Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  “Can you see Kurt and Elisabeth?”

  He shifted the binoculars. “Just leaving the hotel. Got them right in my sights, I could get both of them if I had Jack’s Lee Enfield. He’s in a light suit, pale-gray fedora; she’s in a polka-dot dress, black hat, red feather. That should make it easier. Ready?” Dori nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They left the hotel. She indicated for Drummond to go left while she stayed behind and on the right. They tracked the von Stavenows through the streets leading down to the Porto where the ship was waiting. It was easy to keep them in sight, the gray fedora, the bobbing feather, difficult to get close enough to kill.

  At the dockside, there was a melee of leave takers and those boarding. A holdup had developed, the crowd bunching. A man in uniform stood at the bottom of the companionway checking documents and tickets. Dori could sense the tension building around her, shouts of Was is los?! There was a surge in the crowd as impatience turned to a panicking realization that their chance of escape might be snatched away at the last moment.

  Drummond gave her the nod. The von Stavenows were almost at the companionway, near the center of the surging, spreading queue. They would be distracted, occupied by their anxiety to get on board. Dori insinuated herself between the sweating, jostling people, squeezing through any small gap, working her way nearer while Drummond did the same from the opposite side. The silencer made the gun heavy, unwieldy, not ideal at such close quarters but necessary if they hoped to get away. Dori measured off the space between them and the targets in yards, feet, finally inches. She would take her; Drummond would take him.

  Dori was so close now that she could smell her sweat masked by talcum and sweetish, musky perfume; see the damp circles under her arms, blue polka dots rendered slightly transparent by the dampness between her shoulder blades. Just one more ebb of the crowd and she would be close enough to jam the barrel into the fifth intercostal space between her ribs, angled up to make absolutely sure that the bullet ripped through her heart.

  “Excuse us, ma’am. We can’t allow that.”

  Two men moved in on her. The gun was wrenched from her. Strong hands clamped her arms to her sides. She saw Drummond struggling with a similar pair. He managed to butt one of them with a quick jerk of the head. The man recoiled, blood blooming from his smashed nose, but he didn’t let go. The other man administered a sharp rap on the back of his head. His captors braced themselves to take his weight.

  If there had been a disturbance in the crowd behind them, the von Stavenows didn’t notice. The delay had been cleared away. They were free to go on board. As they climbed up the swaying metal gangway they were laughing and smiling like the rest of the passengers, not quite believing their luck. They paused at the top, turning to wave as if they were royalty.

  The gangplank was brought in. The hawsers were cast off. The anchor rattled up. The engines started, the propellers churning the water, horns sounded, and the ship steamed out into the bay accompanied by the whistles and hoots of smaller vessels. The von Stavenows joined others at the rail, staring back at the receding port, the last of Europe, before turning to go down to their cabins to begin their new lives.

  “Aren’t you going to wave them goodbye?” McHale stood by Dori’s side, with a firm grip on her arm. He gazed out at the receding liner.

  “What have you done to Drummond?”

  “Oh, he’s OK. Got a hard head. My guys have taken him back to your hotel. There will be no more of this.” McHale looked at her, his pale-blue eyes almost colorless. “You tell him that from me.”

  The Grand Hotel Mirabeau, Lausanne

  11th November 1989

  Tisane Verveine

  Common Verbena made into a tea. Verveine is also known as Herb of Grace, Herb of the Cross, Enchanter’s Plant. In French, Herbe aux Enchantements, Herbe du Foie, Herbe Sacrée, Herbe aux Sorciers.

  That was more than forty years ago. Dori added a creased, black-and-white photograph of Drummond to those ranged in front of her. After McHale’s intervention, they’d left Genoa, roaring off in a “borrowed” Alfa Romeo, seeing where the road took them, north to Milan and then into Switzerland. Drummond still furious, driving through the Alps with thrilling recklessness. Only his skill as a driver saved them from crashing over a parapet and launching into nothingness. He’d pulled up outside this very hotel just as the sun was setting over the lake. They’d stayed for a week, swimming, hiking, sailing on the lake. Champagne in their room, dinner in the restaurant, more champagne afterward and making love long into the night. Then Drummond had gone north and out of her story. She’d gone south. To Milan, then to Rome.

