I was shocked but disguised my shock by laughing lightly. ‘Then someone like me comes along. Someone who doesn’t know the rules and spoils your cosy game.’
Stewart lifted his glance in a silent salute. ‘We need someone like you every so often, Norma, to remind us just how far we have fallen from our ideals.’
‘Did anyone in the Linlithgow Hunt keep his idealism?’ I asked. ‘Refuse to compromise?’
Stewart frowned thoughtfully. ‘Your guardian, Ernest Roberts, came damned close.’
Robbie – my lovely, naïve, romantic Robbie – a member of MI6? I covered my confusion as best I could but Stewart chuckled gently. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’ he asked. ‘I suppose Denis didn’t want to spoil any illusions you might have had. Oh no, Robbie was from Deeside and the Hunt before London tamed him. And gave him his cover: a gentle little tea merchant from Mincing Lane. Robbie penetrated the toughest tongs in Malaya before malaria took its toll. Malaria and unrequited love.’
The steward appeared at our table with a chafing dish of crêpes Suzette, and as he deftly flipped them onto our plates I took the opportunity to take stock. Stewart was clearly trying to throw me off balance in turn with his confidences and his whispered secrets, and I wondered why. Whatever the reason, I told myself, I must resist, must keep to the high ground, must keep my powder dry. Must maintain my edge.
But Stewart was still on the attack: ‘Of course, it was Robbie who put about the story that your mother was the Grand Duchess Anastasia,’ he said blandly. ‘It put you in the catbird seat, my dear. Your average Commissar may be proletarian to his bootstraps, but he still has a sneaking admiration for the Romanovs.’
I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been. It had been a fancy of Robbie’s that Mother could have been the ‘real’ Anastasia – a fancy based on the coincidence that she was the right age, and appeared out of Revolutionary Russia at the right time. He called her Grand Duchess and we made quite a game of it. But I had no idea that the fancy had gone outside our home.
But it did explain a lot. The curious respect that Makarov and Sokolov had accorded me.
‘A fiction, of course,’ I said. ‘Rather like your story about King Edward.’
‘Precisely,’ Stewart said. But he was looking at me with curious intensity. The man half believes, I thought. Well, if he does, I told myself, so much the better.
‘Perhaps you understand,’ I said enigmatically.
Stewart raised his eyebrows.
‘Perhaps you understand why I must serve the real Russia,’ I said. And then, so softly that Stewart had to lean across the table to catch what I was saying: ‘We both have a duty to our people.’
Stewart actually blinked before recovering himself and leaning back with sudden, affected indifference. ‘We must both be loyal to our people, madam,’ he drawled, as if it were a platitude. But his eyes were still alive with curiosity and I knew he was aching to press me on the subject. And I also knew he never would.
We sipped coffee and nibbled mints, and I felt so comfortable and at ease that I decided to indulge in a little curiosity of my own. ‘What do you know of Maxine Elliott?’ I asked. ‘A fascinating and delightful woman, and I counted her as a friend. But I’ve never really known how she fitted into Denis’s life.’
Stewart smiled. ‘Oh, there were rumours of course, and none of them did Denis any harm. You know she couldn’t have children? I think she liked the speculation that Denis might have been her son. Certainly, she never disabused anyone of the idea. And not just any son. He was born at the height of her affair with the King. It gave Maxine a certain lustre that she might have born a royal bastard. And again, the stories did Denis no harm at all.’
‘Rather like your own story,’ I said. And then I looked at my watch. ‘I told Nutkin I’d be at Fleet Street at four,’ I said. ‘No doubt he’ll have arranged a taxi.’
We had just risen from the table when Stewart suddenly laid his hand on my arm. ‘Oh, by the way. I wasn’t fooled by The Moon and Sixpence. A magnificent stratagem, my dear, but you brought along the wrong edition. There’s no way you could have used that book to decrypt my messages.’
