He had risked death by launching himself at a man with a gun.
Nothing in his life up till now had prepared him for this.
But he had to concentrate on the road ahead. On getting out of France safely without the police stopping them. Then he could think properly about what had happened, what was happening.
‘For once, I wish I owned a Ford,’ said Emma. ‘This car is so noticeable.’
‘To say nothing of the GB number plates.’ Phil was relieved to talk practicalities, to focus his mind on evading the police.
‘It’s fortunate it’s so foggy. It’s likely no one saw us at Kurt’s house just now.’
‘That’s true,’ said Phil. ‘But it’s also likely someone noticed the car yesterday.’
‘And, once the police start asking questions, Frau Redlich will come forward and tell them we asked her where Kurt lived.’
‘That will take them a few hours. Maybe even a day.’
‘Poor Kurt,’ said Emma with a shudder. ‘And poor Martine.’
Phil winced as the image of Kurt slumped next to the dining table, blood pumping out of his chest, flashed before him.
‘Who do you think that guy was?’ he asked. ‘The only reason I noticed him following us was he looks a lot like a famous football player.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it?’
‘I saw him twice: once on the ferry to Brittany, and once in a bar near Place Saint-Michel. I thought he was a student tourist and I assumed it was a coincidence. Do you know who he worked for? He spoke German.’
‘No,’ said Emma.
Phil didn’t believe her.
Emma glanced at her grandson. ‘He didn’t say much, but from what he did say, I thought he had an accent.’
‘What kind of accent?’
‘Slavic maybe?’
‘You mean Russian?’
‘Perhaps. Or Polish. Or Yugoslav. There are lots of Yugoslavs in Germany.’
‘Was that the KGB, Grams?’ said Phil.
Emma didn’t answer.
‘We need to get rid of the gun,’ said Phil. ‘If the police find us with it, they’ll eventually be able to tell you shot the man. If we don’t have it, even if someone saw us, we can plausibly act as if we didn’t see anything. Let them think we left the house before the thug showed up.’
‘We should keep it,’ said Emma. ‘We may need it. It’s lucky I brought it with me.’
‘I insist, Grams.’ He realized his voice was rising. ‘I didn’t insist that we go to the police, but I do insist we ditch the gun.’
Emma looked across at her grandson. Phil was firm.
‘OK,’ she said at last. She examined the map. ‘Turn right in about a kilometre.’
They were in the village of Veyrier, and Phil took a couple of turnings until he was on a steep track leading up the mountainside through woods. After following a winding road for five minutes or so, they stopped. They were in thick forest, the lake just visible through the trees.
‘Wait here,’ said Emma. She got out of the car, clutching her handbag in which Phil knew she had stuffed her gun, and climbed up through the undergrowth until she was out of sight.
Five minutes later, she was back.
‘Done,’ she said. ‘No one will ever find that. Now, back to the hotel.’
‘The hotel?’
‘Yes. It’s actually more suspicious if we abandon our luggage there and don’t pay the bill. If we collect our luggage, check out and head off for Switzerland, we can just tell anyone who asked that we changed our plans after talking to Kurt.’
Phil pulled up in front of their hotel. In ten minutes they were back in the lobby, packed, and Emma was paying the bill. No sign of any cops. With luck, the alarm hadn’t been raised yet.
They loaded the car and headed north to Geneva. They spent the half-hour to the border going over the story they would use if they were stopped. How they were asking Kurt for Kay’s address – eventually whoever Kurt had spoken to in the German bureaucracy would mention that. And how when they left Kurt he had been alive and well.
The horror of those seconds in Kurt’s house rushed back. The shots. The blood.
Focus.
They reached the border crossing to Switzerland at Saint-Julien-en-Genevois. There were two checkpoints, and a queue: this was one of the most popular entry points between the two countries.
They were stuck behind a Belgian caravan. The French police seemed to be letting through most of the traffic, but they stopped the Belgians to check their documents.
Phil glanced at Emma. His palms, resting on the steering wheel, felt sweaty. He hoped she had their story straight. He hoped he had it straight.
He was worried his nerves would give him away. He should relax. He tried to loosen his shoulders, but his hands gripped the wheel more tightly.
Just then, he realized they had made a mistake. Kurt had laid a table for three: he was clearly expecting them to stay for lunch. But they hadn’t eaten anything. So why had they left early? It was a question the investigating police might ask them.
As Phil’s brain was fumbling for explanations, the Belgian caravan moved on.
He let in the clutch and the TR6 edged forward. The gendarme glanced down at the car and its GB sticker and waved them through.
As did his Swiss counterpart a few yards further on.
They had made it!
PART FOUR
BERLIN
Chapter 33
June 1979, Switzerland
They decided to drive straight through Switzerland, through Geneva and Lausanne, and north to the West German border at Basel. Phil found it extraordinarily difficult to concentrate on the driving. In the streets around Geneva, he wanted to speed up, and on the highway which ran around the north shore of Lake Geneva he had to keep telling himself to slow down. Blood was pumping in his ears, and his hands were gripping the steering wheel in a sweaty death clasp.
