The Map

by T. S. Learner

  ‘You know, August, I never could work out why you gave up Oxford. You could have graduated, then gone straight back to Boston, to that blue-blooded family of yours.’

  ‘Initially it was Charlie Stanwick who got me into the party, but after I’d witnessed Hitler’s ambition, I was morally compelled to volunteer for Spain. The Nazis’ weaponry, their planes treating the Spanish and the Basques like some kind of dress rehearsal of bloodshed – Gernika, Madrid, Bilbao … none of us Marxists, not the Republicans, the International Brigade, the Basque Nationalists, none of us had any illusions about peace with such tyranny. Pity the rest of the world wasn’t willing to listen.’

  ‘Well, we’ve all paid the price now.’

  ‘And I’ll always be grateful to you for giving me the chance to keep fighting. Nobody else trusted me, and I knew I wouldn’t be welcome back in the States, not with my record of being a card-carrying Red.’

  ‘What about now? Aren’t you at least interested in going back? It’s boom town there, the spanking shining dawn of industrial prosperity. Here it’s the decline and burial of the British Empire – although half my colleagues are in denial, you’d think we still ruled India, China and the Middle East.’

  ‘The Americans wouldn’t have me back. Not with Senator McCarthy beating the anti-communist drum. And with Eisenhower in the White House, I’m telling you there’s a new war afoot – Korea, Egypt, the Soviet Union, China, everyone is lining up.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. So what side are you on now?’

  ‘I used to call myself a Marxist – now I’m not so sure, with all these rumours of Stalin’s work camps and arrests. But I’m telling you, all hell is gonna break out when he dies. You wait. I wouldn’t be packing up my fatigues just yet. Anyhow, that’s all behind me now. I’ve spent the last few years pursuing my academic career.’

  Malcolm studied his face carefully, not believing a word.

  ‘I was wondering where you had got to. I even heard a rumour you had visited the Soviet Union at one point.’ Malcolm kept his voice light and breezy.

  ‘A conference on Georgian flora in myth.’

  ‘That’s right, you and your occult studies.’ Malcolm tried not to sound sarcastic and failed, noticing August wince.

  ‘It keeps me out of trouble, and pays the bills, kind of. And it was always my other passion. And besides, I’m an esteemed historian now, I even have a whole audience of a couple of hundred readers awaiting my second tome – Famous Poisonings in History: The Deadly Nightshade and Other Dangerous Blooms.’

  ‘And you really expect me to believe that you’ve given up the politics?’

  ‘Hey, I still subscribe to the Daily Worker, but my party days are over. I guess I’m far more politically cynical than I used to be.’

  ‘Aren’t we all. Still, considering your father is now the US representative at the UN …’

  August glanced up sharply – he hated being associated with his father.

  ‘We haven’t spoken since 1936. He never forgave me for volunteering for the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and I never forgave him for being the fascist that he was. You know he actually backed Hitler right up until England declared war? He met him once at an embassy party in Berlin in the thirties. Apparently Der Führer made quite an impression. Don’t delude yourself, I’m persona non grata with dear Daddy and I’d like to keep it that way.’

  ‘Pity, he could help you now.’

  ‘Help me? He’d get me arrested. It’s taken thirty years to crawl from under his shadow and I ain’t crawling back now, no sirree. I hate the guy.’ August knocked back the whisky he’d ordered on the Foreign Service’s expense account, then regretted not relishing the malt. Talking about his father made him both anxious and furious, it was an uncomfortable mix. ‘Listen, Malcolm, I’m not naive. I knew you guys had tags on me the whole time during the war, still do, right?’

  Malcolm chose not to answer. Did August know whether he was MI5 or not? Now they were both playing the game.

  ‘August, what’s the real reason why you wanted to meet?’

  August glanced around the gallery – there was only one other member visible, and he appeared to be sleeping behind a copy of The Times, a page of the newspaper undulating gently as he snored. Nevertheless, August pushed his chair nearer Malcolm.

