British Bulldog (25 page)

Chapter 30

We are here for the sake of others
.

C
aine’s car chugged slowly to a halt at the bottom of the rue de Jour and Mirabelle opened the door. The sky clung on to its last hour of darkness. It had been a long night. A pigeon flapped overhead, settling on the gutter at the top of Christine Moreau’s building and staring down. Elizabeth Caine gave swift instructions to Javier, the driver, before she stepped onto the pavement and clicked shut the door. She seemed very fresh for a woman who had been up all night. Mirabelle dug deep to dredge up some energy. There was no sign that Christine’s studio was being watched now – the Russians who had followed the red scarf were either dead or in custody. She took a bracing breath of pre-dawn air and the women crossed the road and rang the bell to Christine’s studio, stepping back from the door so that if she looked out of the window she’d be able to see them. A shadow shifted above them and a few seconds later the door opened and Christine hovered barefoot on the threshold in a thin cotton nightgown.

‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed, her eyes darting between the two women and up to the top of the road.

‘Can we come in?’

Christine stepped back and the three of them climbed the stairs in silence. In the studio Christine lit a lamp. Elizabeth Caine sat at the dressmaker’s work table. Mirabelle hovered. It occurred to her that when it came down to it, it was all between the women.

‘Well?’ Christine fumbled for a woollen wrap, which she pulled around her shoulders.

‘Evangeline Durand is dead,’ Elizabeth started, ‘but the scarf was delivered. The last scarf.’

‘I’d hoped we’d get longer,’ Christine admitted.

‘It’s quite some ruse,’ Mirabelle said.

‘It’s so difficult to get anything out, you see. But they’re desperate for trade with the western nations. And we need to know. The Russians have some of the most advanced German scientists. Who knows what they’re building?’

‘Our Germans and their Germans.’ Mirabelle smiled crookedly. ‘Did even one scientist remain in Germany after the war?’

Christine sat down. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Evangeline.’

‘I killed the Russian responsible.’

Christine nodded. ‘Good,’ she said, and Mirabelle felt a kind of acceptance settle on her shoulders.

‘But the real reason we came is for your sake,’ she said. ‘Oh, the men had their falling out, and Philip Caine had to do some dreadful things, but they each made a new life, Christine. Caine, Duggan and Bradley. And you are still here, scarred inside and out. I had to come back to do what I can. I want to help you.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘I disagree. It is my business. I loved Jack Duggan. I’m part of what little is left of him. And Jack wounded you. He insulted you. He didn’t understand. But I do.’

‘I’m not the only one who suffered. Philip …’

Elizabeth Caine stood up. She moved towards the stove and crossed her arms. ‘My husband will never get over what he had to do. But he has me and our children. If he ever forgives me, that is.’

‘He has a temper,’ Christine said sagely. ‘It would have been better if he hadn’t found out that you were involved.’

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am what I am,’ she
said. ‘If you’re asking me if I regret it, it’s like asking a wolf if she regrets hunting with the pack or a gull if it regrets diving for fish. I came alive during the war. I don’t want to live without the thrill of it.’

‘Were you in Paris?’ Mirabelle asked, suddenly curious.

‘No. I was with the Maquis – in the countryside. I was in charge of a hundred men. Between us we saw the Germans off. Now what the Soviets are doing is just as bad. I’m glad I have taken some small part in fighting them.’

Mirabelle was silently grateful that she didn’t have the countess’s need for an enemy. Some people only blossomed in conflict, defined by their opponents. ‘We looked evil in the face.’ Elizabeth reached for a packet of cigarettes on the mantel and lit one without offering the packet round.

Christine, Mirabelle decided, was cut from different cloth. Elizabeth Caine was addicted to danger. She sought it out. But Christine was a victim of it. She had got lost somehow, unable to move on. Who could blame her? Mirabelle had come close enough to that herself.

‘You’ve had enough, haven’t you?’ she asked the dressmaker. ‘You’d like to put it behind you.’

