As the days and weeks went by, however, he heard nothing more from Amy Strallen. It puzzled him at first, for they had parted on such friendly terms. The kiss he still recalled. In any case, he had no time to dwell on it. Marita, zealous to a fault, kept proposing new initiatives on his recruitment drive. They would meet regularly to discuss fifth columnists she considered worth cultivating. She was deeply intolerant of cranks – ‘fantasists’ – who merely sought an audience for their crackpot theories. What was needed were people prepared to do the hard work of accumulating intelligence and grooming contacts. At times she expressed her impatience even with Hoste, accusing him of a lack of ambition. Instead of just recruiting spies, he ought to be training them up in subversion – sabotage, of course, but also bugging government offices, lifting classified material, and stalling ‘Churchill’s propaganda machine’.
Hoste said that he agreed with her in principle, but they had neither the resources nor the remit from Berlin to carry out such activities. Their job was to gather and relay information, no more. Marita would scowl in disgust, but in general they got on pretty well. If he could steer her off the eternal subject of the Jews and their troublemaking she was quite enlivening company. She could talk for hours about art and film and theatre. (She could talk for hours about everything.) She was well read in the classics, though what she loved was thrillers; sometimes when Hoste met her she would be in the middle of a murder mystery or an espionage story. She read avidly but sceptically. Once, a few weeks after seeing her absorbed in a cheap-looking thriller called Cadaver Non Grata, he asked her how it had ended. ‘I didn’t finish it,’ she replied. Why not? ‘Because I knew what was going to happen. When I know that, I stop reading.’ Hoste, without telling her, borrowed the book for himself from the library. He read it right through. The ending came as a complete surprise to him.
He still had no idea where she lived, and she never dropped any hint, even of the district. He had arranged with the Section to pay her four pounds a week, more than any other agent in their employ. This she would collect when they met, at either a cafe or a dining room in the West End. In company it amused him to note her constant animal alertness. When she entered a room unfamiliar to her she would look around to check that it had another exit. She would always sit facing outwards to monitor the comings and goings. Nothing seemed to escape her attention.
Eating together one afternoon he noticed her distractedly scanning the room over his shoulder. She dropped her voice for a moment. ‘Don’t turn round – there are two police detectives sitting by that window.’ He watched her watching them. She was always alive to the possibility of being cornered. Even though the police had no recent photograph of her, she moved through the city like a fugitive. ‘How can you tell?’ he asked her quietly. Marita gave a little twist to her mouth. ‘Instinct. It’s not let me down yet.’ A table near to them had become free, and they watched as the two men she had identified rose and slouched towards it. One of the men caught his eye as he sat down, and Hoste felt a shiver of dread. Marita was staring off, her face set impassive and hard. The pair of them were waiting – to pounce? A minute, two minutes, ticked by. Slowly, by an unseen signal, the men got to their feet again, and Hoste wondered if this was the moment Marita would make a dash for it. Instead they asked another customer – a man – to accompany them outside. Through the window they watched as a uniformed constable put the man in cuffs.
‘That was a close one,’ said Hoste. Marita squinted at him, and said nothing.
One afternoon a few weeks later, having arranged to meet at a pub on the Strand, she turned up in the company of a young man, smartly dressed, blue-eyed with brilliantined hair – as suave as a matinee idol. Once he began talking, however, the illusion was broken. His Ulster accent fell menacingly on the ear. Marita introduced him as Billy Adair.
‘Marita’s been tellin’ me abite yew,’ he said, widening his sharp, feline eyes suggestively. ‘The handler.’
‘Is that what she calls me?’ Hoste looked at her, but she returned only a long, languid blink. It transpired that she and Adair had met in Dublin during her temporary exile, and found they had much in common. He had been working covertly for the British government as an agent provocateur and became notorious for betraying several prominent members of the Irish Republican Army. His father, he explained, had also been recruited as a spy for the British during the 1916 uprising.
‘So you followed him into the family business,’ said Hoste.
‘You could say.’ He smiled for a moment. ‘But we never traded under the family name, if you get my drift.’
