Red Joan (44 page)

Max pulls her closer to him. ‘I'm not teasing you. You love me, don't you? I know you do. That's why you're here.'

‘Of course I do. I had to see you. I had to tell you.'

‘Well, there you are then.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, wait for me. Let me go to trial. Let me clear my name and then let's get married and never mention this ever again.'

She shakes her head. ‘But now you know the truth, you'll have to lie for me. I'll be making you lie to protect me.' She pauses. ‘They'll see it as the same level of betrayal.'

Max looks at her. ‘Only if they find some evidence,' he whispers.

Her heart seems to stop, and when it starts again it pounds inside her. She cannot allow him to do this. She does not deserve it. It is too risky. There are too many things that could go wrong. A thought suddenly comes to her and she squeezes his body against her own, hurriedly trying to think how it might work. She can hear footsteps along the corridor outside. One more minute, she thinks. Just one more minute.

‘There might be another way,' she whispers.

‘What?'

‘You'd have to be the running type though.'

‘I can't run. In case you haven't noticed, I'm incarcerated in a high-security prison.'

‘No, I mean, I think I can get you out.'

‘How?'

‘I have a friend in the Foreign Office. He's . . . ' she hesitates. ‘He's in the network too.'

Max rolls his eyes. ‘There are more of you?'

Joan hesitates but she knows there is not enough time to explain. ‘I'm sure he could sort something out for you. But not in England. That's the deal. If we leave now . . . '

‘Not Russia,' he says. ‘I couldn't live in Russia for the rest of my life.'

Joan shakes her head. ‘How about Australia?'

The footsteps have reached the door now; heavy, hobnailed boots on the rough concrete floor indicating that the visit is over. Max steps forward and pulls her towards him so that her shoulder fits in under his arm and her face rests against his neck. She can feel his breath against her skin, short, indecisive bursts of air, his lips almost tickling her with their nearness. He holds her there, as close as he can, not speaking as the door opens and the guard appears in the doorway.

‘Time,' he barks, standing aside so that Joan can pass.

Joan feels a terrible dryness in her throat. She knows she is asking too much. She cannot expect him to give up his home, his life, his country, just like that. And would it work, in any case? Would it not just put them both at risk?

She feels her body tremble as Max bends down to kiss her chastely on the lips. It is a farewell kiss, so painful, so definite. She feels tears rising and she has to close her eyes as his finger traces the line of her collarbone for the last time, and then slips around to lift the hair from her left ear so that when he leans forward to kiss her once more on the cheek, it is not a kiss which he delivers, but a murmured ‘yes.'

T
he piece of paper in Joan's hand is folded into perfect quarters. She has memorised the address, but she looks at it anyway. She is wearing her fur, no longer wanted by the second cousin and officially hers to keep. It is flung around her shoulders, and when she walks, it falls open at the knee and swings confidently behind her. She arrives at William's office and the receptionist in the lobby directs her towards a settee whose cushions are covered in golden velour. She perches on the edge of it, her knees pressed together. She is holding herself in, tightly, tightly. There is a painting on the wall opposite her, a ship docked at dawn with the phosphorescent light of the city rising behind it. Where is that? she wonders, trying to distract herself from what she is about to do.

‘Ah,' William says, striding into the grand foyer with a smile fixed on his face but his eyes questioning, alert. She can smell the sweet staleness of whisky on his breath as he kisses her. ‘You got my note then?'

Joan stands up. ‘Yes, and I was just passing,' she says, echoing William's words to her the last time they spoke. ‘I thought you might be free for lunch.'

William turns to the receptionist who is inspecting Joan's legs, as if assessing the likelihood of this being a romantic lunch. ‘I'm afraid you'll have to cover for me again, Cheryl. Tell anyone who asks that I'm out on business. And if it's Alice, mention that I'll be late.'

‘Of course, sir.'

William waits until they have turned the corner and crossed the street into St. James' Park and then he turns to her and takes both of her hands in his. ‘I thought I might be seeing you. Why didn't you come to me earlier?'

‘I didn't know anything was happening. You said you'd warn me.'

