The Ways of the World (48 page)

‘The duration?’ Appleby sat back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at Max. ‘What have you got in mind?’

‘There’s something I haven’t come to grips with yet that connects Lemmer with my father – some secret they shared, dating back to their days in Japan, I suspect. I mean to find out what it is. And I’m not going to stop until I do. Which is why I’ve decided to accept Lemmer’s offer.’

‘
Accept
his offer?’

‘It’s the only way I can get close enough to him to get to the heart of the mystery and maybe live to tell the tale. Don’t you see,
Appleby? Working for Lemmer gives me the protection I need. It gives me a chance. I have to take it.’

‘All I can see is that Lemmer’s an enemy of our country. And anyone who works for him is guilty of treason. Do you really want to tell me that’s what you propose to engage in?’

‘Of course not.’ Max leant across the table and fixed Appleby with his gaze. It was vital there be no misunderstanding between them. ‘I’m telling you because I can accomplish something else beyond teasing out the truth about my father. I can learn what Lemmer intends to do with his spy network now the war’s over – what plans he has, what plots he’s hatching. And I can learn who’s in his network. This is your chance as well as mine, Appleby. I can be your man on the inside. I can bring him down for you.’

Appleby looked at Max fondly, almost sorrowfully. ‘Have you any conception of how dangerous what you’re suggesting would be? Lemmer’s bound to be doubtful of your loyalty. He’s going to require ample proof of it. And any evidence to the contrary – the faintest suggestion that you’re feeding information to me – will be fatal for you. Literally fatal.’

‘I’ll have to tread carefully, then. And trust you to do the same.’

‘You’ve obviously already made your mind up.’

‘It’s a unique opportunity, Appleby. You’re not going to refuse to help me, are you?’

Appleby took a fretful chew on his pipe, then said, ‘No. Of course I’m not. As a representative of the Secret Service, I should do everything in my power to encourage you. And, if it comes to it, I will. But as you and I sit here this morning, Max, I say this to you. Don’t do it. One way or the other, it’ll destroy you. Let your father’s secrets rest with him. Walk away. While you still can.’

Max smiled softly and shook his head. ‘But I can’t, you see. That’s the point. I
can’t
walk away.’

Appleby sighed. ‘Then be it on your own head.’

‘So, you
will
help me?’

Another sigh. ‘Yes. But what we’re discussing is no job for an amateur. And that’s what you are.’

‘Teach me a few of your professional tricks, then.’

‘I’d have to get approval from the top for an operation like this,
Max. I couldn’t discuss covert communication methods with you without authorization. And without some mastery of those methods you’d be sunk.’

‘What are you talking about? Codes? Invisible ink?’

‘That sort of thing, yes.’

‘We used lemon juice at school.’

‘It’s no laughing matter.’

‘I’m not laughing.’ Max looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got about five hours to turn me into a spy.’

‘
Five hours?
’

‘It’s all I have, I’m afraid. Delaying my response would make Lemmer suspicious before I even started.’

‘I couldn’t get authorization in that time, let alone train you to any level of competence.’

‘I’m a quick learner. And this is an emergency.’

‘For God’s sake, I’ve already had my knuckles rapped for letting you wreak havoc. Do you seriously expect me to go out on a limb for you again?’

‘Lemmer’s the target, Appleby. I’m just the arrow. How badly do you want him? How badly do your bosses want him? Playing it by the book won’t work. This is our chance. Our only chance. Now. Today. What’s it to be? Yes or no?’

A lengthy silence followed as they pondered each other’s seriousness of purpose. Then Appleby groaned. ‘Five hours, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’d better look lively, then, hadn’t we?’

MAX STEPPED DOWN
from the tram in front of the Gare de Lyon, travelling bag in hand. He checked his watch by the station clock. It was twenty past eleven and he was neither early nor late. Warm spring sunshine fell hearteningly on his face as he walked unhurriedly towards the station entrance.

He paused in his progress by a post-box, where he took a letter out of his pocket and glanced at the name and address he had written on the envelope –
G. A. Mellish, Esq, Mellish & Co., 119a High Street, Epsom, Surrey, Angleterre
– before dropping it into the slot.

Max entered the station, made his way to the ticket office and bought a first-class single to Melun, then consulted the departures board to learn which platform his train was leaving from. Next he wandered across to a news-stand and bought a copy of
Le Figaro
. The Paris editions of several British and American newspapers were also available, but he had no wish to advertise his foreignness.

He strolled, with every appearance of casualness, to the platform where the train was waiting. It was not a popular service. There were few other passengers. He climbed aboard, glancing at his watch as he did so. In no more than a few minutes, the train would leave. He could disembark before then and walk back out of the station into the safe and secure normality of one version of the rest of his life. But he was not going to. His course was set.

He sat down. He had the compartment to himself, though, strangely, he felt as if he was being watched. He opened the
newspaper, but crooked his wrist so that he could follow the ticking down of the minutes to 11.35.

11.35 came. And 11.35 went. So did 11.36. At 11.37, there was a shrill blast on a whistle and a general slamming of doors. Then, at the last moment, the door of his compartment was yanked open and a man jumped in, slamming it shut behind him. The train was already moving. Max was no longer alone.

The man was of about Max’s age, lean, sallow-skinned and narrow-shouldered. He was wearing a raincoat, despite the mildness of the day, which he did not take off. He removed only his hat as he sat down, diagonally opposite Max. He had thinning, sandy-coloured hair and a pinched, raw-boned face. He was breathing heavily, presumably because he had had to run for the train, and the cigarette he immediately lit activated a phlegmy cough. He unfolded a newspaper and began reading it.

The train lumbered out of the station, past goods sidings and warehouses. Max settled back in his seat. All he could do now was wait upon events. Lemmer would show his hand when he wanted to and not before.

