Tightrope

by Simon Mawer

  He followed her out of the bar. It had come on to rain. The pavements glistened. ‘No idea, I’m afraid. I’ve not seen him since the end of the war. They picked up a number of German scientists and he wanted my help. But that was a couple of years ago now.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She went up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘And don’t worry about your little secret, it’s safe with me. Now you’d better hurry if you don’t want to get soaked. And thanks for introducing me to Trevor. I liked him.’

  She walked towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The walk did her good. It made her think, about Ned and his secrets, about Clément and his; and about hers – a small nexus of deceptions and lies covering people and things. Perhaps she would tell it all to the psychiatrist just as once she would have told such things to a priest.

  At Cambridge Circus she managed to flag down a cab. ‘Where we going then, love?’ the cabbie asked as she climbed in. ‘Bloody evening, in’t it? ‘Scuse my French. Warm enough back there for you?’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you.’

  And she thought of Véronique, wondering whether that was of the same species of emotion. Could love for a man be of the same nature as love for a woman? Did the love lie in the mind of the lover or in the nature of the loved one? What would have happened had Véronique survived? Would they have lived together in Lyon, in happy companionship, their private lives the subject of idle speculation among the students of whatever institution Véronique came to head? Or perhaps everything would have been different, the intimacies of the camp diminished to vague and awkward memories, whatever had once drawn them together transmuted into a friendship that survived only through an occasional encounter and the exchange of affectionate letters.

  The taxi drove her through the heart of the West End. Bright lights now, Piccadilly Circus a maelstrom of neon. She wondered what to do. In the war it had been easy. The moral boundaries were two dimensional, drawn in black and white. But now things seemed complex and diffuse, lines cross-hatched and overlapping, shapes irregular and enigmatic, drawn in shades of grey as though with a piece of charcoal. Clair-obscur.

  The next day the papers were full of Bertrand Russell’s speech at the Conway Hall. The Manchester Guardian and the Daily Telegraph covered it in detail. ‘Earl Russell Calls for Atom War’ was the headline of the Daily Worker. The telephones at the Peace Union were ringing without interruption.

  ‘What in heaven’s name were you thinking of?’ Mr Roper demanded when Marian got to the office. ‘I had to make apologies on your behalf.’

  ‘Apologies? What did you tell him? That I was a bit unstable? That I’d been through a great deal in the war? That the dear woman was a little weak in the head?’

  He reddened. ‘Nothing of the sort—’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I couldn’t have faced him after what he said. In the current climate I believe in peace at any price, Mr Roper. Not what Lord Russell seems to believe in, which seems to be war at any cost.’

  Kriegspiel

  Two days later she dialled the number Fawley had given her. A breezy voice answered – ‘Wireless Network Company, how may I help you?’ – and for a moment she wondered if she had made a mistake. But then she recalled the brass plaque outside the flat in Victoria where she had met him after her return from Germany. Her memory for this kind of thing still worked well enough: The Wireless Network Company and Excelsior Import-Export. And the singular Professor Jones.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Fawley.’

  ‘Who is this speaking, please?’

  She gave her name and waited while the telephone network coughed and whirred; then a neutral voice was talking in her ear and explaining how good it was to hear her again and did she want to arrange a meeting?

  A taxi came to pick her up. Was it the same taxi as before, with the same driver? She rather thought it was. But the address to which it took her was not the one he had used for her debriefing. It wasn’t in Victoria at all but somewhere behind Sussex Gardens, in an anonymous terrace house next door to a doctor’s surgery and a small hotel.

  Fawley himself answered the door, ushering her in almost as though he were an estate agent and she a client come to inspect the place. She glanced round the sitting room as if looking for distraction, or perhaps a means of escape. But there was neither – no pictures on the walls, no view out of the window, just a large wall mirror in which her reflection seemed to float like a fish in an aquarium. She’d heard of one-way glass – perhaps someone was sitting behind the mirror watching her; perhaps Fawley himself was observing her.

