Washington Spies: A Historical Espionage Thriller Read online

  WASHINGTON SPIES

  PHYLLIS BOWDEN BOOK 3

  SJ SLAGLE

  Washington Spies

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2022 SJ Slagle

  Rough Edges Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  5130 S. Fort Apache Rd. 215-380

  Las Vegas, NV 89148

  roughedgespress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-053-9

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-066-9

  CONTENTS

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  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  If you liked this, you may also enjoy: Sympathy for the Devil

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  About the Author

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  WASHINGTON SPIES

  PROLOGUE

  THE CAPTURE

  As she stared at the decrepit building, Phyllis Bowden’s clammy hands slipped off the steering wheel. Warm liquid oozed from her body onto the seat. The bleeding hadn’t stopped.

  Rough-looking men, secret police probably, rushed in the front door of the building at the same time her target and his pregnant wife stumbled onto the rickety fire escape on the third floor.

  Phyllis held her breath, watching him help her from one landing to another, rushing the best he could. The third-floor landing shivered with the unexpected weight. The second-floor landing swayed precariously, making Phyllis light-headed with breathless anticipation. She was able to suck in some air when the man maneuvered the woman to the ground level. Phyllis inched her car along the icy street, narrowly missing another car trying to pass her. A horn blared unwanted attention and she hissed a curse.

  Much was riding on this defection. If she couldn’t bring in the target, his life and his wife’s, plus that of their unborn child, would be worth nothing. They would be shot for sure.

  Her job was at stake. Even though higher-ups on the food chain had chosen her for this assignment, she was still trying to prove herself to a boss who didn’t think much of her abilities as an agent.

  Most important of all, the atomic spy they had been chasing would escape justice. This man was as elusive as he was dangerous. Just when the agency thought they had him cornered, he’d slip out of their net. Just when a witness to his treason was found, he or she disappeared nearly as quickly as they had come.

  More liquid trickled down her leg.

  Parked at the curb by the old tavern, Phyllis kept her focus on the two people slipping toward her. Their breaths were frosty in the chilly air. The man glanced at Phyllis. She read desperation and fear in his eyes. He was doubtful this would work out, that much was obvious. If so, why had he pursued this course of action? No one had talked him into this. He’d come to them.

  Snow fell heavily, caking their boots, making movement sluggish. The landscape would soon be covered. Phyllis opened the passenger door. He reached her at the same time.

  “Get in. We’ve got to go.” Glancing up, she saw men stepping onto the third-floor landing. Their dark looks took in the scene with a glance.

  “Come on, honey. It’s not far now,” he told his wife.

  She didn’t bother responding. With hands caressing her bloated belly, the woman panted from exertion. It took the two of them to heave her into the front passenger seat, her heavy load nearly reaching the dashboard of the tiny car. The man slipped into the back.

  Phyllis’ tires left deep ruts in the snowy street. Slush covered her car’s wiper blades rendering her vision bleary. No matter. Weaving around slower traffic, she kept her car pointed north. North to the safe house. Even with her precious cargo, she pushed the little Chevy faster than she should have. A pedestrian appeared out of nowhere, walking into her hazy line of sight.

  She stomped the brakes. The woman braced her hands against the dash to prevent being thrown forward. Phyllis automatically threw a hand over to protect her.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” she puffed. “Just keep going.”

  A sharp pain stabbed Phyllis’ abdomen causing her to groan aloud.

  Recklessly, Phyllis careened her car forward into traffic. With an eye on her rearview mirror, she could see two black sedans weaving around cars trying to catch up. She cursed the rental agency for only having the one compact car left in the lot, when she needed something with more get-up-and-go. Also, she wasn’t particularly smooth with the stick transmission and vainly wished she’d listened more to Joe’s patient instructions.

  Grinding another gear, Phyllis sped down the street toward her destination. With the cars in pursuit closing in, she ran a red light. A traffic policeman blew his shrill whistle noisily at her. Unable to stop Phyllis, the policeman was able to halt one black sedan from crossing after her. He pointed to the side of road, effectively taking one car out of the race.

  By the time the second car was able to cross the intersection, Phyllis was well ahead, coming within sight of her destination. She kept her head down, one hand cradling her stomach and her foot on the accelerator.

  The safe house was within sight.

