The Avenue of the Dead (16 page)

‘It also authenticates the diary,' Grant remarked. Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘Nobody hurt, I hope?'

‘Only the man they sent in,' she answered. ‘Colin dealt with him.'

‘Good. You've done well. Congratulations. How much has Fleming actually admitted?'

‘Embezzlement, and as near as damnit murdering his first wife. But nothing else. John Kidson would be the best person to take over.'

‘He'll be with you tomorrow.' Grant's highpitched voice was crisp. ‘I mean today. I'll get the chief to telephone you at eleven o'clock our time.'

‘I'll be here,' she said. ‘The ambassador asks when you are going to contact the American authorities. Fleming is a US citizen. It could be tricky.'

‘Tell Sir Arthur,' Grant snapped, ‘that all he has to do is provide Fleming with a bed for the night. The moment Kidson arrives in Washington, Fleming will be off his hands. Goodnight.'

He didn't put out the light. He sipped his water, sitting up in bed. Fraud, murder. But not treason, that would come. Elizabeth Fleming had been right after all, and had obviously paid a heavy price for it. This would make Watergate look like a bag snatching. He sighed deeply from relief and from exasperation. The ambassador was right, of course. They would have to disclose their discovery to the CIA. There would be red faces and angry recriminations at Langley. But they weren't going to get their hands on Edward Fleming until John Kidson had finished with him. Fleming was British born. When and where he was recruited would be very relevant to home security if it took place before he went to the States. Grant strapped on his watch. It was now four-thirty. Kidson would have to catch the first plane to New York. He decided to wait until six a.m. before he telephoned. That would give Kidson time to pack a bag and get to the airport. He settled down to read his detective story for the rest of the night.

They left the embassy and drove back through the deserted streets to their apartment. It was nearly two a.m. Sir Arthur Moore had insisted on them having coffee and sandwiches after the call to London. Fleming had agreed to stay the night at the embassy. He'd been given two sleeping pills and collapsed like a rag doll. During the evening Davina had telephoned to Ellen and explained that he was staying with friends and would return home next morning. By that time he would be in Kidson's charge. Inside the flat, she dropped onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. She covered her face with her hands and yawned.

‘God, I'm so tired. I feel completely drained.'

‘Drink? Cup of coffee?'

She shook her head. ‘No thanks. How often did you interrogate people?'

‘Once or twice and only superficially. My job was to catch them; other people asked the questions. It's upset you, hasn't it?'

‘Yes. He was resisting every inch of the way. He started using filthy language to me, screming about Liz betraying him giving me the diary. I thought he was going to hit me several times. He would have, if the ambassador hadn't been there.'

Lomax was scowling. ‘Why didn't you send for me?'

‘There was no need. He was a trapped animal tonight, snarling at me because I'd caught him. And there was so much hate, Colin. Hate for his first wife, hate for Liz. He was unloading it all on me. When he did cave in it was somehow sickening and pathetic' She hugged herself with both arms and shivered.

Lomax smoked for a while without saying anything. They he came over to the sofa and held out his hands to her.

‘I'm going to say it, Davina, whether you want me to or not. I love you.'

She let him take her close and kiss her. ‘I want you, Colin, but I don't love you. I'm sorry.'

‘I'll settle for that for the time being,' he answered.

Davina woke before the dawn broke. He lay beside her, face down, one arm resting heavily over her body. The scars on his back were hidden in the darkness. She had seen them after they had made love, and felt a surge of tenderness as well as passion. He had conjured away the ugliness and the pain of human wickedness for her, and she had taken far more than she had given. He had been right, when he told her it would be different. Ivan had not been a tender or considerate lover; he had swept her along on his own urgent tide of desire. Colin Lomax, surprisingly, was intuitive and loving, and if he had challenged her now about her feelings, she wouldn't have been so sure of her answer. He woke as she got up.

‘I've got to get to the embassy for that call,' she said. ‘Go back to sleep.'

‘Come here a minute before you go.' He looked oddly vulnerable sitting up, watching her with quiet expectancy.

