A Gathering of Spies (2 page)

Fredricks cleared his throat. “We're nearly there,” he said stiffly.

Winterbotham turned and looked out his window again, feeling vaguely satisfied.

He knew they were near Salisbury because he spotted the extraordinary, unmistakable spire of the gothic cathedral—a stab of darkness just slightly darker than the sky behind it—shortly before they stopped. The car pulled up outside a small Tudor house that stood among a row of similar houses, modest dwellings all, with crossed slats of honey-colored wood on the peaked roofs.

Winterbotham waited for Colonel Fredricks to open his door for him, then stepped out into the night, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. A bitter wind immediately took his chestnut hair and increased its disarray. He pulled his tweed jacket more tightly around himself, crinkling his eyes against motes of flying dust.

The room they entered had a claustrophobically low ceiling; it smelled of cabbage and fish. The only light came from a crackling fire in a stone hearth. Blackout shades had been drawn over the windows nonetheless. A wireless radio somewhere, turned low, was playing softly “She's Funny That Way.”

Winterbotham had guessed right: Andrew Taylor was sitting in one of two easy chairs by the fireplace. He rose as they came into the room, and offered his hand. He was a man of a certain age, like Winterbotham himself, and, like Winterbotham, he was a man of a certain weight, even in the midst of wartime rationing.

Winterbotham had not seen Taylor for several years, not since they'd been teaching together at the university. His first impression was that the man looked older, more haggard, more harried. His second was that he also looked healthier, in a strange way: His eyes were sparkling, and his handshake was firm. The war was doing him good, Winterbotham realized. Sometimes you found people like that; these dark days brought out the best in them. They were the Churchills of the world, the ones who thrived on conflict.

“Evening, old chap,” Taylor said. “They found you.”

“That they did. In my bath.”

“Sorry about that, Harry. Come in, have a seat. Thank you, Colonel. That will be all.”

Colonel Fredricks executed a courtly half bow, then stepped back out through the front door and closed it behind himself.

“You've got him well trained,” Winterbotham remarked.

“Not I. It's the Royal Artillery who trained him so well. Tea?”

“Something stronger, if you've got it.”

Winterbotham settled down in one of the easy chairs beside the fire. A marble chessboard had been set up on a table between the chairs. He inspected it with a small smile. Perhaps Taylor had dragged him all the way out here simply because he was hungry for a good game of chess … although he rather doubted it.

Taylor handed him a chipped mug and sat opposite the chessboard, holding one of his own. Winterbotham raised the mug and sniffed suspiciously. Whiskey. He took a sip into his mouth and rolled it around. Not just whiskey, but good whiskey. How long had it been since he'd had good whiskey?

“You're looking well,” Taylor said.

Winterbotham glanced at him with a raised eyebrow—he knew how he was looking, and well had nothing to do with it—and drank some more of the good whiskey without comment.

Taylor seemed content to let the quiet linger. The fire crackled and the wireless hummed and a whistle of wind rustled through the eaves of the house. Presently, Winterbotham turned his attention to the chessboard. The ranks were arranged in starting position. He reached out, took the king's pawn between thumb and forefinger, and moved it forward two spaces. The king's pawn opening, so simple, so
workable
, had always driven Taylor mad with frustration. Taylor felt that every move in a chess game, as in life, should be a feat of brilliance. He had no appreciation for the simple pleasures of a job well done if there was not some element of spectacle.

Taylor leaned forward, rubbing his chin, and then countered with the knight's pawn—nothing ever could be simple with him.

He said, “I didn't bring you here to play chess.”

“I didn't think so,” Winterbotham said, bringing a bishop out.

“I heard about Ruth,” Taylor said. “I'm sorry, Harry.”

Winterbotham nodded without looking up.

“Any word on her?” Taylor pressed. “Any hope?”

Winterbotham shrugged. “There's always hope,” he allowed.