  ‘I need some information.’ It was a sincere and disarmingly honest appeal: uncharacteristic of the American, who was notoriously self-reliant. Malcolm decided it was genuine. He steeled himself.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Does October 31st, 1945 mean anything to you – in relation to Anglo-Franco affairs?’ The two men watched each other’s expressions, both unconsciously looking for a tell, the whisper of an expression that might betray some hidden subtext. Both men stayed grim-faced. Stalemate. August broke the silence. ‘I’m figuring you might have heard something, being Foreign Office?’

  Malcolm exhaled, relaxing almost imperceptibly, almost.

  ‘Well, apart from the end of the war and the Potsdam Conference in July, it doesn’t ring any kind of bell.’ He leaned closer, close enough for August to be able to smell his expensive aftershave – again August wondered where he was getting his money. ‘But I warn you, August, don’t go meddling in Franco’s affairs. The English have ghosts with Franco, just as the Americans have. Ghosts MI5 would happily silence – the ungentlemanly way.’

  ‘Do I look like a ghost?’ August replied, smiling.

  ‘Actually you do.’ Malcolm’s grim demeanour did not change and August felt a faint chill brush across his skin – others might have called it fear. Malcolm rotated his port glass on the glass tabletop thoughtfully. ‘Listen, you’ve always been my man and I’ve fought for you more than you know. But these are different times. There are all kinds of surprising alliances springing up every day, a new kind of mercenary thinking at the top and, since Burgess and Maclean, a new kind of paranoia. Things aren’t black and white any more. We’re living through a climate of moral ambiguity. One has to watch one’s back.’

  ‘So the date does have significance?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  August shrugged, thinking Malcolm might have been avoiding answering the question. But there was something else, something just hovering under Malcolm’s subliminal threat, a clue he’d let slip. August, relaxing against the back of his chair, feigned a casualness the civil servant mistook for bravado.

  ‘Listen, August, you’re still considered a security risk, now even more so because of this new Cold War. I’ll help you but I can’t protect you.’ And, to Malcolm’s surprise, it felt as if he really meant it.

  Outside, August mulled over the conversation, staring into the light drizzle that had started to descend on Pall Mall. A businessman hurried by in bowler hat, overcoat and umbrella – the uniform of the denizens of the city. Tall and thin, he looked almost funereal in his black. What was in his life that propelled him along the street with such urgency? August wondered. Was he entirely as he seemed? The man, noticing August’s interest and completely misinterpreting it, smiled wryly from under the bowler, and August, realising his gaff, had the decency to blush before turning away. No, definitely not MI5, he thought to himself then glanced back down the street. Under the rain the snow was turning to slush, yet there was something comforting in the way the grand promenade had survived virtually unchanged throughout the war. A continuity of both history and tradition. It was what he’d always loved about London.

  As he gazed out the clue Malcolm had let slip took shape as he realised Malcolm had mentioned the Americans in relation to Franco, despite the fact August hadn’t introduced them into the conversation. Springing into action, he pulled off the dreadful tie he’d been obliged to wear for the club and reached for his helmet, then fired up the bike.

  He headed straight over Piccadilly towards Berkeley Square. There was a favour he could call in.

  From the street the barge, moored in Little Venice, looked just like an ordinary long flat-bottomed b
oat that had been converted into a residential dwelling. There were lace curtains in the windows and pretty little window boxes filled with red geraniums.

  Once inside, apart from a few expensive antiques like the sixteenth-century spinning wheel that sat in a corner or the silver candlestick holder on the table, it looked like the kind of place a neat older woman with artistic tendencies might live – inoffensive, perhaps even a little kitsch, but this was exactly the impression Olivia Henries liked to present to the outside world.