For a second I was tempted to laugh with him, tacitly admitting that it had been a gigantic bluff. But just in time I saw his eyes. Normally pale, they were dark, dark blue – as dark as Denis’s eyes when he was concentrating furiously. And then it all fell into place. Stewart’s casual confidences, his treatment of me as an equal, even the choice of Hine 28. They had all been careful steps leading to this moment, this vital half-second. If I crumbled, if I betrayed by so much as a half-smile that I was anything but a ruthless woman armed with the evidence to have him put away, he’d call my bluff. I’d walk out of White’s stripped of everything I thought I’d won.
And Denis and I would be on the Georgia, bound for Leningrad, in three days’ time.
So I reached down coolly for my bag, took out the book and tossed it on the table. ‘I never bluff, Sir Stewart,’ I asked evenly. ‘Not when the stakes are this high. Take a look. You’ll even see the dates of your messages marked against the appropriate page numbers. Denis rubbed them out, but they’re still quite legible.’
There was a long silence, and then the darkness fled from Stewart’s eyes and he smiled and slipped the book back into my bag without even looking at it. ‘Your word is good enough for me, my dear.’
I ran into the office at Gillaume & Sons as if I was floating on air, and threw my arms around a startled Denis. ‘We’re not going anywhere!’ I cried. ‘Except back home. Stewart Menzies is going to call off Malcolm’s bloodhounds. Our lives are our own again!’
I don’t think I had ever been so happy in my life.
Malcolm Bryant was happy in his own strange way. He leaned back in his chair at his favourite table in his favourite restaurant, and contemplated the world though a cloud of cigar smoke.
He had dined well – on his favourite dish, curried chicken Singapore style – and he had a fine port and more good cigars to look forward to. He had dined alone, but that was the nature of things and it hadn’t bothered him.
Or so he told himself.
In fact he might have had company tonight. He had asked Ann Last to join him for dinner, to help celebrate their triumph, but Hollis had summoned her to his office as they had been packing up for the day. He hadn’t been too disappointed. He liked Ann, respected her, but there was only one woman in his life. Always had been. And when he dined alone, at least there was room at his table for her memory.
He wondered idly what had kept Ann back at Leconfield House. Indoctrination into her next task, he assumed. The Elesmere-Elliott investigation was over – the papers were virtually on their way to the DPP – and so it was time for the two of them to move on. Ann was moving to F Branch, he knew that. Exactly what she would be doing he would never know. That was the nature of the job.
He wondered, not quite so idly, what was in store for him. It would have to be a promotion. He had done well. Very well. Even Roger Hollis had conceded that, shaking his hand stiffly over the bare polished surface of his desk. He hoped he was going to D Branch, the jewel in MI5’s crown. D Branch dealt with counter-espionage, where all the action was now that the Cold War was well and truly under way.
Malcolm clipped the end of his second cigar and rolled it thoughtfully between fingers and thumb. This could well be the beginning of a new phase in his career. Kim Philby had a close relationship with D Branch, treating it as the only serious player against the Russians outside MI6, and Philby’s recognition meant something these days. Everybody knew that Stewart Menzies was grooming Kim as his successor.
Malcolm lit up his cigar and drew on it appreciatively. Kim in charge of MI6, he himself in charge of D Branch of MI5. What a combination. He and Kim would drag the traitorous scum lurking in the shadows of the British establishment kicking and screaming into the sunlight.
As Elesmere-Elliott would soon be dragged kicking and screaming out of his precious
Almer Manor and into the Old Bailey. Malcolm almost shivered with pleasure. But then, as always happened at this point, his thoughts moved on to Norma and his mind froze.
Froze so completely that the waiter noticed his sudden immobility, the sheer agony in his face, and paused by his table.
‘A small glass of port, Tuan Bryant?’ he asked solicitously. ‘On the house, sir.’ Ahmet liked Tuan Bryant, not just because he was a good customer at the Salamat Makan, or because he knew so well the Malaya that the waiter was fast forgetting, but because of his gentle kindness. Kindness to the staff, kindness to any other customer who might look unhappy. More than once, Tuan Bryant had ordered a bottle of wine to be sent to a table that had struck him as sad or otherwise deserving.
Malcolm shook himself, snapping out of his painful reverie. ‘Thank you, Ahmet. Perhaps just a small glass.’
