It Begins in Betrayal

by Whishaw, Iona;

  They were in an apartment the exterior of which looked so banged and shot up that Lane had no hopes for any comfort inside. She was pleasantly surprised, however. The sun slanted in the tall elegant windows that spoke of the building’s more aristocratic history. The dark cadmium yellow paint on the interior walls, while it had seen better days, amplified the warmth. It was a small sitting room that had been divided from a larger one that now belonged to the next door apartment, but a faded rug and a couple of comfortable chairs gave the room a snug feeling. Olga Valentinova had prepared strong black tea with rock sugar and provided a plate of sugar-sprinkled pastries. She put the cups on the table and then went to the window and lifted the sash slightly to let in a welcome burst of fresh air. She looked again onto the street in both directions.

  “These are a bit like what they call donuts where I live in Canada. Thank you. I was famished.” Lane devoured the jam-filled confection and drank down some tea. She forgot for a moment her underlying anxiety about what she was letting herself in for.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have anything more substantial, but we must go across. I have arranged everything for three o’clock.” Olga spoke in thickly accented English. “There can be no delay.”

  “Would you rather we spoke Russian?” asked Lane.

  Olga smiled. “Yes, I was told your Russian is very good. No. Not here. Save it. You will need it. We are going to stick as close to the truth as possible. I will introduce you as a woman who was brought up in Russia and wishes to work on behalf of the people. You are horrified by the decadence and duplicity of the West, the unfair treatment of workers and war vets, and so on.”

  “Is that your cover?”

  “I am horrified by the failures of the revolution, if the truth be known. They took my family, my parents, to Siberia, they tell me. They think this is what holds me. But I know my parents are already dead. My brother was killed in the siege of Leningrad. There is nothing to hold me. And so I work for your British government. I am an engineer. I work designing aircraft in the East and have become a double agent thanks to a wartime encounter with a lover. I work with my counterparts here in the West, and I keep the Russians happy by taking plans across to them from time to time. Then I bring back what the Soviets are up to. There are some differences in accuracy of what I take back and forth. It keeps the West up to date on developments in my small area of expertise.”

  “You are not afraid of being found out?” Lane contemplated what it would be like to live her entire life in the small, claustrophobic corridor of deceit this woman was describing.

  Olga shrugged. “I don’t really know. I will either go on forever, or I will be found out. I will either be able to flee to the West when that happens, or I will be arrested and die in Siberia, where at least I will be near my parents. It’s immaterial. You yourself could be the agent of my downfall.”

  “You won’t need to add me to your list of concerns. This is a small job. I will do it and get out.”

  “What is the job?” Olga asked.

  Lane looked at her watch. It was ten after two. “Could you show me to the bathroom? I’d better splash up a bit before I take on the Soviet empire.”

  ANTHONY WAS TAKING so long to respond that Higgins now wished he had brought Sims with him. The thought of making this man squeeze out his story a second time seemed daunting.

  “I was made to talk to a man whose name I never got. He just called himself ‘the director.’ He was extremely pleasant, like a friendly insurance agent. All ordinary language. Was I sure? Could I just go over it again? Had I seen anyone else? Where was the flight lieutenant? He just kept on and on, and I began to get muddled about the answers. He managed to convince me that I was not completely sure about what I saw. Then he stopped abruptly and began to talk in this chatty way about what I had been doing since the war ended. Didn’t I live with Adam Watson? Taking a bit of a risk, wasn’t I? But he admired my loyalty. It would be awful if it got out, didn’t I think?

