Retalio

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Retalio Page 23

by Alison Morton


  I nodded to Regulus and he was escorted back to reception by Anton Drexler.

  ‘What is it, Edward? Am I running out of money?’ I laughed, not meaning it.

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘In fact, your accounts have stabilised and been showing healthy balances. No, it’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, but I know something’s up. Somebody telephoned us yesterday saying she was your representative, gave your code words and asked for a largish sum to be transferred to an account in one of the retail banks. Everything was perfectly in order, but the chief clerk referred it to me because of the amount and our relationship. I refused the transfer. You’ve always instructed us personally and this is the reason I put in my day report.’

  ‘What do you mean when you say “a largish sum”?’

  ‘A hundred thousand.’

  ‘Jupiter’s balls!’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Does this happen often?’

  ‘Very rarely. We know all our clients personally. This is a private bank, after all. But I’ve put a warning on your friends’ accounts and your group’s accounts that all transactions must be referred to me. I’ve sent encrypted telexes to London, Frankfurt and New York as well.’ He glanced at me. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to discreetly warn some of my banking colleagues here in Vienna in case there’s some kind of general fraud attack going on.’

  But I knew in my heart, and I think he knew in his head, who was behind it.

  ‘Thank you, Edward. You are a good friend as well as cousin. I suppose they were bound to try it.’

  ‘Well, let’s change your code words now, shall we? And those of the other Roma Novan accounts.’

  * * *

  Quirinia turned almost white when I told her. We were wrapped up against the November frost and walking in the privacy of the garden. I pulled her down onto the cold stone seat before she fell onto it.

  ‘Aurelia, you know we’re very careful about security,’ she gabbled in a high-pitched voice. ‘We write nothing down. Only a very few people can sign cheques or authorise credit – me, you, Vibianus and Numerus. Surely you don’t suspect any of us?’

  ‘No, of course not. I don’t know Vibianus very well, but Nuncia Cornelia vouched for him without hesitation. He’s worked for her for over twelve years. His record is excellent, and remember, he was the one who deciphered the silver trader’s code messages from Monticola.’ I fixed my gaze on the rigid frozen leaves of the shrub in front of us. ‘No, I think it’s somebody very clever from Caius’s people or maybe some of his new technology. We should warn everybody and tell them to alter their banking access codes immediately.’

  * * *

  In the communications room at the Jagdschloss I made some long-distance calls on our secure phones, then another two on an open line that anybody, including the nats in Roma Nova, could intercept. We would be naive to think they weren’t listening in and monitoring our conversations.

  We initiated the creeping propaganda campaign to throw Caius off the scent about the proposed take-back. Firstly, Quirinia’s intelligence sub-group, mainly Atrius, Junia, some of the PGSF guards and a rota of carefully vetted civilians, were making open calls to any relatives, friends and contacts they had here in New Austria dropping in hints they were thinking of moving away or settling outside the exiles’ colony. We didn’t give them a script, just the instruction to include that they’d accepted they couldn’t go back to Roma Nova.

  That afternoon, I took Junia off that to develop second part of the campaign – delicate approaches to people still in Roma Nova.

  ‘Unbelievable that the telephone system is still working so well,’ she said.

  ‘If I remember correctly, it doesn’t need much of an electrical supply as it’s the batteries in the exchanges that keep the whole thing running. If the mains supply is cut off or sporadic they can keep going for a good twelve hours. By then the mains would normally have come back on again. Unless something breaks, the system is pretty much self-sufficient.’ I exchanged glances with her. ‘A great weapon for us.’

  ‘Were you a signals officer, ma’am?’ She looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  ‘No,’ I said, and grinned. ‘Just a random piece of information I picked up from a foreign ministry communications techie.’

  After this second phase was set up and a rota of operators briefed and given a list of topics to discuss with their friends and relatives inside Roma Nova, Junia and Atrius handed over to Grania to supervise the whole thing. Every call was monitored, not only to ensure our own subtle messages were getting through, but to glean even the least intelligence from the other end. It was unusual to get a big breakthrough as shown in films; most intelligence yield was from slog, compilation and analysis.

