The Wedding Cake Tree (24 page)

‘
I’m sorry, but I didn’t check in with the guys at all yesterday.’

‘
There’s nothing to be sorry about, you’ve given up so much of your time already Alasdair. Catch you later, okay?’ I closed the door behind me.

A minute later and there was
a knock at the door. I opened it but there was no one there. Another knock, but I couldn’t work out where it was coming from. Then I noticed a door handle sticking out from the wallpaper. I pulled it open and saw Alasdair smiling back at me.

‘
Hey, interconnecting doors, how cool is that?’ I stepped into his room for a second.

‘
We didn’t specify a time,’ he said. ‘Give me an hour and then I’m yours.’ He hovered at the door.

‘
Great. I’m going for a wander round the old town, maybe take some photographs.’ I sat down on the bed. ‘Actually, I’d like to read the next letter now, that way we can have a good time this evening without having to think about Mum and everything.’ He considered my suggestion for a second.

‘
The thing is, Rosamund wanted you to go to a specific place to read the next letter and—’

I cut him short.
‘So tell me where this place is and I’ll go there. I am
relatively
capable, Alasdair.’

‘
Sorry, I know you are. Okay, I’ll get the letter, and the map, but only if you’re sure.’

‘
Of course I’m sure, now go and get the letter, there’s a good lad.’

Mum had wanted me to read her letter in St Mark’s Church. I was tempted to rip the letter open in the foyer and nip to the church later, but heeded Alasdair’s comment regarding Mum’s grand plan and found the church instead. Stepping out of the hotel into the Zagreb sunshine, dressed in beautiful clothes and wearing uncharacteristically feminine shoes, I experienced a feeling of deep happiness I hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever. The reason being, of course, was I was head over heels in love with a man who, just by looking in my direction, made my head spin and my heart leap out of my chest. Being in a romantic foreign city accompanied by a man who was attracted to me too, gave me the confidence to walk with a definite swagger.

Only
minutes after leaving the hotel, the narrow street opened out onto a large cobbled square. If I thought I had entered into a fairy-tale world when I arrived in the old town, the impression was compounded tenfold when I turned a corner and saw the church. St Mark’s was like a fairy-tale castle
and
a church in one. A collection of red, black and white tiles were interwoven to create a mosaic for the entire cross section of the roof that faced onto the square. Two coats of arms – also made of multicoloured tiles – were set within the mosaic. I guessed one coat of arms was the Croatian flag while the other seemed to depict a castle. I sauntered around the square for a time in an effort to capture the beauty and quirkiness of the church on camera but, just like Loch A’an in the early morning sunshine, it was difficult to capture my exact impression of the building.

I stepped in
side the church with as light a foot as possible, which wasn’t easy as the sound of my heels echoed awkwardly. It was dark inside, even for a church. I paused in the doorway until my eyes adjusted, walked down the aisle and headed to the font. Thankfully the front pews were illuminated sufficiently by the altar candles and, having taken a seat on a hard wooden bench, I opened Mum’s letter and began to read.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Zagreb

Hello love.

How did the wedding go? I bet you were phenomenal and looked divine. Don’t stay cross at me for long, you know you enjoyed it really. How did Alasdair look in his best bib and tucker? To die for I’ll bet. Did all of the ladies swoon over him?

I realise I am procrastinating. It’s for a reason. This letter will be difficult to write because I have to cover a period in my life I have blocked out for many years. I have, in fact, delayed writing for a couple of weeks now. But, my illness is starting to take a significant turn for the worse, so I must get my act together. Today I feel relatively well and I’m determined to keep writing until I have conveyed all you need to know. I only hope you still regard me with love and kindness when you have finished reading. Also, Grace, the content of this letter will discuss aspects of life a mother and daughter wouldn’t normally discuss – but I have to be completely honest with you if you are ever to understand why my life followed a particular path.

My last letter ended with Geoff based at the lodge on the west coast of Scotland and with my departure to Hereford. What I didn’t explain was the significant turn my career took in accepting the Hereford posting. Although I was still serving in the RAF, my new job was with the special forces. I was particularly adept at photographic interpretation and had developed an outstanding reputation. One aspect of my job was to provide in-depth intelligence briefs to the guys on covert operations. I occasionally worked with MI6 and, as a result, a whole new world opened up to me. It was a fantastic opportunity, but my work took up at least eighty per cent of my time, with only twenty per cent left for my marriage – if that, to be honest. Nevertheless, Geoff and I still attempted to keep things going. I was young after all, and Geoff encouraged my adventurous spirit. Unfortunately, it was this innate sense of adventure that would lead me into a whole heap of trouble.

