Autumn in Oxford: A Novel

by Alex Rosenberg

  If you could get past the porters at the gatehouse—fiercest in Oxford—All Souls College looked like no other. The perfect circle of grass at the entrance was a deep-green carpet overlain on a square of fine brown gravel immaculately raked. Liz looked up and saw the sundial, somehow unscarred by a hundred years of coal heating. The two squared-off towers closely flanking the main entrance gave the whole building the appearance of a Spanish baroque church. At the door between them, Liz found a porter dressed in what seemed to be evening clothes. Inquiring about Professor Berlin, Liz wondered what exactly a Latvian Jew was doing in a Christian college so cloistered that it didn’t even admit undergraduates.

  “Ah, Professor Berlin asks you meet him in the Buttery.” Liz was directed to where the fellows lunched. There, in an academic gown and a three-piece suit with gold chain draped across the waistcoat, was a pudgy man with dark hair pasted down and receding from a round face. The large eyes were owlish even through thick lenses under pronounced eyebrows. His whole face beamed at her as he held out two hands. But he was quiet as he pronounced, “Mrs. Spencer, I am very happy to see you.” It was evident that this man liked women, and perhaps liked to entertain them in a men’s sanctum.

  He led her to a table in the middle of the large domed room and pulled a chair out for her. Sitting down he said quietly, “Now, tell me what this is about. I dare say, it sounds rather cloak-and-dagger.” If that’s what you think, she thought, why invite me to discuss it in such a public place? He read her mind. “Always discuss delicate matters in public. That way no one suspects.”

  “I see,” she said. “Actually it is cloak-and-dagger. You know that Tom Wrought is locked up in Brixton for murder.”

  Now for the first time he looked serious. “Yes, and I assume you need me to help ‘spring him’—as the Americans would say.”

  “Not exactly, but there is something awfully important you could do to help.” She waited for him to invite her to continue. He nodded. “I need advice and an introduction.”

  “How much can you tell me?” Before she could answer, a college servant in a white jacket approached. Berlin held up his hand imperiously. “Let’s order. I suggest the sole meuniere.” She nodded. “Aloxe-Corton?” She said nothing, and he turned to the waiter. “Two, please, Bradshaw.”

  “Well, I don’t know how much to tell you, Professor Berlin.”

  “You must call me Shaya.” He covered her hand briefly with his own. “What is your Christian name?” The last words came with a slight tone of mockery.

  “Elizabeth, but I’m just Liz, thanks.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me everything if I am to help. I’m rather a Hoover when it comes to vacuuming up gossip.” The last word was loud enough to be heard by anyone straining to listen. For a moment Liz misunderstood Berlin’s use of “Hoover” for the FBI director instead of a vacuum cleaner.

  Perhaps it was the owlish eyes betraying a benevolent wisdom. She felt she could trust him. Taking a breath, Liz began with her and Tom’s affair. It was obviously the right place to start. Berlin’s attention was wrapped by the scandale. She talked about the murder, the speed with which the police had worked, Tom’s articles in the Tribune. “Yes, I remember those,” he interrupted. When she told him what Alice had learned from Michael Foot, his eyebrows worked themselves up his brow. “Really,” he said, “Philby?”

  Liz paused in her narrative. “Do you know the name?”

  “Yes, a journalist, that’s all. Pray, continue.” He poured another glass of Burgundy for himself and moved the bottle to her glass. Liz put her hand over it.

  Now it would become tricky. She couldn’t tell him about the Krogers or Feklisov. She couldn’t tell him about Tom’s suspicions—that Berlin might have been used as a conduit from the Russians, dropping hints, intentionally or not, for his Zhivago article in the Tribune. What could she tell him? Liz started with Tom’s work for the OSS and then the second trip to Finland to bring out the British agents for the CIA.

  “Went to see Dulles, did he? Very wise of him.”

  Finally she went over her mission to New York and Washington, giving him all the details. Then she stopped, feeling rather as though she were leaning over a precipice from which she could easily be pushed.