  Moments later he reappeared, full of apologies. ‘Can I offer you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps? Or would you rather coffee?’ There was a kitchenette in one corner of the room where he busied himself with a tin of instant coffee and an electric kettle. It was a strangely domestic scene that betrayed something of his hidden, private life. He’d have a wife, presumably, and possibly children. She imagined them living out in the suburbs – Kew or Chiswick or somewhere. What did they think the paterfamilias did with his life as he went off to work every day wearing a bowler hat and carrying a tightly furled umbrella? Perhaps they assumed he worked in some ministry or other – Supply or Works or the Board of Trade – a civil servant doing his duty as he had always done.

  They sat in uncomfortable armchairs on either side of a dead gas fire, he with his comforting cup of tea, she with her dreadful coffee.

  ‘So how are you? You’ve been through a great deal. How are you bearing up?’

  Bearing up. She liked the phrase. Standing straight and bearing a great weight on her shoulders without giving any hint that it was so. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, and she was fine. It was true. Her panics, her fugue, seemed behind her now. Surely she was developing a carapace, like a crab, born soft-shelled and vulnerable but with an outer integument that hardened with time. She could think about Benoît and remain indifferent, about Veronique and not care, about Tony Bright and shrug. There had been others and there would be others still; to bring with them the paltry comfort of physical intimacy but nothing more. And she would not run away from anything.

  ‘And how’s Edward?’

  A chill filled her heart. Ned was still the soft-shelled crab, helpless in the face of prejudice. ‘He’s well.’

  ‘You know I hold him in great regard? We worked together excellently during the war. His enthusiasms against my … balance. And of course it was through him that we—’

  ‘Hijacked my mission to France.’

  The man looked pained. ‘Hijack is a rather racy term, isn’t it? American, I believe. But it was indeed through him we realised that, with your assistance, we might be able to snatch Professor Pelletier from the jaws of the lion.’

  ‘Anyway, Ned’s fine …’

  ‘I gather he is involved in work of national importance.’

  ‘Something near Oxford, I believe. He never discusses it with me.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t.’

  ‘Mr Fawley,’ she said, ‘why did you ask me to ring? Surely it wasn’t to have a chat over a cup of coffee about the Sutro family.’

  He seemed to taste her question, roll it between his lips, test it with his tongue. ‘You’re quite right, of course. But I could put a counter question. I could ask you why you rang.’

  Kriegspiel, she thought – that blind chess that Ned and Clément used to play in the Annecy days. You knew your own moves but not your opponent’s so you moved in the dark, probing, waiting, trying to work out what lay in the shadows. The game needed a third person to adjudicate, someone who could see both boards. Then it had been fifteen-year-old Marian Sutro; but now there was no adjudicator and she was one of the players. ‘And what might I answer?’

  ‘Because you are intrigued. Because you wonder why I should emerge from the shadows and make contact with you. Because you think I might enliven your – let’s face it – somewhat humdrum post-war life.’

  There was the stillness about him of the father confessor, waiting to hear
how she might respond. ‘It’s not humdrum at all. I enjoy my work.’

  Again that thoughtful, prayerful pose, fingertips touching like gothic spires. He had noticed, of course, that she hadn’t mentioned her marriage. ‘I saw reports on the papers the other day about Lord Russell making his opinions felt. Quite a stir, he created.’

  ‘He said things many people didn’t want to hear. Including me.’

  There was a faint smile on the Fawley face, as though he knew all about her outburst. ‘So, the organisation you work for, the Franco-British Pacific Union. Tell me about it.’

  Why on earth should he be interested? But she told him anyway, about the library, the meetings they held in the room on the first floor, earnest, serious lectures on the theme of world peace and disarmament. The Russell lecture was very much the exception. Most were worthy and rather dull. But all that was going to change. They were going to organise their first conference. It was even now being prepared – Scientists and Artists for Peace, it would be called. She was probably going to Paris to see Professor Joliot-Curie who was most enthusiastic about the project. They also wanted a major artist. There was talk about Picasso himself. What could possibly be offensive about all that? It was naive, idealistic, sometimes absurd; but what was wrong with it?

