The Pursuit of Pearls (6 page)

“Actually, I haven't quite made up my mind.”

“I see.” Grand was plainly taken aback. “Your prerogative, of course. But there was a specific task I had in mind…”

“Which is?”

Suddenly the major sprang to his feet, eyes on the door. Clara registered the clatter of china, and the next moment, with a perfunctory rap, a large woman in a floral apron backed in, pulling a tea trolley containing a large steel urn and a stack of pale green civil service crockery, as well as a plate of rich tea biscuits.

“Milk and two, Major Grand?”

“You know me so well, Mrs. Fairclough,” said Grand, helping himself to a biscuit, snapping it mathematically in half, and dabbing up the crumbs with a forefinger. “And for my guest?”

“Just milk please.”

The sight of the malty, copper stream of British tea splashing into the cups prompted in Clara another jolt of nostalgia. Although her time in Germany had introduced her to the pleasure of coffee, no one else in Europe made tea the English way, well brewed, refreshing in all weathers, and the answer to every crisis.

After Mrs. Fairclough had dispensed the tea, plunked in the sugar lumps, and maneuvered the trolley out of the office, Grand perched on the desk in front of Clara and fixed his eyes on her.

“To answer your question, this is a task of the utmost delicacy. One that goes to the heart of the future peace of Europe. I don't mind saying it will determine whether all those gas masks we've been given will ever get used. There are rumors going round intelligence circles that a Nazi-Soviet pact is in the offing.”

Clara looked up from her tea with a frown. “A pact with the Bolsheviks? Surely not?”

“A marriage of convenience is I think what they call it.”

“But the Nazis and the Bolsheviks are ideological enemies. It could never happen.”

“My feelings precisely,” said Grand. “I would have thought hell would freeze over first. However. If the rumors are true, there would be very grave repercussions for the rest of us. From what we hear, the idea of a pact is being propelled by von Ribbentrop. He has a pathological loathing for the British, so he's presumably working on the basis that my enemy's enemy is my friend.”

“Even so, it's so unlikely.”

“Personally I agree. It's arrant nonsense. Besides, our own people are negotiating with Comrade Stalin right now. But we need more solid intelligence. Something concrete. We need an inside track to the Foreign Ministry, and that's where you come in.”

Into Clara's mind came the impatient, chiseled face of Conrad Adler.
I'm on loan. Like a painting in a museum.

“Von Ribbentrop is a stupid man,” continued Grand. “Vain and foolish. His wife, however, is another matter. And I think you know her.”

Grand slid a newspaper photograph out of a manila file on his desk, and craning across, Clara saw with astonishment that it was a yellowing page from the
B.Z. am Mittag
showing herself talking to Annelies von Ribbentrop at the launch of the Reich Fashion Bureau in 1933. The passage of six years had done nothing to soften the rigid composure of the foreign minister's wife, the iron set of her jaw, or the dyspeptic smile that could so easily be mistaken for a grimace.

“What do you make of her?”

Clara thought back to the first time she'd met Frau von Ribbentrop, just after the regime came to power. Then the woman was an arriviste, desperate to impress with dinner parties at her Dahlem home, and now she was half of one of the most powerful couples in Europe. Kings, presidents, and prime ministers came to her parties. She was a far more ardent Nazi than her husband, yet their marriage could not be more different from the marital catfight the Goebbelses waged. The von Ribbentrops were said to share everything, especially political plans.

“She's a formidable woman,” Clara remarked carefully.

“Indeed. A couple of chaps here met her when von Ribbentrop was ambassador to Great Britain, and they were frankly terrified. She was always cornering them to complain about the weather—as though they could do anything about it—and insanely jealous about her husband's behavior with the ladies. He was said to send a daily bunch of red carnations to Wallis Simpson, and his wife couldn't tolerate it. She was a bit of a laughingstock actually. She brought over a marching squad of SS guards, who created the most frightful atmosphere, and above all she had the most dreadful nouveau riche taste. Decked out the whole of Carlton House Terrace in marble cladding. It looks like a public lavatory. It's going to take years to unpick.”

