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Zürich, Switzerland
Evelyn got out of the taxi and glanced up at the stunningly imposing stone facade before her. Standing over ten stories with ornate stonework adorning the first two floors, the bank made a simple statement of elegance and exclusiveness. She adjusted her gloves and walked towards the impressive doors under a black and gold awning. The building didn’t intimidate her. Her own bank in London was just as imposing. Yet what awaited her inside did, and Evelyn’s spine stiffened in reaction, her chin edging up in the faintest tilt of resolution.
A doorman opened the door for her, nodding to her respectfully as she approached.
“Mademoiselle,” he murmured.
“Merci.”
She swept into the lobby of the bank with her purse over her arm and looked around. Spotless marble floors gleamed beneath her heels as she paused, her eyes brushing over the marble counter where patrons could conduct routine transactions before moving to a little gate in a brass fence that separated the lobby from more private rooms. That was where more intricate business was conducted, she knew, and that was most likely where she would need to go.
“Good afternoon, Fraulein. How can I assist you today?”
The question was asked in German, and she turned in some trepidation despite knowing that that language was prominent in Zürich. An older gentleman with graying hair approached her, a deferential smile on his face. He was dressed impeccably in a black suit that was neither ostentatious nor understated, speaking more to his status as a bank manager than an introduction ever could. He was smiling amiably and his head was tilted with the kind of respect that she was used to receiving when she was at home in England. After much debate in her hotel room, Evelyn had decided to dress as she would if she were visiting her own bank in London. Clearly, she had made the correct decision. Her care with her wardrobe had paid off handsomely, speaking more of her stature in society than her name would this far from home.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to discuss an account,” she said, also in German.
“Yes, of course. My name is Albert Brunner and I am the manager here.”
“I am Evelyn Ainsworth,” she said, holding out a gloved hand. “My father was Robert Ainsworth.”
Herr Brunner’s eyebrows rose and his smile grew as he shook her hand.
“Yes, of course! I remember Herr Ainsworth well. He hasn’t been here in quite some time.” As he spoke, Herr Brunner led her across the spacious lobby to the little gate. He opened it and waited for her to go through before following. “How is your father?”
Evelyn waited until he’d closed the gate and they had moved away before answering.
“I’m afraid he has passed away.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” Brunner paused and looked at her, his face transforming seamlessly from an amiable smile to a study in sympathy. “You have my most sincere condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“I suppose you must be here to see about the box, and to make arrangements for his accounts.” Brunner led her to a corridor on the left. “Just this way, if you please.” He motioned her towards a door a few feet away. “When did Herr Ainsworth pass?”
“Last September.” Evelyn walked into a large and elegantly appointed office. Furnished with comfortable armchairs and dark, heavy wood, it oozed affluence. A thick, rich, burgundy carpet cushioned her feet as she made her way across the room to one of the armchairs. “It was quite sudden.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Brunner closed the door and moved across the room to seat himself behind a desk gleaming with wood polish. A shining brass desk set reflected her countenance back to her as Evelyn sat down, settling her purse on her lap.
“He was a wonderful man. September, you say? Why, he must have...that is, I believe we last saw him around that time.”
“He was in Bern when he died,” she offered with a small smile. “So it’s very possible.”
“Good heavens.” Herr Brunner sat back, shaking his head sadly. “How shocking for your family. Did your mother accompany you here to Zürich?”
“No, she’s still in England.”
He nodded and frowned thoughtfully. “You have a...brother, yes?”
Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “You have a fantastic memory, Herr Brunner,” she said with a smile. “Yes, I do.”
“As I said, your father was a wonderful man. He and I had many conversations over the years.”
“Over the years?” she repeated, surprised. “How long has he had an account with your bank?”
“Oh my, quite a few years now. Let me think.” Brunner stroked his chin thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “It must have been ‘32 or ‘33 that I first met him. He was on a visit from China. Hong Kong, if my memory serves me correctly.”
Despite herself, Evelyn was shaken. She’d had no idea that her father even had a bank account outside of England and France, and she certainly had never heard about him coming to Switzerland while they were in Hong Kong. He had traveled even then, of course, but she had always been under the impression that it was confined to England’s interests in Asia.
