At the hotel, gold teeth a-glint, the porter predictably understood. A double room could be found for the stranded couple. Dinah was hanging back from the reception desk, her hat pulled down over her brow, her chin sunk into the collar of her blue blazer.
****
With relief, Peter closed the room door behind the bellboy. The wide bed was turned back, ready. The silence was velvet. The mist hid lake and mountains; whiteness enclosed the hotel, walling them in. He went to the phone and ordered cold chicken, water, coffee, fruit and a bottle of wine. They would have all their meals sent up. Out on the lake an invisible steamer called with long plaintive wails. He drew the curtains.
When he turned, she was still standing in the middle of the room, still looking, he thought, over the cliff into the mist, still hearing Oleg’s tumbling progress.
He helped her off with her blazer and hung it in the wardrobe, breathing the fragrance of Lily of the Valley. From across the room, her brocade skirt and cream blouse, a spotted kerchief at the neck, still carried off that style he remembered, but something was missing, something of the life.
‘Let’s sit down.’ He drew her unresisting to the couch. The clinking of glass and a knock made him wish he had a weapon, the Mauser in the safe at home. He reached into his pocket for his keys before opening the door to a courteously knowing waiter.
He gave her coffee and a glass of wine. They sat in silence for a while, then suddenly she spoke. ‘I knew I will die, that he will kill me. Like Elisabeth.’ She had believed the message. Canadian. Peter. She had wanted it to be true. Then the Russian had been waiting for her at the top of the lift. ‘I saw I had made a terrible mistake, but at first he said we just needed to talk. That was all. He smiled so warmly.’ He had a message for her from Moscow. Why had she stayed away for so long? They needed her. He hinted they were short of reliable agents, of experience. She would be active again. Perhaps she would even pay Moscow a visit, see her old friends. Visas could be arranged. All this time they were walking on the path, in the mist. He spoke so gently. Then he took off his jacket, produced the gun and told her to stand on the cliff edge. ‘He very slowly screwed in that metal tube and then he waited. His eyes were empty, empty. Such eyes … I’ve never seen. He said nothing. He waited.’
‘Why?’
‘I think he was enjoying the moment, my fear. Perhaps he was waiting for me to plead for my life.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘I could see anyway he will kill me. His eyes were empty. Like no one’s I’ve ever seen.’ She started to shake. ‘You came. From nowhere. You came. He was dead and I was saved.’
He put his arms round her and held her until the shaking subsided. If she made a plea for her life, that was not for him to condemn. But there had been voices in the mist.
‘They found me. I can never be safe from them.’ She sat up. ‘What is there for me now?’
‘I have a friend in London who will know. He can arrange a new life.’
‘At a price. I must betray people who trusted me. Who’ve acted as they have because they want a better world.’
He must try again. ‘They can’t be separated from the system they serve. That system. It has no conscience, it mocks decency, it trades on loyalty. It killed Elisabeth and sent Oleg to kill you.’ He took her hand, damp and trembling. ‘Don’t believe your people are innocent: they know what the system means. They serve it while it serves only its own absolute power. Individuals mean less than nothing.’
She was silent for several minutes. Then she burst out, ‘Why did you come?’ She took her hand away. ‘I am so glad and grateful. But I ask myself all the time, I cannot help it, why? Was it for me? Was it because of what I know? Or for your mother?’
Her questions were apt enough. ‘If it were just for my mother, I would have watched Oleg kill you.’ He paused to allow the thought to sink in. ‘Then they would have no reason to hold her. Of course, I’m able to be here because of what you know.’ He stood. ‘I wanted to find you because I love you and I believe you love me. You must accept that.’ In his ears, his words sounded hollow. Was it the silence around them? Was it because he was listening all the time for movement in the corridor? An eavesdropping maid, an elderly walker, the police assembling round the door? Was it because he’d heard voices in the mist? Or because of the business card in Oleg’s wallet? He’d seen the address once before, on the letter he’d taken to Whitechapel for Dinah. “M. Henri Robinson, The Fashion Fur Company, Paris.”