  She’d found Jack there, watching the German College like a faithful hound while Kay absorbed the riches of the Eternal City. He was still suffering, harrowed by guilt that he’d failed to save Edith. Whatever Drummond’s doubts, Dori believed him. She’d rarely seen a man so cast down. The birds had flown, she’d told him. He might as well return to Germany. After his tour of duty, he’d gone back to the Police. Special Branch. Much later, he would have a part to play in Leo’s eventual demise, doing the honors for MI5.

  From Rome she’d intended to go straight to Brindisi, then to Greece, and on to Palestine but she’d found herself, heartsick and exhausted, in a tiny place on the coast, cobalt sea beyond blinding-white salt pans, a dusty road shaded by umbrella pines the only way in or out. She’d needed time to think and time to heal. That’s where she’d hit on the idea that a new career as a cookery writer would be the perfect cover for a life in espionage. So it proved to be, but that was a story for another day.

  Impossible to follow the von Stavenows; they had slipped away, taken out of view on Time’s tide. Now they had surfaced up again, as a bottle tossed into the ocean in one place might wash onto some far-distant shore.

  Outside, the sun was rising, spilling gold and silver onto the lake. Time to rest. She’d been up all night. She’d take a nap before her appointment. It was not yet over, and she would need to be alert, have her wits about her. She put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and set her travel alarm for 9:30. That would give her time to bathe, order some coffee, and get everything ready.

  A white-coated waiter pushed the trolley into the room. Coffee in a silver pot. Two cups, a jug of hot milk, one of cream, a sugar bowl with a silver spoon. A squat kettle on a little burner to keep the water hot and a dish of little bags containing different teas and herbal preparations.

  “Shall I pour, madame?”

  “No thank you. I’ll wait for my visitor.”

  “Very well, madame.”

  He closed the door quietly. She worked quickly. There were things to do before the appointed time.

  The rap on the door was assertive, almost peremptory. She resisted the temptation to look through the peephole. She had a feeling that there would be an eye on the other side.

  The woman came into the room, still that long, slow stride, while Dori quietly turned the lock on the door. As svelte and assured as ever, her gray dress and jacket expensive, immaculately tailored to accentuate her carefully preserved slenderness. Her shoulder-length hair held the same deep wave. The gold was not the shade that Dori remembered, but the tinting was convincing.

  “You’re looking very well, Elisabeth.”

  Elisabeth stopped and turned, surprised by the use of her Christian name.

  “I’m sorry.” She came closer, looking into Dori’s face.

  “You don’t recognize me.” Dori gave a tired smile. “Dorothy Stansfield. You knew me as Dori. Don’t you remember?”

  “I—” She faltered, a temporary loss of assurance in a woman who was rarely nonplussed. “Of course, but it has been many years now.”

  “Indeed. And those years have been kinder to you than they have to me.” Dori closed her eyes with a sigh and held her hands tightly clasped. “I’ve come to avail myself of your, er, special services.” She spoke euphemistically, in the terms the clinic used. “I’m tired, Elisabeth. Tired of living. I want to
end it. That’s what you do isn’t it? End it for people.”

  “The clinical side is not my area, of course, but . . . Yes. That is a service we provide. If you are sure.”

  “Oh, I’m certain.”

  “Is there anyone—” Elisabeth looked around as if that person might be hiding “—anyone with you?”

  “No, I’m alone. I never married again. Have no close relatives.”

  “We have to be certain . . .” She walked to the window, as if wanting to change the subject. “This is a nice room. Lovely view.”

  “Indeed. A nice place of exit.”

  “Oh, we don’t do it here.” Elisabeth looked shocked. “The hotel would not like it.”

  “Death bad for business?”

  “Something like that, yes,” Elisabeth agreed, solemnly. She never did have much of a sense of humor. “Many of our clients use this hotel before . . .”

  Dori nodded. “Quite so.”