It was past midnight before Malcolm left the restaurant, with a chill fog gathering in Carnaby Street. He had intended a brisk walk to the Underground to get his blood moving, but his mood had changed and all he wanted was to get back to his flat in Hanover Gardens. He hailed a taxi and climbed in, shoving his Malacca cane ahead of him, just a little clumsy with wine and his final glass of port. As always, the end of the evening saddened him. As always, he cheered himself up by fishing for his lighter and his third cigar. He always took precisely three cigars in his chased silver cigar case when he went out for the evening, the third – the best, usually a Havana – kept for the lonely trip home.
Lonely? Of course he wasn’t lonely! Sitting in the darkness as they crossed Vauxhall Bridge, Malcolm turned to his companion. She was always there, gentle, a half-smile on her face, invisible to everyone but him.
‘A rather decent curry, didn’t you think?’ he asked so softly that no one could possibly have heard. ‘But it’ll be good to get home. A cup of tea before we turn in, my dear? I’ll bring it in to you if you like . . .’
He paid off the taxi driver and stood for a moment in the shadows by his door, finishing the cigar. He had left the lights and heater on, so the place would be warm and welcoming, but still he hesitated. Once inside, he knew he’d be all right. He’d be cheered by his collection of watercolours on the walls, the warmth of his Burmese carpets underfoot.
But still, it was an empty flat.
He sighed, ground out the stub of his cigar with the toe of his shoe, and selected the correct key.
Something soft but hugely heavy struck him on the back of the neck just as he stepped through the doorway. A light burst inside his head and he tumbled to the floor, his limbs suddenly useless. He lay there, unable to move but for some strange reason completely conscious. He heard voices all around him, felt rough hands lifting his head, and then a powerful torch flared in front of his eyes.
‘Out like a light,’ someone said, dropping his head back onto the floor with a thump.
‘He’s not dead?’
A finger pressed his neck. ‘Far from it. Heart’s beating like an ox. Breathing steady. Bloody good job, Albie.’
He must have lost consciousness then because the next thing he could remember was being dragged out of a car. This time he thought he might be able to move but had the sense not to, lying supine in two sets of powerful arms. He was borne briefly through a bank of swirling mist, and then lifted high. In that instance he saw the grey shape of Cleopatra’s Needle high above him and realised he was on the Embankment, that he was about to be thrown into the Thames. He braced his muscles and drew in a huge breath to scream and fight but it was too late, far too late, and he was falling through thin air like a rag doll.
Falling forever, and then the crash of icy water.
Still semi-conscious from the blow, and half paralysed by the cold, it was all Malcolm could do to keep his head above water. He tried to scream but nothing came but a hoarse exhalation of air from tortured lungs. He tried to see where he was going, but all his eyes could discern was blackness.
So this was how one died, he thought. In ignorance and blackness, and for utterly no purpose. It would be a relief to cease the agony of struggle, to give in, to sink into the calm depths beneath him. Memories came into his head, vivid, fever-bright: a Malayan sunset. A cricket field. Himself as a child, rocking on a wooden horse in an empty nursery.
‘Steady on!’ A human voice penetrated the images, snapping Malcolm back from the comfort of the past to the agony of the present, and he began to flail at the water once again.
And then a strong arm grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him bodily out of the water so that he sprawled, gasping and retching, on the slimy bilgeboards of a heaving dinghy.
‘Jesus Christ!’ the voice ejaculated. ‘A man! I thought you was a fuckin’ dog!’
Malcolm tried to speak but gagged again and nearly choked as water gushed from his mouth. ‘Steady on,’ the man said. ‘Hold your horses until I get you ashore.’
By the time they reached a set of stone steps cut into the Embankment, Malcolm was shivering violently but at least he could speak. ‘I’m very grateful,’ he said, his voice thin and tremulous and weird in his ears. ‘How did you happen to be where you were?’
The man slung his own coat around Malcolm. ‘Don’t ask questions, old cock,’ he said brusquely. ‘Just thank your lucky stars I was there. You were done for, I reckon. Just your bleedin’ head stickin’ out of the water and your hands paddlin’ like a dog. Fell off the Embankment, did you? I hope you didn’t do nuthin’ stupid like trying to top yourself.’
