A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (8 page)

-Six-

Tehran.

“And why are you interested in Major Benjamin Fields, Mrs. Boland?”  Allen Miles, chief civilian embassy officer, sat opposite Leni across his desk.  He was tall, light brown hair combed perfectly, intelligent eyes and a precise analytical mind—except when he was in her presence.  Then, he became a foolish schoolboy.

Leni knew Miles actually considered himself a good friend of her husband, and he sometimes carefully plotted out schemes to flirt with her at embassy gatherings.  Her husband considered Miles one of those ‘undisciplined civilians’ he had to deal with during conducting embassy business.

Later, she would drive out to the archeological site and with the help of William Hance forward a coded message to the radio center at Wannsee informing Richter of her suspicions.  She would also inform them of the notes on the itinerary.  But for now, she wanted to learn as much about Fields as possible.  Allen Miles could unknowingly assist her.

“It’s his sister in London, I’m afraid,” Leni said.  “The poor dear, we met when she came here for a visit and I don’t suppose she has anyone else to turn to, with her brother’s death—”

“Horrible affair,” Miles said quickly.

“Yes . . . well, the poor sister it seems she’s attached herself to me during her loss, sending two telegrams overflowing with grief.  It was all very sad, which makes me believe she has questions about what duties her brother was performing for the government.”

“Understandable,” Miles said.  “I lost a brother at Dunkirk.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that,” Leni said.

“Time has put some distance on it, still there are times I can’t help but think of Donald.  He was a fantastic cricket player . . . I was always so jealous of his talents.”  Leni waited on him.  “So, I guess it’s the best we can do for the poor sister, don’t you think?” he asked.

“She would appreciate it,” Leni said.  “And I would appreciate it also, Allan.”

Miles stood gallantly.  “Then I won’t disappoint her . . . or you, Leni.  Come back to my office tomorrow and I’ll see what I can find out for her.”

“One other question, does the initials ‘SLU’ mean anything to you?”

He hesitated at the corner of the desk.  “No, don’t think so.  Should it?”             

“There was mention of it in some of the Major’s papers.  His sister thought perhaps it was a friend.  Probably nothing.”

“Probably.”

As Leni stood, Miles came across the desk.  She offered her hand, and he gladly took it.  “Thank you, Allan.”  She let her hand brush his forearm when she turned toward the door. “Say, two o’clock tomorrow?  Most of my morning is occupied.”

“Certainly.”

Leni could feel his eyes on her when she left.

----

Back at home Leni performed the obvious duties of a British officer’s wife.  For the remainder of the morning she supervised the pruning back of the dried flowers in the front yard.

After a late lunch, Leni was in the kitchen supervising dinner being prepared for the colonel.  It was Wednesday and that was always a special day.  A unique Iranian meal was prepared and they would entertain two couples with drinks, dinner, and then playing bridge until ten o’clock.  A boring affair for Leni, except that at times during the conversation, there were bits of information worth passing on to Berlin.

----

Late afternoon.

For most of the first half of the twentieth century, except for the long-term monopoly on excavations held by the French, Iran was still terra incognita archeologically. 

But with the opening of archaeological excavations in Persia, the German Intelligence Organization seized upon the excellent opportunity.  With blind funds provided by false organizations through universities, the Abwehr set up agents—legitimate scientists—at valid historical sites from which they could keep an eye on the allies.

One such site was just south of the large Islamic city of
Rayy, twenty-five miles from Tehran, with its crumbling fortifications rising above the flat dry plains.  William Hance, long-respected archaeologist, classical music lover—and agent of the Abwehr—headed the dig project.

----

Leni made her usual grand entrance into the archaeological camp; flying in with the Chevrolet’s motor whining, dust boiling in huge clouds behind the sedan.  She slid to a dramatic halt between a permanent wooden hut for securing supplies and a large canvas tent.

A dust-coated black Simca Cinq, the French version of the Fiat, was parked at the front of the tent.  Leni knew that other than the archaeological site and his new GE Musaphonic Radio Phonograph, the Simca was one of Hance’s prized possessions.

She exited the car and walked between the two tents.  A biplane with ‘Iranian Expedition’ stenciled on the side by the door, sat off to the right tethered to the ground.  In front of the plane by the engine, a pilot in Khaki slacks and a leather flight jacket squatted.  Eyes hidden behind reflector flight glasses, he glanced at her, and then turned back to the motor.

Leni pulled back the tent flap.

“Leni.  Leni.”

She turned and saw William Hance waving and strolling up the hill.

Her archeologist never wasted an opportunity to relate the story that since the age of five as a boy in Hamburg he knew he was to be a scientist.  In December 1923 Hance went to England and studied at Cambridge University, until he received his Ph.D. in 1928.  The next year he moved to America and studied anthropology.  He returned to Europe two years later, became interested in Persian archaeology during a mesmerizing trip to Iraq in 1932, and had the opportunity to work on the Sasanian Palace excavations.  Among the magical world of semiprecious stones, ceramics, and elegant alabaster vessels, Hance found his life’s calling.  But there was another purpose burning just as passionately within, introduced by an uncle.

The Abwehr recruited him, certain that archaeological sites would be an adequate cover for their operations in Persia.  In 1941 when the roundup of German citizens began in Iran, Hance and his wife, Evana, were on the list.

