Debut for a Spy (19 page)

“Now,” she whispered, “now make love to me.”

The walls of her vagina contracted around my penis, and desire returned instantly. But this time it was slow, and gentle, and caressing, and the peak arrived gradually, with a tumbling down the other side which left us both shaken and exhausted.

I looked into her eyes, into a depth which passed all understanding. In that instant I knew that there could be no one else for me in this life. Tears filled my eyes.

“
I love you, Marijke. I don't understand what has happened, but I know that I will love you forever.”

“
And I love you, David. You give me a happiness which I never think will happen for me.”

We dressed rather quickly, for we were outdoors on a beautiful day, and it was quite possible that others would come along. So far we had been lucky, and it was just as well, for I think we would have been oblivious even if a commando of Royal Marines had scaled the cliff to sit, cheering us on.

We were both ravenous now, and Marijke pulled salads, sandwiches, and wine, from the hamper, and we ate with gusto and satisfaction. Sipping coffee from a Thermos flask, we sat shoulder to shoulder to regard the Seven Sisters, who looked back, aloof.

“
I wonder what they think of us?” pondered Marijke, quietly.

“
Probably that we're just another couple of silly humans in the passing parade.”

“
No, I think not. Somehow I think they understand we discover something wonderful in their presence, and in some strange way we become part of them, and they a part of us forever.”

It was an eerie statement, and what made it more so was that I understood what Marijke had said, for I felt the same way.

We gathered up our things and began the walk back, stopping for a moment just before the Sisters disappeared from view.

“
I shall always think of this place and this time with you in my heart, Marijke.”

I held her close, and kissed her.

“Something of mystery happens for us, David, and to me this becomes always our enchanted place.”

We stowed everything in the trunk, getting back in the Jag, and for a few minutes, just sat there holding hands.

“Now where?”

“
Turn around, please, and go back through Brighton.”

The sun was losing ground now to the clouds. Typical of coastal weather, it was ever-changing. We drove back the way we had come, arriving at the Palace Pier intersection.

“Now, can you drive toward Chichester? I think it is along the coast from here.”

“
Yes – about 25 miles. Does it matter which road we take?”

“
I think not. Why?”

“
Then we'll take the A27 and go through Arundel. It'll be quicker than the Marine Drive on a Sunday.”

Arundel is like something out of Walt Disney. Houses rise in tiers above the river Arun, toward a fairytale castle on one side and a 19th century Gothic cathedral on the other. The castle is inhabited by the Duke of Norfolk, the premier peer of the realm. What is most striking about Arundel is that the architecture of centuries stands side by side with modern development in reasonable harmony.

Marijke asked about dukes and titles, so I explained the honors system as simply as I could as we drove along. The concept bothered her.

“
Is it not better for people to be equal? I think the titles cause some people to think they are better than others.”

“
That happens. But humans function best on a system of hierarchy. Our social structures demand it. If we don't have a system of honors and titles, we create one. The American president's wife is called 'The First Lady', for example, and some people even refer to the whole mystique of the Kennedy presidency as 'Camelot', likening them to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.”

“
This does not happen in the Soviet Union. We have no titles or honors.”

“
Sure you do. Even after the revolution new orders were created like the Orders of Lenin and Suvorov, and some ancient ones continued like the Order of Alexander Nevsky, which was founded in the reign of the Empress Catherine. And if someone becomes a 'Hero' of the Soviet Union, it is both a title and an honor. The only difference is that the British have kept what has evolved over centuries of civilized development, and most of the rest of us, in our ignorance, scrap what we have inherited, then create a substitute, all the while pretending it is something else.”

Marijke pondered all of this for a few minutes.

“Why does a Canadian know about all of this?”

“
I became interested in heraldry, and it sort of grew from there.”

There was a brief pause.
“Heraldry? What is heraldry?”

“
Enough!” I laughed. “Save that one for our next lesson on historical institutions left over from the days of knights in armour.”

She looked at me seriously.

“I hope you don't mind telling me about these things. I have much to learn about western countries. They tell us in the Soviet Union that much of capitalistic countries is decadent. Now I listen to you explain about titles, and it does not seem so bad to me. It would seem highly structured, but, at the same time, adding colour and variety to society.” A pause. “When will you be honored with a title? Will you be Lord Baird of Canada, or just a simple knight like Sir David Baird?”

I looked over. Marijke was smiling broadly, teasing me as usual.

“Why not some good Canadian names? I could be the ‘Earl of Elbow', or the ‘Marquess of Shitagoo', or even 'His Grace, the Duke of Dildo'.”

“
These not real places in Canada – you make this up, David.”

“
No,” I replied, “They really are Canadian place names.”

“
Really? Shitagoo and Dildo?”

“
Yup. Makes you wonder what they do there, doesn’t it?”

We laughed, our giddiness a mark of the ease we felt in each other's company. There was warmth, there was understanding, there was love, and it was wonderful.

But I broke the bubble when I told her that we were entering Chichester. Suddenly she was sober.

“
Can you go toward Wittering, please?”

“
West Wittering or East Wittering?” I kidded.

“
It doesn't matter. We branch off soon.”

