A Question of Betrayal

by Anne Perry

  Lucas wanted to be as gentle with him as possible, but so far there was nothing to grasp on to. “If nothing was missing, what makes you sure that it was searched? Couldn’t you have caused a mess in your own search for something?” He did not add that Stoney was extremely untidy. It seemed unkind and would serve no purpose. Stoney knew his own faults.

  “I…it’s hard to explain.” Stoney shook his head, as if that might clear his thoughts. “It doesn’t look like it, but I do know what I’ve done with things. I can always find them. Except now I can’t.” He leaned forward, frowning. “Lucas, I know I forget things. I tell jokes I’ve forgotten that I’ve told before. I forget people’s birthdays, I even forget their addresses, but I know where the address book is. I pay my bills on time. I’m not…I’m not losing my grip. Somebody searched my things!”

  Lucas felt a stab of pity, sudden and unexpectedly deep. Stoney was growing old, and he was painfully aware of it. Gradually, piece by piece, things were eluding his grasp. Would Lucas come to that himself soon? Had it already begun, and he had not noticed? Was Josephine protecting him from knowing it? There was no one to protect Stoney. “What would they be searching for?”

  “Proof that I know about the money, who it came from, and where it is going to. Proof of the ways it is hidden, and who is doing it.” He bit his lip, and his face was white.

  Josephine moved a fraction forward and then stopped, knowing she should not interfere.

  Lucas said nothing.

  “Knowing who was implicated, who would be ruined if it came to light,” Stoney finished. “I think the good and the bad are too hard to tell apart. If this matter is exposed, it’ll bring down the whole of MI6.”

  “And if it isn’t?” Lucas asked.

  “We’ll be riddled with corruption, so we can’t tell the good from the bad, and eventually we’ll help stoke another war…which we may not win.”

  The enormity of it washed over Lucas like a wave with the weight of an endless ocean behind it.

  Josephine spoke for the first time. “You came to Lucas because he would understand what it is you have seen?” she asked.

  Stoney turned to look at her. “Yes. And because he might believe me…and…and I know he wouldn’t be involved.”

  “Who else would understand it?” she went on.

  He took her point immediately. “Not many. Of course, there is always the possibility that someone is a genius at figures and we didn’t know it.”

  “And understands the entire system well enough to hide a very large amount of money in it?” she said. “Knows all the departments? Or are they not all implicated?”

  Lucas looked at her, then at Stoney. He was beginning to understand why Stoney was so hurt. This was the Service that had been his family during the prime of his life. Some of his friends had died for it, as had some of Lucas’s. Perhaps, at the heart of it, that was the force behind his need to save it now. “What would you like me to do, if I can use so old-fashioned a word, for the sake of honor?” Lucas asked. “Whoever is leading this has to be someone high up. You’ve concluded that already, haven’t you?” It was hardly a question.

  “Yes,” Stoney said quietly.

  “What would you like me to do?” Lucas repeated gently. “Is there anyone else you trust?”

  “Not really,” Stoney began, then looked down at his large hand resting on Toby’s head.

  Suddenly, Lucas knew what Stoney was going to say, and it struck him like a dead weight. Stoney was not asking for protection. He was asking for Lucas to advise him, and if he failed, to pick up the burden he had let fall. He could not deny it.

  “Would you like me to keep a copy of your work, in case you…can’t finish it?” Lucas could hardly believe he had said it. Of course, he meant in case Stoney died. Someone had broken into his house once. Did they know Stoney had come to Lucas? Was it hard to work out? What about Josephine? If Stoney wasn’t crazy, imagining things, then he had put them both in danger. But Lucas had offered, and he saw a flood of gratitude in Stoney’s face. Then the light faded out of his eyes.

  “No, thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it, but that would only put you and Josephine in the same trouble I’m in now, and it’s not your problem. At least, not yet. I feel better for telling you about it. At least someone else knows. There’s no one else I can trust, you see?”

