A Treachery of Spies

by Manda Scott

  He runs his tongue round his teeth, takes a pull on a bottle of water and types a message under the action on the screen.

  – Anyone seen Elodie?

  Within moments, replies are scrolling down:

  – Elodie’s not here yet.

  – Clinton’s in though.

  – Are you sure?

  – Yes, I saw him.

  – Bit, early, no?

  – Wake up, it’s later than you think!

  – So Clinton then? Can you take her?

  – No, I’m heading into a battleground, get Martha. It’s what she’s here for. Text her.

  – No, don’t – she’s here.

  There’s barely a pause before a hand falls on Picaut’s shoulder and a bright voice says, ‘Hi! I’m Martha. I’m an intern here at Radical Mind. We’re not expecting to see Elodie until later this afternoon, if at all, but Clinton’s upstairs. Please follow me.’

  Martha is a strikingly blonde, mid-term-pregnant intern with an engaging smile. Picaut follows her through the buzzing creativity into a lift that carries them up one floor. A short, wide, blue-carpeted corridor stretches to left and right in front of her as the doors hush open.

  Picaut steps out. To her left is a closed door: ELODIE DUVAL: CREATIVE DIRECTOR – RADICAL MIND.

  To her right, ajar: CLINTON MCKINNEY: EXECUTIVE PRODUCER – RADICAL MIND.

  Through the gap she sees more pale wooden floors, a wide open space, a Scandinavian desk near the back. A window stretches along the full length of the room, giving a long view out to the river, shining under the marbled sky, with the pinnacle of the cathedral behind. A lean figure sits behind the desk, his temple balanced on his closed fist. He has steel-grey hair, neatly cut, and glasses with barely tinted lenses.

  Quietly, Martha says, ‘Best keep to English if you can. He’s Canadian. His French is …’ She makes waveforms with her hands, and ushers Picaut through, alone. The door closes behind her. The air smells faintly of marijuana, which it did not downstairs.

  ‘Elodie? You’re early! I’m so sorry. We just heard about your godfather. If you want to take—’ He looks up. ‘Captain Picaut! What a pleasant surprise!’ Clinton McKinney’s eyes skate away from her face. She’s grown used to this, but today he is the first: her team, and those around her, have learned better. He says, ‘I have seen you, of course, on the television. Last year?’

  ‘A little longer than that.’

  ‘Of course. Time passes so fast these days, it’s hard to keep up. So, are you here in a professional capacity? Or perhaps looking for alternative work? We could always use a woman of your obvious talent!’

  McKinney is certainly Canadian, his accent fashioned in Montreal, tempered in Europe, with exclamation points added on the west coast of America and the Antipodean habit of slapping a question mark on the end of all but the most obvious statements of fact.

  He says, ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve just this moment had news that one of our contributors has died. One of those who fought alongside the Maquis in the war? I will have to tell the team, so if we could make this fast, I would be grateful. What can I do for you?’

  This part of the job, she hates. She rushes at it, to get it over with. ‘Mr McKinney, there has been a murder. We have reason to believe that the victim might be known to the studio.’

  He blanches. His larynx spasms. His eyes spark wide. ‘Elodie?’

  ‘Not Elodie, although her name has come up.’ Picaut opens her phone to the image of the business card and lays it on his gargantuan desk. ‘A woman using the name Sophie Destivelle was murdered in the small hours of this morning at the Gare des Aubrais. Elodie Duval’s business card was found among her personal effects. We need to understand why.’

  She does not go into the bloody details of the murder, and McKinney doesn’t ask. It seems likely, in fact, that he doesn’t care: his attention does not stray beyond his project. Frowning, he runs long, thin fingers through his long, thin hair. ‘We can’t stop filming now.’

  ‘Nobody’s asking you to stop filming. All I need to know is why the murdered woman had Elodie’s business card sewn into the lining of her jacket.’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know why anyone would keep a card in the lining of their jacket, but then, Sophie was a closed book; I really didn’t know anything about her. She was Elodie’s contact. Elodie found her. Elodie arranged the filming. The rest of us weren’t allowed close?’

  ‘You know Sophie Destivelle? You filmed her?’ God, this is like pulling teeth.

