London, 1949
When they arrived in London two days later, Marie Claire went straight to her mother, and Slim checked into Brown’s. Daniel had to return to Paris. Slim first phoned Pasha, then ordered some tea and sandwiches and lay down on the bed, her mind lost in what had happened over the last couple of days. She was starting to drift off to sleep when the phone rang.
“Are you in town?” Pasha said. “Would you’d like me to come by?”
“Pasha, how great to hear your voice. Listen, darling; I wanted to tell you that I am now engaged to the man I was seeing before I met you.”
“And?” Pasha asked, waiting for her to explain how this would affect their future assignations.
“And I plan on being faithful to him.”
There was silence on the other line, and then Pasha replied softly, “That, of course, breaks my heart just a bit, but I am happy for you. I hope we shall remain friends.”
“Thank you, and yes, I would like to remain friends. Now, dear Pasha, with that out of the way, do you have any information for me about Colonel Graham and his twin RAF sons who were supposedly double agents?”
“No and yes. I was able to find out that his twin sons don’t exist—there’s no record of them in the RAF, and even more surprisingly, Colonel Graham doesn’t exist. Yes, he did work at the SOE—that much is true—but I couldn’t find a military record for him anywhere. So I began to dig a little deeper, and what I discovered was odd.”
Slim was intrigued.
“An actor named Basil Kendrick was employed by the SOE, and I’ve shown his photo around. People who knew Graham recognize Kendrick.”
“How is that even possible?”
“You can ask him yourself. He’s in the latest Christopher Fry play at the Globe.”
“So you think he was hired to impersonate this fictional Colonel Graham? But why?”
“Normally, one hires actors so they can read the lines other people have written. Now, if you do forgive me, I need to make my way to see Mother. Apparently, there’s a rumor that the Tsarevitch Alexei survived the massacre at Ekaterinburg, and she wants me to follow up on it for the dowager empress. And darling, don’t be a stranger. Remember, I am always here if you need me.”
Slim hung up the phone and tried to make sense of what Pasha had just told her. She took out the afternoon paper that had been delivered with her tea and found that Christopher Fry’s play, The Lady’s Not for Burning, was playing in the West End. It starred one of her father’s favorite costars, a young actor named John Gielgud. She called down to the front desk and arranged for a ticket.
The play was about a war-weary soldier who had given up on life and a condemned witch who wanted to live. Slim recognized it as an allegory for the state of the world. Although it was a romantic comedy written in verse, she found it oddly moving. Afterward, she headed toward the stage door and knocked. A skinny man in his seventies in rolled-up shirtsleeves and with an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth opened it. “How can I help you, miss?”
“Hi, Jinky, it’s me. Tyrone Moran’s daughter, Slim,” she said with a grin.
“As I live and breathe, it is, ain’t it? How are you, gal? Sorry about your da. Men like him come around once in a generation.”
“That’s probably a good thing. I’d like to pop my head in to say hello to Johnny G., but first I need to talk to an actor named Basil Kendrick. Can you get me to his dressing room?”
“I can, darling, but he’s a bit of a lush and not in the charming way your da was. He was slurring a bit onstage tonight, and if you ask me, I don’t think he’s long for this show. Johnny G. won’t be having sloppy on stage.”
Slim followed Jinky up the winding circular staircase, holding onto the steel banister. She had always loved being backstage, listening to the ribald humor of half-dressed actors. Jinky knocked on a door and peeked in. “Kendrick, there’s a young lady here to see you.”
“Tell her to fuck off,” came the response.
“Tell her yourself, you sodden piece of tripe. Put your robe on, and make yourself presentable.”
Jinky waited a minute, waved Slim through, and then said to Kendrick, “Be a gentleman, or I’ll have Johnny G. give you what for.”
“I’d like to see that poofter try. On second thought, maybe not.”
Slim heard a bellicose laugh. She pushed open the door and saw a middle-aged man taking off his makeup. He looked Slim up and down appraisingly. “What can I do you for?”
“I was hired by Miss Flora Chapman to find an agent who went missing in France named Marie Claire.”
Slim noticed Kendrick’s right hand begin to shake. “Is the door shut all the way?” he asked. Slim nodded.
“How did you find me?”
“Is that important?”
“Yes, I have an interest in living.”
“Do you know Marie Claire?”
“I am bound by the Official Secrets Act. If I violate it, I can go to prison.”
“I just need you to tell me a couple of things, and you can shake your head yes or no. You don’t have to speak.”
“Go ahead.”
“Were you Colonel Graham?”
Kendrick nodded.
“Did you have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the SOE?”
“I’m an actor. Do you think I understood the spy game? They hauled me out when a recruit came in. They said I gave the place a certain legitimacy. I did my best dotty Mister Chips impersonation, and that’s it.”
“So you don’t have two sons who perished in the war?”
“Who were shot down and turned into double agents? I loved that story. I was married once, and it was annulled when I found out she was fifteen.”
“Do you remember meeting an agent named Marie Claire? She was also known as Marya Vyrubova.”
