‘Are you a VIP?’ Miss Parkyn asked.
‘Not really.’
‘You’re not in uniform. And yet you have the use of RAF transport. Or am I being too inquisitive?’
‘I’m afraid the answer has to be yes.’
‘Ah. Hush hush. But I need to have some idea of where to put you. If I can put you anywhere.’
‘Somewhere inconspicuous. Not the Rock.’
She began telephoning while he studied her, although he really wanted to think about Anna. Anna was a huge question mark. He knew that she had turned to him entirely by chance. He had happened to reappear in her life at the very moment when she had been ‘disciplined’ by her German employers, and had been a bundle of angry and humiliated nerves. Contrary to Baxter’s supposition he had not created Anna: Anna had created him for her own purposes. She had loved him, physically, with all the intensity that made her at once the most desirable, and equally the most deadly woman in the world. How much, and how honestly, she had accepted his tutelage and then his leadership, he did not know. Perhaps he would never know. Baxter certainly was not yet convinced that she was genuinely committed to the Allied cause. He believed in her, but was that because he so desperately wanted to believe in her?
Yet the questions continued to cluster about her. What had she been doing in Prague? He did not really believe she had been a bodyguard for Heinz Meissenbach. There was nothing in his knowledge of her to indicate that she had ever been employed in that capacity by the SD, or that she had ever met Meissenbach – yet she had apparently been intending to spend the weekend with him. He simply could not afford to be jealous of a woman like Anna, but it was difficult. And why was she going to Russia? He knew it could not be for so simplistic a reason as to obtain current Russian opinion. No doubt that mystery at least would be resolved when he finally saw her.
Which could be within the next couple of days. Cairo, Athens, probably some town in southern Russia, and then Moscow – not more than a week, depending upon how many officious flight controllers he encountered. And how soon after that would he hold her in his arms? It was one of those thoughts that could leave a man breathless, but which had to be resisted. He could not argue with Baxter’s opinion that he was an utter scoundrel. But his excellence at his job was based upon an often ruthless single-mindedness which he liked to think was almost, if not quite, in the class of Anna herself. Spending the next week dreaming of Anna would be extremely distracting, and could even be dangerous. But here was this rather appealing, if alarmingly normal, young woman, who wore no rings, and was now smiling at him.
‘I’m afraid the situation looks a bit grim, Mr Bartley. You see, since Italy entered the war, the garrison here has been more than doubled, and in addition, it is the staging post for everyone trying to get to Malta or the Middle East. So . . .’
‘I sleep on a park bench, is that it? Is there a park in Gibraltar?’
‘There’s the beach front. But it would be a little uncomfortable.’ She gazed at him, as if considering the situation, but he had an idea that she had already reached a decision. She was a serving soldier, and had to be circumspect in her relations with all other servicemen – or women – and that apparently now comprised ninety per cent of the Rock’s population. But he was not in the services, at least as far as she knew. ‘I could find you a bed . . .’
He waited.
‘I share a room with another girl, but she has a furlough and has gone up into Spain. She apparently wants to see a bullfight.’
‘One room?’
‘I’m afraid so. If sharing isn’t really your sort of thing, well . . .’ She gave a pretty little blush.
‘My dear Miss Parkyn, I don’t seem to have much alternative. But I don’t think I’d want to take the alternative, even if it was offered. Are you quite sure you want to put up with me for the next twelve hours or so?’
‘I’m sure that you are a gentleman, Mr Bartley,’ she said enigmatically.
‘Well then, at least tell me your Christian name.’
*
‘Thistleton-Brown,’ announced the handle-bar moustache, who wore the insignia of a Wing-Commander.
‘Bartley.’
Thistleton-Brown looked him up and down as best he could in the gathering gloom. ‘Diplomatic wallah?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Clive agreed.
‘And you’re for Cairo?’
‘If that’s where this plane is going.’
‘Been here long?’
‘Overnight.’
‘Did you have any sleep? Not a bed in the place.’
‘I managed to find one,’ Clive said modestly. He had in fact slept very well, and as Alice Parkyn had told him to make himself at home when she had left for the station that morning, he had had a very comfortable and relaxing day. Then she had returned for him as arranged, and had just dropped him off in the small car she had the use of. ‘I really am grateful,’ he had said, ‘for your generosity.’
‘I am grateful too.’
‘For having me hanging around?’
‘For your being a gentleman,’ she had said a trifle wistfully.
Perhaps he had missed something there. But it had not been the time, and he already had at least one woman too many on his mind.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the Flying Officer. ‘All set? Malta in two hours, for fuel. Cairo by dawn.’
It was a very small aircraft and Clive and the Wing-Commander were the only passengers, sitting one in front of the other. ‘Not nervous, I hope?’ Thistleton-Brown asked over his shoulder.
‘Should I be?’ Clive asked innocently.
The noise of the engine precluded further conversation, and they climbed into another disturbingly bright night, with the lights of Spain blazing away behind them. Clive tried not to think about anything, and especially not Anna. She was there, and he was going to her.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the pilot over the Tannoy, ‘I’m sorry to say that we have company. I am going down. We stand our best chance of avoiding interference close to the sea.’
