She excuses herself when they arrive, wanting to sort out her hair before the meeting, and she is encouraged to find she has the ladies’ lavatory to herself. She is in a cubicle when she hears someone else enter the room. The footsteps on the tiled floor cause her to hesitate. It is a rhythm she recognises.
No. It can’t be. Not in a ladies’ lavatory.
The footsteps stop as the person seems to glance along the row of cubicles to check which ones are taken. She knows there are four empty cubicles to choose from, and yet the footsteps do not move away. They simply turn, shuffle a little, and then turn back. The tread of the shoes is too heavy, too flat, for a woman. She sees the tips of two brown shoes facing her.
It can’t be him. Surely not.
Her body feels suddenly itchy and too hot.
‘Jo-jo?’ a voice whispers.
The breath catches in her throat. What is he doing in here? How did he know where she would be? She feels a sudden burning sensation in her chest, and realises that it is not anger or fear or any of the other emotions she expected to feel when she saw him again. It is sadness. No, she thinks. No, you don’t. Her hands shake as she flushes the lavatory. She has not yet combed her hair and she runs her fingers quickly through it. She takes a deep breath, slides back the bolt on the door, and steps out.
‘My little comrade,’ he says, kissing her drily on the cheek, not heeding the fact that she does not sink into him but stiffens a little and draws away. His old name for her does not have the softening effect she had feared it might. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well.’ She tries to be brisk as she steps around him to the washbasin. The oddness of the situation makes it easier to cope with Leo’s nearness. ‘How did you know where I was? Why didn’t you just leave a message instead of lurking out there like that?’
Leo shrugs. ‘It’s better if nobody sees us talking to each other. I’m known here. My work is known.’ He hands her a towel. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ Joan dries her hands, turning away from him and trying to quell the confusion of feelings inside her. She takes a comb out of her bag, her fingers trembling, and she runs it through her hair. She sees him watching her, and realises that her old guardedness has returned. It is a shock how unfamiliar this feeling has become. She had always assumed it was normal to feel like this in any relationship, but she is no longer so sure. She clips her hair back into place and turns to him, slipping the comb inside her bag. ‘So how do I look?’
Leo frowns. ‘Combed,’ he says. She remembers this from before: description is the closest he will come to any sort of comment on her appearance. He flicks a cigarette out of his silver tin. ‘Smoke?’
Joan takes it. She places the nub of it in her mouth, allowing him to shield the tip with his hand as he lights it so that his hand brushes against her cheek. He smells different today, and she is relieved. No trace of lemon.
‘So you’re here on a research trip?’
She nods. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Dare I ask?’ He gives her a slow smile. He must know the effect of that smile. It must work on others as it does on her.
‘Same old research. And the answer’s still no.’ She wonders how many other women there have been since she last saw him, and for a moment she is grateful to Sonya for having put the idea of Max into her head. How does she always seem to know these things?
‘All right, all right. I won’t ask.’ And he doesn’t. He goes to the window and unlatches it, shoving it open to reveal a concrete yard, empty except for a few bins. He leans out, looking first one way and then another, flicking cigarette ash as he does. He turns back to her. ‘Listen, Jo-jo. I came because I had to see you. I thought you might have . . . ’ he hesitates, ‘ . . . changed your mind. You’ve still got the chance, you know.’
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve already told you I won’t do it.’ She pauses. ‘Is that the only reason you wanted to see me? Have you got nothing else to say?’ Her voice betrays her feelings more than she would wish, but she is no longer willing to hide her anger. Of course she is cross with him after the way things were left between them and she wants him to acknowledge it.
Leo’s expression is pained. ‘Of course not, Jo-jo. I think about you—’ He stops.
‘Is that it? You think about me?’
‘I think about you a lot.’ He puts out his hand to touch her face, and she does not move away. He runs his finger gently along her cheek before letting his hand drop. ‘You’re my little comrade. You always will be.’
Joan feels her heart quicken, but will not allow herself to believe him. She is not as gullible as he thinks. ‘Not any more.’
