by Hugh Fraser
‘Bye then,’ she says.
I want to give her a hug but I know it’ll only embarrass her. ‘Write to me soon eh?’
‘Yeah.’
I leg it to the guard’s van and get there just as the guard’s shutting the door. He opens it up again and I point at the tuck box on top of a packing case at the back. The guard swings it over and one of the porters puts it on a trolley. I spot Georgie’s trunk under a pile of suitcases on the other trolley as the porters push them both off along the platform.
The guard shuts the door, stands away from the train, blows his whistle and waves his arm towards the driver. He steps onto the train and closes his door as the engine snorts and puffs smoke and the train moves slowly along the rails and out of the station.
I look to see if Georgie’s still there but all the girls have gone.
I go to the ticket office and ask for the next train to London. The man tells me it’s due in fifteen minutes. I go through to the other platform and sit on a bench. A sudden gust of cold wind makes me shiver. I pull my coat round me and turn up the collar.
• • •
It’s nearly eight o’clock by the time I get back to the flat. I pour myself a whisky, sit at the kitchen table and wonder if Georgie’s going to be all right. Annabelle seemed like a nice girl and the sort that would look out for her while she finds her feet. I’m only sorry she’s not in the same house as her. I decide to phone Miss Simpkins the next day and find out if the girls are allowed to phone home at all and if so when. I finish my drink, go into the bedroom and look in the wardrobe for something to wear for the Glendale. My eye rests on a lurex cocktail dress with a blue and silver leaf pattern and a slash neckline which looks about right. I take off the trouser suit I wore for the school trip, slip on the dress, a pair of nylons and the Enrico Coveri stilettos. I sit at the dressing table, put on some more make-up and brush my hair. I put on my black velvet coat, with my purse in one pocket and my knuckleduster in the other.
Dennis is behind the desk in the foyer. Even from a distance I can see his face is still bruised. I go over to him.
‘How are you Dennis?’
‘Not so bad miss.’
‘I’m sorry you got a slap.’
‘I’ve had worse.’
He looks at my cleavage and says, ‘Going out on the town miss?’
‘Wish I was,’ I say as I button my coat and open the glass door.
18
I turn left off Regent Street, swing a right into Kingly Street, park at the end and walk along Beak Street to the Glendale. The bouncers wave me through this time and I go downstairs into the club. It’s a bit before nine so I go to the bar and order a whisky. The club’s quiet and there are only a few punters at the tables with girls drinking champagne. The punters can only buy drinks by the bottle once they’re at a table and the girls have to order champagne. The rest of the girls are standing at the end of the bar gossiping and laughing while the house band trudge through The Shadow of your Smile. I can see that the pianist’s reading a book he’s got leaning on the music stand while he plays. There’s a sound of high-pitched voices and four Japanese men in dark suits come down the stairs into the club. A group of girls who’ve been sitting at the bar go over and greet them and then take them to a table in an alcove at the far end of the room. The cigarette girl walks over to them with her tray and her fishnet tights and the band wake up a bit and swing into Blueberry Hill.
As I finish my drink I see Nick come down the stairs carrying a briefcase. He sees me, comes over and sits on the stool next to mine. He points at my drink.
‘Scotch?’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
He asks the barman for two whiskies. ‘Did your sister get to school all right?’
‘We got the train earlier.’
‘Good.’
‘They told me there was another new girl arriving today but I didn’t see her.’
‘Yes. The Nigerian Minister of State’s daughter. She may have travelled by car.’
‘Nigerian Minister of State?’
‘For Naval Affairs. He’s just arrived.’
While I’m trying to take this in Nick picks up his drink and says, ‘Shall we go through?’
We walk past the dance floor and through the padded door behind the bandstand. Greta is sitting on one of the plush sofas smoking a cigarette. Felix Bielsky’s standing at the bar talking to a tall bloke in a dark suit that I’ve seen around Notting Hill. He sees us come in and waves the tall bloke away.
‘Good evening to you. Ah, I see you have drinks already. Please to come this way.’
