A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (29 page)

He told her and she placed twice the amount in his open hand. 
“For your troubles.”

For the first time he smiled.  “You have luggage?”

“Only a small bag and my friend will take care of that.  You have been most helpful.”

She stepped out into the noisy, crowded room, pushing her way back to the doorway where Hance waited.  “Two trains leaving at the same time, William.  The British have to be close by, and could well be here before we depart.”

“But—”

Leni handed him the tickets, and took his arm.  “Do you remember our plan, William?  Do you possibly think it will succeed?”

He looked into her eyes.  “I’d say you’re practically in Berlin.”

Out in the fresh air, her spirits lifted.

Leni had a plan . . . not even Hance knew all the details . . . and she was actually beginning to believe that it would work.  When she was on the ship docked at the Caspian Sea harbor, only then could she say that this part of her life was truly over.  Still, she allowed herself one pleasure during this doubting moment that of imagining Richter’s face.

----

Fifteen minutes later.

“She’s blonde and beautiful,” Mayfield insisted to the ticket clerk.  The Iranian only stared at him.

“He thinks you’re asking for the time,” Salinger told him.  “He says it’s four-twenty.”

Mayfield’s face lost some of its composure.  “Now, why would he think that?”

The crowd was at their shoulder, pushing forward, not happy the two men had forced their way to the front of the line.

“You try, Booth.  Go ahead.  We’ve got to get him to understand us.”

Salinger had turned back to the clerk, when a tall man with an authoritative air walked up.  His black eyes locked on Salinger for the briefest moment, as if to determine his worthiness.  He smiled.  “Is there a problem?”

“We’re looking for someone.”

The officer scanned the room.  “And who would that be?”

“A woman,” Mayfield told him.  “Easy to spot, I would imagine. 
Tall.  Blonde.  There would be a man with her.  Tanned and thin.”

His eyes lifted, telling his secret; he had seen her.

“When was she here?”  Salinger pushed.

“Not half hour ago.  Is she in some sort of trouble?”

“It’s important we detain her.”

“And who are you?”

Mayfield’s back stiffened.  “I work for the British government.”

“And?”

“She’s German.  It’s a political matter.”

The Iranian stood stone faced.  He stared at them for a moment, then turned on his heels and walked away, stopping at one of the ticket windows where a smaller man sat on a stool.  The official leaned down and whispered.  They exchanged softly spoken words.  “If he doesn’t hurry up I’ll have him arrested,” Mayfield said harshly.

“We don’t have much time,” Salinger said glancing up a blackboard schedule above the window listed destinations and departure times, all neatly printed out.  “It’s almost four-thirty.  Three trains leave within the next five minutes.” 

The Iranian official walked back to them.  “My clerk assisted her within the last half hour.  She told the clerk a much different story than the one you are telling me.”

“And what would that be?”  Mayfield asked impatiently.

“She informed him that she was to receive a telegram sent here explaining where she was to go to meet her sick sister.  And, she was in need of purchasing a ticket to travel there.”

“She’s lying,” Mayfield said sternly.

“I see it as her word against yours.”

Mayfield reached into his breast pocket—his face angry now—and he produced his pocketbook.  He flipped it open so the official could see the identification card.  “British intelligence.  Now you, sir, have exactly one minute to produce everything you know about that woman, or I will begin a process which I promise will not be pleasant for you in the end.”

Confidence melted from the official’s face.  His eyes once steady with arrogance, now shifted nervously between Salinger and Mayfield.

“She did receive a telegram, the clerk confirmed that matter.  But he has no idea what it stated.”

“What about your telegraph operator.  Could he repeat it?”

“I’m afraid the telegraph was received before lunch.  The operator who received it has left his duties at one o’clock.”

“Wouldn’t be time to track him down,” Mayfield admitted.  “What about the tickets?”

“Ah, yes.  She purchased them shortly after reading the telegrams.  It was tickets to two different cities—Chalus and Tabriz.”

Mayfield hesitated.  “Both on the coast, I would imagine.”

“No.  Chalus is on the Caspian Sea.  The other city lies northwest near Lake Urmia.”

Mayfield looked at Salinger, the blood drained from his face.

----

Leni sat wearily in her train compartment staring out the window, begging the train to move.  Hance sat beside her, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.  Taking her travel bag from its position at the door, she sat it on the seat beside her.  Unlatching the leather straps, she lifted the top exposing neatly folded clothes.  Beneath were the two books.

She leaned against the window and found the glass cool to her skin.  For the first time, Leni realized just how tired she was, but she couldn’t let her guard down now. 
Mayfield
.  Wasn’t that the British officer’s name?  She was well aware that he would do anything in his power to stop her.

Anything.

She leaned over to Hance.  “It’s almost time, William.”

             
----

Salinger and Mayfield positioned themselves on the loading station between the two trains, only yards apart.  The Englishman’s face was tight with consternation.  Salinger knew there was a decision—or a guess was more like it—to be made that in all probability would determine whether Leni Boland escaped or not.

There was the sliding of steel against steel as the large wheels began to spin on the rails, trying to gather traction.  Bellowing clouds of white steam hissed from beneath the train engine at loading station two.

“That’s Chalus departing,” Salinger said.

Mayfield’s eyes narrowed.  “I’m not certain.  That bit about two tickets was certainly a crafty trick.”

“Which one, Major?
  We don’t have much time.”  Salinger watched his face, his gray eyes shifting from one train to the other; first the train pulling away for Tabriz, then the other which would be leaving for Chalus at any moment.

“There’s just no way to tell.  How should I know?”  Mayfield took a cautious step toward the Chalus train.

