The Iron Storm by CW Browning (best fiction novels to read .txt) 📗

suddenly and she flipped the card over, exhaling at the sight of the hotel crest. He had used this hotel’s own stationary to write the message. So much for tracking him down with the paper he’d used.

“How?” she muttered out loud irritably. “How do you always know where I am?”

She went over to drop the card onto the desk, glaring down at it. In Oslo last November, it had been the same. He had slipped a note into her coat pocket directing her to an open market, but when he’d done it, she had no idea. In November he’d been following her after being alerted that she’d arrived in the city. Now he’d found her again, and she still had no idea how. It was infuriating. In Oslo, she hadn’t known what he looked like, but she did now and still hadn’t seen him. It was like the man was a ghost: a very dangerous, Soviet ghost.

Evelyn dropped into her chair and picked up the card once more, reading it through again before reaching for the box of matches on the writing desk. She struck a match and held the flame to the corner of the card, watching as the heavy paper caught light. Tomorrow morning she would go to the church and meet with Shustov, although she wasn’t looking forward to it. His longstanding friendship with her father aside, the man was a Soviet agent and therefore couldn’t be trusted. If it weren’t for Bill vouching for the fact that the intelligence Shustov provided was worth it, she wasn’t sure that she would have agreed to continue the relationship with him. It was one thing to do what needed to be done to aid England in Her time of need and war, but it was quite another to become chummy with an enemy Soviet officer.

The flames licked across the card, devouring the paper and ink, turning it all to ash over the heavy, crystal ashtray. Watching it disappear, Evelyn sighed and dropped the last bit into the ashtray before the flames reached her fingers. She was lying to herself, she admitted. She would have continued the relationship for the simple reason that it would be fool-hardy not to. She may not be very experienced yet in this world of espionage and secrets, but she knew that the majority of her success would depend upon the people she knew. If nothing else, Vladimir Lyakhov was certainly someone worth knowing. While she didn’t know what his exact rank was in the Soviet Union, she knew it had to be substantial for MI6 to be pandering to him so shamelessly. And anyone with that kind of clout was always worth knowing.

And Bill wanted her to spy on him?

It would be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying. She watched as the last of the flames died in the ashtray and sat back, her brows drawn together. She didn’t know the first thing about spying on an actual person. She knew how to gather information, and how to listen, but how on earth was she going to extract information from a man who was always three steps ahead of her? And what would happen if he realized what she was doing? At the very least, they would lose their source in Moscow, and at the worst...well, she couldn’t even consider that. If she did, there was no way she would go to the church tomorrow morning.

Evelyn let out an impatient grunt and got up, reaching for her purse. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. If she continued sitting here worrying about it, she would work herself into a tizzy over something she couldn’t control. For now, she would have breakfast, and then she’d spend the day exploring Brussels. She wasn’t about to let herself waste a whole day worrying.

As she turned towards the door, her eyes fell on the suitcase sitting next to the bed in the adjoining bedroom. Evelyn hesitated. She was reluctant to leave the oil-skin package in the hotel room, but she wasn’t sure that carrying it with her would be any better. After a moment of indecision, she strode into the bedroom. She would take it with her. If the plans were important enough for the Germans to send men to follow Lars, then they were important enough to keep with her at all times.

And Evelyn had no intention of losing the package she’d gone through so much the night before to keep safe.

Liège, Belgium

Hans Voss strode along the River Meuse, his shoes clicking on the old stones of the walkway. A stiff breeze came off the water, blowing against his long black coat and causing it to flare around his legs, sending a chill through him. He ignored it and looked over the water appreciatively, taking a deep breath. The morning sun was shining brightly and the air was crisp and fresh, not unlike his hometown of Drochtersen on the Elbe River. He hadn’t been back there in over a year now, but the smell of the river and the bite of the breeze revitalized him and made him wonder if perhaps he was beginning to miss the town he grew up in. He’d made his home in Berlin, but he was rarely there anymore. He was travelling more and more, and that would only increase when the Führer finally moved against France. A frown crossed his lips as he watched the sun glisten on the waves, almost blinding him with millions of shards of light. The constant movement and city life was becoming tiresome. Perhaps it was time to move himself into the country, somewhere more quiet and peaceful for those rare times when he was home.

Shaking his head, Hans turned his gaze back to the river walk. There would be time enough to consider this idea when he was back in Germany. Right now, he was on his way to meet with Frau Lutz, one of his agents. She had news of the