by Jane Thynne
“Who knows? Either they’d fade into the background again, or they might emigrate, to Canada say, along with all those politicians who backed Edward’s abdication. Baldwin and Churchill.”
Or they might be killed, she thought, but she didn’t say it.
“And do you think the duke would sign such a document?”
He reached for a cigarette. “I couldn’t say, but I’m certain of this: The only way the British public would have Edward back would be if they lost a war. Which is exactly why we need to cultivate our friend Strauss. He took you to lunch and you had a glimpse of the camera. What else did you learn?”
“He talked about what aerial photographs can reveal. I memorized what he told me about the camera. It uses special thirty-five-millimeter film with a perforated edge, which allows motors to turn the film automatically behind the lens and get a precise exposure. It has infrared capacity, so it can be used at night, too.”
“You obviously got on well with him. Sounds like he was quite forthcoming.”
She grimaced.
“What is it?”
“He was…very talkative. Over lunch he told me all about his childhood.” She paused. “Oh, I don’t know, Ralph! I wanted him to be more savage; then it would have been easy. But there’s something so sad about him. Desolate almost.”
“Desolate?” Beneath the genial demeanor, a flash of anger rose in Ralph’s eyes. “Who cares what happens in that cold Nazi heart of his? Perhaps next time you start feeling sorry for Strauss, you should remember all those civilians mown down by his bombs in Spain.”
Almost as quickly as it had erupted, his anger was suppressed. He became brisk and businesslike.
“Anyway, I’m glad you found him approachable. It makes our next step easier.”
“Next step?”
“We need to encourage him to come over to us. Everyone’s getting their intelligence ducks in a row, and there’s no time to lose. We had a report earlier this month that Udet had advised a friend to get the hell out of Germany and added that he would be doing the same were it not for his position. Udet believes it won’t be long before he falls out of favor with the regime, and I’d wager Strauss feels the same. And seeing as he has already bent the rules by taking an attractive actress on an unauthorized joyride, our job might be a little easier.”
Despite herself, she was aghast. “You’re not going to blackmail him!”
“Don’t be foolish, Clara. You know that’s what this is about. There’s a lot riding on Strauss. Given his closeness to Udet, we think he might be open to persuasion anyhow. But if he isn’t, there are other ways.”
Sinking back against the pillow, she felt a lurch of despair. She knew, of course, that Strauss’s information was valuable, but she had not thought he would learn so soon of her deception. The thought of Strauss’s ravaged face when he learned of her betrayal made her shudder. She was glad that he had been horrified at the idea of kissing a Jew.
“Strauss is going to be very valuable to us,” said Ralph, with satisfaction.
“Don’t talk about him like that!”
He looked at her strangely.
“I thought I’d made this clear.” His voice acquired an edge of steel. “This isn’t about making friends. It’s not about having charming little lunches and getting pally with the chaps in the Luftwaffe. I see these people every night of the week, and I never doubt that they would put me up in front of a firing squad, or that I’d do the same to them, if need be.”
Clara stared at the ceiling, her hands clenched beneath the sheets. “I understand that.”
“If you’re not capable of basic emotional discipline…”
“Emotional discipline!” A wave of pain and weariness flooded over her. “Isn’t that what they taught you at that damn boarding school of yours? Never feel anything. Never get involved. Damp down any remotely human emotions because they’re going to get in the way? Forget anything like friendship, or basic human decency. ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country.’ Build an invisible armor around you that nothing can penetrate? Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t be like that. I get affected by the people I associate with.”
There was a moment of silence. Then he said, “Have you finished?”
She looked away.
“It’s part of the job, Clara, I thought you understood that. You led me to believe it wasn’t going to be a problem for you. You said there was no chance you would get emotionally involved. But if you’re going to start falling for every Oberstleutnant who makes friendly overtures…”
“I haven’t fallen for him,” she protested, through gritted teeth.
“Feeling sorry for him.”
“I don’t feel sorry for him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the problem then.”
Clara’s head was throbbing. She wanted to stop thinking about Arno Strauss, to stop imagining the moment when he was confronted with the evidence of her double-dealing. That look, both aggressive and vulnerable, in his hard gray eyes.
Ralph got up. “You’re probably still affected by the accident. Perhaps we should talk later. When you’re feeling more yourself.”
She turned her head away so he would not see the tears pricking at her eyes. This time he shut the door behind him.
Sometime later he returned with two glasses of schnapps and a determined smile.
“Let’s talk about something else.” His voice was gentle.
She gave a faint shrug.
“Tell me about you, Clara.”
“What do you want to know?”
“When I first met you, I tried to find out as much as possible about you. It wasn’t prying. I was just being professional. I was told there had been a chap who was madly in love with you, but that it hadn’t worked out.”
“His name was Leo Quinn, and he worked at Passport Control. He was busy getting visas for Jews who wanted to escape Germany.”
