The Spying Game
01: 12: 2013
.
William Boyd wrote the book and screenplay of 'Restless'
This is not so much a new story as a filling out or 'missing scenes' of the TV series.
Lucas, Eva and their companions belong completely to him.
I only borrow them to play with them for a while, for my own entertainment.
I freely acknowledge I have used some of his scenes and words; that are because they are the best.
I hope he will not frown on my effort.
.
The younger Lucas and Eva were played by Rufus Sewell and Hayley Atwell.
Sir Michael Gambon and Charlotte Rampling played the older couple.
My thanks to them and to William Boyd for the pleasure they gave me.
._
There is only one song for this story .
Nobody Does It Better
(The Spy Who Loved me.)
Written and sung by Carly Simon.
.
I wasn't lookin', but somehow you found me.
I tried to hide from your love light.
But, like heaven above me, the spy who loved me
Is keeping all my secrets safe tonight.
.
And nobody does it better
Though sometimes I wish that they could
Nobody does it quite the way you do
Why'd you have to be so good?
.
The way that you hold me whenever you hold me
There's some kind of magic inside you
That keeps me from running but just keep it comin'
How do you learn to do the things you do.
.
And nobody does it better
Make me feel sad for the rest
Nobody does it half as good as you
Baby, baby, darling you're the best.
.
.
THE SPYING GAME
.
We stood in his beautiful drawing room in Knightsbridge.
Early evening, that long hot summer of '76.
He, my daughter Ruth and I, in an elegant Georgian double cube of a room furnished with comfortable armchairs and sofas , small tables , good paintings, objets d'art and bookcases stuffed with books .
As I would have expected: all the signs of a gracious, affluent lifestyle.
A lifetime of power and wealth.
We looked at each other.
Ruth might not have been there.
An elderly woman looking at an older man.
What did he see?
I am tall, still straight, upright; painfully thin now, the full breasts and curved hips of my younger days gone, eaten away by a lifetime of living on cigarettes and nerves. Watching, waiting. My once dark hair faded to a dove colour rather than grey. My eyes too, faded from the deep blue they once were, to a paler shade. My face lined.
And I?
What did I see?
He too, is tall, five or six inches taller than I: six feet or so and strongly built, though a little stooped and heavier now with a slight paunch. His hair, which had been thick and curly, black sprinkled with silver always rigorously brushed into control, was now thin and a silver grey. Deep grooves ran on either side of his mouth and scored his forehead. His lids hooded his eyes, his beautiful eyes. The elegant black moustache that had emphasized his mouth was gone now.
Gone when it turned to grey, I suppose.
I smiled, unkindly, to myself. He had always been a little vain.
He must be …what? Seventy -six …seventy-seven? But no mistake about it, he may be old now but Baron Mansfield is still a handsome man, the needle sharp
intelligence that was always his, is still undimmed in his eyes. Still a force to be reckoned with.
He turned to Ruth.
"What are you to this woman?" The disdain obvious in his voice.
"She is my mother."
His narrowed eyes came back to mine, the slightest hint of hurt surprise in them.
Why should he be hurt or surprised?
He has a son and a daughter, has he not?
A little silence and Ruth burst out, "Why did you do it? Betray your country?"
"You young people." he shook his head. "You cannot understand how one can love and hate your country at the same time."
"But to the Germans!"
"The Germans?" This time it was amused surprise.
"No, it was never the Germans; was it Lucas?"
She seemed to be puzzled.
"NKVD "
"The Russians?" she asked the astonishment clear in her voice."The sixth man? You were the sixth man?"
His eyes, well guarded, moved over her and back to me. The faintest of smiles asking me.
Did I know?
"No, Ruth. Not the sixth man . . . if they knew who he was, they could never prove it
And if they didn't know him . . . "I shrugged." You were much higher up, weren't you, Lucas?
Buried so deep, not a whisper, not a breath.
No-one ever dreamed.
Not Angus. Not Al. Sylvia refused to believe. . Only Morris came to suspect …and he had to die…and me."
He still watched me.
I clicked off the safety catch of the sawn off shotgun that I held folded into my side. He recognised the sound. A flicker of something moved across his face.
I don't think it was fear.
If he was afraid, Lucas Romer would never show it.
A faint smile crossed his face.
