It Begins in Betrayal

by Whishaw, Iona;

  “Andrea, how are you?” Olga said in Russian. “This is the Englishwoman I told you about. Lane Winslow. She, of course, speaks perfect Russian. She was born in Latvia.” Lane glanced at Olga. She’d not told her that. Of course, the director would have left nothing secret.

  Andrea looked at Lane and nodded. “Miss Winslow.”

  Lane had been going to offer her hand but saw it would not be the proper form, so she too nodded, attempting a slight smile, though she was as far from feeling friendly as it was possible to be. Olga turned to her and, with a quick bow of the head, said in Russian, “Goodbye then,” and turned to go.

  Righty ho, thought Lane. That’s that. She turned her attention back to Andrea, whose last name had still not been offered and who looked as if she would begin to trust Lane when hell froze over.

  “Do you wish for something to drink?” Andrea asked.

  “No, thank you. What is to happen now?”

  “You will be interrogated, I expect. We know nothing about you. I am to arrange for you to go to Potsdam. Someone will meet you there.”

  Lane’s heart sank, and the anxiety that had been gnawing at her innards began to grow into real fear. Potsdam! Farther east, farther into the maw of the empire. And what would this interrogation amount to? She suddenly realized that the game was nothing like what she had been tasked with during the war. Then it was simple; they were at war. Deliver this message, these weapons, those radios. Explain them. Get out. She had been equipped to pretend she was an ordinary French girl, but had mercifully never been called on to play a double role. This new and murky world frightened and, yes, she decided, offended her with all its pretense and untruths.

  She spoke now in Russian. “When will I leave?”

  Andrea looked at her appraisingly. “I am not sure. I have a room here where you are to wait. Are you sure I cannot bring you tea?”

  How long would she have to wait? Perhaps she ought to have the diversion of tea. It might help her stay alert. “Yes, then. Thank you.”

  She was ushered into a room on the floor above. It was panelled in dark wood, and the window overlooked the wall of the next building. Lines of washing hung out of the windows across from where she stood, struggling to dry in the sparse sun that shone into the space. Two children were kicking a ball in the tiny courtyard below, their high-pitched shouts magnified by the enclosed space. Lane put her handbag down and removed her hat and jacket. The afternoon was warm and the room slightly stuffy. After standing at the window watching the children, she settled into the collapsing settee that was against a wall under an empty bookshelf.

  Whose house had this been? She had heard that Jewish properties had been taken by the Nazis, their owners had fled or been deported to death camps, their contents taken as booty. Her own grandparents had left their house in Riga when it was taken by the Soviets. They had tried to stay on but had been confined to two rooms, as the house was filled with military offices and an officer’s club. Finally they simply left and went “home” to Scotland. The utter impermanence of the structures people build around themselves came to Lane forcefully. What had her ancestors left when they went east to Latvia from Scotland to build a new life? How certain she had been as a child that what she knew would last forever. Still, she thought sadly, she had gone off to Canada, undaunted, to take another kick at permanence. Now look at her. Sitting in some stolen house in Berlin, waiting to be interrogated.

  She had no sooner settled than she was obliged to stand up again, as the door opened and a tall, very good-looking man in his sixties swept in. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive dove-grey suit with subtle fawn-coloured stripes. A young man bearing tea and cakes followed him and placed the refreshments on the table by a lamp, which was lit to give the room a warmer feel. The older man nodded his thanks, and the younger one withdrew with a slight bow.

  The man advanced toward Lane with both hands out, as if he were a favourite uncle, Lane thought, rather than an interrogator. “Miss Winslow. At last! I am Viktor Aptekar. Please, please, sit down and enjoy this refreshment with me. These cakes are from the finest baker, who sadly is in the American sector. If this city is ever divided, they will be lost to us!”

