Secret Kingdom (3 page)

‘Always useful to have something tucked away for a rainy day.’ He smiled with satisfaction. They were conspirators.

Hart gave no indication of how he felt because none was asked
for, but in his heart he quickly rejected Adams. He would soon be walking in Whitehall, he imagined, an insignificant player in the nation’s life, but a player nonetheless. Why accept second prize when you’re sure you’ll reach the tape first? He walked back to his rooms after lunch flattered that Adams should see him as a candidate suitable for such an approach but certain he would not have any cause to revive the conversation.

How wrong he was. The letter he opened with trembling hands a few days later was conciliatory but absolute. He had failed. The career he had imagined for himself was not to be. He experienced the bitter humiliation of seeing his youthful dreams shattered. He accepted the commiserations of his friends, all of whom by now had fixed themselves up with interesting jobs, and found that he was the one with nothing to do.

After a few days of indecision he knocked on Jervis Adams’s door. A week later he was given another lunch, this time in St James’s (‘I gather Professor Adams gave you a taster of the sort of things we get up to. Jolly good’). Two weeks after that he was interviewed at length by four men, a senior civil servant, two intelligence experts and a Cambridge don he’d never heard of but who, it was intimated, had had something to do with intelligence during the war.

‘In this line of country, there is no public recognition for services rendered. No honours of any kind. Only the special satisfaction of knowing that, as a member of a select group of men and women, you have defended your country against the enemy in a war that never ends,’ he was told. ‘You do understand that, don’t you?’

A medical, and then, when his references had been taken up (Adams, he knew, would be positive), he received another letter offering him a job which he accepted with no real idea of what he was letting himself in for. Joining an organization whose existence he couldn’t admit to would lend him and his activities a perpetual air of mystery that he found attractive. (‘What does Hugh Hart get up to? Anyone know?’) This knowledge repaired his self-esteem which had been so battered by his failure to get into the Foreign Office. He would be a man of two worlds. A keeper of secrets. He would have a double life.

On the last Saturday in August he bought a dark suit and a stiff white collar from Simpsons’, and on the first Monday of September he walked through the door of Merton House in Broadway and
began his career as a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. Twenty months later he arrived in Budapest, his official tide that of Third Secretary, his responsibility ‘consular services’.

His double life, he imagined, had begun.

Good old Vardas.

Martineau adjusted his reading light and opened the envelope with the paper knife he’d brought back from Rio. He examined the report. Close hand-written lines in black ink on cheap yellow paper. Spidery script. Unmistakable. Another flawless performance. Just what he wanted. ‘Well done, my Hungarian friend, whoever you are.’

Typical
Vardas.
Civil
service
prose
in
an
agent’s
report.
The
man’s
a
gem.

Vardas had arrived in his life out of the blue. A stocky man in his forties with greying hair, a greying moustache and a brick-red face, he had knocked on the door of Martineau’s apartment one evening when Christine, mercifully, was out at a wives’ do at the embassy and announced that he wished to become an agent for
British Intelligence. Martineau’s immediate reaction had been anger. The lack of subtlety shrieked set-up. The approach was so crude as to be laughable. How could the Soviets imagine he’d fall for such an obvious trap? In less than an hour he was sure Vardas was genuine. He put down the crudity of his approach to inexperience.

‘Vardas is not my real name,’ he said. ‘To protect us both, I will give you no personal details. I will tell you that I am a civil servant, though I will not say in which ministry I serve.’

Why did he want to work for the British? Martineau had asked.

‘How can we support Nagy’s New Course policies one day, and the next approve their destruction under Rakosi? Last year we went in the direction of reform, today we are racing back over the same road, tearing up what is now known as rightist deviationism to replace it with a repression that is worse than the Soviets endure in their own country.’

Nagy’s experiment in communism with a conscience had won popular approval but had alienated and then alarmed the Soviets with the speed and nature of its reforms. That was why Moscow had removed him and set up Rakosi in his place. It was a bad exchange, and the country was being brought to its knees because of it.

‘I am ashamed at the depths to which I and so many of my fellow countrymen have sunk. To remain inactive destroys the soul. One day, perhaps not in my lifetime, this nightmare will end, but only when the West demonstrates the courage of its beliefs and acts in the cause of freedom. I must do what I can to bring that day forward, even though I may not live to see it happen. That is why I offer you my services.’

In the half-light, Martineau saw the desperation in the man’s eyes.