He leads us into the office that Greta took me into last time with the curtained window that looks into the club. She comes in behind us and shuts the door. Nick sits at the desk and Bielsky puts a chair in front of it for me, then he sits next to Greta on a leather sofa that’s against the wall. Nick opens his briefcase, takes out a passport and some blue files and puts them on the desk. He looks through them and gives me the passport. I open it and see that I’m Caroline Ward from Basildon like the funny little man said. He picks up one of the blue files, has a quick look inside and hands it to me. On the top of the first page it says, 3rd Submarine Squadron Faslane. HMS Narwhal. Then there’s stuff about the weight of it and the engine and that. As I’m reading Nick says, ‘The Narwhal is a submarine of the Porpoise class and the information that the Russians want is the radar, detection and armament specifications, which are on the last two pages.’
I turn over and have a look but it’s just columns of words and figures that mean nothing to me. ‘The file you have in front of you contains false information and that file will be given to Olga Petrova to pass to her GRU contact, in the knowledge that it is false. The specifications therein are misleading and will cause the Russians to be detected immediately if they try to attack a Porpoise submarine on the basis of that information.’
He picks up another blue file and points at it.
‘Olga will also be given access to this file, which she will believe contains the correct specifications. She’ll be provided with an opportunity to steal it, just before she leaves for Berlin. It will be a counterfeit as well, of course, but she will think it is genuine.’
He hands the file to me.
‘If you look at the bottom line on the last page of that file, you will see that it says FM sonar (QLA) and then some data. If you now look at the same line on the last page of the counterfeit document, you will see that it says FM sonar (JK/QC). This is how you will be able to tell the difference between the counterfeit and the real thing. If Olga takes the file with (QLA) on the last page to the drop it means she’s a double agent betraying us to the Russians and you are to kill her once she has delivered it.’
As I’m comparing the two files I hear someone shouting and a crash coming from the club. Bielsky goes out of the door and closes it behind him. Greta goes to the door, switches off the light and then opens the curtains of the window that looks into the club. I look through the window and see the bouncers dragging one of the Japanese businessmen off an older man who’s lying on the floor with blood on his face. The bouncers hustle the Japanese man across the dance floor and up the stairs. A couple of girls help the older man up and onto a chair. One of them wipes the blood off his face and the other pours him a glass of champagne. The other one pulls a chair up next to his and puts her arm round him. The bandleader goes to the microphone, announces the cabaret, counts in the band and a line of shimmying girls in feathery costumes and silk tights sashay out from behind the padded door and go into a high-kicking routine on the dance floor. The rest of the punters turn their attention from the fight to the girls, knock back more drink and watch the show.
I catch sight of Olga coming down the stairs. She’s wearing a black taffeta dress and she has to twist and turn to get her bulk between the tables as she walks towards the bar. Greta closes the curtains and switches on the light. Nick and I sit down and Bielsky comes back in.
‘Everything
all right Feliks?’ asks Nick.
Bielsky nods. ‘Just a scuffle.’
‘What happened?’ asks Nick.
‘The older one worked on the Burma railway,’ says Bielsky as he sits down.
Greta says to Nick, ‘She is here. You want her?’
Nick turns to me.
‘Is everything clear?’
‘I reckon,’ I say and pass the files back to him. Nick nods to Greta and she leaves.
We wait in silence until the door opens and Greta walks in followed by Olga. She sits down next to me and I see how ugly she is up close. Her eyebrows meet in the middle and her face is as fat as the rest of her. Her mouth is wide and droopy at the corners and her dark brown eyes are hooded and half closed as if she’s dead bored and about to fall asleep. Her black hair is thick and matted and looks like a guardsman’s busby that’s been sat on by an elephant.
‘Olga, this is Rina, who I’ve told you about, and who you will be taking to Berlin with you. Her cover name is Caroline Ward.’
If she remembers me from seeing me outside Lizzie’s she doesn’t show any sign of it. She gives me a blank stare and I shake a hand that’s as crusty as sandpaper. Nick picks up one of the blue files and passes it to her.
