She put the question to him in Russian, hoping Schultz wouldn’t understand. Yuri glanced up. Something had kindled in the eye that was still open. It was alive, ablaze. This is martyrdom, she thought. The priest’s adopted son has put his faith in the Lord, and the Lord will decide. Schultz had sensed it, too.
‘You’re good with knives?’ he said uncertainly. ‘You’ll really make this happen?’
Yuri nodded, said nothing. He was on his knees now, testing the wires, pulling them gently upwards. One was red, one black, both coated in thin rubber. Bella was thinking about booby traps, about hidden devices, about the fiendish lengths that lovely men like The Pianist, Ilya Glivenko, were prepared to go to kill as many people as possible. Nothing works, she was thinking of another Russian expression. Until it does.
Here, then? In this damp, gloomy space? With a war raging above? A private death? Unimaginably violent? In the company of strangers?
Yuri asked for everyone to pray and sank to his knees beside the exposed wires. Bella lowered her head. Schultz didn’t move. The Russian prisoners, meanwhile, had spotted the knife in Yuri’s hand. They exchanged glances. They looked terrified. When one of them began to curse, and made for the stairs, Schultz caught him and hauled him back. When he tried to struggle free, Schultz clubbed him to the ground, and then kicked him hard in the groin. The man screamed with pain, curled in a foetal position, cursing Schultz, cursing the war, cursing everything.
Yuri was still on his knees, his lips moving in a silent prayer, and watching him Bella wondered what kind of God had kept his fingers off the last decade. Did he have an accounting book up there in heaven? Did he make daily entries of lives lost, families shattered, cities razed to the ground, entire countries overwhelmed by violence of someone else’s making? And would a word in his divine ear really make any difference to what was about to happen?
Yuri was back on his feet. He made a loop with one of the wires. He inserted the blade, adjusted the angle and then pulled hard. Bella shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw that the cut was clean. Two ends of bare wire sprouting from the rubber sheath.
One wire remained. Bella glanced at Schultz. He was rubbing his bloodied knuckles, seemingly untroubled by the next cut. Absurd, thought Bella. Blacks and whites. Yes or no. Life or death. Heads or tails. So simple.
Yuri was repeating the trick with the second wire. The loop looked a little tighter. He laid the blade against the rubber coating, and then he, too, shut his eyes. The Russians had turned their backs. They didn’t want to watch. One had his hands over his ears, an image Bella knew she would take to the grave. Then, moments later, it was over, both wires cut.
Yuri rocked back on his haunches and wiped his ruined face with the back of his hand.
‘Done,’ he muttered.
19
THURSDAY 25 SEPTEMBER 1941
Pearse Lenahan made the call to MI5 that same afternoon. He’d spent all morning supervising a demolition course on a corner of the estate protected by blast walls. Now, picking up the phone and dialling the number one of the secretaries had scribbled down for him, he could still smell the sweet almond scent of the explosives he’d been shaping.
The MI5 number rang and rang. Finally, he heard a woman’s voice. He offered the day’s codeword and asked to speak to a Miss Ursula Barton.
‘It’s Mrs Barton, sir. You’re already acquainted?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then I’d stick to her surname. I’ll see if she’s available.’
Within seconds, another voice on the phone, older, sterner. Lenahan introduced himself.
‘SOE, you say? Beaulieu or Brickendonbury Manor?’
‘Beaulieu. STS 31.’
‘It must be lovely down there at this time of year.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’
‘Autumn, Mr Lenahan. Fall. The New Forest. All those glorious trees. How can I help you?’
Lenahan began to explain about Moncrieff, the accident, the doctor’s prognosis, but Barton cut him short.
‘When?’ she asked. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday, ma’am. It’s true? The guy works for you?’
‘Indeed, he does. Keep an eye on him. Put a guard on his door.’
‘You’re telling me he’s an escape risk?’
‘Far from it, quite the contrary. Expect me this evening. I’m coming down.’
