The Secret Messenger

by Mandy Robotham

  I close the bag, feeling my heart plummet back to earth. As I round the corner after politely declining the offer of an escort back home, a sour retch rises inside me and I have to force myself not to bring up what little is in my stomach as I walk on. I’m still sweating as I reach the sanctuary of my apartment, although I don’t switch on the light for several minutes, peering out of my second-floor window, making sure the twosome haven’t followed. Paranoia comes easily when there is leaden contraband nearby.

  And then, the adrenalin rush again – the satisfaction of having gotten away with it. I’m almost laughing to myself as I crawl into bed. Two trips down, although this last one brought me closer to discovery. Am I pushing my luck too far, and will it run out?

  8

  Finding and Frustration

  London, September 2017

  Jamie looks up into the dark hole of the attic entrance, and sighs.

  ‘Lu? You still up there?’ he calls. ‘Come on down, I’ve brought some lunch back.’

  There’s a grunt and a shuffling in the space above his head, which he takes as something like an ‘OK’.

  She emerges in the kitchen, several cobwebs nestling in her hair. He pulls one away and kisses her cheek, but she barely notices. She hardly notices much these days, beyond what’s in that ruddy box. She’s matching his frustration now, although for different reasons; as Luisa moves about her mother’s kitchen making tea and not saying anything, he knows she is muttering to herself inside. Fretting.

  ‘So, anything interesting up there?’ Jamie asks as they unwrap the deli sandwiches he bought on his way back from the third tip run of the day. Luisa’s mum had her fair share of life’s baggage buried deep in dust-lined drawers and cupboards, old gifts from Christmas crackers and ‘handy’ battery-powered kitchen gadgets never used. Having crawled over the house already, Luisa is going through the attic one more time for personal items before the house clearance company moves in to scavenge for their spoils.

  ‘No, nothing else,’ she says, her gaze on the wild growth in the back garden. ‘I felt sure there would have been more, aside from that one box. I still don’t know why Mum didn’t talk about it, never showed me. I would have been prodigiously proud if I’d had a mother like hers.’

  Jamie says nothing, pretending to be occupied by his sandwich. He doesn’t dare suggest it may be the type of person Luisa’s mother was – at times cold, petulant and self-obsessed. He’s never told Luisa of his shock when he was first introduced, at the difference in character between mother and daughter, at how distant the mother was both with him and her only child. He never found out the reason why and, it seems, neither has Luisa. They were just never that close, and Luisa has never seemed to miss what she didn’t possess in the first place – until now at least. He feels sorry for her when he thinks of his own mother, always ready with a hug, a kiss and a bowl of soup, and that comforting smell only mums possess. He never detected so much of a whiff on Luisa’s mother.

  Clearly, though, the wife that he loves is desperate to find some kind of connection with her family, and he should support her, whatever he really thinks. Since she found that ramshackle box of history, almost everything else has become secondary to her piecing together the jigsaw of Stella and Gio, the random photographs that might become a pathway towards Luisa’s desperately needed past. It’s as if it’s becoming a search for her identity, except he loves the person she already is. How can he convince her of that, with this new ‘mission’ of hers? With Luisa, he knows she won’t let it alone; she is tenacious and determined. A dog with a bone. That’s what makes her a good journalist.

  ‘I was actually wondering if you’d spotted anything valuable, something that could go to auction,’ Jamie pitches. ‘We might find some priceless old painting like they do on the TV – make our fortune.’ And he tries prodding at her with a smile, something that will at least make them connect in the same room. Have the same goal.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she says, shuffling absently through a pile of post. ‘I mean, you can go up and have a look – you watch more of those antique programmes than I do. Maybe you’ve got a better eye.’

  Jamie tries not to take it as a slight on his none too professional life as a ‘resting actor’, but with Lu he knows it’s not a criticism. She’s just distracted, he tells himself – less by grief these days than the prospect of opening up her own life by pinning down her past.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Lead the way to the cobweb cavern. Let’s get this job done.’