Death. He knew the image of Kurt and then the man with the gun crumpling to the ground would never leave him. The sight of the red and grey stuff oozing out of the balaclava and the smell of cordite from the guns mixed with the iron in the freshly shed blood would never leave him. Neither would the man’s staring eyes as Phil had lifted his mask.
‘Why was that man there, Grams? Was he looking for Kurt? Was he looking for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will there be more of them in Berlin waiting for us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Has this got something to do with why we’re in Europe?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Of course you know! It must have. This isn’t some coincidence. These people want to stop you doing whatever it is you’re trying to do. It’s obvious!’
‘I suppose it is.’
Emma’s voice was calm, but her face was tense as she stared straight ahead along the road. To their right, Lake Geneva reached into the gloom of the low cloud, its far shore invisible in the murk.
‘So what is it we’re trying to do? Why are we going to Berlin? To find Kay?’
Emma sighed. ‘Yes. To find Kay.’
‘And why are we doing that?’
She didn’t answer. She just stared straight ahead.
‘Are we looking for Lothar?’
Nothing.
After what Swann had told him in the Three Castles, Phil strongly suspected they were.
‘Is that why you had that gun? To use on Kay?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why did you have it?’
‘In case we needed it. And it turned out we did need it.’
‘So you knew this trip might be dangerous from the beginning?’
‘I didn’t know it. I thought it might be. I didn’t think people would die. I didn’t think Kurt would die. You were very brave back there, Philip.’
‘What choice did I have?’ Phil protested.
‘You could have sneaked back into the lavatory.’
‘And let him kill Kur
t and you?’
‘He killed Kurt anyway. And I’m going to die soon in any case.’
‘Oh, Grams!’ Phil tried to get a grip on his frustration. ‘Why are we trying to find Kay? Why can’t you just let it all rest?’
But Emma didn’t answer. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Her hand was shaking so badly it took her several attempts to light it.
Phil’s anger and frustration were genuine, but they were tinged with guilt. He should have known when he had seen the revolver in his grandmother’s suitcase that whatever reason she had for taking it, she thought there was a chance she might have to use it.
And then there was Swann. Their chat in the pub had added a frisson of excitement to the trip, transforming it from a tame holiday with an older relative into a bit of adventure.
It turned out that that kind of adventure involved bloodshed and death.
Somehow Phil had omitted to ask Swann whether he was likely to watch his grandmother blowing someone’s brains out.
To be fair, that wasn’t Swann’s fault. It was Emma who had got him into this situation; he would be accompanying her now even if he had never met Swann.
They drove through Switzerland in silence. It had started as a silence of anger, but as the TR6 ate up the kilometres, it became a silence of thoughtfulness, each of them trying to make sense of what had just happened and what would happen next.
Phil was unsure what to do. Should he tell Emma about his conversation with the enigmatic Swann? He felt guilty not telling her.
And yet, by her own admission, she had been an ardent communist in the 1930s. She may still be one.
As told by Emma, there had been something heroic about the communism of Hugh and her and Kurt, and the socialism of people like Dick. They were standing up for justice and equality in a world of cruel, broken capitalism.
Yet, now, the communists were the bad guys.
Phil had enjoyed studying history at school, but one of the things he had found hardest to accept was his teacher’s precept that good historians didn’t see history as the battle of the good guys against the bad guys. You weren’t supposed to take sides when you were writing an A-level history essay. Reluctantly, he had grown to understand that the reason why he thought the Protestants were the good guys in the Reformation, and the British the good guys in their empire, was because he was a Protestant Englishman. He was beginning to see that Vietnam, Northern Ireland and Israel were more complicated than they seemed once you dropped the idea that the good guys were the ones who looked most like you.
And yet he wasn’t prepared to give up some judgements just because Mrs Hauser, his history teacher, had told him to. The Nazis were the bad guys in the Second World War. The communists, as personified by the Soviet Union and China, were the bad guys now.
Which meant that his grandmother might be one of the bad guys.
Phil didn’t like that idea at all.
Swann had said something about how if Emma discovered he had asked Phil to look for Lothar, she might do something she would regret.
At the time, Phil had no clue what that might be. He wasn’t sure now, either, but he did see how it might involve the KGB. And, if Swann was correct, it might lead to getting them both killed. He knew Emma had a mind of her own. He knew Emma had been and indeed still might be a Russian spy.
Swann could easily be correct.
He wasn’t going to tell her about Swann. At least not yet.
This was all crazy. A week ago, he had been arguing with his father over a minor traffic accident and whether he could join his grandmother on a staid holiday to Europe’s capitals. Now it turned out that his grandmother was a Russian agent, that MI6 wanted Phil to spy on her, and that two men had died because of her, right in front of Phil’s eyes.
Phil was scared. It was a kind of fear he had never felt before, a fear that there was a realistic chance he and his grandmother might be killed. Soon.
He could easily have lost his life a couple of hours back. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but maybe he should have crept back into the toilet and left the hit man to kill Kurt and Emma. He didn’t want to die, especially for reasons he didn’t understand, and that Emma refused to explain to him.