There was a dim light above the steps, and Malcolm peered up at his saviour. He saw a big, rough face but it was alight with concern. ‘I didn’t try and top myself,’ he said indignantly. ‘I was thrown in by a bunch of louts. They must have been out to rob me.’ He reached for his hip pocket but his wallet was still there.
‘There’s a police post just up the path a bit,’ the man said. ‘Get up there quick as you can or you’ll catch your death. I can’t come with you ’cause the coppers might want to ask me some questions.’
Malcolm hauled himself to his feet on the wave-lapped bottom step. He was shaking like a leaf but able to stand, and able to walk. ‘For Christ’s sake give me your name at least,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’
The man grinned, his teeth visible in the gloom. ‘No names, no pack drill. And keep the coat – I pinched it off one of the posh cruisers earlier tonight. Easy come, easy go.’ And he pushed his dinghy away from the wall and set the oars into the rowlocks. He was out of sight almost immediately, invisible in the blackness.
The police were kind but almost bored, as if dealing with soaking wet gentlemen who fell off the Embankment in the small hours were a regular occurrence. ‘I really wouldn’t saunter by the river at this time of night, sir,’ the young constable taking his statement said unctuously. ‘Asking for trouble, sir.’
‘I wasn’t sauntering by the river,’ Malcolm snapped. ‘I had just gone into my flat. Somebody slugged me and then drove me to the river . . .’
‘Slugged you – struck you – in your own home and then took you to the river?’ the constable asked. ‘Now, why would they do that, sir?’
Malcolm sighed with exasperation. ‘I have no idea, Constable,’ he said. In truth, he did have an idea. A tiny little idea that was working its way through his brain like a maggot. But it was such a dreadful idea that he didn’t want to admit it even to himself. They had taken his wet clothes and he was wrapped in blankets, an electric fire at his feet, and though the interview room was so hot that he could feel perspiration on his face, he was still icy cold inside. Cold and lonely, and just a little frightened.
The constable finished typing and drew a sheet of paper from his machine. ‘Read that over if you would, sir. The sooner we can drive you home the better.’
Malcolm read the skimpy document and even to him it seemed unconvincing. Arrived home about twelve thirty. Felt a blow on the head as he entered his front door. Tossed into the Thames from the Embankment. Nothing stolen
from his person. No known enemies, and could not give any reason for the attack. He signed the document and passed it back.
‘The doctor says you can go home, sir,’ the constable said. ‘Skin’s not broken but no doubt you’ll get a whopping bruise. If you do feel any symptoms in the night, sir, please call a doctor. Bad headache, biliousness, that sort of thing.’
‘They will have ransacked my house,’ Malcolm said. ‘Should someone come home with me and make a list?’
‘Sergeant Carter and I will drive you home, sir,’ the constable said kindly. ‘If there is anything missing we’ll take another statement.’
There was nothing missing from 6E Hanover Gardens. In fact, the place looked preternaturally tidy. Malcolm was asked to sit quietly in his small lounge while Sergeant Carter and the constable explored the two-storey flat. When they returned, the sergeant seemed strangely embarrassed.
‘Nobody at home, sir,’ he said. ‘And there doesn’t look like anything has been disturbed.’ He sat down in front of Malcolm and cleared his throat. ‘One thing I’ll have to put in my report is your note, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘What note?’ Malcolm asked, and the sergeant drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and opened it up. It had clearly been typed on Malcolm’s portable Royal and comprised a few brief sentences: ‘I apologise for the pain that my decision to end my life will cause my family and friends, but I truly have no alternative. I am a danger to myself and to others. Believe me, this is the only way.’
The signature at the bottom was his own.
Malcolm reached for the document but the police officer quickly folded it and replaced it in his pocket. ‘I really am sorry, sir, but I will need to keep this,’ he said gently. ‘You appreciate that it does put a different complexion on things, don’t you? Do you recall writing that note, Mr Bryant?’
Malcolm took a long, deep breath. The suspicion that had been growing in his mind had crystallised into a painful reality. This whole incident had all the hallmarks of a D Branch operation.
In the Mouth of the Tiger Page 93