by Anne Perry
“We’ll have to stop this side of the German border,” he answered, “and do something about our papers. The Italian border guards will know you were traveling with Newton. When his body is discovered it won’t take them long to realize you’ve disappeared. Whatever they think—that you killed him, or that you were abducted—they’ll want to find you. If they catch you crossing into Germany alone, they’ll have to conclude you killed him…I know you didn’t.” He smiled, as if he felt the absurd horror of such an idea. “But do you want to take that risk?”
“No!” She had not even thought of that, but he was right. And she had to go to Berlin, immediately. It was all she could do for Ian now.
Walter smiled. She could see only the outline of his face here on the platform, since they had deliberately chosen not to wait near the lights. There was a momentary flash of white teeth, and the crown of his hat appeared against the mist as the train lights came closer.
“I know people,” he said. “We can get you other papers. You can come as my wife—or fiancée, if you prefer. They won’t stop me. I have German citizenship.”
She started to question why he would do this for her, but anything else they might have said was lost in the noise as the train headlights swept them all with brilliant light, then darkness again, and the clatter of wheels on steel tracks drowned out everything.
The train finally stopped. Walter opened the nearest door and helped her alight, going up the step after her. He did not say anything, but led the way along the aisle to find seats for them.
“Thank you,” she said quietly when they were sitting, and the train pulled out of the station.
He smiled suddenly. “I could hardly do less! What a bloody awful thing…” His voice trembled as he spoke.
She tried to smile back, but tears streamed down her face, and she leaned into the high corner upholstery of the seat and wept silently.
CHAPTER
8
Peter Howard knocked lightly on Jerome Bradley’s door. As soon as he heard Bradley’s slightly impatient voice, he walked in, closing the door behind him.
Bradley’s official smile weakened, leaving the same expression on his good-looking face, but the light had vanished from it. “Good morning, Howard,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Howard knew that this was Bradley’s usual tactic: leave the other man to set the tone, and thereby commit himself first. He very seldom asked for a report, allowing the other man to offer it. Only if it was overdue did he assert his authority and demand it. This tactic succeeded in making his juniors seek his approval more diligently than if they had known precisely what he wanted.
It was a form of game-playing, and Howard despised it. “Good morning, sir,” he replied. To anyone else he would have apologized, as a matter of courtesy, for bringing bad news. It was habit to do so. To Jerome Bradley, he came straight to the point. “I have enough news from Berlin now to raise serious concerns about Roger Cordell.” As Bradley drew in breath to argue, Howard went on, “One or two things have gone wrong there recently, and the explanations don’t entirely fit together. Only small—”
“—discrepancies,” Bradley finished for him. This was not the first time Howard had come with this uncertainty. “And you’d be just as suspicious if there were none.” He gave a bleak smile. “I remember you coming to me with a complaint that Feltham was too perfectly consistent. You said it looked as if he was tailoring his reports to fit the circumstances. You’re a complainer, Howard. Frankly, I think you’re doing a good bit of tailoring yourself, looking for something to make trouble about. And where there isn’t any, you manufacture it.” At least it was an open accusation now. It had been lying just under the surface for a long time, three or four years at least.
Howard waited several seconds before he replied. There was some truth in it, but not a lot. He resented Bradley because he was not Lucas Standish. Lucas had been his friend, his colleague, as close as he had to family. He had not been dismissed; he had retired because of his age. But he might well have been released anyway. His methods did not fit well with the new ideas, at least the ideas of most of the men in power, especially in the Foreign Office, that there must never be another war like the last. It had to live up to its legendary name: the war to end all wars.
Howard had never been a regular soldier. He had come straight from university into MI6. Did it make any difference that his war had been covert? He had lost as many friends, certainly had seen as much violence and grief as anyone in uniform. But he was a realist. The prospect of war does not vanish, no matter how passionately anyone wishes it.
“Don’t just stand there pretending to be stupid!” Bradley snapped. “What is it you think you know? What is it you think Cordell has done? Is his information false? Any of it? Ever?”
“I didn’t suggest he was a fool,” Howard said tartly. “He’s a highly intelligent man. But he’s an idealist…”
“I’m well aware that you like to think of yourself as a realist, Howard,” Bradley said bitterly. “Sometimes I wonder if you half want another war, so you’ll be necessary again, having adventures with other people’s lives. I know how you admired Standish. He was a man who lived in his head, if ever a man did. God knows how many died in idiotic missions because of his fancies.”
Howard’s patience snapped. “God knows, and so do I!” he said between clenched teeth. “We’re anxious about another war and you should be, too. You should align yourself with us…”
“Us?” Bradley was suddenly rigid in his chair. “Who the hell is ‘us’? This is not a ‘we’ and ‘them’ situation, Howard. Can’t you get that into your head? The war is over! Over!” He sliced his hand sideways in the air. “Finished! We won…if you remember? Were you AWOL at the time?” That was pure sarcasm. They had shared in the victory celebrations, watched the parade down Whitehall together. And of course, Lucas had been there, quietly, in the background, as always.
