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Peter Howard walked down the stairs and out onto the street, into the sun. He had disliked having to ask Elena to undertake this task. He knew about her affair with Aiden Strother—most of the Foreign Office did, if not through office gossip before Strother had so dramatically defected, or appeared to have, then certainly afterward. It was Elena’s own doing. Twenty-two and not long graduated from Cambridge with an excellent degree in classics, she had not been pushed into the affair. The languages essential to her Foreign Office job she already knew, having been with her parents while her father was ambassador in Madrid, Paris, and Berlin during her childhood. It did not take long to become proficient in a language that was spoken all around you, and she had a natural gift for it.
She had been left to shoulder at least some of the blame when Strother departed, ostensibly as a traitor, carrying many secrets to the Nazis. At least, that was what appeared to have happened. But now she knew the truth: that he could not tell anyone. Certainly not an emotional young woman with whom he was intimately involved. It had cost her her job. That was unfortunate, but the slightest sign that the situation was not as it appeared might have betrayed Aiden to the Nazis. After years of careful work, some of which had jeopardized lives, Aiden was risking his own life by appearing to defect, carrying carefully prepared secrets with him. Some had been current but most were old, out of date, and not dangerous anymore, even if by a hairsbreadth. A word of comfort to a young lover could have ruined it all: a thread to pull that could have unraveled everything, destroyed a plan carefully laid over years, and all the lives involved.
Peter reached a corner and crossed Tottenham Court Road, oblivious of the traffic increasing around him. He had not known Elena then. In fact, he did not really know her now. He had met her only a few months before, when she had accidentally become involved in that desperate affair in Berlin. She had acted with courage and, at times, great presence of mind. At other times, she had betrayed amateur impulsiveness. But then, she had been an amateur, involved by chance and knowing very little. Heavens, at that time she had not even known that her beloved grandfather, Lucas Standish, had, during the war, been head of MI6, the existence of which was a secret from the general public. To everyone outside the intelligence organization, Lucas was a mild-mannered man who did something mathematical in the Civil Service. Supposedly, even his wife did not know his real job, except that Josephine Standish had been a decoder during the same war—Peter smiled at the memory—and brave, eccentric Josephine knew far more than even Lucas assumed. Peter had a great respect for her. He hoped he never knew the full extent of her abilities. It pleased him to have some mysteries left.
Lucas would not approve of Peter’s having sent Elena to rescue Aiden Strother. Intellectually, he might understand why she was the best person to do so, inexperienced as she was. She spoke both Italian and German fluently. German would be an advantage because, of course, Trieste had been occupied by many different forces, and recently the German-speaking Austrian Empire. The danger they feared, and that Aiden had gone to investigate, was inspired by Germany.
Elena had firsthand knowledge of how Hitler’s rise to power in Germany at the beginning of this year had changed everything. Experience was a visceral part of understanding. She had proven that she had determination and, when pressed, a considerable imagination, and courage to act. Peter admired that. But was it enough?
This was still an operation he would rather not have given to someone so new to the Service, and so emotionally raw. Both were disadvantages, in that she lacked training, but more seriously, her feelings for Aiden would leave her vulnerable. Could they easily be reawakened, used against her, even fatally?
He turned the corner and walked more rapidly along the next street, the sun in his face.
There were also advantages. Elena was not a professional. No one in the service on the other side would know her. That was the best disguise of all. But by far the most important advantage was that she would know Aiden Strother by sight, no matter how his appearance had superficially changed. She would recognize the things one cannot disguise: the shape of his ears, the way he stood when casually waiting, the things that made him laugh or, more likely, irritated him. Some things are unchanged even when disillusion sours everything else. Peter knew that, too, but preferred not to remember.
Had Aiden loved Elena? Peter smiled at the thought of her. She had a turbulent face, vulnerable and full of emotion. And yet she was capable of great calm, as if she was searching for something and, every so often, found it. She was interesting, different.
He hoped profoundly that she would succeed, quite apart from the imperative of recovering Aiden Strother’s information…and that was crucial. The other news he was receiving about the rising power of Hitler within resurgent Germany, gaining strength and casting his hungry eyes toward its neighbors, might be dismissed as fearmongering by some, but Peter took it very seriously.
Austria was particularly vulnerable. Its new young president, Engelbert Dollfuss, had come to power the year before. He was an unusual man who, though less than five feet tall, had managed to be accepted into the army, where he had served with some distinction. He was an ardent Catholic, and very right-wing politically. He was extremely sensitive about his height and punished anyone rash enough to make jokes about it. He was altogether heavy-handed in exercising his power.
It was Peter’s job, as well as his nature, to foresee problems, and to know as much as possible about the players, their power and their interests. Aiden Strother’s years in Germany, Austria, and northern Italy were fundamental to that.
Lucas Standish might understand his reasons, but he would still be angry that Peter had gone behind his back and sent Elena to find Strother. The knowledge of that was a growing darkness inside him. He cared what Lucas thought of him. It left him vulnerable, and yet he realized Lucas was the most important influence in his life, more important than his own father, whom it seemed he would never truly please, no matter how hard he tried. To begin with, he could not share any aspect of his work with his parents or, for that matter, with his wife, Pamela, but that was a whole other area that he preferred not to visit now.
H
e was walking quite automatically, passing people without seeing their faces. Everyone was hurrying, even in the mild September sun. Hurrying somewhere, toward something, or away from it. He smiled—not at any of those passing, but just at the light and the warmth, at memories of friendship, shared discovery, successes…and the comfort of companionship in the face of failure. That, too, was a tight bond.
Had he broken it all by sending Lucas’s granddaughter on a mission that could only be painful to her?
* * *
—
Peter went back to his office and completed all the travel arrangements for Elena under her own name. He booked a car to take her to the airport and one at the other end to take her into Paris and to the railway station. He already had the rail tickets to Milan and then on to Trieste. From that point, she would have to take care of her mission herself. He had city maps with notable places marked, specifically where she might like to photograph. She must keep that cover always.
He included the address of the three-room apartment rented for her. On balance, this was better than a hotel, more discreet. There was a landlord who would know how to watch and help, if necessary, and who would provide the basic food supplies for her arrival.
Peter reached the office and went upstairs.
He knocked on Bradley’s door. As soon as he heard the muffled order from inside, he went in.
Jerome Bradley, head of MI6, was sitting at his desk. He looked up with a bland expression on his face. He was immaculately dressed, as always, in a tailored pinstripe suit, white shirt, anonymous tie. His school was not one to boast about. His thick brown hair was brushed back off his forehead. “Yes?” he said, but he did not invite Peter to sit, even though there was a chair a few feet from the desk.
Peter stood straight, not quite at attention. “I’m sending someone to Trieste to find Aiden Strother and get him out—”
Bradley cut across him. “What’s he doing there anyway? I don’t remember sending him.”
“You didn’t,” Peter replied. “You weren’t in charge then. It was six years ago.” It was surprising that Bradley, who had replaced Lucas Standish when he finally retired, had not read the confidential papers that would have told him about Aiden Strother.
“Strother?” Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “Just a minute, wasn’t he a traitor? Do you mean he’s turned our way again?” His voice was heavy with doubt. “How?”
“He was always facing our way, sir,” Peter said patiently. “We planted him, and he sent back a great deal of information.”
“Really.” That was not a question, only an acknowledgment that Bradley had heard him. “I don’t remember seeing his name on anything.” His voice had a note of criticism.
“No, sir, we don’t leave the names of our informers on things.” Bradley should hardly have needed a reminder of something so obvious.
