When he entered his apartment, he was surprised to see a note had been slipped under his door. The
gardienne
must have let a visitor in, which suggested the visitor was possessed of a persuasive character.
That was confirmed when he focused clearly enough on the writing to recognize it. The note was from Malory.
Schools: I have learnt something you will want to know as soon as possible concerning le S. Come to my apartment. If you return after ten, leave it until tomorrow morning, as early as you and your hangover like. M
Morahan struggled out of his coat and sat down on the bed, holding the note limply in his hand. It was long after ten and he was in no condition to speak to Malory now, as she seemed, with her infuriating perceptiveness, to have guessed would be the case. He kicked off his shoes and threw his fedora towards the hatstand. It missed. Then he lay down.
Bostridge piloted his Hillman somewhat erratically along the damp, dark lanes of Oxfordshire, asking Appleby a string of questions he seemed disinclined to answer about former Secret Service colleagues. The irony that some of them might be on Lemmer’s list appeared to escape him. Suddenly, his butterfly mind alighted on another topic: the file containing the list.
‘You have the file with you, Horace?’ he asked. ‘The original, I mean.’
‘It’s authentic,’ Appleby replied evasively.
‘Grey, by any chance?’
‘How did you know that?’ Max cut in from the cramped rear seat.
‘Good question.’ Bostridge swivelled round to look at Max, pulling the car to the left, which Appleby corrected to steer them away from the verge. ‘How did I know?’
‘Well?’
‘Take your hand off the wheel, Horace,’ Bostridge said tetchily as he turned back to address the road ahead. ‘You’ll have us in the hedge.’
‘The colour of the file, Jeremy?’ Max prompted.
‘Ah, yes,
Die graue Akte
. Well, it came to me just now. I remember the phrase from a cable we intercepted. From Lemmer, we suspected, in Weihaiwei, though what he was—’
‘
Where?
’
‘Weihaiwei. Aren’t you familiar with that adornment to our Imperial crown, Max?’
‘It’s a British-leased enclave on the Shantung peninsula,’ said Appleby.
‘Exactly.’ Bostridge went on. ‘So, it was worrying – and puzzling – that Lemmer should be there, if he was there, early last year.’
‘Who did he cable? And why?’
‘His secretary in Berlin. I can’t recall—’
‘Anna Schmidt?’
‘Yes. That’s it. Come across her, have you?’
‘Max’s recent activities ought to stay between him and me, Jeremy,’ said Appleby.
‘Right. Sorry. Anyway, the cable was to Frau Schmidt. We deciphered it readily enough, but the message was veiled, as we call it. They obviously had a private code within the code. There were other cables around that time, also from Lemmer, we suspected, from Far Eastern locations. We never penetrated their meaning. But the Grey File was certainly mentioned in them, which suggested it was important. And now we know just how important, don’t we? Ah. Here we are. Home, sweet home.’
THE COTTAGE WAS
at the end of a rough track. Max had subconsciously expected a thatched roof and neatly fenced flower garden, but what he saw in the glare of the headlamps was a slate-roofed labourer’s dwelling.
The interior was in surprisingly good order, however, with every sign that someone had taken care over furnishing and decorating the place. Those signs revealed themselves in the soft glow of the oil lamps Bostridge lit. ‘No electricity out here,’ he explained. ‘But no irritating students either.’
‘You live here alone?’ Appleby queried.
‘No, no. I, er, share my country retreat with a friend.’
‘Where’s your friend now?’
‘Visiting relatives. We won’t be interrupted. Do you two want anything to eat or drink?’
‘We don’t want to hold you up, Jeremy. The sooner you start working on that list the better.’
‘Of course. But I work better after a bacon sandwich. Any takers?’
It transpired there were. Also for the bottles of Bass he fetched from the pantry. Appleby set about lighting the fire, while Bostridge went into the kitchen. An appetizing aroma of frying bacon was soon wafting through to them. Max sat down in an armchair. He suddenly felt weary to the core of his being.
As the fire caught, the logs began to spit and crack. Max decided he should take his coat off before he fell asleep wearing it, so he pushed himself out of the chair and went to hang it up.
‘Max,’ Appleby called to him from the hearth.
‘Yes?’
Appleby pointed to their bags, one of which – Max’s – now had the Grey File stored at the bottom of it. Appleby motioned for Max to bring the bags into the centre of the room. Clearly, he did not want the file to be out of his reach, let alone his sight.
