The Company of Saints (6 page)

Suddenly Davina was calm. ‘What has my job got to do with it? Are you saying that if I resign we can stay together? Tony? Is that what you mean?'

‘Yes,' Walden said flatly. ‘And now, my love, you can answer your own question. And think about it seriously. I meant what I said. I'll marry you and we can be together for the rest of our lives.'

She sat down and after a moment said, ‘Get me a drink, will you?'

He brought her a glass, hesitated, and when she held out her hand, he sat beside her. ‘I didn't think you'd be so bitter,' he remarked. ‘Maybe I didn't realize how much you loved me?'

‘When you're hurt,' she said quietly, ‘you lash out. Anyway I do. I'm not going to leave my job, but you're going to tell me why it matters. And by the way, you might try trusting me a little bit. Pass me a cigarette, will you? You can't nag me about smoking now.'

‘I've never hit a woman,' Walden said, ‘but, Davina, if you needle me.… Just shut up and drink your drink, will you!'

She lit her cigarette, sipped the brandy. The lights were twinkling in the Place Vendôme outside their windows. ‘At least I've stopped shaking,' she said. ‘That's something. It's blackmail, isn't it?'

There was silence for what seemed a long time to Davina. Then he looked at her and said simply, ‘Yes.'

The man called Italy stayed on in Venice till the end of the week. He became very bored, watching television and reading the art books and magazines. The girl hadn't given up trying; even on the last night she approached him. She wanted to sleep with what he'd done, not him. He told her so. She banged her door and he left the house early the next morning without seeing her again. There were checks at the airport. He bought a train ticket to Pisa and the carabiniere passed him through the barrier. From Pisa he boarded a train. It was a long, tiring jouney, but the train was full of people like himself, sleeping all night in the uncomfortable second-class carriages, some dozing on their luggage in the corridors. Nobody noticed him. Finally he took the bus to his village at the foot of the mountains. He ate a meal with his parents and gave them the souvenirs he had brought back from his holiday. Then he went to bed and slept through till the next day. He would never see or hear from his comrades again. That was the rule, and it guaranteed their safety. And his own. He was back at work in his father's chemist shop. He had made his contribution.

The device used, Humphrey told James White at their next lunch, must have been some kind of mine, either laid in the path of the cruiser or attached in some way. Considering the vigilance of Franklyn's bodyguards, it was difficult to see how it had been done. White nodded. Details bored him now; he liked to hear the broad issues, the personal gossip. He had never been a technical man. Humphrey sensed that he was impatient. ‘Everyone seems to think it's a terrorist group,' he said. ‘Except Davina.'

James White looked up and said mildly, ‘And who does she say did it?'

‘Borisov's people.' Humphrey sounded impatient. ‘She's got that man on the brain, you know, Chief. She sees his hand behind everything. I said to her yesterday, “He isn't God, you know. He can't be blamed for every crackpot killing in Europe.”' He didn't repeat her reply because it stung. ‘If the person who killed Franklyn was a crackpot, what the hell is a professional?' And he knew she was right. It was a supremely professional job, its operator equipped with the kind of technology that ruled out the splinter groups of political fanatics. His choice of word had been a slip of the tongue: Crackpot. She had swept his theories aside because of it. Tim Johnson supported Humphrey's view that money and expertise were at the disposal of the assassin, but he didn't believe they came from Moscow.

Davina was flying to Washington on Tuesday, Humphrey told Sir James. ‘Needless to say, they're having a fit over there. The President himself has told Langley to go ahead and find the killer, and let the Italians argue about it afterwards. I suggested Johnson should go with her instead of me.'

‘Don't let him take over too much,' White remarked. ‘You could find yourself eased out, my dear Humphrey. He's a thrusting young man.'

‘I have plenty to occupy me,' Grant replied. ‘There's nothing to be gained in Washington for anybody but Davina. She's the Boss Lady, to use Johnson's awful phrase. He'll be a glorified aide, that's all. And by the way, Chief,' he leaned across the table slightly, ‘I've started some inquiries about our friend Walden. One of our chaps in West Berlin has some good Polish contacts. He'll report back in a week or two.'

