A Question of Betrayal

by Anne Perry

  The inspector’s face showed his rapidly shortening temper. “Did you find Mr. Canning quite well?”

  “Yes,” said Lucas. “I’ve known him since we were both students in Cambridge and that was approximately half a century ago. And on and off, all the years between. Better during the war, of course.”

  “That was a long time ago, sir.”

  “Fifteen years. Blink of an eye in history,” Lucas dismissed it. “Most of us alive now can remember it. We still have our scars, and our losses.”

  “Yes, sir. I lost my father and I’m in no hurry to see the signs of violence again, especially when it is no more than the sad death of an old man who had a heart attack and fell down the stairs. I’m sure he had a great record during the war, but he’s lucky enough to die quickly in his own home, and at a good age. Go back to your house and take your wife with you. She has had a long, sad day. Don’t look for violence and crime where there isn’t any.”

  “But—” Lucas began.

  “Take an honorable retirement, sir,” the policeman said patiently. “And let Mr. Canning be buried in peace and dignity. Do you feel well enough to drive home, or would you like me to have one of my men drive you?”

  Lucas felt as if someone had closed black curtains all around him, shutting out all the light. He stared at the younger man for several seconds before he spoke. “Mr. Canning served in MI6 during the war and after it, right up until his death. He risked his life in high and dangerous causes, without ever asking for or expecting any recognition. I know that because at one time I was his commanding officer. I owe him this much, at least. And I will see that you accord it to him.” He stood up and took Josephine by the arm.

  “You were…MI6?” The policeman appeared stunned, and then his expression reflected profound awe and respect.

  “And I’m trusting you to keep that between us,” said Lucas.

  With that, he and Josephine walked out into the gathering night.

  CHAPTER

  12

  “There’s no point in going back,” Aiden said grimly, as he and Elena walked along the quayside and turned sharply down one of the narrower streets, the alley walls closing in on them. He was slightly ahead of her. He stopped suddenly and caught hold of her elbow, pulling her to a stop. He leaned forward, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.

  “Look at me and listen,” he said quietly. “You brought me a message. London may not be certain that Max’s cover has been blown, but I am. I can’t rely on him. In fact, he may already be dead.” He went on quietly, urgently, “You can either go back toward the center of the city—I’ll take you until you’re safe, and you can make it the rest of the way—or, if you come with me, you do as I tell you. It’s dangerous…very dangerous. If they killed Max, they’ll think nothing of killing either of us, or both. Body into the canal. One more suicide…”

  Elena looked at him, puzzled. It was not that she doubted what he said; it was his emotion that confused her. Did he want her to go or to stay? His voice was scraping with the intensity of his feelings, but was he scared, angry, or horrified that this should all happen here, in this beautiful city, where the light was so pure, touching the ancient stones so tenderly? Did Aiden even see that? Had Max been a friend, as well as his contact with Peter Howard, his only link with England and any of the things he was risking his life to save?

  “Of course,” Elena said as levelly as she could. “We have to find out if Max is alive or not, and if he isn’t, then who killed him. And if possible, how much he told them. It would be foolish to go back to any place they know to look for us.”

  Aiden let his breath out slowly, and his lips curved in a very slight smile. “You could behave like a fool with the best of them,” he said. “It was your saving grace, because you were insufferably clever…at times. I don’t know whether you have the courage or not…” He let it hang, waiting to see what she would do.

  Or was it to see what she felt, if she had the nerve, even the loyalty? Did he wonder if she was still in love with him? Did he care? She had made such a fool of herself over him and yet, in a strange way, she was right: he had been loyal to England. She could not pretend that she had known that.

  It was irrelevant now. She was a photographer! She needed none of her university education, nor the languages she had acquired, unless she used them as a spy.

  It was at once absurd and, in the end, the only reality: a matter of life and death. “Doesn’t your survival depend on being able to judge who to trust, and who not to?” she asked. “Can’t you think of a way to use me? That’s unlike you.” She kept the bitterness out of her voice…didn’t she? Why was she even allowing it into her mind?

  He started to say something, then changed his mind. “If we get into trouble, I might not be able to save you.”

  She laughed outright.

  “I mean it!” he said sharply, a flicker of anger in his eyes.

  “Of course you do,” she agreed. “I realized that quite a while ago. Really, Aiden, do you think that Peter Howard would have sent me if I were that half-witted?”

  He hesitated again, carefully searching her face. “Right! We are looking to find Max, if we can, or at least discover what happened to him. But that’s secondary. We’ve got to get the list out of Trieste and back to Howard.” Suddenly he smiled; it lit his eyes, changing his whole aspect. “Like old times,” he said softly.

  For a moment, she was in the past again, as hand in hand they had raced along the narrow spit of sand between Holy Island and the mainland, the tide closing in on them from both sides, swiftly, with ocean strength. They had made it with nothing to spare, feet wet in the first waves that joined to cut off their path. They had fallen on the dry sand, in the sun, holding on to each other, laughing, gasping for breath.