“God and me,” Howard repeated. “And, of course, Lucas. He always knew. It haunted him.”
Bradley was lost for a moment, then his face filled with disgust. “You put yourself and Lucas Standish on a level with God? Your arrogance is beyond my mind to grasp.”
“All men are on a level with God in understanding their own guilt,” Howard replied quietly. “Even you.”
“Don’t be so damned pompous! Putting yourself on a level with God in anything! You’re…absurd!”
“To think of God?” Howard raised his eyebrows. “You talk about God enough, but for you He’s only really to be wheeled out on Sundays. Lucas lost more men than you did and saved a hundred times more. Well, you had better be prepared to add a few more to your losses if you don’t watch Cordell. Some people see the best in others, but it’s our job to see the worst as well.” He stood up a little straighter, almost to attention. “It’s not what he’s saying, it’s what he’s not saying—”
“If he’s not saying it,” Bradley interrupted, “how do you know it exists? You’ve contradicted yourself!”
“Do you think Cordell is the only source I’ve got?” Howard said incredulously. “You’d call him out for inconsistencies quickly enough, and rightly, if I didn’t check and triple-check when I can.”
For long seconds Bradley did not answer. His dislike of Howard was palpable in the air, but underneath it he had a certain respect for him, and he trusted his loyalty, if not his personal judgment.
Perhaps if he were honest, Howard acknowledged, he could say the same of Bradley.
“What, exactly, do you suspect him of?” Bradley said at last.
“A slightly skewed judgment,” Howard answered. “An overlooking of some aspects of Hitler’s admirers. Goebbels, in particular. Maybe Cordell wants peace so badly he can’t see the warning in the building of these camps for Gypsies, Jews…whoever doesn’t fit the classic Aryan mold. It’s the oldest trick in the book o
f a demagogue to blame all your troubles on an identifiable group. Turn people’s attention to something they can hate, and they’ll leave you alone.”
“And isn’t it all the fault of the Communists?” Bradley asked, this time without aggression in his voice. “Aren’t they a disruptive, almost nihilistic force?”
“Yes,” Howard answered. “But sinking to their level of violence is joining them, not beating them…” He knew as he spoke that it was not really an answer.
Bradley knew it, too. “And isn’t that irrational anyway?”
“At the moment,” Howard agreed. “But I think it won’t always be. Hitler’s gaining power every week. He’s building up an enormous head of steam in Germany, of energy, violence, hatred. He’ll have to direct it somewhere else, in another few years.”
Bradley sat thinking that over for several moments. Then he sighed. “I don’t much like you, Howard. And I know you don’t like me, primarily because I’m not Lucas Standish, but I think you’re right, in this at least. And I dare say in the long run, if Hitler continues the way he’s going, I shall lose as many men as Standish. I’ll be glad if I save as many! And get the same kind of loyalty!” He looked directly at Howard.
Howard felt the heat burn up his face, but he did not look away. “You’ll get it from me, sir. Not the regard, but certainly the loyalty. And before I go, I have to tell you our man in Amalfi, Cossotto, was murdered. Don’t know by whom, or why. It’s possible it had nothing to do with us, but it would be dangerous to assume it.”
Bradley lost a little color in his face. “What’s happening in Amalfi, for God’s sake?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Who told you? Not the Italian police?”
“No, of course not. One of our own. Maybe there’s no connection. He was found in a hotel linen cupboard. Perhaps a jealous husband…or a thief.”
“Do you think so?”
“No.”
Bradley’s voice was sharp with exasperation. “Then who, for God’s sake?”
“I don’t know…”
“Then what are you doing to find out?”
“Very little I can do, without tipping my hand,” Howard replied. There was a degree of apology in his tone. “I am more concerned with damage control regarding what Newton is working on—and also, if and how anyone knew the connections. I want to find out as discreetly as possible. We don’t want to betray our interest in him, in case his death had nothing to do with us. Or it could have been a test to see if we would own it, either intentionally or accidentally, by becoming involved.”
“A trap?” Bradley said quietly.
“It’s possible. Our relationship with the Italian authorities is…a trifle uncertain. Mussolini is with us in some things, and very definitely against us in others.”
“The Italians were with us in the war,” Bradley pointed out. “Half of Britain has been having a love affair with Italy for centuries!”
“Love affairs and politics frequently cross,” Howard replied with a slightly twisted smile. “They are both highly volatile. And often end in one sort of war, or another.”
Bradley looked at him steadily, and Howard knew that, for a moment or two at least, they had an understanding. He took his leave while he was still ahead, as much as he ever would be with Bradley.
* * *
—
Howard thought about Cordell on his way home. He was late, as usual, but not sufficiently for Pamela to make an issue about it. They did not often quarrel these days. They both knew that nobody was going to win.
He arrived at the gate, opened it, and walked up the path. It was a handsome house with a garden full of flowers. The middle of May was the best time for gardens, although Pamela had chosen the plants so there was always something to give it color. There was a yellow rose in full bloom over the door. He presumed it must have a perfume, but he could not smell it.