Christine nodded.

‘I have an idea that might help.’

‘I don’t want money. I have money.’

‘Money is the least of it.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘No, what I suggest is something altogether more civilised. I’ve sent for someone – he’s coming from London.’

‘The British!’ Christine spat.

‘I know we let you down. But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want us to make it up to you? Really?’

Christine’s lips pursed. ‘Why would they? Duggan is dead. He’s the one who knew what it was like. He’s the one who knew everything.’

Mirabelle shifted. She was taking a risk, but it was time to
put her cards on the table. ‘They’ll do it because you still have the information, Christine, don’t you?’

Elizabeth Caine glared at her friend. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ she declared. ‘You never keep a copy. That’s the first rule. What if it falls into the wrong hands?’

Christine’s jaw shifted. She surveyed Mirabelle carefully, her eyes hard and shrewd. ‘How did you know?’ she asked slowly.

‘You can’t let anything go, Christine. None of it. Not a memory, not a single wound. Working for the Americans is your revenge on the British, isn’t it? You don’t trust anyone. It stands to reason.’

Elizabeth spluttered, and stubbed out her cigarette. Christine moved to the sideboard and took down a leather-bound book, part of a set of three. ‘The words of Voltaire,’ she said. ‘Now he was a spy.’

‘It will take courage to let things go,’ Mirabelle said, ‘but if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that we are all owed a fresh start. No matter what we’ve done.’

Christine opened the book. She pulled back the inside leaf of the binding. ‘I copied the patterns and I coded the dates they came in and went out.’

Mirabelle grinned. ‘I’m going to need something to wear,’ she said.

Christine eyed the stretched woollen dress and the slippers. ‘It’s far too late to make anything. You’ll have to buy off the rail.’

Elizabeth Caine looked blank.

‘I know somewhere that isn’t too bad,’ Christine offered.

Elizabeth nodded. ‘All right. Let’s go round to the
Cochon
for breakfast and then I’ll have Javier drop you two off.’

Chapter 31

It’s the friends you can call at 4 a.m. that matter
.

M
irabelle crossed at the Palais Royal and dodged into the Louvre. She checked her watch. It was just past one o’clock but she wanted to make him wait. A black man in a well-cut suit cast his gaze over her and tried to catch her eye. He wouldn’t have done so the evening before, she told herself, but a new pair of heels and a jade-green suit procured earlier that morning from the boutique Christine recommended on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré had worked wonders. The only thing that could make her look more Parisian was the addition of a small dog on a lead. Looking slightly haughty, Mirabelle swept past. Then, turning into the courtyard, she fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. It was bright and cold – the perfect winter’s day. The Eiffel Tower punctuated the skyline and she wished McGregor could see it.

A woman in a stovepipe hat was standing at the entrance. Mirabelle waved, and when she reached her, kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Do you have it?’

Christine Moreau nodded.

‘Good.’ Mirabelle took her friend’s arm and guided her into the entrance hallway. ‘Lunch,’ she said. But they both knew it was more than that.

In the restaurant the waiter fussed over the women, showing them to the table where Eddie Brandon was already waiting, smoking a cigarette and sipping a lethal-looking cocktail.

‘Ah, there you are.’ He got to his feet. ‘Who’s this?’ He inclined his head towards Christine.

‘Christine Moreau. So, you two haven’t met before?’

‘No, but I know your name, of course, Mademoiselle Moreau. Might I order you a glass of champagne?’

‘That would be lovely,’ Mirabelle answered for them both, thinking that it would be better to have something light. Christine’s propensity for a gin before breakfast might land them in trouble when there was negotiation afoot.

‘And three soles meunière.’ Eddie waved off the waiter. ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’

‘Quite.’ Mirabelle removed her gloves.

‘Well, I must say, you’re looking rather smart.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I hadn’t expected you to. After what happened, I mean.’

‘Oh, I brush up.’

