Yet the person he’d cared about most was her.
Turning, he gazed at the blue curtain that hung across the far end of the room, framing her small bed. He walked over, stepping through the gap and staring down at the neatly smoothed quilt, the white pillows shining pale in the gloom.
Weary, he turned and sat down, feeling the mattress creak beneath him as he placed the gun on top of the folders and rubbed his eyes.
He’d cared about her so much…
Lifting his head, he looked up to see the last light of dusk in the sky at the window, picturing her silhouette moving about the room, wishing that it hadn’t been her, wishing that it wasn’t true, wishing that none of it had happened.
But Jean was dead. And Rafe had almost died. This was a war, just as surely as the battles that still raged beyond the Swiss border.
And what had she planned for him once he’d outlived his usefulness?
He stiffened, recalling how she’d asked about what he was going to do after the war, how she’d praised him for not having any plans. Telling him it was better that way, that he was less likely to be disappointed…
Snarling, he snatched up the gun, thumbed back the hammer, and stared over at the door.
It was late when he heard the muffled sounds of movement in the hallway outside. There had been several false alarms, but each time the footsteps had passed by. This time they halted right by the door.
Leaning forward, Frank lifted the gun, settling it in his palm as he eased the muzzle out beyond the edge of the curtain. There was a pause, then more movement, and he heard the sharp scratching of a key sliding into the lock.
He took a slow, calming breath, aiming down the barrel as the door opened. A shaft of light spilled across the wooden floor, and Molly stepped in, half in silhouette. She was wearing a long woolen coat, yawning as she slipped her keys back into her purse and turned to push the door. He heard it close, heard the catch snap shut, saw her shadowy form walk across the room to the small table lamp. As the switch clicked on, illuminating her with a warm glow, Frank spoke.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ he hissed.
Startled, she jumped and whirled around, her eyes wide.
‘Oh!’ she gasped, recognizing him. ‘Bloody hell, Frank; you scared me…’
Her voice trailed off and her expression tightened as she saw the gun.
‘Not a damn sound,’ he warned her.
She took a half-step backwards, fear and confusion on her face. Frank’s finger tightened over the trigger.
‘Stand absolutely still,’ he said, the anger clear in his tone.
Blinking at him, Molly opened her mouth to speak.
‘Frank, what are you–’
‘Shut up!’ he snapped. Swift had warned him to be careful; not to be distracted, not to take any risks. ‘Are you armed?’
Molly was at a loss, staring blankly.
‘No, I–’
‘Kneel down,’ he demanded. ‘Kneel down and slide your purse over to me.’
‘But I–’
‘NOW!’ he snarled.
She looked as though she was about to cry. Woodenly, she dropped to her knees, then slowly took her purse and placed it on the floor with a trembling hand.
‘Slide it over to me,’ he told her.
Staring up at him with wide eyes, she hesitated, then shoved the purse towards him. It slid across the bare boards and he stopped it with his foot.
‘Please Frank,’ she began. ‘I–’
‘Shut up!’ he growled, jerking the gun to point at her head. ‘Just shut the hell up, will you!’
Eyes locked on hers, he squatted down, one hand keeping the gun level, the other reaching down and feeling for the purse. His fingers closed on it and he slipped his hand inside, rummaging through the contents until he felt the unmistakable touch of something solid and metallic. Nodding grimly to himself, he drew out the small pistol.
‘Not armed, eh?’ He shook his head in disgust, tossing the weapon onto the bed behind him. Swift had told him she'd be carrying a gun, and warned him just how dangerous she could be, even without it.
‘Lie down on your front, hands behind your head,’ he said, motioning towards the floor.
On her knees, she stared up at him, eyes bright with fear.
‘Frank, I just–’
‘On your front!’ he snapped. ‘DO IT!’
With a helpless look, she got onto all fours, then lowered herself to lay flat on the floor.
‘Hands behind your head.’
Trembling, she slid her arms around and placed her hands behind her head.
Frank stared down at her, determined to feel no sympathy, stoking up his rage so it burned hot.
‘I know about you,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t you get it? I know all about you.’
‘Wh-what are you talking about?’ Molly's voice was muted, stammering into the floor. ‘Please, Frank, I don’t–’
‘The Russians… the documents…’ He snatched up the folders from the bed and threw them down onto the floor beside her. ‘I know every damn thing.’
He broke off, his fist clenching.
Molly twisted her head around, eyes white as she stared at the folders, then strained to look up at him.
‘And Jean knew too, didn’t she?’ he hissed. ‘Is that why she was killed? Because she knew too much about you?’
‘Oh God, Frank, please don't…’
Moving restlessly on the balls of his feet, he gave her a bitter half-smile.
‘Who was it, Molly? Who killed Jean?’
Molly lowered her head and began to weep.
She’d been out that afternoon, so she’d had the opportunity to do it… but he wanted to hear it from her own mouth.
‘WHO WAS IT?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know!’
He stepped closer, leaning down to press the muzzle of the gun against the side of her face
‘Don’t... fucking... lie to me,’ he hissed.
He could feel her trembling through the barrel of the gun.
