British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’m not a codebreaker. I’m a mule. I always have been. The thing they’re most concerned about, though, is atomic energy. I read the newspapers. Europe is lining itself up in a series of alliances fuelled by the H-bomb.’

  ‘And you work for the Americans?’

  The countess nodded. ‘They are generous, but they have no sense of humour. None at all.’

  ‘Do you always deliver the scarf to the Embassy?’

  ‘Never. I give it to Evangeline at the opera and she meets a man from the Embassy and gives it to him. I don’t know where. Poor Evangeline.’

  ‘She met him at a bar not far from the opera house.’

  ‘Ah,’ the countess nodded, ‘I see. Hand to hand. Different places that are difficult to connect.’

  ‘Well, they have connected them.’

  ‘All good things come to an end. It’s been almost a year.’

  There was a wistful tone in the way she said this. It came to McGregor that there was something feral about the countess despite her tailored dress and immaculate make-up. When she said ‘Poor Evangeline’ she hadn’t really meant it.

  ‘You’ve enjoyed being back in the game?’

  The woman parted her lips. ‘It’s not that I don’t love my husband and my children. But one becomes accustomed to adventure, you know. The war was a golden time. One feels most alive when one is facing death. The thrill of the forbidden, I expect. One looks evil in the face – badness, you might say – and one is never sure of getting away. Do you enjoy forbidden pleasures, Superintendent?’ The countess’s gaze landed on McGregor’s thigh. Then she ran her eyes upwards suggestively and lingered. The superintendent shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘We must be almost there,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. At the end of the street and to the right.’

  ‘I hope Mirabelle is all right.’

  ‘She is your lover?’

  ‘No,’ McGregor said quickly. ‘A friend. A good one.’

  It occurred to him that he wanted much more than that. Even in a stretched wool dress and men’s slippers, he found Mirabelle far more enticing than any other woman. Her goodness went all the way through.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Bevan will recover,’ the countess said dismissively, turning her gaze back onto the street outside. ‘A good night’s sleep works wonders.’

  McGregor was about to form a question about whether Mirabelle’s killing the man in the safe house was really murder in French law when the chauffeur cried out, the car jerked and they came to a sudden halt. The superintendent was jettisoned from his seat and the countess landed on top of him. As they disentangled themselves he looked out of the window and saw that a car, speeding onto the main road from a side street, had run straight into them. Now a young man had emerged from the other vehicle and was walking towards them.

  ‘Drive on,’ the countess hissed at the chauffeur. ‘Quickly. Go round him.’

  In the front, the man was conscious but clearly concussed. ‘Madame,’ he murmured woozily, pawing at the steering wheel.

  McGregor pushed the countess out of the way and scrambled over to the front seat, hauling the chauffeur to one side. He slammed the car into reverse and backed up, ignoring the sound of scraping metal. Then, in the rear-view mirror he saw another car behind them blocking the road. A man had emerged from it and was approaching from the rear. His mind raced. The fellow from the crashed car was straight ahead, and coming closer. Now McGregor could see that the boy was holding a gun.

  ‘Drive!’ the countess shouted.

  The engine was still running, but with no way forward and no way back the superintendent hesitated. The boy had almost reached them now. The muzzle of the weapon clicked against the side window, pointing straight at the countess. ‘Roll down the window and give the scarf to me,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  In the mirror McGregor saw her shaking hand reach out to do so. He gritted his teeth. They had come so far and risked so much – Mirabelle had killed a man. He wasn’t going to let her down at the last pass.

  In a movement so smooth it surprised him, he reached over and grabbed the scarf from the countess’s hand while at the same time opening the driver’s door. He hit the pavement and began to run. With the car between him and the assassin he reckoned he must have at least a second or two’s grace. He cleared the other vehicle just as the first shot rang out. The end of the street and to the right, she’d said. He kept going. The men must be following but he couldn’t hear the clatter of their feet, only the pounding of his heart. He had almost made the corner when he heard the second gunshot. This time he felt it – a sharp stab in his shoulder, but not enough to stop him. If the men were shooting at him, he reckoned, at least they must have left the countess alone. If she’d any gumption she’d get herself and the chauffeur out of there. He swerved right just as another shot rang out. This time he couldn’t say for sure if it had hit him. If anything it gave him a burst of energy and he ran faster. If they kill me I’ll never hold her again. I’ll never kiss her again.