There was a silence. Mirabelle let it be. Christine studied Eddie; Mirabelle hoped she wouldn’t bolt.

‘Well, I expect you contacted me for a reason,’ Eddie said petulantly, the first to break the silence. ‘It’s quite some mystery. And I’m under no illusion there won’t be a price.’

The waiter delivered the champagne and the women both took a sip. ‘Goodness. You do think us mercenary, Eddie,’ Mirabelle said.

‘At least you haven’t been shot this time.’

‘My friend was.’

‘The black girl?’

‘No. Another friend.’

‘I see. Well, go on. What am I getting and what will it cost me?’

Mirabelle nodded at Christine, who pulled the sheaf of papers from her handbag and handed it over. ‘From Russia with our best regards,’ Mirabelle said. ‘The Americans have these already.’

‘We share information with the Yanks.’

‘You share the information you’re both prepared to share. Honestly, Eddie, I’m not an idiot. They got the last of these messages last night. As you can see, there have been six. Miss Moreau wisely made copies of the earlier missives. Given the energy the Russians put into trying to recover this last one, I expect they pertain to something terribly serious. It was atomic energy in which you were most interested, as I recall.’

Christine Moreau nodded. ‘They are up to something. They are definitely up to something,’ she said. ‘And I overheard something about a secret announcement, but I don’t know how to read it, I’m afraid.’

Eddie looked at the drawings more closely. ‘And the code used?’

‘We have no idea. But you have men who devote themselves to nothing but cracking this kind of thing.’

Eddie had to acknowledge that she was right. British code-breakers were the envy of the world. ‘But, Miss Moreau, you are only prepared to disclose this information to us now. It’s somewhat late, don’t you think?’

Mirabelle cut in to defend her friend. ‘Christine rather suffered at our hands after the war. I consider it jolly generous of her to give us another chance.’

‘All I’m saying is, had you come earlier I’d have been able to get you more. What are you after, Mirabelle?’

‘Me? I’m only doing my duty. I might need a little hand with the French police over a medical matter.’ She slid Albert’s ID over the table. ‘This fellow won’t be recovering, you see.’

‘Did you shoot him?’

‘I used a knife.’

Eddie raised his eyebrows only a fraction. ‘Well, at least that kind of thing is easier to sweep under the carpet if it occurs abroad. And you, Miss Moreau?’

Christine shifted in her chair. ‘I’d like an apology. An official one,’ she said.

Eddie smiled. ‘Money is far easier.’

‘Yes. It is.’

He sighed. ‘The press won’t pick it up, you know. No one’s interested in the war any more. The only thing from 1945 that makes the news these days is unexploded bombs.’

Christine nodded. ‘I know. It’s only for me, and I’d like it in writing, please.’

‘But you were a covert agent.’

‘And you abandoned me.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Now, Eddie.’ Mirabelle’s tone was that of a nanny chastising a naughty child. ‘The SOE won’t issue a letter. Nor should they. But I’m sure that there must be a government department somewhere willing to recognise a brave friend of the Allies.’

Eddie finished his drink and motioned to the waiter for another. ‘All right, all right. Well, it’s going to be cheaper than I expected, at least.’ He leaned towards Christine. ‘Last time Mirabelle negotiated a costly education programme out of me.’

‘A music school,’ Mirabelle corrected him.

‘Yes, yes. But, Miss Moreau, if I get you this apology, this recognition …’

‘A proper sorry and a proper thank you,’ Mirabelle cut in.

‘Exactly. What will you do with it?’

Christine smiled. The women had discussed this at some length as dawn lit the Parisian sky and they tucked into their breakfast steak. Now she took a breath. ‘I will live again,’ she said simply. ‘I will be able to live.’

The waiter arrived with the fish. Mirabelle picked up a wedge of lemon wrapped in muslin and squeezed juice over her plate, before inspecting the sautéed spinach and potatoes that had been left for them to share.

