A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (19 page)

“I thought it would do both of you good,” Mayfield said.  “What benefit is it to win a war if you don’t still have the woman you loved?  I think about that a lot with Maggie.”

“I didn’t know you were a romantic.”

“I’m not,” he insisted looking at him.  “But mistakes should be forgiven, Booth.”

“You think Goli was a mistake?”

“Yes—I think she’s a dreadful mistake.  She’s a beautiful and powerful woman.  I wouldn’t trust her.  But if I were you, I’d eventually trust Julia again,” he said.

Salinger stared out at the dark, brooding hills beneath the morning desert sun.  He thought about telling Mayfield what he went through every day.  Then he decided against it.

“You’re going to see her, aren’t you?” Mayfield asked.  “But what a silly question, but of course you have to.  She’s involved with the Soviets.”

Salinger said.  “We’re having a late lunch at the Hamilton Hotel.”

“Did she invite you?”

By now they had reached the sedans.  “Yes, her invitation, Major.  I received a phone call late last night.”

“In that case I think it’s a wonderful idea that you have a conversation with her.  In fact, you should have talked to her before now,” he said.  “I’ll tell you my only concern about bringing you into this affair was this matter with Goli.  I know you and she would become involved—in a business matter, of course.”

Salinger leaned against the fender.  “It should have always been business.  When it ventured into something else, that’s when she became dangerous.”

“Glad to hear you say that,” Mayfield said.  “After you’ve had lunch with Goli, let’s drive out and pay our archeological friend a visit.”

“Hance?”

“His name came up during a conversation yesterday.  It drew a strange response.  I would feel better about it all if we talked to him.

“Won’t hurt.”  Salinger pointed to the road.  “Is that the way to Shahr-e Rey?”

“About three miles I believe,” Mayfield said.  “You find that important?”

“It could be.”

“Listen Booth, I think you’ve done some admirable work in the short time you’ve been back.  You’ve begun to tie events together.” Something moved in Mayfield’s eyes, then glistened away.  “I think you should know that whatever you and I think we know at this point, there are always things we won’t know.  We have to understand the act of leaving men such as you and I in the dark
is simply part of the game.”

“We aren’t being told everything?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.  For our protection.”

Salinger stared down the road, then back at the oasis.  The British guards continued to stare at them. 
Three miles to Shahr-e Rey.  At least now it made sense to him as to where Fields was murdered.  And where he had come from when he arrived at the fatal rendezvous.

Salinger turned back to the sedan.  When he looked, Mayfield was in the back seat, pencil in hand, studying a map lying across his lap.

----

The dining room of the Hamilton Hotel was a dark place with wooden panels, ornate brass light fittings and an abundance of potted plants.  The air was thick with the smell of freshly baked breads.

Salinger sat at a table in the back of the large room, mostly empty now at this hour, watching the door.  An oil portrait of an eighteenth century ruler of Persia hanged behind him.

Goli entered the room late; Salinger remembered that she was always late.  Then she was deep in conversation with a small, wiry man who was obviously nervous.  They stopped amidst the tables where Goli finally waved him away with an open hand.  She walked toward his table.

Salinger tried to remember the last time he had seen her.  Was it at the loading station at the Tehran train station fourteen months ago?  Yes, that had to be the last time.  It was raining that morning and Salinger was departing for Baghdad.  She stood there staring at him through the rain-speckled window—her face softened and the Goli he had come to know became someone else.  As the train jerked to a start and exited out of the station, she became small in the distance.  Salinger knew that she wouldn’t wave; the indication that their betrayal was finally ending.

Goli walked up to the table.  Salinger stood.  “I wondered if you would show up,” she said.

They sat and were silent.  Salinger rotated his coffee cup in his hands.  “Honestly, I almost didn’t show up.”

“Is it that awkward for you talking to me?”  She asked.

“I’ve been busy.”

“So I understand.”

A waiter hurried over.

“Are you hungry?”  Salinger asked.

“Just tea.”

Salinger ordered tea and the waiter left.  Goli stared at him.  “Is this when we ask how each other has been doing over the last year of so?”

Salinger smiled.  “Is there really any need for that?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said.  “Have you seen Julia?”

“The night I arrived.”

“And she is well?”

“Not at all,” he said.  “She’s having a procedure tomorrow and there’s at least some hope that the deterioration can be delayed.”

“You and I created quite a mess, didn’t we?”

The waiter brought two cups of tea.  Salinger waited until he was a distance away.  “Goli, I don’t think we should talk about the past.”

She leaned back.  “Then, business it is.”

“I hear that you’ve branched out, working for the Soviets now.”

