When O’Brien had delivered her to her cell, he made his way up the stairs to talk to Ames. “I’m a little worried. I don’t think she’s fully right in the head. She could try to kill herself. I had a cousin who killed herself, and the thing that struck us all at the time was that her own mother had done the same thing years before. I’m wondering if it runs in families, and she ain’t got much to live for right now.”
Ames pursed his lips. “Jehoshaphat. I didn’t think of that. You might be right. Could you take everything away from her . . . belts, scarves, shoelaces. Thank you O’Brien. Whew. There’s a lot in this. I wish the boss were back. He’d know what to do.”
“Aw. You’re doing a passable job.” O’Brien said, winking.
ANGUS DUNN WALKED along the Serpentine until he came to the bridge. Here he stopped and leaned on the parapet, looking out at Hyde Park. It was another beautiful day, and like all Londoners, he was not immune to wanting to capitalize on the outbreak of good weather. That he was human enough to want, like all ordinary people, to feel the sun on his face did not surprise him, but a more human emotion was causing him difficulty now: the desire to crow about his victory over Lane in regard to the vanquished Inspector Frederick Darling. The fact that she loved Darling infuriated him though he knew he himself had no use for her other than the one he had put her to.
If he was honest, he looked back on his relationship with her during the war as his very own halcyon days. Her beauty and complete dependence on him were the most tender of his memories. She was a thing apart and had let herself be shaped by him. Of course, he loved his wife and children—though these last were becoming both expensive and mutinous—but Lane belonged to a separate, almost protected part of his own being. To see her love an ordinary person in an ordinary way was a challenge to his sense of his own impact in her life. But he had won in the end. It was really impossible that he should not want, at the very least, to see the expression on Darling’s face.
DARLING WAS RELIEVED to be told he was going to the interview room. Higgins must be back with news. He was nearly mad with worry about Lane. He had tried by every means at his disposal to calm himself, if only because he knew how much she disliked his fretting about her safety. In the end, it was history that helped him. She had survived a war doing God knows what; he had to admit he had no idea, but he assumed it was dangerous, given her sangfroid more recently, and she had survived several assaults on her own person since he’d known her. She was tough and smart and a survivor. Just as he arrived at the realization that worrying about her was a way to keep her near him, if only mentally, he was called to meet someone.
He sat down, prepared to show his newfound calm. When Dunn was ushered in, Darling was at once confounded and angry. What should Dunn have to do with any of this? He’d had his fill of Dunn the summer before when he’d marched into his office in Nelson and thrown his weight about. Dunn had had the unmitigated nerve to try to take Darling’s prisoner, Lane Winslow, off his hands and back to England with him. Why should he be obliged to endure an interview with someone he disliked so intensely in this trapped situation?
Dunn sat and threw his hat nonchalantly on the table between them and stretched his legs. His wavy hair was beginning to grey at the temples, giving him, Darling thought, a smooth and smarmy appearance. He sat and waited. Damned if he would be the first to speak.
“Darling,” said Dunn, by way of greeting. “Is his majesty treating you well?”
“Well enough. Though he is keeping his cards close to his chest,” Darling replied.
“You may not need to endure his hospitality much longer. There have been one or two developments.”
“So. You have something to do with this whole ridiculous charade. Why am I not surprised?”
“No, please don’t thank me. It is Lane you have to thank. In fact, it’s thanks to her, really, that you may be shoving off home your name untarnished.”
Darling fought a knot of panic. “How so?”
“She obviously misses real work. She came to me, don’t you know. We’ve picked up right where we left off. She’s a sharp little operator.”
“I don’t care for your familiar tone,” Darling said.
“My dear fellow! What a lovely colonial sense of chivalry! She and I have been far more familiar in the past, I assure you. In any case, I just thought I’d pop along to let you know that there’s a bit of bureaucratic paperwork to be accomplished and then you’ll be free to go. I’ll have to stand down the court process, and so on. They can be difficult, as they tend to operate free of the constraints that I think are most conducive to national security.”
