by Anne Perry
Peter’s face hardened. “I have already told you, you will tell Lucas nothing whatsoever about this. In fact, you will not see him before you go.”
Now she was angry. He was being unreasonable. “I’m going to say goodbye. For heaven’s sake, you can’t believe my grandfather would tell anyone. He knows more secrets than you do.” She had been shattered at first when she learned that her elderly, dry-humored grandfather—who loved his books, his dog, the countryside, restoring old drawings and paintings—had once been the head of MI6. It had been a lot to take in then, but now she was actually proud of him. “I won’t just walk out and not even tell him I’m going. It could be days.”
“It almost certainly will be,” Peter agreed. “Several days, at the very least. But you will tell no one anything about it at all.”
“I’ve got to tell—”
“No one!” he repeated sharply. “It is a photographic assignment in Italy. As I said, I shall tell Lucas after you have gone. You can drop a note to your parents to say a brief assignment has come up without warning, and you will see them again when you get back, which is the truth.”
“But Lucas…” she protested.
“Would you lie to Lucas?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Well…I…I’m not sure that I could. I mean, get away with it.”
“I’m sure,” he said drily, “that you couldn’t.” Now there was an edge to his voice.
“But you’ll lie to him,” she said. “I can see it in your face!”
“I will tell him as much as he needs of the truth, the same as I will tell you.” His shoulders were stiff, his eyes very direct, clear and shadowless blue.
Now she was afraid.
CHAPTER
2
Peter Howard walked down the stairs and out onto the street, into the sun. He had disliked having to ask Elena to undertake this task. He knew about her affair with Aiden Strother—most of the Foreign Office did, if not through office gossip before Strother had so dramatically defected, or appeared to have, then certainly afterward. It was Elena’s own doing. Twenty-two and not long graduated from Cambridge with an excellent degree in classics, she had not been pushed into the affair. The languages essential to her Foreign Office job she already knew, having been with her parents while her father was ambassador in Madrid, Paris, and Berlin during her childhood. It did not take long to become proficient in a language that was spoken all around you, and she had a natural gift for it.
She had been left to shoulder at least some of the blame when Strother departed, ostensibly as a traitor, carrying many secrets to the Nazis. At least, that was what appeared to have happened. But now she knew the truth: that he could not tell anyone. Certainly not an emotional young woman with whom he was intimately involved. It had cost her her job. That was unfortunate, but the slightest sign that the situation was not as it appeared might have betrayed Aiden to the Nazis. After years of careful work, some of which had jeopardized lives, Aiden was risking his own life by appearing to defect, carrying carefully prepared secrets with him. Some had been current but most were old, out of date, and not dangerous anymore, even if by a hairsbreadth. A word of comfort to a young lover could have ruined it all: a thread to pull that could have unraveled everything, destroyed a plan carefully laid over years, and all the lives involved.
Peter reached a corner and crossed Tottenham Court Road, oblivious of the traffic increasing around him. He had not known Elena then. In fact, he did not really know her now. He had met her only a few months before, when she had accidentally become involved in that desperate affair in Berlin. She had acted with courage and, at times, great presence of mind. At other times, she had betrayed amateur impulsiveness. But then, she had been an amateur, involved by chance and knowing very little. Heavens, at that time she had not even known that her beloved grandfather, Lucas Standish, had, during the war, been head of MI6, the existence of which was a secret from the general public. To everyone outside the intelligence organization, Lucas was a mild-mannered man who did something mathematical in the Civil Service. Supposedly, even his wife did not know his real job, except that Josephine Standish had been a decoder during the same war—Peter smiled at the memory—and brave, eccentric Josephine knew far more than even Lucas assumed. Peter had a great respect for her. He hoped he never knew the full extent of her abilities. It pleased him to have some mysteries left.
Lucas would not approve of Peter’s having sent Elena to rescue Aiden Strother. Intellectually, he might understand why she was the best person to do so, inexperienced as she was. She spoke both Italian and German fluently. German would be an advantage because, of course, Trieste had been occupied by many different forces, and recently the German-speaking Austrian Empire. The danger they feared, and that Aiden had gone to investigate, was inspired by Germany.
Elena had firsthand knowledge of how Hitler’s rise to power in Germany at the beginning of this year had changed everything. Experience was a visceral part of understanding. She had proven that she had determination and, when pressed, a considerable imagination, and courage to act. Peter admired that. But was it enough?
This was still an operation he would rather not have given to someone so new to the Service, and so emotionally raw. Both were disadvantages, in that she lacked training, but more seriously, her feelings for Aiden would leave her vulnerable. Could they easily be reawakened, used against her, even fatally?
He turned the corner and walked more rapidly along the next street, the sun in his face.
There were also advantages. Elena was not a professional. No one in the service on the other side would know her. That was the best disguise of all. But by far the most important advantage was that she would know Aiden Strother by sight, no matter how his appearance had superficially changed. She would recognize the things one cannot disguise: the shape of his ears, the way he stood when casually waiting, the things that made him laugh or, more likely, irritated him. Some things are unchanged even when disillusion sours everything else. Peter knew that, too, but preferred not to remember.
