The Cilla Rose Affair

by Winona Kent

  “A professional secret,” his father replied.

  Anthony was unimpressed. “You followed me.”

  “For a little while, yes.”

  “Why can’t you use a telephone, like a normal person? Why does it always have to be this mysterious cloak and dagger business?”

  Evan didn’t say anything.

  “You enjoy playing the part, that’s why,” Anthony decided, sitting down. “Jarrod Spencer is alive and well and re-living the 1960s in London. To what do I owe the honour of this particular encounter?”

  “I was wondering whether you might agree to do another spot of research for us, Anthony.”

  His middle son contemplated the platform.

  “It’s to do with the Underground,” Evan added.

  Anthony brightened.

  “Yes, I thought that would get your attention.”

  An hour later, Anthony pulled open the glass door of the London Transport Museum at Covent Garden, paid his fee at the turnstile, and was admitted.

  Here there were graphic panels chronicling two centuries of London’s mobile past, and audio visual displays. Briefly, he stopped to examine the cream and red double-decker trams and the antique steam trains, then strolled along to the Underground exhibits. There was a working mock-up of a section of tube tunnel, with a hissing, slamming, pneumatically-run track junction and a detailed explanation of what the various strings of wires represented, and which two rails were for running trains over—and which two were crawling with 600 volts of electricity.

  Just down from the mocked-up tunnel was the cab of a tube train, another working display, a simulation. Anthony joined the end of the queue, which was short and comprised of children in school blazers who crowded into the cab three and four at a time, and who clambered out again well before their five minutes were up.

  His turn next: he entered alone. The interior of the cab was spartan and painted regulation green. He perched tentatively upon the driver’s stool, surrounded by the smell of the Underground, the sounds, the aura of complete enclosure and the deep darkness.

  He pressed a button and the journey began. The front of the train slipped into a black hollow pinpointed by the faint grey speck of the next station, a long way in front.

  The simulated trip was over five minutes later. Anthony stepped out, filled up, carrying the experience away with him in the same way that communicants left the altar in the Catholic church.

  It took a moment to re-orient himself. There, against the wall, was what he’d really come for: a retrospective photo display of The Blitz. There was also a map, studded with push pins: red flags for the locations of public shelters, under King William Street, Borough, Aldwych, City Road, British Museum. Blue for vital war offices set up in disused station tunnels: Brompton Road, which had been closed in 1934, a victim of the opening of the Hans Crescent exit of nearby Knightsbridge, reprieved a decade later to become the operations centre for London’s anti-aircraft command. Down Street, closed in 1932, one of its obsolete lift shafts retained for ventilation, its underground passageways appropriated by the Railway Executive Committee. Dover Street, made redundant by the opening of Green Park in 1933, its entrance tunnels used during the war by London Transport as their emergency headquarters. Twenty years after that, Dover Street’s abandoned lift shafts had been re-employed to shift spoil during the excavation of the Victoria Line.

  Stations that had received direct hits. Anthony followed the fine thread lines from each of the black-flagged pins, across the map to the litany of damage, the reports of the dead and injured varying as wildly as the locations of the bombsites—victims not only of the Luftwaffe, but also of wartime censorship and questionable record-keeping. Marble Arch, September 17, 1940, anywhere from 7 to 18 dead. Trafalgar Square, October 12, 1940, 7 killed. Bounds Green, one night later, 19 dead and 52 injured. Balham, the night after that, 600 shelterers buried alive, if the worst could be taken as gospel. Sloane Square, November 12, 1940, 82 injured. Bank, January 11, 1941, anywhere from 56 dead and 69 injured to 117 killed outright.

  And the last one. Safety in the heart of the West End, shelter for actors and audience alike, never without a roaming troop of entertainers to occupy the hours while chaos prevailed above. Opened in 1907, closed forever on January 14, 1941, after a bomb dropped from a lone German Heinkel burst through the grassy square on the surface and completely destroyed the northbound platform, burying at least twenty shelterers in a deadly mountain of ballast, sand, gas and water.

