by Daniel Silva
“The nineteenth.”
“December or January?”
“December.”
Gabriel had about an inch of documents remaining. He discovered another trace of her in a telegram dated December 28. “They were spotted together in the bar of the St. Georges. Romeo was pretending to edit something she had written. It was obviously a ruse for a romantic assignation.” And another two days after that: “She was overheard at the Normandie spouting Marxist drivel. It’s no wonder Romeo finds her attractive.”
And then, quite suddenly, December turned to January and she was forgotten. Nicholas Elliott had returned to Beirut to interrogate Philby and extract his confession and a pledge of cooperation. And Arthur Seymour was deeply worried Philby might make a run for it. His worst fears came true on the night of the twenty-third: “Romeo is nowhere to be found. I fear he has flown the coop.”
It was the last telegram in Gabriel’s stack, but in the kitchen Graham Seymour had several more to review. Gabriel sat down at the opposite side of the table and watched the rainwater running over the windows and the wind making patterns in the dormant grass of the moor. There was no sound other than the gentle rustle of paper. Seymour was reading with maddening slowness, running the tip of his forefinger down the length of each page before moving on to the next.
“Graham, please . . .”
“Quiet.”
And then, a moment later, Seymour slid a single sheet of paper across the table. Gabriel didn’t dare look at it. He was watching Kim Philby walking across the moor, holding the hand of a child.
“What is it?” he asked at last.
“A sort of after-action report, written in mid-February, after Philby was in Moscow.”
“Is there a name?”
“See for yourself.”
Gabriel looked down at the document before him.
The other woman’s name is Charlotte Bettencourt. While it is true she is a bit of a leftist, she is certainly no agent of Moscow. Recommend no further action . . .
Gabriel looked up sharply. “My God! We found her!”
“That’s not all we found. Read the postscript.”
Gabriel looked down again.
I am reliably informed Mademoiselle Bettencourt is now several months pregnant. Has Philby no conscience at all?
No, thought Gabriel, he did not.
45
Dartmoor—London
The only computer at Wormwood Cottage with a connection to the outside world was the one on Parish’s desk. Gabriel used it to conduct a perfunctory search of the name Charlotte Bettencourt. He found several dozen, young professionals mainly, including nine in France. None were journalists, and none were of the appropriate age. And when, on a lark, he added the name Kim Philby to the white rectangular box, he received fourteen thousand meaningless results, the Internet equivalent of an invitation to look elsewhere.
Which is precisely what Gabriel did. Not from Wormwood Cottage, but from the secure-communications room at the Israeli Embassy in London. He arrived there in the early evening after a white-knuckle ride from Devon in Nigel Whitcombe’s Ford hatchback and placed a call to Paul Rousseau, chief of the Alpha Group, in Paris. Rousseau, as it turned out, was still at his desk. France was on high alert, with a stream of intelligence indicating an attack by ISIS was imminent. Contritely, Gabriel made his request.
“Bettencourt, Charlotte.”
“Birthdate?” asked Rousseau with a heavy sigh.
“Sometime around 1940.”
“And she was a journalist, you say?”
“Apparently.”
“Apparently yes, or apparently no?” asked Rousseau impatiently.
Gabriel explained she had worked in Beirut as a freelancer in the early sixties, and that by all accounts she subscribed to left-wing politics.
“So did everyone else in the early sixties.”
“Is it possible the old DST might have opened a file on her?”
“It’s possible,” admitted Rousseau. “They opened a file on anyone with pro-Moscow sympathies. I’ll run her name through the database.”
“Quietly,” cautioned Gabriel, and hung up the phone. And for the next three hours, alone in a soundproof box in the embassy’s basement, he considered all the reasons why Rousseau’s search might prove fruitless. Perhaps Arthur Seymour had been mistaken and Charlotte Bettencourt was not her real name. Perhaps after giving birth to Philby’s child, she had changed her name and gone into hiding. Perhaps she had fled to Moscow and was living there still. Perhaps the great Sasha had killed her, as he had killed Konstantin Kirov and Alistair Hughes.
Whatever had happened to the woman, it was a very long time ago. It had been a long time, too, since Gabriel had slept. At some point, he laid his head on the table and drifted into unconsciousness. The phone woke him with a start. It was half past eleven. Eleven in the morning or eleven at night, he did not know; the soundproof box was a world without sunrise or sunset. He snatched up the receiver and raised it swiftly to his ear.
“She left Beirut in 1965 and returned to Paris,” said Paul Rousseau. “She was a somewhat minor figure in the demonstrations in sixty-eight. After that, the DST lost interest in her.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Apparently so.”
Gabriel’s heart gave a sideways lurch. “Apparently yes, or apparently no?”
“She still receives her state pension. The checks are sent to an address in Spain.”
“You don’t happen to have it, do you?”
As a matter of fact, he did. Charlotte Bettencourt, the mother of Kim Philby’s illegitimate child, lived on the Paseo de la Fuente in Zahara, Spain.
