Authors: David Downing
He wondered if the Germans would persist in their efforts to kill him. There seemed no reason they shouldn’t; spies weren’t like grouse—there was no official season for bumping them off. The Germans could just keep trying until they succeeded, which was rather a chilling thought.
Then again, there had to be some sort of limit—surely he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life evading the Kaiser’s minions. Perhaps Cumming could arrange some sort of deal, offer to abandon an ongoing British vendetta, if such an animal existed. Cumming would have to do something about McColl’s predicament, if only to show he could protect his agents. In the meantime McColl would have to be careful.
It was still a nice day, the sun accentuating the rich colors of
the Sacramento Valley. Soon after two they reached the state capital, where a second locomotive was added for the long climb ahead. As the line ascended the valley of the American, the river itself receded beneath them until only a silver ribbon was visible, at least a thousand feet below. A white blanket now covered the slopes, and as the light began to fade, the train drummed its way through a series of snowsheds and tunnels.
The novelty had clearly worn off, and the observation car had almost emptied out, leaving only McColl and two old women at the other end. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts turn, as they often had in the last couple of days, to what Fairholme had said about the perils inherent in continuing his romance with Caitlin.
The man had meant well. More to the point, he was probably right.
But so what? McColl had never known anyone like her—and very much doubted he ever would again. Given that, he had no intention of simply throwing in the towel. A love affair with an Irish radical and a career with the British Secret Service might not be compatible in the longer term, but for a few weeks more? If this turned out to be nothing more than a glorious interlude, then he didn’t want to lose his career as well. And if by some miracle it lasted, then perhaps by another they might make it work. Because when all was said and done, there was no real conflict of interest. They didn’t even disagree about Ireland, not in a fundamental way.
He knew that keeping his work a secret was a form of lying. But he thought the man she liked was the man he really was—he couldn’t imagine her having this sort of affair with an ordinary automobile salesman. Deep down—unconsciously, as Freud would say—some part of her knew that he was more than he seemed.
He asked himself who he was kidding, and the answer was no one. But he still wouldn’t choose between her and the Service.
It really was dark now, and time to show himself. Dinner was already being served, and after eating he lingered over coffee and liqueur in hope of seeing her. He’d almost given up when she finally appeared, with Father Meagher in close attendance. This time the priest did notice him and seemed visibly irritated when Caitlin stopped to wish him good evening. En route to the toilet a few minutes later, she contrived to slip him a piece of paper, which he read outside in the vestibule: “Car 4, Compartment 5, eleven o’clock. Knock ever so quietly.”
Three hours later he was outside the door, rapping it softly as she had requested. She appeared with a finger across her lips, beckoned him into the compartment, and pointed toward the en suite dressing room. Once inside it, she closed the door behind them, put her arms around his neck, and gave him a passionate kiss. “He’s in the suite next door. That way,” she added, “on the other side of my stateroom—sorry, that’s a nautical term, isn’t it? But you know what I mean. And this room seems to be next door to my other neighbor’s dressing room, so Father Meagher’s bedroom must be next to mine. Either we drag the mattress in here or we’ll have to make love in ghostly silence.”
As he loosened the cord of her dressing gown, slid a hand inside, and kissed her again, the train roared its way through another short tunnel. “I think we can afford a few creaking bedsprings,” he said.
They did creak, but not alarmingly so, and sometime after they’d spent their passion, McColl was surprised to hear other springs vibrating through the wall. “I told you so,” she whispered gleefully.
He eventually put his clothes back on in the dressing room, and they stood hand in hand by the window, looking out at the moonlit fields of snow. “Father Meagher is taking me to breakfast at eight o’clock,” she said. “Arrive a few minutes later and I’ll invite you to join us. He won’t refuse. As far as he knows,
I met you in China and you helped me out with some translation work, both there and on the ship. Tell him you’ve a wife and children at home and how much you’re missing them.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have a wife and children you’re missing?”
“No. I had a wife once, but we’re long since divorced.” He hoped he sounded as indifferent as he actually was.