  Lane retrieved her hands from his grasp and sat with a thump in the chair held out for her by the table. Viktor Aptekar. The name, offered in so friendly a manner, made her blood run cold. It was he who had sent her a letter a few months earlier in the winter begging her to come and work for Russia, indeed, had been responsible for her being kidnapped and very nearly killed. The man who claimed to know her father best. This was the man who now had her life, and Darling’s, in his hands.

  “THERE HAVE BEEN some developments,” Higgins said, flopping his briefcase down on the table in the interviewing room of Wandsworth Prison. Darling was looking thinner, he thought. For the first time Higgins felt a surge of rage about the situation. It was a bloody shame to frame and lock up a good man, especially if the “good guys” perpetrated the crime.

  Darling smiled wanly and waved his hand to indicate the room. “It’s a new development that I’ve had a change of scene. I got a nice ride in the back of a prison van from what I now know to be Oxfordshire. The countryside there is lovely. I was sorry not to be able to see it. Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”

  “I hope you won’t be a beggar much longer. We know who shot Evans, and it wasn’t you.”

  “Brilliant. I could have told you that. In fact, I did. Why isn’t he in here instead of me, then? Who was it by the way? I always thought it was Germans, though, as I said, I felt there was something not right about the direction of fire. In a battle situation, it’s easy to confuse things.”

  “Let me start at the beginning. I was able at long last to interview Anthony. Not strictly true. Watson finally contacted Miss Winslow, and she did the initial interview. She put them on to me just before she left. I’ve spoken to them, and it is clear that Anthony was certain he saw Evans shot all right, but by Jones.”

  Darling frowned. “Jones? Why ever should Jones want to shoot any of us? It’s unbelievable. And even if it were true, he’s not here to ask.”

  “That we don’t know. And the reason that you’re still banged up in here is because the complications are overwhelming. Anthony has been forced . . . blackmailed wouldn’t be too strong a word . . . into signing a statement about that trumped-up business of you shooting Evans and is absolutely unwilling to testify at the moment. They’re afraid that the consequences would be too great because Salford has been killed. Watson and Anthony have evidently been . . . you know . . . living together for some time. The consequences are ghastly. Sims, I should mention, is having a go at them. He’s furious to be made a fool of and can’t see why people just can’t get on the stand and tell the truth. I’ve decided to go for creating doubt that you would do such a thing. I’ve spoken with your commanding officer, Dixby-Brown, and he’s prepared to stand up for you in no uncertain terms, and can collect some more witnesses to do the same.”

  Darling shook his head at this bewildering barrage of information. One thing, however, was clear to him. “You are not to compel Anthony under any circumstances. I won’t have it. You must carry on with your strategy of casting doubt in the minds of the jury.”

  “I thought you’d say that. By the way, I realize you were not to know this. Jones is likely alive and well, and living in Paris pretending to be someone else. Apparently Salford sent you a letter about it that got lost. One of your neighbours brought it to the police station in Nelson, and Miss Winslow was able to get the text of it, and she brought it to Sims.”

  “God, you’ve lost me completely now. Jones shot Evans and isn’t dead, but he can’t be produced and put on trial for the murder. Why would he shoot a crew member and then go into hiding? How? If he got out of the plane alive and for whatever reason shot Evans, he’d have to have run in the same direction as the rest of us to escape the Germans. They were right behind us.” He put his hand to his mouth. “Oh my Go
d. He ran to them on purpose, knowing he would be protected. He was a bloody German spy. Evans must have found out!”

  “And there you are,” said Higgins. “Only Jones is officially dead and can’t be found, and someone in our own government is trying to cover that up and pin the thing on you. Anthony was forced to sign that statement because he’d gone to them to say he remembered seeing Jones do it. They must have been afraid that would get out, hence this ridiculous charade. I think it’s ever more significant that the one man who’s dead is Salford, who was the one who saw Jones in Paris.”

