The Oslo Affair (Shadows of War, #2) by CW Browning (read after .txt) 📗

When she had followed her tail to the Russian Embassy this morning, she had thought perhaps it was Vladimir himself that was watching her every move. But when the man held his identification out and the guard snapped to instant attention, she discarded the idea. While Shustov was, by all accounts, an NKVD agent, he didn’t hold a rank worthy of that instant fear and respect. No. Lyakhov would warrant a respectful salute, perhaps, but that was it. The stranger following her had to be a member of the senior commanding staff at the very least, perhaps a Captain or a Major. She didn’t think he was a Commissioner. She couldn’t imagine one reason why a Commissioner would be interested in her. They were at the very top of the NKVD, one of the top commanding staff. She bit her lip now and frowned.

Whoever he was, he was still very high up in the food chain, which begged the question: why was he stalking her himself?

Admittedly, she didn’t know very much about the inner workings of the Soviet agency, but it seemed to her that the higher they climbed up the military ladder, the less footwork they did themselves. So why was someone of obvious rank wasting his time observing her? And how on earth was she going to avoid him tonight when she went to meet Hans?

Evelyn had Bill to thank for her newfound expertise on Soviet rankings. He had been insistent that she study them thoroughly on the crossing over from England. If she didn’t know better, she would have suspected that he was worried about her meeting with a Soviet agent. Instead, she decided that he was just being overly cautious. Whatever the reason, Evelyn had become an expert on Soviet rankings, insignias, and military dress on the rough North Sea crossing. But she never once thought it would come into play so quickly.

She stopped at a stall selling fruit and selected a couple of apples. After a few moments of trying to make herself understood, she finally came to an understanding with the vendor and passed over some coins. With a smile and nod of thanks, she slid the apples into an empty cloth shopping bag she had brought along and turned away from the booth. As she did so, someone bumped into her from behind and she gasped, stumbling forward and colliding with a solid body.

Strong hands steadied her and Evelyn lifted her face to stare into a pair of dark gray eyes set deeply into a square face with harsh cheekbones. Dark hair was cropped neatly and precisely and a dark mustache perched above thin lips, almost unreal in its perfection. Not a hair was out of place and the hard, unemotional face staring back at her seemed completely undisturbed by her plowing into him.

In that instant, Evelyn knew she was staring at Vladimir Lyakhov.

Dropping her eyes from his face, the navy blue scarf with white piping tied around his neck confirmed her suspicion.

Before she could speak, the hands dropped away from her arms and he nodded politely.

“My apologies. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said in heavily accented English.

“It’s my fault. I lost my balance,” she replied. “I’m very sorry.”

“You are English?”

“Yes.”

“How was the weather in London when you were there?”

Evelyn swallowed, trying to ignore her pounding heart.

“I carried an umbrella because it looked like rain, but left it on the train.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment and turned to continue past her. As he did so, she felt something slide into her coat pocket. Resisting the urge to turn and watch him, she forced her legs to move her forward, in the opposite direction. Gripping the bag with her apples in one hand, she moved through the market, not looking back.

Her heart was pounding and her palms were damp, she realized with a start a moment later. It was really happening. A Soviet agent had really just slipped something into her pocket, and there was no turning back now.

She waited until she was on the other side of the market to reach her hand into her pocket and extract the paper. Opening it, she read the message quickly. It was a single line, an address. There were no other instructions or times. Just the address.

Evelyn pressed her lips together and crumpled the note in her hand, shoving it back into her pocket. Passing a trash receptacle, she thought of the man this morning and the message she had pulled out of the trash can. Her lips twitched. Certainly she wasn’t about to make the same mistake. She’d wait until she was back in her room and then she would dispose of the messages from Shustov properly. There would be no trace by the time she was finished.

Turning out of the opposite end of the market, Evelyn glanced at her watch and started down the street. She’d find a shop where she could ask for directions to the address on the paper.

And then she’d continue this strange and unnerving scavenger hunt. She tried not to consider that it was a Soviet agent waiting at the end of it, and instead focused on the fact that her father had trusted Lyakhov enough to meet him in Warsaw as the German Army advanced into Poland. If Vladimir had gained her father’s trust, the least she could do was meet with him and collect what it was that he was trying so desperately to get to London.

And in that, at least, she could finish the last task her father had been unable to complete.

Chapter Twelve

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Evelyn stared up at the imposing facade of the public library and shook her head. Another library. She started up the steps, glancing behind her and scanning the street. There was no sign either of Vladimir or of her mysterious stalker. However, she knew from experience that that didn’t mean anything.

Entering the library, she crossed the tiled floor to pass the circulation desk, nodding