‘I know you agree with me really. You think the same as I do. The bomb should be shared. The Russians should be allowed to know.’
Joan opens her mouth and then closes it again, annoyed by his refusal to see their history together as something separate from his politics. She wants to push him away, both hands on his chest, and make him understand that she will not be persuaded. ‘No, I don’t,’ she whispers.
Leo is undeterred. ‘We’re supposed to be allies,’ he continues. ‘If they don’t share it now, what happens after the war?’
‘How should I know?’ Joan snaps. ‘I can’t see into the future. We’re making this now so that Hitler doesn’t get there first.’
‘But you’re not going to drop it on Hitler, are you?’
‘Of course not. It’s a deterrent.’
Leo smiles. ‘Oh, Jo-jo. Always so trusting, aren’t you?’
Joan glares at him although she feels herself to be wrong-footed. ‘But it’s true.’
He takes her by the shoulders. ‘What I meant was that you’re not going to drop it on Hitler because this bomb is not a bullet. It’s made for . . . ’ he pauses, pretending to calculate something in his head. ‘You probably know this better than I do. How many people live in a city, on average? How many babies, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters—’
‘But that’s why it’s a deterrent,’ Joan whispers, exasperated.
Leo sighs and shakes his head. ‘I really thought you were braver than this.’
Only he doesn’t say really. He says veally. And Joan knows that there was a time when this would have made her heart melt just a little. ‘Don’t. It won’t work.’
‘Fine. Write to me, if you change your mind. In fact, tell Sonya next time you see her.’
Joan does not reply. She does not trust herself to speak. There are tears brimming, pulsing, behind her eyes. ‘I have to go. They’re waiting for me.’ She blinks and turns towards the door and, for a moment, she believes his hesitation is because he is summoning up the courage to say something he has never said before, to catch her in his arms and kiss her properly, in which case she is certain that she would push him away. She absolutely would. But he does not. After a few seconds, he merely whispers: ‘You go out first. I’ll follow you in five minutes.’
‘I thought you were going to climb out of the window.’
Leo gives a small snort of surprise. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a research fellow. I work for the government. I can’t be seen clambering out of windows in the science department. I’ll follow you out.’ She turns to leave but he takes hold of her wrist. ‘I know you’ll come round, Jo-jo. I know you better than you think.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘I know you can do it. You just won’t because you’re scared.’
‘That’s not the only reason. But yes, of course I’d be scared.’
Leo’s grip tightens around her wrist. ‘Then you’re scared of the wrong thing. It’s far more dangerous to the world if it’s kept from us. The West hates communism. They’d do anything to destroy it, whatever the cost, and now they can. Russia needs a bomb for her own protection.’
Joan shakes her head. ‘I can’t, Leo. I’m under oath.’ She pauses. ‘And
I won’t.’
He does not drop his gaze from hers but he releases her wrist, and then takes a step away from her. ‘You’ll come around, Jo-jo,’ he says quietly.
‘No.’ She walks to the door and opens it, glancing back only briefly to witness him stubbing out his cigarette on the windowsill and flicking it outside. Her whole body trembles as she steps into the corridor, closing the door behind her. How long has she been in there? What on earth will Max think she has been doing?
She hurries down the corridor and as she gets to the meeting-room door Max flings it open. ‘What happened to you? I was beginning to think you’d drowned.’ He sniffs. ‘Have you been smoking in the toilet?’
‘I was just . . . ’ Joan falters. She feels dizzy, as if teetering on the edge of a great precipice. Max looks at her, his expression turning from incredulous to amused and then softening into something else entirely. He holds out his hand to her. It is a small gesture, nothing much, but to Joan it feels like a hand reaching over a cliff, offering to tug her up. She takes his hand and squeezes it.
‘It doesn’t matter. We’re about to start.’
WEDNESDAY, 9.03 A.M.
Preparing Exhibit A,’ Ms. Hart announces for the video recorder.
