The Company of Saints (17 page)

‘She doesn't look it,' his wife insisted. ‘She's very attractive, in an austere way.'

‘Sorry, darling.' He was becoming bored with the subject. ‘She's not my type.' Colleagues had described her as worse than Sir James White when it came to getting her own way. He had been a devious, unscrupulous old bugger, but Davina Graham went through the opposition like a hot knife through a pack of butter.

The German President, a genial, courteous man, spoke in perfect English for twenty minutes. It was the usual diplomatic content. Peace through strength and negotiation, the close economic and cultural links between their two countries. Davina didn't listen. She didn't want to think about the funeral the next day. Ten in the morning in the little church at Marchwood. She thought about what the old drunkard Serge Poliakov had said about Paris. It was a mischievous challenge, a mocking dare to the newcomers to show the guts and initiative of the old hands.

Tim Johnson offered to drive her home from the Mansion House. ‘I've got an official car,' she said, ‘but do come in for a drink – it's not that late.'

She had enjoyed her dinner with Johnson. Socially he was easy and interesting. There was none of the irritating keenness that proclaimed him a young Turk in the office. They talked about their work, and she was impressed by his insight. He reminded her more and more of a fox: bright-eyed and stealthy-footed, with very sharp teeth. She had wondered about his wife. She hadn't imagined Tim Johnson in the role of father to children who belonged to the Pony Club. His wife was extremely pretty. She chatted to Davina about a few safe subjects, but withdrew into silence when her husband discussed the German President's speech. Not one of the ‘I'm as good as you brigade', determined to assert herself. She was obviously very fond of Tim. And Davina noticed that he was attentive to her in a quiet way. The fox and the hen.

Captain Graham was buried in the small churchyard in the village. It was a bright summer day without a breath of wind. The church was small and Victorianized by an early Graham with more money than taste; of the original building only the stunted Norman tower remained. The inside of the church was full of neighbours and friends and a scattering of naval contemporaries who seemed surprisingly old to Davina. It smelled of must and disuse, like so many places where God wasn't worshipped except every third Sunday. She and Charlie sat on either side of her mother. Charlie wore black and cried; Betty Graham was very pale but kept control, even through the gruesome ritual at the graveside. Afterwards everyone was invited back to Marchwood House. It had been very well arranged in Davina's absence. Charlie, belying her ethereal looks, had organized lunch for the fifty odd mourners and stood shaking hands in the hall as they arrived.

Betty Graham was talking to Mary White and a retired rear-admiral who had been at Dartmouth with her husband. Davina saw James White edging his way towards her. ‘My dear girl,' he pecked at her cheek like a cold draught, not touching it with his lips. ‘What a sad day? Thank God it wasn't raining. I said to Mary this morning, if it rains I'm not going – I shan't be able to stand it. I was very fond of Fergus, you know.'

‘I know,' Davina answered. ‘You did wonders for Mum. She looks far stronger, and she's borne up so well. I don't know why we have to make such an ordeal out of funerals.'

She lit a cigarette. There was no Walden at her elbow to nag her any more.

‘To convince ourselves it's not the end,' he said. ‘“I am the Resurrection and the Life.” Marvellous words, aren't they? Do you believe they mean anything?'

‘I don't know,' Davina said quietly. ‘For Mum's sake I hope so. And for mine.'

‘Come outside, Davina,' he suggested. ‘Let's get some air, it's stuffy in here.' He took her by the elbow. ‘Now,' he said, ‘isn't that better?' He took a deep breath. ‘How is Charlie bearing up? Betty said she was hit very hard.… We had lunch, did I tell you?'

‘No,' Davina said, ‘you didn't.'

‘Oh, it was about six weeks ago. She asked a lot about Kidson. I'm afraid she's very bitter about that still.'

‘Yes, she's made that very plain since Father died,' Davina answered. ‘She told me to get out of the house as soon as you took Mum back with you. So I did. I only came down this morning. I shan't stay if she's going to be here.'

James White looked pained. You bloody hypocrite, Davina thought suddenly, you probably stirred it up when you saw her. You might have warned me, anyway. But she shrugged mentally. It didn't matter. Her link with her mother was restored and stronger than ever. Charlie was of no importance – all she had ever brought Davina was unhappiness. Shut the door on your personal life. Shut out everything but work because that's the one thing you've got left and it won't let you down.