Clara finished her tea and returned the saucer to the table. “I take it, Major, it's not her artistic tastes you're concerned about here.”

“Precisely. More her knowledge of diplomatic maneuvers. To what extent she influences the husband's decisions.”

“Goebbels always says von Ribbentrop bought his title, married his money, and got all his political views from his wife. They say even Hitler is wary of her.”

A flicker of a smile. “I suppose that's the thing about marriage—one can never tell what goes on inside. Do you see much of her?”

“Hardly. Last year she tried to have me arrested as a spy.”

Clara hesitated. Something Mary Harker had mentioned came to mind.

“But she is holding a press reception to show off the refurbishment of the new Foreign Ministry building. The Reich Chamber of Culture always likes actresses to attend these events if possible.”

“To supply a touch of glamour.”

“That's the idea. But even if I went, I can't imagine she would give me the time of day, let alone confide any military secrets.”

“I'm sure she'll come round,” declared Grand, as though Clara's objections were negligible. “Find a way to get closer to her. From what we've heard, Frau von Ribbentrop frequently formulates political policy, which is later passed off as her husband's.”

“She's not like him, though. Not the kind to be easily taken in.”

“Then you'll need to find another way in. Any way we have into the Foreign Office. It's urgent, I don't need to remind you. If the German Foreign Ministry is contemplating a marriage of convenience with the Soviet Union, it's vital we know as soon as possible.”

Grand paced across the room, thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets.

“The Soviet Union is the key to everything, Miss Vine. It's a complicated dance. If Germany attacks Poland and the Red Army joins in on Poland's side, and Britain and France come to her aid, then Germany would be in a parlous position. They would never choose to fight on two fronts. But if the Nazis are making advances to the Russians, it's essential that we uncover every piece of information that we can. And we have only a matter of months to do it.”

“Months? How can you be so sure?”

“If Hitler's set on war, he won't attack before harvesttime. But he'll want to make a move before winter. It's a tight window.”

He slid his cuffs and checked his watch, as though setting a deadline.

“If you decide to stay in Germany, we'll need to brief you. We'll set up another meeting. Shall we say a fortnight's time? In Paris?”

Clara laughed. “That's impossible. I already had to plead a family emergency to come to London. I couldn't make a trip to Paris without Goebbels finding out.”

“Then tell him.”

“I don't think you understand,” she said, as patiently as she could. “Travel is severely restricted for members of the Reich Chamber of Culture. You need permission to go abroad, and nowadays it's not often given. Certainly not without a plausible explanation.”

For a second, Grand steepled his fingers in thought, then he aimed them towards her in the shape of a gun.

“How about if you were to feature in French
Vogue
?”

“Vogue?”

“You know, the fashion magazine.”

“I know what
Vogue
is, Major Grand. But why would they want to feature me?”

“Well, it's not a magazine I'm intensely familiar with—
Horse and Hound
is about my limit where periodicals are concerned—but we have a friend who works as a photographer there, and I daresay a spread on European cinema might be the kind of thing he does. My sources tell me you've done some modeling in the past.”

Clara nodded, suddenly realizing how much detail about her lay in that manila file in front of her interviewer. In 1933, shortly after her arrival in Berlin, she had been invited to model outfits for the Reich Fashion Bureau, an establishment set up by Hitler. That was how she had first come into contact with Magda Goebbels, Emmy Goering, and the other senior Nazi wives.

“Excellent then. Our friend's name is Thomas Epstein. He occupies apartment four, number eleven Rue Léopold-Robert in the Fourteenth Arrondissement of Paris. Can you remember that?”

“Of course.”

“I'll tell him to expect you. Shall we say two weeks today? And we'll need to have whatever information you can obtain within the month.”

“A month! But, you see, I don't actually think…”

“I hope I did impress on you, Miss Vine, that time is very much of the essence.”

Grand walked briskly to the door, as though Clara's objections, let alone any further pleasantries, were a dangerous waste of time. Suddenly she sensed her chance slipping away. She couldn't leave without asking the question that was tearing her apart.

