Killers of a Certain Age(11)

“In a manner of speaking, although we like to keep a low profile. We operate best in the dark.” He draws a breath, pipe smoke spiraling over his head. “The dissolution of the SOE was distressing, but equally objectionable was the number of Nazis who slipped through the cracks after the war, disappearing without a trace into the ether, frequently taking with them the greatest treasures of Western art. They spent the better part of the ’30s and ’40s looting museums and private collections, and a mere fraction of what they stole has been recovered.”

He looks a little wistful, probably thinking of all those Canalettos and Caravaggios lost to history thanks to G?ring’s sticky fingers, she suspects. He goes on. “We simply could not endure the idea that these monsters would not face justice, that everything they stole would never be recovered. And without the imprimatur of an official government agency, we were free to do something about it.” He pauses to take a drag on his pipe, his mouth tightening on the stem. “When our group was first founded late in 1946, we relied entirely upon word of mouth to gather recruits. We brought in former members of the Polish and French Resistance efforts, Italians and Spaniards who had fought against Mussolini and Franco. Our recruits were Dutch, Belgian. We were open to working with anyone who might share our interests.”

“No Russians? They were our allies during the war.”

His expression is oblique. “At the conclusion of the war, it was made clear that the Russians, while perfectly content to exact justice upon war criminals, were rather less interested in repatriating stolen works of art to their rightful owners.”

“You mean they wanted to keep the art they found.”

“As it happens, the Soviets have a gift for looting to rival G?ring’s,” he says dryly. “They decided to keep whatever artworks they recovered and call it reparations. So, when we formed our organization, it was clear that we would have to pursue our mission without the cooperation of our former ally.”

“Hunting down Nazis.”

“Hunting down Nazis. In the past three decades, we have amassed quite a count,” he tells her, his smile grim around the stem of the pipe. “But our original group of agents have grown old and tired, some of them have died in the field. We have slowly been recruiting fresh talent to replace them.”

“Wait, you’re hunting Nazis still?” She blinks. “Aren’t they all dead yet?”

“Regrettably, no. Some of them are still at large. But our mission has expanded beyond our original goals. The addition of anti-fascists from Spain and Italy has meant broadening our scope of operation. We have neutralized dictators and other such undesirable persons around the world.”

He stops to let the last sentence hang in the air along with his pipe smoke. She keeps her face carefully blank. If she objects or looks shocked, what will he do? Dismiss her politely? Have her returned to her cell? Or has he already told her too much to let her go?

She studies him and he returns the look calmly, drawing on his pipe and waiting, his lips quirking up slightly as if he were faintly amused at her scrutiny and content to let her take her time.

“?‘Neutralized’ is a pretty bland word for killing,” she says finally.

He removes the pipe, setting it carefully into an ashtray before leaning forward a little, lacing his fingers together and looking her squarely in the eye. “Tell me, Miss Webster, haven’t you ever thought to yourself that some people simply need killing to make the world a better place?”

“God, yes,” she breathes.

His smile is unexpectedly charming. She can see him suddenly as he must have been during the war, thirty years old or so, dressed in a dapper suit, maybe even a tuxedo. He would be betting large in a casino, taking a sip of a dry martini, and making plans to slip into a darkened suite that night to strangle a German general or steal a priceless jewel.

“Miss Webster?” he asks gently. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking if you were thirty years younger, I’d be halfway in love with you.”

He retrieves his pipe, settling it comfortably between his teeth. “Well, based upon our reports of you, Miss Webster, I might be a bit of an improvement upon your usual choices,” he says with a straight face and a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Now,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “I have been tasked with finding just the right people for an undertaking called Project Sphinx.”

“And what is Project Sphinx?”

“Our recruits are grouped into small training classes, the better to assess them and to foster their talents. Project Sphinx is the first class of its kind in the history of our organization. It will comprise only women, Miss Webster. The first all-female squad of assassins. It will be trained by my sister, Constance, the most highly decorated woman in the SOE and a legend. I’m frankly terrified of her. She was the supervisor of an all-female tactical team that parachuted behind German lines in 1945. They were called the Furies.”

“They sound sweet.”

“They were strafed by German artillery on the way down,” he says evenly. “Constance, code-named Shepherdess, was the only survivor.”

“Sorry,” she mutters.

He looks at the scattering of freckles across her nose and takes pity on her youth. “They ran seventeen successful missions into occupied territory before they were wiped out. Constance has never been inclined to train an all-female team since, but she has decided the time is right.”