Evana, wearing a disguise, fled to the neutral country of Turkey across the Kurd Mountains.  She sought assistance from the German consulate while Hance went underground for a time.  Evana made her way to Germany and elected to remain there.  When the Nazis invaded Poland, they captured the radio station in Warsaw and Evana Hance broadcast accounts of Hitler’s successes in the field.

The archeologist walked up to Leni and took her hand.  He had a hard raw-boned face, with quiet blue eyes.  “Here in the middle of the day, Leni?  What a pleasant surprise.”

“I simply couldn’t go another day without seeing my favorite scientist,” Leni said.

“But it’s so hot,” Hance said, removing his hat and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief from his back pocket.  “Come,” he said taking her arm.  “The tent is much cooler.”

They went in and he pulled two canvas chairs closer to the wooden table.  “A drink?”

“Just tea, thank you.”

Hance went to a table and prepared two glasses of tea.  He handed one to Leni.  Then he went to the phonograph in the corner.  When he walked back and took his chair beside her, classical music filled the tent.

Leni asked, “I’ve never seen that plane before.”

“Because you’ve probably not been here on Wednesdays.  The pilot flies our supplies in once a week from Turkey.  From the city of Bitlis, I believe.”

A schedule to store in the back of her mind, Leni reasoned.  “The dig, how is it going?”

“Some interesting finds.  The site has given us objects of the third and first millennium.  My largest concern isn’t the validity of the site, but our funding is drying up.”  He sighed.  “It’s a shame science must always depend on monies from the very world who sometimes doesn’t understand us.”

Leni was aware the Abwehr had shifted funds to his site through several innocent-enough appearing corporations in Belgium and two major universities.  “Are you discussing the companies . . . or our friends in Berlin?”

“Does it really matter?  They don’t look at excavations such as these like they should.  Ancient history.  Sacred sites.  No—for them it’s always motive that promotes their sacred reason, either for financial gain, or building up their museums, or—”

“I don’t think I’d speak ill of our friends, William.”

He rubbed at his eyes.  “It’s all the same.”

She had seen him like this before.  Today he was hot and tired and all he wanted was the cool of the tent and his classical music, compositions that transported him back to beloved Hamburg.  Tomorrow he would uncover some relic in one of those ditches, and he would spend the remainder of the daylight kneeling over it brushing away a thousand years of dust.  But Hance served another purpose for Leni.

“I’ll need to use the transmitter, William.  We need to send an important radio message to Wannsee.”

He looked up at her.  “Not until six.  They wouldn’t be expecting us until then.  We must follow the rules.”

“Six is fine, William,” she said lighting a cigarette and stared at him. 

‘Is there something wrong, Leni?”

“Nothing is wrong.  As a matter of fact, things couldn’t be better.  You and I are on the verge of uncovering information the Allies certainly wouldn’t want us to know.”

“You have uncovered secrets?”  He always loved to compare himself at the dig uncovering relics to her task of uncovering allied secrets.

“Really important, though I haven’t sorted it all out yet.”

“How did you get it?”

“A British officer has . . . loaned it to me for safe keeping.”

A smile widened his face.  “Then how do you know what it contains?”

“Call it instinct, William.  A paper here, a note there—” She stood and turned on her heels.  “But I could be wrong.”

“I don’t think you are.  I really believe in you.  But we’ll have to wait until—”

“Six, I know.”  Leni was standing dangerously close to him.

Then, she moved even closer.  “I’ll wait.  After all, the Colonel isn’t expecting me back until late afternoon.”

-Seven-

Berlin. 

At ten o’clock the next morning Richter entered a dreary building on the
Prinz Albrechtstrasse, a four-story modern building once a Jewish old people’s home until October 1941 when it was converted into Foreign Intelligence headquarters.  Surrounded by vegetable gardens and blocks of apartments, only a flagpole on top of the roof gave away that the structure now served a government function. 

SS Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg had requested his presence and Richter knew the game.  He would arrive early, and then wait. 

It was almost an hour later when Richter was shown into Schellenberg’s huge, elegantly furnished study.  The general sat behind a mahogany desk, glancing up when the spymaster entered.  The thirty-three-year-old head of foreign intelligence looked haggard and overworked, coffee-colored bags swelled beneath his eyes.  His skin was a dull gray.  It was reported that Schellenberg worked fourteen to sixteen hour days. 

“Please have a seat, Colonel.”

To the left of the desk was a small table holding telephones and microphones connecting Schellenberg directly with Hitler’s chancellery and Himmler’s office.  Against the far wall was his private safe where he kept files on his personal agents.  The whole room was bugged, every word automatically recorded on tape, and protected by photoelectric alarm system.  Beneath the desk two automatic machine guns were built in and could be activated with the push of a button.

Schellenberg came from around the desk and sat in a tapestry chair beside Richter.  He crossed his legs, removed a pack from his coat pocket and lit a cigarette.  “I’ve always found your background of teaching mathematics interesting.  But I believe I know what draws a person such as you to the puzzles of numbers—the absolute certainty of the figures.”

“There was is only one correct answer to a problem in my previous profession, sir.”

“As it is with our occupation of information gathering, Colonel.  Just as one can only conclude one answer for a mathematical formula, you and I draw but one logical conclusion from the information we work so hard to possess,” he said.  “Which brings me to the point I want us to discuss, Colonel.  I believe it’s time we are honest with one another.”

“I’ve always considered trust to exist between us, sir.”