  “If, and I say ‘if’ because I can’t believe what I’m about to say, someone in the government had a British citizen murdered because he thought he saw Jones in Paris, then they are protecting Jones. Jones is very likely an agent. He was then, and he is now. And it’s a sure bet he’s not ‘Jones’ now. Jones is conveniently dead, since I declared him so in my report about the crash, and he’s someone completely else, completely untouchable. I’d say that my prospects are bleaker than ever under the circumstances.” Darling wanted nothing more than to put his head down and close his eyes.

  “Now then, Darling. No need to throw in the towel. My appeal to the Canadian High Commission has borne some fruit. You’re back in London, and I expect your friends will be allowed to see you. In the meantime, don’t underestimate Sims. He doesn’t like being messed about.”

  “Atta boy. Look at the silver lining. By the way, what did you mean about Miss Winslow when you said, ‘before she left’? Left where?”

  “Ahh. Yes. I don’t actually know. She scribbled a hurried note and had it delivered saying she had to go away for several days.”

  “What’s she up to then? Does she understand how dangerous this situation has become?” Darling asked. “Damn! Listen, Higgins. You need to find out. You need to let me know the minute she is back!”

  Over France, April 1943

  JONES SAT WITH a map he was not looking at, focusing all his energy on the pressing of his leather helmet against his ears. It was a problem he had not anticipated. It was a problem he could not turn away from. It was a problem he had to solve before they got back to base because he had no idea what Evans would do. Jones was absolutely certain that the security of his mission demanded it.

  It seemed to him later that he felt the danger a moment before it happened. He looked up, his eyes wide, and in the next second felt the plane being hit.

  “We’ve been hit! Brace! Brace!” shouted Darling. Jones crouched where he was, hands behind his neck and waited for the impact, but when it came, it was as if giant metal hands were clawing at the bottom of the plane. The sound was terrifying and seemed to be going on forever, and then the plane stopped and tipped forward, the tail lifting, and thumped down with a force that threw Jones, like a loose barrel, against the narrow sides of the rear of the plane.

  In the momentary silence after impact, nothing stirred, and then Jones could see his crewmates begin to move. There was already a smell of burning from somewhere. He could see that the gunner window had smashed, and somehow Evans was still alive. He was beginning to stir, was crawling on his hands and knees through the opening. Jones followed him. He felt the acridity of the smoke burning inside his nostrils, and he held his breath as he scraped through the opening, ignoring the dangers of shattered glass and ragged metal.

  The ground had been scraped clean, trees broken like twigs. They had landed at the edge of a field. The dark outlines of a wood were just to the left. They would go that way. Evans had gotten to his feet and had begun to stumble forward. In an instant, Jones knew now was the time. He pulled out the revolver and fired one bullet, and then turned toward where he thought the Germans must be.

  ANTHONY SAW THE gaping hole in the tail, saw Evans and Jones get out. He should follow. Darling was shouting something. Where was Watson? Had he gotten out with Darling and Belton? A fire ignited to his right, licking up through the torn metal. He plunged forward and scrambled on his behind as he tried to orient himself. The wood was a dark line, and he could see figures moving toward it. A shot rang out just ahead of him, on the right. One of the figures went down. He whirled, trying to see where the shot had come from. A man stood, his revolver in his hand, and then turned and ran back toward the plane. In the flickering light of the fire, Anthony was certain he’d seen Jones. Who had he shot? He must have seen Germans approaching. Anthony ducked and looked wildly around. Why had Jones run back to the plane? He’d be killed.

  “Hell!” It was Darling, just ahead, leaning over. Anthony got out of his crouch and ran toward where Darling was. “It’s Evans,” Darling said. “He’s still alive. Let’s get him to safety.” He began to pull the wounded man by the arms.

  Anthony took up Evans’s feet and they made for the wood, stumbling on the raised furrows of the field. “I think the Jerries were waiting for us,” he panted. He wanted to look back, to see what had become of Jones, a part of his brain struggling with why he’d gone back to the plane. Did it mean someone was still there?

  When they reached the others, they laid Evans down carefully. Anthony looked around anxiously and felt a flood of relief when he saw Watson, unhurt and sitting against a tree, breathing heavily.

