by Manda Scott
This being a reception hosted by the Canadian ambassador, doubtless there are also agents of the RCMP, although nobody pays them a great deal of attention. Even without them, there are more armed guards on display tonight than diplomats or trade executives, and half of these are spies.
It would be laughable were it not that news has just reached them of a CIA agent shot dead near the Russian sector in Berlin. The atmosphere here is rarely relaxed, but tonight, it is raw, red, angry.
A hand falls on her arm. Sophie turns, briskly, crisply. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think—’
It’s the eyes: one platinum glance and she is lost, floating in a black night with the lights red to green above her head and the ground coming up towards her.
She finds her voice. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m so sorry, my mistake. I thought you were someone I knew.’ Céline’s French was perfect. Susan Tomlinson’s is cloddily English. Everything about her is cloddily English; less alert, less alive, more mousy than she ever was. The spectacles are part of it, and the lank red hair, but the greatest part – the best – is her posture. Here, where England is the victor, she manages to leak a sense of defeat.
The whole construct is an instruction in cover art, should Sophie care to take it, but her attention is elsewhere – on the index finger of Céline’s right hand, as it taps on her thigh. MEET MEET MEET.
How long since she last put her mind to Morse? She is fully back in the war now. Her fingers answer without her thinking. WHERE? WHEN?
YOUR HOTEL BAR 2247.
Sophie has been a resident of the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten for the past four days, during none of which has she spent time in the bar. Such is the suspicion these days that anything out of habit will be noticed, unless she can provide a plausible reason for a change in behaviour.
The reception is winding to its natural close when she catches the eye of a man she vaguely knows.
‘Alexei!’ She raises her arm and her voice together, and, pushing past a tedious naval attaché from the British Embassy, strides out towards the Soviet undersecretary’s undersecretary—
And trips. The floor, of course, is Italian marble. Her glass disintegrates on impact and she falls after it, into, but not onto, the shards.
There are advantages to being a more gamine version of La Hepburn. Men rush to help her to her feet, to rescue her shattered glass, her shattered shoe, the heel of which is quite ruined. No one asks how she managed to trip over her own feet on a perfectly smooth floor. Nobody asks where she was going or what she was doing, but when the three young officers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police escort her – sporting a fresh Band-Aid over what turns out to be really rather a small cut – back to the Hotel VJ, it is natural that they deliver her to the bar.
‘I will be well, Messieurs, honestly. It was a shock, nothing more. I am unhurt. I shall have a Cognac and an early night and learn my lesson. Thank you. Truly. I am grateful. I have detained you long enough. Thank you.’
Glass in hand, she finds an empty table in the furthest corner, beneath the stuffed boar’s head. The Hotel VJ may be newly built, but purports to be an old-fashioned kind of residence of the sort that flourished in the thirties; the manager swears that it is built directly on the foundations of its predecessor, that some of the building stone is original.
Whether anyone believes this is irrelevant; the oak panels and dim lighting make it a haven for spies. Here, the difficulty is not the usual one of being overheard, but of unintentionally overhearing something untoward. Tonight, the atmosphere is tense.
Céline, when she arrives, is no longer a redhead, but a short-haired, rather masculine brunette, taller than she was, or perhaps less folded in on herself. Her clothes are just on the right side of mannish; just on the wrong side of casual: dark slacks and a tailored jacket in herringbone tweed with slingbacks. She orders a whisky and soda and her accent is American, which excuses almost everything.
She sits with her back to Sophie and checks the door and her watch with increasing frequency. At eleven o’clock, when nobody she recognizes has entered, she raises her third Scotch to the door – ‘Fuck you, and all who sail in you’ – drains it, and leaves.
There were eight words in Céline’s curse and so Sophie follows four minutes later. She’s easy to follow. Her short hair, her bearing, the length of her stride; all mark her out as she passes under the street lights, heading back along the Rüngsdorfer Strasse, towards the Rheinhotel and the river beyond. The night is warm and dry and there are streetlights again, which is pleasant. Bonn is sprinting towards its future in ways Berlin, and even Paris, are not.