  As Saturnalia approached, we pushed the message of being surprised that things were so scarce in Roma Nova now and how wonderful past Saturnalia feasts had been. It had to be done so carefully; Grania held fortnightly refresher sessions on techniques to ensure nobody slipped up.

  Saturnalia was different for us this year. As imperatrix, Silvia led the traditional observances on 17 December, assisted by Vibianus, of all people. With a wry smile, she surrendered her authority as imperatrix for the day to the princeps Saturnalicius, to whom Volusenia gave a stern briefing. The Floralia riot was burned into people’s memories.

  The former ballroom blazed with light onto trestle tables set out in long rows. Everywhere was covered in ferns, spruce and pine, and smells of roast pork, lemons and spices invaded the whole ground floor. For a few hours, the severe and stately Jagdschloss was overrun with Roman horseplay, noise, silly games taken seriously, toasts, forfeits, songs, dramatic turns and a great deal of alcohol consumption. Even Volusenia unbent and Quirinia was seen to collapse into a fit of giggles at an extremely off-colour joke.

  Over the next few days, celebrations were more sober family affairs. On the twenty-third, the Mitelae estate workers and a couple of Mitela cousins and I sat in a small room off the kitchen, ate a light lunch and exchanged small gifts. I invited Silvia to join us; she was my cousin through her father, Fabianus, and although any family would welcome the imperatrix at their table, the poor child had no other blood relatives to sit with.

  Miklós would normally have sat by my side during the Saturnalia season, shouting out encouragement to the wilder exploits on Saturnalia itself. Where in Hades was he? I sipped my wine, twirled the stem of my chain store glass and wondered if I’d ever see him again or even drink one of my own Castra Lucilla vintages again.

  * * *

  As the next step in our propaganda war, Grania’s teams started talking to their Roma Novan friends and relatives about specific resettlement projects. The message was that now this last Saturnalia was over, much of the Vienna exile community was going to disperse. Some of the operators were uncomfortable with this, so Grania pulled them off.

  I received more than a dozen complaints against her for this.

  ‘Can’t you let them do the odd call, Grania? I’m sure with the success so far they know how to be convincing.’

  ‘We need good liars, consiliaria, not uncertain ones,’ she replied, pushing the bridge of her spectacles up her nose and gave me a steady look.

  * * *

  We had to wait out the New Austrian Christmas and Sylvester celebrations – a pity they didn’t coincide with ours. Accompanied by Styrax, I went shopping for two solid days in the first week of January. Vienna had been the centre of elegance for centuries; beautifully gowned women, svelte tailoring, richness of design and creative genius. My arms ached with the weight of designer bags as we staggered back to the taxi driven by one of the Roma Novan exiles.

  ‘Juno, Styrax, I hope we can find a suitcase large enough to take this lot.’

  She grinned.

  ‘I think you’ll find, consiliaria, that a trunk has been ordered as well as the standard suitcase.’

  Next morning, I dressed in my new designer winter wool suit, wide shoulders, wid
e lapels and nipped-in waist. Underneath I wore a multi-coloured silk blouse. Flashy gold earrings, a faux-fur collared camel coat with matching hat and low-heeled but decorated leather boots completed my new outfit. Apparently, this combination was the latest look. My hair had been dressed expertly by one of the exiles who had run his own salon. I felt a fraud but it was part of my disguise. Quirinia gave me a long list and a sheaf of paper along with her best finance minister frown.

  ‘Please do your best to look after these items, Aurelia. They have consumed a significant proportion of our revenue resources this month. If you can do nothing else, leave them with the nuncio at the legation.’

  ‘I’ll look after your precious things, Quirinia, but stop talking to me as if I were twelve.’

  She relented and gave me a look that was more that of a friend. ‘I’m sorry, Aurelia, I didn’t mean to be horrible. I should be wishing you luck.’ She handed me a small wallet. ‘Your ticket vouchers and Hungarian passport are in here with an initial supply of currency.’ She leant over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Bona fortuna!’