William's eyes are narrowed in confusion. ‘Didn't you hear from Sonya?'

Joan shakes her head slowly. ‘No.'

‘That's strange. She said not to contact you as she wanted to do it herself. But then when I didn't hear from you . . . ' He stops, seeing Joan's face crumple slightly. ‘Are you in trouble?'

Joan is shivering now, her whole body seeming to ache with the cold in spite of the warmth of her coat. ‘Yes,' she whispers. ‘Please. Will you help me? I have to get out.'

He lifts his hands and presses them on her shoulders, intending to steady her but the sensation is discomforting. ‘Are you sure? You know it will arouse suspicion if you just disappear.'

She nods. ‘They've arrested Max. They know there's been a leak from our laboratory.'

William sighs. ‘They think there has, you mean.' He looks down at her and she observes that his eyes are pouchy and tired. ‘It's falling apart, Jo-jo. Rupert has been posted to the Washington Embassy. Which is an enormous coup for us, of course, but he's becoming a liability. He's falling out of clubs every night, completely gone. Apparently he told some woman he's a Russian spy and it's been passed off as a joke, but he's a time bomb out there. I think the pressure's got to him.' He glances at Joan. ‘Sorry. That's not why you're here, is it?'

‘This is urgent, William. I need to get out now.' She pauses. ‘You promised.'

William frowns. ‘All right, all right. I can apply for full defector treatment for you. I know they hold you in extremely high regard. You'll get a good flat, a pension . . . '

‘Not Russia,' she interrupts. ‘I couldn't.'

‘Ah yes,' William says. ‘We never quite managed to convince you on that score, did we?' He takes a cigarette case from his jacket pocket and flicks it open. ‘Mind you, I'm not sure it would do for me either. I have terrible circulation.' He lifts up his hands and rubs them together before breaking into a hum. ‘
How cold my toes
.'

Joan does not smile. ‘You mentioned Australia before. That's where I want to go.'

‘Really? It's a long way.'

‘Exactly.'

William frowns. ‘That will take a while to sort out. A week. Maybe two.'

Joan shakes her head. She grasps his sleeve, a desperate, childish gesture. ‘I can't wait that long.' She pauses. ‘And there's something else.'

‘What?'

‘I need two tickets.'

‘Two? Who's the other one for?'

Joan hesitates. ‘It's for Max. I need you to get him out of prison and onto that boat.'

William stares at her. ‘The professor? Why?'

‘He knows everything. I've told him everything.'

His mouth opens and then closes again. His hands move outwards and then hesitate, falling back to his sides. ‘But why?' he asks again.

‘I had to, William. I couldn't have him going to jail for something I've done. It's not right.' She pauses. ‘He doesn't deserve it.'

William slaps a hand to his forehead and makes a small noise, a groan. He remembers something now, something he had barely paid any attention to at the time and which he had dismissed as harmless gossip over a drink between friends. ‘You and Professor Davis. I forgot. Sonya told me there was something between the two of you, but she insisted it wasn't serious.' He pauses and looks at Joan, his eyes searching her face. Joan crosses her arms over her chest. William gives a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Well, I guess she was wrong about that, wasn't she?'

‘But can you get him out?'

‘I'm not a magician, Jo-jo.'

‘Please, William. Please.'

William looks at her. ‘I'm sorry. It's too risky. I don't want to draw any more attention to myself right now than I need to. The Americans have cracked the old KGB codes. There are endless decrypts from foreign KGB operatives back to the Centre. I've told you, it's a time bomb, Jo-jo. I've got to keep my head down.' He looks at her. ‘I can get you out but not him as well.'

‘But he's innocent.'

‘He's in custody. They want a trial. They need to show the Yanks they're doing something.'

‘But he knows. I'm a liability too now.'

‘Just keep him sweet. Pretend you're getting him out too. By the time he realises what's actually happened, you'll be halfway to Australia with a new passport and papers.'

‘I can't do that.'

William shakes his head. ‘I'm sorry, you'll just have to let him take it. I can't do it. I can't take the risk, especially now with Rupert firing off all over the place. He's my main priority. Just sit tight.'

