Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  “What now?” Jack took a piece of bread and tore it into pieces, dunking it in his wine. He’d hardly spoken.

  “You go to Rome. See if you can pick up any sign of them there. We’ll go to Genoa.” Drummond took a hunk of bread. “I’ll get in touch with our chap in the consulate. Get him to check sailings and passenger lists. See who’s been visiting the Argentinians, see if our friends at the Red Cross have been issuing any interesting passports to poor, benighted, stateless Germans. This bread’s as dry as a nun’s knickers.” He threw down the piece he’d been chewing. “I hope the rest of the food’s better than this.”

  The red risotto didn’t look too promising, but it tasted fine.

  “Come si chiama questo piatto?” Dori asked.

  “Risotto al Radicchio,” the patron said with some pride. “Specialità di Verona.”

  “Ricetta?”

  He smiled, softening at her interest. “Sì, signora.”

  “Recipe?” Drummond looked skeptical. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”

  Dori took out a notebook. “Maybe I’ve changed. I’m thinking of starting a new career as a cookery writer.”

  Drummond laughed. He clearly didn’t believe her, but Dori was quite serious. The idea had just come to her, and she suddenly knew that it was the right thing to do. She would even write under Edith’s nom de plume: Stella Snelling.

  The patron brought more wine and his wife from the kitchen. She dictated the recipe in Italian. This much and that much, pinches and handfuls, mezzo liters and quartos. By the time Dori had written it down, the wine had been replaced by rounds of grappa. Drummond dished out a fan of notes and they went back to the hotel.

  Drummond looked around their room.

  “I was going to sleep in the chair, but—”

  “There isn’t one.” Dori felt a twitch of a smile, the first in a long time.

  “There’s always the bath.”

  Dori kissed him hard. His hand gripped her through her slip, the other going to her breast. There was nothing subtle about his lovemaking. He was quick and brutal, but that’s what she wanted. To blot out the events of that day, to burn it all away, to make her feel alive again. They broke apart, sweating, both partly dressed.

  “Here.” He retrieved his trousers from the floor and reached into the pocket. “I saved this for you. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  He held out the icon that Edith had been wearing.

  “She wanted to give it back.” The icon swung between them, the silver chain stained, the face darkened still further. “I thought she might have need of it. In the church. I—” Her voice cracked, stopped by a surge of memory: the smell of incense and ancient stone, that light floral perfume that Edith wore, the warmth of her arm as they knelt together. And then, and then a scattering of scarlet across dark crimson, echoing cries of “Orrore! Orrore!” In dreams, at random moments she would be taken back to that exact time, that precise place, she would see both scenes, over and over, added to all the others on the spooling film reel of her guilt. “I—I put her in harm’s way.”

  “We all did. She didn’t deserve what happened, that’s for sure.” He brushed the heavy dark hair from her neck and hooked the chain with a surprisingly delicate touch. “I remember talking to her about it on the train. We all carry something. Stupid superstition, I suppose.”

  “What do you carry?”

  He looked suddenly shy, and Dori wondered if she’d overstepped some invisible line, as if showing her might take away the power.

  “No harm you seeing.” He picked up his shirt and took something from the pocket. “Found it in the desert.” He dropped it into her palm. A small wheel, about the size of a shilling, made from tightly coiled gold wire and surprisingly heavy in her hand. “Roman, sacred to Mithras, soldiers’ god, or so some clever sod told me.” He leaned back, his compact muscular torso braced against the headboard. “So, at whose door? The Nazi bruderschaft?”

  Dori lit two cigarettes, passed one to Drummond. “That’s what they’ll want us to think.”

  “Who then? Leo? McHale?”

  Dori shrugged, “Could be either. Neither. Both. Waiting to pull the double-cross.”

  “Why Edith?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Shooting her allows the von Stavenows to escape. He shot at me, too. Get rid of both of us, no one the wiser, and on their merry way.”

  “We’ll get them,” Drummond said, his gray-green eyes as hard as serpentine. “We owe it to Edith.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Early start. Get some kip.”

  “Why are you sending Jack to Rome?” Dori frowned, a new thought dawning. “Are you not sure about him?”