But he was glad he had jumped the man in the balaclava. He was glad Emma was still alive, and he had been responsible for saving her. Deliciously mixed up with the fear was excitement. He had faced danger and he had triumphed.
Emma had tried to tell him that, since she was going to die soon anyway, saving her life was pointless. Phil didn’t buy that. He wasn’t sure he had completely come to terms with the fact that she was going to die, but if she was, he would make sure it was in bed, not by a KGB bullet.
He would stick with her.
Chapter 34
Emma had other ideas.
They drove into West Germany and turned off the autobahn at a small town on the edge of the Black Forest. The town’s only hotel had two free rooms, and they sat in its near-empty restaurant for dinner.
Phil ordered sausages and Emma a trout, together with a bottle of local Riesling.
‘We used to drink this stuff by the gallon, in Berlin,’ she said. ‘Hock, we called it. But it seems to have gone out of fashion now. I don’t know why. I think it’s rather nice.’
‘I like it,’ said Phil.
‘You’d like anything,’ said Emma.
‘Grams, I have a sophisticated palate! It might be just a little too modern for you to understand.’
‘Oh, Philip, you do talk absolute rot sometimes.’
He did. But it made her smile.
‘Philip. I’ve been thinking. Those were perfectly reasonable questions you were asking me in the car. But I just can’t answer them.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ said Phil.
‘Both. I really wanted to bring you with me on this trip. I needed your help, I enjoy your company and I was getting you out of a hole rather neatly. Also, I wanted to tell someone my story before I die, and you seemed the best person to choose.’
She smiled at him. ‘And I was right. Mostly. I do like your company. You were useful; I call saving my life pretty damn useful. And you seem genuinely interested in my story.’
‘I am.’
‘But when we set off, I never really thought either us would be in danger of losing our lives. I expected a hint of excitement perhaps, echoes of a dangerous past, but not men with guns killing people.
‘And I thought the story I was telling you was ancient history. I was happy to tell you secrets; I thought in doing that I was keeping the past alive. I didn’t want to take those secrets to the grave. But now I think I must. They are too dangerous.’
‘Why do you think they’re so dangerous?’ Phil asked.
‘I really don’t know,’ said Emma. She smiled wryly. ‘Of course, the answer must lie in the secrets themselves, and I have just said I am not willing now to divulge those. But I truly don’t understand why someone wanted to kill me. Or kill Kurt.’
Phil did. He was pretty sure it must have something to do with Swann’s mole. Emma’s words implied that she didn’t know about the mole. In which case, shouldn’t he tell her? For her own safety.
But could he trust her?
Instinctively, he knew that he could trust her not to deceive him in a way that would do him harm. But she had her own agenda, an agenda she wasn’t willing to share with him. If he told her about Swann and his desire to find Lothar, he had no idea what her response would be, what she would do. Swann had suggested she would put herself in danger. Phil could believe it.
Very well, she had her agenda and he had his. He was unwilling to betray his country. More than that, if there really was a mole in the heart of the British establishment, and Phil could help reveal his identity, he would do so.
‘Philip? You’ve gone quiet.’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Phil. ‘I was thinking about what you were saying.’
‘And?’
‘Good,’ said Emma. ‘So when we get to Berlin, you should leave me. Take a flight back to England.’
‘I can’t abandon you, Grams! It’s not safe!’
‘It isn’t safe, Phil. That’s the whole point. I can choose to put myself in danger. It doesn’t matter much; I haven’t long to live anyway.’
‘I do wish you’d stop saying that!’
‘I do wish you’d let me say it!’
That brought Phil up short. He was beginning to understand his grandmother. She was coming to terms with her death – and her life. His job was to help her do that.
He nodded, lowering his eyes. ‘OK. I’m sorry. You can talk about your death as much as you like with me. I get that. You should just understand that I’ll be sorry to see you go.’ Phil could feel moisture seeping into his right eyelid. He blinked quickly, and was relieved not to feel a tear run down his cheek. Get a grip!
‘I know you will, darling,’ said Emma with one of her warmest smiles. ‘I know you will.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But there’s absolutely no point me telling you all this stuff if you go and get yourself killed right away, is there?’
‘No, Grams.’
‘Good. That’s settled, then.’
But Phil wasn’t entirely sure it was settled.
After dinner, going up the stairs to their rooms, Emma stumbled and fell backwards. Phil was right behind her and caught her. Emma glanced at her grandson with gratitude and also a hint of fear, fear of the thing growing within her brain.
No. It wasn’t settled.
It was a long drive to West Berlin the following day. They passed within a few kilometres of Braunschweig on the way to the East German border at Helmstedt. Phil wondered whether Heike was back home yet, but he didn’t suggest stopping to find out. Maybe on the return journey, if Emma didn’t succeed in putting him on a plane back to London.
An autobahn corridor led 170 kilometres from Helmstedt through East Germany to West Berlin. At the border, the West German police and then the East Germans checked all the drivers. The two control points were large complexes, capable of processing the thousands of vehicles that made the trip each day. Phil had made sure the TR6’s tank was full of petrol, but that was the least of his worries.
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