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“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.