  She sat at a small fold-out wooden table facing an empty chair – the table was set for two, but only Olivia’s plate had been used. She was now studying a photograph she held in her hand, ‘Gatesways Club, 1950’ scrawled in ink across the bottom. It was of two women sitting at a table in a bar. The younger one, dressed in a suit, a trilby rakishly tipped over one eye, her short black hair just visible, cigarette holder in hand, stared out of the photograph defiantly, her arm draped possessively around the shoulder of her companion. The older woman, lipsticked, red hair tumbling down to her bare shoulders, was turned away from the camera as she gazed lovingly across – their proximity allowing no ambiguity. There was a slight fudging of the older woman’s features, as if she were in motion or some hidden light had blurred her face, but she was still recognisable to those who knew her well. Olivia looked down at her own indistinct face, then traced the outline, remembering the feel of the satiny evening dress, the eroticism of belonging to another – someone far younger, far more impatient to begin life, and perhaps, unconsciously to end it.

  ‘You fool, you stupid beautiful fool,’ she said out loud, addressing the empty chair, not knowing whether to scream or to weep, then realising her fury transcended both emotions. She pulled a telephone directory off a shelf and began poring over it – there was no entry for an A. E. Winthrop, no doubt the American was ex-directory. The only clue she had to his address was the numberplate on his motorcycle and all she’d managed to extract from the Motor Vehicle Association of Great Britain was the name of the street he lived on, no house or flat number. She knew the street and the area – it was one of the densely populated boroughs of London, filled with a multitude of one-room apartments, flats and boarding houses crowded with students, the current wave of migrants hopeful for work – not to mention the thousands of war refugees who flooded London. The street itself was four blocks long.

  Resigned to a long search, Olivia pulled on a raincoat and headed out for the nearest telephone booth, situated at the junction of the canal and a bridge. Stoically ignoring the dozen business cards stuck up against the board above the phone, covered in dubious adverts like ‘French mistress seeks pupil’, ‘Art model, well-built blonde looking for life modelling classes’, ‘Exotic dancer seeks patron’, Olivia inserted her tuppence and dialled.

  ‘Oh, hello, is this the central sorting office for Kensington?’ she said, pitching her voice an octave higher, sounding as upper class as she could. ‘It is? Wonderful. I’m trying to locate my nephew, I have a money order to send him, you see. The poor boy is quite destitute, you know how these students are. The trouble is, I have the name of his street, but not the house number … you can? Wonderful … the name is August E. Winthrop.’

  While she waited for the postal worker on the other end of the line to locate the address, she doodled on one of the cards. Over and over she scrawled in deep black ink strokes, cutting into the thin cardboard, visualising August’s face with each tiny slash, until the friendly cockney voice interrupted her. ‘Flat 3, 45 Hurlington Terrace,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, that is marvellous, thank you so very much,’ she gushed, then realised she’d turned her doodle into the image of a skull.

  It was still raining in Grosvenor Square and there were still some civil servants milling around the garden square, mournfully contemplating the pigeons fighting it out over their thrown breadcrumbs. August ran up the steps of Number One, the Stars and Stripes flying over the grey stone portico of the imposing Georgian terrace that housed the US Embassy.

  ‘Wow, don’t you just love this English weather?’ he drawled to the US Army guard standing just inside the oak door, trying to sound as American as possible. It worked, the guard stepped aside and August strolled up to the art deco desk that dominated the reception area.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist, severe in dark-blue serge, glowered over her glasses as August surreptitiously looked down the list of names visible beside the elevator doors, his gaze fixating on one.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Horatio Sampson.’ He leaned over the desk smiling flirtatiously.

  Unimpressed, she arched her eyebrows.

  ‘Name, sir?’

  ‘Mr August E. Winthrop, that would be Winthrop as in the son of Senator Winthrop.’ The receptionist’s expression transformed at the mention of his father’s name, and August glanced at the large clock set above her – it was two in the afternoon, perfect timing if he remembered correctly. ‘He’s expecting me, I would suggest informing his secretary,’ August told her, hating himself for stooping to such strategies.

  ‘I will indeed, Mr Winthrop,’ she simpered then picked up the telephone.

  ‘There’s a gentleman here to see Mr Sampson.’ Her smile turned into a frown. ‘He’s not in? But it’s Mr Winthrop.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The senator’s son, that’s right, Mr August E. Winthrop.’ Her expression changed again. ‘Certainly.’ She put down the receiver and looked back up to August.

