Passport to Spy by Nancy Cole Silverman

Author:Nancy Cole Silverman [Nancy Cole Silverman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-05-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

“Ms. Lawson?” The hotel’s front desk clerk called to me as I entered. “You have a guest.”

“Excuse me?” The clerk pointed to a frizzy-haired old woman sitting by herself beneath a reading light. She was dressed in a tweed coat, wearing a pair of sloppy-looking galoshes with a suitcase at her feet, and reading the Suddeusche Zeitung. I approached her cautiously. “Are you looking for me?”

The woman looked up over her readers. Despite the gray wig and obvious disguise, I recognized Sophie’s blue eyes.

She stood slowly, placed her hand on my shoulder, and whispered in my ear. “Whatever you do, don’t say my name. We’re being watched.”

I hugged her like an old friend. “Well, what a surprise, Gertrude. What are you doing here?” I figured if I faked a name, anyone who might be watching would be thrown off.

In response, Sophie answered in a voice a little louder than necessary. “My plane to Frankfurt was delayed. I don’t suppose I could convince you to join me for coffee and maybe some of that German Schwartzwald cake? I’m famished.”

I picked up Sophie’s bag. “Let me freshen up a bit.”

Then, like a welcomed friend, I linked my arm through hers and ushered her toward the elevator. Once the doors closed, Sophie dropped my arm.

“We need to talk.” I knew something was wrong from the hollow tone of Sophie’s voice. I waited to respond until we got to my room.

“What’s going on?” I crossed the room and closed the blinds. Sophie obviously hadn’t gotten my voicemail. “What’s with the disguise?”

“I don’t want anyone to know I’m in the country.” Sophie slipped the wig from her head and tossed it on the bed. “I caught my receptionist playing back my voicemails. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more you can do here.” Sophie reached into her bag and took out a passport and an airline ticket. “You need to leave. And the sooner, the better.”

“Leave?” I laughed. “You can forget that. I’m not about to go home. Not now.” I snatched the ticket from Sophie and threw it on the bed. “You’re right. Hans does know who I am, and if you had listened to the voicemail I left on your cell, you would know he knows about you, too.”

“How do you know this?” Sophie pulled at her gloves, one finger at a time, and stuffed them in her bag.

“You first,” I said. “Seems to me that I should know who else is on this team. It’s starting to feel lonely out here all by myself.”

“I can’t give you names, Kat. That’s not how it works, but I will tell you, the protestor outside the Galerie—”

“You mean Klaus Kemper, the man whose father found the Gauguin.”

“That’s not Klaus Kemper, Kat, the man in front of Galerie’s an agent. After Herr Kemper approached the German authorities about what he suspected to be a fraudulent copy of Gauguin’s Fruits on the Table, they agreed to investigate. The agent assumed Kemper’s identity—nobody would have known who he

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