"You shot me once before. In an Underground station during an air raid." the smile was in his voice.
"Pity I missed."
"You didn't. I had a large hole in my shoulder for months. You didn't have to kill Alfie."
"No? What would you have done?"
As we looked at each other, his mouth curved in a small smile and he opened his eyes wide at me in the way he used to; when I had done something well: when he
was delighted with me: when I had scored a point over him.
His beautiful eyes, whose colour could range from gold, through olive to grape. Till he widened them, as he did now, and they sparkled the deepest emerald. The faint
smile on his mouth flickered in his eyes, mocking the world, mocking me . . .
"Well, well... Eva Delectorskaya! Who'd've thought it?
He put out his hand and stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers.
"I could never fight you, Eva.
I tried. Believe me, I tried."
The room rocked a little, a swift stab of desire shot through me; as it had always done.
Could he still do that to me?
Through the rage, the fear and the pain; and yes, hate even, he could still do that to me. After almost forty years?
I threw the gun onto the sofa behind me.
A sharp indrawn breath came from him.
"It is not loaded."
The anger in me subsided a little, leaving a coldness.
"Good bye Lucas."
.
I crossed the perfect little Georgian Square in the warmth of that lovely summer evening.
I got in my car. To my surprise, Ruth slid in beside me.
"You OK, Mum?"
Even more surprised, I answered "Yes."
"God, Sal! I thought you were going to kill him."
I smiled ruefully.
"Maybe I meant to, at first but ... the shotgun … I buggered it up. The barrel …when I sawed it. I might have bloody killed myself.
You see, it doesn't matter now."
"I know him.
I know him as he knows me.
He will be gone by tomorrow. A massive stroke or a heart attack, they will say. He will have had something ready, waiting for a day like this. An injection … an overdose
of something.
He would not take disgrace."
We sat for a few moments in silence.
"What now? Do you want to go home?"
With a sigh, I said "Yes"
I watched her go back to her car and I went home on my own.
I had no wish for company that night.
.
I sat through the night in my drawing room with a glass of whisky and watched the smoke from my cigarette drift upwards.
I, Sally Gilmartin… , Eve Dalton …. Eva Delectorskaya
Through the night.
Waiting.
Cigarette after cigarette, a single glass of whiskey sitting unwanted on the table beside me.
The memories.
Bitter sweet memories.
His charm
His razor sharp mind.
Even now, the longing for him, the touch of him, his hair, his eyes, his mouth.
Blocked out for so many years.
I thought I had written everything out of my system when I had written my story for Ruth.
So much flowed back as I sat and smoked.
So much that was me and Lucas
So much that I had shut away; locked away by my fear, my anger, my hurt and my desire for revenge.
Stronger than even the hate, stronger than the need for revenge.
"Ohh! Such a Russian thing, revenge, Eva." I could hear him say sardonically. "Not at all English."
"But I am Russian, Lucas; I am only half English." I said out loud.
"You used me and manipulated me. Right from the beginning"
He taught me; trained me.
He knew me; every step I would take, every move, every thought.
"You Bastard, Romer! You manipulative, lying Bastard" I said softly to the night air.
.
I was twenty eight when I met him and he . . . he must have been forty.
March 1939, in Paris, at my brother's funeral.
The rain soaking my coat made me shiver.
A feeling that someone was watching me, made me turn.
He was there, back from us, near the walls of the shelled out church that edged the cemetery. A tall man in a Burberry mackintosh and a Trilby hat.
I had seen him before. The day Kolia had died in the market. I saw him over Kolia's shoulder, standing back between the stalls, watching us. Kolia left me and spoke to him and
they went off together. And Kolia had died.
He was watching me.
I turned back to my father.
A week later, I went back to Kolia's grave to clear the dead flowers. I went to sit amongst the ruins; I needed to be somewhere quiet, secluded, to be on my own. And to let the
tears come. At last I began to tidy my face and I heard the crunch of footsteps. They stopped a few yards from me.
I waited but whoever it was did not leave.
I turned; it was him.
He apologised for disturbing me; he introduced himself. He wished to express his condolences. His French was perfect Parisian: however, he continued in English. I realised later this was to hear my accent.
I thought I did not like him.
He was extremely handsome. He had the confidence, the self- assurance which was almost arrogance, that the English upper class have, that superiority with a barely concealed contempt of the world.