  He threw himself down on the ground next to Evans.

  “Report,” he heard Darling say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  KEEP YOUR HEAD, LANE THOUGHT. Keep it and be as truthful as possible. “Mr. Aptekar. Good breeding requires that I say that I am pleased to meet you, but I confess, I am not all that pleased.”

  Aptekar laughed. “Your father failed to tell me what a very beautiful daughter he had!”

  “The truth is, my father never thought very much of me,” Lane said with equanimity as she stirred sugar into her tea. Strong Russian tea was all very well, but she’d become used to the English way.

  “No, my dear! It is not so. Your father admired you very much. He often spoke of you.”

  “Mr. Aptekar. If we are to get on, then I must insist on there being truth between us. So far I am offering truth, and you are offering nonsense.”

  He smiled again. Lane thought how very charming his smile was. If he had worked with her father from the beginning, then his chief weapon, surely, was this devastating charm. It was a shame it had not rubbed off on her father.

  “Well then. Let me put it this way. You surprised him. You surprised him with your courage and the work you chose. This much he did tell me. I think surprising Stanton Winslow is a great achievement, is it not? He was a very courageous man, your father, but even he would have balked at jumping out of an aeroplane.”

  “How astonishing. He called me a coward once. I am gratified he changed his view somewhat.”

  “I see that you are . . . I will not say bitter . . . but perhaps distant from him, and I don’t blame you. For all his sterling qualities, he would not have been awarded father of the year. He was focused on his work, which he did brilliantly. His ability to work with the various permutations of government in Russia continued after the revolution. He was a genius at reminding us all that pragmatism trumps politics. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the ties he kept between your government and ours made our alliance against the Nazis possible.”

  “I’m sure it would be an exaggeration; however, I have never doubted my father’s work ethic. And, in truth, I am glad to hear that his work made a difference. I suppose it is all any of us wants,” she stopped, hesitating before she spoke again. “There is one thing that I would like to know about that worries me.”

  “Please, my dear, you have only to ask!”

  Feeling that she could so easily fall under the spell of his avuncular manner, she nevertheless proceeded. “My father left me and my sister, who lives in South Africa, quite a sizeable sum of money. Some went as well to my grandparents, which was generous, and I want very much for them to have a secure old age. My trouble is that I do not know where it came from, and I am reluctant to use it.”

  “Goodness
me! You are an upright young woman. The more I see you, the more I am grieved to think that Stanton had no idea whatsoever what manner of daughter he fathered. If it is of any consolation to you, I can tell you. As a matter of fact, he and I spoke of the will before his unfortunate death. And I should say if he had a soft spot for anyone, it was your grandparents. They were, after all, the parents of the woman he loved. I feel somehow that he never got over her loss. He was grateful, I know, that they looked after you and your sister, as he knew himself well enough to know he would never be able to put his heart, or his time, as it turned out, to the task. You need not worry. The money was very honestly come by. Your father’s family had quite extensive holdings in the form of properties and business. After the revolution, his contacts and his usefulness to the new revolutionary government allowed him to sell all these at perhaps greater advantage than others. Or perhaps because he was English, I do not know. But he collected the money and invested it, and that is the result. It was not a vast fortune, all told. When I say he sold at an advantage, it was nowhere near the full value. In my view, my country still owes you money, but you will, I am afraid, never see it.”

  Feeling at once relief—together with a sinking feeling that depending on what happened to her now, she might never get to use the money anyway—Lane said, “Thank you. I hope what you say is true. I am relieved for my grandparents. It is a vast fortune to me.”

  “I can’t think what you imagined about where he got it! He was a spy, after all, not a gangster. I’m afraid it is a game that does not enrich the practitioner. In fact, it is often tedious, dirty, and tiring work, conducted in secret and on a knife’s edge. Adventure, perhaps, one could hope for, but riches, never. Now then, to the matter of spies. I wonder how it is best to proceed . . .?”