“Everyone must have a master . . . today mine is with the Soviets . . . tomorrow who knows.  But I really work for no one, Booth.  You should know that.”

“Why?”

“Why do I work with them?  Maybe I’ve figured out that they are the only ones who really know what they’re doing in the midst of all of this.  The Americans and British have made such
as mess of the war in Iran . . . almost as badly as you and I did with love.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table.  “Shepilov and his people can give me something no one else can, Booth.  It’s the only thing of importance remaining in my life, the only thing that I don’t possess.  I have wealth, companies, a beautiful villa . . . but I don’t have my husband.”

“And all this will bring him back?”

“The Soviets can give me the name of the man who ordered my husband killed.  Some people may frown on revenge, but for me it’s a worthwhile purpose.”

“Shepilov can give you that?”

“You’d be surprised how helpful he’s been.”

“I guess my question is what are you to give Shepilov in return for his information?  Besides, how would he know who plotted against your husband?”

“I’ve always had my suspicions on who was involved,” she said.  “And the Soviets are very good at what they do, Booth.”

“I’m aware they’ve been tracking the German operation,” Salinger said.  “But how is that valuable to you?”

“One never knows, does one?”  Goli asked.  “And, now you’re going to ask me if I know anything about the murder of the British officer—and before you do, the answer is no.  What do you think?” 

“It was someone Fields knew well . . . trusted,” he said.

Goli rammed the end of the cigarette into the glass ashtray on the table releasing the last of the smoke from her nose.  Her eyes softened and her voice relaxed somewhat.  She looked at her watch.  “I’m
sorry, Booth, but I have an appointment back at the office.  I’m afraid I haven’t been of much use to you.  Poor dear, you and your friends are trying to save the world and the world just won’t let you.  But don’t worry, the German operation will fail, and they will eventually lose this war . . . then you’ll be happy.”

“Goli, be careful with Shepilov.  I’ve watched him operate and sometimes it’s not pretty.”

“I have a strong stomach for some things, especially when it’s something I want,” Goli said.

“It’s all for a price.”

“Perhaps,” she said.  “Don’t ask me to explain, but there may come a time when we can both help each other.  Would you mind that?”

“If it’s business.”

The waiter started toward them, and Salinger waved him away.  Goli reached over and covered his hand with hers.  “Booth, you many not appreciate how I remember all of this between us, but let me try and explain.  Once—for a short time in our lives—we were good for each other.  All we need now is forgiveness from those we hurt.  We shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves.”

“You’re painting a good picture of something that almost destroyed three lives.”

Goli smiled and stood.  “There is one other thing I must tell you—I’ve never forgiven you for not telling me goodbye all those years ago when you left Tehran for America.”

Salinger watched her walk across the room and then out the door.  She still acted as though she owned the world.

----

The archeological site.

Hance had become very nervous with the questioning Mayfield and Salinger had submitted him through.  They were in his tent; Hance seated in a canvas chair, the two men hovering over him.  He had given them nothing new. 

“Do you have many visitors?”

“Teachers bringing their classes out, the occasional fellow scientist traveling through the area interested in our work,” he said.  “Would you be interested in a tour, Major?”

“Don’t try to humor me.  We’re aware of how deeply you’re involved in German espionage activities.”

“Were, Major.  Past tense.  I’ve learned my lesson,” he said.  “I’m now only a scientist.”

“We’ll keep our eyes on you, don’t you worry about that,” Mayfield said going to the door.  “Come on, Booth.”

“There’s one thing you haven’t thought about, Hance,” Salinger said lingering over the German.  “And it changes everything.”

“What is that?”

“There are three dead British soldiers being delivered to the morgue this morning.  Found murdered in the desert.”  Salinger let the statement sink in.  “That makes it personal with me.  Whoever is involved will hang.  You have my word on that.”             

Hance’s eyes narrowed.  “I have nothing else to say.”

As Mayfield drove out of the camp, he turned to Salinger.  “Notice anything?”

“He probably knows more than he’s telling us, I’m certain of that.  He didn’t know about the British soldiers.  That set him back a bit.” 

They were clear of the camp now and on the road back to Tehran.

Mayfield said, “We do have one piece of information we should keep in mind.”

“What?”

“Did you notice the tethers?  The type used to anchor planes?”

Salinger had missed that. 

“Archaeological sites have to receive supplies and Hance’s camp is no different.  Supplies planes delivery his necessities,” Mayfield said, satisfied with himself.  “Providing a way in . . .  a most importantly . . . a way out.  An item we won’t overlook.”

----

The phone call was waiting for Salinger when he returned to the hotel.