He shook his head. “I met hundreds of recruits for five minutes each. I didn’t run the show any more than Chapman did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“All her orders came from high up. I only know that because I saw her distraught one night. We went out for a drink or maybe three, and then she spilled it; one of her agents in Paris had left off her safety word when she was transmitting. Chapman was told to ignore it and carry on, even though she knew the agent had been compromised.”
“And then what happened?”
“The usual. I made a pass at her, and she slapped me. Look, I was just doing my bit, and mind you, it was just a bit part. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, I think you answered all my questions.”
“Did you find that girl, the one you said that Chapman hired you to look for?” He looked at her from his mirror.
“Yes, I did. Thank you for your help, Mr. Kendrick.” Slim moved to leave.
“Just remember: ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.’”
“So even Shakespeare has a quote about just following orders.”
She left him as she found him, staring at himself in the mirror.
The next morning, Slim met Marie Claire at Charring Cross Station to catch a train to Rye in East Sussex. The rain started to stream down as they pulled out of the station. After the conductor had come around to collect their tickets, Marie Claire’s stomach grumbled. “How I wish a tea cart would magically appear full of pastries,” she said. Just then, the door between the cars opened, and a large white-aproned woman pushed a cart laden with exactly what Marie Claire had desired.
“Did that just really happen?” she asked, laughing after they’d ordered two metal pots of tea and picked out hot cross buns.
“Sometimes you get what you wish for,” Slim said, smiling at the nun next to her. “So how did the visit go with your mother?”
“It was hard. She wanted to know why I didn’t come back after the war.”
“What did you tell her?”
“What I told you, that I didn’t want to leave behind the child
ren in the orphanage. I said that I was sorry about what I’d put her through, and I am, but I don’t regret what I did.”
“Did she accept your answer?”
“Yes and no. She’s dying, and of course, her greatest wish was to see me, but she feels rejected as a mother.” Marie Claire paused and then said, “Look, the sun is coming out.”
They didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. Marie Claire seemed lost in melancholy, and Slim wondered how the reunion between Miss Chapman and Marie Claire would go.
At the station, they hired a cab to take them to the address on the card that Miss Chapman had given Slim at their last meeting. Chapman had been surprised when Slim had called the night before, but after Slim had said that she had something to bring her, the woman graciously had invited her for afternoon tea.
Slim raised the brass knocker on the door to Chip Chase, an eighteenth-century English cottage, while Marie Claire stood nervously in her nun’s habit. They heard the barking of dogs, then the door being unlatched and opened. Miss Chapman saw Slim first and then the nun standing next to her. “Miss Moran, you’ve brought someone with you. Hello there, I’m . . .”
“Miss Chapman, it’s me, Marya Vyrubova,” Marie Claire said, using her birth name, “and I brought you back something you lent me.” Marie Claire opened her hand and revealed the blue rhinestone dragon pin.
Chapman took the pin out of Marie Claire’s hand and then embraced her. “Thank God, you lived.” She began to weep.
“I found your twelfth woman,” Slim said.
“Thank you. Now I know what happened to all twelve of my girls. Come in; I’ll put the kettle on.”
They sat in wrought-iron chairs overlooking the garden while Miss Chapman prepared tea. A bowered gateway enclosed the space, the roses were in late-fall bloom, and the herbs and the last of the vegetables before the frost were neatly laid out in raised beds. On the horizon were rows of barren fruit trees. It was the idyllic English garden.
“It’s very peaceful here,” Marie Claire said.
“Yes, I imagine it is. May I ask you something?” Slim asked.
“Of course.”
“Are you going to go back to Mont Sainte-Odile?”
“You mean after my mother dies? Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“What should I tell Françoise about you when I see her?” Slim asked, curious to find out whether there were any residual feelings.
“Tell her that I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused.”
“She said that she loved you.”
“And I loved her. She was very good to me.”
“You can see her if you want.”
“At this point, I just want to say goodbye to my mother.” Marie Claire paused and then said, “We’ll see about the rest.”
Miss Chapman came out holding a laden-down tea tray. “Marya, I have been looking for you for a very long time, and now here you are.”
“I was scared to let you know where I was.”
“Why? Why ever would you be scared?” Miss Chapman seemed genuinely shocked by this statement.
“Because you were the mole, weren’t you?” she asked quietly.
“In a way, yes, I was the mole,” Miss Chapman said, pouring the tea into the cups.
“But that’s treason,” Marie Claire said. “You could still be hanged.”
“I’m not going to be hanged because you are not going to turn me in,” Miss Chapman said evenly. “Miss Moran, will you tell Marie Claire why, or shall I?”
Slim knew instantly that Basil Kendrick had called Miss Chapman and told her about her visit.
“Miss Chapman knew it wasn’t you when your safety word was left out,” Slim said.
“Why did you transmit back about agent and ammunition drops after I got picked up?” Marie Claire sputtered.
“Miss Chapman knew you would wind up in Avenue Foch in the hands of the SD,” Slim said.
“That’s right, but we didn’t realize that it would take you six months to be caught. You were good, but we needed you to be caught,” Miss Chapman explained.
