Dead Line (8 page)

TWELVE

At least she knew where she was, not that it helped. Seventy feet below ground, thirty seconds out of Chalk Farm station, stuck in a tunnel with no sense they would be moving any time soon.

Across from her a morose-looking woman in a brown cardigan stared at the floor apathetically, while next to her a builder in dust-covered boots noisily turned the pages of the
Sun
. The headline read ‘Man in Box Mystery’. How ghoulish, thought Liz, then she remembered how an ex-boyfriend, a journalist on the
Guardian
, had claimed that such headlines were reassuring. ‘If I land at Heathrow and the headline on the
Evening Standard
reads, “Nurse Found Strangled,” then I know all’s right with the world. No terrorist bomb has gone off, no threat of impending nuclear war. Just a humdrum sex murder to titillate commuters.’

Looking at her watch, Liz saw they had been motionless for over ten minutes. Thank God she wasn’t claustrophobic; Peggy would be climbing the walls by now. Thinking of Peggy, she pondered the girl’s mix of shyness and delight as she’d described Tim. Liz could imagine their first dates, all in suitably intellectual places (the National Gallery, the Soane Museum). They’d have chatted earnestly over flapjacks and mugs of tea, discussing the comparative merits of the Metaphysical Poets, or the late Beethoven string quartets.

It was easy to be patronising, but Liz had to admire Peggy’s initiative - going to talks, meeting new people. Meeting men. There was no point in being stuffy about it, thought Liz, not if it worked for Peggy. And it had. And look at her own mother. Sixty-plus, a widow with a lovely house, an interesting job - even she had found company.

For years after her father had died Liz had felt responsible for her mother. Not enough for her to agree to give up what her mother regarded as her ‘dangerous’ job to go back home to Wiltshire to share the running of the garden centre her mother managed. But enough for her to make the tedious journey every month and keep in touch regularly by phone. Then earlier this year, out of the blue, her mother had acquired a boyfriend, Edward, and now she seemed contented and less dependent on her daughter.

Liz knew she should be pleased for her mother, but when she thought of all those weekends she had forced herself to drive down to Wiltshire when she would much rather have stayed in London, the anxiety when her mother had had a cancer scare just as Liz was in the middle of a complex and worrying case, she felt a flash of resentment. It was irrational, she knew it was, but she felt it just the same.

Liz tried to picture this new boyfriend of her mother’s, whom she’d never met but knew she would not like. He’d wear tweeds and be ex-army, a major perhaps, or even a colonel. He’d go on and on about the Aden campaign or wherever. God, how boring, thought Liz, and possibly venal - she was sure part of her mother’s appeal to Edward must be the creature comforts she could provide for him in her cosy house in Bowerbridge. Still, she thought grudgingly, her mother seemed to be enjoying this late romance of hers.

Whereas I’m just stuck in a rut, Liz brooded, watching as the woman in the cardigan yawned and closed her eyes. The only men she met were at work, and yet at work she found her emotions already engaged. By Charles, a man she only saw in the office and who was unavailable anyway.

It suddenly seemed ridiculous. I can’t go on this way, thought Liz, surprised at how obvious this realisation was. She couldn’t blame anyone but herself - it wasn’t as if Charles had ever encouraged her, or asked her to wait for him. She supposed he’d made his feelings clear, in his discreet and dignified way, but equally, he’d never pretended he could do anything about them.

All right then, thought Liz, cut your losses, and move on. Time’s a-flying, however young I feel. There must be men I can meet. The image of Geoffrey Fane flitted briefly through her head. There was something undeniably attractive about him - he was good-looking in an arrogant way, clever, quick-witted, amusing when he wanted to be. And best of all, Fane was no longer married.

But it wasn’t for nothing he was known in MI5 as the Prince of Darkness, and she knew she could never altogether trust him. No, like Peggy, she needed to meet someone outside the service, and she cheered up briefly at the prospect. There was just the small matter of how to meet this new someone.