“It is a special wiring,” the man on the line from Zurich told him, “Installed in special communications centers.”

It makes sense, Salinger thought.  Fields was a front man sent in before Churchill.  It made perfect sense that his purpose was to set up some type communications center so he could receive information once he arrived in Tehran.  Was it for Roosevelt also?

“I have something else for you—no additional monies.  The wiring is designed for a special type of machine.”  When he told Salinger the term, the word meant nothing to him.  They hung up six minutes later.

Salinger looked at the clock.  4:32.

Then he glanced down at the note he had written. 
Typex?  Cipher?

----

Goli got several meetings out of the way once she returned to the office.  She informed her secretary that she must leave at 4:30.  During the third meeting in which there was a discussion concerning the finances of the shipping company headquartered in Damghan, the secretary slipped into the room with a note reminding Goli of the time.  Goli dismissed the meeting, hesitated at the secretary’s desk, signing several documents that had to make the evening post.

Eight minutes later when Goli walked out of the building, her prized roadster was pulled up to the curb.  She turned left on Valiasr Avenue and headed out of the city toward her villa.

----

Operational Intelligence Centre.
  Cairo.

Wren wireless operator Belva Sinclair was nearing the end of a draining nine-hour shift.  Weariness ached at her back like a dull toothache.  And her neck always hurt her after her shift.  But she had more on her mind that being tired this afternoon. 

For three years, ever since she had transferred from Codes and Ciphers to OIC, she had respectfully done her job.  Intercepting enemy ship messages.  Monitoring German planes.  But honestly it had all become rather boring since Rommel made a run for it.

The problem was her husband, Lonnie—Belva feared he was seeing another woman, running around on her he was, the dirty bum.  He had never been the same since he came back from Dunkirk with a badly shattered leg and had started drinking heavily.  In the days before she was assigned to Cairo, his hours and habits became erratic.  By the time she had departed London, he had totally withdrawn.  At first Belva thought it was because she was leaving.  But the letters
from him had stopped arriving over a month ago.  That’s when she first suspected.  Or knew . . . call it women’s intuition.  The nerve of that man after all she had done for him.  She was the one who worked sometimes two shifts for Intelligence at a time when the war was going badly.

Suddenly her headset crackled and came to life, breaking Belva from her thoughts.  But it wasn’t the Germans.  It was the telephone line from the Tehran hotel room.  A light lit up on top of the telephone.

She flipped the switch on the control panel in front of her, opening up the line to her headset voices.  Two voices.

Belva grabbed a writing pad while concentrating on the conversation, and at the same time studying the list of key words she was to listen for.  No one had told her the reason, but since she had been assigned the line to eaves drop, Belva had deduced that the line was indeed in a hotel, the man was obviously American, and he was talking to someone with a thick European accent.

The conversation lasted eight minutes.

When the line went dead, she removed her headset, leaned back in the chair studying the pad listing the words she was to listen for.  She had marked one word:
Typex
.

Belva wrote out the date and time in red ink on the top of the message.  For a long time she leaned on her elbows at the desk.  Lonnie had always had an eye for her sister.  That would be a sorry mess, wouldn’t it?

She picked up another telephone behind her.  After several rings a voice.  “Captain’s office.”

“This is controller three, sir.”

“Good evening . . .”

“It’s the monitored line I’m calling about, sir.  Our subject may finally be up to something.  Last conversation came in several minutes ago.  I picked up a keyword during the discussion.”

“What word is that?”

She told him.

Hesitation.  A long breathe.  “I’ll be right there.”  The line went dead.

----

The Fox.

The soldiers were seated at the table out front of the pub in anticipation of her arrival when the roadster came around the curve.  “Just like clockwork right on time,” one of the soldiers whispered.  Corporal Elliott had just come out of the dark, cool interior of the bar and was standing at the door.

“Look at her run,” another one said.

It was late afternoon and the sun was still hot.  Several of the soldiers shielded their eyes with open hands.  The roadster stirred dust off in the distance and then very quickly she was upon them.

But something was different this time.  The roadster, instead of blowing past . . . slowed.  “My . . . she’s stopping at The Fox,” someone said lowly . . . and then the roadster pulled onto the sand and right up to the table.

Goli got out and stood just outside the door, stretched, and stared at the soldiers.  She walked up and pointed at the motorcycle.  “May I ask whose machine that is?”

Elliott leaned against the doorway, beer in hand.  For a moment he didn’t say anything.  The soldiers at the table looked back at him.  “Now’s your chance, Warren . . . don’t blow it,” one of them whispered.

He waited another moment.  “It’s mine,” he said righting
himself from the doorframe and walking toward her.

