Читать книгу Beloved Beast - Karyn Gerrard - Страница 10

There were decided disadvantages to being an ex-spy, Gillian Browning discovered, and the feeling she was constantly being watched sat at the top of the list. It never left her. Today, however, her anxiety level was on high alert.

Probably nothing to it, because of late her nerves were not to be relied on. As she stepped out from the main entrance of the Mile End Tube Station, she glanced around nonchalantly looking for suspicious characters, but found none out of the ordinary. Yet, blending in with a crowd was the hallmark of a good spy. Gillian held her hat tight in case the wind carried it off as she hurried along Aberavon Road to her sister Joan’s small flat.

Piles of bricks from bombed out buildings and sandbags lined the street and made Gillian worry afresh over her sister’s stubborn insistence on staying in this part of London. Though “the Blitz” was over, the German Luftwaffe still bombed London on a steady basis, focusing mainly on the East End where the docks and other transport centers were located.

Despite being sisters, the two of them were not close. When Gillian was eight years of age and Joan six, their parents had divorced. Gillian stayed with her mother, Joan with their father. Her dad moved Joan to the East End where he would be closer to his job as a dock worker, while Gillian’s mother took her to Dover on the east coast of England to live with her grandmother. Years passed. They had no contact whatsoever, as their parents’ break-up was acrimonious.

A letter arrived out of the blue shortly after Gillian turned seventeen. Joan managed to cajole her father into giving up Gillian’s address. Through the years a sporadic correspondence grew between them. It wasn’t until Gillian arrived in London in early 1940 that they met face-to-face. The reunion was awkward, yet they managed to form a mutual respect for each other if nothing else. A good thing, because Gillian was Joan’s only source of income due to the fact the corner shop she’d worked at had been bombed five months ago.

Holding her purse under her arm, Gillian picked up the pace. Not the best of neighborhoods, she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the lingering garbage smell permeating the air around her. Broken crockery and other items littered the street, though not as bad at the height of the Blitz in 1941. Slowly but surely, Eastenders were doing what they could to make the area livable again, though a number of streets had been leveled. Thankfully not Joan’s. Not yet. Working at SIS, Gillian was well aware the war could go on for a few years yet.

It was already late afternoon. She couldn’t stay long since she should return to her own small flat in central London before the sun set. Gillian ran up the stairs to Joan’s second story lodgings. Her sister opened the door before she could even knock. Wearing a pair of gray overalls, Joan had her jet-black hair tied back in a knot. “Wasn’t sure you were coming today.”

Gillian stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. “Are you off somewhere?”

“I’ve recently joined the Woman’s Voluntary Service. Today we will be going around collecting kitchen waste and other items for possible recycle and reuse. I’m taking further nurse’s training as well. I tried to ring you, but the damned lines were down again.”

Removing her hat, she gave her sister a warm smile. “Good for you for joining the WVS.” Gillian opened her purse and handed Joan an envelope. “Here is the money for this month. You know we could save expenses by living together.”

Joan took the envelope and slipped it in the nearby desk drawer. “Thank you, but I can’t leave here, it’s my home. And you can’t leave where you live because it’s close to work. We are managing.” Joan smiled in return. “We will see how it goes. Besides, the bombings are few and far between now. It can’t go on forever.”

Gillian looked about the sparsely furnished but clean parlor. Although they hadn’t had much money, Joan told her she’d been happy here with her father, as he was a good man and took proper care of her. Despite his rough exterior, Joan never lacked for love and affection. It made Gillian a little sad she never visited her father before he died. She remembered he was a handsome, strapping man, about ten years older than their mother.

Joan sat on the sofa and Gillian next to her. “You look lovely, as always,” Joan stated.

Gillian scoffed. “Don’t look too close, my stockings have been darned too many times to count, and there is a patch on the elbow of my coat. As you say, we manage. Not much you can do with clothes rations. Or the food.” She clasped her sister’s hand and held it tightly. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Here now, ducks,” Joan cooed, her East End accent more pronounced than usual. “I’m right as rain. We all stick together here on Aberavon: watch out for each other, sharing what we can, when we can. Why, Mrs. Bartle brought me two slices of mince pie. What a rare treat. I can share it with you if you like.”

Joan would give you the shirt off her back. Gillian admired the pluck and fortitude of the Eastenders. She patted her sister’s hand then released it. “No, love. You enjoy. I want you to promise you will ring if you need me for anything, you hear?”