A hissing noise of escaping air came from the tunnel, and the train slid forward as if on ice. The builder looked up from his sports page and briefly met Liz’s eyes. Across the carriage the older woman was sound asleep, her hands clasped in her lap.

THIRTEEN

It was nearly seven in the evening when Hannah Gold got off the Underground at Bond Street station and started to walk slowly towards Piccadilly. She could have changed lines and got a lot nearer to her destination, but she loved walking in London on these late summer evenings. The weather had been a surprise - she had come to England armed with sweaters and a raincoat and umbrella, but so far she had needed none of them. She might still have been in Tel Aviv, to judge by the climate.

Now, as she walked down Bond Street, she stopped from time to time to admire the clothes and shoes in the smart shops and, as she got nearer to Piccadilly, the watches and jewellery and the paintings in the windows of the galleries. She still found it hard to get used to the idea that she had enough money of her own now to buy practically anything she liked, and the independence to spend it as she pleased.

She hadn’t seen Saul for more than a year - not since she’d sold their home in Beverly Hills, banked her final settlement from the divorce and upped sticks and left for her new life in Israel. Looking back on it all, she could see that she’d been in a state of shocked anger when she left America for good. Thirty-three years of marriage had been suddenly ended by one late-night conversation with her husband. She couldn’t believe her ears. It was no surprise that he was having an affair - he’d had affairs before, often - but this time he wanted a divorce. All those shared years, the experiences, the help she’d given him as he built up his business… all gone in the forty-five seconds it had taken him to deliver his prepared speech. It was over, he’d said, and that was final.

After the first shock came the anger and it was anger that had fuelled her through the drawn-out wrangling of the divorce proceedings. She had finally been awarded her twenty million dollars, enough for a complete change of life. She could have gone to live anywhere. She could have come to London, where her son David lived with his wife and small children. But she’d finally chosen Israel, though it was not the obvious choice. She was proud to be Jewish, but she was increasingly upset by the way Israel behaved. The situation in that part of the world seemed to be worsening every year, and she simply couldn’t believe that none of it was Israel’s fault. The settlements seemed to her to be madness and the unwillingness of many Israelis to concede that the Palestinians had a grievance, more madness still.

If she was honest, she’d really chosen to live there because she thought it might give her the chance to do something in her own right. She wasn’t naïve enough to think she could change the world single-handed, and she knew she would come across people who disagreed strongly with her. But she hoped that she could have some influence by working for moderation and compromise and listening to the other side’s point of view.

And so far she was convinced she was doing some good in her new homeland. She had joined a peace movement and was taking an active part in organising meetings and debates and helping to write the literature they put out. She had even practically forgotten about Saul - that is, until Mr Teitelbaum had come her way.

It had all started at a drinks party in Tel Aviv given by one of her new friends, another American woman called Sara. Hannah had met a man there, Sidney something, who at first had asked her the usual polite questions about how she found life in Israel, but as they’d talked he had seemed much more interested to hear about her former husband’s doings - particularly about the satellite communications company that Saul had founded and still ran.

After the party, Sara had told her that Sidney was a Mossad officer, and when he’d subsequently rung and asked Hannah to meet him for what he called ‘a chat’, she’d known his interest wasn’t social and had politely but firmly declined.

But then news had come of Saul’s remarriage, and Hannah had learned in a phone call from one of her less tactful Californian friends that the new Mrs Gold was a tall, twenty-three-year-old blonde with a golden tan. For Hannah, who was short and dark and didn’t like the sun, that was the last straw. Twenty minutes later she had rung Sidney and agreed to meet him, though when she’d turned up at the outdoor cafe he’d named, she’d found another man waiting for her.

His name was Mr Teitelbaum- she knew only his surname, and since she was Mrs Gold to them, she reciprocated with a ‘mister’, which gave an old-fashioned flavour to their meetings. Teitelbaum was short and squat and reminded Hannah of a toad. His bald head, which gleamed in the sunshine, sat like a bowling ball on massive shoulders, and his hands were rough as a peasant’s. From the open neck of his shirt, hair sprouted like dark, curly weeds. He said very little, but he listened hard, apparently mentally recording everything Hannah had to say, for he took no notes. There had been a lot for him to remember.