Goli smiled.  “It’s a beautiful machine.”

“And you have a beauty yourself.”

“I’d like to make a deal.  If I come by one afternoon, say about the same time, would you entertain a trade?  I get to drive your machine, and you get to drive mine?”

Elliott returned the smile, absolutely shocked at his good fortune.  “I think we can arrange that.”

“Excellent,” Goli said, “Within the next day or so?”

“You do that, Mrs.—”

“Faqiri.
  And I’m not married soldier.  Widowed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Goli felt the eyes on her when she turned and got back in the roadster.  She started the motor, pulled out of the sand.  When she reached the road she gave the machine full throttle satisfied her elaborate plan was set in motion.  

Silence enveloped the soldiers, like they had been in the presence of a royalty, until the roadster was well down the road.  Then the catcalls began, and the congratulatory slaps on the back. 

“You’re one lucky soldier, Corporal Warren Elliott,” the private said.

As the last signs of the dust settled across the road, Elliott had to admit he agreed with them.  But then, he had always been blessed.
             

----

Mayfield sat his British legation desk overlooking the river.  To his left, a window was filled with a featureless sky.

Before him on the desk was a single sheet of paper, delivered by courier routed from Operational Intelligence Centre.  His forehead tightened.  The people in Cairo had been very
attentive, passing on information presenting a problem for him.  Salinger had drawn closer to the flame than he, or anyone had expected.

If Salinger had learned about Typex, which he apparently had, then the timetable should be moved up.

After another ten minutes, Mayfield had sorted through his options.  Really, there was only one viable option laying before them now.  When could they trust Salinger?  What happened in Isafahan would tell them. 

Mayfield picked up the telephone. 

“Yes, Wiggins, would you ring up the Prime Minister’s residence for me?”

----

“Darling, do you know Major Mayfield?”  Colonel Boland came in the room from the kitchen area.  “By the way . . . I don’t believe there’s going to be enough shrimp.  Do you?”

Maids were busy scuffling around the house, arranging flowers, and polishing furniture.  Leni left the flower arrangement she was adjusting and hugged his arm.  “You always worry, dear.  Your friends will be well taken care of tonight.”

“I hope so,” he said looking around worriedly.

“Did you ask me a question?”

“Yes, a Major Mayfield.  Have you ever heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have.
  Should I?”

“I just received a phone call from the embassy.  He’s on his way over and wants to talk to me this afternoon.  Just barging in like this without any consideration.”

“You aren’t in trouble, are you?”  Leni asked.

Boland grunted.  “Oh, of course not, probably something about security or something of that nature.  He seemed a worrisome sort of fellow when I met him the other day.”

Leni stopped arranging a doily on a side table.  An alarm clicked in the back of her mind.  “So, you know him?”

“Actually, no,” he said.  “I attended a meeting several days ago and he was there.  But he did seem like a fellow who seems to worry a lot.”

She didn’t want to act suspicious.  “What does he do?”

“One of those MI5 men who believe everyone is a blasted spy.  I for one can’t figure out where they get them.  But they all come from the same barrel as far as I’m concerned.”  Boland appeared puzzled.  “Oddest thing though.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but he asked our Intelligence people to back off and allow the Soviets to capture some German agents rambling around the city.”

“That does seem strange,” Leni said.

A knock on the door stopped them.

As one of the maids walked to the door, Boland said, “I suppose that’s him.  Better get this over with.  What time do the guests begin arriving?”

“The invitation stated six o’clock.”

Boland looked at his pocket watch.  “Then I should get rid of him rather quickly.” 

“I’m going upstairs,” Leni said.  “I want to lie down for a while before the party.”

Boland kissed her on the cheek.

Leni went halfway up the stairs, hesitated, and then came back down quickly out of sight and toward to the end of the hallway, when she heard her husband’s booming voice:  “Major Mayfield, good to see you again.”

She glanced back to see if anyone had seen her.  Then, once inside her art study, made her way through the silhouettes of canvasses and tables, and to a small storage closet.  She stepped into the narrow room, lined with shelves of paints, brushes, and canvasses. 

When the room was converted into a study last year, a bit of fortune had given her this secret place where she could hide and overhear conversations held in her husband’s office.  Several pieces of information had been passed onto Berlin.

Leni dared not turn on the light as she reached for a blanket hanging on the back wall.  She found the small hole she had carved months ago with a paring knife.  She peered through and saw the men sitting at her husband’s desk.  Her husband faced her, his features drawn and serious.  Leni saw the back of Mayfield’s head, reddish, chaffed skin on the back of his neck.  She strained to hear their conversation.