Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  ‘One of such a group, colonel?’

  ‘You’ve certainly demonstrated the qualities – cold-blooded, ready and able to kill, resourceful. But no. I want you to be my sergeant.’

  ‘Hugh?’

  ‘He’s been posted away to some technical depot that needs people who can do sums. Frankly, I need a man who knows what it is to be out there, on his own, ready to act. Flexible, imaginative.’

  ‘I appreciate your thinking of me, colonel. But I’m behind a desk now.’

  ‘That’s somethin’ else. I imagine you know the probable invasion area, what the operational planning is, where supply lines will be, who’s who and so on.’

  ‘Colonel, this sounds truly important.’ Inside knowledge never fails: the colonel’s sixth and hidden rule of life, presumably. ‘Thank you for thinking of me to be part of your team. I don’t know, though, if Colonel ffoulkes will release me.’

  ‘I’ll put the wheels in motion. And I’ll raise you to staff sergeant for this. It will help if you show willin’ at your end. Always be ready to move on. That’s one of life’s rules. Speakin’ of which, I’m going to have to bid you farewell—for the moment. One of Winston’s boys is coming to hear the AU prospectus.’

  He took Peter to the hall, asked the porter for a membership application, signed in the proposer’s space and gave it to Peter. ‘Fill the rest in. I don’t think you’ll find any problems over an Australian connection. Will he, Willard?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’ The porter smiled knowingly.

  The front door opened to let in a short man with a shock of faded red hair. Behind round glasses bright blue eyes protruded. He took a long cigar from his mouth. ‘Double brandy, Jonno. None of that red Jeyes Fluid of yours.’

  ‘Thank you, Hill. Give my regards to the colonel.’ Ponsonby dismissed Peter with a nod, took the red-haired man by the elbow and guided him into the bar.

  Chapter Two

  The fat trade counsellor was sitting in the same seat, reading the Daily Worker through his pince-nez, a partly–drunk glass of Guinness in front of him. He looked up at Peter. ‘Is true your government wish to close workers’ paper?’ They were in the same Soho Square pub. It still smelt of frying sausages.

  ‘I haven’t heard that. I’m sure it wouldn’t wish to take so undemocratic a step.’ Peter found it hard not to look round to identify the Special Branch surveillance man. Or woman? An elderly lady with a carrier bag full of newspapers was sitting along the wall from the Russian.

  ‘You have national leader who ordered workers shot down. He can order to shoot down workers’ paper.’ The Russian smiled a mirthless smile.

  ‘If any paper called on the army to lay down its arms or for readers to join an armed militia, then any government at war would close it, temporarily at least. But while the Daily Worker just promotes revolutionary defeatism or opposes the government on, say, shelter policy, well, I’m sure not. You might find that hard to understand, as the Russian press is state-controlled.’

  ‘Our press has sacred duty to tell readers what is objectively true, Mr Hill. It serves only historic interests of working class as correctly analysed by party in its leading role. We have no lackey-puppets dancing to subjective tune of international capital.’

  ‘There are other left-wing papers – Tribune – if the Daily Worker did go too far in opposing the war.’

  Burenko grimaced. ‘Tribune is rotten with defencism and cannot speak with voice of workers’.’

  ‘Your view of our press is very stimulating, Mr Burenko, but forgive me if I ask why you wished this meeting.’

  ‘Naturally we come to that. First, permit me to offer you drink.’

  The pub was filling up. Peter watched with interest how the Russian created a space for himself at the bar, caught the barmaid’s eye, was served. A self-deprecating smile and nod to those standing around him and he was back with Peter’s Guinness and a plate of well-done sausages.

  ‘A cigarette, Mr Burenko?’

  ‘You must try ours.’ He offered a long grey cigarette, one end of which was a short cardboard holder. ‘Have you smoked papirosa before? Pinch the end, like so.’ He watched approvingly as Peter drew in the strong, almost acrid smoke. ‘Good Georgian tobacco. First, we drink. Nazdarov’e.’ He held up his glass. ‘And we eat. Is tradition.’ He took a bite from a sausage. Peter followed, observing how he fell in with the Russian. Was this natural Russian hospitality? Or what they taught at NKVD school to relax the target?

