A Season of Secrets (42 page)

The room was very quiet.

Somewhere Rozalind could hear a clock ticking faintly.

As if from a vast distance she heard Myrtle say, ‘My reason for being here, Miss Duveen, is because of the decision Max has made.’

Rozalind remained perfectly still, not daring to move. Not daring to speak.

Myrtle reached over the arm of the sofa to crush out the cigarette she’d just lit in the ashtray on the small adjacent table. After a pause that seemed to last an eternity, she said,
‘Max has decided to decline the invitation he has been given, his reason being that he loves you too much ever to end his affair with you.’

As relief surged through every vein and nerve-ending in Rozalind’s body, Myrtle rose to her feet. ‘That decision needn’t be the end of the matter, Miss Duveen. Max could still
achieve his life’s ambition of becoming a presidential candidate, but only if – just as he loves you enough not to end your affair – you love him enough to end it for him.’
She tilted her head a little to one side, her eyes as glacial as a winter sea. ‘I wonder what choice you will make, Miss Duveen? I wonder how deep your love for Max really is?’

And, without waiting for a response, without another word, she walked from the room. Seconds later Rozalind heard from the hallway the click of the door as it opened and then closed.

She remained where she was, her legs still too weak to bear her weight, question after question, and realization after realization, thundering through her brain.

That Max had told Myrtle the address of the apartment was something so shattering that she didn’t how she was going to come to terms with it. And when Myrtle had arranged with Doris for
Max’s recall to Washington, just how had she done so? It indicated a closeness and a trust between Myrtle and Doris that Roz had never remotely suspected. Did Max know of it? Did he sometimes
discuss her with Myrtle? It was a crushing thought, but it paled into insignificance compared to his having been invited to stand for office.

She knew, just as much as Myrtle did, what a chance at the presidential candidacy would mean to Max – and yet, rather than end their affair, he was going to turn his back on it.

Faced with such evidence of how much she meant to him, tears burned in her eyes. Unsteadily she rose to her feet and went in search of the brandy she had previously scorned and now so
desperately needed. With a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, she went out onto the balcony, sitting where, such a short time ago, she had sat with Max and been so thoughtlessly,
idyllically happy.

There was no way she could ever be so happy again. If she behaved as if Myrtle’s visit had never happened, and as if she had no knowledge of the sacrifice Max was making, how would she
live with herself? It would be impossible.

The late-afternoon light smoked into dusk. The traffic noise changed in character as the evening street scene began to get under way. Not until darkness fell did she know not only what she must
do, but how she must go about doing it.

She wouldn’t end her affair with him face-to-face. She couldn’t; she simply didn’t possess that kind of strength. She would treat the next few days as if they were perfectly
normal. Max would telephone from Washington, telling her how much he was missing her and how he hoped she’d have a good trip. And, though it would near kill her, she would respond in a
similar manner, not letting him know by so much as an inflection in her voice the bombshell she was going to drop once she was thousands of miles away in London.

And, once in London, she wouldn’t return to America. Her agency had an office in Knightsbridge. Nearly all her work was in Europe. She had no home of her own in London – even under
Zephiniah’s reign she always stayed at Mount Street – but finding a flat in Knightsbridge or Kensington wouldn’t be a problem.

Her problem would be a quite different one. Her problem would be how to live without Max in her life.

The prospect was unimaginable – seemed inconceivable; and as the stars came out and the moon rode high in the sky, she remained sitting on the balcony that she would never sit on again,
her heart breaking with the knowledge that her world had altered and would never be the same again.

JULY 1934

‘The situation isn’t good, Congressman Bradley. Not for us, and not for the British.’

That the situation in Germany wasn’t good for America and Britain – and for the French too, come to that – was something Max was well aware of.

Tom Kirby, the man he was seated across a desk from, was a senior officer in the State Department’s European intelligence and research section and their meeting was taking place in a small
room in the Office of Public Affairs, not far from the White House.

‘We have good people undercover in Munich and Berlin, of course, but in the situation we are now facing there can never be enough of them.’

Max nodded agreement and waited, curious as to what might be coming next.

‘I understand you have contacts in Berlin?’

Max’s face remained inscrutable, but his brain was racing. What contacts were being spoken of? His contacts with Olivia and, via her, with Dieter? Since Rozalind had so abruptly ended
their affair nearly a year ago he’d had no contact at all with either of them.

‘I was once on social terms with Olivia von Starhemberg and, to a much lesser extent, with her husband, Dieter. I’ve had no contact with them now for a long time.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Kirby looked down at a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘The von Starhembergs are admirers of Chancellor Hitler, I believe.’

Max nodded, impressed by the scope of his country’s intelligence-gathering, but wary of the direction in which the conversation seemed to be heading.

‘Because of their sympathies, the von Starhembergs are of little interest, Max. However, Olivia von Starhemberg’s younger sister, the movie actress Violet Fenton, is. Are you on
social terms with her as well?’

‘Yes. I’ve known the family well ever since serving on the Dawes Committee when their father, Lord Fenton, was my opposite number in London. Look here, Tom, it’s quite obvious
you know everything there is to know about my friendship with the Fenton family, so let’s cut to the chase. Just what the heck is this all about?’

‘Violet Fenton is about to leave Hollywood for Berlin, where she’s to make a film at the Babelsberg film studios. She’s a bit of a catch for them. The Reich’s newly
appointed Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, a guy named Goebbels, is eager to trumpet Babelsberg as an international film studio, and she is unwittingly helping him do
so.’

‘And . . . ?’ Max asked, wondering what on earth was going to come next.

‘And we want to know if her sympathies are the same as her sister’s?’

