Back in the street, he took some deep breaths of cool night air, then walked into the shadowy darkness of the square and stood watching the club entrance. Burenko was staying to see the cabaret. Who knew Ella was in Egypt, drawing.
****
In The Looking Glass, Rozalia’s advice had fortified him: “Do something out of the ordinary – for them. These sons of the Oprichnina – you know? The political police for Ivan Grozny, the Terrible – expect you to lie down before their black horses and iron brooms. Stand firm. Show force. He will not love you for it; then, he won’t love you anyway. He will respect it.”
Nonetheless, a nerve-racked 48 hours followed before Burenko rang to suggest meeting. In the meantime, Special Branch was very pleased with the nightclub encounter. The policy discussion, of course, had gone to plan, but they were particularly taken with Burenko’s wanting to stay on to see the show. ‘Susceptible. Perhaps we can put something a little more adult his way.’
His mother’s move to Kiev initially shocked Anselm: her plight could no longer be considered a local difficulty. Then he found something of a silver lining in the bureaucratic benefits, curiously close to what Burenko had said. If he thought Peter had gone too far in walking out, he kept it to himself, commenting only ‘good shot’.
Of course, both Special Branch and Anselm had an edited version of what had passed. Nick, who had the full account, was reassuring. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll go along. He’ll want you to think you can play tough guy. Make you over-confident. Fingers crossed he moves quickly enough. Unless he understands the timescale, of course. I’m curious to know who fixed you up with this Vichy thing. Did you get the feeling chummy knew? When he said you had something for him?’
Chapter Five
The young Canadian second secretary stood up, looking very serious as he greeted Peter:
‘“There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold.”’
Peter replied without hesitation:
‘“The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold.”’
The second secretary smiled and held out his hand. Peter felt he had passed some test, though what he couldn’t have said.
‘Welcome to Canada. Mr Hill, I think we can start getting you fixed up. Robert Service is an honorary Canadian, of course. He still carries his British passport. But I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t make a great honorary Canadian too. You’ve a busy few days ahead of you before you go; you’ll get to know us and how we work.’
****
He locked his mother and Burenko away to concentrate on Canada, cramming hard in the cultured peace of the London Library and engaging in long discussions with the Canadians on Canadian politics, foreign and defence policy and the official responsibilities of his role in Vichy.
He still made time to help Rozalia prepare for the gallery’s summer exhibition. She’d closed while she took delivery of paintings and planned the hanging. He checked the guest-list for the opening and proof read the catalogue, always refreshed by the time he spent with her. She offered cups of mint tea and shared her ideas on hanging, the sequence of pictures, apparently guided by aesthetic choice, in fact by sales psychology and knowledge of fashionable taste. ‘We must allow the art world to sneer at Matisse and move on.’ But, she confided, the art was one thing; what refreshments were on offer was another. Crucial to the metropolitan art critics attending; crucial to their staying. ‘And with the shortages and rationing … Being foreign doesn’t help; we haven’t the previous contacts.’
‘I have one, a contact from the Army. I’m sure he’ll be helpful. At a price.’ Pleased to have something for her, he looked in his pocketbook for Podger’s number at the Finsbury Crown. ‘I’ll ring now and introduce you. Mr Potts. “Podger” his friends call him.’
****
Podger had been an inspired suggestion, she said. Shrewd over her requirements – ample but nothing too showy, he’d advised – and while businesslike, generally helpful. But after all that, would the Germans let the opening go ahead? ‘When the phone rings and it is you, my heart stops, my dear.’ She laughed. ‘That is in case it is “Napoleon”.’
‘I’m no longer close to it. I do know the danger is seen to be growing daily. While I’m still here, I’ll ring. I’ll ask a friend when I’m away.’ The staff sergeant would do it, he was sure.
‘You are going alone into another country, are you not? I will send my thoughts to you.’