  ‘She says you are to go up and wait in his office – fourth floor.’

  ‘Thank you, and has anyone ever told you you have extraordinarily beautiful earlobes?’ August winked before sauntering off, leaving the receptionist fondling her earlobes unsure whether she’d just been insulted or complimented.

  Tyson stood in the small green park looking over at the grey façade that once held so many memories for him – this little piece of America in central London. The rain pattered gently against his raised umbrella, soothing, timeless. Vinko had done his job well, like he always did, and Tyson had had the luxury of watching his prey enter the embassy blissfully oblivious to the two men, one of whom had been shadowing him for over a day. Tyson glanced at his watch – now was the time to move.

  ‘My God, August, have you some damn cheek!’ Cindy Parsons, Mr Sampson’s secretary, a tall statuesque redhead who originated somewhere south of Kansas, stood with her hands on her ample hips, feigning outrage – rather unconvincingly, as her delight at seeing August was clearly evident.

  ‘I suppose you have no such appointment with Mr Sampson, just like I should have supposed you were never going to ring me after our night together.’

  ‘Guilty on the second count, but not as guilty as the happily married Mr Sampson, who I correctly “supposed” was seeing that mistress of his at two in the afternoon?’

  ‘Well, some men never change. You really are a cad.’ She flounced back to her filing. He followed.

  ‘Oh c’mon, Cindy, we had fun and why spoil a great friendship?’

  ‘You broke my heart.’

  ‘Really, I’m flattered. A big strong gal like you.’

  She swung around and contemplated the tall man standing before her. He looked tired, a few new lines had creased the forehead, his shirt was crumpled and there was a dent in the shining veneer of his confidence. She guessed there were emotional complications that had finally spilled over into August’s charmed life. It was inevitable. But, boy, did she resent the hold he always seemed to have over her whenever he was in physical proximity. Her mother was right, it was an unfair world and those who had been blessed with charm and beauty always squandered it.

  ‘What do you want from me now, August?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. Maybe I just dropped in to say hi? Maybe ask you out for dinner?’

  ‘That’ll be a five-shilling fish and chips at Joe’s café on my ticket —’

  ‘Dancing.’

  ‘Dancing? August, you don’t dance, you smooch! Besides, I loathe jazz.’


  He came up behind her and bit her neck – hard. She swooned immediately, a hot flush of memory weakening her at the knees. Their lovemaking had been good; August Winthrop was the rare combination of a handsome man and a generous lover. Damn him.

  ‘Okay, foreplay over.’ She pushed him away. ‘Just tell me what you’re after – I guess I might be persuaded. But don’t get the idea I’m easy.’

  ‘Easy? You!’ He laughed and winked. ‘If I remember rightly, you were kind of hard work.’

  Cindy blushed again. ‘So what exactly do you want?’ she asked, curtly, trying to regain her composure.

  ‘I was wondering whether there was any file on an operation around the 31st of October, 1945 – somewhere on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees – involving our guys?’ He kept eye contact, knowing she would not be able to resist his seduction. What he was asking was highly treasonable, but if he kept his tone light and flirtatious, she might just comply. To clinch the deal, he allowed his gaze to sweep down her body – from breasts to groin – like one long lingering caress. On the other side of the desk Cindy allowed a sigh to escape her lips – she couldn’t help herself.

  The receptionist handed back Tyson’s CIA pass. ‘Welcome to London, sir, whom do you wish to see?’ Her curt transatlantic accent made Tyson wince slightly. There was something lemony and acidic about her presence he disliked – nevertheless he kept the smile plastered on his face.

  ‘Thank you.’ He slipped the pass into his back pocket. ‘Actually I was wondering whether an August E. Winthrop might be in the building?’

  The woman looked across startled then composed herself. ‘He arrived a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

  ‘Mr Sampson’s office, I believe he wanted to see him. Is there a problem?’ she asked, letting slip her own anxiety about having possibly let someone into the building she shouldn’t.