The Company of Saints (10 page)

Modena shrugged. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘And it's the organization that's important. It will take time, I'm afraid, but we'll break through in the end.'

‘But how much time have we got?' Johnson asked curtly. ‘What happens if these people hit again and we don't know anything about them? I don't think you can treat this with kid gloves, Commissioner.'

Modena gave him a look of smooth dislike. ‘I don't wear gloves,' he said. ‘Valdorini will tell us what we want to know. I have had experience of these terrorist types; I don't think you have, as yet. Ordinary pressures don't affect them. They like nothing better than a challenge – they actually welcome violence. I shall get my information by a different method, and when I do, you can be sure it will be the truth.'

Johnson looked at him. ‘And this girl blew up the boat?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Until she tells us what we want to know, that will be the charge against her. How is Signorina Graham?'

‘She's fine,' Johnson said. He didn't mention Washington. Langley had people already doing their own investigation in Italy. One of their best men was in Venice, poaching delicately upon Modena's preserve. Modena could play his cat-and-mouse game with the girl, but his allies weren't going to sit around waiting for the outcome. Johnson decided to round off the interview. If he wasn't going to see Valdorini, let alone sit in on the interrogations, he might as well take a trip round Rome and catch an evening flight back.

‘I've got two kids,' he said. ‘I wish I knew what makes them turn out like the girl you've got. Middle-class background, good education, enough money – what the hell makes them want to tear society to pieces?'

‘If we knew that,' Modena answered, ‘we wouldn't have the problem.' He wanted the Englishman to go; he had no intention of expressing his own opinions and encouraging a discussion. He didn't like the Anglo-Saxon type. He liked the American equivalent even less. What did they call themselves – Wasps? White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. He was a Jew by race and an Italian Catholic since his grandmother converted. If he did discuss his views on the moral vacuum in modern society, a man like Johnson wouldn't understand them.

He shook hands and rang for his car. It would be at Johnson's disposal until he caught his plane back to London.

‘Davina? Darling, it's me. I've been trying to reach you since Sunday morning – where have you been?'

The phone had been ringing when she got into the flat. She knew who was calling because she'd avoided the last two attempts to reach her at Anne's Yard. Mr Walden on the line from Sydney. ‘I'm not taking any personal calls, tell him I'm not in the office and can't be reached.' Her voice had sounded so cool and impersonal when she gave those instructions to the switchboard, no one could have guessed what it cost her. There were times in those three days since she had come back from the Whites' house when Davina was tempted to pick up the phone and call Sydney.

If he was lying, then she wanted to know for certain and to be able to face up to it. If he wasn't – she hadn't dared think that far ahead, because since she had come back from Kent the doubt about Walden had become almost a certainty. His story wasn't true; there was another motive, a far subder trap being set for her. All she had to establish was whether he was a willing party to it. Afterwards she could decide what to do.

In the early hours when she woke, and the dawn hadn't even touched the windows, Davina thanked God for the escape she found in her work. Johnson had come back from Rome. His visit had established nothing but the existence of Elsa Valdorini, buried in the headquarters of the Italian Anti-Terrorist Squad. According to Modena, she wasn't believed guilty of direct assassination. And all they talked of was time. As Johnson said, they didn't have any to spare.

When the phone rang it was one in the morning. She picked it up, knowing she'd hear his voice. It was so close and so damnably familiar that she winced. It hurt like a blow when he called her darling, and she didn't know how to answer.

‘I was away,' she said. God, let me keep my voice normal, don't let the feeling show. And, ‘Yes, yes, I'm fine, just tired that's all. You know how I hate travelling.'

‘So do I.' Walden's answer was quick. ‘Especially when it keeps me away from you. I know we can't talk about anything, but I've been going crazy worrying. You do still love me, don't you? You haven't had second thoughts while I've been away?'

She felt her throat constrict; it took several seconds before she could say, ‘I love you, Tony, you can be sure of that.' And the hell was that she meant it. The lie followed afterwards. ‘I've thought of a way out. No darling, I can't. It'll have to wait until you get back. I think you'll agree it's the best solution. For both of us. Yes. Yes, I think so. Of course I miss you.… How's your trip?'

