Colonel Lance Travers had had a good day already and he was looking forward to an excellent evening at the opera. Ambassador and Lady Haywood had invited him and Antonia to join them for a performance of Die Fledermaus at the Reich Opera followed by a champagne dinner at the Hotel Regent. The hotel had an excellent reputation for the finest dining and despite the unfortunate events of a couple of weeks ago, when, it had been reported, a fight had broken out between right wing extremists and immigrants in the basement, resulting in the death of four, its popularity had not been affected.
He’d had a good lunch with his opposite number from the American Embassy but had eschewed his regular visit to the Kolonial Kavalier Klub. He missed young Kristof and his hyperactive tongue and it gave him a tingle in his groin just thinking about it, but he still suffered mild anxiety whenever he thought of the place and that hideous animal Kessler. He took some comfort from the fact that the bastard had gone to Italy and, as a wanted man, it was unlikely he’d show his face in Berlin again. He put his feet up on the desk and yawned. It was only just after four; he would leave early and have a long bath at home before dressing to go out.
The intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Charlotte.”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a gentleman to see you. Says it’s urgent.”
“Who is it?” He sniffed. He didn’t see anyone without an appointment and his PA knew it.
“His name is Heinrich Radler, sir.”
“Radler? Never heard of him.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve checked his passport. He looks terribly worried. He says he has important information regarding a meeting between Mrs Travers and her fitness instructor, Mr Kessler.”
Travers felt a wave of nausea rising up like a tsunami. It was not possible.
“What does he look like?” He tried to keep his voice calm and measured but he was on the verge of panic. Charlotte lowered her voice to a whisper, her hand obviously shrouding the mouthpiece. Radler, or whoever he was, must be within earshot.
“He’s bald, sir, with a long beard and he looks frail. His passport picture must be quite old, but it’s definitely him.”
The description bore no resemblance to anyone he knew but the mere mention of Kessler’s name was enough. “Has he been through security?”
“Yes, sir, Robert frisked him at the front desk.”
“All right. Show him in.”
Travers checked the right-hand drawer of his desk although he knew for certain what was in it. His Walther PPK hadn’t moved in the three years he’d been there. It was a souvenir and he’d never fired it, but it gave him piece of mind.
The door opened and a bald elderly chap shuffled in, head down, hands fingering his homburg, turning to Travers’ young PA and muttering obsequiously. “Danke. Dankeschön. Danke sehr.”
Travers was not minded to waste time. He put on his most officious tone. “What can I do for you, Mr Radler?”
The man shuffled forward and Travers hesitated. He didn’t want to offend the chap, but he was getting a bit too close. He glanced nervously at the desk drawer as his guest lifted his head and then his body to its full height. Travers recognised him immediately. “You!” He went for the drawer handle in a panic, made two attempts to open it, then accidentally pulled it out of its runners and the contents clattered to the floor. He dropped to his knees to retrieve the gun, all the while wondering why Kessler hadn’t attacked him or tried to stop him and finally managed to point it at him with a shaky hand. Kessler was regarding him with a mixture of bemusement and contempt.
“My dear Colonel, do not get overexcited. It is not good for the heart.”
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, keeping his voice low even though he knew his office was soundproof. “Are you mad?”
“I am sure you could find a doctor to certify my insanity, but I can assure you I know exactly what I am doing.”
“You have to leave now,” spat Travers. “I’ll call security.”
“You won’t do that, Colonel. You have much more to lose than I do. You are a traitor and a homosexual. Do you know, I am not sure which is worse?” Travers found Kessler’s sarcasm intolerable and frightening in equal measure.
“Then I’ll just shoot you right here!” he blustered, then suddenly remembered to flick off the safety catch.
“No, you won’t do that either. Please sit down.”
Travers watched in fascination as Kessler pulled up a chair and sat down. He crossed his legs and gestured him to sit as if he owned the office and Travers was the guest. Travers sat down slowly and his gun hand relaxed but remained pointed at Kessler.
“You bloody maniac! You… you took me up the bloody arse!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you enjoyed that sort of thing? Not enough foreplay perhaps? I’ll ask permission next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“There could be,” said Kessler, toying with him.
“Not if I shoot you first!”
“Put the gun away, Colonel. Anyway, I won’t take up too much of your time. I have to go soon. I have to meet my friend Rudi in” – he looked at his watch – “thirty minutes. To stop him delivering a package to the Polizei.” Travers was tempted to ask but feared he knew what Kessler was telling him and he felt the sweat forming under his shirt. “Photos of you and that schoolboy Kristof in the sauna, photos of you in a backstreet brothel snorting cocaine off the belly of a whore, a record of all the assignments you passed over to me, the manner and source of their transmission and copy statements of your bank account in Zurich, which contains rather more money than a military attaché can earn in a lifetime. And, oh yes, I almost forgot. Your commendation from the GRU for services to the motherland.”
