A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (27 page)

“Never in a million years,” he said plopping down beside her, “but perhaps a trade.”

“That may be arranged.”  Goli touched his arm.  “This ride I’ve arranged isn’t at all about machines.”

“It isn’t?”

She smiled.  “And you know better, soldier.  There’s something about a man in a uniform.  Always has been.  And—there’s something about you.”

Elliott stared at her, a strange look on his face, as if his greatest dream was unfolding.  “Well . . . I’m certainly glad about that.”

“I’ve prepared a picnic for us if you’d like that.”

He lay back on the sand and coupled his hands behind his head.  “Why, I haven’t been on a picnic with a beautiful lady since I left England.”

Goli placed a hand on her hip.  “Why, Corporal, are you coming on to me?”

“I know that’s not a proper thing to do with a proper lady in this country.”

“And who said I was a proper lady?”

He leaned up on one elbow, staring at her.

“I’ve packed the picnic in the trunk,” Goli said, “If you’d be so kind as to get it out.”

Elliott jumped to his feet and went to the back of the roadster.  He opened the trunk.  While he leaned in for the wicker basket, Leni bent over into the back floorboard and grabbed the tire iron she had placed there.  She hid it behind her and walked to the rear of the roadster.  Elliott lit a cigarette and sat the bag at his feet.

She had disliked him from the first, this pompous British soldier, so killing him would be no problem for her.  Still, something deep inside gave her no desire for him to suffer.

“Ready?”  He knelt over the basket.

Goli stepped in close behind.  Suddenly, he twisted around. 

The first blow crushed the back of his skull, and he staggered as his legs gave way.  The second blow was meant to finish the matter and Goli struck him with a powerful blow across the top of the skull, and immediately dropped him to his knees.  But she had missed her mark by inches, delivering only a glancing blow.  He tilted his head up and glanced awkwardly at her.  Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, his eyes constricted and milked over.

Goli stood over him, gathered momentum in her swing and drove the tire iron across his face.  Bones cracked as metal drove through soft flesh.  He tumbled face down on the desert floor.  He convulsed violently once, and then he laid still, his long legs flayed out at an awkward angle.

Her stomach tossed hotly, and she turned away to gather herself.

In another moment, Goli’s nerves calmed, and she set about finishing her task.

She sat him up and squatted behind him.  Then she locked her arms beneath his arms and lifted with all her might against the dead weight without success.  Goli stood over the body until another idea came to her.  She rolled him toward the trunk until his upper body rested on the edge and held him there for a long moment, catching her breath.  Then she hooked her arms beneath his legs and gave him a shove.  He slipped into the trunk with a thud.  She picked up the tire tool and tossed it in on top of him.

She was covered with sweat and dirt.  The rush of the kill had left her and she had suddenly become weary.  But only one more thing to do and it would be finished here.

Inside the back door on the floorboard, she took out a five-gallon can of petrol.  She walked around the roadster several times dousing it with fuel.  She poured the remainder over his body and closed the trunk.  From her pocket, she took a cigarette lighter Salinger gave her as a present in Bern.  One flick and it was lit.  And she tossed it under the roadster.

Goli stepped back and at that instant, beneath a swirling wind, her beautiful roadster caught fire, flames boiling skyward.  Goli went and sat on the motorcycle.  Sadness tugged at her heart for that moment as she reflected on the things she had sacrificed.  But she forced such thoughts away.  There was the business of avenging her husband’s death to deal with.

She kicked the machine start pedal and the motor roared to life.

One last glance over her shoulder at the scorching flames and she was headed away.  She had reached the road when a thought came to her as to whether Shepilov should live or die.  In his own way he would unknowingly divert Salinger and Mayfield if they confronted him.  For that reason she would let the Russian live, she decided.

The roadster’s gasoline tank blew as she headed the motorcycle toward the villa.

Goli never looked back again.

----

An elderly native servant met Salinger and Mayfield at the door of Boland’s home.  They identified themselves.  “Neither one of them are in, sir,” she answered Mayfield’s inquest.  “There was a party her last night, sir.  It is not unusual for Mr. Boland to sleep in the next day.”

“Any phone calls for the Colonel?”

“Yes, sir.
  Several this morning.”

“From the office?”

“Certainly.  About the time he departs for his office.”

Mayfield turned to Salinger.  “Then he was expected.” 
Back to the maid.  “And the lady?”

“She was up at her normal hour.  Had breakfast and then went upstairs to pack.”

“Traveling?  Did she tell you where she was going?”

“She told me that she was leaving the city for several days.”

Mayfield stiffened.  “Then you haven’t been upstairs this morning?”