Her ex-husband’s company sold satellite systems all over the world - Saul had never been choosy about his customers. Many of them were in the Middle East and some were the enemies of Israel. It was these customers Mr Teitelbaum had wanted to hear about, and since Hannah had been the one person to whom Saul had confided all his business secrets, she’d had a lot to tell; she’d seen Mr Teitelbaum once a week for almost three months.

Now as she reached Piccadilly and walked east towards Haymarket and the theatre, she felt she deserved a treat. It was lovely to be here in London. After all the experiences of her first year in Israel she’d badly needed a rest, and after only a week she felt her energy was coming back.

The Stoppard play was tremendous fun - fast-paced, witty and verbally ingenious. All that was missing was someone to share it with; looking around the audience, Hannah felt surrounded by couples.

At the interval she worked her way through the scrum at the bar to buy a glass of wine, which she carried carefully to the safety of a corner. She was just about to take a sip when her arm was knocked sharply and her glass went flying, landing with a small pirouette on the carpet.

‘I am
so
sorry.’

Hannah turned to find a man behind her looking upset. He was fortyish, tall, with floppy black hair, dressed in a black suit and a charcoal turtleneck. Reaching down, he picked up her glass, which was miraculously unbroken. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said again.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Hannah. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But of course it does,’ the man insisted. ‘I’ll get you another.’

‘Oh please don’t—’ Hannah started to protest, but he was already halfway to the bar.

Despite the crush he was back in a minute, bearing a new glass. This one had bubbles. ‘I hope you like champagne,’ he said, handing the glass to Hannah with a small bow.

She felt embarrassed. ‘It’s very good of you,’ she said, taking a sip.

‘The least I could do.’

Hannah was slightly discomfited to find that he didn’t move away but stayed standing beside her. She said, ‘You’ve been very kind. But please don’t let me keep you from your friends.’

He smiled. ‘I’m here on my own.’ He spoke fluent English, but with a very slight accent that she couldn’t place.

‘So am I,’ said Hannah.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Tel Aviv.’

‘No,’ he said with disbelief. ‘You are Israeli? So am I.’

‘Well, I’m American actually. But I moved to Israel last year.’

‘How interesting,’ he said. ‘You have reversed the trend. Half of my generation seems to be emigrating to the States.’

They continued talking, rapidly discovering several mutual acquaintances in the small world of Israeli society. Hannah was quite disappointed when the bell rang for the start of the second act.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘What a pity. I should introduce myself. My name is Danny Kollek. I work at our embassy here in London.’

‘Hannah Gold.’ They shook hands.

‘I wonder,’ said Kollek hesitantly.

‘Yes?’ said Hannah, noticing the bar was almost empty now.

‘Would you like to have supper with me after the play?’

Hannah had been thinking of taking a taxi back to David’s house and having an early night. But she liked this man, and was flattered to be the object of attention for a change. Why not take advantage of it?’

‘I’d like that very much,’ she said at last.

Again there was the smile - even more than his good looks it was this that made the man appealing. ‘I’ll meet you in front then,’ he said, as the last bell rang before the second act.

When the play ended, Hannah half-expected to find that Danny had disappeared; why would someone his age want to take a woman half as old again out for dinner? So she was pleasantly surprised to find him standing on the edge of the pavement, looking out for her.

They went to a restaurant in St James’s - a large, modern place with a high ceiling, bright pastel columns and mirrors on the walls. Danny proved an easy conversationalist: amusing, entertaining, yet willing to talk about serious things. And to listen - he seemed to take a real interest in what Hannah had to say, which after thirty years of Saul was a refreshing change. Their conversation ranged widely: the theatre, music and the strange ways of the English. When he asked for her impressions of London - he said he had been there two years himself - she said, hoping it didn’t sound too banal, ‘It feels very different here. It’s almost as if something’s absent.’

He looked at her as their starters arrived. ‘You know what’s missing, don’t you?’

‘Halva?’ she asked playfully.