*
She arrived in a taxi from Brockenhurst station. The Special Operations Executive was a new delinquent in the intelligence playground, one of Winston Churchill’s more startling initiatives. Barton knew that it would be years before a proper invasion of the Continent could be organised but in the meantime, in his own words, the Prime Minister wanted ‘to set Europe ablaze’, and the agents charged with doing exactly that were under training at a requisitioned estate on the edge of the New Forest.
It was dark by the time the driver dropped Barton at the Beaulieu gatehouse, and she spent half an hour establishing her credentials with the fussy lieutenant who was manning the desk. Heavily armed guards lurked in the gloom outside. From the taxi, she’d counted five of them.
‘If you people had this kind of problem getting into Europe,’ she told the lieutenant at the desk, ‘I dare say you’d never bother.’
It was Lenahan who drove down to pick her up. It had begun to rain by now, which did nothing for Barton’s temper.
‘So, how is he?’ She wanted to know about Moncrieff.
‘He’s fine, ma’am. A little bruised, maybe, but I guess he knows he was lucky.’
‘An accident, you say?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And he was driving?’
‘Sure.’
‘So where’s the car?’
‘I guess it was towed away. Honest to God, I’ve no idea.’
She shot him a look and tried to shield her face from the driving rain. After the fug of the taxi, it was freezing in the open Jeep.
‘Present from Uncle Sam, ma’am.’ Lenahan, sensing her discomfort, gave the steering wheel a little tap. ‘Call it a down payment. Look on the bright side. The next bunch might even have roofs.’
The road wound uphill, into the darkness. Barton could make out a line of trees but little else. Finally, they came to a halt. Lenahan killed the engine and gestured at what looked like a cottage. There was a faintest hint of candlelight at an upstairs window and wet thatch was dripping water into the gravel path below.
‘We call this the French house, ma’am,’ Lenahan seemed impervious to the rain. ‘We have a German house, too, and a little place that’s meant to be Italian, but I guess you know that already. Agent training is fun, believe me. You can be French before you even set foot in the damn place.’
‘Moncrieff?’ Barton nodded up at the window. ‘Would that be his room?’
It was. Lenahan opened the door and let Barton pass. Candlelight danced on the crudely plastered walls.
‘You want me to stay, ma’am?’
‘No, thank you.’ She didn’t look round.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Perfectly.’
She waited for the door to close. Lenahan had been right about the decor, she thought. Very definitely French.
Moncrieff was doing his best to struggle upright but Barton told him not to bother. She pulled up a chair, and then opened the door to check that Lenahan had really gone.
‘He’s fine,’ Moncrieff murmured. ‘He’s American. One day soon we’ll need a lot more of them.’
‘I gather he saved your life.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘In terms, yes. Is it true?’
‘I’ve no idea. He certainly scooped me up and brought me here. It might be the same thing.’
Barton unbuttoned her raincoat and hung it carefully on the hook on the door. Somebody had left a pile of clothing on the chest of drawers. She sorted quickly through and selected a thick ribbed sweater, big even for someone of Moncrieff’s he
ight.
‘Do you mind, Tam? These people must be in training for the bloody Arctic.’ She pulled the sweater over her head. The hem came down to her knees.
‘You approve?’ She did a little twirl.
Soft applause from Moncrieff. She obviously had reservations about Lenahan, but otherwise he’d never seen her so playful. He couldn’t remember when she’d last called him Tam.
‘Well?’ she settled on the chair. Lenahan had told her Moncrieff had lost his wits. She wanted a full explanation.
‘Witless? He said that?’
‘As good as. Short-term, of course, but it seems you’re having difficulties remembering anything.’
Moncrieff did his best. He’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours anticipating a moment like this, and he’d managed to piece together a fragment or two of what might have happened over the last week or so, but his last real memory had been waking up in Archie’s mews cottage with something happening outside, down in the street.
‘Something?’
