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The Cilla Rose Affair

Page 21

by Winona Kent


  “I haven’t ever lied to you.”

  Sara spooned the yolk out of her egg in silence. “You’re doing work for your father. Both of you are—you and Anthony.”

  “It’s not that unusual, Sara. Intelligence officers use members of their families all the time for a little clandestine business on the side. Diversions, distractions—”

  “And that’s what I am, then? A little clandestine bit on the side? A distraction?”

  Robin shook his head. “No.”

  “It looks a lot like it from where I’m sitting, Harris.” She stared at her fork. “That night we spent in your hotel room—I saw those two men in the van on the road. They were spying on you, Robin—and you weren’t even the slightest bit concerned. I thought it was all a huge joke. Did you know they were there?”

  “Ant and I were both warned that we might be targeted,” Robin said. “They were following me all over London the next morning—I thought I’d dealt with it. Apparently not.”

  “No,” Sara said. “Apparently not. I mean, they could just as easily have kidnapped me as you.”

  “But it was me they were after, Woodford. Me or Ant. Not you at all.”

  “I’ll tell you something, shall I? I used to be quite terrified of men. Not just men. Sex, involvement, the whole thing. Afraid of taking the risk. I hadn’t had any boyfriends. Just you, in Vancouver.”

  She glanced at him, quickly.

  “And that was pretty innocent. I used to sit on the tops of buses and see couples crossing the road, arms around each other, holding hands…and I didn’t think I’d ever be a part of their world…until I met Jon. I trusted him for a long time, you know. Until the lies began. And even after the lies began, because you want to believe, don’t you? You’ll look for all sorts of reasons to avoid having to face up to the truth.”

  “I’m not Jon,” Robin said. “In the first place, I can’t stand Kate Bush.”

  Sara turned her head away. “I trusted you,” she said, watching her blue balloon bob in a breath of wind from the road below. “And no, all right, you didn’t tell me any lies—but you weren’t being entirely truthful with me, either, were you?”

  Robin reached across the table and took her hand.

  “Sara,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  “I told you as much as I was able.” He kissed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  Sara swallowed. “You wouldn’t have gone to Bournemouth if your father hadn’t ordered you there. You wouldn’t have bothered with me at all. I was just a convenience.”

  He was still holding her hand. “Listen to me, Woodford,” he said. “Terry’s wedding was the first thing I thought of when my father called to say he’d booked a flight to London for me. And it did occur to me that I’d probably find you there. You were on my mind well before I landed and was presented with all this other nonsense.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Finish your egg, Woodford,” Robin said, with great fondness. “Or there’ll be no chocolate pudding for afters.”

  “Hallo, Maureen. Sara not in?”

  Harry Dailey bustled through the office. He was a little man, once fair, now white-haired, his pink cheeks imparting that well-scrubbed, rabbit-like look Englishmen often revert to in their later years. He had come directly from the airport, and was still in his travelling clothes: navy blazer with brass buttons, grey trousers, blue and white pinstripe shirt, red tie. He had his suitcase with him, and a Paris shopping bag.

  “Taken the rest of the day off, from the looks of it,” Maureen answered, bad-temperedly. “She’s done nothing but come in late all week. Anybody’d think it was the last bloody farewell, her having to get out of bed and abandon him to put in a full day’s work.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Harry marvelled. “New boyfriend?”

  “Old boyfriend,” Maureen answered. “New perspective.”

  “Ah well,” Harry advised, depositing a bottle of Chivas Regal on her desk. “Tuck into that when you’ve got a moment free.” He lugged his suitcase towards the rear of the office. “No disasters while I was away? No air traffic controller strikes? No hijackings, bomb threats, outbreaks of war, bankrupt tour companies?”

  “The Warringtons cancelled their cruise and Mrs. Godwin had to come back from Melbourne a week early because she broke her leg. She’d like to know what sort of insurance coverage she had.”

  Harry had to think. “None, as I recall.”