Hoste listened while the two of them talked about Ireland and its usefulness as a bolthole from the mainland. Adair, having collaborated with the Ulster Constabulary, had now made an enemy of them; London had proved a congenial place to lie low. He and Marita had met at a secret assembly of BU renegades and Fascists just before the war broke out. Something in the tone of their talk inclined Hoste to wonder whether their association had been entirely professional. He was certainly handsome enough, and Marita was possibly not averse to the attentions of cocky young acolytes.
‘I wonder if we might put Billy’s other talents to use,’ she said, turning to Hoste.
‘Other talents?’
She looked to Billy, who said, ‘Agents of the Irish Constabulary were trained in the use of firearms. It was always handy to carry a pistol on the streets, in case you ran into some blood-thirsty Taig.’
‘I see,’ said Hoste.
There was a silence, before Marita spoke again. ‘Billy’s being rather coy. In fact he was so “handy” with a gun that the Constabulary hired him as a special operative. If a Republican politician or union leader was making life troublesome – and there usually was one – they’d send Billy in to deal with him. The best shot in the business.’
Hoste nodded slowly. ‘No doubt. But I fail to see how an assassin might be deployed in this country. We’re not at present overrun by Republicans.’
Marita gave a sardonic snort. ‘You deliberately miss the point, Hoste. This government of ours refuses to deal fairly with Germany. Churchill would rather fight to the last man than sit down and negotiate. We must force his hand. Imagine the shock to them of suddenly losing Eden, or Attlee, or Morrison. “There is a tide in the affairs of men” – well, this is ours. Should we not take it?’
Her question was directed at Hoste, who returned her gaze and held it for a long moment. Then he said, with cold formality, ‘Mr Adair, a pleasure to meet you, but would you be kind enough to leave us for now? I have confidential business to discuss with Mrs Pardoe.’
The Ulsterman looked surprised, but with a puzzled glance at Marita he rose from the table; he took up his hat and, with a muttered farewell, was gone. Marita’s expression had darkened, and Hoste knew that a critical moment had been reached.
‘That was not polite of you,’ she said in a low, sullen voice.
‘And inviting that man to this table was not wise of you.’
‘What? He’s a National Socialist and a –’
‘He’s a thug, and a professional Judas. You think I’ve not heard of Billy Adair? He’s ratted out men on so many different sides I’m surprised he can see straight. What on earth do you think you’re doing, bringing him to me?’
Marita, bristling, almost spat out her words. ‘I shall tell you. I look at your network of agents and ask myself: what is being done to help the Fatherland? And the answer is – nothing. Nothing! What is the point of intelligence gathering if we cannot use it to break this government? An assassination could change the course of the war. Even you must see that.’
Perhaps she expected to provoke him with this little cuff of disrespect. But Hoste didn’t flinch. ‘You want to associate with a man like Adair, that’s your business. But let me make it absolutely clear: my loyalty is to Berlin, and to the running of this operation. If I should hear that you’ve done anything to jeopardise that, it’s over – you’re over. The money stops, and
you’re on your own. Or you’re with Billy Adair, which amounts to the same thing.’
Marita’s eyes glittered like a switchblade. Her face had gone pale – the pale of repressed fury. He had braced himself for a tirade, but in the end she merely curled her lip, and said in a sarcastic tone, ‘Tough guy.’
But something must have registered, because she dropped all talk of Adair.
One evening in late June, Philip Traherne held a small party at his flat in Jermyn Street. A belated celebration of Castle’s sixtieth birthday, it later became known as ‘the Trimalchio evening’, such was the bounty on offer. In this era of food coupons and rationing it was impossible to know how Traherne had come by the cold cuts of meat or the fresh salmon, let alone the champagne and the cognac and kümmel. Even those with decent access to the black market were surprised by the lavishness. But nobody was complaining, least of all Castle, who gulped down a large balloon of brandy while cornering Hoste for a debrief on his latest recruit.
‘And she’s satisfied with the money?’
