Debut for a Spy (4 page)

“I'll give it everything I've got, David. I'm determined to be the best Antigone there ever was. Will you come to see it?”

“
Just try to keep me away! Of course I will. Isn't that what 'parents' are supposed to do?”

I smiled at one of our 'in' jokes. Kate had a mercurial swing down to pensive.

“Hah!” she snorted, “parent, my fanny.”

She hugged me tenderly, then leaned back, still holding me, and looked at me in a way she had never done before. When she began to speak, her voice was soft.

“David,” she began, “I think it's about time we…” and at that moment her phone rang.

She stopped, gave me a wry little smile, saying
“I guess it'll have to keep,” as she ran off to take the call.

Probably just as well, I thought, and yet there was a twinge of disappointment. It was hard playing 'dad' when deep down you really didn't want to.

When she came back the mood was broken, and Kate seemed a little deflated.

“
Anything wrong, Kate?” I queried.

“
Oh, no, nothing really. It was Mom and Dad, and sometimes I realize just how much I miss them. They were calling from Gibraltar. Dad has to attend a meeting in Algeria, and Mom's going with him.”

“
What's the meeting about?”

“
Oh, probably about oil – that's what he's involved in. They were thrilled about my news of the play. Dad said that they'd get here for it next month. They've been wonderful, David. They've believed in me and encouraged me to follow my instincts. If I make it, it'll be because of them and their faith in me.”

“
Kate, let me take you out to dinner to celebrate.”

She brightened considerably.

“Yes, please, David – I'd like that very much.”

*

Paris
,
France
–
the
same
day

He had been waiting only a few hours, but already he was becoming frustrated with inactivity. He had begun thinking of a way to get one of the streetwalkers in for some diversion, but how to do it without leaving the apartment or placing an incriminating call was the problem. Who knows how he might want to end a sexual encounter with a whore?

The thought was exciting him, causing him to sweat even more. The telephone ring ended his fantasy.

“Yes?”

“
I've just heard from our friend in London. You are to fly to Gibraltar within the hour. A charter has been arranged with
L'Aviation
Petit
France
from Le Bourget. You will be met there with full instructions, including the contacts in Gibraltar. You must not fail. Do you understand?”

“
Perfectly.”

Within fifteen seconds he was out the door.

*

London
,
England
–
the
same
day

There was a wonderful Indian restaurant at Notting Hill Gate which we often visited. The food was subtle, delicious, and inexpensive.

We shared several dishes – a sag gosht, a beef vindaloo, and a mild vegetable curry, with a saffron-flavoured pilau rice that was out of this world. But what always made the meal were the beautiful puffed puris and the dahl, which was second to none in all of London. This was washed down with cold lager, and topped off with a home-made natural yogurt sprinkled with sugar.

Over the meal we talked about Kate's forthcoming play, about the doors it might open for her, and about her love of the theatre and acting. She was bubbling over, but tonight I was unable to match her enthusiasm. The stress of the day was weighing me down. I could almost forget about Colonel Hammond and Vladimir Nalishkin, but they refused to go away completely. I could sense them both trying to intrude on my peace of mind.

I made a decision. Let them play their stupid little spy games. I wanted no part of it. I'd call Hammond in the morning and tell him no. Immediately I felt better. I certainly didn't need the problems it would bring, to say nothing of the anxiety. The events of the day proved that. But Daphne Boggs was another story. Eventually Kate asked me what was wrong, and I told her about the pickpocket and the aftermath. She held my hands tightly. Words were superfluous.

Driving home we were quiet – lost in the complexities of our own thoughts.

Neither of us was prepared for the events that were about to overtake us.

CHAPTER FOUR

London
,
England
–
Wednesday
,
June
13
,
1962

The best part of driving in London is driving out of it.

That's precisely what I was doing the next morning, and it was one of those perfect days. The sun made the green of England seem even greener, and there was a translucent sheen over the Thames as I crisscrossed it several times on my way down the Chertsey by-pass near Richmond. This was what I loved about England, and it made the days of drizzle almost bearable.

Kate had left for school early – I hadn't even seen her – and I was to spend the day at the Royal Military School of Music, commonly known all over the world as Kneller Hall.

Since Kneller Hall was in Twickenham, Middlesex, I had decided to drive. Not that I needed much urging to get the Jag out, especially on a day like this. My one real extravagance, it was a Mark II 3.4 automatic in British Racing Green, and I loved handling it. I never ceased to marvel at its engineering or its finish – the soft green leather seats and the burled walnut fascia and trim. I had picked it up barely used from an elderly baronet who had decided to upgrade to a Rolls with a chauffeur. I think I got the better of the deal.