“I must say that I’m surprised to see you here instead of your brother,” he continued. “I would have thought he would be the one taking care of the estate affairs.”
“He has taken over management of the family estate, yes. However, he’s rather busy with the war effort. He’s a pilot, you know.” Evelyn smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I was the only one available to come.”
“Ah. Yes. This war is making everything very difficult.” Brunner straightened up. “Now, I’ll need your identification, of course. And I’m sure your brother sent along a letter releasing the information into your care?”
“No, he didn’t.” Evelyn opened her eyes very wide and stared at Herr Brunner helplessly. “Goodness, I don’t think it even occurred to him. He sent his solicitor to me with the information and requested that I come see to it. He’s flying over France at the moment, you see,” she added pointedly.
“Oh dear. Well, I suppose given the unique situation, with the proper identification I can arrange something. You do have that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
Evelyn opened her purse and pulled out her passport and papers, reflecting as she did so how strange it was to see her real name on the documents. It was almost as if her true identity was becoming foreign to her. The thought was a disturbing one, and she shook it off quickly.
“I must confess, Herr Brunner, that I’m not sure of what accounts my father had with your bank. They weren’t mentioned in his will, and our family solicitors were unaware of them. The only reason I’m here, to be completely honest, is because he left me a note with a key, and this. I naturally contacted my brother, who contacted our solicitors. It’s all very strange.”
She passed him the business card with the single account number written across the back. Herr Brunner took the card and glanced at it.
“How unusual. This was all he left you?” he asked, looking up. “How very strange. Your father had three accounts with us, and a safe deposit box.” He handed the card back to her and examined her paperwork in silence for a moment before nodding. “Well, this all seems to be in order. There is just one more formality I must check before we can proceed.” He stood up and handed her documents back to her. “We require all our depositors to fill out a form with instructions in the event of their death. After the Great War, there was such confusion, you see. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment?”
“No, of course not.”
Evelyn smiled at him and watched as he left the office. As soon as the door closed behind him, she tucked her papers back into her purse and snapped it closed, exhaling. Her mind swirled with confusion. Her father had three accounts here? What on earth for? Why would he keep money in Zürich when he had accounts in both England and France? She frowned and stared blindly at the brass inkwell on the desk. Of course, he had been travelling to Switzerland and Austria, as well as Germany, quite a bit in the years before his death. It would make sense for him to require easy access to funds, but one account would be perfectly sufficient. Why three? And why hadn’t anyone known about them?
After a long moment, Evelyn stood up restlessly and walked over to examine a painting on the opposite wall. If he had three accounts, should she close all of them? Was it really her place to do so? Or should she investigate the box and the one account, then alert Robbie to the existence of the others? As soon as the thought occurred to her, Evelyn shook her head. No. How on earth would she explain to Robbie how she’d learned of the bank in Zürich in the first place? Or that she’d actually been here when she was supposed to be safe on English soil, training WAAFs around England?
Turning, she paced back to her chair. Sitting down again, she bit her bottom lip. It didn’t seem quite the thing, really, looking at her father’s private bank accounts. It almost seemed disrespectful, in a way. This was something the solicitors did, not something she should do. Yet what other choice did she have? She was here, and Robbie was not. Neither were their solicitors.
Oh Dad, what am I to do? What would you want me to do?
The door behind her opened again and Herr Brunner returned with a leather folder in his hands.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Fraulein Ainsworth,” he said, closing the door. “I hope you weren’t uncomfortable.”
“Not at all.”
He went back to sit behind the desk and nodded, undoing the strap around the folder.
“Well then, let’s take a look and see what we can do,” he said, opening the folder. He pulled a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket and settled them on his nose before examining the letters in the folder.
Evelyn watched him curiously, watching as his forehead creased in concentration. Goodness she hoped her father had had the forethought to allow her access to the safe deposit box! He must have. He had left the key where only she could find it. But what if he hadn’t?
“Well, well. I must say that this is most irregular,” Brunner murmured, flipping to the next page. “Hm. Mmm.”
Evelyn resisted the urge to laugh at the look of pure consternation on the man’s face. Heavens, what had her dearly departed father instructed? Bankers were notoriously unflappable, yet Herr Brunner seemed quite taken aback by what he was reading.