  * * *

  As Styrax drove me in my new finery to the Wien-Maria-Theresia Airport, a tear rolled down my over made-up cheek. I flicked it away with my fingertip. Was it nerves? Or tiredness? Who was I fooling? Miklós. He hadn’t been there to fold me into his arms when I’d returned from that last dangerous mission to Roma Nova. Nor was he here today to wave me off and give me his ‘good hunting’ wish – Weidmannsheil – as he had in Berlin that dreadful time I was pursuing Caius Tellus back to Roma Nova fifteen years ago. Where in Tartarus was he? A strange heart ripple told me he was still alive; I would know if he wasn’t. I knew he had to be by himself at times, but he usually told me he was going. Not that it was any easier.

  I went through check-in and passport control on automatic, found my seat and watched the grey tarmac with some kind of mindless fascination as we taxied out to the runway. While we were waiting at the side of the main runway for our slot, a large plane landed less than smoothly in front of us. Purple and gold tail wing with its distinctive gold eagle. Air Roma Nova. Then the unmistakable burst of fighter planes above. They dropped out of the sky and landed moments before the passenger plane came to a stuttering halt. New Austrian red and white roundels on the fuselages. Seconds after the first military jet cut its engine, a figure in a dark flight suit leapt out and hurtled over to the passenger plane. Another from the other jet. Airport security blue-light short wheelbases and armed police barrelled towards the plane. Hades, what was going on? I vaguely heard some announcement over our plane intercom regretting we would be delayed, etc. etc.

  Emergency slides sprouted from the Air Roma Nova plane and people glided to the tarmac. Once on their feet they hugged, rushed from one to another. One did a little dance. Two children rubbed their eyes – crying, I suspected. They were all rounded up by the gendarmerie and escorted onto a bus. But the aircrew were taken away separately with one of the military and two gendarmes. Thirty minutes later, with the Air Roma Nova plane towed away, we took off.

  The other passengers’ chatter about the exciting event of the day passed over me as I wondered what a long-range plane was doing on a fifty-minute flight from Roma Nova. In normal times, small planes resembling buses on wings did the Vienna hop. I dismissed the idea that after all these months the plane had made a long-haul flight and didn’t want to land in Roma Nova; there were very few long hauls now and they were closely supervised by the nats, from what we had gleaned from signals intelligence. The only likely explanation was that somehow an aircrew had stolen a plane at Portus Airport in Roma Nova, got it refuelled and escaped with several hundred passengers. Gods, what an achievement! She deserved a medal, that pilot. Then two of my brain cells connected.

  29

  Three hours later, I was breezing through the VIP lounge in the West London Airport, full of self-importance and looking round in an expectant, entitled way.

  ‘Darling!’ A devastatingly handsome man around early forties, rich brown hair, sparkling dark eyes and a wicked grin sauntered up to me. Flashguns burst into life like Saturnalia fireworks. He bent down, laid his hand on my hip and kissed me on both cheeks as a close, a very close, friend would. The Hon. Charles FitzGlyn, society bad boy, ensured my arrival was as public as possible.

  He whispered in my ear, ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘Darling,’ I gushed in a loud voice. ‘You’re absolutely wonderful.’

  He laughed, pulled my arm through his and slowly we made our way out to a luxury saloon, complete with uniformed and poker-faced chauffeur who held the back door open for me. I turned, waved at the photographers, gave them an all-teeth smile and slid into the back seat to land beside Charles.

  ‘Sir Henry told me you were good,’ he said as we rolled along. ‘You’re not good, you’re bloody terrific.’ His drawl had disappeared. He held out his hand. ‘Charlie FitzGlyn, ex-Royal Lancers, now one of Sir Henry Carter’s monkeys.’ He grinned.

  ‘Well, you certainly got the crowd’s attention. Thank you.’

  ‘Sir Henry says you want to make a splash, a really loud one. For some reason, the press seems to follow me around in my time off, so I’m at your service. I have to say, it’s the easiest assignment I’ve ever undertaken.’

  ‘So what’s the agenda?’

  He handed me a list.