‘Can’t we just wrap this up now?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s already told you everything you need to hear. We went through it all yesterday. They asked and she said no. Twice.’
Ms. Hart ignores Nick. She takes a thin document out of her folder and Joan registers a flicker of triumph in the movement. It is happening now. They’re producing their trump card. She can see it in Mr. Adams’ expression and in Ms. Hart’s eagerness.
Joan stands up. She needs to see the document before Nick does. She needs to know what it is.
‘Please sit down.’ Ms. Hart’s voice is loud and stern. ‘I’m passing Exhibit A to the accused,’ she announces, directing her voice towards the microphone and holding the piece of paper out to Joan.
She takes it and holds it against her chest, shielding it from view while she puts on her reading glasses. She has to squint to make out the words. The document is dated 2 September 1945 and is rather laboriously entitled Fluctuations in the Efficiency of a Diffusion Plant, Parts I–IV. Nick stands up and goes to read over her shoulder but Joan quickly folds the paper over.
‘Well?’ Ms. Hart asks.
‘Well what?’
‘Do you recognise it? Does it mean anything to you?’
Joan is silent for a moment. ‘No,’ she says at last.
Ms. Hart acts as if she has not heard Joan’s response. She picks up the file and points to the document. ‘This report was produced by the Cambridge division of Tube Alloys in 1945. It was classified material at the time. And somehow it found its way to a KGB file in Moscow, attributed to Agent Lotto.’
‘Who’s Agent Lotto?’ Nick asks.
Joan does not look up, but she feels Ms. Hart’s eyes scrutinising her response. ‘We have identified this intelligence as having originated from you,’ Ms. Hart continues. ‘It’s come to us rather late, smuggled out of the country by an ex-KGB operative who brought these to the British Security Services as a condition of our assistance in enabling his defection. He copied out hundreds of files by hand and hid them under the floorboards of his dacha in the countryside outside Moscow. Dedicated, wouldn’t you say?’
Silence. Joan’s lungs pulse inside her.
‘And by a stroke of luck, yours was one of them. Agent Lotto. There is plenty here to ensure a conviction. Enough, certainly.’
Joan opens her mouth to deny it but then changes her mind. Never excuse, never explain; Leo’s long-ago words echo in her mind, offering a dim glimmer of hope. ‘Surely there must be some question over the reliability of documents taken from a KGB defector.’
‘We trust him,’ Mr. Adams interjects. ‘Absolutely.’
‘But it’s not admissible as evidence, is it? You couldn’t use this in court, even if you did know who Agent Lotto was.’ Joan indicates the document she is holding, and tries to appear dismissive. ‘It doesn’t even say much. You can’t build a bomb from this.’
She glances at Nick hoping for some verification of this point, but Nick is not looking at her. He has taken the folder from Ms. Hart and his eyes are scanning the index of documents.
Ms. Hart does not flinch. ‘That’s not the point. It was classified material. And it’s not the only one. As you can see, there’s plenty more where that came from.’ Ms. Hart indicates the file in Nick’s hands. ‘There are four more folders just like that, all attributed to Agent Lotto.’
‘But Agent Lotto could be anyone. It could be twenty different people.’ Joan makes another silent appeal to Nick, wanting him to say something, anything, but he does not look at her. He is turning the pages of the file now, slowly and deliberately, the sudden pallor of his face contrasting with the flush of his neck.
‘I’ve told you already. Our source is completely reliable. We know for a fact that there are identical copies of these files stored in the KGB archives.’ There is a pause. Ms. Hart stands up and gestures to Mr. Adams to do the same. ‘Coffee?’
‘Right. Yes.’
‘We’ll resume in thirty minutes, and when we do I’ll ask you again if you recognise the document you’re holding. I would advise you to think carefully about your answer.’
Mr. Adams switches off the video recorder and follows Ms. Hart outside, shutting the door behind him.