“Sounds like a brave man. The Foreign Office disapproved of that, I hear. They refused to give Passport Control officials diplomatic status. So he was risking a lot. Where is he now?”
“He went back to England in ’thirty-three.” She met his eyes frankly. “He’s probably married to someone else by now. There’s been no one serious since.”
“Was it Leo Quinn who recruited you?”
“He realized I had useful access.”
“Perhaps that’s not all he realized.”
“What do you mean?”
Ralph smiled. “When you first came here, I noticed you looking around. I saw you look at the photograph on the mantelpiece and work out that it was my mother. You’re naturally observant.”
“I suppose so.”
“You’re secretive, too.”
“I think anyone is who has brothers and sisters. You’re always trying to preserve your privacy, not to have your secrets held up for public amusement.”
“So you had secrets?”
“Only the normal things. I kept a diary, hidden in drawers and behind beds and cushions. I tended to hide things.”
Emotions, too. From the age of twelve she had perfected the art of keeping her confidences deep within herself, buried beneath layers of caution and circumspection. It wasn’t hard. In her family, emotions had always been rigorously concealed. Falling out of a tree and ripping the skin off her knee meant a severe dabbing with iodine but no tears. Kisses were rare gifts. Any passions, whether grief, joy, or hilarity, were allowed only decorous display, like the collection of antique Chinese porcelain her parents kept inside glass-doored cabinets. When Kenneth left for boarding school at the age of eight, he had shaken hands with their father, who would no more have told his son he loved him than flown to the moon.
Ralph was still gazing at her, scrutinizing her.
“Perhaps it would help if you told me a few of those secrets now.”
Unexpectedly, she began to talk, and as she did she found herself telling him everything that had happened, right from the beginning, as though she was thinking out loud
. About Bruno and the trip to Munich and her conviction that someone there had been following her. The burglary. Coming back from the flight with Strauss to find the photograph of Erich on the windshield of the car.
“I realized that whoever is threatening me knew all about me. He knew about Erich. I called the school right away, and the principal told me he was fine, but just knowing that someone has threatened Erich, and knows how much I care about him, makes me…What I mean is, if anything happened to Erich, I couldn’t bear it.”
“It won’t.”
“Perhaps not. But I’m responsible for him.”
Gently Ralph said, “You’re fond of the lad, aren’t you? Do you like children? All that combing hair and scrubbing knees and teaching them to keep their grubby nails clean?”
“I never used to. I suppose being with Erich has changed how I feel.”
“Perhaps you should be having children yourself. Don’t you want them?”
She tried not to flinch beneath his probing gaze.
“Now’s not a good time to be having babies.”
While they were talking he had edged nearer and taken her hand. He was rubbing it with his finger in soothing concentric circles, and when she paused, he suddenly dipped his head towards her and kissed her, his lips soft at first, then insistent. Without realizing how much she wanted to, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him down to her, responding with a deep, lingering embrace. He moved onto the bed, and she shifted beneath him, her fingers brushing the fine, golden stubble of his face. Heat blossomed through her as his hands moved over her breasts and traveled the length of her body, but after a few moments he drew back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“No. I am.” He moved sharply away, his face set. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s not what I intended.”
He started to get up, but Clara couldn’t bear to let the moment go. She had forgotten everything that had gone before. Desire was coursing through her in waves. She wanted nothing more than for him to make love to her. She was certain it was true for him, too.
“I’m half naked in your bed, Ralph. You brought me here and took my clothes off and then you kissed me. What the hell were your intentions?”
“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”
Quietly, she said, “When I came here before, you said there were all sorts of reasons why you shouldn’t get involved with me. What are they?”
“I’m too old for you.”
“You’re what, ten years older than I am?”
“I’m in my forties,” he said gruffly. “Set in my ways. Used to my own company. Accustomed to pleasing myself.”
“You asked me about my love life, so what about you? You must have known plenty of women. You joke about them.”
“They come and go. No permanent fixtures. I don’t think they see me as a good bet.”
“I’m not a betting girl.”
Still his eyes avoided her. He knitted his hands together and leaned forward, frowning at his feet.
“Do we have to go through this? I’ve told you, I’ve always needed to be alone. All my life.”
“That’s not the reason.”
“Spare me the inquisition, Clara, would you?” he snapped. “I’m too old for all this. I overstepped the mark and I’ve apologized. It was irresponsible of me. Particularly in your condition. I’m going to leave you now.” He stood up.
She felt herself flushing. “Leave then, Ralph, but at least be honest with me.”
For a moment he stood, hands rammed in his pockets, face grim and sulky, as though he might refuse to speak. Then, reluctantly, he said, “All right then. If you insist. I won’t get involved with you because it’s risky.”
“So is everything we do.”
“This is doubly so. We would be a risk to each other. There’s enough risk out there without multiplying it. If either of us were ever arrested, we would have to disown the other. You know that, don’t you? I would deny all knowledge of you.”
She didn’t doubt it.