  ‘This takes care of the next three days. I’ll drop you off at your hotel, then I have a table booked for dinner at The Holly at eight. After that perhaps a club.’

  I studied the list: lunches, fashion house show, tea, drinks, theatre, opera, parties, a vernissage, a celebrity book launch and more parties.

  ‘Juno, I’ll need a rest cure after this.’

  ‘Probably. Oh, and you have a meeting booked at 8 am tomorrow with Sir Henry.’

  * * *

  Bolstered by a traditional English breakfast and surprisingly good coffee, I arrived a few minutes early at a nondescript office block in the financial quarter, the City of London; concrete panels, large windows in metal frames, anonymous and characterless. I checked the address again on the sticky note that Charlie had handed me last night. Hardly a place to meet Her Majesty’s foreign secretary. But then, this was a confidential meeting so I’d dressed in a black suit and clipped-back hair like any City worker.

  At a recessed doorway halfway along I paid off the taxi and pushed through the revolving door. In the pale yellow foyer smelling of fresh paint, a burly young man approached me and asked me my business here. Another watched me from the wall. Security, no doubt about it. I gave details of my appointment with Sir Henry Carter and produced my Hungarian passport as ID. Thank goodness it showed my true name as well as my married name. I smiled at the quaint way other countries called it a ‘maiden name’. What nonsense! What was wrong with calling it a ‘first family name’?

  By the time I’d signed in a register and been given a visitor pass to loop round my neck, an older woman wearing a tweed suit and tortoiseshell plastic-rimmed spectacles had stepped briskly from the lift at the back of the hall.

  ‘Good morning, Countess Mitela. I am Mr Hill’s secretary. Sir Henry is using his office today. Please come with me.’

  On the third floor we stepped out of the lift into a corridor with an armed policeman and another anonymous young man. This one was suited and equipped with an earpiece and wire disappearing into his clothing.

  Inside, Sir Henry rose from a leather armchair to greet me.

  ‘My dear Aurelia, welcome. I do apologise for the rather plain surroundings, but discretion, you know. Let me introduce you to Gerald Hill, who heads up the overseas branch of our security services.’

  A thin, tall man with a receding hairline, wrinkled forehead and urbane smile stretched out his hand. His handshake was dry and firm; I could feel his bones through his skin.

  ‘Salve, Aurelia Mitela. Honoured to meet you,’ he said in accented but classical Latin.

  ‘Mine is the honour, Gerald Hill,’ I
replied in the same language.

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll carry on in English, if you don’t mind,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Bit rusty myself.’ He gestured towards the easy chairs and waited until Gerald Hill’s secretary had poured coffee and left. ‘Gerald and Charlie will be your main contacts while you’re here in London, but you need to tell me exactly how we can help you. We’ll assist as far as we can, as long as it doesn’t get sticky politically.’

  ‘Have you ever met Caius Tellus, Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but our man in Washington has. Bit of a charmer, I gather, but Gerald might have more.’

  ‘Well, Foreign Secretary, our estimation is that he is an extremely deceptive and strong-willed individual,’ Gerald Hill started. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell our guest how ideologically motivated he is. His record over the past seventeen months has been, in the mildest terms, disastrous for Roma Nova and disturbing for the rest of the world. Unfortunately, our friends in the EUS seem to think there is some advantage in supporting him. A most regrettable stance. Our head of station in Washington reports that a CIA operative called White is Tellus’s chief contact. It is well known that the UK and Roma Nova have, or had up to Imperatrix Severina’s untimely death, very cordial relations – something our colonial cousins seem to have forgotten.’

  I had never met Gerald Hill until a few minutes ago, but everything I could remember from his dossier, especially a note about his polite but acute observations, seemed true. Like his late Roma Novan opposite number, Tertullius Plico, it appeared he gave no quarter.

  Sir Henry placed his cup down. ‘The head of our American desk reports only minimal contact between Tellus’s representative and British officials in Washington. I gather the Roma Novan nuncia, who is still received as such in Washington circles, gave the EUS External Affairs representative a flea in his ear when he suggested she should open her legation to Tellus’s representative.’ He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

 

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