‘You will be wondering if you may trust me, whether in fact I am not here to betray you. You will accept that asking for references would be dangerous, not to say self-defeating. All I can tell you is that I am not a double agent. I have not reached this decision lightly. I am fully aware of the risks I run. My motives are those of a Hungarian patriot. Please judge my sincerity by the quality of the information I give you. I will report the truth to you. You will pass it on to your people in London so the world may learn what the Soviets are doing to my country.’

In the early days Martineau had checked and rechecked the information Vardas gave him. Never wrong-footed him once. After a time he’d given up anything but the occasional random test. What was the point? The man hated the Sovs, God bless him; he despised his masters and their cruel diligence in pleasing the Kremlin, and he worked conscientiously in his reports to relay what he saw as the truth of the Soviet position. All Martineau had to do was code it up and telex it to London.

Good old Vardas. My Boris. My treasure.

Manny wasn’t sure how long the girl had been waiting but it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two. Why didn’t she ring the bell on the counter if she wanted his attention? That’s what it was there for.

‘Hey,’ he said above the noise of his machine. ‘Sorry. You been waiting long?’

He pressed the switch and the engine whined slowly to a halt. He came out of the workroom into the shop, wiping his hands on his apron. She was young, maybe twenty-one or two, no, older than that probably, Joe’s age more like (he couldn’t tell young women’s ages any more), pretty, with long dark hair and a white face, straight nose, thin lips. He liked a fuller face himself, higher cheekbones, more to the bust and the hips. Well-dressed, no question, and good shoes, nice leather, low heels, well polished. A rich woman’s shoes.

‘You come for your shoes, eh?’ He didn’t recognize her as a customer.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to collect anything. I wanted to speak to Mrs Leman.’

‘Mrs Leman, eh?’ Manny took off his cap and scratched his head. ‘Mrs Leman out shopping. You want to come back later?’

‘Will she be long?’

‘She gone down the market, that’s all. You sit down and wait here, all right? She won’t be long.’ He pointed to the doorway leading to the parlour. ‘You like a cup of tea or something?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘You don’t mind if I start this thing again? It make a bad noise, I’m sorry. I have people want their shoes as good as new tonight.’

‘No, of course not. It is very kind of you to let me wait.’

He smiled reassuringly and went back to his workshop. Ten minutes later Esther reappeared. Manny had been watching out for her. As she came into the shop, he hissed at her, hoping the girl wouldn’t hear. ‘Esther? In here. All right?’

Startled, she followed him into the workroom, with its comforting smells of leather, warm oil, glue and boot polish that she associated with the life she shared with her bear-like husband.

‘What is it, Manny?’

‘There’s this girl,’ he said. ‘She’s waiting for you in the kitchen. She want to speak with you.’

‘What girl?’ Esther asked, perplexed.

‘How do I know what girl?’ Manny said. ‘I’m working here, next moment I look round and there’s this girl, standing out front, I thought she come for shoes but she asking for you. What am I supposed to do about her?’

‘Did you offer her tea?’

‘She don’t want nothing, Esther. That’s what she say.’

Esther put down her basket, straightened her hair and went into the parlour.

‘Mrs Leman?’ The girl got to her feet and held out her hand. ‘I’m so sorry to surprise you like this, I should have warned you I was coming.’

The girl was in some distress, there was no question about that. She had been crying recently, not here in the shop but before that, her eyes were red and her face pale. She looked tired, anxious, upset. Esther took her hand and felt how cold she was.

‘You need to warm yourself up. Best thing is a cup of tea.’ She busied herself at the range. ‘You come about Joe, don’t you?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I see it in your eyes.’ Esther smiled and gestured for her to sit down. She put two mugs on the oilcloth that covered the kitchen table and filled the kettle. ‘What you want to tell me?’

For a long moment the girl was silent. Then she said: ‘I went to Vienna with Joe.’ Suddenly she burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.’

Esther put her arm round the girl’s shoulder. ‘You want to cry, you cry. Tears never kill anyone. That’s what my grandmother always said.’

‘I’ll be all right in a moment.’ She held her handkerchief to her face. Esther waited for her to recover her composure.

‘Your name Anna, then?’ she asked quietly.

‘I’m Anna Livesey, yes.’ The girl smiled briefly. ‘Did he tell you about me?’

‘Joe never says much.’ He’d never told her that his girl Anna was a lady, a fine, elegant, well-dressed lady with an emerald ring and a real pearl necklace. ‘I know you good friend of Joe. At least he tell me that.’

It was the wrong thing to say. The girl burst into tears once more.

‘I begged him to let me come and see you and your husband but he always refused.’ She touched Esther’s hand and smiled through her tears. ‘I should have come here ages ago. I don’t know why I didn’t. I’ve caused you enough pain by staying away. I feel very ashamed. I hope you will forgive me.’

