The House of Rumour (6 page)

All at once, the only certainty she felt was that someone was indeed following her. Even from her cursory training in fieldcraft she knew that it wasn’t a very professional tail-job. Perhaps it was someone trying to pick her up. If nothing else the blackout had increased the sense of sexual opportunism, as M had pointed out with those two men the other day. She had once been pursued by a man who, it turned out, she vaguely knew from the War Office, who had told her: ‘When I saw you in the street I told myself that if you were a tart I’d take you to bed, and if you were a lady I’d take you to dinner. Will you come?’ he had added with a playful chuckle. ‘I mean to dinner, of course.’ It was a remark that would have been almost unthinkable from someone of her class before the war. The constant danger of the Blitz had made people more relaxed: as death became casual, so did life. Tonight, though, Joan was in no mood for fun and games. She stopped and turned, waiting for her follower to catch up so that she could confront him.

She peered along the pavement. The footsteps behind had ceased but she could not make anybody out through the gloom. She started walking again, at first determined to go slowly. But she found her pace picking up. She tried to stay calm but she could not. By the time she had reached her doorstep she was quite out of breath. As she went to close the door behind her, she took a moment to look out into the night. No one was there, she decided. She had imagined it. But as she hung up her coat she noticed that someone had marked a cross in chalk on her back.

5 / THE MAGICIAN

An old man with a childlike gait, thought Fleming, as the Magician shuffled through the hallway to greet him. Two tufts of hair sprouted on either side of an otherwise bald head like impish horns, and a mischievous smile lit up haggard features. The eyes were sharp and vigilant, though. The whites showed all around the irises, giving him an alert and forceful gaze.

Shown through to the study, Fleming found himself drawn to a picture resting on an easel at the far end of the room. A brightly painted panel of about ten by twelve inches depicted an androgynous figure in a green robe decorated with bees and serpents, flanked by a white lion and a red eagle. Encircling this tableau was an inscription in red on a golden arc.

‘Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem.’ Fleming read the words out loud. The Magician smiled.

‘How’s your cryptology?’ he asked.

‘Well, my Latin’s a bit shaky. Let me see.’ He studied the motto once more. ‘Visit the interior of the earth, rectifying or by rectification . . . um . . . you find, no, you
will
find. You will find
occultum lapidem
. The hidden stone. Is that the philosopher’s stone?’

‘Yes!’ replied the Magician with a delighted clap. Fleming noted that his hands were quite yellow and curiously small.

‘An alchemical formula?’

‘It is indeed. But I’m afraid you haven’t quite cracked it.’

‘I’m afraid code-breaking’s not my department, Mr Crowley.’

‘My dear boy,’ his host retorted, ‘I can assure you that this one is not beyond your obvious talents. Go on, have another go.’

For a second Fleming bristled at being so obviously teased. Then he smiled. He looked across the room at this extraordinary man whose playful eyes danced in a wizened skull. He had not known what to expect from the Magician after all the incredible stories that had been told about him, the strange details in his dossier. He had expected to find him disagreeable, yet he found that he liked the man almost at once. He was not quite sure why. Perhaps it was the perverse candour that he displayed, in his speech, in his very appearance. Crowley was in his sixties, his lined and jaundiced flesh bearing witness to the countless sufferings of pleasure. But there was a corporeal honesty about him. His own body had been his greatest luxury, Fleming thought with an odd sense of admiration. The Magician had not squandered his life by trying to conserve it. He had used up his time. Fleming turned back to the picture and swiftly considered the simplest cypher that came to mind.

‘V,’ he began, counting off the first letter of each word. ‘V, I, T, R, I, O, L. Vitriol. That’s sulphuric acid, isn’t it?’

‘Yes indeed. The solution, if you like. The universal solvent. Vitriol here actually refers to the principal alchemical elements of sulphur, salt and mercury. A magical interpretation that only initiates of the ninth degree can comprehend. Anyway,’ he pointed at the picture, ‘it’s the fourteenth trump card of the Tarot. I’m redesigning the whole pack. It’s the Book of Thoth, you know.’