  “Yes, I do see,” Lucas admitted. “But surely there are other people you can exclude from suspicion?” He sounded desperate, as if he were looking for a way out, but that was not what he meant. Like Stoney, he did not want to think that the people he had trusted could believe in appeasement, in joining the enemy rather than fighting. It changed everything. Too many of the pillars that held up what he loved were resting on sand. How much would it take to blow away the foundations, a little at a time? A word here, a belief there, something you took as true discarded, one lie at a time.

  “Give me a copy of what you know,” he said. “Even if we can’t make anything of it yet, it will be a place to start.”

  “It’s time for the truth, Lucas.” Stoney shook his head. “The war’s over, for the time being. At least the most physical part of it is. But it’s still there, under the ground, like interconnected rats’ nests, one leading into another.”

  “What a revolting analogy,” Lucas said sharply. “Don’t you believe we learn anything?”

  “Frankly, not much,” Stoney replied. “But the bit I believe I would die for, as would you.”

  The pattern in Lucas’s mind made him feel faintly sick. Perhaps the more so because he knew it was true. He had not thought of it exactly like that, but he knew the German navy was being rebuilt far faster than the British. They were rearming, building tanks, planes, guns. Churchill was the only one who cried any warning, a voice in the wilderness, and nobody wanted to go into that wilderness again. Too many old wounds were still bleeding.

  “What else do you know, Stoney? Even roughly.”

  “It has to do with Austria and the Nazis, of course. Everything has to do with them, lately.”

  “Everything?”

  “Sooner or later. It all comes down to fear and greed. The easiest way to make that respectable is to call it nationalism, as you can’t fault a man for loving his country.”

  Lucas answered with what came first to his mind. “Samuel Johnson said that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. I’m not quite sure what he meant, but by God we use it to excuse an entire army of sins. And some people get away with it. Despite the scar to the soul and the stain on history, tell anyone he’s serving his country, and that excuses almost anything. We all want to belong. We have a view of the world that validates who we are. What we are. We need it to survive.”

  “I know,” Stoney said quietly, “but I’ll take care of these papers. For a moment there, I was prepared to share them with you, but I realize I don’t need to. And it’s an abuse of a friendship I value more than I’ve ever said. I find all I need is to be sure that you know and understand. We have to find the guilty and get rid of them. The innocent trust us, they always did. If MI6 is rotten, who is to protect us from the enemy we can’t see?”

  Pushing Toby away gently, he rose to his feet and turned to Josephine. “Thank you for the cake. And for listening.”

  Lucas stood up also, waiting.

  Stoney shook his head. “Just take care.” His smile faded and he held Lucas’s hand for a moment, hard. Then he walked out through the French doors and across the lawn, toward the place his old car was parked.

  “Will he be all right?” Josephine asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Lucas replied, putting his arm around her shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he’s onto something real or…”

  “Or just lonely.” She filled in what he had not wanted to say. “And feeling frightened and old, and like he’s rapidly becoming irrelevant.”
>
  “Yes, that, too,” he agreed. He felt the coming twilight, soft, filling the air, hiding the things you know are there: trees, fences, the neighbor’s wall. And in the twilight of the mind, old enemies rising again.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Peter was sitting in the small hard-backed chair in front of Bradley’s desk, answering his questions. He had clearly given the subject a lot of thought. Of course, Austria had lost badly in the war and, like everyone else, was slow to recover. It had been an old and powerful empire in 1914, and now Austria was struggling to find itself, to create a new identity, and it was with an anguish that was inevitable. The political mess from which the inexperienced Dollfuss had emerged as chancellor had only made it worse.

  “Howard, I want an answer,” Bradley snapped.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve given you every report as I’ve received it. Dollfuss is becoming more authoritarian as he assumes more power to try to keep order. He’s been sabotaged by factions—”

  “I know that!” Bradley interrupted. “He’s chancellor of Austria, for heaven’s sake! Has he got the power and the backing to succeed?”