  Berlin came to her rescue. “Let me guess, Miss, Mrs. . . . uh, Liz. You think that the FBI is trying to frame Tom Wrought for the murder of your husband to silence him, discredit him, perhaps even to hang him.”

  “How did you know?” The relief was palpable across her face.

  Seeing her look, Berlin almost reached out to touch it. “What does Sherlock Holmes say? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  “Are there no other possibilities, Shaya?” Calling him that didn’t feel right to her, but she needed his interest. She even contemplated reaching to his hand across the damask tablecloth.

  “I think not. Suppose they just killed Tom. The first person to start asking embarrassing questions would be me.” He turned portentous, as though he were addressing a malefactor set before him for punishment. “And I know whom to ask the questions of.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Much of what you’ve told me would have come out, perhaps not in the papers, but in Whitehall, in the clubs, in the smoking room of the House.” He didn’t have to add that it was the House of Commons he was speaking of.

  Would he now understand what Liz needed from him? “Shaya, I want to free Tom. What should I do?”

  “I’m going to put a call in to an old friend named Roger Hollis. I can’t tell you what he does. But he is the right man for you to talk to.” She smiled and this time did cover his hand with hers. He grinned, trying hard not to show anything but a paternal interest.

  Suddenly and silently, there hovering above them was the steward with two plates. Berlin smiled with relish. “Now, dear, do leave room for pudding.”

  Two mornings later Liz emerged from the tube stop at Baker Street. Before she could take three steps in the direction of the Abbey National, a well-dressed young man approached her. “Mrs. Spencer, would you mind coming with me?” He pointed to a large black Daimler at the curb with a liveried driver.

  Alarmed, Liz turned one way and the other for someone to come to her rescue. Before she could say anything, the young man continued, “We’ll collect Miss Silverstone and take you to see Mr. Hollis.” Liz recalled the name from her luncheon with Berlin and relaxed.

  He held the door open, and she seated herself in the commodious back seat. The young man joined the driver in the front, and they drove north past Regent’s Park towards St. John’s Wood. They stopped on Hamilton Terrace at a small two-storey block of flats painted an off-white, through which streaks of fire damage still showed. The lot next to it was vacant. A relic of the war, Liz thought.

  The young man turned to the back seat. “Would you mind coming with me to collect Miss Silverstone? It might reassure her.” When Liz nodded, the young man came out from the front of the car and opened the back door for her. Together they mounted the stair, where he pressed the intercom button.

  The voice came, “Yes?”

  “Alice, it’s Liz. I’m downstairs with a . . . friend. Please let us in.”

  There was an immediate buzz.

  Alice just had time to put away her syringe and the morphine bottle before rolling down her sleeve and answering the door.

  Twenty minutes later, both women found themselves seated in the lounge of a detached villa in Putney, south of the Thames and well to the west of the government offices in Whitehall. There in the front room, before a silver tea set on a low, drop-leaf table, sat a man of about fifty, grey-haired, slightly beefy, well tailored. He rose as they entered. The young man, still nameless, who had led them in left quietly, firmly closing the door to the lounge.

  Without shaking their hands, the man said, “My name is Roger Hollis. Isaiah Berlin asked me to see you, Mrs. Spencer. I thought it might be useful to invite Mis
s Silverstone too.” Alice was about to ask how he had known about her, but then decided she’d not get a straight answer anyway. “Please take a seat.”

  He was a kindly-looking man, with even heavier eyebrows than Berlin, Liz noticed. In a bespoke suit and a perfectly knotted club tie, Hollis looked every inch the mandarin. The poker face was pale, closely shaven, as featureless as one could want in a senior civil servant.

  “Tea, ladies? I prefer Chinese. Hope you don’t mind.” Both women sat and nodded. Hollis looked up with a wry smile and said, “I’ll play mother, shall I? Milk, sugar?”

  When all three were balancing teacups on their laps, Alice spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. But what do you do exactly?”

  “’Fraid the Official Secrets Act prevents me from telling you anything but my name. Still, I can assure you, you’ve come to the right place. Or at any rate the place Professor Berlin thinks is right for your problem, Mrs. Spencer.”