“What do you want?”
“I only want your assistance. One last time. Then I shall disappear forever. You will never see me again.”
“If you go anywhere near my family…”
“Colonel. Please stay calm. I have no interest in your family. That was just a crude threat made in the heat of the moment. I apologise. I am a different person now.” Kessler smiled warmly at him, but Travers was not convinced. The guy terrified him and had the power to have him hanged. He had to be silenced but now was not the time and here was certainly not the place. Travers would get a message through, tell them Kessler had gone rogue and they’d have to deal with it or else all hell would break loose. If Kessler could play the double game then so could he. He put the Walther back in the drawer.
“What do you want?”
***
The Boeing 707 landed at New York International Airport seven hours and ten minutes after its departure from London Heathrow. The flight had been quieter, smoother and far more luxurious than the one from Rome to London and they’d enjoyed champagne, fine food, comfortable reclining seats and a standard of service appropriate to the needs and demands of the most discerning international traveller. Lucia had shown no fear of flying, but remained subdued throughout, as she had since they’d left Rome. Harry was not surprised, and assumed her mind was preoccupied with events that had changed so quickly.
They checked into the Hilton on 5th Avenue, overlooking Central Park, and were shown into a room on the thirtieth floor from which they had a magnificent view west across the Hudson River to New Jersey. Harry placed a call direct from his room to Arthur Rowland, calculating the time in Coventry to be around midday.
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” said Arthur over a line that crackled and had a short delay in transmission. “Martin Kopelsky is expecting you at two thirty tomorrow, if that’s convenient? I’m sure he’ll be able to bring you up to date then.”
“Thanks, Arthur, and thank your secretary for arranging the flights from London; I had no idea they’d be so expensive.”
“You seem to be burning through your inheritance at an alarming rate, young man.” Despite Arthur’s light-hearted demeanour, Harry knew there was a serious point behind it.
“I know, Arthur, but this is something I need to do.”
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
“It’s a long story. I promise you a full debrief once I’m back in England. In the meantime, I need some more cash. Can you wire it across to one of the big banks here? Another thousand?”
“I think Western Union is a better option. Where are you staying?”
“The Hilton on 5th Avenue.”
“I’ll set it up.”
Lucia was standing by the window, taking in the view. Harry walked over and wrapped his arms around her and she tilted her head back on his chest.
“You’ve been very quiet.”
She spun around and kissed him. “Make love to me, then take me to a burger joint!”
***
They’d walked all the way down 5th Avenue, past the astonishing Empire State and the iconic Flatiron Building to Lower Manhattan where they were literally dazzled by the lights on Broadway. Neither of them had ever seen so many people and the traffic in Rome seemed as nothing compared to the relentless volume of huge automobiles and yellow taxis that honked and rumbled their way, nose to tail, along every street.
The autumn air was cold and crisp and clouds of steam mixed with pungent exhaust fumes billowed around them as they navigated their way through the human maelstrom arm in arm, wrapped up in their long overcoats. Amongst the flashing neon beckoned Henry’s Diner.
Just like the streets outside, the restaurant was laid out in a grid system and was so packed with diners they had to shout to be heard above the noise. They were led to a simple melamine table for two and sat down bewildered by the frenetic activity around them.
Uniformed waitresses in short skirts and impossibly tight blouses with tiny white side caps perched on their heads raced around the restaurant floor, holding aloft trays laden with huge plates of food and extra-large glasses of beer and Coca-Cola, barking orders to colleagues and customers alike. The open kitchen was manned by a dozen uniformed chefs sporting side caps and bow-ties who darted from one position to the next, bellowing unintelligible instructions to no one in particular while flames, steam and smoke leapt from their griddles to be swallowed up in the extractor vents above their heads.
“What canna getcha, folks!” said a gum-chewing, heavily made-up blonde with a notepad and pencil whom Harry believed was the spitting image of Jayne Mansfield until he felt a kick on his shin and realised he’d been gawping. They ordered cheeseburgers and French fries and beer and ice cream sundaes and coffee and staggered outside exhausted and replete into the cacophony and madness of another evening in downtown New York City.
They found a cocktail bar in a side street. It was dark, smoky, and mercifully quiet, dreamy jazz emanating from a shiny grand piano set on a low stage in the corner played by a black man in dinner jacket. They sat at the bar on tall stools that had red leather seats and chrome legs and at the recommendation of the barman ordered Manhattans, the only cocktail, he insisted, to drink in this part of the world.
