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“How fortunate!” Gabrielle smiled. “For a relatively small country, there are so many places of beauty and history. I’m always amazed by the variety.” She looked genuinely interested, not merely polite. “And you are looking for historically notable places in Trieste? Places most people would not know of, or perhaps that are related in history to other places. There are a lot of those here. We are a kind of crossroads for many things.” She spoke clearly, above the babble of other voices and the clink of glass and china.
“History?” Aiden asked, with slight mocking in his voice.
Was this a warning not to get too deep into the conversation? What was his relationship with Gabrielle? Personal? Or something to do with the dangerous and complicated recent political history? There were so many strands at play: Austrian occupation of the whole Trieste area; Serbia; the rising intrusion of German interest and power in Austria; even Mussolini’s growing power.
“No,” Elena said with a slight smile. On the surface, this was polite interest and must remain so. “I’m sure there is plenty, but there are also more knowledgeable people to admire it than I. I think I want to concentrate on the smaller streets. I know they are far less spectacular, but they have their own beauty.” She saw boredom in Aiden’s face and a struggle to keep interest in Gabrielle’s. But this part of her cover, at least, would be honest. “I did not realize it until I got here, but the light is unlike anywhere else. Not just beautiful, it’s…” She struggled for the word. “It’s as if it were all backlit in gold. That’s—”
“Do you paint?” Gabrielle asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Perhaps you should. You have an artist’s eye.” Gabrielle smiled. “I should be interested to see what you create.”
“Reflect,” Elena said modestly. “I’m a photographer. I don’t create beauty, but I try to catch an element of it that people might not notice, or see from a different and less interesting angle. It’s mostly in the light. Or should I say, in the shadows and the light, and the change of emphasis?”
“Really?” Gabrielle seemed genuinely interested, but Aiden was beginning to move his weight from one foot to the other, as if he was bored.
This was slipping out of Elena’s control. At least Aiden knew why she was here and she had passed him the warning, but that was only the beginning. She had money to give him, in case he needed it. She could fly back to England if she needed to, but she had to be sure he was safe first, and that, if he was not leaving, he gave her the list Peter Howard thought was so important. She wondered how well Peter really knew Aiden. Was he only relying on other people’s beliefs?
She had believed Aiden once, everything he said. She again recalled their time at the seashore, and how he had shouted into the wind, “Elena, I love you!” a smile on his face, that charming smile that made her heart beat loud enough to choke her.
Perhaps he had meant it…for that day.
She turned to him. “Maybe you could suggest some places for me, Anton. You know the city quite well. What is unique, beautiful? Not too crowded: Somewhere I can set up a good photograph? And what time of day do you suggest for the light to be at its best?” She meant to ask when they could meet. He must realize that, surely. “The light makes all the difference.”
She waited.
“That depends on what kind of effect you’re looking for,” he said, as if choosing his words carefully. “What are your favorites? Your signature images? Cloud effects? Patterns of shadows? There can be a lot of them.”
He was looking at her curiously, analytically. There was nothing in his eyes but slight, cautious interest. Was he so good an actor? Had he always been? Why her? She had been of no particular use to him years ago. She wasn’t senior enough in the Foreign Office to have known any secrets worth his while. His own were far more valuable.
“Light on water,” he suggested, watching her. “Sunlight, moonlight, lamplight, the sea. Or, better for a close-up, a canal.”
She could not meet his eyes. He was remembering those images she had thought most lovely, and what she had said to him about them, her most vivid dreams, sleeping or awake. She felt the heat burn up her face at the memory of where and when she had told him of those things. She had even told him the vision that went with them in her heart, the hope, the momentary belonging to the whole realm of thi
ngs composed of light. They had always been the most magical of images for her: light of any sort, on water in any form; clouds, soft rain, a puddle in the grass, moonlight on surf…ice. She did not know whether it was with pleasure or pain that he remembered it; he quoted it back to her without any expression in his eyes. As memories jostled her mind, she drew a darkness over them deliberately, protective of herself and of them.
“Yes,” she replied, forcing a smile of her own. “I think any kind of light on the canal water, and stones, of course. They give it weight, character. Where do you suggest? And what time for the best effects?”
“You could begin on one of the old bridges, and this time of the year sunrise could be good, if the sky is almost clear,” he replied. “And you’ll try sunset, too, of course. Midday, the light is a little hard. You get too much glare and too much clarity to do anything clever.”
“Thank you.” She tried to smile, but he had to be specific. Didn’t he realize that? She felt the certainty that he had been in her hand a few moments ago, but then slipped out of her grasp like a dissolving cloud. She must not look desperate.
“You might try the wharf at sunrise,” Aiden suggested. “There will be plenty of boats to see by seven o’clock in the morning, if you can be bothered to get there so early.”
“Thank you,” she said, nodding slightly. “I can probably manage that, it’s not too far from where I’m staying. That’s very good advice. I will take it.” She gave him a quick smile, glanced at Gabrielle, and then turned and walked away into the thickening crowd.
She went toward the ladies’ cloakroom. She would leave when Aiden and his friends were absorbed in their conversation. He knew she had come specifically to meet him. Surely, he would not be rash enough to ignore her arrangements to accomplish that? His life depended upon her help, and there was no time to waste in games.
* * *
—
Elena slept uneasily and then, finally letting go of the anxiety, slipped deeper into the peace of unconsciousness. When the alarm clock shrilled, she awoke with a start. She sat up and felt chill air touch her skin as the bedclothes slid off. It was still dark, and it was a moment before she remembered why she was getting up. She reached for the alarm, then found the light and turned it on. There would be no time to stop anywhere for breakfast. She must brew coffee here and at least eat a breakfast roll. She did not feel in the slightest like swallowing food. Her throat was tight and the morning still chilly. She was going to be alone with Aiden after all these years.
She went barefoot and shivering into the kitchen and put the coffee on, then washed and dressed in her tiny bathroom. She put on a little makeup for pride’s sake: she would not look as drawn as she felt. She was going to tell him the truth about the situation here and in London, as far as she knew it. But she certainly was not going to tell him anything about her own feelings. First priority was getting the details to him of her own situation, then making a plan to leave without alerting whoever had broken his cover. They would try to stop him or, at the very least, take from him the papers, the list, or whatever it was that Peter Howard wanted so badly. It was the fruit of Aiden’s work here at these crossroads of Mussolini’s Italy and Dollfuss’s Austria, which was first cousin to Germany, and all that that meant. Although, of course, cousins could hate each other, as could brothers, for heaven’s sake.
And she had to get some decent pictures. It was her cover. If she were stopped by anyone and the photographs were found to be amateur—memories of Berlin in May came back to her—she would be caught in an obvious lie.