I pondered as I drove, about Kate and her wonderful opportunity, the terrible events of the previous day, and about Colonel Hammond's request and my decision to renege. Strangely, I realized that I was thinking more about Kate's good luck than I was about the intelligence thing. It surprised me that I didn't feel guilty about turning Hammond down.

With much apprehension I had read the papers earlier, afraid of the lurid details I might find about my tragic meeting with Daphne, the pickpocket. To my surprise and relief it had warranted only a small item on a back page, and my name had not been mentioned.

Unusual, I felt. The tabloids liked to have a field day with this sort of thing, and I realized how lucky I was not to be smeared all over the front pages. Thank God for small mercies.

Passing the Twickenham Rugby Grounds I could see the front of the main building of 'KH', with its ornamented red brick. Soaring above the trees were the twin towers, stark against the blue of the sky, standing sentinel for the Union Jack flying between them. It was hard to believe I had spent three years here as a student.

Turning into the main gate from the narrow road I was promptly saluted by the Pupils on guard duty – not because I was recognized as an officer, I realized, but because I was driving a Jaguar. It was safer to salute anything that smelled of status rather than hear about it later with a bollocking.

Parking the car I made my way into the main building – the former country home of Sir Godfrey Kneller, the celebrated court painter during the reign of Queen Anne in the early 1700's.

Lieutenant-Colonel Archibald Mowatt, OBE, LRAM, ARCM, psm, Director of Music, the Royal Military School of Music, and Senior Director of Music for the British Army, was an intimidating figure. Stocky, as many Scots are, his blue eyes pierced out under bushy white eyebrows, and his equally white moustache bristled continuously against a florid complexion.

Many a student bandmaster has wilted under that gaze, and Archie went to great pains to keep up the front, but underneath it all he was a gentleman and even more, a gentle man.

“Good morning, David,” he greeted, coming around his desk as I was shown into his office. “It's good to see you again.”

“
Good morning, Archie,” I smiled.

I always smiled when I called him Archie. Just over three years before it would have been unthinkable. As a student, even though Archie had known about my commission, we both had to play the game for the sake of propriety and protocol. Even so, he had allowed me some license which the British students had not had, and under the guise of giving me experience I was permitted a great deal of freedom and privilege. But he was still
“sir”, or “Colonel Mowatt” in those days.

Now, as a retired captain and with my rising status in British music, I was considered an equal – but I still smiled when I called him Archie.

“I'm glad you were able to come today – I know how busy you must be,” he said.

“
I really don't have a lot on right now. Rehearsals for the show begin in three weeks, and I figured I should have some time off before that grind begins.”

“
It's good to see you getting on – It's a tough life you've chosen. You've really got to have what it takes.”

“
Come on, Archie,” I replied, “you know how much luck is involved in this business. If I hadn't been in the right place at the right time a lot of these things wouldn't have happened for me. There are lots of guys walking around out there who can do what I do – they just haven't had a lucky break.”

“
Not at all, lad,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “It's the wonderful training we gave you here that's made the difference, and don't you forget it.” He chuckled as he reached for his cap. “Now let's go down to the rehearsal. Oh, by the way, I hope you're lunching in the mess with us today. There are a couple of people here you should meet.”

Every Wednesday night from late May until mid-August, the band at KH presented a public concert on the huge concrete bandstand in the garden behind the main building. These concerts were really part of the training program, not only for the musicians as players, but for the student bandmasters to conduct under performance conditions.

As well, there were often guest conductors, both military and civilian, and this served to acquaint the students and pupils with personalities in music and a wide variety of styles in conducting. On top of it all, the public were treated to some wonderful concerts, full of military splendor and endless variety.

As Archie stalked into view the rehearsal halted abruptly, and the band sergeant major brought the band smartly to attention. Archie took up his position at a microphone in the center of the lawn, and indicated to the student who was conducting to proceed.

For large outdoor concerts like this, all of the pupils and students formed the Kneller Hall band. The pupils were younger, promising musicians attending a one-year course of intensive instruction on their individual instruments, while the students were on a three-year course of theory and conducting, designed to prepare them for probable selection as Bandmasters in the British Army. There were also quite a few Commonwealth countries represented, and the mix was both stimulating and interesting.

It didn't take Archie long to get into gear. While the student struggled valiantly with Vaughan Williams'
The
Wasps
, Archie whistled to stop him and give him some 'friendly' advice.

“
Don't flap your left arm like that, lad,” he bellowed, “you'll take off like a ruddy bird. If you can't do something constructive with it we'll have to tie it down! Start again!”

I sat there, listening to the music and Archie's ravings, remembering my student days in a bit of a daydream, thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere and the sunshine.

I'm not sure when I first noticed her. I think it was a glint of sunshine in a mass of golden hair, but whatever it was it turned my head. She was several rows in front of me and slightly to my right, but with barely a dozen people attending the rehearsal it was surprising I hadn't been aware of her earlier.