  ‘This is very hospitable of you. Thank you. But Mr Burenko, I assume we are meeting again to discuss my mother’s position. I must tell you that we are growing daily more anxious about her. We quite fail to understand why she has not been allowed to return home. If she is the subject of our meeting, I must tell you that I have often thought over our last conversation and I cannot discover any step I could take to help her.’

  ‘Mr Hill, I can so much understand and sympathise with your anxiety. Any son in your position would suffer at thought of his mother in such difficulty. And how poor mother must feel. Cut off, far away. Imagine.’

  Drinkers’ lively chatter swelled around them. He noticed that the lady with the bag of newspapers appeared to be sleeping. There must have been another room as the jangle of a piano started up to cheers—We’ll Meet Again.

  ‘We find it hard to understand why nothing appears to be moving in her case. Our embassy says that all inquiries meet the reply that there are legal and administrative difficulties. What can they be?’

  ‘Mr Hill. I trade counsellor not diplomat, work for Overseas Trade Commission not External Affairs Ministry. I not diplomat so cannot speak diplomatically. However, I sympathise with young man with mother in difficulty in my country and I take interest. I make inquiries for you. This is not easy. I will not hide from you I must take care. One colleague might say: “That Burenko trade counsellor, why taking interest in Englishman’s mother legally detained in Soviet Union? What to do with trade?” And then where will we be?’ He paused to hold up his glass and drink: ‘Nazdarov’e.’ He ate another sausage, gesturing to Peter to eat. From the other room, “Keep smiling through, just like you always do, till the blue clouds chase the dark clouds far away” came in a ragged chorus. ‘I make inquiries for you. I have news. Your mother’s circumstances currently satisfactory. Her health good. However, friends must be honest with each other. There is difficulty. In region, citizens, workers and party cadres feel deep outrage that suspicious foreigner is living with luxury in their midst. They express their rejection of this in resolutions in factories, collective farms and party institutions.’

  He leaned forward and spoke more slowly. ‘Authorities worry that anger and outrage may deepen further. Authorities question must mother be moved to other city in Soviet Union for her own safety while future decided?’

  ‘To Siberia?’

  ‘My dear Mr Hill, these not time of Tsars. Allow Soviet Union to be reasonable. Your dear mother not enemy of people. She has not been found guilty of crime.’ He crushed his cigarette. ‘Better in Soviet Union tomorrow than Poland.’

  The cold, level tone of the last statement was like a slap. Peter drew breath. ‘Her safety can best be assured by allowing her to return here.’

  ‘That not possible while legal process. England would not wave aside such process. So we sit here and we wonder what more can be done. I say what if Burenko can tell to authorities this young man, her son, shows himself friend of Soviet people …?’

  ‘I appreciate your interest, Mr Burenko, but I’ve already said that there are no steps I can take to show that.’

  ‘I get another drink and we have another cigarette while we consider our situation, how we help mother.’ He waved away Peter’s counter-offer. ‘Our rules do not permit.’

  Once again he slipped like a ghost through the crowd of drinkers, found a space at the bar, was served and back in what seemed like one seamless movement.

  ‘You are served so quickly.’


  ‘Barlady is good friend. Nazdarov’e. Papirosa? When do you expect invasion?’

  ‘I was hoping your allies had told you.’

  He put on the pince-nez to look at Peter with a watery smile. ‘Perhaps at highest level. But not that of trade counsellor. This month?’

  ‘Most people believe we have to be ready for them to come at any time between now and the weather worsening in October or say the end of September. The Channel can be very rough with autumn gales and sea-sick troops can’t fight.’

  ‘So you expect them on south coast?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what the official view is. Again, most people think they could try to land anywhere between King’s Lynn on the east coast and the Isle of Wight on the south.’

  ‘Very grave strategic problem for your generals, to judge where enemy main force, point of main thrust, and so commit reserve.’

  ‘Very. And I am sure they are alert to the possibility of deception.’

  ‘And after Dunkirk is not morale of troops affected? To be chased into the sea in such a way.’