‘I'm not going to ask you anything, but did I make you happy?'

‘Yes,' she said gently, ‘you did.'

He held out his arms to her and she came into them. ‘You loved him very much, didn't you?'

‘You knew that.'

‘And you still do.'

She didn't deny it; the last thing he would want from her was a lie. ‘I have to go, or I'll be late for that call.'

‘Go on then,' Lomax told her. ‘But remember one thing. I'm not giving up.'

‘I've got a marvellous idea,' Charlie said. ‘Here, darling, don't bundle the jacket up like that, it'll be terribly creased – let me do it!'

John Kidson stood back and let her finish his packing. ‘Tell me about your marvellous idea,' he said. His wife still surprised him after three years of marriage. The one word he would never have used in connection with her was efficient, and yet she could pack far better than he could and he had lived out of suitcases most of his working life. She never appeared busy, and yet the house was efficiently run. The bills, which had been his chief concern when they were married, remained at sensible limits, and when he came home in the evenings there was a drink ready for him and Charlie looking as if she had stepped off the front page of
Vogue
.

Seeing her bend over his case made him sorry he had to catch the early plane. He came up behind her. ‘Tell me the marvellous idea,' he said and kissed the back of her neck. She sighed and giggled with pleasure. ‘Don't be naughty, darling. We haven't got time. You're going to be in Washington for a week or so, aren't you? And Davina's there too. So why don't I fly out and join you? Wouldn't that be fun?'

He turned her round to him. ‘It would, darling, but I can't afford it. And the Office doesn't like wives coming along.'

‘Don't worry about that,' she said. ‘I'll settle Sir James, leave him to me. And you don't have to afford it, John, because I'm going to treat myself. We said we'd have a holiday after Fergie was born, so why not make it Washington? Don't you want me to come?'

He looked into the beautiful eyes and saw them brim with tears. She still cried easily after the baby's birth; not being able to feed the child had upset her very much. He couldn't think of a single argument against having her with him.

‘You come,' he said, and kissed her. ‘You won't mind if I'm busy?'

‘We'll be together in the evenings,' she said. ‘It's some compensation for being such a rotten milch cow, I suppose. I couldn't have gone away if I'd been feeding Fergie.'

‘I've got to go,' he said. ‘Let me know when you're arriving. And don't be too long.'

Charlie smiled at him and kissed him goodbye. ‘Two days to get my clothes organized and I'll be on the plane,' she said. ‘Safe journey, darling. Cable me when you've arrived, won't you?'

He promised, and she watched the car turn out of the little drive and disappear down the road. Washington would be great fun; she had paid a brief visit there during her second marriage and loved the city. Not as exciting, as vibrant as New York, but beautiful and historic, with amusing people and lavish hospitality. She examined herself in the mirror, smoothing her dressing gown over her hips, watching for signs of slack muscle or dreaded fat. There was a little fullness perhaps, but it only added voluptuousness to a perfect figure. John said she was more beautiful since the baby than she had ever been.

John was wonderful. She wandered into the nursery. Their baby lay snugly in its cot, making the little birdlike noises that signified its own contentment. There was a nice girl engaged to look after the baby, so they could both go down to Marchwood under her mother's supervision while she herself was away in America. The change would do her good. And it would be nice to see Davina. The silly tears welled up again at the thought of her sister.

‘I'm going to be especially nice to her in Washington,' she told the baby. ‘I'm going to make a real effort to be kind and take her out and introduce her round. I know she won't have bothered to meet people. I'll see if we can find someone nice for her, shall I, darling? That would be a good idea, wouldn't it – and I won't be away for long and Granny will be thrilled to have you.' She bent and kissed the top of the downy head. She smelled the sweet smell of baby powder and picked him up and cuddled him against her shoulder. He was thriving on the bottle; it was silly to mind about not feeding him. He mewed and nestled into her. She forgot all the stern dictums of the baby manuals and took him back to bed with her.

The call from Washington Cameras came through to Neil Browning's office on Monday. ‘Your films are ready,' the girl assistant said. ‘Could you collect them this afternoon?'

