The Iron Storm by CW Browning (classic literature books TXT) 📕

time. Nothing complicated, just an easy exchange. At least, it would have been if the other agent hadn’t been followed.

She had done surprisingly well, all things considered. Vladimir didn’t know when exactly she realized that she was being followed, but she obviously had. She had returned to the hotel and gone through the front doors, only to exit half an hour later as an old woman through the back alley. The frown lightened suddenly into a very faint smile. He had almost missed her himself. If it hadn’t been for her single glance back to the man in the street after bumping into him, Vladimir would never have realized it was her. That was no small feat. There were very few who could get past him. If she hadn’t looked back, she would have joined those few.

But she had looked back, and if the man in the brown coat had noticed, she would have blown her cover in that second. She had to do better.

They exited the train station and Evelyn raised her hand to flag down a taxi. He grunted in approval, picking up his pace. Good. She wasn’t taking any chances. She was taking the safe route to a hotel. He raised a hand to get the attention of a taxi himself. He would make sure she arrived at her hotel, and stayed this time, before returning to his own. Tomorrow would be soon enough to proceed.

At least now he had a very good idea of what kind of agent young Evie was shaping into, and she was coming along much faster than he’d been expecting. She was definitely improving, and she was showing him that he hadn’t been wrong in his initial evaluation of her. Evelyn Ainsworth would make one hell of an agent one day.

And he had every intention of making sure that day came sooner rather than later.

Brussels, Belgium

May 8

Evelyn stretched and got up from her seat before the writing desk, walking to the window to look out over the city. Early morning sun flooded the streets below and she watched as men and women hurried along the pavement to start their day. After arriving last night, she’d had a late dinner in the restaurant before going to her room and collapsing into bed, falling into a deep sleep. To say that the previous day had been long and exhausting was an understatement. By the time she had finished her very late dinner, her energy had all but deserted her and it was all she could do to make it up to her room.

She still had no idea just how, exactly, she’d managed to get past the man following her and get to the station in time to catch the last train. She didn’t even really seem to have a clear recollection of gathering her bag and changing into the shapeless dress she’d stolen from the laundry in the basement. The hat and scarf had been pilfered from the laundry room as well, and she remembered that well enough. She had just been slipping out of the massive room when two of the employees came back from their dinner break. They hadn’t seen her, but that had been only due to sheer luck. Everything after that, however, was something of a blur. Thinking about it now, she shook her head in wonder. She had been calm and focused last night when she realized what she needed to do, but now in the bright light of day, she had absolutely no idea how she’d done any of it. So much could have gone wrong! And yet, it hadn’t. She’d made it away and to Brussels before the man following her had any idea she’d left and, more importantly, before he could make any attempt to take the package from her.

The package. It all came down to that in the end. All the panic, and the flight from Antwerp, was all due to that oilskin-wrapped package. At least now it was safe, concealed in the hidden compartment in her suitcase. That was all that really mattered.

Evelyn turned away from the window and was moving back to the desk when a knock fell on the door. Her heart thumped in her chest and she glanced at her watch. It was just past eight in the morning and the only person who knew she was here was the night manager who had checked her in. For one panicked moment, she had visions of the man from the street in Antwerp standing outside the door, but she dismissed them a second later. She was being silly. She was perfectly safe now.

Crossing the room resolutely, she opened the door. A liveried porter stood in the thickly carpeted hallway holding a white envelope.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Fournier,” he said pleasantly. “This was left for you a few moments ago at the front desk.”

“Merci.”

Evelyn took the envelope, smiling in thanks, and closed the door. She locked it again and turned away. Relief was flooding through her and she shook her head, annoyed with herself for being so frightened by a simple knock on the door. Ignoring the trembling in her hands, she ripped open the envelope and pulled out a plain card.

The Church of St. Michael & St Gudula, ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Enter from the side vestibule and go towards the back of the church. Sit near the statue of Saint Simon. ~ Shustov

A soft gasp escaped her and Evelyn instinctively glanced over her shoulder at the closed and locked door. How did Lyakhov know she was staying in this hotel? He didn’t know what name she was using, and she wasn’t supposed to arrive at all until today. How on earth did he know she was already here? It was impossible! Except it clearly wasn’t. She lowered her eyes to the card in her hand, staring at the printed letters. They were written in a firm, neat hand that was as masculine as it was generic. Her eyes narrowed