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

no reason for her heart to be suddenly pounding against her chest, or for her palms to be getting damp inside her leather kid gloves. She would meet with Vladimir, discuss how he would contact her moving forward, and then she would leave. After trying to extract some kind of information from him, she added to herself silently.

After another exhale, she resisted the urge to shake her head. It was absurd. She wasn’t skilled enough to spy on a Soviet agent. Bill was out of his mind for thinking that she could, but she fully appreciated his position. Not only were they in a unique place of having inside information coming straight to them from Moscow, but thanks to her father and his ability to build relationships, they now had the opportunity to gain the trust of the Soviet agent who was willing to pass along his government’s secrets. It would be foolhardy in the extreme if they didn’t attempt to exploit the situation.

Evelyn came to a stop before the last column on her right and glanced up at the engraved marble beneath the likeness of a man holding what appeared to be a giant golden saw. St Simon the Zealot. She looked around, then moved to seat herself a few rows in front of the column. Lowering her head as if in prayer, her eyes scanned the empty nave, searching the shadows cast by the tall columns. There was still no sign of Vladimir, and she looked at her watch. It was just past ten o’clock. She was here and on time. Where was he?

After sitting for a moment listening to the holy silence of the sanctuary around her, Evelyn let out an impatient sigh and got up again, turning to look up at the statue of St Simon. He held the golden saw with one arm, and the other hand rested on a large tome with carving so ornate that she could almost hear the pages of the book rustling as his fingers rested on them.

“Simon the Zealot, not to be confused with Simon Peter,” a deep voice spoke from the other side of the column and she started, looking to her left as a man with dark hair moved out from behind the wide marble column. “No one really knows very much about him. He was known by several different names in his time, and for a long while there was much debate as to how and where he had his ministry. Some texts claim he was the second bishop of Jerusalem, and was crucified there just as Christ was. Others claim he traveled as far as Africa and was crucified in Samaria. However, the general belief held by the Church is that he was killed in Persia, sawn in half for teaching Christianity.”

“Hence the golden saw?” Evelyn found her voice.

“Precisely.” Vladimir Lyakhov stopped next to her and lowered his gaze to her face. “You look well. I trust you’ve recovered from your adventure in Norway?”

Evelyn swallowed and looked up into his lean face, noting the fine lines around his gray eyes. She hadn’t noticed them on the occasion of their last meeting, but she supposed she hadn’t really been focused on his appearance at that time. She remembered his eyes well enough, though. They were piercing and intelligent, and gave her the distinct impression that he rarely missed anything, and perhaps saw more than others were even aware was there.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, giving him a hesitant smile. “How did you know I was there?”

“I have people in Oslo, of course.” He motioned with one hand. “Come. Let’s walk and admire the stunning architecture while we discuss our situation. I’m pleased to see that you’ve become much more cautious in your travel. You’ve learned to look over your shoulder.”

“Being chased across Norway by the SS will do that,” she murmured dryly.

“Not just the SS, I think. You’re aware of Eisenjager?”

She looked at him sharply, then nodded. “Yes. But how are you?”

“Everyone knows about him,” Vladimir said with a shrug. “He has quite the reputation, and has built it into a legend worthy of the Nazi regime. I received information that he was in Norway, following you. You’re extremely lucky to have escaped alive. To my knowledge, no one ever has when he has been engaged.”

Evelyn stopped in front of the next column and gazed up at the apostle there.

“How did I get away, I wonder?” she said, almost to herself. “I still wonder if he allowed me to leave for some reason. Everything I’ve heard of him since says that it must have been something like that, but I can’t for the life of me imagine why that would be.”

“Perhaps Fate intervened,” he suggested with a flash of white teeth. “Or perhaps you were just very lucky. Regardless of which it was, you should never have been put in that position in the first place. I don’t know what induced them to send you to Oslo when an invasion was so close.”

She shot him an amused look. “Yes, I heard you were rather scathing about what you termed as carelessness on the part of MI6 to send me there.”

“It was careless, grossly careless. They had to have been aware of the imminent threat, and you were not prepared to be trapped in an occupied country.” Vladimir waved his hand impatiently. “If your father were alive, it would never have happened.”

“If my father were alive, I would not be here. He would.”

He looked at her, a flash of amusement in his deep-set eyes. “So he would.”

Evelyn was silent for a moment, then she raised her eyes to his face.

“Why does it matter to you that I was sent to Oslo right before...well, that I was put into that situation?”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Not especially.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s what I agreed to do. I’m doing it again now. The Nazis will move towards France any time now, and I’m here in Belgium, meeting with you. It’s a risk