  Anthony copied the details into his pocket notebook with a fine-pointed, felt-tipped pen.

  Romilly Square.

  He closed the notebook, then backtracked to the London Transport Museum’s Way In to see what there was in the bookstore.

  British Security and Intelligence maintained a number of outlets in London—satellite offices, bureaus, assorted departments. The grandfather of these had always been MI5’s headquarters in Mayfair. The reality of modern times, however, had necessitated a relatively recent removal from these very public environs in Curzon Street, to an altogether less compromising property Somewhere Else in London.

  Somewhere else in London, Rupert Chadwick, aged 22 years and six months, was diligently at work at his newly-assigned office near the main staircase.

  “Sir,” he said, as his immediate superior appeared in the doorway with yet another armful of files which needed to be appended. “Did you know that nineteen feet below the MOD offices in Montagu House, there’s a wine cellar?”

  “Is there indeed?” Victor Barnfather deposited the cardboard folders on the fledgling’s desk. He was impressed with his charge: young Rupert was conscientious to a fault. And the Chadwicks had money: their son had gone to good schools. He dressed impeccably: white shirt with pinstripes, navy tie, charcoal suit.

  “Cardinal Wolsey’s wine cellar, in fact, sir. Sixty-four feet long, 32 feet wide, and 20 high. And in 1947, when the Army was digging out its subterranean fortress underneath Montagu House, the government arranged to have the cellar—encased in steel girders and cushioned on blocks of mahogany—moved, on rollers, a quarter of an inch at a time, for 43 and a half feet.”

  “How interesting.”

  “And then,” Rupert said, “after the excavations had been completed, in 1949, the cellar was moved all the way back again, a quarter of an inch at a time. It’s open to the public once a month. That sort of thing does fall under our jurisdiction, doesn’t it?”

  “If it’s beneath the streets and accessible by man—yes, Rupert, it does. Among other things, this department maintains ongoing records on all of the city’s underground works, particularly those in close proximity to our more sensitive installations.”

  He was holding back one of the files.

  “Yes, sir?” Rupert inquired.

  “I’d like you to have a look into this, if you would. It’s just a routine inquiry, nothing too out of the ordinary.”

  Rupert opened the dossier. “The Fitzroy Theatre,” he said, thinking. “That’s up near Cambridge Circus, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Correct.”

  “And they’ve had an electrical outage?”

  “The second one this month, apparently.”

  “Is it something we ought to be terribly worried about, sir?”

  “Not really. Apparently the theatre’s built on top of some sort of Roman ruin and just before the blackout there was a report of a loud bang from below. When they went to have a look they found the place awash in water. Ring up the appropriate authority, Rupert, ask for a copy of their written investigation—if they bother to issue such a thing—and put it in the file. That’s all.”

  “Why is it important to us, sir? The Fitzroy Theatre, I mean?”

  Victor considered the fledgling. “There’s something else for you to do, Rupert. In fact, you ought to make it your next project, after you’ve dealt with this blackout business. Look up Fortress London in your computer, and see what it tells you.”

  “Fortress Londo
n,” Rupert repeated, jotting it down on his Things I Must Do Today message pad and putting a large star beside it.

  “After you’ve sorted out the Fitzroy Theatre,” Victor said again.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get onto it right away, sir.”

  Nora Darrow bent down to collect Harry Dailey’s morning post, which had been dropped through the mail slot in the door, and scattered across the tiled floor of the front hallway. Harry Daily was himself Not In, but as he had impressed upon her on numerous occasions—especially after she’d had one of her eruptions with Simon and needed a sympathetic shoulder and a stiff drink—my house is your house, Nora, the spare key’s in the flowerpot on the back step, don’t hesitate to make yourself at home.