Hoste pulled a face. ‘I don’t think Marita would ever admit to being “satisfied” with anything. But she knows that four pounds a week is a good screw.’
Castle paused to fill a pipe, and lit it with thoughtful little creasings at the side of his mouth. ‘We’ve been impressed by the stuff she’s bringing in. The troop encampments on the south-west coast, for instance.’
‘I’ve been wondering how she got hold of that,’ said Hoste. ‘I asked her whether it could be verified, hoping she’d let slip the name of her contact. But of course she didn’t. Far too shrewd.’
‘You sound like an admirer.’
‘I suppose I am. I can’t help admiring people who are good at their job – the will to get things done. Marita is the keenest I’ve ever met.’
Sweetish clouds of smoke from Castle’s pipe billowed across them. ‘Quite the tartar, I imagine.’
Hoste nodded. ‘We crossed swords the other week. She wanted to bring in an Irish gunman, name of Adair. She’s determined to get up an assassination campaign, starting with Churchill’s War Cabinet.’
‘How did she propose doing that?’
‘I didn’t ask. I simply told her – over my dead body.’
Castle returned a thin smile. ‘I’d watch out. She might take that literally.’
The conversational murmur around them rose and fell. The windows had been thrown open to the night air, and the net curtains stirred lethargically. Through a knot of drinkers Hoste watched Traherne and Tessa Hammond picking a path towards them.
‘Evening, gents,’ said Traherne, looking from one to the other. He was wearing one of his innumerable smoking jackets and a pair of cream-and-brown co-respondent shoes. ‘Hope you two aren’t talking shop. This is a birthday party, remember.’
Castle winked at Hoste. ‘Matter of fact we were discussing Jack’s admiration for a certain lady.’
Traherne raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, anyone I know?’ he said, cutting a glance around the room.
‘He’s joking,’ said Hoste. ‘Capital spread, by the way, Philip. Seems you’ve got in everything but a suckling pig. And not impossibly that.’
‘Well, nothing’s too good for Castle. Happy birthday, old boy.’ A few other guests echoed his toast before Traherne took Castle off to make some introductions. Hoste was left with Tessa, who had fixed him with a pert look.
‘May I ask – was the “certain lady” just mentioned Miss Strallen?’
Hoste smiled. ‘No. I’m afraid Miss Strallen has dropped out of view. Perhaps I offended her, though I can’t think how.’
‘She’s probably just got some new man,’ said Tessa shortly, though if she hoped the remark would jolt him it was misplaced, for Hoste only nodded, seeming thoughtful. They were silent for a moment; then Tessa went on. ‘By the way, I’ve been given a couple of tickets for a concert next Tuesday. Schubert. Or is it Schumann? Anyway, I thought you might be … ?’
Hoste, who had been half listening, focused on her. ‘Ah, thanks, but I can’t next week –’
‘Oh, that’s fine,’ said Tessa, interrupting quickly. ‘Absolutely fine. It was only a – I’ll find someone else.’
A waiter bearing a tray of drinks created a distraction, and they began to talk of other things.
9
A voice was addressing her, and Amy came round to it as if from a dream. Johanna stood at her office door.
‘Sorry, miles away. Morning.’
‘Good morning,’ said Jo, with a puzzled smile. ‘I was just saying that I liked your dress.’ It was short-sleeved and narrow-waisted, with a floral design, something she’d bought a few summers back and forgotten about. She had hardly noticed herself putting it on.
‘Thanks,’ she said belatedly.
A minute or so later Jo reappeared, this time without the smile. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
‘Amy? May I ask – is everything all right?’ Her tone was gently confidential.
Amy sat up at her desk. ‘Yes. Of course. Why – why d’you ask?’
‘It’s just that these last few weeks you’ve been so preoccupied. Are you bored with the work? Because if you are I can ask Miss Ducker to –’
‘No, I’m not at all bored. Is that how it seems?’
Jo made an awkward face. ‘A little. When we used to do the matching you were always so enthusiastic and funny. But lately you seem, I don’t know, remote from everything. I just wondered if there was – You’re not … ?’ There was a question in Jo’s eyes which certain women friends would implicitly understand.
