Free The Avenue of the Dead by Evelyn Anthony

governed Russia, and smiled secretly to himself remembering that now he was one of them. He studied their dossiers, and their moods, and he made no obvious enemies in the first six months. He devoted himself to the major KGB operations, and delegated the minor ones to officers he considered loyal to him, because he had promoted them.
    Among the six principal assaults against Western security which he decided to run personally was the one concerning Edward Fleming in Washington.
    â€˜What a lovely house,’ Davina said.
    â€˜You are kind,’ Liz Fleming responded. ‘It is nice, isn’t it? This is such an attractive part of Washington.’
    Davina sat down and accepted a drink. The strength of it surprised her and she sipped it before putting it down. She complimented Liz on the colour schemes and furnishings, watching the jerky movements, the nervous responses with the voice pitched a little too high and the smile a shade too bright. Her hand, with its big sapphire ring, was curled tightly round the pre-lunch vodka, and it shook as it brought the glass to her lips. She was beautifully dressed in dark blue, with a silk shirt and modern jewellery; sapphires matched the superb engagement ring. The first impression was of a strikingly beautiful woman in her late thirties. The second was of a nervous wreck. Davina said, ‘You haven’t changed, Liz. You look just the same as the last time I saw you.’
    â€˜Oh? When was that?’ She swallowed almost half the vodka; Davina wondered whether it was anything like as strong as the one she had been given.
    â€˜At Heathrow airport, some years ago. You didn’t see me but I saw you and I recognized you at once. You disappeared into the VIP lounge.’
    â€˜Well,’ Liz Fleming shrugged, ‘it’s nice of you to say I look the same – God, sometimes I feel a hundred and one.’ She felt the vodka warming the pit of her stomach – it wasn’t the first that morning. She felt relaxed and able to assess Davina Graham’s clothes and general appearance. She looked younger than she’d expected; a dark green linen dress, expensive shoes, an air of confidence that gave her poise. Beautiful legs.
    â€˜How long have you lived here?’ Davina asked.
    â€˜Just over a year. Edward moved here from New York when he went into politics. He bought this house and I redecorated it. It’s marvellous for entertaining. I did the sitting-room myself. Would you like to see it? I’m rather proud of it – it’s not an easy shape. Long rooms never are, they always tend to look like passages.’
    Davina followed her out of the study. She had made a mental inventory of the room; there was only one photograph, Liz and Fleming on their wedding day, no personal bric-à-brac, a tasteful Victorian landscape, and a spectacular flower arrangement.
    One of the ashtrays was full, the butts all tipped with lipstick. Elizabeth had chain-smoked before her arrival. Davina helped herself to more ice and noticed that the bucket was half empty. Elizabeth had been drinking before she came and it was still only eleven o’clock in the morning. The south-facing reception room was long, high-ceilinged, dramatically furnished with grey silk walls and elaborate yellow curtains; a brilliant Persian carpet ran down its centre.
    There was a big crystal and ormolu chandelier and she noticed that it held real candles. The eighteenth-century marble mantelpiece was particularly fine and Davina thought it had probably not been in the original house. There was a rare early painting of the old city before the war of 1812 hanging above it.
    A Bechstein Boudoir Grand piano stood majestically near one of the long windows, with famous faces in silver frames on top of it. The new President and his good-looking wife smiled out at them from the front rank. It seemed less like a real room than a stage setting for Mr and Mrs Edward Fleming to perform as