Her sister pulled her into an embrace and Gillian stiffened, as they never showed this kind of affection before. Pushing the awkwardness aside, she hugged her sister. They were all the family that was left. Their father had died of a heart attack in 1939. Their mother had died of cancer last year. At least she got to visit her mum before she passed. When it was all done and dusted, all they had was each other. A sobering thought.

After the heartbreaking experiences of the past several years, Gillian would accept any affection she could get.

* * * *

Once seated at their table, both men ordered glasses of Guinness. At thirty-four, his nephew, Fred, was one of the youngest heads of a division within MI-6. His keen intelligence had him attending university two years earlier than most young men his age. Along with his innate brilliance, he could have pursued anything he wished in the higher academics. But Fred had other plans. He was always interested in working in espionage, and was delighted when the British government approached him and offered him a position. Due to Fred’s high IQ and top-notch planning skills, his rapid rise within SIS was unparalleled.

Turns out Fred was correct, the owner did receive a consignment of fresh mutton from Scotland. They ordered it along with potatoes, carrots, and mushy peas. Thanks to the war, menu selection was limited. The government decreed no restaurant could charge more than five shillings for a meal. If people could afford it, chances were they could find a decent repast outside of hearth and home. Or at the many teashops where you could buy a hot cuppa and two pennies worth of scones.

“First meal you’ve had in ages, I take it?” Fred winked.

“Yes. Usually only do it when I am out in public. What is the account on the lady spy?”

“Ah, yes. Her name is Gillian Browning, though her new identification says Gill O’Keefe. She went undercover in pre-war Germany in nineteen thirty-eight. She’s a clever, resourceful girl and speaks the language fluently, also has a photographic memory which came in handy. Much like you have, Luke. Anyway, by this time we were well aware of the Enigma machine. She took a position as administrative assistant to one of the owners of Konski and Kroger in Berlin. It was she who gave us the information they had moved from a four wheel machine to a six wheel, vital knowledge which is now being put to good use by the code breakers at Bletchley Park.” Fred took a long drink of beer. “Oh, that’s good. Anyway, to continue. Gillian became the mistress to this Otto Kroger, and managed to seduce information out of him for close to two years.”

“How did this lady spy send the data out?” Luke asked.

“By writing to an ‘aunt’ in Switzerland. All in code of course, in case the letters were intercepted. From Switzerland they were sent on to us through different clandestine channels.”

Luke washed down a mouthful of mashed potatoes with a sip of beer. “Wait, isn’t there an actor named Otto Kroger?”

“You mean Otto Kruger, similar but not the same. Anyway, concerning our Otto, he became suspicious and we decided to pull her out. Miss Browning escaped to Switzerland with the assistance of the SOE.”

Luke cut into his mutton. He briefly contemplated joining the Special Operations Executive, or “Churchill’s Secret Army,” but working in occupied Europe was a little too dangerous for Luke’s taste though he admired those who did the espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance needed in war-torn Europe. “If Miss Browning managed to escape, how is it the Nazis are only discovering her existence now?”

Fred washed down a mouthful of vegetables and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “There’s the rub. We’ve been told, through channels, Kroger’s wife discovered the affair and reported it to the SS like the good little Nazi frau she is. A couple of agents from the SOE kept the couple under surveillance and sure enough, the owner was snatched up by SS officers. We’ve since lost track of him. Probably killed or thrown into a concentration camp. Regardless, we are assuming they have a description along with her false name. Why else would they be looking for a female agent in England? Though how they know her location is worrying. Kroger knew nothing.”

“Are you sure? Pillow talk can go both ways,” Luke interjected.

“I’m as sure as I can be. It took Miss Browning several months to find her way to England. We dyed her hair back to its natural color and it’s grown out since then. They must have tracked her in some way. How much they know and for how long, we have no idea.”

Luke did not like the sound of this. “She could be under surveillance as we speak.”

“Highly unlikely, but yes, I suppose it’s possible. We’ve only gained possession of this information recently and it is maddeningly vague. We’d better bring her into my office tomorrow and start making plans for relocation.”

“Do you have her address? I will swing by on my way home and check the place out before curfew.” Luke popped a piece of mutton in his mouth. Delicious.

“Not far from MI-6 actually. A small flat on the top floor facing the street, twenty-four Dartmouth Street, in Westminster.” Fred reached into his suit jacket pocket and slid a small photograph across the table, facedown. “This is recent, keep it with you.”

After taking another sip of his beer, Luke turned the photo over. The black and white photograph showed an apparent beauty with near-perfect features. The woman could be a film star. No wonder she was able to seduce information out of the hapless German.