‘Footsteps. Maybe voices. I’d have investigated, gone downstairs, I know I would.’
‘You had a weapon?’
‘Yes. I remember you insisting earlier on. I’m a bootneck, remember. Orders are orders.’
‘Strange. We never found it.’
‘You looked?’
‘Of course we looked. You were due in next morning. There were meetings in the diary, one of them with Guy. Your reputation goes before you, Tam. You’ve always been a stickler for being on time. When you didn’t show up, I began to make enquiries. We sent a chap to knock on your door. Nobody at home. By lunchtime we were phoning the hospitals. That wretched bike of yours. Anything might have happened.’
Moncrieff nodded. Guy Liddell headed Section ‘B’. Missing the sub-committee he chaired would have been a capital offence. Already, they were heading deep into the yawning void, time Moncrieff simply couldn’t account for.
‘And then what?’ he said.
‘We had to break in. You lodged Archie Gasgoigne’s details with us. We managed to make contact with him yesterday. I’m afraid the colour of his new front door won’t please him, but war is war.’
‘The colour?’
‘Pink.’
Moncrieff laughed. In the Marines, Archie Gasgoigne had always found it hard to laugh at himself. A pink front door? Delicious.
‘But no gun?’
‘Nothing. Someone had been through the place before we got there. To be frank, they could have been gentler. It was a pickle. Here’s where you might help, Tam. What were they after? What were they looking for?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ His long fingers briefly touched his head. ‘I used to keep my secrets up here but that’s a pickle, too.’
Barton winced, an expression – Moncrieff sensed – of sympathy. She wanted him to go back in time. She needed him to think very hard.
‘You went up to St Albans,’ she said. ‘At my invitation.’
‘I did. MI6. Glenalmond House. The man Philby. But you and I met after that.’
‘We did, Tam. You bought me lunch. Can you remember where?’
‘St Ermin’s. You had the kidneys with mashed swede.’
‘Excellent. And you remember the next favour I begged?’
‘You asked me to run surveillance on Philby.’
‘I did, Tam. I did. And…?’
‘I went to St Pancras to meet his train…’ He frowned. Remembering was suddenly a struggle. It was like prising open the pantry door as a child and reaching for a jar of something delicious on the top shelf. Tantalising. Just out of reach. He tried and tried, and then – quite suddenly – he had it. ‘The bloody man was late. It was nearly lunchtime. He took a taxi. You’d arranged a follow vehicle.’ The frown again. ‘Bugger. Lost him.’
‘Then or now?’
‘Both, probably. He’s a slippery bastard.’
‘Can you remember anything?’
‘No. I’m really sorry. This is hopeless. No… wait… he’d have gone to Broadway. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’d have found cover, pretended I was out in the hills, waited. That could have been tricky, though. I could have been there all afternoon.’
‘You were.’
‘You know that?’
‘I do. I had a look at the street myself. There’s a restaurant called Iberica with line of sight to the Broadway buildings, and I commissioned some discreet enquiries. The maître d’ denied all knowledge, but I managed to trace a couple of guests who stayed as late as you did. One of them was an MP, the other was his girlfriend.’ She paused. ‘Portly chap? Fond of a drink? He got the impression you were waiting for a friend from Lisbon. The lady, of course, was fictitious and it seems you didn’t fool the maître d’. He knew you were a watcher. You stayed far too long, Tam. And you told him far too much. Philby uses the restaurant regularly. He and the maître d’ are pals of a sort. The maître d’ probably phoned him while you were still there, marked his card. We also believe that Philby was aware you were following him that day, and that he probably knew from the start. The Broadway crowd put great store on tradecraft. In this instance, it served him well.’
‘You said “we”.’
‘Myself and Guy.’
‘Liddell knows about St Albans? And about me cocking up the tail?’