Darling heard little of Dunn’s observations about the independence of the judiciary. He was occupied with a wave of wrath that astonished him for its power, and in the next moment seemed to unleash in him a cold and utterly clear sense of control.
He looked at Dunn, tilting his head as if in wonder. “You have vastly underestimated Miss Winslow, once again. It is a mistake I am never likely to make.” He knew as soon as he said it that it was not likely to appease his jailer. He struggled to feign nonchalance. “Not the least because you seem to have put her right out of reach. Thank you for your visit. I would invite you to come again, but the flow of guests does not seem to be up to me.”
Dunn stood up and dusted the brim of his hat. “You should know, old boy, that she went absolutely of her own accord. Happy to do it. Great girl. We’re happy to have her back.”
Back in his cell, Darling gave way to a bout of shaking, probably, he told himself coldly, merely the result of the rush of adrenaline he felt at Dunn’s provocations. When it was over he knew that he would need to confront both his fear that he might have ruined his chances of getting out of prison and, deeper than that, a growing despair that Dunn had indeed put Lane out of reach.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE DINING ROOM WAS BATHED in warm yellow light, and the subdued activity of serving and dining gave the vast room the hushed air of a cathedral just before the start of Mass. Aptekar escorted Lane to a table tucked into the corner of the room, along the windowed wall. Heavy gold and maroon drapes provided a sense of privacy on one side of the table, and the wall directly behind the table was papered in a dark floral motif that flickered in the candlelight. He seated her against the wall so that she might have a view of the entire dining room. It was gentlemanly, she thought, but of course, it also meant that whatever he would have to say would be audible only to her.
“I have taken the liberty of ordering. I hope you don’t mind. These postwar times and, I am very sorry to say, the socialist supply system, have resulted in a limited choice of the kind of excellent food one ought to expect at such a place.”
Lane smiled. “I am in your hands. As it is, I am not accustomed to such luxury. In London, I am staying in the same room I was in during the war. My landlady must adhere to the limitations of the ration books, so I imagine whatever it is we are getting will be at least as good as that!”
Aptekar talked about the grand hotels of the prerevolutionary days in Moscow, and in due course a waiter approached with a dish that appeared to consist of boiled meat and dumplings in a fragrant soup. A bottle of nearly golden Riesling was produced and poured. When the waiter had put the wine bottle into a silver ice bucket and left, Lane exclaimed, “You see. I was right. Mrs. Macdonald would never extend to dumplings! This smells lovely.”
“Now then,” said Aptekar. “What should we do? Perhaps we should start with this. When Andrea sent me a message that we were to receive a new recruit potential in the form of a dissatisfied true believer, I was very surprised to find that it was you. Your failure to reply to my letter in Canada last winter convinced me that you had no interest in us. What can this mean? I asked myself. You are not here to find out about your father, since you would have had no way of knowing that you would be meeting me specifically. Though I must add that I am delighted beyond measure to be able to meet you and speak about him. I miss him still.
”
Lane drank wine and looked out over the diners and then looked back at him. There was no point in dissembling. “I came because of a man. Your counterpart in London has framed the man I love, and being pressed into service seemed to be the only way to save him from the gallows. There. I’m afraid you will ask me to repay the cost of this meal now that you know the truth.”
“Ah. You have the same honest streak your father had! Though I assure you, you are much, much more charming. He could be a hard man. But I don’t need to tell you that. This man you are trying to save must be an exceptional man to have won your affection.”
“I learned something from my father, after all, and that is that there is no point in wasting time with pretense. I do not know if the man who sent me here will honour his promise to free the prisoner, and if he does intend to honour it, how long I must pretend to be his willing pawn. There. As you can see, I will make a lousy double agent. I am not disillusioned with the West and have no great love for the socialist paradise. I want to go and visit my grandparents in Scotland and then go home.”