“Attractive, isn’t she?” Fred winked as he placed a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

Yes. Attractive. No doubt the reason she was used as a honey pot. But there was also sadness in her eyes and a touch of melancholy in her reluctant smile. Something hitched in Luke’s chest. An awareness. His heart thumped at a fast pace. No. He did not want to feel anything toward this beauty. Not empathy and certainly not…desire.

Thirty minutes after he finished his meal and said farewell to Fred, Luke found himself parked on Dartmouth Street gazing up at the top flat. The windows facing the street were cloaked in darkness meaning she might not be home. However, the blackout curtains could be drawn. The West End had not escaped Nazi air raids; some of the worst damage from 1940 and 1941 was still evident in various streets around Westminster, including the Admiralty and Buckingham Palace itself.

Reaching under his shirt collar, he pulled the gold chain out and clasped the ring hanging from it in his right fist. The ring had the Madden crest engraved in it along with the saying Propria virtute audax which meant “daring in the cause of virtue.” As Viscount Ravenswood and heir to the Earl of Whitestone, he once wore the ring on his left pinkie finger indicating his status as a peer of the realm. A lifetime ago. Two lifetimes if one were to be accurate. Now onto his third, he wondered how many more he would have to endure?

Could he be immortal? He had no earthly idea. What’s more, Reed couldn’t be sure. It was either immortality or he merely aged at a slower pace than other humans. Regardless, he looked the same age of twenty-eight as he did in 1895. Perhaps Reed was right about not destroying his notes. At some point, he should try and ascertain answers to the many still puzzling questions, but with whom? And when? As well, he should read the papers from start to finish.

Meanwhile, he stored the box in Fred’s safe at his office at SIS. Luke was torn from his thoughts as the ear-piercing low-high wail of an air raid siren filled his hearing. Tucking the chain under his shirt, he winced. With his advanced audible range, the sound caused bolts of pain to slice though his head. As he turned ready to follow the crowd to the shelters, he caught a glimpse of Miss Gillian Browning.

His breath caught in his throat. She was absolutely stunning. The lady spy was slightly above average height, willowy, and her picture did not do her justice. One advantage of his superior senses is he could see clearly in the dark, and with the lights going out all around him, he could still make out the luminescence of her skin. The dark red shade of lipstick she wore suited her coloring. Her wool coat had seen better days and it was hard to establish if she possessed any curves, but her legs were long and shapely. Her hair was as golden as a setting sun, her eyes as blue as the ocean. Miss Browning—Gillian—must have been heading toward her flat, but now did an about-face and followed the crowd.

Luke fell in step behind her, far enough back to remain inconspicuous, but close enough to keep an eye on her. He tilted his chin slightly and inhaled. Chanel No. 5. Was it she who wore the alluring scent? It was not easy to acquire expensive French perfumes, perhaps a gift from her German lover?

Strangely, she did not enter the public shelters set up in the basements of buildings. Ah. She was heading for the St. James Park Tube Station. The London Underground still ran when it could despite delays the past couple of years due to the war. Acting as de facto shelters, tube stations came in handy during air raids such as this. Some of them were designated as permanent shelters. Air Raid Precaution wardens directed people in an orderly manner toward the various shelters. Luke stayed with Gillian, entering St. James Park and heading down the stairs with the rest of the crowd. Damn, he’d left his gas mask in the car, but since the Blitz ended, few Londoners carried them.

Stale, smoky air slammed his nostrils as Luke descended the stairs which had him wishing he did bring the mask. It would also conceal his face, though in this dim light, not many would see him anyway. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat as he scurried along. On the platform, people wandered about, holding a thermos of tea or clutching family heirlooms. Some took this in stride, others looked utterly frightened.

Gillian found an empty folding chair and sat, clutching her purse tight. Luke stayed in shadow, watching her closely. More people filed in carrying blankets and pillows, and they quickly staked out a section of the platform in case they would have to stay the entire night. The lighting below was dim with certain sections darker than others. Where they were located, it was shadowy enough he could remain hidden.

How stoic the lady spy looked, sitting ramrod straight on the chair. Luke wouldn’t describe her outward demeanor as cold or standoffish, more like guarded. God, he was completely transfixed by her beauty. Even her wariness and caution caught his interest. An old woman shuffled past. Gillian immediately stood and offered her chair.

“Bless your heart, dearie. My old bones need a rest and no mistake.” The woman grunted as she sat, then reached in her bag and pulled out some knitting. The needles clicked at a fast pace. Apparently she didn’t need any light to accomplish her task.

Should he make himself known? Why not? They would be introduced tomorrow anyway. Luke glanced around, located another folding chair, and carried it toward Gillian and the old lady. “Please, take this chair, miss.”