  ‘Orderly withdrawal, Mr Burenko. Orderly withdrawal. And no. Our troops feel that after Dunkirk they have the measure of the German Army and its tactics and know they can fight them off. And there’s another thing. For an invasion, the Luftwaffe must first destroy the RAF. The German Army can cross only if they have command of the sky. No sign of that.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then he will turn to face the east.’ Peter had a moment of satisfaction. ‘There is no sea barrier to an invasion of Russia. There’s a school of thought that Hitler’s invasion moves on the Channel are a cover for preparations to go east.’

  ‘You may have heard that.’ Burenko stared straight ahead. ‘I assure you Hitler will not come to your rescue by attacking my country, Mr Hill. If Churchill has hopes of being saved by Soviet Union, those hopes are madness.’

  ‘Mr Burenko, I thank you sincerely for your hospitality and your interest in my mother. If it is possible for you to inform me further about her, my family and I will be very grateful. In the meantime, we must put our trust in the Soviet legal system. Now I’m afraid I must go’

  ‘Mr Hill, I see we can make friendly conversation on matters of mutual interest. Thank you. Might be we shall continue in near future. For moment, possible I can inquire further after your mother.’ He smiled but his eyes were unchanged. ‘Please let me present you with this box of papirosy as I see you enjoy.’ He handed over the box from the table. ‘I leave with you. By the way, is true general in charge of home forces to be retired?’

  ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  Outside, Burenko said, ‘Walk with me moment. We stretch legs.’ Halfway round the square, he stopped under a plane tree and spoke again, quietly. ‘Mr Hill. That conversation – and we will have more – good for you to tell your friends. Now time for truth between us. We speak of your lady. She belongs to us, Mr Hill. Nasha. Ours. We will have her, sooner or later. Now we make you serious offer. We think you can find her. You find her, lead her to us, your mother comes back to her family. That I Nikolai Alekseevich promise.’ He shrugged. ‘If not, your mother goes to Poland and Gestapo. That also we promise. Perhaps some of my associates will not want to stop there, you must understand. This our offer. Please think over. After all, your lady must be ours one day.’

  ‘And what if I couldn’t find her?’

  Burenko took his arm. ‘My English not perfect. I think you have expression “show willing”.’ His tone was quietly level. ‘Show willing for your mother, Mr Hill. We have many ladies but only one mother. Good night.’

  ****

  ‘You said it would be hard, Nick. You were right.’

  ‘He’s the real thing.’ Nick waved the unlit stubby pipe. ‘They play to win.’

  ‘What’s to stop them sending my mother to Poland once I find Dinah?’

  ‘If they’ve made a bargain, they’re likely to stick with it. It’s in their interest. In your case, certainly. You’ll have co-operated. You’ll be a future asset.’

  ‘My mother or the woman I love. Whom would you chose, Nick?’

  ‘If he’d said mother-in-law, it would be easy, and I hated my mother for marrying again. But aren’t you missing something?’

  ‘What’s best for my country.’

  ****

  At Nick’s suggestion, he’d gone straight up to “Michelle Experienced French model 2nd floor”. The smell of Californian Poppy seemed heavier, more cloying, than on his previous visit, the pink of the room brighter. Michelle, in her uniform of tight white blouse, tight black skirt, fishnet stockings and red high-heeled shoes, had greeted him like an old friend, with offers of tea, coffee, beer, scotch. He wondered what it would be like to be wrapped about by her big-boned frame. “Suck you in and blow you back in bubbles”, as the barrack room had it. Nick had come in a few minutes later. ‘Just waiting to see if you had company. We can’t be too careful now.’ He took out the stubby pipe and put it empty in his mouth. ‘Tell me how you got on with chummy.’

  Like the Special Branch officer to whom Peter had reported earlier, Nick approved Burenko’s professionalism, the one-way hospitality, the casual threat, the show of obvious helpfulness, the flow of simple questions, the public gift. He approved it even more when he heard what Peter had not told the Special Branch man: that Burenko had mounted that whole conversation for the benefit of Special Branch, a charade, his true purpose held back for the last moment, when Peter thought it was all over.

