The marble monument to Sir Rainer Pompey had been toppled; his name and the dates of his life were now face down for only the beetles and worms to read.
Anatole Ishikov was alone, but he had made fast work of Pompey’s grave as well.
Pompey had been buried in a private cemetery in a remote village, but the word had gotten out, and Ishikov had to see the fresh grave for himself. The two men had gotten on well as they worked together in Berlin, in the days after World War II. As British and Soviet interests separated, Pompey became Ishikov’s most determined adversary.
Kitty Cheshire, hiding in a deserted barn nearby, watched intently through binoculars as the shovel hit the top of the coffin. Ishikov threw the shovel over his shoulder and dove into the opened grave, throwing out handfuls of dirt as he scrabbled at it. Soon he found the clasp on the lid and yanked it open. He looked down into the coffin to find…
Nothing. It was empty.
A rage spread across Ishikov’s face. He picked up the heavy base of Pompey’s tombstone and flung it at another headstone. Chips of stone, moss, and dirt flew away from the marker.
Ishikov took a two-way radio from his briefcase. As she’d hoped, he called his top agent in England, railing at the man who had unintentionally given him false information. Kitty glanced at the monitoring receiver; soon she would have the location of the hidden agent.
Ishikov started to tune his radio, but he looked up. Within a few seconds, Kitty knew what had interrupted him; thunder clapped in the sky above, and rain followed, quickly building on the first tentative drops into a heavy, steady downpour.
Perhaps it was Rainer Pompey’s statement from beyond the grave, Kitty thought.
Ishikov stuffed the radio into his case and looked around for shelter. He spotted—and headed for…
The abandoned barn! When Kitty saw him heading her way, she grabbed the monitor and the hiking pack she’d carried.
The rungs of the wooden hayloft ladder broke at her touch. With Ishikov almost there, she took shelter in a horse stall, using the monitor itself to hold the door fast. Ishikov was muddy and wet, but he took the wait in stride, fortifying himself with cigarettes and a silver flask. Kitty watched him through the stall’s slats, but dared not make a sound; she noticed Ishikov was listening to the thunder claps and timing them.
When he was satisfied that the thunder had receded, Ishikov took out his radio again. When he started to tune it, Kitty turned on her monitor, hoping Ishikov’s own noise and the drumbeat of the rain would mask her sounds. As Ishikov made his report, coordinates appeared on a screen; Kitty scribbled them down.
Ishikov finished quickly, but he didn’t leave until the rain stopped pounding outside.
He paced through the night, looking regularly toward the cemetery through a hole broken in the boards. All the while, he drank from his flask and puffed on his cigarettes. Kitty, thinking she could use a drink, remained still in a crouched position as she watched him, her muscles aching from inactivity.
Shortly before dawn, Ishikov saw the storm clearing and grabbed his briefcase.
Tired and sore but still alert, Kitty sprang into standing position, her gun now at the ready, and shoved herself through the stall door.
“It’s all over, Ishikov!” she shouted.
Reflexively, he flung his briefcase toward Kitty as if it were a discus. She noticed its razor edge and leapt from its path, but not in time to avoid a long slash up her right arm. She fired reflexively as the briefcase struck her arm, her bullet knocking Ishikov backward as it hit his leg. She was on him in a heartbeat, taking his revolver.
“Pointless, really,” Kitty told Ishikov, bandaging both their wounds with her coat lining as she talked. “Pompey is dead, but he’s been dead since forty-eight, nearly fifteen years. Heart attack. No one on your side believed it, though.” She flashed her trademark grin. “Hell, half of our agents believe Pompey’s alive.”
Ishikov held up his flask. “To Rainer Pompey, still one of the West’s best agents!”
He held the flask out to Kitty. She repeated his toast and took a drink. It was good vodka. They drained it by the time the medical team came to collect Ishikov. As they did so, Kitty swapped stories with Ishikov about some of Pompey’s most legendary exploits, which unsurprisingly had all taken place after his fatal heart attack.
Kitty left the barn without help. As she walked through the graveyard, Kitty brushed off the tombstone Ishikov had hit in his rage. Someone had to; the village had been deserted since before the war. It could be years before anyone came through here …
To confirm her own death, perhaps?
Kitty hoped when that day came, she’d be there to swap the stories herself.
If you’d like to read more of Kitty Cheshire’s adventures…
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