When he finally finished, he stacked the letters neatly and closed the folder, removing his glasses. His face had been schooled back into the placid expression he’d had since the beginning.
“Well, Fraulein, we can continue without any hesitation. Your father was very clear in his instructions.”
“May I ask what his instructions were?”
“Yes. He leaves sole access, ownership and authority of all his assets in this bank to his daughter, Evelyn Ainsworth. In the event that she is deceased, all rights will pass to his wife, Madeleine Ainsworth.” Brunner rubbed his chin with a frown. “It’s very irregular. The rights don’t pass to his first-born son unless both you and your mother are deceased. I’m sure you understand how unusual that is.”
“Yes.” Evelyn agreed. “How very strange. Robbie has taken over management of the entire estate. I don’t know why Dad would have given those instructions, but it does explain why I received this key and not my brother.”
Herr Brunner lowered his hand and his amiable smile was back. “Perhaps this was his nest egg for you,” he said gently. “He spoke very highly of you. He was very proud of your ear for languages, and I must say that your German is impeccable.”
Evelyn smiled and inclined her head slightly. “Thank you.”
“Where would you like to begin, Fraulein? We can begin with the numbered accounts, or perhaps you’d like to examine the box first?”
Evelyn raised her eyes to his. “I think I’ll start with the box.”
Lvov, Poland
A low, gray ceiling lay over the city as two uniformed guards stood inside the main entrance of the municipal building headquarters. The younger one gazed dutifully out of the glass doors while his superior seemed uninterested in the possibility of any unscheduled visitors. When his subordinate suddenly snapped to attention, he looked at him in surprise before turning his attention outside. An imposing figure strode up the shallow steps of the old building seized by Soviet forces months before. He didn’t recognize the man, who was dressed, not in uniform, but in civilian clothes, with a long, steel gray overcoat of thick wool hanging perfectly on his stocky frame. Glancing at the other soldier standing at perfect attention, he frowned and shook his head. There was no reason that he could see for the fuss. It was just another government worker looking for a permit, more than likely. He waited until the man had entered the building before moving to block his path.
“What is your business?” he barked, stepping forward. “Identification!”
There was a moment of silence as the man turned dark eyes upon him. Nothing in the stranger’s countenance changed, but the soldier felt a streak of uncertainty go through him at the steely look. The man reached a hand into his inner pocket, pulling out a leather wallet, his eyes never leaving the soldier’s face.
“My business is none of your concern, Sergeant,” he said coldly, handing him the identification.
The soldier took it and flipped it open. His face paled and he looked up again, startled.
“My apologies, sir. I had no idea—”
“I’m not interested in your apologies, or your excuses.” The man cut him off, snatching his identification from suddenly limp fingers and tucking it back into his pocket. “I would advise you to pay attention when your fellow soldier stands to attention. If you did, you would have had an idea. Now let me pass.”
“Comrade!” The hapless soldier fell back and stood ramrod straight while the man strode on, beads of sweat forming along his forehead.
“Idiot!” The other guard hissed as soon as the man was out of earshot.
“You could have warned me!” he retorted in just as quiet a tone. “You know who that is?”
“Yes. I saw him a few days ago.”
The soldier swallowed and lifted a hand to wipe the moisture from his brow as the man disappeared around the corner and moved out of sight.
“Then it was your duty to tell me!”
The other guard came as close to shrugging as he could without actually doing so. “I didn’t have time.” He relaxed his stance now that the man was gone. “I’m glad I’m not in your boots, though.”
The soldier swallowed again and refused to answer, turning his attention outside. There was no reason to answer. They both knew what could happen. One did not simply treat a senior commanding officer of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs with the level of disrespect that he just had and emerge unscathed. There would be repercussions.
The NKVD would demand it.
Vladimir Lyakhov strode down the corridor, stripping off his gloves as he went. The arrogance of the guard could have been dismissed, if not excused, but not the ignorance. Once his compatriot had snapped to attention, he should have been alerted to the fact that someone of some rank was approaching. If that was the level of intelligence the Red Army was producing these days, they were in for a long war indeed.