  “I have attendants waiting downstairs,” Elisabeth went on. “You will be taken to our special facility. It is very pleasant there. Very,” Elisabeth searched for the right word. “Peaceful.”

  Dori did her best to look comforted.

  Elisabeth moved to the desk. She examined the photographs laid out there, touching them cautiously then withdrawing her fingertips, as if the likenesses might be coated with a toxic substance.

  “What is this?” Again, she seemed disconcerted, nervous even.

  “A way of saying goodbye, I suppose.” Dori was quick to reassure. “Many of your clients must have something similar, a photo album to sift through the memories. Don’t they say that, at the end, life flashes before you in moments?” Dori gave a dry laugh. “In my case it took most of the night. Won’t you sit down, Elisabeth? Join me in a cup of coffee?”

  “Thank you, no.” Elisabeth gave a little shudder. “I never touch caffeine. So bad for the skin.”

  “A tisane, then.” Dori indicated the tray. “The Swiss do those things so well.”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “I’d be so pleased if you would join me.” Dori reached for the kettle. The tremor in her hand wouldn’t be lost on Elisabeth.

  “Let me,” she said, half rising from her seat.

  “No, I can manage. This is the very last time I’ll do anything as normal as take tea with somebody.”

  “Very well. A tisane, thank you.”

  “Verveine, menthe, or camomile?” Dori read the labels.

  “Verveine will do very well.”

  Dori dropped the little bag into a cup and poured on the water.

  “It’s kept hot by a little burner. Isn’t that clever?”

  Elisabeth nodded, humoring her. She sipped the hot liquid, leaving a lipstick imprint on the cup. “You are not here by accident, are you? How did you find us?”

  “It was Adeline. She found you. Do you remember Adeline? The American journalist? We agreed. When it came to a certain time . . .” Dori paused. “She was alone, like me, you see. She did some research and discovered your Institute. There aren’t many places in the world that offer your kind of service. We didn’t realize it was you and Kurt, not at first,” Dori lied. It was one of the things she’d always done well. “A happy coincidence, you might say.” Dori took a sip from her own cup. “I rather like these herbal beverages. Refreshing and good for one, so they say.”

  “Yes.” Elisabeth inclined her head. “Although this is rather bitter.”

  “Why don’t I add a little sugar?” Dori sifted a spoonful from the sugar bowl into the cup. “They do say the bitter ones do you the most good. Verveine is cleansing. And healing, as I recall. The Ancient Egyptians called it ‘the tears of Isis,’ did you know that?”

  “No I didn’t.” Elisabeth continued to sip, frowning a little, pursing her lips as though the sifting of crystals had done little to take away the bitterness.

  “Tell me, Elisabeth, do you think of those days at all?”

  “No. It was a long time ago. The water has flowed under many bridges since then.”

  “I do. I can see you now standing with Kurt at the rail of the Don Giovanni steaming off to South America. Argentina, wasn’t it?”

  Elisabeth inclined her head. “We were only there for a short while. We spent more time in the US. Kurt worked at a research facility in Maryland. It was a good place for the horses. We re-established the stud, preserved the breed. After that, we moved here, to Switzerland. Kurt set up his own clinic. It has been most successful. I will carry on the work now he’s dead. Skiing accident.”

  Elisabeth answered the question Dori hadn’t asked. From the Euthanasia Program to this. Finding ways to kill people. Their progression had been seamless.

  “Anyway, it was Adeline who tracked you down.”

  “You have some kind of pact?”

  Dori smiled. “Something like that.”

  “That is very common.” Elisabeth nodded her understanding. “But she is not here?”

  “Alas, no. She didn’t make it. Heart failure.”

  “So it’s just you.”

  “Yes, just me.”

  “Diseases of the nervous system can be most distressing.” Elisabeth’s eyes rested on Dori’s hands. “We have many clients who have suffered so.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  Dori had had enough of the hypocrisy, the false sympathy, the patronizing pity, the secret superiority that the living and healthy felt for the dying stranger.

  It was time to bring the performance to a close.

