Vagabond (37 page)

The bridge was grey-painted, small and insignificant, yet each of the visitors, on every tour that stopped at Pegasus, knew of its significance in the battle for the beaches. The guide helped as best he could, but most of the men and women wanted to walk beside the river, in the shadow of the bridge, and imagine how it would have been when the gliders navigated their free-fall to the landing sites. They had come through horrendous bursting flak barrages, and stories are told of airborne officers cocking their revolvers, standing behind the pilots and demanding that they go through the spraying shrapnel and on to the targets. Some of the gliders, ugly beasts, were so expertly put down that British soldiers were on the ground and sprinting across the bridge before the defences had been alerted.

The clients also loved to hear of Piper Millen leading Lord Lovat to the bridge, with commandos who had come ashore that dawn and legged it through farmland to relieve the paratroops. Lord Lovat had apologised for arriving a few minutes late. Within a hundred yards of the end of the bridge they would see a tank, German gun emplacements and a small field where two gliders had landed. Awful casualties in 6th Airborne: four thousand men killed, wounded and missing. The gliders were sixty-five feet long and eighty-five feet from wing tip to wing tip; many of the boys squashed into them would not have been out of their teens. The visitors would have seen one across the road and marvelled . . . Then they would have gone to the Pegasus café, drunk coffee and bought cheap souvenirs or postcards.

The girl was gone, as was Malachy Riordan, whose father Danny Curnow had killed. The darkness had thickened. The road beyond the park was filled with crawling traffic. It was a background that reeked of ordinariness.

Twice policemen had come and smacked a closed fist on the window. He had pointed to the authorisation and had been left alone. He had never believed any informant he had run. He had acted on what he was told. Sometimes lives had been saved; at other times they had been lost. But he never believed what they said to him. He could barely see the Czech detective, but sometimes a cigarette was lit and the man on the bench was a faint outline. When it happened, it would be fast – always was.

Chapter 12

He peered into a dappled sea of lights for one slowing with a winking indicator. The traffic was solid. Danny Curnow could no longer see the Czech, and it might have been twenty minutes since a cigarette had been lit. His view of the target was vague.

There should have been four or five men and women on the ground, and two cars, engines ticking over. It was cheap-skate – usually was where he had worked. It was why, he assumed, he had been called back, an
increment
, outside the areas where health and safety and obligations of due care, all the modern shit, ruled. Dusty had a ‘Make Do and Mend’ mug in the kitchen at Caen, and had bought a mug for Danny that showed a ration book. He never used it.

He sat in the car and his hand hovered close to the key in the ignition. He could only peer in the direction of the target – Ralph Exton, liar, twister, temporarily useful. He was in darkness.

A basic law of handling agents: they lied to friends, families, colleagues in war – and to their handlers. Anything the agent said should be tested for provenance. But laws were backed by resources and provenance cost money.

The last years in Ireland, with FRU’s budget shrinking, had been Make Do and Mend times – as they were now.

A car indicated. He saw the Mercedes. He had seen one in Karlovy Vary. He cursed: he hadn’t memorised the number-plate, but it was written on the pad now inside his anorak. If he fumbled for it he would lose sight. He should have had the number in his head or on the dash. The vehicle slowed and crossed a lane, a volley of horns protesting. The target, visible now, stepped forward, almost jaunty. Ralph Exton was on the kerb and the car was closing on him.

The bloody engine coughed, failed to fire. Danny tried again, heard it catch. Old skills, if not practised, died. Dusty would have had it quiet and ready. He left to Danny the glamour work with the agent. Fumes spewed back. The Czech came towards him, fast, and twice peered back over his shoulder. He flung the driver’s door open and gestured to Danny to get out. Danny saw the interior light illuminated the seats of the Mercedes as Ralph Exton dropped into the passenger seat. He had a fast sighting of the man at the wheel – a brigadier, who was now a manservant and carried a legal firearm. The man had pepperpot hair, cut short and thick. The traffic was blocked.

Danny Curnow was pushing himself up but his shoulder was grabbed. He was hauled out and stumbled. His hand caught the bonnet and then he was round the front of the vehicle, tugging the passenger door, the car already moving. He was half in, half out, his left foot trailing.

‘Get out.’

‘I’m coming.’

‘You’re not needed.’ From Karol Pilar.

‘I’m coming.’ Danny Curnow’s old stubbornness.

‘You have no authorisation.’

They were into the traffic. Danny sat straight-backed in his seat and looked for the tail of the Mercedes.

‘Why did you come?’

‘Because I need to see for myself. Then I can be confident.’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘I trust you, but I trust myself more. I can’t see it.’

‘I have them. I don’t share well, Danny.’

‘It’s a habit of the trade.’

‘What did you do, back where you came from?’

‘Walked into people’s lives, fucked them, squeezed them for what was needed, walked out on them – never a backward glance. A few lives saved, a few lost. I think I can see the car.’

Gaby Davies would look after the Irish. He had his own job to fulfil. It was about the priorities laid down by Matthew Bentinick. He had his cigarettes out and put two between his lips, lit them and passed one to the Czech. The pace quickened, the road opened and the lights towards a bridge favoured them. Now the Mercedes was wedged behind a long-distance bus and could not avail itself of its engine power. They dragged on their cigarettes and smoke billowed around them. He did not expect to be thanked for riding shotgun – and unarmed – on Bentinick’s business.