No, Mr Romer, I don't think I like you.
I made my excuses and edged past him.
I came in from work three days later. As I hung my coat on the stand in the entrance hall, I saw a Trilby hanging there and heard the murmur of voices and a brief whisper of laughter.
"Eva, my dear, this is Mr Romer, a friend of Kolia's. He has come "
"I have met Mr Romer" I interrupted coldly. But my father was so warmed, so comforted by this stranger's visit in this time of our grief that I could not be other than polite
.
After a few minutes, he asked my father to excuse us; he wished to take a walk with me. He had something to discuss with me.
Papa was quick to agree; it was obvious that whatever it was had already been discussed between them.
Kolia had worked for him, he said.
I doubted it and said so. Kolia was a music teacher. What had he to do with this man?
"I work for the British Government." He paused to make sure I understood what he meant.
"And Kolia worked for me. He infiltrated the L'Action Francais on my instructions. They killed him. "
He nodded, two or three little nods
"Will you come and work for me?"
"No, Mr...er... Romer?"
"Lucas Romer ...it is my real name."
"It never crossed my mind that it wasn't. No! Mr Romer, You can keep your dirty little wars."
His eyes sparkled.
As if I hadn't spoken, he continued.
"You would be trained. You will get £500 a year, a British passport, and medical care for your father."
He watched my face.
"Kolia wanted it. More than anything, he wanted you to join us."
I looked back, cold, sneering.
"No, Mr Romer."
But he must have seen a flicker , a response in my face, for he let out a slight breath as though he had achieved … I don't know .. Something...
That was how it began.
How I became an agent of the British Government.
.
.
I arrived in England with a new name 'Eve Dalton' and a British Passport to go with it.
My training began. Elocution, wiping out the faintest suspicion of my Russian accent ; I was taught lock picking , forgery , shadowing and how to detect shadows, Morse code. Orienteering, self survival.
I was dropped off in the middle of the moors and found my way back with ease and triumph.
I discovered that I was good and found it exhilarating, exciting.
Someone came from ' head office' and interviewed me in an attic room.
On the desk in front of him, was an open file, which he ticked now and then but with no indication of how I might be doing.
Romer was not around.
I wondered whether I would see him again.
He had said I would work for him.
Then Laird, the head of the school said, out of the blue, "Mr. Romer is well pleased with you."
And told me so again, now and then.
Then, when I was least expecting it, I was sent for again and he was there, in that attic room.
This time, the desk was empty except for a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
"Tell me. What you have been doing?"
I told him; all the while he watched me and all the while, his eyes hid his thoughts.
At last I finished.
He took out his battered silver cigarette tin and giving me one, took one himself, tapping it on the box. He lit mine first, then his own and leaning back in his chair, swivelled it
around to stare out through the window at the grounds below and the moors beyond .
At last he turned to me, with the look of a proud parent having been told of the progress of a gifted child.
"Head office is pleased with you."
He poured two glasses of whiskey and pushed one towards me.
His smugness irritated me and I wanted to prick that little bubble of self conceit.
"I am glad to give satisfaction. And, no thank you." I said sardonically, pushing the glass away, but at the same time there was a little burst of pleasure at having achieved
words of praise from him.
A hiccup of laughter escaped as he put his cigarette to his mouth.
He knew what I was doing.
He smiled, a genuinely amused smile, white even teeth gleamed and he opened his eyes wide and emeralds danced at me.
"Oh! Come on, I hate to drink on my own."
Suddenly I felt as though the room tilted around me, as if dozens of butterflies fluttered in me. A lift descending fast, a glow in me as I had not felt before.
He knocked his tot back. He took another pull on his cigarette and his eyes, narrowed against the smoke, held mine, thoughtfully at first, then laughing.
"Eva Delectorskaya . . . Who'd've thought it?"
Eva! He always called me Eva, even then, when everyone else called me Eve.
He stood, smiling again, put his bottle of whiskey in his pocket and left.
.
I was taken to Edinburgh for a six man box shadow.
I was told four, maybe six.
I quickly saw two, and then four.
Down Narrow Street, turning into Princes Street, through Petts' Hotel, inquiring about a room. Searching, watching, in the mirror behind the reception desk, I picked out the
last two and proceeding to make short work of losing them.