They reach the Rheinstrasse and cut down the side of the hotel. It’s clever, to come back to the place they left. If they are stopped, there could be reasons: a lost earring, a lover, waiting …
They pass down the side lane undisturbed. The hotel is dark. Beyond the gardens, puddles of light gather on the river for which the street is named. Rather late, it occurs to Sophie that if she were to fall into the water, if, perhaps, she were shackled hand and foot with iron, it would be many months before her body was found. Céline used to be a friend, but the war was a long time ago and alliances have shifted wildly since then. And Sophie did shoot a Soviet agent yesterday evening. In the grey world of their profession, she has no idea who knows this and who doesn’t.
She slides her hand into her purse and grips her keys, which are at least the beginnings of a weapon. Céline turns, leans back against the white wall of the hotel with her arms folded.
‘Does JJ know you’re doing wet work for the Americans?’
Well, that answers one question. And yes, Céline is armed; something of similar size to Sophie’s Browning weights her jacket pocket. Behind them, the Rhine slides past, slack, black and dangerous.
Into the silence, Céline says, ‘Your so-daring photographs – one of them, anyway – will be used as proof that the Soviets are building a railway line, that they are a real and present threat to “Western security”.’
She wondered about that, but JJ – surely he wouldn’t … but yes, actually, JJ is ruthless and he knows how to play the Americans. One grainy black-and-white shot taken at night? It will be impossible to tell whether the rails are being taken up or laid down. If it is presented as proof of an existing argument, nobody will question it. Anybody that does will be shut down.
As if she had thought this all along, she says, ‘The Americans need an enemy so they can stay on a war footing. JJ will give them one and they will owe him a favour so big, he’ll be able to ask for the moon.’
‘He will indeed. If he were to stumble across Kramme, would he pass him to the Americans, do you think?’
‘No.’ Some lines he will not cross. ‘He would never do that.’
‘Good. Then we have common ground. How is Patrick? I heard a rumour JJ offered him a position in the DB, but he turned it down.’
What can one say? He is a doctor who cannot practise, and a soldier who cannot fight. JJ’s offer was made with good heart, but how could a man with no tongue be a spy? He will not sit at a desk living on another man’s charity, and so he is bored almost to the point of death, but his honour keeps him stoic.
She says, ‘He’s seen enough of war and subterfuge. He makes things, beautiful things.’
‘Music boxes. I hear they fetch a fortune. Amazing, when you think about it, that there’s a market for such things.’
‘You’d have to see one to understand. The diplomatic services of Europe love them. There’s one each waiting for you and for Laurence, if you ever get around to picking them up. Paul Rey’s been to collect his.’
Céline’s brows rise. She looks down and back up. ‘As one friend to another, you need to know your affair with our American friend is not secret.’
‘And I hear rumours of a particularly beautiful lady racehorse owner, widow of a war hero, heir to a country estate, who is happy in your company. Véronique must be inconsolable.’
The
air is still for a moment. The river holds its breath. Céline looks as if she may laugh, but it is her gaze that slides away first. ‘Touché.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s always useful to be reminded that in this world our lives are an open book. For what it is worth, I am godmother to Véro’s firstborn daughter.’
Sophie slides down the wall to sit on her heels. The scent of the river is stronger here, a musky dampness that reminds her of Amsterdam, where she made her first post-war kill, where the affair with Rey was rekindled.
She has never believed herself in love, but she has come to understand the power of raw, animal lust, and has discovered that, when backed by respect and compassion, it amounts to something similar and fills the gap her life has left.
She says, ‘Patrick knows all there is to know.’
‘How remarkably modern. Does he not care?’
‘He says not. There are days when I believe him. He is not always an easy man to read.’
‘I can imagine.’ For the first time, Céline shows both her hands. She reaches for a packet of Embassy Tipped and a solid-looking silver lighter. ‘Cigarette?’