It was that time in the evening. If both were at home, one would always, without comment, leave what they were doing and go upstairs. If it was Rosie, she would put down the paper with the crossword or close her laptop. If it was Matthew he would put away the file he’d been reading, or pour himself a meagre malt, then slowly climb the stairs. As he was at home it was his turn. His suit jacket was on a hanger in the wardrobe but he had kept on his waistcoat and tie. When he reached the landing, he paused – always did.

It hurt as much as it had on the first day – weeks, months, years ago. The pain was constant.

So few knew – Rosie’s sister did. Matthew Bentinick had no relations he was close to, but at work he had shared the matter of his daughter, what had been done to her, with George and Jocelyn, who was a confidante and a friend. Both had shoulders on which he could lean. The matter was not discussed between himself and Rosie. They felt it would hurt even more if they continued to go over it.

He hesitated at the door, then took the handle. The sign was still there, purloined from a hotel in the Lake District where they had stayed in the spring two months before she had gone away:
The Room Is Ready for Tidying
. A joke. Their daughter had never left her bedroom trashed, with unwashed clothes and an unmade bed. He opened the door, went inside and closed it behind him. The room was a raw wound.

He sat down in the chair where he had read aloud – back from the Province on leave – Beatrix Potter,
Winnie the Pooh
, even bloody
Ivanhoe
. An only child and . . . Hockey stick still there, the one for lacrosse and the school-team photographs on the wall. It had broken the bank to keep her there. He scratched in his pocket for his lighter, lit the candle and saw the picture of her with the children. The tears streamed down his face but he wouldn’t allow them to choke his voice. He never had and hoped he never would.

‘Hello, my love, not a bad day. I’m just back from Prague. You’d have liked it – a modern city in old clothing, crawling with young people drinking themselves to death and smoking for an early grave. But my pipe caused interest. Grand buildings and lovely churches. Unlike Warsaw and Budapest, Prague wasn’t fought through. It survived the war intact. Nice place, and I’d like to think that, one day, we might get there, all of us. Anyway, Mary, you don’t want to listen to my ramblings. Best you get some sleep. By the by, I think my visit to Prague will kick up some interesting developments but we’ll have to hang on for another couple of days to find out how interesting. Sleep well, Mary . . .’

He let the candle burn. There was a big rucksack in the corner behind the sports kit. He’d carried it downstairs for her when she’d gone and had carried it back upstairs when she’d returned. He never tried to staunch the tears, just let them flow.

In a couple of days, if it went well, he’d tell her about it.

A light knock, and George’s head was round the door. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing.’

Jocelyn thought him economical with the truth. Other than to see her, there was no earthly reason that the director general should be at her door. ‘Always a pleasure.’

‘Possible to ask? When?’

‘Seems to be twenty-four hours away, or forty-eight. Won’t be longer than that.’

‘And you’re confident, you and Matthew?’

She faced him and a smile lit her face. ‘As confident as we can be, George. It could go well, but then again . . .’

No one else could speak to him so boldly.

He said, ‘I feel I’m at the helm, and a storm’s in the rigging, but I’m betting that by hook or by crook we’ll make harbour.’

Did she laugh with or at him? ‘Of course, but it won’t be Windermere on a Sunday afternoon when the gale’s blowing. I think it’s falling into place, but not without risk.’

‘Matthew’s put a good man in place.’

‘He may need to be better than good. Thank you, George.’

It was always the way when control slipped further from the centre: predictions meant less, and luck was valued more.

The ride in the Mercedes was smooth and comfortable. Neither man spoke before they were out of the city. There were lorries ahead and few opportunities to overtake.

Ralph Exton had known the brigadier since the man was in the gutter – had seen him at the bottom of the heap.

‘What is it? Fifteen years since we met up? How is Timofey keeping? Well, I hope.’

‘When he is sensible, he is well.’

‘He’s always sensible, isn’t he?’

The former brigadier spoke so softly that Ralph Exton had to strain to hear him. The heater was on and its warmth lulled him.

‘He is sensible when he listens to me – not always sensible when he does not.’

‘Sorry, that sounds outside my area. I asked if he was well.’

‘In good health when sensible. Sickening when he is a fool.’

‘So, right now, he’s well or ill?’

‘I think he is not well.’

‘And the cause? A virus? A diet problem?’

‘You are the problem, Mr Exton. You give him sickness. It is because of you that he is neither well nor sensible.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘He should not have business with you. He should have ignored your request for help. A silly little deal for which he gets
nothing
. For Timofey Simonov to trade weapons with you in a quantity that a leader or an organised-crime group would consider irrelevant is not sensible. I told him to dismiss the idea. My advice was ignored. He does business with men we think we trust, but cannot be certain, here in his own quarter, and compromises himself. You are here and should not be. You are not worth the possibility of danger.’

‘Eloquently put.’

‘May I tell you some things, Mr Exton?’

‘It’s your car and I’m captive. Feel free.’

‘Do you know of the city of Yekaterinburg, the gate to Siberia?’

‘If you say so.’