In a phone booth in the foyer, I took off my hat, stuffed it in my bag and tied on a red scarf. I joined a party leaving the hotel, chatting vivaciously to one of its members on
their way to their coach. Hidden behind it, I left them to slip into Pringles' department store, wandering around, watching, observing, until at last, I was sure I had lost them.
I slipped into the 'Ladies '.
I took off my scarf, stuffed it into my pocket. I pulled out the pins that held my hair up and brushed it out.
A quick look around and I went through the door marked 'Private Staff Only' at the rear of the room and I was out through the fire escape door.
Outside.
I clattered down the steps, giggling to myself from sheer exhilaration.
I was hurrying down the back lane when I heard it.
"Eva!"
I swung around.
Romer!
He was moving fast towards me and was a little breathless, his usually meticulously brushed hair falling on his forehead. He caught my arm.
He was laughing too. His eyes sparkled.
"Eva Delectorskaya! You were good. Very good. That red scarf was quite brilliant."
"Never under estimate the resourcefulness of our Miss Eva Delectorskaya." he said, nodding thoughtfully. "Come on, I'll treat you to lunch."
He saw that I was still crestfallen.
"Come on, Eva, it's a game; only a game."
He took my arm and guided me back into Princes Street and into a restaurant and ordered for both of us.
No choice then!
The fact that it was delicious was of no matter.
Romer was in charge. Always in control.
He leaned back in his chair.
"Now, how many in the box?"
"Six!" I said.
He raised an eyebrow questioningly.
I nodded definitely.
"No! Seven! Never fail to take into consideration a close shadow. I was never more than six feet away."
His eyes were amused as he took a tweed cap and a pair of glasses from his pocket.
"But, well done. You almost lost me. "
He smiled. And my heart began to thump as it did each time I saw him these days.
"Training's over, Eva. You will be joining my team in London."
He reached inside his jacket, placed a packet on the table and pushed it to me. I opened it; it contained two British passports and fifty pounds in grubby old notes.
"When you come to London, find yourself a second set of digs. A safe place. Tell no-one where it is; and hide these there. Tell no-one!
He leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette
"Another rule for you, maybe the most important. Trust no-one. No-one! Not even me. "
I smiled at his little joke.
"Another one of Romer's Rules?"
He smiled but his eyes were guarded,
"Perhaps it's the only rule you need."
.
We were a tight little team, gathering news items and feeding them on.
Word came that we were moving to Ostend to set up a news agency, ostensibly to feed English papers but our main work was the creation of disinformation.
Romer had an office e there; however we saw little of him, he was as much in London as he was in Ostend.
His team, Morris, Angus and Alfie, Sylvia and me.
All differing talents, all bright inventive minds.
Morris was senior under Romer. I thought they were the same age though Morris appeared to be older, Romer more taut, toned.
Alfie and I were the youngest, though I was a few years older. Morris seemed to take me under his wing, like a favourite niece, taking me out to lunch occasionally.
It was at one of these that I thought I would pump him.
"Where's the boss today?"
Your guess is as good as mine." He smiled.
"You've known him a while, haven't you?"
"Mmm"
"Always in this line?"
Mmm" He looked away.
"Sorry!" I said "Naughty! Breaking Romer's No.1 rule."
"Hmm. Shall we treat ourselves? A brandy?
"Mmm. Let's."
I let him relax and then I came back.
"Were you at university together? Cambridge, wasn't it?"
He opened his mouth but I was there again. "Is he married? Girlfriend?"
"You must ask him Eve. Ah! Here's our brandy."
Dear Morris, seemingly so easy and gentle, yet he too, was as cagey and as closed mouth as our esteemed boss.
.
Sylvia and I shared a flat.
We had been there several months when, one evening I arrived back at our flat.
Sylvia stuck her head around the door, grimacing at me as she said "We have been waiting for you."
It did not prepare me for the fact that Romer was there.
My heart jumped; what was he doing here?
"Where have you been?"
His tone was sharp.
Mr. Romer was annoyed.
"I picked up some things on the way home.
I didn't know you would be here, and anyway, I'm off duty."
"We are never off duty."
"Yes sir! Sorry sir!" I saluted him mockingly to make light of the situation.
Christ! I was behaving like an impudent sixteen year old school girl.
