A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (26 page)

Salinger leaned back in his chair.

“The greatest secret of the war, Mr. Salinger,” Churchill reaffirmed.  “Once military history is written on this great conflict in which we are embroiled, Ultra will be defined as decisive, sir.  Let me give you an example so you don’t think I’m overstating the value of such a treasure.  At El Alamein, when we were attempting to shift the tide against Rommel, victory was vital because Operation Torch, the invasion of North Africa, was imminent.  General Montgomery, our commander in the field, had the advantage of many times knowing facts sent from Berlin before the German generals themselves had access to them.  Decoded transcripts reached our general staff within an average of twelve hours.  Montgomery, being an early riser, sometimes read Rommel’s reports from Hitler before the German general had read them.”             

Churchill stood and walked across the room and finally leaned against the opposite wall, his hands cupped together behind him. “Enigma transcripts gave us the edge in North Africa and it will again when we invade Europe,” he said.  “We simply cannot allow Traveler to leave Tehran with the suspicion of Ultra.”  Churchill paused.  “Can you forgive us for not trusting you fully in this manner, Mr. Salinger?”

Salinger didn’t answer.

Churchill glanced over his glasses.  “If you were a betting man, major, would you give our enemy a high level of success of escaping?”

“I would have until the last several days, sir.”

Churchill glanced at Mayfield.

“Salinger has . . . worked a deal with Soviet Intelligence,” he said.  “He traded a man sought by one of their agents for the name of Traveler.”

“Do you trust them, Salinger?”

“At this point we don’t have a choice.”

Churchill blanched and his eyes narrowed.  “Then let me tell you I will offer any resources necessary, anything in my power, sacrifice whatever required.  Simply stop them, gentlemen.  The world depends on us to keep Ultra a secret.”

After a long moment Churchill turned and walked wearily to the door.  When he turned suddenly, Churchill struck that pose that Salinger had seen so many times in the newspapers and newsreels.  Cigar clenched unyieldingly between in his teeth, the weary shoulders slumped.  The tough stare on his face. Finally, he raised his open hand to them.

“There will always be spies in the shadows, gentlemen.  And it will always be up to us to stop
their evil work,” he offered softly, the power gone from his words.

Then he disappeared into the dark hallway.

----

Villa delle Rose.
  Colico, Italy. Northern Lake Como.

Walter Bredow sat in a deckchair under the shade in a garden, well-kept with enormous ancient pines and bushes.  He had been treated politely since his arrival, even allowed to take his breakfast outside in the pleasant air.  In the distance he could see the beaches as the morning fog lifted.

Beside him in the other chair sat the diplomatic pouch.

Bredow arrived at the villa the night before, arriving in
Bellano by train shortly after ten o’clock.  He had been driven the fifteen kilometers to the village of Colico by a woman identifying herself as Penny.  Tall and thin with a stone face and she spoke very little. 

He had been shown to his room a double bedroom with wardrobe, bedside tables and Chester draws.  Despite his anxiety, he fell asleep quickly and woke up the next morning rested.

A man walked out of the house and across the lawn toward him.  He was small-framed, with a heavily tanned face, clipped mustache, and dark wavy hair.  Offering his hand when he came close, Bredow stood and shook it.

“Coulter is my name, Mr. Bredow,” he said.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night, but I was detained.  Business, you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, that’s right . . . you and I are in the same business . . . in a way.”

“Yes, in a way.”

Coulter placed his hand in a coat pocket.  “Well, then.  Mr. Salinger asked that you be taken good care of until his matters are concluded.  You brought the papers?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.  He took the pouch from the chair and handed them to Coulter.

The British agent opened the top and flipped through the papers.  Satisfied, he said, “no reason we shouldn’t get along.  You’ve done what was asked of you,” he said.  “We’ll try and make your stay as pleasant as possible.”

“Any idea how long I’ll be here?”

The smile was quickly gon
e.  “When Mr. Salinger’s matter in Tehran is concluded.”

-Twenty-Six-

Tehran.

Leni stood at the lobby desk of the Hotel Darbund—the proprietor was pro German, nothing left to chance—all part of a carefully designed plan she had rehearsed in her mind a hundred times.  A message sent so Richter would know for certain that the message originated from her.  A telegram sent to Berlin would draw curious attention.  A telegram sent to Paris was another matter.  Leni wrote out the note on a pad.  ‘The weather here is unbearable—when may I return to Paris?
Daughter’.

“Send this please.”

The clerk read the message, frowning and looking through the doors at the cloudless day.  He shrugged.  “Certainly.”

Leni left the lobby and took the elevator to the third floor.  She unlocked the door to Room 306 and stepped in, finding Hance sitting nervously at the desk.  He wore a sand-colored suit and had the smell of the desert on him.

“Go to the camp and pack your things, William.  Retrieve the telegram once the response is sent back here at the hotel.  Then meet me at the Naderi Guesthouse on Jobhouri Street.”

“I’ve come this far with you,” he said.  “I’d like to see it out to its end.”

“You’ve been very helpful, William.”

She looked at him and wondered if he had any idea he was being used.  Or had the fact that he had fallen in love with her blinded his reasoning?               

“Are you going out?”

“I have to go somewhere.  The response from Berlin will dictate our plans, William.  We have to be ready for several routes of escape.”

