A Perfect Spy

“He never did. He didn’t ring, he didn’t visit.”

“Then probably he was busy.”

“Did he have any plans for London — anything he told you of?”

“He said he’d go and see Tom at school.”

“Well, he did that. He went. Anything else? Friends — dates — women?”

She was suddenly very tired of him. “He was burying his father and tidying up, Jack. The whole visit was one long date. If you’d had a father and he died, you’d know how it was.”

“Did he phone you from London?”

“No.”

“Steady, Mary. Think now. That’s five days already.”

“No. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.”

“Would he usually?”

“If he can use the Office phone, yes.”

“And if he can’t?”

She thought for him. She really tried. She had been thinking for so long. “Yes,” she conceded. “He’d phone. He likes to know we’re all right, all the time. He’s a worrier. I suppose that’s why I went off with such a bang when he didn’t show up. I think I was worried already.”

Lumsden was stalking round the room in his stockinged feet, pretending to admire Mary’s water-colours of Greece.

“You’re so, so talented,” he marvelled, his face pressed against a view of Plomari. “Did you go to art school or simply do it?”

She ignored him. So did Brotherhood. It was a tacit bond between them. The only decent diplomat is a deaf Trappist, Jack liked to say. Mary was beginning to agree.

“Where’s the servant?” said Brotherhood.

“You told me to get rid of her. On the phone. When I rang.”

“She smell a rat?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It mustn’t get out, Mary. We’ve got to sit on it as long as we possibly can. You know that, don’t you?”

“I guessed.”

“There’s his Joes to think of, there’s everything to think of. Far more than you can know. London’s stiff with theories and begging for time. You quite sure Lederer hasn’t phoned?”

“Jesus,” she said.

His eye fell on Harry, who was unpacking his clever boxes. They were grey-green and possessed no apparent controls. “You can tell the servant they’re transformers,” he said.

“Umformer,” Lumsden piped helpfully from the wings. “Transformer is Umformer. ‘Die kleinen Büchsen sind Umformer.’”

Once again they ignored him. Jack’s German was almost as good as Magnus’s, and about three hundred times better than Lumsden’s.

“When’s she due back?” Brotherhood asked.

“Who?”

“Your servant, for God’s sake.”

“Tomorrow lunchtime.”

“Be a good girl and see if you can get her to stay away a couple more days.”

She went to the kitchen and phoned Frau Bauer’s mother in Salzburg. Sorry about the outrageous hour but with a death that’s how it goes, she said. Herr Pym is remaining in London for a few days, she said. Why don’t you take advantage of Herr Pym’s absence and have a nice rest? she said. When she came back it was Lumsden’s turn to say his piece. She got his drift immediately and after that she deliberately stopped hearing him. “Just to fill in any awkward blanks, Mary. . So that we’re all speaking the same language, Mary. . While Nigel is still closeted with Ambass. . In case, which God forbid, the odious press gets on to it before it’s all cleared up, Mary. .” Lumsden had a cliché for every occasion and a reputation for being nimble-minded. “Anyway, that’s the route Ambass would like us all to go,” he ended, using the very latest in daring jargon. “Not unless we’re asked, naturally. But if we are. And Mary he sends terrific love. He’s with you all the way. And with Magnus too naturally. Terrific condolences, all that.”

“Just nothing to Lederer’s crowd,” said Brotherhood. “Nothing to anyone but for God’s sake nothing to Lederer. There’s no disappearance, nothing abnormal. He’s gone back to London to bury his father, he’s staying on for talks at Head Office. End of message.”

“It’s the same route I’ve been going already,” Mary said, appealing to Brotherhood as if Lumsden didn’t exist. “It’s just that Magnus didn’t apply for compassionate leave before taking it.”

“Yes, well now I think that’s the part Ambass wants us not to say, if you don’t mind,” said Lumsden, showing the steel. “So I think we won’t, please.”

Brotherhood squared to him. Mary was family. Nobody messed her around in front of Brotherhood, least of all some overeducated flunkey from the Foreign Office.

“You’ve done your job,” said Brotherhood. “Fade away, will you? Now.”

Lumsden left the way he had come, but faster.

Brotherhood turned back to Mary. They were alone. He was as broad as an old blockhouse and, when he wanted to be, as rough. His white forelock had fallen across his brow. He put his hands on her hips the way he used to, and drew her into him. “God damn it, Mary,” he said as he held her. “Magnus is my best boy. What the devil have you done with him?”

From upstairs she heard the squeak of castors and another loud thud. It’s the bow-fronted chest of drawers. No, it’s our bed. Georgie and Fergus are taking a look round.

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