  ‘Not me. She was very elusive. Elodie persuaded her to talk on camera, but she had to get it all at once: the old lady wouldn’t sit twice. And it had to be in Saint-Cybard. Where she fought in the war?’

  Saint-Cybard. That rings faint bells. Picaut says, ‘I would be curious to know how Elodie found her when we can’t trace any record of her existence.’

  ‘She’s Elodie.’ McKinney shrugs, and the angles of his shoulders make it look like some kind of muscular spasm. ‘She never gives up. And her godfather gave her a lead, I think. Paul Rey. He’s the one who died this morning.’

  Picaut types notes into her phone. ‘Who died, exactly?’

  ‘Colonel Paul Rey. He was a major in the Jedburghs, the officers who were parachuted in behind the lines to make sure the Maquis kept to the script after D-Day? He became a full colonel later. Also, I think, Deputy Assistant Director of the CIA. The American agencies can be astonishingly arcane in their nomenclature.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He was ninety-six and he had lung cancer? It was his time. He knew he was dying. It’s why Elodie went to visit him. A last goodbye, so to speak? And he wanted to give her an old ciné film he’d found of the wedding of a German officer that was taken during the war. We’re going to use clips of it in the show.’

  ‘Wait, you’re telling me Elodie Duval was in America?’ Jesus Christ …

  ‘Two days ago.’ He nods. ‘She’s due back into Charles de Gaulle just after noon. She texted me last night to say she was on schedule, but then when you came in, I thought she had changed her mind and come back early?’

  ‘I’ll need details of her flight.’

  ‘But she can’t be a suspect, when she—’

  ‘Mr McKinney, we have a dead woman who died in Pierre Fayette’s car with his sister’s card sewn into the lining of her jacket. Beyond that, we have very few leads. So I want to talk to Elodie Duval the moment she lands. Look on the bright side: she’ll get through customs faster than you’d ever believe.’

  ‘Martha will give you her flight details.’ He presses a button on an intercom and Hi-I’m-Martha confirms that Elodie Duval boarded the red-eye from JFK and is due to land at 12.40. Picaut texts the flight number and landing time to Ducat, with a request that he talk to immigration and lubricate Duval’s passage through customs.

  Martha is considerably more useful than her employer. Without being asked, she also supplies details of Sophie Destivelle’s address in Orléans: an apartment on the north side of the river. This proves to be registered in the name of one Céline Sutherland, who does not, as far as the records are concerned, exist. Sylvie and Petit-Evard are dispatched to look into this.

  McKinney watches Picaut issue instructions. When she’s done, he leans across his desk, fingers locked. ‘It was Colonel Rey who first proposed the idea for the show. Elodie was devoted to him. So we absolutely must keep shooting, you see?’

  ‘Mr McKinney, I’m really not arguing about your schedule. I just need to speak with Elodie, to find out what she knew about Sophie Destivelle. In the meantime, if you know of anyone else who might have information about Sophie that would—’

  ‘Oh my God!’ McKinney’s whole body jolts. ‘Laurence! He mustn’t hear this from anyone else!’

  He is up and out from behind his desk, all angular limbs and long, fast strides. Picaut has to run to keep up. They eschew the lift and take the stairs, bounding down to the floor below where McKinney turns, running b
ackwards with an unexpected athleticism. ‘Don’t tell anyone, please? We are family here. I must tell them in my own way?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She follows him, to see the family and how they respond to the news. They turn right at the foot of the stairs and through the doors into the open-plan meta-space where the interns gather like so many hens in a coop. McKinney winnows through, nodding a lot, smiling thinly, not really connecting. They pass the zigzag aquarium, the Walkstations, the table tennis. McKinney’s flickering gaze alights with relief on a figure who is twice the age and three times the body mass of the starved-slim post-teenagers who flit from desk to Walkstation to console and back.

  He sits at a desk with his back to the window, and rises with muscular ease at McKinney’s nod. Picaut recognizes his type, and he’s not the kind of man she’d expect to see here.

