Page 103 of The Bachelor Spy
Steadying herself, she focused ahead. She’d memorized the layout of the nurses’ quarters a week ago: Wilson’s room at the end, Reynolds and Lawson sharing the middle room, and Rivers in the small single near the back stairs.
Convenient for late-night departures.
Pausing before Rivers’ door to scan the corridor once more, Evie tried the knob. Locked. As expected. She pulled a hairpin from her bun and sprung the lock in seconds.
The room was impeccably neat. Bed made tight as a drum. Books aligned on the small shelf. Washbasin gleaming.
Nothing amiss.
Also exactly as Evie had expected.
A hospital nurse would keep to order, and Rivers wouldn’t want any undue attention that might set her apart.
Evie made a quick circuit of the room. The desk—nothing of note. The closet—unhelpful. And then she saw it: there, beneath the bed, partially concealed by the dust ruffle—a traveling bag.
Was the young VAD planning an unexpected departure, perhaps?
Evie knelt and pulled the bag from its spot, careful to upset as little of the space as possible. Leather, well-worn, the kind a nurse might carry between postings.
With an ear trained to any movement outside, she opened the bag.
Clothes. Sensible traveling clothes, neatly folded. A small toiletry kit. A nurse’s reference book. Nothing at all suspicious.
But, oh! Underneath the toiletry kit, tucked neatly in a shawl—money. German marks. Far more than what had been planted in Wilson’s room. Enough to fund an extended escape.
Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t a bag being gradually packed. This was ready to go. Soon.
She photographed the money with the small camera concealed in her pocket. Blake had given it to her—a marvel of German engineering that ironically British Intelligence had confiscated from another agent. The tiny device fit in her palm, silent when the shutter clicked.
The find proved beneficial, but it wasn’t enough. They needed proof of Rivers’ work. Perhaps even a list she could take to protect others—intel, even?
If I were hiding something in my bag …
Her fingers found the seam along the bag’s lining.
And there it was. A false bottom.
She worked carefully, feeling for the release mechanism. There—a small catch hidden in the stitching. She pressed, and the false bottom lifted slightly.
Inside lay a few pieces of folded paper. She drew them out carefully.
Neat rows of letters and numbers filled both pages.
The cipher was instantly recognizable—Playfair, a British military code she’d encountered dozens of times. Simple enough to encode quickly, complex enough to deter casual decryption. The letters were arranged in pairs, divided by slashes, and the front page looked as follows:
EL/IM/IN/AT/IO/NP/RI/OR/IT/YX HA/WL/EY/
TO/MA/SX CO/MP/RO/MI/SE/DX/EL/IM/IN/AT/
ED ST/IR/LI/NG/JO/HN PE/ND/IN/GC/ON/TA/
CT WI/LS/ON/CL/AR/AX FR/AM/ED/SU/CC/ES/
SF/UL/LY
More names followed—some she recognized as agents who’d died in the past six months, others she didn’t know. Each had a notation beside it: ELIMINATED. COMPROMISED. PENDING.
The kill list.