  “Good. You can ring her up and tell her. And the bloody computer keeps going down, so don’t be at all surprised if you sign in and nothing happens. We’ve already had the repairman come and poke about in your terminal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took ours away next time and left it sitting on a rubbish tip somewhere. Bloody useless thing.”

  “Charming welcome home, I must say,” Harry muttered, on the stairs.

  “And what can I do for you, then?” Maureen continued, addressing the young man who had finally ventured inside after lingering on the pavement with a yellow Collins Guide to London poking out of the pocket of his windbreaker.

  “I’ve booked a flight to Ireland and I’m here to pay for it. O’Day. Gerry O’Day.”

  “Travelling when?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  She attacked Sara’s mess: file folders with package holidays inside, brochures, half a dozen white reservation cards with names and record locators scrawled hurriedly across their faces, awaiting the entry of the flight numbers and times when she had a moment free. There it was, its details scribbled out in travel agents’ shorthand: KZA217 Y 07SEP LTNDUB 1130/1230 OK.

  “She hasn’t issued the ticket yet. Have a seat, will you, and I’ll just have a look at the file in the computer.”

  She keyed in the locator number.

  There was a long pause—and then:

  [[ KZA217 Y 07SEP LTN1130 DUB1230 HK1

  [[ KZA256 Y 14SEP DUB1715 LTN1815 HK1

  [[ N1O’DAY/G MR

  [[ C1 LON C/O PRESIDENT HOTEL RUSSELL SQUARE

  [[ C2 C/O SARA YOUNG AND DAILEY 555-1912

  [[ A YOUNG AND DAILEY CAMBRIDGE CIRCUS LONDON

  [[ T/1500 05SEP…P/U

  [[ EFG123

  “Right, then—form of payment?”

  Gerry O’Day proffered his Visa.

  Maureen keyed in the commands for an automatic fare quote. There was another long pause.

  “Christ, not sodding now,” she swore, as the screen went completely and utterly blank.

  “Yes, I’ll wait. Thank you.”

  Nora had taken the precaution of using a call box in Sutton. She cradled the telephone receiver under her chin and waited while the reservation agent placed her momentarily on hold.

  An error had been made, and she was initiating the steps that would remove her, temporarily, from whatever fallout might happen to develop. If the Harris boy escaped—and she could no longer afford to believe he would not—he would tell his father about the boxes. What was inside the boxes would implicate her. The boy’s father was clever—he wouldn’t let up until he had got enough evidence to also point the finger at Victor.

  Best to leave the country until it all blew over.

  She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder as the passenger agent came back on the line and began a computer search for the schedule Nora had requested.

  The first available flight was not until the day after tomorrow. Did she wish to be waitlisted for something earlier?

  “No,” Nora said. “That will be fine.”

  She could use the extra time to put her affairs in order.

  “One seat,” she confirmed. “First Class. Saturday, September the 7th.”

  She watched the bustle of afternoon shoppers as the details of her reservation were read back to her, and the agent completed the file with the passenger information she had taken down at the start of their conversation.

  “And how would you like to pay for your ticket?”

  “I’ll give you cash at Heathrow jus
t before the flight,” Nora said.

  The agent entered this information, reconfirmed the cost, and then relayed a locator number back to her customer.

  “Thank you,” Nora said, noting it down in pencil on a scrap of paper she’d found in her bag. “Goodbye.”

  She disconnected.

  There was a bank over the road, a Barclay’s, one of the several where she maintained accounts under a variety of names.

  She made her withdrawal, and with a quick, uneasy glance over her shoulder, hurried back to her Jaguar. Unlocking the door and slipping inside, she rolled down her window and fastened her seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition and was, for a minute moment, first surprised and then angered by the lack of reaction from the engine.

  She turned the key again, and, again, heard only the click, followed by the silence, of an unresponsive battery.

  As if it would make any difference at all, she tried the ignition a third time.

  Nothing.