  Later, they sit in the half-empty living room over take-away Chinese, and Jamie watches as Luisa chews on her meal and casts around at the walls now stripped of pictures and family photographs. There’s a despondency about her, though not – he guesses – about leaving it behind, but at being here at all. Her expression tells him she won’t be sad to close the door on her childhood for good. She might even relish throwing away the key.

  ‘So what do you think the house will sell for?’ he says chirpily. ‘Enough for a deposit on our dream home?’

  Luisa looks at Jamie quizzically, then narrows her eyes. He’s clearly said the wrong thing again. Walked on those eggshells and cracked every single one.

  ‘Christ Jamie, what is it with you and money today? My mother’s not yet cold in her grave and you’re already thinking about the cash!’ she snaps, throwing aside her carton of noodles and storming into the kitchen.

  ‘Luisa, come back – that wasn’t what I mea—’ he stammers, but she’s already trying to muffle the sound of her sobbing with the grotty old tea towels her mother insisted on keeping. He doesn’t get up. He’s become used to not being able to comfort his wife. There’s only one thing she will turn to this evening. And these days, he can’t compete with a dusty old pile of photographs for comfort.

  9

  Drinks with the Enemy

  Venice, March 1944

  I hate the fact that I’m fretting over what to wear. It’s never bothered me before, and in reality there are few choices; a couple of decent dresses from before the war, certainly nothing new since. I’m hot and bothered, by my own vanity mostly. In the week since our lunch date, Cristian has kept a professional distance, and I was almost wishing he’d forgotten his invitation to the military function, until he sidled up at five the previous afternoon and reminded me of the date and time, and that it is to be formal wear.

  ‘Shall I pick you up at your apartment?’ he’d said, prompting a swift but, I hoped, gracious ‘No thank you’ in reply – I would meet him in the Piazza San Marco, from where we could either walk or take a Motoscafi taxi boat.

  The reception is set for a Saturday evening, which fortunately doesn’t interfere with a trip to the newspaper office on Giudecca, and a chance to see Jack. I try to convince myself it’s missing the former which would upset me the most, though that in itself is a hard enough task. Irritated at myself, I’m glad to finally make a dress selection and be done.

  ‘Back to something that’s actually important!’ I grumble into the empty air, though it’s not until later, when I meet with Sergio, that I am truly convinced – again – that this type of intelligence work is vital for Resistance planning.

  Without revealing too many details – it’s often safer not to know – he tells me my flow of information is building a picture of the Nazis’ way of thinking: their patterns, but also their expertise in laying false trails to divert men and supplies. Assembling the radio parts I’m transporting will allow the Resistance to spread information even further, Sergio assures me. I imagine he’s simply being kind, in the same way he encourages all those under his command, with a real twinkle in his eye, rather than the frown that any Resistance leader might be expected to wear, given the task we have ahead of us. But it does make me feel better, as though I’m truly useful.

  I don’t tell him I’m nervous about the reception, but he guesses, of course.

  ‘If you hear only snippets of conversation then it will still be valuable,’ Sergio adds, hunched over a
glass of grappa in the corner of a quiet bar. ‘But I stress you should not compromise yourself by appearing to linger or listen. It’s the personalities and who they are talking to that truly interests us. I know your visual memory is good, so we’ll meet soon after the event while it’s fresh, perhaps with any recent photographs we have.’

  I leave the bar with Sergio’s reassurances and a strange sensation in my stomach – a mixture of anxiety and excitement grappling at its walls. But that feeling is quickly sidelined when I bump into my brother, Vito, just outside.

  ‘Stella!’ he says, with what seems like genuine delight – though not surprise – kissing me on both cheeks. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  I note he doesn’t ask what I’m doing at this particular bar or who I’m meeting. And nor do I. The fact that it’s well known among Resistance members is reason enough for both of us. We’re part of the same brigade within Venice, but in separate battalions – and I’m guessing that’s the way we both prefer it.

  Wearing my big sister expression, I relay that his presence at home is sorely missed, and he rolls those big, boyish eyes at me.