  Around the corner, like a smack in the face, he realised Paris was on a scale so much larger than Brighton or Edinburgh. He gulped in a breath, taking in the avenue Gabriel as he sprinted. A huge park ran along the street and the wide road was curved. The embassy must be here somewhere, but there seemed to be a dearth of buildings. Everything was just open space. Behind him another shot rang out and then he heard a siren. Somewhere nearby a police car was coming, alerted by the gunshots. For the first time in his life, he realised, he didn’t want the police to arrive. Anything that tied him to these men potentially also tied Mirabelle to the agent she’d killed. One of the cars rounded the corner and he heard another shot. It didn’t slow him. Then he heard the sound of metal on metal. The car must have crashed, he thought. He pushed himself harder, and at last he saw a guard box and the corner of an American flag. He made straight for it, stumbling. A man caught him as he went over.

  ‘The Reds,’ he gasped. ‘They mustn’t get it.’ He fumbled the scarf into the soldier’s hand. Then from the ground he saw the wheels of a car pull up and a flash of purple fabric. His shoulder stung and he felt his body shaking. The air was suddenly unbearably cold.

  ‘Quickly.’ The countess’s voice was insistent. ‘We have to get him inside.’

  ‘She’s not my wife,’ he said out of nowhere.

  And then everything faded to black.

  Chapter 30

  We are here for the sake of others.

  Caine’s car chugged slowly to a halt at the bottom of the rue de Jour and Mirabelle opened the door. The sky clung on to its last hour of darkness. It had been a long night. A pigeon flapped overhead, settling on the gutter at the top of Christine Moreau’s building and staring down. Elizabeth Caine gave swift instructions to Javier, the driver, before she stepped onto the pavement and clicked shut the door. She seemed very fresh for a woman who had been up all night. Mirabelle dug deep to dredge up some energy. There was no sign that Christine’s studio was being watched now – the Russians who had followed the red scarf were either dead or in custody. She took a bracing breath of pre-dawn air and the women crossed the road and rang the bell to Christine’s studio, stepping back from the door so that if she looked out of the window she’d be able to see them. A shadow shifted above them and a few seconds later the door opened and Christine hovered barefoot on the threshold in a thin cotton nightgown.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed, her eyes darting between the two women and up to the top of the road.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  Christine stepped back and the three of them climbed the stairs in silence. In the studio Christine lit a lamp. Elizabeth Caine sat at the dressmaker’s work table. Mirabelle hovered. It occurred to her that when it came down to it, it was all between the women.

  ‘Well?’ Christine fumbled for a woollen wrap, which she pulled around her shoulders.

  ‘Evangeline Durand is dead,’ Elizabeth
started, ‘but the scarf was delivered. The last scarf.’

  ‘I’d hoped we’d get longer,’ Christine admitted.

  ‘It’s quite some ruse,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘It’s so difficult to get anything out, you see. But they’re desperate for trade with the western nations. And we need to know. The Russians have some of the most advanced German scientists. Who knows what they’re building?’

  ‘Our Germans and their Germans.’ Mirabelle smiled crookedly. ‘Did even one scientist remain in Germany after the war?’

  Christine sat down. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Evangeline.’

  ‘I killed the Russian responsible.’

  Christine nodded. ‘Good,’ she said, and Mirabelle felt a kind of acceptance settle on her shoulders.

