‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Doesn’t it trouble you?’
Molly withdrew her hand and leaned forward to stare into the fire.
‘Is this the first friend you’ve lost?’ she asked.
His thoughts went immediately to those early days in France… the sudden flash and the deafening roar of the explosion… being lifted from his feet and thrown across the road… the bewildering rain of dirt and rubble… then the eerie silence that followed, the stillness of the figures laying in the road ahead… Billy Jackson on his back, staring up at the sky, and Ron Cunningham, a few yards to his left. At first, he couldn’t figure out why they didn’t just get up…
‘There was a mortar attack on our unit, not long after we got to France…’ He glanced up at her. ‘I’ve lost people.’
Molly nodded slowly.
‘Were you close to them?’
‘We were in the same unit.’ Frank shrugged. ‘I don’t know about close.’
Molly’s eyes were distant.
‘When you lose the person you expected to spend the rest of your life with, you feel as though you’ve lost your whole future… all that remains is the now.’ She took a breath, drawing herself up, then turning to look at him. ‘But in a strange way, it means you can cope, because you know that the worst has already happened. After that, you can face anything, do anything…’
Frank stared at her, then shook his head.
‘The way you say that, it’s as if you–’
He broke off suddenly and they both sat up, listening.
From outside, the mournful howl of an air raid siren rose, echoing in the distance. A few seconds later, it was joined by another, then another.
Molly got to her feet, and moved quickly over to the window, her hand on the blackout blind.
‘Switch the light out,’ she said.
Frank reached over and turned the lamp off, then went across to join her at the window.
Outside, the city was in darkness, dim shapes outlined by snow, but here and there he glimpsed the tell-tale flicker of blinds being drawn back, as people came to peer out. Air raids weren’t common in neutral Switzerland, and especially not here in Bern.
Molly leaned close to the glass, staring up into the night sky as the wailing sound continued.
‘Anything?’ Frank whispered.
Molly crouched down a little, eyes uplifted, then slowly straightened up.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’
‘Want to open the window?’ he asked. ‘Maybe we can hear something when the sirens stop.’
Molly appeared to think about this.
‘It’s too cold, and we’d let all the heat out.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Frank sighed. ‘And it’s probably one of ours anyway.’
Molly reached back and held his hand.
‘I expect so.’
They stood for a while, staring out at the darkened city. Eventually, Molly turned and paced slowly across the room, lit by the red glow of the fire.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘We should go to bed.’
Frank pulled the blackout blind down, then moved over to the chair, sitting down and easing off his shoes.
‘Where are my things?’ he asked, glancing around the room. He usually kept a few items of clothing folded beside the night-stand, but they weren’t there now.
‘Oh, I put them in the suitcase,’ Molly said, pointing. ‘Just there, under the bed.’
Frank looked up at her, puzzled.
‘While I was away,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t want the landlady coming in and seeing them. How would I explain?’
‘Yeah, that might be tricky.’ Frank grinned. He stood up and arranged his damp socks on the fire guard, then padded over to the bed and dragged the suitcase out. ‘Okay if I unpack this stuff now?’
Bending over the stove, Molly hesitated.
‘I’m… only back for a couple of days,’ she admitted.
‘But you’ve only just…’ He put the case down heavily, then scowled. ‘How long will you be away this time?’
Molly avoided his eye, running a cloth around the inside of the saucepan, then setting it down carefully.
‘A few weeks,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe longer.’
Frank hung his head and sighed.
‘Wanna tell me where you’re going?’
She looked over at him briefly, then carried on tidying up.
Frank watched her for a moment, then shook his head.
‘Have it your way,’ he muttered, turning his back and squatting down to open the suitcase.
The fire burned low in the grate, reducing the room to a wavering red glow.
They undressed in silence. Molly pulled on a cardigan over her nightgown, then stood aside while she waited for him to climb into the cold bed. He lay down awkwardly, shivering at the chill touch of the sheets against his skin. She sat down wearily, slipping under the covers and laying with her back to him for a while. Then, just before he went to sleep, her felt her reach back for his hand and pull his arm over her, drawing him close.
Neither of them spoke. For tonight, the warmth of each other was all that mattered.
36
The Bellevue Palace was a very large, and very grand hotel. Set high above the bare trees that lined the icy river, it occupied a prominent position in the old town skyline, between Casinoplatz and the snow-capped domes of the Bundeshaus parliament building.
Glancing up at it as he walked across the exposed heights of the Kirchenfeld bridge, Frank paused to check his watch, then pulled his coat around him and hurried on. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he made his way around to the canopied main entrance, hurrying up the steps and into the warm.
The lobby was bright and open. Light streamed down from the beautiful stained glass ceiling and cream-colored columns lined the polished marble floor. Frank checked his coat at the desk, then made his way over to Swift, who was sitting in an easy chair, reading a newspaper.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Swift folded his paper and left it on the low table in front of him. ‘Very punctual. That’s good.’
‘Well, you told me not to be late,’ Frank said.
‘So I did.’ Swift got to his feet. ‘First time you’ve had lunch at the Bellevue?’