Sophie releases her grip on her keys. They light up together and in the first surge of smoke is the memory of comradeship.
Céline tips her head back, blows blue breath at the sky. ‘I assume you are aware that we may have a shot at Kramme, possibly our last. Are we right in thinking you would like to help?’
‘Do you even need to ask?’
‘Not really. But I do need to know when you last saw him, and where.’
‘With my own eyes? Three years ago in Frankfurt. René got a photograph of him in the British sector in Berlin in fifty-five and Daniel tailed him for half a day in Munich that summer, but lost him. We haven’t seen him since. JJ has agents across the continent keeping an eye out for him.’ JJ ranks high enough in the DB not to have to give reasons for all that he does.
‘They won’t find him. He’s had plastic surgery and a voice coach. The last we heard, he was calling himself Lincoln Sutherland, and speaking with a slight Scottish accent.’ She gives her tight, acid smile. ‘We choose to believe this is some kind of compliment to Patrick.’
Sophie turns to look out at the river. Blurred memories rush at her of the Patron, of a red dress, of Cognac and conversation and laughter; of a body lifted from a ceiling hook and the savagery of what had been done to it. Her breathing is short, inelastic – a thing that has not happened since the war ended. ‘Where is he?’
‘We believe he’s heading for Patrick, but beyond that, we are in the dark. Paul Rey may know more; the Americans, after all, have paid for him and want him back.’
She’s fishing and Sophie has nothing to give. Pressing her palms to her face, she tries to bring up Rey’s last kiss, the look in his eyes. Has he had Kramme in his hand and lost him and not told her? Has he got him now? If you lied to me about this, I will kill you.
She has been silent too long. She says, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Whatever you can give. Time is tight. The clock is already running. In this, genuinely, hours may make a difference. We can’t mobilize an assault team from the UK and get them to the cabin in time to do any good.’
Sophie raises her head. Her blood is running fast again. ‘We can, though. The Maquis de Morez, such as is left of it. We’re already in place.’
‘Thank you.’ Céline’s smile says this is what she came for. ‘And Patrick? Will he allow us to stake him out if it gives us a chance to catch Kramme’s tiger?’
Sophie wants to say, no, just leave him alone, give him peace. But she cannot deny him this. She says, ‘He’ll do anything at all if Laurence Vaughan-Thomas asks it of him.’
‘In that case, you can expect a visit from Larry at your cabin in the woods sometime within the next forty-eight hours.’ Céline grinds her cigarette against the wall and slides the stub back into her pocket. ‘It would be wise not to mention this meeting to anyone outside the Maquis. The careers of a great many people depend on Kramme reaching American soil alive. They will kill us if they have to, to make it happen.’
‘I will tell Patrick. I will tell JJ, Daniel and René. I will not tell Paul.’
‘That’s what we need. Thank you.’ Céline offers her hand. ‘Goodnight, Sophie.’
‘Goodnight, Céline.’ They embrace, coolly. Between them is a frisson of the old, ambivalent friendship. She is glad.
Twenty-five hours later, shortly after one o’clock in the morning, a dark car delivers Sophie to a passing place on the side of a hill. The driver does not remain; he never does. There are no neighbours here, no shyly parted shutters, only trees and rock and road, but still, he does not want to be seen.
She stands on the road until the car is out of sight, then walks between two pine trees that look more or less like the other pines that line the road, and keeps going along a winding, uneven, less-than-obvious path, until she comes upon the clearing Patrick Sutherland has cut in the forest, and in which, with pain and difficulty and his particular brand of determination, he has built their cabin.
Here, she has a picket fence and a gate, an archway with climbing roses that together form a small portion of England in the mountains of France. Soon, they will be in bud. For now, she can smell the first snow on the peaks, fallen while she has been away. In the orchard, pruned trees stand bare and black. Last year’s crop is in the cider press; the sharpness of it textures the air, mixing with the drift of woodsmoke from the stove in the cabin. A lit candle makes a clean, sharp flame in an alcove by the door, by which she knows that the Patron has stayed up, as he always does, to greet her.
