‘Anything in my power,’ Reggie said immediately.
‘I want to speak to Stewart Menzies, Reggie. It has to be today. Denis doesn’t know about this, but it’s something I absolutely have to do. Please pull your strings, dear Reggie, and arrange it for me.’
There was a long silence on the phone. ‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘I honestly don’t think it’s possible. But by God I’ll try.’
‘We’re just about to drive up to London. We should be there just after lunch. I’ll ring you about one o’clock and see what you have managed.’
‘I’ll do my damnedest, Norma, I promise you that. My very damnedest.’
We ran up to London on a deserted A31, making such good time that we were in the city before twelve. We had coffee at the Junior Carlton, and then Denis pecked my cheek. His appointment with the bank was for one, which fitted in with my plans perfectly, and we arranged to meet again at Gillaume & Sons in Fleet Street at four. It gave me precisely three hours.
The most important three hours of my life.
I rang Charborough House on the dot of one, and Reggie came on the line at once. My heart was beating so hard that I could hardly breathe. ‘Did you have any luck?’ I asked, trying desperately to sound casual.
‘You’ve got half an hour with him,’ Reggie said. ‘Not at Broadway but in the waiting room at his club.’
I leaned against the wall of the telephone booth, weak with a mixture of relief and a sudden, painful apprehension. ‘You are an angel, Reggie,’ I said.
I was to meet Menzies at two, and I took the time I had available to prepare myself, both mentally and physically. I sat in front of a mirror in the powder room studying myself critically. I had chosen my wardrobe with care: a well-tailored suit in dark blue, its severity offset by a white blouse with a fall of lace at the throat. A black, brimmed hat set at a rakish angle as I’d once seen worn by Marlene Dietrich. And a single piece of jewellery – the sapphire I’d bought in Bond Street to wear at Millward Hall ten years before.
I wore the barest of make-up, just a dusting of powder and blue eyeshadow to pick up the colour of my suit. My lipstick was Midnight Passion – an awful name for a lovely dark brown-red that I thought went rather well with my ivory skin.
I practised the expression I wanted. Distant, rather haughty, just a little grand. I was not going to act the pleading wife. That was what Menzies would expect and I kne that it would fail. I was going to be something altogether different. Confident, unpredictable, dangerous. A ruthless, brilliant spy who would play her cards with ice-cold dispassion.
And then I shuddered. I was up against the fabled C, the man who ran the finest secret service in the world. A man who no doubt ate ruthless, brilliant spies for breakfast.
I decided to have a tiny glass of vodka and knocked it back straight from the silver tray as the waiter goggled, and then I sauntered out into Jermyn Street. Head up, chin up, my Cartier handbag trailing casually from my shoulder.
The doorman summoned a taxi and I climbed in. ‘White’s,’ I said imperiously, but when the driver craned around as if he hadn’t heard I had to repeat my directions: ‘White’s, the gentleman’s club.’
‘White’s don’t admit ladies, Madam,’ the man said with a grin. ‘Can’t take you there. Wouldn’t be nice to see a lady like you tossed out like common garbage.’
Common garbage. The words hurt, but what hurt more was a sudden feeling that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. The world I was invading – C’s world of privilege and power – was such unknown territory to me that I didn’t even know that I couldn’t enter Stewart’s club. I needed a taxi driver to tell me.
For a second, just a second, my mission was in danger of collapse. I saw tears of futility springing to my eyes, and my wavering voice asking to be taken back to the Junior Carlton. Two things saved me. I remembered that Stewart himself had arranged for me to meet him at White’s. And I remembered the tiger in my dream.
‘Don’t be so damned rude,’ I said softly, icily. ‘I could have your licence off you for that comment if I chose.’
The man believed me and I saw his eyes widen with apprehension. ‘No offence intended Madam, I promise you.’ He looked as if he were going to say something more but changed his mind and settled down to drive with almost exaggerated care.
We arrived at an unobtrusive portico and a uniformed footman opened the door for me. ‘Wait a moment,’ I told him brusquely and turned to the driver.
‘I’m going to give you ten pounds,’ I said quietly. ‘But that keeps you as my driver for the afternoon. Now, if you want another ten, you must do something for me.’
