare tell him everything, but only as much as he needed to know.  “You won’t believe—we must send a message to Berlin.”

The revolver dropped to his side.  “It’s important?”

Leni was quickly beside him.  “Trust me, the most important message you’ve ever sent.”  She squeezed his arm.  “I’m going home, William.  I’m finally going home.”

----

Berlin.

At 1:34 in the morning, a clerk slipped into Richter’s office.  The desk lamp was the only light in the room, washing the desk with a yellowish circle.  Richter sat in front of a stack of paperwork, holding his head in his hands.  The clerk slipped the Teletype on the desk, and
silently retreated through the door.  Richter picked up the paper and read it.  When he had finished he placed the telegram down, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with open hands.

Considering the options available him, the spymaster decided the situation had not reached alarming, not yet.  He had tried to not get involved, to let his Persia scheme play out as it would.  But the latest developments could change the way his operation unfolded over the next forty-eight hours.

He may have to become involved and influence the movement of his spies.

----

Leni slipped through the French doors from the patio into her dark bedroom.  The radio was playing lowly as she closed the door behind her.  She laid the papers on the bed.  A movement in the shadows . . . “Are those Fields’s documents you stole?”

Leni stepped back, her hand at her throat.  “Robert—you almost frightened me to death.”

Boland stepped out of the dark.  With the hand holding a lit cigarette, he pointed at the papers on the bed.  “This is what your masquerade is all about, Leni?  Is this why you went to the embassy and inquired about Fields?”