  ‘Martin?’ To Picaut: ‘Martin Gillard is our stunt advisor in the historical action sequences for the film; which is most of it, really: the action. The talking heads take up, by necessity, less than ten per cent of the running time. Of course we introduced the actors to those of the Maquis still alive: to Laurence and JJ and René; to Paul by Skype. The scripts will be based entirely on their testimonies— Martin, I’m sorry, I’m being hopelessly rude. This is Captain Picaut of the Orléans police force. You’ll have seen her on the news? Captain, this is Martin Gillard of the—’

  ‘Foreign Legion. BlueSkies. Hollywood. And yes, I have seen you.’ Martin Gillard’s smile is functional: this is me; my biography in three short words and you can fill in the gaps. His grip is carefully modulated: I could crush your hand effortlessly, but see, I choose not to. And I do not speak in queries.

  Picaut works through the sequence. The Foreign Legion takes the hardest men it can find and makes them harder. She has no idea what the entry criteria are for BlueSkies but if Rollo is half right, they take the kinds of men the Foreign Legion has shaped and make them rich doing work even the Legion would not touch. But then Hollywood? What kind of man trains with the hardest male bonding units and then steps sideways into the world of air kisses and frippery? He’s not joking though. Martin Gillard does not look like the kind of man to make jokes.

  Martin Gillard, frankly, looks like the kind of man who could kill half a dozen old ladies before breakfast and not break a sweat. His eyes meet Picaut’s with a kind of focused curiosity that makes the hairs on her forearms prickle. He is Caucasian, but his skin is tanned deep as shoe leather, as if he has spent a long time in hot countries with a wind that scalds. His hair is cropped close after the fashion of the US services, but he’s a sandy blond, heading towards silver.

  He wears jeans and a maroon polo shirt tight enough to demonstrate two things. First, he may be twice the age of the marathon-running interns, but he’s easily twice as fit. Second, he is not currently carrying a gun, but he could, without question, put two to the heart and one to the head through a six-centimetre gap with his eyes shut balancing on a unicycle.

  In his presence, McKinney deflates. He says, ‘We had some bad news from America. Colonel Paul Rey—’

  ‘Is dead. I heard.’ A fine white line frames Gillard’s lips as he says this. Rey’s death has moved him, and he doesn’t want to show it. Given his history, it is likely that he knew Deputy Assistant Director Rey of the CIA long before he came here: BlueSkies may be a private firm, but in America, even before the current president took office, the walls between private companies and public institutions were growing porous. Hidden connections are Picaut’s investigative lifeblood. Somewhere, there will be a paper trail or its electronic equivalent. Rollo will find it. He’s good at that.

  McKinney says, ‘There’s something else. If you’ll come with us to the shooting room? I need to tell Laurence the news.’

  They reach the back of the open-plan area, where there is a wide, dark double door. A notice pinned above the handle says: SHOOTING ROOM: FILMING IN PROGRESS – QUIET PLEASE.

  Picaut has the sense of things running away from her, not yet controlled. She asks, ‘Who’s Laurence?’

  ‘Group Captain Laurence Vaughan-Thomas, formerly of the British MI6 and before that of the SOE. He was one of those based in the Baker Street London headquarters who sent agents and supplies to the Maquis de Morez, so he had a unique view on their existence. And he’s the one who trained Sophie before she was parachuted into France. He’s been immensely helpful. Really, finding him was our first real break. He’s given such heart to the project. Without him we’d— Laurence! So good to see you!’

  The doors spring apart on magnetic rollers. Inside is a small, starkly monochromatic studio. The walls, floor and ceiling are all black. At the back is a black stage with black curtains draped on three sides. A pair of hooded television cameras stare at it, poised, as if over prey.

  And there, flooded in artificial light, sitting upright in an armchair, is a tall, lean, ice-haired gentleman – there is no other word for it – dressed for the part in a mustard yellow V-neck sweater and buff corduroy trousers. Every part of him, from the straightness of his spine to the well-combed hair, to the hands laid flat on his thighs, screams his Englishness.

  When Group Captain Laurence Vaughan-Thomas stands, stiffly, it is to bow in Picaut’s direction: nothing grandiose, but a definite nod of the head. His handshake is firm and feels like a test: weight, muscle tone, balance. He is stronger than his age might suggest. It wouldn’t surprise her to find he does fifty press-ups in the morning before a cold shower. He looks like a well-worn seventy-something, yet he cannot be less than ninety years old.