‘Anything at all, m’lady,’ the driver said, squaring his cap. Respect had replaced his fear.
‘I want you to park somewhere near a public telephone and to ring me at White’s in half an hour. When you phone, give your name as Mr George Nutkin. Can you remember that?’
The driver nodded. ‘George Nutkin at your service, m’lady.’
I had heard Ian Fleming mention George Nutkin, probably indiscreetly, as a man who sometimes passed messages between MI5 and the KGB. An enigmatic man, whose loyalty was unknown. I hoped that if a message came to me from George Nutkin while I was with Stewart it would throw one more puzzle into the equation. I needed to keep Stewart off balance. My whole plan depended on him being in a state of confusion, vulnerable to what I was going to say.
I strolled into the spacious foyer of White’s as if I owned the place. There were beautiful and expensive things all around me: Pre-Raphaelite paintings on the wall, a scattering of Persian rugs on the travertine floor, a forest of marble pillars in the centre of the room. I ignored these trappings of rank and privilege and stared at the little porter who confronted me.
‘I am here to see Sir Stewart Menzies,’ I said. ‘Please conduct me to him.’
The porter gave a dignified bow. ‘I regret I cannot do that, Ma’am,’ he said as if he really meant it. ‘Club rules, I am afraid. But Sir Stewart will see you in the waiting room.’
‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I have never met anyone in a waiting room and I don’t intend to start now. Please conduct me to Sir Stewart.’
The dignified little man almost wrung his hands with embarrassment, feigned or real I could not tell. ‘I am terribly sorry, Ma’am. Club rules forbid a lady entering the club itself. I really would like to accommodate you, Ma’am, but it is quite impossible.’
I had got into my stride by now, and I lifted my tone by a half decibel. ‘I don’t care a fig for your club rules,’ I snapped. ‘Conduct me to Sir Stewart immediately.’
‘The lady who jumped Halfpenny Lane.’ It was Stewart himself, standing at an inner doorway, his hands on his hips in his characteristic way. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to let her in, Groom. Mrs Elesmere-Elliott is a lady with a will of iron.’ He nodded to me politely, then turned back to the porter. ‘We’ll talk in the billiard room. Please make sure we’re not interrupted.’
Stewart took my arm as he conducted me down the plush corridor. ‘You are the first lady to enter this club, m’dear,’ he said. ‘There has been the odd woman in White’s before, but you are the first lady.’
I refused to let Stewart’s charm affect me. ‘Lot of rubbish,’ I said. ‘If men want to be with their own kind, why can’t they do what the Junior Carlton does? Have a Ladies Room, where a member can entertain his wife like a civilised being. Or his lover if he so chooses.’
Stewart didn’t answer and I was glad. For all his quickness and presence of mind, and his natural sense of command, I had put him a little bit off balance. A little bit into the rough as it were. I needed to keep him there.
We sat in two leather armchairs drawn up to the fire, and Stewart began by spreading his arms helplessly. ‘I can’t do anything to help, Norma. I really and truly can’t. I agreed to meet you because you deserve so much . . .’
‘I didn’t come here to ask you for a favour,’ I said. ‘I came to ask you a question, Sir S
tewart. Are you a Communist spy?’
Stewart let his hands fall to his sides. He looked a little surprised and for a moment almost amused, but then the shutters came down. ‘Don’t trespass on my courtesy, Norma,’ he said. ‘I was about to say that I agreed to Reggie’s request to see you because England owes you and Denis a great deal, and England is asking another sacrifice from you both. But that does not entitle you to insult me.’
‘I am not insulting you, Sir Stewart. I am asking a perfectly reasonable question. I need to know the answer to that question. You see, the reason I passed Ultra cables to the Soviets was not to help the Communists but because I wanted to help Russia. I hate Stalin and his Communist scum. They have stolen my country and handed it to the Devil. If you are working for them I am determined to make sure that you are exposed as a traitor.’ I opened by bag and took out my Order of Lenin, throwing it negligently on the table between us. ‘The Communists gave me that bauble, but I keep it only as a focus for my contempt. It is a trinket of the Devil.’
