The taxi had dropped them off 200 yards away and they’d walked to the side door and into the snug to find Mrs Podger, as promised, waiting over a brandy and lemon. She took in Dinah with maternal warmth, no questions asked. A homely room was waiting for her in Mrs Podger’s own house next to the pub, with a patch of sheltered garden to walk in. And they would see about her putting a bit of weight on, and a bit of colour in her cheeks, wouldn’t they, sir. Kitch was in the public bar.
‘Kitch?’
‘Kitchener. Mr Potts worshipped him.’
As he went into the bar, the atmosphere quietened. Through the haze of smoke, he could see Podger laying down the law in what looked like a business conference, but he broke off at once to limp over and greet him.
‘’Ello Mr ’ill. How are you? Been getting in first, I ’ope.’ The chatter picked up at once. His mother would treat Dinah like one of her own. The barman would keep an eye open for inquisitive strangers. Her lack of ration cards? Not a problem. Podger pointed down at the pub cellar. ‘No need to go short in this war, for them as ’as their own supply.’ No questions from Podger, either. Peter supposed they were used to friends and associates needing two or three days out of sight.
Recompense? ‘No question of payment, Mr ’ill. This is between friends. If you knows of anyone in need, food, petrol, tyres – anyone reasonable, that is – putting them in touch would be appreciated.’
‘My friend was very grateful for your help with her exhibition: made a real difference for her.’ The memory of Rozalia at the opening brought a remorseful pang: how easily he’d put his sorceress on one side. ‘I do know someone else who might be a useful business contact. I’ll see if I can arrange a meeting. Do you know the Dingo Club?’ They shook hands. Podger went back to his conference – two heavily built older men, Peter noted, a small sharp-featured man with the air of an lawyer or accountant, and an anxious-looking man, tall and thin, who could have been local official of some sort.
The snug was empty. Just a hint of Lily of the Valley, or was he imagining that? Anxiety flooded him, then the barman put a double whisky in the hatch. ‘On the house, sir.’ His friend had gone next door and would be back in a moment.
She came through the door marked “Private – No Entry”. ‘Hello, Mr Peter.’ She laughed. ‘Have you been waiting long?’ She’d taken off her jacket; her dark hair covered her shoulders.
‘Long enough to miss you.’ They clasped each other’s hands. ‘Stay under cover,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring the pub to see how you are. I’m sure I’ll be back for you on Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. Mrs Potts and Podger will look after you, and everyone will be keeping an eye open.’
‘She’s very motherly. She’s told me about the air-raid alarm and where is the shelter. They have their own, that is only friends allowed in. She says I must have a hot drink before bed.’ She grimaced. ‘But I feel I will miss the lake, its changing moods. I tried to walk by it each day.’
‘I love you, my wife.’
‘I love you, Mr husband Peter.’ She smiled her widest smile. ‘I will always love you.’ Conscious of the hatch into the bar, they kissed chastely.
‘I will always love you.’ His voice sounded hollow in his ears again. Was it the nearby presence of the barman? Reproach over Rozalia? Or the memory of voices sounding in the mist?
He opened the door marked “No Entry” and she went in without looking back.
****
He had to walk a long way before coming across a taxi; even then he didn’t take the first or second. Once seated, he put away thoughts of the afternoon and evening to mull over what the next day, Saturday, would hold. His mother’s fate.
****
Reichenau was making coffee. He sent Peter to the drawing room while he went back to the kitchen, seemingly quite at home in the solidly furnished flat, though there was no sign of anyone living there. Then they sat and drank his coffee in silence for a moment: it was good, the real thing.
‘I don’t want to hear about your French mission. That’s not for me to know. I do want to know in detail about my mission. You did well. It seems Barbara was impressed. Your approach gave him confidence to go ahead.’