Her hand loosened in his, but only for a second. “You never said.”
“I hardly ever think about her. It was all a long time ago, and we were only together a couple of years.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“Oh, I see her—she’s my boss Tim’s sister. But only to exchange the odd polite word. She’s married again now.”
“What’s her name?”
“Evelyn. You’re not upset, are you?”
“No. Surprised perhaps, which is absolutely ridiculous. For some strange reason, I just assumed you had always been single.”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve never felt anything else. And never more so than when we were married. But I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s go back a bit—what made you dream up a fictitious family for me?”
“To deflect him, of course. If he thinks you’re interested in me, he’ll keep watching me like a hawk. So when we meet at breakfast, remember to hardly notice I’m there. There’s nothing he’d like better than to tell my father that I’ve fallen from grace. He positively revels in other people’s sins.”
“Does he know your father?”
“They’ve met a few times, but they’re not friends. Even my father has better taste than that.”
“Okay,” McColl said. “So I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Quiet as you go,” she reminded him.
He could hear the priest snoring as he let himself out, and back in his own compartment Pearson and Son were both
hard at it. He lay on his bunk cursing the two of them but knew in his heart that they weren’t the ones keeping him awake. His conversation with Caitlin had stirred up memories he normally left alone, and now he found himself thinking about Oxford and Evelyn and the man he had been then—a very square peg in a very round hole. Spies were outsiders, too, but usually of their own volition.
The sleep that finally took him was fitful and dream-filled, and he woke to the first hint of light feeling barely rested. Now father and son were both turned to the wall, and the officer above him was snoring.
He put on his trousers, shoes, and socks, made his way to the washroom at the end of the car, and doused his face with cold water. The car steward had already brewed coffee, and McColl carried a mugful down toward the observation car, stopping to admire the sunrise when the train was on a curve. Darkness still filled the rear windows when he reached the observation car, but over the next few minutes, with what seemed astonishing speed, light flamed on the ridgetops of the receding Sierras and began to conjure all manner of colors from the surrounding desert.
The coffee was strong, but he still found himself dozing off, and he finally woke with a start when the train jolted to a halt in what turned out to be Elko. The station was bathed in sunlight, but frost glistened on the ground, and as they pulled out, he noticed a porter’s telltale plume of breath.
At eight o’clock he walked up the train, stopping only to check his appearance in one of the toilets. Not too bad for such a dissolute life, he told himself.
They were in the middle of the crowded dining car, the priest facing forward.
“Mr. McColl,” she greeted him warmly. “Won’t you join us? You’ve met Father Meagher.”
“Father,” McColl said, taking the seat next to him. The priest had a mouthful of toast and looked more surprised than annoyed. “How was your stay in California?” McColl asked him jovially once his order had been taken. “Were you on vacation?”
Father Meagher wiped his lips with a napkin while considering his answer. “I was on vacation, yes. Seeing old friends.” He looked at McColl for the first time. “You’re on a working trip, I understand. Miss Hanley tells me you’re a salesman.”
McColl managed to look a trifle aggrieved. “I represent a British automobile manufacturer,” he conceded.
“And now you’re on your way home?”
“On the way, yes. I have some business in New York, but then I take ship, I’m glad to say. I’ve already been away from my wife and children for far too long,” he added, trying to look as if he meant it. “I miss them a great deal.”
“As you should, sir.”
“Indeed,” McColl agreed, knife and fork poised above his omelet. “Though I have to say that on my travels I meet many men who seem to feel differently, who are only too ready—how should I say this?—to abuse the trust of those left at home.” Caitlin, he noticed, was keeping a straight face with some difficulty, but Father Meagher was nodding his agreement. “As a man of the cloth,” McColl went on, “you must be only too aware of human frailty.”
The priest nodded some more. “Too much so, I sometimes think. But I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. What man confesses his good deeds?”
McColl smiled sympathetically. “It must be dispiriting sometimes.”