‘Bloody lonely.' Lonely for me too, she thought, with the worm of suspicion burrowing into my guts. Yes, his voice went on, it was very successful, he'd tied up a big contract and he was on his way to Melbourne. ‘I've decided to cut it short,' he said. ‘I've cancelled the trip to Perth.' Part of her wanted him home, longed for an end to the uncertainty; part dreaded the discovery that he was lying, and wanted to put it off as long as possible. ‘I want to get back to you. Darling, you've got me sick with worry now. What the hell is this solution? It sounds so bloody clear-cut. Can't you give me
any
hint?'

‘No, Tony, I can't. I told you, you'll be pleased. So there's nothing to worry about, is there? You'll be back when?'

‘Friday, the 24th. We'll have a weekend together – I'll fix it, somewhere nice.'

‘Not Paris,' Davina said. ‘I don't think I want to go there for a long time.'

‘All right, sweetheart.'

She could hear the eagerness in his voice. If it's an act, she said to him silently, you're the best actor I've ever met. You deserve an Academy Award if you can make it sound like that.

‘I'll call you before I leave. Maybe you can meet me at the airport?'

‘I'll do my best,' she said. ‘Good night, Tony.'

‘Good night, my love.'

She put the phone down – her chance of sleep had gone. She had brought a briefcase back with her. The contents were not classified; she never took anything confidential out of the building and forbade even Humphrey to do so. The monthly intelligence data compiled from their European and Eastern European desks were prepared in précis form for her to study. She made herself a thermos of coffee and went back to bed with the file.

It stopped her thinking about Tony Walden. Until she reached the section on Soviet Russia. It was the largest and most detailed, originating from the Embassy in Moscow. Zerkhov was in very poor health, and the usual internal manoeuvring was starting among the candidates in the Politburo. When there was a new leader, what would it mean for Igor Borisov? Her old enemy – the enemy whose face was a blurred photograph taken fifteen years ago. The man who had reached the top of the most sinister organization in the modern world, after he'd arranged the murder of her husband, the defector Ivan Sasanov. When the leadership changed, the chief men were often replaced. In the case of Beria, Stalin's bloody-handed executioner, he had been shot. What would happen to Borisov? Who would her opponent be then? She sat with the file open on the bed for a long time before she took it up again.

The next morning she sent for Humphrey Grant as soon as she got into her office. She looked haggard, he thought with satisfaction. She certainly wasn't ageing well in the job. She looked up and saw him watching her. It didn't surprise her to know that he hated her. After all, he owed her quite a lot. What was surprising was his inability to keep that hatred hidden. He was going to love what she had to tell him. That couldn't be helped. ‘Humphrey,' she said quietly, ‘you came to me once about your private life. Now I have a personal problem, and I need your help. I want a security check carried out on Anthony Walden.'

He said, ‘You've already had one done.'

‘I want another,' Davina said. ‘I want information on his family in Poland. Particularly his sister and her family. Can you get this going right away?'

Humphrey nodded. ‘Yes, no problem. Is anything wrong? If there is, Davina, it would be better if you told me.' Interesting to see whether she trusts you, Sir James White had said. My guess is she'll keep back, but you mustn't mind that, my dear chap. After all, you've been doing your own investigating on the fellow behind her back.… She wasn't going to trust him – James White had judged correctly.

‘If there wasn't a problem, I wouldn't ask for the vetting,' she said. ‘If it turns out to be important, you'll be the first person to know, Humphrey. So let's leave it like that for now. Right, what's on the agenda for this morning, apart from these bloody appointments with Treasury and the Ministry of Defence. God, how I hate having to ask them for money!'

‘So did all your predecessors,' he remarked. ‘It's the only way the civil service can get back at us for flushing out some of their pinkos. Shall we go through the stuff now? I can put this other business in hand with a telephone call.'

‘All right.' Davina was bent over her desk. ‘Thanks, Humphrey.' She didn't look up.

‘No problem,' he murmured. He had so nearly added, ‘It's a pleasure.'