‘Now you blow your nose,’ Esther said, pouring tea into a mug. ‘And tell me what you came to say.’

*

It was cold and raining when they arrived in Vienna, Anna told Esther, the unexpected May storm made worse by a wind blowing off the Hungarian
puszta
sharp enough to skin you alive if you didn’t wrap up. They took a taxi to the flat, and she held tightly on to Joe’s hand as the old Citroen drove blindly through the rain. They stopped at a tall building in a secluded street some distance from the centre.

She went ahead with the key and he followed, carrying their cases. ‘Why didn’t someone think of a lift when they built this place?’ he complained breathlessly as they climbed to the top floor. She was too tired to reply. They pulled the curtains, turned on the lamps, examined the glass art deco pieces displayed in a walnut cabinet, the heavy Biedermeier furniture, the elegant oak-framed photographs of moments taken from unknown lives.

‘Come and look at the bed,’ she called. ‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’

It was enormous, a highly polished wooden bedstead, long roll pillows, a thick mattress (‘Try it, Joe, you sink right into it’) and a heavy down-filled cover. They lay side by side, staring at the decorated ceiling, the sounds of the city far away below them.

‘Well, we’re here,’ Joe said. ‘That’s quite an achievement in itself. Now the adventure begins.’ He sat up. ‘Are you glad you came?’

Her answer was to put her arms around his neck and kiss him as softly as she could, drawing him gently down on to her. ‘Joe,’ she murmured, ‘Joe.’

‘We’ve got to eat first,’ he said, laughing at her, sitting up, unlocking her hands.

‘You’re a beast,’ she said, unable to make him change his mind. ‘A real beast.’

*

‘
Adventure
?’ Esther asked. ‘Why did he say that?’

‘It was a word he used. He didn’t mean anything by it.’ That wasn’t true, but she wasn’t strong enough to give Esther the truth. Not yet anyway.

A month before they had left for Vienna, she had stood behind him as he sat at his desk and put her arms round his neck. Usually when she did this he would lean back against her and let her kiss him. Tonight he remained upright, unyielding.

‘What is it, Joe? What’s the matter?’

He said nothing.

‘If it’s something I’ve done.’

‘For God’s sake, Anna. Not everything is to do with you.’

He had got up then, shaking her free. This was the test, she said to herself. If he loves me, he’ll talk to me. If he doesn’t, he’ll say nothing. But he hadn’t said a word and his silence had reaffirmed her fear that she was the source of his unhappiness. She felt the pit of her stomach fell away.

She had seen him like this once before, ages ago, in the months after he had left Cambridge. He’d been drifting aimlessly, unable to find work and angry with himself because of it. That was the first time she had felt the power of his silence. It was an invisible wall, cutting her off from the man she loved, frightening her with its intensity, making him a stranger to her. She had tried to help but he had rejected any ideas she came up with. After weeks of inactivity, desperate that she might lose him, she had telephoned the Director of the Institute of Soviet Affairs who had been a friend of her mother’s. Ten days later he offered Joe a job. She’d prayed he’d never find out what she’d done.

‘What’s the point of it all? Day after day studying reports, analysing them, telling other people what to make of them. Is that how I’m to spend the rest of my life? Living at second hand?’

The rest of your life is to be with me, she wanted to say, but she knew she must keep silent. She had learned to treat Joe carefully when depression hit him.

‘You’re probably tired,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’ She knew at once she should never have said that. How could she have been so insensitive?

‘No!’ He was shaking with anger. ‘Sleeping with you isn’t the answer to everything.’

‘I’m sorry, Joe.’

‘My life is so safe, so predictable,’ he said with a desperation that chilled her. ‘That’s what’s wrong with it. No adventure.’

One word.
Adventure.
It posed a threat because what he wanted was precisely what she was unable to provide.

*

It was nearly midnight when they returned to the apartment and she had drunk more than she had intended. She felt dizzy as they came up the stairs and she leaned on him, feeling his warmth through his jacket. From two landings down, they heard the telephone ringing. Joe raced up the stairs as fast as he could.

‘Where are the bloody keys?’

‘I’ve got them.’

‘Quick. Give them to me.’

The key ring caught on the lining of her pocket and she couldn’t pull it out. She struggled, Joe shouted at her, it refused to move. The telephone rang relentlessly.

‘For God’s sake, Anna. Give me the keys.’

‘I can’t get them out. They’re stuck.’

‘Here.’ In his impatience he pushed her against the wall and reached into her pocket, tearing the lining in his efforts to release the key ring. By the time he’d got the door open the telephone had stopped.