‘Yes.’ Frank glanced around, taking in the ornate detailing round the edge of the ceiling. ‘I’ve never had cause to come in here before.’
‘It’s an experience,’ Swift said. ‘Let’s go through.’
They made their way across the lobby and on towards the restaurant.
‘I appreciate you inviting me.’ Frank smiled. Walking through the cold had fired his appetite, and he found that he was looking forward to his lunch.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ Swift said, under his breath. ‘This is business, not pleasure.’
The restaurant was a long room of wood-paneled walls lined with tall, arched windows that looked out over the Aare to the snowy city beyond. Huge chandeliers hung like glittering teardrops from the smooth, vaulted ceiling, while smartly-dressed diners spoke in hushed tones across gleaming white table linen.
The maître d' was an eager man in his fifties, with greying hair and a neat mustache. He wore a diner jacket and came gliding over, smiling as he approached.
‘Ah, Herr Swift,’ he said, inclining his head respectfully. ‘Always a pleasure to have you here at La Terrasse.’
‘Hello, Bruno,’ Swift said. ‘We’re not expecting anyone else, so it’s just the two of us today.’
‘Very good.’ The maître d' ushered them in. ‘This way please, gentlemen.’
He escorted them down the length of the room. Following him past the other diners, Frank became acutely aware that they were being watched.
The maître d' led them to a small table in the corner. Swift went to occupy the chair against the wall, then appeared to change his mind, and offered the place to Frank.
‘Sit here.’ He smiled. ‘The view’s better.’
Fr
ank glanced at him, then did as he asked.
‘Thanks,’ he said, pulling his chair in.
The maître d' waited until they were seated, then stepped closer.
‘May I offer you something to drink?’ he asked.
Swift glanced up at him.
‘Maybe you could just give us a couple of minutes, Bruno,’ he said, pleasantly.
‘Of course.’ The maître d' bowed his head slightly and moved away.
Swift watched him go, then turned to Frank.
‘Welcome to the lunchtime farce,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And it really is a farce, just about the most ludicrous situation you could imagine.’
Frank leaned forward, listening intently.
‘La Terrasse is one of the finest places to eat in the whole city,’ Swift murmured. ‘Naturally, the great and the good don’t like their dining to be inconvenienced by a mere world war; everyone still wants to eat here. So, the restaurant has become a bit – how shall I put it? – territorial.’
Puzzled, Frank looked at him.
‘Territorial?’
Swift smiled.
‘This end of the room is reserved for the Allied diners,’ he explained. ‘The other end is for the Axis guys. We sit here and we eat, and we politely ignore the enemy sitting a few tables away. All very civilized… and completely crazy.’
Frank leaned back in his chair.
‘You’re kidding me,’ he whispered.
Swift shook his head.
‘Straight up,’ he said. ‘It’s been like this for years, now.’
Frank glanced surreptitiously towards the far end of the room.
‘You know, I felt like everyone was looking at me as we came in.’
Swift nodded.
‘They probably were,’ he said. ‘People like to know who’s speaking with who. But that’s why I told you to get here early.’
Frank looked at him and frowned.
‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
Swift reached into his jacket pocket, took out his cigarette lighter, and set it down on the tablecloth in front of him.
‘There’s somebody I want you to see,’ he said, quietly. ‘But I figured it was better for us to be safely tucked away at a table before he showed up.’
‘Who is it?’ Frank asked.
‘Just keep your eyes open,’ Swift told him. ‘I’ll explain in a minute.’
He turned around and raised a hand to summon the maître d' over.
Frank sat silently, his gaze flickering constantly towards the door, as Swift ordered for both of them. But nobody came in.
‘Very good, Herr Swift.’
‘Thank you, Bruno.’
The maître d' inclined his head, then turned on his heel and walked away. Frank waited until he was out of earshot, then leaned over.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What’s this all about?’
Swift gave him a long look, then lowered his eyes.
‘In a way, it’s about Jean,’ he said, sighing.
Frank stiffened.
‘Alongside her other duties, Jean was also…’ Swift paused, as though considering how to explain. ‘…keeping track of someone for us. We deliberately kept it very quiet; only a couple of people knew what she was doing.’
He reached over and picked up the cigarette lighter.
‘The person in question isn’t permanently based here. He hasn’t been seen in Bern for a couple of months, but he’s back now.’
Frank stared past him towards the far end of the room, his eyes sweeping across the people sitting at the Axis tables.
‘Who is it?’ he whispered.
Swift shook his head very slightly. He casually glanced over to his left, then turned back to make eye contact with Frank.
‘Over there by the window,’ he murmured. ‘The grey-haired guy who’s just sat down with his two gorillas.’
Frank looked over, doing his best not to be obvious about it. Three tables away, the man appeared to be in his fifties, balding, with a grey beard and small round eyeglasses. He wore a sombre three-piece suit and was frowning at something written on a scrap of paper. Flanking him, two solid-looking younger men sat like statues; both had their hair cut short in a military style.
Frank lowered his eyes.
‘Is that him?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Swift replied. ‘But keep watching that table, and we’ll see who joins them.’