  “Can’t be certain of anybody in this business.” He rubbed at his jaw. “He was Special Branch before the war, did jobs for Leo. Might be working both sides of the street. Better to be safe than sorry.” He reached to turn off the light. “Anyway, the von Stavenows might still turn up, and the poor sod deserves a bit of a honeymoon.”

  42

  Grand Hotel Savoia, Genoa

  21st May 1946

  Ristorante Al Porto Antico

  Roasted Branzino

  Bass, spitting on a charcoal grill, the coals encouraged to a brighter fierceness by the use of an ancient electric fan. The fish served with the silver skin blackened and splitting to reveal white flesh, perfectly tender, scented by dill. Served with golden, crusted potatoes scooped from a wide, blackened iron tray and a scattering of tiny Taggiasca olives of Liguria, reddish in color and deliciously sweet, scented with thyme, bay and rosemary. The best, the only way to cook this magnificent fish.

  Accompanied by a Ligurian Rossese di Dolceacqua. Bright to the eye, with the fresh tang of herbs and black currant. An intensely aromatic wine. The slightly resinous bouquet whispers of its Greek origins.

  Stella Snelling’s Memorable Mediterranean Meals

  In Genoa, they took a taxi from the station to the Grand Hotel Savoia overlooking the port. Drummond checked them in at the desk.

  “They aren’t here yet,” he said. “Just checked the register.”

  “We’re staying at the same place?”

  “Why not?” He looked around at the opulent interior, all marble floors and red-and-gold furnishing. “Didn’t know for sure that they’d turn up here but this is where they all stay. The ones with money, anyway. With a few bob stashed away. Or . . .”

  “If they are being sponsored?”

  “Esatamente.”

  Double doors led from their room out onto a balcony overlooking the harbor. Drummond had slid a few extra notes over the counter to obtain that view. One good thing about the Italians, they were eminently bribable.

  “I’ve got a few people to see. Why don’t you go shopping?” Drummond peeled off more lire. “Buy something smart for this evening. I thought we’d dine at the hotel.”

  Dori took him at his word. There was plenty of choice on the Via XX Settembre and the streets around. She managed to find a Madeleine Vionnet evening gown in black silk, a wrap and a bag to go with it, even a pair of heels. Le signore tedesche, German ladies, the woman in the shop told her, selling everything to raise the fare.

  Back at the hotel, she had a bath and washed her hair. She looked at her face in the mirror, removing the bandage Kay had applied. The wound was healing well. If she arranged her hair just so, it hardly showed.

  After her bath, she lay down on the bed, meaning merely to rest through the heat of midday. When she woke, it was late afternoon. Drummond was leaning on the balcony, studying the harbor through binoculars.

  “Consular Offices. We’ve been warned off. MI6 and all that,” he said with his back to her, his voice bowstring taut, vibrating with the anger he was suppressing. “Don’t upset the Cousins. The von Stavenows are off limits. Looked after every step of the way. There’s a big liner down there. The Don Giovanni, waiting to load up with Nazis, due to sail to Argentina tomorrow. I’m going to check the passenger lists in the morning, but it’s my bet they’
ll be on it.”

  “They’re here?”

  He turned around, square hands gripping the binoculars so hard, Dori thought he might tear them apart.

  “Arrived this afternoon. My guess is he’ll be outside the consulate getting visas from the Argies. The street is full of tall blond men in homburgs standing in a queue.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Take a pop at him, you mean?” He gave a ragged, humorless laugh. “I wish I could. ‘Hands off, Bulldog,’ that’s what I’ve been told. Our chaps have done a deal with the Yanks. Leo waving his paws in the air hoping for scraps.” He put down the binoculars and came toward her. “Put your glad rags on. We’ll start with cocktails in the bar. Don’t want them feeling they’re home free.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve got a bit of time, though.” He kissed her neck. “You smell very good. I wonder what we can find to do between now and cocktail hour?”

  The bar was full of people in evening dress. Dori’s new gown could have been made for her, and the dress suit Drummond had cadged off someone at the consulate fit him perfectly. Dori took his arm. They made a handsome couple.

  A man in a white tie and a tailcoat was playing tinkling jazz on a grand piano. The tables were occupied by couples, hardly speaking. There was an air of waiting, of quiet tension about the room.