I couldn't see her face, but that made it even more alluring, and it fitted perfectly into my daydream. She had on a lovely summer dress, and with that golden crown pulled to one side the view from this angle was fascinating, and I kept trying different faces on her in my daydream.

I stopped abruptly when I realized that Archie was calling me to rehearse my piece. Without a chance to put a real face on the lady, I strode to the high, wrought-iron conductor's podium, and picked up the baton.

“
Good morning,” I smiled at the band, “let's relax and just have fun with this.”

I was to conduct a selection of tunes written by Robert Farnon, a Canadian musician who had remained in England after the Second World War. Bob had become the pre-eminent composer of light music in Great Britain, and I had worked with him many times. He was a brilliant arranger and composer, and you couldn't know a nicer man.

The band had been well-prepared in advance by the school bandmaster, and the rehearsal went along smoothly. It felt strange to be back here conducting as a civilian, and I half expected to hear Archie's whistle for me to stop while he admonished me about something, but of course he didn't.

Only once, when I had stopped to explain a different eighth-note treatment that I wanted in a section, did I hear from him.

“What you're asking for is not what's written, is it, David?” he commented, and for Archie it was exceedingly calm.

I took the bull by the horns.

“No, Archie, it's not,” I called out, “but these should be played as swing-eighths and not straight-eighths. It's customary in this style of music.”

The band became still and silent, expecting a confrontation between the director and his former student. A lot of them knew I had been something of an upstart.

Archie hesitated, then raised his hat, beaming a smile.

“
I bow to your obvious mastery of the genre,” he said magnanimously, “please continue at your leisure.”

There was a splatter of applause from the 240 band members.
“And that'll be enough of that!” roared Archie.

The silence was immediate and deafening. It was not often that Archie gave in so easily.

The remainder of the selection went easily, and when I finished the band applauded. They knew I was one of them, and it made me feel at home to be acknowledged as such.

A break had been called, and I went straight over to Archie.

“I thought you were going to have a 'go' at me for a minute, Archie,” I said, laughing.

“
Ach, no, lad,” he replied, “I was just testin' you out. When you've got the stick in your hand, you're the boss. I just wanted to see if you'd learned that, or if you were still afeerd o’ me.”

He was smiling broadly. I replied in my best Scots brogue.

“Ye mus' be daft, Archie. I wasna' afeerd of you, or your prattlin' Scots blaither.”

Archie roared with laughter – a rare sight for the astonished army musicians.

“Now come and meet someone, David.”

We walked back toward the building, and there she was. This time, though, I saw her real face. I had a shock when I realized I had done her an injustice. None
of the faces I had imagined were the equal of what I saw.

“
Miss Templaars,” said Archie, saluting out of courtesy, “may I present David Baird? David was once under my control here, but as you can see he has now escaped, though he occasionally returns to torment me.”

Before he could complete the introduction she held out her hand and spoke. The accent was European, but a curious mix.

“Already I know many things about Mr. Baird, Colonel Mowatt. In fact, it becomes possible that he will be my next assignment.”

She said this with a playful smile at the corners of her mouth, obviously enjoying my confusion.

“I beg your pardon?” I stammered, my face flushing as Archie chuckled heartily.

“
Miss Templaars works for the cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy, David. She's told me about your singing engagement there. It's not often that David gets caught out like that, Miss Templaars. That was a treat to see. Now, if you're not afraid of retaliation, I'll leave you in his care for a wee while.”

He strode away, still chuckling. Miss Templaars was still amused, and it was reflected in her blue eyes.

“I hope I don't make anger for you, Mr. Baird. Is it possible to sit with me for some minutes?”

The warm smile made her face radiant. How could I resist?

“I'd be happier if you'd call me David,” I said, as I settled beside her, “and I am certainly not angry.”

“
Then you must call me Marijke,” she answered, pronouncing it as Mah-rye-ka.

“
Is that a Russian name?”

“
Oh, no, no, it is Dutch like my family name,” she responded, laughing at my confusion.

“
Are you just visiting Kneller Hall?”

“
I come in part for curiosity and also for discussion with Colonel Mowatt. I help to arrange a visit for the Kneller Hall band to the Soviet Union. This is in return for the Red Army Band and Chorus visit to United Kingdom.”

“
So you work for Vladimir Nalishkin?”

“
Yes, in cultural affairs.”

I thought I'd better leave that one alone.

“Will you really have something to do concerning my performance in your embassy?”

“
Yes, this is a possibility. It is agreeable with you?”

She probed me with those wonderful eyes.

“Yes, it is agreeable with me. In fact, I think it would be very nice to have you as my liaison. Who makes the decision?”