  Peter sat a little straighter and kept his temper with difficulty. They had covered this before, several times. “I don’t know, sir. This June, the National Socialists—the Nazi party—began using live grenades against a group of auxiliary police. As a result, Dollfuss banned Austrian National Socialists from the country.”

  “You are repeating yourself, Howard!” Bradley said acidly. “You said the Nazis in Germany made them welcome. I suppose that was to be expected. Dollfuss doesn’t seem to know which side he’s on. Next thing we hear, he’s in Rome, in Mussolini’s lap, looking for support. We’ve got a man in Trieste, which is more or less one foot in Italy and the other in Austria. What does he say?”

  “Very little, and he doesn’t interpret it, he just says what he knows,” Peter replied.

  “Oh?” Bradley stiffened, his attention sharper. “What does he say? What’s his name?”

  Peter sidestepped the second question. Bradley did not need to know. “Nothing, for a while.”

  Bradley leaned forward in his chair. He clenched his strong hands.

  Peter’s temper was slipping away.

  “Have you contacted him?” Bradley demanded.

  “Yes, I have. Haven’t heard back yet,” Peter replied quietly.

  “So, you don’t know what he has to say?”

  “No.”

  “Ideas?” Bradley banged his closed hands on the desk.

  Peter had considered this before he had arrived at the office. He had received a one-word telegram from Elena last night: Contact. He had stood in the kitchen with the paper in his hand, waiting until the delivery boy left before he opened it. His hands had been stiff. He had not realized how worried he was about her. Had he sent Elena too soon? Had her success in Berlin just been a series of coincidences? Perhaps she was never as brave or as clever as that had made her seem.

  How would he face Lucas if she was hurt? Or worse? But he did not say those words, even allow those thoughts.

  He had torn the telegram open, then read only Contact. So, she had found Aiden Strother and spoken to him already.

  “Oh, wake up, man, and give me a straight answer!” Bradley said angrily.

  Peter jerked back to attention. “I don’t know. There are too many possibilities. We know where most of the main players are. We know Dollfuss is courting Mussolini. We expected it. Anyone would, in his place.”

  “I know that, Howard! Damn it, man!” Bradley cut in. “You are letting this slip out of your control! Strother is our only lead to the Nazis in Trieste; God knows what they’re planning. It could lead eventually into Vienna and be the beginning of a takeover of the whole of Austria! Think, man! Stop letting your old loyalties to Standish and his damn family get in your way. You know better than that, don’t you?” There was a question in Bradley’s eyes. He was uncertain of Peter’s answer.

  “I was going to say they are gaining considerable financial backing…” Peter kept his temper with difficulty. He refused to answer the question about Lucas. Why did Bradley even ask? Was his jealousy so deep? Or was he covering something?

  “From whom?” Bradley interrupted again, his face pinched with anxiety. “Is that a conclusion based on specific information, or just a general fear?”

  Peter hesitated again. He had learned not to tell the whole truth where he did not need to. He disliked Bradley, and he profoundly believed it was mutual. “A large collection of small things, sir,” he replied very formally. “We don’t know the sources of all this money, but most of it comes through Germany.”

  “That’s to be expected,” Bradley said, his eyes watching Peter’s face, his expression judgmental. “Mostly Germany?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that, or you’re guessing?” he said impatiently. “It’s important; don’t dither around, Howard.”

  Peter hesitated only for an instant. “We’re waiting for the proof.”

  “Proof of what?” Bradley was motionless now, frozen. A cloud drifted away and the sunlight streamed through the windows. “What kind of proof? Word of mouth, or actual records? What is this Fatherland Front I hear of? Is it serious? Or don’t you know?”