‘What are they going to look for?' James White asked.

‘Old associates,' Grant answered. ‘Family, friends, anyone in official circles who knew him before he came here. Anyone who's been in recent contact with him. We know he has a mother and sister living in Cracow. Our German friend says that if there is a lead his people will find it.'

‘That's good, Humphrey,' Sir James said. ‘I don't think you're wasting your time. I think something will come out of this. By the way, Charlie Kidson has decided to set herself up in London. It seems she's out of mourning. Perhaps one shouldn't call it that since Kidson is still alive.'

‘He's in a clinic,' Grant said, ‘drying out. I can't think why they bother.'

‘It wouldn't look good if he died,' White remarked. ‘It wouldn't encourage others to claim their reward in Moscow. God knows how they kept Burgess going for so long. A thought occurred to me, Humphrey. See what you think of it. Now that I'm out to grass, I don't want to step on anybody's toes. I thought I'd ask Charlie to lunch. See what she's up to – would you agree?'

Humphrey hesitated. Out to grass, my foot. He had heard odd vulgarities like that from Ronnie. He decided to play the innocent. No comebacks from Davina if the Chief was caught meddling. He must stop thinking of him as the Chief even though White liked him saying it. ‘Why think about it,' Humphrey countered. ‘You've been friends of the family for years. Why shouldn't you see Charlie, or any of them?'

Sir James smiled his bland smile, famous for its lack of meaning. ‘Exactly. Such a beautiful girl, and so charming. I can't think she'll be alone for long, now that she's come back into circulation. It's a pity there's this feud between Davina and the family. Perhaps I can do something to help mend the fences?'

Humphrey looked at him bleakly. Fence-mending was not Sir James's speciality. He had never healed a rift between other people in his life. He wouldn't have found it amusing. If he wanted to be mischievous, that wasn't Humphrey's business. Personally he thought Davina Graham's sister was a spoilt little tart. Women like her made him shudder. He turned the conversation back to serious things. ‘Davina is convinced there'll be another murder,' he said suddenly. ‘That's one of the reasons she's going to Washington.'

‘Does she think it'll be another American? Good God, if she starts running that one, the CIA will go berserk.'

‘I don't know, nor does she. She just insists that Franklyn wasn't a lone target.'

‘Well,' Sir James said cheerfully, ‘only the next few months will prove it one way or the other. Now, I must get the bill.'

‘No,' Humphrey said, ‘I insist, Chief. This is my lunch.'

The smile enveloped him again. ‘Very well, don't let's argue, Humphrey. And you must,' he said gently, ‘break that habit of calling me Chief.'

‘I'll try,' Humphrey Grant promised. ‘But it isn't easy.'

The house in the Rue Constantine had been recently redecorated. The Minister was famous for her taste and elegance. Being a distinguished lawyer and a feminist, Isabelle Duvalier had earned her place in the new government, which declared itself committed to women's rights. The fact that the new Minister for the Interior was married to a rich man twenty years her senior and bought her clothes from St Laurent didn't detract from her brilliance and her flair for publicity. Her enemies nicknamed her Evita; passionate concern for the underprivileged and jewels by Boucheron. It was a gibe that bounced off the lady like a toy arrow. She was impervious to criticizm; her style carried her above the jealous sniping of the press. She gave lavish parties but she worked a twelve-hour day. And she was a conscientious, enlightened mother of two teenage daughters. They attended the Lycée, and the eldest at eighteen was having an affair with a student from the Sorbonne. Being progressive, her parents approved after she assured them she was on the pill. The girls had their own quarters on the top floor of the house; there they played records, cooked themselves the junk food that was in fashion and entertained their friends.

That evening found the women of the family together; the Minister was at home, free of social commitments. Her daughters and their friends joined her for dinner. Her husband was in Munich. In spite of his age he led a very active business life. The murder of the American statesman had been the major topic during dinner.

‘I met him when he came to Paris two years ago,' Isabelle Duvalier remembered. ‘He was most amusing. His wife was a chic Californian. You know the type, darlings – Nancy Reagan, but not so pretty. I couldn't believe that she died just a year later.'