  “Then he went back to the questions and began to posit the idea that Darling had been responsible. Had I actually seen Darling before he and I began to move Evans? But by this time, you see, I was sick with fear because I knew he knew about Adam and me. He didn’t have to say anything really. I just knew what he meant. The next thing I knew he was producing this statement, already written out, in which it was the skipper who shot Evans. ‘I can’t sign that,’ I told him. ‘It’s not true.’ He started in with some flannel about how I’d already said myself that I wasn’t sure, which wasn’t true either. I was sure. I’m still sure. Then he said, ‘I like you, Mr. Anthony,’ just the way he said it made my hair stand on end. He said he couldn’t expect me to understand, but the security of the country depended on getting this ‘right,’ and he’d hate for me to get caught up in a scandal that could end with me, or even Adam, being in prison. The way he twisted the truth made my head spin, I can tell you. He told me to memorize it and to sign it. I admit it. I’m a dreadful coward, and I couldn’t have Adam dragged in. I signed.”

  “So, let me get this right,” said Higgins. “You are telling us that an agent of his majesty’s government forced you to perjure yourself?”

  “I suppose that’s right, yes.”

  “Well, that’s against the law, for a start,” Higgins remarked, underlining something in his notes.

  “Sooner you than me going up against that man. All I know is the skipper is facing a capital offence, and probably treason for all I know. Adam and I discussed it. That’s why we called Miss Winslow.”

  “I’m very glad you’ve seen it that way. Will you be prepared to testify to this at the trial?”

  Neville Anthony hesitated. “No. Absolutely not. For one thing the lawyer will do to me what that director did. He’ll twist my words, say I was unsure about what I saw. I’d be a lousy witness. And for another, I can’t. The risk is too great.”

  Higgins felt his case, suddenly so certain, in danger again. “All we have to do is establish doubt. If their lawyers say you were unsure about seeing Jones shoot Evans, I shall counter with reminding them that that cuts both ways . . . you also could not be sure of seeing Darling do it either.”

  HIGGINS WAS COMPLETING his notes when the clerk put his head through the door. “A double-barrelled squadron leader here to see you, Mr. H.”

  Glancing at his watch, Higgins waved his hand, “Bring him through, thank you.”

  A dapper man in a tweed jacket was shown in. He had a bad limp and carried a cane, which he now shifted to his left hand, offering his right to the lawyer. “Mr. Higgins? I’m Dixby-Brown.”

  “Ah, Squadron Leader. Thank you so much for coming in after what must have seemed a rather peremptory summons. Please, sit down.”

  “No bother. I was intrigued. The governor is as old as Methuselah but won’t give up control of the family business. Said I should get out from underfoot because I’m always looking for things to improve in the office when I’ve time on my hands. What’s this to do with, then?” Dixby-Brown settled in the chair offered and straightened his leg with his hands. Higgins saw now that there was a fair bit of scarring along the right side of his face. Burns most likely, he thought.

  “Got this in a bloody raid right here in the city, instead of like a good honest airman, in battle,” Dixby-Brown said.

  Higgins smiled. “I understand you were Flight Lieutenant Frederick Darling’s commanding officer.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” He frowned. “I thought he’d buggered off back to Canada and was busy solving crime in some backwoods town.”

  “Can you tell me a little bit about him? What was he like?”

  “Well,” said Dixby-Brown, making an expansive gesture with his hands. “He was impeccable. An excellent pilot, well-liked by his men. Very well liked, I would have said. He never pandered to them. In fact he was inclined to seriousness. Had a kind of dry humour that the crew members were often the brunt of but seemed to make them like him all the more. Nothing’s happened to him
has it?”

  “I’m afraid something has happened to him. He’s being charged with murder.”

  Dixby-Brown started. “Murder? Impossible! I mean, I should have said that was the least likely thing in the world.”

  “I’d better explain,” said Higgins. He spoke in his usual measured manner, consulting his notes, outlining the events that had brought them to the present time. He did not discuss Darling’s having been granted and then denied bail, or his having been moved out the city and then back into it.

  At the end of his narration, Dixby-Brown sat back in his chair and said, “What you are telling me absolutely beggars belief. I remember that incident particularly well, partly because he managed to get most of his men back under nearly impossible circumstances, and because we lost two people. He saw that Evans had been shot and believed it had happened when the Germans came after them. He didn’t see Jones at all. Wasn’t at roll call, as it were. He went up with the plane. No. I’m sorry. This is some sort of rubbish. And why is this coming up all this time later?”

