Operation Blackbird: A Cold War Spy Novel (Brass Compass Series Book 2) by Ellen Butler

Author:Ellen Butler [Butler, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Power to the Pen
Published: 2022-10-26T06:00:00+00:00

CARL DROVE US TO BELGRAVE Street in the Pimlico neighborhood—not far from Westminster, where Parliament was located, along with a number for foreign embassies. He parked in front of a six-level, white stucco and stone, eighteenth century rowhouse with a covered front entry. The modest brass plaque on the door read Vandermeer and Associates Imports, Inc. A nice, generic-sounding company for the CIA to function under.

An unpretentious receptionist went with the generic sign and was the only person in the shallow entryway. The woman was somewhere between forty and sixty. She wore a blue suit, no makeup, and a pair of reading glasses, which sat atop her fuzzy, gray-brown hair. Her hand disappeared beneath the heavy, dark desk the moment we entered.

“How may I help you?” the woman greeted us.

“The nightingale sings at dawn,” Carl said, digging into his pocket.

“The mockingbird sings at dusk,” she replied.

“Good afternoon, Margaret.” Carl presented an identification card.

I knew Margaret was the first line of defense, and a weapon was pointed at me from beneath her desk. Besides Margaret, there wasn’t much else in the room. An aged, red-and-blue oriental carpet covered the scuffed hardwood floor. A pair of maroon leather wingback chairs sat in the front window, and the only thing on the walls was a hunting party painting. To the right was a set of open French doors that led to a small room with a conference table that sat six. Margaret’s desk held a typewriter, a neat stack of papers atop a desk blotter, and a black telephone. Behind Margaret was a heavy wooden door, which she guarded like a dragon at the gate.

“Carl,” she said through a pinched mouth. “Who is your friend?”

“Brigitte Moreau,” I answered.

“The chief should be expecting us,” Carl replied, tucking his ID into his pocket.

Margaret jerked her head. “He’s in his office.”

There was a buzzing noise, and I followed Carl through the four-inch-thick door behind the dragon. On one side was a narrow hallway, dotted with closed doors, and on the other, a steep staircase. Behind one of the doors, I could hear the steady clicking of a typewriter. I followed Carl up the staircase to a wide hallway. He led me past an empty desk with a phone, typewriter, files, and papers piled in a corner box, to an unmarked door.

Carl knocked.

“Come!” a muffled male voice called.

The station chief’s office was large, spanning the front of the building, with two floor-to-ceiling windows. My worries receded as I laid eyes on the man behind the desk.

He must have been about fifty now. White sprinkled through his dark hair and across his brow, which only enhanced his aquamarine blue eyes. They were now lined with wrinkles. He’d gained weight since the war, and a small potbelly strained against the lower buttons of his shirt. A suit jacket hung on the back of his desk chair, his tie was askew, and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves. A cigarette burned in the ashtray at his elbow. He rose at our entry, greeting us with a tobacco-yellowed grin, and came around the desk.

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