At the laboratory, she continues to make copies of everything but she does not give them to Sonya. She feels Max’s eyes on her as she works, and he will occasionally ask her advice on something he is working on, how to phrase something or present it more clearly, but he does not pry. He simply watches.
‘Does it not hurt your neck, to type so bent over like that?’ he asks one afternoon, when it is just the two of them in the room.
She sits back and rubs her neck. Has she always sat like this, or just recently? ‘I suppose it does.’
‘Maybe you should get glasses.’
She doesn’t look at him. ‘They wouldn’t suit me. I’d look like a hedgehog.’
There is a pause. Rain falls quietly on the window. How she wishes she could tell him everything. What would he say then?
Probably not this: ‘Then get tortoiseshell frames. Hedgehogs always wear wire-rimmed ones.’
She almost laughs.
The copies she makes are filed in a separate folder in Max’s office, labelled and left neatly stacked on the shelves. It is habit, she supposes, which keeps her doing this, but she knows that is not the only reason. She does it because she is scared. She is scared they might come for her next. If Leo could be accused of treachery, so could she. So could anyone. She wants to be able to show that she intended to keep on giving the information but was just waiting until it was safe to smuggle it from the laboratory into Sonya’s hands.
But when the time comes for her next appointment with Sonya, she does not turn up. Nor does she call to say that she will not be coming. The same happens the next time, and the next. She receives a couple of letters from Sonya which she merely skims and then throws away, and then a card announcing the birth of her and Jamie’s baby. There is a photograph enclosed with the card. A baby girl with big round eyes and tiny dimples, named Katya after Sonya’s mother. Joan burns the card. She props the photograph up on the mantelpiece and then takes it down again. She puts it in a drawer.
And then there are the stories which appear in the newspapers almost daily, describing how Russia is consolidating its grip on Eastern Europe, buckling down its buffer zone over the war-ridden states, and crushing any glimmer of democratic opposition. The show trials that Joan remembers so vividly from Russia in the 1930s are being repeated in Warsaw, Budapest, Prague, Sofia. Can it still be justified as Leo used to claim the first time it happened? She is no longer sure. Certainly the gleam of heroism attached to the Russian war effort is starting to lose its dazzle. It is becoming opaque and cloudy, and Joan finds these doubts inhibiting. Whereas before she had been comfortable in her belief that sharing these secrets, fulfilling Churchill’s promise to share, was the morally decent thing to do, she can no longer hold to this with such certainty.
Quite simply, she wants out. But what is the procedure for leaving? If she tries, will they send for her, just as they sent for Leo? She does not know. She can only withdraw quietly and hope that nobody notices.
Eventually Sonya comes to visit her one Sunday morning, waiting at the front door of the mansion block until one of the other inhabitants lets her in. She leaves her perambulator at the bottom of the staircase and puffs her way up to the fourth floor with Katya in her arms, knocking triumphantly on Joan’s door.
Joan is asleep when she arrives, having discovered that she sleeps more easily after dawn than before, and so she has fallen into the habit of making up for lost sleep at the weekends. On hearing the knock, she sits bolt upright. There are various people she thinks it could be, her mother, Lally, Karen, other friends she sees occasionally, but she does not think of any of these people. She cannot say exactly what it is she fears. Two men, dressed in black with low-brimmed hats. Large, physical men who could take her away, just as they took Leo. Or a policeman, short and amiable, with handcuffs clipped to his belt.
Sonya calls out to her. ‘It’s me, Jo-jo. Are you in?’
Joan breathes out. She pulls on a dressing gown, runs a brush through her hair, and takes the photograph of Katya out of the drawer and props it up once more on the mantelpiece. Then she runs to the door and flings it open. ‘How lovely to see you! And hello, Katya.’ She chucks the little girl’s chin. ‘We meet at last!’
The little girl in Sonya’s arms smiles, and Joan is astonished to see that she is no longer a baby but a small child, not quite a year old but nearly.
‘Jo-jo, you’re not dressed.’
‘I was asleep.’
‘But it’s past midday.’
Joan shrugs. ‘I was tired.’ She steps back so that Sonya and Katya can come in.
Sonya walks into the living room and surveys her surroundings. There is a sofa with a matching armchair, and a ramshackle bookcase along which she runs her finger and then frowns at the dust. She draws back the curtains while Joan goes to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. ‘You haven’t been coming to our appointments,’ Sonya calls out to her from the living room.
Joan does not reply at first. She pours hot water into the teapot and then swirls it slowly. She takes out a tray—mugs, sugar, milk—and carries it slowly into the living room. ‘It’s not safe,’ she says eventually.
‘It’s just as safe as it was before.’
‘But I don’t feel safe.’
‘You know Leo wouldn’t have wanted you to stop.’
Joan glances at her. ‘How can I know that? After what they did to him . . . ’ She stops, unwilling to let herself think of it while Sonya is here. She does not want a witness to her grief.
‘You told me he believed in the cause. If you believe that, then you must know he wouldn’t have wanted you to stop.’
There is something in the phrasing of this which causes Joan to frown. ‘Don’t you think he did?’