Perhaps he already had, in the form of Max’s tardy fellow passenger. Perhaps not. Time would tell.

The train stopped at every station as it slowly lurched and wheezed its way out of the city and south through a succession of villages separated by flat, open countryside.

With the other occupant of the compartment buried in his paper, Max began to assume nothing would happen until he reached Melun. He relaxed and closed his eyes, wondering if he would be able to catch up on any of the sleep he had missed the night before. He had always been a ready catnapper.

‘
Excusez-moi, monsieur!
’

How long Max had dozed – whether he had dozed at all, indeed – was unclear to him. His fellow passenger had tapped him on the knee with his newspaper and now, blinking across at him, Max saw that he had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and was waggling a matchbox to demonstrate that it was empty.

‘
Pouvez-vous me donner du feu?
’

Max delved in his jacket, produced a box of his own and obliged the fellow with a light.

‘
Merci, monsieur
.’ The man took a draw on the cigarette, coughed, then said, ‘Next stop, Max.’

‘What?’

‘Next stop.’

The train was slowing, though only green fields were visible through the window. The man turned his newspaper in his hand so that Max could see the back page. He had seen it before. It was the previous Sunday’s edition of
Le Petit Journal
.

‘
Discrétion absolue
,’ the man murmured.

The train slowed still further, the roof of a small station coming into view as it juddered to a halt. Max stood up, pulled his bag down from the luggage-rack and moved towards the door, only to discover that his companion had already opened it for him.

He stepped out on to the platform and looked back, thinking there might be some last signal or direction. But the man did not so much as glance at him as he slammed the door.

Max saw only one other passenger disembark – a middle-aged man wearing a tweed suit. The guard blew his whistle and the train cranked back into motion.

There were a couple of cottages next to the station. Otherwise it was surrounded by fields, though the roofs of the village it evidently served were visible in the distance. A lane marked by a line of poplars led away from the station towards them.

The noise of the train faded as Max followed the tweed-suited man along the platform to the ticket office. The man turned through a narrow gateway next to it into a small courtyard at the front of the station, lifted a bicycle out from behind a bush, attached clips to his trousers and climbed on to the machine, then pedalled slowly away along the lane, glancing back at Max as he went.

Max watched him go. Rural quietude descended. Only birdsong reached him on the gentle breeze. He lit a cigarette and smoked it through as he paced up and down, wondering if somehow this had all been a wild-goose chase.

Then he heard the thrumbling note of a car engine approaching along the lane from the direction of the village. He strode forward for a view of the vehicle.

It was a small Peugeot two-seater. And he recognized the driver.

The car pulled in beside him and stopped. ‘Hello, Max,’ said Nadia Bukayeva, gazing at him from beneath the brim of her fur-fringed hat. ‘You are surprised to see me, yes?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘He sent me to collect you.’

It was futile to pretend he did not know who had sent her. But there was something he genuinely did not know. ‘Why you?’

‘To test you, I think. Maybe to test me also. I was shocked when he told me. Why are you coming over to us?’

Max had expected to be asked the question sooner or later. But he had not expected Nadia Bukayeva to be the one who asked it. He steeled himself. ‘The offer was too good to refuse.’

‘Of course. It always is. But remember: no one will trust you until you prove you can be trusted. That is how it is for all of us.’

‘Did Norris trust you?’

‘I did what I had to do. That is how it is also. But I am glad Sam did not die.’

Max looked her in the eye. ‘You should be.’

‘Because otherwise you would kill me, yes?’

Max did not reply, but went on looking at her. She did not flinch. And neither did he.

‘Will you come with me now?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To meet him. He is not far. He is waiting for you.’

‘Very well.’ Max tossed his bag into the dicky seat and climbed in beside her. ‘Let’s go.’

Nadia nodded, put the car into gear and started away.

As the car crossed the bridge over the railway line, a shadow detached itself from the larger shadow of the station canopy: a slightly built, dark-skinned young man, dressed in weather-stained army clothes. He briefly shaded his eyes to check the progress of
the car, then he turned and moved swiftly along the platform towards the gate into the courtyard.

TO BE CONTINUED

None of the recorded history of the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 has been altered in this novel. Real people, places and events have been depicted as accurately as possible. I am indebted to the authors of numerous books on the subject for the insights they gave me, most notably Margaret Macmillan (
Paris 1919
) and the late Harold Nicolson (
Peacemaking, 1919
). In truth, the conjuring up of the past, whether for fictional or non-fictional purposes, can never be precise. But I am grateful to the staff of the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris for helping me make it as precise as it could be in this case. I am also grateful to my good friend Toru Sasaki for providing the Japanese translation of the surname Farngold.

Robert Goddard was born in Hampshire and read History at Cambridge. His first novel,
Past Caring
, was an instant bestseller. Since then his books have captivated readers worldwide with their edge-of-the-seat pace and their labyrinthine plotting. The first Harry Barnett novel,
Into the Blue
, was winner of the first WHSmith Thumping Good Read Award and was dramatized for TV, starring John Thaw. His thriller
Long Time Coming
won an Edgar in the Mystery Writers of America awards.

Past Caring

In Pale Battalions

Painting the Darkness

Into the Blue

Take No Farewell

Hand in Glove

Closed Circle

Borrowed Time

Out of the Sun

Beyond Recall

Caught in the Light

Set in Stone

Sea Change

Dying to Tell

Days without Number

Play to the End

Sight Unseen

Never Go Back

Name to a Face

Found Wanting

Long Time Coming

Blood Count

Fault Line

For more information on Robert Goddard and his books, see his website at
www.robertgoddardbooks.co.uk

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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www.transworldbooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain
in 2013 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright © Robert and Vaunda Goddard 2013

Robert Goddard has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.