In the summer of 1979 I was sent on a six-month detachment to Zagreb. Remember that the ’70s were a time of Cold War intrigue. Intelligence gathering was vital. One of the cells operating in Eastern Europe was using Zagreb as its base. I would meet up covertly with operatives or contact them through other means and provide them with, well, whatever they needed really; intelligence, basic administration, the lot. I worked independently from an apartment downtown. Even though Zagreb was part of Tito’s Yugoslavia, the city was vibrant. I was heady with the summer sun and every day was fresh, exciting and fulfilling. My brief from the colonel before I left Hereford was to keep my head down, merge in with the locals to the point of invisibility and provide a service to the operatives. But I’m afraid to say I became a girl about town.

About halfway through the detachment I became friendly with a writer chap who was living in an adjacent apartment block. He was an American called Sam. I initially bumped into him on the street, then in the foyer, then he popped round to see if my electric had gone off (it hadn’t) and then a chance meeting at the grocer’s. He was good looking, in an obvious kind of way, and fun to be with. Eventually we started to meet in the evenings for coffee or go for a stroll. Balmy summer evenings were spent chatting on the terrace at the St Catherine’s Square café, all the while listening to local musicians – violinists mainly – who busked on the cobbles.

After about a month I noticed his body language towards me started to change, a delicately phrased compliment perhaps, or a supportive hand might linger in the small of my back – you can imagine the sort of thing. I thought nothing of it at first but, over time, his subtle flirtations became intoxicating, they seemed to be a natural part of the hedonistic lifestyle I had adopted. There was, however, something a little unnerving about Sam. But for that short period I had transformed into a different character altogether. I became completely self-absorbed and addicted to the thrill of the job and, I’m ashamed to say, I also became addicted to the way Sam made me feel. It sounds terribly silly now, but I felt so incredibly sexy and full of, what’s the saying, joie de vivre? And so, like a ship that’s lured into shallow water by a wrecker’s lantern, I sailed towards the rocks.

On one particular Saturday we spent a lazy morning strolling around the old town before nipping into St Mark’s Church. I thought he was going to kiss me in the church, the whole experience seemed to be shrouded in intimacy, but he didn’t. We walked to St Catherine’s Square for coffee and cake at our usual café. Sam splashed out on a champagne lunch ‘just for the hell of it’. By the time we left the café the sexual tension between us had reached boiling point; every accidental touch was electrically charged, every glance full of sensuous expectation. Not surprisingly, something had to give. We headed back to my apartment (slightly the worse for the champagne) and within seconds of closing the door we gave in to what had become an intoxicating desire. Nothing in my life had ever felt so exhaustingly erotic. It was, quite literally, electrifying.

But, every electrical pulse must be earthed eventually and, from the moment we lay spent on the bed, I knew I had made the biggest mistake of my life – of several lifetimes in fact. There was no mutual affection, no entwined bodies in a loving embrace, just silence. All I could see in my mind was Geoff’s face. All I could think of was the woodman’s hut and Loch A’an and our wonderful year in the Cairngorms. I felt a desperate need to get myself clean and to run far away from Sam. If I could have run into Geoff’s arms there and then and begged for forgiveness I would have done. I stood in the shower and wept while Sam dressed. I brushed my hair over and over whilst standing in front of the bathroom mirror and prayed he would have left the apartment by the time I stepped out of the bathroom.

He hadn’t left; he was waiting for me in the lounge. His expression looked different somehow – it actually frightened me. I told him I had made a stupid mistake and that I loved my husband (to which he gave a sarcastic smirk). I asked him to leave. He refused. He just sat there, staring at me. I became panic-stricken and felt the need to put as much distance as possible between myself and the stranger lingering in my apartment. I couldn’t even bear to look at him because doing so was an immediate reminder of my infidelity.

I grabbed my jacket and ran out of the building. I half expected him to run after me but instead he shouted in a clear and calculated voice that he would wait in the apartment for me. My head was a mess. I felt completely trapped. Sam had gone from being an object of total desire to the human embodiment of deceit and betrayal, and all within a matter of a couple of hours. I recall wandering the streets for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening in a kind of semi-conscious daze. Even the weather turned against me. My clothes were soaked in the rain.

I considered running to friends at the embassy but what on earth would I say? ‘I’ve just had an extramarital relationship with a man who is refusing to leave my apartment, please can you sort it out?’ I would look like the absolute fool I was. I had no choice but to return, face the music and explain to Sam that we must never meet again. I was frightened though. There had been something victorious in his expression as I left, and I knew I had allowed this man to establish a powerful hold over me. If I had laughed the whole affair off and giggled afterwards I could have covered up my regret. But I hadn’t been that clever. I knew when I looked into his eyes he had seen my fear. Sam was not the man I thought he was.

