Debut for a Spy (12 page)

“
Yes, that's very fine. Now, I must tell you where I live. I am at 31a Kensington Square. It is in the mews, and my name is on the door, but I look out for you.”

I hesitated – I didn't want to let her go.

“You're sure about tonight – that there's no possibility?”

“
No, not tonight. It is not possible. I am very sorry.”

The strain was back in her voice. I knew I shouldn't push it.

“Okay, I'll see you early tomorrow. Till then, Marijke.”

“
Goodbye, David.”

I took a few minutes to phone House to tell him what had happened, and that Kate wouldn't be with us for the Paris trip.

“Oh, you rotten swine,” said Bluebottle's hysterical voice, “then I will not have the pleasure of the company of a female of the opposite sex. I don't like this game, my Cap-itan. I will ask Gladys Cudney of the Luton Girls' Choir if she would like a trip to Paris. Then we can make beautiful music in the back seat. Yi-hi-hi!”

“
Well, whatever you decide is fine with me, but be ready to leave your place by 4:30am. Even if we speed we'll just make it.”

“
I hear you, my Cap-itan. Have no fear. Ensign Bluebottle of the East Finchley Wolf Cubs will be ready. Yes he will!”

At that point I rang off. When House gets going with a Goon Show character you can't stop him until he runs out of steam, and, fuelled with shooting sherry, that can take a very long time.

*

When I got back to St. John's Wood I found tea waiting with crumpets and cakes. Kate had walked down to a little parade of shops for the goodies and had decided to surprise me.

“I had to do something. I couldn't just sit around, thinking. I don't like my thoughts right now – they're not very charitable. They'll probably give me dinner on the plane, but that won't be for hours. Besides, you needed something, too.”

We were sitting in our discussion seats.

“How long will you stay with your grandmother?”

“
Only about a week. I can't afford to be away from school any longer, especially with the play coming up. I realize that the best tribute I can pay Mom and Dad is to be the finest actress I'm capable of. And that starts with Antigone as soon as I return. Will you meet me, David, if I let you know my flight?”

“
Sure I will. Just call and tell me when.” I looked at my watch. “We'd better go, Kate. I'm never sure about traffic. Do you have everything packed?”

“
Yes, it's all by the door. I'm not taking much for a week.”

On the way to Heathrow I told Kate about my BBC offer, and she was very happy for me, but I could tell that events were taking their toll, and for the rest of the drive we were quiet.

*

Paris
,
France
–
the
same
day

He walked down the stairs in good spirits. That little man Cantero was tough, much tougher than he would have thought. Silly bastard, he thought, to believe in that loyalty crap. That's why he holds out.

Outside, he breathed deeply. Oh, well, tomorrow is another day. The little fucker can't move, can't call out, can't do anything
– except piss and shit and lie in it until I come back. That should soften him up.

And then the real fun begins.

*

London
Airport
,
Heathrow
–
the
same
day

It wasn't difficult to find the ticket for Kate at the BOAC counter, and I waited with her until she could go into the departure lounge. At the last minute she dropped her carry-on bag, put her arms around me and hugged me fiercely.

“
I'll miss you very, very much,” she said.

“
And I'll miss you, Kate. Give my regards to your grandmother. Tell her I'll call in to see her the next time I pass through Colebrook.”

Kate gave me a desperate look, then kissed me, long and hard. It was the first time she had ever done that. We held each other for a few moments.

“Oh, Kate,” was all I could say.

“
I hope she's worth it, David,” she whispered in my ear.

And then she was gone.

I drove back to London in the state of confusion which seemed almost normal for me during these last few days. I had thought I had everything under control and in its place, and now nothing seemed to be where it should be, least of all my emotions.