He guided her to a garden seat. ‘Shall we talk shop for a moment?'

‘Why not?'

He lit his Sub Rosa cigarette, hesitated, then offered her one. When she took it, he remarked, ‘You're smoking again, I see.'

Davina ignored this remark. ‘You know Nikolaev was murdered.' He nodded. Of course he knew – he had informants everywhere.

‘We had Poliakov in on our meeting on Sunday. He made one of his bloody-minded suggestions. I don't know whether to take it seriously or not.'

‘Unfortunately, nobody's been able to take Poliakov seriously for the last fifteen years. Was he sober? Or rather, how drunk was he?'

‘Not at all,' Davina answered. ‘Very on the ball. He says there's a link between the girl in Venice and the student in Paris. He suggested we send someone over to Paris and check on her ourselves.'

White didn't say anything. He could imagine the old Russian putting that forward. Still living in the past when methods were so unorthodox. He waited for her to speak. If she decided as he hoped, he had a suggestion of his own.

‘I think it's a good idea,' she said after a while. ‘I don't believe we can hang about waiting for the report from our East German contact. If they've caught Nikolaev's killers, the Germans won't get hold of the details. So we could be up another blind alley there. The Italians are sweating the girl Valdorini, and they've got time on their side. Nobody who hasn't been hit has any time left. I think the old devil was right. We should go after the French girl ourselves in case she isn't genuine. SEDECE have taken the heat off her, and meantime nothing happens. What do you think?'

‘I shouldn't give advice,' he said smoothly, ‘but old habits die hard, my dear. I would do what Poliakov suggested. But there is one complication, isn't there?'

‘We can't use one of our own operatives,' Davina said, ‘I thought of that. SEDECE would bring the roof down if they found we were interfering in their territory.'

‘You make it sound like a cowboy film,' he chuckled. How he loved the possibility of intrigue. His eyes were sparkling with enjoyment. ‘You won't like the idea, but you and I know the one man who'd be right for the job. He's been out of the Service for nearly two years, he's in a business that keeps people like him on their toes, and he's completely trustworthy. Colin Lomax.'

‘I had thought of him,' she said calmly. ‘But I don't think he'd do it. We didn't part on the best of terms. He thought civilian intelligence was a dirty game.'

White laughed. ‘Nonsense,' he said. ‘He objected to your being mixed up in a male preserve. And he was jealous. By the way, what did you do about Mr Walden? Or don't you want to discuss it at the moment?'

‘There's nothing to discuss,' Davina said. ‘I faced him with the truth. He admitted he'd told me a pack of lies. I shan't be seeing him again. Let's get back to Lomax.'

White eyed her carefully. ‘But you can't just leave Walden in midair,' he remarked. ‘If he's under Soviet pressure …' He didn't finish the sentence.

She said sharply, ‘I'll come to that later. Without me he's a busted flush for them anyway. What's happening in Europe is important – he isn't.'

‘You don't need to snap at me,' he said. ‘I agree entirely. That's been your only fault, Davina. You've allowed yourself a personal life. It simply doesn't work with women. And I'm not being a chauvinist.'

‘I'll try Colin,' she said. ‘I suppose we'd better go in. And I'd better talk to Charlie about Mum. She ought to go away for a bit.'

She found her sister in the kitchen, supervising tea for those who were still there. The little boy, Fergie, was sitting with his nanny in the window seat, making gurgles of delight as she played aeroplanes with a spoon of jelly. Some things never changed, Davina thought; I can remember our old nurse doing exactly the same thing with me, but it was rice pudding, and I hated the stuff.…

‘Charlie,' she said, ‘can we talk a minute?'

‘What about?'

How she hates me. Davina looked away from her sister. ‘What's Mum going to do?'

Charlie went on laying out biscuits. ‘Peter and I are taking her to London tonight, when you've all gone,' she said. ‘So you can get on with your marvellous top job and not feel worried about her. She doesn't expect any help from you.'