‘This is a copy of what you will take to Malikov. You make contact via the usual letter box and then wait for the drop.’
Olga opens the file. While she’s looking at the contents Nick says, ‘Rina will go to the drop with you.’
Olga looks up from the file, glances at me and says,
‘Is dangerous.’
‘She’s there to be trained, as you know,’ says Nick.
Olga looks at me again, raises her eyebrow and says,
‘For honey trap maybe?’
‘As an agent,’ says Nick.
‘What if there is trouble?’
‘She can handle herself.’
Olga snorts and looks at me as if I’m nothing. Greta says something in what I guess is Russian and Olga grunts back at her. Greta replies with an edge in her voice. I catch the name Budanov, who I chucked out of the window of the Dorchester, and now Olga’s looking at me a bit differently.
Nick takes the file from Olga, gathers up the remaining files on the desk and puts them in his briefcase. He looks at Olga and says, ‘The original file will be available for you to collect from Broadway in one hour. Go to the basement and a records clerk will meet you.’
Olga nods. Nick takes another folder out of the briefcase and hands it to me.
‘You are a fashion designer recently graduated from the Royal College of Art. You are on your way to Dresden for a meeting with the Breuninger fashion department with a view to joining their team of young designers. You are stopping in Berlin to visit the Pergamon Museum. You will find a selection of your designs, your degree and curriculum vitae in that folder, which you will take with you.’
He turns to Olga.
‘Your cover remains as usual.’
While I’m wondering what she’s going as, Nick closes the briefcase, stands up and says, ‘You will travel together on Lufthansa flight LH2468 leaving Heathrow at 0940 hours tomorrow. Cars will collect you from your homes at 0630 and you will be given tickets and deutschmarks then.’
Bielsky crosses to the door and opens it for Nick, who nods to him, flicks a quick look at me and leaves. Olga stands, turns to look at me and her mouth lifts very slightly at the corners as she says, ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ I reply and give her a smile. Just because she’s a grumpy cow I’m buggered if I’m going to be one. She goes to the door and Bielksy opens it wide for her, then follows her out. I don’t want to be seen leaving with her or Nick so I stay seated and open the folder Nick gave me. I see that Caroline Ward’s got a Diploma in Art and Design and she’s also trained as a milliner at a company in Bond Street. As I’m looking at the drawings of dresses and hats and handbags Greta says, ‘How do you feel?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say.
She gets up off the sofa, stands beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
She opens a drawer of a metal filing cabinet. ‘Whisky, gin, vodka?’
‘Whisky, thanks.’
She pours whisky and vodka, replaces the bottles in the cabinet and brings the glasses to the sofa. I leave the folder on the chair, sit beside her and we sip our drinks. She looks at me with her soft kind eyes, puts her hand on my shoulder and I feel myself relaxing. She’s looking as elegant as she did when I met her, in a long dark red dress with a short black shoulder cape. She’s wearing a simple string of pearls and her eye shadow and mascara are just enough to set off her blue-grey eyes. She smiles.
‘She is not the monster she seems.’
‘I’ve met friendlier women.’
Greta laughs softly and takes a drink.
‘They did a horrible thing to her.’
‘Nick told me about the Olympics.’
‘Now she is angry and afraid.’
‘And getting her revenge.’
‘Yes.’
We sit in silence for a bit and I can feel her eyes on me and I’m wondering why I feel close to this old lady who I barely know and why I’m feeling that I don’t want to leave. She strokes her hand down my arm.
‘Have you been to Berlin before?’
‘I’ve never been anywhere abroad.’
‘Do not worry. It will be interesting for you.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Olga knows it well and will keep you safe.’
Listening to her deep purry voice, I suddenly feel tired and like I want to lie down beside her and sleep for a month. She sees my eyelids drooping.
‘It is nearly midnight. You leave early in the morning. Perhaps it is time for home and bed?’
She picks up her stick, helps me up off the sofa and we leave the office and go into the cocktail bar. Bielsky’s at the bar talking to a tall man in a grey fedora who’s nodding at what he says and writing in a notebook. Greta opens the padded door for me and holds my hand in hers.
