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Cordell had met Hitler several times in the course of his own duties as a cultural attaché. Almost everything about British culture was both familiar and pleasing to Cordell and he had no difficulty in promoting it. He was also an admirer of German culture: the greatest music in the world, the poetry, philosophy, and drama. No one else had ever created music like Beethoven. It was truly sublime. But no one else had drama and poetry like Shakespeare. He was so often quoted that even his least known works seemed somehow familiar.
Some of German nationalism was bombastic and offensive. But after the ruinous demands of the Versailles Treaty, what else would anyone expect? Cordell had been too young at the time to grasp the full enormity of it. Fresh out of the army after four years of seeing hell brought to reality, of losing more friends than he could count, he had not had the time or emotion to insist futilely on something over which he had no control.
When he looked back at that time, all he could remember was the final effort to get and keep a good job at the embassy, his introduction to MI6, and his agreement to serve. It was a patriotic duty, and of some immediate concern to him then. Apart from anything else, it assured him of his position in the embassy—that if he was good at it, he would not be moved around from place to place too often, and he would have his contacts. Intelligence of the sort he needed was a long job, cultivated slowly, like an Old English rose.
Above all, it gave him the chance to provide a stable living for himself, and even more for Winifred. They needed time to get to know each other again. They had been rather newly married in 1914, still learning the intimacies of each other’s day-to-day life. That had all been swept away from them, as it had from countless others. Somehow, they had never reestablished it again. War changed everyone—some people physically, with scars everyone could see. In others, the wounds were hidden. They came in nightmares, sudden losses of self-control. Cordell had seen them in people he knew, along with the shame and confusion that came afterward. There were parts of the war that would never be over. That was why it must never happen again.
Winifred was emotionally bruised by the loneliness, the grief she saw around her and shared with others. And, of course, he had not shared with her the horrors he had seen.
A new start in a new place seemed the best thing. But as with so many surviving couples, it had not worked. They were familiar strangers now, playing at being husband and wife, honoring, pitying, but not sharing.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” he called.
One of his assistants entered, a young man who loved German poetry.
“What is it?” Cordell asked.
“There is a Miss Standish to see you, sir. She seems quite distraught…says it is extremely urgent. A message from someone called Newton. Do you want me to—”
“Standish?” Cordell asked.
“Yes, sir. She said her father was ambassador here just after the war.”
“Yes. Send her in. I know Charles Standish well. Very decent chap. He lost his son in the last month of the war, but he has two daughters. Bring her in.”
At first, Cordell did not recognize the young woman who entered the room. She was quite tall and she carried herself well. Her face was a curious mixture of strength and vulnerability; it held a hint of beauty. But at the moment she looked hollow-eyed, crumpled, and she was very pale.
It had been several years since he had last seen her. He had kept in to
uch with Charles, but not the family. He remembered the elder daughter, a dark, very striking-looking young woman, not unlike her father, but with her mother’s panache, and definitely her glamour.
This young woman had no glamour at all. She looked exhausted. She had none of the energy that her sister always radiated.
“Please sit down, Miss Standish,” he invited. “What may I do for you?”
She remained standing. “I apologize for my appearance. Since I had no appointment, I was afraid I might miss you if I stopped to tidy up.”
Had she noticed his surprise? That was clumsy of him.
“I came as rapidly as I could,” she went on. “From Amalfi…”
“Amalfi? Near Naples?” Had he heard her correctly?
“Yes…”
He started to express concern, but she continued talking over him.
“I was traveling from an economic conference in Amalfi, in the company of Ian Newton, whom I met there. We dined together and became friends…”
He was about to make a polite remark. He remembered Newton and knew that he was MI6. But how did Elena Standish know that?
“On the train, Ian went to get a cup of tea,” she continued. “Somewhere along the way between Milan and Paris. I wasn’t paying attention to where. We were both going to Paris. He…” Again, she had to stop and fight for her composure. Her voice was low, and at another time might have been pleasing. “He did not return, and I went looking for him.” She said the words as if they were meaningless. “I found him in one of the other carriages. He had been stabbed and was bleeding…to death. I was there only just in time to catch his last breaths. I could not save him.” She blinked rapidly. “He told me he was with MI6, which of course I had not known. He had an urgent message to bring to you—he named you. He made me promise to deliver it.”
Cordell was stunned. He sat motionless, staring at her face.
Very slowly, with stiff fingers, she undid her coat, showing the creased and bloodstained dress. The brownish stains still lay there in huge, ugly marks, unmistakable once you knew what they were.