His mouth twitched.
He took my arm, turning me to leave.
"Do you like oysters?"
"No!"
"I'll teach you." He said and he did.
"Have you ever been to Holland?"
That was how Prenslo incident began, the failure that was both horrifying and exhilarating.
The excitement, the thrill, the bump, bump of my heart at being with him, the anticipation, the horror.
The sickening fear when he was gone.
Another of Romer's Rules…when the party begins to go wrong, get out! Whatever happens, get out.
And in spite of the grinding, terrifying fear, the horror that he had left me, I did what he had done, I got out and made the home run back.
That was my blooding as a British field agent.
.
Back in London, Romer accompanied me to the inquiry board. He had a faint smile, an air of sardonic composure and an even fainter air of suppressed triumph.
He left me to wait saying he was going to the pub but when I turned to leave the inquiry room after giving my statement , he was there leaning against the closed doors.
He came out with me, the triumph clearer.
"Good girl, you may have saved my bacon" He held my shoulders. "Never underestimate the resourcefulness of our Miss Eva Delectorskaya."
He smiled, my heart turned over.
God, I was so infatuated with hm.
"I'll take you to dinner. To celebrate."
"Oh! But . . . "
"Nonsense! I told you! We're celebrating.
Luigi's in Frith Street.
It was not the sort of place I expected. Not English, all starched white cloths and napkins but Italian, bare wooden floor boards , checked tablecloths, candles stuck into straw clad Chianti bottles, waiters with aprons down to their ankles.
"The only place to get a good Chianti, outside of Italy."
"Aren't we at war with them?"
"The more to enjoy it." And he winked at me.
A little flame began to jump in me.
The food was wonderful, in spite of the rationing.
He talked all the way through it. Leaning back in his chair; leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, his face close to mine, repeating this again and again.
His vitality almost sang. Vivid, intense. His eyes flickering over my face, holding my eyes, hovering over my mouth.
"You look very beautiful tonight. Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful?"
"Yes."
Pretty yes, lovely yes, but beautiful?
No-one ever has but I wasn't going to admit it.
Even if anyone had, it was only Lucas who was important.
The tiny flame was a bonfire now.
I wanted, oh I ached with wanting.
Things were different then.
People did not sleep together the way they do today, and those who did, kept quiet about it.
I wondered.
Whatever Romer was, he was a gentleman of the old school, I thought. He would not seduce a young woman, particularly a member of his staff.
So, as the evening closed, I made up my mind.
I was to going to seduce him.
Oh! Nothing vampish or tarty but yes I would.
I remembered something Sylvia, my 'expert on affaires' had told me one night when we were more than a little sozzled.
'There is nothing easier,' she had claimed, 'than getting a man to kiss you.'
'Oh really? 'I had said, 'So how do you do that?'
'Just stand close to a man, very close, as close as you can get without touching him.' Sylva had said. 'and look at him. He will kiss you in a minute or two. It's inevitable. For
them it's like an instinct - they can't resist it. Infallible. It works every time. Every time, I tell you. What happens after that, of course, is up to you.'
I don't think Sylvia ever thought that I might try it out on the Boss.
We came out of the restaurant into a dark wet London night.
Romer tried to get a cab, dashing in and out of the heavy rain unsuccessfully to flag them.
He turned to me.
"Where's your place? Hampstead? Maybe we should go by tube."
"Bayswater. I don't mind waiting."
We stood on the step of the restaurant, the rain pouring down, dripping off the brim of his hat. He ducked in and out as he spotted cabs. They did not stop.
He shrugged apologetically.
"We're out of luck," he said, turning, to find me standing very close to him, my face lifted.
"I'm in no hurry," I said.
I moved closer to him, as close as I could be and raised my chin.
He looked down at me. He turned a little and turned back, a quick breath and he kissed me. A soft questioning kiss which turned into a demanding devouring one as he
straightened, lifting me onto my toes, our tongues finding each other, searching, tasting . He released me: we were both breathless. We turned to catch our breaths and a cab
was coming slowly down the street, its blue 'blackout' lights dim in the drenching rain. He lifted his arm and it stopped .We climbed in.
"Uh, Bayswater" I said, my heart leaping and thumping then I remembered Sylvia.