  ‘All right,’ he says, with a typical, uncompromising grin. ‘I’ll try and be a better son. Having been truly ticked off by my bigger and better sibling.’ And he uses that wide smile again on me – his tool for winning over almost everyone. It works on Mama, and it normally would on me, but not this time. He’s not taking the situation seriously and my face shows it.

  ‘Vito,’ I half plead. ‘Please don’t give them more cause to worry. They’re suffering enough. Show your face more, eat with them – that will be enough.’

  This time, his face assumes an oddly serious look. ‘OK, I will try harder,’ he says. ‘Promise. Now, Stella, I must go. Be careful yourself.’ He squeezes my arm, harder than if it was a casual remark – I know then that even if we don’t speak of it, we understand each other and what we do.

  Back home in front of my ancient, cracked mirror, I do make an effort in how I look, though for whom it’s hard to say. I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself, but also I don’t want to embarrass Cristian – as Sergio says, it could be a lucrative relationship for the campaign to free Venice. I style my hair in a wave, with the help of the mother-of-pearl combs given to me by Papa one birthday, and put on matching earrings. I scrape out the dregs of my compact and paint on a touch of lipstick – this party isn’t important enough to lavish it upon my lips, but the end result is sufficiently different to my appearance on a work day.

  The evening is cool but dry, and the light is dropping rapidly as I wait in one corner of San Marco near the Palazzo Ducale – otherwise known to pre-war tourists as the Palace of the Doge. Its ancient pink brickwork – the colour of the most tantalising ice cream – is in competition with a shellfish sky overhead and I can’t help staring intently at the beauty of my city. Not even the buzzing of aircraft, returning no doubt from their spoiling of war, can overcome the sight of a burning sun squatting above the vast stretch of water. As I scan the sky above and then gaze over at the shallow waves, there is little hint of the past few days, when we came under the heaviest bombardment by Allied air forces yet. They targeted German shipping in the docks until one side of the city glowed with a different hue entirely; a stark contrast of thick, black smoke and a destructive flame red. Over the years, through endless invasions, Venice has proved to be a master at recouping her beauty, and she seems to have bounced back yet again. I wonder that we could ever think seriously of losing this gem to raiders, aliens or incumbents for good, and then I know exactly why I’m standing awkwardly in my best dress, nervously about to enter the devil’s dancehall. It’s for Venice, plain and simple.

  ‘Good evening Signorina. You look wonderful, if I may say.’ Cristian’s voice startles me as he approaches from behind. He’s smiling, his face brighter and more relaxed than I’ve ever seen. He is well groomed, his beard trimmed and hair slicked back, wearing an ebony double-breasted jacket, bright white shirt and emerald green tie. It’s not an evening suit, but near enough. He’s without his glasses, which makes him naturally squint a little. I wonder why he doesn’t just simply wear them, since they distinguish his features, mark him out as different.

  ‘You look well yourself,’ I say, and he offers me an arm as we head towards the water’s edge.

  ‘So will I know anyone there?’ I ask while we wait for the transport he’s arranged, the lagoon lapping noisily at our feet.

  ‘General Breugal is away, but Captain Klaus will be there, of course,’ Cristian says. ‘We’re the only others from our department. It’s a reception for some visiting dignitary from Berlin, so they like to put on a good show – different sections from across the city.’

  He looks at me and smiles. ‘I’ve no doubt I’m there to simply make up the numbers,’ then adds quickly, ‘Not that you are, Signorina – I’m delighted you could make the time.’

  ‘Well I’m sure you’re there for a reason – as far as I can tell, you are vital to the running of General Breugal’s office. He certainly couldn’t do without you.’

  I’m fishing for his reaction, but he doesn’t answer. Our Motoscafi arrives and he helps me step down into the vessel bobbing on the waves.

  ‘Miss Bennet,’ he says mischievously as he takes my hand, following up with a very boyish grin.

  ‘Why thank you, Sir,’ I say, joining his charade, though I can’t quite bring myself to think of him as Mr Darcy. More and more, I feel I’m indulging in some kind of elaborate game, yet unsure whether there will be any winner.

