The Doll’s House (15 page)

‘Yes I have. I saw it in one of the colour supplements. I thought it looked a lovely place. It's called the Doll's House Manor Hotel, just outside Dedham.'

‘Sounds desperately twee to me,' her mother said. ‘Rather a cottagey place.'

‘It's a big Tudor house,' Rosa refused to rise. ‘And it's got a lake. Plenty of places to see if I feel like driving round. It's just what I want.'

‘Oh well,' her mother sighed. Such a silly thing to do, going away in England. You could never count on good weather. But then she and Rosa had always liked different things. ‘Never mind. Maybe it'll do you good. Fancy calling it the Doll's House Manor. I still think it's twee. Like your Wendy House – you and Philip were terribly destructive. You were always breaking each other's toys.'

‘We were always fighting over them,' Rosa reminded her. And about everything else too. ‘I don't remember the Wendy House. What happened to it?'

‘I gave it to the church jumble sale. You'd both gone away to school and it was taking up space. Perhaps it was a pity to give it away. The grandchildren might have liked it.'

‘Mum, darling, they'd smash it to matchwood in five minutes.'

‘Yes, I suppose so. I do wish they were brought up a bit better. They are sweet though.' She always ended by saying that.

‘They're absolutely dreadful and you know it,' Rosa said.

Her mother smiled; she never minded what she called plain speaking.

‘Yes, darling, I know they are, but I do love them.'

She finished her tea and stacked everything neatly on the tray.

‘One good thing about this wretched divorce, you were both so civilized about it. I was worried you and James would start throwing accusations around. It seems so clinical the way you did it.'

‘Yes,' Rosa agreed. ‘So's losing a leg.'

Her mother looked up quickly. ‘What, you're not regretting it, are you? It's not too late if you are …'

‘I'm not regretting it, and anyway it's not up to me. James wanted the divorce. He's getting married as soon as the decree comes through.'

‘Yes, darling, I know, but I'm sure you could get him back if you really wanted to. He was so madly in love with you, I'm sure he still is.'

‘I'm afraid not,' Rosa answered. ‘He couldn't wait to get rid of me. It's wishful thinking, Mum. It's over and done with. And don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I've adjusted very well actually. I expect it was because you and Daddy were so happy that I thought marriages didn't go bust.'

Which was true. They had been happy for over forty years. Chalk and cheese and perfectly suited. She got up.

‘I'll go and pack, Mum. I'd better go before the traffic gets too bad. You know what it's like on a Sunday night.'

Her mother took the tray out and washed up. She put the sponge cake in a tin. She sighed. Rosa was a lovely girl, she'd always been pretty even as a toddler. But she'd made such a mess of things. If only she hadn't been clever like her father. And so ambitious. Young women were so different now, so independent. But she wouldn't find another James in a hurry. They had that charming house, plenty of money. She could have been set up for life. She went back to the sitting room and took up her needlework again.

Upstairs in her old room, Rosa cleared her small case. The room was much as she had left it on the morning she got married. The same pictures, the same quilted bedspread, faded over the years, matching the curtains. They were faded too. She'd been happy there, growing up. She'd expected to be happy when she walked out in her wedding dress to start a new life. Now that was over. She paused, looking round her. She had come down on the Friday after seeing Parker. He'd taken her to lunch in a trattoria in the Fulham Road.

‘I don't run to smart clubs I'm afraid,' he said. ‘But if you like to eat Italian, I know a good place.'

He didn't press her for an answer.

They had a drink and considered the menu; she put it down and said, ‘I'm going to take up the job, if it's still on offer. I've thought it over carefully, and I'd like to do it.'

He looked at her over the menu.

‘Good. I hoped you would. Now, what would you like to eat? I can recommend the spaghetti
alle vongole
if you fancy sea food.'

She was to book for a fortnight, ask for one of the best rooms. Act normally, but be friendly to the staff. Get to know the layout of the hotel. And get to know Oakham. Don't expect a quick response. Maybe no response at all. It was all problematical. ‘You need luck,' Parker told her as they drank their coffee. ‘Luck is the one slip someone makes, the one coincidence that shouldn't happen. You're going to need luck.'