Aptekar shrugged regretfully. “Just my luck! If it is any consolation, I knew it as soon as I knew it was you I was meeting. I am a great admirer of the grand sacrificial gesture, but I also like happy endings. They are nearly impossible to come by in my game. It is the intrigue that keeps me going. I was as happy spying for the czar as I am for Comrade Stalin. I have no illusions that there will be any paradise. He is too inclined to revenge, and I pride myself on the skill I employ staying on the top. Perhaps, one day, I shall be able to retire to a nice little farm. But even that dream is being put out of reach, as the state has collectivized everything. For ‘the people.’ I’m not over fond of the people and would prefer to live in splendid isolation.”
“It sounds to me like I should be interviewing you in a bid to persuade you to come and work for us. I’m sure a nice farm can be found in Sussex for your retirement. This soup is really quite delicious!”
“Your father was intelligent but rarely displayed a sense of humour. I see now that a sense of humour takes more than intelligence. It takes some degree of kindness or empathy, perhaps. So then, I wonder if we can find a way to satisfy your handler?”
Lane put down her glass and leaned forward. “What can you tell me about a man named Jones? He was supposed to have been killed in a plane crash in ’43, but I now believe he is working in Paris under an assumed identity. It is fairly certain that he is in fact responsible for the death of a fellow airman, the crime for which my friend has been banged up. I believe Jones has been following me. I had to give him, or whoever it was, the slip. Does he work for you?”
“Ah. You know about him. But following you? I would be surprised. Not on our behalf.”
Lane sat silently. It was the same thing Dunn had said. Of course there was no way to believe either one of them completely. But if they were right, whoever it was could be acting alone. If that was the case, he would be that much more dangerous. The waiter came to clear the plates.
Aptekar smiled and put his napkin on the table. “Can you excuse me for just a moment, my dear?”
Left alone, Lane began to contemplate the possibility that the Russians, or Aptekar at least, wouldn’t want her after all. She sighed and shook her head in a little movement. It was all like lying on quicksand. Nothing could be trusted. It felt as if no move could be made without sinking irretrievably. She looked up and smiled as Aptekar returned.
“You must allow me to have the dessert cart brought over. It would be a dreadful shame for you to miss what is really done well over here.” When the waiter had gone in search of the trolley, Aptekar said, “Now then, Jones. His handler is German. He worked as a double agent with the Nazi regime during the war. He, like me, I suppose, had no trouble slipping into new alliances. He is an arrogant man. Arrogant men tend to become too big for themselves. Jones is becoming a liability, I understand. He has been a relatively useful agent. His mother was German and died young. He moved to England with his father but was a troubled man. He joined the RAF, and the Germans found he was quite easy to bring over, really. They appealed to his vanity and the idealized dead German mother. He is quick to kill, again, something that can be very useful. However, he took it upon himself to solve a problem that cropped up when someone recognized him in Paris by going to England and eliminating the problem. He thought he was terribly clever, but he has, as you say in England, blotted his copybook. So. I expect that your people do not know he works for us. This will be something you can bring back?”
Lane leaned back pensively. “At the very least it means that the intelligence they’ve been getting is false. If they learn he killed a man in England, they may want him to stand trial. I know about this dead man, by the way. His death was declared a suicide.”
“We can’t take that risk, obviously. Murder is a capital crime. Your intelligence branch will have a great deal of leverage to get out of him whatever he has. No. I think you will want to let us look after it at this end. Oh, you needn’t look so distressed! We won’t eliminate him. He’s become used to an easy life in Paris at our expense. He’ll be sent to Siberia. Now what Siberia does with him . . .” he shrugged.
Lane shuddered at the power wielded by this man. Did he mean to let her go back with enough to buy off Darling and herself? She smiled at the waiter who arrived with the dessert cart. “I’ll have that, thank you. It looks lovely. And a coffee.”
“Ah. The prinzregentorte. Yes, I shall as well, for tomorrow we may die?” He lifted his glass of wine in her direction. “Now then. I think it just possible that I may have something else for you. He is very sure of himself, your director. Too sure. You see, arrogance again. Thanks to information we fed him through Jones, who calls himself Vigneault in France, and his mother’s name, Farber, here, he is miscalculating even now about Berlin. The bloc will not long tolerate a Western eyesore in the middle of a socialist haven. Your Jones is busy convincing his British handlers that the focus of the Soviet government is consolidating power in the Baltic. But, and you should trust me on this, my dear, it is looking to make a move on Berlin, eliminating any easy access to the West.”