She went to him and kissed him.

Then she watched him leave through the door.

----

Hance had departed for his beloved archeological site.  Even with the importance of their mission, he had things to be taken care of.  Many of his antiquities were being prepared for shipment to Egypt. 

Leni waited, and then she went down to the street where the Chevrolet coupe was parked.

----

Kargar Street. 

The brief afternoon rain had turned the streets a dull biscuit color as Leni sat in the Chevrolet parked across from the train station.  She had sent the last twenty minutes committing to memory the surroundings.  She would close her eyes, and then she would start over again.  Straight ahead, beyond circular Raah Ahan Square was the train station, a vast building with a red tile roof.  Directly behind her fronting Behdari Street was the hospital.  And to the right was the Spanish Embassy, secure behind a black wrought-iron fence.  Running beside the street between the hospital and the embassy, where the fence ended, then a stonewall began. 

The stonewall
would be the shortest route between the embassy and the train station, avoiding the flow of the traffic.  Items not important to the casual citizen.

Except if one was escaping from Tehran.

----

Goli was upstairs in the villa in front of the radio set.  She had received the message sent out twenty minutes earlier. 

She had played this out as long as she dared.  It was time to put everything she had waited for into action and seek her revenge on the men who had ruined her life.  Picking up the telephone she dialed the Palace Hotel.  She asked for Salinger’s room and was informed that he had left the hotel.  When she had a moment to think about it, Goli realized that this way would probably be better.  “Please give Mr. Salinger this message when he returns.”

“Yes, go ahead, please,” the clerk told her.

“Leni Boland.”

“That’s the message?”

“Yes.  Please make certain he receives it the moment he arrives.”  Then she replaced the receiver in its cradle.  The clock on the wall read ‘3:24’.  It was too early.

Now the hardest part.

Waiting.

----

Berlin.

At shortly after two o’clock, Frick knocked and came in Richter’s office.  His face was drawn as he sat heavily in the chair.

“Leni Capek’s son died this morning.”

Richter held his head in his hands.  He had always managed to remain detached from the agents he sent out.  Poor decisions were made when men let unnecessary feelings slip in, especially now that the end game in Tehran was so close.  But in Leni’s case he imagined his carefully placed agent’s mindset if she learned of such a thing.  During the next twenty-four hours she had to
operate with a clear and precise mind.  He also knew that the last thing he would allow would be to let himself carry any personal burden right now.  That would only jeopardize the mission.               

“We have received her message through Paris and she’s waiting on a response.” Frick asked.  ‘Should we let her know?”

For a long time Richter stared out the window.  All the information, the birth of his plot, the efforts, the sleepless nights . . . now . . . as his death lingered so closely—glorious success was at hand.

He leaned back to his paperwork before him on the desk.  Without looking up, he answered.  “There’s no advantage of letting her know at this point, Frick.  Please send the response I dictated to you earlier.”

-Twenty-Seven-

5:22 p.m.

Mayfield’s staff car dropped Salinger off in front of the Palace Hotel.  He walked in and was halfway through the lobby when the clerk behind the desk called out for him.

Salinger stepped over to the desk.

“A message, sir.”

“Did you see who delivered it?”

  “It wasn’t hand delivered, sir, but phoned in twenty minutes ago with instructions to deliver to you the moment you came in.”  He handed Salinger an envelope.

Inside a single sheet of paper gave him what he and Mayfield had been looking for.  Leni Boland.  Traveler!

Salinger broke for the door and ran out onto the street and reached the corner just as the staff car swung through a right turn.  He yelled out and saw Mayfield’s surprised face draw close to the glass.  The sedan stopped abruptly and Mayfield was half way out the door.  “My God, son, what is it?”

“Goli kept her word,” Salinger sucked for air.  “She has given us Traveler.’

----

Corporal Warren Elliott stood at the bar finishing off his third beer when Goli walked in.

She was dressed in a white blouse, open at the throat, and dark slacks and high brown boots.  Her hair was pulled back tightly away from her face, tied in a knot.  She walked up to him with a cool stare.  “Ready for our ride, Corporal?” 

He sat the beer down on the bar.  “I’m ready if you are.”

----

They headed east on the highway toward an oasis Goli had suggested.  She had even planned out the route they were riding and the destination.

But even Goli had to admit that for a while, as she pulled away from the pub and opened the machine up out on the road, her purpose diminished.  She was riding a beautiful machine.  And when she twisted the throttle, the motor responded instantly, vibrating as it delivered an exhilarating burst of speed.  In the mirror, she saw the roadster, slipping farther behind.

Five miles up the road, Leni leaned into the curve and then took a dirt road that led another two hundred yards to a gathering of fir trees.  She drove the motorcycle over a hill, out of sight from the road.  Pulling up beneath one of the trees, she killed the motor and waited.

Soon, the roadster came over the hill and the soldier pulled beneath the tree.  Elliott got out grinning widely.   “What a beauty?  What will she top out at?”

“I’ve had it up to a hundred on the road to Kazvin.”

“Oh, she’s better than that,” he said strutting toward her.  “Bet she’s do hundred-twenty any day.”  He stopped and looked around.  “Is this your secret place?”

“In a way it is.”  Goli sat in the sand on the side of the hill.  “The machine—would you sell her?”