‘Damn.’

‘It can’t have been for us,’ Anna said. ‘Nobody knows we’re here.’

‘Sykes does.’

‘Even Sykes wouldn’t telephone at such an uncivilized hour.’

‘For God’s sake, Anna. I can do without your nursery disapproval. Why the hell couldn’t you open the door when I asked you?’

They quarrelled then because, she rationalized later, they were tired after too little sleep on the overnight train and too much to drink at dinner. It was a stupid, pointless quarrel about nothing but it went deep, exposing raw nerves in their relationship that neither wanted to acknowledge.

‘I’m going to have a bath,’ she said, feeling cold and afraid. ‘It’s late and I’m tired and I want to go to bed.’

‘I’m going out for a breath of fresh air.’

‘Stay with me, Joe. Please don’t go.’

‘I need to clear my head.’

She pleaded with him but he wouldn’t listen to her. He closed the door behind him, she heard his footsteps disappearing on the stone steps and then there was silence.

‘That was it,’ she told Esther. ‘He went out for a walk and never came back. He vanished into the night.’

She knocks at the door and waits. Silence. She can hear no movement inside the apartment. She knocks again. This time a woman’s voice calls out and an elderly man replies, complaining. Someone coughs, a harsh, damaged sound that frightens her. The door is opened a little. An old man, the remains of a cigarette between his lips, looks at her enquiringly.

‘Lieutenant Janosi?’ she asks. It is the son she has come for, not the father.

‘Who wants him?’

‘My name is Kovacs,’ Eva says.

‘Wait there.’ He turns round and calls, ‘Pauli.’

Out of the gloom of the narrow corridor a young man appears. He wears military trousers but no shirt. His braces hang down by his sides. His hair is wet. He has a towel around his neck. He is shaving and half his face is covered with soap.

‘It’s OK, Papa. I can deal with this,’ he says gently. As the old man shuffles away, she hears again the rough hacking cough and the struggle for breath. ‘What can I do for you?’

He is younger than she imagined, but in his eyes she recognizes the look of ready acceptance she has met before in other active servants of the state. Janosi will never question what he is instructed to do. The pity is, there are so many like him.

‘My name is Julia Kovacs,’ she says again. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Janosi stiffens. He recognizes her name. ‘I have nothing to say,’ he replies, trying to hide his horror at her presence. ‘Please go.’

She knows that he wants to throw her into the street and have nothing to do with her, but even he cannot practise such violence in his parents’ home. He accepts her presence with resignation.

‘Come in here.’ He pushes her roughly into a small untidy bedroom, clothes all over the place, the bed unmade. He closes the door. ‘My parents are in the sitting room. I don’t want them to hear us talking.’

She stares at him, waiting for some response to her question. ‘Well?’

‘Whoever you are,’ he says flatly, ‘you’re not Julia Kovacs. She’s dead.’

‘That’s why I’m here. I want you to tell me what you know about her death.’

‘I had nothing to do with it.’ His reply is too quick to be convincing.

‘I didn’t say you killed her. I asked you to tell me what you know about why she died.’

‘I have nothing to say.’ He tries to push past her to the door. ‘This is pointless. I’m not going to tell you anything. You must go. I am on duty soon.’

‘Who changed the name on the file?’

‘What?’

‘Who changed the name on the file from Eva Balassi to Julia Kovacs?’

‘How do you know about that?’ The question is out before he can stop himself.

‘I’m Eva Balassi.’

Janosi puts his head in his hands. ‘How did you find me?’

I have read Julia’s file, she wants to say. I have seen your name there.

‘I was the subject of your investigation,’ she says, ignoring his question. ‘In every respect except one that file is about me. You
supervised the case. Who ordered you to change the name?’

‘Please. I am late already.’

‘I need to know.’

‘There’s nothing I can say to help you.’

It is hopeless, she knows that. He will tell her nothing because he knows nothing. He has sat behind a desk and ensured the surveillance reports were filed on time, he has stamped where he needed to, countersigned his name when asked to. He is a clerk in military uniform. The names of his victims are letters typed on sheets of paper. They have no reality, no independent lives because he never sees them, he never imagines them. The victims are not living human beings, full of fear and laughter, anxiety and hope; they are enemies of the state. He has been told they are guilty (though he has never been given evidence of their guilt, nor has he asked for any), so he sees their sufferings as justified if the regime that pays him is to survive. The clerk who processes the paperwork is as much the instrument of death as the executioner. That, she suspects, is something Lieutenant Janosi will never understand.