Around them couples sat at low tables lit by candles: wealthy white New Yorkers sipping iced drinks from crystal glasses, engaged in subdued conversation while music wafted around the room. He took her hand and kissed it and she gave him a loving smile, but he could tell she was still unsettled. She’d been that way since they’d left Rome.
“Tell me,” he said. “You’re thinking about home?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I told you. Home is where you are, Harrimale.”
“Then what’s troubling you? Is it about Luigi?”
“No. Luigi created the world he lived in and he paid the price. No one is going to be upset about the death of Luigi Barone. There were times when I wished it but I did not really mean it. But I am not sorry. I am happy I am no longer married to him.”
“Then what? Kessler?”
She nodded and her eyes went moist. “Luigi was evil in his own way, but I have never seen anything like…” She broke off, searching for the words. “I knew Kessler as a lovestruck soldier who would do anything for Isabella. I knew the Germans were dangerous; they murdered my mother, but he protected us and his men protected us. I don’t understand why he became such a monster. How could he murder innocent people like that and then bring flowers to my sister?”
“I told you. I’ve met many strange and twisted people in my time but I haven’t yet got into the mind of a psychopath like Ernst Kessler.”
“But are we all capable of such kindness and such cruelty at the same time? I don’t understand.”
He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was a valid point. He was in love with her and as far as he could tell, she with him, even though she had fallen short of actually saying it. Maybe she still had doubts, harboured irrational fears that, deep down, Harry might be the same. He too had shown extraordinary kindness to her family and had then committed a barbarous act on the body of her dead sister, a heinous crime on the sanctity of the deceased, the sole justification being to give life to an unborn child. Or so he had said. Maybe, deep down, she thought he was just as capable of evil as Kessler. Each had been subjected to and damaged by the horrors of war; who knows what that did to people?
“Lucia, you and I will never forget what happened to your father and Isabella. We experienced that horror together and we can’t just forget about it. Once we see Catalina has grown up and is safe with a loving family and a normal life, we will know that what we did was right. Then we can wish her well and get on with our lives. Together.”
“Together? Do you really mean that?”
“Yes. I really mean that. I told you I would look after you and I will. We will forget all about Ernst Kessler.”
She shook her head, as if unable to accept what he was saying. What did he need to do to convince her?
“Harry. You said Kessler murdered that man in Berlin.”
“Yes, the escapee from the East plus a load of others who got in the way.”
“And that was where he recognised you. You met by chance?”
“Yes, although I didn’t know it was him at the time.”
“But how did he find you in Italy? In Casavento? How did he just turn up in the forest and start shooting? He said he’d found your new apartment in Berlin but you had already gone. How did he do that?”
It was something that had nagged at his subconscious for a while but he’d refused to apply any serious thought to it, put it to the back of his mind because he was always concentrating on his own next move. He had called Kessler resourceful but that didn’t explain it. From the moment he and Bergmann had escaped from the safe house, he knew the assassin had had inside information. The department had also assumed there was a mole somewhere and it went high up the chain of command. Kessler had probably followed him from the safe house to his apartment. That was plausible, but after Kessler had escaped from arrest, how did he know where to look?
“Kessler was a trained assassin and the speed and the accuracy with which he acted could only mean he had inside knowledge. When, finally, he recognised who I was, he flipped, and made it his mission to exact revenge in as brutal and violent a way as possible.”
“But how did he know you had gone to Italy?”
“I don’t know. I left the keys in the apartment along with a note that said ‘Arrivederci’.” He was being flippant. He knew that alone would not possibly direct Kessler to Italy, let alone Casavento, but it was all he could think of.
“Why?”
“I was just having a joke with my ex-employers. Not a very good one, I admit.”
“And you told no one where you were going? Petra maybe?”
“No. She’d already left before I decided to come here. And I never talked about my war experience so she had no idea where I’d been or what I’d done. She didn’t even know for certain what I did for a living although she must have guessed.” Lucia had never known Petra so it was an easy question for her to ask. He couldn’t bear to think Petra may have been involved even though the professional in him knew that in Berlin, anything was possible. She was vetted, Harry, and anyway, you would have known. Wouldn’t you?
“You never discussed it with her?” she said, interrupting his train of thought. She was clearly sceptical. “You kept it all to yourself?”
“I worked for the secret service. She didn’t need to know that; she wasn’t cleared to know that.”
“No, I mean about Italy. About Solano.”