‘Thoth?’

‘The Egyptian god of language. Lady Frieda Harris is doing the artwork for this new set and I am writing the commentary. Her husband is Liberal Member of Parliament for Market Harborough. Rather a dull politician, I’m afraid. Known as the “Housemaid” due to his ability to empty the Chamber whenever he makes a speech. His wife has quite a talent, though, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, this one’s been causing her a lot of bother. It’s commonly known as Temperance. “Temperance is a kettle of fish,” she told me in a note. I’ve decided to rename it. I’m calling it Art. What do you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Haven’t had much luck with cards myself recently.’

Crowley laughed.

‘My dear boy, the Major Arcana is not some game of chance. The twenty-two trump cards compose a complete system of hieroglyphics representing the total energies of the universe.’

‘Quite,’ Fleming rejoined with an arch smile.

‘Now I see that I’m boring you. That will never do. Come.’ He indicated two armchairs by a table in the middle of the study. ‘Let’s sit down. I’ve been waiting for Naval Intelligence to make contact. I take it you’ve seen my file?’

Fleming nodded as he walked over. The Magician sighed and lowered himself slowly into his seat. A chessboard was set out on the table between them.

‘Yes,’ Crowley went on. ‘I’ve done the state some service. You know that there’s a long tradition of those with occult powers being employed in espionage. Doctor Dee, Queen Elizabeth’s court magician, was also one of her best spies, you know. She called them her “eyes”, with two circles indicating this and then a number. Dee was the seventh of her “eyes”, so his code sign was double-O-seven.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. I suppose I’m secret agent 666.’

‘Actually your code name in the department is the Magician.’

‘Quite,’ said Crowley, slightly out of breath. He began to wheeze and pulled out a Benzedrine inhaler from his pocket, taking a sharp snort in each nostril. A tear lingered in the corner of one eye. ‘Sorry, it’s my wretched asthma,’ he explained. ‘Now look, my dear boy, since you’ve had a good look at my file you know that what I did for your department in the last war cost me dearly. Disinformation and all that, I know. Disseminating absurd German propaganda to discredit the enemy. Worked a treat. But rather cast me as the villain. Don’t think I can go through all that again.’

‘Don’t worry on that account. We’ve other plans for you.’

‘Good. All the scandal, my great notoriety, it’s ruined me. It’s not easy being the wickedest man in the world, you know.’

‘I don’t suppose it is.’

‘I’m an undischarged bankrupt. Like our own great realm, I’m now dependent on American support for my survival. Oh yes, my own Land-Lease scheme. The Agape Lodge in California is providing some funds. Just had a charming letter from a new member in Pasadena. A very promising young rocket scientist, would you believe. Rather dashing, too, it seems. You see, my Order is already grooming my successor. I don’t have much time, I know that. The mind’s still sharp but the body, well.’ He made a plaintive gesture to the picture on the easel. ‘I want to finish this. Sorry if I sound pompous about it but it really could be my magnum opus.’

‘A pack of cards?’

‘Yes. A fitting epitaph some would say. To my sinful life.’

He bared his discoloured teeth in a rueful grin. There was sadness in his expression, but little remorse. Holding Fleming’s gaze with an unfocused stare, he started to address him in a direct and intimate manner, his voice soft and hypnotic.

‘You know, of course, that there was an eighth deadly sin, don’t you? Oh yes, the worst of the lot. The early Christians called it
accidie
, the sorrow of the world, a deadly lethargy and torpor of the spirit that was known to engulf whole villages in the Middle Ages. The most frightful devil of all is this noonday demon of melancholy. Boredom, my dear boy, a terrible vice, and the only one I have been truly determined to resist.’