  ‘But the real reason we came is for your sake,’ she said. ‘Oh, the men had their falling out, and Philip Caine had to do some dreadful things, but they each made a new life, Christine. Caine, Duggan and Bradley. And you are still here, scarred inside and out. I had to come back to do what I can. I want to help you.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I disagree. It is my business. I loved Jack Duggan. I’m part of what little is left of him. And Jack wounded you. He insulted you. He didn’t understand. But I do.’

  ‘I’m not the only one who suffered. Philip …’

  Elizabeth Caine stood up. She moved towards the stove and crossed her arms. ‘My husband will never get over what he had to do. But he has me and our children. If he ever forgives me, that is.’

  ‘He has a temper,’ Christine said sagely. ‘It would have been better if he hadn’t found out that you were involved.’

  Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am what I am,’ she said. ‘If you’re asking me if I regret it, it’s like asking a wolf if she regrets hunting with the pack or a gull if it regrets diving for fish. I came alive during the war. I don’t want to live without the thrill of it.’

  ‘Were you in Paris?’ Mirabelle asked, suddenly curious.

  ‘No. I was with the Maquis – in the countryside. I was in charge of a hundred men. Between us we saw the Germans off. Now what the Soviets are doing is just as bad. I’m glad I have taken some small part in fighting them.’

  Mirabelle was silently grateful that she didn’t have the countess’s need for an enemy. Some people only blossomed in conflict, defined by their opponents. ‘We looked evil in the face.’ Elizabeth reached for a packet of cigarettes on the mantel and lit one without offering the packet round.

  Christine, Mirabelle decided, was cut from different cloth. Elizabeth Caine was addicted to danger. She sought it out. But Christine was a victim of it. She had got lost somehow, unable to move on. Who could blame her? Mirabelle had come close enough to that herself.

  ‘You’ve had enough, haven’t you?’ she asked the dressmaker. ‘You’d like to put it behind you.’

  Christine nodded.

  ‘I have an idea that might help.’

  ‘I don’t want money. I have money.’

  ‘Money is the least of it.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘No, what I suggest is something altogether more civilised. I’ve sent for someone – he’s coming from London.’

  ‘The British!’ Christine spat.

  ‘I know we let you down. But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want us to make it up to you? Really?’

  Christine’s lips pursed. ‘Why would they? Duggan is dead. He’s the one who knew what it was like. He’s the one who knew everything.’

  Mirabelle shifted. She was taking a risk, but it was time to put her cards on the table. ‘They’ll do it because you still have the information, Christine, don’t you?’

  Elizabeth Caine glared at her friend. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ she declared. ‘You never keep a copy. That’s the first rule. What if it falls into the wrong hands?’

  Christine’s jaw shifted. She surveyed Mirabelle carefully, her eyes hard and shrewd. ‘How did you know?’ she asked slowly.

  ‘You can’t let anything go, Christine. None of it. Not a memory, not a single wound. Working for the Americans is your revenge on the British, isn’t it? You don’t trust anyone. It stands to reason.’

  Elizabeth spluttered, and stubbed out her cigarette. Christine moved to the sideboard and took down a leather-bound book, part of a set of three. ‘The words of Voltaire,’ she said. ‘Now he was a spy.’

  ‘It will take courage to let things go,’ Mirabelle said, ‘but if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that we are all owed a fresh start. No matter what we’ve done.’

  Christine opened the book. She pulled back the inside leaf of the binding. ‘I copied the patterns and I coded the dates they came in and went out.’

  Mirabelle grinned. ‘I’m going to need something to wear,’ she said.

  Christine eyed the stretched woollen dress and the slippers. ‘It’s far too late to make anything. You’ll have to buy off the rail.’

  Elizabeth Caine looked blank.

  ‘I know somewhere that isn’t too bad,’ Christine offered.

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘All right. Let’s go round to the Cochon for breakfast and then I’ll have Javier drop you two off.’

  Chapter 31

  It’s the friends you can call at 4 a.m. that matter.