I plucked up the courage to head back and entered the apartment with absolute dread. The lights were off and I prayed he had come to his senses and left. I took a cursory glance in each room but there was no trace of him, so I dashed to the hall and locked the door. I left the lights off – just in case Sam had been watching from outside – and walked into the lounge in darkness.

The curtains were open but there wasn’t enough ambient light filtering in from the street to cast even the slightest shadow. I tiptoed over to the window and hid behind a curtain to take a look down into the road and make sure Sam wasn’t watching for me; he wasn’t there. So I closed the curtains and stepped to a side table to turn on a lamp. When I turned around Sam was still in the room. I stumbled backwards with complete horror, but the true nightmare of my situation was about to become overwhelmingly apparent. Sam was dead. He had been shot in the head, his body was slouched into the chair, his head flopped down to the right. I was too petrified to scream. Actually, I did feel as though I was trying to scream, but it was impossible to convert the emotion into sound. Every instinct told me to get out of the apartment. I grabbed my purse, passport and jacket and ran for the door.

In a miraculous moment of clarity I decided my best course of action was to hide for a moment rather than run out into the street. I tried the handle of the caretaker’s cupboard door: it was open, so I stepped inside, crouched down and tried to regroup my thoughts. Within five minutes I realised the decision to stay rather than run had quite possibly saved my life.

I heard agitated voices – Russian voices – in the foyer. Two men were arguing although they were trying to keep their voices low. I had picked up a little bit of the language through my intelligence work and could interpret enough to hear them say, ‘Where is she?’ and ‘search!’

On entering the caretaker room I had noticed a tall locker in the corner. With my shoes still in my hands I closed the door behind me and crept over to the locker as quietly as I could. My heart was beating out of my chest. A couple of seconds after positioning myself in the cupboard, the door to the room opened and I could see through the grill in the metal locker that the light had been switched on. The locker was full of overalls hanging on a rail; I managed to hide behind them. One of the men walked over to the cupboard and opened the door. I really thought my number was up but, amazingly, he didn’t have time to search the locker as the second man shouted for him to hurry. He left and I could finally exhale.

I spent the rest of the night hidden in the locker. I remember being unable to stop shivering – my clothes were still damp from the walk in the rain. The events of the past twelve hours were turning over in my head. I had been a damn fool falling for Sam. Had it all been some game to try and get me to talk about my work? How could it be though? I had given him the cover story that I was an administrator at the embassy. Nevertheless, there was a dead man in my apartment and, as far as I knew, the perpetrators were looking for me too.

I know you will be astonished to read all of this Grace. The story seems so ridiculously cloak and dagger, but it was terrifyingly real at the time. I must have dozed for a while but woke on hearing the sounds of local voices in the foyer. It was morning. As stiff as a post, I edged my way out of the cupboard, slipped on my shoes and took a taxi to the embassy – I will leave you to imagine the chaos and confusion that erupted over the next few hours. Police, the embassy lawyer, even the British Ambassador interviewed me. I kept my story simple. I had been out for a walk, left my door on the latch and on returning had found my neighbour (who I had seen socially occasionally) dead on my chair. I explained that I had taken cover in the caretaker’s room and told them about the two Soviets.

Twelve hours after my dramatic arrival at the embassy, I found myself on an RAF aircraft headed back to England. Only three hours after landing at Brize Norton I was sitting in my colonel’s office. By that time I was numb. I dreaded seeing the colonel, he had clearly held a fatherly soft spot for me since I had arrived at Hereford and had given me opportunities and experiences previously unheard of for RAF intelligence officers. I expected an almighty dressing-down and an immediate posting back to the RAF; but I was wrong. His smile was warm as I entered the office.

There were two men in the room. The colonel stood and came around to the front of his desk, greeted me affectionately and indicated I should take a seat in one of the more comfortable chairs positioned in a corner. I recognised the second man from the aircraft I had just disembarked. The colonel introduced him as Major Brown; he barely spoke for the whole interview.

I started to blither some form of an apology for the mess I had made; God knows why there was a dead man in my apartment. But, as soon as I started to make my excuses, I could tell he knew the truth. The colonel bid me to listen while he explained what he knew. It seemed my blossoming friendship with Sam was noticed by one of our operatives working in Zagreb who had a hunch he recognised Sam from somewhere but couldn’t remember where. Security checks were run on him back home and my superiors were suspicious as to the nature of his interest in me. They discovered he was, in fact, originally from Warsaw but had travelled extensively and taken on the persona of an American writer.

I was shocked, obviously. His accent betrayed no trace of his true nationality. Major Brown had travelled to Zagreb to start a surveillance operation on Sam. My stomach wrenched. I felt physically sick at the thought of how much he must know about our time together. I couldn’t look him in the face.