  ONE

  PHYLLIS

  If she hurried, Phyllis Bowden had just enough time for a quick sandwich at the corner drugstore. Tuna on white bread would hold her until dinner. She’d eaten here nearly every workday for the year she’d been in Washington, D.C. The small drugstore was close, served good food and fast. She could be in and out in twenty minutes, leaving the bulk of her lunch hour for the old bookstore down the block.

  She paid her check and left a good tip for Flo, the smiling waitress with the bouffant hairdo who had served her the past six months. Flo’s husband sold Kirby vacuum cleaners door-to-door and wasn’t very good at it. Flo worked at the drugstore to make ends meet, but according to her, they did all right.

  The war was over and doing all right was pretty much the song everyone was singing. Since Phyllis had been in London at the end of the war and then in Oslo, Norway the year after that, she was ready to settle in her hometown and live her life.

  With Joe.

  Joe Schneider. Just thinking about her dear husband brought a smile to her face. They’d met in London with the bombs still dropping. After that, he was nearly killed on assignment in Bucharest. They married on board ship on the way back to the States, not daring to waste a
moment longer.

  Leaving the drugstore, she pulled out a compact from her purse. Sparkling brown eyes looked back at her in the small mirror. She patted her shiny nose, gave her no-nonsense hairdo the once over. Smoothing down curly hair, the color of creamy milk chocolate, was all she needed to do. Tucking the compact away, she nearly bounced down the street. Life was a bed of roses.

  A romance writer could have imagined the old bookstore. Two enormous windows flanked the open door, revealing books lining the walls within and gathered on shelves like butterflies ready to launch.

  A wooden bench sat by the door, accompanied by a huge urn filled with yellow chrysanthemums. A small bookshelf on the other side of the door was being picked over by a customer taking his time. More urns captured Phyllis’ attention with pink and red roses drenching her with their heavenly scent. The season for flowers was nearly over, making the aroma more precious.

  She wandered around the store, perusing titles she wanted to buy, but there were too many to choose from. The ancient bookseller, grizzled with white hair he hadn’t bothered to comb that morning, came to her aid.

  “Miss Phyllis? You seem perplexed. Might I be of some assistance?”

  “Hello Mr. Leto. How are you today?”

  “Just fine, but I’m guessing you’re in a bigger hurry than usual.”

  Phyllis grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

  He smiled. “Yes, so let me help you.”

  “Perhaps you could. I’m interested in reading these titles.” She pointed at a row in the stacks. “But I’m having trouble choosing.”

  The short man pulled out a crisp handkerchief from his pocket. Watery eyes focused on the books as he delicately blotted the moisture. His glance at her was apologetic. “Allergies,” he explained, as he always did. After tucking the hanky away, the man pulled a small book down from another shelf.

  “Oh, but that’s not where I’m looking, Mr. Leto,” she began.

  “Perhaps not, but I have a feeling this book will be much more enlightening for you.”

  She cocked a wary look at him. “How’s that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders before staring past at some unseen sight behind her. “It’s not for me to say.”

  “But I’m interested in these other books.” Phyllis pointed to her original shelf.

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?” Before she could respond, he continued.

  “Tell you what.” The bookseller held up the book. “I’ll give you this one for free.”

  Now she was really confused. “Why would you do that?”

  “As I said…enlightening.” With that, he turned to hobble slowly toward the cash register in the front of the store. He clutched a nearby table for support.

  “Your leg seems better today.”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s good and sometimes I stay in one place.”

  “Was that from the first war?”

  “Indeed, Miss Phyllis.”

  She glanced around the bookstore. “I still don’t understand why you want to give me the book for nothing. You need money to keep the lights on.” She smiled at him.

  “I always manage. Now here.” He held out the book. “Come back and talk to me after you’ve read it. I’ll be interested in your critique. The writer is relatively new to American readers and his writing is first rate. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  For the first time, Phyllis glanced at the book in his hand. “The Stranger by Albert Camus.”

  “His name is pronounced Cam – oo, forgetting the s at the end.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  She accepted the book. At the cash register, he made some mysterious transaction before looking back to her.

  “What is this fabulous-book-that-I-just-have-to-read about?” she said with a smile.

  He nodded briefly. “It’s the story of a man who must reconcile himself to the consequence of his actions.”

  “That’s the theme, not the plot.”

  “It’s woven together.”

  She laughed. “That’s still not an answer, but apparently, it’s all I’m going to get.”

