The Girl in Berlin (18 page)

Unless …

Unless he himself had been sent as the agent of destruction.

No: that could not be the unspoken message. There were sure to be plenty of assassins in this city. Someone would know who they were and how to get hold of one. Also, he could surely not have been meant to deduce such an order from Kingdom’s ambiguous instructions. Yet: I don’t want him back here, Kingdom had said.

seventeen

D
INAH AND ALAN WERE
sitting in their basement area. To make the subterranean yard seem more like a garden Dinah had placed tubs of hydrangeas and roses in the corners and trained a clematis up the wall as far as the railings.

Alan was in a mellow mood. He’d had a good week. He hadn’t been blamed for the Eberhardt interview debacle, and since Eberhardt’s mysterious death everything had changed anyway. He had got the go-ahead for one of his cherished projects, a history of documentary film, in spite of doubts about whether such a visual subject would work on radio. Edith had gone to visit a friend in Suffolk, and this was a relief, because although her voluptuous hold over him had far from diminished, her demands were becoming difficult to handle. Finally, this evening he had come home at a decent hour and played with his son after his bath and, as he lifted the wriggling, laughing, shouting infant out of the water, he knew he loved him more than anything in the world. Dinah, towel held out, had said: ‘He looks so like you.’

Now Alan was outlining his plan for the documentary series, to include, he hoped, an interview with the famous documentary maker and producer, Edgar Anstey, when the telephone rang from upstairs.

‘Is that you, Wentworth? Terrific. You know it’s Wimbledon
next week? I’ve got a couple of spare tickets. Centre Court of course. Care to come along with your wife – or your mistress if you prefer? I think Jaroslav Drobny might win this year, don’t you? Should be a good afternoon. Provided it doesn’t rain, of course. We’ll have a spot of lunch beforehand.’

Outside again, Alan sat heavily in his seat and drank back the rest of his beer.

‘Work, darling? You look a bit glum.’

‘Chap I used to know – I saw him again quite recently, didn’t I tell you? Miles Kingdom – he’s invited us to Wimbledon next week. God knows why. Do you fancy it? I’d have to take a day’s leave, I’ve too much work on really, and … I don’t know … I’m not mad about the idea. But I suppose we should go. I expect you’d get on with Miles – and you used to play tennis.’

‘Wimbledon? How lovely! But – I don’t know – you don’t sound very keen. And what about Tommy? Who’ll look after him? I can’t just go off for the day like that. I suppose I could ask Mummy. She’s been hinting about a shopping trip up to London for ages. Or there’s always Reggie and Nanny Holt.’

Dinah couldn’t help being impressed by the flamboyance of the large cream-coloured Austin that rolled to a halt beside them. The man who leant out of the driving-seat window also had a touch of flamboyance. He wore pale linen and a panama hat and was a type familiar from her life at home. Her father had friends like Kingdom, an unflappable Englishman with a dry laugh and encased in unshakeable confidence.

A little girl stumbled out of the passenger seat. Kingdom also stepped out of the car. He raised his hat and held out his hand to Dinah. His clasp was firm and dry, his hazel eyes very bright.

‘At least the weather’s cheered up. No rain today, I think. This is Judy. My god-daughter. I persuaded her mother to let
her take French leave from school – just one day can’t do any damage, eh, Judy?’ He squeezed her shoulders.

Judy smiled and held out her hand. ‘How do you do.’

‘You’ll sit in the front, Mrs Wentworth, or in the back with Judy?’

Dinah wondered why the girl’s mother wasn’t of the party. She knew Alan would prefer the front and sensed that Kingdom wanted her to sit with the child in the back, so she did. She would have preferred a different arrangement, but men always hogged the front seat.

Kingdom wheeled the car round and set off for West London. It was exciting to drive through the streets and watch London stream by. She could see the schoolgirl was thrilled too. She tried to talk to her about her school, her work and whether she played tennis, but the girl was very shy. She must be about twelve or thirteen, but in her cotton frock with a sash and her short white socks and button shoes, she looked, if anything, younger.

As soon as they reached the grounds of the All England Tennis Club Dinah caught the decorous excitement of the event. The china-blue and white sky, the surging green of trees and grass and the sedate flocks of spectators walking towards the entrance were a thrill, and when they reached the Centre Court the atmosphere had a special mixture of tension and relaxation.