Amy bugged her eyes. ‘God, no. No. I’m sorry, Jo, really. I can’t bear the idea of not pulling my weight. I may have been out of sorts – tired, I suppose – but I will try to buck up.’
Jo gave her a searching look. ‘I don’t like to think you’re unhappy. I wonder – is it something to do with that man you told me about? Mr Hoste?’
Amy didn’t flinch. Jo was a smart one, but this was a confidence she wasn’t going to win. ‘I’ve not seen or heard from him for weeks,’ she replied, ‘and that suits me fine.’ It was said with a smile, and seemed to be enough for Jo, who responded in kind.
‘All right, then. I’ve got a free hour at four, so have you. What do you say we have a matching session?’
For the rest of the day Amy worked with a somewhat self-conscious diligence; she didn’t go out to lunch, and only once visited the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She had been aware of her distractedness these past weeks and had dimly hoped that it had escaped notice. But you couldn’t work close to someone as beady as Jo and pretend that you were getting away with it.
In the days following her discovery at Hoste’s flat she had tried to rationalise what she had seen. She knew that men were born collectors, and that military paraphernalia were an enduring fascination to some. She recalled her father once taking her to visit an old schoolteacher whose living room was practically a shrine to the obsession – weaponry, of course, but also a fusty array of medals, decorations, cap badges, regimental insignia, all proudly preserved in glass cases. Amy had regarded them politely, and wondered what use they were to him. Did he take them out on a slow afternoon and stare at them? Or were they ornaments intended to beguile his visitors?
The question was whether Hoste might be such a man. She thought not. His private cache of Iron Crosses didn’t have the air of belonging to a cherished collection. They had been hidden away in a drawer like things not meant to be seen. So she had to ask herself why someone would have enemy battle decorations in his possession. And the answer – much as she resisted it – was that he must be a Nazi agent. But how could he be? The idea was just too horrifying. Back and forth she argued it with herself. In the end she decided to write it down, in the hope that seeing it in black and white would determine the truth.
1) His interest in Marita – wanted to know about her allegiances, anti-Jewish sentiments, etc.
2) Has visited Germany often; spea
ks German.
3) Seems to know a lot about anti-government elements, the pro-Hitler types who want peace at any price with Germany.
4) The medals. He could only have come by them in Germany, which means he must be connected to the higher echelons of the Reich.
The evidence pointed one way only.
She was still brooding on it as she entered the bar of Fleming’s, where she had arranged to meet Georgina Harlow after work. In the course of trying to matchmake her favourite lonely heart, Amy had become friendly with her. They had been to see a couple of plays in the West End and had dinner afterwards. Even if she hadn’t felt obscurely responsible for her client, she found Georgina an engaging companion, and a tremendous source of gossip: working for a junior minister at the Ministry of Defence she was first with the news about the Cabinet’s internal squabbling, Churchill’s drinking habits, the amorous indiscretions of this or that mandarin. She seemed to know before anyone else about the latest initiatives on rationing and clothing coupons and rehousing the thousands of Londoners left homeless by the Blitz. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this,’ she would say sotto voce, and Amy would listen, agog.
She heard her name being called from the other side of the room. In the few weeks since they had first met Amy detected a material change in Georgina’s appearance: her skin, which had been sallow, seemed to glow, and she carried herself with a new assurance. Where once her gaze had been fearful and downcast, she now looked Amy directly in the eye. The change was easily explained: the bureau had found her a suitor, and it was very quickly apparent that he was keen.
‘So how goes it with Prince Charming?’ said Amy, once she had settled herself in the booth.
Georgina smiled. ‘I can’t vouch for any royal blood. But he does have plenty of charm.’ The man in question, Christopher, had made money in a brokerage firm before he decided to quit and open a small gallery in St James’s. Amy had liked him on sight, but until Miss Harlow’s name entered the books they had not been able to find him a suitable match.
Our Friends in Berlin Page 9