  He gives her hand one final squeeze and drops it. ‘Captain, what a very great honour. I have seen you on the television, of course, but it is a delight finally to meet you in person.’ His smile is careful, hiding teeth that are no longer perfect. As with the dead woman, so with him: there is a patina of grief laid over his features, something about the angles of his lids that suggests he has never known real joy. He switches to French, with the accents of age, of money, of Paris. ‘Are you here to see the filming? Or is there a professional reason?’

  He’s brighter than Clinton McKinney, but then, if he was in MI6, that’s to be expected. Picaut draws in a breath. ‘Captain Vaughan-Thomas, I’m so sorry—’

  August 1940: The Battle of Britain begins with Adlertag – an assault by the Luftwaffe against British ports.

  SOE: Special Operations Executive officially formed with orders to conduct reconnaissance, sabotage and espionage behind the lines in occupied Europe. Personal instructions from Churchill: Set Europe ablaze!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WARREN ROAD HOSPITAL, GUILDFORD, SURREY

  October 1940

  HE WAKES TO sun on his face, too much like fire. He flinches away from it and tears at the sutures. Pain makes him mute, holding it in, tight, hard, solid. Don’t speak. Hell, but my shoulder hurts. My arm. My hand. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t bloody move.

  ‘Laurence?’ Something touches his face. The back of someone’s hand? Gentle. Cool. He opens his eyes, then shuts them tight. Too bright.

  ‘Draw the curtains, will you?’ The voice is a man’s, cultured, echoing, too big for the room. Soon, the swish of curtain runners, the light, peppery smell of dust and a woman’s scent and wine; things from before.

  ‘Laurence? Can you hear me? It’s me, Jeremy.’

  Jeremy. He has run through the entire squadron, dead as well as living, before other memories line up in his head. Near the top, amongst his father’s cousins, is Uncle Jeremy. Not a flyer. High up, though, greasing the wheels that turn. Brigadier Sir Jeremy Vaughan-Thomas, OBE.

  ‘Hello, Uncle.’ He sounds like a crow. When did he last speak? Chris! Chris! Behind you! Climb! Climb, for God’s sake …

  ‘Laurence? Listen to me, it’s over. I swear, it’s over. No more flying. I promise you.’

  But I live to fly.

  He opens his eyes.

  There is no sunlight now, only a fly-specked electric bulb,
and, closer, silvering hair, silvering moustache and silvery-grey eyes, so like his father’s – the same long, lean, weathered face that shows nothing and gives nothing and somehow is home.

  Jeremy was the younger by eighteen months, the baby of the family. The Vaughan-Thomas cousins were tight as brothers; tighter, possibly. Five of them, and eight in the next generation, all one big brood of second cousins. Seven now that Chris has gone.

  Chris.

  ‘I didn’t save him. I saw him go down, and I didn’t save him.’

  ‘You tried – that’s what matters, everyone saw. You’re slated for a DFC.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Which is why it’s not your decision to make.’ Astonishingly, the Brigadier leans over and presses a tight, dry kiss to his brow. ‘Your father would be proud of you, Laurence.’

  I doubt that. ‘He didn’t tolerate failure.’

  ‘Four kills is not failure. You got the 109 before you went down.’

  ‘And I got this.’ He lifts his arm. At the end of it, his hand, which is not his hand, but a claw, clamped round some imaginary toggle. He lets it drop and knows that while this is what he can see, it’s the damage to his lungs, the flame-seared fabric of his alveoli, that will invalid him for life if he’s not lucky.

  His uncle shrugs it off. ‘They say the meat and the bone are intact. Your hand will relax in due course and your lungs … they should heal, given time. So what you have is a war wound and there have been a lot of those, and there will be plenty more. It’s not an excuse for self-pity. It’s not as if it’s your right hand. You’ll be perfectly fit in a month or two. Maybe three.’

  This is more like the family rhetoric. There’s a relief in returning to normality. The medics said a year, but the family never did believe in the limitations of medicine.

  With his good hand, Laurence plumps the pillows and pushes himself upright.

  Uncle Jeremy pulls up a chair, screeching iron across the linoleum. Sitting, he looks younger, too young to be a brigadier. War makes things happen faster than they should. He stares down at his hands while he settles on what he needs to say. ‘On the topic of which, did you know you spoke German in your sleep?’