  The reception is being held in one of the lesser known palazzos on the Grand Canal, and it’s strange to see all of its floors lit up, glittering in the near darkness as we approach. By contrast, even the wealthiest of families have retreated to the top floors of their grand houses on the canal, the upper rooms being easier to heat with limited fuel. Tonight, though, the entire Ca’ Foscari palazzo sparkles like the proverbial Christmas tree.

  Inside is no different. There is no war on tonight, judging by the tables spilling over with food and wine, brandy and champagne. I feel a deep sense of injustice and shudder in my stiff dress. And is that a wrinkle of distaste I see flash across Cristian’s face? If so, he recovers quickly.

  ‘General, hello, good to see you here …’ He’s straight in with a hand and the diplomacy, introducing me either as his ‘companion’ or ‘colleague’, and we do the rounds of the clumps of people milling about like groups of country dancers. The chatter rises towards the high ceiling, along with a fug of cigar smoke clouding the expensive chandelier, while a small string quartet does its best to compete. There’s an abundance of green and grey uniforms, more than a few medals pinned to puffed-up chests, and few women to break up both the muted colour scheme and the overwhelming stench of machismo.

  Everyone is speaking German and, though I’m fluent, it’s exhausting keeping up with the varying accents and switch in topics. The subject of everyone’s conversation is, of course, the war, but there are no detailed plans being discussed here – the alcohol hasn’t loosened tongues to that extent. So I concentrate on what Sergio has suggested and marry images with words to help the retrieval of personalities from my memory: that one with the moustache, or the lieutenant with a limp and a helpful lisp. That’s in between smiling and laughing where appropriate and swallowing the sick taint of collaboration and subterfuge.

  Several times I make my excuses and head to the ladies’ room; my kitten heels are not fitted with a convenient hiding place, but I’ve sewn a separate pouch into my clutch bag and I stow my notes in there, fervently hoping the bulk of the notes and the clumsy stitching won’t be too obvious if I’m called to open my bag. Sergio has shown me pictures of prominent members of the German hierarchy, and from memory I write down who is talking to who, those that laugh together and others who struggle to feign civility. Despite the military order, it’s personal relationships that heavily dictate the smooth running of occupation. Or not, so Sergi
o says. Scribbling over, and my mask of compliance reapplied, I take a deep breath and head back out in the fray.

  Cristian is hovering near a side table as I emerge, sweeping me not into another gathering but up a shallow flight of stairs and onto a little balcony, with several tables overlooking the main floor.

  ‘You’re doing very well with all the small talk, but I thought you might welcome a break,’ he says, offering me a chair. Instantly, a waiter appears and sets down two more glasses of champagne. I’ve already had a couple and my head is starting to feel the effects, but it’s the best wine to coat my taste buds in an age and I find my fingers gripping the stem.

  ‘I’m sorry if it’s been a real bore,’ Cristian goes on. ‘Perhaps just a little while longer, and then we’ll make our excuses.’

  ‘No, it’s absolutely fine,’ I lie. ‘It’s certainly an eye-opener to see how the other half lives.’

  He frowns, perhaps assuming it’s a criticism. ‘I just meant …’ I try to qualify.

  ‘No, I agree,’ he says. ‘It wouldn’t be my idea to flaunt such opulence when there are troops and families out there struggling. But this is fascism meets the Reich. It’s what we do.’

  He says ‘we’ but I can’t help noticing it doesn’t sit easily on his tongue, or in his expression, for that matter. He might be a fascist, but I am beginning to think he is different in some way. And that’s what confuses me.

  Cristian’s face brightens, and he casts a look over the floor below and then back at me – his features full of mischief again. ‘I’d say this is a perfect opportunity for us as Austen lovers to transport ourselves to the ball at Netherfield? Darcy and Miss Bennet doing their sparring perhaps?’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, it might not have been too different,’ he argues. ‘Swap the grey uniforms for scarlet and imagine a few more women in their finery. The pomp and the bluster would – I imagine – be very much the same.’