Joan stares at him. ‘But you said—'

William waves his hand at her. ‘I know, I know. But I didn't say I could do it for every man and his dog.'

Joan turns away from him. There is a bench by the lake and she walks over to it and sits down. She was not expecting this. She thought it would be enough for William that Max knew everything, and that she was in trouble. She still has one more card up her sleeve, but she will have to be convincing. She will have to say the words and mean them.

William follows her and sits down next to her. ‘I'll still do it for you though, Jo-jo,' he says, and his tone is gentle, conciliatory.

She takes a deep breath. She does not want to do this, especially not to William. ‘Which is it to be then?'

He looks puzzled. ‘What do you mean?'

Her voice cracks a little as she speaks. ‘Well, as I see it, there are two options.' She holds up a finger and is surprised to see that it is not shaking. ‘One, you do as I ask. Or two . . . ' she holds up a second finger, ‘ . . . I send a letter to MI5 about you, giving names, dates, details of all your Russian activity. It'll mention Rupert too.'

‘They wouldn't believe you.'

Joan raises her eyebrows. ‘Wouldn't they?'

‘There's nothing to link me to him. Nothing specific. We've always been very careful about that. Different colleges, different war sections. We've barely even lived in the same country for the past ten years.'

There is a pause. ‘Well, that's where the photograph comes in.'

‘What photograph?'

‘The one I found in Sonya's house. It's of you and Rupert kissing. I have one copy for your wife and one for the
Daily Mail.
'

‘You wouldn't do that.'

She must not flinch. ‘Don't call my bluff, William.'

William's face turns a pale, ashen colour. ‘But I thought we were friends.'

She lowers her hand onto his. She can feel the clammy warmth of his skin, the heat of it seeping up into her palm. ‘I'm sorry,' she whispers. ‘I'm desperate.'

William stands up. He starts to walk away. Don't! she thinks. Don't force me to actually do it. It is almost as if he hears her. He stops, kicks at a thistle in the grass, thrusts his fists deep into his pockets, and spins back towards where Joan is sitting.

‘All right,' he says, and his voice is low and resigned. ‘We might have one chance. If I can persuade them that it'll compromise the American decrypts of Russian signals too much to use the evidence they've got, then we're in with a chance. I'll have to persuade them that he's better off being sent out to pasture in Oz as I know they're struggling to find anything on him that doesn't give away our sources. All they have is circumstantial evidence at the moment, and some throwaway comment he made to the head of the Chalk River plant in Canada. It'll be a crappy teaching job and transportation for life, at best. Only they don't call it that any more. But it is possible. I know a few cases where it's been done. Hushed up, of course. New identities. New start.'

Joan leans across and takes William's hand. ‘Thank you,' she whispers.

He frowns. ‘I'll need a day or two.'

She nods. ‘There's a fast boat leaving in four days.' She holds out her hand for his and he takes it, slowly, and shakes it. ‘I want us to be on it.'

‘You drive a hard bargain, Miss Robson.' He leans down and kisses her hand, but it is a hard kiss, and he is holding her too tightly. ‘And if you really want to thank me, you can burn that picture of me and Rupert.'

Joan looks at him, and there is a waft of a smile passing between them. ‘It's a deal.'

T
he press conference is scheduled for midday. It will take place at Joan's house and she will address the press agents and journalists from her front step. Certain members of MI5 will be present, not just Ms. Hart and Mr Adams, and there will be a strong security element. For her own protection, apparently. Her name was officially released in the House of Commons this morning at approximately the same time as William's body disappeared through the curtain at the crematorium to be turned into ash and scattered by his surviving friends and relations, his secret safe in her keeping.

She picks up the telephone and dials Nick's number. It rings out. She tries his mobile next, but it goes straight to the recorded message. She listens to the entire message, her heart pounding, but when the beep comes she does not say anything because she doesn't know what it is she wants to say. Just that she is sorry. And that she loves him. And that she doesn't blame him for the choice he has made. What he said to her yesterday in the bathroom was quite right. It is his turn to choose now. Actions have consequences, she has always known that.