Should he share more with her about his trip? He felt so close to her. His reflections were interrupted. Lady Lewis, the elderly lady from Lowndes Square, came in to buy the Delaunay from him, strictly on condition he delivered it.
****
‘We meet,’ Burenko said abruptly. He suggested mid-afternoon in Regent’s Park where the Irish Guards’ band would be playing.
‘Along you go. Definitely,’ said Special Branch. He should find out what more the Russian wanted and see if he could be got into a real club. ‘Something a bit livelier than the last place, all those young solicitors and bishops’ daughters.’
****
Uniformed nannies pushed babies in cavernous prams, parents proudly watched their children race laughing and shouting across the grass, couples strolled hand in hand, the elderly sunned themselves on benches as they tapped their feet to the overture to Iolanthe. Around the bandstand, the park was crowded and so normal, he thought. Oh so normal – if you looked only at these sunny Sunday people. But look just beyond the band, bright in their traditional regimentals. Look there at anti-aircraft pits dug in behind barbed wire, long-barrelled guns rearing skyward, huge searchlights tilting to the heavens, gun-crews in battledress drinking tea, an officer shouting against the music into a field telephone. Above them, elephantine balloons jerking and swaying against the clear sky. So far, all the German bombing attacks had been along the channel and over the south coast. If they came over London in force, could these guns defend the capital?
He found Burenko in a deckchair listening to the Nutcracker Suite, smiling and beating time with his pince-nez at a child watching him from its mother’s knee. He dropped into the chair beside him and waited for the piece to end. Burenko clapped enthusiastically at the child.
‘You like children, Mr Burenko?’
‘Of course. We Russians are family people, love large families, love children—our little princes.’
‘Do you have any of your own?’
‘I have two, but sadly they die when baby at hands of White Russians and Trotskyites in attempted counter-revolution. My wife also.’ The band started to play Constant Lambert. ‘Come, we walk some little. Perhaps we find ice-cream.’
‘I’m afraid the ice-cream men have all been locked up.’
They were deeper into the park before Burenko spoke again, well beyond the gun-emplacements, walking over grass already parched. ‘Mr Hill, when this matter between us is over, I hope you will say: “That Burenko, he did his best to help with my mother.” For my part, I want you to know that I understand and admire your principled stand when you ask for concession.’
‘Scarcely a concession, Mr Burenko, a consular visit.’
Burenko held up his hand in admonishment. ‘Mr Hill, let us not argue over words. I happy to tell you that I, Trade Counsellor Nikolai Alekseevich Burenko, have made plea on your behalf with authorities. I very happy to tell you mother will have British consul visit. As we speak, you and I, arrangements being made.’ He paused to put on his pince-nez and scrutinise Peter with an air of triumphant goodwill.
‘Mr Burenko, on behalf of my family I thank you most sincerely for your work on our behalf. News of the visit will come as a great relief to all of us.’
‘My friend, I can tell you this visit will happen whatever we agree on other matter between us.’ He nodded towards a bench under a clump of trees and they set off towards it.
‘Mr Burenko, I feel confident we can now go ahead together.
Shortly, I will be in France and Switzerland. I will do my best to contact my friend, if she is there. I hope you agree this shows willing. If she is not there, I can do no more.’
Burenko’s expressionless eyes held his. ‘If successful, you will tell us.’
‘Yes. I will tell you.’
The wind blowing through the trees sounded like the sea rustling on a beach. He heard her say: “A good agent divides the mind into separate compartments, personal and professional, and knows when to move from one to the other, can live and act in one or the other”.
Burenko was speaking. ‘If we ask, lead her to us.’
‘If that is necessary.’
‘Let us be clear. You tell me you will betray girl you would marry. I have to ask why I should believe this betraying? Why I should believe Englishman with his code of honour will betray.’
‘She deceived me and walked out on me. I want my mother back home. I have only one mother but there are many women. As you said.’
‘Do not play games. I tell you in all honesty to betray a friend cannot be simple. Betraying those close to you must torment with fires of hell, first time. Think carefully your promise, my young friend. We never forgive those who betray us. Not her, not you.’