46
Zahara, Spain
It was shortly after two o’clock the following afternoon when Charlotte Bettencourt concluded she was being watched by a pair of men, one tall and lanky, the other a few inches shorter and more powerfully built. Kim would have been proud of her for spotting them, but truth be told they made little effort to conceal themselves. It was almost as if they wanted her to see them. A pair of Russians sent to kidnap or kill her would not have behaved so. Therefore, she did not fear the men. In fact, she was looking forward to the moment they finally put all pretense aside and introduced themselves. Until then, she would think of them as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, two indifferent creatures of the earth who functioned as one.
She had noticed them for the first time earlier that morning strolling along the paseo. The second sighting occurred on the Calle San Juan, where they were sitting beneath an umbrella at one of the cafés, each staring at a mobile phone, seemingly oblivious to her presence. And now here they were again. Charlotte was lunching among the orange trees at Bar Mirador, and the two men were crossing the paving stones of the plaza toward the church of Santa María de la Mesa. They did not strike her as believers, especially the taller of the two, the one with pale skin. Perhaps they were in search of absolution. They looked as though they could use it.
The two men climbed the steps of the church—one, two, three, four—and disappeared inside. Charlotte picked up her pen and tried to resume her work, but it was no good; the sight of the two men had dammed the flow of words. She had been writing about an afternoon in September 1962 when Kim, rather than make love to her, became drunk instead. He was inconsolable with grief. Jackie, his beloved pet fox, had recently fallen to its death from the terrace of his apartment. But Charlotte was convinced something else was troubling him and had pleaded with him to take her into his confidence. “You couldn’t p-p-possibly understand,” he had stammered into his drink, his eyes hidden beneath the mantle of his unruly forelock. “Everything I did, I did as a matter of c-c-conscience.” She should have known at that instant it was all true, that Kim was a Soviet spy, the Third Man, a traitor. She would not have despised him. Quite the opposite, actually. She would have loved him all the more.
She returned her pen and Moleskine notebook to her straw bag and finished the last of her wine. There wa
s only one other patron in the café, an elfin man with wispy hair and a face that defied description. The weather was ideal, warm in the sun, chill in the shade of the orange trees. Charlotte wore a fleece pullover and a pair of denim trousers with a dreaded elastic waist. It was perhaps the worst thing about growing old, the pouch she was forced to lug around all day, like her memories of Kim. She could scarcely recall the lithe, supple body he had devoured each afternoon before running home to Eleanor for the evening quarrel. He had loved her body, even when the bump appeared in her abdomen. “Do you suppose it will be a b-b-boy or a girl?” he had asked, stroking her skin softly. Not that it mattered. Two weeks later he was gone.
The man with wispy hair was studying a newspaper. Poor lamb, thought Charlotte. He was alone in the world, like her. She was tempted to strike up a conversation, but the two men were stepping from the church, into the glare of the plaza. They passed her table in silence and headed down the steep slope of the Calle Machenga.
After paying her check, Charlotte did the same. She was not attempting to follow the two men; it was merely the shortest route to the little El Castillo supermarket. Inside, she saw one of the men yet again. It was the one she thought of as Rosencrantz, the taller one. He was contemplating a container of milk, as though searching for the expiration date. For the first time, Charlotte felt a stab of fear. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps they were an SVR snatch team after all. She thought Rosencrantz looked a little Russian, now that she had a chance to see him up close.
She hastily tossed a few items into her basket and then surrendered her money to a busty girl with a bare belly and too much makeup. “La loca,” hissed the girl contemptuously as Charlotte carried her plastic bags into the street. And there stood Guildenstern. He was leaning against an orange tree, smiling.
“Bonjour, Madame Bettencourt.” His tone was agreeable. He took a cautious step toward her. “Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering whether we might have a word in private.”
His eyes were very blue, like Kim’s.
“A word about what?” she asked.
“The matter I wish to discuss with you,” said the man, “is quite sensitive in nature.”
Charlotte smiled bitterly. “The last time someone said that to me . . .” She watched the wispy-haired man walking toward them down the slope of the hill. She hadn’t suspected him. She supposed he was of a higher caliber.
She directed her gaze toward the one she thought of as Guildenstern, the one with Kim’s blue eyes. “Are you from the French government?” she asked.
“Heavens, no.”
“Where, then?”
“I work for the British Foreign Office.”
“So you’re a spy.” She glanced toward the wispy-haired man. “And him?”
“He’s an associate.”
“He doesn’t look British to me.”
“He isn’t.”
“What about Rosencrantz?”
“Who?”
“Oh, never mind.” She heard resignation in her own voice. It was finally over. “How on earth did you find me?”
Her question seemed to take the Englishman by surprise. “It’s a long story, Madame Bettencourt.”
“I’m sure it is.” The bags were growing heavy. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Everything I did, I did as a matter of conscience.” She was confused. Was it Kim talking, or her? “And what about my—” Abruptly, Charlotte stopped herself.
“Who, Madame Bettencourt?”
Not yet, she thought. Better to keep something in reserve in case she needed to purchase her freedom. She didn’t trust the man, nor should she. The British were the greatest liars God ever created. This she knew for a fact.