On an impulse I drove to Kensington Square and parked the car. Now I knew I was beyond help. I hadn't done this sort of thing since my first crush in grade 7. Of course, I rationalized that if I knew where her flat was tonight I wouldn't waste time looking in the morning. I found the mews without difficulty, walking along quietly until I came to 31a. It appeared to be almost a complete mews cottage on its own – much larger than I would have expected. The curtains were drawn, but light spilled from around them, seeping out into the mews along with the sounds of music and laughter. I couldn't see in, but my mind played terrible tricks with me, and it felt as though my heart had been encased in a block of ice.

Shaking, I turned to walk away, scarcely noticing the Facel Vega parked near the door. It was already behind me when I realized that I had seen CD plates on the car, and that it had to belong to someone in the Diplomatic Corps – someone who had money and was undoubtedly in Marijke's flat.

Out of spite I took the number down – MWE 473 – and resolved to have it checked out through Hammond.

I was still trembling when I reached my car, and, sliding into the seat, I sat still until I had calmed down. I was irrationally and insanely jealous. I knew I had no right to be, and that knowledge didn't help at all.

I tried not to think as I drove home, and once there I poured myself a Jack Daniels and Coke and tried to think sensibly. I had known Marijke for little more than a day, and, except for a few intimate moments, we were virtually strangers. And yet, there was something which had touched me so deeply that it had thrown me completely off balance, unleashing a raw emotion which I had never even suspected was in me. It was terrifying to realize how out-of-control I had almost become outside Marijke's flat.

I knew I couldn't allow these emotions to dominate me, and I determined then and there that no matter what Marijke's present or past was, I would cope with it with logic and understanding.

Perhaps a day of fun in Paris would help.

It's amazing how easily we can delude ourselves.

CHAPTER NINE

London
,
England
–
Friday
,
June
15
,
1962

It was still dark when I drove into the mews at Kensington Square. I hadn't slept well, and I hoped I wouldn't be too tired to drive. It was going to be a long day. Marijke was out of her door and at the car before I could turn the engine off. She was subdued, too, and I had a fleeting thought of the night before which immediately I put out of my mind. Let's not spoil it, I reasoned.

“
Good morning, David. You are well today?” She smiled as she handed me an overnight case which I dropped into the boot.

“
Yes, I am, but a little tired. How are you?”

“
Very fine, especially now that I am with you.”

I accelerated away – we had no time to dawdle. There was very little traffic, and though I was confident that we could make the run to Dover in time I wouldn't be driving slowly.

On the way to pick up House I told Marijke about him, our friendship, and our crazy escapades.

House lived just outside Croydon on Coombe Road in a little row house which he had bought when his wife had left him some ten years before. He was at the door as we pulled up, and sure enough, he had a young lady with him. I was dying to know if her name was Gladys and if she sang in the Luton Girls' Choir.

“Haa-lo,” said Eccles' slow-witted drawl, “it's a be-u-tiful day, my good man.”

“
Oh, no,” I groaned, “not this early. Spare me please!”

He dropped the imitation indignantly.

“The trouble with you colonials is that you have no appreciation for the finer dramatic offerings of the mother country. Well, so be it. Let me introduce Nickola Salvator-Rusher, private secretary to the managing editor of the Daily Express, which means that she works for another of those damned Canucks – Lord Beavertail, I think. Nicki, this is David, and don't let him sing to you or you'll end up jumping into bed with him. He has that effect on women – it's something to do with the maple syrup on his vocal chords.”

“
Oh, shut up, Harpic, and behave yourself. Nickola, I feel sorry for you having to spend the next 24 hours with this lunatic. If you want to bail out now I'll understand.”

“
This isn't half as bad as working at the Express,” she smiled, “there I'm surrounded by crazies. I've only got House to deal with here, and I can handle him. But from what I hear, you've got your touch of insanity, too.”

“
Now what have you been telling her, you incompetent?” I glared at House. “Trying to ruin my reputation, are you, Harpic?”

“
No, old chap, you've done well enough in that department all by your lonesome. Anything I might say can only enhance it.”