  Why should Peter be so reluctant to trust him? He was letting personal dislike take control. That was an error. It was not only unjust, it could eventually be self-destructive. And it would give Bradley grounds to fire him. He himself would not work with a junior who did not trust him, especially one treading on his heels in rank. Did Bradley think Peter wanted his job? Did he? Was Bradley right?

  “The Fatherland Front is a pro-Nazi group. Paramilitary, of course—”

  “Of course! What else?” Bradley interrupted. “Is the money going to them?”

  Peter forced himself to relax, even smile slightly. “I’m hoping my contact is going to supply proof of exactly who is backing the Fatherland Front, and to what degree. When we know that, we’ll be in a far better position to judge the issue.”

  Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you looking for, Howard? Arrests? What can they tell you that you don’t already know, or deduce? What sort of money? Thousands or millions? We don’t want this getting to Churchill, the scaremongering old fool. We’d be playing right into his hands. This doesn’t go beyond my office, you understand me? You tell Standish any of this and he’ll tell Churchill. He thinks the daft old man walks on water!”

  Peter chose his words very carefully, aware of how deeply Bradley feared Churchill’s influence. That was another reason Bradley hated Lucas: because of his long and deep friendship with Winston Churchill. He was one of the very few who believed Churchill’s dark fears were only too well founded.

  “No, sir. Not amounts. I was more concerned with where the money came from.”

  Bradley frowned. “You mean…who.”

  “No, sir, I do mean where.”

  “Like?”

  “The United States.” He saw Bradley’s eyes widen. “If it’s from Britain, sir, that’s one thing. But, for example, if it’s from the United States, that’s quite different.” He saw the light change in Bradley’s eyes. “At the very least, we need to know.”

  “Indeed, we do,” Bradley said softly. “Do you think this Fatherland Front is influenced by the Americans?”

  “Not the government. But if the Fatherland Front wants continued money, they’ll be careful not to offend them. It’s got to be worth something. Nobody gives away millions expecting nothing in return. I’d like to know who from, how much, and where.”

  “So would I, Howard, so would I. Keep me informed. I hope you’ve got a good man working on getting your man out.”

  “The best person I have, sir, for this job. Contact has been made already. We have to go carefully, because we want to know how mu
ch money is involved, and from whom.”

  “Yes, of course. Good work, Howard.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Peter pushed his chair back and stood up.

  * * *

  —

  He took the train home early and walked from the station to his house. He was inwardly far less certain of his own convictions than he had implied to Bradley. In the fifteen years since the armistice, a new generation had risen up who knew only the stories. But almost every family had lost someone, either to death or to disability. Who could blame anyone whose fortitude now and then took a turn away from any path that led to war?

  Peter had hoped that the millions of lives taken or ruined in the trenches, the sight of so much wasted blood, would have driven home unforgettably the lesson that one man’s blood is no different from another’s. Yet here we were, dividing ourselves into Christian or Jew, British, French, or German, Catholic or Protestant, persecuting the different, Gypsy or homosexual or Communist. All over the place, people were setting up barriers to keep others in…or out. The Germans had already built vast camps to hold “unsuitable” people apart from the rest of society. Labor camps. Effectively, prisons. A life sentence for the crime of being different.

  Germany had lost its balance. Italy was fast going the same way under that grandiose clown Mussolini. Austria was caught between the two. A buffer? Or a piece of living flesh, to be torn apart, dismembered, and swallowed piece by piece?

  Peter crossed the sunlit road. The wind was blowing dust about.

  The Austro-Hungarian Empire had been something of a mongrel beast anyway. Would the new republic be strong enough to stand in its place? Was Dollfuss going to help it or harm it? Would the British Foreign Office effectively feed it to the Germans, simply by standing by and doing nothing…until it was too late?

  Yes. Probably.

  Aiden Strother had been well placed when he was in Austria. It had taken years to get him so close to the people with real power and information. What he had sent back, carefully and infrequently, was vital to decisions made by the Foreign Office, and then by the prime minister.