There’s the rub, Fleming thought, pushing the half-eaten salmon with his fork. Feel as if you’re going to seed? The steel claws of marriage opening to clamp around you? Well, this is the price of staying relevant in the game—old man. Deniability. If it all goes wrong, then it’s your mess to clean up. His Majesty’s Government knows nothing.
Fleming smiled, a grin that broke out across his broad mouth and lit up his blue-gray eyes. “A gentleman would at least call me a taxi and ring me in a couple of days, Henry.”
The quip bounced off the colonel’s armor. “If you can’t help me, I can always go elsewhere.”
Fleming felt a familiar twinge in his neck and residual tightness from his last chest pain. He picked up his cigarette case from the table and slipped it into his coat. “Charming as your company is, Henry, I have an engagement with one slightly more desirable. As I understand it, you need someone who can charm the information we want right out of this Red Devil.”
“Thing is, one of your people knows Kostin. Or knew him, anyway.”
Fleming put away his cigarette holder and straightened his polka-dot bow tie. “And just who might that be?”
“Well, your girl in Paris.”
Chapter Two
Earlier that same day, the “girl in Paris” stood in front of the painting Les Mystères de la Passion du Christ in the Louvre and tried to remember all seven of the heavenly virtues.
Livy Nash interrupted her reverent contemplation to check the time. Her agent was five minutes late now. Patience was one of the virtues, but it wasn’t one of hers.
She’d been running him for several months. He was a low-lying member of the PCF, the French communist party, who’d turned double when she started talking francs. Despite his status or lack thereof, his information had been top notch. Today, he was scheduled to deliver the coup de grace: a list of PCF officials who’d met with Soviet agents after the May elections.
The spot for this particular meet—in front of this spectacular crucifixion mural—had been chosen by the agent. Perhaps, he reasoned, the last place anyone would expect to find a godless Soviet spy would be ogling a painting of Jesus.
Perched on a bench a few feet from the painting, Livy silently cursed the man she knew as Barnard. He’d never been late before. Tension ran down her spine. The sensation felt all too familiar.
Livy knew every nook and corner of Paris. The city felt like a second home. Her mother, sweet Marion, had been born here. When she drank wine, her mother would often break out into a warbly rendition of “Plaisir d’amour.” Livy could still hear her voice.
“Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment
Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.”
Memories of her mother’s voice had helped get her through the war. Dropped behind enemy lines in 1943 as part of a network of British agents, Livy had to learn quickly to deal with the constant anxiety of suspicion and the fear of capture. She knew that someone who looked like an ordinary Parisian might stop you outside a café and ask for a light. “Bien sûr, monsieur.” Then, the vulnerable moment—match held high—as two others race out of the shadows to bundle you into a waiting car. Next stop, an unlit basement room for interrogation at the notorious Avenue Foch.
Even today, an occasional shiver ran down her back when she walked the streets. The shadows of the Nazi occupiers—vanquished for three years now—still lurked in the city’s darkness.
A cry of laughter from a three-year-old running through his father’s long legs brought her back to the present. The summertime crowds had recently returned to the Louvre in droves. On this Saturday in late June, lines of visitors dawdled from painting to painting, taking in the art like they had all the time in the world.
Livy felt none of their calm. She rocked on her heels, trying to keep her focus on the painting. Something about this meet didn’t feel right. Her nerves felt like icicles.
Seven minutes late now. Where was the man?
Agents weren’t late unless they’d been blown or picked up a tail. Barnard—who’d been saddled with the code name “Tempest”—had been a dedicated member of a communist resistance cell during the war. When it ended, he decided to lend his talents to the Russians. Livy’d invested ample time working him, gaining his trust, and making certain for herself that he was what he appeared to be. At first she hadn’t trusted Barnard. He lacked the passion of a devout Marxist. His eyes didn’t brighten when talking about a global worker’s revolt. But when the subject of francs came up, he became a bit more animated.
Behind every good communist is a capitalist looking to negotiate a better deal.
Where was the man? Livy’s insides were fit to pop. She felt sweat against her blouse. Dammit, she’d waited long enough.
She rose from the bench and spun on her heel toward the stairwell a good thirty yards away.
There he stood.
Barnard always struck her as a bit like one of Shakespeare’s clowns. Comic by appearance and nature, but just obtuse enough you weren’t ever quite sure if he was supposed to be funny. He sauntered toward her, his crown of thick black curls covered by a beret of all things. After that—baggy coat, baggy trousers, baggy face. Even a baggy smell.
He stopped in front of the painting and rocked on his heels, waiting.
Livy moved next to him and feigned interest.
“Every time I come here, this is the painting I must see,” he said in English. They’d always used French before.
Livy took the opportunity to move closer. “Monsieur?”
“It moves me. I don’t know why, but it does.”
She weighed the pros and cons of being seen in conversation with Barnard. Total strangers discussing art must happen hundreds of times a day. Enthusiasts studying brush strokes and what-not.
Livy’d seen the painting before, of course, but had never stopped to consider it. This was a crucifixion piece unlike the millions that hung in churches around the world. Jesus and the other two men on the hill, nailed to their crosses. Their bodies sagged. A roiling dark cloud hung behind them. This wasn’t realism, no. Scenes from the life of the Messiah fought for space on the canvas. In the upper right corner, Jesus ascended into a shimmering sphere along with a multitude of souls, all reaching up.
Barnard couldn’t take his eyes off it. “It’s breathtaking up close. You can feel the paint, the texture. Like it’s alive. Breathing.”
Art class needed to be over soon, or she’d leave her suddenly pious Red to commune with his savior.
“It can’t be here, you know that,” she said, keeping her eyes on the wall.
“What? Oh, I’ll go in a moment.”
“There’s a bench just behind us. I’m going to have a sit—”
He grabbed her cuff and pulled her closer. Livy stiffened. She resisted the urge to push him aside and run. This didn’t feel right.
“You’re not listening to me,” Barnard said, pointing at the three men on the cross. “There, you see, this is so much bigger than us. This makes me feel insignificant, tu comprends? Insignificant enough that they just might leave me alone.”
Livy placed her hand on his. “Of course,” she said. She hoped the gesture appeared comforting, even though she wanted to slap his face and remind him why they were there.