He leaned down, took her face in his hands, and his eyes burned into hers. “And I would loathe myself for that. Don’t you see? I could never forgive myself. And then, if they were certain that I did know you, it could be worse…”
“You could betray me?”
He didn’t answer. But she knew that was his deepest fear. To seduce and deceive and betray, these were the tools of espionage, and every spy learned to live with them. To deny a friendship was one thing, but to betray something precious to you, something you treasured, whether it be your country or your lover, that was a deeper fear.
He turned away and occupied himself fixing a cigarette into his ebony holder. “So it’s best we stay as we are.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it, Ralph? All the lying? The subterfuge?”
His eyes clouded. She knew this was something he didn’t want to discuss.
“Lying is like learning another language. For a long time you have the translation, which is the truth, running continuously through your head. But once you’re fluent, it comes naturally, and then you’re in a different state. The trick is to make it as much like your real life as possible. I’m used to this life now. I can hardly remember it any other way. I’m used to being watched and observed and one step away from arrest. I have responsibilities to other people, and I appreciate the immense need for self-control. We both do. To put two people like us together…it would be combustible. We’d risk losing control. And that’s a risk I can’t take.”
He reached down to the brogues stowed under the chair, picked one up, and turning it over, with a sudden twist swiveled its heel to reveal a compartment the size of a penny, containing a fold of newspaper. Inside was a brown, rubber-coated pill as small as a pea. It looked innocuous, as he held it up to her. Boring, even.
“I take it seriously, you see. Part of the uniform.”
She took a quick look, gasped, and looked away. She knew about cyanide capsules, though she had never seen one before and hoped she never would again. The thought of carrying death with you everywhere you went was sobering. Yet she persisted.
“I’m just as controlled as you, Ralph. That experience is the same for me. I understand everything about the need to avoid risks. Dissembling is part of my nature too. But I’m here in your apartment, aren’t I? You expressly brought me here.”
“I had to,” he replied, curtly. “It was unavoidable.”
He was speaking as though she were a parcel, delivered to the wrong address. Flinging off the sheets, she swung her feet around and rose from the bed.
“Thanks for your hospitality then.” Her head was light as the blood rushed to her legs, and tears stung her eyes. Frustration and annoyance mingled in her. “Do you know what I think? I think you believe you’re the only person who has a sense of independence, and that any woman you meet will try to entrap you. Don’t worry, Ralph, that’s not going to happen with me. I’m perfectly happy as I am. I haven’t the remotest interest in trying to snare you. I’m leaving now.”
She dragged off his shirt and was pulling on her clothes when he reached out behind her and imprisoned her in his arms.
“Wait.”
She struggled out of his arms and continued buttoning her blouse.
“Please, Clara! Let me explain. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Her fingers were trembling, but she had her back to him, and she persisted with the buttons, furiously.
“I don’t see why.”
“It would be a crazy idea.”
“You’ve already made that quite plain, thank you.”
“I’m a good deal older than you.”
“You’re not particularly old. And I’m not some young girl who doesn’t know her own mind.”
“Calm down.”
“Stop talking like you’re my father or something.”
He reached out a hand. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“Leave me alone,
Ralph! I understand.”
“You understand nothing!” He looked exasperated. “Just…don’t speak.” Taking her by the shoulders, he forced her to face him, then with deft deliberation unbuttoned the blouse she had just buttoned, slipped it off, and took her in his arms and onto the bed.
His body was a revelation. His chest, carved with muscle, was lithe and taut. It was as hard as that of a man half his age. There was a reddish line of hair running down the center of his chest to his belly. Softly he kissed her eyes, nose, shoulders, and breasts, then ducked his head down. His lips grazed her belly. As she arched beneath him, he turned, fumbled in a drawer beside the bed, and she heard the rip of foil before he turned back to her with a hunger that amazed her.
After everything he had said about self-control, it was a joy to abandon herself entirely to sensation, to feel the pleasure flooding her body as he towered above her. She reveled in the sense of his skin against hers, breathing his breath, the intimacy of his face a few inches from hers. After so long on her own, just the touch of a man, his fingers searching her out and his limbs entwining hers, was startling and new. She felt delicate and precious beneath his hands, like the piece of fine art he had once compared her to. Yet his touch was firm, too, turning her over deftly beneath him, controlling himself, spicing his urgency with a deliberation that prolonged her pleasure, gripping her hips hard to steady her beneath him. At the edge of Clara’s mind the thought of death, which he carried with him wherever he went, only made her surrender more complete.
When he had finished, he lay with his arm flung beneath her and soon fell asleep, his breathing growing deep and slow. But Clara couldn’t sleep. For a long time, she lay thinking, then she propped herself up on one elbow to look at him.
As she watched, she saw his body shudder, the twitch of movement rippling across his tanned skin. At one point he muttered something, and she craned towards him but couldn’t make it out. She wondered what was going on in that dark undertow of thought, what private dreams he had that left him quivering in his sleep.
—