  Fawley smiled. No doubt Picasso was for him a charlatan of some kind, a Spaniard throwing pots of paint in the public face. ‘Nothing. There is nothing wrong in the slightest with that kind of thing. But we are constrained to keep an eye on things, aren’t we? These days the battle lines are no longer as clearly drawn as they were during the war. These days we never know where our enemy may be hiding.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s hiding in the Union Pacifique.’

  ‘Possibly not. But answer me this? Where does the Franco-British Peace Union get its money?’

  ‘Money? I haven’t really thought about it. There’s a membership fee for the library. That’s half a crown for a week or six pounds for a full year. Non-members pay to attend lectures. One shilling usually. As I said, the talk by Lord Russell was a bit of an exception. I think we made a profit on that. And we do collections, of course. And people donate. For God’s sake, it’s for a good enough cause, isn’t it? We don’t want another damn war, and with the new weapons that Dr Pelletier helped build …’

  ‘Of course we don’t want another war, Marian.’

  Was it the first time he’d used her Christian name? There was a sudden shock of familiarity. What was he called? Cedric, she fancied, and had to keep herself from laughing. ‘So what’s the problem with the Peace Union’s money?’

  ‘Nothing, except that those charges barely even cover running costs. Who pays your wages, do you think? And who pays the rent for the desirable office space in High Holborn?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve not thought about it much …’

  ‘Well, give it some consideration. In my line of business we spend a great deal of our time tracking money. Money leaves a scent behind it, a trail that the bloodhounds can follow. The fact is that your organisation is largely funded through a merchant bank called the Co-operative Eastern Trading Bank, which receives monies from what appears to be your parent organisation in Paris called the Union Française Pacifique. This in turn is financed by the Banque Commerciale pour l’Europe du Nord, which is also based in Paris.’ His French accent was quite good. It reminded her of how Buckmaster spoke, the careful enunciation, the orotund vowels. ‘Now, the Banque Commerciale pour l’Europe du Nord, which sounds so worthy and so innocent, happens to be entirely owned by Gosbank in Moscow. Gosbank is the central bank of the USSR. Effectively, Marian, you are working for the Soviet Union.’

  There was a silence. The Soviet Union. Once the brave ally sacrificing millions of men and women in the bloodiest battles against Nazi Germany, now, according to Bertrand Russell and many others, an ill-defined menace threatening the very peace of the world. She thought of Véronique extolling the virtues of Communism and placing all her hope in the coming of the Red Army. She thought of the Russian she met in Hamburg – what was his name? Absolon. A quiet man, marked by personal tragedy.

  ‘And this leads to a difficulty, regarding you and Edward. You see, in the days when you were put through the cards – I believe that was the phrase, wasn’t it? – we only carried out negative vetting. “Nothing against”, and that was good enough. But now, what with a few scares we’ve had, positive vetting has become the rage. Now we’re looking for reasons why we should give someone clearance, not reasons why we shouldn’t. We are going into life histories, family background, bank accounts, who you see on Saturday night and – I don’t want to embarrass you – who you wake up in bed with on Sunday morning. And having a sister who works for a Soviet-financed organisation …’

  She felt a sudden surge of anger. ‘So you’re suggesting I resign my job for the sake of Ned’s career?’

  He allowed himself a reassuring smile. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary …’ His tone left something hanging in the air, a condition, a sine qua non, a stipulation, a whole thesaurus of strings attached. ‘But things might be easier if …’

  ‘If?’

  ‘If I had a word in the right quarter and pointed out that you were actually one of us. You are, you see, a natural. I thought that from the moment we first met in Oxford.’

  Was this blackmail, glossed over with a thin varnish of flattery? He watched her, looking to see which way she might move. And she remembered unarmed combat training, all those years ago in Scotland. They taught you that the first move was always to draw your opponent towards you. It brings him off balance, gives him a false sense of security, gets you in there where you can jab your fingers into the eyes, or slam the heel of your hand up under his jaw, or your knee into his groin. It was always a ‘he’.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked eventually.