The first match of the day, between two Americans with peculiar names, Ham Richardson and Budge Patty, lasted for five long, thrilling sets. Budge Patty was the reigning champion, but in the end he lost. Dinah felt sad for him as he shook hands with the young man called Ham, who had wheat-white hair and looked as though he’d come straight from Kansas.

Judy concentrated so hard that her knuckles were white. ‘I’m glad Ham Richardson won,’ she said, ‘he’s so handsome, don’t you think?’

Miles Kingdom, turning towards Dinah, smiled. ‘Wonderful volleying from Patty, wasn’t it? I’m rather sorry he lost.’ And then: ‘Why don’t you take Judy for an ice cream. The match was quite exhausting, I expect you’re a bit bored now, aren’t you, Judy.’

Dinah slightly resented being handed the role of Judy’s chaperone and it was clear the child wasn’t bored at all, but she rose obediently from her seat. She felt stiff and perhaps it was a good idea to stand up and stretch one’s legs. ‘Let’s go and mill around, shall we, Judy? There might be an interesting match on an outside court.’

They queued for ice cream and then, with their little tubs of strawberry and vanilla, strolled out, edging between the spectators on the outside courts and hearing the thud of the balls and the shouts of ‘out’ and ‘fault’ and the implacable voice of an umpire calling the score through the bright air. She could smell grass and rubber and the sun was warm on her back at the same time as the chilly wind nipped round her legs and tugged at her hat. She held it on with her white-gloved hand and then couldn’t be bothered, and pulled it off. Out here the crowds were more informally dressed anyway and the hat felt silly.

Alan stood with Kingdom at the debenture bar. It was typical of Kingdom to be a debenture holder. The long match had exhausted Alan. He despised all sports, as did all his intellectual friends, and had found the match unendurably boring, while at the same time tense, but he did his best to sound enthusiastic.

‘Wimbledon is quite an interesting social occasion, isn’t it – hovering somewhere between Ascot and Twickenham, perhaps? Very English, anyway.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Kingdom. ‘Not any more. It’s completely dominated by foreign players. The Americans, the Australians – no sign of the new Fred Perry. All part of this country’s decline, I suppose.’

‘But you said Drobny might win and isn’t he a British citizen now?’

Kingdom was having none of that. ‘Even if he does win, he’s still Czech. He didn’t learn his tennis in this country. Our whole training system’s hopeless.’

They stepped onto the terrace with their drinks. Kingdom turned towards Alan. ‘I’m glad we’ve found time for a chat.’

Alan was quite certain that Kingdom would never mention Edith in front of Dinah, he’d never behave as crudely as that, yet all day he’d felt nervous, for there were subtler ways of sowing doubt and suspicion. Now he was additionally nervous, because he feared this ‘chat’ was going to be about Colin. He decided to pre-empt the interrogation. ‘I haven’t seen Harris for a while,’ he said, hoping he sounded casually unconcerned. But Harris was not what Kingdom wanted to talk about.

‘The interview you did with Konrad Eberhardt. What’s happening about that? Montagu Palmer said there might be some delay.’

Montagu Palmer was near the very top of the BBC. Alan was taken by surprise. And then thought he shouldn’t have been – because Kingdom was the kind of man who knew the Montagu Palmers of this world. But what a relief that Harris wasn’t the focus after all! ‘It hasn’t gone out. The old man rambled so much – I don’t think we’ll be able to use it. We might do a more extended programme on him, I suppose. He was so bloody confused, I didn’t really twig at the time, which was stupid of me, but I think his mind must have been going a bit. In any case, it may be sub judice now.’

‘I wondered if there was anything he said … that might have had a bearing …?’

‘A bearing on what, exactly?’

‘Well, he knew Klaus Fuchs, didn’t he. I know he wasn’t in atomic research, but – you know …’

‘He never said anything about that. Some of the things he
said were a bit wild. There was all this talk about his autobiography, as if it contained all kinds of secrets. He didn’t seem suicidal, if that’s what you mean.’

Kingdom shook his head with an indulgent smile, as if suicide was far too simple an explanation. ‘An autobiography! That would make interesting reading, I should imagine. But the point is, I’d be awfully grateful if I could have a sight of the full transcript. Of the interview.’ Kingdom was smoking, looking out over the terrace.

‘I don’t see why not. Mind you, it’s a complete mess. But … isn’t there a police investigation?’