  “What are they playing for, Aiden?” she asked.

  “Austria,” he replied, meeting her eyes, then slowly smiling. “You don’t see that?”

  “Not yet…” she admitted.

  “You’ll see. Austria to begin with anyway…” He did not finish the sentence.

  She nearly asked what was next, but she did not want to know, at least until she understood what he meant. “Does Peter Howard know that?” she said instead.

  “I never know what he knows and what he doesn’t,” Aiden answered. “But this I haven’t yet told him. I want to understand it better first. That’s what I want you to help me find, before we get out of Trieste.”

  “Then we have to play harder, more cleverly,” she said, without the slightest waver in her voice or her look.

  He bent forward and kissed her slowly, gently, on the mouth.

  She returned it, also gently, with no gasp, no momentary loss of balance. His respect, her self-respect, depended on keeping her balance completely, both physically and emotionally, no matter what feelings surged up inside her. She could not afford to let anything blur her judgment.

  “Right,” he said, pulling away. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she answered without hesitating. There was no doubt in her mind. She must get him out, with whatever knowledge he had. And, of course, the all-important list of names of those secretly involved.

  She walked quickly, keeping up with him, her arm linked through his.

  * * *

  —

  They went to the restaurants where Max had worked. Aiden knew the chefs and the managers. He used Elena as a reason: the long-time friend he wanted to take to the very best places in Trieste.

  He asked about Max casually, while she took photographs of the most attractive aspects of the restaurants, or the old buildings nearby, hoping to catch the unique character of each. Sometimes people gathered round her and were quite willing to pose, adding color and life to an otherwise purely architectural scene.

  Outside the fifth restaurant they had tried, she waited for Aiden to em
erge. When he did, his smile faded as soon as they were across the narrow street.

  “What did they say?” she asked.

  “Keep walking,” he ordered.

  She glanced at him. His face was grim, and a small muscle was ticking in his temple. Tension. She remembered it from years ago. It had been there when they were driving high over the moors in County Durham: bare, wind-scoured, great shoulders heaved up from land. The brakes had failed. He had barely managed to keep the car under control, until he had swung it round through an open field gate and finally run to a stop in the deep grass.

  She remembered the terror and exhilaration. Her heart was pounding and she could see again the flush in his face, the victory! They had made love that night in some small inn, in what seemed the end of the world, near a place called Pity Me. Aiden had said it was a corruption of petite mer, but there wasn’t a sea for miles around, large or small.

  The wave of memory ebbed and left her wondering what peril Aiden had avoided this time, or thought he had. When they slowed down a little, she asked, “What did you learn? Have they seen Max?”

  “Not for nine or ten days; I’ve seen him since then myself,” he answered. “Come on, we can’t hang about here. I’ll be getting noticed soon. No one’s seen him in over a week. At least, no one who’s admitting it.”

  Elena considered that while he turned a corner and went north again. The day was getting colder, the narrow roads shadowed. The buildings were high and old, paint peeled off in places, and there were stains from damp and unmended roofs. This was one of the older parts of the city, where centuries of Austrian occupation had left less of a mark. There were no elegant and spacious buildings here; this quarter could be part of any old city that poverty had beaten to its knees.

  “There’s one last place to look,” Aiden said after another five minutes of silence between them. “I can’t very well leave you here, but if you come with me, you’ll have to keep your mouth shut. Do you think you can do that?” He looked at her dubiously.

  “I can be agreeable in English, German, Italian, and French,” she replied firmly. “I can do the silent bit in Spanish as well.”

  He gave her a sudden brilliant smile with a flash of white teeth. “Good, I like your style—stick to Spanish!”

  * * *

  —

  They had to hurry in order to make the gathering that Aiden said they needed to attend. When Elena told him she needed something to eat, he agreed reluctantly.

  “I need more information before we leave,” he said with his mouth full. They were in a small restaurant off a side street, eating a quick meal of pasta with an unnamed meat sauce. Seated on stools crowded close together, they had to lean forward until their heads were nearly touching to be sure of hearing each other, and not being overheard by anyone in the crowd around them. They looked fully engaged in their own gossip, quarrels, and making up, but as Aiden warned her, a spy or provocateur with any sense would appear to be just that. “We should look like a courting couple,” he said, with another sudden, broad smile.

  All sorts of thoughts raced through her head. Is that what they were? At one time, she had believed that totally. Had he always known otherwise? Was she his excuse, his cover? An unintended informant? Of course, he could be more than one thing at a time. So could she! Anything they said might have two meanings, or three…or four.

  She smiled her agreement, sweetly, straight into his eyes.

  She saw only a momentary flicker in answer. Humor? Regret? It didn’t matter now. “What do you need?” she asked him quietly.

  He looked down for an instant, and then back up again. “I need to get more information for my list, and I need to know for certain if Max is alive or dead, and if they caught him, and I believe they did, how much he told them.”

  “What could he have told them?” she asked, a chill of fear running through her at what the answer might be.