The plane dropped sharply. Clive looked out of his window but could see nothing. They descended for several seconds, then straightened out again. ‘I think we’ve lost the buggers,’ the pilot said.
But just then there was a tearing sound. Clive twisted his head and saw a large rent in the fuselage behind him. The plane swerved violently and began to climb again. Another tearing sound and he felt a sudden jolt. My God! he thought. I’ve been hit! The night suddenly became very dark.
*
Anna gazed out of the window at the seemingly endless Polish plain. The soil was black; the harvest had recently been gathered, before the onset of the autumnal rains.
She was glad to have put Warsaw behind her. The pinewoods the train had passed through on its way to the capital had brought back her visit to her mother and sister too vividly. She turned her thoughts to what lay ahead: the Soviet Union – and Chalyapov. If it had been amusing to hear Heydrich say that the Russian wanted a totally uninhibited woman, and that she was clearly such a woman, she wondered for how long she could maintain that façade. She had been required to do it on a day by day basis for nearly a year with Ballantine Bordman, but he, being a totally inhibited Englishman, had been easy to satisfy. Heydrich had indicated that Chalyapov might just fall into the satyr variety.
And then there was Meissenbach. And his wife. She had met the lady when boarding the train, and had been formally introduced. Frau Meissenbach was a rather plump woman of slightly above average height, though several inches shorter than Anna herself. She wore her hair bobbed, perhaps to make her rather severe features more severe yet. As Heydrich had indicated, Meissenbach could only have married her in the first place for her money, so it was simple to understand why he could not keep his hands off any available woman. She had regarded Anna with the deepest suspicion. ‘This lady is your assistant?’ she had enquired coldly. ‘Have we met, Countess?’
‘I do not think so.’
Anna had glanced at Meissenbach, who was standing behind his wife, waggling his eyebrows in desperation. ‘I am afraid you are mistaken, Frau,’ she had said.
‘I am never mistaken, you have a very distinctive accent,’ Frau Meissenbach announced, and boarded the train.
‘Here’s to a jolly journey,’ Anna remarked.
‘It will be all right,’ Meissenbach assured her. ‘She really does not like travelling.’
Anna raised her eyebrows.
‘I will try to see you on the train.’
‘I’m sure you will, Heinz; there is only one dining car. I think that if you do not join your wife now, she may come back to look for you.’
He had hurried off, and she had made sure that Marlene and Birgit were settled in their second-class compartment. They seemed to have become inseparable in a couple of days. There was also the extreme intimacy of lovers between them, the occasional secret glance or touch of hands. Should that be cause for concern? She had actually considered calling on Heydrich, or at least Glauber, to supply her with an additional agent to keep an eye on them, but had decided against it. It would inevitably have led to questions, and the agent would necessarily have had to be a woman if she was to share a railway couchette compartment for three days. In any event, both had been totally subservient and anxious to please during the week before their departure from Berlin. Now they were both highly excited.
‘This is a Russian train, Countess,’ Birgit said in a stage whisper.
‘Well of course it is. It is going to Moscow.’
‘Will we be all right?’ Marlene had asked.
‘If there is any trouble, report to me. I shall expect you both in my compartment at six o’clock this evening.’
If she had to deal with a crisis, she was prepared to do so, ruthlessly. She had given them their second chance, to obey her in all things without question, which was more than they would have received from any other SD agent.
*
She nodded off, found herself dreaming of Clive. She wondered if he would be in Moscow before her. But as she did not see how he could get there except via the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, that was unlikely.
She was startled by a knock on the door. She had lowered the corridor blind to ensure complete privacy, but had not locked the door. It now slid back without invitation and a shaggy head looked in.
‘Tea, Fraulein?’ the guard asked in German. Like all Russian trains, at least in the first-class carriages, there was a huge samovar always bubbling away at the end of the corridor.
‘That would be very nice, thank you.’
He returned in five minutes carrying a large pewter container with a handle, inside of which was a pint glass of steaming tea. He did not offer either sugar or milk.
‘Thank you,’ Anna said faintly. ‘Will you tell me who makes up my bed?’ She gestured at the bunk opposite; the pillow and blankets were on the net tray above it. Presumably the sheets were already in place.
‘I do, Fraulein. I will do it while you are having dinner.’
‘Ah. Thank you.’
She assumed he would now leave, but he hesitated. ‘You are the Countess,’ he proclaimed.
‘That is correct.’ She wondered if she was to be handed over to the nearest NKVD agent.
‘I have a message for the Countess,’ he announced.
But perhaps he was only seeking some form of identification, or a tip, before delivering his missive. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘Will you not tell me what it is?’
‘It is from Herr Meissenbach. He invites you to dine with him. At eight o’clock. We will be in Brest-Litovsk by then.’
‘Is that important?’
He regarded her with some contempt. ‘It is where the change takes place.’
‘You mean we change to another train?’
‘No, no, Countess. You stay on this train all the way to Moscow.’ His tone indicated that in Soviet Russia such wonders of modern science were commonplace. ‘But it is necessary to change the gauge, you see.’