  “Except there’s nothing wrong with me.” Dori held her hand out in front of her. “Steady as a rock.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elisabeth frowned. “I don’t understand . . .”

  “You will soon enough.” Dori sat back.

  “If you are not here for that . . .” Elisabeth’s blue eyes showed the slightest tremor of alarm, which flared to panic as she made to rise and fell back in her chair. She looked back into Dori’s implacable stare, truth dawning.

  “What is happening . . .” Her voice had dropped to a rasping whisper, the words slowed, like a record played at the wrong speed.

  The cup dangled from Elisabeth’s fingers, its remaining liquid spilling.

  Dori leaped forward, deftly catching it and returning it to the tray. She smiled. “There’s enough diamorphine in that to fell half the hotel.”

  Dori sat back to watch, hands linked loosely in her lap. Elisabeth’s eyes remained open, fixed, the pupils contracted to pinheads. Dori had dealt death many times, but she’d rarely seen someone actually die slowly. She was going to enjoy this. It had been a long time coming.

  “You must have thought you’d got away with it, you and Kurt.”

  Elisabeth uttered a sound, guttural, animal. All speech lost now. A plea for mercy? A bit late for that. A cry for help? No one to hear.

  “What does it feel like?” Dori asked. “To die the kind of a death you’ve dealt to countless others, you and Kurt, including your own son?” She paused to see if her words were registering. A slight tremor of the head. She could hear. “Edith. Do you remember Edith? That story you told her about your son, Wolfgang, was that his name? She believed you. What decent human being wouldn’t? And she was decent, as decent as they come. Edith’s been dead these forty-odd years. You robbed her of her life, too. Did you think you’d got away with it as you steamed off on that liner? No punishment? No retribution? Did you think you’d won? I’m here to tell you different.” Dori stood up, stepped across the space between them and planted a kiss on Elisabeth’s forehead. “Lebewohl, meine liebe. Lebewohl.”

  There would be no more talking. Dori watched Elisabeth slump sideways, her mouth sagging open, eyes filming to a gray dullness. She waited until there was no longer any movement then tested for a pulse. With a brush of her fingers, she closed the eyes. It was done.

  Now there were things to do, and she didn’t have much time. She tidied up the cup, the tray, the room, wiping away her fingerprints as she went.

&
nbsp; In the bathroom, she put in tinted contact lenses and did her makeup, swiping on blusher for more color, patting on a modicum of powder. She’d always had good skin. She penciled in her brows, applied a little liner and shadow, brushed on mascara. It was amazing how the years dropped away with a little definition about the eyes. She uncapped her lipstick. Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur. Red lipstick could be a disaster on an older woman, but it always added a hint of glamour. She brushed her hair, sprayed it a flattering platinum, and wound it into a chignon. Change the hair, change the face. Dori had always been a mistress of disguise. She stripped to her petticoat, went to the wardrobe, and slipped into the black Chanel suit, a diamond brooch at the collar. She eased on a pair of mid-heel, black patent court shoes and viewed herself in the mirror. Not bad. That extra bit of height made her feel much more herself. She packed everything into her Louis Vuitton travel bag, put on a pair of sunglasses of the kind favored by Jackie Onassis, picked up her Chanel handbag, and left without a backward glance.

  She summoned the elevator and went down to the foyer. No one noticed her passing, least of all the two young men in white jackets waiting with a wheelchair.

  There were always taxis waiting outside. She took the first in line.

  “Cointrin Airport, please.”

  In the taxi, she sorted through a selection of passports. After all these years, she’d be traveling under her real name: Dorota Zophia Kováč. The others went into the first bin she encountered. There was no reason to ever change her name again. At the Swiss Air counter, she bought a first-class ticket to Tel Aviv. Harry would want to know. The last debt had been paid.

  Acknowledgments

  My aunt, my mother, my grandmother, and their friends, whose handwritten recipes I found slotted between the pages of the cookery book that provided the inspiration and impetus to write this book.

  Brenda Hillier and Maria Pia, who gave me their own and their family recipes to use.