Had Aiden loved Elena? Peter smiled at the thought of her. She had a turbulent face, vulnerable and full of emotion. And yet she was capable of great calm, as if she was searching for something and, every so often, found it. She was interesting, different.
He hoped profoundly that she would succeed, quite apart from the imperative of recovering Aiden Strother’s information…and that was crucial. The other news he was receiving about the rising power of Hitler within resurgent Germany, gaining strength and casting his hungry eyes toward its neighbors, might be dismissed as fearmongering by some, but Peter took it very seriously.
Austria was particularly vulnerable. Its new young president, Engelbert Dollfuss, had come to power the year before. He was an unusual man who, though less than five feet tall, had managed to be accepted into the army, where he had served with some distinction. He was an ardent Catholic, and very right-wing politically. He was extremely sensitive about his height and punished anyone rash enough to make jokes about it. He was altogether heavy-handed in exercising his power.
It was Peter’s job, as well as his nature, to foresee problems, and to know as much as possible about the players, their power and their interests. Aiden Strother’s years in Germany, Austria, and northern Italy were fundamental to that.
Lucas Standish might understand his reasons, but he would still be angry that Peter had gone behind his back and sent Elena to find Strother. The knowledge of that was a growing darkness inside him. He cared what Lucas thought of him. It left him vulnerable, and yet he realized Lucas was the most important influence in his life, more important than his own father, whom it seemed he would never truly please, no matter how hard he tried. To begin with, he could not share any aspect of his work with his parents or, for that matter, with his wife, Pamela, but that was a whole other area that he preferred not to visit now.
H
e was walking quite automatically, passing people without seeing their faces. Everyone was hurrying, even in the mild September sun. Hurrying somewhere, toward something, or away from it. He smiled—not at any of those passing, but just at the light and the warmth, at memories of friendship, shared discovery, successes…and the comfort of companionship in the face of failure. That, too, was a tight bond.
Had he broken it all by sending Lucas’s granddaughter on a mission that could only be painful to her?
* * *
—
Peter went back to his office and completed all the travel arrangements for Elena under her own name. He booked a car to take her to the airport and one at the other end to take her into Paris and to the railway station. He already had the rail tickets to Milan and then on to Trieste. From that point, she would have to take care of her mission herself. He had city maps with notable places marked, specifically where she might like to photograph. She must keep that cover always.
He included the address of the three-room apartment rented for her. On balance, this was better than a hotel, more discreet. There was a landlord who would know how to watch and help, if necessary, and who would provide the basic food supplies for her arrival.
Peter reached the office and went upstairs.
He knocked on Bradley’s door. As soon as he heard the muffled order from inside, he went in.
Jerome Bradley, head of MI6, was sitting at his desk. He looked up with a bland expression on his face. He was immaculately dressed, as always, in a tailored pinstripe suit, white shirt, anonymous tie. His school was not one to boast about. His thick brown hair was brushed back off his forehead. “Yes?” he said, but he did not invite Peter to sit, even though there was a chair a few feet from the desk.
Peter stood straight, not quite at attention. “I’m sending someone to Trieste to find Aiden Strother and get him out—”
Bradley cut across him. “What’s he doing there anyway? I don’t remember sending him.”
“You didn’t,” Peter replied. “You weren’t in charge then. It was six years ago.” It was surprising that Bradley, who had replaced Lucas Standish when he finally retired, had not read the confidential papers that would have told him about Aiden Strother.
“Strother?” Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “Just a minute, wasn’t he a traitor? Do you mean he’s turned our way again?” His voice was heavy with doubt. “How?”
“He was always facing our way, sir,” Peter said patiently. “We planted him, and he sent back a great deal of information.”
“Really.” That was not a question, only an acknowledgment that Bradley had heard him. “I don’t remember seeing his name on anything.” His voice had a note of criticism.
“No, sir, we don’t leave the names of our informers on things.” Bradley should hardly have needed a reminder of something so obvious.
“What has he done that he’s in danger?” Bradley changed tack. He looked skeptical. “Be careful who you bring back into the country, Howard. Think very hard about what you are doing. You have been known to let your enthusiasm mislead your judgment.”
Peter felt the hot blood rise up his cheeks. Bradley knew far more about him than he knew about Bradley. Much of his experience had been in a different area, higher in administration, less in action. “You don’t accomplish much by always playing within the bounds of safety, sir,” Peter said, needle sharp. Peter had been active in intelligence during the war and shortly after. Bradley had not.
“You don’t need to remind me of your accomplishments, Howard. At least not more than half a dozen times,” Bradley responded with the ghost of a smile.
That was unfair. Peter never boasted. He abhorred braggarts. It was the surest sign of insecurity, a serious weakness in any officer. Bradley was baiting him deliberately. “Then you know the answer to your questioning, sir,” he said between his teeth. “Strother was embedded six years ago, with the orders to go wherever his opportunities led him, and to report back anything he felt of interest, but with the greatest care and as seldom as possible. He sent his information…” He hesitated, reluctant to tell Bradley anything he did not have to.