  Alice started to speak, but Hollis put up his hand in a peremptory way and turned back to Liz. “If what you told Professor Berlin is right, I am afraid you may be in as much trouble as Mr. Wrought, Mrs. Spencer.”

  Alice now began listening closely, ear cocked for the sort of innuendos or implicatures in testimony that a fine solicitor is always hunting for.

  Hollis was thoughtful. Then he spoke. “We knew Mr. Wrought was behind some articles in the Tribune . . . but we didn’t know the rest.” Suddenly Alice began listening more carefully. “If it were the FBI who implicated Mr. Wrought in a murder, then given what you know of the matter, you would be in equal danger.” He paused. “If, that is, the FBI were to find out what you have learned.”

  Alice’s mind was carefully digesting everything Hollis said, turning over every word and its intonation. Had Liz told Berlin about Tom’s dealings with the Tribune’s editor, Foot—about the anonymous articles? She would have said. Then Alice thought, Why did he say “if the FBI were to find out”? She answered her question instantly. He knows they’ll find out because he is going to tell them!

  Turning to Alice, Hollis continued in a bland tone. “And if someone has been interfering with Mr. Wrought inside one of Her Majesty’s prisons, then they may be powerful enough to endanger you too, Miss”—he seemed to struggle briefly over her name, and then it came out as “Silverstein.”

  How does he know what was happening in Brixton? Because it’s his operation. Hollis is the mole! Now Alice was certain. He’s the FBI contact in MI5, maybe even the KGB contact too, playing the FBI against the CIA.

  Alice looked at Liz, frightened that she had not picked up on Hollis’s slips. Liz had not even spoken yet. Now, in a voice tinged with feminine ineffectuality, she asked, “Whatever shall I do, Mr. Hollis?”

  Hollis cleared his throat, smiled at Liz, and said just what Alice had expected. “Dear lady, will you leave this matter in my hands? I shall undertake a discreet enquiry. We’ll get to the bottom of all this. If there’s improper activity by the Americans here, we’ll put a stop to it, and we’ll find a way to release your Mr. Wrought.”

  Alice was frightened. Hollis was not going to lift a finger for Tom, and if he thought Liz and Alice could identify him as an FBI mole, and a KGB one, he’d have to accord them Tom’s fate, or even Trevor’s. She needed to end this interview before Hollis realized she knew. But she dared not signal Liz.

  Liz spoke again, still with the innocent look and an anxious tone. “Please, Mr. Hollis, is there anything I should do to protect myself?”

  “Mrs. Spencer, merely go about your business and leave everything to me.” He rose, signalling that the interview was over.

  “But, Mr. Hollis, for the last few weeks my business has been tracking down . . . uh, meeting with Miss Silverstone to try to help her with Mr. Wrought’s case.”

  “Then I suggest you cease for the moment. But don’t make it difficult for my people to find you. The same goes for you, Miss Silverstone.” This time he got her name right.

  Alice needed to conceal her suspicions. She fell in with Liz’s affect. Plaintively she asked, “But what shall I tell my client?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Just leave everything to me.”

  Both women were smoking as they walked up the Circular Road to the East Putney tube stop, having declined a ride back in the Daimler. As they passed into the dark, claustrophobic underpass beneath the tube tracks, Liz cringed, not for the first time. Smoking on the footpath, do we look like a couple of hookers? The silence between them was palpable. Neither wanted to say what she thought. Each wanted the other to explain why she was completely wrong, why Roger Hollis wasn’t the mole in British counterintelligence. Finally Liz spoke. “He’s it, isn’t he? Right at the top of MI5.”

  “’Fraid so,” Alice replied. “You never said anything to Isaiah Berlin about the intrusions on Tom at Brixton, did you?”

  Liz shook her head. “No, and I’m certain I said nothing to Berlin about Tom’s anonymous reviews in the Tribune. But Hollis knew. Why had he even bothered to find out?”

  “Find out? He could have been the Soviet mole who planted the CIA Zhivago tip with Berlin for Tom to pick up.” She couldn’t help smiling at the connection.

  But Liz was continuing. “I didn’t mention your name to Berlin either. But they came for both of us. Hollis knows much more than we’ve told anyone.”