  “I can’t see that far,” he began, then gave a sharp movement of one shoulder. “About a violent takeover of the Austrian government.” His eyes were intent on her face, watching for the slightest shadow of fear, or disbelief.

  “By whom?” She managed to keep her voice level, but she knew the answer already. It had to be the Nazis.

  “The Fatherland Front,” he replied, unhesitating. “Or perhaps a splinter group. That’s what I really need to know. At the moment, it’s only a feeling I have…a sense of a splinter force within the main body.” He was watching her suddenly more closely.

  She knew very little of the Front, only the scraps Peter had told her before she had left England. She needed to know who they were and, possibly just as importantly, who Aiden believed they were.

  Before she could ask, he understood her thoughts. He had always been quick to read her. At times, it was very comfortable to be so well understood. She used to believe it was because their thoughts were the same, and because he cared. Now she made no judgment, except to be careful and not to try to deceive him, unless she was sure she could succeed. She must trust him only where she had to.

  “A group of Germans who believe that Austria’s natural place is with Germany…as part of it,” he was explaining, watching her face. “They are decidedly German in language, culture, and a lot of their heritage.”

  “So do they want to take over?” she asked very softly. “Or to betray Austria to Germany? What happens to Hungary?”

  It was a few seconds before Aiden replied. She tried to read his face and failed. “I don’t know about Hungary, but Austria’s fate seems inevitable. I don’t think Germany can digest Hungary at the moment…”

  “Later?” she asked.

  His steady gaze did not leave her face. “Perhaps.”

  “What about Chancellor Dollfuss? Is he in on it?”

  “That’s what I want to know before I leave Trieste,” he replied. “If I can find out…”

  “How? Who knows?”

  He hesitated.

  “Wouldn’t Peter Howard have someone in Vienna? How would they know more here, in Trieste?” She stopped abruptly. One answer at least was obvious. The main conspirators had to be here. This part of Italy had been Austrian for centuries. It had Italian nationality, but one had but to glance at the great buildings to know that they were not the same in character as those of other Italian cities. It was hard to describe but easy to see, a different kind of beauty that was northern, not of the Mediterranean. It made sense now. No wonder it was important.

  “When will it happen,” she prompted him. “How soon?”

  “Much too soon,” he replied. “Maybe in four or five weeks.”

  A knot tightened inside her. “That soon—really? What is the information you must get back to London?”

  Again, he hesitated.

  Was she asking too many questions? Should she pretend it did not matter? But it was said now; she could not take it back. Why was she being so cautious, as if she did not trust him? “What can we do about it?” she asked. “What will it help if we know?”

  He reached his hand across the table and touched hers. “You’re learning, aren’t you?” he said wryly. “Perhaps I’d better tell you, just in case I don’t get out.”

  “Aiden! Don’t say that.”

  He smiled with what seemed real pleasure. It brought back memories she would rather not have seen again.

  “It’s the truth,” he said grimly, bringing her back to reality. “Grow up, Elena. That list is dynamite. It has the names of most of the major financial contributors to the cause of the Fatherland Front. I don’t mean the odd pound or dollar here or there. I mean millions.”

  She felt her insides clench. “You said pound or dollar, not mark?”

  “I meant it.” He leaned forward again, removing his hand from hers. “The names of people who contribute to the cause or invest in it. Even some with investments in both sides, or
just in war itself. It’s not only valuable, it’s dangerous. It holds immense power. What do you think would happen if these names were made public? Or even passed secretly to those in office? The foreign secretary is quietly funding Hitler’s overthrow of Austria…”

  “What?” She froze as if ice had gripped her body.

  “Not actually!” he said sharply. “But it could be made just as important. Do you understand now? It’s power, even if it isn’t used. Knowledge of the list’s existence and the threat of exposure would be enough. A small act at first, and they would use it—”

  “I see!” she cut him off. “You don’t have to paint pictures.”

  “Howard’s a clever man, Elena. Don’t ever forget that. And ruthless, if he has to be. All brain, no heart. And believe me, I’ve known him longer and far better than you have. He told you to get me out. It’s good policy to get your people out alive, if you possibly can. But, above all, get the information. He will expect you to take it back to him, whatever happens to me. And to get yourself back, too, if possible, but that list at all costs.”

  She felt as if an iron hand had closed around her. Was that really what she had become part of? Was that who Peter Howard was? And behind that, far bigger, was that who Lucas was? How had she seen nothing of that? Had they—her grandparents—protected her, even Grandma Josephine?

  She felt very small, and blind.

  She withdrew her hand from the table automatically, then realized too late how it gave her away. “Then, when it is the right time, you had better give it to me,” she said, trying to control the wobble in her voice. “I’ll hide it not too obviously. Then we’ll go and see if you can get the dates right, and if they really matter more than simply taking the list to Howard.”

  “War is dirty and expensive, Elena,” he said softly. “Too often it’s about killing. And believe me, dying in the trenches isn’t any better. At least there, you are betrayed only by incompetence, not by one thing deliberately pretending to be another. And I don’t think you even have the delusion that you are safe.”