  Mirabelle crossed at the Palais Royal and dodged into the Louvre. She checked her watch. It was just past one o’clock but she wanted to make him wait. A black man in a well-cut suit cast his gaze over her and tried to catch her eye. He wouldn’t have done so the evening before, she told herself, but a new pair of heels and a jade-green suit procured earlier that morning from the boutique Christine recommended on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré had worked wonders. The only thing that could make her look more Parisian was the addition of a small dog on a lead. Looking slightly haughty, Mirabelle swept past. Then, turning into the courtyard, she fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. It was bright and cold – the perfect winter’s day. The Eiffel Tower punctuated the skyline and she wished McGregor could see it.

  A woman in a stovepipe hat was standing at the entrance. Mirabelle waved, and when she reached her, kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘Do you have it?’

  Christine Moreau nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Mirabelle took her friend’s arm and guided her into the entrance hallway. ‘Lunch,’ she said. But they both knew it was more than that.

  In the restaurant the waiter fussed over the women, showing them to the table where Eddie Brandon was already waiting, smoking a cigarette and sipping a lethal-looking cocktail.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ He got to his feet. ‘Who’s this?’ He inclined his head towards Christine.

  ‘Christine Moreau. So, you two haven’t met before?’

  ‘No, but I know your name, of course, Mademoiselle Moreau. Might I order you a glass of champagne?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Mirabelle answered for them both, thinking that it would be better to have something light. Christine’s propensity for a gin before breakfast might land them in trouble when there was negotiation afoot.

  ‘And three soles meunière.’ Eddie waved off the waiter. ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite.’ Mirabelle removed her gloves.

  ‘Well, I must say, you’re looking rather smart.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hadn’t expected you to. After what happened, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I brush up.’

  There was a silence. Mirabelle let it be. Christine studied Eddie; Mirabelle hoped she wouldn’t bolt.

  ‘Well, I expect you contacted me for a reason,’ Eddie said petulantly, the first to break the silence. ‘It’s quite some mystery. And I’m under no illusion there won’t be a price.’

  The waiter delivered the champagne and the women both took a sip. ‘Goodness. You do think us mercenary, Eddie,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘At least you haven’t been shot this time.’

  ‘My friend was.’

  �
��The black girl?’

  ‘No. Another friend.’

  ‘I see. Well, go on. What am I getting and what will it cost me?’

  Mirabelle nodded at Christine, who pulled the sheaf of papers from her handbag and handed it over. ‘From Russia with our best regards,’ Mirabelle said. ‘The Americans have these already.’

  ‘We share information with the Yanks.’

  ‘You share the information you’re both prepared to share. Honestly, Eddie, I’m not an idiot. They got the last of these messages last night. As you can see, there have been six. Miss Moreau wisely made copies of the earlier missives. Given the energy the Russians put into trying to recover this last one, I expect they pertain to something terribly serious. It was atomic energy in which you were most interested, as I recall.’

  Christine Moreau nodded. ‘They are up to something. They are definitely up to something,’ she said. ‘And I overheard something about a secret announcement, but I don’t know how to read it, I’m afraid.’

  Eddie looked at the drawings more closely. ‘And the code used?’

  ‘We have no idea. But you have men who devote themselves to nothing but cracking this kind of thing.’

  Eddie had to acknowledge that she was right. British code-breakers were the envy of the world. ‘But, Miss Moreau, you are only prepared to disclose this information to us now. It’s somewhat late, don’t you think?’

  Mirabelle cut in to defend her friend. ‘Christine rather suffered at our hands after the war. I consider it jolly generous of her to give us another chance.’

  ‘All I’m saying is, had you come earlier I’d have been able to get you more. What are you after, Mirabelle?’

  ‘Me? I’m only doing my duty. I might need a little hand with the French police over a medical matter.’ She slid Albert’s ID over the table. ‘This fellow won’t be recovering, you see.’

  ‘Did you shoot him?’

  ‘I used a knife.’

  Eddie raised his eyebrows only a fraction. ‘Well, at least that kind of thing is easier to sweep under the carpet if it occurs abroad. And you, Miss Moreau?’