‘And if nothing happens, if I hang around and I can't pick up anything? If he's genuine and the job's genuine?'

Parker shrugged. ‘You'll have had a couple of weeks' free holiday in a posh hotel. But my guess is, it won't turn out like that.'

She had two telephone numbers. One was to a supposed girlfriend in London. She could telephone from the hotel to that number, saying she was all right, enjoying her stay, and the wording would convey that she'd found nothing suspicious. The other number could only be used outside from a secure phone. It connected directly with Parker.

‘And one other thing,' Parker had added, almost as an afterthought, though by now she knew he liked to slip in an important point towards the end, ‘if you run into anyone that looks like this, let me know.'

He showed her a snap of Jan Ploekewski. She studied it, as she had been taught, memorizing the features.

‘He was an old mate of Oakham's,' Parker explained. ‘Polish, but born in England. Jan Ploekewski. He's gone missing. I mentioned him, remember?'

She nodded. He'd asked Oakham about him. Oakham said he'd gone to Poland.

‘You think he could be with him? In the hotel?'

‘If he is,' Parker signalled for the bill, ‘then we
are
on to something. They always worked as a team.'

He had turned to her in the street and shaken hands.

‘Let me know when you're booked in,' he said. ‘Mind yourself. Good luck.'

She'd driven down to her mother to spend the weekend and started the cover story going. She decided to ring up and make the booking when she got back to London. Monday would do. Clouds were coming up on a rising wind; she saw them through the bedroom window. It looked like rain. She picked up her case. It's like leaving it all for the second time, she thought suddenly. There's a finality about shutting the door of my old room, walking downstairs and leaving the house where I was born. As if I may never come back again.

She hurried to find her mother and say goodbye. She was very stern with herself for that twinge of superstition on the drive back.

5

The Russian, Vassily Zarubin, and Daniel Ishbav arrived on the same day. Daniel came by train to Ipswich and Hermann Rilke drove to the station and picked him up. There was a natural antagonism between the two men. Daniel looked shifty and ill at ease.

Rilke glanced at him and said, ‘Hurry up, the car's over there.' In the car he said, ‘You'll have to get some proper clothes. You're supposed to be an auditor, you're my assistant. You look like a street trader.'

‘Fuck off,' was Daniel's response.

He turned and stared out of the window. He'd had a rough three days, dodging from one escape route to another in case he was being watched. It had made him nervous. He'd twisted and backtracked till he was certain if there were watchers, he'd shaken them off, and finally ended up at Ipswich station. He wasn't in the mood to take any critical shit from that German bender. Street trader! It had stung, as Rilke intended.

‘What's the place like?' Daniel demanded.

‘You saw the video,' was the answer.

Rilke was furious at being sworn at by such a little reptile. They drove in silence till they reached Croft Lodge. He felt he filled the role Oakham had allotted him very convincingly. But that unshaven, grubby little Israeli …

Daniel looked round him. ‘You live here?'

‘Yes,' Rilke hissed at him. ‘Harry'll be along to see you. This is your room. We live in the same house, I'm sorry to say!'

He left Daniel and hurried off to his own quarters. They were large and led directly up to the top floor which had been converted to his requirements. Nobody ever went there except Rilke. The door at the end of the stairs was double locked. He and Harry Oakham had the only two keys.

It was very well furnished; Daniel was pleased with the comfort and especially impressed by the big modern bathroom. He was tired and he felt sweaty after the journey. He stripped off and stood under the hot shower, soaping himself. He tied a towel round his waist and wandered out into the bedroom. It was a lot different from the dingy rented hideaways he'd been living in for so long. There was a built-in TV and a mini bar, a sofa and a comfortable armchair, a good-sized single bed, plenty of cupboard space – he hadn't many clothes to put in it, but never mind – nice decorations. It was luxury, he decided. He rummaged in the hold-all for a clean shirt and some jeans.

There was a knock on the door and Harry walked in. He came up and shook hands; he laid another on Daniel's shoulder in a double welcome.