  Eel

  So Marian slid, as smooth as an eel, into that shadow world she had known during the war. She worked assiduously in the library of the Franco-British Pacific Union, she attended meetings, introduced lecturers, and, following her heady but equivocal success with Bertrand Russell, helped to arrange speakers on subjects that ranged from The French Revolution – From Terroir to Terror all the way to Can The Atom Bomb Ever Be A Force For Peace? And once every few weeks she would phone a number and the taxi would duly pick her up as she walked along some agreed street and sweep her away to a rendezvous with Fawley. SWALLOW was the codename by which she was known, swallow, with its implications of flight, of speed, of swoop, but also with hints of gullibility. There were times when she felt embarrassed by the poverty of the information she brought. ‘My colleagues are just so ineffectual,’ she would complain. ‘I can’t believe they are anything other than what they say they are – idealists trying to do their bit for the peace of the world. I know it sounds rather naive put like that, but …’

  Fawley would nod seriously and note what she said, and repeat his mantra: all we need is information. Information and analysis equals intelligence. You provide the information, we’ll do the analysis.

  ‘I’m off to Paris in a few weeks,’ she told him, ‘to liaise with people there.’

  ‘Paris rather falls outside our remit but I’m sure that others will be interested in anything you can glean.’

  Others. Shadowy figures hung around the edges of her imagination, agencies whose very names were secret. It had been like that with SOE itself. The firm. The organisation. The Inter Services Research Bureau. What was the point of having a real name if no one knew it? It was like that Eliot poem, ‘The Naming of Cats’.

  What, she wondered, was her own real name?

  Paris

  Her first visit to the city since the war. Paris with a superficial gloss to it, like a piece of silver plate that has been polished up but is still worn away in places to show the base metal beneath: the drab buildings in need of cleaning, the broken pavements, the impoverished shops. But Paris with a strange, febrile vitality, Paris that w
as home to the theatre of the absurd and was itself a kind of theatre with people performing on its various stages, writers in the cafés of the Left Bank, politicians treading the boards of the National Assembly or berating crowds in place de la Bastille, black jazzmen from America sounding off in basements and cellars, models strutting on catwalks wearing clothes that outraged the poor of Saint-Denis and Belleville, tarts and pimps on the pavements of Pigalle. Paris canaille. She had a row with Alan when she told him she was going on her own. ‘I’ll be all right. I was all right in Hamburg and this is nothing like that—’

  ‘You were not all right in Hamburg. You came back from Hamburg a wreck. And then that turn you had, losing your memory—’

  ‘And losing my mind? You know what the doctor said. A one-off event. Nothing to get obsessed about. I’ve been fine since then and I’ve got to keep looking to the future. This is Paris. This is now.’

  This was Paris now. She could feel it as she got down from the train – the smell, the sound, the sense of place. And memory, of course, of Paris before the war, travelling with her parents and meeting up with Ned and Clément, her eyes wide, her senses alert to every gleam and glimmer of the city. And then Paris during the war when she’d been alone and frightened, hurrying through the tunnels of the métro pursued by demons.

  But this was Paris now, with Clément himself waiting for her, standing on the platform in the Gare du Nord amid the flow of passengers from the Calais train and taking her in his arms while people looked on and smiled. There was no question what would happen this time. He would take her to the hotel that had been booked for her near the Panthéon and see that she was settled in. The next day he would come for her and take her to the Collège de France to meet with his boss, the aquiline Frédéric Joliot-Curie, the man who, together with his wife Irène, had won a Nobel Prize before the war, the man who cracked open the secrets of the universe with the precise hammer of his cyclotron. She would talk with him about the Scientists for Peace congress, about what he might do and what the effects might be, about the mechanics of the thing, about where he would stay and how he would be transported from hotel to venue, about speeches and interpreters, about colleagues and acquaintances. After that she would have meetings with the director of the Paris section of the Union Internationale Pacifique and with a serious young man who was a cultural attaché at the Soviet embassy in rue de Grenelle. There was the possibility, only the possibility, of a Russian scientist taking part in the conference. The name of the great agronomist Trofim Denisovich Lysenko was being mentioned.