"Um,"
My hand was resting on my bag; he hooked his little finger around mine and his eyes smiled into mine. He leaned forward and tapped the glass.
"Knightsbridge."
It was a block of service flats.
His was on the third floor.
In the lift, he fell on my mouth like a starving man at a feast.
He was still kissing me as the lift jerked to a stop. Kissing me, as he turned the key and the door opened. Kissing me, as we stumbled in against the wall. My eyes were heavy and my mouth felt swollen.
His breath already fast, quickened.
"Are you a virgin?" he said, his voice rough.
"No. Are you?"
"Christ, Eva, I'm a middle-aged man."
"There are middle-aged virgins."
The laughter was in his voice.
"True" and his smile was the delighted one he smiled when I had scored a point.
"Come" he took my hand kissing it, led me into the bedroom
I had lost my virginity at university, the only reason being to get rid of it as soon as possible. There were only two brief affairs after that. Neither very happy nor particularly satisfactory.
I don't know if Lucas was a good lover, I know how we were together.
I loved his beautiful face, his hair, his body, his body on me, his body in me.
He leaned on his elbow looking at me.
"Sorry, I'm a bit out of practice"
"I'm not complaining."
I wondered too, not for the first time, if he was married.
Then he moved down me, slowly as if we had all the time in the world, instead of just a few stolen hours
I don't know how long it was before I got up to look for a drink. And look around.
His flat was expensive . Expensive but bleak and soulless. It felt unused. I thought briefly perhaps it was his safe house. No pictures or photos, nothing personal.
"Jesus, Lucas, there's nothing here." I called from the kitchen. "A bottle of whiskey and a tin of sardines."
"I'm not here very often." he called back."Come back here, I have a surprise for you."
I climbed onto the bed, I gave him his glass.
"You haven't told me what we are celebrating."
"No! I haven't.
"I told you that you had saved our bacon, well . . . we are going to America."
"Lucas" I squealed. I kissed and hugged him and looked at him.
I pushed him back on bed and straddled him, leaning over him, my slip strap slipping off my shoulder.
I ran my finger up under his neck to the hollow below the nape where a little curl sat, and stroked it softly.
"Christ, Eva " and he looked at me, the expression in his eyes was one I had not seen before but it was shielded quickly before I could know it.
"Eva Delectorskaya," he said slowly. "Who would have thought it?"
.
And we went to America. I was wildly happy, head full of helping to finish the war, of being with Lucas. I still shared with Sylvia. Our small circle was small; it was harder there
for us to have nights together; to snatch what we could.
Our work was still mostly disinformation but other things began to creep in. Checking up on people, passing of hard information.
The atmosphere at the office was taut with the stress of the situation back home and the necessity of persuading the States to join us.
Then two things happened.
A suicide of a Russian defector seemingly nothing to do with us; except Morris was to speak to him and I thought I recognised him.
And Romer sent me to Washington as a 'honey trap'.
I arrived back at the office to his praise that we had succeeded: the fact that we were' in', it did not stop me feeling sick and dirty, full of self loathing. Sleeping with a man to set him up to blackmail him.
What did it make me?
And Lucas?
I could see him pacing around in the little glassed- in booth we called his office.
I went in to him.
"We have to win this war and if this is what we have to do..." His still face gave nothing away.
"Lucas, what did you feel?"
"What I feel. What you feel doesn't matter. ." But his eyes didn't sparkle and they didn't meet mine for more than a second or two.
His face was set and serious.
"It matters; it matters to me, Lucas. You see, I think I am in love with you." I couldn't stop my lips trembling and the tears started. He moved fast across the room and
snapped the blind slats down. He held me close, resting his head on mine, stroking my hair, whispering my name. Shushing me. But his face was still shut.
He whispered "We don't matter; we have to win this war. Don't you see?"
I went back to my desk.
My phone rang.
"Hey," he said, "how do you fancy a few days away? Down to the Sound? There is a lovely old place, the Narragansett Inn. Mr and Mrs Washington are booked in for the weekend."He paused. "Be careful, Eva. Double check. Triple check."
I took the train across Long Island to Narragansett, changed trains, doubled back until I was sure I wasn't tailed.
"Mr Washington is already here, in your room." the smiling desk clerk told me.
It was an old inn, wood panelled rooms with wood burning fireplaces. Broad, highly polished old floor boards, low wide windows .A wide shallow staircase, deep bowls of flowers.