‘Do not forget I have seen what you do. I will carry out my part. You must swear that my mother will be returned here.’
‘You have my word.’
‘And you will leave me alone to act. Not to claim afterwards that your people found her.’
‘Agreed.’
The wind was stronger, the sea’s rush louder. Peter let it sweep over him before he spoke. ‘Understand this, Mr Burenko, for your sake. I, too, will not forgive betrayal.’ The white peignoir patterned with red was before his eyes.
‘You will have no need for extreme measure.’
They strolled back to the band, standing to listen to its last item, a rousing version of Cockaigne. The child at whom Burenko had been waving must have become bored; his mother had taken him to play catch behind the seats.
As they strolled, Burenko said they would meet once more. He would give Peter a contact in Switzerland for passing information or to be used if he needed help. ‘We have certain relationship with Gestapo, working relationship. The contact can help you there too if you run in trouble.’ For the benefit of Peter’s “friends”, they agreed some questions on which Burenko had asked Peter to make inquiries.
‘No ice-cream, Mr Hill. This very sad in lovely public park with so many peoples. In Moscow, we would have ice-cream. I see your mother in good hands. Now it rests with you. Do not weaken, Mr Hill.’
The conductor saluted the audience. The band began packing their instruments. Burenko walked away among the departing crowds. The mother was pushing her child along in its pushchair and a smiling Burenko twirled his pince-nez at him.
Impossible to like him, most of all when he was announcing a concession: hell would be staffed by men like Burenko.
****
‘He must think it’s Christmas, or whatever they have, finding you in his net.’ The Special Branch man was in a congratulatory mood. ‘You could be one of his best sources.’
‘I won’t be a source much longer. One more meeting and I’m posted.’
‘But you’ll be back, won’t you? And he’ll think he’s got this hold over you. As he sees it, of course. From our point of view, a dream double agent, if you’re happy to go on helping, of course.’
‘I thought we had it settled he had a wife in Moscow,’ said the second Special Branch man, who usually sat silently smoking his pipe. ‘Works in the party apparatus. Unusual to send a single man abroad.’
‘Wife or no wife, see if you can get him into a real nightclub this time. We’ll fish out some answers for you to keep him happy.’
‘And looking forward to your return,’ said the second through his pipe.
****
Lady Veronica rang, sounding delighted. Anselm had heard from the Diplomatic. His mother had been moved to Kiev, according to the Soviet Foreign Ministry, to speed up the process. She was in a main hotel and the British consul was on his way to see her. The Soviet authorities had promised a speedy resolution of the problem. ‘Anselm says “Well done”. What a relief for you when you’re set to disappear again.’
****
‘This is getting serious.’ Nick took out the stubby pipe, filled it thoughtfully, and then put it back in his pocket.
‘If it’s serious, ask Michelle if you can. Just this once.’
Nick grinned. ‘Do you know what you’re doing? You’re juggling eggs in the high rigging with the wind getting up. You’ve engaged yourself to Burenko to find Dinah and betray her to him and his nasty friends. He’s shown willing on your mother, that is to say he’s shown you his power over her. You hope – plan is too strong a word – to find Dinah, tell Burenko, hold him off until they release your mother, and then bring Dinah to us to blow the gaffe on Moscow’s little friends in Whitehall on our promise to keep her safe. Or have I misunderstood?’
‘Have I an alternative?’
‘Leave Dinah be. She’s disappeared successfully so far or they wouldn’t be blackmailing you. Rely on our improving relations with Moscow to see your mother home. Do this funny job of yours then take a commission or move into the FO proper. Sooner or later, we’ll catch these traitors or they’ll give themselves away.’
‘Not before they’ve entrenched themselves further. The point is that Burenko’s friends will dispose of my mother tomorrow if I don’t go along with him. I’m worried for Ella, too. Improved diplomatic relations, such as they are with Cripps, won’t make a scrap of difference. Then, Dinah can’t hide for ever: they won’t rest until they’ve found her. This gives her – and us with her – a fighting chance. Choice?’