“Sometimes. Miss Hanley tells me you’re from Scotland.”
“From Glasgow. My father’s parents came over from Donegal in 1851, so I’m half Irish really.”
“So you’re a Catholic, then?”
“I am,” McColl declared, rather too glibly for his own good. He hoped he wouldn’t be tested on doctrine.
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you,” the priest said before drinking the last of his coffee. “Now, Caitlin, what are you doing today?”
“I have some writing to do. And you?”
“Well, I know I could do with a haircut. And then perhaps some reading. But I can meet you for lunch at one o’clock.”
“That suits me,” she said, “but this evening I think I’ll take dinner in my compartment. The noise of the train kept me awake until dawn, and I’m sure I’ll want to retire early tonight.”
“That suits
me
.” Father Meagher said. “I’m sure I can find a bridge game to while away the time. Now, Mr. McColl, if you’d just let me out …”
McColl watched the priest exit through the vestibule door. “So,” he said, sitting back down, “am I included in the early night?”
“Of course,” she said, taking his hand. “But I really do have a piece to finish this morning. Let’s meet up this afternoon.”
“In the observation car,” he suggested. “I’ve more or less taken up residence there.”
And that was where he spent the morning, watching the desert slide by and considering his next move. He needed to search through Father Meagher’s compartment, but when would be the best time? Not when the priest was in it, obviously. Not when he might return at any moment. And not when someone else might witness the break-in. An ex-burglar on Cumming’s payroll had taught him the art of picking locks—it was almost the only training he’d had—but it wasn’t something one could manage in an instant.
There were more people walking up and down the train during the day, so there’d be less chance of his being seen at the door in question after dinner. So midevening, he decided,
while the father was playing cards. And it would have to be today—he couldn’t risk leaving it for the final night, when there might not be a similar opportunity.
Caitlin, though, was a potential problem. He would need an excuse for leaving her company and would have to make sure she didn’t hear him moving around in Father Meagher’s compartment. Tiredness, he decided, would do for the first, and it might well turn out to be true. The second he would just have to manage.
He made do with a snack in the club car for lunch and returned to his post in time to enjoy the twelve-mile crossing of the Great Salt Lake. The train had a lengthy stop in Ogden, the connection for Salt Lake City, and he took the opportunity for some exercise, walking the length of the platform as he smoked a cigarette. It was bitterly cold, and by the time he reached the locomotives, he was hugging and shaking himself to generate warmth.
When he got back to the observation car, she was there, talking to one of the few children on the train, a boy of ten or eleven. “Marty here tells me that we’ll soon be seeing the Devil’s Slide and the Thousand Mile Tree,” she told McColl.
“And what are they?” he asked the boy.
“The Devil’s Slide is like a huge playground slide,” Marty explained. “On the side of a mountain. It’s hundreds of feet long.”
“And the tree?”
“That’s a funny accent you’ve got,” Marty decided.
“I’m Scottish. What about the tree?”
“It’s just a pine tree, but it’s exactly a thousand miles from Omaha. That’s where they started building the line.”
“Okay. And how long do we have to wait?”
“About half an hour after Ogden, the conductor told me.”
It passed quickly, the valley narrowing as the train climbed away from the desert. Marty seemed starved of
conversation—he was traveling with his mother—and eager to talk about almost anything. He told them his father was a soldier and currently in Europe attending a conference that he wasn’t allowed to write home about, in case his letters were intercepted. The boy’s father thought there would be a war in Europe, because the Europeans all distrusted each other. But the United States would keep out of it, because these days Europe didn’t really matter to Americans. “I’m sorry about that,” Marty apologized to McColl.
“Don’t mention it,” McColl told him.
The tree, when it appeared, was disappointingly small, the slide exactly as Marty had described it. He insisted on shaking their hands when he left—his mother, he said, would be wondering where he was.
“Will there be a war, do you think?” Caitlin asked McColl.
He shrugged. “Who knows?”
She wasn’t to be put off. “I just can’t believe it could happen. Not in today’s world.”