‘Thanks,' Neil said. ‘I'll come round just after four.' His instructions would be with the films. They must be urgent to require a special call. At five minutes past two he was at the shop door; there was a notice on it saying ‘CLOSED'. He rang the side buzzer and after a minute Bruckner came and opened the door.

‘Come in.' Bruckner held the door for him. He shut it and turned the closed notice over. ‘I sent the girl out,' he said. ‘You go in back, someone's waiting for you. I'll stay out here and mind the shop.'

Browning went through to the little office leading off the showroom. A man was sitting in Bruckner's chair reading a newspaper. Browning had met him four times in the twelve months he had been working for the KGB. He didn't know his name.

They didn't shake hands; the controller folded his paper and put it aside. He was a middle-aged man, thin, slightly bald and with pebble spectacles that distorted his face. He spoke through his nose with a Bronx accent that was quite genuine. ‘Things have started moving fast,' he said to Browning. ‘We need some pretty detailed information. You've got to get it for us.'

Browning swallowed; his mouth had suddenly gone dry. ‘What kind of information? I've got to be careful, you know.'

‘I know,' the man said. ‘But you've been well paid for not very much up until now. It's time you earned your money.'

‘What sort of information?' Browning was becoming more and more alarmed. ‘I don't have access to anything classified.'

‘You have access to Hickling and Graham, don't you?'

Neil agreed unhappily. But, he added, even so he couldn't be too curious – though he'd do his best, of course. The controller's eyes looked froglike behind the thick lenses. ‘Better than your best,' he snapped. ‘We want to know what the British reaction is to Mrs Fleming and what she's said about her husband. We want to know what Graham has reported back. Get that information for us, and get it by tonight.' He took off his glasses, peered at them and put them back. ‘You'll pick up ten thousand dollars,' he remarked. ‘That's good money.'

‘It is,' Neil agreed. ‘But supposing I can't find out today? How do I know Hickling will have anything new or even that he'll tell me about it?'

‘He'll have something new.' The tone was grim. ‘It's your business to get him to tell you what we want. And don't fail. We wouldn't like that.' He picked up his paper and began to read again.

‘I'll call this evening,' Browning said. He nearly stammered. There was no answer. He went out to the front shop.

As soon as he had gone, the older man threw the newspaper aside. Sometimes his orders didn't make sense. He had been told to send someone in for a diary that incriminated an agent. That someone was to come from the underworld and not to have any KGB affiliations that could be traced if he was caught.

When the controller reported that the attempt had failed, Moscow's reaction had been surprisingly understanding. Use Jackdaw instead to get as much information from the embassy as possible. It was too late to get the diary now; it was in the embassy strongroom, and would soon be on its way to London. All they had to rely on was Neil Browning. The man sighed heavily and picked up the paper again.

‘I came here to collect some films,' Neil said to Bruckner. ‘So you'd better give me some.'

Bruckner looked at him shrewdly. ‘You don't look too happy.'

‘I'm not.' Browning took the packet from him. He walked back through the busy streets in the hot sunshine, scowling at his thoughts. The money was tempting, and he hadn't been asked to do too much for it. It was easy enough to pass on items that were within his province in the embassy and report on both sides about Elizabeth Fleming. But to go and prise information out of someone like Peter Hickling was a different matter. Nothing, he decided angrily, would induce him to tackle Davina Graham and try pumping her … He was sweating so much by the time he reached the embassy that he had to go downstairs to the washrooms and have a shower.

He took refuge for a while in his own office, saying he wouldn't take any calls. He had to think up an excuse to go to Hickling and start talking. Hickling was anti-social during office hours. His watch showed half past three. He couldn't go on sitting there wasting time. He put a call through to Peter Hickling's secretary. Would she tell her boss that Browning was on his way up?

It was fortunate for Browning that Peter wasn't very busy. He immediately put his work aside, and offered him a drink or a cup of coffee. Browning couldn't resist the drink. Hickling produced his bottle of gin, and Neil drank it straight with ice cubes from the thermos. It steadied him, and he recovered a measure of confidence.