‘So you won’t work for us again, Miss Moreau?’ Eddie enquired.

Christine shook her head. ‘It is time for me to retire.’

Eddie picked up his cutlery. ‘We’re damn short of women, you see, if you fancy Berlin. Things are hotting up in Berlin just now. I could place either of you very well in the Soviet sector.’

Christine shook her head. Mirabelle smirked.

‘So that’s what you’re really working on, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Well, if it’s women you want, I would certainly suggest you approach Elizabeth Caine. She is …’

‘An addict,’ Christine finished the sentence.

Eddie took a forkful of fish. ‘Oh my! The French, I swear, are culinary geniuses. You can’t get fish like this at home. Not even at the Café de Paris.’

Mirabelle smiled. ‘Well, that’s that settled,’ she said. ‘Let’s enjoy our lunch, shall we?’

That evening, when McGregor came to, Mirabelle was reading
Le Monde
beside his bed. He looked around. The pale walls were a giveaway.

‘Hospital,’ he rasped.

Mirabelle took the glass of water from the side table and held it up for him to drink. He tried to take it from her but the pain made it impossible. She helped him gulp a little down.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You were quite the hero, Superintendent.’ There was a swish of lavender soap as she sat back.

‘Not as good as a decent whisky,’ he said with a smile.

‘I think I might be going off whisky,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I’m developing a taste for gin.’

‘Really? We made it then, Belle?’

‘You were tremendously brave.’

‘There was a police car …’

‘Don’t worry about that. It’s all settled. The diplomats saw to it. You did marvellously, Alan.’

He took this in. He wouldn’t like it much if there was a misdemeanor on his patch and some diplomat tried to hush it up. Yet here he was, safe and sound, with Mirabelle at his bedside.

‘I thought of you,’ he admitted.

‘When you got shot?’

‘When I had to keep going.’ He reached out and took her hand. The movement sent a pain shooting across his chest but it was worth it. Mirabelle didn’t pull away. The pain settled into a dull ache. ‘Some little holiday. When do they say we can go home?’

‘In a few days.’

‘Will you wait for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘All this has made me realise, Mirabelle, that it’s you I want.’

She looked down.

‘I know you can’t get over him. The man who died …’

‘No,’ she cut in. ‘I think I am. Getting over him, I mean. It’s unexpected, I know, but he’s going. He’s been going since that night in Brighton. The truth is Jack belonged to a different time.’

‘So would you consider me, Mirabelle? Please consider me.’

He strained forward and kissed her. Her lips parted and she moved closer. His hand touched her thigh and he stroked the skin, latching his finger on the top of her stockings. She tasted sweet and his heart jumped as she gave a little sigh.

‘Alors!’
a voice exclaimed behind them before babbling in a rush of incomprehensible French. Mirabelle pulled back. A nurse in a starched wimple clapped her hands as if she was scaring a flock of birds. Whatever she was saying, she certainly didn’t approve of the scene she’d just witnessed. Blushing, Mirabelle apologised, or at least, McGregor thought, it sounded like an apology. The nurse picked up the medical notes hooked on the end of the bed and left the room briskly. McGregor grinned.

‘You look like the cat who got the cream.’ Mirabelle sounded like a schoolmistress.

‘Well, I don’t care about this any more,’ he indicated his bandages, ‘not if I get to do that again.’ His eyes lingered. He could look at her for a long time. She seemed so Parisian in her green suit.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t rush.’

‘I’ll wait. I don’t mind waiting.’

Mirabelle slipped her hand across the bedsheet. Her fingers stroked his palm and McGregor considered it settled.

‘I don’t suppose anyone thought that the hero might like some grapes?’

Mirabelle grinned, and reached into a shopping basket at her feet. ‘I bought some at Les Halles. I hoped you might rally.’

‘Nothing like a spot of shopping to pass the time. What else have you been up to?’

‘Oh, just some sightseeing,’ she said casually. ‘And I had lunch at the Louvre.’