  He nodded again. “Would you like a bag?”

  “No. Thanks. I’ll put it in my purse.”

  A tinkle of sound filled the air. The old bookseller looked toward the front door where a new customer was entering. With moisture collecting once again, he rubbed his eyes.

  “Duty calls.”

  Phyllis glanced at her watch. “Mine too.”

  “Enjoy that book,” he called out to her. She waved her response before leaving the old bookstore.

  Outside on the sidewalk, Phyllis wondered for a brief moment what the heck that had been about until she remembered the time. If she weren’t speedy, she’d be late for work. She tucked the book in her purse and thought no more about it.

  “You’re late.”

  Phyllis glanced at the clock on the wall. “By a whole two minutes, Mr. Martin.”

  “Two minutes late is still late.” A stubby finger pointed in her direction.

  He was really the most pathetic man. The scowl on his rodent-shaped face made deep lines in his forehead. His eyebrows pointed toward the recessed lines giving him a most unattractive look. His pouty expression might have been comical on anyone else. On him, comedy didn’t resonate. He seemed built for unpleasantness; he sure reveled in it.

  “Well, then I’ll stay two minutes after work to make up the time.”

  That didn’t impress him. “I don’t know why, with all the people I have in my department, that I spend most of my time fretting about you.”

  Her eyes widened dramatically. “You fret about me? Why?”

  “Maybe fret isn’t the best word.”

  “What would be a better one?”

  She stood her ground. By doing so, they were attracting a fair amount of attention. George Martin was a man who liked to throw his weight around. However, glancing at the stares from men and women working nearby, he was ready to change gears. This kind of attention wasn’t going to do him any good. The personnel department had already received two complaints from other employees about his temper and his inability to control it.

  He ran a fluttery hand along his bald head, smoothing a few lines in his forehead.

  “This conversation is at a close, Mrs. Schneider. Perhaps you can get back to work on time and we’ll have no further need for discussion of this kind.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Martin.”

  He nodded, grabbed a sheaf of papers from a desk and stalked back to his office. The door closed heavily behind him.

  Immediately two of Phyllis’ colleagues gathered around her.

  “He’s so terrible, Phyllis. What is his problem?” asked Barbara from two desks down.

  “Yes,” agreed Linda, a typist in the pool. “You seem to be singled out for his daily barrages.”

  Phyllis shook her head. “I don’t get it either. I’m rarely late.” She glanced toward the direction of Martin’s office. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

  “He’s just jealous,” huffed Barbara.

  “Of what?”

  “Oh, Phyllis. Poo. You were an analyst at the American Embassy in London during the war and Oslo afterward. You have credentials!”

  Linda nodded in agreement. “And Martin has never been posted anywhere but here in Washington. He can’t stand that you have more experience than he does.”

  “And,” continued Barbara, “he knows you compare him to your former bosses.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Phyllis.” Barbara and Linda gave her pitying looks. “How could you not?”

  “Your boss in London was Major Richard Simpson,” began Linda. “Why, everyone knows his record in Africa and London.”

  “Dickie was a good boss,” agreed Phyllis.

  “And don’t forget Colonel Ronald Lawrence!” The women beamed at her. “You helped clear his name in that case of espionage and caught those ruffians with their war profiteering schem
e.”

  “Well,” Phyllis smiled. “Ronnie was a dear man who got caught up in circumstances beyond his control.”

  “They’re both highly decorated military men who trusted you. You were able to do great things with your positions.”

  She blushed. “Let’s not get crazy with praise here.”

  Linda angled her head. “We’re just telling it as we’ve heard it. Do you deny any of what we’ve said?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then your actions stand.” Linda and Barbara crossed their arms across their chests and jutted out chins in defiance.

  “I need to get to work.”

  Phyllis ducked around them, heading for her desk.

  “See you later, Phyllis.”

  After the women had settled into their work, Phyllis thought about what they had said. She did have good experience behind her with solid officers who appreciated her work. What was Martin’s problem?

  She wanted to talk to Joe about what Barbara and Linda had said, but he would be gone to his therapist this afternoon when she got off work. Joe still suffered from battle fatigue due to his involvement with MI5 in London and a mission that had ended badly. Phyllis briefly considered calling Lorraine, her best friend, for a meet-up when her intercom buzzed.

  “Mrs. Schneider? Would you come to the conference room please? Your presence has been requested.”