‘You take care Rina.’
I squeeze her hand and turn and walk through the club. On the dance floor the girls are swinging their hips and gliding slowly back and forth in a line behind a girl who’s standing on her head and doing the splits.
• • •
I park in Hall Road and walk round the corner. I open the glass front door and see Dennis asleep behind the porter’s desk. I take the lift to our floor, walk along to Lizzie’s door and knock quietly. There’s no response so I cross the corridor and let myself into the flat. I hang my coat up and I’m just about to open Georgie’s door to check that she’s asleep when I remember where she is. I hope she’s sleeping in her dormitory and not lying awake and missing her own bed. I feel wrong going away like this when she’s just left home. I’ll try to phone Miss Simpkins from the airport and ask if I can talk to her.
I go into my bedroom, find the piece of paper with the Leavendon number on it and put it in my handbag. I suddenly feel the need for music and I put Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue on the Dansette, lie on the bed and let Miles caress me with those soft licks. When he slides into the second track I turn on my side and notice the cover file Nick gave me leaning against the wardrobe. I reach for it and open it.
Caroline Ward from Basildon is a talented girl. The dress designs are stylish and sexy with some really high hemlines and I like the faces she’s drawn on the models that seem to say that if you don’t like it you can get stuffed. She’s worked for Dior and Balenciaga in London and Paris and as I read through what she’s done I’m wishing I could have passed exams and that and gone to college and done fashion like her. Then I remember it’s all baloney and she doesn’t exist and I shut the folder and lie down again with the music.
I’m almost falling asleep when I remember I’ve got to pack for an early start in the morning. I take my small suitcase off the top of the wardrobe, throw in a couple of skirts and
blouses, two dresses, a pair of low-heeled court shoes and a thick cashmere sweater in case it’s cold. I take my Smith and Wesson and some spare rounds out of the wardrobe, wrap it in some underwear, put it in the bottom of the case and check that my flick knife’s inside the strap of my handbag. I go to the bathroom, take four hundred quid from behind the bath and put it behind the lining of the case. I decide to travel in my ski pants, suede jacket and boots. I put my make-up bag out to remind me to pack it in the morning.
I take my clothes off and slip into bed. I open Pride and Prejudice, join Elizabeth and her friends in front of the fire at Netherfield and agree with Miss Bingley when she declares that there is no enjoyment like reading.
19
Dennis rings me to tell me the car’s arrived. I say I’ll be down in a minute, drain my cup of Nescafé, pick up my suitcase in the hall and open the front door. I lock up, go across to Lizzie’s and knock. When there’s no response I head for the lift, press the button and wait. The doors open and there’s Lizzie, looking as knackered as I’ve ever seen her. She almost trips on the carpet as she gets out of the lift. She sees my suitcase.
‘Is that car outside for you?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Berlin?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I know.’
She puts her arms round me. ‘When are you back?’
‘Who knows.’
We kiss and she nuzzles my ear. ‘You come back to me soon, lovely girl.’
Just as I feel my legs going weak, a door opens behind me, someone coughs and we separate in time for the nasty gent from next door to walk pointedly between us and get into the lift. He puts his bowler hat on, clutches his briefcase and stares straight ahead as the doors close on him. Lizzie and I giggle and snog a bit more until the lift comes back and I hop in and wave her goodbye.
After the lift makes a soft landing on the ground floor Dennis comes out from behind his desk, opens the glass door for me and I step out into a grey drizzle of rain. A black Morris Cowley is parked along the service road and the driver’s smoking a cigarette in the front seat. He sees me coming, gets out, opens the back door of the car for me and puts my suitcase in the boot. I settle into the seat and try to calm the fluttering in my stomach at the thought of flying in an aeroplane. The driver gets into the car, passes me a small folder with my passport, ticket and some deutschmarks inside and pulls the car out onto Edgware Road. As we drive round Marble Arch, he says, ‘Which building?’