Chapter 3
Leonid
July, 1936
He had learned a long time ago that sometimes being too coy was being too obvious. The rookies always tried to be like the hero in a film, with the sunglasses and glancing at their watch every twenty seconds. Him? He had learned that if you sat down at a restaurant and acted, from the very beginning, that you were there to observe and people watch, people were less suspicious when you did. So he had been when he followed two men into a restaurant in the upscale part of London, and asked the hostess for a window seat. The reason for this request was that the two men had been seated in the corner, near some of the larger windows. As he sat down, he tapped his foot in a steady rhythm and glanced about the room, a fake smile on his face. He saw the two men beside him, then looked at an elderly couple chatting away a few tables down, a lone businessman at another table reading the newspaper as he sipped his tea, and three young ladies giggling away as they spoke excitedly across their booth table.
“What can I get you, sir?” the waitress asked. She had an accent that sounded like something from the middle of England – it was one he’d grown to love. It was rather cute, in an endearing way. She wasn’t altogether bad looking herself. She gave a somewhat gummy smile that wasn’t unattractive, and her dark eyes glimmered in the dim light from the sun outside. Short, curly hair danced about the sides of her pale cheeks in waves, and a proud nose stuck out from her face.
He smiled back at her, then said in a London accent, “Oh, your famous fish ‘n chips. Maybe some milk? Then maybe I can get
you something, love?” He grinned wide at her, peering up at her over the dark, bottlecap glasses on his face. The look in his eyes made her giggle a fit and wave her hand.
“Can’t drink on the job… not yet.” The red hue on her cheeks darkened. “But your fish ‘n chips will be right up.” As she left, Leonid turned his ears towards the men nearby. One was tall and thin, the other short and stocky, and both of them had bulbous noses. They weren’t speaking in hushed tones, but it didn’t matter – they were both speaking in Russian. They had paused in their conversation, but, upon hearing his English and his accent, immediately resumed speaking in Russian.
Not that that mattered – Leonid spoke Russian. He was from Russia. And he was an Okhrana agent, sent to England to investigate Bolshevik activity. These two men were Bolshevik agents: the tall one was visiting from Russia, while the stockier one was positioned there. It was the taller one Leonid was interested in, but he had to keep an ear out for any information to be handed to his fellow agents in the field. The Okhrana had tracked communications going from Russia to a London flat, and Leonid’s investigations had pinned it on this tall man. The communications had involved an update on a “little sparrow”.
“Is Comrade Stalin doing well?” the stocky one asked.
The tall one slurped his tea. “He does well. The traitor Trotsky has not discovered him yet.”
“But I heard that the Whites were moving troops towards the east?”
“From what we know, they’re being sent towards China, to keep an eye on the Japanese. They do not suspect where our positions are just yet.”
“That is good. I want him alive to hear the news I have for him.” The stocky man broke some bread on his plate, and put into his mouth while he continued speaking. “The British are caving in to the pressures our allies have been mounting on them. They’ve begun to rethink their colonial policies.”
The tall one chuckled at that. “The empire will fall apart. All the better for us. A revolution here, a revolution there… and the truth will spread.”
“We may not have to wait that long. With the way our agents are influencing the populace here, we could have this island in less than a decade. Already a quarter of the people love us. Have you heard about the new safety regulations?”
“The ones that have slowed their industry down?” The tall one laughed. “Too easy, I suppose. All our comrades in France are no doubt flocking here. Pick them up as we can.”
The stocky one paused a moment. “What of the… the bird?”
Leonid’s ears perked up.
“Ah yes, you mean the little sparrow...” The tall one chuckled. “We may have found our bird. Comrade Stalin wants us to pluck the feathers a bit before we cook it. I believe you understand.”
The stocky one chuckled. “Oh yes, I understand.”
Leonid’s food was delivered and he ate it while glancing at the various people in the restaurant. The men continued to speak, though mostly about mundane stuff about what they thought of Britain, the British, and the like. Some discussion was had about the upcoming Olympics, to be held in Germany. As soon as Leonid finished his food, he paid for it and left. He waited a few blocks from the restaurant and patiently waited for the two men to leave. It was quite some time, and Leonid made certain he was nothing more than another figure standing in the crowd of thousands upon thousands traversing the streets. Once the men finally left, the tall one turned and left for the residential parts of the city. Leonid tailed him, keeping an eye on that Irish cap and plaid vest.
The man walked for some time through the busy streets before ending up at a drab, gray tenement block. Leonid saw him go through the front door, and followed in after a few seconds later. A winding staircase greeted him, going up in a square path along the tight walls. He could hear the shuffling steps of the man above, mixed with the sound of a baby crying in a nearby apartment. Trying to move as silently as possible on his toes, Leonid moved up the steps, getting closer and closer. At last, he heard the telltale sound of the jingling of keys, followed by the sound of a key entering a lock. He continued moving up, not slowly or steadying his pace. By the time he had caught up to the man, he had unlocked the door to his room and was turning the doorknob.
Suddenly, Leonid burst up the stairs. The man turned just as he was opening the door, and Leonid tackled him in. Both men flew through the doorway. Leonid pressed the man to the floor with his weight and, with one fell swoop of his leg, kicked the door shut. The man tried to lift up, but Leonid was upon him. One of the man’s arms was pinned under his body, while Leonid held the other at the wrist, like he were grasping a snake. With his free hand, Leonid took out a knife and held it to the man’s throat.
“Who is the bird?” hissed Leonid in Russian.
The man below him hesitated. He spoke in English, with a British accent, “What bird?”
Leonid now switched to English, using the London accent he had done at the restaurant. “The bird you were going to pluck the feathers from.”
Though his head was facing away from him, Leonid could sense the shock in the man’s mind as everything clicked together. “
You!”
The knife pressed its sharp edge against the man’s flesh. Any deeper, and the flesh would be slit. “Who is the bird?”
The man groaned at the feel of the sharp edge. “I wasn’t told the identity. I just know she’s outside Yekaterinburg.”
“Where outside the town?”
“I wasn’t told that either!”
“Shall I cut your tongue out for proving so worthless?”
The man gave a low growl that reminded Leonid of a bear, but he continued to speak. “It’s a woman. With a husband. And two children. That’s all I know. I was to be told her identity when I returned.”
“Then what?”
“Then I was to kill them.”
“‘Them?’”
“Yes, her and her family.”
Leonid narrowed his eyes. “Her entire family?”
“Her, her husband, and her children. Those are Stalin’s orders.”
Leonid shoved the man’s face to the ground. He got up and turned to walk away. As he did, the man forced himself up as well. “You won’t find them.”
“Why is that?” Leonid asked.
“Because they will get to her soon enough.” The man began to brush dust from the floor off the front of his clothes. In the front of his vest, he cool feel the stiffness of his pistol, hidden under the fabric. “If I don’t respond to them, they’ll just send someone else to do it.”
“That may be.”
Still facing away from Leonid, the man reached into his vest pocket. He pulled the pistol from underneath. “You Whites are done for. She will die. And so will you.” He spun around, raising his gun.
Only to see Leonid standing there, silenced pistol already aimed.
Three bullets. Two in the chest, one in the face. The tall man tumbled down. His pistol rested in his hand, unused.
Leonid slipped the pistol back in his jacket pocket, then turned and stormed out of the apartment. In the hallway, he could hear the crying of the baby from the nearby apartment, which he hoped would have drowned out the sound of the shots. Either way, he had bigger things to worry about – he had some urgent messages to deliver.