“Why no, sir, I didn’t see any need—”

Mayfield bolted through the door and past the startled woman.  “Come on,” he yelled over his shoulder.  Salinger followed closely as Mayfield ran up the stairs.  At the top of the stairs Mayfield yelled at the maid who was halfway up.  “Which is the Colonel’s bedroom?”

“First on the right, sir.”

Mayfield knocked at the door.  No answer.  Salinger tried the door and it came open.  They stepped in.  The bed was undisturbed.  “Not slept in.”  Mayfield turned to the maid now at the door, her hand at her throat.

“And the lady’s room?”

“Just across the hall.”

Brushing past her again, he ran to the door across the hall, and knocked loudly. “Mrs. Boland.  Mrs. Boland.” 

“I told you she had departed this morning.”

Mayfield twisted the handle.  “Do you have a key?”

“Yes, sir,” she cried out, reaching in her pocket.  She came forward and unlocked the door.  When she started in, Mayfield put a hand out.  “Wait here.”

The sweet smell of death hit them as they stepped in. 

Colonel Robert Boland lay face up on the bed, an absurd amount of blood pooled beneath him.  His skin was drained and gray.

The maid wept at the door.

“What a horrible mess,” Mayfield whispered.

Salinger stepped forward and stood over the body.  Boland stared with dead eyes.  He touched the forearm, finding the skin cold.  “He’s be
en dead for most of the night.”

Mayfield turned to the maid.  “What time did the lady leave?”

The maid was crying openly now, covering her face with a handkerchief.

“Maybe we should step out,” Salinger said.

When they were in the hall, Mayfield her asked again, “It’s important that we know exactly when the lady departed.”

“It must have been around nine,” she said barely able to control herself, her voice trembling. 
“The poor Colonel, who would have done such a thing?  Oh, I pray the lady is okay.”

Salinger and Mayfield looked at each other.  “Her movements, think—this morning, be more precise.”

She hesitated, collecting herself.  “The lady went upstairs after breakfast and packed, leaving her luggage outside the front door.”

“Anything unusual about that?”

“No sir.  Then one of the men took it to the garage.”

“Go on.”

“Well, that’s exactly what happened.  Janis, the butler, came and retrieved the luggage and placed it in the lady’s automobile in the garage.  The lady came down at around ten.”

“Anything odd about that?”

“No, sir, not at all.  She was in a good mood.  She even thought it humorous telling me the Colonel would be sleeping in after the party.” 

While she was relating the facts, Mayfield was back at the door peering in to the bedroom.  “I’ll inform our people to send for the police and the proper authorities to look after the colonel, Salinger.  I’ll meet you at the garage.”

They went downstairs and once out the front door, Mayfield walked to the street where the other sedan waited.  Salinger asked the maid, “What is the best way to reach the garage?”

“That way—around the corner.”
  She looked shyly.  “Must I go with you?”

“No, there’s no need for that.  You can wait here, but still close by.  The major may have some more questions for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

Salinger went around the corner as he had been directed and through a thick garden that lay between the house and the boulevard.  Then he went through a gate in the back brick wall where brick steps then led him to the double door garage.  The right door was ajar, and Salinger opened it wider.  He found the light switch just inside on the frame. 

The empty garage smelled of oil and gasoline.  Along the back wall was a series of storage drawers and several larger doors that ran from the floor and opened into deeper closets.

It was inside one of those that Salinger found her luggage.

“What’s that?”  Mayfield was standing at the open door.  His face had changed.

Salinger pulled the luggage out of the closet, arranging them on the dirt floor.  “She went to the bother of packing, having the luggage loaded—then took it all out before leaving.”

“Part of her brilliant charade,” Mayfield ran his fingers along the top of the larger piece of luggage.  “We can hope that she thinks her only option is to leave with the secret.  Ultra tells her that we’re reading the German’s messages with breathtaking efficiency.  Maybe she believes that her superiors won’t believe her without proof.”

“Field’s papers?”

“If I were to venture a guess, yes, meaning she’ll try to get out of Tehran.”

“How will she do that?”

Mayfield grimaced.  “If she attempted overland by automobile, we’d have her apprehended by night.  By train, she would have to be disguised.  Or, maybe our friend Hance is offering her an avenue of escape.”

“That she left her luggage means everything.”

“I phoned Chubok from the telephone in the hallway.  The roads and the train lines leading out of the city are being sealed off,” he said.  “We wait.  Then move when she surfaces.”

“How do you know she hasn’t already left the city?”

“We don’t.  But . . . I think she’s too smart for that.  Darkness is one’s best ally when traveling across this country.  If you were her, what would you try?”

“My safest place would be the archeological site,” Salinger guessed.  “She is aware that we’ve tied her to Hance, but still perhaps they can utilize something tied to the camp for her escape.  A supply plane?  A caravan delivering antiquities?”