Tall vases filled with berried twigs and branches of gold and scarlet maple leaves.
I'm sure the food was good, though I really can't remember
Room 205. Room No.5 on the second floor.
I opened the door and he was standing back from the window, binoculars to his eyes. He turned, holding out his hand to me, smiling. I ran to him and he held me to him while he continued to sweep the grounds below.
"I've got something for you." He reached forward to the little table before us.
"Here."
It was an antique spy glass, brass, and small so that when it telescoped together, it would neatly into my handbag.
I giggled my thanks. "Now I know I am a spy."
He stood behind me as I swept the view, his hands cupping my breasts, kissing my ear, nuzzling my neck.
"Come to bed, Eva"
He was quiet and thoughtful, almost withdrawn although our love making had been hot and needy. He held me as if I might slip away.
We lay together, the room beginning to darken and the fire sending dancing flickers of light shooting up the wall. I turned on my side and watched him.
Without opening his eyes, he asked, "What are you thinking?"
I shook my head. Opening his eyes slightly,
"Eva?"
He took a strand of my hair and slid his fingers down it.
I twisted a curl of his chest hair around my finger.
"Are you married?"
A slight smile.
"Isn't it a little late to be asking that?" He examined the frond of my hair in his fingers.
I concentrated on the tiny curl in mine.
" Does it matter?"
Yes , yes, yes .
"No."
Another little smile as he brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.
"Eva, Eva Delectorskaya. No, I am not married; and there is no-one else. Only the job." But his eyes were guarded.
He turned onto me; I spread my legs wide to take him into the cradle of my thighs.
He slowly began to rock into me, to get more forceful, to move his body in a strong and demanding rhythm that demanded I go with him, wherever he would go I should follow.
It was a long drawn-out shiver after shiver of sensation that seemed to have no end in sight until I fell over the edge taking him with me.
We spent the weekend in our room, in our bed.
Later, on the train back, he said, "I have to fly home when we get back."
Home being England to us.
"Fancy some sun, while I am away? New Mexico? "
"A job?"
"Mmm."
I pulled a face.
"What if I say no?"
"No problem, you don't have to go. Morris or Sylvia can go. I thought you might like it."
I studied him.
I was uneasy.
Something was wrong.
"Who will be running me?"
"Morris."
Am I being dumped?
We separated to leave the train and cross the vast concourse to the exit.
He brushed in front of me, pausing briefly.
"See you when I get back."
His little finger hooked around mine, though his eyes didn't meet mine.
I stood at the entrance of Penn and watched him walk away. The black cloud of unease hovering around me.
"Turn around, turn around, Lucas. Lucas." my mind hammered.
If he doesn't turn, then that is it; I will know it is over.
As he reached the corner, he turned to look at me, smiled and raised his hand in a little salute.
Yes! Yes!
And he was gone.
.
And so I went on that fiasco that was New Mexico. Where I was shadowed everywhere. Where, as soon as I lost one set, I was picked up again in the next place. Where
everything was desperately wrong. Where I knew for sure I was being sold and where I killed a man.
.
"Come in, Eve." Morris said and Morris died.
"Come in, Eva" Romer said but I knew there was no way I would.
"Do not trust anyone, even me." Romer had said and, Oh God! I wanted to trust him.
"Trust your instincts." Romer said and I did.
I picked my other passports and my spare money and I ran.
"Come with me, Sylvia," I said and she did.
Up to Canadian Border. She wouldn't come further and Sylvia died.
Across -country to French - Canadian Quebec: living on my wits and my nerves, stretching what little money I had.
All the time watching, watching.
Until at last, a flight home!
Meeting Alfie
Killing Alfie when he betrayed me.
The shaking, shivering fear when I saw Romer in the Underground shelter , running from him , scrambling over the bombed out rubble until I had to turn and face him.
"Eva," he said and held out his hand.
An explosion, flames, noise, dust dirt, rubble falling, I turned and with both hands grasping the little revolver from New Mexico, I shot him.
H e fell amid another fall of bricks and dust.
And I ran!
.
.
The room began to lighten and still I sat smoking.
The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs chimed nine and I went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle for coffee and made toast and took them out on to
the terrace, my binoculars beside them on the table.