‘It was so terrible to kill his daughter,' her eldest girl, Louise, remarked. ‘Don't you think so, Hélène?'

There were eight of them round the table; cigarette smoke hung in a cloud below the lights. The talk was quick and uninhibited. The Minister loved the conversation of the young. She waited for Hélène's answer. Hélène was Louise's closest friend and, in Isabelle's eyes, almost an adopted daughter.

‘Such bad luck she was with him,' Hélène agreed. ‘But they'll never catch the people who did it.'

‘What do they hope to gain? That's what seems so crazy about the whole thing.' The young student who was Louise Duvalier's lover was a committed pacifist. A nice boy, the Minister felt, and sure to come to his senses when he grew up a little.

‘Violence achieves nothing but violence,' he went on, aware of his lover's admiring looks. ‘Whoever these terrorists are, they've activated a new chain of violence against themselves. They've killed innocent people along with Franklyn; his daughter, the bodyguards, the boatman – for what?'

‘If we knew the motive,' his hostess said, ‘we might have some idea who they are.'

‘They're the same lot under some other name,' Hélène volunteered. ‘I agree with you, Raoul, violence doesn't help. But wasn't Franklyn violent too, in his way? Didn't he support nuclear arms?'

‘There's no comparison.' Diane, the younger daughter, entered the argument. Like her mother, she was articulate and competitive. ‘The Americans want nuclear weapons as a deterrent. Having them stops war –'

There was a general outcry of disagreement. Hélène didn't join in; she was a little out of her depth when the talk became too involved with politics and dialectics. She regarded her own views as clear-cut, even basic. She didn't want her clever friends to see her limitations, so she knew when to drop out of a debate, like now. She watched the adroit way in which Isabelle Duvalier steered them from one point to the next by asking a pointed question. She noticed the genuine interest and enjoyment she displayed in the company of the group of students. And she had always been especially kind to Hélène. She didn't look at all like a woman with a strong maternal instinct.

Hélène had come to Paris to get away from home. At the Lycée she had met Isabelle Duvalier's daughter and they had become friends. That friendship soon extended to the whole family. Hélène spent every summer holiday with them in Normandy. There were definite advantages to being a politician with a rich husband. The delightful chateau built on a lake was one of them. Hélène liked going there. She heard her name and started; her thoughts had drifted far away.

‘Let's go into the salon,' the Minister suggested. ‘Come along, Hélène, let's lead the way before they all start coming to blows. Tell me, how is your aunt?'

Hélène's aunt was the widow of a doctor; she lived in modest style on the Left Bank, and disapproved of all the things most dear to Isabelle Duvalier. She was a devout Catholic, a fierce admirer of ex-President Giscard d'Estaing and she loathed the feminist movement. However, she had been invited to tea with the Minister and been charmed by her.

‘She's very well,' Hélène answered. ‘A bit cross with me at the moment.'

‘Oh? Has she any reason?' Isabelle Duvalier slipped her hand through the crook of the girl's arm.

‘She says I spend too much time fooling about,' Hélène admitted, ‘and not enough time working.'

‘Which is true, isn't it?' There was no reproach, only a smile.

Hélène nodded. ‘Yes, madame. Quite true.'

‘Then don't stay upstairs too late tonight,' the Minister advised. ‘Otherwise your aunt won't like you coming here so often. Go home and do some work. And ask if she can spare you for the weekend after next. We're going down to Blois to stay with my brother-in-law. Louise is in love and is sulking. As you can imagine, I dare not bring Raoul; my brother-in-law doesn't sympathize with peace and ecology, I'm afraid. Diane is staying in Paris and Louise will be bored to death unless you keep her company. Would that suit you?'

‘Oh, madame, I'd love it. How kind of you to think of me.'

‘I'm very fond of you,' the older woman said. ‘I'd like you to come for me, too. So don't be late tonight.'

‘No,' Hélène promised. ‘I certainly won't.' She kept her word. A weekend at the home of Albert Ferdinand Duvalier. Old and rich and hated by so many people. She didn't mind making an excuse and leaving the records and the marijuana on the upper floor.