Letters for a Spy

by Stephen Benatar

  “And were you able to remember the way, even without signposts?”

  “Yes, you patronizing man! Even without signposts.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to sound patronizing. I meant to sound incredibly admiring.”

  “Although if you must know, damn it, I did have to ask directions from one very charming old gentleman who was out walking his dog. But in fact I almost enjoyed the journey … I mean, insofar as I could have enjoyed anything. Except, of course, for that long uphill trudge near the beginning which—well, just exactly as you predicted—I do have to admit wasn’t too much fun. You must be thrilled, delighted, to be told you nearly rank with Nostradamus.”

  “That is—you’re implying?—more so than some people.”

  I said this totally without rancour. Sybella nudged me in smiling reproof (even if, despite her bravery, her smile was growing gradually more tremulous—her voice, as well). But when I glanced at the back of Montagu’s head it seemed clear he was still more intent on looking out for landmarks than on listening to anything which she and I might be discussing.

  It appeared that our driver was making good progress.

  By ten past one we were racing through Oswestry.

  Half an hour later, we were awakening all those sleepy hills and valleys round Llangollen.

  Another twenty-five minutes and we were passing down the main street of greystone cottages that was Betws-y-Coed.

  And at two-thirty on the dot we were just departing from Bangor and about to drive along the wooded shoreline of the Menai Strait. We were now only minutes away from the suspension bridge, where, at its entrance, we should leave behind our four outriders. No further need of their path-clearing duties or the barrier of protection they bestowed (the mark of honour they conferred, Sybella now explained it, jokily—jerkily), services which must have been more essential on the road up from Whitehall than they were on the road on from Shrewsbury. I waved goodbye to them, a gesture I felt to be slightly farcical, practically a royal acknowledgment—yet it also expressed a depth of gratitude I knew they couldn’t be aware of.

  Sybella and Ewen would shortly pick them up again … as somewhat needless escorts for their rather more leisurely return.

  We crossed the bridge and saw Parys Mountain rising up before us. And at last we knew we could relax—not least of all the young and fresh-faced sailor at the wheel. We had completed the journey in just under two hours and were nearly in sight of our objective.

  At Amlwch we stopped behind a man-made hillock: a reminder of the days when—in consequence of copper ore, discovered in the mountain—this little place had been a boom town.

  The time was barely a quarter to three.

  Plainly I should now need to travel the rest of the way on my own. I shook hands with the driver—again, I thought, one of the many ships that maybe only passed in the night but made both the night and the sea-lanes much better worth the passage—and then walked to the other side of the car, where the lieutenant commander was standing.

  “Well, anyway,” he said, “no matter how this turns out, I’m glad you and Sybella are going to marry. And when I say that, I know I’m speaking very much for your future parents-in-law, also.”

  Here, I thought, there might have been just a glimmer of emotional blackmail. Yet, if so, it was assuredly the kind to which I couldn’t take objection.

  “Actually,” he said, “this possibility only occurred to me in the car, but I think we’ll presently be seeing Sybella’s parents. Making a short detour—well, not exactly short—that’ll enable me to drop her off for a day or two of well-deserved rest if she feels like it, and a day or two of hard-to-beat home cooking. We should both envy her. Nothing like the tranquillity of Ogbourne St George!”

  “And, besides that, such an irresistible address,” I murmured, drily.

  “Strange,” he smiled, “I always thought the same.”

  “So please give them my regards,” I said. I didn’t believe—not for an instant—that Sybella’s parents would yet know the first thing about their daughter’s engagement, but it was nice of him to imply they did and that they actually felt happy about it. “And thank you, sir. Thank you for everything.”

  “Thank you, Erich.”

  We shook hands and I turned away.

  But then immediately turned back.

  “Sir … why do you think Admiral Canaris sent somebody like me?”

  He hesitated. “You mean—somebody still reasonably new to all this kind of thing?”

  I nodded.

  Montagu spoke slowly. “I really think you’d have to ask him that.”

  It was an exchange which might have sounded utterly banal to practically anyone else, but I’d been taking a chance that it wouldn’t do so to him.

  And I realized that it hadn’t.

  “Yes, I really think you should ask him,” he said. “In fact, I know I have no right to do this … but I ask you very humbly to make it your priority.”