  Alice dropped her fag and ground it out. “You’re in for it now. Whoever put Tom away has as much of a reason to sideline you now . . . or worse.”

  “What about you, Alice?”

  “I’ve been up to my neck in it since they twigged to the composition books and began searching Tom’s cell and my office.” She looked at her watch as though moments mattered. “Liz, you’ve got a Canadian passport in another name. You can still get out. You’ve got kids to think about.”

  “I don’t have Tom,” Liz replied with equal force. “I’ve come this far . . . can’t bail out now.” She stopped and put a hand on Alice’s arm, suddenly thinking about the track marks of syringe needles below the coat sleeve. She had noticed them again in Hollis’s sitting room. Was her solicitor, now her friend, really a dope fiend? Liz wasn’t going to ask. Her thoughts came back to the immediate problem. “So, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t think there’s any use going to my Labour Party contact, Mishcon, or to Michael Foot. They’d only lead back to MI5 and Hollis.”

  “Still, we may not be in immediate danger, if Hollis is under KGB control.” Liz stopped, hoping that Alice would confirm her conjecture.

  “I suppose you’re right. Feklisov is our life assurance policy. He knows if something happens to us, his spies will be blown. He’ll prevent MI5 from killing us . . . if he can control Hollis.”

  Liz turned to Alice. “Well, then, what now?

  “I am out of ideas. I think we have to let Hollis make the next move.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You’ve just missed her,” replied the manager at the Market Street, Manchester branch of the Abbey National. “Mrs. Spencer left five minutes ago.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Bennett began to crush the hat in his hands. “Do you know where she was going?” It had been weeks since he had brought Liz news of her husband’s death. But he hadn’t forgotten the face. Nor had he forgotten her answers to his questions, now apparently self-serving and probably false. He heard the manager respond, “London Road Station probably. Said she was going back to head office.”

  Watkins was already studying a timetable. “There’s an express a few minutes after two, guv.” He shared Bennett’s urgency.

  “Let’s go.” Bennett was already out the door. They’d just be able to catch it and Liz Spencer.

  The men reached the station slightly breathless and bathed in perspiration despite the chill drizzle. Seeking the track number on the departure board, they turned to each other, and both said “eight” without breaking stride. Up the stairs over the tracks and then down onto the platform, they rushed through the barrier gate, f
lashing their CID badges at the ticket collector, and came to a stop. There was the train—conductors looking towards the engine, waiting for the signal to close the doors. Looking down the quay, they could see a few passengers still choosing their coaches—first- and second-class, smokers and nonsmokers. Bennett was about to enter the closest coach when Watkins pulled at his sleeve from behind.

  “Guv. Down the platform. Look.” There, headed for the stairs marked WAY OUT on the other end of the platform, two men were frog-marching a woman who was obviously struggling. One of the men was carrying a small case. The woman was turning her head to one side and the other. Her mouth was open in a shriek. But nothing could be heard at their distance over the noise of air brakes, conductors’ whistles, and the clicking of wheels crossing the rail gaps. Watkins shouted again. “It’s Spencer, I think!” They began to run.

  For a moment the woman broke free. The two men turned, losing their hats but regaining their prisoner. As they did so, both men could see the two detectives running towards them, the younger Watkins in the lead. A brief glance at each other, and they left their prisoner, dropped her case, and headed for the WAY OUT stair up and over the tracks. Bennett stopped where Liz was standing, next to the engine, while Watkins gave chase. The pounding footfalls of three men on the old metal treads turned the heads of people still on the quay. At the top of the stair, the two men looked back, and seeing Watkins closing, they separated, one to the left, the other to the right. At the top, like Buridan’s ass, Watkins stopped. After a look each way, he visibly shrugged, turned, and walked slowly down the stairs back to the quay, picking up the case.

  Bennett meanwhile had taken out a pair of handcuffs, which he had attached to Liz, and then signalled the engine driver with his badge. The man seemed to understand, for the train, which had imperceptibly begun to slide out of the station, came to an equally gradual halt. Watkins reached them at the same time as a conductor.