“But why?” Marie Claire asked, horrified. “Why would you do that?”
“We needed to feed the Germans as much misinformation as we possibly could about the D-day invasion plans. Colonel Graham was also set up as a mole.”
“But he had twins who were in the RAF and shot down over Germany.” Marie Claire grew more and more confused.
“They didn’t exist. We even sent a story to Bletchley Park saying that after the dear boys had been dropped in Germany, and they were working for the enemy. We made Colonel Graham’s character as complicated and as morally ambiguous as we humanly could.”
“Then who was Colonel Graham?”
“A second-rate actor fresh from the West End,” Slim added.
“How many agents did you sacrifice to keep up this ruse?” Marie Claire said, beginning to realize what Miss Chapman had done to her.
“That I am not liberty to say,” Miss Chapman said, looking away to the garden.
“And you feel the cost of human life was worth playing the Funkspiel with Germany?” Marie Claire asked, incredulous. “How could you do this? How could you send men and women knowingly to their deaths?”
“It wasn’t our decision. It came from high up,” Miss Chapman said with an air of resignation.
“And you went along with it? Without any qualms?” Marie Claire was almost shouting.
“Of course, I had qualms,” Miss Chapman said with a flash of annoyance, “but we had to weigh what we could gain against the cost.”
“Now I know why you picked me. You thought I’d be incompetent, an easy mark to be picked up.”
“Yes, but you surprised us. We were desperate to get you caught, and then Amelie did us a favor.”
“I was going to be picked up even if Amelie hadn’t turned me in,” Marie Claire said. “You sent me in to be slaughtered.”
“After the war, I went to France to find all the women who didn’t return. Most had died in the camps. Three were burned to death at Natzweiler, but you disappeared without a trace.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“I’m happy you survived. I truly am. All your deaths have haunted me.”
“Yes, and so they should.” Marie Claire stood up. “I think I found out all I need or care to know.”
“You understand because of the Official Secrets Act, you cannot tell anyone what I have told you.”
“I think at this point saying anything will do more harm than good,” Slim added.
“Marya, I want you to know that I did try and find out what happened to you, and in the end, I did keep that promise.”
“You could have said no. You could have disobeyed orders.”
“Miss Chapman couldn’t. At the time, she wasn’t a naturalized citizen, and she feared being sent back to Romania,” Slim added, trying to explain at least what she thought might have been part of the motive.
“Would that have been so bad?”
“I am Jewish, Marya,” Miss Chapman said quietly.
“So you did this to save yourself?”
“No, I would have gladly sacrificed myself. I did this to save humanity.”
“Yes, but in the process, you seemed to have lost your own.”
Marie Claire walked out of the garden. Slim was about to say something to Miss Chapman, but then she realized there was nothing left to say and followed her out.
Nine Months Later
Slim looked around the tables at la Silhouette while unconsciously rubbing her swollen belly. There was Gran, giggling like a schoolgirl with Marlene; her old friend Margaret in her habit, sitting with Gudrun, who was not; and Remy, scurrying around refilling everyone’s glasses with champagne. Across the room, the jazz trio started playing “It’s Magic.” Françoise caught her eye, smiled, and walked over to her.
“How about a dance with your old friend?” Françoise held out her hand.
A heavily pregnant S
lim stood up. “A slow one. My feet are killing me.”
“So two more months and there’ll be a little one running about. Where is Daniel, by the way?”
“He’s picking up the cake. Finkelstein’s called. Their delivery boy is sick.”
“Guess who wrote me?” Françoise asked.
“Marie Claire?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I had a sense that once things settled down, she’d be in contact. How is she?”
“Her mother died. She’s getting rid of things. She might keep the flat in London; she might not. She might stay a nun. She might not. Everything is in flux right now, but it was good to hear from her.”
“Maybe she’ll come back and be your great love,” Slim suggested.
“I think that ship has sailed.”
“You never know. Look at Daniel and me.”
“I still think you could have done better.”
“Sometimes the best life is a complicated one. Where is Daniel? I want to get the cake over with and then lie down for a bit.”
“Remy, go and see what happened with the cake, and while you’re at it, find out what the hell happened to Daniel,” Françoise barked lazily at Remy. She had had her fill of champagne that afternoon, and the humid June air made her seem a bit drunker than she was.
Remy put down the bottle and smiled at them both.
“Don’t just stand there grinning like a clown from Cirque d’Hiver. Go!” Françoise yelled.
Still smiling, Remy left the bar.
“I think Françoise would be a good name for girl, and Francois for a boy.”
“Jews don’t name their children after the living,” Slim countered, smiling.
“Daniel will have a lot of names to choose from.”
“Sadly, yes, he will.”
There was a roar of laughter coming from the table where Marlene and Lady Johnson sat.
“They’re getting on like a house on fire,” Slim said as she looked over and smiled at the two women carrying on like schoolgirls. “I need to sit down. My ankles are swollen. Can you go and see what’s happened to Remy?”
Françoise held the chair as Slim sat and left the bar. Margaret came over. “S.S.S.”
The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries) Page 25