77 
Spy vs. Spy

Hartwell Barclay sat in the northbound train toward Brussels.

Most travel in the war zone had been curtailed, though his Austrian passport and high connections made the transfer out of France into German-occupied Belgium easy enough.

A stooped woman dressed in black from head to foot with a black scarf around her neck shuffled down the aisle with a limp and brushed rudely past him, knocking his elbow from its armrest.

“Watch yourself, old woman,” he said irritably, half glancing toward the figure.

A surly grunt of response sounded. She continued on and sat down two seats behind him.

Paying her little heed, his thoughts returned to the approaching journey which had become necessary across the Channel. He didn’t like this business of returning to the land of his birth. Too many thoughts and reminders of the past filled him. In his deepest heart he was a man haunted by a host of private fears. He was able to exude confidence and impose his will on others when in comfortable surroundings of his own choosing, and when bolstered by the presence of his loyal subjects. But if challenged man to man in the absence of such, he might wilt like a schoolboy threatened by the class bully. Though he did his best to hide it, he was actually a timid man hounded by guilt for a past he could not face even in the privacy of his innermost heart. That guilt had in no way been assuaged by the betrayal of his native homeland, and he was not especially anxious to set foot on its soil again. He had at one time been a man of relatively high profile and could not help being nervous that he might be in more jeopardy than he realized.

The train had filled as they neared Brussels. Gradually the seating grew crowded. Barclay did his best to keep to himself but found the press of disgusting and smelly human flesh repulsive.

Behind him a loudmouthed Belgian, who had apparently had too much to drink before boarding, was attempting to strike up a conversation with his neighbor, who was not inclined in the least to engage with him in dialog.

“What’s your problem, old woman? Cat got your tongue, or are you deaf!” he said after she had said nothing in response to a string of loud questions and attempted off-color anecdotes. “Can’t you see I’m talking to you?”

The woman continued not to reply, trying yet again to turn away, an attempt made difficult by the fact that they were seated beside each other, and she had only the window on her other side to keep her company.

“What’s the matter,” he said, “am I not good enough for the likes of you?”

His attempts grew louder and louder, gradually filling the entire coach. Unconsciously Barclay turned around and looked to see what sort of fool was causing the ruckus. His gaze, however, was diverted toward the old woman in black who was the object of the drunken man’s abuse. Though he could only see one side of it, for she was facing the window, her aspect and complexion seemed remarkably youthful for a woman who otherwise appeared sixty or more. Not only that, though he couldn’t quite place it, there was an uncannily familiar—

“Brussels, five minutes!” called out the conductor, coming through the coach. “Next stop . . . Brussels.”

Barclay turned back around at the sound. The train immediately began to slow. Now commotion filled the coach as bustling passengers began gathering up suitcases and bags, parcels and umbrellas, and putting on coats. One by one they stood and some began moving toward the doors. Whatever became of the loud man’s further efforts with his unfriendly neighbor, they were drowned out in the hubbub occasioned by their arrival in the station.

Barclay himself stood as the passengers made their way down the aisles to exit the train. Once the coach was mostly empty, he eased into the aisle, glancing around for one last look at the curious old woman. She still sat unmoving, her face turned away. He stared at her another moment or two. As he did his gaze narrowed slightly and he took a step toward her, his brain trying to place what it was about her that seemed to draw his eyes.

All at once the bothersome man who had been beside her came lumbering up the aisle, bumped straight into him as he proceeded toward the exit, nearly knocking Barclay off his feet.

“Get going, man!” he shouted, his foul drunken breath nearly causing Barclay to swoon. “Didn’t you hear the conductor? We’re in the station. Get moving . . . you’re in my way.”

Barclay stepped aside, let the belligerent fellow by, then followed him out and into the station.

Behind him, a minute or two later, the silent old woman in black slowly stepped out of the train, glanced about cautiously, then ambled off after Barclay’s retreating form.