‘Of course,’ Sonya says, and her voice is high with enthusiasm. ‘Not that it matters what I think. It’s what you think that counts. And if you believe that, then you must continue.’
‘But I’m scared.’
‘Don’t be. There’s less to worry about now, you know.’
‘In what way?’
Sonya hesitates. ‘Now that Leo’s gone, I mean.’
Joan stares at her. ‘What?’
‘MI5 were on to him, Jo-jo. You know that. It was only a matter of time before they found you, especially if you got married.’
‘Married? Did he say that?’
Sonya’s eyes widen, and then she turns away so that Joan cannot see her face when she answers. ‘It’s just a figure of speech,’ she says lightly.
‘No, it’s not,’ Joan says, although she wonders what she would have said if he had asked. It would have depended, she supposes, on how he phrased the question.
Sonya bends down and picks up Katya. ‘But it’s irrelevant anyway because he didn’t ask, did he?’ Katya throws her arms around Sonya’s neck and grips her hair with her hands. ‘I’m sorry, Jo-jo, that was unkind.’ She shakes her head, trying to loosen her daughter’s hold. ‘All I mean is that you’re safer now than you were before. We all are. MI5 are off my back, which means that the KGB are too.’
Joan stares at her. It is the first time she has ever mentioned the KGB by name. ‘So you’re saying it’s all worked out for the best? That Leo’s dead so now we can all carry on as normal?’
Sonya puts Katya down again and walks over to Joan at the window. She puts her arms around her. ‘Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I loved him more than anyone in the whole world. Except Jamie, of course. And Katya. I’m just saying that you’re safe. I don’t want you to feel vulnerable. But they do ask about you. They want to know why you’ve stopped.’ There is a pause, and then she says: ‘You should try not to upset them too much.’
Joan stares at her. ‘Why? What would they do? Would they send someone to find me?’
‘Not yet, Jo-jo. I’m just warning you. All I’ve heard is that they’re so close to bein
g finished, and the documents you send are so useful. You can leave, I promise, once the project is completed.’
‘What do you mean, leave?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll make sure they know you’re no longer available.’
‘Can’t you do that now?’
Sonya looks at her and shakes her head. ‘Just a bit longer, Jo-jo.’
Joan hesitates.
‘Better to play by the rules,’ Sonya says, causing Joan to look up suddenly at this echo of Leo’s words.
But what are the rules exactly? And how far might they extend? To her? To her family? There is no way of knowing. She knows only that if she stops now they might send someone to find her, just as they sent someone for Leo.
Sonya steps away from Joan and bends down to take something out of her bag. It is a thick, brown envelope. ‘They gave me this to give to you.’
‘What is it?’
Sonya shrugs. ‘Open it and see.’
Joan takes it and puts it on the bookcase. Whatever it is, she does not want it. She does not want anything from them. She sits down on the sofa next to Katya and sees Katya’s expression of alarm at her sudden proximity, her big brown eyes turning to gaze imploringly at Sonya, following her every movement. There is something overwhelming about such adoration, something terrifying. Such a lot to live up to. ‘Motherhood suits you, you know,’ she says eventually, wanting to change the subject. ‘I didn’t think it would.’
Sonya grins. ‘I’m a chameleon. Surely you know that by now.’
Joan smiles. She remembers an earlier time, many years before, when Sonya came twirling into her room at Newnham dressed in a peach-coloured dress on her way to meet one of her young men in Cambridge. ‘We are both actresses, you and I,’ she had said, and Joan had laughed in surprise at the thought that anyone would ever consider her suited to something as glamorous as acting. But remembering this now, Joan wonders if perhaps Sonya had seen in her the capacity for betrayal even then, and the thought leaves her dizzy.
‘Anyway, what news have you got? Any excitement?’
‘What sort of excitement are you expecting me to be having?’ The tartness in Joan’s voice causes Sonya to look at her in surprise but she does not blush. There is something obstinate about her breeziness.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I thought maybe I hadn’t heard from you for so long because of some grand romance.’ She smiles, her mouth suddenly opening wide in mock astonishment. ‘In fact, maybe that’s the reason you’re still in bed at midday?’
Joan shakes her head. ‘Don’t,’ she says.
Sonya leans towards her. She lays a hand gently on Joan’s knee. ‘You have to forget him now, Jo-jo. He’s gone. It’s been over a year.’
‘Has it?’
Sonya nods. ‘And you’re no spring chicken.’
THURSDAY 11.14 A.M.
The video camera and interviewing equipment have been installed in the upstairs bedroom. Joan is sitting in bed, sipping water from a glass. Mr. Adams is leaning forward, tapping his pen against his knee as she speaks. ‘And what about William?’ he asks when she stops.
The mention of William causes her to look up suddenly, and she spills a small splash of water onto the duvet. ‘What about him?’
‘Did he try to persuade you?’
Joan’s glasses dangle from the shoelace around her neck but she will not put them on. She does not want to see properly, as she knows she wouldn’t have the courage to carry on if she could see the expression on Nick’s face. What would it be? Anger? Disappointment? Outrage? She shakes her head.