  Nora Darrow let fly a colourful expletive, and tore off her seatbelt.

  “Pardon me.”

  The man’s voice startled her, and she turned her head. Its owner was an older gentleman with spectacles and a neat white moustache, and he was bending down to peer at her through the open window.

  “Might I be of some assistance…?” he inquired, with a helpful smile, showing her his identification.

  Ian dropped his bag of tools, and examined the painted brick wall behind one of the tall, grey filing cabinets in the rear.

  “Who’s that, Sara?” Harry poked his head down the stairs.

  “It’s the man from Agency Automation, Harry.” Sara looked at Anthony, who had come dressed for the part in paint-spattered white overalls and a black T-shirt. “And his special helper.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “They’ve come to have another look at our computers. Isn’t it a good thing we’re up to date on our maintenance contract?”

  “Bloody hell,” Harry replied, quickly, disappearing.

  “Thanks,” Ian said, directing Anthony to empty the drawers of the cabinet.

  “When can we expect our system to be up again?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Ian answered, busily. “I suspect the trouble’s with your line, which runs through the back of this wall. It’s really inconvenient, but not an unsurmountable obstacle. We’ll just have to do a little digging, that’s all. Of course, if we discover rats have been chewing on your co-ax cable, we might have to look at replacing the entire local network.”

  Anthony had emptied all four drawers, stacking brochures and expended files on top of the ticket and itinerary printers.

  “Lift up that corner, Ant.”

  Together, they walked the cabinet away from the wall, and then Ian unzipped his tool bag and took out an electric drill, a hammer, a chisel, a saw and a crowbar. He had a map, as well, a hand drawn effort from Robin, indicating a street-level doorway leading to the outside.

  He’d spotted the doorway earlier, doing a quick reconnaissance of the neighbourhood. It was on the same side of the road as the entrance to the travel agency, very visible, not the sort of place he was anxious to be openly observed going into.

  “Want to be involved in this, Sara?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Ian waved at her. “Bye-bye.”

  Obediently, she returned to her desk.

  “What does London Underground know about this place?” Anthony asked, quietly, as his brother began to chisel away the mortar between the bricks.

  “As far as they’re concerned, the site at track level’s been abandoned since 1941. The Seasound lease only covers what’s above the ground. The outside door to the stairshaft’s completely separate from the travel agency property. In fact, London Underground wasn’t even aware that doorway existed. They were under the impression all access from the surface had been terminated when the other entranceways were bricked in.”

  He pulled out the first brick and set it on the floor beside the filing cabinet. Another brick followed, and another, until there was an opening large enough to admit a person. A cold, damp smell wafted out of the hole—a cryptic smell, Anthony thought, peering in with a curious sniff—like freshly opened tombs. He ducked in after his brother, and stood in awe as Ian shone his torch beam around the abandoned booking hall.

  What London Transport had left behind in their wartime desertion was a perfect exposition, secure, intact. A passometer booth, its glass windows curtained with dust, a small booking office for the issuance of tickets.

  “God,” Anthony said, “this is incredible.”

  “Down the stairs behind me, Ant,” Ian advised, checking his brother’s map a final time.

  It was a long, circular descent. At the bottom hung the damp and tattered reminders of London’s wartime conscience.

  CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES

  VOLUNTEER FOR FLYING DUTIES

  Posters Anthony had seen in the shop at the Imperial War Museum, faithful reproductions.

  “‘Is your journey really necessary?’” he inquired, facetiously, sweeping his light along the tunnel, until he discovered the greatest prize of all.

  The lift.

  Anthony paused at its open doorway, then stepped inside, reverently. It was as old and as pristine as the one he remembered from his early childhood at Chalk Farm, before systematic upgrading had done away with history, and replaced it with automation and stainless steel. He shone his own light around. The floor was fitted with slats of wood, the same wood that was nailed to the steps of the oldest of the unrenovated escalators that still creaked up and down in the most ancient of the tube stations. There were signs posted over the doorway:

  BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS

  KEEP CLEAR OF THE GATES

  And a proud brass plate:

  WAYGOOD-OTIS LTD.