Max stowed them beside the armchair and sat down again. ‘Assuming Jeremy can decipher the list, what’s our next step?’
‘Get it to C. Which won’t be easy. But I have a few ideas.’
‘You’d better pray C’s name isn’t listed.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Sorry. I tend to imagine the worst when I’m tired.’
‘Shut up and drink your beer.’
Max raised the bottle to his mouth and drank. He would have preferred whisky, but beggars could not be choosers. Bass was Sam’s favourite, he remembered.
A draught of cold air from the kitchen caused smoke to billow into the room from the chimney. There was the sound of a door closing.
‘What was that?’ Appleby looked round suspiciously.
‘I think Jeremy must have stepped out the back,’ suggested Max. ‘Maybe he’s gone to the privy.’
‘Leaving a frying pan on the stove? That’d be typically irresponsible. You’d better check it’s all right.’
Max sighed and made to rise.
‘Oh, stay where you are. You look all in. I’ll go.’
With some relief, Max subsided back into the chair as Appleby moved past him. He closed his eyes and felt sleep flooding over him like a spring tide.
Suddenly, he was awake, roused by the click of a gun being cocked.
There were three men in the room with Appleby, who had a gun to his head. They were hard-faced, muscular characters of military bearing, steely-eyed and serious. One of them was pointing a revolver straight at Max.
‘Tell him,’ the man said to Appleby.
‘Tell him yourself, Grattan.’
‘That’s smart, Horace. Go on. Introduce us all. Name names. Then there’s no going back.’
‘Grattan’s with MI5, Max. Counter-espionage. So’s Hughes.’ Appleby nodded to one of the others. ‘Their companion is a colleague of mine, Meadows. Former colleague now, I suppose. No doubt they each have their own tale to tell of why they sold out. So does Jeremy, I’m sure.’
Bostridge shambled apologetically into view behind them, absent-mindedly clutching the spatula he had been frying bacon with. ‘Sorry,’ he said in an uneven voice. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t walk into the trap.’
‘He means he hoped we’d walk into another trap somewhere else to spare his conscience,’ said Appleby bitterly.
‘Sanctimonious bugger, aren’t you, Horace?’ said Grattan. ‘You ought to know we had to force Bostridge’s hand.’
‘What have they got on you, Jeremy?’
‘Friendship, Horace.’ Bostridge looked genuinely sorry. ‘There’s someone I care about more than you.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Grattan. ‘Now, stay exactly where you are, Max. They’ll be carrying, Len. Check their coats.’
Hughes crossed the room to where Max and Appleby’s coats were hanging. He found the guns and returned with them.
‘Good. Stand up, Max.’
Max rose reluctantly to his feet. Appleby caught and held his gaze for a second, moving his head by a fraction of an inch to caution against resistance.
‘Search them.’
Hughes frisked first Max, then Appleby. He found no more weapons.
‘All right. What did they bring you, Jeremy?’
‘Photographs . . . of the contents of the Grey File.’
‘Show me.’
Bostridge crossed to the table where he had dropped the envelope containing the photographs. He pulled them out. ‘It’s a coded list . . . of Lemmer’s foreign agents.’
‘With a record of payments made,’ said Appleby. ‘Maybe you three should check it tallies with what you received.’ He turned to Meadows. ‘How much did you hold out for, Stan?’
‘You have no bloody idea how I was placed,’ Meadows snapped.
‘Ignore him,’ said Grattan, though the expression on Meadows’ face suggested he would not find that easy. ‘It’s good of you to have lit a fire. Tear up the photographs and burn them, Jeremy.’
Bostridge tore them up, as instructed, and dropped them a couple at a time into the fire.
‘Where are the negatives, Horace?’
‘Left luggage, York railway station.’
‘You should have gone on the stage with your sense of humour, you really should. Search their bags, Len.’
Hughes carried the bags to the table and emptied them an item at a time. He found the envelope with the Grey File in it soon enough. But not the negatives. Grattan seemed well pleased, even so.
‘Does it look genuine, Len?’
Hughes nodded. ‘It’s the Grey File.’
‘All right. We’ll return to the subject of the negatives later, Horace, after we’ve taken you and Max on somewhere.’
‘Who’s waiting for us there?’ asked Appleby.