Detail was right, even though the whole episode had been pretty short. So this was how professionals did it. Orderly, organised, taking him through events moment by moment, beginning with his making the rendezvous and finishing at a point after he’d left the Schweizerhof. The major had him repeat certain sequences, even rehearsing one back to him with a false detail to see if he checked it. As he questioned and listened, he made few notes, just the occasional phrase jotted down. Curiously, he put the same question as Barbara, whether Peter had brought in a colleague, thought it best, just someone to keep an eye open for him. At the end, he asked Peter for his impression of the man and his motivation.
‘The historic obligation of land, family, army, and the confessing church.’
‘He comes from a military family; his grandfather was one of Bismarck’s generals. They’ve held their estates in the remote east for untold generations.’
‘How was his “Sea Lion” report received?’
‘As yet another invasion rumour, I’m afraid. One of many from unknown foreign sources. We couldn’t show how good this source was.’
‘He believed that Russia was Hitler’s real ambition, not England.’
‘He was one of the former Reichswehr officers who had contact with the Russian military.’
‘I’m sure he’s part of a group, all risking their lives. I hope his material is respected in the future.’
‘He’s strong and experienced. All we can do is to keep him secure at this end. I know you understand that; you’re the only one to meet him, to have met him.’
****
He had time to kill before meeting Burenko at 4.20 up in Hampstead, on Primrose Hill, just to the north of Regent’s Park. Most of the people he knew would have gone out of town if they could, war or not, getting away from the sweltering heat, unusual for September. But bumping into a friend or acquaintance was still a risk. The streets were bustling with shoppers.
He could walk from Knightsbridge by back ways, have lunch as he went, and arrive in time to scout the rendezvous. A panama would be a good idea. Wasn’t there a hat shop in one of the side streets near Baker Street, on the way to Primrose Hill?
He found it, a little ready-to-wear hatter and haberdasher, just across from a Women’s Auxiliary Fire Service and Ambulance Station. Firefighters were sitting in the shade, dozing, smoking, drinking tea, knitting, playing cards on top of beer crates, a study in calm and relaxation. Perhaps envying their leisure, the hatter couldn’t wait to get him out—with or without a panama. Any size would do, take the money, shut the door, put up the “Closed” sign.
As he flexed the hat to make it comfortable, thinking how much more courteous they were in Berne – or Vichy, for that matter – even at closing time, a woman in slacks came out of the ambulance station. She looked up and down the road, caught sight of him and began waving, energetically, no, frantically.
He put on the hat, pulled it down and set off, brisk but not running, away from the woman – Ella, just off her driver’s shift. She sprinted up behind him, her steel helmet and gas mask banging on her hips, and caught his elbow, pulling him to a halt.
‘Where the hell have you been, Peter Hill?’ She stopped to catch her breath. ‘In jug? Even father couldn’t find out what you were up to. Why have you let a lunatic German stay in the flat? And what are you doing for Mother?’
‘Not in jug, sister dear. He’s a lunatic Austrian. And I’m sending a gunboat.’ They hugged and hugged. Ella suggested a quiet pub that did pie and chips.
‘One thing first.’ He held her by her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘I’ve been away. I am not, repeat not, telling you – even you, my dearest Ella – anything more about myself, where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, where I’m going, how to get in touch. Nothing. I can’t. One day. Not now
. It’s the war. Understood?’
‘Understood, Mr Mystery.’ She hugged him again.
****
She’d hitched her return to England on one of their father’s War Office missions. ‘I just missed London and hated being a colonial lady when I wasn’t with the troops.’ On the strength of her work with forces in the desert, she was an official artist for London at war.
‘Not that there’s much war to draw. Plenty of false alarms, but everyone spends as little time as possible in the shelters—they get so disgusting. People just do it anywhere. The stench!’ She’d gone back part-time to the ambulance unit, as a driver, but they were hardly ever called out. ‘It really looks as if Hitler’s decided to give London a break.’ She fanned herself with her sketchbook. They sat near a window but the air was still sticky.
‘He probably wants to knock out our airfields first. How thin this beer is.’
‘Where have you been, Mr Mystery? Somewhere with real beer?’
‘This is thinner than most. It must be the very fat man’s watered workers’ beer.’