“Yes?” Bradley said impatiently. “For God’s sake, Howard, stop dancing around like a bloody ballerina en pointe. I know everything that you do, and a lot that you don’t.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir,” Peter replied. He knew a lot that he had not told Bradley, and did not intend to. Little things, day-to-day details, but that was how most pictures were created. Not in spills of paint, but one stroke at a time.
“What does this Aiden Strother know that is worth risking another man’s life to get him out?” Bradley went on. “And if Strother is really any good, tell him to lie low for a while and find his own way out. Where is he? Germany? Austria?”
“Since his handler has disappeared, and we have no direct contact with him, how do you suggest we do that?” Peter tried to keep sarcasm out of his voice and failed.
Bradley asked the one question Peter had hoped he would not. “How do you know his contact has disappeared?” His eyebrows rose. “Who told you that? Let him tell Strother to get out, if he hasn’t got enough sense to get out anyway. Since the line of communication has been cut, surely the man is bright enough to know that?”
This was settling into a battle of wills, no longer tied to the actual issues. Why? Personal dislike? Or was Bradley actually trying to provoke Peter into something more? An open insubordination, for which he could be dismissed? Was it all still about Lucas Standish and the ghost of his leadership that lingered on? Bradley wanted to put one of his own men in Peter’s place. That was an open secret. Peter might even have wanted the same were their positions reversed.
How much of the truth should he tell Bradley? Certainly not that he had sent Lucas Standish’s granddaughter, and yet he could not get the travel expenses passed if he did not clear them through the usual channels, which Bradley was bound to see. Damn Bradley. “I don’t care if Strother stays or leaves,” Peter answered, measuring his words. “But I want his information to date. In his last message, he implied it was very important.”
“Oh!” Bradley’s eyebrows shot up and his tone became sharper. “Such as what?”
“I don’t know.” That was partly true. Peter did know it had something to do with Dollfuss and the changing power in Austria. “But before he sinks back into the woodwork and we can’t find him, alive or dead, I wanted to discover exactly what he has learned. If we bring Strother himself back, so much the better, but if not, then at least his information.”
Bradley’s face tightened with displeasure, but the argument was reasonable. “All right, if we must, but a messenger, that’s all. And train, second class; he’ll get there just as quickly. Is that everything?”
“Thank you.” Peter took the authorization. He had just put out his hand to open the door when Bradley spoke again.
“Howard?”
He turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Lucas Standish is gone. You answer to me now, and only me. I want a report on Strother as soon as possible, do you understand? And if you succeed in getting him out, then I want to debrief him personally. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you still see Lucas Standish?”
“I see him socially now and then, as you see your friends.” Peter swallowed hard. “Lord Irwin, for example. I don’t intend to criticize it, even though he has some extreme right-wing views. I would go so far as to say pro-Nazi. And, of course, there’s Oswald Mosley…”
Bradley’s face was filled with a sudden and powerful dislike. “As opposed to Churchill who, thank God, is out of office,” he snapped back. His pen was clenched in his heavy hand as if he wished to stab something with it. “A forgotten man, who doesn’t know when to keep his crazy and disruptive opinions to himself,” he added bitterly. “You may want another war, Howa
rd, but most decent people with any sense do not. Especially those of us who fought in the last one. I mean really fought, in the trenches. Who saw their friends and brothers blown to pieces, or caught in the wire and riddled with bullets, helpless to do anything about it. And there were plenty of us. You would do very well to remember that. And if you think I would throw you out the first legitimate chance I get, you’re bloody well right. I would, so be very careful. Don’t make the slightest mistake…and give me the chance.”
“Sir—”
“Don’t interrupt!” Bradley snapped. “You’re good at your job, I’ll give you that. I’d have got rid of you years ago if you weren’t. But you’re Lucas Standish’s man. There, I’ve said it openly, though everyone knows it already. I hope you keep our other secrets better than you keep that.”
Peter swallowed hard. “Since I served with him for fifteen years, it’s hardly a secret, sir. If there’s anyone who still doesn’t know he was the best director we’ve had—and he taught me just about everything I know—then we need to get rid of them. They wouldn’t find their own backsides with both hands and a map.”
Bradley sat forward in his chair. “Get out, and bring back Strother’s information. Whatever it is, give it to me. If it’s any bloody use! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you give it to Lucas Standish, I’ll have your head on a plate, and that’s a promise.”
“Yes, sir.” Peter went out and resisted the impulse to slam the door. He closed it very quietly, not even allowing the latch to click. But he did wonder how much Bradley knew about Aiden Strother that he was so keen to get the report. Was it just to make certain Peter obeyed him? Or did he know more of it than he admitted?
* * *
—
It was early in the evening when Peter went home. The anger from his interview with Bradley had subsided. There was something cathartic about having their differences out in the open, even though he could not afford to give Bradley even the ghost of a chance to fire him. He loved the work. It was the center of his life. It had been for twenty years, since he left university and joined the Service.