Michelle came in with cups of tea.
‘Tea like my mother made, nice and strong.’ Nick picked up one and sipped it. ‘That’s good. You’re not wasting your ration on us I hope.’
‘One of my gentlemen is in the trade. Another hour all right? I’ve a regular.’
****
Nick used the hour to lecture him on practicalities. If Peter was planning a newspaper advertisement, then it should be for property lost not found; he should try to have a third party place the advertisement. ‘If the first ad doesn’t work, try again but change one item.’ If arranging a meeting, ‘Don’t meet in main railway or bus stations. Don’t meet in small villages or cafes in out-of-the-way places. Arrange to bump into each other where you can see if there’s any opposition, then go to a big restaurant or café, a church or gallery, a park. Always have a danger signal. We’ll need to keep in touch. I’ll see who’s in the representation and if we can set up secure communication.’
‘Not through the FO, I assume.’
‘We won’t know who’s reading the cables. One more thing, Peter. Assuming you meet Dinah, assuming she agrees to leave with you, assuming she agrees to leave to talk to us, have you any idea how you’ll get her out?’
‘I’ll follow Ponsonby’s rule of life: “Always know how you’ll get out before you get in”. I won’t let Burenko know anything until I’m sure I’ve got her out. If I can’t find a means, I’ll call it off.’
‘Your mother?’
‘If I do my best, I hope I can live with my guilt.’
Nick nodded, took out his pipe, pressed the tobacco down and put it in his mouth unlit.
‘I think your pipe is saying time to go. One last thing. In the park, were the woman and child part of Burenko’s team?’
‘I’d lay money on her being there to see if you had company.’
‘Shall I go first?’
****
In the anteroom, dressed from neck to feet in a black cassock that opened down the back to reveal a tightly laced black corset, Michelle was laying out school canes. She picked one up and swished it at him menacingly.
‘Not my taste, thank you.’
‘Some of my gentlemen love them.’ She
swished it again. ‘Who’s been a naughty boy? Who’s been hiding things? Who’s been telling tales? Who deserves punishment?’ The cane cut the air with a swish.
Chapter Six
Hendersley had called for him with a car. ‘A friend of yours has asked to meet you.’
With no further explanation than ‘He’s asked me not to say more; it’s supposed to be a surprise’, they’d driven through the Chilterns to a secluded house near High Wycombe. A burly manservant with a square chin and cropped hair greeted them. ‘Upstairs, sir. In the study.’
****
‘You have left your shotgun at home today, corporal?’
At the question, Peter was back in the cove, with the hope against hope of a dawn escape in the Belle Marie. The tide flooding up the inlet, glinting in the rising sun. The section singing ‘My old man…’ Morgan running. The kick of the shotgun. The face exploding.
‘How good to see you again.’ Dressed in blazer and flannels, Major Reichenau formerly of the Abwehr, Peter’s French trophy, put down his pen and came from behind his desk to shake Peter’s hand. ‘The man who was my salvation. I have never had a chance to thank you.’ He was wringing Peter’s hand vigorously. ‘I’m sorry to have caught you by surprise.’
Surprise? Dumbfounded was the word. He recovered listening to the major’s story. One of Admiral Canaris’s recruits to the Abwehr, Reichenau had been passing information to the British via the Czech Secret Service – orders of battle and so on. Then a secret document left behind in a British Embassy safe in The Hague had alerted the Gestapo. Investigators were following up hard. Out of the blue, Sergeant Abs from their criminal police had been assigned to him as his so-called assistant, and from that moment he’d known his days were numbered. So, that very morning, as Peter had led his men down into the inlet, he too was searching for a passage to England. His situation was near desperate: he had to deal with Sergeant Abs and, he knew, German field police had been ordered to the area, apparently in search of the British.
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