‘And you’ve been having “a drop for yourself from a very special lot”, I suppose.’ She looked disbelieving. ‘Now what about Mother? It was such a shock. I thought Father would have apoplexy when they wouldn’t let him leave Egypt to go to her. The GOC threatened him with arrest.’
‘Did you manage to ask Father when you were out there? About Mother. About us.’
‘Hopeless. I knew he wouldn’t say a word in her absence.’
‘And we won’t get a word out of Veronica, not before the parents have told us what’s what, though Veronica did tell me she thought Mother was still Polish. Have you heard anything more about her?’
‘According to Anselm she’s having regular consular visits while her case is proceeding and the consul says she’s well and in good spirits. Veronica said you’d negotiated with some Russian spy to get the consul in.’
‘He got in touch with me while I was stationed here, but then I was ordered away.’
‘You’ll try again? You were unexpectedly successful, Veronica said.’
‘Of course, if I get the chance I’ll try. Mother has to be got out of there.’
Ella looked away. ‘Family secrets are a curse.’ She had spoken in French, almost to herself.
‘The family’s curse is this secret.’ He replied in French but switched to English to ask, ‘How’s the professor?’
She smiled. ‘He says you are out agitating in the factories and coalfields, rousing the revolutionary spirit in the masses and calling on toilers to down tools in a general strike against an imperialist capitalist war.’
‘So you do know where I’ve been. Beer?’
When he came back, she opened her sketchbook and began scribbling little likenesses of him as she spoke. ‘I don’t understand why you had to take him in. Why isn’t he with Dinah? He won’t talk about her, just says she’s away. Strange she hasn’t called. How is she? You’re not married without telling me?’
‘When her grandfather was interned, she vanished. Here one minute, gone the next.’ In answer to her unspoken question, he added, ‘It’s the war. I know she’ll be in touch with me when she can. Anyway, I was called up. Then without any warning they let him go and he turned up at the flat with nowhere to live. It was the flat or a common lodging house.’ He shrugged. ‘And he seemed to be good for Madame. Did you know she’s called Claudine-Jeanne? Mother’s predicament quite flattened her. She seemed to blame herself for not being able to help.’
‘I think they play cards all day when she’s not cooking for him and he’s not planning the general strike. He’s very charming in a Viennese-y way but you feel he’s watching you the whole time.’
‘Perhaps it’s a habit he picked up in the camp.’
‘Between him and Claudine-Jeanne, it’s impossible to relax.’ She rolled her eyes and mimed pulling her hair.
‘Poor Ella. Get him to teach you German. I believe he’s a very good teacher.’
She looked round, then spoke in a whisper over her beer glass. ‘Why is there a revolver in the safe?’
‘The Mauser? I captured it in France when I was in the great retreat. Use it if German parachutists come knocking. They might be dressed as nuns. You can get your own back on the convent.’
‘I’ll try it. I gave Veronica hers.’ She looked at her sketches. ‘You’re different. Something’s changed about you.’
‘My hair? T’was a locum wot cut it.’
‘Not the hair. Very manly.’ She was still staring at the sketch. ‘Something to do with the eyes.’
‘I must go. I’m so happy to have seen you. Look after yourself. Best not to tell anyone you’ve seen me. I’ll tell you when.’
****
He was sitting with his back against a tree, hat, jacket, tie and collar on the grass, shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, head shielded from the sun by his handkerchief, knotted at the corners. He took off his shoes and socks, pulled up his trousers and began to read his Daily Express, from time to time glancing at the crowds enjoying their Saturday afternoon.
Under the blue sky, Primrose Hill had a jaunty bank holiday air – children in sunhats, shorts and sandals, bare-legged girls decorous in cotton skirts, elderly couples under straw hats and parasols – though the patchwork of khaki and blue spoke of war. Young women in slacks lolled on the grass ogled by bright sparks in open-necked shirts and flannels.