  LIFT-MAKERS

  “This way, Ant,” his brother reminded him, and Anthony followed him into the darkness, and the tunnel where Robin had found the wooden boxes. “Here we are.”

  Putting his own light down, he levered up one of the nailed lids with the crowbar.

  “Gold bullion?” Anthony guessed.

  “Weapons,” Ian said, investigating further. “Quite a collection. Just waiting for a buyer, I expect. Nice little earner for Nora Darrow, eh?”

  Anthony peered into the crate over his brother’s shoulder.

  “What is it you’re trying to prove with this Barnfather person? What’s he supposed to have done? Aside from this.”

  “Among other things, he sold secrets to the Soviets.”

  “Why hasn’t he ever been caught?”

  “No evidence,” Ian said, banging the lid down again with the handle end of the crowbar. “Whatever they’ve been paying him, he’s been stashing it away safely somewhere. He’s never made the mistake of flashing his extra wealth around. That’s what usually gives them away in the end.”

  “And these?”

  “I’m pretty certain Victor’s not involved. He’s still on active service with British Intelligence. He relishes a nice retirement with a comfortable pension. This would be far too dangerous a sideline for him.”

  Anthony was still thinking. “Have you considered Victor Barnfather’s extra money might be hidden in this travel agency?” he said.

  Ian looked at him.

  “I sing and dance, too,” his brother added, helpfully, proving his point with some flash footwork on the concrete floor.

  Young and Dailey was not a modern travel agency—not modern by American standards, anyway. Sara had seen their offices: colour-coordinated, selected brochures in perfect rows on neat racks; the latest computer terminals, one to a desk; telephones that memorized two dozen numbers at a time and dialled them up for you at the touch of a button.

  Young and Dailey’s office interior had changed very little in the years following its grand inception. Somewhere along the way a false ceiling had been fitted and embedded with fluorescent lights, but the walls
were still coated with a nondescript beige paint that had turned altogether brown in places. Part of the paint was obscured along one wall by a large map whose numerous pink bits had long ceased to have any political meaning. Much of Africa, in fact, was now called something else—Ouagadougou being a notable exception: Sara had looked it up.

  To attempt to employ the map as an accurate tool of reference would be to invite calamity: the bold red air corridors and impressive shipping lanes stitched across disputed seas hadn’t existed in two decades. The map was merely a decoration now, a souvenir from a far more glamorous era—a cousin to the hand-tinted photo of the Empress of Canada sailing past the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City, and the cream-and-gold deck plans of the Queen Mary Sara had discovered one day in a dusty cardboard box in the back.

  She folded up the last of the paper ticket wallets for tomorrow’s clients and dropped them into her desk drawer. It was nearly half past five and she had long since been abandoned by both Harry and Maureen—Harry having taken himself off to a cocktail party at a Marble Arch hotel hosted by a European tour firm specializing in Seven Countries in Fourteen Days, Maureen catching an early train for a scintilating evening of ballpeening and shimming with her architect.

  Lounging in Maureen’s chair, Ian Harris chatted with his father over the telephone.

  “The boxes are full of weapons,” he confirmed, playing with a little brass cable car paperweight Maureen had picked up in San Francisco. “I’ll bring you an inventory, but it’s safe to say they probably would have found a home with the usual global troublemakers.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as his brother emerged from the rear of the office, struggling with the last of the wooden crates.

  “Right then. See you tonight. Good luck and don’t forget your Wellies.”

  He disconnected.

  “Our computer’s still not working,” Sara reminded him.

  “Sorry.” Ian pulled a small black device out of his jeans pocket and clicked a switch. “Try it now.”

  Sara stared at him, aghast. “And that’s all it takes? Nothing whatsoever to do with coaxial cables and local networks?”

 

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