  She had, in fact, made herself quite at home, although she doubted Harry would mind. He was a strange sort of fish, Harry Dailey, somewhere in his fifties, unmarried, and not the least bit inclined towards engaging her in any sort of romantic liaison. Not that she doubted his sexuality: there were plenty of girlfriends, all of the much younger variety, in it for the good time, Nora suspected—the promise of a quick jet-away to Morocco or Tenerife, the lure of a luxury cruise round the Greek islands.

  Nora had first made Harry’s acquaintance at one of Simon’s do’s—some promotion or other he’d been involved in, the grand prize being an all-expenses paid trip to Disneyworld—and Harry’d been on hand to draw the names and book the seats. In theory, he was friends with both of them, but in fact, he had always preferred Nora’s company to Simon’s.

  Sorting through the letters, she was surprised by a typed postcard, addressed to herself.

  FRAU DARROW (it said, briefly)

  PLEASE RING ME. I HAVE IN MY POSSESSION SOMETHING WHICH MAY BE OF INTEREST TO YOU.

  There was a telephone number, and a signature: Lügner.

  Intrigued, Nora carried the postcard into the sitting room. Who could possibly know that she was staying here? Unless…

  She dismissed the thought. Harris wasn’t that clever. He didn’t have the resources at his disposal. She’d been keeping a close eye on that man: if he’d enlisted the help of anybody at MI5, she certainly would have known about it.

  Placing the telephone on the arm of the sofa, she dialled the number.

  “This is Lügner.” He had a pleasant enough voice. Very German.

  “And this is Nora Darrow.”

  “Frau Darrow! How good of you to ring.”

  “How did you happen to know I was here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  The German voice at the other end was noncommittal. “I have my ways.”

  “Your postcard mentioned an article which might be of interest to me.”

  “Indeed, Frau Darrow.”

  “What is it?”

  “Perhaps you would care to meet me, in order to discuss the matter.”

  “But I know nothing about you,” she deferred, charmingly.

  “You know I am called Lügner, and you must know I am German. I am East German, in fact, but this is no longer important, as we are all meant to be good friends now, are we not?”

  “Where shall we meet, then, Herr Lügner?”

  “Shall we say the London Dungeon, Friday afternoon at two? You know of this place?”

  “I think I ought to be able to find it. How will I recognize you?”

  “I am older. I am grey-haired. I promise I shall wear a white carnation in my buttonhole, and I shall carry a shopping bag from that famous department store, Harrod’s.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “You will not be disappointed, Frau Darrow. This I can guarantee.”

  “Until tomorrow afternoon, then, Herr Lügner.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday, 30 August 1991

  It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the Dorchester. It wasn’t even the Holiday Inn. It was functional and grey and commercial, the sort of place where your key came on the end of a long metal wand, and where rules about entertaining guests in your room were posted prominently in the lobby over the reception desk.

  Christopher Robin Harris lugged his suitcase into the midget lift, pressed the button for the sixth floor, and waited for the slow ascent to end.

  There was not much more to be said for the accommodation. The predominant colour was orange. Orange curtains, an orange bedspread. There was an upright wooden wardrobe in the corner, and a television set plugged into what appeared to be the one electrical outlet. The walls were textured plaster painted a dirty beige, and, with the exception of a rather nondescript and very dark landscape fastened down with screws, without ornamentation. The carpet was brown with orange swirls, suitable for someone’s sitting room hearth.

  The bed was hard, and narrow.

  Robin checked his watch. He was hot and tired, and he smelled of airplanes. And he was due to meet his father in 20 minutes.

  Kicking off his desert boots, he plumped up the pillows and lay back on the bed to contemplate the ceiling. He detested overnight flights. The only thing that made them moderately bearable was a seat beside a window—a seat he’d thought he’d confirmed when he’d visited the airline ticket office a day earlier to pick up his ticket.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Harris. One to London?” The counter agent at Vancouver Airport had taken charge of that ticket, and his passport, and keyed his reservation data into the computer. “We’ve had a last-minute change of equipment this afternoon, Mr. Harris, and unfortunately the seating configuration is slightly different…” He was typing, rapidly. “—and it looks like…the best I’m going to be able to offer you…is 38C.”