Lane ate in silence for some moments. She thought she would really like to take the balance of her cake up to her room and eat it with a good book, away from this heightened atmosphere of continental manners and deadly information. “My father never ever told us a single word about his work. He was, according to my grandparents, a ‘diplomat.’”
“But he was. In the most real sense. It is with him, with us, that most of the real work is done.”
“Nor did we know about his colleagues. He never brought his work home. Not even a satchel of papers. It is remarkable that his oldest colleague, and friend, I suppose, was you. I will say now, no matter what happens, that I have appreciated being able to be honest with you.”
“My dear Miss Winslow. You will, as you so rightly said at the beginning, be of no use to us. Your heart is not in it. It is a measure of my regard for your father, who, while not an easy man, was hardworking and honest, that I say this. I believe you should go back to England, go to your grandparents, and then take that man you love home again to your new country. I have given you something that is real, which I hope you may put to good use.”
Lane looked away, feeling tears beginning to form. She felt a flood of relief, and in the next second, fear that this too was some manipulation. “Thank you. I suppose you mean the business about Berlin. Assuming that what you tell me is true, why are you doing it?”
Aptekar shrugged and smiled. “We are fulfilling your assignment, are we not? For now, this moment, you are a double agent, and I have given you something useful. Besides . . . I am a member of the old guard. My time will come soon, and honestly, a farm in Sussex, or even a flat in London, would not be the worst thing in the world.”
Aptekar walked Lane to the elevator and stood vigilantly waiting for it to open and take her up to her floor. She bade him good nig
ht as the great brass doors opened. When the operator asked in German what floor she wanted, Aptekar answered for her and then tipped his hat, turned, and walked away.
“Let me out on the next floor, please,” Lane said with a smile. She came out onto an open mezzanine, from which stairs curved down toward the lobby. From here she could survey the people moving about, many in evening dress, going into and coming out of the restaurant. No sign of Aptekar. Desperate for a breath of air and a quick walk around the block before she turned in, Lane hurried down the curved stairs and thanked the doorman who held the door for her.
Outside she was hit with a welcome wave of cool night air. Streetlights that glowed overhead near the hotel gave way to intermittently working lights farther down the street. Taking in a great breath of air, Lane turned to her right and walked briskly toward the next street.
“Where do you think you’re going then, love?” The voice was right behind her suddenly. She felt her arm grabbed with an iron hand. She turned to try to look at her assailant, her heart pounding. A gloved hand pushed roughly at her face, keeping her from turning her head.
“Let me go!” Lane tried to pull herself free, but this move only tightened his grip.
“Is that likely? I can’t believe my luck as it is. I thought I’d be visiting your room. This is infinitely better. Saves the hotel a lot of cleanup.” The man had pulled both her hands behind her and was beginning to shove her forward down the darkened street.
Lane swivelled, her eyes looking frantically along the street. Not a bloody soul in sight! If this were London, she could have screamed the place down and scores of people would have seen what was unfolding.
“Are you Jones?” she asked, hoping to stall for time.
“Not anymore.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Now shut up. I don’t need you going around blowing my cover. Here we go; we’ll just pop in here.”
To her horror she saw they had reached a narrow alley that seemed to be almost emanating a thick and grabbing darkness. I’m going to die here, she thought. Suddenly she stopped, bracing her feet and forcing a halt to their stumbling motion toward the alley. With as much violence as she could muster, she slammed the heel of her right foot onto Jones’s toes, praying he wasn’t wearing thick boots. Jones cried out angrily and his grip on her arms loosened for a split second. She twisted violently. Throwing him against the corner of the building and trying to free her hands completely, she began to scream, “Help!” in English and Russian. Her right hand slipped free and she used it to push at him just as he was righting himself and reaching for his knife.
It Begins in Betrayal Page 25