It dawned on Frank that the men were sitting at this end of the room… in the Allied section.
‘But they’re…’ He frowned. ‘Who are those guys?’
Swift shrugged, his voice barely audible.
‘They’re the Russians.’ He met Frank’s eye, nodding calmly at his surprised expression. ‘Yeah, that’s why we had to keep it quiet.’
‘But…’ Frank stared at him. ‘Why were we watching them? They’re on our side.’
Swift toyed with his cigarette lighter.
‘Just because we all hate the Nazis, it doesn’t mean we’re all on the same side.’
‘But, surely–’
‘Oh, wake up, Frank.’ Swift leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. ‘The only thing we really have in common is a common enemy, and that enemy isn’t gonna last forever.’
Frank sat back in his chair, his mind racing ahead as Swift’s earlier words sunk in.
In a way, it’s about Jean… but he’d always assumed that the Nazis had murdered Jean.
‘You think the Russians killed her?’ he asked, suddenly.
Swift took a deep breath and studied Frank for a moment.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he replied, carefully. ‘The relationship with Moscow has never been easy and there are always concerns. Jean thought she was onto something, some connection to our own operation, but she died before she could figure it out.’
‘So?’ Frank pressed him.
‘So that’s not the same thing as knowing,’ Swift hissed. ‘There’s no proof. We don’t know if her death was sanctioned from the top, or if it was somebody operating on their own. We don’t know if the Russians had anything to do with it at all.’
Frank slumped back in his chair, glaring down at the table. There had to be some way of finding out.
‘What about Molly?’ he asked, looking up. ‘She’s got connections with the Russians… wouldn’t she know?’
Swift slowly shook his head.
‘I asked, but she says she knows nothing about it.’ He paused, lowering his eyes. ‘Of course, she works for the British, not for us, but…’
He shrugged again. The gesture annoyed Frank.
‘You think she’s lying?’ he snapped.
Swift shook his head slowly again, a pained expression on his face.
‘She may hear things… things that she isn’t allowed to share with us.’ He turned the cigarette lighter over in his hand. ‘You have to consider the bigger picture; the war isn’t won yet, and it’s a fragile alliance.’
Frank scowled at him.
‘How can you say things like that?’ he hissed. ‘We all want the same thing; we all want the Nazis gone.’
Swift gave him a withering look.
‘Is that what you think?’ he asked.
‘Well… yeah. Of course.’
‘And afterwards, after the Nazis are gone, what then?’
Frank stared at him.
‘I don’t know…’ he said, frowning. ‘Peace?’
Swift took a breath and sighed.
‘Everyone wants different things,’ he muttered. ‘The British have been dragging their feet in this war. Think about it; Churchill spent years chasing around North Africa and the Mediterranean rather than going back into France. And why? Trying to preserve his precious British Empire.’
He leaned forward, his face serious.
‘But it isn’t Churchill that worries me, it’s Stalin. Because that guy has imperial ambitions of his own. You just watch; the Russians are going to annex Poland and then they’re gonna look west and keep on coming. And I don’t kn
ow who’s gonna stop them, because so far the only way America has managed to keep Stalin in line is by giving Stalin whatever the hell he wants.’ He paused. ‘Trouble is, Stalin wants the whole of Eastern Europe.’
Frank sat in silence for a moment, trying to take it all in.
‘So what do we want?’ he asked, quietly.
Swift gazed over at him thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Peace, I guess. But a peace that lasts. I want to stop the fighting in such a way that it doesn’t start right up again as soon as we go home.’
‘Okay, but…’ Frank broke off. Over by the doorway, the maître d' was welcoming a bearded man, and escorting him towards the Russian table.
Staring over Swift’s shoulder, Frank watched them approach.
‘Short man in his forties, thinning on top, black beard,’ he murmured. ‘Does that sound like him?’
Swift accidentally dropped his cigarette lighter to the floor and calmly bent over to retrieve it. He didn’t appear to glance back or turn his head, but when he sat up again, he was nodding slightly.
‘Yeah. That’s him.’
Frank watched as the man sat down at the Russian table, noting the familiar way that the men all greeted each other.
‘So who is he?’ he asked.
‘He calls himself Yakov Nikolayevich Levkin,’ Swift replied, tucking his cigarette lighter back into his pocket. ‘He’s an assistant to the Russian military attaché.’
‘And you think he might have… might be responsible for Jean.’
Swift narrowed his eyes.
‘If I thought that, he’d already be dead.’ He frowned. ‘I think Jean found out something while she was watching him, something that someone doesn’t want us to know.’
Frank quickly averted his eyes as the Russian glanced over in their direction.
‘All right,’ he said, stiffly. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to pick up where Jean left off,’ Swift explained. ‘I want you to keep an eye on this guy for a while. Get a feel for where he goes, who he meets.’
Frank nodded.
‘Understood.’
Swift absently reached out to straighten his cutlery.
‘You report only to me on this, and you don’t speak to anyone else about it.’ His eyes flickered up to hold Frank’s gaze. ‘Not to anyone else.’
Ashes Of America Page 25