‘He does, Tam. And your disappearance concerned him as much as it did me. So…’ she extended a cold hand, and put it on his arm, ‘… have a think. Pretend you’re in the restaurant. It’s late afternoon. The MP said gone half past four. You spot Philby. My guess is that he’s emerged from Broadway. He’d need to get back to St Pancras. It’s quite a hike from Victoria. Did he take a cab? No. Impossible. Because you left the restaurant and followed him. So where did he go? We need to know, Tam. We really do.’
Once again, Moncrieff was in the pantry. And, once again, the delights on the top shelf eluded him. Following Philby. Staying out of sight. Seeking cover where he could. Shop doorways, maybe. Or burying his head behind a newspaper.
‘Newspaper…’ he murmured.
‘What?’ Barton was straining to catch the word.
‘Newspaper. Philby was carrying a newspaper. He had it at St Pancras. And he had it later.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Certain.’
‘And the significance?’
‘It was The Times. He was going towards the river. Traffic on Millbank. Bicycles. Lots of bicycles. That time. Late afternoon. Early evening. Half of London was on the move.’
‘And Philby?’
‘He crossed the road. I can see him now. And then he sat down.’
‘Where?’
‘On a bench. Overlooking the river. I thought I had him. I was sure I had him.’
‘Had him how?’
‘It was obvious. He was waiting for someone. He had something to hand over. He folded it into the newspaper. I can see him doing it now. I had him. I truly did.’
‘Relax, Tam,’ Barton was looking concerned. ‘Is this an effort? Be frank. Tell me the truth.’
‘Of course it’s an effort. Everything’s a bloody effort. But that’s hardly the point. The point is, it’s working. I’m back there, on the other side of the road, hidden by the traffic, waiting for the handover.’
‘And?’ Barton was excited now, Moncrieff could feel it.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No one. His handler never turned up. In the end, Philby left the newspaper on the bench, in plain view, and walked away.’
‘And you, Tam? What did you do?’
‘I waited, of course. I’m sure I did. But still nothing happened. I can’t remember how long but after a while I crossed the road and picked up the paper. There was an envelope inside.’
‘An envelope? You’re sure? Absolutely certain? What kind of envelope?’
‘Manila, it was manila. And sealed. I remember that.’
‘For the handler?’
/> ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘And you opened it?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
Moncrieff lay back, exhausted. All he could think about was the photo of Bella, and the line of Russian that came with it, so blunt, so explicit, so chilling. Every life has a price.
‘There was a restaurant menu inside,’ Moncrieff’s eyes were closed. ‘It came from the place I’d been all afternoon. The bloody man had sent me a message, clear as daylight. Something about which dishes to avoid, I can’t remember exactly, but he was marking my card. He knew everything, everything. He’d made a fool of me yet again. He’d led me by the nose all day. You’re probably right about the maître d’. Philby may even have phoned him while I was still there. Just to check. Can you guess what was on the envelope?’
‘Tell me.’
‘My initials. T.’
There was a long moment of silence. Moncrieff could hear the soft patter of rain against the window. Then Barton stirred.
‘Did you keep that menu, by any chance?’
‘Yes. I took it home. It was on the table by my bed. Iberica. Definitely. That was the name of the restaurant. Didn’t you find it? The menu?’
‘No,’ Barton withdrew her hand. ‘Regretfully not.’ She gazed briefly round the room. She was obviously cold, but when Moncrieff suggested the dressing gown on the back of the door she shook her head. ‘We have to talk about here, Tam. About now. You were in a collision. You were driving a French car. Were you on the wrong side of the road? I understand the other driver thinks you were.’
‘I was,’ Moncrieff agreed.
‘You remember that?’
‘Very clearly. I thought I was in France. Everything told me I was in France. It was just a road. No signs. Nothing to say England.’
‘But where had you been? Beforehand?’
Moncrieff explained about coming to in the back of the car. He’d seen trees. He’d managed to get out. There was a road nearby. There were keys in the ignition.
‘And the accident happened when?’
‘Very soon afterwards. Within a mile or so, once I was on the road.’
‘And before that?’
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 20