‘Never you mind.’
‘Lemmer?’ Max looked Grattan in the eye. ‘I bet it is. He’ll want to inspect the file as soon as possible.’
‘You’ll have to wait and see, Max. Our orders are to deliver both of you alive if possible. It’d be no hardship to any one of us if that didn’t prove possible, though. So, consider yourselves warned.’
‘I really am sorry,’ said Bostridge dolefully.
Max glanced accusingly at him. ‘So you should be.’
‘You’re right there,’ said Grattan. Then he turned towards Bostridge, raised the gun and fired.
Bostridge let out no more than a grunt as the bullet entered his head through the bridge of his nose, shattering his glasses. He toppled backwards and crashed to the floor, where he lay motionless – and very obviously dead.
‘What in God’s name did you do that for?’ Appleby asked, his voice hoarse with shock.
‘No decipherer; no decipherment.’ Grattan swung the gun back towards Max. ‘Bostridge’s talents are no longer required. But don’t worry. His fey little friend is waiting to console him on the other side.’
‘Lemmer told you to kill him, didn’t he?’ Max cut in. ‘You want to ask yourself whether he told someone else to kill you.’
Grattan took a step forward and pressed the barrel of his gun against Max’s forehead. But Max did not flinch. He had often debated with himself during the war whether his fearlessness was an asset or a liability. Maybe he was about to find out.
‘Go ahead and shoot,’ he said, staring straight at Grattan. ‘You’re the big man with the big gun.’
‘You’ve had a soft life, Max. I reckon it’s going to have a hard ending.’
‘Yours too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘If Lemmer wants us alive,’ cautioned Appleby, ‘he won’t thank you for delivering either of us dead.’
It seemed for a moment that Grattan was seriously tempted to ignore the truth of what Appleby had said. Then something changed in his expression. He could not do as he pleased. He was not his own man. He was Lemmer’s.
‘All right,’ he said, taking a step back. ‘Go and get the car, Stan. We’re leaving.’
THE THROATY SOUND
of a car engine and the beep of a horn was the cue for Grattan to order them out of the cottage. Grattan held a gun to the back of Appleby’s neck as they left; Hughes, one to the back of Max’s. The darkness beyond the glare of the headlamps was utter, but the odds against fleeing successfully into it without being shot were long. They did as they were told.
The car was a big four-seater. Max and Appleby sat in the rear with Hughes. Grattan took the front passenger seat. A bag at his feet contained the Grey File.
‘Try anything and we’ll shoot you,’ said Grattan, turning to face them over the seat back as Meadows started away.
‘We’ll be sure not to give you any excuse,’ said Appleby. ‘Won’t we, Max?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You should never have let Horace get you involved in this, Max,’ said Grattan. ‘It was a big mistake.’
‘I seem to just go on making them.’
Max hoped his light-hearted tone would deflate some of Grattan’s confidence, though Grattan had every reason to be confident. He had them exactly where he wanted them. And his cold-blooded execution of Bostridge stood as a warning of what would happen if they resisted.
When they reached the end of the lane and turned left, Max was momentarily puzzled. Right was surely the route back to Oxford. Then he remembered they were not necessarily going back to Oxford. There was no telling where Lemmer would be waiting for them.
But it soon became clear left was a wrong turn after all. ‘Sod it,’ said Meadows when a scatter of lit windows appeared ahead. ‘This is the centre of the village.’
‘Don’t you know where you’re bloody going?’ Grattan snapped. ‘Turn round.’
They came to a halt just before the village green. A short distance along the road was a pub. The headlamps caught its name: the Cross Keys. Three men were standing outside it discussing something which involved gesticulating towards the church on the other side of the green. The tower was a slab of blackness against the moon-paled sky.
Meadows ground the gears noisily and reversed into a gateway they had just passed. But he misjudged the manoeuvre. Suddenly, the back of the car plunged into a hole.
‘Sod it,’ said Meadows again. He jammed the car back into forward gear and tried to move. But the rear wheels found nothing to grip and the car simply slewed round into an even worse position.
‘Get us out of here,’ said Grattan. ‘We’re beginning to attract attention.’
It was true. The men by the pub had lost interest in their conversation and were now looking in their direction. Meadows pressed the accelerator and the car skidded and jolted – but stayed where it was. He grunted, grabbed a torch and clambered out. He was back within a few seconds.