“
Before we get completely carried away, let me introduce Marijke Templaars. Marijke works for the Soviet Embassy.”

There was a moment's pause after I said that – a beat or two of dead space. If Marijke was aware of it she paid it no heed.

We drove off with the banter continuing.

“
What is this 'Harpic' name you call House, David? I only know this as a cleaner for drains,” said Marijke.

“
You've got it, sweetheart,” I replied with Bogie's voice, “because Harpic gets 'right round the bend', just like House is.”

“
Shut up, you rotten swine,” retorted House as Bluebottle. My speed quickly stilling the giddiness, I utilized several shortcuts to get to the A25, whizzing past Biggin Hill, the famous RAF fighter station of World War II. On the main road the Jag crept up to 100mph with no trouble at all, and I only hoped that nothing unexpected would pop out from a side road.

There was a gradual lightening in the sky, but the overcast made it hard to tell when the sun had come up. This became fog patches along the coast, forcing me to slow down.

Entering Dover, we dashed through the town to the eastern docks. Ahead we could see the black hull and white superstructure of the ferry in the slip, with the distinctive yellow funnel topped with black of the Sealink Line. We drove on board the Maid of Kent with 12 minutes to spare.

House, Nickola, and Marijke cheered as I parked and switched off the engine, then we hastened up a companionway to the promenade deck, purchased our tickets at the purser’s office, and parked ourselves on the rail to have a good view as we pulled away from the dock. The fog had dissipated somewhat, and the muted gold of the early sun was magical.

It was fascinating to see the expanse of the famous White Cliffs of Dover. Unless you see them from the water, it's impossible to sense the impact of their entirety. There was a stillness on the deck, everyone gazing in awe at the chalk formations, and I couldn't help but start to sing softly “
There'll
Be
Bluebirds
Over
the
White
Cliffs
of
Dover
,” the famous wartime song. I had only got one line out, when passengers on the deck began to sing along with me. It was a wonderful experience.

Then, much to my embarrassment, several people recognized me and came for an autograph, which the ladies found exciting, but House just sighed and shook his head, muttering
“There 'e goes. Ten minutes from now they'll all be pulling their knickers down. I dunno what the 'ell they sees in 'im. Beats me.”

“
You're just jealous, you mangy cur,” I muttered after the last autograph had left.

“
Do you sing also, House?” asked Marijke.

“
Of course – anyone can, David proves that,” he blustered.

“
Oh, I've heard all about it,” said Nicki. “His band members say it's like a cross between Mel Tormé and Louis Armstrong. They call him the 'Velvet Frog'.”

We had a good snicker at this, House trying to ignore us.

“I don't like this game,” he said in Bluebottle's voice. “If you make fun of me I will spin around in a decreasing circle and disappear up my own bum. Yes I will!”

Laughing merrily we purchased some duty-free items, then headed for the restaurant, deciding to have tea but not to eat until we got to Calais. Fresh croissants and pastries would be a welcome change from the usual English fare. The sun, brightening more and more through the dispersing clouds, was giving some promise for a pleasant day as we drove off the boat to passport control. I wondered about Marijke's nationality.

“Passports out, everyone,” I exclaimed, then softly queried Marijke. “Will this be a problem for you?”

“
No,” she replied, “but no one please speak about Soviet Union.” She glanced behind at House and Nicki.

“
Mum's the word,” muttered House.

As I handed over our passports I noticed one that was from the Netherlands. After one or two bored questions, we were on our way. I gave the passports back, and Marijke smiled brightly at me.

“Having dual citizenship is a good thing, yes?” She laughed.

“
Would it be difficult with a Soviet passport?” asked Nicki.

“
Much trouble and delay, I think. This way is easier.”

“
I didn't know that Soviet citizens were allowed to hold dual citizenship,” commented House.

“
Maybe we surprise you in the Soviet Union,” Marijke laughed. “Now, please, we forget about it and have a good time.”