‘I don’t know!’ she wept. ‘I don’t know!’
Frank tensed, his finger tightening round the trigger.
‘Did you kill her?’
‘What?!’ Molly choked. ‘No! No!’
‘You’re lying!’
She was shaking her head, trying to look up at him, and he saw the pale impression on her cheek where the muzzle had pressed into her skin.
‘I swear, I’m not lying.’
He clenched his fist.
All those nights together, gaining his trust, pretending she cared about him...
‘You’ve been lying to me from the very beginning,’ he growled, pressing the gun in against her temple, forcing her to lean her head over to one side as she sobbed into the floor.
And he’d cared so much about her…
‘Oh God.’ She gulped down a breath. ‘I swear–’
His trigger finger squeezed a little harder.
‘Last chance, Molly.’
But she was weeping uncontrollably now, her body shaking, her breathing ragged.
He’d cared so much…
The sound was becoming unbearable, like the desperate crying of an injured child, and he found that he was grinding his teeth together, trying to shut it out.
Too much…
He stood up straight, aiming the gun at the back of her head, but then he recoiled. There was a dark puddle spreading out across the floorboards from beneath her hips. He stared down in shock, realizing what he'd done, how much he’d terrified her. Sickened, he took a step back, lifting his free hand to cover his mouth and lowering the gun slightly.
Too much…
He glanced hurriedly round the room, then moved over and stooped to retrieve the bundle of folders, his eyes fixed on her, face down and sobbing.
Swift had been very clear: detain her, or eliminate her. There was no third option.
But how the hell was he supposed t
o get her out of here? And where was he going to find a phone to call for transport? There was really only one choice.
Standing up, he raised the gun again, aiming, taking a breath and holding it.
Do it quickly, cleanly.
His heartbeat counted out the seconds in double time… then his finger eased off the trigger and he exhaled quietly.
If she’d just admitted it, if he didn’t still care about her.
Keeping the gun trained on her, he took a few steps forward, then nudged her elbow with his shoe. She didn’t seem to notice, still trembling and crying.
‘Molly?’ He tapped her arm with his foot again. She flinched, then turned her head slowly, her face a mess, wide eyes blinking up through the tears. He stared down the barrel at her, sickened by her betrayal and what it had done to them. Then he let the gun fall to his side.
‘You’re dead, okay?’ he said quietly, holding up the stolen document folders so she could see them. ‘Get out of Bern. Fuck it, get out of Switzerland. And do it tonight.’
With that, he turned his back on her, opened the door, and walked away down the long, empty hallway.
41
He hadn’t slept. His body felt light and eager, still coursing with all the emotion and urgency of the night before, but now it was a restless energy, directionless and distracting. Standing by a closed door in the bare corridor at Herrengasse, Frank turned to squint at the morning sunlight, streaming in from the window at the back, and wished he could go outside. The weight of the building seemed to press down on him, a heavy silence broken only by the thin ticking of a clock that tested his patience. Bowing his head, he glanced down at his leather satchel and peered at the bundle of folders inside.
She’d made a fool of him… made fools of them all.
Sighing, he closed the satchel then leaned back against the wall, wondering about this meeting he’d been called to and how long they would keep him waiting.
Eventually, the door opened and Groth appeared, wordlessly summoning him with a hurried gesture. Frank followed him through into the study, blinking at the thick haze of pipe smoke that hung in the air. Dulles was over at the fireplace, carefully polishing his glasses with a handkerchief, while Swift stood by the tall window, staring down at the river far below. Groth ushered Frank inside, then closed the door behind them.
‘Come and join us, Mr Rye,’ Dulles said, looking up. ‘We were just discussing the delicate matter of Miss Pearson.’
Indicating one of the chairs by the fire, he hooked his glasses back into place then peered at Frank speculatively.
‘Mr Swift is of the opinion that we may have misjudged her. He feels that she may be in league with our Russian friends. It’s quite a theory.’
Over by the window, Swift stirred but didn’t turn around.
‘I can’t take all the credit,’ he said quietly. ‘Frank was the one who figured it out.’
Dulles raised an eyebrow, then stared at Frank.
‘Is that so?’
Frank hesitated, then sat down uneasily.
‘That’s correct, sir.’
There was an air of tension in the room, and he had the uncomfortable sense that he’d walked into the middle of something, an extra opinion brought in to help settle an argument.
‘And this is based on her visiting a dead-letter drop?’ Dulles asked. ‘Down in the Münsterplattform gardens?’
Frank nodded. He glanced across the room for guidance, but Swift still had his back to them, staring out the window, so he pressed on.
‘I’ve been following this Levkin guy – he’s part of the Russian consular team – and I noticed that his afternoon walks always took him to a particular bench down there. I guessed that maybe it was a way of passing messages, so I started to watch the place. Then, one day…’ He shrugged and looked up at Dulles unhappily. ‘…there she was.’
Dulles said nothing for a moment, turning to the mantelpiece and retrieving his pipe. Tapping the stem against his palm, he glanced back at Frank, his expression guarded.
