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