  “Teutonic-looking lot aren’t they?” Drummond remarked. “You could add another chapter: ‘The Rats of Hamelin Lose their Master and Make a Run for It.’ What are you drinking?”

  “A Negroni, since we’re here.”

  “Whisky for me,” he said to the barman. “And whatever that is for the lady.” He turned around, drink in hand. “Look at them. Dressed up to the nines. Practically wearing their Iron Crosses. Think they’re safe now. Almost home free. No more yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Subservience doesn’t sit well with the Hun.” He turned away and studied the room in the mirror behind the bar. “Should be in jail, the lot of them.” His gaze ranged over the rest of the tables. “The Italians are as bad. Bunch of fascists. And the Argentinians for that matter.” He finished his drink and ordered another. “Makes me sick. What a crew. Here they come. Trunks have arrived, I see.”

  Kurt and Elisabeth. He looked tall and slender, graceful in black evening dress. Dori was gratified to see one arm strapped and under his jacket. One bullet must have found a home. She was wearing a finely pleated, pale-cream Delphos dress. Prewar Fortuny. The silk shimmered as she walked, the simple, graceful lines following the contours of her figure. Murano glass beads glinting down the sides of the gown. A diamond collar glittered above the high neckline, matching earrings caught the light. They made their way between the tables, arm in arm, looking enough like film stars to turn every eye in the room, smiling from side to side, accepting the general gaze as if it was their due.

  “What are we going to do?” Dori asked, watching them walk to their table by one of the long windows overlooking the harbor.

  “Nothing,” Drummond replied without taking his eyes off them. “Can’t do anything. Of special interest. Under the protection of our friend Tom McHale, not to mention Leo and everybody else up to and including the Pope himself, I shouldn’t wonder, as part of the new crusade to save the world from the Communists. So, it’s nothing doing, Bulldog. Let them scamper away into the Pampas with the rest of the rats.”

  He leaned back against the bar staring intently, willing them to look back. When they did at last, he gave them a wide grin, mirthless and ghastly, and raised his glass in mock salute. The von Stavenows’ gaze arrested for a moment then moved on with no other visible sign of recognition.

  “Fuck off to you too.” Drummond drained his glass. “Come on, let’s go.” He sniffed. “It’s getting too ripe for me in here. Take you to a little place I know. Food’s really good. Authentic.” He laughed, again there was no humor in it. “You can add to your collection with a genuine Genoese recipe.”

  Dori wanted to leave just as much as he did. She and Drummond were on the side of the victors, but it certainly didn’t feel like it. It felt the opposite, as though victory had gone to Kurt and Elisabeth. She watched the two of them, leaning toward each other, close, intimate, hands clasped across the stiff, white linen. They appeared to be laughing. Elisabeth leaned toward him, saying something. A waiter rushed over to ease back her chair as she stood.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Dori checked her bag. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  The ladies’ powder room was all cream marble, gold taps and green onyx basins, silk-backed Venetian chairs in front of banks of mirrors. Dori dropped lire into the bowl on the attendant’s table and gestured with her head toward the door. The crone scooped up the notes and was gone.

  Dori locked the cubicle and waited. Whatever orders Drummond had received didn’t extend to her. Or to Elisabeth von Stavenow. The outer door opened and closed again. A toilet flushed, water ran. Dori counted to twenty, then twenty again, and eased back the catch.

  In the mirror, she could see into the powder room proper. A woman was sitting at one of the chairs, makeup placed in front of her, lipstick, compact, mascara, like an actress getting ready for a show. She was intent on her own reflection, brushing her hair with a Mason-Pearson brush.

  “I think that belongs to Edith,” Dori said from the door.

  The brush stopped in midstroke and then continued, taking the hair back from the forehead and to the side, following the deep, shining, waving line.

  “She won’t be needing it, will she? Not any more.” Elisabeth continued to brush out her hair, bringing up the shine. Satisfied at last, she shook her head, her hair falling into perfect waves and folds of bronze and gold. “What are you doing here, Dori?” She snapped open her compact. “It’s too late to stop us. You missed your chance.”

  “Edith. You used her.”