“Major Grand, do you know Leo Quinn?”

Outwardly, his genial expression remained intact, but minute study of his face revealed that her question had disturbed him. A muscle tensed in his jaw; he gave the barest nod of assent.

“Would you have any idea where I could contact him?”

“Contact Mr. Quinn? Now why would you want to do that?”

Clara hesitated, wondering if Grand knew the truth. He knew so much else about her, there was every reason he would. Every reason except Leo's careful, meticulous attempts to keep their love affair secret.

“He's an old friend of mine. He's the one who got me into all this in the first place when he was a passport control officer in Berlin.”

Grand paused with his hand on the doorknob. “If I were you, my dear, I should forget Mr. Quinn.”

It took everything Clara had to prevent the alarm that arose in her showing on her face. Blindly she trained her eyes on Major Grand's mustache and gripped the cotton handkerchief inside her pocket.

“Forget him? What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say.”

“Is it bad news?”

“Need-to-know basis, I'm afraid.”

“But I do need to know.” She clenched her teeth. “Has something happened to him?”

Grand gave another businesslike smile, but his voice was softer. “I don't like telling you this, my dear. I
shouldn't
be telling you this, frankly. But our networks in Europe have taken a bad hit. We lost a couple of agents in Austria, and Mr. Quinn was involved. Our network there was blown.”

“In Austria? I thought…” What did she think? She had no idea what Leo did, where he went, or what his job really was.

Grand stared beyond her, a pained expression on his face, his mouth grim as though fighting to contain emotion. “There's a break in the chain somewhere. An informer somewhere on the continent. I can't be any more precise than that, but it behooves all our people to be doubly, triply cautious about who they trust.”

“But Leo—you don't know what's happened to him? Not for sure?”

Grand touched a hand to her shoulder. “I'm sorry. Your friend was a brave man, my dear. You should be proud of him.”

“He
was
?”

He imprisoned her hand momentarily in a tight clasp. “Thanks once again for coming. Can I take it you remember the way to the lift?”

Numbly, Clara retraced her steps along the corridor. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the partitioned offices and the men on telephones. She was barely aware of the clack of typewriters and the chatter of secretaries carrying files clipping alongside her. A tall, tawny-haired man with a narrow toothbrush mustache glanced quizzically at her, as though about to inquire if she was all right. As their eyes met she noticed that he had irises of two different colors, one blue and one brown, and the irrelevant thought went through her head that such a distinguishing feature would make undercover work impossible; this agent must be office based. Ducking her head, she walked on to the lift.

She did not look back. If she had, she would have seen Major Grand poised at the entrance to his office, an unusually sympathetic look replacing his rigid military demeanor.

IN CAXTON STREET A
brisk wind rose, rustling the leaves on the plane trees and causing women at the bus stop opposite to clutch their hats. In a breeze like that, it was unsurprising that anyone should have tears in their eyes, and no one gave Clara the slightest attention apart from a grinning bus conductor, sailing past on the platform of his bus, who called, “Penny for your thoughts, darling!”

She walked like someone dazed by an explosion, the exterior world locked off behind an invisible wall. The bomb that had gone off inside her had caused everything around to resettle in unrecognizable disarray.

She progressed blindly, wondering what to do in the hours before heading for Liverpool Street station and the boat train. Suddenly, the shock she had received overcame her instincts. Turning impulsively on her heel, she caught up with the bus that had just passed and jumped aboard, heading for Elizabeth Street.

She sat numbly on the lurching bus.
If I were you, my dear, I should forget Mr. Quinn.
It was as though all the ballast was knocked out of her and she might simply collapse without the coarse red and blue backing of the seat beneath her. All she could think was of knocking on Angela's door and feeling her elder sister's sinewy arms enfolding her in a stiff but heartfelt embrace. She was aching to breathe in Angela's trademark perfume and bury her face in soft, sensible cashmere. She had not seen her sister for two years. They may disagree politically; they may have avoided any intimate exchanges for a decade, but Angela was, after all, her only sister. And at a time when she felt desolately alone, Clara yearned for the visceral comfort of flesh and blood.