  I nodded again and said goodbye. If I’d been in a mood to find anything even remotely comic, I might have felt mildly diverted by the notion of placing ‘very humbly’ alongside Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu.

  Then I rejoined Sybella—who, for the past three or four minutes, had been standing out of earshot.

  While the lieutenant commander got back in the car she and I walked a short distance from where it was parked. Only a dozen yards or so, but there was a bend in the track which conveniently hid us from view.

  “Oh, darling,” she said. “I can’t stand it! Not being able to write. Not having any idea, ever, of what may be happening to you.”

  Up until now her voice, her manner, had both appeared more under control.

  “I know, I know, my sweetheart! Oh, God, how I know! I can’t stand it, either.”

  “A week ago, I’d never met you. Now my whole life has been turned upside down; there’ll never be a waking moment when you aren’t in my thoughts. I ought to be sending you off with a cheery smile—I know I should—and I don’t want you remembering me all tear-stained and red-eyed and ugly. But I can’t go on pretending.”

  “Listen, Sybella. You must go on pretending. Both of us must. For if we don’t, what can I possibly tell the captain of the submarine when he looks at me and says, ‘But why are you all tear-stained and red-eyed and ugly? Achtung! What is the meaning of such blotchiness?’”

  “Darling, you are…” She was having difficulty. “Oh, you are … you’re such a…”

  “Fool? That’s very true but even so. What if the captain reports back to his superiors? He loves that country so much he blubbers when he has to leave it.”

  Her screwed-up handkerchief was already in her hand.

  “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “You—are—absolutely—and definitely—”

  She wiped away her tears and blew her nose.

  “There’s something else,” I told her. “Will you apologize to my grandmother for me? And my granddad? I was childish and I behaved badly. Will you phone them for me?”

  “Yes … yes … but nobody thought that you … behaved badly.” She wiped her eyes again.

  “I can see exactly why she did it. Will you try to make her understand that?”

  She nodded.

  “And one last thing. Sergeant Leighton. I wish you’d write to him for me … or telephone … tell him how much I appreciated all his kindness.”

  She gave another silent nod.

  “In fact, weren’t you supposed to be seeing him today? He spoke about needing to interview you.”

  “I’ll … I’ll telephone him, then.”

  “Oh—and here—I haven’t paid you yet for the hotel!”

  But she pulled back my hand even as I was reaching for my wallet and—as she did so—the car horn sounded.

  Only a gentle beep. Reminding; apologetic. But it made us hold on to one another all the more fiercely.

  “We’ve still got a minute!” I said.

  “Oh, yes—please—we
’ve still got a minute!”

  “But then I walk away, my darling—and when I do I shan’t look back. Only remember that we love each other and that we’re going to have a marvellous life together. Twelve or fifteen children, at the very least. Only hold onto that, Sybella! And remember, too, that not for nothing do they call me Nostradamus.”

  But my voice caught slightly on those final four syllables.

  So for that final minute—two minutes—we struggled to draw whatever comfort we could from each other’s closeness.

  But naturally it wasn’t as easy as I’d said … just to break away. I forced myself to think about the awfulness of what had happened in Guernica, and of what had happened in the London Blitz, and of what was still happening everywhere about us. I had to ask myself what comment anyone caught up in the physical agony and mental anguish inseparable from maiming, say, or torture or bereavement, what comment they’d have made on the sadness of two lovers merely faced with saying goodbye.

  Did this seem exploitative? Yet I knew I had to do something to try to put it into context, the way I felt, if only for the sake of the impression I should soon be making on the oarsman in the rowing boat, the crew of the submarine and—well, yes, of course—that all-too-readily suspicious captain.

  But inevitably—inevitably—I did look back.

  Just couldn’t help it.

  And she was continuing to stand there, arm upraised, hair blown back by the stiff breeze coming in off the sea.

  Yet at last I came to the dunes and to the steep and bracken-bordered path descending to the beach. And in one sense, when I sank below her line of vision, it was almost a relief. But I found I’d been gripping my suitcase so tightly that my fingers and the handle felt practically welded. I transferred the suitcase to my other side.

  It was two minutes to three.

  I saw the man waiting by the shoreline, with his rowing boat drawn up a short way on the sand.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Stephen Benatar

  Cover design by Gabriela Sahagun

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8226-9

  Distributed by Open Road Distribution

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com