More cigarettes.
Watching, watching still.
I switched on the radio for the One o'clock News.
'The death has been announced of the Conservative peer, Baron Mansfield of Cleeve.
Lucas Mansfield Romer was born in Surrey on the twenty-ninth October in the last year of the century. He was educated at Marlborough College. He served as a Captain in the
Grenadier Guards in World War I and he was nineteen when he was awarded the Military Cross for Valour in the Field.
After the war, he completed his education at Trinity College, Cambridge.
He served with distinction in the Intelligence Service in World War II. He was awarded the Belgian Croix d'Honneur in 1945.
After the 2nd War, he founded the publishing firm, Romer Associates Ltd.
He was elevated to the peerage in Mansfield sat until the present day on the back benches of the House of Lords.
It is believed that he suffered a heart attack and died in his sleep.
He is survived by a son and a daughter.'
.
Romer. Romer.
.
His funeral was private, family only; but a few weeks later there was a memorial service, St Margaret's, Westminster … the 'parish church of Parliament', no less!
Ruth and Jochen met me in town outside it.
We watched the 'Establishment' go in to pay their respects. The Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Foreign Secretary, the Heads of M.I. 5 and 6.
The Belgian Ambassador, the American Ambassador and . . .
"Christ! Mum, Is that the Russian Ambassador?"
I rested my head against church railings and smiled to myself
The Great and the Good.
"Romer must be laughing his head off, wherever he is. He would have loved this."
I looked up.
Two limousines pulled up outside the Church door; family cars.
A tall dark haired young woman in the first, a young man with her attending to two young children. Then from the second car, another young man, tall, broad, thick
dark hair, curls tumbling over his forehead, and a fair woman with two very young children. He went to join the first woman. I saw her face first. I caught my breath.
Then he turned and I saw him.
Him!
And I gripped the rails, my knuckles white.
"Mum, Mum "Ruth peered anxiously at me."Are you OK?
I didn't answer for a moment.
"Yes, Darling! I'm Ok. "
"Mmm."
"Do you want to go in?"
"No. I don't think so."
She looked doubtfully at me.
"It's over, Sal. Let it go now. Forget it. He was a bit of a bastard, wasn't he?"
"Mmmm." We watched Jochen skip and jump across the lawn of the church.
"What now?"
"Now?" I said. "Now we are going to the National Portrait Gallery. I want to show you a painting. A David Bomberg. So that you might see …might understand."
Room 37 is a small room tucked away off one of the main galleries: the painting hung there solely due to the artist.
There he was.
It was not large ; twelve by sixteen, in a heavy black frame: Bomberg 's style , the strong bold strokes , his use of unusual vivid colours and deep dark background and
he leapt out ; I suppose he was then about thirty-six .: the thick black curls brushed firmly back, the broad forehead and the long straight nose, the big green eyes
staring out with impatience; the faint scar running through his eyebrow , another above his mouth, souvenirs of his service in the Great War. The tender vulnerable mouth hauled tight with what appeared to be exasperation at the restraint of sitting still.
Intelligence, vitality streaming from him.
The beauty of his face.
The little gold plaque on the frame read:
Lucas Mansfield Romer: MC: a friend
We sat on a bench and looked at it.
Now and then I felt her look at me.
I paid no attention.
Jochen became bored and started to wander about.
"Come on," I said. "Tea at the Ritz for Mummy and me and ice cream for you."
We sat in the elegant tearoom with its views over the park. Jochen ate his icecream and Ruth and I sipped our teas and smoked our cigarettes slowly, silently.
I looked out over the park aware that Ruth was watching me.
"Did you love him?"
I made no answer.
"And Daddy, did you love him?" This was sharp.
"Yes! Yes!" I said fiercely. "I loved your father. He saved me…. he saved my life.
I loved him."
She watched me through the curls of cigarette smoke.
"But not the way you loved Romer. You loved Romer more."
Again I didn't answer.
"And did he love you?
Do you think he loved you?"
I smoked my cigarette down half way.
"Yes." I said slowly, remembering.
"Yes, I think he did ...but his allegiance to the Comintern...
his dedication to the Party ... was stronger. Always came first."
I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out in the Ritz's cut glass ash tray.
"And the game. He loved the game; and I loved it too."
"The game?"
"The spying game."