She reminds herself that she cares for him, which is always true, and that she does not pity him, which is not always true, but tonight, with her news, it surely is. She makes herself more of what she should be – Amélie – and less of what she has been – Sophie – and walks down the gravel path to the door, to the warmth, to the fug of tea and tobacco, to his welcome, which is always peaceful.
Inside, the kettle hisses close to the boil and Patrick leans against the timber wall of the cabin. He steps forward to meet her. He can walk now, with only one stick. His embrace is solid, assured, always careful, in case he might crush her, or awaken something neither of them wants. He lifts her scarf with both hands and hangs it over a hook in a beam above the fire, not too close that it scorches, close enough to dry.
Welcome home.
‘Thank you.’
How did it go?
‘Interesting. The Americans and Russians are trying to start another war. JJ is trying to stop them. The British are stirring both sides, trying to find an advantage.’
This is harder than she once thought. She told Céline that he knew about Paul Rey, which was half true. He knows about the sex, and that it means nothing. He doesn’t know about the killing. Or perhaps he does. Some things are beyond discussion.
He pours her tea, brings from the oven the casserole he has cooked.
Nothing changes.
‘I’m not sure it ever will.’ She drops into a chair and lifts her feet towards the fire. The car JJ sent her home in was a new Citroën DS, barely run in, but the heating had broken and she lost the feeling in her feet within an hour of leaving the airport. She tries to eat, and finds herself instead watching the fire.
What’s the matter?
‘Céline set up a meeting. That is, Theodora Vaughan-Thomas. Laurence is coming to visit you. About Kramme.’
She is tired and it is late. She expects questions and has prepared for them. She has not prepared for the intellectual leap that lights the spark in his eyes and the questions that arise from it. They have found him? Tell me they haven’t killed him? Tell me this is our chance?
And this – this – is what sets this man apart. She presses a kiss to his cheek and watches life flow into him. There is so much to tell, and not all of it safe. She says, ‘He’ll be here within two days. If you don’t want me
here, I can go into Saint-Cybard, or—’
Don’t be ridiculous. He catches her, kisses the top of her head. Tell me everything.
And she does. Almost.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ARC-SOUS-MONTAGNE
2 March 1957
LAURENCE HEARS SOPHIE before he sees her, and so has time to prepare. She is singing ‘The Poor People of Paris’, in its original version. If this is a cover, she does it well: the carefree young wife cycling home from the station at the end of a long, cold winter’s day, at the end of a long, cold winter’s week in the city.
The village of Arc-sous-Montagne is bigger by far than it used to be. Once confined to the valley, now it sprawls up the hill in a surge of new cottages. Here is the new France: neat lawns and tidy laurel hedges, white-painted houses with red-tiled roofs all slushily white now, under the latest fall of snow.
Sophie doesn’t see until too late that Laurence is standing in the middle of the road. He raises one arm. ‘Hello, Sophie.’
‘Merde!’
She pulls hard left. A skitter of wheels, a smear of rubber on the road, and the bike slides to a halt ten yards past him. Pulling it round, she straddles the crossbar and glares at him. ‘You?’ He feels surprisingly light of heart.
She is still slight, slim, dark of hair and brow, with eyes that dwarf her face and smile lines that tug at her lips, even now, when she is enraged. She wears a floral dress with sensible shoes, and has pinned a flower in her hair that might be real, although he thinks it is silk.
She has not aged. That is to say, she is nearly five years older than when he last caught a poorly angled glimpse of her in a place where neither she nor he should have been. It is over a dozen years since he hugged her goodbye in the forests above Saint-Cybard and she looks no different from then, which is, in turn, remarkably unchanged from when he first saw her standing half naked and shivering on a pile of telephone directories in the Inquisition Room in Stirling. She was Amélie, then. She uses it again, now, sometimes. He says, ‘How are you?’