We had been one of the last cars off the boat, so I hastened to catch the retreating tail-end of an Austin Mini which seemed to know the way out of the dock maze. I followed him blindly, snaking our way over bridges and past sundry docks, thankfully emerging into
Place
d'Armes
. This is the main square, and the heart of what had been mediaeval Calais, though few relics of that period survive. Parking near a massive watch tower, we walked to find a cafe or
boulangerie
, already savoring the goodies.

*

Moscow
,
U
.
S
.
S
.
R
. –
the
same
day

The office of General Josef Dmitrienko, Chief of Department “K” of the First Chief Directorate, KGB, was in the old Comintern headquarters next to the Agricultural Fairgrounds at 1a
Tekstilshchikov
Prospekt
. Spacious, with a view over the fairgrounds, it was sparsely furnished – in keeping with the character of its occupant.

Coffee had been placed before the general and his guest, his son-in-law Bren Templaars, and the steward had left them alone.

“The room is clean, sir?” asked the younger man quietly.

“
It's just been swept. I have it done every two hours, and before and after every meeting. I can't afford to take chances, not after all these years.”

“
What has happened, sir?”

“
The American, Fletcher, has been removed. They say he has left a list, one which names his oil contacts in the Middle-East. No one has found it… yet.”

“
Will you see this list if it is located?”

“
Yes. And I will ensure that a copy is given to the right people. It would be disastrous if it were handled incorrectly.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Have you heard from Marijke?”

“
Pouch mail only. My daughter seems to be enjoying England.”

“
I have misgivings about my granddaughter being around Nalishkin. He and his patron would bring me down if they could. We have been rivals for as long as I can remember. It was no coincidence that Marijke was sent to work with him, but I couldn't interfere without the danger of causing an inquiry, and that we dare not risk.”

“
What about the aircraft project?”

“
I can't find out anything. Directorate “S” is running it, and that bastard Rastvorov won't tell me more than he has to. If you have secure communication with Marijke, tell her to be very careful, Bren.”

*

Calais
,
France
–
the
same
day

On Rue Royale we spotted just what we wanted – a little
boulangerie
which had tables and served coffee as well.

Soon we were munching happily on
brioches
,
croisssants
au
beurre
, and cups of hot, strong
cafe
au
lait
. The pastry, still warm from the ovens, was an experience. Baked without additives, it remains fresh for only a few hours, so French bakers prepare a morning and an afternoon batch to ensure the quality for their customers.

Thus fortified we stopped briefly near the town hall so Marijke could see Rodin's famous sculpture
The
Six
Burghers
.

She explained how these six had offered their lives to prevent the English king from carrying out further reprisals against the townspeople of Calais in the year 1347.

“Did the king really execute them?” asked House.

“
No,” answered Marijke. “Edward's queen, Phillipa, stops it, and they are spared. But Calais remains in English hands for 211 years more. In 1895 this statue is made to mark the 200 years of war between France and England.”

“
How do you know all this?” queried Nicki. “I've never even heard the story and it's part of our history.”

“
Maybe you don't like the answer, Nicki. I say no more.”

“
No, tell us, love,” said House. “We're all friends here.”

Marijke hesitated.
“In the Soviet Union this becomes an example of imperialistic aggression. The six burghers represent an early attempt by the people to overthrow the capitalistic yoke.”

The immediate silence was broken by House's chuckle.

“I love it. These six were probably the biggest capitalists in Calais, and the Russians hold them up as heroes. There's hope for you people yet, Marijke. All is not lost.”

We laughed our way back to the car, and in moments we were speeding on
Nationale
Un
, known by the cynical locals as
la
route
des
Anglais
because of the Brits' non-stop rush toward Paris.

I drove as fast as I dared, towns and villages flashing past interspersed with stretches of forest and farmland. Everywhere there were splashes of color – the weathered burnt umber of the roof tiles on houses and barns – gradually giving way to slate as we reached the outskirts of Paris three hours later.