For a moment, he failed to see the relevance of the question. He had never discussed Dunkirk, North Africa, the invasion of Sicily and the battle for Montellano, the deaths of many of his comrades nor any of the hideous recollections of war and, in that, he was no different from many others who’d taken part. He’d been able to put such memories aside, as if they’d never happened, because the war had never really ended. And in Berlin, they were still fighting it.
But Solano was something final. It had ended with his own death and the deaths of the innocent people he’d been trying to protect, until he woke up in a hospital and discovered he hadn’t died after all. He alone, the most unworthy, had survived and the price of his survival had been to relive Solano every day by way of punishment. He had never been brave enough to reveal to Petra something so intensely personal and all consuming.
“It was too difficult and too painful. I just wanted to forget but it wouldn’t go away. She always knew there was something I kept hidden and she pleaded with me to let go. But I didn’t.”
“What have you hidden from me, Harry?” She wasn’t smiling now. He’d made her suspicious, shown her a side of his character she didn’t like, or was at least nervous about. She was right. He couldn’t make the same mistake again.
“Lucia. I’m forty-two. I have forty-two years’ life experience and if I could tell you every last second of it I would, if it would help you judge who I am. The reason I’m here is to find out who I am, because I never really knew.”
The piano tinkled and the musician started singing Nat King Cole’s “When I Fall in Love”. Harry cast him a glance and he was certain the gleaming white smile was for them.
“Petra was a clever lady. It must have hurt you both, but I’m glad she left you.” It stung, but only for a second, because her face softened and she gripped his hand in both of hers. “Because you would not have found me and I would not have found you.”
***
The Mercedes-Benz pulled over to the pavement and Travers leapt out. The psychopath may have ruined his day but he still had time enough to do what he needed to do and get back home for a quick shower and change before the opera. He checked his watch: five thirty.
“Half an hour at the most,” he said to his chauffeur through the open window and then strode fifty yards along the street before turning left and then left again, stopping in front of a door to an apartment block. He looked left then right and let himself in with a key, climbing two floors to a door that bore a white card with a handwritten name: “R. Simpson”. He selected another key and opened the door.
The apartment was empty. He checked his watch again. If he weren’t here in the next ten minutes, he’d leave a note telling him to make sure he was tomorrow. The psycho would just have to wait another twenty-four hours. He’d told him getting a Swedish passport in the name of “Sven Johanssen” was simple and would only take a day or two, but finding the whereabouts of a former MI6 officer was a more complicated task, especially since he’d left both their employ and the country.
But that was just to buy him some time. He knew exactly how to find out; he just didn’t know whether it would be useful and whether it would satisfy Kessler. He sat down nervously on the sofa. He wanted to get the current crisis over with as soon as possible, then he could alert his masters and Kessler could be dealt with permanently. He couldn’t carry on like this and anyway, Kessler seemed to be on a private mission and that was unacceptable. He was also a wanted man and had to be silenced before he could be caught. He checked his watch for the fourth time. There was a noise at the door and he stood up in anticipation.
A young man with tousled hair in a striped sleeveless pullover and brown corduroys sauntered in, carrying a leather satchel. He stopped abruptly.
“Lance!” said the young man, bursting into a wide grin. “What a nice surprise.”
“Look, Roger. I haven’t got much time.”
“Oh, you’re not staying?” said Roger, pursing his lips and affecting disappointment. “I’ve missed you.”
Travers felt a familiar and involuntary tingle. He’d missed Roger too even though it had only been a week.
“I need to know where Harry Male is. Are you chaps still monitoring him?”
“As far as I know. I’d need to pull the transcriptions. When do you need it by?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Okay, should be doable. Depends on how much material there is. I take it this is official?”
“Of course it’s official!” said Travers with irritation. “Male’s got himself into something deep and we have to stop him. It’s a matter of national security.”
“Wow,” said Roger. “I didn’t take to the guy. Tore me off a strip for no reason.”
“It’s gone way past the DIPD, so not a word to Webb or anyone else. Okay?”
“Gotcha!”
“Good man,” said Travers, putting a hand on Roger’s shoulder, and Roger covered it with his own, which only intensified the throb in his trousers. “Do you like the flat?”
Roger beamed. “Of course, who wouldn’t? I couldn’t afford anything like this on my wages. I’m very grateful, you know.”
Down below, Travers felt the blood pulsating and the pressure building like an over-inflated tyre.
“It’s my way of showing appreciation for everything you do.” He pulled the young man closer and kissed him roughly, ramming his tongue into his mouth.
Roger pulled back and his eyes lit up. “I thought you didn’t have time?”
“Should only take you five minutes,” said Travers, placing his hand on the young man’s head and pressing him down to his knees. “Time to pay the rent.”