Anna did not see at all, but she said, ‘You may tell Herr Meissenbach that I shall be pleased to join him for dinner.’
Again he hesitated, now definitely expecting something.
‘Is it not illegal either to offer or receive tips in Russia?’ she asked innocently.
‘Everything in Russia is illegal, Countess.’
‘Or immoral, or it makes you fat,’ Anna suggested. The guard looked bewildered, so she tipped him anyway, and he left.
*
The main part of Anna’s luggage was in the guard’s van, but in the two suitcases she had had delivered to her compartment she had packed three evening gowns. Punctually at six Birgit and Marlene arrived to help her dress. There was no possibility of a bath, and even topping and tailing from the tiny washbasin was a lengthy process. But the two girls worked enthusiastically and were just drying her when the train clanked to a halt.
They had of course drawn the blinds over both the windows and the door, but from the virtually incomprehensible shouts on the platform, she gathered that they were in Brest-Litovsk. It was disconcerting that she recognized so little of what was being said, but she reminded herself that a country as vast as Russia would obviously have a vast number of local dialects.
They heard stamping feet in the corridor and a succession of thunderous raps that now arrived at her door. Anna had only got as far as putting on her cami-knickers. Birgit hastily wrapped the towel around her mistress’s torso, just before the door opened to reveal the conductor backed by a man in a green uniform and side cap, armed with a rifle.
Marlene gave a shriek of alarm. Birgit goggled at him, still trying to hold the towel in place. Anna assumed her most imperious expression. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘Passports,’ the conductor said. ‘You must show your passports.’
‘In that bag, Marlene,’ Anna said. Marlene delved into the handbag and handed the passport to the conductor who passed it to the soldier. He gave it no more than a perfunctory glance, preferring to gaze at Anna, whose legs were totally exposed. As he seemed speechless, the conductor spoke for him. ‘And the other ladies?’
‘Their passports will be in their compartments, as you well know,’ Anna said severely.
‘Then they will have to come with us.’
Anna nodded and took control of the towel herself. ‘Go along then. May I have my passport back?’
The conductor returned the passport. The soldier had not taken his gaze from Anna.
‘I assume your friend has seen a woman before?’ Anna enquired, speaking Russian for the first time.
The soldier’s head jerked. He flushed and saluted, then moved along the corridor followed by the conductor.
‘My God!’ Marlene remarked. ‘Will this sort of thing happen often?’
‘Very probably,’ Anna said. ‘Now off you go before they place you under arrest. Just remember to come back as quickly as you can.’
*
In what Anna had to suppose was a remarkable feat of engineering, the entire train was now shunted on to a huge turntable and in some incomprehensible manner moved from the narrow gauge of the European railway system to the broad gauge of the Russian. The shunting process took an hour, with a succession of jerks and thuds and sudden stops. With some difficulty she finished dressing, and with even more difficulty completed her make-up. Birgit and Marlene, still outraged, returned to help her do her hair. Then at eight o’clock she made her way to the dining car.
The car was little more than half full, and only a few of the people present, all men with the exception of Greta Meissenbach, were wearing dinner suits. Anna estimated that this minority was the German passengers, the men in lounge suits being Russian. But all their heads turned to watch Anna make her way up the centre aisle, having to pause every few steps to place a gloved hand on the back of a seat; the train was now moving again.
Meissenbach was on his feet
to greet her. ‘My dear Anna, how charming you look.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Anna took the indicated banquette seat beside his wife. ‘What a lovely dress,’ she lied convincingly. Actually, Greta was wearing a most attractive dress, but it did very little for her rather heavy figure.
‘Thank you, Fraulein.’ Anna raised her eyebrows and Greta smiled at her. ‘Heinz has no secrets from me.’
‘Really,’ Anna said. ‘What a remarkable man.’
Meissenbach sat opposite them, looking apprehensive. ‘I felt I should put my wife into the picture. As far as possible,’ he hastily added, and signalled the waiter for menus.
‘Which is not actually very far,’ Greta remarked. ‘What exactly is it you do, Fraulein?’
Meissenbach coughed.
‘What exactly does your husband do?’ Anna asked. ‘I mean, what is he going to Moscow to do?’
‘Why, he is going to Moscow to take charge of the personnel and organization of the Embassy.’
‘Then that is what I am also going to do. Under his supervision, of course.’ As Meissenbach did not appear to be ordering aperitifs, she filled her water glass from the carafe on the table, drank and all but choked. ‘My God!’
The waiter was now standing beside them, pad and pencil poised. ‘Fraulein?’
‘What in the name of God is that?’
‘It is vodka, Fraulein.’ He spoke excellent German.
Greta snorted.
‘The Russians drink vodka with everything,’ Meissenbach explained.
And you never warned me, Anna thought. ‘Well, I would like a jug of water.’
The waiter looked sceptical and then at Meissenbach, who nodded. ‘They are an uncouth lot,’ he remarked, as the waiter departed. ‘But we will have to put up with their little ways.’
‘Apparently. Were you visited by the border guards?’
‘Indeed. Outrageous. I intend to raise the matter with Count von Schulenburg. But I don’t suppose it’ll change their detestable habits.’
Angel in Red Page 11
