embossed books like her grandfather’s. A print of Johan Sebastian Bach hung on the far wall in a broad gilded mount frame. Beneath it, objets d’art from India stood alongside notebooks, paintbrushes and pencils. A phonograph sat against the far wall, with Shellac discs glistening in their sleeves. Fragile music manuscripts lay under glass and discreetly illuminated on tables beside an upright piano. From time-to-time Eva had sat at the piano recalling preludes learnt as a child, helping her unwind from assignments. This room always made her feel safe, reminding her of her grandfather’s study. It had that same smoky, tumble-down feel.
‘ Apparently they value a corpse over a civilian population,’ said Eva, crossing her long legs.
It’s a pity Peter can't see the beauty beside him, thought Chainbridge. In the lamplight, her auburn hair glowed like a halo, her cheekbones shadowing down to a warm generous mouth. She reminded Chainbridge of a Da Vinci study.
Peter sat still, head inclined, in an immaculate slate-grey suit, fine-tuned to the nuances in the room. A deep scar ran across his face, temple to temple, which in the shadows gave the appearance of folding in on itself. It almost added to his good looks.
‘ I suppose Lenin’s a beacon to half the world’s proletariat, a psychological blow to the Soviets if anything should happen to him,’ said Chainbridge, skimming the salient points.
‘ A propaganda coup,’ agreed Peter. His timbre was deep, the tone clipped. Chainbridge leaned forward looking into Eva’s wide-set grey eyes.
‘ How drunk was this attaché?’
‘ Very ... but in a Russian’s case, drunkenness is relative. He didn’t slur a word. They believe that an attack is inevitable, it is only a question of when, and they are preparing for it,’
Chainbridge closed her report pensively. Her hunch seemed to square with what another agent had uncovered - schematics for a new type of Zeppelin being commissioned by Goering in readiness for an attack of the Soviet Union. If Chainbridge had this information, then he assumed his NKVD counterpart would have it too. Hitler was signing non-aggression pacts with Stalin and Von Ribbentrop was strutting around Europe with reams of treaty drafts under his arm. Confetti and smokescreens.
He removed his glasses deliberately as if a solution would present itself before he put them back in their case.
Anti-Soviet agents were assisting the Nazi war machine and every spy agency in Europe was using Berlin as its hub. Berlin, in turn, was trying to neutralise what they considered to be enemy agents almost as soon as they set foot on German soil. What they had here could be misinformation - it could be something or it could be nothing. Hitler, like Comrade Joe, was skilled at keeping everyone guessing. Snatching Lenin from under the Soviet's nose was one thing; Hitler had a flair for the dramatic. Invading Poland, though, that would precipitate an international crisis.
‘ Number 10 won’t buy it. I know Chamberlain. He believes Hitler has gone as far as he needs to go. He thinks Versailles has been put to bed.’ Chainbridge rose to his feet, his long frame and receding grey hairline gave him a slightly avian appearance. ‘Besides, Chamberlain thinks we’ve achieved peace in our time,’
Both men smiled ruefully at that remark. Eighteen years earlier, Henry Chainbridge and Peter De Witte had fought against the Red Army during the Russian Civil War, an Englishman and a Dutchman fighting side-by-side with other nations until De Witte was blinded by grenade shrapnel at Arkhangelsk as the allied forces were routed by the Bolsheviks.
They hadn’t exchanged a single word until that moment when Peter fell screaming in pain, clutching what was left of his face after the grenade exploded. However, afterwards, Henry had stayed with him, practically dragging him through the frozen tundra to the port of Murmansk for evacuation to England. For three weeks De Witte had
‘ Apparently they value a corpse over a civilian population,’ said Eva, crossing her long legs.
It’s a pity Peter can't see the beauty beside him, thought Chainbridge. In the lamplight, her auburn hair glowed like a halo, her cheekbones shadowing down to a warm generous mouth. She reminded Chainbridge of a Da Vinci study.
Peter sat still, head inclined, in an immaculate slate-grey suit, fine-tuned to the nuances in the room. A deep scar ran across his face, temple to temple, which in the shadows gave the appearance of folding in on itself. It almost added to his good looks.
‘ I suppose Lenin’s a beacon to half the world’s proletariat, a psychological blow to the Soviets if anything should happen to him,’ said Chainbridge, skimming the salient points.
‘ A propaganda coup,’ agreed Peter. His timbre was deep, the tone clipped. Chainbridge leaned forward looking into Eva’s wide-set grey eyes.
‘ How drunk was this attaché?’
‘ Very ... but in a Russian’s case, drunkenness is relative. He didn’t slur a word. They believe that an attack is inevitable, it is only a question of when, and they are preparing for it,’
Chainbridge closed her report pensively. Her hunch seemed to square with what another agent had uncovered - schematics for a new type of Zeppelin being commissioned by Goering in readiness for an attack of the Soviet Union. If Chainbridge had this information, then he assumed his NKVD counterpart would have it too. Hitler was signing non-aggression pacts with Stalin and Von Ribbentrop was strutting around Europe with reams of treaty drafts under his arm. Confetti and smokescreens.
He removed his glasses deliberately as if a solution would present itself before he put them back in their case.
Anti-Soviet agents were assisting the Nazi war machine and every spy agency in Europe was using Berlin as its hub. Berlin, in turn, was trying to neutralise what they considered to be enemy agents almost as soon as they set foot on German soil. What they had here could be misinformation - it could be something or it could be nothing. Hitler, like Comrade Joe, was skilled at keeping everyone guessing. Snatching Lenin from under the Soviet's nose was one thing; Hitler had a flair for the dramatic. Invading Poland, though, that would precipitate an international crisis.
‘ Number 10 won’t buy it. I know Chamberlain. He believes Hitler has gone as far as he needs to go. He thinks Versailles has been put to bed.’ Chainbridge rose to his feet, his long frame and receding grey hairline gave him a slightly avian appearance. ‘Besides, Chamberlain thinks we’ve achieved peace in our time,’
Both men smiled ruefully at that remark. Eighteen years earlier, Henry Chainbridge and Peter De Witte had fought against the Red Army during the Russian Civil War, an Englishman and a Dutchman fighting side-by-side with other nations until De Witte was blinded by grenade shrapnel at Arkhangelsk as the allied forces were routed by the Bolsheviks.
They hadn’t exchanged a single word until that moment when Peter fell screaming in pain, clutching what was left of his face after the grenade exploded. However, afterwards, Henry had stayed with him, practically dragging him through the frozen tundra to the port of Murmansk for evacuation to England. For three weeks De Witte had
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