  “If I’m honest, we aren’t entirely sure. It is certainly in someone’s interest to have him in the frame for this. I’ve felt an unseen hand interfering at every step. We’ve been having some difficulty getting hold of his crew, but I was able to speak to two of them today, but only because they overcame their fear and sought me out. I’m convinced that there’s some funny business going on. Anthony was forced to sign a declaration that he’d seen Darling shoot Evans.”

  “Forced? How forced? I wouldn’t have believed it of him. Now mind you, he didn’t know Darling as well as the rest. He was a last-minute replacement, it seems to me. I think he knew one of the other fellows, Watson. Watson was a good airman, if bit of a pansy . . . ah. I see. I’m guessing Anthony will have been protecting him, perhaps. Well, well. Never thought the wind would be blowing that way. The point is, they were excellent airmen, fought a good war, and I say live and let live. Who the blazes forces people into this kind of situation? Why should anyone have shot Evans anyway? The woods were full of Germans armed to the teeth.”

  Higgins took up his notes. “According to Anthony, someone did shoot Evans, all right. It was it was the map reader, Jones.”

  “Jones? What madness is this? Why would Jones want to shoot a crew member? And he’s dead. If he did shoot Evans, and he copped it too, wouldn’t that be case closed?”

  Higgins shrugged. “The point really is, Lieutenant, and why I’ve brought you in, is that I may not be able to get Anthony into court, and even if I did, I’m not sure how he would stand up. He and all the other men were warned off discussing the situation with anyone, and one of the airmen, a chap called Salford, died a week or so ago, under possibly mysterious circumstances, so they’re understandably nervous. They have a great deal of loyalty to Darling, but anything they do will imperil them. What’s happened has enormous legal ramifications. Anthony has lied, and the consequence is likely to be Darling put away or hanged. Whoever is doing this has gone to a lot of trouble, and Anthony, even if he were prepared to risk nearly everything to go into court, could also face charges for lying about the death in the first place. I think we can trust that whoever is behind this will never be taken to task. I’m going to have to go to creating doubt, and that will involve finding credible people who can speak to Darling’s character.”

  “Well, you can count me in. I can probably find some other fellows if need be.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Dixby-Brown. I shall contact you as things become clearer.”

  When his guest had gone, Higgins put in a call to Sims. He hadn’t had lunch and so arranged for them to meet at the Queens.

  Sims listened to Higgins without interruption and then took up his ale. “What you are telling me, Higgins,” he said, wiping his mouth, “is that they don’t have a case. I mean, I’ll have to speak to those men myself, of course, but if what you say is true, I can’t say I’m surprised. There’s something about Darling that I just trust. And he said I might be someone’s dupe. I didn’t care to be told that, I can tell you, but I can see now he’s likely right. There’s been something fishy about this from the beginning. I was getting a fair bit of resistance from the army when I wanted to reinterview people.”

  “Do you think we have enough to petition the court to have the matter dropped?” asked Higgins. “I mean from your point of view as a policeman.”

  “We don’t really know what game is being played here, do we? If it were something straightforward, out in the real world, I’d have the charges dropped. Nothing in ’em. I’ve a good mind to go back to the War Office and tell them I won’t push through this charge, that I’ve looked into it, and I know the statement of the chief witness to be extracted under pressure. Any judge would throw it out. As I said, I’d have to complete the investigation, take in this new evidence.”

  “They’ll be nervous about speaking to the police is the problem,” Higgins pointed out.

  “Didn’t you say the statement was extracted under the threat of exposing him as a fairy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there you are, you see. You can’t go around arresting people on the basis of people’s say so. The army made the insinuation but never did anything about it. I’d have to have proof before I could act on that sort of thing. And I don’t. I’ve made those sorts of arrests before, but I’m not keen, if I’m honest. There’s plenty of good honest crime on the streets to deal with—people being mugged, war profiteers to track down. It’s a waste of my time.”