In Ruth's case, however, there wasn't much. She had gone to Warsaw, despite Winterbotham's warnings, in the summer of 1939. She had family there—two brothers, assorted cousins—and she had been determined to convince them to come out before it was too late. But by the time she arrived, it already was too late. Hitler and his SS squads marched in a week later. Now she was either dead or imprisoned; Winterbotham had no way of knowing. But her chances, as he long ago had admitted to himself, were not good.

He remembered that Taylor had a wife of his own. He couldn't quite recall her name. Alice, he thought, or possibly Alicia—or possibly Helen, probably Helen. He took a chance.

“How's Helen?”

Taylor was staring at the chessboard. “She's passed on,” he said. “Nearly two years now.”

“The bombs?”

“Tuberculosis.”

“I'm sorry, Andrew.”

“Mm,” Taylor said.

For ten minutes, then, they played without speaking. Taylor tripped himself up, as was his habit, with his own ambition. He played dramatically, unwilling to take the time to build simple defenses, always looking for an unexpected cross-board coup.

Winterbotham whittled him down pawn by pawn, then split his king and his rook, nabbed the rook, and began to press his opponent's flank. He finished his mug of whiskey and waited to be offered another. Finally, Taylor tipped his king over and laid it down in resignation.

“The more things change …” he said with a sour smile. “Care for another drink?”

“I won't refuse.”

“I didn't think you would. So, old chap, still teaching?”

“You must know that I'm not.”

“I do know that, as a matter of fact. But I've been unable to discover exactly what it is that you
are
doing.”

“Very little,” Winterbotham said. “Locking myself in the library with my books, for the most part. Except when I'm being mysteriously interrupted during my bath and dragged out into the countryside.”

“That's a shame,” Taylor said. “A bloody shame.”

He had fetched the bottle; now he refilled the mugs and then sat again, looking at Winterbotham contemplatively.

“It's a waste of talent, is what it is,” he said. “England could use you. Now more than ever.”

“The way she uses you?”

“Mm,” Taylor said.

“It does seem to agree with you—whatever it is that you're doing.”

“Mm.”

“Bringing your extensive knowledge of the classics to bear on the Nazis,” Winterbotham said. “What scares them the most, Andrew? Chaucer? Or is it Shakespeare?”

“You're digging,” Taylor said, smiling.

“I'm curious. I don't understand exactly how elderly professors like ourselves are of service to His Majesty in wartime, I'll admit.”

“How curious are you?”

“Mildly.”

“Curious enough to want to know more?”

“I wouldn't have asked otherwise.”

“Honestly, old chap, I wish I could tell you everything I'm doing. But I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“Yet you didn't bring me out here just for a game of chess.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Taylor chewed on his lip for a moment. “There was a time,” he said slowly, “when you were not eager about this war.”

Winterbotham said nothing.

“You were rather vocal with your opinions,” Taylor said. “
Extremely
vocal, as I recall. What was it you called Churchill?”

“You know very well,” Winterbotham said crisply.

“Of course I do. You called him a warmonger. You don't have many friends in my sphere, old chap, I'll tell you that. Do you know what they call you?”

“I could hazard a guess.”

“Go ahead.”

“Something along the lines of an appeaser.”

“Right again,” Taylor said. “You'd have been happy to sit back and watch Hitler take all of Europe, they say, just as long as we were left out of it. Let Germany and Russia take care of each other.”

Winterbotham looked at the chessboard, at Taylor's king resting on its side. He took a long drink from the mug in his hand. A dark shadow crossed his face.

“We all make mistakes,” he murmured.

“That we do.”

“Perhaps that was one of mine.”

“Perhaps it was.”

“Are you telling me, Andrew, that you can't tell me what you do because of my politics?”

“I'm telling you that I need to be very careful with what I tell you, old chap, because of your politics. In fact, I'm taking quite a risk just by meeting with you.”

“So I should be flattered.”

“You should be.”

“Then I am. I'm sincerely flattered. Now, tell me: What can I do for you?”

“Same old Winterbotham,” Taylor said. “Too impatient for his own good.”