Burenko was there. Directly below, by the gate. White suit, straw hat with the brim turned down all round, pince-nez dangling from their black ribbon, black shoes. Seen from the hill, one of Chekhov’s gallery of supporting characters: Nikolai Alekseevich, local landowner, doctor, teacher. The urgent manner in which Burenko was talking to his companion reinforced that impression as he explained, perhaps instructed, perhaps directed, paused only to smile at the children running round them in search of the drinking fountain inside the gate. The Russian lifted a finger in emphasis or warning, then pointed to the ground and shook his head. The man nodded from time to time, but an interjection seemed to agitate Burenko and he waved his pince-nez at the man. Finally, Burenko clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and sent him on his way, watching him go.
So Raymond Steiner had been brought to London. Masquerading as a De Gaulle supporter, no doubt, with a German bullet for his credentials. As he walked off down the road, he was carrying his left arm and shoulder stiffly. Pity the shot hadn’t hit a bit lower, a bit to the right.
Burenko was consulting his watch, looking round. He was setting off slowly up the hill towards their meeting place, stopping to take off his hat and mop his brow. His glance swept over the crowds. If he saw a man under a tree reading the Express, a knotted handkerchief keeping off the sun and bare feet stuck out in front of him, well, that one man seemed to make no particular impression on him, one more working man among the afternoon crowds.
No turning back. He was ready.
****
Burenko had found a seat on the top of the hill, looking out over the City, its offices, banks and counting houses tranquil under the warm haze. Children ran up and down the slope, while their parents stood and chatted. In peacetime, Peter thought, they would have been flying their kites. A soldier from the Worcestershire Regiment asked if the big church with a dome was Westminster Abbey. An elderly man with a regimental tie corrected him and began to point out the landmarks. Peter looked away, trying to place Finsbury in the featureless agglomeration that was east London. Was Dinah, safe at last, sitting in Mrs Potts’s patch of garden?
As he walked past Burenko, they reognised each other, shook hands, chatted for a moment about the remarkable weather, shared their pleasure in the view, agreed to take a stroll, and set off across the grass.
‘So, Mr Hill, you returned. Your mission over. Your friends and family must be glad to see you back safely.’
‘They are, I believe. My family will be even happier when we are all together, united again.’
> ‘Yes. War is bad for families, tearing them apart. Our counter-revolutionary war scattered my own family, some never to be known again.’
‘I understand the famine, too, destroyed many families. I hope yours did not suffer in that.’
Burenko was silent. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. His hair seemed thinner.
‘Mr Burenko, let us come to the point.’
The Russian fanned himself in silence.
‘Now you have what you wanted, when can I expect news of my mother’s release?’
‘We have what we wanted, you say?’ He put his hat on. ‘We have what we want only, only when she, your lady, ours. This you know. Nasha. Ours, Mr Hill.’
‘But you have had her. Now, my mother—’
‘How so had her? Tell me, what mean?’ He waved his finger. ‘Where? When?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Burenko was silent, stony-faced.
‘Or is it that you haven’t been told. Perhaps your colleagues in Switzerland wished to claim the success for themselves?’
Burenko stopped and turned to face Peter. ‘You try to jest? You not know of what you jest. Take care, Mr Hill.’
‘Jest?’ He paused. ‘I have never been more serious.’
‘I do not know what you are meaning.’ The Russian drew himself up. ‘If you wish this conversation to continue, you will at once explain.’
Peter gripped the Russian’s elbow, digging his thumb into the flesh. ‘I hope for your sake you or your people are not attempting to break our agreement.’
‘Our agreement good.’ Burenko pulled his arm free. ‘Know what exactly, Mr Hill please.’
‘That Dinah Altschuler is dead. Dead. Killed in Switzerland. By your agent.’
‘Dead? Killed, you say?’ He fanned himself with his hat. ‘By our agent? Killed in Switzerland? How you know this?’
‘I can understand that you didn’t trust me to hand her over.’ Peter moved away. Burenko caught him up. ‘You asked me why I should betray a girl I was to marry. You told me betrayal was not simple. I understand. You – or your superiors possibly – didn’t believe I would act. Your agents hung back and waited. I found her, but they were waiting.’
Innocence To Die For Page 47