  “Good. Then you’ll finish your investigation and, if you’re satisfied, let them know they haven’t a leg to stand on? I’ve told the airmen to expect you, though I warn you, they are unwilling at the moment to testify.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m sure the army doesn’t like being thwarted in its little machinations, but I don’t like having my time wasted.”

  “What I still can’t make out is why it’s so important to have Darling be the culprit here. They’ve gone to all this trouble to make a man perjure himself. Who would do this?” Higgins asked.

  “Wait a minute,” said Sims. “What if what Anthony says is true, he saw Jones do the shooting, and that’s what they’re trying to cover up? Miss Winslow brought me the text of that letter that Darling’s constable in Canada found. I didn’t think it forwarded the situation at all, but now, wait, let’s see. If Jones is still alive and pretends not to know his old pals, then he’s up to something, surely. And if he was the one who killed Evans, then someone is going to throw suspicion in another direction.” He slapped the table. “I’ve thought all along that Special Branch is in this. That bloody corporal almost said those words to me and then pulled back. This makes the whole business a lot more complicated.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  OLGA DROVE WITH CONCENTRATION AND both hands on the steering wheel, freeing Lane to look silently at the passing city. They were in a small, beat-up, pre-war Opel, the gears of which were offering some problems. Lane had been able to roll the window down a few inches, and a warm breeze and the sound of the city traffic wafted in. She had time to think about Olga and the wartime lover she had mentioned. Is that how it always was for women? Well, it hadn’t been for her, or she had thought not. She had joined through a normal recruitment. The manipulations of the lover had been entirely hidden from her.

  They pulled up in front of a building that, like many she had seen, was battered. Next to it was a pile of rubble that must have been the result of the Royal Air Force counterattacks against Germany. A sagging wire fence meant to keep people off had long ago given up its purpose, and children now played on the piles of stone.

  “We’re here? I thought we’d have to go through some sort of control,” Lane said, surprised.

  “No, we are free to go back and forth. I don’t know how long it will last. I am sure the Soviets are tired of having a Western-controlled Berlin in the middle of their territory. Now look, I will come wi
th you to introduce you to my friend Andrea. She takes over from here. She is the secretary of this business office. The business, which manufactures farm machinery, is a cover. What happens after this, I do not know. But before we go in, I want to wish you luck. You have chosen a difficult role, believe me.”

  Lane experienced a sinking feeling at this speech. She knew, of course, that she must navigate whatever was about to happen on her own, but even in the short time with Olga, Lane had seen her as an ally, a bulwark against the certain loneliness of living the lie required of her now. She had felt this aloneness before, every time she had set out on a mission during the war, and had become used to it, had developed an internal mechanism for dealing with it. Just at this moment however, she could scarcely remember what that was.

  “Thank you. As I said, it will be short.” Lane mentally crossed her fingers as she said this. “Will I be likely to see you again?”

  “I don’t think so. The right and left hand, you know. I learned this expression, and I think it describes the whole thing so well, don’t you? ‘The right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.’ So apropos!”

  Lane laughed. “It’s from the bible originally. Matthew, I think. I don’t find it the least bit reassuring.” She didn’t add that she was beginning to think the entire enterprise was run by a group of men who had never advanced past the age of thirteen.

  They walked through heavy wooden doors into a spacious foyer with a wide, echoing staircase. The banisters were broken in places, and the paint was peeling and discoloured. It must have been a grand building, once, Lane thought. It reminded her of her uncle’s beautiful apartment in Riga. A building from an expansive and self-assured imperial age. It made her think of the entire Nazi reign, so confident and violent, decaying from within. On the second landing, Olga rang a bell at an office with an ornate sign in German. A young woman opened the door, ushered them in, and told them to wait. She disappeared into an office down a hall, and moments later another woman strode toward them, tall and blond, dressed in a grey suit. She looked to be in her early forties, Lane thought, and had a strong face that could have been called handsome, were it not carved into severe lines of purpose and seriousness.