Of course, it could have been worse. Lyakhov well remembered the days when there was no standard of respect at all in the military. That was in the beginning, after the revolution. At that time, it was believed that a ranking system, and all the power and respect it demanded, was part of the bourgeois customs that every true Bolshevist abhorred. He had been a young man then, just entering the army, and the resulting chaos of those early years was still a sore point with many of his fellow officers now. The period had been characterized by blatant disregard for anything resembling structure, with soldiers voting on which orders they would follow, and which man would command them. The results were, predictably, terrible, and the Kremlin soon rectified the situation by reinstating a ranking system within the army. It was the sharp memory of this time that led to an attitude of zero tolerance among his fellow officers, and Lyakhov was no exception. By morning, that soldier would be on his way back to the motherland to receive a demotion and forced manual labor.
Unlike the majority of his fellow NKVD officers, Vladimir did not believe that a minor first offense should necessarily constitute it being the man’s last act on this earth. He did, however, believe in repercussions.
He opened a door to stride into a small, utilitarian office. He tossed his hat and gloves onto a chair and unbuttoned his coat, shrugging out of it before draping it carefully over the back of the chair. He looked at his watch and walked around to seat himself behind the desk. He just had time to write out his report and prepare for the briefing in the morning before going back to his apartment for the night. In the morning, he left for Kiev, and then on to Leningrad. His detour into Belgium last week had cost him three days in travel time, but it had been necessary. Now he had much to do to make up those three days.
After unlocking a drawer and pulling out a folder, he got up and went over to a small table in the corner to turn on the radio. Returning to his seat, he picked up a pen and proceeded to get started. The radio program droned in the background while he began to write out his estimation on the facility here in Lvov. While not ideal, it would be sufficient for them to glean operational intelligence from the local population. With any luck, they would be siphoning new information into Moscow within the month.
It was about ten minutes later that the steady movement of his nib across the paper paused. Lifting his head, Vladimir glanced at the radio as the announcer began reading the evening news. When, a few seconds into the segment, he said that the flowers were blooming in the Alps, Vladimir set down his pen and smiled faintly. Getting up, he went over to switch off the radio before returning to open the top drawer of the desk. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then crossed over to the small window to gaze outside. So it was done. Lotus had made the arrangements at the hotel in Bern.
He sucked on the cigarette and watched absently as a woman pushed a pram down the street. When he began this quest after Robert Ainsworth died, he had fully expected Ainsworth’s daughter to be an acceptable substitute. Upon meeting her last fall, she had exceeded his expectations. Now she was on the road to becoming much more than a simple contact in the West.
Much, much more.
For better or worse, they were now both committed to this relationship. Regardless of what happened on the continent and in the battlefields that covered them, he had an open path of communication with her, and she with him. With that came many risks for them both, not the least of which was certain death should either of them be discovered by his government.
He briefly wondered how she had got out of Brussels in the midst of the German offensive. He had sent her a note on the morning of the invasion, advising her which ways were clear for her to make it to France. He’d received confirmation that his courier had delivered it into her hand in the lobby of the hotel. Even so, he’d had a moments concern when he heard that Brussels was being bombed. Yet she’d made it out, and was able to make her way to Switzerland.
Vladimir stared thoughtfully out of the window. How on earth was she going to get back to England? The German armies were advancing on all fronts, and soon they would be on the northern coast of France, trapping the Allied forces. France was destined to fall quickly, and when it did, there would be no way out. He lifted the cigarette to his lips. It would be interesting to see what happened if she were unable to get back in time. Would she contact him? Or would she continue her work from within France? A faint smile grazed his lips. He had a feeling that she would continue from the depths of Hell if the situation so required.
Turning from the window, Lyakhov went over to put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. Lotus would find her way back to England; he had no doubt of that. When she did, she would be held there until France had settled into some kind of armistice with Germany. MI6 would be incredibly foolish if they did anything else. Of course, he’d known them to be incredibly foolish in the past, but if he knew William Buckley at all, he knew that he wouldn’t risk losing his best agent so soon. The man knew that he’d need her later as the war continued.
For this war would continue, Vladimir reflected, seating himself. It was just beginning. Hitler was taking France, and then he would take England. And when that happened, Bill would need his best agent alive and able to organize a resistance.
And that was exactly what Vladimir was counting on.