Davina glanced at the nanny and the little boy. Charlie had never minded making a scene in public. She couldn't bring herself to do the same. She walked out of the kitchen without answering.

Betty Graham looked white and exhausted; when Davina put an arm round her she was trembling. ‘You're going up to London with Charlie,' she said. ‘Mum darling, I wish I could take you away but I just can't leave my office at the moment. There's a real crisis blowing up. When it's over, we'll go off and have a nice holiday together. Anywhere you like. And I'll ring you – what's Charlie's number?'

‘It's this Peter Vereker's number,' her mother said gently. ‘He lives in Chester Street. She's got everything organized. I felt sure she would when she'd got over the shock of losing Daddy. And don't you worry about me, darling. You were here when I really needed someone. I'll ring you in a day or so. You look tired – you mustn't fret about it. I shall pull myself together and come home after I've had a break. Your father loved the house and the garden. I'm not going to neglect them. Goodbye, Davina. Take care of yourself, won't you?'

Igor Borisov went up in the private lift to the President's flat on the top floor of the Kremlin. Zerkhov was not well enough to come down to the weekly meeting of the Politburo; he was reserving his strength for a public appearance at the state funeral of his Foreign Minister. He sat upright in a chair, and he had visibly shrunk in the last few weeks. Folds of grey skin hung down from his jaw where the supportive fat had fallen away. He is dying, Borisov thought, and his heart quickened. And at the same time it was sad. The old man pointed to a chair beside him.

‘Sit down,' Zerkhov said, ‘and tell me about it.'

‘It was very carefully planned,' Borisov said. ‘The car was attacked a mile outside the perimeter of the airport. Two rockets hit it – the car exploded like a firework.'

Zerkhov cleared his throat. He raised his head slowly and the little eyes fixed upon Borisov under their bushy eyebrows. Dying he might be, but he could stare down any man in Russia. ‘Nikolaev was not a supporter of yours,' he said. ‘Did you do this, Igor Igorovitch?'

Borisov held the old man's look. ‘No, little Father, I did not. It was my man Alexei who killed him, but he wasn't carrying out my orders.'

‘Nobody will believe that,' Zerkhov said. ‘If you had the man alive he could have proved your innocence in front of the Politburo. Now you have no defence against what your enemies will say. Who turned your man, Alexei?'

‘I wish I knew,' Borisov answered. ‘They tried to make him say before he died. But all they got was one word: “Russia”.'

‘You mustn't punish the men who shot him,' Zerkhov said slowly. He lowered his eyelids, closed them and waited.

Borisov said, ‘Punish them? They're the only witnesses I have. I've got them safe in Moscow. Hidden, where they can't be found. They heard him say that word. What it means, we don't know. But somebody does. And that's all I have to work on.'

Zerkhov's eyes opened; he smiled a little. No stress, no excitement, the fool doctors kept insisting. How could a man live under those strictures? ‘The American, the French, and now the Russian. There is a link between them all, isn't there?'

‘I am waiting,' Borisov said, ‘before I commit myself to that.'

‘Waiting for what?'

‘For the next attack. Two from the West, one from us. Or two from NATO and one from the Warsaw Pact. When the fourth happens, I shall be officially convinced. Unofficially, I am sure already.'

He left the President soon afterwards. The old man was visibly exhausted after their conversation. Borisov went back to his office. There was no Alexei waiting for him. No bodyguard, no mindless instrument of his superior's will.

‘Russia' – that was the only word he had mumbled before he died from the bullets of the Polish and KGB security men who hunted him along the road after the car had exploded. Alexei hadn't got far. He must have known his chances of escaping were almost nonexistent. The mission was what the KGB described as ‘closed off'. The operative carried out his orders and then committed suicide. Alexei killed without hesitation; he was prepared to die in the same fatalistic way. They had found an uncrushed cyanide capsule embedded in his upper tooth. When he was shot, shock released the reflex mechanism in his brain. Dying, as they manhandled him, he choked out that one word, ‘Russia'. That was reflex too. But Borisov knew Alexei had made a kind of statement with that final word.

It was getting dark. From his office windows Borisov looked out over the panorama of the city, watching the lights spring up like jewels. On the top of Lenin's tomb the red star glowed like a drop of blood against the evening sky.