‘Please speak up for the camera.’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Did you see much of him?’
‘I told you, I didn’t know him well.’ She pauses. ‘I saw him now and again.’
‘And he made no mention of it?’
‘No.’
Mr. Adams frowns. ‘And did he tell you what he was doing? Did he allude to anything?’
Joan hesitates. ‘William was always alluding to things. That’s just how he spoke. He was full of hot air. I didn’t listen to half of what he said.’
‘I need examples.’
‘I don’t remember.’ She pauses. ‘It was seventy years ago.’
‘Then think.’
‘Now, hold on a minute,’ Nick interrupts, his voice sharp and suddenly officious. ‘She’s just had a stroke. You have to go easier on her.’
‘It wasn’t a proper stroke,’ Joan says, torn between her desire to reassure Nick that she is strong enough to cope with this on her own and her need to appear forgetful in the face of this questioning.
‘It was still a stroke.’
Mr. Adams takes a deep inhalation. ‘We’ve wasted enough time as it is. If your mother intends to enter a plea for leniency, then we need this information before we present her name to the House of Commons.’
‘She has to rest. Look at her. Can’t you see she’s exhausted?’
Joan shifts a little against the pillows, trying to find a more comfortable position. She puts the glass on the bedside table and pulls the duvet up around her shoulders. Her fingers lace together under the sheets.
‘Okay. Let’s take a break.’ Ms. Hart looks at her watch. ‘Twenty minutes.’
Joan closes her eyes. She can hear Nick talking on the phone to his wife outside her bedroom, his voice clipped and stilted. There is too much for him to explain, and she can hear him hesitating as he selects his words with care. How could she have done this to him? It is not what she ever wanted.
She is relieved to have been allowed the break. It is the lying that exhausts her most of all.
But, in any case, she will not give them what they want. She will not tell them that William did try to persuade her too, that he came to the laboratory not long after Sonya’s visit and waited for her outside, his grey woollen suit impenetrable and immaculate against the winter sun. She had not seen him since he started his job in the Foreign Office, and she remembers how she felt an unexpected rush of nostalgia at the sight of him, as if someone was pulling the concrete earth from beneath her.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just passing,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘Can I walk with you?’
‘I can’t stop you.’
She remembers his habit of closing his fingers over hers and steering her along the pavement, his fingers light yet firm. ‘Sonya tells me you’ve lost interest in the cause.’ When she didn’t respond, William leant in closer. ‘Look, Jo-jo, I haven’t come here to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. You know you’re the best Moscow have got. I’m told that every message coming through from the Centre these days is asking about you, where you’ve gone, what you’re doing.’ He paused. ‘Do you realise that you’re giving up the chance to make the world a safer place? Do you understand what you’re doing?’
Joan had not known what to say to that, but she also remembered that she no longer knew what to believe. ‘But I’m tired, William. After Leo.’ She stops. ‘I want out.’
He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Don’t ruin it because of Leo. You didn’t start this because of him. You know it’s not right to allow one country, or one power system, to wield all that potential for destruction. It’s not safe. So forget Leo. It’s not about him.’
‘I know it’s not,’ she had whispered back and it was true, or at least it had been, at the beginning of it all. But she also found that she could no longer think of her actions in such a rational manner. Russia was no longer the distant, faraway place for which she once had such sympathy but could not really imagine. She felt the existence of it now inside her, gripping her stomach with its cold, steel claw, refusing to let her go. ‘Don’t you miss him, William? You always cared for him, didn’t you?’
W
illiam hesitates.
‘It’s okay. I don’t mind that you did.’
‘Of course I did. And of course I miss him now. But that’s why it’s so important to carry on. Besides, you’re just passing on things that were supposed to be passed on anyway. It’s not stealing. It’s just sharing.’ Leo’s words, spoken by William.
‘We’re not allies now. The war’s over. And what if I get caught?’
William continued to steer her forwards. ‘You won’t get caught. But if anything were to look like it might happen, I can help you. I’ll know in advance if you’re going to be under suspicion from MI5, and I can always get you out . . . ’ he waves his hand, ‘ . . . Canada, Australia, anywhere. You just have to ask.’
‘How on earth could you do that?’
He shrugged and gave a small, self-satisfied smile. ‘I’m quite high up in the Foreign Office these days. For some baffling reason they seem to rather like me. And counter-intelligence is my area. I’d be the first to know.’
Joan raised her eyebrows. Baffling indeed, although she kept this thought to herself. ‘Leo always said you were the bright young hope.’
William repositioned his hand on her arm. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said, although he looked pleased to hear this praise from Leo. ‘It certainly helps, having the—shall we say—interests that I do. We’re the most committed sort apparently.’ He paused while Joan took this in. ‘Although I haven’t mentioned this to my fiancée yet.’
‘Your fiancée? You’re getting married?’
William nodded. ‘She’s one of the secretaries. Lovely thing, my Alice. I rather adore her.’
‘But you’re—’
William put his finger to his lips to shush her.
‘It was suggested to me that I might need to take a wife to put paid to some of the rumours floating around.’
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