‘Daniel – good to see you! No trouble getting here?'

‘No trouble,' Daniel assured him. ‘Nice place. How's it going, Harry?'

‘It's going well.' Harry sat down. He pointed to the mini bar. ‘Let's have a drink. I'll tell you about the set-up. All the staff have been told about you. You're Mr Daniels, and you're assistant to Hermann. He's Brandt, by the way.' He grinned. ‘And Monika is
Mrs
Brandt.'

Daniel sniggered. ‘Jesus! Do I have to work with him?'

‘You work with me,' Oakham answered. ‘Everything else is just a front. I have my own house adjoining the hotel because I'm the manager, but I usually come over and join you in the evenings. At all times you keep away from the hotel, unless I want you to show yourself. Rilke and you are resident financial auditors and these are your offices and living accommodation. Jan has his own flat in the stable block. There's a cleaner who comes in every morning, and you cater for yourselves.'

‘I can't see myself in an office with Rilke,' he protested. ‘Are there really offices?'

‘Complete with computers, word processors and the hotel financial files. Rilke trained as an accountant, so he knows a bit about it. I told you, everything is normal, authentic. You'll get kitted out with some formal working clothes. I've got plenty of cash if you need some. You'll have the use of a car. Come and go as you like. I don't have to tell you to keep out of trouble and keep a low profile, do I?'

He grinned at Daniel in his friendly way, slightly mocking the Israeli who had spent so much of his life running.

‘Zarubin's due in at lunch-time. He won't be staying with you. He's a guest; he'll have a room in the hotel.'

‘Why?' Daniel was curious. ‘What's he supposed to be?'

‘An author, working on a book. Writing a biography of Vaclav Havel. He's finishing it off down here in peace and quiet. I've briefed the hotel staff about not disturbing him; I gave them a long spiel about him this morning.'

‘You think of everything,' Daniel remarked. ‘Every detail.'

‘We wouldn't last long if I didn't,' was the retort. ‘You make yourself at home, here's five hundred pounds and the keys of your car. It's a grey Volvo 340; it's in the staff car park. Do some shopping. Ipswich is a good place when you get to know the one-way streets. Get a dark suit, some plain shirts; you know the idea.' He glanced at the trainers on Daniel's feet. ‘And some shoes,' he added.

‘I'm coming over tomorrow at seven thirty. I'm expecting a call about a proposition. I'll have the details and I want everyone here for a preliminary briefing.'

Daniel's eyes were sharp. He had a dark, predatory face.

‘There'll be something for me? Already?'

‘I think it'll be right up your alley,' Oakham said. ‘See you tomorrow.'

Vassily Zarubin arrived at Stansted Airport at ten in the morning. He had travelled via Turkey, on to Cairo and then flown to Naples; from Naples on to Paris. He'd used different passports each time. Different nationalities. Romanian, Austrian, Swiss for the last leg of the journey. No visas because he was always in transit. The flight from Paris to Stansted was in a thirty-seater jet. He watched the descent into England with interest. He spoke the language fluently, but he had never been further West than Warsaw. The lack of fuss and officialdom surprised him. He was through Customs and Immigration very quickly. He inspected the new airport on his way. It seemed very large for so few passengers. There were no queues. He hired a car from Avis. The banner claim, ‘We try harder', made him smile. He bought a map and worked out a route. He didn't drive fast because of the English right-hand drive.

It was very pretty country, very green. Like a picture-book, with its small fields and little villages, clothed in warm brick. The English were a tidy people. But then the country was so small. Almost claustrophobic compared to the huge expanse of his own country. Nothing in view but the horizon itself in parts of the great steppes. He imagined that at the end of the horizon, a man might just step right off the earth and fall for ever.

He had said goodbye to his father. It was an emotional moment, they were very close. Close in aims and ideals. He loved his father as much as he admired him. He had believed in his ideals and fought hard for them. Now he was defeated, swept away on the flood tide of historical change that had rolled over Russia. Retired into a decent obscurity. Oakham had said the same fate was ahead of him. The hard liners had lost.