He opened the door and went in. Should he apologize for being late? It happened regularly.
Pamela came out of the sitting room, wearing a green dress. With her fair, smooth hair and perfect skin, it suited her.
“Sorry to be late,” he said.
“No later than usual,” she replied, a sadness in her face that pricked him with guilt.
He sat down in his usual chair, well-worn leather and infinitely comfortable. He dreaded the day when it would have to be replaced. Was there a lot in his life like that? Well worn, familiar, irreplaceable. He didn’t feel like there was, at least on the outside. Inside, his mind, his imagination, even sometimes his emotions, were sharper, more alive, than ever.
Pamela brought him a small glass of sherry, very dry, the way he liked it. She knew all his habits; he never had to ask. The glass was crystal, purposely made for sherry. Waterford. They had six. A wedding present from what seemed like another age. They had been in love then, or thought they were. Was it part of the definition of love that it should last?
“Thank you,” he said quietly. He wanted to add something, but they had long ago run out of conversation. Some forced observation, just for the sake of saying something, would make the silence heavier. She used to ask about his day, his week, or at least if it was going well. He could not claim the victories and found it awkward telling her only half the story, stopping just before the parts that made sense of it. She was an intelligent woman, well educated, albeit in subjects of pleasure rather than practicality, such as European art history. He had found them interesting, when they had had time to talk.
But he felt as if he was always shutting her out of the things that mattered to him. Not speaking of subjects, even to your own family, was a rule never to be broken. And it was a great consideration to their feelings—sharing anxiety over what he could not control was exhausting and purposeless. Sooner or later his tongue would slip, and he would say something that led to something else, and finally she would put it together. His silence was a shield for her, but failure to explain that only made it worse. Now he had shut her out for too long, like an old door that had rusted closed.
Roger Cordell was still on his mind. He sipped his sherry. “Are you still in touch with Winifred Cordell?” he asked suddenly.
Pamela was startled. “What?” She had plainly been off in her own thoughts.
He repeated his question. She looked surprised. It gave a sudden spark of life to the picture perfection of her face. He used to think it beautiful, everything in proportion, her skin flawless, as if the woman behind it were not fallible, could not be hurt just as deeply as he could.
“Why?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
Peter felt self-conscious. He should not have tried to be oblique with her. There were parts of him—large, closed-off, vulnerable parts—she did not know existed, but the ordinary, everyday things she knew far better than he knew her. She thought he was a civil servant, something to do with the Foreign Office, too boring to talk about.
“Peter! Has something happened?” she repeated, a sharp edge of anxiety audible in her voice.
“Sorry. Not that I know of.” He must give a believable reason for asking. If she really was in touch with Winifred Cordell, she might know something of Cordell’s mind. He had to ask, not only to satisfy Pamela, but to answer the nagging worry at the back of his own mind. He realized now just how sharp it was. It was easy to dismiss the murder in Amalfi as unconnected, but he knew better than to make that sort of lazy mistake.
She did not believe him. It was clear in her eyes.
“There’s a problem I think Roger could give me advice about.” He must be careful what he told her. She remembered far too much of what he said.
“Advise you?” she said, looking at him more closely.
“A diplomatic matter.” He had the answer ready now. “He’s been in Berlin quite a long time. Speaks German very well. Catches the cultural references, the
light and shade of a conversation, as well as just the words…”
“I’ve never heard you speak so well of him.”
There was a wealth of feeling behind that observation. In so many things she did not know him at all. But she knew the emotions he gave away in his speech, and his silences. Too late to go back and attempt to start now. He had needed his solitude to deal with all the pain of war, of command and decision, of being safe when he was sending men into occupied territory, possibly to die. The only one who understood that was Lucas. And anyway, he did not want Pamela’s pity. He had seen it before, for other men. It too quickly grew into impatience, resentment for having to bear the secondhand pain of an experience she had been excluded from sharing at the time.
“Berlin’s a tough posting,” he replied.
“It has been for years,” she pointed out.
“It’s getting harder.”
“Since Adolf Hitler came to the top?” she asked. There was interest in her voice.
Suddenly he wanted to share it with her, speak honestly for once. But you cannot start off being plain, open, and then stop. She was far too clever, and it was important to her, so she would be unable to let it go, even if she wanted to.
She was watching him, waiting for his answer.
“I think so. There’s more open violence, and he can’t help knowing it.”
“Isn’t it necessary? After all the disorganization, the hunger, the despair, people need order. You can’t get that without a pretty heavy hand.”
“I think it’s a little worse than that. But I wondered how Roger was. And Winifred. She lost a lot of her family in the war. She must be finding this difficult.”
Pamela smiled, bleakly at first, but then with a sudden warming in the eyes. “Yes. Poor Winifred lost her father, both her brothers, and a cousin—at least one. I don’t think that she can get over that.” She stopped, uncertain whether to go on. Her face was full of pity, searching for a way to understand it.