‘You’re certain that Molly wasn’t receiving information?’ he asked. ‘Running this Levkin fellow as one of her stooges?’
Frank shook his head.
‘She left a message for him,’ he explained.
Swift finally abandoned the window, turning and pacing slowly across the room towards Dulles.
‘That was the paper I showed you earlier,’ he explained. ‘With the grids of numbers.’
Dulles looked at him thoughtfully.
‘And you believe this ties in with Miss Ellesworth’s suspicions, about a foreign agent in the Dufourstrasse office?’
Swift stared back at him, then inclined his head slightly.
‘Doesn’t it suggest that to you?’
Dulles looked away, his brows wrinkling into a frown.
‘Suggestions aren’t enough,’ he muttered. ‘If there was something else, something more tangible…’
Frank’s head snapped up.
‘There is,’ he said. Reaching for his satchel, he lifted out the bundle of folders and handed them to Dulles. ‘These were in Molly’s apartment.’
Dulles took the folders and began flicking through them, his expression darkening.
‘I found them when I went there last night, looking for her,’ Frank added. After all, what other reason would he have for being in Molly’s apartment?
Glancing up, he wondered if Swift had told Dulles that he was sleeping with her.
‘You found these?’ Dulles asked, peering down at him.
Frank nodded.
For a moment, Dulles looked as though he was going to challenge him further, but then his shoulders dropped and he turned away, tossing the folders onto the other chair as he faced the fireplace.
‘Where is she now?’ he said, with a heavy sigh.
‘We don’t know,’ Swift replied. ‘She was in Geneva late yesterday afternoon.’
Dulled glanced over at Frank.
‘She didn’t come home last night?’ he asked.
Frank willed his face to remain blank.
‘There was no sign of her when I got there,’ he replied. Technically, that was true.
He took a silent breath, then looked over to find Swift watching him, his expression unreadable.
Dulles nodded slowly, staring down into the fireplace.
‘And you took the folders,’ he mused. ‘Yes, of course; she must have come home late, found the folders were missing, and realized we were onto her.’
Frank sat in the chair, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
What would they think of him if they knew he’d had Molly at his mercy, but been unable to eliminate her?
Dulles turned around. Seeing Frank’s face, his expression softened and he forced a brief smile.
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, son; it’s an easy mistake to make.’ He glanced over at Swift. ‘And it seems we may all have been mistaken about Miss Pearson.’
Swift acknowledged him with a look.
Dulles jammed his pipe between his teeth then patted his pockets.
‘Such a capable young woman,’ he said, quietly. ‘What a shame.’
He found a box of matches on the mantelpiece and took a moment to light his pipe, then turned to look at them again.
‘But was she working entirely without the knowledge of London?’ he asked. ‘Or did they have some inclination about what their young lady was up to?’
Frank stared at him.
‘You think the British were involved in this?’ he gasped.
Dulles tossed the spent match into the grate and drew thoughtfully on his pipe.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But I believe it’s prudent to consider every possibility. And that brings us to the matter of Mr Cavanagh, another child of Empire.’
Frank lowered his eyes, remembering his own doubts about Rafe.
‘I sent Rafe down to Brig, first thing this morning,’ Swift told them. ‘I thought it was better to keep him occupied e
lsewhere, until we decide what to do with him.’
Dulles nodded his approval.
‘Very practical of you,’ he said softly, then looked around at the others. ‘So, what do we think? Where do Mr Cavanagh’s loyalties lie?’
Swift’s eyes went to Frank, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Well… I trust him.’ He made a face. ‘I know, I trusted Molly too, but I haven’t seen anything – not ever – to suggest that Rafe’s crooked.’
Groth stepped forward, clearing his throat.
‘And he was very nearly killed, back in the summer.’
‘That was by the Nazis,’ Dulles reminded them. ‘They’d have no reason to spare him, even if they suspected he was working for Moscow.’
There was an awkward silence. Frank looked around at the grim faces.
‘You don’t really think Rafe could be selling us out, do you?’ he asked.
Dulles moved across to the chair. He reached down and picked up the folders, slowly shaking his head.
‘No. I don’t,’ he said, weighing the folders in his hand. ‘However, like you, I also believed that Miss Pearson was on the level… and it appears I was wrong about her.’
‘So?’ Swift asked. ‘What are we going to do with him?’
Dulles narrowed his eyes, then looked towards the window for a moment.
Frank had a momentary vision of Groth following Rafe down a darkened alley, carrying that convenient German pistol they’d obtained at the ski lodge. He shuddered, and looked at Dulles anxiously.
‘Well, Rafe’s always been useful, and he’s not done anything wrong that we know of,’ Dulles mused. ‘He’s also a British asset, which means there are certain diplomatic issues to consider. For now, I think we have to give him the benefit of the doubt. But there are doubts… serious doubts.’
‘So we watch him,’ Swift said calmly. He nodded to himself, as though planning how he would do this, as though they were discussing someone who was a stranger, rather than one of their own. ‘Keep him at arm’s length on operations, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, handle with care,’ Dulles replied, then added, ‘until we’re sure about him, one way or the other.’
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