Max cracked with laughter. ‘God, no! Unlike her sisters – the other sister is a paid-up member of the British Socialist Party and virtually a communist – Violet hasn’t
the remotest interest in politics. I can no more imagine her a Nazi sympathizer than I can imagine her a nun.’

‘Then have a word with her, Max. Put her in the picture about the war-mongering side of Hitler and what a European war could mean for us, here in America. Impress on her how important
small details of information can be for us – especially if that information is picked up when socializing with men like Goebbels. That she doesn’t come with any political baggage will
be an advantage to her. An even bigger advantage is her brother-in-law’s position in Germany’s Foreign Office. With a connection like that, she isn’t going to be regarded with
suspicion – especially if she makes the right kind of Hitler-admiring noises.’

Max said slowly, ‘You want me to recruit Violet Fenton, who is British and whose father is a member of the House of Lords, to be an agent for American intelligence?’

Tom Kirby grinned. ‘That’s just about the sum of it.’ He eased his chair away from his desk and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. ‘You can see what a
brilliant position she would be in, as an agent? She’s a glamorous movie actress. Every high-ranking Nazi in his right mind is going to be fawning around her. The minute she arrives at
Babelsberg, Goebbels will seek her out – and the only person higher in the Nazi hierarchy than Goebbels is Hitler. Add in her von Starhemberg family connection and the people they will
introduce her to, couple it with her sounding like a dame who can get any man she wants eating out of her hand, and you’ve got a bullseye. With luck, probably a whole string of bullseyes. All
you have to do, Max, is persuade her to play ball.’

Max realized that for the last few minutes he’d been holding his breath. Slowly he let it out.

There’d been no mention of Roz. He wondered if it was because they knew he no longer had any contact with her, or if it was because they didn’t realize that Roz’s contacts in
Berlin were very similar to the kind of contacts they hoped Violet would make? Whatever the reason, Rozalind’s name not being mentioned was a vast relief.

He said, still not knowing how he felt about the suggestion that had been put to him, ‘How would Violet pass information on?’

‘She’ll be given a contact in Berlin’s US Embassy.’ Tom Kirby shifted position again, this time nudging his chair forward and resting clasped hands on his desk top.
‘Both the British and the French believe Germany is secretly re-arming. None of our agents in the field have a hope in hell of mixing in the kind of Nazi circles Violet Fenton will have
automatic entrée into. We need to know what the Nazis are up to. Make sure she knows that whatever she does for us, she’s doing for Britain also.’

Max quirked an eyebrow. ‘When I tell her that will I be speaking the truth?’

‘Yes. When it comes to the re-arming question – and others like it – we’ll be sharing it with the Brits. They’re the ones at the sharp end. What we’re
concerned about is having enough information to steer well clear. Involvement in one European-triggered Great War is quite enough for us, don’t you think? To hell with the thought of a second
one!’

Five days later Max strolled into the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He’d arranged to meet Violet by the poolside and although he was carrying a briefcase, he was
dressed in cream-coloured flannels, an open-necked short-sleeved shirt and loafers.

‘Miss Fenton, sir?’ a bellboy said. ‘This way, sir.’ Max followed him through tropical gardens and down pink-walled steps to an azure pool.

Violet was reclining on a sun-lounger, wearing sunglasses, a silver swimming costume, silver hoop earrings and silver nail varnish, her torrent of Titian hair held away from her face by a silver
headband.

She patted the lounger as an invitation that he should seat himself next to her beautifully shaped legs.

He grinned. ‘I’ll take a deckchair if you don’t mind, Violet. I’m in for the long haul of a presidency election. I have to mind my dignity.’

Violet gave a throaty giggle. ‘You need to let rip occasionally, Max. And why the briefcase? Have you brought your lunch with you?’

He chuckled. ‘No. I’ll explain later. What are you drinking? Would you like a Pimm’s?’

‘I’d love one, but why are you here? Have you had a reconciliation with Roz? And if you have, why isn’t she with you?’

‘No reconciliation – and I’m here because I’ve learned you’re about to leave for Berlin.’

He raised a hand for a pool-boy. ‘A jug of Pimm’s Number One,’ he said when the pool-boy came running, and then, returning his attention immediately to Violet, ‘Why are
you off to Germany when you’re doing so well here, in Hollywood?’

‘My current fiancé – did you know that if you have an affair with anyone in Hollywood they have to be referred to as your fiancé, even if they’re married?
He’s called Gunther Behr. He began his career at Babelsberg, and now they want him back. As I’ve fallen out with my last director, Alex Korda, and as Zsigmund Sárközy is
suing me, I thought a spell in Berlin, with Gunther, would be rather fun. Gunther suggested it to Babelsberg, and they leapt at the idea. It’s so nice to be wanted.’

‘I’m not surprised Babelsberg leapt at the idea. Have you any idea of the number of actors and directors who have recently fled Babelsberg for Hollywood?’

‘Marlene Dietrich? Peter Lorre? I can’t think of anyone else. And why shouldn’t they come here if they want to?’

‘It isn’t a case of them wanting to, Violet. It’s a case of them having to, either because they’re Jewish, like Lorre, or because, like Dietrich, they are no longer
willing to live under the current regime. In the last year directors such as Karl Freund, Joe May, Edgar Ulmer and Billy Wilder have all kicked the Nazi dust from their heels. You, on the other
hand, are voluntarily heading into it. It doesn’t make sense.’

Their Pimm’s arrived and was poured into ice-filled glasses.

Violet took a long drink of hers through a pink straw. Finally, toying with the straw, she said, ‘I thought this meeting – when we haven’t met for so long that I can’t
remember when it was – was going to be fun. Instead it’s turning into a lecture. Please don’t lecture me, Max darling. It’s so unnecessary and I can’t bear
it.’