Several more steps.  Quicker this time.  Mayfield stopped just as the train began to pick up speed.  He tossed aside his cigarette.  Then, he began to run, his coat open at the chest and flapping behind him. 

Salinger took off after him shouting.  “Are you certain?”

“It’s Chalus,” he said between short, rapid breaths.

“Are you sure?”  Salinger’s younger legs had drawn him up beside Mayfield as the last train car drew even with them,
then pulled just ahead.

“It’s Chalus!  Get on!”

Mayfield was awkward, stumbling along the ramp as he reached out with his long arms for the rail.

----

Salinger stood at the tracks.  Confused. 

Mayfield had at the last moment let both trains slip by them on the tracks, hesitating until the last car was passed—jumped the tracks and ran toward the street ahead of them.

Salinger ran after him.  How did he know she had left the train?

“The Spanish Embassy is two blocks over!”  Mayfield shouted back over his shoulder.

“She’s going for the embassy?” Salinger yelled as a chill swept over him.  If she reached there—

----

Leni stood at the corner.  To her left was the high stonewall along the street.  The black iron gate was eighty meters away, two embassy guards posted just inside the wall.  All laid out as she had remembered.

Trees past the gate obscured her view, but she knew the street turned away into a sharp curve.  Leni, at this point, had to suspect that the British officer would figure out any of her movements.  He would guess, try to anticipate her chances came down to two: the embassy, which was so close but a dangerous approach.  Or that she would somehow attempt to make it to a ship two hundred miles away on the Caspian Sea. 

She tried to think like the British official.  He would know that the safety of the Spanish embassy was her natural retreat.  So—she waited.  In his mind, with all the resources at his disposal, the odds of her making it out of Tehran were staggering.  What he wouldn’t know was that the embassy was simply the last diversion.  If the British officer did buy off on that . . . she would be in Berlin by tomorrow night.

----
                           

The sidewalk was mostly abandoned, only a scattering of pedestrians walked by on the sidewalk, perhaps workers making their way home, a woman strolling by.  Two young boys running, playing.  A man in a light suit, eyes straight ahead.

Leni watched from behind the stonewall.  As planned she and Hance exited the train and split up.  She was to watch from here while Hance retrieved his sedan.

Hance drove up to the gate.  His last purpose was to draw attention away from her because the Americans and British knew Hance.  He was an obvious choice, a willing part of the trap, giving Leni her chance. 

The sedan door flew open.

The man in the light suit, whom had moments ago casually strolled down the sidewalk, lunged for Hance.  The German drew back sharply. 

“Here he is!”

Hance fell back in the seat reaching frantically for his gun.

The officer grasped Hance by the arm, trying his best to draw him into a bear hug.  Hance kicked at him, surprisingly landing a sharp blow on his shoulder.  His grip loosened.

“Over here!”

Then the derringer was in Hance’s hand, and he aimed it at him.  His face froze in disbelief.  Hance fired, and he fell back out onto the sidewalk.   

--

Salinger heard the gunshot, and looked over the wall just as Mayfield’s man staggered back, his hands covered his face, blood gushing between his fingers.  He cried out in a muffled voice, stumbled to the curb, then fell to the ground and lay still.

Hance’s excited face was framed in the sedan window. 
Eyes wide.  Determined, as the sedan lurched forward.

Salinger had to make a decision.  Mayfield had placed him at the fence to stop any movement from getting across there.  Now it was obvious that Hance plan was to rush the gate.

He ran behind the fence.  The sedan sped forward, not thirty yards from the gate when Salinger ran up to the sidewall running along the driveway and cut him off.  Where was Mayfield?  Salinger pulled the pistol from his coat pocket, and leapt over the wall, landing in the driveway.  He ran toward the street.

Salinger managed to get of three shots before the sedan swerved wildly, striking the front of a parked sedan.

Mayfield rushed forward to the middle of the street, firing at Hance.

Salinger ran toward the sedan, and got off two more shots.  Then—too late—the sedan came across the other side and aimed at him.  The driver had a derringer leveled at him outside the window.

Salinger heard the shot and fell to the sidewalk, the bullet flying overhead like an angry wasp.

The sedan came around the corner.  Mayfield dodged it as it slipped by him.  He stumbled awkwardly,
then fell with a heavy thud in the street.

Then Salinger was up . . . one last shot cracked the windshield.  The sedan swerved, missing the gate—slamming into
the stonewall.

Quickly Salinger was at the door.  When he swung it open, Hance tumbled out onto the curb.

Mayfield glared into the back window, pistol ready.  “Where is she?”

Opening the back door, Salinger’s heart sank as he leaned against the fender.  “She’s not here.”

Mayfield stood in the street stunned.  Blood ran down his face.  “She could have come to the embassy earlier and there’s nothing we could have done to stop her.  Why did she go to the train station and then try to come . . . this has all been a charade.” Mayfield grabbed Salinger’s coat. “She’s fooled us, Booth!  Back to the train station!” 

“But the trains . . . they’re gone,” Salinger said reloading his revolver.

Mayfield stared back over the fence at the train station. “The children’s train,” he whispered.  “That’s it.  Her final try,” he was yelling now.   “. . . Go, man . . . I can’t keep up . . . go!”

Salinger was at
the stonewall, leapt over and was quickly out of Mayfield’s sight.

-Thirty-

Berlin.

The snow had turned to freezing rain as Richter watched it fall on the black Mercedes parked beneath the street lamp’s obscured light.  He was standing at a randomly selected public telephone on the Kurfurstendamm directly across from Tiergarten Park.