‘They’re useless. No imagination. They’re not even particularly interested. I can’t
tell
you what a low opinion I have of CID.’

They drank, looking out at the view of the suburbs bathed in late-afternoon sun. After a while Kingdom said: ‘I’m rather glad the Eberhardt interview hasn’t gone out yet. As a matter of fact, it might be a good idea if it didn’t go out at all.’

Alan glanced sideways at his host, who continued to stare blandly ahead. Could he really have said that? ‘It’s not my decision,’ he said coldly.

‘Well – think about it. Do what you can.’

Why don’t you talk to Palmer, then? was the retort that crossed Alan’s mind, but he thought it wiser not to say it.

Soon after six, when the sun was sloping over the Centre Court and the fans were milling around outside the players’ entrance, Kingdom called it a day. Dinah would have stayed until nine o’clock and Judy begged to stay longer, but Kingdom insisted: ‘Must get you home to your mother at a decent hour. I promised we’d be back before eight.’

Kingdom dropped her off at a big house in Primrose Hill. He got out to escort her to the front door and bent down to kiss her.

‘Thank you so much for taking me, Uncle Miles. I’ve had a lovely day.’

‘Remember me to your mother – I won’t come in.’

‘You seem very fond of her,’ said Dinah, thinking how nice it was he took an interest.

‘Lovely little thing, isn’t she,’ said Kingdom as they drove off. As the cream-coloured car cruised up Rosslyn Hill he said: ‘I’ve no children of my own and they’ve had a hard time, she and her mother. Her father was captured by the Japanese – Singapore. Died on the Japanese railway. Rotten luck.’

‘It’s hardly bad luck to be killed in battle. I thought killing people was the whole point of war.’ Dinah heard her own voice sounding shrill and aggressive, but it made her so angry.

But Miles Kingdom just laughed. ‘My dear Mrs Wentworth,’ he began and then the sentence tailed away into a kindly silence of infinite condescension.

eighteen

V
ICTOR JORDAN PASSED HIMSELF OFF
as a British businessman concerned with the development of the new, postwar Germany. He invited McGovern to meet him for lunch at a club originally set up for officers and officials of the occupying forces. As soon as McGovern saw it, he realised it was Frieda Schröder’s place of work, but as he glanced round the dining room there was no sign of her. Nor did he really expect to see her. She presumably worked in a back office somewhere.

The Occupation was winding down, Victor Jordan told him and the officers’ club would be closing soon. In the meantime it continued to provide an excellent lunch.

‘The currency reform was a godsend,’ said Jordan as they settled at their table. ‘Bonn’s a stuffy little place, but the Federal Republic has really picked up, it’s properly established now. Of course there’s been hardship for the Germans – two million unemployed at the end of last year and they grumbled like mad about the way prices went up – but in the long run they’ll be thankful. The whole of West Germany will be like the Ku’damm. Not that the Krauts are grateful.’ He ordered drinks from the obsequious German waiter and looked beadily at his guest. ‘I don’t know that your cover’s that brilliant, you know. Journalist is too often a code word for secret agent. Look at Guy Burgess – he was a kind of journalist at one time. God,
what a bloody mess that is. What were they thinking of back in Whitehall? What has our mutual friend got to say about that?’ He stared at McGovern accusingly. Our mutual friend meant Kingdom, he assumed.

‘Pretty shocked, I think.’

‘Pretty shocked! A bit late to be
pretty shocked
. We’ve known about the information leak for some time. Most of my colleagues and the Foreign Office wouldn’t admit it, couldn’t believe it, utter disbelief. But – since Klaus Fuchs was arrested, anyway – we’ve had to bite the bullet. There is a ring of agents in Britain. American intelligence, the Venona project in West Virginia, told us that. But our friend will have put you in the picture.’

McGovern knew that Kingdom was not to be mentioned by name. ‘Not entirely, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Jordan raised his eyebrows. ‘We were on to one of them, very close. Guy Burgess behaved so outrageously in America – open anti-Americanism, provocative statements, drunken driving, insults, picking fights – he’d have had to be brought home anyway …’ His words petered out in a shrug.

This, McGovern knew, was tantamount to admitting that the two missing men were Soviet agents. But everyone knew that now. The only question was, how it could have taken so long. It seemed incredible. ‘I’m here because it seems possible Colin Harris could have had something to do with the getaway.’