The tall, pale one was now standing next to her. Gently, he pried the plastic sacks from her grasp and placed them in the trunk of a Renault sedan before sliding agilely behind the wheel. The wispy-haired man sat in front; Charlotte and the one with blue eyes, in back. As the car drew away, she thought of the books lining the shelf in her alcove, and the antique Victorian strongbox beneath her desk. Inside was a leather-bound scrapbook, so old it smelled only of dust. The long boozy lunches at the St. Georges and the Normandie, the picnics in the hills, the afternoons in the privacy of her apartment, when his defenses were down. There were also eight yellowed snapshots of a child, the last one taken in the autumn of 1984, on Jesus Lane in Cambridge.
47
Zahara—Seville
The car shot past Charlotte’s villa without slowing. The tiny forecourt was empty, but she thought she glimpsed movement in one of the windows. Jackals, she thought, picking over the bones. It had finally happened. Her life had teetered over the edge of the crag and crashed to the floor of the valley. She had been a willing participant, it was true, but it was Kim at long last who had dragged her down. Charlotte was not the first; Kim had left much human wreckage in his wake. She thought again of the Victorian strongbox beneath her desk. They knew, she thought. Perhaps not all of it, but they knew.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Not far,” replied the blue-eyed Englishman.
Just then, her Seiko wristwatch shrieked. “My pills!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I can’t leave without my pills. Please go back.”
“Don’t worry, Madame Bettencourt.” He fished an amber prescription bottle from his jacket pocket. “These?”
“The other, please.”
He handed her the second bottle. She shook a tablet into her palm and swallowed it without water, which seemed to impress him. The villa was gone from view. Charlotte wondered whether she would ever see it again. It had been a long time since she had ventured more than walking distance from it. When she was younger she had traveled the length and breadth of Spain by motorcar—such was the life Comrade Lavrov’s money had afforded her. But now that she was old and could no longer drive, her world had shrunk. Oh, she supposed she could have traveled by coach, but it held no appeal, all those sweaty proletarians with their garlic sandwiches and howling children. Charlotte was a socialist—a communist, even—but her commitment to the revolution did not extend to public transport.
The valley was green with the winter rains. Rosencrantz had only his left hand on the steering wheel. With his right he was tapping a nervous rhythm on the center console. It was driving Charlotte to distraction.
“Does he always do that?” she asked the Englishman, but he only smiled in response.
They were approaching the turnoff for the A375. The signpost that flashed past Charlotte’s window read sevilla. Rosencrantz lurched into the exit lane without slowing or bothering to signal. So did the car in front of them, observed Charlotte, and the one following.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“An hour and a half,” answered the Englishman.
“Maybe a little less”—Charlotte raised an eyebrow disapprovingly toward Rosencrantz—“the way he’s driving.”
The Englishman took a long look over his shoulder.
“Are they still behind us?” asked Charlotte.
“Who?”
Charlotte knew better than to ask again. Her pill was making her drowsy, as was the gentle rise and fall of the speeding car over the rolling terrain, and the warm sun on the side of her face. She leaned her head against the rest and closed her eyes. A part of her was actually looking forward to it. It had been a long time since she had been to Seville.
She awoke to the sight of La Giralda, the minaret turned bell tower of the Seville Cathedral, rising above the Barrio de Santa Cruz, the city’s ancient Jewish quarter. They had stopped on a narrow side street, outside an American coffeehouse. Charlotte frowned at the ubiquitous green-and-white sign.
“They’re everywhere,” said the Englishman, noting her reaction.
“Not in Zahara. We have a hill town’s mentality.”
The Englishman smiled, as if he were familiar with such thinking. “I’m afraid this is as far as
we can drive. Are you capable of walking a short distance?”
“Capable?” Charlotte was tempted to tell him that she walked more than a mile each day. In fact, she could have told him the precise number of her daily steps, but she didn’t want him to think her a madwoman. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve always liked walking in Seville.”
The little man with unkempt hair was now standing at her door with the attentiveness of a bellman. Charlotte accepted his hand. It was firm and dry, as though he spent a great deal of time digging in parched earth.
“What about my groceries?” she asked. “They’ll spoil if you leave them in the trunk.”
The little man stared at her silently. He was a watcher, she thought, not a talker. The Englishman raised a hand toward La Giralda and said, “This way, please.”
His solicitous manners were beginning to grate on her almost as much as his friend’s tapping. All the smiles and charm in the world couldn’t conceal the fact they were taking her into custody. If he said “please” one more time, she thought, she would show him a flash of her legendary temper. It had frightened even Kim.
They followed a succession of narrow alleyways deeper into the quarter until at last they came to a Moorish passageway. It gave onto an arcaded courtyard, shadowed and fragranced by the scent of Seville oranges. A man waited there alone, contemplating the water splashing in the fountain. He looked up with a start, as though surprised by her arrival, and stared at her with unconcealed curiosity. Charlotte did the same, for she recognized him at once. His eyes betrayed him. He was the Israeli who had been blamed for the murder of that Russian intelligence officer in Vienna.
“I thought it would be you,” she said after a moment.
He smiled broadly.
“Did I say something funny?”
“Those were the same words Kim Philby spoke when Nicholas Elliott came to Beirut to accuse him of being a spy.”