Stewart picked up the Order and examined it. ‘What makes you think I am a traitor, madam? I did no more than you did. The Ultra material helped the Russian armies defeat the Germans, and that helped England win the war.’
I nodded judiciously as if satisfied. ‘I thought you would say exactly that,’ I said. ‘And it could well be true. In that little adventure our interests were the same. But your involvement with Operation Maugham is in a different category altogether. Commissar Ivan Sokolov confided in me, you see. He told me how much the Communists wanted to take the leadership of revolutionary movements in Asia away from the Chinese.’
Menzies was no longer taking me lightly. His face was a composed, neutral mask, but his body language showed that he was focused, even concerned.
‘Sokolov told me his masters in Moscow paid a lot for Operation Maugham,’ I said. I was inventing now, but what I was saying worried Menzies and I continued. ‘Sokolov may have been lying. I have found the Communists do that even more than the British. But I must know, Sir Stewart, because I’ll not go into exile in Russia and leave a Communist agent at the heart of British intelligence.’
Stewart had been turning my little medal over and over in his hands but now he suddenly tossed it on the table and stood up. ‘What proof have you got that there even was such a thing as Operation Maugham?’ he asked. He walked around to stand in front of me, his feet planted wide apart, his hands on his hips.
I didn’t even look up at him, but again reached into my bag and carefully placed a copy of The Moon and Sixpence on the table. ‘I did all the decrypts, Sir Stewart. Every single message that you and Denis exchanged. This book was the one-time pad. I have kept those messages, and left copies with . . . a reliable man. When I give the word – or if I fail to countermand an order I have already given – they will be provided to a number of people and institutions. The Prime Minister. Scotland Yard. The American Embassy. The editor of the Times. Oh, and one or two others.’
I really had got through to Stewart now. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he rasped.
I rose to me feet, carefully adjusting the fall of my skirt before even looking up at him. ‘You said I jumped Halfpenny Lane. That’s only half true. I jumped Halfpenny Lane twice. The first time was because Violet Darnley-Drax challenged me. The second time was for purely for my own enjoyment. You see, Sir Stewart, I like winning but I also like danger for its own sake. If I were you, I wouldn’t push your luck. I might put you in just for the sheer hell of it.’
Stewart thrust his face forward, trying to outstare me, but I just tilted my head a fraction and stared straight back at him. I even managed a small, quizzical smile. Finally he swung away and stood for a long moment with his back to me by the open fire. Then I saw his shoulders shrug. ‘You are a quite remarkable woman, Norma,’ he said. ‘I suppose I am going to have to offer you lunch.’
‘I’m not going to lunch with a man I suspect to be a traitor.’
Stewart came back and sat down, suddenly at ease, his charm back in place. ‘I am not a traitor, Norma,’ he said. ‘But neither am I used to justifying myself to a woman. So where do you want me to start?’
‘Why don’t you stop the investigation into the Ultra leak?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Surely, if everything is above board, you can bring Malcolm Bryant into the secret and stop all this nonsense?’
Stewart shook his head. ‘The man is paranoid. He’s been on the brink of a nervous breakdown for years. If we try and indoctrinate him he’ll believe we’re spinning him a yarn. That’s how paranoia works. There’s no knowing what he’ll do then.’
‘Can he do any harm if everything you’ve done is above board?’
Stewart sighed. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than you might imagine,’ he began, but I cut him off. ‘It’s not complicated at all,’ I snapped. ‘You either betrayed England to the Communists or you didn’t. If you don’t promise me here and now that you are going to stop Bryant, then I will have no alternative but to believe you’re a traitor. And first thing tomorrow morning I will begin the process of having your sins broadcast to the world.’
Just at that moment there was a cough from the far end of the room and Groom peered through the doorway. ‘Excuse me, Sir Stewart. An urgent telephone call for Mrs Elesmere-Elliott,’ he said.
‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘A Mr George Nutkin, Madam. He says it’s vitally important and he insists on speaking to you in person.’
I turned to Stewart with a smile. ‘George is concerned for my safety and he won’t be happy until he hears my voice,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I had to be so melodramatic, Stewart, but a defenceless woman must take precautions.’