Fleming suddenly felt as if the Magician was peering into his own soul, that he saw how disappointed he felt in life. All of its empty pleasures and futile plans of action had left him cold. He might be flippant and withdraw into a pose of detached superiority but he was endlessly taunted by the noonday demon, a sinful weariness of the heart. It was this that forced him to seek refuge in a solitary world where he plotted out his secret stories. That other life of obscure substance: the autobiography of his daydreams.

As he began to outline Crowley’s designated role in Operation Mistletoe, he found himself becoming far more expansive in his briefing than was usual. He had hitherto developed a method in the handling of agents where they would be carefully kept in the dark as to the overall nature of their assignment and fed information only when it was strictly required. But with the Magician he felt that he could tell him everything. All the details of this fantastical project that had been conjured out of unofficial and increasingly bewildering interdepartmental strategies of disinformation, counter-intelligence and black propaganda. It struck him that this supremely arcane intellect alone could truly comprehend the complex absurdity of such a scheme. And no one would believe him if he ever told the tale. Crowley was himself a cypher, a hidden stone, a key to all the foolish mysteries and rumours in the world.

As Fleming spoke he watched Crowley closely, instinctively gathering intelligence for his own internal memorandum. Another brief appraisal: a version of the man’s character that he could use. Crowley no longer wanted to be cast as the villain in real life, but in fiction, yes, he would make the perfect malefactor. An extravagant counterpoint to the empty hero of Fleming’s private narrative.

‘My dear boy,’ the Magician announced when the briefing had finished. ‘This is marvellous stuff! Preposterous!’ He broke into a laugh that soon turned into a gasping huff. He took another double hit of his inhaler and caught his breath. ‘It’s . . .’ he panted. ‘It’s completely implausible. That’s the genius of it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Fleming, knowing then that he was right to tell Crowley all of it. ‘But you will be able to make contact with certain elements within enemy territory? Your, um, Order, it began as a German mystical society, didn’t it?’

‘The Ordo Templi Orientis, yes, a banned organisation in the Reich, I’m afraid. As you might know, the Nazis have been clumsily imposing their own monopoly on the dark arts. But I still have something of a network out there. Heh heh, my own Secret Service if you like.’

‘And might you be able to get a man close to our subject?’

‘A man, yes.’ Crowley pondered. ‘Or maybe a woman.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes.’ Crowley looked up wistfully. ‘Astrid. It’s been a long time but she might be just the person for this job.’

‘One of your many protégées?’ asked Fleming.

‘Oh no,’ Crowley replied with a smile. ‘
She
initiated
me
.’

6 / THE BOMBPROOF HOTEL

The downstairs Grill Room at the Dorchester was already crowded when Joan Miller arrived. Cabinet ministers escorting nervously respectable wives or casually disreputable mistresses, steel-grey brigadiers with hatchet-jawed adjutants, off-duty airmen and on-duty tarts, cinema producers and motor-car salesmen, American war correspondents, playboys, actresses, writers: all the high and the low who could afford it seemed to have found sanctuary from the Blitz in the supposed safety of the hotel’s modernist steel and reinforced-concrete womb.

Miller struggled to assume a calm air, to attune herself to the forced gaiety that surrounded her. She had come straight from her flat to this fashionable ‘bombproof’ hotel with a sickening sense of anxiety and fear. Someone must have recognised her at the meeting and had marked her out as a target. An intangible danger waited for her in the blackout beyond and she was no longer quite sure whom she could trust. She spotted Fleming in conversation with Cyril Connolly and an elderly colonel, and staggered over to join them.

‘Now look,’ Fleming was declaiming loudly at the old soldier while gesticulating dismissively towards the short and tubby Connolly. ‘This is Connolly, who publishes a perfectly ghastly magazine full of subversive nonsense by a lot of long-haired drivelling conchies who will all be put away for their own good for seven years under Section 18b. So perhaps you’d better subscribe to the thing, now you’ve got the chance, just to see what sort of outrageous stuff they can get away with in a country like this during wartime.’

‘I see.’ The colonel nodded with a vacant sagacity. ‘Very interesting.’