“Same old Taylor,” Winterbotham answered. “Too fond of games for the sake of games.”

“We're living in a new age now, Harry. We're fighting a new kind of war. Games are what we do.”

Winterbotham waited for elaboration.

“We're always looking for qualified men,” Taylor said, “to help us win the games we play.”

“What sort of games, exactly?”

“Ah!” Taylor smacked his hands together. “That's the rub, isn't it? The nature of the game
is
the game. I can't tell you anything without telling you everything. And I can't tell you everything, old chap, until I'm satisfied that you're on our side—completely.”

Winterbotham drained the mug in his hand. “My time may be worthless these days,” he said, “but it's all the time I have. You know whose side I'm on, Andrew. Get to the point.”

“You don't understand, Harry. If I tell you what we're up to, here, then there's no turning back. Either you're with us or you're not. And if you're not …” He hesitated, looking at the fire.

“If I'm not?”

“If I choose to bring you into this and it doesn't work out, you could not be allowed to … remain at liberty.”

“I see.”

“And I've no wish to deny you your liberty, old chap.”

“Of course not.”

“So I would need to be absolutely certain, before I could tell you any more, that you are the right man for the job—that you will do whatever is required of you.”

“I suppose,” Winterbotham said, “that I couldn't promise that until I knew what would be required of me, could I?”

Taylor shook his head. “That won't do.”

“It's the best I can offer.”

“Then I've wasted your time. I'm sorry to have brought you out here. Although I did enjoy the game.”

He stood up suddenly and began to move toward the front door, leaving his drink by the chessboard.

“I'll have Fredricks take you back. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention—”

“This is hardly fair, Andrew.”

“What?”

“You can't expect me to offer my services if I don't know what I'm volunteering for.”

“Perhaps not. Well, then, I'm sorry to have—”

“Surely you can give me a clue.”

“I'm afraid not.”

He opened the front door, paused, and then turned to look at Winterbotham.

“Have a think on it, Harry,” he suggested. “Colonel Fredricks will give you my card. Ring me if you change your mind.”

Winterbotham looked back at him for a moment, without moving. Then he stood, formally, and buttoned his tweed jacket. He stepped out past Taylor without saying a word, and made for the car by the side of the road.

Taylor closed the door behind him.

The man who had been listening from the next room stepped in.

“I told you,” the man said, “he doesn't want to have anything to do with it. He just wants to sit it out.”

Taylor shook his head. “Bloody hell,” he said.

PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY

JANUARY 1943

Richard Carter paused before climbing the steps to his front porch, and cocked his head to one side, listening. He was a tall, gangly man wearing an oversized, ragged winter coat; his hair was thin and gray. With his head cocked, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a scarecrow.

He couldn't hear any sounds coming from inside the house. Perhaps Catherine was taking a nap, or perhaps she had gone out into town to do some shopping. He hoped it was the former. He didn't think his news could wait.

He trotted up the steps and burst through the front door, making as much noise as possible. If he could stir up enough racket, he thought, maybe he would be spared the responsibility of waking her.

“Cat!” he bellowed. “Hello! Anybody home?”

He walked a quick circuit through the living room, through the tiny dining room, into the kitchen, peeking out into the backyard. By the time he had returned to the foyer she was coming down the stairs, rubbing at her eyes blearily.

“Darling,” he said, “come into the living room. I've got news. Wonderful news.”

As she came off the lowest riser, he steered her, by the crook of her arm, into the living room. Bright winter sunshine, thick with dust, gushed in through a window. There was a lot of dust in the house; Catherine was not much of a housekeeper.

She sat heavily on the couch. Richard looked down at her, trying to contain himself. He should really give her time to wake up. She could be moody, as he well knew, if she wasn't given enough time to wake up. But he had just come from a meeting with the most brilliant men in the world—
me
, he thought,
they chose me
!—and proximity to such brilliance had set him on fire. He couldn't help himself. He blurted it out.