The look on Stewart’s face was a picture.
When I returned, I knew the battle had been won. Stewart was still standing with his back to the fire, but he was now completely relaxed, is hands deep in his pockets. ‘You win, Norma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I seem to have no option but to do as you ask. Bryant and his investigation will be stopped. So you and Denis had better forget your holiday jaunt to St Petersburg. St Petersburg is a much nicer name than Leningrad, don’t you think?’
I chocked down the wild feeling of exultation that rose in my chest. ‘I’m glad you are going to stop Bryant and his nonsense,’ I said flatly. ‘I’m glad because it suggests you might not be a traitor after all.’
Stewart bowed, just a little ironically. ‘Then perhaps now you might join me for lunch?’
All I wanted to do was to flee the big, gloomy room with its row of shrouded billiard tables. Run through the marble foyer of the club with its gilt-framed paintings and its Roman pillars. Run out into the chilly London street to the friendly bustle and the boom of traffic, and shout out as loud as I could: ‘We have won!’
But of course I couldn’t. I had won because I had acted a role. The role of a cold, ruthless, fearless woman who relished danger for its own sake. If I let the mask slip for an instant, gave Stewart the slightest hint that I was not everything I pretended to be, my victory would be in jeopardy. So I gave a slow smile and extended my hand.
‘It had better be a good lunch, Sir Stewart,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t want the first woman to dine at White’s to go out and tell London that the cuisine was not worth the candle.’
It was a decent lunch. We were the only ones in the dining room, and the maître d’hôtel placed us at a beautifully set table beside floor-length leaded windows overlooking Westminster. We had consommé, then fillet of sole Gaugin, a specialty of the house. The chablis was Hine 1928, a delightful vintage, and after a glass or two I suddenly realised that I was quite enjoying myself.
‘Tell me about the Linlithgow Hunt,’ I asked. ‘Not about your colleagues who like to call themselves the Linlithgow Hunt, but the real Hunt. I take it there really was a Hunt Club of that name?’
Stewart laughed. ‘You are remarkably well informed. Yes, there was. We rode to hounds up in Stirlingshire, over some of the best foxhunting ground in
Scotland. My father established the first traditions of the hunt. He earned the name Wild Jack: the harder the riding the better he liked it. Rather like you, I suppose.’
‘I thought your father was Edward VII?’ I asked. ‘At least, that’s what one is led to believe.’
Stewart didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘My legal father was a tremendous huntsman. He started a tradition of meeting after each hunt at the Star and Garter hotel in Linlithgow, and settling the problems of the world through a mist of whisky fumes. My friends and I carried on the tradition. In fact we embellished it. We devised a legend, you see. A legend that there was a fox loose in Stirlingshire, a pure golden fox, that was invincible to ordinary huntsmen. It could only be taken by a man fearless enough to try and change the world for the better. So we all pledged to spend our lives trying to qualify, trying to change the world for the better. The idea was that we’d reassemble in our old age for one last hunt. One of us, we thought, would surely qualify to take the golden fox.’
He shrugged, and drained his glass. ‘And so the true Linlithgow Hunt was born.’
‘It’s a delightful legend,’ I said. ‘Has anyone qualified?’
Stewart shook his head. ‘Most of us are dead. Those who are still alive are so compromised as to be disqualified. But by God, I’m glad we tried.’
‘What do you mean by compromised?’ I asked.
‘The world of secret intelligence is full of compromise. Those of us who work within it – on whichever side – have more in common with each other than we have with our own governments. So there are accommodations at every level. For example, it’s perfectly understood that we don’t kill each other. If we did there would be wholesale bloodshed. On another level, because we all want the same thing in the end – peace and quiet – there has to be a certain amount of cooperation.’
‘Cooperation?’
Stewart lowered his voice. ‘Oh, we all have a vested interest in the status quo. The balance of power between East and West. That’s why some of us weren’t too fussed when the Russians got hold of the atom bomb. It will mean a generation of stability, because nobody will dare to rock the boat.’
In the Mouth of the Tiger Page 92