“The tethers,” Mayfield half-whispered.
  “The tethers for the supply plane . . .that’s it Salinger.”

“In a dark sky over the Caspian we’d never stop her.  So you believe Hance will help her escape?”

“I believe so,” Mayfield said, and hesitated.  “I shudder to think of the consequences if she’s successful.”

It was then that one of Mayfield’s men broke from the sedan on the side street and came rushing over toward the garage.

----

The smell of burning rubber and human flesh hung over the oasis like a thick curtain.  Salinger and Mayfield stood at the ridge, a brisk wind in their faces, overlooking the group of fir trees beneath a slate colored sky.  Goli’s once polished, gleaming roadster was now a mangle of melted iron and rubber, twisting black column of smoke.  “Who would kill her?” Salinger asked.

“She knew too much, son,” Mayfield said.  “That can make one’s life not worth much in a war.  Maybe Traveler,” Mayfield told him.  “After all, we came to know the identity of the agent through Goli.”

“There’s another possibility.”  Salinger turned away.  “The men who killed her husband—they were aware we were in Isafahan asking questions.  By now Abbosi’s body has been found at his villa.”

“If it makes any difference, I’m sorry, son.  I really am.  The fact is that unless this is linked to the German, then this is none of our business.  Not right now, at least.  If it is . . . ” his voice faded away.  Perhaps the wrong things said.  “I’ll give you a minute.”

Mayfield turned back to the sedan several yards away.  Salinger walked down the hill closer to the burning wreckage.  He could feel the heat on his face, the sickening smell caught in the back of his throat.  Several of Mayfield’s men moved away, standing in the shade watching him.

An object shining in the sand just beyond the wreckage caught Salinger’s eye.  He kicked it over several times with his foot.  His heart sank.  The cigarette lighter he had given her, bought in a small gift shop on a side street off the Marktgasse in Bern.  He remembered that it was snowing the day he had gotten it for her.  Now . . .

. . .
she was so alive just hours ago.  Beautiful and dangerous and alive.  To possess so much, Salinger realized, in the end Goli had so little happiness.  Just like all of us, Salinger thought, we’re all looking for something.  Then the words from their conversation in the restaurant just two days ago came to him.  It was almost like her voice moved in the wind.  ‘At one time we were good for each other.’  She had honestly believed that.  But she had been wrong.

None of what had happened between Goli and Julia and
himself had ever been good for any of them.

-Twenty-Eight-

Berlin. 

The opera was one of the last leisures of life Theodor Richter allowed himself as an escape from his draining duties.

Tonight he sat in his balcony box watching LaTraviata, one of his favorite operas, a tragic account by Giuseppe Verdi.  But Richter was irritated that tonight his mind wandered from the wonderful scenes playing out on the stage below.  Even as Alfred Germont attempted valiantly to win over the beautiful Violetta Valery, Richter’s thoughts constantly turned to Traveler and the plot she was playing out.

He was confident in one thought—whatever this information or the plans of the allied plot unfolding there— Traveler would succeed in getting it to him. 

Twenty minutes later, a man approached from the aisle above Richter’s box, making his way along the aisle above them.  He excused himself crossing in front of two ladies in the box adjacent to Richter.  He leaned forward and he whispered to Richter.  A message from Traveler!  Richter quickly gathered his coat and hat and followed his man past the irritated women, and to the aisle.  Just as they were about to step out into the upstairs lobby, Richter took a moment and glanced back at the stage.

He would miss the end of LaTraviata, his favorite scene, when the beautiful Violetta lies in her apartment dying.  Alfred has come to beg her forgiveness. 
Such a tragic ending.

Then Richter was outside, footsteps clicking on the stone steps until he was at the dark sedan.  The streets were empty.  He stood in the cold night air and was handed a piece of paper.
  Richter took the telegram and stood under the streetlight, and the words he read excited him.  A telegram from the Hotel Darbund sent to a communications house in Paris.

“To my office quickly,” he told his man, his hopes soaring now. 

The sedan sped away.  Imagine, Richter thought.  Only moments ago he was comparing his personal events unfolding to that of the ending of the tragic opera.  Now . . . now, his optimism was stirred again.

----

Ten minutes past midnight.

Richter stared out his office window, wondering where Frick could possibly be, when his assistant burst into his office.
  His face was flush with drink and his suit smelled of cigars.  Richter allowed himself a smile, realizing that his friend’s adventurous night had been rudely interrupted.

Frick dropped into the chair opposite Richter.

“Read this,” Richter said, handing the telegram across the desk.

As Frick read the paper, he sat it on the edge of the desk and a puzzled look came across this face.  “I don’t understand.  I thought—”