There is a clock on the mantelpiece and Joan can hear the soft whirr of time passing. She pulls her cardigan more tightly around her. She understands now why William did what he did. He must have thought he didn’t stand a chance. There is such a weight of evidence in this one file alone. She thinks of Ms. Hart’s declaration at the beginning, that the charges carry a maximum of fourteen years in prison. Her mind is drawn to the sleeping tablets in the bathroom, and she imagines herself swallowing one handful after another, and the thought is almost comforting.
She closes her eyes. She knows she cannot do that. She hears Nick turning the pages of the file. She could still insist that she has never seen these documents before. After all, she has not admitted to anything. Not really. But if she does try to deny it, what next? Presumably they would take her to court and put her on trial, opening up her whole life to public scrutiny. She would have to stand in the dock and continue to deny everything, even when presented with exhibit after exhibit such as the one she has just seen. There would be a judge and a jury, witnesses, policemen, journalists.
And Nick would have to watch. Would he defend her, she wonders, if it came to it? Would he stand beside her, as he has done for so many others in his career, and speak on her behalf? Of course he would, if he believed it was the right thing to do. But would he do it if he believed Joan had done what they say she has?
She does not know. And, in any case, it is too much to ask. She can imagine the headlines if they made the link between her and Nick. QC’s mother revealed as a Soviet spy. It would be the end of his career. It is her duty to protect her son, not the other way round, and as she sees it, there is only one way to avoid a long, drawn-out trial with all the media attention it would inevitably attract.
‘You did this, didn’t you?’ Nick whispers. ‘You did this.’
‘Shhh,’ Joan says, her hands patting the air in front of her in a nervous gesture. Her whole body is clenched with fear.
‘I don’t believe it.’ His voice is suddenly tight, and the beam of his gaze is like a bright white searchlight falling coldly across Joan’s chest. ‘I don’t believe it. How could you?’
She looks down at the carpet. She still cannot say the words. She has a sudden thought that if she could only explain her reasons, then maybe he would understand and it wouldn’t seem such a terrible thing to have done. At least it would be explicable.
‘Why? Why would you do it?’ His face is incredulous now
as the enormity of the accusation sinks in. The flush of his neck has risen to his face and Joan sees that there are tears glistening in his eyes. Real tears this time, not just a hint of them as there was before.
Joan looks away. How to explain it? She has a theory that everyone has a certain view of themselves, of what they would do and what they would not do in any given circumstance, and it is the combination of these choices that makes up a personality. Take Nick, for instance. What if he had been drafted into the German army in 1942, stationed in Auschwitz—terrible to think of it—and told that all he had to do was flick this switch on, wait perhaps twenty minutes, and then switch it off again? Oh yes, he’s a brave man. Braver than most. Joan can imagine his outrage if she were to suggest this. He’d say that he would have stood up against them, sacrificing himself if need be, adding himself to the list.
And maybe he would have sacrificed himself. People did. Some people. But most didn’t.
So how about we introduce a few ambiguities. What if doing it meant that his boys would be kept safe—Joan can picture them both—with their shocks of blond-brown hair and big breathless smiles, plasterings of mud on their little knees. Not enough? His mother, old and in need of care. His wife Briony? A cousin? A second cousin?
Too remote?
Okay, so maybe he’d be less certain now, but he’d still be adamant that a loophole could be found. Maybe—ah-ha—maybe he would have done it just until he found that loophole. Perhaps he would offer a moment of kindness to some of the people in that camp, extra rations, conversation, a smile of encouragement, and he might start to tell himself that this made up in some small way for the flicking of that switch. A gasp of humanity in this cold, bleak forest where even the birds refuse to sing. He might have found that he could turn off the guilt he felt, tune it out.
What did Milgram call this? The Perils of Obedience. Something like that.
Because whatever else that experiment showed, it also showed that it can be hard to hold onto the things you thought you knew about yourself, the things that seem so definite when there is nothing there to test them. Real life is not that simple. There are endless ambiguities. Impossible to be certain of the things you would do and the things you would not do.
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