‘I’m so tired, I feel uncertain of everything.’ She looked up at him, her eyes blurred. ‘Forgive me. I do believe you. I do love you.’
‘You can be certain of one thing. I love you.’ On Robinson’s card someone – Oleg? – had written a phone number. The last four digits were the same as those scribbled inside the Arpège box he’d found in Dinah’s abandoned house.
She put her arms round his neck and her head on his shoulder. ‘Why did you put Arpège in the newspaper?’
‘Because you used it in London. And it must have been Elisabeth’s favourite. The flat was full of it.’ He couldn’t say her handbag.
‘How unusual you are. At Selfridges, men never remembered their girlfriends’ perfumes.’ She let down her dark hair in a wave over his shoulders and snuggled her head into his neck. ‘I’m so tired.’
‘Why not have a long bath and lie down before dinner?’
****
He wrapped himself in an eiderdown to sleep on cushions by the door.
She asked sleepily, ‘What will we do in Berne?’
He answered from the floor, ‘We’ll go to the Town Hall and be married.’
She said nothing. He wondered if she was too stunned – or had fallen asleep before he replied. How easy to slip out and phone Zürich. ‘I have the Diderot in my hands.’
Duty. Love and duty.
Chapter Thirteen
The RAF plane was too noisy for any conversation. A shout could scarcely be heard above her din – stripped down, no armament, flying feet above the ocean as fast as the pilot could push her, engines roaring, every strut vibrating, hurtling through the fading darkness towards an airfield in Wiltshire.
Just as well. Some of their fellow passengers from Lisbon plainly wouldn’t have wanted to chat, any more than he or Dinah would. Frenchmen who’d come from North Africa or via Spain from the unoccupied zone were one thing, but British diplomats and other officials, colonial officers and anonymous civilians were another.
That little group of homebound British wives had looked a problem. They instinctively wanted to take charge of Dinah when socially vigilant eyes had noted the shiny ring and the newness of the suit, the shoes and little hat, just bought for the occasion. Chic, undoubtedly. Perhaps that was what had restrained them, in their time-worn, time-honoured tailoring. Chic was always dubious. In wartime, dangerous.
Laughing, she’d insisted: ‘Even a modest young woman will not marry in her everyday dress. The most important day of a woman’s life needs something special.’
Her being so conventional startled him; then he’d seen the tears edging the laughter. He’d been looking at the marriage ceremony as purely instrumental, he’d realised; the mayor and witnesses as agents of her escape—and expecting her to join him in that. Of course, when everything was sorted out, then they’d do something special.
She’d seen more clearly. They might have only this one chance. Behind the stratagem and the false names should be their reality. Behind the false names and the watchfulness, the act that should be fully theirs. So they went to Lausanne, became a young couple for a while and she shopped for her wedding day.
He reached out and took her hand, touching the ring, slightly large—no time for sizing. She turned and smiled at him. In the early glimmers of dawn, the smile that cut her face in half and lighted her eyes with a touch of hazel.
Given the company and the destination, this RAF flight would not, repeat not, have been his choice. The marriage had been timed to catch t
he diplomatic flight – more or less town hall to airfield via Tim’s taking care of her visa. The point was to speed Dinah out of the country, smoothly as silk. The two professional witnesses from the bar were just the ticket, knew the ropes. To them, just another drink. Then the unforeseen. A Swiss mix-up over his onward flight to Britain. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. An RAF plane on the Lisbon runway with two seats to spare where a West End star, Brook Sherwin, and his wife had failed to materialise after entertaining the troops in Suez.
Dinah was squeezing his hand: the flight sergeant was coming round with life jackets. The run into the channel was the most dangerous sector: well within range of enemy fighters.