  “On the aisle,” Robin guessed.

  “On the aisle,” the agent said.

  “I’d really rather have my original window seat. 36A.”

  “No windows left—sorry. Perhaps someone will be willing to switch with you once you’re on board.”

  “I doubt it,” Robin said, checking over the top of the counter to make sure the tag wrapped around the handle of his suitcase read LHR. There was nothing like landing at Heathrow only to discover your bags had been sent to Hong Kong.

  “Gate 24 in half an hour.” His boarding card, ticket and passport were returned to him. “Have a good trip.”

  “Thanks,” Robin said, without enthusiasm.

  It had been a very long flight, and he’d endured it flanked on either side by infants, one of which had seemed perennially hungry, the other perennially wet. He’d dabbled in the polar route diversions—films, meals, six overmodulated audio selections, the inflight magazine.

  There had been a brief respite in the middle of the night when he’d undertaken a bold expedition past the forbidding grey curtain to use the Business Class toilet—but that had been the extent of the excitement.

  Disgruntled, silently cursing the sleepers sprawled all about him, heads thrown back and mouths open, he had resorted at last to reading: a good little spy story he’d picked up at the airport bookstore. Blood and Questions by Emma Braden. Never studied in the hallowed hallways of the University of British Columbia, never likely to be. Five years after graduating with his B.A. in Literature, he still battled voices that egged him on to more meaningful works of fiction—Joseph Conrad, Mark Twain, Thomas Mann.

  Maybe it was just him, but Robin had always felt there were more important things in life than the mystical lyricism of water and the quest for prelapsarian bliss in a textual account of Huckleberry Finn.

  He’d landed at Heathrow bleary-eyed and bad-tempered, retrieved his familiarly-battered suitcase, replete with radio station stickers, exchanged pleasantries with the officers at Passport Control, dragged his bag through the Green customs alley. He’d caught the Airbus into Central London.

  Yawning, he looked at his watch again—he’d set it to London time somewhere over Greenland—and forced himself to get up.

  Over the years, Evan Harris had wandered in and out of his youngest son’s existence, a very casual sort of parent—the red haired chap with the blazing green eyes th
at you caught on The Late Movie in various disguises, who shared your last name and a number of your genetic traits, who sent you birthday cards more or less on time and who, very occasionally, insinuated himself into your life with such velocity that the ensuing havoc was nothing short of spectacular.

  Robin rang for the lift.

  His father’s primary claim to fame had been that television series he’d done in the 1960s. An opening montage of rapid-fire clips that condensed the entire forty-eight minute plot into thirty seconds of near subliminal action. A mandatory teaser followed by a moment of black, and then, the credits: the stylized Spy Squad logo, the close-ups of the three regulars at work—running, jumping, karate-chopping the villains, laughing inanely and for no apparent reason—all to the accompaniment of a very catchy but totally unhummable piece of music that had once climbed to Number Three on the popular charts of the day.

  An intriguing program, Robin thought, as the lift arrived, and he stepped inside and pushed the button for the ground floor. A show that had spawned a cult following of millions, that had been synonymous with incredible gadgets, nefarious villains and a now-infamous multi-purpose gun—the one that Jarrod Spencer was somehow always able to slam together, week after week, while being pursued down sinister alleys, across mined fields, through uncharted villages on the dark side of the Balkans.

  The lift deposited him in the lobby, and he tracked the smell of fried chips and coffee across to a chaotic restaurant guarded by a harassed-looking Sicilian in an ill-fitting black suit. He could see his father, seated by the window: Evan Harris, fibber, storyteller, actor, watcher. Purveyor of outrageous charm.

  He was reading a newspaper, unconcerned by the mass anarchy in his general vicinity.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Robin gave his father a warm, one-armed hug, and sensed right away the surprise his gesture had generated. I ambushed him, he thought. He wasn’t expecting that.

  He sat down. “I’m not altogether certain what to make of this place,” he said, warily.