  ‘Special Branch were very pleased, particularly over morale and the mention of Hitler’s invading Russia. They want me to meet him again, get his interests, see if he has any weaknesses besides sausages. I can be given information to feed him and help my mother at the same time.’

  ‘They had a watcher?’

  ‘They knew we walked round the square. I said he reiterated the need for me to show friendship to the Soviet Union.’

  ‘He was on target with the new appointment to Commander-in-Chief Home Forces. Not public knowledge. Impressive.’

  ‘I assume it was to warn me how well informed he was. There’s complete upheaval in my command, with the general stepping up to C-in-C. Obviously the right man, but staff are in turmoil.’

  ‘Will you be affected?’

  ‘Down at my level? Below stairs we just carry on. Burenko, though, plainly assumes I’m going to be in a position to look for Dinah.’

  ‘Which, if he does have something up his sleeve, brings you back to the question: mother or lover?’

  ‘Or country. Or all three, if we can manage it. Can we? Can I?’

  ****

  Anselm reacted to Peter’s report of his meeting with Burenko – the official version – with professional interest. ‘Now we know why Moscow is being so reticent.’ He nodded as if Peter had asked a question. ‘Yes. The embassy must still keep up the pressure or it will look as if we’re simply accepting the situation as Moscow would have it, but at last we have a proper chance to move the matter along. Your Burenko sounds a suitably unpleasant piece of work, but at least it’s Moscow he’s representing, not Bucharest.’

  ‘I can’t see where this can possibly lead. There’s no question of my giving him any real information. If I did, it would only encourage him to keep digging. But if I don’t, why should they let her go?’

  ‘Dear boy, dear boy, don’t see the position in terms quite as clear-cut. See it as a negotiation. That’s the advantage of where we’ve got to. They won’t want to hang on to her for ever. If you’re playing along, when the time’s ripe you can say “Nothing more without a consular visit”, sign of good faith, then “Nothing more without move to embassy”, and so on. If your Russki feels he’s on to a good thing, praise coming from Moscow, he’ll urge co-operation. You’ll have to work very closely with Special Branch. Not a step outside what they suggest. It might take time, but it could work.’

  ‘I suppose it’s all we have.’

  ‘It’s a jolly sight be
tter than nothing. It will require detachment and cool judgement, but I’ll be at your elbow.’

  ‘Special Branch want me to take the initiative. Invite him.’

  ‘Jolly good. No hanging back at the start. I’m sure your mother and father would be very pleased with you.’

  He walked Peter to the front door of his club, looking out at the hurrying passers-by while Peter collected his hat and gas mask. ‘Less than a year of war and shabbiness creeping in. By the way, you do realise you’re being inquired about?’

  ‘Oh no. Which agency is it this time?’

  ‘Good Lord, not an agency. Unless it’s the universal agency of mothers. Just the feelers a mother sends out when she thinks her beloved daughter has her eye on an unfamiliar young man. A very respectable family in Windsor, I understand. Strong church connections. Mother an archdeacon’s daughter. Ring a bell?’

  ‘Not a wedding bell. Amelia Phillips, I imagine. We have a drink and a meal occasionally. She’s a lady clerk in one of the special organisations. Bright, lively. Very good indeed at crosswords. Rides.’

  Anselm nodded sagely. ‘An occasional drink and meal. More than enough to alert a mother. Veronica thought you should know. She hopes you’ll join her again at the cottage. It would be very good of you to keep her company from time to time when I can’t.’

  ****

  Stepping out into the cool, damp evening, looking forward to meeting Rozalia at the Ritz, Peter cut through an alley that led unexpectedly into a hidden 18th-century square, tiny but perfect in its symmetry. In the centre was an ancient stone well, where he paused to smoke a cigarette and enjoy the square’s seclusion amid the hubbub of the streets. He was to ring Burenko and propose continuing their conversation. Concern for his mother would explain the urgency. Special Branch would arrange a safe morsel or two for him to pass on. No asking for a sign of good faith, he thought, until their real exchange, until he agreed to “show willing”. Then the consular visit should doubly be worth a try.