Could he have been more loving? Not to say he hadn’t gladly gone through the motions, but being watchful meant locking away his feelings. He’d so nearly got it wrong. Having to use violence. “Really a sign of failure”, she’d told him. “Inexperienced”, she’d said. Well, if experience was the name we gave to our mistakes, he was more experienced now. Overall, though, the Oprichnina’s finding and then losing Dinah was not a bad thing: the opportunity in the setback was clear enough. Though once the facts emerged, watch out. Vengeful, oh so vengeful – that was the one emotion the Oprichnina did allow. He looked ahead to London, checking the next moves. Speed was the essence.
Dinah was shouting to him and pointing to the porthole. A general buzz was filling the cabin. A fighter was flying parallel to them. As he watched, it waggled its wings and rose up and away, its RAF roundels vivid in the rising sun. They must be close. He squeezed her hand.
He’d been looking back – with a pang of regret – to his experience in Vichy and –with satisfaction – to meeting the Abwehr colonel. We didn’t breed men like that, men in whom duty spoke to military tradition, land, religion, equally harsh and unyielding. All in all, he’d felt fulfilled. Now, sitting next to him, Dinah. He was bringing her home. Strange that afforded so little sense of achievement. Too much uncertainty, too much to manage.
****
They were bumping along the grass, the wheels making contact and losing it. The plane was down, slowing violently, brakes pulling hard. England. In the immediate present, he must keep hold of who his passport said he was. The propellers clattered. There was a round of applause from the Frenchmen. Dinah looked apprehensive.
The navigator came back. ‘Welcome to Blighty. For those who’ve been away for a while, there’s a war on. Do remember the blackout. Regulations are strictly enforced. Food and petrol are rationed. If you need it, you can get advice and info on rationing and ration cards from the welfare in the station here. If you’re planning to travel to the south coast, there are a number of control areas where civilians are restricted. You can find out about those too. Bombing raids are increasing. So far, they’ve been attacking – trying to attack – mainly ports and storage, air defences and aircraft factories in the south. Our boys have done pretty well, chased them off with heavy losses. Wherever you are, always check for the nearest shelter. It could save your life.’
The door opened and a rush of cool, grassy air filled the plane. The cabin was suddenly bright, exposing its wear and tear – the chipped metal and torn seats – and the drained colour of the faces. Outside, sunlight streaked the dry, lifeless turf. Ground crew were taking luggage from the back of the plane and placing it on the ground where officials waited behind trestle tables with forms, inkpads and official stamps.
One last use for his diplomatic status. He put their luggage on the trailer that would take it to the station headquarters and went with Dinah to show first his passport, then Dinah’s with Tim’s official stamps.
A young officer came chasing after him. ‘A message for you, sir. A car is on its way to convey you to London. If you and your lady would like to avail yourself of the officer’s mess while you wait, the station commander would be very pleased. We’ll have transport going over, if you could wait for a few minutes.’
His lady. A car on its way?
****
The curtains had been drawn against the sunlight, and in the shade she had drifted off to sleep, breathing evenly, a secret smile on her lips. He had to rouse her. The car had come. The driver was having a tea break before taking them back to London.
As far as the driver knew, Lisbon had passed the deputy chargé’s flight details to the Foreign Office. The FO resident clerk had alerted the Canadian authorities. With a little cough: ‘Actually, there’s no mention of a lady wife.’ That was an administrative slip, no doubt. ‘Naturally, most welcome to ride along.’
To …?
The driver’s requisition named a hotel in Knightsbridge, but there was a letter…
A double envelope, the inner sealed with a thin wafer. In his neat, somewhat elaborate, script, Hendersley welcomed him back and thanked him for a job very well done. Unfortunately, he had to be in the country for the weekend but would be grateful if Peter would call in on Monday morning. They could begin debriefing and discuss the future. For the moment, he would be grateful if Peter would continue in his present state and status, in which he had been booked into the hotel, courtesy of HMG. However, his Oxford friend was anxious to talk at the earliest opportunity and on Saturday morning would either come to the hotel or meet him nearby. Confirmation had been left at the hotel, also funds and papers.