  “Didn’t you?” Elisabeth began to apply mascara with brisk upward strokes. “The British Secret Service, the Americans. You all used her. Naive, an innocent. The perfect vehicle. We both used her. Let’s not be coy about it. She was surplus to requirements.” Elisabeth shut the mascara box and uncapped her lipstick. “Not a good thing to be.”

  The lipstick was carmine red in a Marcel Rochas silver tube. Dori had given one just like it to Edith. She watched Elisabeth applying the color, working her lips together. What kind of woman would steal another woman’s lipstick? Such pettiness was deeply revealing. In that moment, Dori knew. Elisabeth had ordered the kill.

  “That’s Edith’s, too.”

  “Not her color,” Elisabeth said as she examined her reflection in the mirror. “It was wasted on her.” She turned her head this way and that looking for flaws. Satisfied, she collected her makeup and put it away in her handbag. “Now, I must go.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Dori held her hand down by her side. The Beretta was small, snug in the palm. She raised it slowly. Elisabeth watched her in the mirror. They both knew that she wouldn’t miss, couldn’t miss at this distance.

  “Maman, je dois faire pipi!”

  A shrill voice, a child’s voice. The door banged open. Dori lowered the gun as a little girl ran into the room. The child stopped in midpace to stare at the two women with her big dark eyes.

  “Je suis désolée.” Her mother came in after her. “Excuseznous.”

  “Pas du tout. Nous avons terminé. Pas devant les enfants.” Elisabeth whispered to Dori, “That wouldn’t be nice.” She smiled, touching her lips to Dori’s injured cheek. “Lebewohl, meine liebe. Lebewohl.”

  With that she was gone. The kiss on Dori’s cheek felt like a fresh wounding. The red came away as she rubbed, staining her fingers like blood.

  Drummond took her to a little osteria in the old port close to the water. It was dark inside, cave like, lit by candles guttering in wax-encrusted bottles set on rough wooden tables. The menu was chalked on the wall in Ligurian dialect. It didn’t really matter. They only served fish. Branzino.

  “R
ossese di Dolceacqua, nothing very special.” Drummond poured the wine. “Doesn’t have to be if all you want to do is get drunk. They’ve won, Dori. We’ve lost. Here’s to ’em.” He raised his glass. “Bottoms up. Fuck ’em, I say. I hope the ship hits a mine in the mid-Atlantic. One of theirs, preferably.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t that be ironic?” He sat back. “Oh, well, can’t win ’em all.” He lapsed into silence for a while and sat brooding, arms folded. “I do hate to lose, though,” he said finally, his voice low, almost distant. All his anger and frustration distilled into absolute resolution. “I do so hate to lose.”

  “I do, too.” Dori joined in his mood. “How could I have let her get away from me?”

  “Life goes on, eh?” He finished his wine and poured them both another.

  “Not for Edith.” Dori bit her lip hard and looked away, almost overwhelmed by a sudden surge of sorrow and despair.

  “I say, don’t despair, old girl.” Drummond took her hands in his. “It’s like in the war. Chap’d go down, wouldn’t come back, quite often several chaps, but it was bad form to sit about moping. Does no one any good. Get up and get on. Which is exactly what we are going to do, so cheer up.” He chucked her under the chin. “Let’s see a smile. That’s better.” He gave her an answering grin. “We’ll have a bloody good dinner. Food’s excellent here, better than that ghastly hotel. Nothing worse than Italian bloody haute cuisine. Then we’ll work out what we are going to do.” His smile disappeared. “Because this is not over.”

  The decks of the liner were crowded with people, waving and smiling down at the crowds on shore. It could have been a Pathé Newsreel, except there were no streamers and the flags strung from the funnels were faded and ragged. Corrosion stained the gray paint, seamed the waterline red and wept down from the hawsehole that held the anchor chain. The ship had seen better days.

  “Bit of a rust bucket.” Drummond was leaning over the balcony balustrade. “Let’s hope it doesn’t make it.” He trained binoculars on the passengers leaning on the rails. “No wonder they’re all smiling. Getting clean away. Won’t be smiling soon.” He laughed. “That thing is a tub, she’ll roll all over the place.”