I decided to drive through the centre of this old town to let Marijke see it. The spire of the cathedral dominated the horizon, and it fascinated me because the composer Gustav Holst was buried there, as I held him in awe.

Eventually we came to a fork in the road.

“
Take the left road, David. We come to a village called Bracklesham Bay.”

It took another few minutes.

“Here we are. We can't go any further or we'll be in the water. Now what?”

“
Turn left on the street just before the beach. Now, stop by the house on the right with the high fence.”

It was a large property, about three acres, the Victorian house set almost in the centre and covered by trees. A six-foot stone fence surrounded the property, and there was a massive double gate for cars with a single one for pedestrians. Both were locked with a heavy chain and padlock.

“What is this, Marijke?”

“
I will explain later. Now we go in.”

She extracted a ring of keys from her purse, locating one which fitted the single gate's lock, and we entered the property. It was a fair distance to the house, and I remarked to myself how secluded it was. At the door Marijke found another key, and we entered to the musty odour of a closed-up house.

“Are you going to tell me where we are, or are we playing games and I must guess?”

I tried to be light-hearted, but Marijke's mood had changed drastically from the bantering in the car. She looked at me with desperation in her eyes, and then spoke to me in a low voice.

“This house is leased by the KGB. Only six people know about it, all KGB. Even the ambassador has no knowledge. It is leased through cut-outs, and the people who sign the contracts don't know who they lease for. They are paid well, and they are gone.”

“
Why are you telling me this? What are we doing here?”

She ignored my question.

“The house is used as a safe house for interviews with agents, and very often as a trap for people they are trying to blackmail or force into co-operating. Each of the bedrooms upstairs has equipment for sound and film recording, and also this large living room. There is a central control room through this door, and it monitors everything in the house, including the 'playroom' downstairs.”

“
The 'playroom'?”

“
It is a torture chamber from Middle Ages, with a rack, manacles and chains on walls and table, pullies with ropes, and all torture equipment you imagine.”

I felt a lump in my stomach.

“What's the 'playroom' for?”

“
It will surprise you how many people express hidden desire to control someone in a place like this. KGB is very good finding out people who work for different governments and who have these desires. When they find out they can have these fantasies with no limits, they become pawns in the hands of KGB, but they don’t know it’s KGB. They come here, maybe once a month, and their victim is supplied, and they do what they wish.

“
KGB makes film of everything, and with each visit people sink deeper and deeper, for when they begin on these fantasies they get more depraved with each visit.” Her voice was choked. “At least once that I know the victim dies in the 'playroom', and if I know of one there are others.”

The immensity of this was weighing me down. I felt I was drowning in a morass of human degradation.

“Where do their victims come from?”

“
Mainly they are prostitutes hired by the KGB. Sometimes the client brings his own.” Her voice dropped. “And sometimes there are special considerations.”

“
And they supply information in return for this?”

“
It is price for admission, and then KGB tells them they are trapped. Better the information, better the fantasy. Do you want to see 'playroom'? I show you the door.”

She walked across the living room into the hall, indicating a door near the kitchen. I followed her.

“No, thanks. I get the picture. But I'd like to know why you brought me here, and why you're telling me all this. Surely it's not safe for us to be here if what you say is true.”

“
Of the six people who know about this house, four are away in Moscow until tomorrow. One is on duty at the embassy. He must not leave his post for any reason. The other is me.”

“
Does that mean you are in the KGB?”

“
Yes. And so is Vladimir Nalishkin. He is a KGB colonel, and the
rezident
or chief of station in London. You are shocked?”

I considered my answer carefully as I walked to the back of the kitchen and looked out the window to the waterfront.

“I'm not shocked, Marijke. I think I know you. I may not know everything about you, but I know what kind of person you are. You must have a good reason to be in the KGB, and I don't think I should know what it is. But you haven't answered my question. Why are we here?”

“
There is secret operation being planned of which I know nothing. Four who have gone to Moscow are involved. In some way they use something in this house, but I don't know what or how. I must not ask questions, I only listen. But I know it is very big, and it is very soon.”

I feared the answer to the next question.

“Marijke, why me?”

She looked at me, then sighed in resignation.

“I know about you, David. Last night, when I am on duty, I read all the signals which come in. On Friday, a man who works for us in Paris, a Bulgarian, is pushed from a window. It is near
Gare
de
l'Est
. He is holding a British agent for KGB in Paris. When they arrive, he is dead. Not one person knows who the British agent is who pushes him. No one but me. You, my darling, are this agent, and one KGB would give anything to find.”

I was stunned. I didn't know how to answer her. If I tried to deny it, I would look a fool. Marijke had been with me in Paris, and it was easy for her to piece it together. But should I admit it? I wasn't so sure.

“Let's get outside. This place depresses me,” I said.

“
We can walk on the beach?”

“
Sure, as long as it’s away from here.”

We walked through the hall toward the front door. I jumped when a voice spoke quietly from the living room.

“I think you'd better stop right there, lovebirds.”

We both froze and looked wildly into the room. A man in a rather flashy suit stood there, gun in hand. I presumed he was one of the Soviets until Marijke spoke.