Leaving the Officers’ Mess, he saw one of the reception officials using the public telephone. The man winked as Peter passed by and made a kissing motion towards the receiver. Didn’t they have an office? Perhaps he was ringing his extra-curricular girlfriend.
****
In the suburbs, the driver pointed to the occasional bombsite: the side of a house ripped off, the fireplaces and pipes exposed; a factory and warehouse reduced to a skeleton; a road torn up with a broken gas main warning; on the gate to local allotments, a notice, “Unexploded bomb”. Scrawled underneath was “Not a Jerry bomb. That’s Jack’s prize marrow”.
The pavements were thronged as they neared the West End, stores busy, teashops packed. Hoardings advertised films and shows. In spite of petrol rationing, traffic was jammed in the approach to Hyde Park. London as usual. Apart from the ubiquitous sandbags, strapped windows and, everywhere, notices for air raid shelters and ARP points.
The car turned into a narrow street behind Knightsbridge. Peter knew the hotel – small, inconspicuous, very comfortable. Up from the country, his elderly aunts and female second cousins would stay there, pleased by its tranquillity, gratified by its unobtrusive creature comforts. He hoped the threat of bombing was keeping them at home.
HMG’s courtesy had extended to a single room. His wife would, Peter explained, be leaving for the country, probably after an early dinner. In the meantime, she would take advantage of his room to tidy up after their journey and rest before dining. He was expecting an envelope. Had they not received it? The duty manager was called to open the safe. Cash, chequebook, ration cards, diplomatic identity card. On a sheet stamped “Secret” in red, confirmation of Monday’s appointments with Hendersley and the Canadian minister—and, the very next morning, with Mr Oxford in a mansion block two streets away.
While she was in the bathroom, he slipped out to the nearby tube station and made three telephone calls. Nick was out of the office. Burenko was out, but would be back shortly. The third, to Podger, was successful.
****
As he explained, when he’d calmed her after his longer-than-expected absence, she must stay under cover until they could meet his official contact, who’d have a safe place for her to stay. Till then, a good friend would look after her – in Finsbury, over in east London – and he’d just been calling him to say here they were. They were used to keeping people and things out of the way, the friend and his mother. ‘Quite expert, I’d say.’ No one would have any idea of looking for her with them. ‘It won’t be luxurious, but no worse than where you lived before, with your grandfather, and only for a day or two.’
‘Will you come?’ She got up from the bed on wh
ich she’d been sitting to stand facing him.
‘If I think it’s safe. It worries me that your friends in the Foreign Office might get wind of your arrival on that flight.’
‘And where did you meet him, this friend who is expert at keeping people out of the way?’
‘In the army. He’s called Potts, known as Podger, and he’s a crook.’
She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘You will leave your new wife with a crook named Podger?’
He cupped his hands round her narrow waist. ‘I will leave my new wife where I believe she will be safe from the Oprichnina—and among working men.’
‘You will forget her and go to the woman who taught you about the Oprichnina.’
‘Never.’
‘How green your eyes are, my new husband.’
He took her in his arms and after what seemed the slightest of hesitations she opened herself to him.
****
Before they went to dinner, she asked, ‘Can your wife see her grandfather?’
‘I don’t think that would be wise just yet.’
‘I would really like to see him. There is so much to talk about.’
****
He’d expected an ornate Victorian pub, but the Crown – William IV from the signboard – was at the end of a Georgian terrace, its plain black and white wooden frontage built out over what had been the front garden.
The street was quiet. A small group of men were lounging outside, chatting in the warm night over their pipes and pints. By the blacked-out double doors at the front, a woman in a dustcoat and headscarf with a pram was sipping a ruby-coloured drink from a port glass and smoking. A little girl with ringlets was relieving herself in the gutter. To the south, the bright pencil lines of searchlights abruptly criss-crossed the night sky over the docks, but there had been no alarm and no double throb of German bomber engines.
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