4

The Duvaliers travelled down to Blois in two cars. The Minister used her official car and her husband went with her. She had work to do during the drive. Louise took her friend in her own little car. She talked all the way, but Hélène wasn't listening to a word.

She'd packed her only long skirt and a change of frilly blouses. Albert Duvalier and his wife expected their guests to change for dinner. It was a bore, the Minister said, but they were old and very set in their ways. Anything pretty would do. She knew that Hélène had a limited allowance and wouldn't have spent it on formal dresses. She was so tactful, so thoughtful of her young friend's feelings. Hélène told her aunt where she was going. Her aunt was impressed as Hélène expected she would be. She fussed and fretted over her niece's clothes, suggested she had her hair cut; she hoped that perhaps there might be some eligible young men invited.… Hélène knew what she was thinking; she understood the mentality that saw nothing degrading in women selling themselves to men and calling it marriage. She let her aunt chatter on, showing not a sign of her contempt. Hélène was such a pleasant girl, her aunt would say. A little reserved, but genuinely sweet-natured.

Hélène kissed her goodbye. She enjoyed making a fool of the old woman, showing her affection and respect, taking her in with every word and action. If she had only known – shock horror, Hélène laughed to herself. It was the in slogan among her friends the Duvaliers and Louise's boyfriend, that simpering idiot Raoul. Peace and love and vegetarianism. He sickened her. She hated him more than she did Louise, who was chattering like a silly monkey all the way to Blois.

How long had she worn that sickly smile? For two years, nearly three? But not for much longer. Sweet little Hélène, such a nice girl. Oh, it was going to be shock horror for real this time. She was shivering with excitement when they reached the chateau. Huge, grey stone walls, the classic French fortified house of the fourteenth century, with its protective moat surrounding it. A pair of swans floated disdainfully past. They sickened her too. Money and enormous wealth, a wall of privilege as thick and impregnable as the house they lived in – financed out of legalized slaughter. Albert Duvalier manufactured arms. Nothing could touch him, or punish him. He could topple the government of France if he chose. Hélène had heard that said and she believed it. And his brilliant liberal-minded sister-in-law was a part of that government.

Hélène didn't meet him until she came down to dinner with Louise. She didn't know a lot about art; she didn't have to, because the pictures on the walls were the originals of postcards people bought as souvenirs. Renoir, Manet, Gauguin – the great Impressionists bloomed on green silk walls in the salon, and a tall old man with a face like an apostle came forward and kissed her hand. The Minister was beside him, smiling, looking elegant in one of her viciously expensive dresses. And then there was Albert Duvalier's third wife. She was a retired film actress, who had been more than just a sex symbol. She was famous for her intelligence; the fading beauty was preserved by cosmetic surgery, but the acute brain was what had captured France's richest man. He had formed a partnership as much as a marriage. She had a cold, dry hand which felt like, a snake's skin, the fingers too thin for the massive sapphire ring. Hélène was repelled by the touch of her when she shook hands. Like a beautiful mummy, with huge black eyes that went through her and beyond. Nobody of importance, just a friend of that tiresome girl Louise. All she had was youth, and to Irena Duvalier that wasn't a recommendation.

Hélène felt herself turn red, and looked quickly away. They'd think she was shy. They wouldn't know that hate and fury were making her choke. But they'd know later. They'd look at her and stare and see her for the first time. She said very little during dinner. She was the poor little bourgeoise, befriended by the rich, important Duvaliers. Brought along like a Spanish dwarf to amuse the Infanta Louise.

She went upstairs after dinner and listened to the sounds of the household going to bed: the footsteps of the servants; the yapping of Madame Duvalier's little terrier, its topknot crowned by a silk bow; the creak and murmur of an ancient house settling for the night. Hélène was sleeping in a room next to Louise's. She had been tactful but firm about not letting her in for a gossip when they came upstairs.

She didn't expect to sleep. The programme for Saturday was as rigid as a military exercise. Breakfast downstairs. Tennis before lunch. After lunch, which was at two precisely, they would go and see the royal chateau at Blois.