grays and privation she knew were just outside.
Jack found them a corner table and the waiter came by with menus. It wasn’t expansive and, honestly, she had no idea what most of it was. Why did the English call every dessert pudding even when it wasn’t? She gave Simon a look of distress that signaled, order for me or I’ll end up with tripe again. She and her stomach were still trying to forget that night.
England, being an island and the last hold out against the Axis powers in Europe, was severely cut off from supplies. America sent what it could, but the basics — eggs, milk, meat, butter — were scarce and heavily rationed. Anyone who cooked at home had to use his or her ration cards at the market and it was tough going. Hotels and restaurants, however, weren’t required to abide by rationing when they sold food, but the government had limited the prices and the menus and the war had pretty much taken care of the rest. The menus weren’t what anyone who frequented five star hotels would expect, but the fare was still a far cry better than what the average citizen of London could manage to cobble together with ration points.
Their food ordered; Jack set about giving them a lesson in Spying 101.
“The first thing you’ve got to know are the players. Sometimes I think half of London is spying on the other half. See the two leaving now? The one tall one with the mustache and pinched face who looks like he’s about to sneeze, he always looks like that by the way, with the pin-stripes? That’s Jozef Karski: Polish, zero sense of humor, a heck of a lot stronger than he looks and too good with a knife. The other one, balding, with the sallow complexion and thick features is Yuri Lushinkov: Russian, expert marksman and a helluva dancer.”
“Should you be telling us all this here? Out in the open?” Elizabeth asked.
“None of this is exactly top secret. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Most of us know what everyone else is doing. The devil’s in the details. And speak of the devil,” he said nodding his head toward a man sitting alone on the far side of the room. “Alex Stefanos. Greek and a crueler son of a bitch, I have never met. Keep your eye on him.”
He was scary looking. His face was oddly asymmetrical; the effect was definitely discombobulating.
Jack checked his watch and grinned before looking up. “Right on cue.”
Elizabeth followed his glance toward the entrance and a small, fastidious and well-dressed man. He caught sight of them and waved a gloved hand.
“Juris Zāle. Latvian,” Jack explained. “Don’t let him fool you, he’s probably the most clever one of the bunch.”
Elizabeth racked her brain trying to remember anything about Latvia. All she could manage was that it was one of the Baltics and was sandwiched between Russia and a couple other -ias.
Zāle held out his arms expansively in greeting. “Wells! My American friend, how are you?” He bowed at the waist. His accent was a Greek-Russian lovechild. “I don’t mean to interrupt your luncheon, although I am quite put out that you have been keeping this one to yourself.”
He stood staring at Elizabeth waiting for a proper introduction.
“Oh, sorry,” Jack said. “Elizabeth, Juris. Juris, Elizabeth.”
Zāle rolled his eyes. “Americans.” He tugged off his glove and kissed Elizabeth’s hand.
“That makes two of us,” she said.
“Oh, my foot is in my mouth, is it not?” he said and pretended to spit it out. “How embarrassing. I make up for it with champagne.”
He waived to a waiter across the room and made a circular gesture toward the table. “May I?” Before Jack could answer, he pulled out a chair and sat down. It was really more of a graceful sprawl. For such a small man, he took up an awful lot of room. He took off his other white glove and straightened his cravat.
Juris fixed Elizabeth with velvety, and absolutely outrageous, bedroom eyes. “You are enchanting. We must dine together. I
Jack found them a corner table and the waiter came by with menus. It wasn’t expansive and, honestly, she had no idea what most of it was. Why did the English call every dessert pudding even when it wasn’t? She gave Simon a look of distress that signaled, order for me or I’ll end up with tripe again. She and her stomach were still trying to forget that night.
England, being an island and the last hold out against the Axis powers in Europe, was severely cut off from supplies. America sent what it could, but the basics — eggs, milk, meat, butter — were scarce and heavily rationed. Anyone who cooked at home had to use his or her ration cards at the market and it was tough going. Hotels and restaurants, however, weren’t required to abide by rationing when they sold food, but the government had limited the prices and the menus and the war had pretty much taken care of the rest. The menus weren’t what anyone who frequented five star hotels would expect, but the fare was still a far cry better than what the average citizen of London could manage to cobble together with ration points.
Their food ordered; Jack set about giving them a lesson in Spying 101.
“The first thing you’ve got to know are the players. Sometimes I think half of London is spying on the other half. See the two leaving now? The one tall one with the mustache and pinched face who looks like he’s about to sneeze, he always looks like that by the way, with the pin-stripes? That’s Jozef Karski: Polish, zero sense of humor, a heck of a lot stronger than he looks and too good with a knife. The other one, balding, with the sallow complexion and thick features is Yuri Lushinkov: Russian, expert marksman and a helluva dancer.”
“Should you be telling us all this here? Out in the open?” Elizabeth asked.
“None of this is exactly top secret. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Most of us know what everyone else is doing. The devil’s in the details. And speak of the devil,” he said nodding his head toward a man sitting alone on the far side of the room. “Alex Stefanos. Greek and a crueler son of a bitch, I have never met. Keep your eye on him.”
He was scary looking. His face was oddly asymmetrical; the effect was definitely discombobulating.
Jack checked his watch and grinned before looking up. “Right on cue.”
Elizabeth followed his glance toward the entrance and a small, fastidious and well-dressed man. He caught sight of them and waved a gloved hand.
“Juris Zāle. Latvian,” Jack explained. “Don’t let him fool you, he’s probably the most clever one of the bunch.”
Elizabeth racked her brain trying to remember anything about Latvia. All she could manage was that it was one of the Baltics and was sandwiched between Russia and a couple other -ias.
Zāle held out his arms expansively in greeting. “Wells! My American friend, how are you?” He bowed at the waist. His accent was a Greek-Russian lovechild. “I don’t mean to interrupt your luncheon, although I am quite put out that you have been keeping this one to yourself.”
He stood staring at Elizabeth waiting for a proper introduction.
“Oh, sorry,” Jack said. “Elizabeth, Juris. Juris, Elizabeth.”
Zāle rolled his eyes. “Americans.” He tugged off his glove and kissed Elizabeth’s hand.
“That makes two of us,” she said.
“Oh, my foot is in my mouth, is it not?” he said and pretended to spit it out. “How embarrassing. I make up for it with champagne.”
He waived to a waiter across the room and made a circular gesture toward the table. “May I?” Before Jack could answer, he pulled out a chair and sat down. It was really more of a graceful sprawl. For such a small man, he took up an awful lot of room. He took off his other white glove and straightened his cravat.
Juris fixed Elizabeth with velvety, and absolutely outrageous, bedroom eyes. “You are enchanting. We must dine together. I
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